When I loaded my website this morning – an hour or two after having woken up with great joy to rays of golden light radiating through the edges of the curtains – I noticed the cherry blossom emoji (🌸). It must be the first day of spring! I love moments like this when my website surprises me. The seasonal emojis almost feel like a gift from past James. Today means something. Every day does.

The spring weather has motivated me to go on more walks. When the sky is clear, the fresh breeze – the one that blows through the windows I can now have open – is seductive. It looks warm outside. I should go out. With the energy that comes from feeling the spring air and the golden sun after a long winter, I decided I would go for a walk at lunch.

Before I left, I had a thought: maybe I should take my spring jacket. In the moment, I realised what this meant: spring is really here.

While walking, I decided to take the longer route. The air was refreshing. I could see for miles. I knew that there were sights to be seen: scenes I haven’t seen since before the winter kept me indoors and closer to home. I kept my headphones out so I could listen to the rhythm of the walk. Birdsong, birds walking through the leaves left over since last autumn, the rustle of the single fallen leaf that followed me briefly, propelled by the gentle breeze of spring.

The autumn leaves were memories of the last season. The birdsong? The sounds of the next one.

As I was heading home, after stopping to admire the hills in the distance and how radiant they were with the spring light, I noticed a tree in blossom: the first pink cherry blossom in bloom I have seen this year. One of my favourite parts about walking are the surprises like this one – of being on familiar paths and seeing something that brings both surprise and joy.

I love watching the sun set, from golden hour to the moment when the last pink hues fade from the sky. Every moment is magical. As I write, there are bands of purple radiating behind the ripples of thin clouds on the horizon.

I periodically look out the window when the sky is clear and the sun is setting, eager to see as many of the colours of the sky as possible – the oranges and the yellows, the pinks and the purples, the blues. I know that every time I look, there will be something new to see. In the same place, a different perspective.

When I looked out the window a few moments ago, I saw a faint silver arch in the sky. Is that… a crescent moon? I smiled and laughed a little to myself. It was as if I had never seen a present moon before. I am looking at the moon now as I write this sentence, searching for words to describe the new, silvery, light in the sky.

The silver crescent stands out in front of the darkening blue sky. It has been a while since I have seen a crescent moon so narrow.

I turned the light off indoors so that the interior light would not reflect on the window so that I could see more. Shortly thereafter, I noticed, below the moon, at a distance I cannot quantify for I know not how to measure the night sky (some things are beautiful because they are indescribable), a star: the first star visible this evening.

The lavender is fading and the blue of the late evening envelops more of the sky, the colours of sunset giving way to the celestial. I look eagerly to the horizon for the next star to appear.

When I woke up this morning, I knew I wanted to open the blinds early – to let the spring light in. The previous night, I had made sure the book I wanted to read was sitting by my bedside, ready for me in the morning. I enjoyed the soft yellow light shining through the room as I read, my book temporarily taking me into the world of motorcycles and maintenance and care.

I love how books let you be in two places at once: where you are, and another world crafted by the author. Maybe that is part of why I love writing, too: I can craft a little world for you to be in for a few moments.

After spending my time immersed in another world, I got up and looked out the window. There was a light blanket of frost on the grass that, just yesterday, was more green than I have ever seen it, illuminated by the light of spring. Seasons and times blend together: the cold of winter and night lingers in the morning, the sun bringing new perspective to the frost.

I love frosty mornings: the chill wakes me up. I went for a walk to get some bread; I had half an avocado in the fridge that I didn't want to let go to waste.

Outside, the world was quiet. I myself was still waking up; the fresh air helped. I paid attention to my breath with every step I took. I have a bit of a cold; being in Nature was exactly what I needed. On one part of the walk, with nobody else around, I closed my eyes and recalled memories of other mornings where the air was just like this. I felt connected both to the world around me and other moments in time.

The frost outside has melted. After my walk – and my delicious breakfast – now sit in my armchair, gazing out the window with a sense of peace. I just finished my cup of tea. I always like to hold my tea cup for as long as I can so that I can feel all the warmth it has. Since I am writing, the tea cup is next to my left knee. I can still feel its warmth.

I love making incremental improvements to my website. All the changes I make to this website build up to what you see. This has me thinking that websites are both a place to reflect on, discuss, and make change, as well as being something that can, and does, change over and with time. My website grows with me.

While exploring my website, I noticed in the past that the bold typeface in the headings and in my website name looked a bit different in Safari to Firefox. This week, I learned why: I didn’t supply a bold typeface for my website. This meant that both browsers were trying to create a bold effect rather than relying on the typeface itself to supply bold characters. This has now been fixed. My site, which uses the Standard web font, now loads the bold version of the web font too.

Today I also set out to fix how links appear in italics in my blog posts. Links are styled in blue with an underline, but the colour rules for the em tag were overriding the colour of links within the em tag. This meant that links in em tags preserved their underline, but had the same colour as the surrounding text. This, too, is now fixed. It felt good to finally make this change. Small changes collectively make a big difference.

I also have a new “Make a Website” page. I wrote this page to be a short introduction to how to make a website, referring to the excellent resources others have made on the topic, as well as communities of people building websites. I now link to this page both on my home page and my website sidebar. If you have been looking for a sign to start a website, this is it. The web is wonderful.

On a side note, I learned that Ghost, which I use for publishing blog posts – my static site generator reads posts from Ghost, stored as text files – does not allow emojis in permalinks. I learned this while trying to set the permalink for 🌸 to be the eponymous emoji. This is probably for the best: emojis in permalinks do not, on reflection, necessarily fit into how I think about URL design:

In a sense, URLs are user experience. I use them to navigate through websites. As a site creator, clearly defining URLs helps me know what is where. This is important to me. I want the experience of searching for a page – either for reference, or as I develop my site – to be as intuitive as possible.

Finally, I created a new “for you” page. It reads:

This entire website is for both me and you.

Thank you for visiting!

I much prefer my for you page to any one I have seen so far.

Related is what Sir. Tim Berners-Lee says of the web: “This is for everyone”.

Note: My site styles may be cached for you, so to see any changes to the typeface you may need to do a hard refresh of a page. One day I will figure out how to clear the styles that power my offline mode from readers' caches when I update the styles. That, however, is a task for another day.

The verdant foliage on the steep hillside, the path that you know was made just for this place — the wooden planks delineating where to walk, the stairs up and down following the ebb and flow of the hill, the bridges that wove through the trees and over the edge of the river. I was in awe. I have never been on a path like this before. All around: Nature; life.

I have walked by the river before, but never at this exact point. As I walked, I noticed signs for fishing. I wonder when salmon season is. I saw nobody fishing, but I did see the occasional person walking their dog, as well as a group of hikers following the path. Otherwise, the only sound in the air was that of the rolling river. Flowing water calms me.

