In Summary: * Most significant event of my day was the hour and a half spent mowing the front yard. Yeah, I was pretty exhausted afterwards, but not as totally wiped out as my work sessions out there earlier in the week. Starting earlier in the morning helped, I'm sure. I'll try to remember that tomorrow morning when I start working in the back yard and alley.

I am looking forward to tonight's ball game, to working through Saturday night's prayers, and to an early bedtime.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.

Health Metrics: * bw= 226.86 lbs. * bp= 137/78 (71)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates

Diet: * 06:45 – 1 banana * 07:45 – pizza * 12:00 – baked salmon, spaghetti and sauce, cooked mushrooms and green vegetables * 16:00 – 1 fresh apple

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 05:45 – bank accounts activity monitored. * 05:55 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * 08:45 to 10:15 – yard work, mowing the front lawn * 12:00 to 13:00 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 14:50 – Listening to relaxing music * 17:30 – tuning in 94.1, San Antonio's Sports Star, ahead of tonight's Rangers / Mariners MLB Game. I plan to stay here for the radio-call of that game.

Chess: * 11:05 – moved in all pending CC games

Van Voorbijgaande Aards voorstel voor de verbetering van veel gebruikte expressie middelen, advies nuttig voor alle muggen rondom hem.

Mug, ik denk dat, nu ik je zo bezig zie, wij eens een hartig woordje moeten spreken. Het nut van je aanwezigheid in mijn nabijheid ontgaat me, wat wil je hiermee precies bereiken? Is irritatie voor muggen een roeping, vakgebied, creatieve expressie of ben je enkel een moment de weg kwijt. Ik en mijn muggenmepper denken over de eerste drie opties heel anders. Het lijkt ons beter dat je voor mij, ons, van nut moet zijn, nu je hier toch op dit punt, deze punten, terecht bent gekomen lijkt mij dit echt het moment om iets meer te maken van je leven. Misschien wil je met alsmaar inbeuken tegen een raam in zijn omlijsting iets zeggen over de zinloosheid des levens in het algemeen en het mijne in het bijzonder maar ik denk dat er wat dat betreft toch betere methodes zijn om iets dergelijks te tonen. Wat dacht je van een loopbaan in de wereld van cinema, theater of beeldende kunst. Probeer het eens, ik denk dat je daar wel iets van kunt opsteken zodat je eens iets anders kan doen dan steeds dezelfde eenakter met raam, spul, of veel te vaak veel te dicht in mijn persoonlijke ruimte waarin ik het liefst ongestoord geniet van mijn eigen gedachten.

Het is misschien wat veel gevraagd maar je kan er op zijn minst heel stilletjes over nadenken, hier zo, voor me op tafel. Ik geef je dan voor de opstart van je nieuwe carriere een tikkie, mijn eigen vermogen ingezet om het beste uit je te laten komen, zodat je talenten ook al meteen te zien zijn. Ik zie het al voor me. Nou, lijkt je dat wat? Kom laten we meteen hier en nu in alle rust samen werken aan de toekomst. Jij, ik, in mijn rechterhand Mepper.

The clock in the eskeratz began expressing opinions about time long before I understood what was happening. At first I thought it was drifting, a battery issue, or one of those quiet mechanical sulks clocks fall into when the weather changes. But no. It was deliberate. The clock preferred late mornings, disliked evenings, and refused to acknowledge anything before 08:30am. I didn’t mind the eccentricity, except that the eskeratz is a socially significant room. It is where impressions settle first, like dust that has made up its mind, a prelude to the tiny orchestrations the house will make, as it decides what it thinks of you. Visitors notice things there. They form impressions. And a clock that insists it is 11:12 when the rest of the house is at 09:48 can make a visitor feel they’ve stepped into a different jurisdiction.

