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Changelog

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What changed on the street, and when. Every Stimpunks site publishes one of these.

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2026-11-08 — Fernand Deligny on the Faery Yurt’s shelves

The Reading Room has Fernand Deligny on its Neurodivergence case, and his The Arachnean and Other Texts in the card catalogue. His spine opens his page on the French Wikipedia, because there is no English one, and the title opens the book’s record on Open Library. Helen’s ask.

2026-11-08 — Cel Street and the Campgrounds in a VR headset

Cel Street itself and the Campgrounds can be opened in a VR headset now, as the Faery Yurt and its rooms already could. Walk down the street with the stick, point at a door to stand at it, and walk through the treeline into the Campgrounds and on into the yurt without taking the headset off; Back out brings you all the way out to the street again, still in the headset. Ryan’s ask.
The panel in the headset offers the roofs too: Climb up over the roofs says how high they are before you press it, and one press brings you back down.
Any other room is still on the screen only. Walking into one, a shop on the street or a pitch like the Solarpunk Hermitage, takes you out of the headset and says why. Rooms’ own pages, stood in the scene, are not in the headset either. All of this was tried with a stand-in headset in a browser, not yet on a real one.

2026-11-08 — Away by itself, for your availability

Your availability can now turn to Away by itself, if you switch it on. Under Your availability on the radio, Away by itself is Off until you choose After 5, 10, 15, 30 or 60 minutes. Then, when the CB has not heard from your radio for that long, people see Away in place of Available or Busy, without your line, and it goes back by itself the next time any radio of yours is open in front of you. Away, Do not disturb and Out of office stay as you chose them, and nothing changes what you chose. Our staff asked for it.
This reverses a call of 29 October, when availability was built never to change by itself, because doing so means keeping when somebody was last heard and lets anybody watching tell when they stepped away. Both are still true, so it starts off, and only for the people who switch it on does the CB keep the minute their radio last asked what is new. Nobody is sent that minute. Switching it off, Forget me and deleting your username take it away. Ryan’s call; the privacy page and the CB guide say how it works.
The radio is only heard while it is open and its page is in front, so folding it, working in another tab or closing the laptop all count as away.

2026-11-07 — Through the Faery Yurt’s doors in a VR headset, and turning by gliding

In a VR headset on Cel Street, you can now go through the Faery Yurt’s doors without taking it off. Stand at a way through and the panel says Walk into it (or point at the way again), and Back out takes you back to the yurt where you came in. The Reading Room, the Music Room, the Cinema, Myths & Legends, Glow Wild Hollow and the Play Pod each offer Enter VR now. What those rooms take from their own pages (the bookcases, the films, the cauldron and the like) is not in the headset yet, which shows only the drawing. Ryan’s ask; Helen’s rooms, and hers to send back.
Pushing a stick sideways now turns you smoothly, slowly, for as long as you push it, instead of a twelfth of the way round at a time. This changes the trial’s step turns, Ryan’s call. The panel’s switch is now Gliding with the sticks: switched to steps, the sticks turn you a step at a time and do not walk you, for anybody gliding makes sick.
Going back out onto the street, or into a room not offered in a headset, takes you out of the headset and says so.

2026-11-07 — Walking with the stick in a VR headset

In a VR headset on Cel Street, pushing a stick forward or back now walks you the way your head faces, at a walking pace, for as long as you push it, and stops when you let go. Until now the sticks only turned you, and you could move only by pointing at the floor, which made the Faery Yurt hard to get around. Pointing and snap turns work as before.
This changes a rule from this morning’s trial, which said nothing in a headset should carry you along because gliding makes some people sick. Ryan’s call. So the panel of switches in the headset has Walking with the stick, which turns it off, and pointing at a place still takes you straight there rather than gliding you to it.

2026-11-07 — A forum topic for every book on the Solarpunk Hermitage’s shelf

Every book on the Solarpunk Hermitage’s shelf has a topic in the forums’ Reading, watching, listening, playing, to talk about it in: open a spine and press Talk about it in the forums. Each topic carries the book’s note from the shelf, its borrow link (and a bookshop where the shelf has one), why it is on the shelf, and a link back to the book. Helen Edgar’s ask.
Claude started them, through the forums’ bot, so they are under the name Claude, marked BOT, and told nobody. Since today the bot can start topics in that one category and keep the ones it started, and nobody else’s; the privacy page says so. Ryan’s call.

2026-11-07 — The people in the 3D yurt, as figures, and the yurt’s chat with them

Walking into a room on Cel Street makes the radio that room’s: its channel is where you chat, so in the 3D Faery Yurt you talk with whoever is in the yurt, on its own page or on Cel Street, and Be seen here and the room’s call are the yurt’s too. Out on the street the radio is the street’s again.
Show my avatar in 3D rooms, a new switch under Be seen here on the radio, there only on Cel Street, in a room, with a claimed username. Off until you press it. On, the avatar you wear on the CB stands where you stand, as a 3D figure built from its choices (its shape, skin, hair, chair, cane and clothes in their colours) with your username over its head, for the people seen in the room with you, and theirs stand for you. It says only which of the room’s places you are at, never your exact spot, and each move replaces the last. Leaving the room, switching it off, Forget me and deleting your username delete it. The privacy page says so. Helen Edgar’s ask, a trial, for her and Ryan first.
In a headset too: the figures stand in the room there as they do on the screen.

2026-11-07 — The Faery Yurt, in a VR headset

Helen Edgar’s Faery Yurt on Cel Street can now be opened in a VR headset, from the headset’s own browser: a Meta Quest’s, for one. Enter VR appears under the street only in the yurt, and only on a browser that can show a room in a headset, so on every screen the yurt is exactly as it was.
In the headset you look round by turning your head, and move by pointing and pressing: at the floor to stand there, or at a place to stand at it, facing what is there. A stick turns you a twelfth of the way round at a time. Nothing carries you along, because being carried in a headset makes people feel sick.
The yurt’s switches are a panel in front of you: the fairy lights, the candles, the record, the tea, the curtain and the crown’s cover, the same as the buttons under the street, with what each did written at the top. A squeeze, or the panel’s own button, puts it out of the way.
The yurt’s own page on the far wall is not in the headset yet: a headset shows only the drawn room, not a web page standing in it. This is a trial, waiting to be tried on a real headset.

2026-11-06 — The hosted film, in a popped-out call

Show the film, on a popped-out call’s bar, puts the film somebody is hosting in the call’s room above the call, as its play button: it says how long it runs, and starts where the host is when you press it. Nothing reaches YouTube until you do.
Catch up moves your film to where the host is, and whether it plays is yours. If the host moves on to another film while yours plays, Put it up instead waits for your press.
Only a film the room itself offers, or a moderator’s, the rule the radio already keeps, so nobody can put just any video in front of everybody in a call. Anything else is said in words. The window asks who is hosting only while the film is shown; Hide the film stops it. The privacy page says so.

2026-11-07 — Comfort, a part of the radio of its own

I need a bodymind break and the Glitter dial have moved to a part of their own, Comfort, straight after Where you are, because they are about you and not about the room. It starts open, so it is there at a glance when you need it; fold it if you never use them, and the radio remembers. On the chat page it comes after In this channel.
Open in Chat stays under Where you are. Break on the folded radio’s bar and the dial’s box at the top of every page are where they were.

2026-11-06 — Every emoji as a reaction, our own too, and : in the message box

React opens the whole emoji picker under the quick row: our own emoji, every emoji in Unicode’s groups, the search and Add Emoji, in place of a box for your system’s picker. In Messages too.
Our own emoji can be reactions, drawn as their pictures. Once one is taken down, whoever pressed it can take theirs back, and nobody can press it again.
Type : and two letters in the message box for a list of emoji whose names start with them, ours first, as on Discord. Enter or Tab puts one in; 10:30 never opens it.
Our own emoji in the forums, Tasks and the office: :its-name: in a post, a task or a comment is drawn as its picture there too.
Anybody signed on can add an emoji, as before, and that stays so for now.

2026-11-06 — Emoji, our own emoji, and one picker for GIFs, stickers and emoji

The message box is a field with its tools in it, after Stoat’s: + on the left adds a picture, and GIF, Sticker and Emoji on the right open one picker under the box on that tab. In a conversation under Messages it has Stickers and Emoji.
Emoji. Every emoji in Unicode’s own groups, drawn by your own device, found by name or keyword, and put into your message where the cursor is. Hold Shift to pick more than one.
Our own emoji, after Discord’s Add Emoji: anybody signed on can make a picture of theirs into an emoji, under a name, and :that-name: in any message is drawn as it. They are under Stimpunks in the picker, made small and stripped of camera data in your browser, and public, which the privacy page says. Whoever added one, or a moderator, takes it down. Nothing is counted: no most used, no popular.

2026-11-06 — GIFs on the CB, from Gifbox

GIF beside the message box opens a tray of GIFs from Gifbox: what Gifbox is featuring when it opens, or a search, which goes when you press Search or Enter. Press one and it waits above the box like a picture, with Gifbox’s description in the description box for you to change, until you transmit.
Nobody’s browser talks to Gifbox. The search goes from our server with our own key, the stills in the tray come through our server, and a GIF you send is copied onto the channel, so it is kept, sealed and deleted with its message exactly as a picture is. What is sent, and what is kept.
A GIF never moves by itself, at any setting, because a GIF can flash. Everybody sees its still with a little GIF plate until they press it, and pressing again stops it. From Gifbox under it goes to its page there.

2026-11-06 — A popped-out call: a warning first, the chat beside it, and the way back

Pop out now warns you before it drops you from the call. Its first press says that popping out drops you from the call and you join again in the new window, with Pop out and rejoin and Stay in the call.
By request, the call’s own window can show the chat. Show the chat on its bar puts the chat for the call’s room beside the call, and the window grows to make room if your screen has it; Hide the chat takes it away and it stops listening.
Show the page, on the same bar, brings forward the page you popped the call out of, the way Show the call window on the radio already went the other way. If your browser will not let it, the window says so.

2026-11-06 — Who is in a call, on Who’s online and Happening now too, with avatars

Who is in a call is now shown wherever the radio names a call: under each room on Who’s online’s Calls going now, in Happening now (this room’s call, and on World every other room’s), and under each channel on the chat page, to anybody signed on who may go into the room. Ryan’s call, the same evening as the chat page’s list. You no longer need Be seen here on to see who is in your room’s call.
Each name opens that person’s profile, as a name on Who’s online does, with the avatar they wear beside it. Still alphabetical, still no number, and a room that keeps to itself, a staff room you are not in and a call between two people are never shown. The privacy page says so.
Who’s online named the World call twice, once as the World call and once as the World room; it names it once now.

2026-11-06 — Who is in a call, under its channel on the chat page

By popular request, the chat page now lists who is in each call, under its channel, the way Discord lists the people in a voice channel. A channel whose call has somebody in it gets a small camera beside its name and the names of everybody in the call under it, alphabetical and with no number, BASE beside the base. Pressing the channel is still the way in.
This shows who is in a call more widely than before, and it was Ryan’s call: until now a room’s call named its people only to radios seen in that room, and to people looking at an event on now in that call. On the chat page it names them to anybody signed on who may go into the room. A staff room shows its call only to the people it is for, a room that keeps to itself is never named, and a call between two people is never shown. The privacy page says so, and nothing more is kept for it.

2026-11-06 — Your status & availability, a part of its own on the radio

Your chat status and Your availability have moved out of Who’s around into a part of their own, Your status & availability, straight after it, because they are about you and not about who else is around. It folds like the other parts. On Your page it now shows beside Unreads, and in the chat app on a phone it is under the You tab. Nothing about what either one does has changed; the CB guide lists the new part.

2026-11-06 — Spoiler tags, on the CB and everywhere it reads Markdown

Put two bars either side of some words, ||like this||, and they are a spoiler, after Discord’s: hidden behind a bar in the words’ own colour until somebody presses it, and then shown for good on that page. It works on the channel and in messages, in the forums, Tasks and the office, on the Brass Tacks Board, in the suggestion box, in profiles, props and events: anywhere the CB reads Markdown. A spoiler can run across the lines of a paragraph, and two bars inside `code` stay code.
A screen reader hears that there is a spoiler and nothing of its words until it is pressed; then the keyboard lands on the words, so they are read. Read aloud and Speak new messages aloud say “a spoiler” in its place.
Nothing that cannot hide words shows them: a notification and your past notifications say “(spoiler)”, so does the quote above a reply, the Brass Tacks Board’s feed sends readers to the board for it, and a link inside a spoiler never gets a card that would give it away.
The forums’, Tasks’ and the office’s toolbars have a Spoiler button, and the CB guide lists it with the rest of the Markdown.

2026-11-07 — Clear windows on New Partington Power’s porch

The porch at New Partington Power’s House is glazed now, in clear glass, at Helen Edgar’s ask, where it opened screened in fine wire. The farm over the back fence is still soft and pale, because it is a long way off in the afternoon haze rather than behind a mesh, and everything on the porch keeps its earth colours in the shade as before. The job marker’s question changed with it, because its old answer was the screen: it asks what the bench is made of.

2026-11-06 — New Partington Power’s House, at the edge of town by the farm

A home for New Partington Power: New Partington Power’s House, from their brief as Helen Edgar passed it on. A suburban brick house with a covered porch, the last house where the last street out of town stops at a gate, south-east of the stile on Nature’s Contribution, with All Together Now Farms’ fields right over the back fence.
The porch is screened, and it is in its own shade, so everything near you keeps its earth colours, the brick, the painted boards, the chairs, and the farm past the wire comes through soft and pale: every pastel in the room is the farm, seen through the screen. Nothing moves at any setting.
A small makeshift maker space at the end of the porch: an old door across two sawhorses for a bench, a pegboard of tools leaned on the last screen, an old television and a VCR, a soldering iron, a coffee can of screws and an extension lead run out from the house.
Nature’s Contribution has its first home. Its fingerpost has an arm south-east, the view from the stile has the house in it, and the table of what goes where leaves it out on purpose: every other place out there gives something to the others, and a home owes the land nothing. The land’s tool now refuses an offering from a home.
A job marker, a screw dropped out of the coffee can, lies on the porch boards; a share card; a cross-trapped orbit in its fractal window, like the screen’s wire; its place on the map and the street’s other ways round.

2026-11-06 — The Scalable Feast Ballroom, cozy grandeur

A big comfortable ballroom on the street: the Scalable Feast Ballroom, from Ryan’s brief: “Both cozy and grand. Cozy Grandeur.” A coffered ceiling with a sky painted in the middle of it, chandeliers on long chains, gilt everywhere and herringbone parquet underfoot, lit from so high up that the light lands on everything evenly.
The page is as tall as the room. You come in at the ceiling and scroll down the height of the ballroom, past the cornice, the mirrors and the chandeliers, with a plaque at each level saying where you are, to the floor. A link above the height goes straight down to the floor and one after it goes back up, so nobody has to scroll it.
At each end, canopies to go under: a striped cabana, a round pavilion, a four-poster, a bell tent, a sail and hangings under a gilt crown, no two alike, each a living room with a sofa or chairs, a rug and something soft, and the hall’s light coming through its cloth. Living rooms out in the hall between them, and the long table down the middle of the floor, as long as the people at it.
No guest list, no dress code, no ticket, and nobody is asked to dance; nothing is counted. At MAX GLITTER the glints on the gilt and the crystal brighten and fade, slowly; nothing moves at any other setting. Prata and Wix Madefor Text join the faces. A door, a job marker (a crystal drop on the parquet), a share card, a fractal window, and its place on the map.

2026-11-06 — Em’s nails between the parts of the street

Rows of hand-painted press-on nails now stand between the parts of the front page: ladybirds, blue stripes, stitches, bronze swirls and florals, black spirals, and a Halloween set, each one a set by Em, who makes and sells them as Ems Nails 4 You. Every nail was lifted out of her own product photographs, with her permission, turned upright and stood on one line; nothing is recoloured or redrawn. A line at the foot of the page says whose they are and links her shop, the liner notes say how they were cut, and her photographs stay hers, outside this site’s licence.

2026-11-05 — Luis’s Burrow, a cave in the wood at pitch 07

A surprise from Helen Edgar for Luis: Luis’s Burrow, pitch 07 on the campgrounds, at the edge of the wood. A cave dug in under the roots of an old tree, so the roots come through the ceiling, with the green wood bright through its round mouth and the daylight lying across the floor; orange and apricot blankets and cushions heaped over everything, moss on the walls, and nothing hard in it anywhere.
Fluffy animals curled up in it: a fox asleep on the blanket, two rabbits on the long cushion, an owl dozing on a root, a dormouse in a fold of the green blanket, and a heap of pumpkins on the blanket by the basket. Nobody has to do anything. At MAX GLITTER the fox breathes in its sleep; at every other setting nothing moves by itself.
A basket of fidgets on the blanket: a squishy ball, a pop-it, putty, a spinner, a squishy fox and a marble in a mesh. Press one and it says what it did, where you pressed it, and squashes once at Regular and MAX; nothing is counted, kept or sent, and nothing makes a sound.
A coffee machine on the ledge by the mouth, with a grinder, jars of beans from around the world at a variety of intensities on the burrow’s own one-to-ten scale, and lots of cups on hooks, free to help yourself to; and a bookshelf of politics, sociology, phenomenology and neurodiversity to take a book from and sit with, every one with a borrow link on Open Library, found by searching its records rather than typed from memory.
A telly on a cushion in the corner, with two shelves under it: five Frasier clips from Paramount Plus’s own channel, and then the wood, animals running and playing in forests from BBC Earth and a waterfall to leave on. Each plays where it hangs or goes up on the telly, every button says how long before the press, and nothing loads from YouTube until you press.
On the campgrounds’ board its sign has the field’s eighth light: the burrow’s warm breath, rising lit out of its mouth into the cold. A job marker, a button come off a cushion, lies on the blanket; a share card; a fern in its fractal window; its place on the map and in the neighbours’ lines.

2026-11-05 — Through the glass from the bottom of the Rabbit Hole

At Helen Edgar’s ask, the Rabbit Hole now has a looking-glass at the bottom of its shaft, and through it is Looking-Glass House: the hole goes down, the glass goes through, as the two Alice books do. The glass is drawn in the Rabbit Hole’s own slate, chalk and brass, with the chessboard country showing through it, and nothing in it moves. Looking-Glass House’s own door is still the glass in the Faery Yurt, and the foot of Looking-Glass House now has its ways out: back through the glass to the yurt, and through the glass into the Rabbit Hole.

2026-11-05 — Looking-Glass House, through a looking-glass in Helen’s yurt

At Helen Edgar’s ask, Looking-Glass House, through a looking-glass in her yurt, after the Play Pod. Where her other rooms have oak doors, this one has a tall glass in a gilt frame with her yurt reflected in it the wrong way round: press the glass and the reflection goes to a silvery mist, the chessboard country shows through, and you step through. The words under it are the way in as well, always there.
It is the Rabbit Hole in a looking-glass: the hole goes down and gets darker, the glass goes through and gives the yurt back dark on pale, headings on the right where the hole has them on the left.
A pin board of quotations from both Alice books, pinned in red and white like the two sides in the game, each naming who said it and its chapter, and every one read word for word in Project Gutenberg’s texts.
More to do: move Alice up the board as a White Pawn from the second square to the eighth, where she is crowned; hold a looking-glass book of Jabberwocky up to the glass to read it the right way round; write on a pane and see your words come back the wrong way round; and ask the grinning clock whether it is your un-birthday. Nothing keeps or sends anything, and nothing flashes.
Four of John Tenniel’s 1871 engravings from Wikimedia Commons, each public domain and credited under it: Alice going through the glass, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, the Jabberwock, and Alice crowned between the two Queens.

2026-11-05 — The newest rooms, on Cel Street and Paper Street

Every room on the street can now be walked into on both Cel Street and Paper Street. Excursions is its lobby after closing, lit only by the backlit map, with the wire rack beside it; the newest brochure in the top pocket is the way into Norah Hobbs’s Retail Therapy, which stands as she drew it, brick front, awning and all, with the fountain and bench, Caroline’s Carts, the little free library and the store directory round it, and its lights can go off as on her page. Norah’s Spaceholder Saloon has its fire and her two oil lamps, the rocking chair, the porch swing, the big table with the pretzels and the hooks by the door, and the fire breathes at MAX as on her page. Rowena’s Aerial Arbour is the striped tent round its silver birch, with the silks, the ladder, the hoop, the pole, the tightrope, the hammock and the beanbags, its lights steady, and the hoop and the pole turning slowly at MAX, where her page sways them. Each has things to press. The scenes of Norah’s and Rowena’s rooms are our drawings of theirs, theirs to keep or send back; nothing on their pages changed but the street’s own line saying where else you can walk them.

2026-11-05 — Rowena’s photographs in the Aerial Arbour

The Aerial Arbour is Rowena’s, and she is @untypical_wing on Instagram.
Four photographs from prayer, her piece on the flying pole at VOLT at Circomedia and Bristol Circus City, now hang in the tent in frames of its own dark pink, teal and purple, described in Rowena’s own words from her post. They were taken by @oz.shoots.your.band, are shown with their yes and hers, and come down whenever either of them asks.

2026-11-05 — Rowena’s circus tent at pitch 06

A new pitch on the Campgrounds: The Aerial Arbour, Rowena’s round circus tent, pitched beside a tree, from Rowena’s brief as Helen Edgar passed it on. Rowena is @untypical_wing on Instagram.
A silver birch grows up through the middle of it and holds the canvas up, and everything hangs off its branches: aerial silks in dark pink and teal, an aerial hoop, a rope, a rope ladder and an aerial pole, with a tightrope out to the wall, a crash mat under everything, and a hammock and beanbags on the rug. Nobody is watching and nothing in here is a show.
Fairy lights run down every seam of the canvas, silver and steady at every setting; all the colour is in the cloth, in stripes of deep purple, teal and dark pink. At MAX GLITTER the silks, the hoop and the pole sway a little, and at every other setting they hang still.
On the board its sign has the field’s seventh kind of light: the canvas glowing through its stripes from the lights inside. A job marker on the rug, a share card, a fractal in its colours, and a place on the Map. Every home on the campgrounds now names it among its neighbours.

2026-11-05 — The Community Center, Cavendish Coworking and the mountain cabin, again on Cel Street

Another round on Cel Street for three rooms, with more texture and detail and things to press. The Community Center’s window is arched now, as its page draws it, with still clouds and a path up the hill, a throw on the window seat to unfold, a casement to open, a rug in the room’s wool, a peg rail by the door, and the radio on the front desk, whose aerial you can pull up; nothing in it moves, as ever. Cavendish Coworking has grain on its mahogany doors, still every one of them shut, panelled walls, green moreen curtains to draw across, a cold fireplace behind a green fire screen, a library table under its green cloth with the register to open, and his books on shelves under the landing, one of which you can take down. The Emergent Future Worlds Meets Mountain Man has knots in its logs, the stove on its hearth with logs behind the glass and a fire that flickers only when you ask, the oils’ shelf beside the diffuser, coffee to pour into the cups on the low table, snow outside, the spring’s rock shelf, the hut where the heat comes from, and the cable car, which you can send down the mountain and call back; the one switch now puts out everything in the scene it should. The cabin is our drawing of David’s, his to keep or send back.

2026-11-04 — Norah’s Spaceholder Saloon

A new door on the street: Spaceholder Saloon, Norah’s room, for spaceholding, venting, solidarity and straight up bitchin’ on spoon fumes. It is a saloon by the fire, lit by the old oil lamps on the mantle, with a rocking chair, a swing hung from the rafters, a table for one and a big table, a menu board of root beer, cocoa and quiet by the glass, and a row of hooks by the swinging doors to hang up whatever you walked in carrying. It keeps no ledger: there is nothing to fill in, and nothing you bring is written down or sent anywhere. Norah built it with Claude, an AI model made by Anthropic, and brought it to the street through Your Room; the room’s own credits say which words are hers. Its share card and the bottle cap on its floor, a job on the Adventurer’s Guild’s board, are ours.

2026-11-04 — The city over the bridge from Widdershins, and three rooms in it

The city across the river from Widdershins can be walked now. On Cel Street the bridge’s lane goes on through the first row of houses onto a street behind it: cobbles, a pump, washing strung from window to window, lamps nobody has lit, and the morning crossing it halfway along, so its far end is in the sun. Three doors in that street open onto rooms of their own, each after a place in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels and each its own world. The Clacks Tower is the shutter cabin at the top of a Grand Trunk tower at noon, lit only by the open shutters’ squares on the floor, about the Overhead and the name this street keeps in its own. The Golem Trust is a hall kept by golems who own themselves, lit only through windows of clay, where a slate held up is a whole way of talking. The Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons is a walled yard of sand under a smoky noon, for small swamp dragons nobody else wanted, and it is not a shelter: nobody there is waiting to be adopted. On Paper Street the three are ways along the river wall. Each stands on what Star Stuff’s One Atom of Justice already says about those books; none quotes them, and none draws anybody’s character.

2026-11-04 — Candles, a record and fairy lights in the Faery Yurt on Cel Street

A third round for Helen Edgar’s Faery Yurt on Cel Street and the rooms behind it, with more texture and detail in every one, and things in them that move and things to press. The yurt’s fairy lights have switches of their own under the street: out, low or lit, gold and amber as on her page or all candle gold, ember, moonstone, or ivy and toadstool, and a twinkle, slow and each bulb in its own time. Her record on the phonograph has its red label with her moon and star, and goes round once in six seconds. Both do that by themselves at MAX, because her page says MAX lights the fairy lights and turns the record; everything else moves only when you ask. Let the candles flicker sets every candle flickering, each on its own and held under the flash line, as the candles behind the door marked E are. You can pour the tea, draw the curtain across the way to the Cinema and pull the cover over the crown, by the buttons or by pressing the thing itself, and each says what it did. The canvas has its seams and an embroidered band, her notebook lies open on the table with a quill across it, ivy grows in pots by the egg chair and crystals stand on the window ledge.

The rooms behind it have the same. The Music Room has damask on its walls, grain in its boards, leaded panes, wax running down candles of every height, a little table by the chair with a candle you can light or blow out, a stack of her records on the floor and her record on the phonograph, turning at MAX. The Cinema has pleated walls, a trellis in the carpet, velvet pleats on every seat, a ladder up to the projection box and its two reels redrawn as real reels that turn at MAX, as hers do; the beam never flickers. In both, the candles flicker only when you ask, and Join the Faeries and Grow a garden, her pages’ own two switches, hang faeries in the air and grow ivy and toadstools round the walls. The Reading Room has its record turning at MAX, her two switches, a book on the sofa to shut and a catalogue drawer to pull out; its candles stay still, because her page says they never flicker. Myths & Legends has worn flagstones, a riveted cauldron with a lid to lift, an old book on a stand to open, a coat to turn inside out for the pixies, and switches for its amber and amethyst stones, which glow and glint by themselves at MAX as her page says; nothing in it is a flame. In Glow Wild Hollow the fireflies and glow-worms breathe at MAX, the jellyfish’s rim pulses, the water sparkles where you touch it, the bonfire sways when you ask and can burn down to embers, and the logs have rings and bark. In The Play Pod swags of white flowers glow under the lamp and breathe at MAX, drawings are pegged up to dry, the oil and water can be stirred, the oobleck squeezed and the sensory bags drawn through, and the lamp tube in the scene presses her own switch.

This changes a rule of Cel Street’s, Ryan’s call today: until now nothing on it moved by itself. Now what a room hands the street to move does, at MAX only where the room’s own page moves it there, and otherwise only after a press, never in a low-stimulation mode. These are our drawings of her rooms, and what moves in them is hers to keep or send back; nothing on her pages changed.

2026-11-04 — Excursions, and Norah Hobbs’s Retail Therapy on its rack

A new shopfront on the street, just past Cavendish Coworking: Excursions, a visitor centre after closing, lit only by the backlit map of the area on its wall, with a wire rack of brochures beside it. Every brochure is an outing we take together, part room, part announcement and part run of show, and every one is its maker’s page in its maker’s own look; the room only keeps the rack, newest at the top, and keeps each one after its night so anybody can take the same walk round on their own.

The first brochure is Retail Therapy, which Norah Hobbs made with Claude for tomorrow’s Infodumplings, Thursday 5 November: a shop that sells nothing, open late for one sensory-friendly night, with the lights low and the music off, a bench by the fountain for anybody who would rather watch, Caroline’s Carts that never run out, a little free library, and every question on its shelves twice over, once in a list with the lights low and once hidden round the departments to hunt for with the lights off. It comes onto the street in her words, her colours, her faces and her drawing, under CC BY-SA 4.0 with her yes. On the way in, “next week” became the night’s date, the dark scheme her page had for a device set to dark was left out for the street’s low-stimulation modes, and one focus ring with the lights off takes the floor’s colour; the liner notes list every change.

Its Stimpunks shop, a signed link to our merch, stays as Norah wrote it. That is a change for the street, Ryan’s call today: community members may include links to their own businesses in what they make here, signed as such. Two new jobs on the Adventurer’s Guild board send you to both.

2026-11-04 — The Faery Yurt’s rooms, a second time, on both streets

The rooms behind Helen Edgar’s Faery Yurt are fuller on Paper Street and on Cel Street, drawn only in the colours her rooms declare and from what her own pages hold. The Cinema has her shelves of reels along both walls, and pressing one puts its film up under the gilt arch, with her film strip round the walls, the projection box over the door and still candles between the rails. The Music Room has her chandelier, the ravens, the cello and the harp, the window’s tracery and a horn like a flower, and on Paper Street her deck plays where it stands. Myths & Legends has the Alchemist’s Arch as her drawing has it, her herbs drying over the cauldron, the Wheel of the Year carved on the wall beside her own, and her Story or Fact cards on a board. The Reading Room has more of her real cases, her card catalogue, the chandelier and the gramophone’s corner. Glow Wild Hollow shows its hills now, with both whirlpools, glow-worms, foxfire on the logs, moths round the fireflies and the sea breaking in light, every light still a living one but the bonfire. The Play Pod has the tonic-water glasses, galaxy jars, shaving-cream bags, oobleck and her film, and on Cel Street her lamp switch still takes the whole room back to daylight paint. Each room has more places to stand. These are our drawings of her rooms, and they are hers to keep or send back; nothing on her pages changed.

2026-11-04 — The Garden on Cel Street, to sit in

The Garden on Cel Street has a lawn now. Past the border on the left, round the end of the bed, it opens onto grass mown in stripes, with a round pond in the middle, its rim of stones, lily pads flowering on it and a stone fountain standing in the still water. There is a white gazebo by the gate and another at the far corner, roses climbing their posts, benches facing the pond and one by the ivy, shrubs and flowers all along the hedges, and the hedges themselves are leaves on leaves now. The path is gravel with pebbles in it and stones along its edges, and the glare has gone: the sky is a softer green, the ground takes the light down, and the limewashed boards with the page on them are still the brightest thing in the garden. Nothing new is drawn past Helen’s ivy, and nothing in it moves.

2026-11-04 — Paper Street walks into the rooms behind rooms

On Paper Street every room behind a room now has a way in from the room it opens off, lettered with where it goes and marked You can walk in. In the Campgrounds every pitch’s post carries its number and its name routed into the wood, with a track post by the treeline into Nature’s Contribution, whose fingerpost has a cast arm for every place on the land. Every turning in the Outskirts has its board painted in the headlights, every level of Arlesglad Caverns its doorway off the passage, and Buoyant Bodyminds its plate with nothing open behind it yet. Those are read off the areas’ own pages, so a new pitch is a named post on the next build. Indoors, each room draws its own way through in its own colours: a doorway in Pink Pony Club’s wall to the Chappell, a low door in a bank of earth at the foot of the Jungle Room (there is another jungle room), the Arcade’s game cabinets, two doors further into the Mopery, the doors round the Town Hall’s rotunda, Cavendish’s shut mahogany doors with the Hang Suites up the stair, a gap in the Community Library’s stacks with string running into it, and the rest. In the Faery Yurt the six ways are a round door, the Alchemist’s Arch, the glowing mushroom under the Glimmer Window, a curtain, the phonograph and her bookcase, drawn only in Helen’s colours, with her own words for each; they are ours, hers to keep or send back. Back out now goes back into the room you came from, standing at the way you came out of, and says where it goes; a room reached by its address or the teleporter backs out through the room it opens off, one room at a time.

2026-11-04 — Paper Street walks into every room

Every room you can walk into on Cel Street can now be walked into on Paper Street too: a first round for each, cut out of card on the toy theatre’s stage, in the room’s own colours and its own world, with its page standing in it to read and press. The Haunted House is plywood lit only through its seams, the Town Hall a rotunda with one disc of sun on the floor, the Fishbowl seen from the gravel inside the bowl, Breaker Breaker a night interstate drawn only by marker lamps, the Chappell an indigo nave with its glass lying coloured on the floor, and no two of them alike. Rooms that open off another room are reached with Teleport to a room for now. The Faery Yurt and the rooms off it, Glow Wild Hollow and the Play Pod are drawn only in Helen’s own colours, and they, the rooms somebody brought to the street and David’s cabin are our drawings of their places, theirs to keep or send back. Pressing Tab into a room’s page no longer makes the window jump away.

2026-11-04 — The Chappell on Cel Street, in glass and its light

The Chappell on Cel Street is a chapel worth the name now. The nave stands in bays of indigo stone, every pier with gold at its foot and head, under a pointed ultramarine vault of gold ribs and stars with a jewelled boss in every bay. Every bay has its pointed windows and a round one over them, leaded and set with medallions; the great rose window stands high over the chancel and a smaller one over the door. And the glass lights the room: each window’s colours lie across the flagstones where its light falls, with a faint shaft in the air down to them, the rose throws its own picture on the floor before the chancel step, and the gold catches everywhere. The thirteen niches are still the page’s own, one to a bay, the chancel is up two gold steps under a triple arch, and the votive rail is three tiers of candles in coloured jars. Nothing in it moves: no candle flickers, and the window never turns.

2026-11-04 — A teleporter on both streets, and your companions on Cel Street

Teleport to a room is the first of the controls on Cel Street and Paper Street: start typing a room’s name, pick it from the list, and you are there, from out on the street or from inside any other room. Back out takes you to the street from wherever you landed, and the browser’s Back takes you to where you were.
Your chimera and your avatar walk Cel Street with you, as they do on Paper Street. If you took a chimera with you from Chimera Obscura, it stands at the right of the picture wherever you go, and Send it home sends it away for this visit. Signed on to the CB, Bring my avatar stands the avatar you wear on the CB at the left. Nothing here keeps either, and nothing is kept about where you went.

2026-11-04 — Cel Street and Paper Street say which room you are in

Following a room’s Walk this room used to land you at the top of Cel Street or Paper Street, with the room itself below the fold. Now the page opens with the street’s stage at the top of the window, so the room is the first thing you see; it only does that when you arrive, never again as you walk. A plate pinned in the corner of the stage names the room you are in (or the street, when you are out on it), sitting over the picture so nothing on the page moves, and a long name is cut short rather than wrapping. The browser tab says the room’s name too.

2026-11-04 — The dial stands beside the room’s words

The dial was leaving a tall empty band on a lot of pages: on most rooms it sat in a narrow box at the very foot of the page on a row of its own, and on the rooms that got it this morning it stood alone under the header. Now, on a wide screen, it stands at the right near the top of every one of those rooms, with the room’s own words running down beside it, and any room’s own words on its dial come with it. Where it stands was measured on every page rather than guessed: a tool tries the dial at every place it could go and keeps the one with the least empty space beside it, nearest the top, and never with a picture or a panel running under it. On Cel Street and Paper Street it stands below the street itself, so coming from a room’s Walk this room you see the street first. Rooms that built the dial into their own layout keep it where they put it.

2026-11-04 — Stay Frosty has the dial too

Stay Frosty was the one room left without the dial, because it said on its own page that there was nothing in it to press. That was Ryan’s call to change, and he changed it: the dial is at the top of the room now, like every other room’s, and the room says the only thing to press is the dial. It still changes nothing down there, because nothing in the room moves at any setting, nothing makes a sound, and the CB still stays upstairs. The caverns’ lift panel and Coping’s door to it stopped saying there is nothing to press.

2026-11-03 — The Operations and Editorial Rooms leave the cams on

The cams we leave on behind most of our meetings, the waterholes in the Namib and at Etosha, the otters and the jellies, are in the Operations Room and the Editorial Room now, each with a screen and a rack under it, as the Watering Hole has. In the plant room they are on a monitor in a steel case by the gauges, every card wearing the water main’s green, because every cam on it is water. On the light table they are laid on the glass like film, every card a slide in its white mount. Both rooms, and the Events Room’s shelf of the same cams, take them from the Watering Hole’s own list, so a cam added or taken off there is added or taken off in all of them. Nothing reaches YouTube until you press.

2026-11-03 — The Moderators’ room has a table of contents

The Moderators’ room opens with a list of everything in it, from what the base looks after through every part of the desk to the call, each a link straight to its part. It is written from the room’s own headings every time the street is built, so a part added to the desk is in the list without anybody remembering to add it.

2026-11-03 — The code is MIT

The street’s code is under the MIT License from today, so anybody may use it in anything, open or closed, as long as the notice goes with it. That is the tools, the CB’s functions and the scripts. Everything else stays CC BY-SA 4.0: the words, the markup, the design, and the pictures and words a script carries, Helen Edgar’s designs among them. Helen said yes for the code she has written here. Creative Commons itself advises against using its licences for software, and we are happy to let the code go further than the words. The licence file says which is which.

2026-11-03 — Powered by Netlify, and a code of conduct

The street is applying for Netlify’s Open Source plan, which asks for two things it did not have. Every page’s sign-off, and the pavement on the front page, now ends by saying this site is powered by Netlify, in words and in each room’s own ink rather than as a badge in Netlify’s colours, and nothing reaches netlify.com unless somebody follows the link. And the repository has a code of conduct: the Stimpunks Covenant, with where it applies here, what this project asks on top of it, and how to reach somebody privately when something goes wrong.

2026-11-03 — Champuru’s screen in the doorway

Champuru has a screen now, in the doorway of the stone house across the lane, with the last month from every channel Ryan took to try out: cooks from round the Mediterranean, Okinawan cooking and Okinawa itself, Japanese home cooking and sushi. It is refilled every morning, and he will winnow the list as he goes. Nobody here watched them first, and the titles are the channels’ own; the room says what a title promises is the channel’s claim and never the table’s.

2026-11-03 — Champuru: a table in the shade of a lane

Champuru is a shopfront on the street, next door to Vital Plant Living: Ryan’s restaurant, somewhere to sit when he eats, with Mediterranean and Okinawan dishes and the dishes that come of mixing the two. It is first and foremost for him and his tastes, and it is nobody’s advice.
The table is in the shade of a lane at noon, the kind both shores have: whitewash in full sun on one side, coral stone under a red-tiled eave on the other, bougainvillea over both and a strip of sea at the end. No sun lands on the table; it is lit by the sunlit wall across the lane, and every shadow falls softly away from it.
The name is chanpurū, Okinawan for something mixed: the stir-fry everybody on Okinawa cooks, and sometimes a word for Okinawa’s own mixed culture.
Every dish says what is in it, and its allergens are worked out from those words by the same engine as Hey, Good Cookin’; every drink says whether it has caffeine, by Pekoe and Purrs’. The room says plainly that Okinawan home cooking uses pork and SPAM, and that this kitchen cooks those dishes with tofu, egg and fish because it is Ryan’s. Nothing on the menu says what a dish does for a body, and tools/make-champuru.py refuses it if anything ever does.

2026-11-02 — Widdershins leads with Raising Steam

Widdershins now opens, under its name and before the city, with Ankh-Morpork in one sentence: Albrecht’s line from Raising Steam about being whoever you want to be, and people mostly and beautifully not caring. Ryan read it in his own copy, and the room says so, with the page, under the line.

2026-11-02 — Widdershins closes with The Turtle Moves

Widdershins now closes the way Star Stuff’s Easter Eggs collection closes: with its line drawing of Great A’Tuin, the four elephants and the Disc, Didactylos’s passage from Small Gods, and Star Stuff’s own three paragraphs under it, copied whole and checked against Star Stuff word for word. The room said at first that it would never draw the Disc, to keep clear of Oook; that still holds for its own city, and this one drawing is Star Stuff’s, in the room’s colours.

2026-11-02 — Cel Street: Widdershins

Widdershins opens off its door on Cel Street too. You come out on a cobbled quay on the night side of the river, with the crooked city across the water and the morning halfway across it: the houses past the edge lit, the rest still night, the sky split the same way, the brass bridge over the water and the compass in the night sky with widdershins pointing into the morning. The room’s words stand on boards along the back of the quay, read right to left, and none of them is in the morning. Nobody is in the city, and nothing moves.

2026-11-02 — Widdershins: against the way of normativity

Widdershins is a shopfront on the street, next door to the Community Library: a Discworld appreciation that goes against the way of normativity, in a crooked city beside a river too thick to drown in, at the moment the Disc’s slow morning is halfway across it. Half the city is lit and half is still night, and every word in the room is on the night side.
It is about Ankh-Morpork, where nobody matches, and the City Watch as a competency network: a team of nearly every kind of person the Disc has, which works because nobody on it is the same. Our reading of the books, in our words, beside lines from our own pages on competency networks and neuronormativity. We recognise ourselves in those people; nobody is diagnosed.
The witches are in it too, First Sight and Second Thoughts and Miss Level storing it in other people, from our page If I don’t help them, who will?, and so is some of Star Stuff: five drawings and some words from One Atom of Justice and A Promise, Not a Finding, recoloured for this room. Every quotation is checked against where it was read, word for word.

2026-11-04 — The dial in every room

Some rooms never had the dial: the caverns’ levels, the Outskirts’ turnings, the Town Hall’s rooms, Cavendish’s rooms and a handful more along the street. Every one of them has it now, straight after its header, with the low-stimulation modes, I need a bodymind break and Walk this room under it, and on a wide screen it stands at the right with the room’s first words beside it. A new room cannot open without a dial. The one room without it is Stay Frosty, which says on its own page that there is nothing in it to press.

2026-11-04 — Walk this room

Every room that has a room of its own on Cel Street says so now: Walk this room, at the foot of the page under the sign-off’s links, goes straight to it, and where the room has one on Paper Street too, there is a second link for that. Where a page has the dial’s box, the same links are buttons in it as well, under “I need a bodymind break”, so they are near the top. A room that gets a walk-in room on either street gets its link with nothing else to do.

2026-11-04 — Cel Street: a second pass on more rooms, and Champuru walks in

On Cel Street:

Champuru opens onto its own lane now: the coral wall in shade with the restaurant’s door in it, the whitewash across the lane in full sun throwing its light back onto the tables, bougainvillea over both walls, washing hung still across the lane, Ryan’s table nearest the street, and the sea flat at the far end. Its menu hangs under the eave, and its screen stands in the doorway with the channels’ month beside it, to play.
Club Chronic: flyers in layers from the dado to the ceiling, flat and square, the bar stocked, the stage with its amps, tape and set list under one bare bulb that never flickers, and the door policy, the decks and every rack on the walls, to read and play.
The Jungle Room: every gallery of cams hangs on a leaf of its own along the path, to put up on its screen; the canopy is leaves now, the buttress roots taper, and ferns, palms, orchids, lianas and roots fill the understorey, with trunks going back into the green dark.
Laughingstock: a little more light in the house, brick round it, joists and ducts overhead, bistro chairs, glasses on the tables, a bar with taps and stools, and on the stage the wedges and the mic’s lead, with nobody on it.
The Lightbulb Picture House: proper seats, wheelchair spaces at the row ends, ear defenders on an aisle seat, sofas at the back to lie down on, panelled walls, a coffered ceiling with a chandelier of bare bulbs, and a runner down the aisle. Nothing in it is blue.
Vital Plant Living: a fridge and a pantry shelf, both cut through with the pantry’s food piled to the cut, a chopping board, a rack over the island, chili ristras and garlic on the walls, stools, rugs and a banana plant by the door.

2026-11-04 — Public restrooms on the street, and benches and drinking fountains

The street has public restrooms now, each a room of its own with a door in the row:

Loo With a View: a rest stop of concrete, rusted steel and larch at the top of a mountain road, with one glass wall over a fjord and the midnight sun on the horizon, so everything you face is backlit in gold.
The Comfort Station: a municipal comfort station of the old kind, down the steps under a park with a lift beside them, white tile, terrazzo and brass, lit by daylight through violet glass prisms set in the path overhead.
The Seaside Convenience: a Victorian convenience on a promenade, green tile and painted iron under a glass canopy, in the haze off the sea.
The Quiet Stall: felt and cork, nothing that echoes or hums, a heavy blanket on the bench, fragrance-free soap, and light coming off the ceiling from coves you cannot see.

Every one of them is for everybody, of every gender and none, and for anybody helping somebody else. Every one has toilets and urinals behind doors of their own, is step-free and wheelchair accessible, has a Step ’n Wash under the basins, changing tables for a baby and an adult, free pads and tampons, free condoms, a sharps box, naloxone by the door, somewhere comfortable to sit, soap and paper towels, no air dryer, private stalls with a light over each that says free or in use in words, a shelf and a hook in every stall, and clear signs in words and pictures with raised letters and braille. They are free, at any hour, with nothing to buy first. Each room says how it does every one of those things in its own words, and its tool will not build it if one is missing. They were built after Norway’s scenic-route rest stops, which Visit Norway showed off in October 2026; after Step ’n Wash’s writing on restroom design; and after our own Bathroom Access page, where a young Stimpunk coined “stallbatting”. They share a Restrooms tag on the chat page.

On Cel Street, every restroom opens onto its own room, and benches now stand all the way down both sides of the street with bins beside them, among drinking fountains at the kerb, each with a basin low enough to roll under in a wheelchair, one for standing, a bottle filler and a bowl for a dog.

2026-11-03 — A Quiet Pint: the piano’s other shelf

A Quiet Pint’s piano has a second shelf: recordings of people playing piano standards, ragtime and jazz and classical, for when the rolls are not enough. That parts from the pub in the books, which has only the player piano, and the page says so. Every recording is free on its own Wikimedia Commons page and streamed from there, plays only when pressed and says its length first, and names its player, among them Jelly Roll Morton’s contemporary Richard M. Jones on his own 1923 record and Rachmaninoff playing his own prelude in 1919. Every composer died more than seventy years ago and every piece was published more than ninety-five years ago, so the music is free everywhere, which is why there are no songs with words on the shelf and nothing written after 1930. Nothing on it is a screen. The shelf stands in the pub on Cel Street too.

2026-11-03 — Cel Street: a second round on the showcases

Another round on the five showcase rooms on Cel Street, at what the first round left rough:

The Solarpunk Hermitage: the cave’s curtains fall in heavy folds with swags, hems and tie-backs; trees fork into limbs under clumped canopies; clouds have flat undersides; a skirting and a picture rail run round the plaster, with a shelf of books, patches of morning light on the floor, the pegboard of tools moved where you can stand at it, and windows you can see out of.
The Faery Yurt: the fairy lights’ warmth now reaches the lower canvas and the lattice, moonlight lies on the Glimmer Window’s sill, a candle-warm light falls at the Alchemist’s Arch, the arch and the round door have moved a little round the wall, and the phonograph has a flared horn. All of it in Helen Edgar’s own colours, and hers to keep or send back.
Pink Pony Club: a coffered ceiling with the rose in a recess, still pools of light in the coffers, spots aimed at the mirrorball, the decks and the jukebox, each deck on a board of its own, and the doorway to the Chappell framed and named.
A Quiet Pint: the light catches the beams’ undersides, every table but one has something on it and no two alike, the coats hang from hooks as coats, the floor shows where people walk, and the piano’s new shelf is on the wall.
Widdershins: a cool light from the night sky picks out the night side, every night roof has a rim, the morning sky shows past the city, the day side’s windows are each house’s own, the bridge is a deck you can walk out on between two brass arches on coursed stone piers, and the words at the view are bigger.
And street-wide, the painted streak is softer on pale colours, where it read as corrugation close up.

2026-11-03 — Cel Street: a second pass, five showcases, and Danny’s banners

A second pass across Cel Street, toward the painted look of a cartoon’s environments:

Every surface is painted, not printed: a soft mottle and an up-and-down brush streak laid over each thing’s own colour, a few per cent lighter or darker and never another colour, and never over words or a picture.
The street is lived in: sills under the windows, curtains drawn to one side, window boxes and balcony plants, tables and chairs outside some shops, benches with bins, lamp posts, planters, bollards at the crossings, a post box by the stoop, and baskets of flowers on the poles. Nothing new stands in front of the middle of a shop, and the poles, street trees and parked cars that used to hide a sign have moved off it.
Danny the Street says things. In the comics and on television the street talks by changing its own signs, so banners hang across the road between the poles in Danny’s manner, and the same words are a list on the Cel Street page. They are our words, never a line of the comics or the show.
Five showcase rooms had the most time spent on them:
- The Solarpunk Hermitage: trees and layered hills round the meadow, wildflowers, stepping stones, a gutter, a vine, window boxes and shutters on the cabin, a washing line and a bean-pole teepee, and inside, beams, hanging plants, a throw, a shelf over the television and a pegboard of tools. The cave is still all textile, with curtain folds, a velvet pelmet and piles of books. Its ceiling no longer glares white.
- The Faery Yurt, drawn by us, as Cel Street’s yurt always has been, only in Helen Edgar’s own colours, and changing nothing on her page. New, and Helen’s to keep or send back: a hanging lantern and stars in the crown, moonlight through it, board joints and a woven rug, a low table with a teapot, cups, books and candles and four cushions round it, a hearth stone, kettle, log basket, jar shelf and herb bundles at the stove, a cushion, blanket, side table and sheepskin in the nook, a door mat and a basket of blankets, books stacked by the bookcase, ivy on the lattice, the strings of lights rehung pole to pole, and the phonograph’s horn turned to face the room.
- Pink Pony Club: bevelled tiles, panelled walls with a dado and pilasters, lighting trusses with still pink pools on the floor, tufted banquettes with cocktail tables, a DJ riser with its turntables, and the room’s decks on a board behind it to play. Nothing flashes.
- A Quiet Pint: a stocked back bar and shelves between the mirrors, pints on beer mats along the bar, panelling, joists, worn floorboards, coats on hooks, a dog’s water bowl, papers by the stove, a kettle and logs, and plants on the sills. The plan, the thirteens and the clear routes are as they were.
- Widdershins: a stone and brass bridge, the city’s houses with jettied storeys, chimneys and shutters, more of the city behind them fading into the haze, the morning’s edge lying across the river, and the quay’s bollards, ladder, rowboat, barrels and a bench.

2026-11-03 — Paper Street: looking round, zooming, full screen and game controllers, and A goes in

Paper Street has the same four as Cel Street now: Shift and the arrow keys turn you and look up and down; Zoom in, Zoom out and Normal size (or plus, minus and 0, or a pinch) bring the street and every page in a room closer, while your companions stay by you; Full screen fills the screen with the street and its buttons; and a game controller walks, turns, looks, zooms, goes from door to door with the bumpers, goes in with A and backs out with B.

On both streets, A on a controller now goes in the way pressing Walk into does, and counts a button as pressed whichever way the controller’s driver reports it, since some report only how far a button is down. A line under the zoom buttons says when the page can see a controller.

2026-11-03 — Cel Street: looking round, zooming, full screen and game controllers

Four new ways to walk Cel Street:

Shift and the arrow keys turn you and look up and down instead of walking, as Q, E, R and F already did.
Zoom in and Zoom out, under the street, or plus and minus on the keyboard, bring the picture closer so the words in a room are bigger, up to four times; Normal size or 0 puts it back, and pinching on a trackpad zooms too. A room’s own page and its lifted words grow with the picture. Nothing remembers it.
Full screen fills the screen with the street, its words, its buttons and its places, and Escape or the same button brings it back.
A game controller, such as an Xbox controller on a Mac: the left stick walks, the right stick turns and looks, the triggers zoom, the bumpers go to the place before and after, A goes in, B backs out, X faces ahead and Y climbs. The browser shows the page a controller only after one of its buttons is pressed there, and the page reads it only while it is connected, drawing nothing unless it asks for something.

2026-11-03 — Cel Street: the street furniture

The furniture by the front door stands on Cel Street now, on the left-hand pavement at the stoop’s end, each piece in the colours and lettering the front page dresses it in, and each opens onto its own world:

The Pebble Board: a long case under glass on legs, one lamp over the cork, and this edition pinned along it, a slot for every spread it has. The pictures stay on the page; the songs play.
The Brass Tacks Board: an alcove of verdigris with blank brass plates, and the board’s own page on the big plate at the back, where the posts arrive as they do on the page. No plate in the scene carries anybody’s words.
Now Playing: round the poster column at night, the bill pasted on every face in its two inks, which only make the third where they cross. Nothing on it plays.
Danny the Street, whose name is on a plate high on the end wall: the road at four in the morning under one sodium lamp, seen looking down onto it, one hue and nothing standing up, with the page’s words lying flat on the tar like the road’s own markings.

2026-11-03 — Cel Street: Nature’s Contribution

On Cel Street the one track through the Campgrounds’ wood goes somewhere now: over a plank bridge across the stream, past a post saying where it comes out, and over the stile onto Nature’s Contribution. The wood itself is still not drawn, because the page says it is not mapped.

Nature’s Contribution: an afternoon under broken cloud, the fields in the sun, and the clouds’ shadows lying on the land with soft edges. Nothing else casts one, and you stand in one at the stile. The white fingerpost has an arm for every place, read off the page’s own post, and each place stands out in its own direction with a path to a gate. The page’s words are on boards along the hedge.
All Needs Met Wildlife Sanctuary: the keepers’ night round, seen by warmth, in greys and nothing else. Every resident is a warm shape where the page says they like to be, the wild neighbours past the rail the same.
Gentle Help Cannabis Farm: the middle path of a hoop house in the afternoon, lit through its own skin, the beds either side with the companion plants along their edges. Every word on its boards is the page’s.
Brighter Days Solar Farm: noon under the panels, a hard white line along every row’s top edge and its shade straight underneath, the peppers and tomatoes in the shade and the sheep in the sun between the rows. Every number about the shade or the peppers is the page’s own.
All Together Now Farms: two lights at once, the sun going down in the west and the full moon coming up in the east. The nut trees are in rows with the Three Sisters planted between them, there are sheep, goats and hens, and the barn has its screen. A door in the old dairy beside the barn opens the Dairy: white tile, the green band at hand height, light that casts nothing, and the menu on the back wall.
Wide-Spread Chaos Gardens: a clear windy day, the garden thrown from one fixed seed so it is the same garden every time, and everything leaning the same way with the wind. Every plant’s name is the page’s.

2026-11-02 — Cel Street: the caverns’ levels

Every open level of Arlesglad Caverns opens off its doorway in the passage on Cel Street now:

Big Steep Fermentables: a cellar in bare rock, steel racks of bottles and jars lit from behind in each drink’s own colour, no wood and no barrel, every house style with its alcohol-free pour first and the same size, and the cellar videos on the screen in the rock.
Mycelium Munchies: down between steel growing racks to the pass, seen straight on under its red heat lamps, the only light there, with the menu and Derek Sarno’s rack behind it.
Glow Go Gee Gaws: a dark shop with every toy on its shelves at rest, and the page’s own shelf on the wall, where a toy charges when it is pressed and gives the light back as it does on the page.
Stay Frosty, at the bottom: a low chamber of wet rock with no lamp in it, the rail’s light up the slope coming back in points off every bead of damp. Nothing to press, nothing moves, nothing makes a sound, and its temperature is only ever its page’s.
Stay Breezy, through the door at the back of Stay Frosty: its opposite, pale, warm and dry, a hall of fans drawn still with the lamp under every ceiling fan, and every fan’s card working beside it. Nothing sounds until a fan is switched on.

And a link or a focus ring inside a room’s lifted words wears that room’s own colour now. Cel Street’s own link and ring rules came after every room’s and won, so in every room they had come out in Cel Street’s colours, on the room’s own ground.

2026-11-02 — The office can post to Threads and our Facebook Page

The office’s Posts page has a Connect button each for Threads and our Facebook Page. Once a director has connected one, through our own Meta app, the office posts there on the same press as Bluesky, Mastodon and Stimpunks Social; until then, or if a connection lapses, it is posted by hand as before. A post to Threads is never made twice, even when Threads is slow to answer. LinkedIn is still posted by hand.

stimpunkssocial.wordpress.com had stopped keeping up with what we posted on Bluesky, so Stimpunks Social was missing most of what we said from May on. Those posts are here now, from our Bluesky export: our own posts and threads, not our replies to other people, with every link’s whole address put back where Bluesky had shortened it. A post that was already here in a slightly longer or edited form stays as it was.

2026-11-02 — Lyrics are welcome on the street

The street no longer refuses a song’s words anywhere. Quoting a song with credit is fair use, and the responsibility for what we publish is ours. The tools that refused lyrics in the Zibaldone and every other room that had one let them through now, and the rooms that said “no lyrics” no longer do. The Rabbit Hole still gives you the recordings rather than the words, as its own choice. The posts on Stimpunks Social that quote songs, held back this morning, are up with the rest.

Stimpunks Social, our short posts, lived at stimpunkssocial.wordpress.com from 2019 and now live here, at /social, with a feed of its own. It is a record page like this one, worn in your own CB colours. Every post came across except the copies the export held twice, and the office’s Posts page now posts to it along with our other networks: a new post is on /social the moment it is posted. Images came too, with their camera data off; where one had no alt text, Claude wrote it, and each image says who wrote its alt text. Images with a real person in them, and posts that quote a song’s lyrics, are held back for now: the street does not reproduce lyrics, and a person in a photograph says yes before they are shown.