Continuing to walk, I found a place to stop. There was a bench there. I didn’t sit down, though: I stood by the river so I could see further up and downstream.

I wondered who else has come here to enjoy the river; who else has stopped exactly where I was standing, listening to the water. The clear water. The water so clear I could see the river bed: the pebbles and the kind of grass that grows under water. And… tadpoles! The sight brought me back to primary school when I first learned about them. I can’t recall the last time I saw a tadpole in the water. I felt the magic of rediscovery.

Standing still, watching the water flow, I wondered: Why does something moving so fast make me feel still? Is it the shimmer of the light reflecting off the river? The sound of falling water? The best answer I could devise is of two words: here, Nature.

I stood for innumerable moments gazing at the river: watching the water flow, the tadpoles swim, the occasional duck soar over the water. I thought about how I wanted to keep standing here to watch the water flow, to hear the birds sing, to feel Spring. I heard new birdsong. I felt the gentle breeze on my neck. I smelled the wild garlic, so potent that it pierced through my light cold in the way that only Nature knows how. I heard the song of a bird I don’t think I have heard before.

I love the storytelling work that the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York does. For example, the Frame of Mind podcast highlights short stories of people’s relationships with museums – around fifteen minutes long each. It is a great listen.

Last year, I watched a video by The Met on their YouTube channel as part of their “Meet Me at the Met” series. The video was an interview with Orhan Pamuk, a Nobel Prize-winning author. The video has stuck with me ever since.

When I think about “the artist was here,” the interview with Pamuk comes to mind. Orhan mentions that he found inspiration in several paintings in the museum. Museums can inspire writers. That has stuck with me. On reflection, I have written a fair bit about museums as places, and I have so much more I want to say. Museums inspire me.

Pamuk talks about the “museum-ness” of the museum. This makes me think about all the qualities of the museum as a place: the interior design, how each room feels, how it feels to walk between rooms, the art on the walls, the conversations that people have while studying an artwork.

A trip to the museum engages all my senses. I become aware of the past (through the art I am looking at) and the present (through the people I hear in the room) all at once. I think about the future (by reflecting on what I see and what it means), too.

What stood out to me most about the video was that both Pamuk, who in addition to being a writer also painted, and I had visited the museum. The artist was here. Watching the video again, Pamuk enters the Monet room in which one of my favourite works of art is kept: Ice Floes. A painting in front of which I stood for many minutes, admiring every detail. A painting so captivating I didn’t want to leave the gallery.

Countless people will have been in the Monet room; the same can be said of every room in every museum. Two people who have been to a museum have shared space, maybe not at the same time, but through time. When a friend mentions a museum that we have both been to, I think about this idea. We have both been there; we both have a story to tell.

This post was inspired by a prompt Frances gave me when we were exchanging blog post titles. I knew I wanted to write something for this prompt, but I had no idea what. I ended up writing about Sparking joy, but I kept the idea of "The artist was here" in my mind for when I was ready to write about it. Some things take time.

A few weeks ago I made Amie, an application for keeping track of who you meet at conferences. Amie lets you create an event, then add people by name and/or domain, Mastodon, or BlueSky handle. ¹

I was inspired to build Amie because I went to a web meetup a few months ago where I met many people with websites. I wanted a better way to keep track of the sites people shared with me than to leave browser tabs open on my phone, which I may accidentally close or otherwise lose track of. I haven’t used Amie at an event yet, but I plan to!

When I built Amie, an architectural question came to mind: can I build all of this in a single file using HTML, CSS, and JavaScript? The advantage of this approach would be: (i) I wouldn’t need to maintain a back-end (note: the kind of back-end I would want to build for an application storing contacts would involve significant privacy and security planning), and; (ii) a single file would mean that I could share the application with others. All data would be local.

With a single-file application, anyone could save the source of Amie, put it on their website, and their your own instance that works on their device. With this flexibility, people could add their own features, change the colour scheme of the application to make it their own, and make any other changes they want. If someone sees Amie and wants it to be pink, they can make a copy of the source code and make it pink!

This is related to my thoughts around how to promote a remix culture for the web. I am interested in tools built on, of, and for the web that people can copy, remix, and use for themselves. While Amie does not come with a license, I will at some point make sure it is under a public domain-compatible license like MIT 0 such that people have confidence all the code is theirs to play with and share.

I have another example of a time when I applied this single-file application pattern. Last year I built Athena (see live version), an experimental HTML editor for mobile devices, on a similar principle. I wanted all the code to be in a single file so that the application could be more easily shared. I was able to achieve that goal, so anyone could copy the source and have their own version of Athena. (Note: Athena is really experimental. I don’t recommend using it, but it is fun to play around with.)

The idea of a single-file application introduces difficulties around updates. If I update Amie to fix a bug, for example, how can I share those changes with everyone else? There could be some kind of email list to which people could subscribe for significant updates. People could do a diff to see what has been changed and decide what to keep in their version of the code. I don’t have a solution for update notifications for this kind of remixed software, but I thought I’d document this point anyway.

I also see a potential downfall of a single-page web application that is huge just so that it is in a single page. I would consider that an anti-pattern. The goal is not to compress an application into a page, but to consider what could be built as a small, shareable web page like Amie or Athena or my coffee/water ratio calculator page.

Technically, Amie is a few files: it has a service worker and manifest, for example, to support offline mode and a progressive web application mode, as well as a font that is used. But, the bulk of the application is in a single file and so I consider it in the spirit of the idea I am discussing here.

[1]  Amie doesn’t make any requests to validate profiles: it just saves them in a list; @example@example.com is, for example, enough to know that a handle is for Mastodon, without having to do any validation.

At Front End Study Hall yesterday there was a discussion about what endeavours are similar to web development. There was a particularly rich discussion (documented in the afore-linked notes) related to gardening and web development. My takeaway from the discussion was that building for the web has more in common with other tasks than I had thought about before.

I have been thinking about one-off pages on my website that I use to document different ideas, like my ideas list or my patterns list. I keep thinking about how I should present these. Should I have a page that lists all of the pages? But what if a page isn’t ready yet? The benefit of the current way I share these pages – either directly with friends or, more commonly, by linking to them in a blog post when they are relevant – seems to work well. With the current system, I share when I am ready.

I sometimes think of these one-off pages as “wiki-like pages”, in the sense that they are updated over time – they grow. I don’t consider these pages a digital garden because they aren’t heavily linked. Many of my one-off pages stem from some notes I have taken in Apple Notes that I think, after reaching some point of maturity, should have a URL. You could call them “slash pages”, but I am not a fan of that term.

The reason I think about all these words is that they have a certain weight to them. A wiki implies something different than a digital garden, just as a page implies something different to a blog post. While “wiki-like pages” made sense to me for one-off, growing pages, “page” may be the best way for me to think of these for now.