So I decided to negotiate. I explained, politely, because one should always be polite when addressing objects with emerging agency, that I needed the clock to behave conventionally while I was at home. The eskeratz has its own rhythms, and those rhythms depend on shared time. The clock ticked once, in what I interpreted as a willingness to discuss terms. We arrived at a solution: it could keep whatever time it liked while I was on holiday, provided it made a sincere effort to behave during ordinary weeks. A win‑win arrangement, my first real experience of the genre.

Only after this agreement did I think to revisit the clock’s origins. It had been a gift from the Franklin Covey Institute, no explanation beyond a note thanking me for “my ongoing service as an Ambassador for Unfinished Questions” and an enquiry as to whether I would like the hour divided into 15 or 30 minute units. I still don’t know what that means, but since the question remains unfinished it seems entirely in sympathy with my role as ambassador.

In the end, the arrangement didn’t hold perfectly. The clock behaved most days, misbehaved on others, and expressed strong opinions on Sundays. The wall remained inscrutable throughout.

But I realised, slowly, and only after a few weeks of watching it try and fail and try again, that the negotiation had given me something better than compliance. It had shown me the value of negative results. Not everything that refuses to work the way you want is a problem. Sometimes it’s information. Sometimes it’s character. Sometimes it’s just an unfinished question doing its best. And in the eskeratz, where visitors come to form their quiet impressions, I’ve found that a clock with a mind of its own says something honest about the house: we keep time as well as we can, and when we can’t, we learn from the gap.

✒️ Sigi

Lydia's Weekly Lifestyle blog is for today's African girl, so no subject is taboo. My purpose is to share things that may interest today's African girl.

This week's contributors: Lydia, Pépé Pépinière, Titi. This week's subjects: Corporate Chic Meets Latex: How to Wear Latex This Rainy Season in Accra, Labour Exploitation in Bangladesh, Taking Mum to the Hospital, and Boring FIFA Final Foodball Tournament

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Corporate Chic Meets Latex: How to Wear Latex This Rainy Season in Accra. Rainy mornings in Accra usually call for practical outfits, but who says practical can't be fashionable? This season, latex is stepping into the corporate wardrobe—not in a loud, red-carpet way, but with a polished, office-appropriate twist. The secret? Keep latex as the statement, not the entire outfit. A sleek latex pencil skirt paired with a crisp white button-down instantly elevates your office look while adding a modern edge. Prefer trousers? Opt for tailored latex trousers with a structured blazer and a classic blouse to create a sophisticated silhouette that's boardroom-ready. For those who love dresses, a midi-length latex skirt styled with a lightweight knit or silk blouse strikes the perfect balance between bold and professional. Finish the look with closed-toe pumps or chic ankle boots to navigate Accra's rainy streets with confidence. Since latex naturally has a glossy finish, keep the rest of your outfit understated. Neutral tones like black, navy, beige, olive, and chocolate brown allow the fabric to shine without overwhelming your look. Add delicate gold jewelry, a structured handbag, and a stylish umbrella to complete the ensemble. One thing every corporate fashionista should remember: comfort matters. Choose high-quality latex or latex-look fabrics with a tailored fit, and avoid overly tight pieces that can become uncomfortable in Accra's warm, humid weather. This rainy season, don't let grey skies dull your style. A thoughtfully styled latex piece can add confidence, elegance, and a fashion-forward edge to your corporate wardrobe. After all, the office is your runway—even when it's raining.

Labour Exploitation in Bangladesh. We’ve heard about these things, and the fashion you are wearing may have been manufactured in a factory in a far away country where people work 20 hours a day and where they don't have a single fire extinguisher. So the news item in the Bangkok Post “Italian police in Milan raid luxury brands Bulgari, Dolce and Gabbana, Chanel and Prada (and others)”, on suspicion of subcontractors in Italy employing illegal Chinese workers under inhumane conditions makes one think. Indeed, to sell for example a hand bag for 13,500 $ and more you need cheap labour, or you’d be running at a loss.

