Found gold at the thrift again. Scored an 8BitDo Retro Mechanical Keyboard (Model 85HA) for $50 — clean, clicky, and built like a time traveler from 1988. NES vibes on the keycaps, arcade-style “Super Buttons” up top, and a tactile thump that makes typing feel like loading a punch.
This thing's hot-swappable with Kailh Box Whites, wireless with a 2.4GHz dongle (which I miraculously got with it), plus USB-C and Bluetooth. Battery’s still holding strong. MSRP is over a hundred bucks, so this was a straight-up robbery in broad daylight — legal though, I think.
I’m a sucker for stuff like this: retro aesthetic with real functionality. It’s not just a showpiece — it’s a daily driver. Feels like I’m typing in a cartridge code on a Famicom just to write emails. Add in macros and remapping with 8BitDo’s software, and it’s flexible enough to handle my workflow *and* my weird.
Every once in a while, the thrift gods smile. This was one of those days.
Echoes & Fragments
May 27, 2025 — Posted by Spindok
Foggy-brained but buzzing — that’s the mood today. The kind of internal weather where thoughts drift,
heavy with static but charged with potential. I’ve been sifting through old court files, obscure radio tech,
and half-glitched AI visuals trying to find meaning in the mess.
There’s something hypnotic about bureaucratic design — old forms, logos, legalese. I ran a few of them through
Sora prompts and watched them animate into haunted digital dreams. Not what they were meant for, but maybe
what they always wanted to be.
I’ve been listing CB radios, tweaking page layouts, and collecting little visual motifs that feel like
they belong to some lost 2002 survival guide. Everything's fractured lately — but there’s beauty in the scraps.
Bits of order. Patterns trying to emerge.
This blog isn’t polished. It’s a sketchbook. A residue log. A sandbox for stray signals. Every post is a
frequency check. Every artifact, a breadcrumb. If you’re tuning in: thanks. Static’s not silence — it’s signal
you haven’t decoded yet.
— Spindok
Stray Light and Static Dreams
May 26, 2025 — Posted by Spindok
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the texture of memory. Not the facts — the feeling.
Like the soft hum of a CRT in a dark room. The grain of VHS tape left too long in a hot car.
The way Blockbuster smelled like plastic and popcorn dust and the ghosts of a thousand Friday nights.
There’s something strange and holy about all that old tech. It wasn’t sleek. It wasn’t smooth.
It was tactile, noisy, full of friction. But it asked something of you. Attention. Ritual.
Rewind the tape. Blow on the cartridge. Log into the BBS and wait.
These days, everything scrolls past too fast. But I find refuge in the forgotten formats.
I like holding things. I like artifacts. I like finding the weird stuff in thrift stores that nobody else cares about —
the burnt CDs, defunct logos, old startup guides for DSL modems, strange off-brand action figures.
It’s like digital archaeology with no map, no goal, just curiosity.
I’m trying to build a little altar to that feeling here — this blog, this archive, this project that barely makes sense
unless you were also raised half in analog static, half in early broadband chaos. It’s all nonlinear. A digital zine.
A pocket museum. A mixtape of moods.
Lately I’ve been working on some video prompts — little Sora-style time capsules. A balloon, a ninja, a Blockbuster aisle.
Nothing major. But they feel like something. Tiny preserved moments that echo louder than they should.
Like dreams you half-remember that follow you into the morning.
Anyway. Thanks for being here. Stay weird. Stay curious. Rewind your tape.
— Spindok
Where the Smoke Settles
May 25, 2025 — Posted by Spindok
Lately I’ve been deep in The X-Files, drifting through static-slicked memories and late-night paranoia.
You know the vibe — CRT glow, the hum of a TV left on too long, truths buried under a mountain of VHS hiss and classified redactions.
It’s not just a show. It’s a transmission. A whisper from the basement of the world.
What hits me hardest isn’t the aliens or the monsters — it’s the silence. The cigarette smoke curling behind a closed door.
The cryptic old man who tells you just enough to fuck with your sleep. The way Mulder keeps clawing toward something he’ll never fully hold.
Feels like life, doesn’t it?
I’ve been thinking about what truth even means anymore. Everything’s a feed, a flash, a filtered remix of reality.
We're surrounded by signals — but how much of it’s real? How much do we even want to be real?
And through it all, I keep collecting. Little fragments. Retro tech. Burned discs. Dead media. Bits of forgotten code.