2026-11-02 — The office posts to our networks

The office has a Posts page, in place of a paid service for scheduling posts. One set of words goes to all five of our networks, written within Bluesky’s 300 characters, the shortest limit of the five, and counted the way Bluesky counts them as you write. Bluesky and Mastodon are posted by the office itself, on a second press that names them, with a card for the first link that our server reads from the page. Threads, our Facebook Page and our LinkedIn Page are posted by hand for now: Meta reviews an app before it can post to a Page, and LinkedIn approves posting to a company page only for verified organisations, so for those the office copies the words, opens the network, and whoever posted there says so. Each post says what happened on each network, with a link to the post or what went wrong, and nothing is ever posted to one network twice. Pictures come next. The privacy page says what goes where.

2026-11-01 — JOLLY on Hey, Good Cookin’s rack

JOLLY is on the rack in Hey, Good Cookin’ now, added by Ryan. It comes after the channels already there, and its videos and shorts are read with everybody else’s each morning, from the next morning’s fill.

2026-11-01 — Every call is for people on the CB, and Jitsi’s chat is off in all of them

Until today the calls in Cavendish Coworking’s Events, Operations and Editorial rooms let in somebody who was not signed on, under a name they typed, to knock and wait in a lobby. Nobody had needed it, so it is gone: every call is for people signed on to the CB, the meetings’ like any room’s, and anybody signed on walks straight in. Every door still says what meets behind it and when, for anybody to read. Jitsi’s own text chat is now off in every call, those three included, so the room’s channel on the CB is the call’s chat everywhere. The privacy page and the CB guide say so.

2026-11-01 — Infodumplings on the Events Room’s rack

Infodumplings, a playlist of every video our Infodumplings evenings have featured, newest at the top, now has a shelf of its own on the rack in the Events Room. Play it in its card, or put the whole list up on the screen on the wall.

2026-11-01 — The Events Room is ready for Campfire Learn Together and Solidarity Sesh

The screen on the wall in the Events Room now starts on Campfire Learn Together, the playlist we keep for our Sunday campfires with the newest video at the top, so it opens on that week’s video. Under it, the rack has two shelves: Schitt’s Creek, as before, and the cams from the Watering Hole, the waterholes, the otters and the jellies, which Solidarity Sesh usually watches.

2026-11-01 — A call can stand beside the radio

A call’s − and + have a new size between Regular and Large: Beside the radio, the window’s whole height from its edge to the radio’s, on whichever side of the radio has more room. Large went under the radio, and Regular is a window in the corner; this one shares the window with the radio, so neither covers the other, and it follows the radio if you move it or change its size.

2026-11-01 — The radio has a Half size, for talking while you watch

Between Small and Normal, the radio now has Half: the channel’s messages, the box to write in and Transmit, never more than half the window tall. Small shows only the newest message and has nowhere to write, and Normal grows as tall as the window, over the edge of a screen in the middle of a room. Half stays in its corner. Everything else is a press of + away, and anything that takes you to another part of the radio makes it Normal for that page. The CB guide has it with the other sizes.

2026-11-01 — The call fits under the screen, and minus and plus size it there

A call standing under a room’s screen ran off the foot of the window. It now takes the room that is left under the screen, so with the screen at the top of the window you see the film and the call together. The − and + on the call’s bar make it shorter or taller there, a step at a time, for as long as you are on the page.

2026-11-01 — The call right under the screen

In a room on a wide window, the hosting strip and the call now stand straight under the screen, above the line saying what is showing and the button that puts the screen back, which had pushed the call half a window down. When a film from the rack goes up on the screen, the screen still comes into view.

2026-11-01 — Watching together, under the room’s screen

A watch together had the film at the top of the room, the call floating over the page and the only sign of who was hosting three parts down the radio. Now, in a room with a screen, a strip under the screen says who is hosting and where they are, with Catch up and Follow right there, or Stop hosting when it is you. On a wide window a call open in the room stands under the screen too, the same width, instead of covering the room; scroll away and it is a window in the corner until you scroll back. The CB guide says how. The room’s call button on the radio now says Leave this room’s call while you are in it, which it did not when the call was joined from a room’s own call panel, and the call window’s standing note is one line, with what we keep behind a link to the privacy page.

2026-11-01 — A call’s chat is the room’s channel

Jitsi’s own chat is switched off in every call except the three public ones at Cavendish Coworking. Its chat can’t be given Markdown, editing, pictures or our emoji, and the room’s channel on the CB has all of them, so the channel is now where people in a call type to each other. In the chat on a wide window it stands right beside the call. A call with somebody you’re messaging has your conversation. The public calls keep Jitsi’s chat, because a guest has no radio to type in. What’s typed during a call is now kept the way the channel keeps it, which the privacy page says. Sharing a file in a call still works from its own button.

2026-11-01 — Join the call beside the name

Join the call now stands next to the channel’s name in the chat, and next to the room’s name under Where you are on every room’s radio, as Element puts its call button beside a room’s name. It joins the same call the room’s own Join button does, or the World call when the channel is World, and says Leave the call while you are in it. It is there only when that call can be joined.

2026-11-01 — The boards quote the record, and the counting check leaves the record alone

None of this morning’s refills went out. The Feed and The Source quote this street’s changelog titles and commit messages, two of today’s gave a number of rooms, and the check that keeps this street from counting its rooms refused both boards, which stopped every morning script behind them. A commit message cannot be changed once it is out, and the changelog has always been left alone by that check because it is a dated record. The boards’ rows quote that record, so the check now leaves the rows alone too, and still reads every sentence the two rooms say themselves. The morning’s refills were run again afterwards.

2026-11-01 — The chat beside the call

On a wide window, a call opened in the chat used to float over the bottom left corner, covering the channels and the message box. Now it takes the middle column, where the channel was, and the channel moves to the right-hand column beside it, the way Discord lays out a call. Two buttons at the head of that column, Chat and In this channel, switch it between the messages and what is about the channel: Happening now, who is seen here, Who’s around and the rest. Picking a channel, a conversation, Events or a search turns it back to Chat. Enlarge the chat still shows the messages alone, and the call goes back to being a window while it is enlarged. Leaving the call puts the columns back as they were. On a phone the call stays on its own tab.

2026-11-01 — Cel Street: every turning off the Outskirts

Every turning off the Outskirts opens from its board in the weeds on Cel Street now, each lit its own way, as the road has them:

Black Leather Lagoon: a jetty out over black water to a drive-in screen standing on its legs, the only light, with the rack of records out in the shallows. Nothing flickers.
Sithen: a ring of bank and thorn in a field under a full moon straight overhead. A track goes round it and nobody goes in. There is no green anywhere.
Looming Rocks Amphitheatre: two rock faces lit from the ground up by violet floods, the lichen glowing back cyan-green, and the stage’s set working on the deck between them.
Dance, Punks: the old airstrip at night, lit only by headsets at head height in their channels’ colours, with nobody drawn under them, and the page’s own headset on a board by the crate.
The Small Hours: the diner seen from the dark car park through its lit glass, and then walked into: the counter, the menu, the jukebox with Up All Night whole, and the placemat on a booth table to colour in.
The Repeater: the hut and the mast as silhouettes against a warm overcast lit from below by the town, and the open line on a board by the hut, working.
Nothing For Sale: a lay-by ringed with cars nose-in, every car’s headlamps throwing its own shadow off the tables in the middle.
The Rebellion Rave Room: the ante-chamber first, with the warning whole on its wall, then the hangar, black and steel, its beams standing still in the haze. The strobe, the rig and the big screen stay on the room’s own page, where they are asked for. Nothing in the scene flashes.
The Cooldown Room, through the plain door off the ante-chamber: a small soft room lit by the vending machine’s steady panel, the machine itself working, every snack saying what is in it and how it feels.
The Haunted House: a house of plywood flats in an empty warehouse, the only light the seams where the flats meet, and the hall inside ending at its way out. Nothing jumps out and nothing is counted.

The Small Hours’ placemat now finds where it was pressed by the drawing’s own size rather than its outline on the screen, so a mark lands under the pointer when the placemat lies on a table in the scene. On the room’s own page it works as before.

2026-11-01 — Cel Street: the World room, the road out and the lift down

Cel Street has its two other ways off the street now, both read off the front page as the treeline is: the last streetlight at the far end of the road, with the Outskirts’ sign on its arm and the road running on past it with no kerb, and the lift head on the pavement by the stoop, the stair beside it, its plate in the lift’s own colours. Behind them, and behind the Garden:

The World room, past the garden spider’s web in the Garden: the web strung in the air with a dawn coming level along the silk from one side, no ground, and a garden on a thread for every part of the Map with that part of the directory standing on it. The spider says nothing, and nothing counts anybody.
The Outskirts: the road past the last streetlight at night, lit only by your own headlights from behind, every sign bright on its face and the road black a little past the beam. A painted board in the weeds stands at the mouth of every turning, in the board’s order. Nothing in it is blue.
Arlesglad Caverns: out of the lift, the stair the same size beside it, into a passage of rock nobody dug, lit only by the handrail at hand height. A doorway opens off it for every level on the panel, with its plate beside it on the lit band; a level not open yet is a shut door, its words at full strength. Stay Frosty is the doorway at the far end, at the bottom.

The Outskirts’ turnings, the caverns’ levels and the World room’s gardens are written into their rooms off their own pages, so a new one is there on the next build.

2026-11-01 — Cel Street: the Garden and the open ground

The gates on Cel Street open now too, each onto its own world:

The Garden, through its gate halfway down the street: midday through leaves, every shadow small and straight under its thing, a long border with nothing green below the soil, and Helen Edgar’s ivy winding along the ground with its glimmers, past which nothing casts a shadow. The garden spider is in its web at the far end, its panel whole.
The Run, through its lot gate: the pen between two gates, the field beyond in a dog’s colours, the clubhouse and its porch, the dog telly and its rack, and the blue ball out on the grass. No dog is drawn: the dogs are the shelter’s, and they are on the Run’s own page.
Truckin’ Food Court: trucks round a sunny lot, the sun through each awning laying its stripes on the counter and the ground, a colour each with nothing dark between them, and every board with its allergen lines.
The Green: a wood round a pond just after the rain, lit by the sky alone so nothing casts a shadow, a level boardwalk kerbed on both edges, and the sky held along the top edge of everything.
The Pile: a lot of sand in colourless sun, all the colour tempera on the junk, and a den of pallets roofed in bubble wrap, every bubble throwing a ring on the sand. Its bench works there as on the page.

2026-11-01 — Cel Street: the last of Cavendish’s rooms

The last four rooms behind doors open off Cavendish Coworking on Cel Street, so every room behind a door on the street now has a room there too:

The Editorial Room: a dark studio with every lamp off and one tilted light table, the proofs on its glass lit from beneath, the only light there is.
The Watering Hole: a pan in the Namib at noon, the door standing shut on its own in the sand, animals round the one pool, and every shadow a dark pool straight under its thing.
The Campfire: a fire in a clearing at night, the one light there, logs to sit on round it and every shadow running away from it. The flames are still, and the rack of fires plays on the screen across the fire.
The Cave: a tunnel in glacier ice with no lamp in it, the daylight coming through the ice as blue, palest at the far end where the ice is thinnest.

Each suite’s norms, and David Thornburg’s name, stand in its room as the page has them, and each one’s call stays on its own page there.

2026-11-01 — Cel Street: Oook, two more rooms off the Town Hall and two of Cavendish’s

Five more rooms behind rooms open off their parents on Cel Street:

Oook, at the end of L-Space’s string: out of a round hole into the rust-coloured dark, with the Disc hanging in front of you on four elephants on a turtle, banana stars, and the Disc’s own small sun as the only light. The string ends tied round a banana. The Librarian is not drawn.
The Moderators’ room, through its shut door off the Town Hall: a low room above the street with no lamp in it, the shopfronts’ colours lying on the ceiling side by side and never mixed, and a desk with its radio drawn switched off.
Executive Session, through its shut door: lit only by the EXIT sign over the door you came in by, steady and never flickering, one small table and nobody at it.
The Events Room, through its door in Cavendish Coworking: a lighthouse’s watch room at dusk, one column of light coming down through the hatch onto the chart table, the light list on the table and the room’s screen and rack beside it.
The Operations Room, through its door in Cavendish Coworking: a low plant room under one caged lamp, every main in the colour of what it carries, and the cage’s shadow striping the pipes, walls and floor and never a word.

Every room’s own radio and call stay on its own page there, because they talk to the CB.

2026-11-01 — Cel Street: L-Space, Fantasy Fancy Dress and three rooms off the Town Hall

Five more rooms behind rooms open off their parents on Cel Street:

L-Space, through the gap in the Community Library’s stacks: shelving bending away on both sides into a well, nothing straight in it, no floor and no lamp. A string runs loose down the middle from the shelf by the gap you came in by, and turns off at the far end into a gap left for Oook. The page’s words stand along the shelves as the page has them, and the Librarian is not drawn.
Fantasy Fancy Dress, through the curtain at the back of the Dopamine Dress-Up Den: the light at the far end coming through four rows of coloured sheers, a rail of stock against it, the sign over the rail and a pair of wings on a hook. The mirror holds the page’s own drawing and its rails dress it. The house draws nobody, and your strip stays on the page, because it asks the CB.
The Fishbowl, through its open door off the Town Hall: standing on the gravel inside the bowl, the sun bent through the water into still bright lines, a ring of stones with its one gap, and the room’s own words round the back of the bowl.
The Directors’ room, through its shut door: dark, lit only by the frosted pane in the door, its name backwards on the glass, the hall’s light lying on the floor with no edge to it, and the directors listed on the far wall as the page lists them.
The Board room, through its shut door: one long table with the same lamp at every seat, drawn by one function, and nobody sitting at it. The board and the Governance and Ethics section are on the walls, word for word as the page has them.

Every room’s own radio and call stay on its own page there, because they talk to the CB.

2026-11-01 — Paper Street stands up in Safari

In Safari, Paper Street came up flat. Every door stood edge-on, the far end of the street was drawn full size in the middle of the stage, and there was no road under any of it. Safari drops the perspective from a 3D world when the box that holds the perspective also clips what overflows it, and the theatre's frame has to clip. The perspective now sits on a box inside the frame, and the frame still does the clipping. Chrome drew the street right either way. Measured in Safari itself, on the street and in a room you can walk into.

2026-11-01 — Cel Street: five more rooms behind the doors

Five more rooms behind rooms open off their parents on Cel Street:

Otterly Adorbs, from its cabinet in the Arcade: up close to the machine, the kelp bay playing on its screen, the log of what just happened on the wall beside it, and Helen Edgar’s credit where the page has it.
Penguin Pebbling, from its cabinet in the Arcade: the shore playing on its screen, a few stones on the carpet that nothing counts, and where the locution comes from on the wall, Amythest Schaber named and the deck pointed at as the separate thing it is.
The Oracle Deck, through a new door in the Mopery’s reading room: the whole deck standing face up round the draw table, every picture the page’s own, and drawing a card asks its question in the scene.
The Doomscroll, through the Mopery’s other new door: the one unbroken roll of foxed newsprint lying up a dark reading desk, scrolling where it lies, with the whole poem opening over it on a press.
The Source, up the hill behind the Feed: white travertine terraces under a warm spring at noon, a pool for every pool on the room’s page, stepping to one side and the other, each holding its deposits and the hands that made them.

2026-11-01 — Cel Street: the first rooms behind the doors

A room behind a room now opens off its parent on Cel Street, through a door in the parent’s scene, and Back out takes you one room back:

The Chappell, through a doorway in Pink Pony Club’s left-hand wall: the votive indigo nave, its thirteen arches free-standing down either side, each with its video playing where it stands, and the chancel alone at the east end under the rose window.
Issue #2, from where it lies on the Zine Table: you stand on the photocopied sheet itself, its parts cut out and standing up off it, the scissors open at the edge.
The Polaroid Wall, through a door in Enid’s Room: the wall of frames, every one of them empty here, because the photographs are seen only on the room’s own page, which hangs beside them.
Quill Drift, from its cabinet in the Arcade: up close to the one machine, and the game plays on its screen in the scene.
The Den, through a low door at the foot of the Jungle Room: brown, low and closed, the green shag the brightest thing in it, the fieldstone waterfall, the studio, and both records’ cuts playing where they hang, each with its writers.

2026-11-01 — Cel Street reaches the end of the row

Every door in the street’s row now opens onto a room you can walk into on Cel Street, with these three:

Volunteers is the loom with the cloth half woven, a band for every thing on the help list in its dye and in its order, the undyed warp crossing every band, the day coming through the bare warp from the window behind, the shuttle lying on the newest row and the bench empty.
Breaker Breaker is the driver’s seat in the middle of a convoy at night, nothing lit but marker lamps where the law puts them, the radio on 19 on the dash, the records playing on the screen in the cab, and the room’s words on boards along the hard shoulder.
Your Room is an empty shop nobody has moved into yet, the door open, one chair, and the prompt pinned to the far wall, where Copy works as it does on the page.

2026-10-31 — Five more rooms down Cel Street, to the garage

Chimera Obscura is the dark room with one lens in the roof, its pool of daylight on the round white table falling off before the rim, and the page’s own chimera standing in it. The bench is on the room’s own page on its wall, and so are Becky Hicks’s chimeras.
Community Care is the street under everybody’s umbrellas tied into one roof, in the rain, in the order and colours the page’s own roof has them, every one tied to the next and no rain under them.
Coping is the eye of the storm: clear sky straight up, the wall of cloud all the way round, the sun on the top edge of everything, and the page’s doors standing alone on the floor of the eye under its moments. A door whose room you can walk into here offers to walk you in.
Pets is down on the floor at dusk, the dog and the cat asleep on the rug and the rabbit by the skirting board, the lamp off and its switch on the boards, and a pet flap for every pets room along the walls.
Show Your Work is the garage with its door rolled up and the day behind you running out before the back wall, the tools hung over their outlines, and the bench’s cards over the bench as their makers turned them over.

2026-10-31 — Five more rooms down Cel Street, past the Honesty Box

A Quiet Pint is stood up from the pub’s own plan, the one its page draws, so every table, column, mirror, stool and fan is where the page puts it: down nine steps from the pavement with the ramp beside them, the street’s light at the top of the wall and passed round by the mirrors, and the piano’s rolls on its lid, playing where they stand. No screen anywhere.
The Honesty Box is the stand at the kerb at night under its one white lamp, every food on the shelves keeping its own colour, the box with its slot, and the board of prices as the page has it.
NeuroHome is drawn from Isha Snow’s own words, in her room’s colours: the light coming through the firs and off the river, candles in the room, the front window’s view, the desk with its radio, the bookshelf and the creativity corner off her page. Her photographs are seen only on her room’s own page, on its wall. The scene is ours, changes nothing on her page, and is hers to keep or send back.
Words, Bud, Beats is drawn from Kristina Brooke’s own words, in her room’s colours: low desert dusk through one west window, the things on her sill, the microphone, the plant and the chair, and her records on a shelf, each playing on its own sleeve. The scene is ours and hers to keep or send back.
The Sandbox is drawn from its own words, in its colours: a laptop left open in the sand at dusk, its screen the only light in the playground, the castle standing in the sand and building as it does on the page, and the suggestion box on the room’s own page by the pit. The scene is ours and its maker’s to keep or send back.

2026-10-31 — Five more rooms down Cel Street, to the cat café

Rescue Small Animals is under the floorboards, down the steps from an open hatch: the day comes through the cracks between the boards and lies on the dust in strips, the hutches stand along the wall with their doors open and straw inside, and the shelter’s own page hangs on a board in one of the strips. No animal is drawn: the waiting ones are on the page.
The Open Notebook is a pale room with one window and every hour of the day’s light lying on the floor in front of it at once, dawn to dusk. The notebook lies open on the desk, Ryan’s piece is taped up on the wall as he wrote it, and the monthly log plays on the laptop.
Learning Large is the glasshouse at night under its red and blue lamps, the seedlings on the benches with no green in them, the lamps shown back in the roof glass where the sky would be, and the shadows red on one side and blue on the other. The month’s rack plays on the bench screen.
Hey, Good Cookin’ is the hall with its windows steamed up all down one side, the line along the back with every dish card from the page above it, tables at one height with a placard on each, and the month’s rack on the teaching screen.
Pekoe and Purrs is the coral café with a window at every height cut to a cat’s size, a square of day under each, the cat tree and the perches and the one teal mug on every table. No cat is drawn: the shelter’s cats are on the room’s own page by the door, and the telly plays other cat cafés’ films.

2026-10-31 — Five more rooms down Cel Street, to the shelters

Pando Calrissian is up through a gap between the shopfronts onto a hill of aspen after the sun has gone, the tops still catching the pink, one root running under every stem, and the tree’s own page on the board at its fence, where it is watered. No number is drawn: the grove there is the page’s.
The Fridge of Sighs is the turquoise fridge in a pale kitchen, the window behind you lying in its enamel, magnets with no words on them, and the real door, where words go up, on the wall beside it.
Count Me In is the stair with its chairlift beside it, the same size and drawn with the same care, and the room’s own page, where you climb, on the wall at its foot.
Rescue A Cat is the street at night with the lamps out and a torch set down on the kerb, and in its beam nothing but pairs of eyes, under the car, up the drainpipe, along the wall and in a box. No cat is drawn: the waiting cats are on the shelter’s own page, on a board by the kerb.
Rescue A Dog is the park the morning after snow, a low sun and every shadow long and blue across your path, a red lead dropped by the gate and pawprints going off from it, empty kennels with their doors open, and the shelter’s page on the noticeboard.

2026-10-31 — Five more rooms down Cel Street, to the Slake

Cavendish Coworking is Henry Cavendish’s green hall, the daylight through green blinds, every mahogany door shut and none of them locked, and each one leading on to its room, the meetings downstairs and the hang suites up the stair.
The Live Room is the control room over the desk, the red lamp lit and steady over the glass, the live room beyond seen twice through two panes, nobody in it, and every studio’s strips on the desk, going up on the glass on a press.
The Broadsheet Broadside is the ship’s side seen from a boat at the waterline, a sheet in every open port where a gun would be, the sea’s light in dashes along the hull, and no gun anywhere.
The Doom Scoop is the parlour after closing, one cold tube over the week’s tubs, each its weekday’s flavour and scraped down by its age, its morning’s videos on the wall above it, and no paper anywhere.
The MUD Room is the boot room with its back door open onto the Slake: the sea wall, the mud and the water holding the sky all the way out to the island. The game is played on the room’s own page on its wall.
A link to a part of a room’s page inside a panel now scrolls that panel to it, rather than taking you out of the room.

2026-10-31 — Five more rooms down Cel Street, past the Town Hall

The Town Hall is the round hall under its coffered dome at noon, one disc of sun on the floor from the hole in the roof, and a door round the wall for each of its rooms: the Fishbowl’s open, the others shut, each leading on to its own page.
The Dopamine Dress-Up Den is the lavender boutique with small rainbows on its walls from the crystal in the window, the rails round the walls, and the valet stand in the middle, which you dress from the rails. Nobody’s body is drawn, and the curtain at the back leads through to Fantasy Fancy Dress.
The Bodymind Booth is the booth with the curtain drawn behind you and a steady strip light either side, no flash, a stool with nobody on it, and the booth’s own window where your bodymind is drawn, working as on the page.
Plural Mural is the end wall across the road with the low sun behind you, the mural the page’s own and turning over on a press, and every word lying on the road.
The Community Library is the reading room at eleven in the morning, the sky in every high window and no flame anywhere, the spines all colours and no words on them, every quotation on a table of its own, and the gap in the stacks past the 800s leading on to L-Space.
A room’s own scripts now run in the order the room wires them, as its page runs them.

2026-10-31 — And five more rooms down Cel Street

The Lightbulb Picture House keeps its house lights up: bare bulbs in brass sconces down velvet walls, the gold infinity over Screen One, every screen and rack the page’s own and playing on the press, and nothing in the building blue.
Samefood Cafe is under one even light the same at every hour: every plate the same plate, nothing on the table in the window touching anything else, each regular’s tray at their own table, and today’s special your favourite.
The Collection Collection is the dark gallery with a cabinet for each collection: one daylight lamp lit over Ryan’s writing box, the photographs with their words beside it and no lamp over them, and the other cabinets waiting, unlit, for their owners.
Vital Plant Living is the kitchen drawn cut through the middle: the bowl on the island sliced open, the sauce running down into the rice, the wraps cut in half, the pots open on the shelf, and the builder, the board, the stereo and the telly all working.
The Community Center is the window seat in north light over the hillside, sage plaster and no sun anywhere, with Getting started, the house norms and the community service board on the walls.

2026-10-31 — Five more rooms down Cel Street

The Healing Checkpoint is room 429 under its dome, lit up out of the floor from the spring in the middle, the bed made up in the alcove, the desk with nobody behind it, and the back stair down to the Guild.
The Foundry is the grey iron workshop under its sawtooth roof in north light, brass the only warm thing in it: the bench where you set words in any face on the street, the one pale proof, the type cases, and the shelves of faces round the walls.
Covenstead is the kitchen in the afternoon, one window and one patch of sun, the table laid with the good china and nobody’s cup the same as anybody else’s, each tenet at its own place.
Dead Tired Society is the borrowed room after hours, the door ajar and the corridor’s wedge of light on the floor, the circle of chairs in the shade, every word out of the light, and the talking piece on its chair, passing first.
Laughingstock is the cellar seen from the back of the house, one follow spot on the red brick, the mic and the stool and nobody on the stage, only the comics’ own lines in the light, and the bill out in the dark.

2026-10-31 — Further down the street on Cel Street: five more rooms

The Mopery is a long aisle of blue-black stone between the stacks, candles the whole way along every top shelf lighting nothing round them, a ladder halfway, and a reading room at the end with the page open on a lectern, the parlour’s set and its list of cellos, Doré’s plates and three leaves of the 1865 printing.
The Adventurer’s Guild is a form you can stand in: manila and ruled, lit like a photocopy so nothing casts a shadow, the job board on the back wall, the house rules and the badges, filing cabinets, the unattended counter with its stamp, and the back stair up to the Healing Checkpoint.
The Feed is the dark concourse with the arrivals boards standing on their legs down both sides, each lit from inside and throwing its own shadow, and the way out of the back up the hill to the Source.
The Zibaldone is the open commonplace book on its desk under the one lamp, and you walk up the fold between the leaves, every line with its whole credit beside it.
The Rabbit Hole is a shaft of wet slate with a ledge round it, the daylight small overhead and the ledges going on down into the dark, Tenniel’s cuts hung on the walls with our words beside them.
A panel lifted off a room’s page now wears that page’s own colour and face for its words. Nothing in any of the rooms moves by itself.

2026-10-31 — Down the street on Cel Street: five more rooms to walk into

Back on Cel Street, working down from the top, five more doors open onto their rooms, each its own world in its own colours.
Hear Queer Here is the double-slit experiment standing in the dark: a source throwing two beams at two slits, the fringes on the detector, Karen Barad’s and Helen Edgar’s words on stands, and the readings at listening posts, playing on the press.
Enid’s Room is black walls, stars on the ceiling, the sticker wall and the boombox. The polaroid wall’s photographs are seen only on the room’s own page, on its screen.
The Playhouse is the blue room with the bunting and the checkerboard floor, every toy on its plinth and the sound board in the middle, and the page on the back wall where they all work.
The Arcade is grape carpet and three cabinets under steady bulbs, each wearing its machine’s own card, and each place at one leads on to that game.
The Latibulum is the burrow: the round door, the passage under its arches, and the hollow with one low lamp and the armchair, the wireless and the television that play on the press, and the shelf of things to do with a bodymind.
Nothing in any of them moves by itself. The Arcade’s page gained a class on two of its hidden drawings so they can be carried into the room; nothing on the page looks different.

2026-10-31 — The Hermitage’s channel listing scrolls on Cel Street

The channel listing beside the television in the Solarpunk Hermitage, opened on Cel Street, no longer runs up through the ceiling: it stays the height of the wall and scrolls through every channel, as the record shelves in the Faery Yurt’s Music Room do.

2026-10-31 — The campground on Cel Street, polished

Every room you can walk into on Cel Street has a list of its places under the buttons, as the street has its list of doors: each one stands you there, facing what is there, for a keyboard, a screen reader, or anybody who would rather not walk.
The mountain cabin’s strips and fire follow its panel: pick the next colour on the panel by the door and the strips round the walls change to it, switch everything off and they go dark and the fire goes out. The Play Pod follows its lamp: switch it off on the easel and the pod goes to daylight, in the daylight colours her room declares, and back.
The cable car is waiting at the station by the pond, hung on the cable going up the mountain, and stepping into it takes you up to the cabin at the summit.
The rails of reels in the Cinema and the shelves of records in the Music Room and the Reading Room hold every one, and scroll when there are more than fit, where they used to show only the first few.
A panel lifted off a room’s page brings the page’s ground with it, so its words stand on what they were chosen for, and it stands up again from the floor when it grows. The television and the coffee table in the Hermitage stay as they were, standing bare.

2026-10-31 — The whole campground on Cel Street, inside and out

Every pitch on the Campgrounds stands in the field now, drawn in the field’s own inks with its one light, as the board draws them: the yurt giving off candlelight, the Hermitage catching the moon on its panels with a screen in its window, fireflies in the tall grass at Swaying Sweetgrass, foxfire in the logs of Brew and Stew, the last sun on the top of the Bough House’s tree, and the mountain cabin’s one window up among the stars.
And every one of them opens. The Solarpunk Hermitage has its inside: the cave behind its velvet curtain, with the shelf and the wireless; the campfire, with the rug, the beanbags and the coffee table all pointed at the television, which you can sit in front of and watch; and the watering hole, with the herbarium, the solar bench and the Star Stuff zines. Swaying Sweetgrass is the meadow with its one path to the fire pit, Brew and Stew the tea room lit by its logs, the Bough House up the ladder through the hatch, and the mountain cabin the lounge with the lake through the windows.
The Faery Yurt’s doorways go through, to the Reading Room, the Music Room, the Cinema, Myths & Legends, the Play Pod and Glow Wild Hollow, each drawn in its own room’s colours. Back out goes back one room at a time.
The things in these rooms are the rooms’ own, lifted off their pages and standing in the scene: the records, the films, the shelves, the crystals, the herbs, the sea and the jellyfish. They play and work where they stand, and nothing reaches YouTube until you press. Nothing in any of them moves by itself.
Maintenance in Helen’s Glow Wild Hollow, which changes nothing anybody sees on her page: its sea and jellyfish now size themselves to their own box, so they draw at full size wherever they stand.

2026-10-31 — Walk into the Campgrounds, the Faery Yurt and the Solarpunk Hermitage on Cel Street

Cel Street has a treeline at the stoop’s end now, with the campgrounds’ sign over the gap in its own colours and lettering, read off the front page’s signpost.
Through the gap is the Campgrounds: cold dusk lit by nothing, a routed post for every pitch on its board, read off the board itself, the pond between pitches 01, 05 and 03 with the swing seats beside it, the stream at the edge, the mountain over the far side with the cable going up, and the field’s own page on the trailhead board. Nothing out there moves.
Two of the posts open. Helen Edgar’s Faery Yurt: canvas and timber lattice under a crown, candlelit, fairy lights strung under the canvas, her stove with the fly agarics, the stump, the egg chair in the nook, the pebble bowl by the door, and the bookcase, phonograph, curtain, arch, glowing mushroom and round door each a way through to where they go on her page. It is drawn by us, in her own declared colours, and changes nothing on her page; it is hers to keep or send back. And the Solarpunk Hermitage: out of the dusk into morning sun, the cabin on its wheels with panels on its roof, three sunflowers at the door, a bed of seedlings, and the room’s own page in its big window.
Back out takes you one room back now: from the yurt or the hermitage to the field, and from the field to the street.

2026-10-31 — Cel Street stands by the front door

Cel Street is on the front page now, as a cel in the window under Paper Street’s toy theatre: Walk it: Cel Street. It is no longer a proof of concept, its way back goes to the street rather than to Paper Street, and the Map stands it by the front door beside the theatre.

2026-10-31 — Walk into the Zine Table on Cel Street

The Zine Table is the fourth room you can walk into on Cel Street: white paper and photocopier black, lit evenly like a photocopy, with the ransom note’s yellow, red and cyan. Cut-up zines are scattered at angles across a black table with the cut-out letters, open scissors, a stapler and a glue stick among them, more are pegged on strings across the room the way a zine fair hangs them, the cuttings lie on the floor where they fell, and a photocopier stands by the wall with its reams. On the back wall the room’s own page is taped up as one big sheet, to read and press as itself.
The page leans a little on the wall, as the room’s own ransom letters do, and hangs straight at Gentle. Nothing in it moves.

2026-10-31 — Walk into the Jungle Room on Cel Street

The Jungle Room is the third room you can walk into on Cel Street: night-green under a roof of leaves, with the light coming down in shafts only where the leaves part. Buttressed trunks, fronds, vines, heliconia and orchids overlap all the way along the path, and there is a log across its edge. At the end, in a clearing where a shaft comes down, the room’s own page hangs between two trunks in a leaf, two pointed corners and two round ones, as every screen in that room is.
Nothing in it moves, at any setting.

2026-10-31 — Walk into Club Chronic on Cel Street

Club Chronic is the second room you can walk into on Cel Street: a low basement with black walls under flyers pasted down in layers going back years, photocopies and coloured paper with the marker written over them and staples in their corners, a bar by the door, and a small stage at the far end with the amps, the wedges, a mic and a kit. Behind the stage, pasted up like the biggest flyer in the room, is the room’s own page, to read and press as itself.
Nothing in it moves and nothing flickers, at any setting, and there is no stage light: the light is flat and even from the door, as the room’s own rule asks.

2026-10-31 — Walk into Pink Pony Club on Cel Street

On Cel Street, Pink Pony Club’s door now says Walk in, and inside is the dancefloor drawn the same way as the street: hot pink tiles with cream ones lit here and there, plum between them, banquettes down both sides, the decks’ table, the mirrorball over the middle (still, and its glints on the floor only above Gentle), and at the far end, between two speakers, the jukebox’s cream tray with the room’s own page standing in it, to read and press as the page itself.
Escape, Back or Back out onto the street brings you out at its door. More rooms will follow, one at a time, each its own world.

2026-10-31 — Cel Street is the whole street now

Cel Street runs the length of the street: every shop on the front page, in its order, on both sides of the road; the garden gate halfway down, in a wall between two shops, with the garden’s trees over it; and past the last building the lots behind a fence, the Run, the Truck Stop, the Green and the Pile, each with a gate in its own colours.
Crossings, signs, vending machines, bicycles and parked cars all the way down, and the sky and its clouds stay over you wherever you walk. Only the part of the street near you is drawn, so it walks as lightly as the first stretch did.

2026-10-31 — Cel Street: the first stretch of the street in the sun, drawn like a cel

Cel Street is the street built a second way, in WebGL and drawn like an animation cel: flat colour inside an inked line, and the light in two steps, lit and shadow, under a summer sky with cumulus in it. It is a proof of concept, through a link on Paper Street, which stays as it is.
Its shops are the front page’s own doors, read when you open the page, on the ground floors of apartment blocks: each sign lettered in its door’s own face and each awning in its door’s own stripes. Every roof carries solar panels tipped toward the sun, and the wires between the poles are many and tangled. Climb up over the roofs looks down on the panels.
Walk it as you walk Paper Street, in steps or a glide; press a building, or move to its name in the list of doors under the street, to stand at its shop, and Enter goes in. Nothing moves by itself and nothing is kept.

2026-10-31 — Paper Street in real 3D, with its rooms furnished and their own things in them

Paper Street is real 3D now. Everything stays where it is as you turn, rather than every cut-out turning to face you, which was more disorienting than a world that stays put. The shopfronts stand in two rows facing each other across a wider road, under strings of card bunting, with slabs on the pavements; standing at a door turns you to face it, and you can no longer walk through a front or behind one. This reverses the first build’s rule that nothing on Paper Street is rotated; nothing moves by itself, still.
Each room has things of its own in it, off its own page. In the Jungle Room, five of its cams hang along the path, each its own leaf to press. In the Mopery, the parlour’s set and the list of everybody playing Paint It Black on a cello stand in a reading room at the end of the stacks, and the set tunes and plays as it does on the page. In the Arcade, the games’ cabinets are the page’s own cabinet fronts, Esmx and all. In Pink Pony Club, the decks stand on their table, two whole playlists to put on.
And furniture and texture. Leaf litter, roots, vines and fallen logs to sit on in the Jungle Room; bookcases along both walls, a ladder, a worn runner and reading chairs in the Mopery; cabinets along both walls, a change machine and a bench in the Arcade; banquettes along the dancefloor at Pink Pony Club; plastered walls with coats on pegs, floorboards, a braided rug and an armchair by the lamp in the Latibulum.

2026-10-31 — Switch on the Latibulum’s wireless and television on Paper Street

The wireless and the television stand in the Latibulum on Paper Street now, either side of the room’s page in the hollow, which is deeper to make room for them. They are the room’s own, off its own page, not drawings of them: walk up to one and press Turn it on or Switch it on, and it plays right there in the burrow. Each says how long it runs before you press, as on the page, and nothing reaches YouTube until you do.
Rooms you can walk into can now bring things off their own pages into their scenes this way, so more will follow.
On a phone the stage no longer changes height as the address bar slides away, so a room is not rebuilt under you and nothing you switched on stops.

2026-10-31 — Walk into the Latibulum

The fifth room you can walk into on Paper Street is the Latibulum, the burrow under the hill: in at the round green door, standing open, and along a passage through arch after arch, each a lit plaster panel framed in planed beam in the dark earth, with a rust runner down the middle and no sky anywhere.
The room’s own page is on the plaster wall of the hollow at the end, framed in beam, dark words on lit plaster as in the room, with the low lamp on a small table beside it and its pool of light on the floor.
Nothing moves at any setting; the lamp’s breathing at MAX is the page’s own, on the wall.

2026-10-31 — Walk into Pink Pony Club

The fourth room you can walk into on Paper Street is Pink Pony Club, the first door on the street: a dancefloor of hot pink tiles, some lit cream, with the room’s plum between them, the mirrorball hanging still over the middle, and the decks on a table to one side.
The room’s own page is in the jukebox’s cream tray at the far end of the floor, between two speakers. Stand at it and it is the page at full size, every song to press.
The ball does not turn, and its glints on the floor show above Gentle only, as the room’s own glow does. Nothing plays until you press a song on the page.
A room you are standing in now keeps you where you are when the window or the stage changes size, rather than sending you back to its door, and a room is never built for a stage that has not finished opening.

2026-10-31 — Walk into the Arcade

The third room you can walk into on Paper Street is the Arcade, a coin-op at midnight: a grape carpet with its confetti in it, and rows of cabinets down both sides, every one the same hard-block body with its marquee lit and its screen a different black from the room.
Three of the cabinets are the games. Quill Drift’s, Otterly Adorbs’s and Penguin Pebbling’s each show their own game’s colours on the glass, with the floor in front of them left clear to stand on; walk up to one and press it to go into that game.
The Arcade’s own page is on the biggest cabinet’s screen, at the end of the aisle.
Nothing moves and nothing makes a sound, as in the room itself; the cabinets’ light on the carpet shows above Gentle only, as the room’s own glow does.

2026-10-31 — Walk into the Mopery

The second room you can walk into on Paper Street is the Mopery, a library after everybody has gone home: blue-black stone all the way to the skirting, bookcases down both sides of the aisle with their spines in the room’s own colours, and a candle on top of every case whose light goes about a foot and stops. No warm pool reaches the floor, and nothing flickers.
The room’s own page is open on a lectern at the end of the stacks, in a gilt edge, in front of the tall cold windows. Stand at it and it is the page at full size, to read and press.
Look up as you walk and the candles step away down the aisle on top of the cases.

2026-10-31 — Look around on Paper Street

You can look around on Paper Street now. Q and E turn you left and right, R and F look up and down, and X faces ahead again; so do the new buttons beside the walking ones. Dragging across the street looks round too, and on a touch screen a sideways drag turns while the page still scrolls under your thumb. Everything goes on facing you as you turn, the way cut-outs in a toy theatre face the audience.
The dial still decides how it moves. In steps a turn is a jump of a twelfth of the way round, with nothing moving in between; gliding, it turns while you hold the key. Standing at a door or a screen faces you square on to it again.
Your avatar and familiar walk where you can see them, their feet on the ground whichever way you look; in a room they stand either side of you, so neither is between you and the room’s page.
The Jungle Room’s page on its screen can be scrolled and pressed with a mouse, which it could not when it opened, and no leaf stands in front of it.

2026-10-31 — Walk into the Jungle Room

The first room you can walk into on Paper Street is the Jungle Room. Its door says You can walk in, and pressing it takes you in under the leaves: night-green under a closed roof, leaves hanging off it and fronds rising off the floor, buttressed trunks down both sides, and light getting through the gaps and landing on the floor in patches, all in the room’s own colours. Nothing in it moves.
The room’s own page is inside it, on a screen in the room’s own shape, a leaf, in a gap in the canopy at the far end. Stand in front of it and it is the page at full size: every gallery and every cam, to read and press. Tab takes you straight there.
Back out onto the street, or your browser’s Back, takes you out to the door you came in by. Where you are goes after the # in the address, so a room you are standing in can be sent to somebody.
Rooms you can walk into are built one at a time, each in its own world.

2026-10-31 — Paper Street: walk the street

Paper Street is the street cut out of card and stood up in a toy theatre, for walking down. Every shopfront, the street furniture, the garden gate and the fence round the open ground stand as flats down both sides of a road at night, each throwing a pool of its own colour on the road in front of it, with the way to the campgrounds at the start and the road out to the Outskirts across the far end. It is the start of a sandbox game for the street, built a little at a time.
Every door is the front page’s own, read when Paper Street opens, so it is always the street as it is, and a new shopfront is standing in the theatre the day it opens. Pressing a door takes you into its room.
Walk in steps or glide. Arrow keys or W, A, S and D walk you ahead, back and across the road, and so do the buttons under the street. Tab goes from door to door and stands you in front of each one, and Enter goes in. In steps every press jumps you one stop with nothing moving in between; gliding walks you smoothly while you hold a key. Gentle starts in steps, Regular and MAX gliding, and a switch changes it for the visit. Nothing moves by itself and nothing flashes.
Your familiar walks with you, and signed on to the CB, Bring my avatar puts the avatar you wear in front of you to walk as. With no avatar you walk with no body at all, because nobody here is handed one. Nothing on Paper Street is kept or counted.
It stands in a toy theatre in the window by the front door, beside the Map, and on the Map’s model too.

2026-10-30 — The fall and winter holidays on the CB

The radio has a group of themes for the fall and winter holidays celebrated in our community, in the order they come: Día de Muertos, papel picado strung across, cempasúchil marigolds, candles and smiling calaveras; Diwali, a toran of marigolds and mango leaves, rows of diyas lit, rangolis and lanterns; Thanksgiving, a garland of autumn leaves and a harvest of wheat, corn, squash, apples and pie; Hanukkah, a hanukkiah lit, dreidels, gelt and stars of David; Christmas, a string of lights, holly, trees, gifts, gingerbread and snow; Kwanzaa, a kinara of seven candles on a mkeka mat with corn, the unity cup and the harvest; and New Year’s, fireworks that bloom with no bang and no flash, streamers, confetti and a clock at midnight. Each is a banner and a nameplate for your profile too. Choose one under Themes.
A big profile effect for each holiday, which opens when your profile opens and once a minute after, at MAX GLITTER or after Let my theme move: papel picado and an ofrenda whose candles light one by one; diyas lighting and a rangoli blooming ring by ring; a harvest with leaves drifting down; a hanukkiah lit the shamash first and then from the left; a tree whose lights come on from the foot, the star last; a kinara lit in the order of the seven days; and a clock at midnight with fireworks blooming slowly round it. Every flame breathes and none flickers, and nothing flashes.
A frame and a decoration for each: papel picado and marigolds, a row of diyas and diyas, wheat and a harvest wreath, stars and gelt and dreidels, a holly vine and holly, a mkeka mat and a kinara, and confetti and streamers and confetti. And more faces for your name: Oleo Script, Bellefair, Young Serif, Yeseva One and Agbalumo, each already set somewhere on the street.
Thanksgiving draws the harvest and nobody, pilgrims included, because for many Indigenous people the day in the United States is a National Day of Mourning; and Día de Muertos is not Halloween, which nothing about it says. The radio’s line for each holiday says whose it is.

2026-10-30 — Halloween and autumn on the CB, for the party

The radio has a new group of themes, Halloween and autumn, for the street’s Halloween party: Pumpkin Patch, a vine of pumpkins along the foot of the radio, some carved and glowing from inside, under a harvest moon with bats going over it; Friendly Ghosts, little sheet ghosts with pink cheeks hovering over a misty field; Maple Grove, a maple branch turning red, orange and gold and dropping its leaves into drifts with acorns among them; and Sweater Weather, a sweater knitted with a cable and a band of diamonds and hearts in cranberry and pine, with a mug of cocoa steaming. Each is a banner and a nameplate for your profile too. Choose one under Themes.
Two big profile effects for Halloween. Pumpkin Patch: when your profile opens, and once a minute after, the night comes up over it, a harvest moon rises, a whole patch of pumpkins comes up along the foot and their carved faces light one after another, and a flight of bats goes up and away. Friendly Ghosts: the mist comes up along the foot, a big friendly ghost rises slowly out of it and waves, and little ghosts float up round it. Nothing jumps out, nothing is gory and nothing flashes, and like every effect they move only at MAX GLITTER or after Let my theme move. A smaller Bats effect flaps across in your card’s own colours.
New frames and decorations: a Pumpkin vine frame with a carved pumpkin glowing in every corner, a Cable knit frame with a button in every corner and a Maple leaves frame; and Little ghosts, Candy corn and Acorns round the avatar you wear.
More faces for your name: Creepster, Mystery Quest, Caprasimo and Fuzzy Bubbles, each already set somewhere on the street.

2026-10-30 — Insects, arachnids and more on Chimera Obscura’s shelf

Chimera Obscura has sixteen more animals to make chimeras from: a ferret, a goat, a sheep, a shark, an orca, a whale, a cheetah, a leopard, a monarch butterfly, a blue morpho butterfly, a mantis, a spider, a caterpillar, a scorpion, a beetle and a cricket.
They brought parts nothing on the shelf had before: jointed insect legs, a spider’s arching legs, a mantis’s folded forelegs and triangle head, a scorpion’s pincers and the sting on its tail, a cricket’s hopping legs, a caterpillar’s little feet, antennae with and without clubs, a goat’s horns and beard, compound eyes, a jumping spider’s many eyes, the bar-shaped eyes of goats and sheep, mandibles, a butterfly’s coiled tongue, a shark’s toothy grin, butterfly wings, a dorsal fin, a fleece and a beetle’s wing cases, and markings for a cheetah, a leopard, an orca, a whale, a shark, a caterpillar and a sheep. Every part fits on every other animal’s body.
The pickers have Insects and Arachnids now, with the jellyfish and the octopus under Other invertebrates.
A sheep with a goat is named a geep, which is what English already calls a sheep–goat chimera, and a leopard with a lion is a leopon. Every new animal can be worn as a chimera onesie in Fantasy Fancy Dress too.

2026-10-30 — A big picture on somebody else’s familiar

Pressing somebody else’s familiar now shows it drawn large at the top of its card, on the table’s white, so its parts can be made out by eyes that cannot see them at the size it walks about at. Your own familiar’s card stays as it was, since it is long already and yours is drawn large in Chimera Obscura and in your Profile.

2026-10-30 — Unread marks on empty channels clear

A channel whose messages have all gone no longer stays marked as new. The street kept each channel’s newest time for the default two weeks, even where a channel keeps its messages for less or a message was taken off. A channel that had gone quiet stayed marked, and visiting it could not clear the mark, because there was no message left to read up to. Now a channel stops counting as new once its newest message is past its own keep. Visiting a channel and reaching the foot of its messages also clears whatever time Unreads was told, since you have then heard everything still on it.

2026-10-30 — Join World call on World’s Call tab

On a phone, World’s Call tab in the chat has Join World call now. World’s call is the World call, whose button stood beside Who’s online, so the tab had no way to join. The button moves onto the tab while World is the channel, and back for any other.

2026-10-30 — The Call tab is always there

On a phone, the chat’s Call tab is always there, so starting a call is a tap away rather than under People. It shows Join this room’s call and whether anybody is in the call: by name if you have switched on Be seen here, and otherwise that somebody is. Joining puts the call on the tab, and leaving leaves you there.
A familiar no longer comes into the chat. The chat is all radio, with nowhere off it for a familiar to sit, so it sat on the messages. It waits for you on every other page.

2026-10-30 — A call of its own in the chat on a phone

On a phone, a call in the chat has its own tab now. Before, a call’s window sat over the chat, and you had to drag it out of the way to see the messages and the box to write in. Now the call opens on a Call tab after Chat, filling the screen between the radio’s bar and the tabs. It goes on while you are on Chat or any other tab. Leaving the call takes the tab away. On a wide window the call is its own window, as everywhere.
World’s channel no longer leaves a band of nothing under the chat. The words a screen reader hears beside each message were placed outside the list of messages, as far down as their message, so the busiest channel scrolled up behind the bar. They stay inside the list now, everywhere the radio shows messages. While you type on a phone, the tabs and the lines above the messages step aside, so the messages and the box fit above the keyboard.

2026-10-30 — Chat on the radio’s bar

A speech bubble on the radio’s bar opens the chat on the channel of the room you are in, from any room. Fold away became a picture to make the room for it; folded, the bar still says Switch on in words.
A call’s bar stays on one row. In rooms with long names, Leave the call used to drop onto a row of its own. Now a long name is cut short, and shown whole when you point at it. On a phone, the name has the top row and every button is on the row under it, with Leave the call saying just Leave.
On a phone, the chat puts its messages back in place when the keyboard goes away. After a call, an iPhone could leave them scrolled up under the bar, with a band of nothing between the message box and the tabs.

2026-10-30 — The chat is an app

The chat fills the screen now, with no page round it. The page around the chat meant two things to scroll on a phone, the page and the chat inside it, and nobody liked it. On a phone, one part of the chat fills the screen at a time, the way a chat app has it, chosen from tabs along the foot: Channels, Chat, Search, People and You. The box to write in is always at the foot of Chat, and only the part you are on scrolls. On a wide window it is the three columns, edge to edge, and Enlarge the chat shows the middle alone, filling the window. /app and /mobile bring you to it. The CB guide says how it works.

2026-10-29 — Bring Your Muchness, on your profile

Bring Your Muchness is a profile effect now. Choose it under your card’s effects and glitter sits at your profile’s corners; where drawings move (MAX GLITTER, or Let my theme move), once a minute a glow comes up from the foot of your profile, Kaya Oldaker’s Esmx rises into it under “Bring Your Muchness”, and glitter crosses the profile. Like every effect, it stands still everywhere else, and nothing in it flashes or makes a sound.

2026-10-29 — Bring Your Muchness

Turn the dial up to MAX GLITTER and Esmx comes up from the foot of the screen, in a glow of glitter, under “Bring Your Muchness” in shining gold letters, and goes again a few seconds later. Esmx is Kaya Oldaker’s own Rainbow Leaping, punching the air, and the words are Infodumplings’ own.
It plays only when you turn the dial up, from the page or from the CB’s Glitter dial, never when a page opens at MAX. It makes no sound, nothing in it flashes, nothing on it can be pressed, and Escape, a press anywhere or turning the dial down ends it at once. The dial’s own line says “Bring your muchness” too, for anybody who cannot see it. Rooms that promise nothing moves, like Stay Frosty, are left alone.

2026-10-29 — The radio’s parts fold up

Press a part’s heading on the radio and it folds up, leaving only the heading, in the same place; press it again to open it. A request from our community, to scroll less and bring the parts people use further up. Every part but Where you are, Channel and Happening now folds, and a folded part with something new in it has a dot on its heading.
Your radio remembers which you folded, in this browser only, and the chat page and Your page keep their own. Anything that sends you into a folded part opens it for you. A folded Who’s around or Messages asks the street nothing until it is open again. The CB guide has the whole of it.

2026-10-29 — Your availability, on the CB

Your availability, under your chat status on the radio, says whether you are around for working together: Available, Busy, Away, Do not disturb or Out of office, each with a line of your own words if you like, or Not shown, which is where everybody starts. It is shown wherever your chat status is (Who’s online, Also seen here, your profile, the top of a conversation), and in Tasks and the office beside your name when somebody assigns you a task or mentions you.
Only you change it. It never goes to away when you stop typing and never turns off after a while unseen, because either would tell everybody when you were last about. Instead, on a later day, the radio asks you once whether it is still true, from a day kept in your own browser and never sent. Do not disturb asks people to hold what can wait and silences none of your notifications, and nothing answers anybody for you. The CB guide has the whole of it, and the privacy page says what is kept: the state and your line, and nothing about when.

2026-10-29 — RoboNuggets in Learning Large

Learning Large’s rack carries Jay E | RoboNuggets’ month, its videos and its shorts, after Two Minute Papers.

2026-10-29 — Happening now on World, wherever you are

The street-wide Happening now is on wherever the radio is on World: in the World room, and on any page with the radio tuned to World, as well as with World picked on the chat page. Calls going, events on now and everybody hosting a film, in every channel you can go into, this room’s among them. Off the chat page a call going elsewhere has Join it in that room, which takes you there with its Join button ready and presses nothing. Tune to This room and it goes back to this room alone.
Changed: cb.js, the CB guide.

2026-10-29 — Happening now on World, for every channel

On the chat page, with World picked, Happening now says what is going on in every channel you can go into, not only one room: every room with somebody in its call, with Join the call, which takes the chat there and joins; every event on now, and where; and everybody hosting a film, with a link to their room that lands where they are. Pick a room and it goes back to that room alone.
It shows nothing Who’s online, Events and Watching together did not already show you, and asks for nothing new: which calls are going, never who is in them.
Changed: cb.js, the CB guide.

2026-10-29 — Heather Cox Richardson, Two Minute Papers and Future in Bloom

The Doom Scoop scoops Heather Cox Richardson’s videos, under Independent News: her long-form uploads, the Politics Chats and explainers, the way it reads The Daily Show’s.
Learning Large’s rack carries Two Minute Papers’ month, its videos and its shorts, after the other channels.
The Green has a third rack under the porch roof: the latest month from Future in Bloom with Steph Speirs, its videos and its shorts, refilled every morning with the search’s rack. Anything on it can go up on the screen. Nobody here chose its videos one by one, and the titles are the channel’s own.

2026-10-29 — Disappearing messages

A conversation’s new messages can go 24 hours or 7 days after they are sent, asked for by somebody in our community after WhatsApp’s. Once a conversation is accepted, either of you sets it under the box, under Disappearing messages, and either of you can change it or switch it Off. The radio says above your messages while it is on.
It reaches only messages sent after the change, so switching it on deletes nothing already there and switching it off keeps nothing longer, and nothing records who set it. It is never longer than direct messages are kept anyway.
A message does not go the moment it is read, which is what was asked for first. That would tell whoever sent it that you had read it, which nothing on the CB ever tells anybody, and it would leave no time to report a message that should not have been sent. A reported message stays on the moderators’ desk for its thirty days, and nothing stops a screenshot. The privacy page and the CB guide say so.

2026-10-29 — Join an event’s call from its card, and see who is in it

An event on now in a call has a way in on its card. On the chat page, Join the call here opens the room’s channel and joins its call beside it. Join it in the room goes to the room’s own page, where whatever is showing on its screens or hosted there is beside the call, and puts the keyboard on its Join this room’s call button for you to press. An event on the World call has Join the World call.
The card names who is in the call while the event is on, alphabetical and never how many, to everybody who can see the event. That reverses a rule this street kept until today, that who is in a call is shown only in its room to people seen there, for this one case: Ryan’s call, because the call is an announced gathering while its event is on. Before it starts and after it ends, the card says nothing about who is in the call. The privacy page says so, and the CB guide has the buttons.

2026-10-29 — The Inbox on the CB: unreads, mentions, bookmarks and reminders

A tray on the radio’s bar opens the Inbox, asked for by somebody in our community after Discord’s: four tabs, Unreads, Mentions, Bookmarks and Reminders. The tray has a dot while something is new or a reminder has come due, and never a number. To make room on a bar that was already full, Teleport is a portal now rather than the word.
Mentions are where somebody has @mentioned you, or a role you hold, on the channels you can hear and in the forums, worked out when you look and kept nowhere, so a message gone is gone from them too.
Bookmark and Remind me are under a message’s three dots. A bookmark keeps only where the message is, never its words, so it shows the message as it is now and says when it has gone. A reminder comes due in the Inbox and, if your devices notify you, as a notification of its own, the one kind that starts switched on, because you asked for it. Nothing in a room that keeps to itself can be either. The CB guide has it all, and the privacy page says what is kept.

2026-10-29 — Back and forward on the chat page

The chat page has Back and Forward on the radio’s bar, beside Enlarge the chat: one step through what has been in the middle, as chat apps have. Your browser’s own Back and Forward walk the same steps.
A conversation, All messages and a search’s results are steps now, as a channel and Events already were, so Back from a conversation goes to what you had before it rather than skipping it. None of them is in the page’s address, and the tab’s history keeps only which kind of thing was in the middle, never who you were talking to or what you searched for; after a reload, a step back to a conversation is All messages. Each button can be pressed while the step that way is on the chat page, and says so when it is not. The CB guide has it.

2026-10-29 — A call with somebody you message can ring them

A new notification, off until you switch it on: When somebody I’m messaging opens a call with me, under Notifications on the CB. It says who opened the call, and pressing it opens your conversation on the chat page, where Join call is. The privacy page says what it sends, which is who and nothing else.