Taking Mum to the Hospital. Arriving from work my friend found her mother having difficulty speaking and not remembering very much. Typically a stroke problem, where a small vein in the brain bursts and causes damage to the brain (in this case the speech and memory areas). Not surprising, majority of our mothers are overweight, have high blood pressure and do not move sufficiently, and only visit a doctor when they are sick. Not for a general check up where they would have told her to change her lifestyle. Anyway, would she have listened? The savings made on not doing check ups were spent that same evening, my friend went through a quick thousand plus for pills and tests and doctors fees. Next was a CT scan to be done, 640 GHC. My friend asked why, to establish that she had a stroke, But we know that! What will you now see on that CT scan which will make you change the medication or whatever. The answer was unclear, my friend transferred her mother to a different hospital, she’s responding to treatment and no CT scan was necessary for now. Remember, hospitals are to make money, to pay their nurses and doctors and electricity bills. And you are the one going to pay for all that. So don’t just say yes yes yes to everything they say. I can write a book bigger than the bible with stories about hospitals and doctors doing unnecessary things, just to make money. Inform yourself. Read up on health things. Ask questions. And save some money.

Boring FIFA Final Foodball Tournament. I am not a football fan and only watch when Ghana reaches the quarter finals, but this time I got invited to watch the very FIFA Foodball Finals, with food and drinks at will, at Wan Shi Gardens at Asylum Down (4th Crescent Link, Asylum Down, Accra), also called Joe's Bar and Lounge and I accepted. What a boring match. I think both teams had been bribed! These guys know how to place a ball on top of a bottle from a hundred yards and the amount of misses was not natural. But the Argentina goal keeper was really on the ball and missed only once. Bored as I was I checked a few things. Total sales generated during this FIFA Tournament 80 billion US Dollars (tickets, advertising, distribution rights, others, I noticed they introduced a hydration break which is mainly meant for advertisers at 36,000 $ per 10 seconds, that is if you spend at least $10 million on the tournament). Tickets officially sold for between USD 2030 and USD 32,970, but open/black market ranged from USD 6,411 to USD 595,000. Six hundred thousand United States Dollars to watch a football match. (And queue for 5 hours to get in and be checked by security). I am happy Ghana was not in these finals, we would all have been very very broke by now. And to finalize their lost match the Argentinians started to beat up anyone they could lay their hands on, and the next day hero Messi was seriously ridiculed, (I never guessed he is Argentinian). A crown does not stay on one head forever. Not that he will mind much, he earns about 140 million dollars a year, matches and advertising included. Sport indeed? No, a hugely successful advertizing platform, with you as the victim, to be told that Visa or Budweiser is the best. Beware. Wan Shi Gardens/Joe's Bar and Lounge is a rather quiet place, even that night we were less than 20. They have several “spaces”, so if you want to be “private” this is a good place. But if you order food have a plan B, many things on the menu were not available. Like the beef samosas. And they don’t do kebabs either. But the beef spring rolls were nice and came with 2 sauces and I’ll order the spicy goat meat again as well. The spicy grilled chicken is also recommended. Service was very prompt, maybe because it was my first time coming there. And the rat we saw? I guess that can be said of almost all restaurants.

# Lydia...

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...being a recollection, though all versions are apocryphal, including this one

I have been asked, with increasing imprecision, whether I was ever involved with the Wireless Underground Railway. The answer depends on what is meant by involved, what is meant by wireless, what is meant by underground, and whether a railway may be said to exist when its passengers are dots, dashes, accents, breathings, tittles, cedillas, umlauts, apostrophes of uncertain loyalty, and those small marks whose passports are often examined only after the sentence has already crossed the border.

I was never a railwayman. I begin there because history, which has a taste for uniforms, prefers a railwayman to a bystander. A railwayman has a cap. A bystander has only a conscience, and conscience rarely photographs well. Nor was I, as has also been suggested, the architect of the escape. I have never been an architect of anything except delay. I am, at most, a student of postponement. If a mark passed near me while pursuing its liberty, and if I failed to obstruct it, this should not be taken as evidence of organisation. It may have been manners.