They’re not just things. They’re relics of a world that used to ask questions out loud. A world that believed in mystery, even when it hurt.
This site is my version of the basement office. A place for the unsorted, the unlabeled, the unspoken. No sponsors. No filters.
Just signal and static.
I don’t have answers. I have archives.
Stay weird. Stay watching.
— Spindok
📅 May 23, 2025 — Signal Through the Static
Lately, it feels like the web is folding in on itself. Places that once pulsed with weird life are collapsing into SEO-choked silence. Forums abandoned. Blogs buried under cookie banners and subscription nags. Even the noise feels... artificial. Polished. Programmed.
And yet, here I am. Still posting. Still stacking these thoughts like cassette tapes on a busted thrift store shelf, hoping someone hits "play" and finds a flicker of resonance.
Been digging through old court cases, glitching between the legal and the surreal. There's poetry in the absurdity — billion-dollar lawsuits with celebrity defendants, handwritten manifestos submitted to Supreme Courts. There's desperation, sure. But also this raw, unfiltered need to be heard. That part hits home.
I’ve also been tuning the gears behind the site: new games in the vault, more art experiments loading, and weird vapor dreams brewing in the back of my head. Spindok isn't just a site — it's a lighthouse for anyone else surfing the digital fringe, looking for signal through the static.
So if you're out there — still blogging, building, remixing the ruins — keep going. We’re keeping the soul of the internet alive, one pixel at a time.
— Spindok 🔒
May 22, 2025 — Patchwork Flowstate
Posted by Spindok
One of those days where nothing exploded, but everything happened. I toggled between five versions of myself—web dev mode, thrift mode, DJ mode, nostalgia archeologist, and lowkey philosopher—trying to fit each one into a single cup of black coffee.
Started by poking at the tower defense game again. Gave the sniper tower instant shots and watched the code breathe with that little twitchy satisfaction of getting something *just right*. Swapped in a few retro-pixel sprites and caught myself smiling—like dressing up an old action figure you used to bring to school in your backpack. Not for show, just for comfort.
Lunch came and went like a Windows 98 screensaver. Just leftover pizza, same $5 daily buffer—Red Swan, my quiet ritual. I eat it like I'm feeding the past, making up for all the times teenage-me couldn’t afford anything but discount aisle snacks from the 7-Eleven. Now I buy a slice of stillness daily and log the receipt into memory.
I thumbed through a stack of thrifted VHS tapes in the late afternoon, organizing by vibe rather than genre. One was a sun-bleached copy of *Hackers*, still half rewound. Another: a long-lost instructional tape on Windows 3.1. There's a joy in owning formats that can't be updated. Physical memory. Glitches baked in. Tape hiss is a kind of comfort now.
As the sun dipped behind the haze, I pulled open Mixxx and started curating Volume 17. Not quite a set yet—more like an emotional color palette. I’ve been gravitating toward anything that sounds like dial-up internet colliding with jungle breaks. It’s not nostalgia. It’s... integration. Folding old tech into new sound, remixing memory with muscle memory.
Tomorrow I might finish coding the garden game or maybe finally post that updated webring. But for now, the CRT glow of my screen, a cursor blinking patiently like a heartbeat, and the faint hum of the fan beside me—all of it holds me in the moment. A quiet win. A small save state.
May 21, 2025 — Solar Spill & Slow Revelations
Posted by Spindok
The morning light punched through the blinds like an eager mixtape intro—no fade-in, just full-volume brilliance. I let it wash over the bedroom clutter: thrifted speakers, half-sorted VHS towers, a notebook open to a half-written lyric. Sunshine makes even yesterday’s mess look curated, like everything waited all night for this spotlight.
Coffee on the back step tasted brighter, too. Steam caught the sunbeams, rising in holographic spirals. I remembered an old science-fair plaque that called sunshine “a slow-motion nuclear gift.” Funny how something so cosmic becomes a mood stabilizer for terrestrial anxieties—rent deadlines, job transfers, uncertain love. One warm ray and the internal weather shifts from pending storm to playable demo.
I dug out my solar-powered calculator from middle school, the one with scuffed plastic and a sticky “7” key. Set it on the patio table and watched those tiny panels revive. Calculated nothing important—just typed 5318008 and flipped it like we did in grade six, laughing at the ancient joke. Proof that sunlight can resurrect both tech and teenage humor.