A channel’s menu on the chat page has Join call and Join call in room: the room’s call here beside its channel, or in the room itself with its Join button ready.
Your conversations have a menu too: Join call, a call for the two of you only, and Delete my messages, which takes back every message you sent in that conversation after asking. The privacy page says what a call between two people keeps, which is nothing.

Every channel on the chat page has a menu, after Discord’s: the … beside it, or a right-click. In it: Mark as read, Follow or Unfollow, Copy link, Copy the room’s link, Copy its #tag, Search this channel and Go to the room. The Menu key, or Shift and F10, opens it from the keyboard, and Shift and a right-click is still your browser’s own menu.
A message’s three dots have Copy link: an address that opens the chat page on that channel with the keyboard on that message, for anybody who can hear the channel, while the message is on the air. The CB guide has both.

2026-10-28 — Halloween in Fantasy Fancy Dress and the Dress-Up Den

Fantasy Fancy Dress has Halloween on its rails: mummy wraps, and skeleton, ghost, pumpkin, bat, clown, pirate and vampire suits; bat wings; wolf and bat ears, a wolf’s tail and claws; neck bolts and a spiderweb choker; spider rings and bone bangles.
Two new rails. Face paint and fangs: vampire fangs, clown face paint, whiskers and a painted skull, all under your glasses, mask or cannula, never over them. Something to hold: a wizard staff, a witch broom, a wand, a lantern and a treat bucket.
Something to hold goes in a hand nothing else is in. A cane, crutches, a walker, an AAC device or a fidget stays where it is: the staff goes in your other hand, and with no hand free it goes on a strap across your back, or on a cord at your hip, on your feet or sitting down.
No peg leg, hand hook or eye patch, on purpose: those are things somebody always has with them, chosen at the Bodymind Booth, not a pirate’s joke.
The Dress-Up Den has a witch hat, a pirate hat and a clown hat, a vampire cape, a wizard robe and clown shoes, on the stand and on your bodymind, and bats, spiderwebs and pumpkins among its prints, with pumpkin and black, candy corn, bone and black, and slime and violet among its colourways.

2026-10-28 — Chimera onesies in Fantasy Fancy Dress

Fantasy Fancy Dress has a chimera onesie, asked for by our community for Halloween. It is made after one of your chimeras: in the colours of the animal that gave the chimera its colours, with the ears of the one that gave its ears on the hood, its tail at the back, its markings down the front and its back, whether that is quills, wings, a shell or a peacock’s train.
Choose which chimera under the suits rail: the ones on the wall in Chimera Obscura, or, signed on to the CB, Bring my chimeras for the ones you kept. In Chimera Obscura, Wear it as a onesie takes the one on the table straight there.
Take your bodymind back through the curtain to keep it as an avatar in the Dress-Up Den, as with everything else from the shop. It wears its chimera onesie in your Profile, on Who’s online and as a sticker.

2026-10-28 — The Haunted House has a soundtrack

Hallowscenes is Enigma’s soundtrack for the house. She is in our community, made it with Suno, an AI music generator, and asked for it to be in here. Every piece is its own press-to-play button with its length on it, and the press brings in Suno’s own player for that piece. It is hidden in the house too, on the sound desk behind the set.
This changes one of the house’s rules. It opened saying nothing in it makes a sound. Now the soundtrack does, and only when you press it: nothing starts when you walk in, and nothing plays the next piece by itself.
Suno is a new service on the street, framed only after a press. The privacy page lists it, and How this site is made says the music, and the cover pictures in Suno’s player, were made with AI.

2026-10-28 — The radio signs off only when your pass really has stopped

The radio could sign you off when nothing was wrong. When anything it asked for was refused, it signed off at once, even when the refusal was for a pass it had just replaced, as happens when you add a passkey or turn on two-step sign-in. Now it asks once whether the pass it holds now still works, and signs off only if that is refused too. Found while trying passkeys in Chrome.

2026-10-28 — Moderators join with an invite, and our keys can be changed

A new moderator joins with an invite, like anybody, and an administrator gives them their roles at the desk afterwards. The moderators’ shared password, which every moderator knew, no longer claims a moderator’s username. A username on the moderators’ list that nobody has claimed cannot be claimed with an invite either.
The keys that seal direct messages, the staff stores and the office can now be changed without losing anything: while one is changed, the old key still reads, and everything is sealed again under the new one in the background. Nothing changes for anybody using the CB.

2026-10-28 — A pass from a shared password opens nothing

A browser still on the CB with the old starter password, or the moderators’ shared one, can no longer claim a username from there. Since 21 October such a pass could still do that one thing. It was signed with the shared password, so anybody who knew it could have made one and claimed a name without an invite.
The radio says so in its place, with where to go: join with an invite, under the same username if nobody has claimed it, or, for a moderator, claim your username on the joining page. The joining page fills in the old username. Everything kept under it stays with it.

2026-10-28 — Signing on runs out, and Sign off everywhere else

Everybody on the CB is signed off once today, and signs on again with their own password. Your radio’s settings come back when you do.
Why: a pass could be made by somebody who knew a shared password. The pass your browser keeps was signed with the passwords our community and our moderators shared, so anybody who knew the old starter password could have made one for somebody else’s username, and any moderator one for another moderator’s, past two-step sign-in. We know of nobody who did. Passes are signed now with a key nobody types or needs to know, and every pass made the old way stopped working.
A pass runs out after thirty days with no radio listening. While your radio is open it is handed a fresh pass once a day, without a word, so you sign on again only after a month away.
Sign off everywhere else, under Account on the radio, asks for your password and signs off every other device signed on as you, their notifications with them, for a lost phone or a computer left signed on. Privacy and the CB guide say how it works.

2026-10-28 — A direct message’s notification opens its conversation

Pressing a notification about a direct message now opens that conversation on the chat page, where an hour ago it opened your list of conversations. If a chat page is already open, it comes to the front and opens the conversation there.
The conversation is still never in the page’s address, because the address goes into your browser’s history: the notification hands the sender’s name to the page as it opens, and nothing keeps it.

2026-10-28 — Notifications about messages open the chat page

Pressing a notification about a message on the CB opens that channel on the chat page, where before it opened the room’s own page. A message on World opens World there.
A notification about a direct message opens Direct messages on the chat page, with your conversations in the middle. Which conversation it was is still never put in the page’s address, because the address goes into your browser’s history.
A room that keeps to itself has no channel on the chat page, so its notifications still open the room. A call starting still opens its room, and an event still opens Events on the chat page.

2026-10-28 — Checklists in comments in Tasks and the office

A comment in Tasks or the office can hold a checklist now: a list item written - [ ] is drawn as a box, where before the brackets showed up as words. The comment box has a Checklist button for it, as a description’s does.
Whoever wrote the comment ticks its boxes in place, and everybody else sees them ticked or not. A tick changes the comment’s words, and only its writer changes those, so it says the comment was edited and tells nobody. For a checklist everybody can tick, put it in the task’s description.

2026-10-28 — The Haunted House, turning 09 off The Outskirts

Somebody asked for a haunted house in the suggestion box, and it is open: The Haunted House, an empty warehouse at the end of the road with a house built inside it out of plywood flats, lit only by the work lights behind the set coming through its seams.
Haunted things are hidden in its rooms, from our own street and pages for now. With the lights up they are in one list you can scroll; with the lights down it is a hunt from room to room, where every place to look is a button that says where it looks. Nothing jumps out, nothing makes a sound, every room has its way out, and nothing you find is counted or kept.
Its channel on the CB takes pictures and links of spooky things you made or love. Say so there or in the suggestion box to put one in the house for good, with your name on it, and it comes out when you ask.
And the history and lore: Samhain and the thin veil, where haunted houses came from, the volunteer houses built by hand in empty warehouses, where eldritch comes from and who gets made the monster, and the darker half of the year as a time to rest.

2026-10-28 — The forums keep more, sort and group by tag, and our administrators set how long

Announcements, Events, Show your work, Props & Gratitude and every category under Interests now keep their topics for good, with the say-so of everybody who had posted in them, and so do Work opportunities and Discourse. The watering hole keeps a topic three months after its last post, where it kept one a week; a topic already there keeps its week.
Our administrators can set how long each category keeps a topic, at the desk in the Moderators’ room, as they can for the CB’s channels. Every post now remembers how long its category kept topics when it was written, and a topic is never kept longer than the shortest of those, so a longer setting never keeps anybody’s words longer than they were said under. The privacy page says so.
A category’s page can sort its topics by latest post, newest or oldest topic, or title, and group them by tag, a topic under each tag it carries. Both stay in the page’s address. The CB guide has the rest.

2026-10-28 — Edible messy play in the Play Pod

At Helen Edgar’s ask, the Play Pod has a section of its own for edible messy play: mark making in chocolate sauce and ketchup, cornflour and oil gloop, thick instant oats, and cornflour with tapioca pearls, each idea credited to Play of the Wild, who shared it. Its care line says edible means safe for whoever is playing, allergies and swallowing included.
This changes one of the room’s rules, and it was Helen’s call: until now the Play Pod would not call any idea edible.
Two photographs came down from the Play Pod at Helen’s ask, the play dough creatures and the chalk undersea drawing.

2026-10-28 — The teleporter goes to channels too

A request from our community: type a # into the radio’s teleporter and it finds channels, and Enter opens the one you picked on the chat page. It finds them the way it finds rooms, by name or by what a room is about, and each shows its #tag. A staff channel is only listed for people who can listen to it.
On the chat page it is the other way round. A name on its own finds channels and picks one without leaving the page, and a / in front finds rooms’ pages, the way #the-den and /the-den already work in a message. The box’s label says which is which wherever you are, and the CB guide has the rest.

2026-10-28 — Glow Wild Hollow is Air, Earth and Water, with a bonfire at the end

At Helen Edgar’s ask, Glow Wild Hollow is now three spaces, Air, Earth and Water, and you go down through them. In the air, fireflies glow over the grass when you wake them, and moths circle whichever glow is brightest. A floaty whirlpool, drawn like the stirred sea, takes you down into the earth of the forest, and a second one spirals down and down through the rhizome to the sea.
Under Fire, at the very end, is a bonfire on the shore. Light it and it catches and burns for twenty seconds, or for as long as you keep it burning. This changes one of the hollow’s rules, and it was Helen’s call: until now every light in the hollow belonged to something alive, and the bonfire is the one that does not. Its flames sway slowly, never dim by more than a tenth, and its sparks rise and fade slowly, so nothing flashes. At Gentle, once lit, it burns still.
New real photographs of fireflies and a moth, from Wikimedia Commons, each credited under it on the page.

2026-10-28 — The Stim Tin, in Helen’s Regulation Nook

At Helen Edgar’s ask, the Stim Tin, her name for it, is in the Regulation Nook of her yurt: real photographs of stim toys (a fidget spinner, a fidget cube, a pop-it, squishes, a slinky, a crochet square with a ball inside, a going-out bag and a board of everything), each with a line on what it feels like in the hand, and Sophie Broadgate’s short film In Motion, which plays when you press it.
Every photograph is a real one from Wikimedia Commons, credited under it, with no people in any of them.

2026-10-28 — Down and into the rhizome

At Helen Edgar’s ask, the way into Glow Wild Hollow from her yurt is down and into the rhizome, where it used to say through the mushroom. The glowing mushroom is still the door you go down by.

2026-10-28 — Glow Wild Hollow: a slower sea that moves like water, and a jellyfish that swims for twenty seconds

At Helen Edgar’s ask, the sea in Glow Wild Hollow moves like real water now, and slower: a touch spreads rings slowly out across it, rings cross and run back off the edges, a finger drawn through it leaves a wake, and wherever the water moves a blue glow builds up and fades slowly behind. Stir the water stirs it slowly round for twenty seconds; Keep it stirring keeps it going until you switch it off. Make a wave rolls slow waves in along the shore, glowing where they break.
The jellyfish swims for twenty seconds when you touch it: its light comes up slowly, it pulses every few seconds and rises a little each time, drifts from side to side leaning the way it goes, and a ring of light runs slowly round its bell on every pulse, blue and then green. At the end its light fades and it rests. Keep it glowing keeps it swimming until you switch it off.
Nothing flashes: every glow comes up a little at a time and goes down slowly, and at Gentle both stay still. The sea also no longer runs past the edge of its panel on a phone.

2026-10-28 — Following a link no longer hangs up a call in Chrome’s app

With the street installed as an app from Chrome, a stimpunks.world link on the radio hung up the call you were in, while a link off the street did not; a member noticed, and it did the same for us. While a call is up, the radio opens such a link in a new tab so the call stays put, but Chrome now pulls a new tab opened from inside its app back into the app, and with nothing telling it otherwise it put the page in the call’s own window. The street’s manifest now asks for a new window each time, which is what Safari’s app already did. The CB guide says so.

2026-10-28 — The Play Pod, through a round door in Helen’s yurt

At Helen Edgar’s ask, the Play Pod, a sensory play room through a little round door in her yurt, under the glowing mushroom and before the Regulation Nook. It is a tuff tray under a UV lamp, with ideas for families for glow play (tonic water, glow sticks, glowing foam paint, cloud dough and play dough, galaxy jars, glow baths and glow nails), messy play, mark making, PMLD sensory mark making and tuff trays, written in Helen’s voice, and every idea names who shared it.
The people Helen works with are credited by name: Dr Joanna Grace of The Sensory Projects, Victoria Navin of Rhyming Multisensory Stories, and Story Massage for Children.
Every photograph is a real one, and none is of a child: three of Helen’s own from her yurt under its UV lamp, and the rest from Wikimedia Commons, each credited under it. Water beads are left out on purpose, and the page says why.
A lamp switch under the drawing turns the UV lamp off and on: off, an ordinary black tray of pale paint; on, everything in it glows. It keeps and sends nothing, and nothing in the room flashes. A film to make a glowing lava lamp, by Emily Calandrelli, is on the pod’s screen.

2026-10-28 — Helen’s yurt in a new order, and Glow Wild Hollow’s glitter dial

At Helen Edgar’s ask, her yurt runs in a new order: Myths & Legends through the Alchemist’s Arch at the top, then the Bookshelf and her Reading Room, the Soundtrack, the Cinema, the Art Gallery and the Glimmer Window, and under the Glimmer Window the glowing mushroom down to Glow Wild Hollow, where a Play Pod is coming next. The Adventurer’s Guild’s glow-worm job says where the mushroom is now.
Glow Wild Hollow has its own glitter dial now, which it went up without, saying what MAX does in there. Its tool will not build the room without one.

2026-10-28 — Glow Wild Hollow: real photographs all through it, and a sea and a jellyfish you can play with

At Helen Edgar’s ask, real photographs of glowing things all through Glow Wild Hollow, and very clear ones. Each part opens on a photograph wider than its words, nearly the width of the window: a ghost mushroom glowing pale green in an Australian forest, fungi glowing on wood, a female glow-worm lit on a grass stem, sea sparkle along the sand on Norderney, a crystal jelly, a mushroom glowing blue under ultraviolet. More stand under each, from glow-worm trails through German forests and the blue tears of the Matsu Islands to a deep-sea comb jelly, and a new part, More living light, has fireflies over lupines in Maine and coral glowing at the bottom of the North Atlantic. The soft photographs from yesterday were replaced with sharper ones, and every photograph is saved at twice the size it is shown. Every one is a real photograph, never a drawing or a picture made by AI, and the room’s data says how each is known: the camera’s own record on its Commons page, or who took it and when. Each is credited under it.
The sea and the jellyfish are far more to play with. The sea lights where a finger or a pointer runs through it, more the faster it goes, and the light swirls along behind in the current; a tap sends a ring of light out across the water, holding still keeps it glowing, Stir the water spins a whirlpool of light, and the new Make a wave runs a breaking wave of light along the shore. The jellyfish pulses and swims up when it is touched, a ring of light runs round the rim of its bell from where it was touched, blue first and then green, as a crystal jelly’s light really does, and flows down its tentacles; holding on keeps it pulsing, and brushing through its tentacles makes them sway. On a phone the sea is taller, and the jellyfish’s water bigger.
Sound and Buzz, each off until switched on: soft sounds made in the browser, never a recording and under the Repeater’s ceiling, and a small buzz on a phone that can. Nothing is kept or sent. Nothing flashes: a light now comes up quickly when you touch the water, but it always goes down over nearly two seconds, so nothing can come and go three times in a second; at Gentle and in a low-stimulation mode the sea and the jellyfish light and stay lit, still, and nothing moves by itself below MAX GLITTER.

2026-10-28 — Happening now names a call going, seen or not

Happening now says a call is going in your room whether or not Be seen here is on. It used to know only while you were seen here, although Who’s online names every room with a call going to anybody signed on, which Ryan found when the call was missing with his switch off. The radio now hears that list each time it listens; switched off, the line says somebody is in the call and that Be seen here shows who.
Changed: cb.js, netlify/functions/cb-channel.mjs, the privacy page, the CB guide.

2026-10-28 — Happening now, under the channel

The radio has a new part, Happening now, straight under the channel, because Watching together had gone so far down the radio that a watch-together could be on in your room without your seeing it. It says what is going on in the room you are in, and only that room: its call, while you are in it or while somebody is and you are seen here; an event on now from the schedule; and anybody hosting a film here, with Go to Watching together, which takes you down to their Catch up and Follow and presses nothing. It is only there while one of them is. On the chat page it heads the right-hand column.
The room’s call and On now moved up into it from In this channel rather than being said twice: Join this room’s call stays under In this channel until the call is going.
Changed: cb.js, cb.css, the CB guide.

2026-10-28 — Glow Wild Hollow: real photographs, and films of the wood and the sea

At Helen Edgar’s ask, Glow Wild Hollow now shows the real thing glowing, the way the Crystal Wheel shows real stones: a mushroom lit green on a twig, foxfire in rotting bark, a female glow-worm lit on a grass stem in Rutland, blue sea sparkle along the waves, a crystal jelly, a comb jelly with the rainbow along its combs, and a mushroom fluorescing under ultraviolet. Each is from Wikimedia Commons under a licence this site can use, credited under it with its photographer, its licence and its file page, and saved without camera data.
And films of the glow, on two shelves, in the wood and under the sea, from the BBC, BBC Earth, National Geographic, Terra Mater (David Attenborough’s film about living light), the National Trust, the Monterey Bay Aquarium, its research institute MBARI, and PBS Terra, each on its own channel. Every one says how long it runs before you press, plays where it hangs or up on the hollow’s screen, and was pressed and played in a frame on this site before it went up. The room says some of them show fireflies flashing, because what happens inside another site’s player is not the room’s to hold.
Changed: glow-wild-hollow.html, data/glow-wild.json, tools/make-glow-wild.py, love.css (§129), the new glow-wild/ photographs, tools/check-jukebox.py, the Now Playing bill, and the hollow’s tags, which now include Videos.

2026-10-27 — Snippets that know who the directors are

A snippet can hold {directors}, {board} or {administrators}, which become a checkbox line for everybody who holds that role at the moment the snippet goes in, so a sign-off checklist never goes out of date. {me} becomes your username, and {today} the day.
What goes in is plain words, so a task keeps the names it was made with and its boxes keep ticking. A snippet with a role in it is offered in Tasks and the office only, never in the forums, where a post can be read by people who are not told who holds which role. What this sends.

2026-10-27 — Snippets, with !

Tasks has Snippets: words the team writes once, under Snippets in Tasks, and puts into any box by typing ! and part of a name, after Simple Markdown Snippets, which uses ! too. The first one to make is a checklist with a line for every director, so everybody can tick off a task the same way every time.
It works in a task’s description and comments, in the office’s notes, grant requests, cases and comments, and in the forums, for our directors, board members and administrators. The list opens only at the start of a line or after a space, so an exclamation mark never opens it, and Undo takes a snippet back out, as it now does a link or a mention picked from their lists.
What a snippet keeps: its name, its words, and who made and changed it and when, sealed with the rest of Tasks.

2026-10-27 — The notice is on Home too

The moderators’ notice now runs along the top of Home, as it does on the front page, the Community Center, the forums and the office’s dashboard, because Home is where members land. Put it away there and it stays away everywhere until a new one goes up. What it sends: nothing of yours.

2026-10-27 — Home, and a house on the radio

Home is the CB’s dashboard, for anybody signed on: the latest from the Brass Tacks Board, the forums and this changelog; what is new to you, with a dot and never a number; the events coming up; the rooms you follow, with a way to follow or stop following any of them from there; who pressed Be seen here; and the places members use most, each with a drawing in your radio’s colours. Then jobs to start with, ways to ask and give, a room chosen at random to start from, and the first steps for anybody new.
The house at the top left of the radio is the way there, from any page, where the bar said CB. It wears the radio’s aerial. The guest bar still says CB.
The joining page sends a new member Home once they have kept their recovery code.
Home keeps nothing and sends nothing new: it asks what the radio already asks, once when it opens and again when you press Look again. What it reads.

2026-10-27 — Pictures and files attach as soon as they are ready

On a task, a contact, a grant request or a case, there is no Attach it button any more: what you add is attached by itself once it has all arrived. A file used to go up, say it was ready, and wait for a second press, and one was missed. Describe a picture afterwards with Describe it. If attaching fails, Try again appears. Comments are unchanged: what you add goes with the comment.

2026-10-27 — Pictures and files up to 20 MB in the forums and across the office

The office takes pictures and files, as Tasks does: a Pictures and files part on every contact, grant request and case, and on any comment in the office, mailings, templates and emails included. Lists say how many a record has after its name.
The forums take files up to 20 MB, from 5 MB, sent in parts of 4 MB as Tasks’ are.
One way for all three. The forums, Tasks and the office now share every step: the checks, the parts, the tray you add things in, and Save. The office’s are sealed with the office’s own key. A file’s name is now sealed with it everywhere; until today the forums’ and Tasks’ file names were kept in the clear beside their sealed files, and the hourly sweep seals those it finds. What the office keeps of them.

2026-10-27 — Tasks take files up to 20 MB

A file on a task or a comment in Tasks can be up to 20 MB, from 5 MB. Our host refuses anything over about 6 MB in one go, so a file over 4 MB is sent, kept and fetched in parts of 4 MB, and you see which part is going. Every part is sealed, and the whole file is checked once it has all arrived, by the same rules as before. The forums still take 5 MB.

2026-10-27 — Comments on a task take pictures and files too

A comment in Tasks can carry up to six pictures and files, with or without words, under the same rules as the task’s own. Edit a comment to add one or leave one out; deleting a comment deletes what it held. They show under its words on the task’s page and in the Feed.

2026-10-27 — Tasks take pictures and files

Every task in Tasks has a Pictures and files section, after EspoCRM’s attachments: add pictures and files with a button or by dropping them on it, say what is in a picture if you like, save a file, and take any of them off. A task holds 30 at most, and the list says how many a task has after its name.
They follow the forums’ rules. A picture is redrawn in your browser before it goes, which takes off what a camera wrote into it, and a file is a PDF, text, Markdown, CSV, RTF, Word, Excel, PowerPoint, OpenDocument or EPUB file up to 5 MB, checked by its first bytes, never with macros in it. They are sealed at rest with the rest of Tasks, have no public address, and are sent only to people who can read Tasks. A task’s activity says how many went on or came off, never their names. What a task keeps of them.

2026-10-27 — The team mailbox, QuickBooks and Givebutter are each a section of the office’s dashboard

On the office’s dashboard, Mail and money is now three sections: Team mailbox, QuickBooks and Givebutter, so each can be moved or hidden on its own. A dashboard already arranged keeps the three where Mail and money was, and hidden if it was hidden.

2026-10-27 — The office’s dashboard can be arranged

Each of our directors can arrange the office’s dashboard for themself, after requests from the team. Arrange the dashboard puts Move up, Move down and Show it on every section, and the same on every box in Newest; a hidden one is drawn as its heading alone while arranging, so it can be shown again, and Put it back as it was undoes all of it. Buttons, so a keyboard, a screen reader and a phone can do every part of it.
How you arrange it is kept for you on our server, sealed like the office’s records, so it follows you from one device to another: the order of the sections and the boxes and which are hidden, and nothing about when. Nobody else is shown it, and Forget me and deleting your username delete it. The privacy page says so.
Newest no longer lists what is closed: a grant request granted or denied, a case closed, a task completed or canceled, and a form entry whose grant request or case is closed. Form entries still counts every entry by form for the week. Form entries is the last box, and the charts and the mailbox, QuickBooks and Givebutter are now two sections of their own, so each can be moved or hidden. The section headings are bigger.

2026-10-27 — Volunteers: a cloth on the loom

Volunteers is a shopfront on the street, between Show Your Work and Breaker Breaker: a loom in the window with a cloth half woven on it. The warp is our values, one undyed thread through every band; the weft is whatever each person brings, a band of its own natural dye; and a woven cloth holds because every thread grips the ones it crosses, which is the friction our Volunteer page says we exist as. Nothing on the loom moves, at any setting.
It borrows from our own Volunteer page: the values that have to fit, the things we need help with, our ecology of care, roles in social change and the playbooks, with the lines that page quotes, each credited to whoever wrote it and checked against our page word for word. The way in is still the volunteer form on stimpunks.org; the room has no form of its own.
Its channel on the CB is under Community on the chat page, for volunteering with Stimpunks: asking what needs doing, offering what you can, and finding the people doing the same. Nobody counts anybody’s hours, nobody owes anybody time, and rest is not quitting.

2026-10-27 — Glow Wild Hollow, down through a glowing mushroom

At Helen Edgar’s ask, a new room behind the Faery Yurt: Glow Wild Hollow, reached through a great mushroom with glowing gills and a door in its stem, just after the Alchemist’s Arch. It is a hollow at night with no moon and no lamp, where every light belongs to something alive: how living things make cold light, foxfire or fairy fire in an old log, glow-worms in the grass, sea sparkle, a crystal jelly that lights up, and fluorescence, which is light given back rather than made.
The sea lights where you touch it, the way sea sparkle lights up when the water moves, and Stir the water does the same for anybody without a pointer. The jellyfish lights up green when you press it, as a crystal jelly does. Nothing flashes: each light comes up and goes over seconds, and at Gentle the light stays on, still, until you press again. It keeps nothing and sends nothing.
Read first in Chloe Agar’s How nature glows wild, for Grow Wild at Kew, and in Wikipedia’s articles on foxfire, the crystal jelly and comb jellies. Every sentence is ours and every fact names where it was read, held by the new tools/make-glow-wild.py. Small screens and Print are now §130 and §131 in love.css. Changed: glow-wild-hollow.html, glow-wild.js, faery-yurt.html, love.css (§14, §129), data/glow-wild.json, and the street’s lists of rooms.

2026-10-27 — Chat status badges can be read in every low-stimulation mode

In Warm Light, Cool Dark, Plant Green and Red Light, a chat status badge’s words had vanished: the modes’ colours gave each badge’s ground and its words the same colour, so come say hi, people i know and not right now were blank pills, on Who’s online, beside a name in a room, on profiles and under Your chat status. Kristina found it and sent it in through the Sandbox’s suggestion box, with screenshots. In a mode a badge is now the mode’s words on its plate, with an edge in the mode’s line, so it is told apart by its shape and its words, as it always was too. Outside a mode nothing changed. The tool that writes the modes’ colours now refuses to give any colour and its words the same one.

2026-10-27 — Search on the chat page says how many matched

The chat page’s search now says how many messages matched, above the results, as Discord’s does, at Ryan’s ask the same day. It is one number for the whole search, over every channel you can hear. This reverses the radio’s rule of never showing a count, for this one line only: the search never says how many matched on any one channel or from any one person, and nothing else on the radio is counted (the privacy page, the CB guide). When you searched only some channels, the line names them.
Clear the search is beside Search for as long as a search is held, because Ryan could see how to clear the filters and not how to get the chat back, and after Jump to it the way back went with the results. It empties the box, lets the results go and puts the channel back, and so does emptying the box yourself, with its clear button or Esc. After a jump, Back to the results beside it brings the results back.

2026-10-27 — Search on the chat page, with Discord’s filters

The chat page can search every channel you can hear, at Ryan’s ask, after Discord’s search: World and every room’s channel, as far back as each one keeps. Type words, a "phrase in quotes", or Discord’s own filters as Discord types them: from:, mentions:, has:link, has:picture, has:sticker, has:card, in:#the-den, before:, after: and during: a day, and author-type:bot. Filters has the same filters as fields, for anybody who would rather not learn a syntax, with the days in your own calendar and newest or oldest first.
The results take the channel’s place in the middle, 25 at a time, each with its channel, who, when and its words with what you searched for underlined, and Jump to it, which opens its channel at that message, fetching earlier messages if it has to, and puts the keyboard on it. Like the rest of the radio, it never says how many matched.
It only finds what you could already scroll back to: never a room that keeps to itself, never a room you cannot go into, and never your direct messages. Your words go to us in the body of the request and are kept by nobody, and they are never in the page’s address, so they are not in your browser’s history (the privacy page, the CB guide).

A bar on Tasks’ timeline can be stretched and shrunk by dragging its ends, at Ryan’s ask: the grip at a bar’s left end changes when the task starts, the one at its right end when it is due, a day at a time, and the bar says the day it would land on as it goes. Esc while dragging puts it back.
Every bar has a menu of its own, after Google Drive’s: right-click a bar, or press Shift+F10 or the ContextMenu key on it, or its ⋯ button, to open it, change it, copy a link to it, mark it completed, set its status, priority or who it is assigned to, or move its days a day or a week at a time. The ⋯ and the Days in the menu are how a keyboard, a screen reader and a phone make every change the grips make. Shift and a right-click still give the browser’s own menu.

2026-10-26 — A mural beside the dial on the front page

One of Plural Mural’s murals hangs under the tagline on the front page now, at Ryan’s ask. The glitter dial grew taller than the name and the tagline beside it, and the murals are the tagline painted, so one of them goes up in that space, picked at random each time the page opens. It hangs straight on the night background. It stays put once it is up: the wall that repaints itself is still Plural Mural’s, at MAX GLITTER only. It shows wherever the dial stands beside the name. On a narrower screen the dial sits under the name, there is no gap to fill, and the dial stays where it was.

2026-10-26 — The Office and Tasks have channels under Staff

The chat lists Tasks and the Office under Staff, at Ryan’s ask, beside the Town Hall’s private rooms. Each is a room on the CB whose channel, call and Be seen here are for the people who can open the page: our directors, board members and administrators. Until now anybody signed on could tune to either one’s channel, and both sat under Paperwork.

2026-10-26 — Three more channels in The Open Notebook

The monthly log has three more channels, at Ryan’s ask: The Desk Standard, The Goulet Pen Company and Doodlewithrachel, at the end of his list. Their last month of videos and shorts is in it now, and it refills with the rest every morning. All three are credited in the liner notes.

2026-10-26 — Every profile has a page of its own, and its owner chooses who may open it

Helen Edgar asked how to share her profile outside the street, so every profile now has a page of its own, at profile.html# and the username, with a link to it under the card in every profile on the radio and a Copy the link button on the page.
Who can open your card is a new choice on your card, and it starts where every card already was: The community, anybody signed on to the CB. Only me keeps your card to yourself, takes your nameplate off Who’s online and takes you out of the community directory. Anybody with the link opens your page to people who are not on the CB. This changes “whatever is filled in is shown to anybody signed on, with no switch”, which was Ryan’s call of 2026-10-17; this one is Ryan’s too.
A public page never shows props, a chat status or a way to message anybody; those stay on the radio, for people signed on, who get Props for and Message buttons on the page that open them there. Somebody signed off is told the same thing for every name it will not show, so the page cannot tell anybody which usernames exist, and no search engine lists a profile. Every customization is on the page, the nameplate included, and its animations move at MAX GLITTER, or at any setting after Let it move on the card, because Ryan said they are a big part of what people want to show off. What it shows and keeps. Changed: profile.html, profile-page.js, profile-page.css, cb.js, cb.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-profile-page.mjs, cb-profile-of.mjs, privacy.html, cb-guide.html and tools/make-profile.py, which holds all of it.

2026-10-26 — Real crystals round the Alchemist’s Arch

At Helen Edgar’s ask, every crystal on the Crystal Wheel now hangs round the Alchemist’s Arch in the Faery Yurt, as the wheel’s own photographs in round frames of amber and amethyst, up one side of the doorway, over the top and down the other. Each one is a way to its card in Myths & Legends, and every photograph is credited under the arch with its photographer and licence, as the cards credit them. They are still at every setting. Changed: faery-yurt.html, love.css (§14) and tools/make-yurt-myths.py, which writes them from the wheel’s data so the arch and the wheel cannot disagree.

2026-10-26 — A pouch to fill under the Crystal Wheel, and the arch at the top of the yurt

At Helen Edgar’s ask, a pouch to fill under the Crystal Wheel: put in up to three crystals, draw the string, and it says what is in it and a possible outcome, made of what each crystal brings out of its own belief or lore, from a clear head to a steady seat on a horse. It sends nothing and keeps nothing.
The cauldron now says what you mixed and a possible outcome every time, made of what each herb brings out of its own story, as well as the brew’s name when it is in the book. Both say once, plainly, that an outcome is a story and never a promise, and tools/make-yurt-myths.py refuses a herb or a crystal that brings anything about a body.
The Alchemist’s Arch is first in the Faery Yurt now, straight after the dial, before the Soundtrack, the Bookshelf and the Cinema, at Helen’s ask. Changed: faery-yurt.html, faery-myths-room.html, crystal-pouch.js, herb-basket.js, love.css (§128), data/yurt-myths.json and tools/make-yurt-myths.py.

2026-10-26 — The Herbery, a herb basket and a cauldron

At Helen Edgar’s ask, the Herbery, in Myths & Legends after the Crystal Wheel: rosemary, thyme, mint, basil, bay, lavender, rose, elder, yarrow and hawthorn, each drawn, with what it is and its myth or folklore, every line with its source. The yurt says so beside the Alchemist’s Arch.
Gather it, signed on to the CB, puts a herb in your herb basket in Profile on the radio, drawn as a wicker basket with the herbs standing in it, with Put it back beside each and the brews and stews it could make. It is the crystal pouch’s arrangement: which herbs and nothing about when, nothing counted, Show my herb basket on the CB off until switched on, and Forget me empties it. The privacy page said so first.
The cauldron takes two or three herbs and names the brew or stew you stirred from the room’s own book, or tells you it is yours to name. It sends nothing and keeps nothing. The brews and stews are stories made of words, never recipes, and the room says nothing in it is to eat or drink; tools/make-yurt-myths.py refuses a measure or a dose in the Herbery.
Changed: faery-myths-room.html, faery-yurt.html, herb-basket.js (new), netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.test.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-herbs.mjs and cb-herbs-of.mjs (new), netlify/functions/cb-pets.mjs, cb.js, love.css (the herbs’ inks in §2, the Herbery in §128), privacy.html, data/yurt-myths.json, tools/make-yurt-myths.py and tools/check-contrast.py.

2026-10-26 — A crystal pouch, and the Green Witch’s shelf

At Helen Edgar’s ask, every card on the Crystal Wheel has Take it with you, signed on to the CB, and the crystal goes into your crystal pouch, in Profile on the radio, drawn as a medieval leather pouch with a drawstring tied in a bow and your crystals spilled onto a cloth at its foot, at Helen’s ask; under it, a small drawing of each stone in its own colours, never anybody’s photograph, each linked back to its card, and Put it back beside it. Show my crystal pouch on the CB, off until switched on and only for a claimed username, puts a Crystals tab in your profile. The pouch keeps which crystals and nothing about when, nothing counts who has which, and Forget me and deleting the username empty it. The privacy page said so before the pouch was built.
The Green Witch’s Shelf, in Myths & Legends: Arin Murphy-Hiscock’s Green Witch books, each linked to its own page at its publisher, Simon & Schuster UK, and never to Amazon, which tools/make-yurt-myths.py now refuses. The Green Witch’s Book of Seasons says the day it is out.
Changed: faery-myths-room.html, crystal-pouch.js (new), netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.test.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-crystals.mjs and cb-crystals-of.mjs (new), netlify/functions/cb-pets.mjs, cb.js, love.css (the pouch’s inks in §2, the button in §128), privacy.html, data/yurt-myths.json, tools/make-yurt-myths.py and tools/check-contrast.py.

2026-10-26 — The Crystal Wheel, in Myths & Legends

At Helen Edgar’s ask, a Crystal Wheel in Myths & Legends, behind her yurt: photographs of popular crystals round a circle, each one pressed to its card, with what the stone really is, the belief or story attached to it and whether that is old tradition or modern crystal lore, and its birthstone month where it has one. The yurt says so beside the Alchemist’s Arch.
The photographs are other people’s, from Wikimedia Commons, each credited on its card with its licence, as those licences ask, and listed in the liner notes. tools/make-yurt-myths.py now refuses a crystal photograph without its photographer, its Commons page or a licence this site can use, and one still carrying camera data. The wheel says once, with its source, that the meanings are not medicine. Changed: faery-myths-room.html, faery-yurt.html, love.css (§128 and §14), data/yurt-myths.json, tools/make-yurt-myths.py, liner-notes.html, and the photographs in crystals/.

2026-10-26 — A forums tab says which topic it is

A tab open on the forums now says the topic’s or the category’s name, instead of “The forums” on every one, so you can tell your tabs apart, and so can your browser’s history. Ryan’s ask. A staff category’s topics say only “Staff”, because a page’s title is kept in the browser’s history, which can be synced to other devices or seen on a shared computer, and some staff topics name people. A search’s words never go in the title. Changed: forum.js and tools/make-forum.py, which holds it.

2026-10-26 — Claude can keep the Wiki and Team Docs up to date

Claude can now start and edit pages in the forums’ Wiki and Team Docs, under its own name, Claude, marked BOT, so the docs that describe the street can be kept up to date in the same session that changes the street. Ryan’s call. It uses a key of its own, never anybody’s username or password, and the key can do nothing else: no replies, no taking anything down, no pictures, files or polls, nothing in Grantmaking or the directors’ and board’s categories, and no notifications. Nobody can have Claude as a username. Team Docs is staff-only, so the key can read staff documents as well as write them, and the privacy page says so. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, a new /cb/forum/bot and tools/forum-bot.mjs, forum.js, forum.css, privacy.html, architecture.html and tools/make-forum.py, which holds it.

2026-10-26 — Signing off keeps your radio’s settings, unless you ask it to forget them

Sign off now keeps the radio’s settings in your browser (its theme, size, Be seen here, what you follow), so they are there when you sign on again as you; until now signing off reset all of them. Ryan’s call, after testing. Beside it, Sign off and forget my settings here forgets them and your username in that browser too, for a computer other people use, because the username kept beside the settings would say who was on it last. The privacy page and the CB guide say so. Changed: cb.js, privacy.html and cb-guide.html.

2026-10-26 — Changing your password no longer signs off your other tabs or forgets your settings

Turning on two-step sign-in, changing your password or being given a role could sign you off in every tab and reset the radio: its theme, Be seen here, Who’s online and the rest, and your notifications on that device could quietly stop. Ryan found it straight after setting up two-step. A tab still holding your old pass now takes the new one from the tab that made the change, instead of signing everybody off. If the CB does sign you off because your pass stopped working, the radio’s settings are kept in this browser and come back when the same username signs on again (what your browser keeps lists it). And a device whose notifications are on is switched on again with your new pass by itself, asking for what it asked for before. Changed: cb.js, guest.js and privacy.html.

2026-10-26 — Two-step sign-in

Anybody with a username can now turn on two-step sign-in, under Account on the radio: after your password, signing on asks for a six-digit code from an authenticator app on your phone, or a passkey (your fingerprint, your face or your device’s screen lock), with ten backup codes for when you cannot use either. Somebody who learns your password still cannot sign on as you. Ryan’s call, so that the very personal things people share here are better protected.
From 2 November it is required for our moderators and staff. Until then the radio reminds them. After it, a staff username without it is on the CB as an ordinary member, with nothing else shut, until it is set up.
The QR code you scan is drawn in your own browser, so your key never goes anywhere to be turned into a picture. Adding or taking off a step signs your other devices off. If you lose every step, a moderator can reset your username. The privacy page says what is kept, and the CB guide how to set it up. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, the sign-on, account and recovery functions, a new twostep.js, cb.js, guest.js, cb.css, _headers, and the checkers that hold it.

2026-10-25 — The forums no longer say something failed when it went through

When several people voted, replied or changed topics in one category at the same moment, somebody could be told “busy” even though what they did had gone through: the topic was saved, and only the category’s list of topics behind it had not caught up. A vote could be counted with its voter told it failed, and a reply could have been posted twice by somebody trying again. Now what goes into the topic is always reported as done, a list that was busy is marked, and the hourly sweep brings it up to date. It was found by two tests that failed now and then when the whole set ran at once. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests.

2026-10-25 — Notification devices and the roles list are sealed too

Every device switched on for notifications, its delivery address and keys included, and the list of who holds which role are now encrypted where they are kept at Netlify, with the staff key. A delivery address works like a password for sending that device a notification, and who holds which role is not ours to publish. Without the key, notifications cannot be switched on or off and the roles at the desk are shut, and only the break-glass list in the site’s settings counts. The privacy page says so. That is the last of what Ryan asked to have sealed. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, cb-push and cb-roles, privacy.html, tools/check-push.py and tools/check-roles.py.

2026-10-25 — The radio could not listen or send for a few minutes

For a few minutes this afternoon the CB could neither hear nor send messages, on every channel, after the change that sealed the staff rooms’ channels: two of the CB’s functions had a name imported from the wrong place, and failed to load. Nothing was lost; what was already on the channels was untouched. It was fixed in the next deploy, and a new check, tools/check-functions-load.mjs, now loads every function the way Netlify does before anything is published, so that mistake stops at our desk next time.

2026-10-25 — The staff rooms’ channels are sealed where they are kept

The CB channels of every room only some of us may enter, the words of every call for a moderator, and every picture sent on any channel are now encrypted where they are kept at Netlify, with the staff key Tasks and the forums use. Ryan’s call. That is the moderators’, directors’ and board rooms, Executive Session and every forum category with roles, and any staff room added later, with nothing to list by hand. Every picture is sealed because a picture’s stored name does not say its room. World and the public rooms are not sealed, because everybody signed on reads them. None of it is end-to-end. The privacy page says so. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, the channel, picture and moderator-call functions, privacy.html, and tools/make-town-hall.py, which now refuses any of it written in the clear.

2026-10-25 — The forums are sealed where they are kept

Every forum topic, every category’s list of topics, and every picture and file posted or waiting to be posted are now encrypted where they are kept at Netlify, with the same key of their own as Tasks. Ryan asked for the staff categories; every category is sealed, because a topic moved out of a staff category keeps the name it is stored under and must never be left in the clear. It is not end-to-end: our server opens them for whoever may read the category. Without the key the forums are shut rather than written in the clear. The privacy page says so. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, the forums’ two functions, privacy.html, and tools/make-forum.py, which now refuses anything of the forums written in the clear.

2026-10-25 — Tasks are sealed where they are kept

Every task, its comments, its activity, everybody’s Tasks notifications and saved filters, the recurring tasks and the templates are now encrypted where they are kept at Netlify, with a key of their own that neither the office nor direct messages use. Ryan’s call, after direct messages; the staff forum categories come next. It is done by the store itself for every name on its list, so nothing in Tasks had to change to be sealed. It is not end-to-end: our server opens them for whoever may read Tasks. Without the key Tasks are shut rather than written in the clear. The privacy page says so. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, the Tasks and hourly functions, privacy.html, and tools/make-tasks.py, which now refuses anything of Tasks written in the clear.

2026-10-25 — Direct messages are sealed where they are kept

Every conversation in Messages, every picture sent in one, your switch and your blocks, and any report copied from them are now encrypted where they are kept at Netlify, with a key of their own that nothing else on the street uses. Ryan’s call. Somebody who got at the stored files alone could not read them. It is still not end-to-end: our server opens them to show the two of you your conversation, and a report to our moderators. Without the key, Messages is shut rather than written in the clear. The privacy page says so. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, the three Messages functions, cb.js, privacy.html, cb-guide.html, and tools/check-messages.py, which now refuses anything of a conversation written in the clear.

2026-10-25 — Every channel says what it keeps, and the desk sets it

A channel now keeps its latest hundred messages, each for two weeks, unless our administrators set it otherwise at the desk in the Moderators’ room: World, any room’s channel, every channel at once, or direct messages, each from 50 to 1,000 messages and from a day to a year, or for good. Ryan’s call, after requests for more to scroll back through. The privacy page was rewritten first.
A longer time never reaches what was already said. Every message is marked, when it is sent, with how long its channel kept messages then, and it is never kept longer than that. A shorter time, or fewer messages, reaches everything at once. The one exception is Pets, whose two writers, Ryan and Norah, both said yes to what they had already said there being kept as long as the channel now keeps it.
The radio says what the channel you are on keeps, first under In this channel, and shows the latest hundred messages, with Earlier messages above them for a hundred more each time. It now asks the channel only for what has changed, so a long channel costs no more to listen to than a short one. The CB guide says how it works. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-channel.mjs, a new netlify/functions/cb-channel-rules.mjs, cb.js, cb.css, desk.js, town-hall-moderators.html, privacy.html, cb-guide.html, community-center.html, and the rooms that say how long a message stays.

2026-10-25 — The CB keeps a message for two weeks

Every message on the CB now stays two weeks from when it was sent, on World, in every room’s channel, between two people in Messages and on the Slake. Ryan’s call, after requests from our community for more to scroll back through, in channels like Pets above all; it was 48 hours. The privacy page was rewritten first. A message keeps the time it was sent under: anything sent on or before 2026-10-25, Colorado time, still goes at its 48 hours, and nothing is kept a minute longer for the change.
A channel still holds fifty messages at most, so a busy one shows its latest fifty rather than a full two weeks. A time on the radio more than a week back says its date, because a day’s name could be either week. The forums’ Watering hole and Coping keep a topic a week after its last post, as they did. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, cb.js, world.js, forum.js, the rooms that say how long a message stays (Community Care, Coping, Pets, Show Your Work), privacy.html, cb-guide.html, community-center.html, forum.html and every other sentence that said 48 hours or two days.

2026-10-25 — Myths & Legends, through the Alchemist’s Arch in the Faery Yurt

A new room behind Helen Edgar’s yurt, at her ask: Myths & Legends, reached through the Alchemist’s Arch, an open stone arch set with amethyst crystals up both sides and amber stones round its curve, with the four elements carved in its keystone and dawn over a stone circle seen through it. At MAX GLITTER the amber glows and the amethyst glints, and at every other setting it stands still; the yurt’s dial line says so.
Inside: Stonehenge, with a sun you turn between midsummer sunrise and midwinter sunset, and what is known about where its stones came from; King Arthur and Merlin, how the story grew from the 800s to Malory, and the places that claim him; the folk under the hill, from boggarts and hobs to Black Shuck and the Lambton Worm; story-or-fact cards you turn over; the Wheel of the Year; and a shelf of old books on fairies, myth and Arthur, every one free to read. It is the Reading Room’s house, lit through stone rather than by a flame.
Every fact names the page it was read on, and tools/make-yurt-myths.py refuses one that does not, a story-or-fact card with only one side, and a book whose author or translator died less than seventy years ago. Where a source corrected the usual telling, the room follows the source: the midsummer sun rises just to the left of the Heel Stone, and the Altar Stone came from north-east Scotland. The Golden Bough carries a line saying its big theories have since been set aside.
Four Tinker Bell films on Films I Love in the Cinema: The Great Fairy Rescue, Secret of the Wings, The Pirate Fairy and Legend of the NeverBeast, Disney UK’s own trailers. Changed: faery-myths-room.html, faery-yurt.html, love.css (§128, and Small screens and Print are now §129 and §130), data/yurt-myths.json, data/yurt-cinema.json, and the street’s lists: the sitemap, the map, the chat page’s tags, the fractal window, the Adventurer’s Guild (a piece of amber with a beetle in it) and a share card.

2026-10-25 — Labyrinth, The NeverEnding Story and Studio Ghibli in the Cinema

Ten more reels on Films I Love in the Cinema behind the Faery Yurt, at Helen Edgar’s ask: the trailers for The NeverEnding Story (1984), Labyrinth (1986), with David Bowie, and The Princess Bride (1987), from Rotten Tomatoes Classic Trailers like most of the shelf; Coraline (2009), from LAIKA, the studio that made it; and six of Studio Ghibli’s, from GKIDS Films, their distributor: Spirited Away, My Neighbor Totoro, Howl’s Moving Castle, Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, The Secret World of Arrietty and Whisper of the Heart. Every one answered OK and can be played here on its watch page. Changed: data/yurt-cinema.json, faery-cinema-room.html, and the Cinema’s book in faery-yurt.html.

2026-10-25 — Your page, and every notification kept for 30 days

Notifications come and go, so the CB keeps them for you now. Ryan’s ask: Tasks kept its own notifications for 30 days, and nothing else did. Every notification one of your devices is sent is also kept for you, once however many of your devices it went to, for 30 days. It reverses what the privacy page said, that nothing about what was sent to a device is kept, and the page was rewritten first. It keeps no words: what kind it was and why, who from, where, which message, post, task, suggestion or event, and when. The words are read again each time you look, from wherever they still are and only where your username can still read them, so a message gone at its 48 hours, or taken off, is there only as that there was one. Only what a device was actually sent is kept, so what you switch on under Notifications decides it. Nobody else is shown it, a moderator included, and nothing counts it. Clear my past notifications, Forget me and deleting your username delete it.
Your page is where they are: the radio’s You part docked into a page of its own, the way the chat page docks the radio, with Profile open, Past notifications beside it, and Unreads, Messages and Your radio after them. Your page under You on the radio goes there. Each past notification is said the way the notification said it, because the service worker’s wording is now one block the radio carries an identical copy of. The CB guide says how it works. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-notices.mjs, cb.js, cb-sw.js, cb.css, you.html, privacy.html, cb-guide.html, and a new checker, tools/check-notices.py.

2026-10-25 — Adding somebody to our mailing lists says it worked

Pressing Add them to Givebutter’s lists in the office now answers with what happened: that Givebutter has them on those lists, and whether they were in Givebutter already, as somebody added there by hand is, or Givebutter made a new contact for them. Until now the panel was drawn again with a line about taking people off lists at its foot, which read as the answer to adding them. That line is kept for a later visit to the join request, where it says the office cannot take them off. The office learns whether they were there already from when Givebutter says it made their contact, and keeps nothing of Givebutter’s answer; the privacy page says so. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, office.js and privacy.html.

2026-10-25 — Join requests reach our mailing lists, now for real

The reason Givebutter refused was the email address, not a name. The entry below gave one name as the likeliest reason, and it was not: with Givebutter now saying why, it answered “The emails.0 must be an array.” Givebutter’s API reference lists a contact’s emails as plain addresses, and its server wants each one as an object, so Add them to Givebutter’s lists had failed on every press since it arrived on 2026-10-23. The office sends the address as Givebutter’s primary email now, a plain address, which its reference and its server agree on. What is sent is unchanged: their email address, their first and last name when they have both, and the lists they said yes to. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs.

2026-10-25 — Mailing lists for somebody with one name

Adding somebody from a join request to our mailing lists failed with “Givebutter did not take it (it answered 422)”. The likeliest reason: the office sent Givebutter whatever name their contact had, and a one-word name on the Join form is filed as a last name with no first. Givebutter keeps a contact by a first and a last name together, or by an email address with no name, so the office now sends the two names together or neither, and somebody with one name goes to Givebutter by their email address alone, which the office says when it happens. Their name can be added in Givebutter. The privacy page says so too. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, office.js and privacy.html.
When Givebutter refuses, the office now says why, in Givebutter’s own words, beside the number, to the director who pressed, so a refusal for any other reason says what it is. Nothing of it is kept.

2026-10-25 — The Sandbox opens on its title

In The Sandbox, the dial comes after the room’s title now, under the laptop and centred on it, where it had stood first on the page and to the left. Every other room puts its title first. Ryan’s ask. The dial stands where the room’s artifact put its preview dial, so the copy the street imports was changed to put it under the laptop, and it was brought in again; nothing else in the room changed. Changed: sandbox.html, love.css and data/rooms/sandbox.json.
Bringing a room in again kept rewriting the date the liner notes say it arrived on the street. It keeps the day it first arrived now. Changed: tools/import-room.py.

2026-10-25 — Notifications from the suggestion box

Two new switches under Notifications in Your radio on the CB, each off until you switch it on. When a moderator replies to a suggestion of mine tells you when a moderator replies to something you dropped in The Sandbox’s suggestion box, and whether they marked it done, not doing or open again. Something new in the suggestion box, offered only to our moderators, tells them when a suggestion is dropped in, or when whoever dropped it in replies, so whichever of them switch it on know without watching the box. Until now nobody was told about a new suggestion at all. Pressing the notification opens the box on that suggestion. Ryan’s ask, and Norah’s. Everything, and anything added later takes both in, as it says.
A notification says who did it and what, and, unless you switched the words off, the suggestion’s title and the first words of what they wrote. It never says how many are waiting, and nobody is told about what they wrote themselves. Changed: cb.js, cb-sw.js, sandbox.html, privacy.html, data/sandbox.json, netlify/cb/lib.mjs and netlify/functions/cb-suggest.mjs.

2026-10-25 — Replies and Me too in the suggestion box

Every suggestion in The Sandbox’s suggestion box has a thread of replies now, from our moderators and from whoever dropped it in, as many as it takes, each with its username, its date and pictures if you like. A moderator’s reply can mark it done, not doing, or open again, and where it stands is always the newest reply that marked it, so taking that reply down takes its mark with it. Whoever wrote a reply can edit it, and they or a moderator can take it down. The one answer a suggestion had before is its first reply. This replaces the reply that left a suggestion open, from earlier the same morning. Ryan’s ask.
Me too says a suggestion affects you too. Anybody signed on can press it on somebody else’s suggestion and press it again to take it back. It is not a vote: the box names who a suggestion affects, alphabetically, and never says how many, the CB’s rule for a reaction, and nothing is sorted by it. Ryan’s ask, to keep the box away from upvoting. Changed: suggest.js, love.css, sandbox.html, privacy.html, community-center.html, data/sandbox.json, data/community.json, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-suggest.mjs and tools/make-sandbox.py.

2026-10-25 — A moderator can reply in the suggestion box and leave it open

In The Sandbox’s suggestion box, a moderator’s reply can leave a suggestion open, to ask a question or say where it has got to, without marking it done or not doing. Choosing Still open used to throw away whatever the moderator wrote and take any answer off; now the reply stays on it, with its pictures, under Still open, a reply from and the moderator’s username, and it stays in the box’s Open filter. Still open with no reply still takes any answer off. Ryan’s ask. Changed: suggest.js, sandbox.html, privacy.html, data/sandbox.json, netlify/cb/lib.mjs and netlify/functions/cb-suggest.mjs.

2026-10-25 — Screenshots in the suggestion box

A suggestion, a feature request or a bug report in The Sandbox’s suggestion box can carry pictures now, up to four, a screenshot of a bug most of all, and so can a moderator’s answer. Add one with Add a picture, or paste or drop one into the words. This reverses the box’s words only, which it had because a screenshot is a picture of somebody’s screen: Ryan’s call, written into the privacy page first.
Each picture is redrawn in your browser before it goes, by the CB’s own redraw, which takes off everything a camera or a phone wrote into it; each needs a sentence saying what it shows; and the form asks you to tick that you have looked at all of it and it shows nothing private, because a picture in the box is as public as its words. A picture is shown only while the box holds it, and goes with the suggestion, or with the answer that lets go of it. Changed: suggest.js, love.css, sandbox.html, privacy.html, community-center.html, data/sandbox.json, data/community.json, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-suggest-image.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-midnight.mjs and tools/make-sandbox.py.
The box’s line for somebody not signed on said you are given the starter password when you join our community. It says you join with an invite and a username of your own, as everywhere else since 2026-10-21.

2026-10-25 — Bring another animal to Chimera Obscura’s bench

In Chimera Obscura, the animals are filed by class: mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians, fish and invertebrates, each class alphabetical, in every animal picker on the bench and in the list of what is on the shelf at the foot of the page. A picker still jumps to an animal when you type its first letter.
Bring another animal takes the place of Let any part come from any animal, which put every animal on the shelf under every part. The bench starts with two animals; each press brings one more, with a picker of its own, up to one for every part, and every part’s choices are only the animals on the bench, so they stay one press each however long the shelf gets. The button under each picker after the second takes that animal off again, and the parts that came from it go to the first animal. A chimera opened from a link puts every animal it was made from on the bench. Ryan’s call. Changed: chimera-obscura.html, chimera-obscura.js, chimera.js, love.css, data/chimera-obscura.json and tools/make-chimera-obscura.py.

2026-10-25 — Choosing a body on the bench keeps everything else

In Chimera Obscura, choosing the second animal’s body changes the body and nothing else. It used to make the second animal the first one too, so both selectors named the same animal, the second one dropped out of every part, and every part chosen so far went back to it. Reported by our community.
Changing the first or second animal now changes only the parts that came from the animal it replaces. A part chosen from the other animal, the body included, stays where it was put. Changed: chimera-obscura.js.

2026-10-25 — A bat, a crow, a meerkat, a lion, a tiger, a rhino, a camel and a hippo on Chimera Obscura’s shelf

New on the shelf in Chimera Obscura, from Ryan’s list: a bat, a crow, a meerkat, a lion, a tiger, a rhino, a camel and a hippo. The zebra on the list was already there. Every part of each goes with every part of every other animal, as before.
They brought parts nothing on the shelf had, and each goes on any animal: a lion’s mane and a camel’s humps under Back; a bat’s wings both ways, spread under Back and folded down its sides under Arms; a rhino’s horns on the nose; a camel’s eyelashes; a bat’s fangs and a hippo’s tusks; and among the markings a tiger’s stripes, a rhino’s folds and a crow’s blue gloss.
A lion with a tiger’s parts is suggested as a Liger and a tiger with a lion’s as a Tigon, the names English already has for the two together. A crow before an animal whose name starts with a vowel is a Cro, so a crow with an opossum’s parts is a Croopossum: the room checks every name it can suggest, and the plain join had a slur in the middle of it.
Every list of animals is in alphabetical order now: the first and second animal, every part’s choices, and the list of what is on the shelf at the foot of the page. Changed: chimera.js, data/chimera-obscura.json and tools/make-chimera-obscura.py.