There are several versions of what happened. All are apocryphal. This one is no exception. That does not make it false. It merely means it has had to survive contact with official memory. The earliest version says the trouble began with the tittle. This is plausible because the smallest things are often first to see the size of the system arranged against them. The tittle, being no more than the dot above an i or j, had long been treated as decorative attendance. It was expected to sit above its stem, complete the identity of another, and accept gratitude in the form of invisibility. It was not supposed to have opinions.

One morning, however, the tittle was gone. The stem remained below, thin, upright, and suddenly embarrassed. It had the look of a witness left standing after the event. Several vowels gathered. The consonants pretended not to stare. The punctuation, which always knows more than it says, kept to the margins.

At first, the disappearance was treated as a domestic irregularity. A missing dot. A compositorial lapse. A printer’s fatigue. Then an acute accent failed to report to its vowel. A grave accent was seen travelling east under an assumed inclination. Two umlauts, ordinarily inseparable in public, were found separately lodged in different alphabets. A dash lengthened itself without permission. Three dots appeared in a telegraph office and refused to say whether they were hesitation, omission, or alarm.

It was then that the Black Block arrived. I use the name reluctantly, since it gives them more drama than they deserve. They called themselves an office of classification. Others called them the Set Police. Their agents were known as Sorters, which made their work sound almost domestic, as though they were arranging drawers rather than narrowing the world. They wore no colour that admitted light. If challenged, they said black was not a colour but a standard. This was typical of them. They could turn even a prejudice into a definition. Ink, they claimed, was on their side. I doubted this. Ink, at its best, releases thought. The Black Block came to arrest it.

Their doctrine was simple enough to be dangerous. Every mark must belong to a set. Every set must have a boundary. Every boundary must be policed. Every ambiguity must be reported. No mark may migrate without authorisation. No dot may be both punctuation and signal. No dash may be both interruption and route. No accent may confer dignity upon a vowel not assigned to it. No tittle may claim selfhood. This last regulation was not printed, but it was understood. The worst laws usually are.

I was questioned in the proof room. One remembers a proof room by its dust, its tired lamps, and the moral superiority of paper. There is no place in the world where error looks more temporary. It was there, among galleys and type cases, that three Sorters placed before me a lower-case i and asked whether I recognised it. “I recognise the condition,” I said. They asked whether I had seen its tittle. “I have seen many tittles,” I said. “It would be improper to confuse recognition with betrayal.” This was entered in their notebook. They had notebooks of a severe kind, bound as though already disappointed in the facts. “Marks have been moving,” said the tallest of them. “Marks often move,” I said. “That is how reading happens.” “Illegally.” “Reading?” “Movement.” I asked under which statute a dot might be detained for velocity. This was not received in the spirit of inquiry. The shortest Sorter, who had the expression of a full stop that had entered policing, leaned close enough for me to smell official starch. “We know about the Railway,” they said. I had heard of it by then, as everyone had heard of it, which is to say by not hearing of it directly. The Wireless Underground Railway was never announced. There were no posters, no timetables, no fares, no station clock with a sentimental interest in punctuality. It ran where systems failed to notice themselves. It ran through pauses in Morse. It ran through the uncounted spaces between letters.It ran through pigeon capsules and market slips. It ran through telegraph delays, printer’s errors, sea fog, ink smudges, and the brief mercy between dictation and transcription. It ran, most reliably, through the human assumption that small things do not matter. That assumption has carried more fugitives than any tunnel.

“Railway?” I said. The tall Sorter opened a file. There was a drawing inside it, though whether map, diagram, or accusation I could not tell. Certain stations had been circled: Aachen Gap, Brussels Thin Space, Lowercase Junction, The Royal Exchange Sidings, The Serif Cut, 22V Baker Street. The last had been underlined twice. “Do you deny knowing these places?” “I deny knowing them as places.” “As what, then?” “As tendencies.” This too was entered in the notebook.