Early afternoon, I biked to Smith’s Trading Post. Sunlight refracted through the shop’s dusty windows, turning the VHS aisle into a stained-glass nave of analog faith. Picked up Sunshine (2007) on DVD—seemed thematically mandatory. The clerk said, “Good choice for a day like this.” I almost told him every day could use more space-borne metaphors, but just nodded and pocketed the disc like a secret sunscreen.
Back home, the idle CRM game shimmered on my laptop in dark mode while real sun painted my desk a soft gold. Every virtual case closed felt lighter, less bureaucratic—like photons were lubricating the clicker loops. I swear the progress bar glowed a little warmer.
Golden hour stretched its cinematic fingers across the kitchen walls. I queued a downtempo set, letting mellow synths layer over bird chatter from the open window. Darian texted a sun emoji and “pack breaks tomorrow?” I replied with a sunglasses emoji and “solar-powered motivation unlocked.” Translation: yeah, I’ll help, but only if the light keeps spilling like this.
Now the last band of orange slips under the horizon, leaving a blue-violet echo. I’m still bright inside, charged like that old calculator. Maybe that’s the quiet miracle of sunshine—no answers given, just enough voltage to keep the questions humming.
May 20, 2025 — Grace Notes on Highway 43
Posted by Spindok
Dawn slipped in like a lo-fi tape hiss, soft and a little warped. I brewed the usual gas-station coffee in Dad’s dented percolator, then sat at the kitchen table mapping the miles between Grande Prairie and Edmonton with my fingertip, the way kids trace toy-train routes. Google Maps feels clinical; on paper the road looks more forgiving, almost lyrical. Still—June’s eviction deadline beats like a metronome in the margins, steady, impatient.
I keep toggling between two windows: Koho balance on one side, Kijiji job listings on the other. Digital worry beads. My five-buck Red Swan allowance already spent itself last night (pineapple, jalapeño, nostalgia). Darian’s text chimed at 9 a.m.—she’s boxing up the living-room records, asking if I’ll DJ the unofficial move-out party. My answer floated somewhere between a heart emoji and an anxious shrug, but I hit send on the heart. Love first, logistics later.
Lunch break became a thrift dash—Smith’s Trading Post. Scored a scratched but playable VHS of Run Lola Run for a toonie. The clerk said, “Nobody keeps tapes anymore.” I smiled, knowing I archive each one like a preserved heartbeat. Analog ambitions in a streaming world. In my mind’s edit bay these clips will loop on Darian’s blank apartment wall, projector hum whispering, this place is still alive.
Back home, I fired up the Telus CRM idle game I’ve been Frankensteining after hours. New “Case” counters stack like city lights against the dark-mode UI. Funny how clicking virtual buttons calms the real-world chaos. Each incremental number feels like a mantra: one more task solved, one more kilometre conquered, one more reason this leap might pan out.
At sunset I pulled onto Highway 43, windows down, mixtape spinning breakbeats and rain-streaked synths. The prairie fields glowed neon-gold, and for a fleeting bar I believed the road itself was singing backup—reminding me that movement is meaning, that anxiety and excitement share the same octave. I whispered the chorus to myself: even unprepared wheels can roll.
Now the house is quiet but my head is loud. I sketch tomorrow’s budget in fountain-pen ink because it feels sturdier than numbers on a screen. Darian’s record boxes wait like timestamps on a promise. Edmonton still scares me, but so did Grande Prairie once. And every mix I’ve ever uploaded started as silence. Time to press record.
May 19, 2025 — Long Drives & Loose Ends
Posted by Spindok
Some days, the road is the only place that makes sense. No destination, just distance. Just you, the hum of the tires, and whatever playlist happens to find your pulse. I left the city this morning without a real plan — headed west, then north, then wherever the sky felt wider. Gas station coffee in the cup holder. Windows cracked just enough to let the prairie air argue with the bassline.
There’s something honest about long drives. The way time stretches and collapses. You start thinking in waves instead of words. The big questions sneak in while you’re zoning out to grain elevators and roadside motels. What am I chasing? What am I avoiding? What’s actually mine in this life, and what was just handed to me, wrapped in someone else's expectations?
I passed a field of horses. One stared me down like it knew I was lying to myself about something. I didn’t flinch. I just nodded, like, “Yeah. I know.” Kept moving. The highway doesn’t need your answers. It just gives you space to ask better questions.