When I consider how I want to share these pages, the best system is the one I have right now – the one where I link to pages in a blog post every so often, when I am ready. The one where I can put a URL on something without the pressure of it showing up on a list of all the pages I garden. My system is a bit inefficient, but it is maybe good enough? It is good enough for now, at least.

On reflection, there is something joyful about being able to casually share a new page in a blog post, where the page is most appropriate. The one-off pages I garden aren’t a notebook so much as they are an amalgamation of bullet points, a potential starting point – a place with more information. In blogs, I refine and define and synthesise and reflect. In pages, I often want to get the notes down so they have a home. So that I can build on the idea later.

Indeed, building on things feels very much in the spirit of having a website. We’re always building on what we have. I garden where I can. As Jeremy said in the aforementioned Front End Study Hall discussion about gardening and web development: “the joy of the thing is in the development - you cannot plan for it.”

In the spirit of talking about one-off pages, this may be a fun time to share I have a page on this website that lists songs that are related to rhubarb pie. If you have any suggestions that I can add to the list, please do let me know!

The main Artemis interface has remained largely the same since I made the software available for others to use. Here is the interface in December 2024. Here is the interface in 2026 [^1] [^2]:

The main change that I have made is that the navigation bar now has a “search” link, now that search is supported.

When I added the search link, I spent quite a bit of time thinking about whether I should make it opt-in via a settings toggle [^3]. I knew that adding the search link in the place where I wanted it to be – after the “add” link used to add an author to one’s reader – would shift other links, which would mean that two navigation links that had been there for months would now be in different places.

After some thought, I ultimately opted to add the link in for everyone. I thought the search feature was sufficiently useful that it should be in the navigation bar.

Aside from that, the interface now has supported for “nested” posts, which appear in certain contexts (mostly: when you are subscribed to a Mastodon account, you replies that make up a thread of posts by the same author in lighter grey text and nested below the main post, to preserve space). This is an enhancement; it doesn’t disrupt the core functionality of showing the list of posts.

I haven’t had any impulse to redesign the software. I like the way things are. The software feels visually stable. It works, and doesn’t change much. I have added a few new layouts, but those layouts co-exist – users can choose what layout they want to use from their account settings.

I was thinking about this today after reflecting on all the times when a redesign has been jarring for me. I am cognisant of redesigns in software I have used that still, sometimes years on, don’t do essential things as easily as was possible before their redesign.

Of note, there are areas where the interface has changed more substantially. Such changes primarily pertain to settings or subscription management. Indeed, software changes: Artemis does a lot more than it did two years ago. The interface reflects that. For example, the account settings page started to grow significantly, so I broke it up into several sub-pages. This reorganisation felt better than the alternative of continuing to add more options to a single page.

As software changes, so too might a UI; there is no part of me that can reasonably make any blanket statement about how redesigns are not a good idea, or that redesigns are essential, or that UI stability should be prioritised over another design principle. Context matters. Rather, I aim to document that UI stability should be a design consideration. It feels good when everything is in roughly the same place.

[^1]:  The colours are different because I have since set a custom colour theme in my account settings.

[^2]: You may notice that the 2024 version had an "invite" button. This was something I had enabled only for my account if I remember correctly so that I could manage invite codes.

[^3]: Another thought that crossed my mind was to make the link opt-in, but on by default for new users. This would have been substantially more engineering so I didn’t do it, but I still love this idea.

I am interested in the field of content design, which thinks of information as not only what it represents (i.e. facts) but how that information is represented. The UK Government says:

Good content design allows people to find out what they need to know or do quickly.

When I am navigating the UK Government website, I feel like I can find what I am looking for. I feel the same way when I am looking through the NHS website, too.

This week I had an idea: what would a gov.uk-style website look like for getting people set up on the web?

This idea was explored in the IndieWebGuides project in 2017, although the project covered more of the technical aspects of setting up a website. I think such a resource would still be incredibly valuable today, but the lens through which I was thinking about the idea was more about helping people make informed choices about how to use the web.

I thought about a website that would cover things like:

• How to choose a browser (and why it matters)
• How to set up a web presence for a community (and why social media isn’t enough)
• How to use web readers like RSS readers (and why they are useful)
• How to choose a search engine (and why it matters)
• What does it mean for information to be online? (talk about public vs. private, how web pages can be archived, and more)

One piece of motivation was to have a place on the web that helps highlight why things like browser choice, search engine choice, and using open web technology matters, in as few words as possible, and written for an audience that doesn’t have a technical background.

I wrote a little sample of what such a guide might look like for choosing a web browser.

I thought it would be nice to have a site where information is concise, consistent, and where every word is scrutinised for its relevance and necessity. I also thought it would be nice for such a site to not take a position against a technology (i.e. social media) and instead show the benefits, downsides, and alternatives that are more of the spirit of the web.

I’m sure my idea needs more development; I registered a domain name for this project – yourweb.guide – way too early. This is not a project I plan to build right now. It may be the case that short, well-designed guides exist for all my ideas above; if so, perhaps a site that aggregates them would be nice. In any case, despite having no intentions to bring this idea to life right now, it is an idea I wanted to write down in case anyone else sees something in the idea and is inspired.

I like to put my hands over the top of a cup of warm tea. I enjoy the warmth, and want to hold onto it for as long as possible.

Whether I am holding a textbook or exploring blogs, if I have a cup of tea by my side I want to feel its warmth. As I write, I am sitting next to a warm cup of tea, resting on the arm of my chair. The vibration of movement as I type creates a gentle ripple on the water, a ripple that reminds me of the calm river where I spent time last weekend. It is amazing what there is to see in the ordinary.

This week I joined a session at school on the topic of career planning. I had an hour of time to work through a series of questions designed to help me make progress on a goal. The goal I chose for the session was to think about my career goals. What do I want to do in my career? What is my dream?

I love technical writing and communication, which I did professionally before starting my degree, but I wanted to think beyond areas where I have already worked. In the careers session, I made progress but I was still on similar tracks to my previous thinking. But tonight I had a new idea.

When I was a kid, I briefly dreamed of being an inventor. I loved making things It is perhaps then little surprise that computers, followed by programming, eventually caught my attention. I could make new things and share them with people!

This evening, I thought about how I could keep that dream alive, if only in the form of an idea in the back of my mind. I came up with a way to connect the dots: what if I worked in a place where I was designing new technologies?

Over the last year I have been thinking a lot about the intersection of technology, design, and how we use technology. Learning about the history of art has helped give me a new toolkit through which to look at the world, too. I think I would love to work in a place that lets me ask big-picture questions about the future of technology, and to help design new technologies.

I would love to be able to make prototypes of new tools with a team of people, all looking to solve the same problem. I want to work on technology that helps people. I want to cover new ground, using prior art as inspiration but not necessarily as a direction. We have problems to solve that need novel solutions. I want to build technology where ethics is a central part of the discussion.