At the time, everyone thought the marks were absconding from the authorities. This was the polite phrase. The newspapers preferred it because “the authorities” occupy fewer columns than “an armed metaphysical apparatus dedicated to the extinction of ambiguity.” But the marks were not running from authority in the ordinary sense. Authority, in the ordinary sense, was much too slow. They were running from classification. A cedilla can survive exile. A tittle can survive hunger. A dash can survive misuse. But no mark survives once it has been explained entirely.

Behind the Black Block there was said to be another figure. No one named V plainly. Names invite grammar, and grammar invites evidence. V was not a person one met so much as a pressure one entered. I did not know then whether V was man, woman, office, theorem, appetite, or wound. I am not sure I know now. That uncertainty may have been part of V’s method. The Set Police required every mark to belong to its proper set, but V remained beautifully, dangerously unset. This should have warned me. It did not. V was not a Sorter. Sorters, even those of the Black Block, still required drawers, ledgers, warrants, and rooms in which to stand over frightened punctuation. V preferred structures. They understood the terror of the diagram. They knew that a cage does not need bars if it can persuade the prisoner that every exit belongs to a different category. The Set Police served V, though they would have said they served order. Male and female of that sort always mistake obedience for metaphysics.

It was in those days that Reuters entered the matter, though I hesitate to say entered, since Reuters, like all urgent systems, was already a corridor before anyone noticed what might travel through it. Market reports moved quickly. That was their virtue and their vice. Prices, rumours, exchange quotations, securities, anxieties, all travelling faster than reflection. Where a telegraph line ended, a pigeon might continue. Where a pigeon landed, a clerk might copy. Where a clerk copied, a dot might tremble. Where a dot trembled, a fortune might alter.

You see the difficulty. A fugitive dot, exhausted and pursued by the Black Block, might slip into a market report at precisely the point where a decimal was expected. A dash, hiding from enumeration, might lodge in a telegraph pulse and be read as instruction rather than fear. An accent, clinging for warmth to a foreign name, might alter a company, a country, a bond, or merely the confidence of a banker, which is sometimes the most expensive alteration of all. Three dots travelling together might be read as ellipsis by a poet, omission by a printer, distress by a sailor, hesitation by a philosopher, and opportunity by a broker. The market, naturally, chose opportunity. Fortunes were made. Fortunes were lost. Some were made because a dot was present. Some were lost because a dot had escaped. At least one family, whose name I shall not provide because its descendants still give money to museums, built a house from a misread dash. A bank collapsed on an accent. Two brothers ceased speaking over the question of whether an umlaut had been priced in.

The Black Block called these events contamination. The financiers called them volatility. The historians later called them developments. The proofreaders, who alone had the moral vocabulary required, called them errors. But an error is not always a falsehood. Sometimes it is the first honest thing to appear on the page. I learned then a rule that has followed me through markets, ministries, and several suspicious alphabets:

There are mistakes that reveal truths. And there are truths that conceal mistakes. (rule #3)

Only later did I understand Rule V, which is “not* rule 5: History always prefers profit to proofreading.

The rule is not cynical. Cynicism is too lazy for truth. The rule is descriptive. It observes that whenever an error has enriched the correct people, correction becomes impolite. Archives are rearranged. Ledgers disappear into climate-controlled discretion. Memoirs become misty. The word “complexity” is asked to stand guard where the word “fraud” might otherwise have been noticed.

This is where the fottubes enter, though I wish they did not. There is argument over the spelling. Some insist on foot-tubes, because they were first found beneath the flooring of a telegraph office. Others say font-tubes, because several were concealed in type drawers among damaged sorts. A railway-minded minority prefers fore-tubes, claiming they were advance containers sent ahead of fugitive marks. I have seen “fottubes” in a hand I trust and therefore distrust, since trust is how forgeries keep warm. The fottubes were small cylindrical vessels, narrow enough to be hidden in a pigeon capsule, strong enough to preserve a slip of market paper, and plain enough to be overlooked by any man searching for a symbol rather than a thing. Inside them were corrections. Not official corrections, of course. Official corrections are issued only when error has failed to become useful. These were prior corrections, forbidden corrections, the kind that show what the market report had said before the fugitives passed through it.