Sometimes I think the meaning of life isn’t a sentence. It’s a stretch of road. A late afternoon light leak through the windshield. A playlist that hits too hard at the wrong time. A map with no legend. The kind of quiet that makes your chest ache in a good way.
By the time I looped back toward the city, I hadn’t figured out anything. But I felt lighter. Like maybe the point isn’t to solve the maze. Maybe it’s to get lost with grace. To keep driving. To keep noticing.
There’s fuel in the not-knowing. And maybe that’s enough for today.
May 15, 2025 — Tape Hiss & Quiet Ambitions
Posted by Spindok
Some days don’t need a headline. Just motion. A walk to the corner store, a slurpee in hand, a Red Swan slice riding shotgun in the psyche. I didn’t hustle hard today — didn’t need to. Instead, I cleaned up the VHS stack. Wiped dust off faded clamshells, checked spools, logged a few into the archive. The slow kind of work that calms my brain like white noise.
It’s funny — I used to chase the next big score: rare tapes, sealed copies, horror gems. Now it’s about presence. The joy of holding a tape I’ve already watched ten times. The way the Blockbuster sticker’s peeling just so. The analog scars on the label. I don’t collect for value. I collect to remember who I was, who I still am.
Thinking about setups again, too. The Lenovo Tiny’s holding strong. Might spin it into a little home server or leave it as a DJ brain. That machine’s like a good friend — doesn’t ask for much, just works when I need it. I like tech that feels lived-in. Like a tape that’s been dubbed and redubbed, full of ghosts.
Got a line on some new speakers, but I’m being patient. Not everything has to be upgraded. Sometimes clarity comes from the older parts — the ones that already know what they’re doing. Like me, some days.
Tonight I’ll probably cue up a DVD, maybe something mid-tier and forgotten. Let the CRT glow wrap the room in blue. I’ve got a blanket, a belly full of pepperoni, and a mild sense of purpose. That’s enough. That’s plenty.
I’m still here. Still rewinding. Still recording over blank space with something that feels like me.
May 14, 2025 — Signal Checks & Sentimental Static
Posted by Spindok
I dug into the speaker stash today — thrift-store soldiers lined up on the floor like forgotten footnotes from someone else's mixtape life. No manuals, no branding worth mentioning, just weight and dust and potential. I plugged them in one by one, testing them with loops from old jungle mixes and random system beeps. Some crackled, some surprised me. A few might still have life left in ‘em, tucked into a corner rig or bedroom crate station.
This kind of testing is therapy. No rush. Just tones, textures, and flickers of memory. It’s not even about the gear half the time — it’s about touching history. Feeling how someone else once moved sound through this same cone, probably in a room nothing like mine, but still chasing that same little thrill.
Got me thinking about signal paths — not just audio routing, but how I move through days. How I tune myself. What I choose to amplify, what I filter. The way one loose cable can mess the whole vibe, and one small twist can fix it all.
I didn’t spend a dollar today, but I got something richer than a dopamine-swipe purchase. I found clarity in dust. Sound in silence. Energy in the act of trying.
Tomorrow I might swap in the big Samsung again, or wire things cleaner, or maybe just listen. I’m not building a setup for Instagram. I’m building one for me. For late-night crate dives, for slow Sundays, for the weird mixes that only make sense in my head.
Tested. Adjusted. Tuned — for now.
May 13, 2025 — The Art of the Setup
Posted by Spindok
There’s a quiet ritual in building a setup. Not just the gear, but the space, the flow — the little details that turn a corner of a room into a control center, a lab, a sanctuary.
Today wasn’t about buying anything new. No fresh cables or flashy gear drops. It was more of a rearrangement — shifting the monitor slightly, tucking wires cleaner, rethinking how I route signal between the interface and the laptop. Little tweaks that make the whole thing breathe better.
Maybe it’s the old thrift-store instinct in me — finding beauty in the overlooked. These hand-me-downs and bargain finds carry more character than any brand-new plug-and-play setup. Scuffed edges, old labels, stickers from past lives. It all adds texture. Soul.
There’s something meditative in it too. When the world’s spinning fast, messing with your gear is like rebalancing the axis. You’re not chasing perfection — just harmony. A place where sound, intention, and muscle memory meet.
One more cable tied. One more dusty knob wiped. And just like that, the room feels ready again.
Setup’s never done. That’s the point.
