fvwm

A fairly faithful plan9-rio-like configuration for fishlinux fvwm2.

This uses no fvwm modules and is very barebones. If you don't use rio, this probably won't do very much for you.

Controls

• Mouse 3 on Desktop - window operations
• Mouse 1 on Desktop - window list
• Mouse 1 on Window Border - resize
• Mouse 2 on Window Border - resize
• Mouse 3 on Window Border - move
• Mouse Any on Window - raise and focus
• Alt + F1 - window operations
• Ctrl + Alt + m - maximize focused window
• Ctrl + Alt + Enter - spawn xterm

Hidden windows can be recalled from the Windows item in the window operations menu and by left clicking on the desktop.

Put .fvwmrc in $HOME and restart fvwm.

.fvwmrc

nein

9fishdate

analognowhere

Peter, please...

triapul

doing it right

In this photostory I will be showing you my journey of applying a 9 in a circle sticker on my laptop precisely in the center of the lid.

If you would like to try this yourself, you either need to make powerful friends, or try the SDF store. The latter option costs money, but the former could be harmful to your health.

These were the tools I used.

How big did you really think it would be?

Asking ChatGPT some difficult magemathical questions.

Exercising one's right to draw [on computers]

"Sanitize your devices."
- sktfm

It still boots!

triapul

Sam's Ex

triapul

step back

  Open your mouth. You cannot wonder.

triapul

upclick

funhole

sora app

funhole

Being of Hate

It's a busy workday morning in London. Life goes on as usual for the unsuspecting souls. In a house with an entrance that isn't there, three men huddle around a desk in a large otherwise empty room. A set of enormous wooden doors with pagan carvings separates them from the rest of the house.

The ornate chair once occupied by the buttocks of a now dead deity now hosts Bolton's. Belial is there and so is Muriel. The two stand around Bolton's desk, shuffling papers around, pointing at maps and photographs of faces.

Belial: "And here.. this is a forest in Belgium."

Bolton: "Who was that?"

Belial: "Don't know the name, but -"

Muriel: "Zadkiel."

Belial: "Right. Him and twelve others got picked off in the night."

Bolton: "How many have we lost since the hit?"

Muriel: "Three hundred and twenty seven. Plus all the operatives who got potentially made."

Bolton: "No word at all? Not even from Raphael?"

Muriel: "Nothing. It's a complete information embargo."

A single light tap on the door, preceeded by clicks of shoe needles.

Bolton: "Eva? What is it?"

The handle shifts and a half of the entrance silently rotates a few degrees, creating a passage just narrow enough for the receptionist to slip inside the room.

Eva: "Mister Bolton, Mister Azrael is here."

Bolton: "Thank you, Eva. Please, ask him in."

She slips back out and the door closes.

Belial: "You're starting to sound like him, you know."

A muted snap of the fingers later, Azrael, the angel of Death stands in the room, opposite of Bolton behind the desk. He scans his two companions.

Azrael: "Mister Bolton. Muriel."

He pauses for a moment.

Azrael: "Belial."

The demon sniffs.

Belial: "What's up, Az?"

Azrael: "Gabriel knows you're in command now, Mister Bolton."

Bolton: "So ends our advantage of disorganized chaos."

Azrael: "He knew you two were close, but didn't think that Belethor would pass the mantle onto a human. I hope you put that time to good use."

Belial: "A former spook who captured and tortured the last memory of god now runs the show. A hard pill to swallow for Gabe, I'm sure."

Bolton: "Bought us time, that's what matters. I'm pretty sure that was Belethor's plan since the beginning. He did know how everything ends."

Belial: "Do you?"

Bolton: "What? No. It didn't come with any powers, B."

Belial: "Like the pope then."

Azrael: "Eventually Gabriel put two and two together after your little resistance didn't cease with Belethor's death."

Muriel: "Resistance? It's the Apocalypse!"

Azrael: "Yeah, well, the book kind of stopped being relevant after you popped Michael's head like a watermelon halfway through chapter 6."

Bolton: "That was Abbadon's boys and a 50 cal. Been a while since I read the book, but I'm pretty sure it got a bunch of things wrong, if that's the case."

Belial: "Do I have to bring up the fact that the so-called apocalypse already happened in 66?"

