From the monthly archives:
It is nice when months of fretting pays off in a ten-minute update with only a few dumbass PHP errors.
There are still some messy bits here and old links are broken. I have some new images to put in later on when I finish drawing them. And the “www” part of the site is still old. But it’ll be easier to fix everything now that the new blog is settled into its new home.
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I’ve closed down comments on all the posts here in preparation for a big blog move. I’m migrating all my web sites over to WordPress, with a new simpler structure and an integrated redesign. I think I’ve planned everything out, and I’ve done most of the work on a testing site, but who knows how well it’ll actually work when I put it all in place. This old site you’re looking at is a really old movable type installation with a lot of hand-built customizations, most of which were really stupid in retrospect (my urge to tinker won out over basic common sense). The conversion has been a lot more painful as a result.
The biggest change for many of you will be a new feed URL. The old blog supported every variety of feed flavor; the new blog will have only one feed (RSS) and it’ll be at a different URL. (http://blog.lauralemay.com/feed)
I’ll redirect all the old feed URLs to the new feed but I don’t know how well that’ll work for feed readers. I’ll also put up a reminder post in the old feeds when the conversion goes through.
This is not like putting a lander on mars or anything, but my goal for all this brouhaha is to make it easier for me to actually, you know, write.
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looks like rain, originally uploaded by lauralemay.
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(I am writing, a lot. I hope some of you are still around to read.)
When I was seven my friend Carolyn lived at the end of the road in a big old white house shaded under huge maple trees. Her house was more interesting to play in after school when our parents were at work than my house was, because her house was older and larger than my house, and it had more corners and places to explore, but mostly because it wasn’t my house. And so we rode our bikes up and down the street, and we climbed the maple trees in her yard, and we explored the basement and attic and other back corners of her house, and then one day while we we exploring we found the old jars of pickles at the back of the pantry closet behind the kitchen stairs.
There were two jars of dill pickles, big half-gallon mason jars we could barely lift out of the closet and onto the kitchen counter. We didn’t know how old the jars were, and there was no one else around in the house to tell us. The tops of the jars were furry with dust and although there were labels on the jars the writing had faded so we couldn’t see the dates. Inside the jars there were whole pickles, packed tightly, and if we tipped the jars on their sides we could see garlic and peppercorns and whole spiky brown heads of dill seed through the cloudy brine.
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