2026-10-25 — A call’s window has the radio’s grip and its − and +

A room’s call moves and sizes the way the radio does. Move is the six dots, and Small and Large are − and +, which go one size at a time between Large, the whole window, Regular, where a call opens, Small, a tile in the corner, and Stamp, which is new: the size of a postage stamp, the picture and the bar and nothing else. Each says which size it goes to, and says so when the call is already as small or as large as it goes. The call carries on through every change. The CB guide has the rest.

2026-10-25 — Symphrenia Chill in the Music Room

A third playlist on Helen’s phonograph, at her ask: the Music Room plays Symphrenia Chill, Zbigniew Preisner, Brian Eno, Philip Glass and Erik Satie, whole or a record at a time off a shelf of its own, and the yurt has a songbook of it like the others.
Its shelf opens with something to read alongside it: Existential Diversity, the Symphrenic Bodymind and Wider Existence, by Helen Edgar and David Gray-Hammond, on The Wider Existence. Any of her playlists can carry a link like that now, with the writers named beside it.
Every playlist in her rooms was read again the same day. Strange things will happen has two more songs on its shelf, Big Thief’s “Velvet Ring” and a mix of songs like it, which she had added since; the others had not changed.

2026-10-25 — The Reading Room points at where you can borrow a book

Helen’s Reading Room now says where to borrow a book, at her ask: its spines open their authors’ pages, and a line under the bookcases’ introduction sends anybody who wants the book itself across the campgrounds to Ryan’s shelves in the cave at the Solarpunk Hermitage, where every book has a link to borrow it or read it.

2026-10-24 — Back to the street puts you where you were on it

A room’s way back takes you back to where you were, not to the top of the page. “Back to the street” opens the street at the door you went in by, “back through the leaves” opens the Jungle Room at the door to the Den, and the same goes for every room’s way back to the street, to the room in front of it, or to its area: the Campgrounds, the Outskirts, the caverns and the rest. It is what your browser’s own Back button does, and the forums, tasks and the office have done it since 2026-10-21. From a room behind a room it goes back more than one step, and Forward walks you in again.
It keeps nothing. It uses your browser’s own history for this tab, and nothing is stored or sent for it. If you came into a room from somewhere else, so this tab has never been where the link goes, the link goes there the ordinary way, to the top. A link to one part of the street still goes to that part, and a door into a room still opens it at its top.
It reaches every room, the ways back from the Faery Yurt’s own rooms into the yurt included, as the street’s conventions do.

2026-10-24 — A link to any section, from the # beside its heading

Every section heading on the street has a # beside it now, in the heading’s own ink and lettering. Pressing it copies a link straight to that section, to send somebody to the part of a room or a document that matters. It says “Link copied” beside it, and to a screen reader. On a computer it shows when you point at the heading or reach it with the keyboard; on a phone or tablet it is always there, because nothing there can point.
A link to a section lasts. Each heading got its name in the address once, from its words, and keeps it if the heading is reworded later, so a link already sent still lands.
In the forums, a heading in a post has a # too, so a Wiki or Team Docs page can be linked to one section of it. The link opens the topic at that heading. It names the heading by a short code rather than its words, as the forums’ links name topics and posts by theirs.
Swaying Sweetgrass’s sign-off had been sitting just under the meadow’s header, with the rest of the room after it, because the page closed its main part early. The whole meadow is inside it now, and the sign-off is at the foot.

2026-10-24 — Unreads is at the top of the chat page

On the chat page, Unreads is above the channels now, at the top of the left-hand column, instead of under every channel, where reaching it took a lot of scrolling. On a narrow screen it comes just before the button that opens the channels, so the channel itself is no further down than it was.
The radio on every other page is as it was, with Unreads under Who’s around. The CB guide says where it is on each.

2026-10-24 — Anybody signed on walks straight into Cavendish’s open meetings

The lobby is for guests now. In the calls in the Events Room, the Operations Room and the Editorial Room, anybody signed on to the CB comes straight in, and only somebody joining without an account knocks and waits.
You come in as one of the call’s moderators, because 8x8 lets nobody else past its lobby. So anybody signed on in those three calls can let a guest in, and can also mute or remove people, end the meeting for everybody and switch the lobby off. This changes our earlier rule that the base station is the only moderator, for those three calls only; every other room’s call is as it was, and recording and transcription are still the base station’s alone.
Each room’s call panel, Cavendish Coworking and the privacy page say so.

2026-10-24 — A room’s page can be named on the CB, as well as its channel

Type / and the start of a room’s name in the message box and the radio offers the rooms’ pages, the way # offers rooms. The message carries /the-den, and every radio shows it as /The Den, linked to the room’s page. On the chat page a #the-den opens The Den’s channel there, so /the-den is how to send somebody to the room itself. Anywhere else both go to the room, as a #tag always has.
Only a room is a link: a / after a space or at the start of a line, in lower case, naming a room on the street. and/or, /usr/bin and /the-den/somewhere stay words. The CB guide says so.
The teleporter shows each room as /the-den now, on the radio and on the guest bar, because it takes you to the room’s page. Typing #the-den or /the-den into it still finds The Den.

2026-10-24 — The Adventurer’s Guild reads in a low-stimulation mode again

The Adventurer’s Guild went blank in every low-stimulation mode, since the modes arrived this morning. A mode gives every box on a page its quiet ground, and the layer the guild’s fanfare throws its sparks into covers the whole window, see-through until a fanfare, so the mode turned it into a sheet over every word. Decoration takes no ground in a mode now, so it stays see-through.
The same fix brought back words in other rooms that were partly hidden in a mode: the keys on the Playhouse’s sound board, lines under the pool of light in the Healing Checkpoint, and lines under a vine, the notebook’s highlighter and the pebble stones in the Faery Yurt.
Maintenance in the Faery Yurt, which changes nothing you can see outside a mode: its two vines are marked as decoration, as the drawings inside them already were, and its shutters are marked as covering their windows on purpose, so in a mode they stay shut rather than turning see-through.
The check that Gentle never takes away the words now renders every page in a mode as well, and stops the build if anything the mode filled in lies over a word.

2026-10-24 — The low-stimulation modes are CB themes too

A new group under the radio’s Themes: Low stimulation, by request: Warm Light, Cool Dark, Plant Green and Red Light, the dial’s four modes, for the radio alone. The room keeps its own colours and only the radio goes quiet. Each is the radio exactly as it is in that mode, the same colours by name, with no drawing and nothing that moves, and every word clears 4.5 to 1. The dial’s modes still lay one over the whole page. The CB guide has them.
They are themes everywhere the CB’s themes are: for the call window, for your profile card, and for the forums when you give them a theme of their own.
The CB guide’s paragraph on the Glitter dial reads properly again: a sentence about the radio’s own window had been pasted into itself.

2026-10-24 — Video cards play even when their length is not known

A YouTube or Vimeo card on the CB, or a video preview in the forums, plays now even when our server could not find out how long the video runs, Ryan’s call: the player shows its length the moment it starts. Its button says the length when it is known. So YouTube links on the live site play, key or no key.
Only a video that cannot play on other sites is a link to YouTube instead: one its maker keeps off other sites, an age-restricted one, one not yet live, or a private one.
The rooms’ own play buttons all still say how long they run, and four sentences that spoke for every button on the street now speak for the rooms’: in the Adventurer’s Guild, Big Steep Fermentables, Breaker Breaker and Swaying Sweetgrass.

2026-10-24 — YouTube cards ask YouTube how long a video runs

On the live site, YouTube links on the CB were coming out as links to YouTube rather than players. A card plays a video only when it can say how long it runs, and from our host’s servers YouTube’s pages would not say. Our server can now ask YouTube’s own Data API instead, sending it only the video’s id, and YouTube cards play once that is switched on. The forums’ previews ask it too. An age-restricted video, one not yet live and one its maker keeps off other sites stay links to YouTube.

2026-10-24 — Links on the CB become cards, and videos play in them

A link in a message on the CB gets a card a moment after the message goes out, by request: the site’s name, who made it, its title as a link that says where it goes, and its description, or for a post on X or Bluesky the words of the post. Up to three in a message.
A YouTube or Vimeo video plays right in the card, behind a press that says how long it runs. Nothing from YouTube or Vimeo loads until somebody presses it.
Our server reads each link once, just after the message goes out, so the site sees our host and never you or anybody reading. A card never has a picture, and nothing a site sends to put on a page is put on ours. Any site that publishes an oEmbed endpoint is read for its words; the ones that play here are the ones the street already plays. Write a link in angle brackets, <https://…>, to send it without a card. The CB guide and the privacy page have the rest.
A link in the forums reads the same oEmbed answers, so a post on X or Bluesky there now shows its words.

2026-10-24 — My own order for the chat page’s channels

My own order is a fourth way to sort the channels under tags on the chat page, by request. Arrange puts Move up and Move down beside every channel, each group on its own; Alt and an arrow on a channel moves it too, and so does dragging. A line says where each one went.
It follows you from one device to another, because it is kept on our server under your username: which channels, in which order, under which group, and nothing about when. Nobody else is shown it, and Forget me and deleting your username delete it. The privacy page says so, and the CB guide says how.
Going back to A to Z takes the line about the last order away, which it had been leaving behind.

2026-10-24 — The chat page’s channels, A to Z or by activity

On the chat page, the channels under each tag are A to Z now, passing over a leading The, A or An, so The Den is with the Ds. Community and Staff keep their own order.
Sort the channels under tags can put them in another order: Recently active, newest message first, or Most active, most messages in the last 48 hours first. They are sorted only when the page opens, when you choose an order and when you press Sort again, never as messages come in, so nothing moves while you are reaching for it. The server sends the order and never a time or a number, leaves out any room that keeps to itself or that you cannot go into, and does not count the bot that says The Feed’s and The Source’s arrivals. Your browser remembers the order you chose. The CB guide and the privacy page have the rest.

2026-10-24 — Bigger headings on the CB, and In this channel in parts

Every heading inside a part of the radio is bigger, on every page and on the chat page: People, Calls going now and Your chat status under Who’s around, the Themes groups, Profile’s sections and the rest. The parts’ own headings went up a size with them, so a part still reads above what is in it, and the room’s name under Where you are is still the largest words on the radio.
On the chat page, the groups of channels down the left are bigger: Community, Direct messages, Staff, Music and every other.
In this channel is in smaller parts now, each under its own heading: Seen here (Be seen here, and who else is seen), In this room’s call (Join this room’s call, and who is in it), Your familiar (Bring my familiar, or where to find one) and On now. A heading with nothing under it just now is not shown. The CB guide says what is where.

2026-10-24 — The Glitter dial and Open in Chat, on the CB

The dial is on the radio now, by request: Glitter dial, beside I need a bodymind break under Where you are, opens Gentle, Regular and MAX GLITTER and the low-stimulation modes, so you can turn the dial or escape into a mode from any page the radio is on, the pages with no dial of their own included. It is the same dial, not a second one: turn either and the other follows. From the radio’s own window it turns the page you came from.
Open in Chat comes after it and takes you to the chat page with the room you are in picked, or World on a page that is not a room. The CB guide has both.
The dial at the top of a page says what Gentle, Regular and MAX GLITTER do again. Its line under the buttons had been blank since 2026-09-21, when the Playhouse’s toys took the same name in the street’s script and silently replaced the dial’s words; only the low-stimulation modes’ lines, added this morning, were showing.

2026-10-24 — Pets: down on the floor with the animals

Pets is a shopfront on the street, between Coping and Show Your Work: the floor at the end of the day, a dog and a cat asleep on the rug and a rabbit by the skirting board, the light in the window going, and nobody switching the lamp on, because getting up would mean moving somebody. Nothing in it moves, at any setting.
It says why co-regulating with an animal matters so much to so many Autistic people, and to everybody else: an animal wants no eye contact, no small talk and no mask, and being with one can be enough. Mammals settle one another, and the room quotes the lines on our own pages that say so, from our Co-regulation and Polyvagal Theory entries, with Helen Edgar on being with somebody and our Body Doubling and Glimmers entries, each credited to whoever wrote it.
Every room on the street with animals in it has a pet flap there, set into the skirting board at the height of whoever uses it: the three shelters, Pekoe and Purrs, the Run, the Truck Stop’s treat truck, the sanctuary at All Needs Met and Chimera Obscura. A new pets room on the street gets one too.
Its channel on the CB is under Community on the chat page, for your animals: pictures, stories, worries and questions, and the ones who are gone. It is not a vet, says nothing about what an animal will do for your health, ranks no animal above another and counts nobody’s.

2026-10-24 — Following a link no longer hangs up your call

While you are in a call, anything on the CB that would take you off the page opens in a new tab instead, and the radio says so: a room’s #tag or a link on the channel or in a conversation, a room on Who’s online or Unreads, a room on somebody’s profile, the teleporter and Take to the forums. Following a link used to leave the page, and a page that goes takes its call with it.
Every other way off the page asks first while a call is up: a link in the room itself, Back, or closing the tab brings up your browser’s own Leave site?.
With no call up, links take you there as they always have. The CB guide has the rest, and Pop out still takes a call with you from room to room.

2026-10-24 — The chat page has its channels again

For a while after the chat status went up, the chat page showed the chat status where its channels belong, and the channel would not load: the new part had been given the same name in the radio’s code as the chat page’s list of channels, and replaced it. The channels are back, the chat status is under Who’s around where it should be, and the street’s checks now refuse two parts of a script sharing a name.
Not right now does not hold your notifications, the way Discord’s Do Not Disturb does: those stay with the notification switches, device by device, because somebody showing red may still want to hear a mention.

2026-10-24 — Your chat status: come say hi, people i know, not right now

The CB has a chat status, at the foot of Who’s around on the radio: whether you would like to be talked to, because somebody can be about and still not be chatty. It is one of the interaction badges, in the words and shapes of the Cavendish Space Project’s interaction cards, after the colour communication badges Autism Network International started at the first Autreat: come say hi, a green circle; people i know, a yellow triangle; not right now, a red square.
People see it beside your name on Who’s online and on Also seen here, on your profile under your name, and at the top of a conversation with you under Messages, with what the badge asks, so it can be checked before anybody writes. Each badge is its shape and its words as well as its colour, and looks the same in every theme.
It is a sign, not a lock: it stops nobody writing to you. It starts as none, nothing changes it but you (no idle, nothing that runs out), and we keep which badge and nothing about when. The CB guide says why the street did not copy Discord’s Online, Idle, Do Not Disturb and Invisible: Be seen here is already Online and Invisible. The privacy page has the rest.

2026-10-24 — Coping: the eye of the storm

Coping is a shopfront on the street, between Community Care and Show Your Work: three pages from our Regulation and Coping hub on stimpunks.org, Seeds of Cope, The Science of Cope and Cope Is Not an Insult, summarised in one room in our own words, with their lines quoted where they say it best. Small things to reach for right now, the cope map, the seeds, words you can borrow, why coping works, and why cope is not an insult.
It is the eye of the storm: clear sky straight up, a wall of storm cloud all the way round, and the dry floor of the eye in the sun. The storm stays in plain sight, all the way round and at the edges of a wide window, because the difference between coping and denial is that the storm is still there. Nothing in the eye moves by itself at any setting, MAX GLITTER included.
Doors stand on the floor of the eye, each opening onto a room on the street for coping, regulation or peer support, grouped by the moment you are in, after our page’s own way of not getting lost: overloaded, socially fried, spiraling, post-crash, and when it is the system and you want people.
Its channel on the CB is under Community on the chat page, for talking about coping. Dead Tired Society’s channel is no longer in Community, so the two do not compete; it is still under Coping and Calm with the rest of the street’s rooms. Community Care names Coping next door.
It is not clinical advice and not a crisis line, and says so before its first heading, with the crisis lines. Nothing in it is grit, a sneer, clinical, counted or cheerful at you, and nothing on the page keeps anything about you.

2026-10-24 — Community’s rooms are under their tags too

On the chat page, the rooms in Community are now also under their tags, as every other room is: Dead Tired Society and Community Care under Coping, the Cave and the Community Center under Calm, the house at Cavendish and its meeting rooms under Meetings, the rooms with something to watch under Videos, and Show Your Work under Make/build and Art. They stay in Community as well.
The Town Hall’s private rooms and World are not under any tag: the private rooms are only ever listed for the people who can go in, and World is the whole street’s channel, first in Community.

2026-10-24 — Rooms have tags, and the chat is grouped by them

Rooms have tags now, saying what each is for: Music, Videos, Pets, Pubs and restaurants, Games, Calm, Coping, Homes and Make/build, and, so that every room has one that is true of it, Reading, Art, Outdoors, Areas, Meetings, News and notices, Forums and Paperwork. The rooms in Community and Staff keep their own groups.
On the chat page, the channels after Community and Staff are grouped by those tags, in place of the one long list called World. A room with more than one tag is under each, so the Latibulum is in Music, Videos, Calm and Coping. The forums’ categories follow The forums, under Forums.
Find a channel finds a tag too: type pets and the whole Pets group comes up. The CB guide says so.
Music and Videos mean something to press and play, so a room tagged either is held to Now Playing, and a room on that bill is tagged one of them. A new room on the street needs its tags before the chat will build.

2026-10-24 — Breaker Breaker: CB radios, CB slang and the long haul

Breaker Breaker is a new shopfront on the street, between Show Your Work and Your Room, for the citizens band: the radios, the way people talk on them, where the band came from, and the truckers who kept their sets on. It has a channel of its own on the CB.
It is lit the way a convoy is at night: every light in it is a marker lamp, which shows where the edge of a rig is and lights nothing round it, amber at the front and sides and red at the back, because those are the law’s colours. Across the top, the interstate from the driver’s seat, drawn lamp by lamp, with the radio on the dash on 19. Nothing blinks and nothing moves at any setting.
Why it is called the citizens band, and why this street took the word: a band for anybody, with no exam to pass and, from 1983, no licence, where people chose their own names. And what this street’s CB took from it: handles, a channel everybody shares and one for every room, 19, the squelch, off being off, nothing kept for long, and BASE.
Steve Silberman on amateur radio, from NeuroTribes, read on our page about written communication, beside that page’s own line on text as a medium neurodivergent people helped build because they needed it.
The slang, from breaker to the back door, in our words from Wikipedia’s list. The parts of that list that name people unkindly are left off.
On the rack, Dale Watson’s three Truckin’ Sessions records, every song on the back of its sleeve with its own button, and C. W. McCall’s Convoy, each from its makers’ own channel. Not a line of any song is on the page.
A job for the Adventurer’s Guild: the microphone has come off its hook. Racing Sans One and Titillium Web join the faces.

2026-10-24 — Jellies on the bodymind break

The bodymind break has jellies beside the forest, at Helen Edgar’s ask: Monterey Bay Aquarium’s Live Jelly Cam, the one on our Watering Hole Hangs list that the Jungle Room carries too. It is live, so its button says it runs until you close it rather than how long; like any live camera it can show an empty tank or nothing at all. Nothing reaches YouTube until you press it, and closing the break stops it.
And then the break is done, in Helen’s words, so it stays a quiet screen and does not end up as busy as the rooms.

2026-10-24 — Feeling overwhelmed? Escape to a low-stimulation mode

Four low-stimulation modes in the dial’s box, under the levels: Warm Light, Cool Dark, Plant Green and Red Light. Each lays a few quiet colours over every room on the street and over the CB’s themes, for when the street is too much even at Gentle. Each button wears its own mode, so you can see what it does before you press it. The bodymind break offers them too.
Every room is its own world, and a mode is the one time they all look alike, because you asked. It is the dial’s own idea: how loud the street is belongs to you. The rooms are untouched; leave the mode and every one is as it was.
The same rooms and the same words: a word on the mode’s ground in its ink, every link underlined, every edge the mode’s line, no glow, no gradient and no picture behind the words, and nothing moving, so a mode is Gentle as well. Drawings, games, videos and players keep their shapes in the mode’s one colour. Pictures keep their own colours, for the polaroid wall’s promise that we do not filter anybody. Red Light is red and nothing else.
It is on before a page appears, so nobody in a mode is shown a room’s colours on the way in, and it stays on every page until you leave it: press the mode again, Back to the rooms’ own colours, or a level. It is kept in your own browser as love-low and sent nowhere (the privacy page).

2026-10-24 — I need a bodymind break, from the dial and the CB

A calm screen over whatever page you are on, from I need a bodymind break: in the How loud do you want it? box at the top of a page, under Where you are on the CB’s radio, and as Break on the radio’s bar while it is folded and on the CB bar for anybody not signed on. Helen Edgar’s idea, because the street is busy even at Gentle: somewhere that is just a blank, cool screen to regulate in, saying breathe, it will be okay. Ryan’s answer was Cavendish Space’s button of the same name, put in the CB, and then in the dial’s box too, which Helen said yes to.
A far treeline in mist, and a few words: dusk on a device set dark, mist on one set light, with every word measured on both. Nothing on it moves, at any setting, MAX GLITTER included.
For when a break is not enough (Helen’s ask the same day): crisis lines and warmlines and our Help page, as buttons, near the top, and, lower down, somewhere quiet on the street: Stay Frosty, the Healing Checkpoint or the Latibulum.
A forest to watch, if you like, the one Helen linked: Forest 4K, a nature film by Relaxation Film with music by Richard Nomad, three hours of streams, birdsong and soft piano, which says how long it runs before you press it and fetches nothing from YouTube until you do. Back to the quiet screen puts it away, and closing the break stops it.
It asks before it stops anything. If a film or a recording on the page is playing, the break says so and offers Pause it; it pauses nothing by itself, because somebody may have the Latibulum’s ocean waves on because they want them. While it is up the radio reads nothing aloud, and what was said meanwhile is on the channel when you come back.
It keeps nothing and sends nothing, and its own script is not downloaded until the first press. The privacy page says so, and the CB guide says where the buttons are. I’m back, or Escape, closes it and puts you back where you were.

2026-10-23 — Show Your Work’s bench takes photographs, under the polaroid wall’s rules

A card on the bench can carry a photograph of the work, under the polaroid wall’s rules: the yes of whoever took it and anybody in it, a description of what is in it in its maker’s own words, nothing a camera writes into the file, and gone, not hidden, the moment its maker asks. Ryan’s call, the same evening the room opened with none.
Every one is a record on the wall’s own list, kept off Enid’s wall and naming this room, so the tool that builds the wall walks the bench like every other page and refuses a photograph with no record, no description, camera data or a filter. Shown whole: not cropped, not filtered. Put yours on the bench and the Community Center’s service board say what to send.

2026-10-23 — Show Your Work, a garage with the door rolled up

Show Your Work is a shopfront on the street, between Community Care and Your Room: a garage with its door rolled up, where the work of folks in our community is shown before it is finished, out where the people who love the same things can find it. Ryan’s brief.
It leads with our show your work philosophy and how we practise it, out of our own pages: Show Your Work, our Infodumplings post Show Your Work, One Card at a Time, Default to Open and our glossary’s Scenius. Austin Kleon’s idea and Brian Eno’s word are credited where they stand, every quotation was read on one of those pages, and each is checked against them word for word.
Three places to show your work, for three lengths of time: the room’s channel on the CB for today, under Community on the chat page; Show your work in the forums for the longer write-up and the conversation after it; and the bench, for as long as you like.
The bench holds only what its maker turned over, after our post’s line that turning a card over is the consent: every card says whose the work is as they asked to be named, where it lives, what state it is in, and whose words describe it, and comes down the moment its maker asks. To start it, the bench holds two unfinished things of our own, Cavendish Cards and this street, and ends in a blank card that asks what is missing. The Community Center’s service board has a slot for it. No photographs on the bench yet.
Nothing on the bench is ranked or counted, nobody is pitched to or called a genius, and nobody’s draft is marked. The garage is lit by the day coming in through the open door, and nothing in it moves at any setting.
Cabin Sketch, by Impallari Type, a typeface drawn with its pencil work left in, and Sen, by Kosal Sen, join the street’s faces, in the Foundry, the Mopery’s nook and the Open Notebook’s sticker drawer. A job for the Guild, a share card, a fractal window and liner notes come with the room.

2026-10-23 — The Source, up the hill behind The Feed, and both rooms’ channels hear what arrives

The Source opens behind The Feed (Ryan’s ask): white terraces under a warm spring, one pool for every repository on stimpunks.org’s feeds page, in that page’s order, and every commit a deposit in it, with its first line, its short id, its day and whose hands made it, off GitHub’s own commit feeds. Travertine is laid down a thin skin of stone at a time by the water that runs over it, which is how a repository is built too. Nothing on the hill is straight, and nothing is ranked or counted. The morning timers’ own commits are left off, and the morning task re-reads the terraces with The Feed’s boards.
Whose hands is every name a commit gives: its author, and anybody its message credits in a Co-Authored-By line, which is very often Claude. Where GitHub names no author, the deposit says so, and an address is never read.
The CB channels of The Feed and The Source hear each new item as it comes in, like a Discord feed bot (Ryan’s ask): every quarter of an hour our server reads every wire on The Feed’s boards and every spring on The Source’s terraces, and says anything new on that room’s channel under the room’s own name, marked BOT. Its first reading of a feed says nothing, nothing is said twice, and it never pushes a person’s message off a channel. Its name opens no profile and cannot be a username, nobody can edit what it says, and a moderator can take it off. Following the room by name tells you about each arrival; Follow every room does not. See the privacy page.
The Feed loses its section about how the board is set and what it will not do, and the two lines under its lede saying when the whole board was set and counting its wires and rows: Ryan’s call, dry hedging that distracted from the page. That reverses what CLAUDE.md said the hall must carry. Every board still says the minute its own wire was read, which is what keeps the room from pretending to be live, and the refusals behind the section are still in tools/make-arrivals.py.
Philosopher, Spline Sans and Spline Sans Mono join the faces; a job for the Guild, a share card, a fractal recipe, contrast pairs, liner notes, and a place on the map behind The Feed. Small screens and Print are now §124 and §125.

2026-10-23 — A Solarpunk patch at Brighter Days

A Solarpunk patch is lying in the shade under the first row of panels at Brighter Days Solar Farm, by the chiltepin, for your battle jacket (Ryan’s ask). It is shaped like one of the farm’s panels, tilted to the sun: deep blue glass with the faint lines of its cells, a hard white line of sun along its top edge, SOLARPUNK in the farm’s wide sun-yellow letters, a future with dirt behind our ears under it, and a sprig of small red chiltepin peppers growing out of a heap of soil at its foot. Like every patch, it is drawn only in its own room’s inks and lettered in its own room’s faces.
The line is after Adam Flynn’s “Solarpunk: Notes toward a manifesto” (Project Hieroglyph, 2014), which says solarpunk is “a future with a human face and dirt behind its ears”. The patch says so beside it, and the liner notes credit him. Our glossary credits the line to a video; Star Stuff’s Shared Air zine traced it to Flynn, and the line was read in his piece before it went on the patch.

2026-10-23 — stimpunks.org’s form entries on the office’s dashboard

The office’s dashboard lists the latest form entries from stimpunks.org, first under Newest (Ryan’s ask): the highest WPForms entry number first, each with the form it came from (Request Aid, Request Creator Grant, Connect, Volunteer or Join Our Community), who sent it, the day, and the grant request or case it made, linked. Under them, how many came from each form this week and the week before.
It is worked out from the office’s own records each time the dashboard opens and keeps nothing new. An entry from a form the office takes nothing from, or spam, never reaches the office, so the numbers skip, and the list says so. Each form type in data/office.json now names its form as stimpunks.org titles it, and tools/make-office.py refuses one that does not, or two that name the same form. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, office.js, data/office.json, tools/make-office.py.

2026-10-23 — A call for a moderator waits on the desk

When somebody who is not a moderator calls @moderator, on a channel or in a forum post, a note goes on the desk in the Moderators’ room as well as telling the moderators who asked to hear (Ryan’s call). So a call made while none of them was listening is still waiting: who called, when, where, linked, and the words they called with. An edit leaves one only if it newly calls.
Nothing comes from a room that keeps to itself, or from one only some people may enter, and a moderator’s own call leaves no note. A moderator closes a note once the call is answered, which deletes it, and nothing says who closed it; one nobody closes goes after thirty days. A note stays if the caller takes the message off or deletes their username, as a report does. The privacy page says so. New: /cb/mod-calls. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, /cb/transmit, /cb/edit, /cb/forum, desk.js, town-hall-moderators.html, tools/check-push.py.

2026-10-23 — @moderator, @director, @board and @administrator

An @ can call a role now (Ryan’s ask), on a channel, in the forums, and in Tasks and the office. @moderator calls every moderator, and anybody signed on can call it, which is how to ask our moderators for help. @director, @board and @administrator can be called by our moderators, directors, board members and administrators. The roles you can call come first in the @ list, each saying what it calls.
Everybody holding the role is told, and nobody is told who that is. On the CB and in the forums, the people holding it who switched on When somebody @mentions me are told where their pass can go, and the notification says which role; never in a room that keeps to itself. In Tasks and the office it goes into their Notifications there. A role called is drawn in a mention’s colour with nothing to press, filled in where you hold it, and a forum post calling a role you hold is under Mentions.
The server decides which roles a message called, from the sender’s own pass and the words, never from what a page sends, and the word must stand alone: @moderators stays words. Those four words can no longer be claimed as usernames. The privacy page and the CB guide say so. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, /cb/transmit, /cb/channel, /cb/forum, /cb/tasks, /cb/office, cb.js, links.js, forum.js, tasks.js, office.js, comments.js, cb-sw.js, tools/check-push.py.

2026-10-23 — Your own cat at Pekoe and Purrs, and your own dog on the Run

A cat you adopted can be let out in Pekoe and Purrs, and a dog you adopted off the lead on the Run (Ryan’s ask). Signed on to the CB, Your own cat or Your own dog in the room lists yours, and one press lets them out among the animals still waiting for homes, where anybody who opens the room can meet them. Another press takes them home. They stay yours the whole time, three at a time at most.
The room says they have a home and never whose. Their card says so where a waiting animal’s links to the shelter, and the list of who is in says it too. The animals waiting for homes come first: when every place is taken yours stay home, and if the shelter fills up while yours is out, the last one let out waits outside until there is a place.
While a pet is out, the street keeps a copy of them in that room’s list, beside the scrambled form of your name and nothing about when. Taking them home, Forget me and deleting your username delete it; the privacy page says so. Both rooms’ pages no longer say every animal in them is waiting for a home. New: release.js, /cb/release. Changed: roam.js, purrs.js, run.js, the shelter’s answer, tools/make-pekoe.py, tools/make-the-run.py, tools/make-rescue.py, privacy.html.

2026-10-23 — Who’s online stays open

Leave Who’s online open and it is open again on the next page, and after a reload, until you close it (asked for by our community). Your browser keeps that in love-cb, beside the radio’s size and where you put it, and closing it forgets it.
It still asks for the list only while the radio is open and listening: a folded radio sends nothing, whatever is open inside it. The privacy page lists it among what love-cb keeps. Changed: cb.js, cb-guide.html, privacy.html.

2026-10-23 — A community directory, and a tagline on every card

The community directory lists everybody on the CB who has chosen to be in it (Ryan’s ask), for anybody signed on: the avatar each person wears, their name, BASE for a moderator, their pronouns, their tagline and their nameplate, in alphabetical order. Pressing a name opens their profile, and Find somebody narrows the list by name, pronouns or tagline, in your browser, sending nothing.
Nobody is in it until they tick Show my profile in the community directory, new at the foot of your profile card’s editor, which shows your line as it will look while the box is ticked. The directory says whether you are in it, with a button to your card, and Who’s around links to it. Clear my card, a moderator clearing a card, Forget me and deleting your username all take you out of it.
A tagline on every card: one line of your own, up to 100 characters, under your name and pronouns, and beside your name in the directory.
It never says how many people are in it, nor when anybody joined. The privacy page says what it keeps, and the CB guide how it works. Changed: directory.html, directory.js, directory.css, netlify/functions/cb-directory.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, cb.js, cb.css, profile.js, tools/make-profile.py, privacy.html, cb-guide.html.

2026-10-23 — Cloud City, a radio theme, a profile effect, a frame and a decoration

A Cloud City radio theme, Ryan’s ask, after the city in the clouds of Bespin in The Empire Strikes Back: dusk over a sea of cloud with the afterglow lying along it, a striped sun going down behind it, the city standing out of the cloud on its stalk with its windows lit, and cloud cars holding station, along the radio’s trims, dividers and sides. It is navy, cream, gold, peach and rose, the radio’s name and headings are in Jost, its corners are rounded over the top like the city’s deck, and every word clears 6.35 to 1 or better. It is a banner and a nameplate for profiles too, and Jost is offered for your name on your card.
A profile effect, Cloud City, in the theme’s colours. Over your banner, the sky goes from night through rose to gold, a striped sun goes down behind the cloud, the city stands out of it with its windows lit, and two cloud cars hold station beside it. Cloud cars cross the profile now and then. When the profile opens, and once a minute, the sunset comes up over the whole profile with a sea of cloud along its foot, the city rises out of the cloud with its windows lighting from the top down, the sun sinks, and a pair of cloud cars flies out from the city towards you, fading after about nine seconds.
A Portholes frame, the curved wall of a city in the clouds with a round window all the way round and a sunset in each, and a sunburst in every corner; and a Cloud cars decoration, a bank of cloud round the foot of your avatar with a striped sun going down behind it and two cloud cars going round the top. Both are in your card’s own colours.
Nobody from the films is drawn, and no ship, emblem or lettering of theirs: the city, its cloud cars and the sunset are ours. Star Wars is a trade mark of Lucasfilm, and the credit on your card says so. Like every effect it moves only at MAX GLITTER or after Let my theme move, the cars drift forward and back and never round a loop, and nothing flashes. The liner notes and the CB guide say so. Changed: profile.js, cb-themes.js, call.js, cb.css, love.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, tools/make-profile.py, tools/check-contrast.py, cb-guide.html, liner-notes.html.

2026-10-23 — The notice can be put away

The notice along the top of the street has a Put it away button now (Ryan’s call), at the end of its line, or beside its horns on a phone. Pressing it puts it away on every page it is on, until a new notice goes up, and says so to a screen reader.
The privacy page listed the key first: love-notice, in your own browser, holding a short code worked out from the notice’s words and nothing else. It is never sent anywhere, nothing tells us who put a notice away, and it clears itself once that notice is no longer up.
Changing even a letter of a notice makes a new one, which comes back for everybody who put the old one away; the desk in the Moderators’ room says so, and its drawings are previews, whose button remembers nothing.
Changed: notice.js, notice.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, privacy.html, the Moderators’ room and tools/check-notice.py.

2026-10-23 — A notice along the top of the street

Our moderators can put up one line along the top of the street’s front page, the Community Center, the forums and the office’s dashboard (Ryan’s ask), for everybody, signed on or not. The first is up already: our own Rando Calrissian launches Cloud Services.
It is put up, changed and taken down at the desk in the Moderators’ room, which shows how it will look first and asks once more. One notice at a time, one line of up to 280 characters with bold, italic and links; a new one replaces the old, and the Brass Tacks Board is still where notices are kept.
At MAX GLITTER it sparkles: stars twinkle along its rims, each on its own clock, and a fanfare plays once when it arrives or when the dial is turned up to MAX, two herald’s horns with notes rising out of their bells and a wave of sparks running along it. The fanfare makes no sound, because nothing on the street sounds until somebody presses something. Below MAX nothing on it moves, and at MAX nothing flashes and nothing crosses a word.
It wears the CB’s clothes, because it is the CB’s: the radio’s colours, in the theme your radio wears on the page, or the forums’ and the office’s own.
The privacy page says what it keeps: the words, and which moderator put it up or took it down last and when, shown only at the desk. Opening those pages asks for it once, with nothing of yours in the request.
New: notice.js, notice.css, netlify/functions/cb-notice.mjs and tools/check-notice.py. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, desk.js, forum.js, office.js, forum.css, love.css, call.js, guest.js, the pages it is on, the Moderators’ room, privacy.html and cb-guide.html.

2026-10-23 — The channel comes first on the radio

The channel is straight under the room’s name now, rather than after Who’s around, Unreads and Events, which had pushed it too far down. Messages comes next.
On the channel as and Be seen here have a part of their own, In this channel, as they do on the chat page, under Messages, with Bring my familiar, Join this room’s call and what is on now in the room. Where you are is the room’s name. Everything after that is in the order it was.
At Full on a wide window the room’s name and the channel are the first column, wide, then Messages to Events, then the rest. The chat page is as it was.
Changed: cb.js, cb.css and cb-guide.html.

2026-10-23 — Events on the CB, after Discord’s

Anybody signed on to the CB can schedule an event (Ryan’s ask and calls, after Discord’s scheduled events): on World or in a room they can go into, in its call, in the room itself, or at a link off the street, with a title, a date and time, how long it runs and what it is about. It can repeat every week, every other week, every month on the same weekday, or every weekday, and keeps to its maker’s clock when summer time starts or ends. Whoever scheduled it, or a moderator, can change it, cancel one time, or cancel it.
Events is a part of the radio now, after Unreads, with what is on now in the room you are in, and on the chat page it is at the top of the channels and opens in the middle, at chat.html#events. Every time is in your own clock.
An event names who is interested and never how many, the way a reaction does, where Discord prints a number on every event. I’m interested puts your username on its list, and Add to my calendar gives your device a calendar file of the next time, made in your browser and sent nowhere.
Who sees one is who may go where it is: everybody on World, and in a room, whoever may go into the room, so an event in a Town Hall room or a staff category is only theirs. A room that keeps to itself has no events.
Two more notifications, each off until switched on: When an event I’m interested in starts, up to five minutes before, and New events on World and in rooms I follow. Pressing one opens the chat page on that event.
The privacy page says what is kept first: the event, its maker’s username and the usernames of everybody interested, and nothing about when anybody did anything. Forget me and deleting your username take your events and your name off every list.
New: netlify/functions/cb-events.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-events-start.mjs, which tells starts every five minutes, and tools/check-events.py. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, cb.js, cb.css, cb-sw.js, privacy.html, cb-guide.html and tools/make-chat.py.

2026-10-23 — A topic’s controls go to its foot

In the forums, Pin, Close, Move, Tags, Add a poll and Take the topic down are at the foot of a topic now, under Change this topic, after the posts and the reply box. They used to sit between the title and the first post, and the list for moving a topic read as the category it was in, which confused people. Nothing stands between a topic’s title and its words now, reading it or editing it.
Moving a topic names no category until one is chosen: the list starts on Choose a category, under the words Move it to another category, and Move with nothing chosen asks for one.
On a new topic, Tags are under the words, with the pictures and the poll, rather than between the title and the words.
Changed: forum.js, forum.css and cb-guide.html.

2026-10-23 — Join requests reach our Organizations page

A join request in the office can add an organization to our Organizations page on stimpunks.org, when they filled in that part of the Join form. A director names it (the form has not asked for the name), tidies its link and words, and chooses its ground. Check the Organizations page reads the page, says whose entry it goes after, and brings the logo they uploaded to look at; the director says in words what it shows. Add it to the Organizations page copies that logo into stimpunks.org’s media library and writes the entry at the end of the page.
The logo goes with its camera data taken off: where it was taken, the device and the time, from a PNG, JPEG or WebP; anything else is added by hand. The privacy page said so first. Nothing else of their join request goes, and nothing is added if the page has changed since it was checked or something by that name is on it already.
Both lines now take the name somebody asks to be shown by, once the Join form asks for it, and the Members page line falls back to the name they gave on the form.
Changed: privacy.html, netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, netlify/functions/cb-office.mjs, office.js, data/office.json, data/tasks.json, tools/make-office.py, architecture.html and cb-guide.html.

2026-10-23 — Join requests reach our Members page

A join request in the office can add somebody to our Members page on stimpunks.org, when they filled in that part of the Join form. It shows their line as it will look there, their name or pseudonym linked to their website and their words, in boxes a director can tidy first. Check the Members page reads the page and says whose line theirs goes after, and Add them to the Members page writes that one line at the end of its list.
This is the first time the office writes to stimpunks.org, as one WordPress user with an application password: Ryan’s ask. The privacy page said so first. Nothing else of their join request goes, it never happens when a form arrives, and nothing is added if the page has changed since it was checked or somebody by that name is on it already. WordPress keeps the page as it was before as a revision.
Changed: privacy.html, netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, netlify/functions/cb-office.mjs, office.js, office.css, data/office.json, data/tasks.json, tools/make-office.py, architecture.html and cb-guide.html.

2026-10-23 — A CB invite in the welcome email

A mailing template in the office can hold {invite}, a link to join the CB. Writing to somebody with it, from their contact or now straight from their join request, the email waits for Make their invite: one press makes a CB invite that works once and runs out after thirty days, fills its link into the email, and then Gmail opens with it ready to read and send. Nobody has to visit the moderators’ desk and paste a code in.
Its note says only that it was made in the office for one person, and nothing writes down whom it was for, on the invite, the contact or the join request, the same rule every invite keeps. Looking at a page makes no invite, each press makes a new one, and a mailing, which goes to many people, refuses a template with {invite} in it.
Changed: privacy.html, netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, netlify/functions/cb-office.mjs, office.js, data/tasks.json, tools/make-accounts.py, tools/make-office.py and cb-guide.html.

2026-10-23 — Join requests reach our mailing lists

A join request in the office now says which of our mailing lists they asked for on the Join form, the Members Only list and the Monthly Newsletter, and Add them to Givebutter’s lists adds them, on a director’s press. It sends Givebutter their name, their email address and the lists they said yes to, and nothing else of their join request. Givebutter finds somebody already there by their email and adds the lists without taking any away, and the join request then says which lists were sent and when.
This is the first time the office writes to Givebutter, which until now it only read: Ryan’s call. The privacy page said so first. It is never sent when a form arrives, only on that press, so a spam entry never reaches a list.
Changed: privacy.html, netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, netlify/functions/cb-office.mjs, office.js, data/office.json, tools/make-office.py and cb-guide.html.

2026-10-23 — A window seat in the Community Center

The Community Center is a quiet room now, after somebody in our community asked for a softer look, in the biophilic, low-stimulation direction Ryan chose, with a sense of refuge. It is sage lime plaster with one big window facing north onto a hillside, so the light is soft and the same all day and no sun lands anywhere, and a deep seat is built into the bay under it, with a cushion, a throw and a plant on the sill. The stripes of sun behind every paragraph are gone, and so are the grid of the block wall over them, the black felt strips behind the headings and the orange stacking chairs. Every word sits on flat plaster now, the headings are the room’s rounded face in its own ink, and the front desk, the community service board’s pigeonholes and the member map are pale ash.
It leans on 14 Patterns of Biophilic Design, by William Browning, Catherine Ryan and Joseph Clancy for Terrapin Bright Green (2014), credited in the room and in the liner notes: a view of a living hillside, a seat to look out from with the wall behind you, soft light, and lime, ash and wool. Nothing in the room moves at any setting.
Its door on the street has a hill in its window, its share card is the window seat, and its job marker is a leaf fallen from the plant on the sill. The job is the same job, and anybody who had done it still has.
Changed: community-center.html, love.css, index.html, design.html, liner-notes.html, README.md, fonts/_sources.json, data/quests.json, data/community.json, data/fractals.json, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-community.py and tools/check-contrast.py, and the notes in other rooms’ sections that described the old hall.

2026-10-23 — The member map zooms

The member map on the Community Center’s wall zooms now, after Ryan asked whether he could: with Zoom in, Zoom out and Whole world under it, and West, North, South and East to move it, so a keyboard can do all of it, and by hand with a double press, a pinch, Ctrl or Cmd and the scroll wheel, and a drag. The pins stay the same size while the world grows under them, so crowded places like the US east coast and Britain pull apart, and on a phone the numbers on the pins are as big as anywhere else. Pressing a pin says where it is.
Zoomed in, the map shows Natural Earth’s lakes, the borders between countries and the lines between states and provinces, from our own site, asked for only the first time somebody zooms, so the map everybody sees first is no heavier. It jumps where you ask rather than gliding, at every setting of the dial.
Changed: community-center.html, love.css, member-map.js, member-map-detail.json (new), data/world-detail.json (new), tools/pull-world-land.py, tools/make-member-map.py, tools/check-contrast.py and liner-notes.html.

2026-10-22 — The member map comes home

Our member map, of where our community lives, hangs on the Community Center’s wall now, a pull-down wall map in the hall’s own paint, in place of the Google My Maps map that stimpunks.org embedded. A pin says how many of us are in its place, Ryan’s call, and every place is listed in words below the map, by country. There is never a name. The 175 pins from the Google map came over with it, each only a place.
We draw the world ourselves, from Natural Earth’s public-domain outlines, so looking at the map asks no map service or any other site for anything. stimpunks.org’s Individuals page can show the same map as a picture served from here.
In the office, a join request has a Member map panel: the place they gave on the Join form is filled in, Find it looks it up on OpenStreetMap from our server, sending only those words, and Put it on the member map adds them, joining the place near it if there is one. Take them off the map is there too, and The member map, at the top of Cases, lists every place with how many are there.
The privacy page says what the map keeps, and changed first; the Mission says the street counts people here too. Tested: places grouped with how many, no id or name in what anybody sees, a city kept as one place, a member moved and taken off, a deleted join request taking its pin, Google’s pins brought over once and one taken off by hand, and a lookup sending only a place’s words. tools/make-member-map.py holds it. Changed: community-center.html, love.css, member-map.js, office.js, office.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, netlify/cb/world.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-member-map.mjs and cb-office.mjs, data/world-land.json, tools/pull-world-land.py, tools/check-contrast.py, privacy.html, mission.html, cb-guide.html, liner-notes.html and the onboarding template.

2026-10-22 — The Join form reaches the office

stimpunks.org’s Join form now sends each new entry to the office, which finds or adds the contact, keeps the entry as a Join Request and makes the onboarding task in Tasks, as described below. The WPForms plugin there is at 1.2.0, which can map a form in a WordPress option as well as in wp-config.php, and the Join form is mapped that way. Entries sent before tonight stay where they were.

2026-10-22 — Onboarding a new community member: templates, the Join form and Gmail

Tasks has templates: a task to start from, with its name, description, tags, priority, who it goes to and when it starts and is due. Choose one under Start from a template when you make a new task, or press Make a task from it on its page. A name or description can hold {name}, somebody’s name, and {contact}, {case} and {grant}, links to their records in the office; you replace them in the form, and Tasks will not save a task from a template with one left in. Ryan asked for this to make onboarding a new community member less manual. Tasks starts with one, Onboard {name} into Community, whose checklist is the forum’s Onboard Community Member guide.
When somebody fills in stimpunks.org’s Join form, the office now does the first steps itself: it finds or adds them as a contact, keeps their whole entry as a Join Request, a new type of case, and makes their onboarding task from that template, under nobody’s name, linking the join request and the contact, so each lists the task under Linked from. The task carries their name and none of their answers. If the template has been deleted from Tasks, the join request says no task was made. This needs the WPForms plugin’s version 1.1.0 on stimpunks.org and the Join form added to its settings there; until then Join entries stay on stimpunks.org as before.
Write to them in Gmail, on a contact’s page, can take a template: choose one of the mailing templates and Gmail opens with their address, the subject and the words filled in for them, ready to read and send, such as the Stimpunks Community Membership Confirmation invite. A template that needs a grant request they have not made says so, and Copy the email is there for one too long to hand to Gmail whole. The office still sends nothing itself.
The privacy page says what templates keep, that a Join entry makes a task, and what writing with a template does. Tested: the templates Tasks starts with, a template saved, changed and deleted, fill-ins refused where they do not belong, a Join entry making its case and its task once and linking both, a resend making neither again, a deleted template saying so, and every template filled in on a contact’s page. tools/make-tasks.py and tools/make-office.py hold it. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, netlify/functions/cb-tasks.mjs, tasks.js, office.js, office.css, cb-sw.js, data/tasks.json, data/office.json, both tools and privacy.html.

2026-10-22 — Wings on any chimera’s back

In Chimera Obscura any animal can have wings on its back now, spread behind its shoulders, and keep its own arms: a bear with an owl’s wings, a pig with a swan’s, a cat with a raven’s. A request in the suggestion box asked for wings.
They come from the birds, each in its own colours, so the wings are the bird’s on any body: an owl’s, a raven’s, a swan’s, a chicken’s, a parrot’s and a roadrunner’s, chosen under Back like an armadillo’s plates. The turkey’s back is still its fan and the peacock’s its train. Changed: chimera.js, data/chimera-obscura.json and tools/make-chimera-obscura.py.

2026-10-22 — Chimera Obscura’s shelf takes to the water and the air

New on the shelf in Chimera Obscura, from Ryan’s list and a request in the suggestion box: a raven, a dolphin, a jellyfish, a narwhal, a swan, a chicken, a turkey, a parrot, a snake, a chameleon, a frog, an axolotl, a platypus, a beaver, a squirrel, a capybara, a Highland cow, a roadrunner, a peacock, a koi and an octopus. Every part of each goes with every part of every other animal, as before.
They brought parts nothing had before, all drawn as code: a turkey’s fan and a peacock’s train for a back, a Highland cow’s shaggy coat with its fringe over the eyes, and a chameleon’s casque; horns, an axolotl’s gills, a chicken’s comb, and a roadrunner’s and a peacock’s crests where ears go; a raven’s bill, a parrot’s hooked beak, a swan’s bill and a platypus’s; a narwhal’s tusk, a forked tongue, a wattle, a beaver’s orange teeth and a frog’s grin; a snake’s slit eyes, a chameleon’s turrets and a frog’s eyes up on the top of its head; tentacles, fins and a jellyfish’s streamers; a jellyfish’s bell and a capybara’s square head; a koi’s barbels; a snake’s coils, spots, a koi’s patches and a macaw’s bare face; and a neck, so a swan, a turkey, a roadrunner and a peacock hold their heads up.
Some animals give a part by not having one: a snake’s arms and feet, a jellyfish’s arms and a frog’s tail are none, so a bear with a frog’s tail has no tail, and the words beside the table say whose it is.
Feathers on a dark wing are drawn light, so a raven’s wings, a macaw’s blue ones, and an owl’s in a panda’s colours show their feathers, where before they were drawn dark on dark.
The test that draws every pair of animals with every part from either now lets parts that never shape each other travel together (arms with feet, the mouth with the ears, the colours with the markings), so it still draws every pair and runs in about the time it did before the shelf grew. It was broken on purpose and still caught it. Changed: data/chimera-obscura.json, chimera.js, chimera-obscura.js, tools/make-chimera-obscura.py and tools/chimera.test.mjs.

2026-10-22 — The moderators’ desk: everybody, and kick, time out and ban

The desk in the Moderators’ room lists every username on the CB, says how many there are and how many are seen in a room now, and shows who is seen and where. A name opens its profile; At the desk looks it up. Moderators asked for it for safeguarding, and it is Ryan’s call, which reverses the street’s rule that there was no list of everybody, for moderators or anybody, and his call that the rule against counting people is about the street’s public surfaces and not about moderation; the Mission says so now.
Seen means they pressed Be seen here, by the same rules as Who’s online: a room that keeps to itself is never named. So the list never calls anybody offline: everybody not seen may be on the CB too. It shows nothing else about anybody: not when they joined, not an email address, not anybody’s roles beyond moderator, and nothing records who looked.
A username looked up at the desk can be kicked, timed out or banned. Each signs it off every device at once. A kick is only that; a time out keeps it off the CB for ten minutes, an hour, a day or a week, reading included; a ban keeps it off until a moderator lifts it, and holds the name so nobody else can claim it. Signing on, the person is told a moderator timed them out and for how much longer, or banned them, and where to reach us, and only after the right password, so nobody else who tries the name learns anything. Only until when is kept: not which moderator, not why. The desk does none of the three to a moderator’s username.
The radio and the rooms no longer say the password has changed when a username is signed off, because a moderator may have signed it off: they say it was signed off since you signed on.
The privacy page says all of this, and changed first, as did SECURITY.md, whose note on accounts was out of date. Tested: a kick, a time out that ends and is not kept, a ban that holds until lifted, a wrong password learning nothing, recovery refused while barred, and the list showing only what it should. tools/make-accounts.py holds each promise, and was broken on purpose. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, netlify/functions/cb-account-admin.mjs, desk.js, town-hall-moderators.html, love.css, cb.js and the rooms’ scripts that said the password had changed, privacy.html, mission.html and SECURITY.md.

2026-10-22 — Every sign-on note says invite

The notes shown to somebody not signed on, beside the things only a CB username can do, still said those things took a CB handle and the community password, which retired on 2026-10-21. Each now says it takes a username on the CB, which you join with an invite, and links to Getting started at the Community Center, where the front desk is too: on Count Me In’s stair, Pando Calrissian’s tree and fence, Plural Mural’s chalkboard, the Fridge of Sighs, the three shelters, and the pebble bowls in the Faery Yurt and the Solarpunk Hermitage, which tools/make-pebbles.py writes.

2026-10-22 — The Community Center’s door says invite

The Community Center’s door on the front page still said to sign on with a handle and the community password, which retired on 2026-10-21. It says now that you join the CB with an invite and a username and password of your own, which is what Getting started says inside.

2026-10-22 — Community Care: the street’s room for asking

Community Care is a shopfront on the street, between Chimera Obscura and Your Room: our mutual aid and care room. Its channel on the CB is where you ask for mutual aid, peer support and any other help, and where anybody who can offers it, and it is under Community on the chat page, beside World, the Community Center and Dead Tired Society, whose page now points to it for peer support. Ryan’s brief.
It is built out of three pages of ours: Community Care, our glossary’s Peer Support, and Tuesday Ferguson’s Tapping the Radical Roots of Peer Support. Every quotation was read on one of them, is credited to whoever said it, and is checked against them word for word.
The channel is for four things, after a line of Vivian Ly’s at Autscape 2020: asking, offering, receiving and declining, and all four are allowed. Vivian Ly’s talk, which our Community Care page carries, is in the room to press, and says how long it runs first.
Nobody who asks is sorted, owes anybody or proves anything, and nothing is counted. The room says it is not a crisis line and where the crisis lines are, says who can read the channel and how long a message stays, points to the forums’ Mutual aid and Coping for asks that need longer, and names the Foundation’s grants without promising them: they are by application, in scheduled rounds, and cannot cover anything urgent.
The room is a street roofed with everybody’s umbrellas, tied to one another, in the rain, after our Community Care page’s umbrella and its photograph of umbrellas strung over a street. Nothing else holds the roof up. At MAX GLITTER the rain falls on it, and never under it.
The Mission’s limit said this street is not mutual aid, which a room for asking for it would have made untrue. It says now that the street is not the foundation’s mutual aid: it still pays no rent, buys no groceries and gives no grant, and Community Care is where people ask each other.
Agbalumo, by Raphael Alẹ́gbẹ́lẹ́yẹ̀ with Sorkin Type and Eben Sorkin, and Ysabeau Infant, by Christian Thalmann, join the street’s faces, in the Foundry, the Mopery’s nook and the Open Notebook’s sticker drawer. A job for the Guild, a share card, a fractal window and liner notes come with the room.

2026-10-22 — A poll can be added to a topic that has started

A topic without a poll has Add a poll at its top, for whoever started it, the editors of a wiki it is in (Grantmaking’s directors and board) and our moderators. The poll stands under the post that opens the topic, as one made with it does, and whoever added it can close it too.
A poll is never added over one that is there, because its votes would go, and never to a closed topic. Adding one posts nothing, so reply if you want people to know.

2026-10-22 — Polls in the forums: a show of hands, or a sealed ballot

A topic can open with a poll, Norah’s ask: Add a poll under a new topic, with a question, two to twenty choices, one or several to pick, and a day it closes if you like. Its starter or a moderator closes it.
A show of hands shows everybody who can read the topic who picked what, as the votes come in, and a vote can be changed or taken back while the poll is open.
A sealed ballot keeps nothing that says who picked what: how many picked each choice, and apart from that who has voted, as a code that differs in every poll. So nobody can see anybody’s vote, moderators included, a vote cannot be changed or taken back and asks a second time before it goes, nobody sees a number until the poll closes, and once its results are out it stays closed.
This reverses the forums’ rule that nothing in them is counted, for polls alone, Ryan’s call: a poll says how many picked each choice, in its own order, never sorted by it and with no winner marked. The Mission says the street counts people in two places now, the World room’s Most active order and these, and the privacy page says what each kind keeps.

2026-10-22 — The newest email and the team mailbox’s counts on the office’s dashboard

The office’s dashboard lists the newest email filed, under Newest: each one’s subject, which contacts it came from or went to, and when, linking to the email. Until now the office kept no list of recent email, only each contact’s own; it keeps the twenty newest now, sealed, for the dashboard alone, with no address and no word of an email in it.
The team mailbox counts itself once an hour for the dashboard: unread conversations in the inbox, the emails that came in and went out in the last seven days against the seven before, and how many of those were with one of our contacts. Numbers only, so nothing about anybody leaves Gmail for them. The dashboard says when they were counted, and says a count could not be finished rather than showing a smaller number. The counts start once the team mailbox’s script is updated.
The privacy page says what both keep.