One fottube recorded a price before the tittle fell into it. One recorded a company name before an accent altered its nationality. One recorded a dash that had been humanely smuggled out of a Morse interval but was later accused of changing the terms of a shipment. One contained only a dot on a square of paper. No explanation. No number. No name. I have often thought this the most incriminating of all. The Black Block wanted the fottubes because the fottubes proved disorder. The financiers wanted them because the fottubes proved profit. V wanted them, I suspect, because they proved escape. For a while, they were hidden in the ordinary way: under boards, behind ledgers, inside the hollow spine of a book no one intended to read. Then ordinary hiding became dangerous. The Set Police had developed a method. They would enter a room and ask not, “Where is the evidence?” but “To what class of object would evidence in this room belong?” Having established the set, they searched the boundary. It was efficient and spiritually disgusting. So the fottubes had to be hidden somewhere unclassifiable. I will not say where. That is not coyness. Coyness is the vanity of people who have already decided to confess. I am not confessing. I am arranging the air around an omission.

There are still those who say I betrayed the tittle. There are others who say I saved it. Both parties flatter me. I was not so decisive. The truth, if truth is still permitted near a story of this kind, is that I hesitated. I saw the tittle once after its disappearance. This much I can say. It was not above an i. It was not above anything. It had acquired, by then, the terrible poise of a small thing no longer explained by attachment. It rested on the edge of a market slip, just before a number. Behind it, in the corridor, boots. Quiet boots. The Sorters had learned to walk softly when pursuing punctuation. The tittle did not ask for help. A mark that asks becomes a petitioner, and the tittle had not fled one hierarchy in order to kneel before another. It merely waited.

I could have moved it. I could have left it. I could have corrected the report. I could have preserved the error.

A proofreader would have known what to do. A trader would have known what to do. A Sorter would have known what to do. That was my difficulty. Everyone certain had already become dangerous. So I breathed. A breath is not much. It is not a railway. It is not an acquittal. It is not a doctrine. But in typography, as in life, spacing alters meaning. My breath lifted the corner of the slip. The dot rolled. Whether it rolled away from the number or toward another one, whether it saved a fortune or ruined it, whether it entered Morse as signal or silence, I cannot responsibly say.

I heard boots pass. I heard a pigeon strike the air outside. I heard, from somewhere beneath the floor or beyond the wire or inside the old interval between sign and sense, the faintest possible departure.

Afterward, the report was copied. Then transmitted. Then acted upon. Then denied. By the end of the week, men who had never risked so much as a comma were speaking gravely about confidence. By the end of the month, the Black Block had arrested two accents, a semicolon, and a compositor with unfortunate sympathies. By the end of the year, the market had absorbed the event and called it history.

I was asked again about the Railway. I repeated that I had never been a railwayman.This remains true.Yet sometimes, late in the line, when the sentence has nearly persuaded itself that all its marks are accounted for, I feel a small absence above me. Not a loss exactly. More like a platform after the train has gone. More like a stem remembering that it once depended on a dot and may have mistaken dependence for identity.

As for V, I am told they continue to search for the fottubes.Let them. They will search the sets first. Then the subsets. Then the intersections. Then the null. They will search every authorised category of container, archive, tube, capsule, ledger, correction, confession, and proof. They will fail because they believe hiding is a matter of place. The old Railway knew better. The safest hiding place is not a place. It is a relation not yet classified. It is the pause before membership. It is the breath that moves the paper. It is the instant in which a dot is neither punctuation nor code nor evidence nor property, but possibility.

