Efficiency is Independence
I'm a retired architect building systems that don't need "Big Tech" permission to exist. I run a full web presence, mail stack, and security layer for a dozen users on 1GB of RAM. No Docker. No bloat. No bullshit.
The Engineering Repositories
The Artist's Gallery & Manuscripts
Painting
The Dragonfly~2015 • Acrylic on Canvas
This acrylic on canvas work serves as a stylistic bridge in the artist's portfolio, merging multi-source inspirations into a singular narrative. The use of the oval vignette focuses the viewer’s eye on the interaction between the mythical creatures and their environment. The piece highlights the ...
Manuscript
blastoffGenre: Speculative Fiction
I loved kids.
Especially toddlers.
Thinking back to my first baby, I did mine and his first "Blast off".
Pretty simple I guess.
Just count down from 3 to 1, yell Blast Off!
and pick him up and twist him around in the air a bit and occasionally "get" his belly.
The screams of laughter were addictive to me as much as him.
I did this with all my kids and it grew to all the nieces and nephews and friends.
At one point there were 7 kids lined up to blast off.
Made for a long night of laughing litt...
Especially toddlers.
Thinking back to my first baby, I did mine and his first "Blast off".
Pretty simple I guess.
Just count down from 3 to 1, yell Blast Off!
and pick him up and twist him around in the air a bit and occasionally "get" his belly.
The screams of laughter were addictive to me as much as him.
I did this with all my kids and it grew to all the nieces and nephews and friends.
At one point there were 7 kids lined up to blast off.
Made for a long night of laughing litt...
Poetry
Sestina VIII.by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)
L' ver l' aurora, che s' dolce l' aura. SHE IS MOVED NEITHER BY HIS VERSES NOR HIS TEARS. When music warbles from each thorn, And Zephyr's dewy wings Sweep the young flowers; what time the morn Her crimson radiance flings: Then, as the smiling year renews, I feel renew'd Love's tender pain; Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain; And I for comfort court the weeping muse. Oh! could my sighs in accents flow So musically lorn, That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe, And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn: Y...