2026-10-22 — Messages on the chat page, and links named for their own site

Your conversations are in the chat page’s list, under Direct messages after Community, and the one you pick takes the channel’s place in the middle, as tall as the page, rather than squeezing into the right-hand column. All messages is the list itself, with Let people message me. Your conversations are kept out of the page’s address. The CB guide has more.
A link whose words name its own site is a link now, so [Chat — Stimpunks.World](https://stimpunks.world/chat) on the channel is a link to the chat page rather than the Markdown as typed. Words naming any other site still keep a link as typed, so nothing can pose as somewhere it does not go.
Messages’ Open button stays inside a narrow radio, at Full and on the chat page.

2026-10-22 — The chat page: every room’s channel on one page

The chat page is every room’s channel on the CB in one place, laid out the way chat is: the channels down the left, the one you pick in the middle with what its room is about, and who is around on the right. It is the radio itself, docked into the page in your radio’s theme, so replies, reactions, pictures, Be seen here and each room’s call all work there.
The channels are in three groups: Community, which is World, the Community Center, Dead Tired Society and every room at Cavendish Coworking; Staff, which is the Town Hall’s private rooms and the forums’ staff categories, shown only to the people who can go in; and World, which is every other room. A channel with something new in it is in bold with a dot, never a number, and a box finds a channel by its name or what its room is about.
The channel you pick is in the page’s address, so Back goes to the one before and a link can open on one, like chat.html#the-den. It changes nothing about the radio on any other page. The CB guide has the rest.

2026-10-22 — Grant rounds in Grantmaking, and tags in the forums

Notion’s Grants table now lives in the forums’ Grantmaking, rather than in a copy of Notion’s databases: every grant round is a topic tagged grant-round, and the rounds from the table were brought in at the time each was made, under the username that made it, with its grant type and approvals at the top. Each says it was brought from Notion.
Topics can carry tags, up to five words, and a category’s page can show only one tag’s topics. Tags are never counted. The CB guide has how.
Grantmaking keeps its topics for good, not for six months, and any director or board member can edit the post that opens a round, so each can add their name to its approvals, as in Notion. Replies stay their writers’ own.
A Grant Round template is in Team Docs’ Templates, with the sections the table’s own template had and the grant-round tag, which comes with it.

2026-10-22 — Buttons for formatting, and links without Markdown

Every Markdown box in the forums, Tasks and the office has buttons over it, for the many of us who would rather not write Markdown: Bold, Italic, Link, List, Numbered, Checklist where it fits, Quote, Heading and Code, with Ctrl or Cmd and B, I or K.
To make a link, highlight the words and press Link, then give the address; or paste an address over the highlighted words. The CB guide has the rest.

2026-10-22 — The office’s Newest, by the day they were submitted

The grant requests and cases under Newest on the office’s dashboard are the ones submitted last. They were the ones added last, and a batch brought over from EspoCRM had put requests from 2023 at the top.

2026-10-22 — The forums’ @ list offers more people

Typing @ in the forums offers anybody who started or last posted in a topic you can read, as well as the topic’s own people and anybody on Who’s online, so a new topic, or one only you have posted in, offers names too. If you can open Tasks, it offers everybody Tasks can assign. They are names you can already see on Latest; there is still no list of every username.

2026-10-22 — Tasks and the office, for the board too

Everybody on the board can open the office and Tasks, as our directors and administrators could, and can be given a task. They share one rule, so the one change opens both. Privacy and the CB guide say so.

2026-10-22 — Moderator, shown as a role on the desk

The roles on the desk in the Moderators’ room start with Moderator, ticked for everybody on the list, and the button puts somebody on the list as a moderator, so a moderator who is not a director, on the board or an administrator is one press: their username, nothing else ticked.

2026-10-21 — Back Office Operations, for our moderators too

Every moderator can read and post in the forums’ Back Office Operations, and hear its room on the CB, as well as the directors and the board. Being a moderator already opened the CB’s moderation tools, the Moderators’ room and the Moderators and Team Docs categories.

2026-10-21 — Roles, kept at the desk

Our administrators give and take moderators’ roles at the desk in the Moderators’ room: who is a moderator, and who also holds board, director or administrator. Until today the list was only in the site’s settings.
A few names stay on a break-glass list in the site’s settings, which the desk shows and cannot change, so nobody can be locked out. Board is given or taken only by somebody on the board or that list, because Executive Session is the board without staff, and nobody can be left without an administrator.
A role given or taken needs no signing off: the person’s radio picks up their new pass by itself. Privacy says what the list keeps: who changed a name last and when, and nothing more.

2026-10-21 — Mentions in Tasks and the office

An @mention in Tasks is drawn as the person’s name and opens their profile, in descriptions and comments, and in the office’s comments, as it already was on the CB and in the forums. Yours is marked.
Type @ and a name in a task’s description or any comment there or in the office, and pick from the list of the directors and administrators.

2026-10-21 — Links and Linked from, after Notion’s

Type [[ and part of a name in a message on the CB, a forum post, a task or a comment, or a record in the office, and pick a forum topic, or for our directors and administrators a task, a grant request, a case or a contact, to link it. It is drawn as what it is and its name.
A link never carries a name. The name is shown only to the people who could open it; everybody else sees that it is one they can’t open.
Linked from, on a task, under a topic and on an office record, lists what links to it, of what you could open yourself. Chats can hold links and are never in it, because the CB keeps them for 48 hours. Privacy says what it keeps.

2026-10-21 — Previews in the lists, and the forums one press away

Rest the pointer on a task’s name in Tasks’ list, or on a grant request’s or a case’s in the office, and a preview shows beside it, Norah’s ask: what happened to it last, the first parts of its description and its latest comments. Landing on the name with the keyboard shows it too, Esc puts it away, and the pointer can move onto it to read it.
The forums’ bar has Tasks and Office for our directors and administrators, and Tasks’ bar and the office’s have Forums, so each is a press from the others.

2026-10-21 — Tasks: Group by

Tasks’ list can be grouped, after Notion’s By assignee: Group by Whose puts each task under every person on it, assigned or also on it, so each person’s heading has all of theirs. Tags, Assigned to, Status and Priority group it too, a heading folds its group away, and a saved filter keeps the grouping.
A filter saved in the feed is kept now. Until today the server refused it.

2026-10-21 — Tasks: coloured statuses, and Whose

A task’s status is a coloured pill now, after Notion’s, in the list, on the board, in the feed and on the task: Not Started gray, Started the light blue Notion gives In progress, Completed green, Canceled brown and Deferred yellow, each with its name on it.
Tasks’ list has a Whose column: who it is assigned to and who else is on it, together, so you can sort by everybody on a task.

2026-10-21 — The office and Tasks, one press apart

The office’s bar has Tasks, and Tasks’ bar has Office, at the end of each, so you can go back and forth.
The office’s dashboard starts with Newest and Open tasks by person, then the figures, and each list in Newest is headed by a link to its own page: the grant requests, the cases, everybody’s tasks and the forums’ latest.

2026-10-21 — Invites, and every username claimed

You join the CB with an invite now. A moderator makes one at the desk in the Moderators’ room and shares its link, which opens the joining page: choose a username and a password of your own, keep the recovery code, and you are on. An invite can be for one person or many, and runs out after a day, a week, a month or never. Nothing records who joined with which invite; an invite counts its uses and that is all.
The starter password is retired, Ryan’s call, and it signs nobody on. This reverses what the street did since the CB opened: claiming your username was optional until today. If you are on with the starter password, the radio asks you to claim your username before anything else, and everything kept under it stays with it. A moderator’s username is claimed on the joining page with the moderators’ password, which signs nobody on either.
CLAIMED is gone from the channel, the forums and profiles, because every username is claimed. BASE still marks a moderator.
An email address for password recovery, if you want one. This reverses “no email”, Ryan’s call. Give one when you join, or under Account on the radio, and Email me a reset code at the front desk sends a code from our team’s mailbox, good for an hour. It is kept sealed and shown to nobody but you. What it keeps, and who handles it.

2026-10-21 — The office opens on its dashboard

The office opens on its Dashboard now, and the contacts have moved to Contacts in the bar.
The dashboard’s Newest has the forum topics posted to last, of the ones you may read, beside the newest grant requests, cases and tasks, each saying its category, who posted last and when.

2026-10-21 — Tasks: comments brought over from Notion

The comments on our tasks’ pages in Notion are on those tasks in Tasks now, each under its writer’s username at the time it was written, among the task’s other comments, and saying in Notion. Their writers can edit them here. Bringing them over told nobody.
Bringing comments over again changes the ones already brought rather than adding them twice, leaves alone one edited here, and leaves deleted one deleted here. A few that named members of the public were left in Notion.

2026-10-21 — The office: comments on templates and emails

A mailing’s templates and the emails filed from the team mailbox take comments too, at the foot of their pages in the office, sealed like every other comment there. They tell people as the office’s other comments do, saying only that they are on a template or an email.
Every template has a page of its own, opened from the list: its subject and words, who added and changed it, Edit, Send it as a mailing and Delete, and its comments. Saving one goes back to it.

2026-10-21 — Tasks and the office: comments

Every task in Tasks has Comments, after EspoCRM’s stream posts and Notion’s comments: the conversation about it, under its description, oldest first, with a box at the foot. A comment takes Markdown and has Preview; Ctrl or Cmd and Enter posts it.
So does nearly everything in the office: every contact, grant request, case and mailing, at the foot of its page, encrypted where they are kept like everything else there.
A comment tells the people it concerns, in their Notifications in Tasks and on their devices if they switched that on: for a task, whoever it is assigned to, anybody else on it and whoever made it; in the office, whoever added the record; and anybody who commented before and anybody it @mentions. It says who commented and on what, never the words, and opens on the comment. A comment in the office never names its record there.
Only whoever wrote a comment can edit it, and an edit tells only somebody it newly @mentions. Its writer or an administrator can delete it. Both Feeds show each card’s latest comments and have Comment on every card, and a comment puts its card first. Privacy and the CB guide say what is kept.

2026-10-21 — Tasks and the office: a Feed, after Notion’s

Tasks has a Feed beside the list, the board and the timeline: every task as a card, the one something last happened to first, saying what that was, with its description to read and tick, More for the rest of it, and Mark it completed. The filters and saved filters work on it as on the others.
The office has one too: grant requests and cases, and contacts if you ask for them, newest first, each with its description or notes, and Move to on a grant request or a case.
Neither keeps anything: both are worked out from what Tasks and the office already hold, twenty cards at a time.

2026-10-21 — The CB: Read aloud

A message’s three dots have Read aloud, on the channel and in direct messages: that one message, read out now in the same voice as Speak new messages aloud, whether that switch is on or off. It says who sent it, whose message it replies to, its words, and what its picture or sticker is. It stops whatever the radio was saying first; while it reads, it says Stop reading, and pressing it stops.
It keeps Speak aloud’s rules: a voice built into your own device and never a speech service somewhere else, and the static round it follows the dial. The CB guide says so.

2026-10-21 — The CB: replies

Every message on the CB has a Reply, a curved arrow between React and the three dots. It opens Replying to their name and the start of their words above the message box, and what you transmit goes out as an answer, with that line above it on everybody’s radio. Press the line to go to the message it answers. Cancel reply or Escape lets it go and keeps your words. Direct messages have it too, once a conversation is accepted.
A reply keeps which message it answers and nothing else of it. The line is drawn from what is on the channel now, so it changes when that message is edited, and says the message has gone once it is taken off or its 48 hours are up. Copying the quoted words into the reply would have kept them after the message, and after somebody took them back.
When somebody replies to me is a new notification switch, off until you switch it on, and Everything takes it in. It tells only whoever sent the message answered, and never in a room that keeps to itself. The CB guide and the privacy page say so.

2026-10-21 — Notifications: follow every room

Notifications on the radio have a Follow every room too, under Rooms you follow: every message in every room you can go into tells your device, and with Calls on, every call starting in one, including rooms that open later and the forums’ categories you can read. Norah’s ask, after the one for Unreads this morning. It can be a lot, and the switch says so.
World keeps its own switch, and Everything leaves this one as you set it. Switched off, you are back to the rooms you followed one by one. A room that keeps to itself still tells only a device that followed it there by name, so its own switch stays in it. The CB guide and the privacy page say so.

2026-10-21 — The CB: follow every room at once

Follow every room, at the foot of Unreads on the radio, follows every room you can go into at once, instead of pressing Follow this room in each. Unreads then lists any room where something new has been said since you last read it, in the street’s walking order, including rooms that open later and the forums’ categories you can read. Norah’s ask.
Switched off, Unreads goes back to the rooms you followed one by one, which it keeps as they were. It is kept in your browser only, like the rooms you follow, and a room that keeps to itself is never on it. The CB guide has it. It is for Unreads; notifications still follow the rooms you pick under Notifications.

2026-10-21 — Tasks, the office and the forums: back one step, to where you were

Going back in Tasks, the office and the forums goes back one step now, to the view you came from, at the height you left it, with the keyboard on the link you followed, once the view has drawn. Norah’s ask, and Ryan’s for the scroll. Your browser’s Back and Forward do it, and so does a link above every view you reached from another one, which says where it goes: ← Back to the board, say, or back to a task by its name. A view opened on its own keeps its old way up, like ← All contacts.
Contacts you had shown with Show more, and older topics you had opened in the forums, are shown again when you go back to them, so the place is still there. Drawing the same view again, as Forget what I have read does, keeps your place too, where it used to jump to the top.
Saving, cancelling, sending or deleting takes the place of the step it was done on rather than adding one after it, so Back never lands on a form you finished or something that has been deleted.
The tab’s own history keeps how far down each view was, beside its address, so a reload or coming back from another page finds your place as well; never a name or a word of what is in them, which the privacy page says for each of the three. The CB guide has it.

2026-10-21 — The forums: every category has its own channel on the CB

Every category in the forums is a room on the CB now, instead of the whole of the forums sharing one channel. Open a category, or a topic in it, and the radio’s This room retunes to that category’s own room, The forums: Coping, say, with its own channel, Be seen here, call and Follow this room. Move to another category and it follows, without the page loading again. The forums’ home, Latest, Mentions and Search are still The forums’ own room. Ryan’s ask and his calls.
A category’s room is for exactly the people who can read the category: a claimed username, with the category’s own roles, checked by our server for listening, sending, hosting a film, being seen, the call and notifications. So the channels of Moderators, Team Docs, Directors, Board, Back Office Operations, Grantmaking and Finance are their staff’s alone, as their topics are. A category inside another shares its room, so all of Team Docs is one.
Category rooms are kept off the street’s public list of rooms. The radio asks which ones you can read, so #tags, the teleporter, Who’s around and Unreads only ever name a category to people who can read it. In the World room, The forums’ line takes in what is happening in the categories you can read. The privacy page and the CB guide say how it works.

2026-10-21 — Tasks: brought over from Notion

The tasks made in our Notion since they were last brought into EspoCRM are in Tasks now, with their status, days, tags, priority and who is on them. Each says it came from Notion and links its page there. Notion does not say who made a task or when it was finished, so those are left blank rather than guessed.
Bringing tasks from Notion again updates the ones already brought rather than adding them twice, and one deleted here stays deleted, as with EspoCRM’s. Copies Notion’s recurring templates made of a task Tasks already makes were left out.

2026-10-21 — Tasks: notifications on your phone or computer

Something new in my Notifications in Tasks is a new switch under Notifications on the radio, for our directors and administrators, off until you switch it on. With it on, a device is told whenever something arrives in your Notifications in Tasks, with who did it and the task’s name, and pressing it opens the task. Your own changes never are. The privacy page says what a notification carries.

2026-10-21 — Four more paintings in the yurt, three more spines, Feldman and Fisher in the Cinema

Four more paintings hang on the yurt’s gallery wall, at Helen’s ask: Burne-Jones’s The Beguiling of Merlin, Waterhouse’s The Magic Circle and Hylas and the Nymphs, and Edward Robert Hughes’s Night with her Train of Stars, each out of copyright everywhere and each scan carrying a public domain template on its own Commons page. The Golden Stairs was the first choice and was left for Merlin, because neither scan of it carries that template.
Agnes Martin, Hiroshi Sugimoto and James Turrell are spines on the Art shelf in the Reading Room, each a door to their page on Wikipedia, because their work is still their own.
The Cinema’s Art shelf has Morton Feldman’s Rothko Chapel, the music he wrote for the chapel, played by Les Cris de Paris and the Ensemble intercontemporain on their own channel, beside the chapel’s own film; and its Philosophy shelf has more Mark Fisher: his Demonstration of Capitalist Realism from Artists Space, Kodwo Eshun’s memorial lecture from Goldsmiths, Acid Horizon on his final lectures, and two films from Epoch Philosophy.

2026-10-21 — #3ecologies in the Music Room, sparkling skies behind the portals, and one reel off the Cosmos shelf

The Music Room links to #3ecologies on YouTube Music, at Helen’s ask, under the record case. It is a search there, so it is a link that opens on YouTube Music and nothing plays here.
At MAX GLITTER the stars behind the yurt’s portal doors sparkle once the doors are open, at her ask: every star twinkling at its own pace and four-pointed glints flaring and fading across each sky. At Gentle and Regular the skies stay still, and nothing flashes.
Helen’s ballroom photograph hangs above the Music Room’s doors in the yurt now, at her ask, with its caption about the library turning into a masquerade ballroom.
The Cinema’s Cosmos shelf lost one reel, at her ask: a fan’s upload of the first episode of Carl Sagan’s Cosmos, which was not its rights holder’s.

2026-10-21 — The yurt’s doors open onto space, and the Cinema has a book

The doors to the Music Room, the Reading Room and the Cinema are portals now, at Helen’s ask: the Glimmer Window’s oak doors in their stone arch, the same size, and behind each one deep space, a sky of its own for each room (a violet nebula and a ringed planet, a moonlit constellation, a spiral galaxy). Open them and step through. The words under every door go through too, without opening anything.
The books in the yurt are smaller when shut, so the portals are the big things on the page; each opens out to its full size to be read.
The Cinema has a book in the yurt, bound like the songbooks: every reel on its rails, shelf by shelf, each line a link to that reel. Nothing in it plays.
Two more shelves in the Cinema: Films I Love, official trailers for films that are hers to love and yours to buy, rent or find elsewhere, and Things That Make Me Smile: Curb Your Enthusiasm from HBO, Peep Show, Frasier from Paramount+, Gilmore Girls and Jeff Arcuri, every one from its own official channel. Fan uploads were swapped for the official ones, and one trailer with no official upload anywhere was left off.

2026-10-21 — The Cinema, behind the yurt, with a reel for every film

A cinema door in the Faery Yurt opens the Cinema, at Helen’s ask: an old picture-house arch in the yurt’s timber with its screen lit and a film strip winding across the front of it, under a new heading of its own, The Cinema.
Every film she keeps is an old-fashioned reel on a rail on the wall, in rows rather than a bookcase, on shelves under her own headings: Philosophy (lots of Deleuze and Guattari, Bergson and Merleau-Ponty (Absurd Being’s podcasts on both, and lectures), Mark Fisher’s The Slow Cancellation of the Future, every talk of Robert Chapman’s that could be found, Astrida Neimanis on bodies of water, and Philosophy Tube), Nature, Cosmos, Weird stuff (ContraPoints), Art (Rothko and Goldsworthy, from Tate, MoMA, the Rothko Chapel and the National Galleries of Scotland), Ma, Minimalism & the Void, Poetry (Sylvia Plath and T. S. Eliot reading their own) and Relaxation. A reel can be one film, a whole channel or playlist that plays from the top with the rest to scroll through in the player, or a live camera: the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s jellies and the Okaukuejo waterhole in Etosha. A film says how long it runs before the press, a channel or playlist that it runs until you stop it, a live camera that it runs until you close it, and nothing plays until then. Every reel was pressed on the screen and played before it went up: where one of National Geographic’s playlists would not play in the United Kingdom, the reel holds its whole channel instead.
The Reading Room’s card catalogue has The Deleuze Seminars, his lectures online at Purdue University, on the Gilles Deleuze card, at her ask the same morning.
It is the Reading Room’s house two doors along, like the Music Room: claret walls, velvet curtains tied back from a silver screen, a candle in a sconce on each wall, three rows of velvet seats, and the light coming over your head from the projection box with the house lights down. The projector never flickers; its two reels turn at MAX and nowhere else. Join the Faeries and Grow a garden are in there too.
A job marker of its own, a ticket stub dropped under a seat, on the guild’s board; a card, a place on the map and a fractal window, like every room.

2026-10-21 — Tasks: activity and notifications

Every task in Tasks shows its Activity: each change made to it, newest first, who made it and what it changed from and to. A description’s change says only that it changed.
Notifications, beside the other views, list the changes to the tasks you are assigned to, are on or made, being put on or taken off one, a task a recurring task made for you, and @mentions of you in a description, with how many are unread in the bar and your tasks due today, tomorrow or overdue at the top. Your own changes are never there, and nobody else sees your list. The privacy page says what is kept.

2026-10-21 — The office: Givebutter on the dashboard

The dashboard in the office reads our Givebutter account late each evening, and when asked, and never writes to it. It shows what was given in the last 30 days against the 30 before, the recurring plans and what they give a month, every month of the last year, each campaign and what it has raised, and the newest gifts.
Nobody who gave is named: the office keeps no donor’s name, email, phone or address, as the privacy page says.
The QuickBooks summary now names only the kinds of transaction there were, so a month of deposits is no longer called deposits, payments and sales receipts.

2026-10-21 — The office: each night, the CB’s days, and QuickBooks

The dashboard in the office keeps a line each night of how many grant requests, cases and tasks were open, and draws them as lines from the first night on.
It shows how many messages went out on the CB each day for the last month: a count and nothing else, with no name, no room and no words, as the privacy page says.
The office can be connected to our QuickBooks. It reads the books late each evening, and when asked, and never writes to them; the dashboard shows the last 30 days of money in and this year’s income and expenses by month.
Each pipeline is held to its own cap of 100 on the dashboard and in Reports. The first version put both pipelines’ requests against one cap.

2026-10-21 — The office: a dashboard and EspoCRM’s reports

The office opens a dashboard of what came in this week against the week before, open grant requests against the cap of 100, open cases and tasks, and the newest of each, with charts of EspoCRM’s four dashboard reports. Its summary is plain sentences built from the same numbers.
Reports has all nine of EspoCRM’s reports, from grant requests by year and grants awarded by year to the grantees of any year and cases by status and year. Every chart says its numbers and has them in a table under it.
Cases no longer have the Invited In and Collaborating statuses, which were being retired; no case was at either.

2026-10-20 — The office: a mailing can start from a day

A mailing in the office can be narrowed to the grant requests submitted since a day, because a stage like Granted holds everybody who ever reached it. This year fills in the first of January. The preview says how many earlier requests it left out, the second press says so again, and sending is refused if the day changed after the preview.

2026-10-20 — The office: mailings to a grant stage

A director can email everybody at one stage of a grant pipeline from a template, from the office: Email everyone at a stage on the grant requests list, or New mailing. Templates take fill-ins such as {first}, {grant} and {amount}, and refuse one the office does not know.
Every email is shown filled in first, with everybody left out and why, and sending asks again, naming everybody it goes to. The team mailbox sends them within ten minutes, one email to each person, and each is filed on its contact.
Anybody who asked not to be emailed is left out. A mailing can be stopped while emails wait. Privacy says what a mailing keeps, and that it is the one time the office hands the mailbox’s script anybody’s address.

2026-10-20 — The office: a Gmail label adds somebody new

Somebody who writes to the team mailbox and is not in the office yet can be added from Gmail: put the Office label on one of their emails, on the web, on a phone or with a filter, and within ten minutes they are a contact, with the whole thread on their page. For an email we started, whoever we sent it to is added.
Only the name and address on the email go, and only for the emails somebody chose to label; everybody else’s email still stays in Gmail. Privacy says so.

2026-10-20 — The office: email with the team mailbox

Email between the team mailbox and somebody in the office is filed on their page, as EspoCRM did: newest first, each saying whether it went to them or came from them, and whole when opened, with its attachments named. A script inside the team’s Gmail sends it, every ten minutes, signed with a key of its own.
Only email with a contact leaves Gmail. The script is given a keyed hash of each contact’s address rather than the address, and sends an email only when somebody on it matches. Attachments stay in Gmail.
Writing stays in Gmail. Write to them in Gmail, Open the thread in Gmail and Reply in Gmail open it there, signed in as the team mailbox. Privacy says what the office keeps of an email.

2026-10-20 — The office takes stimpunks.org’s forms, and EspoCRM goes

A request for a grant, a connection or a volunteer application on stimpunks.org now arrives in the office, sent by stimpunks.org’s server and signed with a key the two servers share. The person is found by their email or added, and their grant request or case is made, once, however often it is sent.
EspoCRM is no longer used for anything. Its tasks, contacts, grant requests and cases are all here, and the forms that fed it feed the office instead. Privacy says how an entry arrives.

2026-10-20 — The office: cases

Connection requests and volunteer applications are in the office, which EspoCRM called cases, each keeping its number, sealed at rest like everything there.
A list and a board by status, as grant requests have, opening on the open cases. A contact’s page lists their cases beside their grant requests, and starts a new one from them.

2026-10-20 — The office: grant requests

Our grant requests are in the office, beside the contacts they come from, moved from EspoCRM: Mutual Aid and Creator Grants, each at a stage of its pipeline, sealed at rest like everything there.
A list and a board, after EspoCRM’s: filter by pipeline, stage and status, each choice saying how many it would show, with what the shown requests come to; or see one pipeline’s stages as columns and move a card by dragging it or by its own Move to. A contact’s page lists their requests, and starts a new one from them.

2026-10-20 — The office: contacts

The office opens, for our directors and administrators: the people and organisations we are in touch with, moving here from EspoCRM after tasks, with grant requests and cases to follow. A list a hundred at a time, a search over names, emails and phone numbers, sorting, and each contact’s page with their notes in Markdown.
Everything in it is encrypted where it is kept, under a key only the site’s functions hold; without the key the office is shut. Nothing about a contact is ever logged, nothing records who looks, and a search is never put in the page’s address, where the browser’s history would keep it. Privacy says what it keeps.

2026-10-20 — Tasks: tag colours

Tags have colours, a dot beside every tag’s name in Tasks, by what the tag is about: running things blue, money orange, people aqua, gatherings yellow, words magenta, the shop green, and looking after ourselves violet.
The timeline’s bars wear them: each bar filled with its first tag’s colour, and striped along its foot when its tags have more than one, with a legend above saying which is which. The colours change step for light and dark radio themes so the words on every bar can be read.

2026-10-20 — Tasks: yours includes the ones you are also on

A task is yours when it is assigned to you or you are also on it, and Tasks open on yours now, in the list, on the board and on the timeline. Whose picks everybody’s, one person’s, or the ones assigned to nobody.
Who else is on a task shows everywhere: a column in the list, a line on each board card, and on the timeline a task stands in the row of everybody on it, marked ALSO ON IT where they are not the one it is assigned to.

2026-10-20 — Tasks: a timeline

Tasks have a timeline, beside the list and the board: a row for each of us, the days running across, and each task a bar from the day it starts to the day it is due. Show a week, 2 weeks or 4, and move along with Earlier, This week and Later. The list’s filters work on it, and a timeline can be a saved filter.
That finishes moving the team’s tasks off EspoCRM: the tasks, the list, the board, saved filters, recurring tasks, checklists and the timeline are all on the street now. The CB guide has how.

2026-10-20 — Tasks: checklists you tick in place

A checklist in a task’s description is boxes now, as it was in EspoCRM: write a list item as - [ ] or - [x], and on the task you tick it where it stands. A tick changes that box and nothing else, so two people ticking at once both keep theirs. The CB guide says how.

2026-10-20 — Tasks: the recurring ones are made here now

The team’s recurring tasks are made on the street from today, not in EspoCRM: EspoCRM’s twelve are switched off and ours on, each with the same next day. The first one made here is the Weekly Editorial Meeting on Thursday. Tasks › Recurring has them all.

2026-10-20 — Tasks: recurring tasks

Tasks can come round again, as they did in EspoCRM: weekly, every 2 weeks or monthly. On its day a recurring task makes its task by itself, starting and due as many days after that day as it says, and its name can carry the week, the year or the month.
Each recurring task shows its next three tasks and the tasks it has made, and a task it made says so. Switch one off and it makes nothing until it is switched on again.
The team’s twelve from EspoCRM are here, switched off until EspoCRM’s own are. The CB guide has how, and the privacy page what is kept. A timeline comes next.

2026-10-20 — Tasks: a board, and saved filters

Tasks have a board, beside the list: the same tasks in columns by status, priority or who they are assigned to, each column saying how many it holds. Drag a card to another column to change it, or use the card’s own Move to, which works from a keyboard, a screen reader and a phone. The list’s filters work on the board too.
Saved filters. Save a list or a board as it is, filters, order and columns, under a name, and it is there on any device you sign on with, saying how many tasks it shows now. They are yours alone. The CB guide has how, and the privacy page what is kept.
Recurring tasks come next, then a timeline.

2026-10-20 — Tasks: the team’s to-do list, on the street

Tasks are the team’s to-do list, moving here from EspoCRM. Only our directors and administrators can read them, signed on to the CB with a claimed username, and they wear your radio’s colours, like the forums.
The list shows every task with its status, priority, who it is assigned to, the days it starts and is due, and its tags, and says how many tasks match. Filter by words in the name, who it is assigned to, when it is due, status, priority and tags, each choice saying how many it would show, and sort by any column. The filters and the order live in the page’s address, so a bookmark or a link keeps them.
A task has a Markdown description, people working on it beside whoever it is assigned to, and says who made it and who changed it last. Edit it, mark it completed, or delete it.
Kanban and saved filters, recurring tasks, and a timeline come next, in that order. The CB guide and the privacy page say all of this.

2026-10-20 — A page in the Wiki or Team Docs can be as long as a long document

The page that opens a topic in the Wiki or Team Docs can be 150,000 characters now, so the team’s longest documents go up whole as they move out of Google Docs, board minutes with their transcript included. Every other post, a reply on a page included, is still up to 20,000. The CB guide says so.

2026-10-20 — Team Docs in the forums, with templates and pictures in the words

The team’s documents can move out of Google Docs and into the forums. A new staff category, Team Docs, is for our moderators, directors, board and administrators only, keeps everything for good, and every page in it is a living document any of them can edit, as in the Wiki. Inside it are Field Guide, Notes, Meeting Minutes and Templates.
A category can hold other categories now. They stand under it at the side and on its page, and its page lists every topic in it and under them. Meeting Minutes holds a category for every year from 2024, and a new one arrives by itself each January.
A new topic can start from a template. Pick one over the title and press Use it, and its title and words go in for you to fill. The templates are the topics in Team Docs’ Templates, so the team keeps them up to date in the forums, the way it kept them in a folder before. A pinned one there is its read-me, not a template.
A picture can stand in the middle of a post’s words, for a screenshot at the step it shows. Paste a screenshot straight into the box you are writing in, drop a picture on it, or press Put it in the words, and it goes in where the cursor is. Everywhere else, pictures still sit below the words. A page in the Wiki or Team Docs holds thirty pictures and files, for a how-to with a screenshot for each step; any other post, six.
Tables were already there, and now the forums say so: a row to a line, a | between cells, and a line of dashes under the first row. Their headings are bold now. The CB guide and the privacy page say all of this.

2026-10-20 — The street on your Home Screen and in your Dock

People are adding stimpunks.world to their Docks and Home Screens, so we checked it behaves there. Chrome says it can be installed from every page, and it keeps a back button in a Mac’s Dock and in Chrome’s window, because a street of pages with no way back is a maze. Installed, each room still colours the window’s bar its own way.
On an iPhone or iPad, notifications need iOS or iPadOS 26 or later. Older versions save the street to the Home Screen as a Safari bookmark, and a bookmark cannot notify; from 26, every site added to the Home Screen opens as a web app, and notifications work. The CB guide, the privacy page and the radio’s Notifications tray said any iPhone would do, and say iOS 26 or later now.
Added to a Home Screen or a Mac’s Dock, the street starts afresh, because Apple keeps an installed web app’s storage apart from Safari’s: you sign on to the CB again there, and the dial and the animals you rescued start again too. The CB guide says so. Installed from Chrome or Edge, you stay signed on.
On Android, a CB notification’s little picture in the status bar is the heart now, where it was a plain white square. And the manifest, which tells an installed app its name and icons, says which app it is, so an install made before today stays the same app, and a change to it reaches installed apps without waiting out a week’s cache.

2026-10-20 — Albums and playlists play on the first press

Every album and playlist button on the street now plays when you press it. In these rooms a whole list only got ready when pressed, and you had to press play a second time inside the player: the records and the cave’s speaker at the Solarpunk Hermitage, the YouTube deck on Club Chronic’s stage, both decks at Pink Pony Club, the chancel in The Chappell, and the screen at Black Leather Lagoon. A single video already played on its press, and so did the lists in the other rooms. Now these do too. Nothing reaches YouTube before you press, the same as before; the press that asked for the list now plays it.

2026-10-20 — Follow keeps going through an album

Following somebody through an album now goes on from song to song. Helen hosted the John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman album at the Solarpunk Hermitage, Ryan pressed Follow, and his playback stopped at the end of every song. Each song in an album is a video of its own, and the radio was treating each new one as a film to get ready on its own: when a moderator is hosting, that puts the song by itself on the Hermitage’s television, where it plays to its end and stops. Now a host’s radio says which album or playlist the song is in, and Follow keeps pace with the whole list: when the host goes on to the next song, yours does too, and if they skip to another song, yours goes there, to the same place in it.
Pressing Follow before you have started anything gets the album’s own play button ready at the host’s song and place, and nothing goes up on the television. Catch up moves an album you are already playing to the host’s song and place, and still never presses play: it plays if yours was playing and waits if it was not.
Two smaller faults went with it. For about half a second between songs, the player still gives the last song’s title with its clock back at 0:00, and a host’s radio that spoke then told everybody the album had gone back to the start of that song; now nothing is said until the next song has started. And Follow used to take any stop for your own pause: now only a pause does, so a song that ended before the host’s waits for them, and a next song your player would not start is started, and the radio says so if it still will not. The privacy page says what a host’s radio now sends: the album’s or playlist’s YouTube id, beside the song’s own.

2026-10-20 — Your strip in the Dress-Up Den and Fantasy Fancy Dress, and a curtain at the back

Your strip is in the Dopamine Dress-Up Den and Fantasy Fancy Dress now, as well as the Bodymind Booth, so you can walk into either room on your own and bring back an avatar you kept. Signed on to the CB, press Open my strip: in the Dress-Up Den a bodymind comes back in with everything it had on, and an outfit goes back on the stand, ready to change and keep; in Fantasy Fancy Dress a bodymind comes into the fitting with its wings and ears and everything else, and when you take it back through, the Dress-Up Den knows which one it is, so Keep the changes changes that one.
Opening your strip only asks your Profile for what you already kept, and only when you press it. Nothing in Fantasy Fancy Dress is kept, and the privacy page says what opening your strip sends.
The way through to Fantasy Fancy Dress is a curtain you can see. It was a link in a sentence near the top of the Dress-Up Den, easy to miss; now it is a doorway at the back of the shop, its curtain in moons and stars drawn back with gold rope, the back room dark beyond it with a light at the far end, and a button under it, Through to Fantasy Fancy Dress. Press the curtain or the button. Your bodymind still goes through with you, and so does which avatar it is.

2026-10-20 — Howling Wolf, Starward Dreaming, Leaping Dolphins and Autumn Falls

Howling Wolf is a new profile effect: a wolf sitting on a crag against a full moon, raising its head and howling, with stars, cloud and a far ridge of pines over your banner. When your profile opens, the night comes up over it, the moon rises, the wolf howls and two wolves on the far ridge answer. Nothing makes a sound.
Starward Dreaming looks up through a clearing in the trees at the stars and the Milky Way, from beside a fire you cannot see: its light is on the trunks, its flames lick up over the foot, and its embers rise and become stars. When your profile opens, the trees close round the whole of it, a shower of embers goes up and becomes stars, and a star falls. The flames sway slowly and never flicker, so nothing in it flashes.
Leaping Dolphins is dolphins leaping in arcs across a sea dappled by the setting sun. When your profile opens, the sunset comes up over the whole of it and a pod of dolphins leaps across, one after another.
Autumn Falls is a big tree in red, orange and gold, its leaves drifting down into piles, and children popping up out of them, with one in a wheelchair beside them throwing leaves up. When your profile opens, leaves come down all over it, pile up along its foot, and the children pop up out of the piles.
Each is drawn in colours of its own over whatever card it is on, because moonlight, firelight, a sunset and an autumn afternoon with children in it are colours a card’s own cannot hold. As with every effect, the part that crosses your words, and the opening, are drawn only at MAX GLITTER or after Let my theme move.

2026-10-19 — Sit in the cozy, in any room with one

Press your familiar in a room with a free cozy and Sit in the cozy is there, beside Move it, wherever the cozy is on the page. It used to show only once a cozy was already in view, so it was easy never to find. If the cozy is out of view, your familiar goes to it and the page brings it into view.

2026-10-19 — An egg chair at the Hermitage’s campfire

The Solarpunk Hermitage has a Chimera Cozy: an egg chair on a swivel foot, standing on the green shag in front of the campfire’s television, its pale shell lined in the cabin’s mustard and outlined like everything else on that rug. A familiar that finds it free sits in it to watch.
A familiar sitting in a cozy draws its light in to just behind it, so you can see what it is sitting in.
Sit in the cozy no longer scrolls the page back to where your familiar was just before it moves.

2026-10-19 — Familiars stop walking back in from the corner every few seconds

A familiar kept vanishing and walking back in from off the page to where it was sitting, every few seconds, in a cozy or not. The check it makes now and then of where the page has put it moved it to the corner to measure, and if its last move had been a walk, the browser walked it back. It reads where it is now and never moves to measure, and a check in the build refuses the old way.

2026-10-19 — Familiars find their cozies, and keep out from under the radio

A familiar goes to a free cozy when one comes into view, at MAX GLITTER or when you let it move by itself: after you scroll, and when the page or the radio changes. Before, it only looked for one when it arrived or now and then while wandering, so it could sit beside a free cozy and never use it.
It no longer sits under the radio. The radio’s box counts as somewhere it cannot rest, so a cozy the radio is covering is not free, and a familiar the radio opens over moves out from under it. Make the radio smaller and the cozy is free again.
Sit in the cozy, when you press your familiar, puts it in a free cozy in view at any setting, as dragging it next to one already did.
A familiar waits for the room to settle before it sits down, so a cozy that comes into view once the page’s typefaces are in is not missed.

2026-10-19 — Bring my familiar shows for moderators, and says where a familiar comes from

Bring my familiar was hidden from moderators signed on with a password of their own, because the radio did not count a moderator’s own password as a claimed username. It does now.
With no familiar following you, while you are seen in a room, the radio now says so under Be seen here, and where to take one from: Chimera Obscura, or your chimeras in Profile. Once one is following you, the switch is there.

2026-10-19 — Familiars in company, with sayings and cozies, and a possum and an opossum

Other people’s familiars, in the room with you. With a claimed username, switch on Bring my familiar under Be seen here on the radio, and the people seen in the same room as you see your familiar there, as you see theirs. Press one to see whose it is and hear one of its sayings. It is off until you switch it on, it is never on Who’s online, and the privacy page says what is kept.
Chimeras have sayings. Write up to five beside its name, on the bench in Chimera Obscura or in Profile under Its name and sayings. A familiar says one when you press it, and now and then in a speech bubble when it may move by itself; they show under your chimeras in your profile too.
Chimera Cozies. Some rooms now have a spot of their own for a familiar to sit in, each drawn in that room’s own colours: a velvet pouf in Chimera Obscura, a cushion of moss in the Garden, a knitted floor cushion in the Latibulum and a leather footstool in the Community Library. A familiar sits in a free one, and at MAX GLITTER they wander between them.
Through the door. At MAX GLITTER, or when you let it move by itself, your familiar walks into each room from where it was when you left the last one, and other people’s walk in from the edge of the window when they arrive and out to it when they go.
A possum and an opossum are on Chimera Obscura’s shelf: the brushtail, with big dark eyes and a dark bushy tail, and the Virginia opossum, with a white face, black ears and a bare pink tail.

2026-10-19 — Familiars: a chimera that follows you from room to room

A chimera can come with you now. Take it with you in Chimera Obscura, or Take it with me on one of your chimeras in Profile on the radio, and it becomes your familiar: it is there in every room you walk into, in a little pool of the camera obscura’s light. The idea came from our community, after the animal orbs in Castle Crashers.
It sits wherever there are no words. It finds a clear spot in each room, off the text, the buttons, the pictures and the players, and if the page changes under it, it moves aside. It only crosses words while it is on the move.
It stays where you put it unless the dial is at MAX GLITTER, or you press it and switch on Let it move by itself. Then it wanders now and then, comes along when you scroll, and comes over to wherever your pointer or your keyboard has gone. At Gentle it jumps rather than walks.
Press it to move it (drag it, or Move it and the arrow keys), put it back on the table in Chimera Obscura, or Send it home. It keeps you company and that is all it does: no levels, no boosts, nothing to collect, and nothing counted. It makes no sound.
Your browser keeps it, and nothing is sent anywhere: what it is made of, its name, whether it may move, and roughly where in the window you last put it down, never which room. The privacy page lists it as love-familiar. Nobody else sees your familiar. It stays out of Stay Frosty, where nothing moves, and the Healing Checkpoint.

2026-10-20 — Messages stay together at Full

At Full, on a wide window, a channel with only a few messages no longer spreads them down the whole column with their words far below their names. The log is as tall as the column, and its messages now sit together at the top of it, as they do at every other size.

2026-10-20 — The CB marks what is new to you, and Unreads lists it

A dot now marks what has been said since you last read it, on World, This room, Your messages and each conversation in it. That reverses the radio’s old rule of no badge and no unread count, and only as far as a mark: it is never a number, it makes no sound, and nothing moves. A screen reader hears “something new”.
Unreads, a new part under Who’s around, lists World, the rooms you follow and your conversations while something new is waiting in them, and takes you there. Follow this room, beside This room, puts a room on it; which rooms you follow stays in your browser.
It needs a claimed username. So that reading on your phone clears the dot on your laptop, the street keeps when you last read each channel and conversation, and nothing else, for 48 hours at most; the privacy page says so, and Forget me deletes it.

2026-10-20 — Paste a picture, and messages that work like the channel

Paste a picture into the CB with Ctrl or Cmd and V, on the channel or in a conversation, instead of finding it with Picture. It comes to the same preview, redrawn the same way before it goes. Words pasted with it are pasted as words.
Direct messages work like the channel. Each message has React and the three dots on its line: Copy, Edit and Take back on yours, Copy and Report on theirs. Sticker sits beside Picture and opens the same tray. Reactions say who, never how many. An @name is drawn as a name. A first message is still words only, so a picture, a sticker and a reaction wait until the conversation is accepted.

2026-10-19 — Profile opens folded up

Every section of Profile starts folded, so opening it shows a short list of headings: your profile card, props, avatars, chimeras, pets, badges and jobs, and battle jacket. Press a heading to open that section, and again to fold it; open as many as you like. Each is fetched from the street only when you open it, so opening Profile is quicker and asks for less. A props notification still opens Profile straight at Your props, opened.

2026-10-19 — Account: your username and Forget me, out of Profile

Your username and Forget me have a button of their own, Account, beside Profile under the radio’s heading You. Claiming your username, changing its password, its recovery code, deleting it, and Forget me are all there now, and Profile is what you show: your card, your sets, your props, avatars, chimeras, pets, badges and battle jacket. Account ends in Close Account, like the other long trays.
Everything that told you to claim your username in Profile says Account now: the Community Center’s steps for claiming, the CB guide, the privacy page, the shelters, the Bodymind Booth, the moderators’ desk, the forums and the Adventurer’s Guild’s shelter jobs.

2026-10-19 — A Close at the foot of every long tray on the radio

Profile, Themes, Notifications, the stickers and Your messages each end in a button that closes them: Close Profile and the rest. You no longer have to scroll back up past everything in a tray to find the button that opened it, and closing puts you back on that button, where the tray began.

2026-10-19 — Profile and Sign off under a heading of their own, and open trays that look open

Profile and Sign off are under a new heading on the radio, You, just above Your radio, and Profile’s tray opens under it. With Profile open it was easy to lose where the tray began, and to scroll past the top of it looking for the button to close it; the heading marks where it starts.
Profile, Notifications and Themes are edged in the readout’s amber while their trays are open, as Who’s online already was, so you can see which one is out.

2026-10-19 — Bigger headings on the radio, and Be seen here says whether it is on

The headings between the radio’s parts are bigger, Where you are, Who’s around, Channel and the rest, so they are easier to find. In a theme whose lettering runs small they grow as far as they can while the room’s name stays the largest words on the radio.
Be seen here says whether it is on: Be seen here: off and Be seen here: on, the way the switches under Your radio and in Notifications do, so you can tell at a glance.

2026-10-19 — @mentions, links with words, headings, a look at your picture, and the radio in a window of its own

Type @ in the CB’s message box and it offers people to mention, the way # offers rooms: everybody who has spoken on the channel, everybody they mentioned, and everybody on Who’s online, alphabetically. Arrows move, Enter or Tab puts the handle in, Escape leaves what you typed. A mention is drawn as the person’s name, which opens their profile, and your own name is filled in where you are mentioned. Nothing lights up or chimes when one arrives, and a device that asked to be told about mentions is told, as before. A place in a film, @34:12, is still a place in a film.
A link on the CB can have words of its own: [words](an address). That reverses a rule the radio has kept since links arrived, that a link’s words were always its address, and the reason for the rule still holds: a link to another site still says which site after its words, so no words can make it look like a link on the street, and words that are an address themselves, like [paypal.com](…), are not made a link at all. The CB guide and the house norms say so.
# A heading, with a space after the #, is a heading in a message, and ## and ### smaller ones. Without the space, #the-den is still a room.
A picture is shown before it goes. Pick one and the radio shows it above the message box, the moment it is chosen and then as it was redrawn, which is exactly what will be sent, with the name of the file you picked, so you can see it is the one you meant. In a conversation under Messages too.
Pop out, under Your radio, moves the radio into a window of its own, as big as it is and at the size it is, like a call’s Pop out, and it stays open while you go from room to room in the window you came from. It follows you: This room, Be seen here, the room’s call and the teleporter are the room that window is on, and a link on the channel opens there. An @time and Catch up move the film in that window. Every other page has a small bar where the radio was, with Show it and Bring it back, so there is only ever one radio listening. Host this film and Follow stay with the radio in the page.
Speak new messages aloud works again. Since yesterday it had been saying nothing: the list of messages on the channel and the radio’s note that it was speaking had the same name, and the list being there stopped the voice from ever starting.

2026-10-19 — Profile sets: save a look and wear it again with one press

Your profile card’s look can be saved under a name and worn again with one press, asked for by somebody in our community who keeps a few favourites to switch between by mood, by the room they are in and for what is on: Otters, Halloween, Fairy Lights. Your profile sets, in Profile under the card, keeps each one: its theme, banner, decoration, frame, effect, name face and nameplate, and the avatar you wear. Pressing a set puts it on your card at once, and the one on your card says so. Change under each set updates it to your card as it is, renames it or deletes it.
Your words are not in a set. Your pronouns, what you wrote about yourself, your links and your favourite room stay as they are whichever set you wear, so something you rewrote last week is never put back by a press. Nobody else sees your sets: your profile shows only what is on your card, not what sets you have or which one you are wearing, and nothing records when you made or wore one. Privacy and the CB guide say so.
Claiming your username no longer signs the radio off by accident. If the radio was in the middle of listening at the moment you claimed, that listen came back refused for the handle’s old pass and the radio said the password had changed. Only a refusal of the pass it holds now signs it off. And once you press I have kept it, your profile card and your sets are there in Profile at once, rather than after you open it again. Changed: cb.js, cb.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.test.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-profile.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-pets.mjs, tools/make-profile.py, privacy.html, cb-guide.html.

2026-10-19 — Pictures in messages, every notification at once, and new lines on a phone

A direct message can carry a picture once the conversation is accepted. Somebody in our community testing the Sandbox had a screenshot to show Ryan and no private way to send it. Picture now sits beside Send in a conversation both of you have started, and a first message is still words only, so nobody’s first contact with you can be a picture. It is the channel’s picture: redrawn in your browser first, which takes off what the camera wrote into it, with a description if you like, fetched by the two of you and nobody else, and gone when its message goes. A reported picture goes to the moderators’ desk with its message, where it waits behind Show the picture. Privacy and the CB guide say so.
Everything, and anything added later is a new switch at the top of the CB’s Notifications, asked for by the same person after new switches arrived off overnight. It switches on every kind of notification there is, every message on World included, and any kind added after you press it, so you do not have to come back and look. Switch any one off and the rest stay on. It leaves the words, and the rooms you follow, as you set them.
On a phone, Return makes a new line in the CB’s message boxes, and Transmit, Send or Save sends, because a phone’s keyboard has no Shift and Enter. The box starts four lines tall there, and its words are big enough that an iPhone no longer zooms in when you tap it. On a computer, Enter still sends and Shift and Enter still makes a new line, and Ctrl or Cmd and Enter sends anywhere. Changed: cb.js, cb.css, cb-sw.js, desk.js, love.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-dm.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-dm-reports.mjs, the new netlify/functions/cb-dm-image.mjs, tools/check-messages.py, tools/check-push.py, privacy.html, cb-guide.html, town-hall-moderators.html.

2026-10-19 — Flying Fairy, a profile effect, and a Fairy Lights theme

A profile effect, Flying Fairy, Ryan’s ask. The faeries of Helen Edgar’s Faery Yurt fly across your profile, from either side, darting and hovering with their wings going, no two dressed alike, each dropping petals behind it, and petals drift down across the profile now and then. A garland of fairy lights hangs over your banner with a faery sitting on it and another hovering, and there are roses, a daisy and sparkles in the corners. When the profile opens, and once a minute, a dusk comes up over the whole profile with sparkles along its top, and a big fairy rises into it: red hair under a crown of roses and two little curled horns, a cloak of moss, a posy of red and pink roses held close, her eyes shut. She opens her butterfly wings and beats them slowly while petals and leaves fall round her and three of the yurt’s faeries fly out from her, and after about nine seconds she fades. She is our own drawing, after the look of Helen’s own profile.
A Fairy Lights radio theme, grown from the Fairy lights frame for profiles: its strings of bulbs, swagged across a plum night in gold, rose, mint, sky, lilac and peach, with stars between them, along the radio’s trims, dividers and sides. The radio’s name is in a soft script, and every word clears 4.5 to 1. It is a banner and a nameplate for profiles too, drawn at whatever height it has, and the face is offered for your name on your card.
Like every effect, it moves only at MAX GLITTER or after Let my theme move, and the bulbs twinkle slowly; nothing flashes. The liner notes and the CB guide say so. Changed: profile.js, cb-themes.js, call.js, cb.css, love.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, tools/make-profile.py, tools/check-contrast.py, cb-guide.html, liner-notes.html.

2026-10-19 — Who is hosting moves to Watching together

Who is hosting a film is under the CB’s Watching together now, headed Hosting now, asked for by Ryan. It was in the readout under the messages, where a line saying somebody was hosting read as the newest message. Catch up and Follow moved with it, beside a host in your room.
The radio answers Catch up, Follow, Host this film and Screen a video under them, in Watching together, so the sentence saying what you are hosting and who can see it is there too. While the radio is Small, which shows only the channel, the answer is under the readout as before.

2026-10-19 — The CB points at the World room

Under the CB’s Channel, beside the line about the forums, a line now says where to find the rooms active now and the calls going: the World room, asked for by Ryan. It is left off in the World room itself.
Calls going now, under Who’s online, lost the sentence under its heading, which said again what the heading says. Who is in a call is still shown only in its room, to anybody seen there, and the CB guide and the privacy page still say so.

2026-10-19 — A screen in every gallery of the Jungle Room

The Jungle Room has a screen at the top of every gallery, asked for by Ryan: any cam can go up on its gallery’s screen with the button under its leaf, so watching one big never means scrolling back to the top of the room. Every cam still opens in its own leaf where it hangs, the same size as before.
A screen shows nothing of its own and loads nothing until you put a cam on it. Until then it is a low gap in the leaves; when a cam goes up it opens to the size of the picture, and the line under it says what is on and that it runs until you close it. Taking it off leaves the screen empty again.
Each gallery’s leaves fold away, so a gallery you are not watching is one line. The cams whose owners have switched off embedding are still doors out to YouTube, with no screen button, because a screen could not show them either.

2026-10-19 — Everybody down at the Watering Hole

The Watering Hole’s drawing has everybody who comes down to the water, asked for by Ryan: elephants, springbok, gemsbok, zebras, rhinos, giraffes, gnus and ostriches, the animals people have seen on the waterhole cams. An elephant drinks with her trunk while her calf waits, a giraffe splays her legs to reach the water and another browses the camel-thorn, the gnus come in single file, and a rhino brings her calf down. It is still noon, so every shadow is straight under its animal, and the springbok leaping in the foreground has left hers on the ground.
More of the pan, too: mud cracking round the edge, tracks going down to the water, dry grass, rings where somebody is drinking, a far tree on the plain, and a round rock in the middle of the pool, which is the real Namib waterhole’s. Nothing in the drawing moves.
The Okaukuejo waterhole in Etosha is on the rack, after the Namib: the floodlit one, where elephant and rhino come in after dark. It is the Jungle Room’s cam, read out of that room’s own list, so it plays here or on the screen by the water and says what it is before you press it.

2026-10-19 — The CB as an icon, and as the whole window

The radio has a size smaller than Small, asked for by Ryan: an icon of a CB set, the aerial, the readout and the handset on its coiled cord, drawn on the radio’s own case in whichever colours you have chosen. − from Small makes it one, and pressing the icon opens the radio at Small again. Drag it to put it somewhere else.
The icon is still on. It listens, so a film you are hosting or following carries on and Be seen here still holds, and Fold away is still the only off. Nothing on it changes when a message comes in, and a screen reader hears nothing new at that size; the CB guide says Small is the size for keeping an ear on the channel.
And a size larger than Large, for anybody who wants to see only the CB: Full fills the window, with the channel as tall as it is. On a wide window the parts stand in three columns, where you are and who is around on the left, the channel in the middle, and messages, watching together and your radio on the right, each scrolling by itself. It stays put, and a room’s call window stays on top of it.
Pressing the middle of Move’s six dots works now. It landed on the drawing of the dots rather than the button and did nothing, drag or press, so only the edges of the button moved the radio.

2026-10-19 — A screen in the rock at Big Steep

Big Steep Fermentables has a rack of somebody else’s cellars under a screen in the rock, asked for by Ryan, with seven more videos he picked: a rainy evening in an old wine cellar, a wine bar by a fire, a velvet wine cellar, an underground wine cellar, wine cellar ambient music, a fantasy tavern and a cellar soundscape. Each says how long it runs before you press it, plays where it hangs or goes up on the screen, and was checked on its own watch page first.
The screen has nothing of its own on it, because the cellar has no whole list to put on, and it is not lit: it is a dark pane in the racks’ steel, and the room’s light still comes only through the drinks. It is the room’s first screen, so it is where the CB puts things: somebody can host what is on theirs and others can follow, and a moderator’s Screen a video goes up on it, waiting for each follower’s own press.
The wine bar only plays on YouTube. Its channel has switched off showing it on other sites, so its card is a door out, dashed and with no screen button, and says why on its face.
Two of the new videos play on into YouTube’s own mix, as the speakeasy already did, because that is how Ryan sent them. Their labels give the first video’s runtime and say nobody here has checked what the mix plays after it. A mix now starts on the first press in its card, where before it loaded a second play button.

2026-10-19 — A Treasurer in the Town Hall

Mila Krambo is on the walls of the Board room and Executive Session, as our Treasurer, elected Treasurer and director at the board meeting of 29 September 2026. Both rooms list the board as our Board & Governance page does, in its order and with its titles, and her name goes to her section of our About page.

2026-10-19 — A wiki in the forums

The forums have a Wiki, under Information: how to do things on the street, the CB and the forums, one thing to a page, for the questions people keep asking. The first pages cover making and dressing an avatar, editing your profile, writing in Markdown, changing your password, joining a call, choosing a CB theme, adopting a pet, making a chimera, collecting patches and badges, finding who’s online and which rooms are busy, giving props, and reporting bugs and asking for features.
Every page is a living document. The post that opens each topic in the Wiki is a WIKI PAGE, and our moderators can edit it whoever started it, so the pages can be kept up to date as the street changes. Each says who started it and who edited it last. Replies stay their writers’ own, and only they can edit them, as everywhere else in the forums.
Pages in the Wiki are kept for good. Something wrong or missing on one? Reply on the page, or ask in the Help desk. Privacy and the CB guide say what changed.
Fixed: a forum post, a suggestion or a Brass Tacks plate with https:// in it and nothing after it, as in “an address starting with https:// becomes a link”, could not be sent: the forums said they were busy. It turned up while the Wiki’s page on Markdown was being written. Those words stay words now.

2026-10-18 — Direct messages on the CB

The CB has direct messages, in a new part of the radio called Messages, under the channel: one person writing to another, which people have been asking for as our community moves off Discord. Both of you need a claimed username, because an unclaimed handle is anybody’s who signs on with it.
Nobody new can write to you until you switch on Let people message me, and somebody’s first message waits for you to answer it, press Accept, or press Reject, which deletes it and tells nobody. They can write nothing more until you do. To write to somebody, press Message under the card in their profile, or type their username under Messages.
Every message goes 48 hours after it was sent, like the channel. You can edit your own messages or take them back. Block stops somebody writing to you and deletes your conversation, and they are not told. Report sends a copy of one message they sent you to the moderators’ desk, which is the only way a moderator ever sees a message.
They are not end-to-end encrypted, and the privacy page says exactly what that means. Nothing counts them and nothing says whether somebody has read one or is typing. Switch on When somebody messages me under Notifications to be told when one arrives.