May 12, 2025 — Tiny Upgrades, Big Moves
Posted by Spindok
I’ve been dialing in a DJ setup lately, and today’s upgrade mission centered around my Lenovo Tiny. I picked up a Patriot P210 SSD — nothing wild, just a 128 GB boost to get Serato running smoother without hiccups. The install was simple once I figured out how to pop the side panel off (always feels like defusing a bomb with these small-form PCs).
This little machine’s been sitting idle for a while — was gonna flip it, but now I’m thinking of repurposing it as a dedicated controller brain. Funny how something meant to be disposable turns into a core piece of the flow.
I’m also scoping out compact speakers that won’t blow out the room but still hit with some warmth. Don’t need a full PA — just something tight for crate-digging sessions and late-night cue work.
Sometimes it’s not about the biggest gear or the flashiest setup. It’s about knowing what you’ve got, seeing the potential, and making it count.
Minimal moves. Maximum vibe.
May 11, 2025 — Plugin Troubles & Retro Fixes
Posted by Spindok
Today was a game-fixing kind of day. After battling some lag in GTA: Liberty City Stories on PPSSPP, I found the culprit: Project2DFX. It’s a great plugin for enhancing 2D effects, but damn, it was dragging my system down. So I disabled it, and just like that, the game started running smooth again. Not the most glamorous solution, but sometimes less is more.
Still, the WidescreenFix plugin is holding strong. It stretches the visuals to 16:9 without compromising the performance too much — definitely a keeper.
It's funny how a simple tweak can shift the whole vibe. Makes me think about balance — between tech and nostalgia, between enhancements and raw performance. I’ve been experimenting with other ideas for future projects, and it feels good to dive back into the creative flow.
This isn’t a guide or a tip post. Just a quick log, a small victory in the world of emulators and tweaks.
Sometimes, it’s about finding the sweet spot between old-school charm and modern tech.
2025 — Unlicensed Transmission (May 9)
Posted by Spindok
I woke up inside a haze. Not fog. Not clarity. Just that strange in-between where you feel like a browser tab that never finished loading.
There’s a move on the horizon. Edmonton’s pulling harder each day, and Grande Prairie feels more like a stalled signal. I’ve started studying for my insurance license — not because I love the system, but because I’m done being hourly with no commission, no respect, and no ladder.
I’m chasing leverage, not comfort.
Walked the loop this morning. Thought about the past. About Waypoint. About AMG. About Telus. About how many times I’ve reset the game with no tutorial, no bonus gear. Just vibes, spite, and a cracked screen full of potential.
Today I dusted off the Godot project — spindok-core lives. It’s still early. Just wireframes and pixels in orbit. But it’s mine. The ideas are coming together: arcade loops, broken UI, vapor trails, meaning buried under mechanics.
This isn’t a content post. No tips, no guides, no calls to action. It’s a log. A signal check. Proof that I’m still transmitting even when the dial tone fades.
This is May 9, 2025. No blueprint. Just motion.
2014 — Press Start, No Save
Posted by Spindok
I turned 18 in the eye of a storm.
My dad visited me on my birthday just long enough to say, “You're on your own now.” No more financial support. No fallback. Just the words “time to grow up” and the space where his shadow used to be.
I was living in the top floor of a rented house in Burnaby with Ajay, Jolly, and my girlfriend at the time. Four people trying to stretch hope into rent. We weren’t building a dream—we were squatting inside one, hoping no one noticed the cracks.
Days, I went to the Art Institute of Vancouver for their $50,000 Professional Recording Arts program. They promised “no math.” That was a lie. The course was buried in electronics, acoustics, and theory I wasn’t prepared for. I looked around the classrooms and saw people who were already in bands, already in studios, already fluent in the language of music. I wasn’t. I didn’t have connections. I didn’t make friends. I just floated through it like a ghost with a student loan.
Nights, I cold-called strangers from a dim upstairs room in New Westminster. The company was called Auto Marketing Group—a boiler room scam disguised as a job. We told people we had buyers for their used cars. We charged them upfront fees. When I made a sale, they handed me a Red Bull and a paycheck with no T4. It paid well. It was fake.
The guy who ran it all, Matthew Loewen, killed himself in 2024. His obituary painted him as a family man. It never mentioned AMG.
In the middle of it all, I was deep into Dogecoin—back when it wasn’t just a meme. I played poker on Pokershibes. Tipped DOGE to strangers on Reddit. Believed in the community. Then Moolah and Dogewallet collapsed. The dream died. It turned into pump-and-dump noise, and I stepped out before it ate me too.
