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woke up late sunday, had brunch in my quiet apartment, enjoyed laying low, detoxifying myself, listening to
in the swamp in secluded recesses,
a shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
solitary, the thrush,
the hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
sings by himself a song.
song of the bleeding throat,
death's outlet song of life (for well dear brother i know,
if thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would'st surely die).
- paul hindemith, when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd: arioso
and making those little code (breadcrumbs here, a de-embedded table there, an extra meta tag just in case someone ever wants to find a site that has the word "hapa" in it) adjustments that nobody but you will ever know, but that require care and love just the same. coding brings out the happiest possibilities of obsession-compulsion,
because it's one thing that you can make perfect over time,
and i got the idea driven home in me that a good website should be beautiful on the inside as well as out.
and i think it's good for readers to test this on the stuff you read online: if you're not opening up source code to read the comments and highlighting pages to read the hidden, background-colored text and mousing over the links and images to read the alt tags and titles, you could be missing out on the best sh*t. am i breaking a code of silence by saying this?
posted August 13, 2001 in delivery, music.