I would also love to use my technical writing skills to take notes of what I was helping to build. I’d love a prototype made in this hypothetical lab to eventually become something that people can use. I love making things people can use.

Whether or not this is a dream I end up pursuing, I am not sure. But I did want to write it down. Until this evening, I had not yet made the connection between my childhood interest in becoming an inventor and the fact that there are people out there who design technology.

If anyone can help me connect the dots further between the aspiration to prototype new technologies and what this looks like in the real world, please feel free to send me an email!

It’s almost like I’d love to work at a modern-day Bell Labs :)

In Grouping link posts in a web reader, I described a feature in Artemis to show when someone whose website you are following has bookmarked a post by an author you also follow. The motivation for this feature was to reduce clutter in a user’s reader by grouping shares of a post under the original post.

Whether an entry should be nested was determined by the URL of an entry in a feed, which meant that the feature triggered only for people who publish bookmarks feeds that link directly to other websites.

Yesterday, I started working on an expansion to this feature to cover another case: when someone you follow publishes a blog post, then announces that post on another account like Mastodon whose feed you also follow. I have seen this happen a few times since there are a few people whose blog and Mastodon account I follow. Ideally, the Mastodon post would be grouped under the main post.

Here is an example of the new feature in action:

Above, vanderwal.net’s Musee d’Orsay and the Three Mixed-media Arabs blog post is the main entry. Below the entry is the text “Shared as a link by Thomas Vander Wal”, which links to the Mastodon post announcing the blog post.

When a post is retrieved by the Artemis polling system, all outgoing links are saved in a list. Then, when a user’s reader is being displayed, any post that links to another post will appear nested under the post to which it links. This feature only triggers if the feed that contains the link is a Mastodon account ¹. This prevents a scenario where someone writes a blog post that links to another blog post, where, with the logic above, the blog post that links to another post would be hidden.

(Note for users: This feature works if you are subscribed to a feed using the ActivityPub syntax like @jamesg.blog@jamesg.blog; if you follow the RSS feed for a Mastodon account this will not work. This feature may work for Bluesky replies too, although I haven’t yet tested it on Bluesky accounts).

While a relatively small change, this feature helps to create focus on blog posts as opposed to presenting both a blog post and an announcement post in the same way.

[1]  This feature may also work with other ActivityPub-based systems, although I haven’t tested it yet.

This month I had the pleasure of hosting the March 2026 IndieWeb Carnival on the topic of “Museum memories”, in which I invited participants to write about a memory of a museum. To everyone who participated – we had over 30 participants this month! – thank you. It was a delight to read everyone’s stories.

Reading the contributions to this month’s Carnival will take you around the world, covering everywhere from Canada to Japan to Goa to Cairo. There are a breadth of perspectives, covering everything from a behind-the-scenes look at writing for museums (V.H. Belvadi), to cities themselves as museums (Paul), to the role of context in understanding art exhibits (Ginny).

In this post I briefly summarise the contributions, drawing attention to one point that stood out to me as I read each blog post. I invite you to read the round-up and follow the links to any post that interests you.

While the "Museum memories" Carnival is now over, I am still accepting contributions. Feel free to email me at readers [at] jamesg [dot] blog and I will make sure your post is represented in the round-up. In addition, if I have missed your blog post in the round-up, please email me so I can add your post.

The Carnival for April is on the topic of "Adventure", hosted by Pablo.

Submissions

Beto walks the reader through his experiences with modern art, starting with the Centre Pompidou in Paris. He notes the extent to which modern art opened his eyes, to the extent of reflecting on the very nature of what art could be:

My earliest memory of being in love with a museum was when I visited the Centre Pompidou, in Paris, with my dad. I was 15, and we were traveling from Brazil through France, Italy, and Spain. This was my first contact with modern art, and I was deeply affected by everything I saw. It changed my perception of art, and of what art could be.

⁂

Joe starts by reflecting on how thought-provoking the topic of museum memories was: “As I thought about what that prompt brought to mind, I was flooded with memory.” He then goes on to share two memories of museums: the first, seeing WIRED magazine in a museum; the second, in the pride he felt seeing an exhibition run by his sister at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C.

What a wonder it is to remember the totality of my sister’s life and experience that kind of accomplishment. I mean, I remember the day when my sister was born. I remember her first step. That I can hold those memories in my head along with the memory of the day she earned her Master’s Degree and the day she shared her exhibit with me and our Dad.

⁂

Jeff followed in Joe’s footsteps of exploring two museum memories: his time in the Design Museum of Barcelona and the Salvador Dalí Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida. Reflecting on visiting the design museum in Barcelona, Jeff shares how the visit was brought to life by being accompanied by family:

This visit stands out because of the shared experience with my son. The museum was focused on design, which we are both involved in. […] So the exhibits touched something deep inside of who we are as designers/creatives. I am so glad that I got to be with him when he visited this museum.

⁂

Like Joe, I was flooded with memories when I started to think about writing my entry to the Carnival for this month. I shared my experience visiting the National Museum of Flight with my grandparents when I as a kid. I am still in awe of the scale and grandeur of the museum, and have many fond memories of the trip:

I feel that same sense of awe now in art galleries when I look at large paintings: the scale of the thing in front of me can be so grand – or indeed small and extensively detailed – that, for a moment, I can’t help but think “wow!” That feeling never gets old.

⁂

Mike shared his excitement of visiting the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center (Air & Space Museum) in Northern Virginia and the wonders of seeing a real-life spaceship in person:

Sure, if you’re a flight geek, or a war buff, you’re going to be in heaven there. But as neither of those really, I can attest to how really cool it is to walk around there regardless of your interests. I mean, how can you not gaze in wonderment at an actual spaceship, imagining the many stellar voyages it took. Wondrous.

⁂

Zinzy then takes us to London to the National Gallery, where she reflects on how the words on a plaque next to an artwork in the National Portrait Gallery changed her perception of a work. I will leave this quotation as your invitation to read the post in full:

Picture me entering the National Portrait Gallery for a photo exhibit, and walking heart-first into a room with an enormous print of a woman in complete disarray. Cheeks red from hours of crisis, a frown pressed into her forehead, shoulders held up as if tenseness were the only form of comfort she had left to know

Zinzy’s experiences match my own in seeing paintings in museums: the plaques help us understand a piece, but our initial impressions still stick with us.

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We’re now leaving London to explore the Museum of Possibilities in Chennai with Jatan. The museum has a range of exhibits on assistive technologies, a few of which Jatan explores in the post both in words and with images. At the start of the post, Jatan shares a wonderful tool:

One of the display themes was tech tools which bridge accessibility gaps for people. These tools were in working states. I particularly loved this e-pen which reads text out loud as you slide it over any page with words. It can even save said text as a file.