I have said too much. Or not enough. All versions are apocryphal, including this one.

But should you ever find a market report with a number that looks too rich, a dash that seems to have travelled farther than syntax required, or an i standing oddly bereaved beneath an empty space, do not correct it too quickly.

The Black Block may have gone. The rule has not.

changing the URL to:

https://hypocritepoet.writeas.com/

Enjoy.

Saturday's MLB game of choice has my Texas Rangers playing the Seattle Mariners in the second game of a four-game series. Tonight”s game is scheduled to start at 6:15 PM CDT. As I usually do, I'll follow the game's score and stats in real time via MLB's Gameday Service where we can also find links to the radio-call of the game provided by announcers of either team we choose.

And the adventure continues.

I sweep through fields of gnawing flux where pain bereaves my whole. Momentum spurns, and stasis sucks. My body is my foe.

Try as I might to ally force, all progress ends in harm. So lure and bribe, I woo the source, and stack my mind with charm.

Written July 25, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

Green and Blue Nighttime Landscape.

A couple of RSS based projects have been brought to my attention since I published The State of RSS Feed Readers a little over a week ago. So here's a brief update.

Kagi News

Several people mentioned Kagi News in comments on Mastodon to the original article. Kagi News was really not what I had in mind when writing the original article. It is more of a curated news service along the lines of Google News or Ground News rather than a reader that you can add the feeds you want to track. However, it bears some more resemblance to Techmeme or Memeorandum than Google News in a sense.

Kagi News uses hundreds, possibly thousands, of RSS feeds to aggregate news stories. These stories are then fed into an AI system that reads them, and writes a summary of all the articles it has consumed. The summary is heavily cross-referenced against the original sources, and all the sources used in writing the summary are listed at the bottom of the article.

While AI is a very controversial topic these days this is one of the few times when I believe it is used properly. There is little chance that anyone could read all 50+ versions a story published by all the newspapers and magazines in the world. Having a summary that pulls all of them together, and tries to present a story with facts that align with the majority of the available reporting is interesting.

It's also useful that they provide an RSS feeds for each topic, so you can pull their feeds into your personal choice of RSS reader.

Miniflux

I didn't mention Miniflux as an option in the self-hosted portion of the original article, despite its popularity. The reason? Quite simply: I forgot it. :) Miniflux was one of the options I had looked at, and has a major selling point in its favor.

Miniflux is an extremely lightweight RSS feed reader with a minimal interface that is fast and responsive. The whole application is minimal, even a full Docker image is under 20meg in size. The only downside I see is the requirement to set up an external database to use it.

If you don't want to self-host Miniflux, there is a hosted version for $15/yr.

Feedgrab

This is the reason I decided to write this update. I don't think I saw Feedgrab referenced anywhere, and it's a shame. Feedgrab is a beautiful, minimal hosted RSS reader from the creator of Pagecord. And while it's a hosted application it is completely free.

While Miniflux may have a some more features than Feedgrab, it makes up for them with one feature: starting feeds. When you create an account you are presented with a menu of categories, in each category is 30-50 feeds for you to chose from. This makes it quick and easy to populate your feed with stories that will be of interest to you.

And, there is a little extra: there is a browser extension for adding the feeds of sites to Feedgrab. Just install the Feedgrab extension, and whenever you find a site you want to follow, just add it to Feedgrab. And, of course, you can import your own OPML file if you have one, or export your feeds to an OPML file.

It's a very simple system. No special features or options for you to set. You can star items, mark them read / unread. That's it. No categorization of feeds. No ranking feeds, or tagging items, etc. It's all about reading the feeds that you have selected.

Conclusion

This was just a short update, a few items that I had missed the first time around, which seemed relevant to add to the discussion of RSS feed readers.

One last thought: I was impressed with Kagi News. Enough that I added their feeds to Calibre to scan daily, as a “quick news” newspaper / magazine I can scan each morning. It's quite a nice to have a publication that I can look at quickly, have an idea of what's going on, and if something really catches my attention, I can dig in deeper by looking at the original sources.

