the view from here

I found my camera.

Not a real camera, but my little QuickCam that I inherited from a crashing web startup in 1999. I'd misplaced it for so long, I was starting to be sure it'd been taken in the burglary we had a year and some ago. But no, it was just gathering dust at the bottom of my closet.

So, by way of celebration (and in order to update this section before babies begin to be born who were conceived since the last update), I have provided you with a low-fidelity look at the desk from which I so infrequently update this site.

On the right, the critical implements; the drawing tablet is a recent and highly welcome addition. I've been fighting repetitive-stress injuries of some sort in my wrists and hands for over a year now, and some kind soul got me the tablet and the wrist rest to help.

On the left, the clutter that sits slightly to my left. The printer, which is ghastly slow and seemingly autistic, often requiring multiple reboots before acknowledging its existence, is also a recent acquisition, Miriam's not mine. (My old printer, a snappy little Epson, was going great until it spontaneously quit being able to move paper. Perhaps there is an actual curse involved.) The leaning notebook is part of my recent fiction-writing binge; as of today, April third 2003, I have been working like crazy for several months on an honest-to-God novel, the first time I've ever been anything like this close to understanding how a novel actually gets written. The notebook is sitting on a pile of junk; in front of the printer is junk accumulation point number one.

The desk itself--barely deserving of the name, it is a hunk of plywood laid across two children's desks and is an ergonomic nightmare--sits beneath the queen-sized loft bed. The space this saves is indispensable; Rebecca planned and built the loft, borrowing somewhat from a good loft I remembered from college, and she measured my sitting height to make sure I could sit erect at my desk underneath. Happily we have very high ceilings so there's plenty of room up above as well.
Admire the construction. It is oh so sturdy. The only thing I wish I could change is that the wood is crap--we were building it on the cheap. But it has served us mightily.

Visible through the ladder rungs is my bookshelf. It's hard to give you too much of a sense of the room through here, but it's what I can currently reach. Maybe later I'll put the camera on a laptop and tour the apartment.

If I turn my head to the left I see directly into the living room; my room is the largest bedroom, but this is balanced by its not really being a private space as such. I like the French doors. You can just barely make out that the third pane up on the left is cracked; it has been so since we got here. By the time we finally got electricity in this room and a working phone line, we were too worn out to agitate about something like this.

Behind me is an electric piano--not mine, but a long-term loaner. It's old; it's of the first generation of electric keyboards to have touch sensitivity. But it has that, and eighty-eight keys, so for now its bulk (considerable) and its sound (nothing to satisfy a serious pianist) are fine by me. Anyway, who knows how long it will take me to be able to get a better one (or an equal)?

On my right is the view through the window, and my long-suffering plants (tough-as-nails swamp plants who can survive happily in just a cup of water more or less indefinitely). Closest thing to a respectable photograph I ever really expect to achieve with this device. Alas.

There: I have updated, and you have plumbed the depths of my secret lair. I am empowered more than I was this morning, and I have exercised this power. I am satisfied.
As a final gesture, here is my computer's self-portrait.


	So, by way of celebration (and in order to update this section before babies begin to be born who were conceived since the last update), I have provided you with a low-fidelity look at the desk from which I so infrequently update this site.
On the right, the critical implements; the drawing tablet is a recent and highly welcome addition. I've been fighting repetitive-stress injuries of some sort in my wrists and hands for over a year now, and some kind soul got me the tablet and the wrist rest to help.
	On the left, the clutter that sits slightly to my left. The printer, which is ghastly slow and seemingly autistic, often requiring multiple reboots before acknowledging its existence, is also a recent acquisition, Miriam's not mine. (My old printer, a snappy little Epson, was going great until it spontaneously quit being able to move paper. Perhaps there is an actual curse involved.) The leaning notebook is part of my recent fiction-writing binge; as of today, April third 2003, I have been working like crazy for several months on an honest-to-God novel, the first time I've ever been anything like this close to understanding how a novel actually gets written. The notebook is sitting on a pile of junk; in front of the printer is junk accumulation point number one.
	The desk itself--barely deserving of the name, it is a hunk of plywood laid across two children's desks and is an ergonomic nightmare--sits beneath the queen-sized loft bed. The space this saves is indispensable; Rebecca planned and built the loft, borrowing somewhat from a good loft I remembered from college, and she measured my sitting height to make sure I could sit erect at my desk underneath. Happily we have very high ceilings so there's plenty of room up above as well. Admire the construction. It is oh so sturdy. The only thing I wish I could change is that the wood is crap--we were building it on the cheap. But it has served us mightily.
Visible through the ladder rungs is my bookshelf. It's hard to give you too much of a sense of the room through here, but it's what I can currently reach. Maybe later I'll put the camera on a laptop and tour the apartment.
	If I turn my head to the left I see directly into the living room; my room is the largest bedroom, but this is balanced by its not really being a private space as such. I like the French doors. You can just barely make out that the third pane up on the left is cracked; it has been so since we got here. By the time we finally got electricity in this room and a working phone line, we were too worn out to agitate about something like this.
Behind me is an electric piano--not mine, but a long-term loaner. It's old; it's of the first generation of electric keyboards to have touch sensitivity. But it has that, and eighty-eight keys, so for now its bulk (considerable) and its sound (nothing to satisfy a serious pianist) are fine by me. Anyway, who knows how long it will take me to be able to get a better one (or an equal)?
	On my right is the view through the window, and my long-suffering plants (tough-as-nails swamp plants who can survive happily in just a cup of water more or less indefinitely). Closest thing to a respectable photograph I ever really expect to achieve with this device. Alas.
There: I have updated, and you have plumbed the depths of my secret lair. I am empowered more than I was this morning, and I have exercised this power. I am satisfied. As a final gesture, here is my computer's self-portrait.

That is all.

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