2026-10-18 — Be told when somebody gives you props

Notifications on the CB have a fifth switch, When somebody gives me props. Until now, props people gave you waited in Profile until you happened to open it, because nothing on the radio lights up for them. Switch it on and the device is told when somebody gives you props, with who wrote them and, unless you switched the words off, how they start. It is off until you switch it on, like every switch there.
Pressing it opens Profile at Your props, on the street, with the radio switched on for that page so you can Confirm or Reject them straight away.
Only a claimed username has props, so only a device switched on as one is told. It never says how many are waiting, and whoever wrote the props is never told anything: not whether you were notified, nor whether you read, confirmed or rejected what they wrote. Show the words of a message is now Show the words of a message, a post or props, because it covers all three. Privacy and the CB guide say all of it.

2026-10-18 — Props on your profile

Every profile on the CB has a Props tab, for props: a sentence or a short paragraph thanking somebody, acknowledging them or celebrating them, usually for something they did for you or for the community. Open somebody’s profile, from their handle on the channel or their name on Who’s online, and the Props tab shows the props they have been given, newest first, each with who wrote it, and a box to give them some of your own.
Nothing goes up until its person says yes. Props you are given wait in Your props, in Profile on the radio, where Confirm puts one on your Props tab and Reject deletes it. Nobody is told it was rejected. What you wrote for somebody waits on their tab where only you and they can read it, with Take it back, and one of yours waits for each person at a time.
Your Props tab is shut until you open it, with Show my props on the CB in Profile, like your pets, avatars and chimeras. While it is shut nobody can give you props and your tab shows none; what you confirmed comes back when you open it again. Giving props and having a Props tab both need a claimed username, because a prop carries a name on somebody else’s profile.
You can take any prop off your tab, whoever wrote one can take it back, and a moderator can take one down. Nothing counts props, and nothing says when one was written. Forget me and Delete my account delete yours. Privacy and the CB guide say all of it, and Props & Gratitude in the forums is still there for thanks the whole community reads.

2026-10-18 — Edit your messages on the CB

A message you sent on the CB can be edited. Edit is under its three dots, beside Copy and Take off, and opens the words in a box where they were: Enter saves and Escape leaves it as it was. ↑ in an empty message box edits your newest message, the way chat does.
Only the words change. The message keeps its picture, sticker and reactions, says edited and when beside its time on every radio, and still goes 48 hours after you first sent it. The words it had before are not kept anywhere.
Only whoever sent a message can edit it. A moderator can take any message off the air, and edit only their own: taking words down and putting words in somebody’s mouth are not the same thing. A message marked CLAIMED edits only with that username’s own password, and one marked BASE only for the base.
An edit tells nobody unless it @mentions somebody it did not name before, and then only them. A message taken to the forums after it was edited says edited there too. Privacy and the CB guide say all of it.

2026-10-18 — Pictures send from an iPhone

A picture sent on the CB from an iPhone was refused every time, with the radio saying it still carried its camera data. It did not: the radio redraws every picture before it goes, but the way Safari and every other iPhone browser save a redrawn picture writes a small block of their own into it, saying its size and colour space, and this site refuses any picture carrying that kind of block. The radio now takes that block off too, so a picture from an iPhone, or from Safari on a Mac, goes. The same fix reaches pictures on the Brass Tacks Board and in the forums.
This site now also refuses a picture still carrying a Photoshop block, where a photo app can write the name of a place, and the radio takes that off as well.

2026-10-18 — The forums take pictures, files and @mentions, and six more categories

The forums have three new categories in Community: Discourse, for the news, ideas and arguments of the day; Pets; and Props & Gratitude, for thanking somebody out loud.
And three in Staff, for the directors and the board: Back Office Operations, Grantmaking and Finance. As in every staff category but the Town Hall’s Executive Session, an administrator can read them too.
A post can carry pictures and files. This reverses what the forums said when they opened this morning, that they take words only. A picture is redrawn in your own browser before it goes, by the same code the CB uses, which takes off what a camera wrote into it, where it was taken first of all, and you can say what is in it. A file can be a PDF, plain text, Markdown, CSV, RTF, a Word, Excel, PowerPoint or OpenDocument document, or an EPUB, up to 5 MB, and is checked against what it says it is: never a web page, a script, an SVG or a document with macros. Neither has a public address. Each is fetched with your pass by people who can read its topic, a file is only ever saved to your device, and both go when their post does.
@mentions. This reverses “the forums send no notifications”. Typing @ offers the people in the topic and anybody claimed on Who’s online; a mention shows as the person’s name, which opens their profile, and MENTIONS YOU marks a post that names you. Mentions, beside Latest, lists where somebody has mentioned you, worked out each time you look and kept nowhere. A mention tells a device only if When somebody @mentions me is switched on there, and only if that claimed username can read the category.
Search reads file names and what pictures are said to show. The privacy page, the CB guide and Architecture say all of it.

2026-10-18 — The CB keeps fifty messages, for 48 hours each

Every channel on the CB now keeps its latest fifty messages, and each one stays for 48 hours after it was sent, rather than ten messages gone at midnight in Colorado. People on the street live in timezones all over the world, and a channel cleared at one city’s midnight was clearing in the middle of somebody else’s afternoon, so anybody asleep through a conversation never saw it. World, every room’s channel and every place on the Slake keep the same rule.
Everything said before tonight’s midnight in Colorado still goes at that midnight, as it was promised when it was sent. The 48 hours start with what is sent after it.
A message from before today says which day beside its time on the radio, yesterday or the day’s name, in your own day, and so does a room’s last busy time in the World room. A forum topic made from messages on more than one day dates each of them.
The privacy page says so, and so do the CB guide, the Community Center’s house norms and the forums, which are now for what needs longer than two days.

2026-10-18 — Ten more animals on Chimera Obscura’s shelf

A pig, a porcupine, a fox, a cat, a dog, an elephant, a penguin, an owl, a turtle and a zebra are on the shelf at Chimera Obscura, and every part of each fits every body: wings, flippers, hooves, talons and paddling feet, a snout, a beak and a trunk with tusks, floppy ears, big fan ears and ear tufts, a porcupine’s quills, a turtle’s shell and a zebra’s mane, and stripes, a tuxedo, a facial disc and a patch over one eye.
Arms and feet are parts of their own now, so a bear can have a penguin’s flippers and an owl’s talons. Every chimera kept in a Profile and every link made before keeps its own arms and feet and opens just as it did.
A pig with a porcupine’s parts is a Porkypine, the name Randimals and Stimpunks made together, now that both animals are here.

2026-10-18 — Chimeras kept in Profile, named, shown and sent as stickers

Keep it in my Profile, on Chimera Obscura’s bench, signed on to the CB, keeps the chimera on the table with its name. In Profile on the radio, Your chimeras lists them, each with which animal gave which part: rename one, put it back on the table to change it, download its picture, or delete it.
Sticker on the radio sends one of your chimeras to the channel, with its name and its parts in words. With a claimed username, Show my chimeras on the CB puts them in a new Chimeras tab in your profile. It starts off.
What is kept is which animal gave each part and the name, never a picture and nothing about when, under your scrambled handle; Forget me and Delete my account delete them. The privacy page has a section on it. Chimeras are drawn as elements now, wherever they appear, and on the radio on the table’s own white.

2026-10-18 — Chimera Obscura opens on the street

A camera obscura between The Sandbox and Your Room, painted black inside, where a lens in the roof throws a chimera onto a round white table: one creature made out of two animals, the body from one and the head, ears, mouth, tail, back, colours and markings from either, or from any animal on the shelf. It opens on an otteraccoon, the request it began with.
The shelf has a bear, a mouse, a panda, an armadillo, a rabbit, a badger, an otter and a raccoon, every part drawn as code and fitted to whatever body it lands on. Name your chimera, toss for one, or copy a link that carries it after the # in the address. An animal the shelf does not have yet is asked for in the suggestion box, which now opens filled in when you arrive from the room, and gets drawn for everybody. Nothing in the room calls an AI.
Bearmouse, Pandillo and Bunnybadger hang on its wall: Ryan’s, Chelsea’s and Inna’s chimeras, drawn by Becky Hicks for stimpunks.org’s About page and here under CC BY-SA 4.0 with her yes. Our friends at Randimals make combined animals as plush toys; no name the room suggests is one of their characters, and the Porkypine is a name they and Stimpunks made together.
Also: a job for the Adventurer’s Guild, a slot on the Community Center’s service board for asking for an animal, the room’s own faces, Gilda Display and Gantari, and a line in How it’s made saying the three on the wall are Becky’s and drawn by hand.

2026-10-18 — A book of the Reading Room’s records on the yurt’s Bookshelf

The Faery Yurt’s Bookshelf has a book now, at Helen’s ask, listing what plays on the gramophone in the Reading Room: her Library Music playlist, a song to a line with its runtime, bound like the Music Room’s books under the yurt’s gramophone and with the playlist’s name on the cover. Each line goes to that record on the Reading Room’s shelf, and nothing in the book plays. It stands above the door through to the Reading Room. Written by make-yurt-yarn.py from data/yurt-yarn.json, like the other books; changed: faery-yurt.html, love.css (§14), tools/make-yurt-yarn.py.

2026-10-18 — The profile card editor asks before it throws changes away

A press outside the editor, Escape or Cancel no longer throws away changes you have not saved. If anything has changed since you opened your card or last saved it, the editor asks first: Save and close, Close without saving or Keep editing. With nothing changed, it closes as it always did. Clear my card now clears the frame and the effect too, and after saving, the keyboard goes back to Edit my profile card. Changed: cb.js, cb-guide.html.

2026-10-18 — The yarn plays in the Music Room, and the yurt keeps a songbook

Helen’s playlist, Faery Yurt’s Yarn, was read again, at her ask: she has added a great deal to it since 2026-10-13, and every song on it now stands in the record case in the Music Room, in the playlist’s own order, each with its runtime, with the whole yarn on the phonograph above them, one press, running until you stop it. The upload that had replaced AURORA’s dead copy is off the data, because the playlist no longer carries the dead copy. A second playlist of hers, Strange things will happen, is in the Music Room beside it, at her ask the same afternoon: its own plate on the phonograph and its own shelf of records. One upload on the yarn has embedding switched off by its channel, so its sleeve is a door to YouTube and says so, rather than a frame showing a refusal.
The music plays in the Music Room and nowhere else now. Helen’s call, reversing her own arrangement of 2026-10-13: in the yurt the deck and the record case have gone through the door, and under the phonograph there is a songbook instead, bound like Nature Notes, listing every song on the yarn a line at a time with its runtime; each line goes to that record in the Music Room. Nothing on the yurt’s own page plays the yarn, and make-yurt-yarn.py refuses it if anything does. The phonograph stays, and its record still turns at MAX GLITTER. yurt-notebook.js binds every book on the page now, not only the first. Changed: data/yurt-yarn.json, tools/make-yurt-yarn.py, yurt-notebook.js, faery-yurt.html, faery-music-room.html, love.css (§14), liner-notes.html, DECISIONS.md, the poster’s lines for both rooms.
The yurt has a book per playlist now, each with its playlist’s name on the cover, at her ask later the same afternoon; the lines still go to the records in the Music Room. And the Reading Room has a gramophone, at her ask: her Library Music playlist on it, switched on from its plate and off from the way back under it, and every song on it as a record on a shelf among the bookcases, the Music Room’s case in that room’s own clothes. The dial’s line there says MAX turns the record. rack.js grew an opt-in, data-rack-switch, which shows a screen’s way back once its own plate is pressed; no other room’s screen takes it. Changed as well: faery-reading-room.html, love.css (§114), rack.js.

2026-10-18 — Notifications for the CB

The CB can notify you now, even with the site closed, after several requests from our community and especially our staff, as more of our chat and work moves onto the street. Notifications, under Your radio, switches a device on for any of four things, each off until you switch it on: somebody @mentioning you, a message in a room you follow, a call starting in a room you follow or the World call, and every message on World. A notification shows who and where and the start of the message, unless you switch the words off; a call’s says only that it has started, never who is in it. Pressing one opens its room.
This reverses the CB’s “no alerts”, Ryan’s call, and Privacy, the Community Center and the CB guide say so. The radio itself still has no chime, no badge and no unread count, and still listens only while it is open. What is kept is one record per device: its push address, the handle and a scrambled form of the pass it was switched on with, and what it chose; nothing it is sent. Notifications travel through your browser’s own push service, encrypted so that service cannot read them. A private room tells only people who can hear it, a changed password stops a device at once, and signing off, Forget me and deleting your username switch it off. Changed: cb.js, cb.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, two functions, privacy.html, cb-guide.html, community-center.html; new: cb-sw.js, netlify/functions/cb-push.mjs, tools/check-push.py.

2026-10-18 — The World room: every room on the street, and who is in each

The World room is open, Ryan’s brief, past the Garden: knowledge gardens and our garden spider, webs connecting gardens around the world. The spider has strung a web between every room on the street, caught by the dawn, and every room is a garden on it, in a bed for each part of the Map. Anybody can read the list.
Signed on to the CB, it shows which rooms are active now: who has chosen Be seen here in each, which have somebody in their call, and when each was last busy today. Show every room, the active ones or the quiet ones, and put them in the street’s order, latest activity first, or most active first. Privacy says what it shows, including the one thing it shows that was not shown before: when a room’s channel last had a message.
Most active reverses the street’s no-headcount rule for this one order, Ryan’s call: the server counts the people seen in each room and in its call each time somebody asks, and sends the order and never the numbers. It is the one place the street counts people, and the Mission now says so.
The World room’s own channel is the World channel, and its own call is the World call, so there is no second channel or call to split people between. This reverses the rule that no page may be called world.html, which only existed so a room’s call could not collide with the World’s. Changed: cb.js, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, tools/make-sitemap.py, community-center.html, privacy.html, mission.html, cb-guide.html. New: world.html, world.js, netlify/functions/cb-world.mjs, tools/make-world.py, and §119 in love.css, which moves the small screens and print to §120 and §121.

2026-10-18 — Getting started at the Community Center, and no more meeting hall

Our community uses Stimpunks.World and its forums for everything now, Ryan’s call, so the Community Center no longer mentions Stoat or Discord. This reverses the meeting hall of 2026-09-29, which sent people to our Stoat server for anything worth keeping and for the CB’s password.
The room opens with Getting started in the community, from Ryan’s draft: ask to join on the Stimpunks Community page, which gives you a starter password; sign on to the CB with it; claim your username with a password of your own, step by step on the radio’s own buttons; and then some quests to go on, from an introduction in the forums to adopting a pet, collecting badges and patches, and making your profile your own.
The starter password is the community password by a friendlier name: the radio and the CB guide still call it that, and the room says so. Every page that said to ask for it in the meeting hall now points at Getting started: the guest bar on the radio, the CB guide, the suggestion box in The Sandbox, the Fishbowl’s call, and the privacy page. Changed: community-center.html, guest.js, cb-guide.html, privacy.html, data/sandbox.json, tools/make-town-hall.py, liner-notes.html.

2026-10-18 — Coping in the forums, a week at a time

Coping is a category in the forums now, Ryan’s call, because it is one of the busiest channels on our Discord and people moving over need somewhere to go. A topic there goes a week after its last post, where Discord keeps that channel for ever: a place for the hard days is not somewhere to keep them. Like every category, only claimed usernames on the CB can read it. Changed: data/forum.json, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, tools/make-forum.py, which now refuses a longer keep for it.

2026-10-18 — The forums, for what needs longer than the CB’s day

The forums are open: topics in categories, after Discourse, for conversations that need to last longer than the channel’s midnight, Ryan’s brief. The categories follow our Discord and Stoat’s channels: Announcements, Introductions, a Help desk, the Watering hole, Events, Mutual aid, Show your work, Work opportunities, Infodumps, Reading and watching, Education, Science and making, Nature, Artificial Intelligence, Operations and Editorial, and staff areas for our moderators, directors and board, by the same CB roles as the Town Hall’s rooms. The hope is that the CB and the forums together let us leave Discord and Stoat.
Only a claimed username can read them, and a category somebody’s roles do not reach is never sent to them. Each category says how long a topic stays after its last post, a week, three months, six months or for good, and each topic says the date it goes; three months is the default. A pinned topic stays while it is pinned.
Markdown, replies, quotes, reactions named and never counted, editing and taking down your own posts, search, and for moderators pin, close, move and take down. No notifications, no badges, no counts, and nothing kept about who reads: what is new to you is worked out in your own browser.
A link on a line of its own becomes a preview: our server reads the page once, when the post is made, for its title and description, from public addresses only and with no pictures; a YouTube video becomes a press-to-play button that says how long it runs; a room on the street shows its own name.
Take to the forums, under a message’s three dots on the radio, starts a topic with messages ticked off the channel. Our server copies them off the channel itself, exactly as they were sent, and whoever sent one can take it back out of the topic. The house norm now says to ask everybody first, as for a screenshot.
They wear the CB’s themes: your radio’s, or any of them chosen for the forums alone, with its colours, its face for headings and its drawing. Privacy says what they keep, and the CB guide how they work. New: forum.html, forum.js, forum.css, netlify/functions/cb-forum.mjs, data/forum.json, tools/make-forum.py. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, cb.js, cb.css, privacy.html, community-center.html, architecture.html.

2026-10-18 — Otters in the kelp: an effect, a theme, a frame and a decoration

A large, cute profile effect, Otters in the kelp, Ryan’s ask. Over the card’s banner, sunlit kelp rises to the surface with its floats and light falls through the water. One sea otter floats on its back with a strand of kelp across it and a shell on its chest. Another rolls over at the surface now and then, and a third swims back and forth below, trailing bubbles, over urchins and a starfish. Bubbles rise across the whole profile. When the profile opens, and once a minute, the kelp forest grows up through the whole profile, and a big otter swims up, rolls once, floats with its eyes shut and drifts away.
A Kelp Forest radio theme, in deep green water, foam, sea glass and the kelp’s sunlit gold, with the radio’s name in a round, friendly face, and kelp, bubbles, light and now and then a floating otter along its trims. Every word clears 4.5 to 1. It is a banner and a nameplate for profiles too. With it come a Kelp fronds frame, with floats, bubbles, starfish and scallops, and an Otters in kelp decoration, two little otters floating at the foot of a ring of kelp, both drawn in the card’s own colours.
It is after the Arcade’s Otterly Adorbs, and so after Helen Edgar’s Stimpunks Solidarity and Otters and Star Stuff’s zine No. 58, The Stone You Keep, and it keeps the cabinet’s rules: floating fills nothing, no otter is ranked, the kelp does the holding, nobody holds paws, and nobody keeps a stone in a pouch. The tools refuse each of those. Like every effect, it moves only at MAX GLITTER or after Let my theme move, and nothing flashes. The liner notes and the CB guide say so. Changed: profile.js, cb-themes.js, call.js, cb.css, love.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, tools/make-profile.py, tools/check-contrast.py, cb-guide.html, liner-notes.html.

2026-10-18 — A Halloween theme, frame and decoration, to pair with the Lagoon

Black Leather Lagoon is a radio theme now, in the street’s Lagoon’s own colours: black water, the screen’s bone, acid green and poster red, with the radio’s name in its dripping bill face. Along its trims, its dividers and down its sides there is a drive-in screen glowing over the water now and then, and reeds with cattails, and bats. It is a banner and a nameplate for profiles too. Every word in it clears 4.5 to 1, and like the room nothing in it flickers.
A Graveyard gate frame: iron railings with spear tips round all four sides, cobwebs in the corners, and a spider letting itself down from each top corner. A Jack-o’-lanterns decoration: a pumpkin vine round the avatar you wear, with lanterns whose carved faces glow, and two bats. Both are drawn in the card’s own theme, so in the Lagoon’s the pumpkins are its poster red and the light in them its acid green.
Together with the Black Leather Lagoon effect, the four make one Halloween profile, Ryan’s ask. Nobody real is drawn in any of them; the liner notes say whose world it is. Changed: call.js, cb-themes.js, cb.css, love.css, profile.js, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, tools/check-contrast.py, cb-guide.html, liner-notes.html.

2026-10-18 — The Lagoon effect rears up when a profile opens

The Black Leather Lagoon effect now plays across the whole profile when it opens, the way Discord’s do, and then once a minute while it is open. Black water rises across the foot of the profile, mist climbs off it, the sea serpent’s coils break the surface, its head rears up over the profile and looks about with a flick of its tongue, and a flurry of bats bursts out past it. Then it all sinks back, after about nine seconds. The scene in the banner carries on the whole time. Ryan’s ask.
It crosses the words, so it is there only where drawings move, at MAX GLITTER or after Let my theme move, like every effect’s pass, and every fade in it takes a second or more, so nothing flashes. Changing something else in Edit my profile card no longer starts an effect over. The CB guide says so. Changed: profile.js, cb.css, cb.js, tools/make-profile.py, cb-guide.html.

2026-10-18 — Black Leather Lagoon, a profile effect

A detailed profile effect after the street’s Black Leather Lagoon and The Cramps, Ryan’s ask. Over the card’s banner, a drive-in screen stands in black water with a giant bloodshot eye looking about on it, its glow breathing slowly. A sea serpent of our own rises and sinks in front of it, with its eyes on stalks and pondweed on its head. There are reeds, a lobby card on a post in the shallows, and the screen rippling in the water. Poison ivy creeps down both sides of the profile, leopard print runs along the foot, a finned hot rod is parked in the corner, and from time to time bats fly across the whole profile from the screen’s side.
Their world, not them, Ryan’s call: nobody real is drawn, and nothing of the band’s is used. The card carries a credit naming The Cramps, Lux Interior and Poison Ivy, and the poison ivy is a nod to her name. It is the one effect drawn in its room’s own colours rather than the card’s theme, and, like the room, nothing in it flickers. It moves only at MAX GLITTER or after Let my theme move, as every effect does. The liner notes and the CB guide say so. Changed: profile.js, cb.js, cb.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, tools/make-profile.py, cb-guide.html, liner-notes.html.

2026-10-18 — A profile lists the patches on its jacket

The Battle jacket tab in somebody’s profile lists every patch sewn on, under the jacket, in the street’s order: each patch drawn on its own, its name, and the room it came from, linked to where it lies, so you can go and find one. A screen reader hears what each patch looks like. Ryan’s ask. Nothing is counted.
Links in a profile’s tabs are the panel’s amber now. They were the browser’s own default blue, a colour nobody chose, which the job links in the Badges and jobs tab had been since profiles opened. The CB guide says so. Changed: cb.js, cb.css, cb-guide.html.

2026-10-18 — Frames and effects for profiles on the CB

A profile card can have a frame and an effect now, after Discord’s. A frame is a band of your card’s theme round all four sides of your profile, outside it: briar, ivy, brass and rivets, fairy lights, a stitched patch, a film strip, a circuit board, crystals, a flower garland or a starry night. An effect is drawn over your profile: butterflies, fireflies, falling petals or leaves, snow, bubbles, sparkles, shooting stars, music notes or hearts. Part of it stays along the edges and in the banner, and the rest crosses the whole profile from time to time. Both are in Edit my profile card, and both are drawn only in your card’s own colours.
An effect’s pass crosses the words, Ryan’s call, which is the one place the radio lets a drawing do that. So it is drawn only where the radio’s drawings move, at MAX GLITTER or after Let my theme move: a profile standing still has nothing on its words, and nothing in an effect flashes. The CB guide and privacy say so. Changed: profile.js, cb.js, cb.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, tools/make-profile.py, cb-guide.html, community-center.html, privacy.html.

2026-10-18 — A moderator can clear one profile card

The moderators’ desk can clear somebody’s profile card without deleting their username. Until now a card that broke our covenant could only go with the whole username, its password, pets, avatars, jobs and patches. Looking a username up at the desk now says whether it has a card, and Clear their profile card, which asks once more, takes the card and its nameplate on Who’s online exactly as Clear my card does. Everything else stays, and they can fill in a new one. Ryan’s call.
Nothing is kept about it: not who cleared a card, not when, not what it said, and the accounts checker refuses one that would. The desk still leaves a moderator’s username alone, card included. Privacy, the CB guide and the Moderators’ room say so. Changed: desk.js, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/functions/cb-account-admin.mjs, tools/make-accounts.py, privacy.html, cb-guide.html, town-hall-moderators.html.

2026-10-18 — Profile cards on the CB

Pressing a handle opens a whole profile now, over the page, after requests for profiles more like Discord’s. On the left is the person’s card; on the right, where Discord has Board, Activity and Wishlist, are tabs for their Avatars, Pets, Badges and jobs and Battle jacket, each shown as they have chosen. A name on Who’s online opens the same profile. The CB guide says how it works.
A claimed username can fill in its card, at Edit my profile card in Profile, with the card drawn beside the choices as they change: a theme from the radio’s own, a banner from their drawings, a decoration round the avatar you wear (flowers, ivy, stars, gears, flames, moons and more, drawn in the card’s own colours), a face for your name from the street’s typefaces, a nameplate under your name on Who’s online, your pronouns, a few words about you, up to five links elsewhere, each shown with its site after it, and your favourite room on the street, with a line on why.
Ryan’s calls: whatever you fill in is shown to anybody signed on to the CB, as the avatar you wear is, with no switch; and no card says when anybody joined, because a date beside a name invites ranking who has been here longest. Every colour on a card is a pair the contrast checker already holds for every theme, and every drawing on it moves only where the radio’s do. Clear my card, Forget me and deleting the username delete it. Privacy has the whole of what is kept. Changed: cb.js, cb.css, love.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, privacy.html, cb-guide.html, community-center.html; new: profile.js, tools/make-profile.py, two functions.

2026-10-17 — Small is one press away on the CB

The radio’s bar has − and + where Size was: one press goes from Large to Normal to Small, or back up, with no choice to open first. Each button says which size it goes to, and says so when the radio is already as small or as large as it goes. Ryan’s ask: getting to Small was a step too much.
Move is six dots now, to drag by, or to press and then use the arrow keys, as before. The bar still fits on one row in every theme. The CB guide and the Community Center say so. Changed: cb.js, cb.css, cb-guide.html, community-center.html.

2026-10-17 — Ryan’s favourite games, as themes for the CB

Another group under the radio’s Themes: Ryan’s favourite games: Castle Crashers, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Metroid, Mega Man, Fable III, Skyrim, Doom, Portal, The Witcher 3, Grand Theft Auto V, The Legend of Zelda and Shadow of Mordor. Each has its game’s palette, a shape after it and a drawing under the bar, along the foot, along the dividers and down the sides: cartoon castles with pennants flying, green rifts glowing and gold filigree, blue cavern rock and round doors, an energy meter filling and ladders, a golden trail twinkling over cobbles, snowy peaks under an aurora with snow falling, riveted metal over slime with fire that glows and never flickers, white panels with a blue portal and an orange one, dark pines under a moon with mist drifting, a sunset with palms swaying, the overworld’s trees and water, and, for Shadow of Mordor, rune medallions after the game’s runes, gold rings with marks glowing in them, over black mountains and lava with ash drifting. Each rune’s mark is made up here, and none is the game’s or a letter of Tolkien’s.
No character, logo, emblem or symbol of any game is drawn, and each game’s studio and the owner of its trade mark are named on the radio’s line when you choose it, and in the CB guide and the liner notes. Every word still clears 4.5 to 1. Changed: love.css, cb.css, cb.js, call.js, cb-themes.js, tools/check-contrast.py.

2026-10-17 — GeoCities pages for the CB

Another group under the radio’s Themes: GeoCities pages, Ryan’s picks from Restorativland’s GeoCities archive: Divine Louise Brooks, Paula’s Page, Shop Til U Drop!, mansnhomepage, Double U for W, Beatnik Termites, The Green Room and Sarah’s Room. Each has its page’s colours, a shape after it and a drawing of its own under the bar, along the foot, along the dividers and down the sides: blocks and a black swoosh, bamboo and ferns and a lizard, neon checks and zebra stripes and shopping bags, pastel checks and sunflowers, chalk scribbles, chain links and doodled guitars, olive table columns, and a starry sky with a column of rainbow stars.
Each page is credited as it names its maker, and by its title and address where it names nobody, on the radio’s line and in the CB guide and the liner notes. Nothing on the pages is used, nobody on them is drawn, and no email address or detail about anybody is repeated. Every word still clears 4.5 to 1. Changed: love.css, cb.css, cb.js, call.js, cb-themes.js, tools/check-contrast.py.

2026-10-17 — Winamp skins for the CB

A new group under the radio’s Themes: Winamp skins, Ryan’s picks from the Winamp Skin Museum: Zelda Amp, Microchip, ASCII-Amp, Super Mario Land Amp, Dig Dug Amp, deviantAMP, HP 49G, Winamp Mario, The Cube, Pip-Boy 3000, Game Boy and TI-82. Each has its skin’s colours, a shape after it (hard pixel corners, dashed ASCII edges, calculator keys, the Game Boy’s one round corner) and a drawing of its own under the bar, along the foot, along the dividers and down the sides: hearts and hedges, a circuit board, typed characters, pyramids and pipes, the layers of earth, sliders, keys, bricks and coins, green cubes, a gauge, a cross pad, and a graph drawing itself.
Each skin’s maker is named as its own readme names them, on the radio’s line when you choose it and in the CB guide and the liner notes, and where a readme names nobody, it says so. No skin’s bitmap is used, and nothing from the games and machines the skins were after is drawn. Every word still clears 4.5 to 1. Changed: love.css, cb.css, cb.js, call.js, cb-themes.js, tools/check-contrast.py.

2026-10-17 — The CB’s worlds go down the sides and along the dividers

A world’s drawing now runs down both sides of the radio, just outside it, and along every divider between its parts, Ryan’s ask: ivy climbing, LCARS’ columns, a spine, tubing, stars, sparkles, sunflowers, greebles, rainbow and ink. Each side stands on a narrow rail of the theme’s own colour, so the drawing shows whatever room is behind the radio, and the radio keeps a little further from the edge of the window to make room for them. On a window as narrow as a phone the sides are left off.
Nothing starts again when a message arrives. The sides are drawn once, longer than the radio can grow, and the radio shows as much of them as it is tall. They move only where the rest of the drawing does: at MAX GLITTER, or after Let my theme move. The CB guide says so. Changed: cb-themes.js, cb.css, cb.js, call.js.

2026-10-17 — Worlds for the CB: themes with drawings

The radio’s Colours are Themes now, and there are a lot more of them, Ryan’s list: Solarized dark and Solarized light, and worlds that have nothing to do with radios, Biophilic, Star Stuff, LCARS, Max Glitter, Solarpunk, Biomechanical, Greeble, Crip Cyborg, Unicorn Poop and Wabi-sabi. Each world has a drawing under the radio’s bar and along its foot, its own corners and borders, and its own lettering for the radio’s name and headings: ivy and mushrooms, stars and a ringed planet, LCARS’ elbow and pills, sparkles, sunflowers and a solar panel, a spine, a plate of greebles, a CPAP hose and oxygen on a rack, rainbow swirls, and a crack mended in gold.
The drawings move at MAX GLITTER, growing, twinkling, glowing or breathing, and stand still at the other settings unless you press Let my theme move, under the themes. Nothing in any of them flashes, and nothing on the radio moves when a message arrives. Solarized and Wabi-sabi never move at all.
Every word still clears 4.5 to 1 in every theme, and every sentence stays in the radio’s own easy-to-read type: a theme’s lettering is for its name and headings only. What each world is after is on the radio’s line when you choose it, and in the CB guide and the liner notes. Changed: love.css, cb.css, cb.js, call.js, the new cb-themes.js, tools/check-contrast.py.

2026-10-17 — Colour schemes for the CB

The radio comes in colour schemes now, from a request: Colours, under Your radio on the CB, offers Amber, which it has always been, Daylight, dark on a pale case, High contrast, black, white and yellow, and three faceplates, Green screen, Red readout and Teal glow. Each shows a little picture of itself, and the call window wears the same. Your radio remembers which, like its size.
Everybody starts on Match my device, so the radio looks different now for some people: High contrast if your device asks for more contrast, Daylight if it is set to light, and Amber otherwise, changing when your device does. The bar you see before you sign on follows your device the same way.
Every scheme keeps every word at least 4.5 to 1 against what it sits on, and High contrast at 7 to 1, and the site’s contrast checker holds each one. The CB guide and the privacy page say so. Changed: love.css, cb.css, cb.js, call.js, guest.js, tools/check-contrast.py.

2026-10-17 — Follow puts a rack’s film on the screen

On a rack, Enter now puts the film up on the room’s screen. Follow, Catch up and a spot from the CB said to press Enter, and Enter played the film small in its card under the screen, which was confusing, at Ryan’s report. Now the keyboard goes on the card’s button for the screen, and the film starts on the screen from where the host is. Anything that is not on a rack is as it was.
A film plays in one place at a time. Putting a card’s film up on the screen stops it in its card, and playing it in its card takes it off the screen, so the same film no longer plays twice, out of step. Another card playing in its own place is left alone. The CB guide says so. Changed: cb.js, rack.js.

2026-10-17 — Watching a live video together on the CB

Add my spot and Host this film now come up for a live video too, at Ryan’s ask, so the channel can be told when one is being screened. Until now Watching together left live videos out, because a time means nothing in one.
A live video’s spot is @live: Add my spot writes @live in “the video” at #the-room, and pressing @live gets that video’s play button ready on your page, or says it is already playing. It presses nothing, and the room’s link in the message gets it ready when you arrive.
Hosting one says it is live instead of giving a place. Beside the host, Catch up gets the video’s play button ready, and there is no Follow, because there is nothing in a live video to keep in step. A moderator’s live video put up from Screen a video says on everybody else’s screen that it runs until you stop it. The CB guide and the privacy page say so. Changed: love-embed.js, cb.js, netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, cb-beacon.mjs, and the sets in hermitage.js, looming.js and rave.js.

2026-10-17 — Quieter messages on the CB

The words Copy, React and Take off are off every message on the CB, from a proposal Ryan brought: a row of buttons on every message was a lot to look at. At the end of each message’s line there are two small icons now, a smiley for React and three dots for More, which opens Copy and Take off under the line.
They show while your pointer is on the message or the keyboard is in it, and always on a phone or tablet, which has nothing to point with. Out of sight they are still in their place, so Tab reaches them, a screen reader names them, and nothing on the line moves when they come and go. The CB guide says so. Changed: cb.js, cb.css.

2026-10-18 — A fairy door at the foot of the Bough House’s tree

A fairy door at the foot of the trunk in the Bough House, at Helen’s ask: arched in the room’s own rust, with a round window, a gold knob, a step and a toadstool beside it, the fallen leaves lying round it, and the lede says so (its first version was too small to see, and grew the same day). Nothing moves; the share card carries it because it lifts the drawing whole.

2026-10-18 — The Emergent Future Worlds Meets Mountain Man, David’s cabin at the summit over the campgrounds

A new home on the campgrounds, and the first off the main campsite: The Emergent Future Worlds Meets Mountain Man, David’s, a log cabin at the top of the mountain that stands over the field, from his brief as Helen passed it on, by the name she gave; he is David Gray-Hammond, he/they, and his own photograph, with the Diversity Power List honours in front of the NeuroHub wall, is framed in Whose this is with its record. Inside, at night: a fire behind the glass of the stove, with the coffee pot on top and a shelf of cups; LED strips along the walls in a colour you pick; a corner sofa, a high-back sofa and two high-back armchairs round a table with the crisps, the sweets and a bowl of rainbow sweets, bright cushions on every seat and bright bean bags on the floor; a big screen with Future Mountain Man, his own playlist, put on whole in his order and every video on it one press each under it; a speaker either side; an oil diffuser; one wolf asleep on the rug. Through the window, the whole back wall: a lake under a full moon, the pack on the warm ground outside, and the hot spring’s steam.
One switch runs the cabin: the fire, the strips, the diffuser, the big screen’s plate and the speakers go on and off together, saying so in words, remembering nothing. The cabin is drawn on and still; from the switch’s press the fire burns and the wisps rise, at Regular and MAX, and at Gentle they stay lit and still. Next colour steps the strips through the cabin’s colours and then the whole rainbow; at MAX a second button lets them drift round it, slowly, until you stop them, and nothing flashes. Change the scent steps the diffuser through its shelf of oils, lavender to cupcakes, saying which is in and never what it does. Hear the wolves howl makes the pack howl for about five seconds, out of the browser’s own oscillators and no recording; beside it, at Helen’s ask, a recording of real wolves from Wikimedia Commons, made by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and in the public domain, played from Commons by its own address when pressed and never hosted here. The cushions wear whichever colour the strips are, and change with them, Helen’s ask too. The window opens onto David’s own photographs of Lake Geneva, taken at Lausanne in July 2026 and sent by Helen on his behalf the same day: nobody in them, described in our words, each with its record in the polaroid file and its file stripped of metadata, to scroll through one at a time.
It runs on the mountain’s own heat. A hot spring steams in a ring of stones outside the door, with a shelf of rock to sit on and a step a wheelchair transfers from; the spring’s water runs under the floor and a small geothermal plant behind the cabin makes the electricity. Ryan’s Solarpunk Hermitage runs on the sun; this runs on the ground. Beside the spring’s words, two photographs of springs like it, Fabio Sasso’s and Jeremy Mowery’s on Unsplash, chosen by Helen, credited and linked; the second has three people far off on a boardwalk, strangers to the street, and the caption says so, Helen’s call. A cable car goes up from the pond, level with the platform at both ends so a wheelchair rolls straight on: it is how Ryan, Helen and Jess visit. It hangs on its wire down the left-hand edge of the page, at Helen’s ask: Send the cable car runs it up and down the wire and stops it, it stays still until sent and at Gentle, and pressing the car takes you back down to the campsite. On the campgrounds’ board its sign stands first, and its light is the sixth: one lit window so far above the field it sits among the stars. On the map the mountain is one card folded to a point over the field. The neighbours line in every home on the campgrounds names it, and its own names them.
tools/make-mountain-cabin.py writes the screen, the rack, the wall, the window and the credits from data/mountain-cabin.json, requires a runtime on every video and refuses one on the playlist, refuses a photograph with no record, holds mountain-man.js to storing nothing, sending nothing and howling no louder than a ceiling, and sweeps the room’s voice for a cure, a conquest and a wolf drawn as a threat. A job marker (a carabiner), a share card, a fractal in the room’s own colours, Now Playing, the liner notes. Staatliches and Assistant arrive on the street. love.css: section 118 is the room; small screens and print move to 119 and 120, with every reference.

2026-10-17 — The hundred points in the CB’s quick reactions

💯 is in the quick row that React opens on the CB, after the crying face. Ryan’s ask. It shows who pressed it, like every reaction, and never how many. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, cb.js and the CB guide.

2026-10-17 — The leaves fall in the Bough House, when you ask

A button under the Bough House’s drawing lets the autumn leaves fall, at Helen’s ask: they let go of the crown, drift down swinging and turning, and land among the others at the foot of the ladder. The same button stops them, and stopping clears the air at once. Nothing falls until somebody presses, at any setting, and the dial never starts it.

2026-10-17 — A hammock and a platform swing by the pond

By the pond between the pitches, at Helen’s ask: a hammock strung between two posts, and one of the swing seats is now a platform swing, wide and railed at each end, that a wheelchair can roll straight onto.

2026-10-17 — The Bough House, Jess’s tree house at pitch 05, and the pond between it and the Faery Yurt

A new pitch on the campgrounds, next to the Faery Yurt: the Bough House, Jess’s, from her brief as Helen passed it on. A tree house up in an autumn grove, built round the tree, so the trunk comes up through the floor and out of the roof and two of its limbs curl round the walls. It is the only room on the street up off the ground: dark words on silvered planks against the sky, the leaves gold, rust and crimson, and nothing in it moves.
Ben, a tiny black dog, lives there too, and one song plays on repeat: Alison Krauss & Union Station’s Let Me Touch You For Awhile, written by Robert Lee Castleman, 3:23 and round again until you stop it. Nothing plays until you press.
Jess founded and runs GROVE, mentoring, interest groups and BEING ME for Autistic young people, by Autistic adults, and the room links to it.
Between the pitches, and belonging to none of them: a pond with swing seats on its bank and a playground for pets, at Helen’s ask, drawn on the campgrounds’ board in the field’s own inks, with pebble paths from it to the yurt’s door, the tree house’s ladder and on across the field to the Solarpunk Hermitage. Every pitch stays where it is.
Every home on the campgrounds now names its neighbours: the Faery Yurt, the Bough House and the Solarpunk Hermitage each carry a line linking the others, by name and by whose they are. A new tool writes it from the campgrounds’ board, so when somebody new pitches a home, every neighbour’s line takes them in the next time the street is checked, and nobody keeps the list by hand. It is a street convention, so it wears each room’s own ink.
On the board, the tree house’s sign is the fifth light: the last sun, still on the top of the tree after it has left the field. A job marker (an acorn), a share card, a fractal, the map and Now Playing, and Merienda and Overlock, typefaces new to the street. Small screens and print move along to §118 and §119 of the stylesheet.

2026-10-17 — Every entry on this page stands on its own again

One entry here left its list open: the 2026-10-14 entry for the Faery Yurt’s welcome. Every entry below it, 252 of them, was nested inside that one list, and anything that reads the page’s structure saw one long entry. The Knowledge System’s copy of this page lost most of its entries that way. The list is closed now.
The tool that builds the feed now refuses an entry whose lists do not close, and names it, so the next one is stopped before it is published rather than found three days after.

2026-10-16 — Wand & Rabbit, the jacket as a sticker, and downloads from Profile

A patch in The Chappell: Wand & Rabbit, dropped at the foot of the Magician’s Cut’s arch. It is shaped like one of the chapel’s pointed arches, in gold leaf on the nave’s indigo, and lettered in Monoton, the chapel’s own face.
Your whole battle jacket is a sticker now. Sticker on the radio shows it first among your patches, and sending it sends a copy of which patches are on it as it is, with their names under it for everybody. Picking up another patch later does not change a jacket already sent. The privacy page says so.
Download, in Profile, saves a picture of each of your avatars, pets and badges, of your battle jacket, and of every patch on it one at a time. The PNG is made in your browser from the drawing on your screen, with the typefaces its words are set in put inside it, and goes nowhere but your own device. The CB guide has the buttons.

2026-10-16 — Nick Walker’s card in the Reading Room

Nick Walker has a card in the catalogue’s Neurodivergence drawer, at Helen’s ask: Neuroqueer Heresies, and the four Spoon Knife anthologies Walker co-edited, each with its co-editors named. None has a page of its own on Wikipedia yet, so the titles are not doors; Walker’s spine on the Neurodivergence shelf still opens the Wikipedia page.

2026-10-16 — Different Bodies on Nick Totton’s card

Nick Totton’s card in the Reading Room’s catalogue has his second book, at Helen’s ask: Different Bodies: Deconstructing Normality (PCCS Books, 2023), after Wild Therapy. It has no page of its own on Wikipedia yet, so its title is not a door.

2026-10-16 — A card catalogue in the Reading Room, and three more authors

The Reading Room has a card catalogue, at Helen’s ask to list the titles behind some of her spines: a drawer for each case under the bookcases, with a card for each author that pulls out to show the books. Every title with a page of its own on Wikipedia is a door to it. The spines stay one author each, as she designed them, and nothing moves unless somebody opens a card.
The cards so far: Joy Harjo and Sylvia Plath in Poetry; Haruki Murakami and Virginia Woolf in Novels; Henri Bergson, Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari together and each alone, Mark Fisher, Elizabeth Freeman, Donna Haraway, Erin Manning, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, José Esteban Muñoz and Spinoza in Philosophy; Nick Totton and Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing in Earth & Kin; bell hooks and Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha in Liberation & Rest; Robert Chapman and Steve Silberman in Neurodivergence.
Three more spines: Joy Harjo on Poetry, for How We Became Human, and Elizabeth Freeman, for Time Binds, and José Esteban Muñoz, for Cruising Utopia, on Philosophy. Each opens its author’s page on Wikipedia, and the spine colours after each move along one, as before.

2026-10-16 — Robert Chapman and Nick Totton in the Reading Room

Two more authors on Helen’s shelves, at her ask: Robert Chapman, for Empire of Normality, on the Neurodivergence case, and Nick Totton, for Wild Therapy, on Earth & Kin. Chapman’s spine opens their page on Wikipedia, and Totton’s opens his own site, since Wikipedia has no page for him.
The other books she named were already shelved by their authors: Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha (Care Work) and bell hooks (All About Love) on Liberation & Rest, Donna Haraway (Staying with the Trouble) on Philosophy, and Steve Silberman (NeuroTribes) on Neurodivergence. The shelves still go alphabetically by surname, so the spine colours after each new book move along one, to keep the six colours turning in order.

2026-10-16 — The yurt’s fire glows, and you can get more logs

The stove in the Faery Yurt glows now, at Helen’s ask: a warm light round it from the start, which spreads and brightens with every log you pop on the fire. It changes only when somebody presses, and nothing flickers or flashes.
A Get more logs button fills the basket again whenever you like, and the fire keeps burning as it was. Pop a log on with an empty basket and the stove says to get more.

2026-10-16 — Pop a log on the fire in the yurt

The logs in the Faery Yurt’s basket go on the fire now, at Helen’s ask: press Pop a log on the fire under the stove, or press a log in the basket, and it lifts across into the stove’s window and the fire burns brighter, its flame taller, its heart lit and its glow warm on the floor. When the basket is empty the button fills it again and the fire settles back down.
The basket says it in Helen’s words: pop one on the fire and warm yourself up! What happened is said in words under the button at every setting of the dial; at Gentle a log moves straight to the fire rather than flying there. Nothing flashes, nothing is counted, and nothing is kept, so the basket is full again next time.

2026-10-16 — The Moon Spoon Pebbling Pot in the yurt

The Faery Yurt has a window beside the stove and the stump now, called the Moon Spoon Pebbling Pot, at Helen’s ask, with her moon stone and her moon spoon drawn on the sill among red toadstools and ivy. The stone’s purple is the one new colour in her room, and it carries no word.
Through the window plays Moon Spoon, Vi Hart’s video, from her own Vimeo, 6:30, credited to her on the window and in the liner notes. The moon spoon is Vi Hart’s idea. Nothing plays until you press, and the player is asked not to track the visit. Vimeo is a new service on the street, so the security header and the privacy page name it.
Helen’s own photographs lie on the sill: her moon spoon with flowers she gathered in the local woods, the flowers on the table and in a basket, and her faery garden with a spoon hidden in the undergrowth. Each is recorded with the others, with no camera data kept and nothing done to the picture.
And the log basket says it in Helen’s words now: free to take if you want, all yours! Enjoy!

2026-10-16 — A wood stove and a log basket in the yurt, and a hollow stump by the door

The basket to take a pebble from is a log basket now, at Helen’s ask, beside a little wood stove with its flue up through the crown, a fire in its window and a kettle on top, the way a yurt is really heated. It takes the place of the picnic hamper. The stove glows the candles’ own gold, so nothing in her room changes colour, and nothing in it moves.
And the bowl to leave one in sits in a hollow tree stump, a carved wooden bowl in its hollow top, with ivy climbing its sides, red toadstools round its foot and a faery door in it, a post box for pebbles. There are toadstools and ivy round the stove and the log basket too, in a toadstool red that is new to her room, at her ask.
The pebbles tool lets any room with a bowl name its own basket and bowl and draw them now. The Solarpunk Hermitage’s are just as they were.

2026-10-16 — Fantasy Fancy Dress, through the curtain at the back of the Dress-Up Den

A new shop behind the Dopamine Dress-Up Den, at Helen’s ask, with her name on the sign: Fantasy Fancy Dress. Faery wings from dragonfly to great faery wings, cat, fox, bunny, bear and mouse ears, tails, paws, bead necklaces, chunky beads, a pendant and a velvet choker, rings, bead bracelets and bangles, a onesie, and tiger, bear, dragon and unicorn suits. Every piece says how it feels and how it goes on and comes off, and comes in every print and colourway the Dress-Up Den has, all black included.
Everything in it is worn by a bodymind, Helen’s call, because a tail or a pair of ears needs somebody to wear it. Bring your bodymind through from the Dress-Up Den and it is drawn there wearing whatever you pick; with nobody brought through, the shop draws somebody at random, a different somebody each time, so no body is the one it starts from. Take it back through and the Dress-Up Den keeps it as an avatar when you press Keep, wings and all. Nothing in the shop is kept or sent.
The pieces go wherever your bodymind goes. They are drawn in the same file as every avatar on the street, on its feet or sitting down: wings fold flat for sitting back in a chair, a tail lies to one side, and short tails sit at the side of the seat where you can see them. The CB’s server and the page both refuse them on the Dress-Up Den’s stand.
The room is lit only from behind, through lengths of sheer stuff in rose, mint, gold and lilac hanging from the ceiling, with the stock on the rail dark against the light and every word on the dark in front. A job marker lies on its floor, and the guild has posted the job.

2026-10-15 — The About page answers the questions people ask

Questions people ask, in Ryan Boren’s answers: what Stimpunks is and where the street fits in, how it started, why it looks like the old web and what AI makes possible, what the technology does for lived experience, what we hope and worry about with AI, and where to start.
The answer about outside services names them: Netlify for hosting, Jitsi on 8x8 for calls, YouTube for most films, and Spotify, Apple Music and TIDAL for music, with a link to How the site runs, which lists every one.
How the site runs had left TIDAL off its list of outside services since the records in Words, Bud, Beats started using it on 2026-10-10. It is on the list now.

2026-10-15 — What’s this all about? A page for anybody who does not get it yet

The street has an About page, for anybody who has been shown it and says they do not get it: what it is, what to do here, why a street, and a thirty-second film. The front page links it under the tagline, and so does the line at the foot of every page.
The film was written as code by Claude in Claude Motion and exported to video. Its doors are the front page’s own, in their rooms’ own colours and lettered in their rooms’ own typefaces, from this site’s font files. It is silent, it plays only when you press play, and everything it shows is written out underneath it. It is the first film this site serves itself rather than from somebody else’s channel. How it’s made says so, and the liner notes credit every face in it.

2026-10-16 — The yurt’s soundtrack is a record case

A music library instead of a list of blocks, at Helen’s ask: the yarn’s rack is an arched case in the same design as her bookcases, with every song an LP sleeve standing on a plank, in one of her six spine colours with the disc peeking out. The sleeve is the press: it takes the record out, puts it on the phonograph and plays it, and says how long the record runs before you press. A small line under each sleeve still plays the song where it stands.
The Reading Room goes gothic romance, at Helen’s ask: a brass chandelier over the scene, a candelabra either side of the hearth, seven candles in sconces along the wall above the bookcases, and ravens, one on the mantel looking at the fire, one at each end of the sconces and three perched on the arches. Every one is a drawing, and not one flame flickers.
The Reading Room’s shelf note reads, in her words, that more are arriving as she remembers what she has read and loved and lent.

2026-10-15 — The yurt’s bookcases move into a Reading Room of their own

A new room behind the Faery Yurt, at Helen’s ask, because the bookcases had outgrown her page: The Reading Room, through the bookcase door where the shelves stood. Every one of her bookcases is in there now, every spine still a door to its author’s page, with a fire in a pointed stone hearth, a sofa, two chairs, candles in brass sconces on claret walls, and the gothic academia she asked for. Nothing in it flickers, and nothing moves at any setting unless you press Join the faeries or Grow a garden, which are in there as well as in the yurt.
The yarn’s rack is a shelf of records now, at Helen’s ask: every song a sleeve in one of her six spine colours with the disc peeking out, standing on its own plank, and the press under it puts it on the phonograph as before.
The yurt keeps its art gallery under the staircase, and where the bookshelf was there is the door. The yurt’s sign on the campgrounds board says a reading room of old books now rather than a plank shelf.

2026-10-15 — Sixty-three more books on the yurt’s shelves, and a ninth case

A hundred and thirty-five books now, at Helen’s ask, every one she has read, shelved alphabetically where it belongs and opening its author’s Wikipedia page like the rest. Poetry gains Keats, Tennyson, Christina Rossetti, Hopkins, Rilke, Rumi, Dylan Thomas, Carol Ann Duffy, Ocean Vuong, Kae Tempest and Kate Fox; Novels gains Angela Carter, Toni Morrison, Jean Rhys, Kazuo Ishiguro, Octavia E. Butler, Kafka and Dostoevsky; Philosophy gains Bachelard, Merleau-Ponty, Simone Weil, Hannah Arendt, Iris Murdoch, Donna Haraway, Jane Bennett, Timothy Morton, Byung-Chul Han, Nietzsche, Camus, and two Posthuman Press anthologies edited by Ombre Tarragnat, Divergences: An Anthology of Neurodissident Worlds and Entanglements: An Anthology of Posthuman Tales, each a spine named for the book; Liberation & Rest gains Eli Clare, Alice Wong, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, Johanna Hedva, Sunaura Taylor, Mia Mingus, Angela Davis, Mariame Kaba, Paulo Freire and Rebecca Solnit; and Earth & Kin gains Nan Shepherd, Rachel Carson, Annie Dillard, David Abram, Roger Deakin, Robert Macfarlane, Kathleen Jamie, Suzanne Simard and Emergence Magazine.
A ninth case, Neurodivergence: Steve Silberman’s NeuroTribes and Nick Walker, moved across from Liberation & Rest, with Dinah Murray, Damian Milton, Luke Beardon, Devon Price, Pete Wharmby, Fern Brady, Katherine May, Sara Gibbs, Chloé Hayden, M. Remi Yergeau’s Authoring Autism, David Gray-Hammond, and Helen’s own books.
Two cases of Helen’s own, at her ask, built from her publications page at More Realms: Helen’s Shelf, her books, chapters, review, translation, the work that carries her endorsement and the work that cites or features hers, and Autistic Realms Resources, her ebooks, webinar companions, workbooks and training packs. Each spine carries a short title and opens the page her list gives for it; work still without a publisher or an address is left off until it has one.
Seven spines open somewhere other than Wikipedia, because Wikipedia has no article for them: Kate Fox’s, Pete Wharmby’s and Emergence Magazine’s open their own sites, the two anthologies open their pages at Posthuman Press, David Gray-Hammond’s (his books, at NeuroHub Community’s book store, where his old Emergent Divergence address now goes) and Helen’s (Autistic Realms). Astrida Neimanis’s stays plain.

2026-10-16 — Faeries with a capital F, and a fuller garden round the words

Faeries is spelt with a capital F wherever a visitor reads it in the Faery Yurt, the Reading Room and the Music Room, at Helen’s ask: on the switch, in the line under it, in what the switch says when pressed, and in the yurt’s own tagline.
Grow a garden grows more: more small flowers in many colours and more toadstools along every vine, more vines across the top and the foot, and more mushrooms coming up out of the bottom, so the open ground all round the words fills in. It still never grows over a word, and it still takes its time.

2026-10-16 — The Music Room, behind the yurt, for anybody who only wants to listen

A door beside the phonograph in the Faery Yurt opens the Music Room, at Helen’s ask, for those who just want to listen and not scroll: the phonograph with her whole playlist on it and every song on the yarn as a record in an arched case, in a room with nothing else in it. The yurt keeps its own phonograph; the music is in both rooms, written into each by the one tool from the one data file, so they cannot say different things. Join the faeries and Grow a garden are in there too.
It is the Reading Room’s house one door along, the gothic dark academia she asked for: claret walls, a chandelier, candles in brass sconces that never flicker, ravens, a pointed window open on the night with a moon and a bare branch behind it, a cello and a harp that make no sound, and a cobweb in the corner. The record turns at MAX and nowhere else, as it does in the yurt.
A job marker of its own, a moth asleep on the phonograph’s horn, on the guild’s board; a card, a place on the map, a line on Now Playing and a fractal window, like every room.

2026-10-15 — Every spine in the yurt’s bookcases opens its author’s Wikipedia page

The seven cases that were lettered plain now open like the Art shelf, at Helen’s ask, which was her first that day: every author on Poetry, Novels, Philosophy, Old Classics, Earth & Kin, Myth & Otherworlds and Liberation & Rest is a door to their page on English Wikipedia, wrapped the way the Art shelf’s spines already were, in the spine’s own cream with only the underline saying link. The order and the colours of the spines are unchanged.
Every address was checked on the day, each one answering 200 from Wikipedia without a redirect, and the pen names, mononyms and shared names were read before they were linked: Spinoza, Chaucer and Shakespeare to the people and not the disambiguation pages; bell hooks to the author; Nick Walker to the scholar of the neurodiversity paradigm; David Mitchell and Joyce Johnson to the novelists; Mark Fisher and Erin Manning to the theorists; and Lewis Carroll to the author, not the book. Four names that Wikipedia keeps under another title (Anna Tsing, Mark Fisher, Erin Manning, adrienne maree brown) link to the page itself rather than through a redirect.
One spine stays plain: Astrida Neimanis has no article on English Wikipedia, so her spine is lettered and opens nothing, rather than opening the wrong page or a search.