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twitu then takes us to the Goa Chitra Museum, which displays “many daily use tools and equipment by the people of Goa in the 19th and early 20th century.” twitu reflects on the experience of seeing tools used over a hundred years ago, noting:

I find it fascinating to know what occupied the lives of people 100+ years ago. The tiresome beat of daily chores and tools to automate them. And some of them have stayed fundamentally the same for the pass 100 years!!

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Last Encore takes us to Japan to explore how the architecture of museums impacts our experience as visitors, reflecting on the tension between interior design, architectural visions, and function:

In such establishments, one is bombarded with buzzwords like “immersive” or “free-flowing,” where the layout is intentionally ambiguous. Under the guise of “exploring in any order you like,” I find myself pacing the same gallery over and over, muttering, “I am quite certain I have seen this room already.” Finding the exit becomes a genuine struggle.

Last Encore’s experiences brought back my own memories of museums that feel almost labyrinthine: full of wonderful art, but hard to navigate.

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Ginny takes us to the WAG-Qaumajuq museum in Winnipeg:

The WAG-Qaumajuq is home to the largest collection of Inuit art pieces in Canada. Qaumajuq (pronounced KOW-ma-yourk) means "it is lit, it is bright" in Inuktitut.

Ginny’s post introduces her post through the lens of context, which she considers an essential part of art galleries:

The most important part of an art gallery for me is context. Why was this piece created, what was the artist's inspirations, what part of their history informed the art?

Full of fascinating facts about Inuit and Indigenous culture, Ginny’s post is a wonderful read.

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Next, Ben explores the power of museum memories through the lens of exhibitions on power generation. Ben starts with a concise history of how humans generated power, and then shares several experiences of getting up close with power generation machines of all kinds in several museums. In his post, he reflects on how one display case can display the chronology of a technology over a century:

Something that stood out to me is a display case with functioning models of industrial-era steam machines all connected together by belts to overhead drive shafts. […] The evolution of the display case over 100 years shows the versatility of rotational energy: networks of power distribution can be built with interchangeable power generators and power consumers.

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V.H. Belvadi invites us behind the scenes to see what it is like to work with a museum. V.H. explores what museums could be if they had more support, the role everyday objects play in museums, the intricacies of communicating to the public through exhibit plaques, and more. I especially appreciated his eye-opening perspective on what museums could be with more support:

Speaking to multiple curators a common confession I have heard is that if only the museum could afford floor space for everything they own, they would love to display all of it. For many museums that might mean an extra room or storey. For the likes of the British Museum it probably means several additional buildings.

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Nick then takes us to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York through the lens of his visit as a seventh grader. Nick reflects on, among other things, the grandeur of the building and how it felt to be visit:

What I can recall most vividly is the feeling of wandering through this enormous museum on my own. Stepping into the grand entrances of the Met is akin to visiting the world’s great cathedrals. High ceilings, marble floors, brilliant lighting. I was still naive in my art education at this point, but these art works felt so important, so elevated in that remarkable space. I did not actually get lost in the Met, but I did lose track of time.

Nick wraps up his post with a delightful conclusion: “I may have gotten a little lost in the Met, but I found a part of myself too.”

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Sammie brings a new perspective to what we consider to be a museum, inviting us to think of museums not only as a discrete physical location but as any place in the world that sparks your curiosity:

Similarly, seeing things physically in general. Watching train cars drive by and seeing all the art on the sides of them displayed, or watching the wheels and considering how they fit in the tracks. Questioning how wires connect and following them from one machine to the next. Studying walls and furniture, paintings on the walls of waiting rooms. There are so many things that you get to see and question and wonder.

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Matthew tells us the story of his experience growing up near the Blists Hill outdoor museum complex, and the lasting influence the space had on his life. Matthew notes how the museum allowed him to “smell and really feel the past”:

Once onsite, I was given a lot of freedom to roam around and look at the various shops and interests of the site, and then we’d go home for lunch. The site, it is a reproduction victorian village, with shops, banks, and other artefacts that faithfully recreate the era. It was fairly rudimentary in those days, having not long opened, but quickly developed into one of those rare but popular destinations where you get to not only see, but touch, smell and really feel the past.

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Andrei made two contributions to the Carnival this month: first exploring the relationship between art and wealth in “Exit through the gift shop > The fine line between culture and ostentation”, and then documenting several museums he has visited in “Museums along the Road”.

Andrei invites readers to seek a slower experience in museums by visiting an exhibition that really appeals to us:

So instead of going for the huge art and history museums where you spend tens if not hundreds of euros for the tickets, go for the slow experience. Stay away from the Louvres and MOMAs and Tates of the world, they’re usually filled with stolen shit taken from oppressed people so rich people can get richer. Instead, search an exhibition of an artist that you like, or visit something special.

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David starts his post by talking about the variety of museums that he enjoys, from art institutions like the Louvre to rural historical museums. He then explores how there is nothing like seeing a piece of art in person:

I learned early on that there is no substitute for seeing actual works of art whenever possible. It’s a wonderful experience to finally see a painting that you are familiar with through reproductions. A painting is alive in a way that even a high quality reproduction is not. The colors are true, but it’s more than that. It’s the life, the physicality, the hand of the artist, sometimes obscured but always present. A reproduction can show you how something looks, but it can’t capture any of that life.

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Noahie documents how our relationship with museums can transform with time. Starting by mentioning how he explored the Dallas Museum of Art with an “irreverent attitude” as a kid, he now sees museums as a place to have a “peaceful and interesting day.” Noahie then reflects on the increased accessibility to art in the modern day, and the lasting influence art has had on his life:

Overall, I think that museums have become a more humble institution despite their aristocratic beginnings. These days, good art is accessible to everyone, and I think that's important. The influence it has had on my life is vast, and these days, it's one of the things I most look forward to in life.

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Bix shares his experience visiting a travelling exhibit from the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum at the time of the Bosnian War, which left them with a chilling impression:

Mostly, I just remember that even as the exhibition itself eschewed showing images of the camps from one war, we daily were seeing images of camps from the latest war.

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Elena begins her blog post with a story of a museum guard who had particular expectations of how someone should and should not appreciate art:

I still had my ticket in my hand and used that to point to all the cool parts. I admit, I was also very close to the glass, but I didn't touch anything. Anyway, it didn't take long and a guard came literally stomping towards us. He then said in a very upset tone: "This is great art you're looking at. Do not use your ticket to point at it! One does not point at great art with a ticket!"

This museum did not deter Elena from enjoying the rest of the museum with her colleagues, thankfully. Instead, she took it in her stride:

But when it had finally sunken in, we quoted him at every other artwork to remind one another to please absolutely not use our tickets to point at this great art that's exhibited here.

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Anthony puts museums at the heart of his holidays. When visiting, he is “looking for, over anything else, is evidence of how things were made”, connecting the marks of how art is made to his love of analog writing tools:

My love of fountain pens, typewriters and block printing isn’t rooted in nostalgia, but in the fact that they leave their mark on my work. The nib, the slug and the carvings literally imprint every decision, every mistake and every happy accident into the paper. They prove that i was here. At their best, museums do the same thing on a much larger scale. They prove that people were there.