Muriel: "Nero was not the anti-christ, for fuck's sake."

Belial: "Tell that to the Judeans."

Bolton: "Jesus fucking christ. Can we stop with this bullshit and get back to the topic at hand? Azrael?"

Azrael: "Gabriel is the last hairband holding the remnants together. Remove him and you will get the support of all the remaining archangels, ending this war."

Belial: "That's a great fucking idea. Definitely didn't occur to any of us."

...

kitty odysseus

#0-1

MAKING SURE YOU'RE NOT A BOT!

We, the window managees

originally posted on 2023-02-03 on gopher

Another sweaty morning. Must be the caffeine. Your pores have been working overtime and the mattress smells like burnt caramel. No matter. You put the kettle on boil and suddenly it hits you. The loose cupboard door you've been meaning to fix for the past 17 months finally gives out and goes into the much anticipated free-fall. Yes, your head is indeed in the way. You'd think you'd be used to pain by now, alas, the door knocks you out cold, breaks the glass coffee jar and scratches the kitchen counter. You lie there on the cold tile floor, covered in instant coffee. The door merrily rests nearby. In your defeated state a vision appears!

The darkness behind your eyes forms a familiar face. You can't quite place it, but you know it's one of the good daemons. It speaks in a calm, but pedantic tone. You are told that you've wasted your time long enough. Desktop environments have been dominating the land for far too long. The daemon crowns you the new prophet of window managers, after telling you the sad fate that has befallen the previous one. (He died when parachuting. Turns out he was quite the adrenaline freak and didn't take his quest for window manager supremacy seriously.) The face tells you it is now your time to go out into the world and preach the good word of digital minimalism and efficient workflow. You feel like asking for some notes on where to start, but you can't speak, you remember you're knocked out. And then, just like that, the face disappears and the all too familiar shabby kitchen comes into view.

There is no time to investigate the damages the cupboard door caused. You can always blame it on the previous tenant. It worked out for the broken sink. You check the clock, turns out you've been out for several hours. Good thing you don't have to go to work, you were fired 3 months ago. But it is apparent this newly found purpose in your life requires all your attention. Where to start?

You remember a girl with a computer at the bar you frequent every other day. Mostly because you don't want to appear like an alcoholic. But you know she won't get it. She likes her google docs, x's, squares and _'s at the top of her windows as she furiosly clicks on the panel at the bottom, going from one proprietary software to another. Nothing to do. Maybe the younger generation will be a better start to your mission. You try the immigrants' kid from downstairs, playing soccer with your window. You begin your initial inqueries. Turns out he doesn't know what windows are. He knows what Windows is, but his question on whether he could play some shitty slot machine disguised as a shooter game makes you question your decision. You leave the kid on a mission of his own to annoy most people in the building and head out into the city. You do not despair. There is a two day Linux convention happening at the university. You had no reason to go before, but now you understand the turn of events. No such thing as chance. Perhaps you've taken your new role too inconsiderately. You remember every good prophet needs his apostles. What better place than a Linux convention could there be to find your followers before converting the blasphemous desktop-manager-heretics!

There, a feller on his vintage thinkpad, surely he will be the one. Looking over his shoulder you can see he's running i3 and 7 alacritty terminal emulators with htop and netstat, playing minetest in a tiny window in the lower right corner. Finally! Now is your time to shine!

...

Exhausted, you return home. Wash the smut off your face and get your bearings back. Who would've thought the youngling hacker would have no interest in your quest. Frankly, you're surprised you even got to say a few sentences. The rest of the conversation, which lasted for 4 hours, was about his stupid 12 year old computer, custom built from imported parts from Japan, with a liberated BIOS and a matte screen. Cool, but that didn't interest you in the slightest. It may have the day before, but you were no common retro-machine enthusiast. Of course when you mentioned your mission, he laughed you off. He already belonged to a different kind of a cult which takes pride in being different. "What good would it do to us, if everyone ran a window manager?!" What good, the fool.