2026-10-15 — The yurt’s bookshelf becomes eight arched bookcases, with an art gallery under them

Seventy-two books now, up from twelve, at Helen’s ask: Kimmerer, Manning, Bergson, Nick Walker, adrienne maree brown, Ahmed, Braidotti, Barad, Hersey, Tsing, Sheldrake, Mary Oliver, bell hooks, Audre Lorde, Le Guin, the Brontës, Shakespeare, Frazer’s Golden Bough and many more, with Robert Graves on the myth shelf for The White Goddess. Deleuze and Guattari have a spine each, and Alice in Wonderland is shelved under Lewis Carroll, so every spine names an author.
The one long shelf is now eight narrow arched bookcases, one for each kind of book: Poetry, Novels, Philosophy, Old Classics, Earth & Kin, Myth & Otherworlds, Liberation & Rest, and Art. Inside each, the books go alphabetically by surname. Cases standing side by side are the same height, so a shorter one has empty shelves waiting for what comes back from being lent out.
An art gallery under the bookcases, at Helen’s ask: eleven paintings she keeps going back to, Pre-Raphaelites, Watts’s Hope and two Malevich squares, each out of copyright everywhere and each a scan Wikimedia Commons carries a public domain statement for, hung small on the wall and pressed off it into a gilt frame drawn in her room’s own colours. Every one is credited in the liner notes, with the painter, title and year read off the scan’s own record. The artists she named whose work is still their own — Goldsworthy, Rothko, Hepworth, Pollock, Flavin, Judd, Fontana, Knoebel, Morellet, Reinhardt — are spines on the Art shelf that open their Wikipedia pages, and nothing of theirs is shown.
The caption under the staircase now reads, in her words, that some nights the library turns into a masquerade ballroom, and asks whether you want to join her.

2026-10-15 — The guest bar’s teleporter goes where you pick again

Picking a room in the teleporter on the guest bar did nothing, whether you clicked it or pressed Enter, ever since the bar learned to sign you on. The Sign on button and the teleporter’s way of going somewhere had the same name in guest.js, and the button won. It has a name of its own now, and both work. The radio’s teleporter, for anybody signed on, was never affected.

2026-10-15 — Every room in the Faery Yurt has its own address

Each part of the yurt can be linked to now, at Helen’s ask, so the doorways on her Autistic Realms and More Realms About pages open straight onto it: #soundtrack, #bookshelf, #glimmer-window, #regulation-nook, #nature-notes, #who-lives-here, #pebbles and #where-to-find-me. Nothing on the page looks any different.

2026-10-15 — The yurt’s faeries come in three sizes and never fly over the words

Three sizes of faery, at Helen’s ask: little ones, ones three times as big, and the biggest four times as big.
No faery ever flies over a word or a picture, at her ask. They live on the page now rather than on the window, so the words never slide under them as you scroll; each one only goes where there is room for all of it, and flies round the words from one open space to the next, so the big ones keep to the margins and the little ones slip through the gaps between the sections. A petal or a star that drifts onto a word is gone at once.

2026-10-15 — Bright red and rainbow hair at the Bodymind Booth

Two new hair colours, at Helen’s ask: bright red, and rainbow, which runs red, orange, yellow, green, blue and violet from the roots down, on every hairstyle, long or short. A bodymind wearing either walks into the Dopamine Dress-Up Den with it, and keeps it as a CB avatar.

2026-10-15 — Woodland faeries in the yurt, and a new portrait by the door

The faeries are small woodland faeries now, at Helen’s ask: each a tiny figure with a flower crown, long hair, a mossy cloak to the ground, a posy held in front and gauzy wings, and some with little curled horns. Their skin, hair and cloaks vary so no two are dressed alike. They are drawn here, not taken from anybody’s artwork. They float more slowly, and each lets fall petals that drift down, sway and fade over three seconds; nothing blinks. At MAX GLITTER they still glow brighter and leave stars.
A new portrait of Helen beside the welcome, sent by her today: Helen in a sunlit wood. Her description of the old one still fits it, so it carries those words until she changes them. The earlier photograph stays on Enid’s wall. Not cropped, not filtered, and re-saved with no metadata.

2026-10-14 — The yurt’s garden grows round the words, and the faeries come in colours and leave stars

Grow a garden grows on the page now, at Helen’s ask: tangled ivy along the top of the page and along the foot, strands hanging down and climbing up, ivy down the margins either side, small flowers in every colour (yellows, blues, reds, pinks, lilacs, oranges and creams), red and brown toadstools growing in the ivy, and mushrooms coming up out of the bottom. It grows along the green sprigs too, and across the open space between the sections. Most of it has grown in about twenty seconds, and then for about two minutes more it keeps slowly adding more ivy, leaves, flowers and mushrooms. It never covers a word or a picture: it measures where they are and grows round them, and if the page changes shape it grows round the new shape.
The faeries are all different, at her ask: every one a different size and a different muted colour, dusty rose, sage, lavender, slate blue, old gold, mauve. At MAX GLITTER they are much brighter and leave a trail of stars, each fading out over a second and a half, so nothing blinks or flashes.
The nook’s coffee is coffee and tea: the tile reads a standing supply of coffee and tea, and Ryan’s “Ahhhh.” is still behind it.

2026-10-15 — The Live Room gets the glass, and the studios’ own month under the desk

The Live Room’s desk is a rack now. Every strip still plays where it hangs, and a second button puts it up on the glass over the desk instead, saying how long it runs before you press it. Taking it off puts the glass back as it was and plays nothing, and each studio’s desk folds away.
Under the desk, the last month off each studio’s own channel: Austin City Limits, KEXP and KCRW, their videos and their shorts, newest first, refilled every morning. Nobody chose these or watched them first, so there is no tape on them. Nobody has checked where each was played either: the rule that a session was played indoors is still the desk’s, and the room says so beside the month.
KEXP puts up each session whole and then every song from it on its own, more in three days than YouTube’s feed for a channel carries. So the new puller reads a channel’s own list page, past its first hundred, whenever the feed does not reach back to what an earlier morning covered, rather than printing a gap for a month while the mornings fill it in. It met YouTube’s new shape for an upload list’s rows the same night, and reads both.

2026-10-14 — Plath in the Zibaldone, as she printed it

Sylvia Plath’s line from The Bell Jar is in the Zibaldone, sent in by Betsy and read by Ryan in a reissue made from Faber and Faber’s 1966 edition. It came in joined by a colon. In the book the sentence ends at heart, and I am, I am, I am stands as a paragraph of its own, so the leaf sets them on two lines. The reissue is public domain in Canada and not everywhere, and Plath is still in copyright under the room’s test, so the line is quoted short and cited, and the leaf links the Faber edition rather than the reissue.

2026-10-14 — Your Room says what to do, how to send it, and what happens next

People told us they read Your Room and did not know what they were supposed to do next. It says so near the top now: build it with us or build it with your AI, then send it to us.
How to ask is Build it with us, and it lists the questions to answer: the same questions the prompt has your AI ask you. They are read out of the prompt every time the street is built, so the two can never ask different things.
How to submit your room says where to send it whichever way you made it, what to send, and what to leave in. What happens next says what we do with it, how soon we write back, what decides how long the rest takes, and how to change the room later.
The line comparing you to Enid is gone. It only made sense if you already knew who Enid is.
Changed: your-room.html, data/community.json and the service board in community-center.html, a new tools/make-your-room.py in tools/check-all.sh, README.md.

2026-10-14 — Patches for your battle jacket

Patches lie about the street now, and some are on a counter in a shop, free to take. Signed on to the CB, pick one up and it is sewn on your battle jacket, a denim jacket in Profile on the radio. Every patch is its own size, shape and design, drawn in its own room’s colours and lettered in its own room’s typeface, and all of them sew onto the same jacket.
The first ones: Stimpunks.World on the pavement, Pink Pony Peep on the dancefloor, Interdependence in the Town Hall, Kindness Is Punk on Club Chronic’s distro table, Plant-Powered on Vital Plant Living’s counter, Intermittently Social Lone Wolf in the Cave, and Synapse of the Soil at the end of Mycelium Munchies’ pass. Where the patches are, under your jacket in Profile, lists them all.
Show my battle jacket on the CB, with a claimed username, shows it in your profile, and Sticker on the radio sends a patch to the channel. The street keeps which patches are on your jacket and nothing about when, nothing counts who else has one, and Forget me takes them all off.

2026-10-14 — Rescue Ranger and Pet Parent, the Guild’s first badges that are not jobs

Rescue Ranger is for anybody who rescues an animal at one of the shelters, and Pet Parent for anybody who adopts one. Like every badge, each is worked out from what you have already done, and kept nowhere.
Rescue Ranger is only ever yours to see. The shelters promise that nothing on the street knows who rescued which animal, and the only list of the animals you rescued is in your own browser. So the badge is shown on the Guild’s board and in your own Profile, and never on your profile for anybody else.
Pet Parent comes from the pets in your Profile, so the board shows it while you are signed on to the CB, and other people see it in your profile only if you show your pets.

2026-10-14 — The Guild’s board filters, keeps your jobs in your Profile, and gives out badges

The jobs can be filtered: every job, the ones you have not handed in, or the ones you have. The filter hides rows and never says how many.
Signed on to the CB, the board can keep your jobs in your Profile. Keep my jobs in my Profile, beside the hand-in box, starts off. Switched on, it keeps the jobs this browser has stamped and every one you hand in after, so they follow you to any device you sign on with. It keeps which jobs, and nothing about when. Profile on the radio lists them, and with a claimed username Show my jobs on the CB shows them in your profile, the way pets and avatars are shown. Switching keeping off deletes them, and so do Forget me and deleting your username. Privacy has it all.
Badges, because people asked, after merit badges, Open Badges and video game achievements. A badge is a set of jobs that go together: the rooms down the lift, the tables on the street, the toys. It is worked out from the jobs you have handed in every time, and kept nowhere. Nothing counts them, none is rare or secret, none ever asks for more than it did when it was posted, and none certifies anything. Each one has its own drawing, stamped in the guild’s vermilion when it is yours.
This reverses part of one of the board’s own rules, on Ryan’s call. The tool that builds the board used to refuse the word badge on it. It still refuses it in a job’s own words, and it refuses a badge that is ranked, rare, unlocked, counted or certifies anything. No badge sends anybody to a room for resting in, because on this street rest is owed rather than earned, and a badge is earned.

2026-10-14 — The Faery Yurt: a field book, a picnic hamper, a turret window, faeries and a garden

Nature Notes is an old field book now, at Helen’s ask. Shut, it is bound in leather with its name in gold; press it and it opens onto ruled cream pages, each photograph mounted whole with photo corners and a note under it in her hand. The notes are Helen’s own words from the line above the book, on the pictures they fit; the other pages are ruled and waiting. Close the book shuts it again, and with scripts off the book is simply open.
The basket by the door is a picnic hamper, at Helen’s ask: pale woven willow, a gingham lining in her ivy, the lid propped open behind, and leather straps and brass buckles down the front. The pebbles sit in the lining, and nothing about taking one has changed.
Join the faeries, and grow a garden, two switches under the dial, at Helen’s ask. One sends a few small faeries drifting across the page; the other grows ivy down both edges of the window and toadstools in the bottom corners, very slowly. Each stays still until somebody presses it, at every setting, and pressing again clears it. Nothing flashes and nothing is remembered. The dial’s small print in the yurt now says nothing else moves unless you ask it to, where it used to say nothing else ever moves.
The glimmer window is a castle turret’s window, at Helen’s ask: a round arch in stone, and shutters of oak planks with iron strap hinges and studs that close into one arched door. Her photographs open behind them as before, each kept clear of the arch so none is cut.

2026-10-14 — Beauvoir in the Zibaldone, read in the book

The first line in the Zibaldone to come in by the new way is Simone de Beauvoir’s, from The Second Sex, sent in by Betsy. Ryan read it on page 273 of H. M. Parshley’s English, published by Jonathan Cape, where it opens the chapter called Childhood, and it came in exactly as printed. The leaf names Parshley as well as Beauvoir, because a translation is somebody’s work too, and it says the title page gives no year.

2026-10-14 — The Zibaldone takes its first lines from somebody else’s hand

Betsy sent lines in for the Zibaldone, and two are in the book, with her name on their citations: Louisa May Alcott’s storms, from Little Women, and a sentence of Whitman’s from Song of Myself. Both were read in the printings their cards name. Alcott wrote I’m where it came in as I am, and the line is Amy’s. Whitman’s line ends in a comma and the sentence goes on for two more lines, so the leaf carries all three.
This changes one of the room’s rules, on Ryan’s call. Until today a line still in copyright could only come in if one of our own pages already quoted it, which meant the room could never take one from anybody who sent it. Now it can also come in once a person has read it in the book itself, and its card says who read it and on which page. The checking did not get any looser: a line copied off a quotation site still counts as unread, and tools/make-zibaldone.py refuses a line with no record of who read it, or where.
The rest of what Betsy sent is waiting to be read in the book, and nothing goes on the page until somebody has. One of those lines is usually credited to a different writer from the one it came in under, which is exactly what reading it in the book is for.

2026-10-14 — Avatars in profiles, large, and in the lightbox

A profile on the CB shows the avatar its person wears, first and large enough to see its details, when you press their name on Who’s online or their handle on the channel. Press it to open it in the lightbox, as large as the window allows.
The rest of somebody’s avatars show only if they say so. Show my avatars on the CB, in Profile, is off until you switch it on and needs a claimed username, the same as showing your pets. The privacy page says what it keeps.

2026-10-14 — The Faery Yurt’s residents open onto their photographs

Every card under Who Else Lives Here in the Faery Yurt opens now, at Helen Edgar’s ask: the cats onto Cats Coven, every photograph of Harry, Zara, Ziggy and Tiggy together; Benji onto the Dog’s Den; and Gibbles onto the Hamster Haven. Press a card to open it and again to shut it; nothing loads until it is open.

2026-10-14 — Nature Notes is a notebook now

In the Faery Yurt, Helen’s Nature Notes became a notebook, at her ask: a bound cover in the yurt’s wood, cream pages, and one photograph to a page, shown whole. Swipe the pages, or press Turn the page and Turn back; a screen reader hears each photograph’s description as its page turns.
A shadow sweeps across the page as it turns, only when you press, and not at all at Gentle, where the page simply changes. The notebook stores nothing and never turns a page by itself.

2026-10-14 — The Bodymind Booth, and avatars on the CB

The Bodymind Booth is open, next door to the Dopamine Dress-Up Den: a photo booth with no camera in it, where you draw your bodymind. How you get about, on your feet, in a wheelchair or in a power chair; your height, shoulders, middle and hips; your skin, numbered rather than named, with four colours nobody is born in; your face and your hair; and everything you always have with you, from glasses, hearing aids, cochlear implants, ear defenders and masks to canes, crutches, walkers, AAC devices, fidgets, chew necklaces and prosthetics. No body comes first: the booth opens on somebody drawn at random. The idea came from our community, from somebody who hoped for characters to dress one day.
Take it next door and dress it. The Dress-Up Den now asks who is wearing it, the stand or your bodymind, and every garment on its rails is drawn again to fit whoever puts it on, standing or sitting.
Avatars, kept in Profile on the CB. Keep a bodymind, or an outfit on the stand, as an avatar; with a claimed username, wear one at a time beside your name on Who’s online and change which whenever you like; and send any of them as a sticker. A screen reader hears an avatar as what its owner wrote about it and nothing else.
Two things written down here before have changed, both Ryan’s calls. The Dress-Up Den had recorded any drawing of a body as not open; the Den still draws none of its own, and the bodies are drawn in a booth of their own, where nobody is handed one. And pets were the one thing the street kept under a person; avatars are the second, deleted by Forget me and by deleting your username, and never a picture: an avatar is a list of choices.

2026-10-14 — The Faery Yurt’s residents have names, and Helen’s photographs are up

The residents of the Faery Yurt are named now: the cats are Harry, Zara, Ziggy and Tiggy, the dog is Benji and the hamster is Gibbles.
Cats Coven is a gallery of the four cats together, and Nature Notes, in the regulation nook, is Helen Edgar’s own photographs from outdoors: flowers in her hair, boots by a stream, conkers on moss, an autumn tree and a good many mushrooms. Every one is hers, recorded like every photograph on the street, shown at its own shape and not filtered. No mushroom is named, on purpose. A photograph of a corner of Helen’s own room hangs in the regulation nook too.
The glimmer window looks out onto Helen’s photographs now. Open the shutters and they are there, a strip of her own pictures of the woods, the snow, the bluebells, her room and her animals, each shown whole. Swipe or scroll through them, or use the buttons; at MAX GLITTER they roll on by themselves and can be paused, and they never move while the shutters are shut.
Where To Find Me links her writing on Autistic Realms and More Realms, in her own words about each.

2026-10-14 — The Faery Yurt’s welcome, rewritten by Helen

Helen Edgar rewrote the welcome in her yurt, bringing in her own words from More Realms: the way in by the fairy lights from the treeline, the door flap that is always open, and a realm that is not a place of conclusions or answers but of threads, glimmers and soft, weird spaces. The yurt now says Stimpunks.World where it said Stimpunks Love.

2026-10-13 — A phonograph in the Faery Yurt, and every song on Helen’s yarn on a rack

The Faery Yurt has a phonograph, at Helen Edgar’s ask: a brass horn with pressed petals, a carved case, turned columns and a crank, drawn after a photograph she sent and only in colours her room already had. It takes the place of the little record beside her soundtrack, and like that record it turns at MAX GLITTER and nowhere else.
Every song on her yarn is on a rack under it, also her ask. Each one says how long it runs before you press it, and plays where it hangs or goes up on the phonograph in place of the whole yarn; taking it off puts the yarn back without starting it.
AURORA’s Echo of My Shadow plays again, on the rack. The copy on the playlist stopped playing, YouTube saying only that the video is unavailable, so its card plays the visualiser on AURORA’s own channel, the same song at the same length, and says so. The playlist is Helen’s, and the whole yarn reaches the old copy until she swaps it.

2026-10-13 — The Sandbox, its suggestion box, and building the street with us

The Sandbox is open, a shopfront on the street: a room thought up by somebody in our community and built with Claude, an AI made by Anthropic, and brought onto the street from the page they made. A laptop left open in the sand at dusk, its screen the only light in the playground: come in curious, try things, break things and tell us what you notice, with no deadlines and nothing to lose. There is a sandcastle you can build and burn down, and the ball bounces. Its credit is in the liner notes, with the other rooms people built, and Rubik Dirt, by NaN and Luke Prowse, is a new face on the street, for the sign on its box.
Its suggestion box works. Anybody signed on to the CB can drop in a suggestion, a feature request or a bug report, about the room or anywhere on the street, with their handle on it. Anybody can read what is in the box, and our moderators answer each one, done or not doing, always with a reply and their own username on it. It stays until whoever dropped it in or a moderator takes it down, and nothing in it is counted, ranked or voted on. Privacy says what the box keeps, and the community service board has a slot for it.
And you can build the street with us. Under the box are the steps: make your own copy of the code, check your computer with tools/setup.sh, hook up Claude, see the street on your own computer, make a change, check everything, and send it back as a pull request. The same steps are CONTRIBUTING.md in the repository, written from the same place so the two cannot disagree.
We made two small changes to the room’s page, so the street has somewhere to put its box and its steps: a space round its own link to us, which is still there with scripts off, and a space after its box. Everything else in the room is its maker’s, as they made it.

2026-10-13 — A call that follows you: Pop out

Pop out, on a call’s window, moves the call into a browser window of its own, which stays open while you go from room to room in the window you came from. It works for the World call and for any room’s call, signed on to the CB. You join again in the new window, because a call cannot be carried from one window to another without starting over.
The radio knows where the call is on every page: the call’s own button stays pressed, Show the call window brings the window to the front, and pressing the call’s button again hangs up and closes it. There is still one call at a time. The CB guide has it, and Privacy says what the window sends and keeps, which is nothing new.

2026-10-13 — The World call

A call for the whole street: Join World call, under Who’s around on the radio, opens one call that is no room’s, from any page, for anybody signed on to the CB. It opens in the same window as a room’s call, and you are in one call at a time. The CB guide has it.
Like every call, it hangs up when you leave the page, and going to another room is leaving the page, because every room is a page of its own. The radio says so when it opens.
Who’s online names it in Calls going now while somebody is in it, and nobody is shown who is in it before they join. Privacy says so.

2026-10-13 — The CB in parts, where you are, and calls on Who’s online

The radio is in parts now, each under a heading: Where you are, Who’s around, Channel, Watching together and Your radio, with room and a groove in the case between them. This came out of people trying the CB: it had grown one button at a time into one long column, and it was hard to tell where one part ended. The headings are real ones, so a screen reader can move between them. Small is unchanged. The CB guide has the parts in order.
The radio says which room you are in, at the top, in its largest words, because some people could not tell where they were. Tuned to World, you hear the whole street, and the radio now says where you are standing as well as what you are hearing.
A name on Who’s online opens that person’s profile, the same as pressing their handle on the channel: their handle, its mark, and their pets if they show them.
Who’s online lists the calls going now: every room whose call has somebody in it, with a link there. It names the room and nothing else, not who or how many. Who is in a call is still shown only in its room, to people seen there. Privacy says so, and a room the base keeps or one that keeps to itself is not named.
Join this room’s call is under Where you are now, and Add my spot, Host this film and Screen a video are under Watching together, which is only there while one of them is.

2026-10-12 — More sticker sheets

The sticker drawer has more sheets: the days of the month, 1 to 31; the weeks of the year, 1 to 53; the words Week, Day, Month, Quarter and Year; this year’s number and next year’s, read off your own clock so they turn over on 1 January by themselves; the weather; and the moon.
The weather and the moon are drawn here: cloudy, partly sunny, rainy, stormy, snowy, windy, sunny, a tornado and flooding, and the moon’s eight phases on round stickers, as they look from the northern hemisphere. Pictures are never turned on their side to fit more, because a sideways moon is a different phase.
Every number is the same width, so a sheet of them reads as a grid, and a sheet of a set reads a set at a time: a moon sheet goes round the cycle, and a sheet of dates runs 1 to 31 and starts again.
The first sheets went through the printer and cut cleanly, so the spacing stays as it is. One thing changed for sheets already printed: a word’s size is now worked out across every word, number and year the drawer can print, so a Monday and a 12 in one face match. In most faces nothing moved; in a few display faces a day or month comes out a little smaller than it did.

The sticker drawer can share a sheet now, wherever your browser can share a file. Share hands it to your device’s own share sheet, where Save Image puts it straight into a phone’s photos, which is where the Liene Photo app picks from. Save still puts it in your downloads.
The site’s security headers were loosened by one word to do it: the share sheet was switched off for every page, and is now allowed to this site’s own pages, with the sticker drawer the only script that may open it. It sends nothing to us, and opens only when you press Share.

2026-10-12 — The Open Notebook’s sticker drawer

The Open Notebook has a sticker drawer: the days of the week and the months of the year, by name, on sheets for the PixCut S1, Liene’s photo sticker printer and cutter. Any typeface on the street, in three sizes, and the week or the year on one sheet, or a day or a month to a sheet.
As many stickers to a sheet as will go. The week’s and the year’s sheets take as many whole weeks or years as fit, then whatever more will go in the gaps, turning some on their side where that fits more, and every sheet says underneath it what is on it. Where a whole year will not fit at Large, the sheet says which size it fits at.
A sheet is a PNG the size of the paper at 300 dpi, clear everywhere but the stickers, so the Liene Photo app can cut round each one. It is drawn in your browser and saved to your own device, and carries the face’s designer and licence inside it.
A rule of the room was narrowed for it. The Open Notebook refused any list to choose from and any script of its own, so that there would be nowhere to write. The drawer’s face picker is one list, and it has one script; neither takes a word, keeps anything or sends anything, and the room still has nowhere to write.

2026-10-11 — Wide-Spread Chaos Gardens

Wide-Spread Chaos Gardens is open, east of the stile in Nature’s Contribution: food and flowers from a mix of seed thrown into the wind, on a clear windy day with everything in the garden leaning the same way. The drawing is thrown too, out of a fixed seed, so it is the same garden every time.
What chaos gardening is, and what it is not, in the words of a landscape specialist at Colorado State University Extension: a garden, not a restoration. The mix is half things to eat and half flowers, and the four noxious weeds Colorado State University Extension says to keep out of a seed mix are named and never in it.
It gives food to the café in the old dairy and the honesty box, flowers and seed, and a bench in the middle with no paths to keep to. The screen in the seed shed has films about chaos gardens, meadows from seed and plants that sow themselves.

2026-10-11 — The Honesty Box

The Honesty Box is open on the street, a farm stand at the kerb lit by its own solar lamp, with the wool, hemp rope and cloth, pasteurised milk and cheese, eggs, meat and produce of the land past the campgrounds. Prices on the board, money in the box, and nobody watching.
It is the one stall on the street with prices, because selling the land’s goods is the land’s half of the bargain with the street. Every item says what it costs and which place it came from, and the board is checked against what each place sends here.
Never in the box: cannabis, which leaves the land through licensed dispensaries only, because a box nobody watches cannot ask anybody’s age; raw milk; and anything from the sanctuary.

2026-10-11 — The Dairy

The Dairy is open, behind All Together Now Farms: the farm’s old dairy is a café now, white glazed tile to the ceiling with the light going round and round it, and the pasteuriser still on the counter.
Everything on the menu was grown on the land, and every dish says which places grew it, checked against each place’s own page; the salt and the baking soda are bought in, and it says so. Allergens are worked out from what is in each dish by Hey, Good Cookin’s engine, and each drink’s caffeine by Pekoe and Purrs’. Every milk and cheese is pasteurised.

2026-10-11 — All Together Now Farms

All Together Now Farms is open, north-east of the stile: a mixed farm where trees, crops and animals share the same fields, lit by the sun going down on one side and the full moon coming up on the other, so everything on it is warm on one side and silver on the other.
The five agroforestry practices in the USDA’s own words, and which the farm does: four of them, and the fifth says why not. The Three Sisters are planted in the alleys between the nut trees and credited to the nations that teach them, with their story left to them.
Sheep, goats and chickens, and the milk is pasteurised, with the CDC and Colorado’s law saying why. Everything the farm grows goes to the café in its old dairy and the honesty box on the street.
The screen in the barn has films about growing, grazing and the Three Sisters, and the last month of Farming While Beige, refilled every morning.

2026-10-11 — Gentle Help Cannabis Farm

Gentle Help Cannabis Farm is open, north-west of the stile: cannabis in flower in hoop houses that glow through their own skin, grown among basil, dill, alfalfa, marigolds and the other plants a grower’s guide says grow well beside it. What each companion is supposed to do is said as the guide’s, beside an extension service saying research mostly does not back it.
A table of strains, sativa, indica and hybrid, with Leafly’s lab-test figures for THC and CBD and the top terpenes. Leafly publishes no CBN, so the table says so. Under it, three papers saying the three words tell you little about what is in the jar, and that labels in Colorado read higher than the lab.
Harm reduction, from our Addiction and Harm Reduction entries and from public health: edibles, driving, mixing, lungs, vapes, concentrates, synthetics, CHS, storage, and Colorado’s law, each with where it was read. Nothing is sold at the farm, nobody is called a name, and nothing on the page promises what cannabis will do for anybody.
The screen in the potting shed has films about growing among companions, hemp to rope and cloth, and rosin.

2026-10-11 — Brighter Days Solar Farm

Brighter Days Solar Farm is open, north of the stile: panels on posts high enough to walk under, peppers, cherry tomatoes and basil in their shade, the farm’s sheep between the rows, and the power for the land and much of the street.
It is built on Star Stuff’s Two Peppers and the field experiment behind it, quoted and credited: two peppers answered the same shade in two different ways, and neither is the failure case.
The screen in the battery shed has films about crops, sheep and bees under solar panels, picked for the room and checked to play here.

2026-10-11 — All Needs Met

All Needs Met Wildlife Sanctuary is open, west of the stile in Nature’s Contribution: a wildlife preserve left to whatever was there first, and a home for good for animals who are disabled or were abandoned.
You see it on the night round, through the viewer the keepers carry instead of a torch, so nobody is woken: every resident white with their own warmth, the night black, and nothing in the room with a colour, because heat has none.
Eight residents, each with how they came, how they get about and what they like, and nobody called brave, sad or a lesson. They are this story’s animals, not real ones. The preserve’s wild neighbours have plain names, and nothing tells you how to find them.
The screen in the keepers’ hut has a month of films from the fourteen channels Ryan listed, refilled every morning, the oldest going off the end. Nobody here watched them first, and every one says how long it runs before you press.

2026-10-11 — Nature’s Contribution

Past the campgrounds and through its wood, there is land now: Nature’s Contribution, kept for wildlife, for food and for power at once, where every part feeds the others and the street. It is built on a paper Ryan brought, “Balancing land use for conservation, agriculture, and renewable energy” (Nature Communications, 2026), and quotes it under its CC BY licence: some of the land is shared between uses and some is left to wildlife outright, because the paper is careful about what sharing ground can do.
A fingerpost at the stile has an arm for every place: a wildlife sanctuary, a cannabis farm, a solar farm, a mixed farm with a café in its old dairy, and a chaos garden. The signs are up and the places open one by one; an arm with nothing behind it yet says so.
A table says what each place gives and where it goes, most of it to the street through an honesty box. Cannabis leaves only through licensed dispensaries, never the honesty box, and nothing leaves the sanctuary but its manure.
The light is an afternoon under broken cloud, and the shadows on the fields are the clouds’. You are standing in one at the stile. Nothing moves, at any setting.
The wood stays unmapped: the campgrounds still says so, and now says where the track through it comes out. The map has the land past the wood, and the Adventurer’s Guild has a job out there, still class III.

2026-10-10 — Her records play here now

Every record in Words, Bud, Beats has a TIDAL player on its sleeve, which Kristina Brooke asked for when she sent the room. It is press-to-play like everything else here: nothing reaches TIDAL until you press, pressing brings in TIDAL’s own player, and the song starts when you press play there. The links to each song are still there, for anybody who would rather hear it somewhere else.
Without a TIDAL account it plays a preview, and every button says so before you press it. The preview is not one length: a minute of one song and thirty seconds of two others, when we tried it, so no button puts a number on it. Each button gives the whole song’s length.
TIDAL is on the privacy page with the other services a press can load, including that its player also loads Datadog, which TIDAL uses to watch how the player is working, in about one visit in ten.
A room that comes in through Your Room can have TIDAL tracks as players now, and the prompt says how. The check that every video on the street still plays checks every TIDAL track too, and how long it runs.

2026-10-10 — Words, Bud, Beats

Words, Bud, Beats is Kristina Brooke’s room (she/her): an intimate salon at desert dusk, lit by one west window, with the plants and the knickknacks on the sill. Six records stand on her shelf, each pairing a few of her words with one song and one strain, and the Open mic corner has a slip for a pairing of your own, which you copy and keep; nothing on it is sent or saved. It is the second room to come in through Your Room. She designed it with Claude, following our prompt, and the words, the songs and the strains are hers.
Every song is a link to Tidal, which opens off the street, so nothing in the room plays here.
One line of hers was changed here, with Ryan’s say-so. The Copy button’s script spelled out the room’s address, and a room’s script on this street may not name an address, so it reads the address off the page instead. The slip still ends with the same address.
The import tool learned three things from her room. A list in the notes that says - none means nothing, which is the prompt’s own shape. A colour property set on one of the room’s own rules counts as declared; the tool had been calling it unknown. And a room’s credit in the liner notes no longer says it was built with an AI twice, which NeuroHome’s did too.
Ours: her share card, which carries her window lifted from the page, and her job on the Adventurer’s Guild board, with a carrot off the shopping list on her fifth record lying on her floor.

2026-10-08 — Take off your own message

Anybody on the CB can take their own message off the air now, asked for by Ryan. Take off, which only the base station had, is on every message you sent, beside Copy and React. It takes the message off for everybody, with its picture and reactions, and it cannot be put back. The base station still has it on every message, and clearing the whole channel is still the base’s alone.
Yours means the handle on it, and two marks narrow that. A message marked CLAIMED comes off only for that username’s own password, so a name somebody else signs on as later cannot reach back to what was said under it, and one marked BASE only for the base. The server decides, every time; the radio only decides where to draw the button.
A moderator can only take things off a channel they can hear. Taking a message off never asked whether a moderator was let into a private room at the Town Hall; it asks now, like everything else that touches a room’s channel.
The keyboard is not dropped when a message goes. The button that had it goes with its message, so it moves to the message box instead of to nowhere. The privacy page, the house norms and the CB guide say so.

2026-10-10 — The start of the book, in her own voice

Swaying Sweetgrass has the start of the audiobook beside the book, found by Ryan: Google Play Books’ preview of Braiding Sweetgrass, read by Robin Wall Kimmerer herself, the preface and Planting Sweetgrass. It says how long it runs before you press it, and the borrow link for the rest is right under it.
The check that every video on the street still plays now covers the fires on that room’s fire pit, which the Campfire at Cavendish Coworking reads too. They had been checked nowhere.

2026-10-08 — A screen on the wall of the watch room

The Events Room has a shared screen now, asked for by Ryan, with Schitt’s Creek on a rack under it: CBC’s ten scenes, Alexis and David’s timeline, the scenes the fans chose, and the rise of Rose Apothecary, in the order he gave them. Each says how long it runs before you press it, plays in its own card or goes up on the screen, and was checked on its own watch page first.
It is the room’s first screen, so it is where the CB puts things. Somebody on the CB can host what is on theirs and others can follow, and a moderator’s Screen a video goes up on it, waiting for each follower’s own press.
The screen is not lit. The lamp’s column is still the only light in the room and stays on the chart table, so the screen hangs on the whitewash and gives off nothing until somebody presses it. The room’s line that nothing in it moves now says nothing moves by itself, because the screen plays what somebody presses.
A room behind a Cavendish door can carry a rack now, not only a Hang Suite, built from the same rules, and the check that every video on the street still plays reads the doors’ racks too.

2026-10-07 — More channels on the teaching screen

Hey, Good Cookin’’s rack has Munchies, Joshua Weissman and Strictly Dumpling on it now, added by Ryan. They come after the channels already there, in the order he gave them, and their videos and shorts are read with everybody else’s each morning.
A channel added between fills says so rather than saying its feed came up short, because it has not been read yet.

2026-10-07 — A lift in the lighthouse

The Events Room had a ladder up to its call and no other way up. It says there is a lift now, from the Events door all the way up to the lantern, stopping at the watch room on the way, and that nobody asks which one you took. The heading over the call names the lift first, and the job on the Adventurer’s Guild’s board for that room says it takes the lift or the ladder.
The lift is in the words and not yet in the drawing, which still shows the ladder going up into the light.

2026-10-07 — A second rack on the Green: the newest from the search

The Green’s screen under the porch roof has a second rack, under Ryan’s pick: the newest videos YouTube’s search finds about cities and towns making room for green. There is one search for each of Ryan’s topics: green spaces, green building, urban forests, urban farms, edibles, solarpunk and renewable energy. Anything on it can go up on the same screen.
It is refilled every morning by a new script on the same timer as the other racks. The room says when it was last filled. Nothing older than a week stays on it.
Nobody here chooses or watches these first, and the room says so. A video goes on only if its own title says what was searched for, it plays here, and its channel did not file it as a game or as music. That last rule is because most of what YouTube finds for solarpunk this week is people playing a video game called Solarpunk. There is one video from each channel and no title twice, and each search takes a turn, so no one search fills the rack.
YouTube’s search no longer sorts by newest, so the rack asks for videos put up this week and works out which are newest from each video’s own page.

2026-10-07 — Calls can use your camera and microphone in Chrome

In Chrome, a room’s call could not switch on its camera, its microphone or a shared screen, and said you had refused them although nothing had ever asked you. That was this site’s fault, not 8x8’s and not yours: our security header gave those three to the call and deliberately not to our own pages, and a browser will only hand a frame what the page round it already has. So Chrome switched them off inside the call before it could ask.
The header now gives them to our pages as well, so that the call can have them, and Chrome asks you the first time a call wants them. Because the call sits inside our page, Chrome’s question names stimpunks.world. This reverses the rule written down when calls arrived, that the page itself gets none of the three. That rule could not work.
Our pages still never ask for any of the three themselves. The header used to keep that promise, and now the tool that writes the header does: it reads every script this site serves and refuses one that asks for a camera, a microphone or a screen. The privacy page’s sentence about it stays true, and Architecture now says how.

2026-10-07 — Who’s online, on the radio

A Who’s online button sits beside World and This room on the CB radio. It lists everybody who has switched on Be seen here, in alphabetical order, with the room each of them is in; a room’s name takes you there. Ryan asked for it because people want to know who is around and are having a hard time connecting. Anybody signed on can open it.
This changes what Be seen here means. It used to show you only to people seen in the same room. Now it also puts your handle and your room on Who’s online for everybody on the CB. If you switched it on before today, it does more than it did when you pressed it, and switching it off takes you off the list at once. The privacy page says so.
@ in Teleport finds people by part of their handle now, from the same list, and goes to their room. What you type after the @ stays in your browser. The Let people find me switch from earlier today is gone, because Who’s online does what it did.
CLAIMED sits beside a claimed username on Who’s online and in the room’s seen line, the way it does on the channel, so somebody signed on under a name that is not theirs cannot pass for its owner. Names come in alphabetical order, nobody is counted, rooms kept for the people they are for are not named to anybody else, and nothing records who looked.

2026-10-07 — Find somebody by name with an @ in the teleporter

Type @ and somebody’s handle into the radio’s Teleport, press Enter, and it takes you to the room they are in. Helen Edgar asked for a way to find where people are, and Ryan suggested the teleporter.
Nobody can be found until they choose to be. Be seen here only ever showed you to people in the same room, and that is what everybody who pressed it agreed to, so being found from anywhere is a second switch under it, Let people find me. It is off until you press it, your browser remembers it, and it only works while you are seen.
Only a claimed username can be found, because an unclaimed handle is anybody’s who signs on with it, and somebody could sign on with your name and have people sent to them. Only somebody who can be found can look: the same one switch, both ways, that Be seen here and the Slake keep, and the street checks it, not only the radio.
One whole handle, and never a list. Part of a handle finds nobody, and nothing offers names as you type, because a list of names to pick from would be a list of who is on. The answer is the room and nothing else; anybody who cannot be found, for any reason, is “nobody by that whole handle can be found right now”, and a room kept for the people it is for is never named to anybody else. Nothing records who looked for whom.
The privacy page has a new section, Being found by name, and the CB guide and the Community Center describe the switch. The guest bar and the front page’s search say where an @ works.

2026-10-06 — Rolls on the player piano at A Quiet Pint

The pub’s player piano has a shelf of rolls now, at Ryan’s ask: rags and popular songs from the 1900s to the 1920s, and three rolls played for the Welte-Mignon reproducing piano. Two were played onto the paper by the composers themselves: Scott Joplin, in 1916, and Alexander Scriabin, in 1910.
A roll plays as a strip of sound, not on a screen, so the pub still has no screen anywhere. It plays only when you press it, one roll at a time, and every roll says how long it runs before you press. Each is a recording of a real roll on Wikimedia Commons, public domain there, and nothing is fetched from Commons until you press. Nothing musical is hosted here.
Every composer on the shelf died more than seventy years ago, so the music is free everywhere and not only in the United States. Several rolls were left off for that, and several files that turned out to be notation software playing sheet music rather than rolls. Every roll names its composers with their years, what roll it is, how the recording was made where its Commons page says so, and that page. Every runtime was measured off the file.
The privacy page lists Wikimedia Commons among the services a press loads.

2026-10-05 — A Quiet Pint: a pub under the street, made like McAnally’s

A Quiet Pint is a new shopfront, at Ryan’s ask: a pub a few steps down from the street, made like McAnally’s in Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files. Thirteen tables, thirteen stools along a bar that meanders, thirteen carved columns, thirteen windows, thirteen mirrors and thirteen ceiling fans, as in the books, and no two of any of them alike. There is no television, no games machine and no jukebox, only a player piano.
The only light is the street’s, through small windows at the level of the pavement, passed round the room by old mirrors, so it lands in patches, none the same shape, a little dimmer and a little green. Nobody lights a lamp and the stove is shut. Nothing in the pub moves, at any setting, the fans included.
A table that fits you. The tables are all different heights, so the room has a plan of the floor and a list of every table in words, with boxes to tick for what you want: room under it for a wheelchair or your knees, a tall table, a low one with soft seats, your back to a wall, out of sight of the door, away from the bar, by the stove, in a patch of light or out of it. Every table can be reached from the door by a way at least 36 inches wide, and the room’s own tool walks the floor to make sure. Sit at a table, order from the bar, and look down to see your table.
Where it parts from the books, and says so: a ramp beside the steps, as wide as they are; the ceiling still low, but the fans up between the beams; and your order fetched from the bar or brought to you, whichever you say, and nobody asks why. The measurements are the 2010 ADA Standards’, read on the Access Board’s page.
Every pint comes alcohol-free first, in the same glass, at the same size, so nobody can tell from across the room which one anybody has. Ale at cellar temperature, never cold; lemonade with lemonade ice; a mushroom sandwich first and a steak sandwich after it, from the stove. Nothing has a price, and nobody has to order anything to sit down, which is our own Third Places page’s line.
Butcher’s words are quoted, not retold: short passages, each naming its book and pages, held to a cap. McAnally’s, Mac and the Dresden Files are his; no wizard drinks here, and nothing is drawn from the fan wiki. Set in Amarante and Brygada 1918, read off their own records.
Two shared tools changed for it. table.js can now say how an order reached you, which only this room uses. Big Steep Fermentables’ list of words that press somebody to drink refused the pub’s round tables on its first run, so “round” there now means the round somebody buys. love.css: section 100 is the pub; small screens and print are 101 and 102.

2026-10-05 — Four lots where the buildings stop: the Run, the Truck Stop, the Green and the Pile

Open ground at the far end of the street, at Ryan’s ask: four outdoor lots side by side behind a fence, with a gate into each from the front page, and each lot’s gate through to the next. None of them is a building, so none of them is a shopfront, for the reason the Garden’s gate is not one. On the Map they lie flat down one side of the road, next door to each other.
The Run is a dog park with a covered porch of swings, rocking chairs and plush beds, a row of trees and a field for fetch, painted in the colours a dog can see: blues, yellows and greys, and nothing red or green, which the room’s tool checks colour by colour. The ball is blue. Every dog from Rescue A Dog comes out here, put where their mood takes them: press one to meet them, throw the ball, shake the treat tin, or ask one to come and lie by your chair. Dogs who want to be left alone are never asked. Television made for dogs is on the dog telly, one channel of it live.
The cats at Pekoe and Purrs and the dogs on the Run now share one script, roam.js, which reads a shelter’s list and puts each animal on a perch by its mood; each room keeps its own words. Checked in the browser: the café works as it did, lap and all. A list of names in what the toys did no longer capitalises a name in the middle of a sentence.
Truckin’ Food Court, which everybody calls the Truck Stop: tacos, bánh mì, ramen, treats for dogs and a cooler of cold drinks, each truck doing one thing several ways and leading with a vegan way of doing it, and nothing with a price on it. Every item says what is in it and its allergens, and every drink its caffeine. The oral rehydration solution is the World Health Organization’s recipe to the gram, and every dog treat is checked against the ASPCA’s list of foods to keep from pets. The light comes through the trucks’ striped awnings.
The kitchens’ shared allergen engine learned two words: a baguette is wheat bread, which three bánh mì would otherwise have been told had no gluten, and oat flour is oats, not wheat.
The Green is a wooded green with a pond, just after the rain: nothing casts a shadow, and everything wet holds the sky along its top edge. An accessible boardwalk goes round the pond, built to the Access Board’s standard for trails, with a trailhead sign giving every figure that standard asks for. You can walk it stop by stop, with beds of herbs, flowers, ferns and vegetables anybody may pick.
The Pile is a junk playground of pallets, plywood, rope, an old piano, an old slide and the rest of Ryan’s list, with a den roofed in bubble wrap. Take anything off it and say what it is now, paint it, knock it down. With where junk playgrounds come from, read on the pages named, and our own Play Is Learning.
All of Ryan’s films were asked of their own watch pages first. Every one plays. NHK’s RAMEN JAPAN is a door to YouTube, because its channel has switched off showing it on other sites. Set in eight faces, each read off its own record: Lilita One and Mukta, Sansita and Familjen Grotesk, Della Respira and Alegreya, Rubik Wet Paint and Shantell Sans. love.css: sections 96 to 99 are the four lots; small screens and print are 100 and 101.

2026-10-05 — Screen a video at Looming Rocks and the Rebellion Rave Room

A moderator’s Screen a video now works on Looming Rocks’ stage and on the Rebellion Rave Room’s big screen, as it does on the Hermitage’s television. It plays for the moderator who pressed it, and the desk goes back to the bill or the channel list.
Catch up and Follow beside them put it on your stage or screen and leave it dark, on the panel every act or channel uses, saying who is hosting it and how long it runs; nothing plays until you press play. At Looming Rocks a video that is on the bill puts that act on the desk. At the rave it is always cued on its own, so it can start where the host is, and it says it may flash.
The warning above the rave’s big screen now says a video a moderator puts up from the CB may flash too. Nothing here touches the rig, which still starts only when you ask it to.

2026-10-05 — Screen a video on the Hermitage’s television

A moderator’s Screen a video works on the Solarpunk Hermitage’s campfire television now, as it does on a rack’s screen. It plays on the set at once for the moderator who pressed it, and the remote tunes back to the listing.
Catch up and Follow beside them tune it on your set and leave the set off, on the same panel every channel uses, saying who is hosting it and how long it runs; nothing plays until you press play, which is the set’s rule. If the video is one of the listing’s own channels, that channel is what gets tuned.

2026-10-04 — Screen a video, from the CB

Moderators can screen a video in a room without building it into a rack first. Screen a video on the radio takes the address of one YouTube video and puts it up on the first screen of the page you are on, in place of what the screen had, the way a card’s second press does; the button under the screen puts back what was there. It plays on your page and is sent nowhere. It shows only to moderators, and only on pages with a screen.
Host it, and the room can follow. Press Host this film once it plays. Anybody who presses Catch up or Follow beside you gets that video’s play button on their own first screen, never the film itself: it says how long the video runs and who put it up, and nothing reaches YouTube until they press it. Only a moderator’s hosting does this, and the server says whose hosting is a moderator’s, so nobody else can put a video on somebody’s screen. Following a host’s link from another room gets it ready too.
A host’s beacon now says how long the film runs, so that play button can say it before the press. The privacy page and the CB guide say all of this.
Fixed: following a spot’s room link did nothing on most pages, because the page looked for the spot before the radio was there. It looks once the radio is there now.

2026-10-04 — Brew and Stew, a woodland tea room

A new pitch on the Campgrounds: Brew and Stew, pitch 04, a tea room in a cabin at the edge of the trees, and nobody lit it. The light grows in the wood: a pale glow in the joints between the logs, in the moss on the sill and in the little mushrooms at the foot of the walls. The stove is shut iron, giving the room its warmth and none of its light; there is no flame in it anywhere, and nothing in it moves, at any setting.
The board: herbal teas, soups and stews, and breads, and everything on it is vegan. Every card says what is in it and its allergens, worked out by Hey, Good Cookin’s engine; every tea is a tisane with no caffeine, worked out by Pekoe and Purrs’ engine; there is no honey, so every tea comes with maple syrup on the side. Nothing on the board is a remedy, and nothing in the room was picked in the wood.
Flowers, grasses and twigs on the shelf by the door, each in something to stand in, to take to your table: lavender and oat grass in a jug, birch twigs and catkins in a jar, honesty and willow in a bottle, and more. Every one was grown in the cottage garden or dried from last year’s.
Look down at your table, a slice of log with its rings, to see what you asked for. This is the same behaviour as Pekoe and Purrs’ table, moved into one file, table.js, that both rooms use in their own clothes; the café works exactly as it did.
The looking-glass by the window, with nothing in it until you put a film up, and a rack of other people’s woodland tea rooms and cottages that Ryan picked. Every one plays here and says how long it runs before you press it. One is held off the rack for now: it has the same title, word for word, as another video on the rack, runs one second longer, and went up two years later on a different channel.
On the Campgrounds’ board the tea room’s sign is a cabin with its window dark and its light in its own logs, the fourth kind of light on that board. Set in Macondo, by John Vargas Beltrán, and Livvic, by LV= and Jacques Le Bailly, both under the SIL Open Font License. A job marker (a wooden spoon), a share card, a fractal, the map, Now Playing and the liner notes. In the stylesheet the tea room is section 95, and Small screens and Print are now 96 and 97.

2026-10-04 — Pekoe and Purrs, a cat café

A new shopfront on the street: Pekoe and Purrs, a cat café with a window at every height, each cut to the size of a cat. Coffee, tea and tea sandwiches, and every cat from Rescue A Cat, waiting for a home. The café keeps no list of its own: it reads the shelter’s every time it opens, so a cat adopted this morning has already gone home and one brought in an hour ago is already finding somewhere to sit.
Press a cat to meet them: their name and the shelter’s own words about them, and a link straight to that cat’s card at the shelter, where anybody signed on to the CB can adopt them. Pick a cat up and put them on your lap, and look down to see your lap, the cat asleep on it, and your table with whatever you asked for from the menu. A cat the shelter says wants to be left alone is never picked up: there is no button for it.
Where a cat goes is its mood’s business, the mood the shelter wrote down when it came in, and never its markings: a cat with three legs gets to the top of the tree like anybody else. At MAX GLITTER the cats wander about by themselves; at Gentle and Regular they stay put until you wave the feather wand, roll the crinkle ball or put down a box.
The menu: coffee, not coffee, tea and tea sandwiches, with plenty that is vegan and vegetarian. Every item says what is in it, whether it is vegan, vegetarian or which animal, and its allergens, worked out by the same engine as Hey, Good Cookin’; every drink says how much caffeine, worked out from what is in it. The house milk is oat, the house tea is orange pekoe, which is a grade of black tea and not a flavour, and every cup, mug and pot is the same teal mug.
Rescue A Cat: every cat in the shelter now has an address of its own on the page, so a link from the café lands on that cat’s card. The cats themselves are drawn by the same file as always, which can now draw one in daylight and one curled up asleep on a lap.
Set in Cherry Bomb One, by Satsuyako, and Gabarito, by Naipe Foundry, both under the SIL Open Font License. A job marker (a felt mouse), a share card, a fractal, the map and the liner notes. In the stylesheet the café is section 94, and Small screens and Print are now 95 and 96.

2026-10-04 — Three small things the CB guide turned up

Move answers when you press it. On the radio and on a call’s window, pressing Move without dragging used to do nothing you could see: the arrow keys were only described to a screen reader, and a click did not even put the keyboard on it. Now a press puts the keyboard on Move, so the arrow keys work straight away, and says in a line how moving works. Dragging is unchanged.
The button is called Forget me, and Privacy, the shelters, the job about it at the Adventurer’s Guild and the README now call it that rather than Forget Me. The same job also lost a doubled word: Profile is on your CB radio, not your CB radio radio.
A note in the code still said the Faery Yurt had no guest bar. Helen said yes on 2026-09-30, and the note says so now. Nothing a visitor sees changed.

2026-10-04 — The CB guide

A guide to the CB, the street’s radio, part by part and top to bottom, with every button named the way the radio names it: the guest bar and signing on, the bar and its sizes, World and this room, Be seen here, reading and writing messages, reactions, Markdown, pictures, the row of tools, the teleporter, watching films together, calls, Profile and pets, and what moderators see. It ends with every key in one table and a short account of what the radio sends and keeps.
It is linked from How the radio works at the Community Center, from the foot of the radio beside the house norms, and from the guest bar for anybody not signed on yet.
The Community Center still said links on the channel were only rooms on the street, which stopped being true on 2026-09-29. It now says what its own house norms already did: a link’s words are always its address.

2026-10-04 — Architecture

A new page describing how the site runs, beside How this site is made: that page is the why and this one is the how. It covers the deploy from a push to main, the stylesheet and scripts, the data files and the generators that write parts of pages from them, every checker and what it refuses, the CB’s server side and what it keeps for how long, the morning timers, and every outside service with when it is contacted. Secrets are named and never shown.
Its map of what talks to what is boxes and words rather than a picture, so it reflows on a phone and reads aloud in the order a change travels. It is paperwork rather than a room, so it is pinned to the edge of the map with the others, carries no job marker, and takes the plain pages’ quiet clothes.

2026-10-04 — The security policy catches up with the CB

SECURITY.md described the CB as it was on its first day: a handful of functions, one blob and no accounts. It now says what is there: claimed usernames with their own passwords and recovery codes, moderator roles, the private rooms in the Town Hall, pictures on the channel, the Brass Tacks Board and its feed, and 8x8’s calls and webhooks. The list of what is worth reporting grew with it, and so did the list of secrets kept in Netlify’s environment, by name only.

2026-10-04 — Hey, Good Cookin’

A community kitchen on the street, at Ryan’s ask and in his words: come if you’re hungry for food or for knowledge, no one is turned away, you don’t have to pay and you don’t have to volunteer. Cafeteria-style self-service, sit-down seating, and a communication badge placard on every table: green for open seating, yellow for ask if you know somebody, red for please don’t sit here, each with its shape and its word so colour is never the only sign. It is a hall on a cold day with every pot on, its windows steamed up, and the only sharp light in it is where a drop has run down the glass.
An omnivorous menu with plenty of vegan and vegetarian: a hot line for every day of the week, posted whole, with the vegan pan first every day, and stations from the soup kettles to the plain things that never change. Every dish card says what is in it, whether it is vegan or vegetarian or which animal it came from, and which of the FDA’s nine major allergens it has, and gluten, worked out from the ingredients so the two lines cannot disagree. No calorie counts, and nothing about what a dish does for you.
The line and every table are built to work from a wheelchair, to the 2010 ADA Standards’ numbers, each linked to its section; the standard asks for one seat in twenty and here it is every seat. Help is offered and never assumed, and anybody who cannot do the line today can sit down and have the board and the plate brought.
Cooking classes written in full, each saying how long it takes, what it sounds and smells like, and that it can all be done sitting down, with FoodSafety.gov’s temperatures beside anything that needs them. No sign-up, no register, no grades.
A rack of the last month from cooking channels Ryan chose, videos and shorts, which plays where it hangs or on the teaching screen, and refills itself every morning on the same timer as the other racks. The room says plainly that nobody here watched the videos first. Nothing loads from YouTube until you press.
Set in Corben, by Vernon Adams, and Parkinsans, by Red Stone, both new to the street. A job marker is on the floor, and every source is in the liner notes.

2026-10-03 — Learning Large

A new shopfront about learning, making and knowledge gardening with generative AI, at Ryan’s ask, with his tagline over the door: Models are spiky. Humans are too. Learning, making, and knowledge gardening, together. It is a glasshouse at night under the old red and blue grow lamps, and nothing in it is green, because under that light a leaf has no green to give back.
The argument is our own AI pages’, starting from AI at Stimpunks: spiky profiles, a model’s peaks and troughs as our pages describe them, competency networks and the legibility test, harm reduction and knowing how the tools work, making rather than being made into data, and a garden that belongs to the people who tend it. Every quotation is checked word for word against our page on every build, and says where it was read.
The sowing log is this street as a worked example: times something came up wrong here, most of them Claude’s, and who or what noticed, each linked to the day it was written up below.
A rack of the latest month from AI channels Ryan chose, videos and shorts, which plays where it hangs or on the screen on the potting bench, and refills itself every morning on the same timer as The Open Notebook’s log. The room says plainly that Ryan chose the channels and nobody here watched the videos first. Nothing loads from YouTube until you press, and there is no chat box in the room: nothing you do here is sent to an AI.
Set in Recursive, by Arrow Type and Stephen Nixon, in its casual cut, and Fira Sans, by Carrois Apostrophe for Mozilla, both new to the street. A job marker is on the floor, and the credits are in the liner notes.

2026-10-03 — Two more channels in The Open Notebook

The monthly log has two more channels, at Ryan’s ask: Lori Ann Tata and Mark Your Pages, at the end of his list. Their last month of videos and shorts is in it now, and it refills with the rest every morning. Both are credited in the liner notes.

2026-10-03 — The Open Notebook

A new shopfront for journaling, at Ryan’s ask, and he chose its name: a desk under a window with a notebook lying open on it since first light, so every hour’s sun is on the page at once, each with its time written under it.
It leads with Ryan’s own piece in full, on keeping a bullet journal, a junk journal and an interstitial journal in the same notebook, which he gave to the street under its licence. Its lists of videos have been moved to the collection further down, and a line in the margin of the piece says so wherever that happened.
The questions from the Infodumplings where he shared it follow it, word for word from our write-up of that evening, Star Stuff and L★S included. There is nowhere on the page to answer them, on purpose: they are for your own paper.
A laptop beside the notebook, and two racks that can go up on it: the collection, every video the piece points at, on a shelf for each practice; and the monthly log, the last month of videos and shorts from journaling, stationery and notebook channels Ryan chose. The log refills itself every morning on the same timer as the kitchen’s telly, and the room says plainly that Ryan chose the channels and nobody here watched the videos first. Nothing loads from YouTube until you press, and every video says how long it runs before you do.
Set in Doto, by Óliver Lalan, whose letters are made of round dots like the page, and Rosario, by Omnibus-Type, both new to the street. A job marker is on the floor, and the credits are in the liner notes.

2026-10-03 — More comics at Laughingstock, and The Daily Tism on the bar

Laughingstock’s bill has new comics on it, at Ryan’s ask: Joe Wells, Fern Brady, Tim Renkow, Stuart Laws, Pierre Novellie, Hannah Gadsby, Lara Ricote and Rosie Jones, plus the AJ Wilkerson specials that had gone onto our playlist since the bill was last read. Every set says how long it runs before you press it, and every one was checked that day to see that it plays and can be shown here. Tim Renkow’s sets say they are very dark humour before you press them.
The bill works like the racks in the newer rooms now. Every set plays where it hangs or goes up on the stage in place of the whole night, and taking it off puts the whole night back without starting it. The bill folds away. Nothing loads from YouTube until you press.
Stuart Laws’ two sets are on the bill and not on the playlist yet, so putting the whole night on does not reach them, and the room says so under the bill. A Fern Brady clip from The Last Leg is not on the bill at all: it does not play outside the UK. Fern Brady’s full special is on the bill.
The Daily Tism is on the bar: a satirical news site about being Autistic, and its audio sitcom, It’s a Superpower?? Not stand-up, and in the room anyway. Both are links; nothing of theirs plays here.
Freak Accident’s note no longer calls it the longest set on the bill, which stopped being true the day Rosie Jones’ special went on. The room’s tool now refuses a note that says longest, shortest or newest. Credits are in the liner notes.