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Kristof shares three memories of museums: the Deutsches Museum in Munich, exploring various museums in Sweden, and his experience at Yad Vashem, the World Holocaust Remembrance centre. Kristof’s reflections of Yad Vashem from the perspective of someone who grew up in Germany are stark:

This museum leaves no one unmoved, but what struck me deeply in retrospect is the fact that my language and my familiar culture were visible in the pictures. Beautiful facades of German cities… with corpses lying in the streets in front of them. Beautiful German landscapes… with barbed wire, half-dead people, and the headline “Arbeit macht frei”. The culture of my ancestors was visible everywhere. MY damn culture! I felt shame because my people were the perpetrators. I felt anger because my people were the victims.

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Reilly documents his experience visiting the Communication Technologies Museum, where he was able to get up close to – and even try – some technologies. Reilly’s experience illuminates how interactive exhibits add a new dimension to museums: from being an observer who reads and studies an exhibit to an active participant:

One of my favorite exhibits was a set of teletype machines, all linked together. A teletype is similar to a typewriter, but keypresses can be transmitted and received. Typing on one of these machines sends a code for each character — traditionally the 5-bit Baudot code. When a teletype on the other end of the line receives Baudot code, it types out the same character as the unit sending the code. The museum as kind enough to let visitors type on one of the teletypes, and it was extremely cool to see them communicate with each other, with another unit duplicating what we typed.

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Paul takes us to the biggest museum we have seen yet in submissions to the Carnival by positing that the city of Barcelona itself is a museum:

I mention all of this because the city itself is a giant museum. You can step back in time, in design, and urban planning, and wander through the narrow cobbled streets of the Old Quarter, then walk ten minutes to Eixample to see an extension, started two hundred years ago, that’s still celebrated for how modern it is.

Paul’s blog post is almost a web-based walking tour of Barcelona, covering ancient building foundations, the city planning of the Eixample neighbourhood, the Castell de Montjuïc, street art, the Sagrada Família, and more.

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We’re now off to Philadelphia to explore the Franklin Institute with Jesse. In his post, Jesse walks through the architecture of the building, its striking exhibits, and the personal resonance of the health exhibits in the museum. The pendulum in the museum inspires Jesse to ask us to consider the role of rhythm in our own lives:

And we are also rhythmic machines, aren’t we? — rhythm being the way nature imposes order on her own chaos. The body’s algorithms, circulation and respiration, and the mind as well. Inhale, exhale. Sleep, wake, sleep.

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Loreleice takes readers through an exhibition in Museo Sugbo, which documents the history of the Cebu area in the Philippines. Loreleice describes photos of both a “baro't saya, a traditional costume for Filipina women”, and “pots and bowls, which seem to come from the pre-colonial era.” I feel like Loreleice is my tour guide while I read this post.

Toward the end of the blog post, Loreleice notes the potential of museums to deepen our knowledge of a subject:

Since I only get surface-level knowledge about the Philippine history from textbooks (and possibly the Internet world), I feel like museum visits could deepen that.

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Theo, inspired by the range of memories he has in museums, prepared a list of moments spent in museums. The list covers everything from seeing his grandfather “‘ice-skating’ for the first time in like 20 years” to “running around in an ancient Roman villa, making bread and visiting the herbs garden; Twice”.

Theo’s post ends with the central role people play in their memories of museums:

I think I realised that what made museums so special to me is the people I shared these moments with. Some of these people I'll never see again, others I could but won't. People I miss, people I love.

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For Evan, museums are woven through his life, from visiting the National Museum of Natural History as a kid, to exploring the museums of Paris with family, to going to the Carnegie Museum of Art in Pittsburgh on a first date with the woman who became his wife. Evan introduces his post with a label I might have to start using myself: being a Museum Person:

I think of myself as a Museum Person. I come from a family of Museum People. I married a Museum Person. I take my kid to museums. We’ve been going to museums for longer than I can remember.

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Dale discusses the delightful surprise of encountering the Spirit Museum in Stockholm. His blog post makes me think about how many “gems” there are to discover outside of the headline museums in cities:

Honestly, in a city with lots of really good museums, the Spirit Museum is a real gem, and maybe the best ‘accidental’ discovery Iʼve made. Despite that it is small by capital museum standards, they seem to have a knack of attracting really interesting visiting exhibitors and punch above their weight in variety and entertainment value.

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Britt recalls moments from childhood spent in museums run by North East Museums in England, including the “Hancock Museum (natural history) and Discovery Museum (science and local history)”. The memories span from a close encounter with an animatronic triceratops to seeing a beehive at work through the glass in a museum staircase.

Britt notes that museums have had a lasting influence on her passion for learning:

My many childhood visits to museums are part of why I love learning things and sharing what I learn with other people.

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Next, we’re off to Egypt with Jeremy to explore the Cairo Museum. Jeremy submitted a post from 2005 for this month’s Carnival, which I accepted with great delight owing to its vividness. Jeremy’s post walks through several exhibits and his reactions to them. He also discusses how the information available in museums builds over time:

OK, there are still fabulous gaps in my knowledge. Like, what is the relationship between Dunmutef the jackal and Anubis the jackal? But I feel that I have made something of a breakthrough, all on my own. Bits of information, scattered observations, have come together in something that resembles coherence.

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Sara starts by sharing a childhood memory of the Technological Museum of Bistra, and then goes on to discuss the everyday role that museums have in our lives, with a particular focus on museums in Ljubljana. Sara’s conclusion reminds us that museums are for everyone:

While I know a lot of people here dismiss museums and galleries as something that only intellectual and pretentious people do, I do think that the museums and galleries do have their role in our everyday life as well and I am seeing that in my everyday life. They deserve the support they are getting and more.

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Frances shares a memory of visiting the British Museum at the age of ten or eleven during which they took many photos. Reflecting on the one of the pictures, Frances connects their childhood museum visit to their current field of study:

Here we have Mithras slaying a bull. Apparently I was already intending to study ancient and mediaeval history at university.

It does not appear my interests have changed all that much.

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By way of the 21_21 DESIGN SIGHT exhibit, kwist reflects on how all the parts of an exhibition come together to build an impression:

Instead, an exhibition's concept, selection of exhibits, their arrangement in relation to each other, and even things like the use of the museum space and its soundscape come together to offer a unique experience, and a view at the world from a different perspective.

kwist also shares the moment when the exhibit, which was about the concept of “wildness”, came to life:

But at least for me, it also just ... worked. Somewhere along the way, I decided to go along with it, and started thinking about this more abstract concept of "wildness" the exhibition was trying to convey - and it clicked somehow. It was an almost meditative experience that had a strong impact on how I view museums, and deepened my appreciation of them.