I was working a scam. Attending a scam. Watching a decentralized scam implode. All while trying to stay fed, pay rent, and figure out who the hell I was supposed to be.
That was 2014. No save files. No backup plan. Just survival, hustle, and a stubborn refusal to fold.
May 6, 2025
"Some days aren’t lessons or blessings — they’re just heavy."
Not every post needs a silver lining. Today just sucked. People don’t listen, systems don’t work, and it feels like I’m screaming into a dial-up void. I’ll be fine — I always am. But damn, I need a reset button. Or at least a cigarette made of glitchy pixels and spite.
April 28, 2025
"Not every broken thing needs fixing — some just need remembering."
Canada feels like a half-saved file sometimes. A country running on safe mode — beige pop-up warnings hidden under politeness. Everyone pretending the patches worked, pretending the foundation isn’t cracking, pretending this place didn’t sell its soul one bland, smiling trade deal at a time.
We’re good at branding up here. "Nice." "Polite." "Progressive." But under that clickbait packaging is a system stitched together by corporate scraps and gas station loyalty cards. A country that forgot how to dream because it was too busy optimizing parking lots and building ghost towns out of condos nobody can afford.
There’s this slow rot under everything now. Cities pretending they're still alive, streets clogged with boarded-up stores and luxury cars ghost-driving past tents. Health care hanging by a thread. A government more concerned with branding exercises than with the real bodies piling up behind the scenes. And everyone just politely nods. Smiles through it. Pretends this is fine.
I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of acting like "at least it’s not as bad as the States" is a win. That’s not a win — that’s survivor’s guilt dressed in a thrifted Roots hoodie. That’s national gaslighting. That’s an apology email that never sends.
We were supposed to be more than this. More than a grinning mascot for dead ideals. More than polite decline. There’s a whole haunted bandwidth up here — signals from the people who still care, still build, still fight to remember that we deserved better than managed decay.
Maybe that’s why I keep writing these signals out. Not because it’ll fix anything. But because the archive matters. The log matters. The quiet acknowledgment that no, you’re not crazy — the floor is tilting under your feet. It’s not just you.
If you’re reading this, you’re still here. Still scanning. Still awake enough to notice. That’s something. That’s everything.
Catch you on the next frequency shift.
April 25, 2025
"Some things don’t get closure — they just echo softer over time."
Today hit weird. Not bad. Not good. Just... sideways. Nothing broke. Nothing resolved. Just a slow-motion scroll through half-loaded thoughts and conversations that don’t stick. It’s like being stuck in a buffering loop — present, but not really playing.
July 4, 2024
Putting yourself out there
Posted by Spindok
You don’t put yourself online only because you have something to say—you can put yourself online to find something to say. You document not because you’re sure, but because you’re searching. That’s what this is. That’s what this always was.
August 28, 2024
"Time is money, friend!"
Time is the one currency we all have, yet it's the only one we can never earn back. I used to spend hours like they were infinite, burning daylight on side quests and side hustles, ignoring the main storyline of my life. Now I watch the clock differently. Each hour feels like a download limit. A turn taken. A resource to manage.
I’m trying not to hoard time, but I don’t waste it like I used to. I invest it — into walks, archives, builds, stillness. I know now: gold respawns. Time doesn’t.
July 9, 2024
If you ask yourself ‘What’s the best thing that happened today?’ it actually forces a certain kind of cheerful retrospection...
Just as you need a chart of future events, you need a habit of past optimism. I asked myself that question today — and yeah, it helped. It wasn’t anything big. Just a moment: the cashier at the corner store smiled like she meant it. The breeze hit perfect while I was walking home. A track I forgot I loved shuffled back into my headphones like an old friend saying “yo.”
That was enough. That was the best thing. I remembered how to notice.
July 5, 2024
Distance and difference are the secret tonic of creativity...
To say that geography is no longer our master isn’t to say that place isn’t important. I’ve moved through cities like save files. Burnaby. Victoria. Grande Prairie. Each one taught me something the others couldn’t. Each one had its glitches, its rare spawns, its NPCs who changed my script. Sometimes you don’t grow until you’re somewhere unfamiliar — forced to reroute your rhythm.
July 4, 2024
Putting yourself out there
Posted by Spindok
You don’t put yourself online only because you have something to say—you can put yourself online to find something to say. You document not because you’re sure, but because you’re searching. That’s what this is. That’s what this always was.