nosubstance.us » Arrival
A record of discarded dreams

I’m going to stop describing what I do as “app design,” and what I make as “apps.” App is one of those cutting-edge catchall terms intended to impress the kind of people who demanded Microsoft Office for their iPads. It’s a thought-terminating cliche, meant to obfuscate meaning. A semantic overload, different sometimes contradictory meanings crammed so close together nobody can tell the difference anymore.

It’s gotten to a point where an app could be anything from the front-end to an entire enterprise’s infrastructure, to a website with a textbox for your email address. Basically anything a common user interacts with directly can be an app nowadays.

What I do is programming. What I make depends on what I’m doing. Right now, I’m making a drawing website for a client. Sure, it’s a social website leveraging AJAX client-side and WSGI server-side technology (*shudder*) to allow users to collaborate and interact (*bites cheek*) in real-time.

RequireJS should be mandatory.

Keep reading: data entity types»

6/6

The contract is nearly over. This small world of lavished praise is quickly approaching its own small apocalypse.

3PM tomorrow, gents. This is when the world will end.

Already now most of the inhabitants are departed. The ogres of the southern plains. The small yet diligent race of men. The gaunt and energetic horvids. The boisterous trolls. The charismatic halflings. The shark worshipping bird men.

The ground and sky evert, and we see ourselves hurtling towards infinity.

Oh yes. We saw the end. Not all were so lucky.

5/6

I am the fifth of six you’ll meet along the way. I am the spirit of wal mart, the everalsting echelon of peace and rigor, the battery for your cart. I walked the streets of sunset, searching for something other than bitter dusk, the taste of red clay dust, the fire in the sky, the asphyxiating water.

I’m always here. I’ve never changed.

Purgatory awaits.

The contract is almost served to the satisfaction of the committee. The results have been acceptable. We recommend taking the default severance package, and leaving for friendlier climes.

9,049/48

The only way out is through.

4/6

I am the fourth of six you’ll meet along the way.

X, T, B, M, E.
K.
H. B.
B. N. J. L. R. T.
J. J. J.

The were vanished to the fog of tomorrow.

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I have chocolate, too, as a reward. What’s our offer?

3/6

I am the third of six you’ll meet along the way-trials.

Sitting in a pre-fab paradise. Synergy and communication. Corporate welfare.

I followed the North Star for three days.

20140628-113433-41673213.jpg

Forward!

I am the second of six you’ll meet along the way; grief.

There are many things I know I’ll never remember. I’ll wake from this, like a dream, and only a line on my resume will prove it ever happened.

Somebody else’s hair in the shower. Lots of it. Unbelievable amounts.

Loud Ikaruga. Peaceful dinosaur. Immaculate Maximus. Clinging logic. Irrational exuberance. Lonely bear. Carbon black. Talented Philosopher. Quiet felix. Small lantern. Granular dark. Absent Havel. The shouts from the end of the hall. The earthworms, dying on the sidewalks. Oblique encryption. I was there, but not.

In the unbearably humid air, a gecko skitters across the concrete.

EDIT: Cleaned it up a bit. I hope that Rourke looks younger, and happier to be there, and Roland looks more inflated.

roland rourke fly ip 2

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With my job situation, I’ll probably never have time to properly art this thing up, but it’s an idea I don’t want to forget about.
Keep reading: Flying (progress)»

I was some kind of very fast wind-up cat creature, being chased by hundreds of mechanical mice through the streets of Atlanta. I was very low to the ground, on wheels, and I was very fast. The mice had harpoon/grenades, which they used to try and capture me, they fired them simultaneously in perfectly aligned volleys. They arced over the skyline, white lines trailing them like that old ABM Command game. If the harpoons hit, they’d try to reel me in. If they didn’t, they became bomb traps that would blow up if I approached them.

My only defense was that I could, with great focus on a single harpoon dart when it hit, make it explode with my mind. If I did it right, and if they were dumb enough to hit all their harpoons in a row, I could set off a chain reaction and explode others which might have also taken out some of the wind-up mechanical mice.

I could drive up the sides of buildings, I jumped off diagonal building faces into the air like ramps, and did spinning tricks in the air.

There was a huge whale flying in the sky as well. I don’t know if it was friendly or not, but I was able to jump on it, and use it to move over a large alleyway full of hostile mice. My cat-wheels apparently could grip on any surface, even vertical or upside-down. I remember row after row of crazy mouse-harpoons hitting the whale, and then exploding simultaneously. The whale definitely felt pain, but I don’t know whether it did any permanent damage, or even whose side the whale was on, or if it even mattered. These were thoughts I had while dreaming, not on reflection waking up.

I eventually got trapped, and the mice were able to surround me. I self-destructed as the mechanical cat creature, gears and metal and artificial fur flying all over the place, and in the wreckage was a huge cat with wings. I flew away into the night, with searchlights criss-crossing the sky.

Everyone in Atlanta was super nice. I hope to go back some day.

I am the first of six you’ll meet along the way: regret.

That person, too, doesn’t exist anymore. Yesterday’s ghosts vanish through the cracks in the asphalt.

Have you ever had a 12-year-old boy come up to you and ask you to buy his two mothers’ lesbian Fight Club soap? Regular Fight Club Soap was made of human offal and promoted violence. Lesbian Fight Club Soap is made of earth’s natural gifts and promotes peace. They actually smelled wonderful.