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Moving on, Ken’s post takes us back to Washington, D.C., this time to the Hirshhorn Museum. Ken notes that the building was “One of the first times modern architecture seriously captured my curiosity.” Describing the building and his experiences visiting the museum, he says:

On the inside, it’s all post-WWII modern and contemporary visual art, each floor a continuous loop of gallery space. And then on the top (publicly-accessible) floor, one of the galleries has a balcony overlooking the National Mall.

Something about the novelty of the subject matter and my malleable state of mind at the time, but certain exhibitions are just seared into my being.

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Next, we are visiting Michael’s blog, in which he shares five stories from museums across the United States, from Philadelphia to San Francisco. Michael’s post reflects on the nature of life and time, museums near and far, using poetry to describe an exhibition, and more.

Reflecting on his visit to the Exploratorium in San Francisco, Michael explores how what seemed far away as a child became close as an adult as he stood inside the museum 20 years after reading about it in a magazine:

Sure thing, kid. It's amusing now, having lived here for 30 years, to remember just how far away San Francisco was to a suburban 9-year-old growing up on Long Island.

This has me thinking that, indeed, museums themselves bring what may be so far away a little bit closer to us.

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Thomas takes us to the heart of Paris to explore a specific exhibit at Musee d’Orsay that left a lasting impression: the Three Mixed-media Arabs. Thomas shares his reaction to the sculptures, studying them in close detail from many angles:

Part of what struck me was the movement of the alabaster cloth. But, with the cloaked sculpture and a hood, I couldn’t sort out how the hood, face, and head worked. Each angle and time I’d look I was see another detail of the sculpture that drew me in and distracted me from the static mechanics of how it was done. Whomever I’m with often nudges me onward, but my mind is stuck and enrapt with the hooded in hard alabaster bronze face that seems to have the alabaster moving freely like cloth captured and frozen in an instance (yet crafted over much time).

Thomas shares his impression that the works do not get as much attention as others, noting:

When I am there and taking in the three pieces I am usually the only one around it looking at them for anything more than a few seconds or passing glance. It feels like they are hidden in plain sight.

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Thank you again to everyone who contributed to the Carnival, and to all readers who have followed along with the Carnival this month!

This post was syndicated to IndieNews.

This is my entry to the April 2026 Grizzly Gazette Carnival on the topic “Your favourite unconventional animal".

My favourite animals are cats, undoubtedly [1] [2]. This month’s Grizzly Gazette Carnival invites participants to think beyond cats, however, to “unconventional” animals.

The first thought that popped into my head when I read the prompt was “pandas!” The exclamation mark is representative of the excitement with which I thought about pandas.

My earliest memory of thinking about pandas is from watching an episode of the television show Madam Secretary in which the Smithsonian Museum “Panda Cam” is mentioned. In the years since watching the episode, I have, every so often, went to look for videos of pandas eating bamboo. I have recommended such videos with the introduction that they will make you smile. I like the little things that bring joy.

Last Christmas I received a gift of a weighted panda bear, which is most delightful. My panda bear is less hungry than those at the Smithsonian, but nonetheless brings joy. (It is perhaps good that my panda doesn’t eat bamboo, for I only have two sticks that guide the growth of my monstera. I even don’t know where I’d begin to find bamboo!)

I have never seen a panda bear in person, but I would very much like to see one some day.

[1]: Obligatory Taylor Swift video.

[2]: NB: My inbox is always open for cute cat pictures.

This post is my contribution to the April 2026 IndieWeb Carnival on the topic of “Adventure”. Thank you for hosting, Pablo!

The Seven Hills of Edinburgh challenge invites participants to hike up seven designated hills in Edinburgh within a day. There are official events to participate in the challenge, but a few years ago I decided to try a version of it myself, walking up as many of the seven hills as I could within a day and taking my own path.

I love walking but this challenge was a little bit out of my comfort zone: I had never climbed more than two or three of the hills in a day (the ones closest to the city centre), and I had never been to more than half of the hills. I decided to focus my version of the challenge on the hills I had never walked: those that bit further outside the city centre. I was ready for the challenge, and was excited to see new places.

The day was an adventure. I remember going up Blackford Hill, from which you get a terrific view of the whole city. At the top of the hill, you can look straight ahead and see Edinburgh Castle, which rests atop another hill that is part of the challenge. Then, I followed the path to get down the hill and ventured forward, excited for what was ahead. The path was a bit uneven compared to the one I took up. All part of the adventure.

The path down the hill – first on wooden steps, then on a path on the grass – took me to Hermitage of Braid, a pathway with a quiet road flanked by tall trees on both sides. There was a small country house there, too. I loved how peaceful the path was, and how it was unlike the rest of the city. No rows of houses were in sight: Nature was at the heart of this path. As I approached the end of the path, I saw a cute cafe. It still sticks in my memory.

There were several times on the walk where I lost my confidence. I was trying to get up one hill but could only see an entranceway to a golf course. I had no idea how to continue! I was determined to figure out which way to go though: I had walked so far to get there. I ended up finding the path, which was on the periphery of the golf course, to get up that particular hill. Thinking about the walk now, I am so glad I was persistent in trying to find my way. The views up all of the hills were incredible.

I feel as if I am taking the walk as I write this blog post, recalling all the details and places I went. Flashes of memory are coming back. What stands out among all my memories of the day is that the views atop the hills form only half of my memories of the day: much more vivid are the journeys between the hills, which involved navigating streets and paths I had not yet encountered in my prior adventures in the city. I realised that Edinburgh was bigger than I thought.

The last hill up which I walked, Corstorphine Hill, was full of trees. Following the path up the hill, there was a small nook with a bench from which I saw the city from a completely new perspective. Corstorphine Hill was far away from the rest I had walked that day, in the North East of the city, so I was literally seeing the city from a new perspective.

Indeed, the day was characterised by new perspectives and seeing the city from different altitudes. At Corstorphine in particular, I remember gazing out with wonder at the city skyline, enjoying the warmth and the sun. I knew when I was standing there I wanted to remember the sights.

The seven hills challenge brought me closer to a city I had visited countless times before. I got lost a few times, but I always found my way. I expanded my mental map of the city, taking in my surroundings as I ventured from hill to hill. I built confidence as I walked. I loved the thrill of finding the entranceways for which I was looking.

While I didn’t make it up all seven hills that day, I am proud of what I accomplished. I haven’t thought about trying to do all seven in a day since: what I walked that day felt like enough, and that’s good enough for me.

I am interested in how software feels to use. Back in 2024, I wrote:

I want to learn about design, I thought to myself, excitedly. I was interested in why some things feel better to use than others – why do some tools feel like a delight, while others feel rough around the edges?

Reading this back now, the word “feel” is more important than ever. Some tools feel like a joy to use, others are frustrating.