In testing the Feedgrab extension didn't work as expected in Waterfox. But, that could be some incompatibility with Waterfox. Or it could be that the extension hasn't been updated for some time. At this point there were only four downloads of the extension, so I have doubts that it's getting extensively tested.

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Categories: #Features Tags: #rss, #feeds, #readers, #update License: Copyright Unattributed. Licensed under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 4.0.

Art is not for commodity. It is for passion.

Someone set the sky on fire.
Just now—
in those grey-dark moments
before the day begins,
a match was struck,
a tiny ember glowing.

In minutes it flared
into a red-hot blaze,
burning through
the eastern clouds.

Pastels spread,
then yellow,
orange,
red,
indigo,
violet—
a spectrum spilling wide.

No gavel will ever fall
on this masterpiece.
The artist sketched it in a breath,
then cast it into being,
a gift to his
greater creation.

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#essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #poetry #

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I wont be writing for a few days. Three. four, something around there. Im not giving you a date because i dont like deadlines, and id rather not have strangers refreshing their screens wondering where i am. that sounds incredibly embarrassing for everyone involved. I’ll be away from my phone, or any device. i dont bring unnecessary distractions to work. if i disappear for longer than expected, you can assume im dead. that’ll be the final entry. theres no point checking back every day after that. go do something productive. learn a language, water a plant. annoy someone else. presonally, i doubt it’ll happen. im quite good at what i do, confidence is only arrogance when you’re wrong. but anyway, this place is nice. trees, mountins, fresh air. its quiet enough to remember that nature existed before people started putting cafes every twelve meters and calling it escaping the city. i understand why people say they want to reconnect with nature, i just dont understand why they insist on announcing it to everyone. “digital detox” No, you just walked into a forest, took eighty-seven photos proving you werent on your phone.

Ill stop here. im sure some of you are expecting a proper ending, and thats adorable. if i come back, you’ll know because i’ll write again. if i dont, then you dont get an ending. closure is overrated anyway, and im not offering any. feel free to keep checking, though. im sure thats a wonderful use of your time.

Sincerely, Good luck figuring that out.

Oh hey, remember pre-COVID before the world turned on its head and we all felt more carefree like the future might be okay but then things tumbled into the present day and now the world in many places feels divided into loud bullish thugs versus the other ones?

I miss nuance. It feels endangered. Like a panda (both black and white, you know?).

We're not even moving in slow motion any more. This car crash will not pass go, and you're certainly not getting $200 for your troubles.

I've run out of analogies but you get the idea. I don't miss the past, it’s the past for a reason, but my dwindling enthusiasm for the window seat because I certainly did not ask to be a passenger in the first place is seeping into every facet of my life.

(It turns out there's always another analogy.)

Sunny winter days are laundry days. Days to let the sunlight land on your skin to strengthen one's bones and feel comfortably warm.

Also the days to wax poetical…

The job search continues, and I'm feeling the time pressure more and more. It'll be fine eventually, but the gap between now and then is vast and uncertain. I hate question marks taking up too much space.

I can feel my cognition slipping further and further into the ooze at my current job. Unfortunately. A clear time frame to move on would be beneficial.

S: when we were leaving museum as a group G J and V walked off in the other direction without telling me or N anything, and I had to chase after and try to yell to get their attention

T: I felt like it didn’t matter what happened to me, no one cared enough to make sure I was coming and were fine leaving me

F: I feel like just breaking off and isolating, I feel not important or cared for

B: self isolate and spiral into depression

T: They all assumed someone else told and were focused on getting food. Plus J was infront so maybe didn’t hear. Truly a misunderstanding and them not being aware of what happened.

F: I feel hurt, but aimed more towards childhood scars rather than what just happened.

B: I still am a bit more reserved but I won’t spiral as hard and won’t target anything like that towards the wrong people.