You think on the daemon and wonder, if there's a special room in hell for failed prophets. Maybe you'll try again tomorrow, but probably not, you feel like you gave it your best. Tomorrow is your bar-night anyway and the girl just might be there again.

man of mata 1

• man of mata

unix_surrealism bible api

as seen in mata_bot

# openbsd:
$ ftp -VMo- https://triapul.cz/files/bible/$((RANDOM%31102+1))

# curl:
$ curl https://triapul.cz/files/bible/$((RANDOM%31102+1))

# rc:
% hget https://triapul.cz/files/bible/`{awk 'BEGIN{ srand(); print int(1 + rand() * 31102) }'}

• [pastanoggin] mata_bot

...

unix_

surre

alism

in color, in twisted domesticated color
   veal dressed in maroon consonants.

Stuck in a single paragraph
of lines
lies
and bruised cheeks,
looking into the liquid silver light
I, I and I
slip into a canyon of stripes.

Seizures all to be seen:
the means of computation,
the computation of meaning,
the silent scream of a transistor,
the drive clatter.

read source
drill a hole
kill a ghost

zdáš se mi nahá

swap

fuck computers

It moans.

Throws me off. I was about to open the motherboard housing unit in its chest, when it began its procedure. You can't really turn these fuckbots off. Not like you would think. Always on. Always ready. To fuck. But that was not part of the marketing slogan.

There's a mechanical switch behind the ribs, on the left side. You can reach it with your hand, if you know where to make the opening. It's used for maintenance, or emergency, or who-the-fuck-knows. It's not exactly mentioned in the manuals. All we know about the architecture is from, well, doing this. I'm four fingers deep in synthetic flesh, playing its rib cage like a blind xylophone player from the inside, looking for a fucking button. This will void your warranty.

It moans again. Must be a jailbroken model. Maybe running on some premium subscription I didn't know about. Either way, its pain receptors were not registering anything. Usually they cry, begging you not to hurt them. It can get pretty convincing, all fine-tunable with an app. But a sliver of a semblance of self-preservation is usually hard-coded in for when you get too rough. It's not like the corpo cares, if you mutilate it beyond repair. They just want you to know it's real. This one just moans.

I glance over at the bed, the kid is cowering in the corner. I almost asked him what twisted shit he was getting up to with it. I knew he wouldn't tell me. That was between him, the bot and 196 advertising partners.

It moans again. Coincidentally just as I feel a click. Its chest bursts open like a church door in space. The pressure release squirts a blue pollockian ejaculate over my face. This part sucks.

"Unauthorized access."

Okay, it's not jailbroken. I punch it in the face. It's a stupid reflex I can't shake. It doesn't achieve anything and it fucking hurts. Not like the old cathode ray tubeheads though, now those were fist fights.

"Unauthorized access."

What a character. It keeps repeating the phrase in its default seductive tone. Anyway, I have about 30 seconds before it fries itself in self-defense. Corpocops are probably already on their way here.

From behind me the kid stutters: "I.. it's not for real..."

"Unauthorized access." It keeps moaning.

Now I'm both hands wrist-deep where its rib cage used to be, holding onto a motherboard inside, about to rip it out. What?

"I.. I programmed her to uh... act like that..."

"Unauthorized access."

So that's his thing.

More blue conduit liquid sprays into my face as the motherboard comes out. She finally shuts up.

Fuck. I mean it shuts up.

fuck_computers

ink2

analognowhere

the last two cigarettes on earth

"I guess we all just wondered too much to care to try."
  - Jezebel, ca. 73 atd

A set of two objects from analognowhere.

Price realized: -

Both objects contain traces of the author's DNA. Sold as art installations not intended for human consumption.
Can be sold separately.

Contact me privately with an offer.
Serious buyers only.

Object 1

Foundation: Philip Morris ČR Sparta Blue cigarette

Purposely dipped in a large bottle of KOH-I-NOOR black ink, later used in a promotional photoshoot on META's Instagram.

Object 2

Foundation: Philip Morris ČR Sparta Blue cigarette

Accidentally spilled over with ALPA FRANCOVKA (lihový bylinný roztok) after sitting in a repurposed PEPSI can. The tip of the object was then dipped in a mug of industrial turpentine.

img

"Naysayers!"

Said Owen Wilson and proceeded to grind down a set of rails. The knowledgable know it wasn't him, the deniers vouch for the actor's skating skill and the rest don't care.