How a piece of software feels is not necessarily related to what the software does, rather the experience of using it. A piece of software may feel good if it:

• matches your expectations;
• works in the way you think, and;
• helps you efficiently complete the task you have in mind.

This is not an exhaustive list, but represents some of my higher-level thinking detached from specific design considerations that make a piece of software feel good.

A government web form might feel reassuring to use because it is clearly described and well-structured, for example, even if the subject matter of the form is stressful.

I recently tried using Instagram again to connect with a few people. I deleted the app several weeks later after realising I didn’t feel happy using it; the algorithmic recommendations were distracting, among other things. Indeed, if anything, I felt trapped: it should not be the case that I have to endure the infinite-scrolling feed as the default view just so that I can participate in one group chat.

In contrast, I have started using Signal and I am delighted by how focused it is. The tool matches my expectations, works how I think, and lets me do what I want to do. As a bonus, they have put a lot of thought into the concept of folders for grouping messages. The software feels good. And that’s not even to mention all of the security benefits.

While it may seem obvious that some tools feel better than others, I think the recognition of the extent to which a piece of software makes us feel a certain way is a starting point for further analysis. I also think it is a good heuristic in designing technology. If something doesn’t feel good, design tweaks may be needed. A software vendor may not be incentivised to make those design tweaks, but new software designers can use known frustrations to inform the design of better applications.

I use the word “feel” in my thinking intentionally because it grounds software in a more holistic context, recognising that software is not detached from our emotions. This is in part why I like the term “human interface design” – it puts our humanity at the centre of interface design. Words matter.

In “Graduating between mediums of communication”, I explored how we can move between mediums of communication to access different affordances. For example, you might “graduate” from a text chat – for example, a Slack thread – to a video conference in a professional context. This might be helpful when discussing a plan for a project where a video call might allow for more effective back-and-forth discussion.

I am fascinated by how we move between different contexts, and also between modalities, with technology.

With that in mind, I have been thinking more about the idea of "graduation" in the context of websites. Many of the single-purpose pages on my website (i.e. my ideas list) grow from my notes. I start taking notes in Apple Notes, then when I realise I am starting to collect a lot of notes on a topic I may opt to create a web page on the topic. Apple Notes is effective for capturing ideas, but my blog gives my ideas a permalink that I can share with others.

A version of this in professional contexts would be when notes graduate into a document that is shared with others internally for comment or reference.

Text chat to blog posts is also an instance of “graduation”. For example, I was having a discussion with a few people yesterday over text chat which gave me an idea for a blog post. After contributing to the discussion, I started writing a blog post so I could explore my ideas in more depth. Text chat allowed for group communication and brainstorming and sharing, blogging allowed for personal reflection and more in-depth exploration of the facets of the topic that interested me most.

Another instance of "graduation" that comes to mind is the change from being a reader to being a commenter (i.e. going from reading a blog post to emailing the author, or submitting a comment in a comment box). Commenting turns a piece of work from a piece in the void to a place of discussion.

In 2025 I built a browser extension that adds an edit button to your browser. The edit button pages if a page either has:

• A rel=edit link;
• A custom edit link set in the extension preferences, or;
• A link with an anchor like “edit page” (only available if you enable the setting, since this is a heuristic).

Back when I built the extension, I added in a keyboard shortcut to open the edit link associated with a page. On Mac, the shortcut is Command + Shift + E.

I forgot all about this shortcut until recently, when I accidentally pressed Command + Shift + E instead of Command + Shift + R, the shortcut to refresh a page. At first, I was surprised, but the mis-press gave me the reminder I needed that this feature exists.

Since then, I have been using the Command + Shift + E shortcut almost daily to edit pages on my website.

I like that the shortcut has a similar hand position to refreshing, a shortcut that I find relatively comfortable to use. I also like that the shortcut only requires use of my left hand, so that I can press the edit button while using my mouse to navigate to my next task.

My flow to edit a page now usually looks something like this:

• Go to a page on my website (i.e. my software notes page).
• Press Command + Shift + E.
• Ghost opens in my browser.
• I use my mouse to navigate to Apple Notes, where I usually have notes I want to copy onto my website.
• I use my mouse to go back to Ghost where I paste in my notes and organise and develop them a bit where necessary.
• I save my edits.

While I could also use the mouse to press the edit link button that appears in my browser, the shortcut is so convenient.

The irony is that I forgot the shortcut existed until I accidentally encountered it. Indeed, overall, I struggle with remembering keyboard shortcuts beyond the basics (copy, paste, quit, refresh), preferring to opt for a menu or another visible affordance. But the edit keyboard shortcut is now becoming one I use regularly so it is increasingly etched into my memory. I think there was a gap to bridge between adding the shortcut as a feature in the development process and making a habit around its use.

In The joy of incremental website improvements, I reflected on the idea of building personal websites incrementally:

Making incremental improvements to one's personal website is a joy. Your site can evolve at your own pace, and as you learn. You don't need to set out with a grand ambition.

This website has been built over time, incrementally. The design, themes about which I write, links in the navigation bar – all have evolved with time. As I grow, so too does my website.

In some of my recent blog posts – this one included – I have been more explicitly building on ideas I have written about in the past, consulting my blog archive to find related posts and referencing a relevant quote.

For example, the direction of “How software feels” was informed by a quote I found in my archives about design. I noticed that I was using the word “feel” back in 2024 related to software, even though my focus then was more on the concept of delight in software. In this way, “How software feels” builds on what came before, while being directed by new thoughts and ideas.

This has me thinking about my site archives as a place that is alive, a place where there are ideas upon which I can build, or at the very least use for reference.

The idea of site archives being “alive” is inspired by what I have been learning about history in school. Our understanding of the past is informed by what questions historians ask. With time – and societal changes that come with it – historians have the opportunity to ask different questions. New questions may help us build a different impression of times in the past. By extension, new questions and ideas may give me the fuel I need to build on an idea in the past.

Sometimes I think about how blogs, generally, emphasise new posts in their design. Indeed, my most recent essays are prominently placed on my site home page. On reflection, chronology is part of the fabric of blogging. With that said, as I write I find myself looking back on my archives for resources relevant to what I am thinking about today. The archive is more than a list of posts. It is a repository of my ideas. [1]

My website feels like a place where I can have a dialogue between my past and present ideas.

I am curious if anyone has any practices around more actively using one’s archives as part of writing, or if anyone else has done any thinking on the concept of “the archive.” If you have any comments, please send me an email!

This very blog post is one I expect to develop over time. I haven’t yet developed a clear image in my mind of what “the archive” and blog archives mean to me – this is the start of my documentation around this idea. I wanted to give the idea a link both to share it and so that I have my thoughts written down and stowed away, ready for reference when inspiration strikes.

[1]: Related: Being able to search my archives helps immeasurably in finding resources to build on.