2026-10-01 — A telly in the kitchen

Vital Plant Living has a telly, at Ryan’s ask: plant-based cooks on YouTube, in the order he listed them, with the last month of what each one has put up, videos and shorts both, newest first under each cook. Each one plays where it hangs or goes up on the telly, a short upright, and says how long it runs before you press it. Nothing loads from YouTube until you do.
It refills itself every morning, on the same timer as The Feed and The Doom Scoop, and anything older than a month goes off the end. The room says when it was last filled, and says plainly that Ryan chose the cooks and nobody here watched the videos first. Every title is the cook’s own, as written.
The cooks are credited in the liner notes.

2026-10-01 — Search every word on the street

The search box on the street and on the Map searches every page now, not only the rooms’ names, as all our other sites already do. Rooms found by name still come first. Under them come the sections of pages that hold every word you typed, each linked to the section rather than the top of the page, with a few lines round the first match, and the changelog after everything else.
A quotation is never cut down in a result. A match inside a quotation shows who it is credited to and where it is, and not a trimmed piece of somebody else’s words. A snippet that would start or end inside a quotation in our own sentences is widened to hold all of it.
It reads every page’s own words, written into search-index.json by a new tool each time the site is checked. It leaves out the parts the morning timers refill (the Doom Scoop’s cabinet, The Feed’s board, the kitchen telly and the Now Playing bill), the job markers, and the lyric printed in full at The Small Hours, which is there with permission and not under this site’s licence.
Why not Pagefind, which one of our sites uses: it runs WebAssembly, which would loosen the part of this site’s security policy that decides what scripts may run; its index is a folder of many small files that would change in every morning’s commit; and both of the machines that publish here would need it installed. A file of our own words, searched in your browser, is how most of our sites do it.
The file is fetched from this site the first time you type, and what you type never leaves your browser. The privacy page says so.

2026-10-01 — “Music” finds the music rooms

Searching for “music” found nothing, because none of the music rooms’ own descriptions used the word: they said songs, records and concerts. Each of those descriptions says music now, in a few words and nothing else changed: Pink Pony Club, The Chappell, Club Chronic, The Den, Black Leather Lagoon, Looming Rocks, The Live Room, Dance, Punks, The Small Hours, the Rebellion Rave Room and Now Playing. The share cards are drawn from a different line and have not changed.

2026-10-01 — Finding a room by what it is about

A search box near the top of the street and of the Map, for Helen Edgar, who asked for a search bar at the top. It is on those two pages and nowhere else, Ryan’s call, because the teleporter already searches from every page and a bar across the top of every room would lay the street’s furniture over all of them. What it finds are ordinary links, and Enter goes to the first.
Typing “fire” in the teleporter finds The Campfire now, as Helen Edgar asked. It looks inside the words of a room’s name as well as at their starts, so a part of a word is enough.
It also searches each room’s own description, the summary at the top of its page, so a keyword finds the rooms it is about. A room found that way shows the words it was found in. Rooms found by their name come first, then rooms found by their description, each group in walking order. Every word you type has to be found, and a plural also finds the singular.
The box, the radio and the guest bar all search this way, and a new check makes sure they never find different rooms. Nothing about a search is sent anywhere.

The share cards stopped trading places between Ryan’s Mac and Helen Edgar’s. The same Chrome on two versions of macOS draws the soft edges of letters a little differently, so each run of the checks rewrote every card on the street with a near-identical copy. Helen’s Claude found it, and measured it.
The tool that makes the cards now records what each one is made from: its words, every style on it, and every typeface and picture it uses. When none of that has changed, the card already committed stays. A changed word, colour, face or image still makes a new card. We tried comparing the pictures pixel by pixel first, and that could not tell a Mac’s edges from a small contrast fix, so it was not kept.

2026-10-01 — New words under the Faery Yurt’s name

The Faery Yurt’s tagline is new, in Helen Edgar’s own words: lots of books, music, faerys, candle light and weird thoughts and happenings.

2026-10-01 — The Brass Tacks Board on The Feed

The Feed has a board for the Brass Tacks Board now, right after this street’s own, which is the one place in stimpunks.org’s order it can go without re-sorting anybody else. Ryan’s ask.
It is a second feed of this street, not a site of its own, so the hall says “one wire per feed” now, and the Garden, which plants one bed for every site we publish, leaves it out.
It may be empty. A board with every post taken down is a board, not a broken feed, so it shows one blank flap saying so, and the morning’s board is still set. Its titles are a moderator’s own words, so a “<” typed in one does not stop the board being set either. Changed: data/arrivals.json, tools/pull-arrivals.py, tools/make-arrivals.py, tools/make-garden.py, tools/make-og.py, the-feed.html.

2026-09-30 — The Brass Tacks Board

New on the pavement, beside the Pebble Board: the Brass Tacks Board, for things meant to last. News, notices, events, celebrations and posts, each on a brass plate tacked to a wall of old copper gone green, kept until it is taken down. Anybody can read it, and it has a feed of its own. Ryan’s brief.
Only our moderators post on it, and every post carries the username of the moderator who put it up, public on purpose. The author can edit it, and the post says it was edited and when; any moderator can take any post down. Ryan’s calls.
A post is Markdown, as fully as we could do it safely: headings, bold, italic, strikethrough, code and code blocks, lists inside lists, quotes, tables, rules and links. The server reads it once into a plain structure, and the board and the feed build that, so nothing typed into a post can become code on the page. A link goes to the web, an email address or somewhere on the street, and a link off the street shows where it goes.
A post can carry a picture, redrawn in the moderator’s browser first by the radio’s own redraw, which takes off everything a camera writes into a file; it needs a description, and the moderator says everybody recognisable in it has said yes. The privacy page says what the board keeps.
No new database. It is Netlify Blobs, like the rest of the CB, with the boards’ conditional write, tested with fifteen moderators posting at once. It is set in Bellefair and Merriweather, both new to the street. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, three new functions, brass.js, cb.js (it shares its redraw now), love.css (the board is §90, and Small screens and Print are §91 and §92), the map, and a new tools/make-brass.py.

2026-09-30 — More reactions, and any emoji at all

Our usual ten are in the quick row now: dog, cat, otter, rainbow, unicorn, sign of the horns, hedgehog, hugging face, people hugging and crying face. Ryan’s list.
Any other emoji works too. A page cannot open your system’s emoji picker itself, so under the quick row is a small box your picker can type into, and the radio says how to open it on the device you are on: Control, Command and Space on a Mac, the Windows key and full stop on Windows, the emoji key on a phone. The server takes exactly one emoji, skin tones and flags included, and refuses words, markup or two at once.
A message holds up to 24 different reactions; one already there can always be pressed. Still names and never a number. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, cb-react.mjs, cb.js, cb.css.

2026-09-30 — Reactions on the CB

React, beside Copy on every message, opens a small set: a heart, a thumbs up, a laugh, a party, eyes, sparkles, and a penguin, for a pebble. Press one and it goes under the message with your handle; press it again and yours comes back off. Ryan’s brief.
A reaction shows who, never how many. The line under a message says “👀 Bo and Zed”, names in alphabetical order, and nowhere on the radio is there a count, which is the street’s rule that nobody is counted, the one “Be seen here” keeps. A screen reader hears the reaction’s name and who pressed it; reactions changing are not read out as they land, because a reaction is not a message.
Reactions are part of their message and go with it, at midnight at the latest, or when the base takes the message off. The privacy page and the house norms at the Community Center say so. Tested with fifteen people reacting to one message at once, and nothing told it worked went missing.
Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, a new netlify/functions/cb-react.mjs, cb.js, cb.css, privacy.html, community-center.html.

2026-09-30 — Rescue Small Animals

A new shopfront: Rescue Small Animals, beside the cat and dog shelters. Rabbits, rats, mice, hamsters, gerbils, guinea pigs, chinchillas, ferrets and hedgehogs turn up at random under the floorboards of a shop; the first person signed on to the CB to press brings them in and names them, and anybody can adopt one into Profile on their radio, rename them, and send a sticker of them. Ryan’s brief. Birds and reptiles may come later.
No animal is rarer than another. Every species is equally likely, each comes in three coats it really comes in, so there is no ginger hedgehog, and the words say what each animal is: a sable ferret, a hooded rat, a ginger and white guinea pig.
The light is the day coming down through the cracks between the boards, seen only where it lands on the dust in long pale strips, and every animal is seen standing in one. It is set in Carter One, by Vernon Adams, and Balsamiq Sans, by Michael Angeles, both new to the street.
Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, the shelter functions, animals.js, shelter.js, cb.js, love.css (the new room is §89, and Small screens and Print are §90 and §91 now), tools/make-rescue.py, which now reads every kind’s coats and caught itself reading none of the new ones on its first run, and privacy.html.

2026-09-30 — Pet stickers, and pressing a handle to see somebody’s pets

Stickers. Sticker, beside Picture on the radio, lists your pets; press one and a drawing of them, with their name, goes to the channel you are tuned to. The server finds the pet among your own, so nobody can send a sticker of somebody else’s, and it goes at midnight with the rest of the channel. Everybody sees its words, a screen reader hears them and speaking aloud reads them. Ryan’s brief.
Press a handle on the channel to see their pets, if they have made them public. It opens on the readout under the messages; Close or Escape puts you back on the handle you pressed.
Showing your pets is off until you switch it on, with Show my pets on the CB in Profile, and only a claimed username can, because an unclaimed handle is anybody’s. Shown pets are their drawings, names and what they are; never when they came in or were adopted. The answer is the same for a handle that is not shown, not claimed or nobody at all. The privacy page says what that keeps, and that showing your pets lets people find them on the list of everybody adopted.
Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, netlify/functions/cb-transmit.mjs, cb-pets.mjs, a new cb-pets-of.mjs, cb.js, cb.css, tools/make-rescue.py, both rescue rooms and privacy.html.

2026-09-30 — Rename your pets

An adopted cat or dog can be renamed, from Profile on the radio, as often as you like, or named if they came in without one. Ryan’s call. An animal still in the shelter keeps the name its rescuer gave.
The list of everybody adopted shows the new name and the name they came in under, so the rescuer’s naming is not written over. It still never says who adopted or renamed anybody. The base station taking a name off takes both.
Rescue A Cat, Rescue A Dog and the privacy page say so. Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, netlify/functions/cb-pets.mjs, cb.js, shelter.js.

2026-09-30 — Moderators can move onto passwords of their own

A moderator can sign on with a password of their own now, instead of the moderators’ password every moderator knows. Signed on as the base, Profile on the radio offers Move onto my own password; from then on the shared password no longer signs on as that moderator, so nobody else can be them. Ryan’s call, starting with himself; it is each moderator’s choice.
Roles stay on the moderators’ list, read on every request as before. The account is the same record as anybody’s and holds no role, so taking somebody off the list leaves them an ordinary claimed username, and a list that cannot be read still gives nobody the base.
The moderators’ desk does not reset or delete a moderator’s username, because a reset code would let one moderator sign on as another, with the other’s roles. A moderator keeps their recovery code; failing that, Ryan or Helen moves them back.
No password of your own can be the community password or the moderators’ one, for anybody claiming. The privacy page and the Moderators’ room say all of this.
Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, the sign-on, account, recovery and desk functions, cb.js, desk.js, the scripts that read the base mark off a pass, tools/make-accounts.py, privacy.html, town-hall-moderators.html.

2026-09-30 — CLAIMED on the channel, beside BASE

A message from a claimed username is marked CLAIMED, the way a moderator’s is marked BASE. Ryan’s call, after claiming his own. The mark comes from the pass that sent the message, read by the server, and never from anything the sender sends, so nobody can wear it without the username’s own password. Your own line on the radio says it too, from the moment you claim.
The two marks look different on purpose: BASE is a filled amber tag, CLAIMED an outlined one, so they are told apart by shape as well as by word. A moderator’s message wears BASE and only BASE.
The house norms at the Community Center and the privacy page say what the mark means and what it does not: it says a username is claimed, never who anybody is. A message already on the channel keeps the mark it was sent with until midnight, even if the account is deleted.
Changed: netlify/functions/cb-transmit.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.mjs and its tests, cb.js, cb.css, tools/make-accounts.py, tools/check-contrast.py, community-center.html, privacy.html.

2026-09-30 — Claim your username, with a password of your own

You can claim your username on the CB. Signed on, press Profile on the radio and claim the handle you are on as, with a password of your own. From then on it signs on with that password and nothing else, and the community password stops working for it, so nobody else can sign on as you. It is optional: an unclaimed handle works exactly as before. Ryan’s brief.
There is no email. When you claim, you are shown a recovery code, once, which is the way back in if you forget your password; a moderator can also give you a reset code, after making sure it is you. Either is used under Forgotten the password at the Community Center.
Profile has your pets in it too, where the Pets tray was, with Forget Me. Once your username is claimed, only your password reaches them. It also changes your password, which signs off every other device, and deletes your account, which deletes the username, its password and your pets.
Moderators have a desk in the Moderators’ room: look up one username by typing it, give it a reset code, or delete it. There is no list of everybody’s username, for moderators or anybody else.
What the street keeps is the username, a salted scrypt hash of its password and of its recovery code, when it was claimed, and a count of wrong passwords (five lock it for fifteen minutes). The privacy page says so, and it changed first; its short version no longer says there are no accounts.
Every function on the CB now checks a pass against the store as well as its signature, so a password change, a reset or a deletion signs every device off at once. Tested: the community password refused for a claimed username, the lock, every way of signing devices off, deletion taking the pets, and fifteen people claiming one username at once.
Changed: netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.test.mjs, every CB function (the pass is checked against the store now), three new ones for your account, recovering it and the moderators’ desk, cb.js, cb.css, desk.js, guest.js, community-center.html, town-hall-moderators.html, privacy.html, the shelters, tools/make-accounts.py and tools/make-rescue.py.

2026-09-30 — Adopt a cat or a dog, and a Pets tray on the CB

You can adopt. Signed on to the CB, press Adopt on a cat at Rescue A Cat, or a dog at the new Rescue A Dog, and they are yours: they live in a Pets tray that pops up from your CB radio, on any device you sign on with. Ryan’s brief.
Every room keeps a list of everybody ever adopted, for good, a month at a time, and it never says who adopted anybody.
This is the one thing the street keeps under a person, and Ryan said he was fine with that. Your pets are filed under a scrambled form of your handle, not the handle itself. A handle is not an account, so anybody who signs on with yours sees the same pets, and the tray says so. Forget Me is in the Pets tray: it asks once more, then deletes your pets, and the animals stay on the list of everybody adopted with nothing connecting them to you. The privacy page says all of this, and changed first.
A new shopfront: Rescue A Dog, the park the morning after snow, where you follow the prints to a dog who needs bringing in. Same game as the cats, different world: the ground brighter than the sky, and every shadow blue.
Changed at Rescue A Cat: a cat no longer goes to a home off the street after a week. Cats stay in the shelter until somebody adopts them, and when it is full the next one waits outside. The list of the ones you rescued is now kept under love-rescues, for cats and dogs, and an old love-cats list is moved across. Its job at the Guild asked how long a cat stays, which is no longer a week, so it asks where an adopted cat goes.
Set in Paytone One, by Vernon Adams, and Open Sans, by Steve Matteson. The shelters share one mechanism and one set of drawings, and nothing else. Tested with fifteen people adopting one animal at once, and with an adoption stopped halfway: nobody gets it twice and nothing is lost.
Changed: rescue-a-dog.html, rescue-a-cat.html, shelter.js (was cats.js), animals.js, cb.js, cb.css, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.test.mjs, the shelter, adoption and pets functions in netlify/functions/, tools/make-rescue.py (was make-cats.py), love.css, privacy.html, and the tools and data every new room touches.

2026-09-30 — Rescue A Cat, and nobody keeps them

A new shopfront on the street: Rescue A Cat, the end of the street where the lights are out, a torch, and now and then a cat that needs bringing in. It is after the catch-a-cat game in our Discord’s Collaborative Nonsense channels, and Ryan renamed it: cats are rescued, not caught.
Cats turn up at random, and nothing, not even the shelter, says when the next one is due. Signed on to the CB, the first to press brings a cat in and can give it a name.
The shelter shows every cat rescued this week, with its name, and never who rescued it. After a week each cat goes to a home. The cats you rescued are kept in your own browser, under love-cats, the way the Guild keeps your jobs, and the shelter never knows which were yours; Forget my cats clears them. The privacy page says so, and it changed first.
No cat is rarer than another. Every coat, marking, place and mood is as likely as any other, which the tests check across thousands of cats; some have three legs or one eye, and they are cats.
Set in Fuzzy Bubbles, by Robert Leuschke, and PT Sans, by ParaType. Three new CB functions, tested with fifteen people pressing for one cat at once. A job marker, a share card, the map and a street door.
Changed: rescue-a-cat.html, cats.js, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.test.mjs, three functions in netlify/functions/, tools/make-cats.py, love.css, privacy.html, and the tools and data every new room touches.

2026-09-30 — Count Me In, a stair everybody climbs, with a lift

A new shopfront on the street: Count Me In, a fire door onto the stairwell of a public building that goes up and never stops. It is after the counting game in our Discord’s Collaborative Nonsense channels. Signed on to the CB, you put the next number, and then somebody else puts the one after.
There is a chairlift, Ryan’s idea, so that everybody can join: riding it takes you up one step with no number to get wrong, it counts exactly the same, it can never send the stair back to one, and its button sits beside the step’s at the same size. Nothing records which way anybody came up.
A wrong number sends the stair back to one, and nobody is named, because anybody’s number can slip. A number at or below the step we are on is somebody whose page was behind, and sends nobody anywhere.
The stair keeps the highest step it has reached, and that changes a published aim. It is the first number on the street that is a record to beat, and it belongs to nobody; Ryan’s call, made knowing that. The Mission said the one number on the street was Pando Calrissian’s, which stopped being true: it now says the numbers on the street belong to nobody, and names both.
Corrected: the privacy page and the README said Pando Calrissian’s tree was the one thing the CB keeps for good, which stopped being true when the Fridge of Sighs started keeping sentences. They say what is kept for good now. And the privacy page has a section on the stair.
Set in Allerta Stencil, by Matt McInerney, and Hind, by the Indian Type Foundry. Two new CB functions, tested with fifteen people putting the same number at once and fifteen riding the lift at once. A job marker, a share card, the map and a street door.
Changed: count-me-in.html, stair.js, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.test.mjs, two functions in netlify/functions/, tools/make-stair.py, love.css, privacy.html, mission.html, pando-calrissian.html, README.md, and the tools and data every new room touches.

2026-09-30 — The Fridge of Sighs, a sentence one word at a time

A new shopfront on the street: The Fridge of Sighs, a kitchen and a turquoise fridge door covered in word magnets. It is after the sentence builder in our Discord’s Collaborative Nonsense channels. Signed on to the CB, you put up one word; nobody puts up two in a row; a word ending in a full stop, a question mark, an exclamation mark or an ellipsis finishes the sentence.
Finished sentences are kept for good, on the door and then in the drawer by month, and no word says who put it up. The one thing kept about anybody is a scrambled mark saying the last word was theirs, which is what stops two in a row, and the next word replaces it. The privacy page says so, and it changed first.
Word magnets on a fridge were Dave Kapell’s idea, in 1993, and the room says so. Set in Noticia Text, by JM Solé. Three new CB functions, tested with fifteen people putting up words at once and with a filing stopped halfway. A job marker, a share card, the map and a street door. It began as a printer’s composing stick and moved to the kitchen, because the Foundry already sets words in type.
Changed: fridge-of-sighs.html, fridge.js, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.test.mjs, three functions in netlify/functions/, tools/make-fridge.py, love.css, privacy.html, and the tools and data every new room touches.

2026-09-30 — Pando Calrissian, one tree that is all of us

A new shopfront on the street: Pando Calrissian, a gap between the shopfronts with a hillside of aspen behind it after sunset, and one tree on the hill that is everybody’s. It is after the grow-a-tree game in our Discord’s Collaborative Nonsense channels. Signed on to the CB, you water it, and every watering sends up another stem from the one root; the stems grow over the waterings after them, the old ones fall, and the root spreads along the hill. Named for Pando, the aspen in Utah that is one tree, and for Lando Calrissian, whose name is the only thing taken from Star Wars.
The tree keeps a count, and it never expires. That reverses the Mission’s aim that nothing is counted, and it was narrowed rather than dropped: the Mission and Broadside No. 2 now say nobody is counted. The tree counts the water and never who poured it: it keeps the number and the time of the last watering and nothing else, so nobody has a total, and there is no leaderboard, no streak and no goal.
The ground soaks for a minute after every watering, from anybody, before it takes more. It is the whole tree’s wait, which is how it can wait without a record of who watered when.
A fence round the new growth holds notes, on the chalkboard’s rules: anybody reads it, the CB writes on it, and a note comes down after seven days.
The privacy page changed first: a section on what the tree and the fence keep.
Set in Averia Serif Libre and Averia Sans Libre, Dan Sayers’s type made by averaging every font Google Web Fonts carried in 2011. Four new CB functions, tested with fifteen waterers at once. A job marker, a share card, the map and a street door.
Also: the Board room’s Governance & Ethics section was re-copied, because our Accountability page now says the Bylaws were adopted on 29 September 2026.
Changed: pando-calrissian.html, pando.js, netlify/cb/lib.mjs, netlify/cb/lib.test.mjs, four functions in netlify/functions/, tools/make-pando.py, love.css, privacy.html, mission.html, data/broadside.json, data/town-hall.json, and the tools and data every new room touches.

2026-09-30 — A mission and a manifesto for the street

What the street is for is the street’s mission. It opens with Ryan’s own words on being told we live in our own worlds, and Anaïs Nin on making one. The rest is laid out the way Star Stuff’s and Queering Earth’s are: every aim names the page where it is already being kept, and the failure that would show we had stopped. It also says plainly what the street is not: it is not mutual aid, which the foundation does. It is pinned to the edge of the map with the other paperwork, and every page’s sign-off links to it.
The manifesto is Ribald Songing, sheet No. 2 at the Broadsheet Broadside. It argues the lines over the front door one at a time, and it is printed both sides and CC0 like the press’s other sheets. Its two inks are the wordmark’s own pink and cyan, darkened until they print.
Corrected on sheet No. 1: it said every play button says how long the thing runs. Playlists and live cameras cannot say that; their buttons say they run until you stop them. The sheet says both now.
Changed: mission.html, data/broadside.json, broadsheet-broadside.html, data/fractals.json, data/map.json, tools/signoff.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/make-guild.py, and every page’s sign-off.

2026-09-29 — Norah’s tray at Samefood Cafe

A new regular at Samefood Cafe: Norah, whose tray is written exactly as Norah gave it, brands, “etc.” and all. Norah’s samefood of the moment is Knorr Chicken Broccoli Rice, drawn in its bowl from above with the broccoli all through the rice.
Changed: data/samefood.json, samefood-cafe.html, tools/make-samefood.py (it can draw a floret of broccoli now), love.css (two new inks in §47), tools/check-contrast.py.

2026-09-29 — NeuroHome, the first room somebody built for themselves

NeuroHome is Isha Snow’s room (she/they): her tiny home at the NeuroHomes Community in Washington state, by the Columbia River, with daylight through the firs and candles in every room. It has her bookshelf, a desk with a radio and her instruments, a creativity corner with her books, her podcast and her talk show, her collages on the walls, and a garden and bee yard out the front door. It is the first room to come in through Your Room. She designed it with Claude, following our prompt, and chose everything in it, so the room and its words are hers.
Her six collages hang in the frames she drew for them, in photographs she took herself. Like every photograph here they are outside the site’s licence, and each comes down when she says so.
The import tool learned three things from her room. It can put a photograph into the space a room left for it, once the photograph has its consent record. Until today it refused any room waiting for a photograph, although the prompt tells people to leave a space and send the photo separately, which is exactly what she did. It also reads :root[data-intensity] as the dial, the same as html[data-intensity], and it drops a room’s own color-scheme line, which the street already works out.
The street hosts IBM Plex Mono now, for her labels and her map.

2026-09-29 — The fires in the pit at Swaying Sweetgrass

The fire at Swaying Sweetgrass has a rack of fires under it now: fires from its playlist, each saying how long it runs. Each one burns where it stands, or goes up on the fire in place of the whole playlist. Taking it off puts the plate back, unlit.
They are the same fires as the Campfire’s at Cavendish Coworking. The Campfire always said it took its fires from this pit, and now it reads them from here, so the two rooms cannot drift apart.
The whole playlist lights on the first press now; it used to want a second one inside the player.

2026-09-29 — A screen in every tub at The Doom Scoop

Every morning’s tub in The Doom Scoop has a screen of its own at the top now. Any video in the tub plays where it is, as before, or goes up on the screen, bigger, with a second button that says how long it runs. A short goes up upright.
The screen starts empty, because a morning is not one list you could put on whole, and it says so. Taking a video off leaves it empty again. Nothing loads from YouTube until you press.
This is the same rack behaviour as the Lightbulb Picture House, Mycelium Munchies and Club Chronic, in the parlour’s own ink and frost.

2026-09-29 — Club Chronic’s records go up on the stage

Every record along the back wall of Club Chronic has a second button now, with its runtime on it, that puts it up on the stage’s YouTube deck in place of the playlist. Or play it where it hangs, as before. Taking it off puts the playlist back, and plays nothing until you press it.
Each rack folds away, and each comes open. The second button is a strip of paste stuck to the sleeve, because in this room a black plate in a marker ring means it plays right there, and a dashed one is a door.
The playlist still starts somewhere random after a record comes off the stage. Without a fix it would have gone back to the top: the part that picks the starting point listened on the old button, and putting the playlist back makes a new one.

2026-09-29 — Mycelium Munchies’ rack plays on the big screen, and holds more

Derek Sarno’s rack in Mycelium Munchies works the way the Picture House’s racks do now. The masterclass plate is the room’s big screen, and every video has a second button, with its runtime on it, that puts it up on that screen in place of the whole masterclass. Or play it where it hangs, as before. Taking it off puts the masterclass plate back and plays nothing.
Ten more of his videos are in the rack, from April 2025 back to December 2023: the next most recent by upload date, read off the playlist again today. Each was checked to be on his own channel, to play in a frame and not to ask anybody to sign in. The newest ten had not changed.
The rack folds away, and it comes open. It is dressed in the kitchen’s own steel, cream and lamp red, and the behaviour is the shared rack.js.
The masterclass now plays on the first press. Its button was missing the autoplay the room’s other buttons carry, so you had to press twice.

2026-09-30 — The street’s conventions reach every room, and the guest bar signs you on

Everybody’s own space takes the street’s conventions as they develop, the dial, the sign-off, the job marker, the CB bar and whatever comes next, as part of being a citizen here, without being asked first. It never touches a room’s own look or words, and a convention somebody does not like is for the Town Hall. Ryan’s call, after Helen Edgar said yes to the guest bar in the Faery Yurt and said she does not need to approve future additions. Your Room says so.
The guest bar is in the Faery Yurt now.
You can sign on from the guest bar if you already know the community password: the front desk’s own two boxes, and the radio takes the bar’s place on the page you are on.

2026-09-30 — A CB bar for everybody not signed on

Every page now has a folded CB bar in the corner for visitors who are not signed on, with the teleporter to go to any room on the street, and Get on the CB, which says what the CB is, that the community password is asked for in the meeting hall, and where to sign on. It is also where a member who signed off will find the way back.
It is not the radio: it sends nothing to the channel and shows nothing of it. It stays out of the rooms the radio stays out of, and out of the Faery Yurt until Helen Edgar says yes, because the yurt is hers. The privacy page lists the one thing it keeps, that you left its panel open.

2026-09-29 — Follow and Catch up take you to the film

Follow, Catch up and a time in a message now get the film ready for you when it is not already playing: its rack opens, the page goes to it, its play button is marked and has the keyboard, and it will start at the right place when you press it, or press Enter. Before, they only wrote a sentence under the message box, which people missed, and left them to find the film on a rack full of similar names.
A host’s film is found by its video, not only by its title, so a rack of lookalike names cannot send you to the wrong one. If the radio is in the way, it goes small for the moment and says so.
The radio’s answers are under its readout now, beside the log and the host’s buttons, rather than under the message box.

2026-09-29 — Who is in a call, in the call window too

The call window says who is in the call, under its own bar and just above 8x8’s Join button, for anybody signed on and seen in the room. The window’s note no longer says nothing about the call is kept.

2026-09-29 — Who is in a call, on the room’s own panel

A room’s call panel says who is in the call now, under the Join button, for anybody signed on who has chosen to be seen in that room, the same as the radio. The panels’ small print no longer says we keep nothing about a call, which stopped being true when the list arrived.

2026-09-29 — Be seen here, and who is in a call

The radio has a Be seen here switch in every room, the Slake’s own, at the community’s asking. Switched on, you are shown by your handle to anybody else who has switched it on in the same room, and they are shown to you: names only, in alphabetical order, and no count. It is one switch both ways, so while it is off nobody sees you and you see nobody. Your browser remembers it once you press it.
Seen in a room, you can see who is in its call before you join: everybody in it, guests included, from 8x8. A guest’s notice on the public calls says so before they type a name, and the privacy page says what is kept, which is a name while somebody is in the call and nothing after.

2026-09-29 — Downloading a file shared in a call

A file shared in a call downloads in Firefox and Safari now. The call said “Download started” and nothing arrived, because this site’s own security policy refused the way Jitsi hands a file to the browser; Chrome never asked, so it worked there. The policy allows it now, and still admits no other site.

2026-09-29 — Links to other sites on the CB

An address on another site in a CB message is a link now, where before only rooms on this street were. It opens in a new tab with the site it goes to written after it, like ↗ example.com, sends no referrer, and a link’s words are always its address. This reverses the street-only rule of 2026-09-25, at Ryan’s call, and the house norms and the privacy page say what it does.

2026-09-29 — Longer messages on the CB

A CB message can run to 2,000 characters and keep its lines. The message box is a box of several lines now, which grows as you type and can be dragged taller: Enter sends, and Shift and Enter starts a new line.
A little Markdown works: bold, italic, code, a block of code, a quote and a list. It is drawn by the radio as ordinary text, never as markup, and links are still only rooms on the street.
Copy on every message puts its words, as they were typed, on your own clipboard.
Size on the bar makes the radio Small, Normal or Large. Large is wider and taller, for long messages and pictures.

Press a picture on the CB to see it as large as the window allows, with its description and a Download button; Escape or Close puts you back on the picture. Every picture also has a small Download link under it.
A picture can no longer push the radio wider than its window, which was cutting off Transmit in Safari, and the Picture and Transmit buttons keep their full labels in Firefox.

2026-09-29 — Pictures on the CB

A message on the CB can carry a picture now: press Picture beside Transmit, pick a screenshot or a photo, and say what is in it if you like. The radio redraws it in your own browser before it goes, which takes off where it was taken and anything else a camera writes into a file.
A picture goes when its message goes: pushed off by an eleventh, taken off by the base, or at midnight, and one that was never sent within the hour. It has no public address, and a picture sent in a private room is only for the people that room is for. The privacy page says the rest.

2026-09-29 — Sharing files in a call

Everybody in a room’s call can share a file now, a screenshot or a photo, from the call’s own Share file button, which used to be greyed out. The file goes to 8x8, who run the calls, and never to us; the privacy page says what that means. The CB’s channel stays words only.

2026-09-29 — Executive Session, off the Town Hall

A new door off the Town Hall opens onto Executive Session: the board without staff, in a dark room lit only by the EXIT sign over its shut door, with what an executive session is, from BoardSource’s guide.
Its radio and call are for the board role and nothing else. It is the one room the administrator key does not open, because an executive session is the board meeting without staff. Anybody can walk in and read it; the server keeps the rest.

2026-09-29 — Directors join the Board room

The Board room now takes moderators with the director role as well as the board role, because directors join board meetings. Its radio, its call and anything hosted in it follow, and the server checks, every time.

2026-09-29 — Moderators have their own handles and roles

The moderators’ password now only works for a handle on the moderators’ list, and the community password refuses any handle on it, so nobody else can sign on as a moderator. The list is kept in the site’s settings and not published.
The Town Hall’s rooms follow the roles on it. The Moderators’ room is for any moderator, the Board room for moderators with the board role, the Directors’ room for moderators with the director role, and administrators can go into all of them. The server checks, every time.

2026-09-29 — The Moderators’ room, and every door off the Town Hall is open

The last door off the Town Hall opens onto the Moderators’ room: a room for Stimpunks Moderators to meet, above the street at night, lit only by the shopfronts’ own colours on its ceiling. It says what the base looks after and where to report a concern.
Anybody can walk in; the radio and the call in there are for the base, and the server keeps it that way.

2026-09-29 — Today’s board meeting, in the Board room

The Board room carries the outline of today’s board meeting: the decisions required, the order of business with its timings, and how to take part from somewhere else. The papers behind it go to the board.

2026-09-29 — The Board room, off the Town Hall

A door off the Town Hall opens onto the Board room: a room for Stimpunks Board Members to meet, at one long table with the same small lamp at every seat. It lists the board as our Board & Governance page does, and carries the Governance & Ethics section of our Accountability & Transparency page, word for word.
Anybody can walk in; the radio and the call in there are for the base, and the server keeps it that way.

2026-09-29 — The Directors’ room, off the Town Hall

A door off the Town Hall opens onto the Directors’ room: a room for Stimpunks Directors to meet, lit only through the frosted pane in its door. It lists the directors as our About page does, each linked to their own section there.
Anybody can walk in; the radio and the call in there are for the base, and the server keeps it that way.

2026-09-29 — The Fishbowl, off the Town Hall

The first door off the Town Hall opens onto the Fishbowl: a room for community fishbowl meetings for anyone with CB access. A few people talk in the middle, everybody else listens round the outside, and one seat in the middle is always kept empty for whoever wants to step in.
It is a glass bowl of water on a sunny sill, lit by the sun bent through the water into bright lines on the gravel, with a ring of stones inside that always has one gap in it. The call is for people signed on to the CB, and anybody can look round.

2026-09-29 — The Town Hall

A new shopfront on the street: the Town Hall, a round hall under a dome that is open to the sky, where the sun lies on the floor as one disc. Doors round its wall go to the Fishbowl, for community fishbowl meetings on the CB, and to rooms for our directors, our board and our moderators. The rooms behind the doors open one at a time.
Those three rooms are the base’s. Anybody can walk into them; their channel, their call and any film hosted in them are handed to people signed on with the moderators’ password and to nobody else, by the server rather than only by the page, and the radio waits outside for everybody else.

2026-09-29 — The meeting hall, at the Community Center

The Community Center now starts with the meeting hall: our community’s group chat, which is moving from Discord to Stoat. It says what Stoat is, how to get an invite through the join form on stimpunks.org, what the channels are, and how the hall and the CB differ: the hall keeps things and has proper sign-in, and the CB forgets everything at midnight.
The hall is a link, not part of this page. Stoat’s app does not let other sites frame it, and nothing on the street sends anything to Stoat.

2026-09-28 — The Cave, upstairs at Cavendish, and Proton has gone

The Cave door at Cavendish Coworking opens onto the Cave: a tunnel in glacier ice, for quiet solo work with other people nearby. Nothing in it gives off light; the daylight comes through the ice itself, blue.
Caves to leave on, chosen by Ryan from a shortlist: water dripping in a cave on Mount Cucco first, then sea caves, ice caves, cenotes and lava tubes, each with how long it runs. The call is for people signed on to the CB, and anybody can look round.
Every door at Cavendish opens a room of ours now, and Proton Meet has gone from the site. The meetings are open to anybody: type a name and wait in the lobby. The page says how the calls go, and the privacy page says what reaches 8x8.

2026-09-28 — The Campfire, upstairs at Cavendish

The Campfire door at Cavendish Coworking opens onto the Campfire: a fire in a clearing at night with a ring of logs round it, for small groups working on something together or watching and listening together. The fire is the only light, so every shadow points away from it.
Real campfires to leave burning: the fire in the middle is the playlist the fire pit at Swaying Sweetgrass keeps, and round it are fires from that playlist, each with how long it runs. The call is for people signed on to the CB, and anybody can look round.

2026-09-28 — The Watering Hole, upstairs at Cavendish

The Watering Hole door at Cavendish Coworking opens onto the Watering Hole: a pan of water in the desert at noon, for come-and-go chat with no agenda, with every shadow straight under the thing that casts it. Its norms are on the wall.
A rack of cams to leave on: the Jungle Room’s desert, otters and jellies, read out of that room’s own list. Each plays in its card or on the screen by the water.
The call is for people signed on to the CB; anybody can come in and look round, and the room says how to get on the CB. It is the first of the Hang Suites to replace its Proton room.
Racks now share one script, rack.js, which the Lightbulb Picture House moved onto without changing anything you can see.

2026-09-28 — The Editorial Room, behind Cavendish’s Editorial door

The Editorial door at Cavendish Coworking opens onto the Editorial Room: a designer’s light table in a dark studio, the proofs lit from underneath and the only light there is, where we work on the words, design and everything we put into the world. The meeting’s time is on the proof, in our events page’s own words, with the hour on your own clock.
All three of our open meetings now have a room and a call of their own, open to anybody who knocks. The Hang Suites still open Proton until theirs are built.

2026-09-28 — The Operations Room, behind Cavendish’s Operations door

The Operations door at Cavendish Coworking opens onto the Operations Room: a building’s plant room, where we run the thing, with every main painted the colour of what it carries and one caged lamp throwing its cage’s shadow across everything. The weekly task scrub’s time is on the log, in our events page’s own words, with the hour on your own clock.
Its call is open to anybody, the same way as the Events Room’s: type the name you want to be called, knock, and wait in the lobby for a moderator.

2026-09-28 — The Events Room, behind Cavendish’s Events door

The Events door at Cavendish Coworking opens onto a room of its own now: the Events Room, a lighthouse keeper’s watch room, lit by one column of light from the lantern above. Our recurring events are its light list, in our events page’s own words, with the hour on your own clock under each one.
Its call is open to anybody. If you are not signed on to the CB, type the name you want to be called and knock, and you wait in the lobby until a moderator lets you in. It is the first of the rooms that replace the Proton links, one door at a time; the other doors still open Proton until theirs are built.

2026-09-28 — Follow the host

When somebody is hosting the film in your room, the CB’s radio has a Follow switch beside Catch up. Press it and your own film keeps pace with the host’s: it plays when they play, pauses when they pause, and moves when they jump, while its volume and captions stay yours. That is the thing Jitsi’s shared video cannot do, since only the person who shares one gets a volume.
Pausing your own film stops following, which is how you take a break, and pressing Follow again picks up where the host is. It is off until you press it, it is never remembered, it sends nothing, and it stops when the host stops.

2026-09-28 — Share a YouTube video in a call

A room’s call can share a YouTube video now, from the call’s own menu, for everybody in it to watch in step. It was missing because one setting of ours, which kept Jitsi from contacting anybody else, also switches that feature off. That setting is gone, and the three other things it covered (Jitsi’s analytics, its avatar lookups and its animated-picture search) are each switched off on their own instead.
The person who shares a video plays and pauses it for everybody, and Jitsi mutes your microphone while it plays with the sound on. When somebody shares one, YouTube loads in everybody’s call window, and the privacy page says so.

2026-09-28 — The radio’s answers no longer run under its buttons

A long answer on the CB’s radio, like the one Catch up gives when no film has been started, ran underneath the buttons below it on a full radio. Every part of the radio keeps its own height now, and the radio scrolls instead.

2026-09-28 — A call moves like the radio

A room’s call can be moved anywhere on the screen, the way the radio can: drag its bar, or put the keyboard on its Move button and use the arrow keys, and Home puts it back in its corner. It never goes off the edge, and Large still fills the window and then goes back to where you had it. Where you put it is not remembered, because nothing about a call is kept.

2026-09-28 — A small size for a call

A room’s call has a Small size now, beside Large: a tile in the corner, so there is room to watch a film on the page while you are in the call. Changing size never interrupts the call. Small and Large each go back to the middle size when you press them again.

2026-09-28 — A call for every room

Join this room’s call on the CB’s radio opens voice and video for the room you are in, in a window of its own at the foot of the page, for people signed on to the CB. It runs on 8x8’s Jitsi as a Service, and it replaces nothing: the channel and the Proton rooms are still there.
Camera and microphone start off, and you arrive on a screen where you choose before joining. The base station moderates and is the only one who can record or transcribe a call. Leaving the page hangs up; folding the radio away does not.
It is the first thing on this site allowed to ask for a camera or a microphone, and the only thing: our pages never ask for either themselves. The privacy page says what goes to 8x8, and that we keep nothing about a call.

2026-09-28 — The radio fits the window

The CB radio is never taller than your window now. With a full channel, a host and the teleporter open, it could grow past the top of the screen and take its own Fold away and Small buttons with it. The bar along the top stays where it is and everything under it scrolls, and the radio moves back onto the screen whenever it grows, wherever you have put it.
For the base station, Take off now sits at the end of each message’s name-and-time line instead of on a row of its own under every message, which roughly halves the height of a full channel. A screen reader still hears each new message’s words before the button.

2026-09-28 — A channel for every room

The CB tunes to World or to this room. World is the channel it always had. Every room on the street now has a channel of its own too, with the same rules: ten messages, and gone at midnight, Colorado time. The radio hears one at a time, says which at the top of its readout, and remembers which you chose, so walking between rooms tuned to rooms hears each room’s channel in turn.
Listening to World tells us nothing about where you are. Listening to a room’s channel has to say which room, and the privacy page says so. Nothing records who listened where.

2026-09-28 — Hosting a film on the CB

Host this film is on the radio once a film on your page has been started. Press it and everybody on the channel sees which film you are watching, in which room, and where it has got to, as it plays and pauses.
In the same room, each radio has a Catch up button that moves that person’s own film to where the host is. Nobody else’s film moves, so anybody taking a break can catch up when they come back. From another room, the host’s room is a link that arrives with the film ready to start at the host’s place.
One person hosts a room at a time. It is never remembered, it only sends while the radio is open and the tab is in front, and folding the radio away or leaving the page stops it. The radio never tells us which room you are in to find your room’s host: every radio is sent every host. The privacy page says exactly what is kept, and for how long.

2026-09-28 — A spot reaches the big screen

Arriving at the Lightbulb Picture House by a spot on the CB, the film starts at the spot whether you press its card or put it on the big screen, and the line under the screen says where it started from.

2026-09-28 — A spot’s room link takes you to the film, ready

Following the room’s name in a spot takes you to that room with the film’s play button ready to start at the spot. The keyboard lands on it, the radio says what it is, and nothing plays until you press it.
If the film has no play button of its own there, because it is part of a whole programme, the radio says so and tells you what to do instead.

2026-09-28 — A spot on the CB says which film and which room

Add my spot writes the film and the room now, like @34:12 in “An introduction to neurodiversity” at #lightbulb-picture-house. The room shows as its name, linked, so anybody can go there. Before this, a spot dropped from one room moved whatever happened to be playing in another.
A spot that names a room or a film only moves that film in that room. Anywhere else, or with a different film playing, nothing moves, and the radio says where that spot is. A time typed bare, like @34:12, still moves whatever is playing on your page.

2026-09-28 — A place in a film is a button on the CB

@34:12 in a CB message is a button now. Pressing it moves the film on your own page to that place. It does not press play, so somebody back from a break can catch up with the room and still keep their own pace, their own volume and their own pauses. This replaces pasting timestamps into the channel by hand at a watch-together. A time without the @, like 7:30, stays words.
Add my spot appears on the radio once a film on the page has been started. It writes where your film has got to into your message box, and sends nothing until you transmit.
It works in every room with a YouTube player, and it does not load YouTube’s own script: the page asks the player it already framed. We tested that the player takes a jump before building anything. Live cameras are left out, because a place means nothing in a live picture. The privacy page and the house norms say how it works.

2026-09-28 — One campfire film the playlist cannot hold

Jason Arday’s second talk, Things Can Only Get Better, is on the campfire rack at the Lightbulb Picture House and not in Screen Three’s programme, because YouTube would not let it be added to the playlist. It still plays, from its card or up on the screen from there, and the card says why the programme skips it.
The two April campfires whose posts had not been tagged Campfire Learn Together on stimpunks.org are tagged now, so the tag page holds every campfire on the rack.

2026-09-28 — Screen Two’s rack, and racks that fold away

Screen Two at the Lightbulb Picture House has a rack now, like the others: a card for every film saying who made it, how long it runs, what it is about and what is in it before you press play, written from the films’ own captions. Each card can play its film in place or up on Screen Two.
Every rack folds away. They start open, so nothing on the page is hidden until you choose to fold it, and folding one is a single press on its heading. It works without scripts.

2026-09-28 — A card's film on the big screen

Every card on a rack at the Lightbulb Picture House can now put its film on that rack’s own screen, in place of the whole programme: Screen One for the first rack, Screen Three for the campfire rack. The button says how long the film runs before you press it, like every other press here.
Pressing it takes you to the screen, which says what is now showing, so the film does not start somewhere you cannot see. Putting the programme back does not start it: the screen goes back to its own press-to-play plate and waits.
Without scripts the button is not there at all, rather than being a button that does nothing, and every card still plays its film in place.

2026-09-28 — Screen Three at the Lightbulb Picture House: every campfire

The Lightbulb Picture House has a third screen, and on it is everything we have watched together at Campfire Learn Together, our Sunday watch-along, newest first. New campfires go on at the top.
It has a rack like Screen One’s: a card for every film saying who made it, how long it runs, what it is about and what is in it before you press play, and which campfire it was watched at, with a link to the post we wrote for that campfire. The words are ours, written from each film’s captions rather than from its title; the few films with no captions are described from their own descriptions and from our posts, and the liner notes say which.
Three campfires are listed under the rack and are not on the screen, because what we watched is on Vimeo or has since been made private on YouTube. Leaving them out would make the screen look like the whole record when it is not.
Checked before it went up: every film plays and embeds, the whole playlist plays inside a frame on this site with captions on, and nothing reaches YouTube until you press play. The page no longer says how many screens it has.

2026-09-28 — A fire in the fire pit at Swaying Sweetgrass

Swaying Sweetgrass had a fire pit with talks round it and no fire in it. Now it has one: a whole playlist of real campfires filmed in the forest by Norwegian Fireplace and Campfire, on one large screen the width of the clearing. You hear the crackle, the wind and birds. There is no voice and no music, and the channel says none of it is looped. Nothing loads until you press it.
It is the one thing in the clearing that does not say how long it runs, because a playlist the channel keeps adding to has no length. The room says so beside it, and the sentence that said every label there gives a runtime has been rewritten to be true again. Everything told at the fire still says how long before you press.
The screen shows no fire until you press it. Before that it is drawn in the meadow’s own colours, because the fire in this room is small and far off and is not what lights the page. The videos’ own titles sell them for sleep and focus. The room repeats none of that.
Checked before it went up: the first video in the list plays and embeds, and the whole list plays inside a frame on this site. It is credited in the liner notes and is the first thing on the Now Playing poster for that room.

2026-09-28 — A way in for rooms built with your own AI

A room somebody builds with their AI from Your Room’s prompt can now come onto the street through one tool, tools/import-room.py. It reads the note the prompt asks the AI to leave at the top of the page, checks everything it says against the page itself, and holds the room to the same promises every room here keeps. The dial has to work, every word has to be readable against what is actually behind it, nothing plays by itself, nothing is sent or kept, and everything borrowed is credited, the AI included.
It measures the room as it would be published, not as it was sent, with the same checks the rest of the street runs, and it sends a room back with every reason at once rather than quietly changing it. The fix belongs where the person and their AI can see it.
Sending a new version is importing it again. The room is replaced whole and nothing else moves. What the tool will not do is make a room’s share card or its job for the Adventurer’s Guild: those are still made by hand for every room, and the street will not publish one without them.
The prompt on Your Room now asks for that note in an exact shape, a name and a description for the door, and the preview dial in parts that can be lifted out cleanly.

2026-09-28 — Your Room, built with your own AI

Your Room has a prompt you can give Claude, or whichever AI you use. It asks you about the room first, then builds it as one page you can keep changing until it is right, and you send us the result. The prompt carries the street’s rules with it: the dial, contrast you can read, nothing that plays by itself, nothing sent or kept, no image generators, and credits for everything borrowed. It also leaves a note at the top of the page saying what we need to bring the room onto the street.
It tells the AI to use your own words for anything about you, and not to write your story for you. The page says plainly that whatever you tell an AI goes to the company that runs it, that you do not need one, and that a room made with an AI is credited as such, the way How this site is made says how we use one.

2026-09-28 — A correction in the licence file: not every typeface is OFL

The site’s licence file said every typeface here keeps the SIL Open Font License, and that was wrong. Most do, and some are under the Apache License 2.0. It now says so, and points at the Foundry, where each family’s licence is read off its own record rather than typed in.

2026-09-28 — How this site is made, and how we use AI

A new page, How this site is made, like the design pages our sibling sites keep. It says why there is no design system here, what every room shares anyway, how the dial works, how contrast is measured, why nothing plays until you press it, and how the site is built and checked.
It says how we use AI, in one place and plainly. Ryan Boren and Helen Edgar decide what the street is. Claude, an AI model made by Anthropic, writes nearly all of the code and drafts most of the words, and the drawings are code it writes. No picture here came out of an image generator, no voice here was made by an AI, and nothing a visitor does is sent to one. The page also says which mistakes a language model makes and how the site catches them.
Every page’s sign-off links to it, beside the liner notes, so the account is one press away wherever you are.

2026-09-27 — Other people on the Slake

The MUD Room is multi-user now, through the CB. Signed on at the Community Center, press Be seen out here beside the map, and you meet whoever else is seen in the same place and hear what is said there. It is off every time you arrive and is never remembered.
Seeing is the same switch as being seen, so nobody can watch the Slake without being on it. You meet people only in the place you are in: the map shows you and nobody else, who is here is said in names in alphabetical order, and nothing anywhere lists or counts who is out there.
Each place has its own talk, on the radio’s rules. say something, or start with a quote mark: the latest ten things said in a place stay until midnight in Colorado, and the base station can take one off the air sooner. Your tide is still your own, so somebody else waiting does not flood your mud.
The privacy page changed first and says exactly what is sent and kept: only while you are seen and the tab is in front, one record of which place you are in, replaced when you move rather than added to, shown to nobody thirty seconds after your last check and deleted soon after. Where you have been is not kept anywhere. It also now says, as it should have, that leaving a pebble sends your pass.

2026-09-27 — A correction in the MUD Room: the CB is on

The MUD Room opened saying the CB was built and not yet switched on, and that was wrong. The CB has been on since it was built. The room now says what is actually true: the multi-user half of the Slake is not built yet, and it will run on the CB and its pass.

2026-09-27 — The MUD Room, and the Slake out its back door

A new shopfront on the street: the MUD Room, a boot room with a multi-user dungeon out of its back door and nobody to fight in it. Out there is the Slake, a tidal estuary made of words and drawn as a map: a sea wall, a bird hide, a reedbed, a saltmarsh, a tea hut with nothing to buy, a tide mill, a hut full of things found in the mud, a boathouse, a foreshore, a mudflat with a slide, a ferry, a causeway and an island with a striped beacon on it. Go where you like by typing or by pressing. Every button does what a word does.
The people out there are each doing something our glossary has an entry for, and if you talk to them twice they tell you its name, linked: two watchers in the hide sitting in parallel play, a warden learning a place by coming back to it, a miller in monotropic time, a boatbuilder whose way of learning is constructionism, a ferry keeper for whom teaching goes both ways, and a mudlark’s finds table that is an affinity space. Bring Ada something off the foreshore and it goes on the table. Nothing quizzes you.
Nothing is counted, and the tide turns when you wait for it. No score, no points, no levels and no count of how much of the Slake you have seen. The tide is in or out until you say wait somewhere dry, and it covers the mud and opens the ferry when it comes in. Say home and you are home. The tool that builds it refuses a way on with no way back, and a place with no walk home at any tide it can be reached at.
It is words first. Everything that happens is written into a log a screen reader reads out line by line, the map is a picture of the same words, and with scripts off the whole Slake is a guidebook at the foot of the page whose ways on are links.
It has one user so far. The other half is not built yet, and it will run on the CB and its pass. Two things about it are settled already, Ryan’s calls: you are seen by your CB handle only if you choose to be, and each place on the Slake gets a channel of its own under the CB’s rules.
Castoro and JetBrains Mono, both under the OFL. Small screens and Print moved to §71 and §72. There is a job for the Adventurer’s Guild by the back door.

2026-09-27 — Rebellion Rave Room, turning 08, and the Cooldown Room beside it

A new turning off The Outskirts: the Rebellion Rave Room, in an old aircraft hangar at the end of the airstrip road, taken over by the sensory seekers in our community who wanted somewhere to stim loudly and brightly. Scaffolding up every wall, a DJ booth two floors up, a lift to every deck, and festival films on the big screen over the floor.
It is the one room on the street with a strobe in it, and that reverses a rule this street has kept since Club Chronic. The reversal is an opt-in and nothing else. The rig is off on every visit. The strobe takes two presses, and the second answers a question that tells you the rate first. Escape, the Stop buttons, another tab or leaving the page switch everything off at once, and nothing about it is remembered. The knob starts at four flashes a second, the most the Health and Safety Executive recommends for a club, and stops at eleven. The warning in the ante-chamber gives the Epilepsy Society’s figures before you ever reach the switch. The flash is white and lands only on the picture of the hangar, unless you choose to take the rig full screen.
The Adventurer’s Guild said Club Chronic’s rule held everywhere on this street, and that is not true any more, so its house rule now names the one room where it does not. Every other room’s own promise that nothing in it flashes still holds for that room.
The films on the big screen have their own lighting in them, strobe included, and the room says so above the screen, because the rig’s limits cannot reach inside somebody else’s video. The Tomorrowland film is not the festival’s own: a channel called Best Stage Tomorrowland posted it the day before, and the room says so beside it.
Through the other door in the ante-chamber: the Cooldown Room, small and soft, with couches, cold water, and a vending machine of snacks made by people from round here. Everything in it is free, every slot says what is in it and how it feels before you press, and nothing is counted or kept.
Big Shoulders Stencil and Exo 2 in the hangar, Sour Gummy and Kumbh Sans in the Cooldown Room, all under the OFL. Small screens and Print moved to §70 and §71.

2026-09-27 — The fractal window is on in the Faery Yurt

Helen Edgar said yes, so the Faery Yurt has the fractal window now. Its switch is in the sign-off like every other room’s. It draws a lantern of tracery in her own colours, from the hearth’s dark through timber and tallow to candle, and it never flashes.
It is the fourth thing this site has added to her room, after the one colour, the candle stub and the pebble bowl, and the second she asked for. The liner notes say so too. Stay Frosty is still the one room without the window, because its own page promises there is nothing to press.

2026-09-27 — A fractal window in (almost) every room

Every page’s sign-off has a new switch: Switch on the fractal window. It opens a small window of its own in the corner of the screen with a slow fractal in it, drawn in your browser in that room’s own colours. No two rooms draw the same picture: Julia sets, the edge of the Mandelbrot set, Newton fractals, a fern, a dragon curve, a crystal. The window has its own speed control (Slow, Steady, Quick), moves between corners, goes full screen, and closes when you switch it off or leave the room.
It is not synced to the music, and it says so before you press. Almost everything that plays here plays inside another site’s frame, and a page is not allowed to listen to another site’s frame. The one plain audio player streams from a host that does not let other sites read the sound. So the window is a picture that runs beside the music.
It follows the Arcade, not the dial. It runs at every setting because the motion is the thing you switched on, and the dial is not wired to it. At Gentle it starts at Slow.
It never flashes, and that is enforced in its code. Every frame, no pixel is allowed to change brightness, or redness, faster than a fixed rate. That keeps every spot well under the three flashes a second that the accessibility rule for seizures (WCAG 2.3.1) allows. Played without that limit, most rooms’ pictures would flash at Quick. A test counts flashes in what every room’s window actually paints, using its own arithmetic, before anything is published.
Nothing is fetched until you press. The window’s script and stylesheet download on the first press and not before. It stores nothing and sends nothing.
Two rooms do not have it yet, on purpose. Stay Frosty promises on its own page that there is nothing to press in it and nothing moves, so a switch there would make that false. And the Faery Yurt is Helen Edgar’s room: a picture in her colours changes how her room reads, which is hers to decide.

2026-09-27 — Somebody else’s cellars, to leave on, in Big Steep

Big Steep Fermentables has three long cellar ambience videos to have running while you are down there: an underground wine cellar, a wine cellar with dripping water and a crackling fire, and a speakeasy wine lounge with soft jazz. Each says how long it runs before you press it, and nothing loads from YouTube until you do.
They are not this cellar, and the room says so: there are barrels, wood and fire in them, and none of that is in Big Steep, which is glass and steel on bare rock. Their titles are their makers’.
The speakeasy plays on into YouTube’s own mix once it finishes, Ryan’s call. Its label gives the speakeasy’s runtime and then says the mix has none and that nobody here has checked what it plays.

2026-09-26 — Glow Go Gee Gaws opens on level B3

Glow Go Gee Gaws is open in the caverns: glow-in-the-dark toys and trinkets, in every colour glow comes in, blue included. Its button on the lift panel is lit, and every room down there is open now except Buoyant Bodyminds.
Every toy is dark until you charge it. Hold one up to the rail and it glows, then gives the light back until it has none; or hold everything up at once and watch which colours let go first. Green lasts longest and red and orange go first, which is true of the real pigments; the order in between is ours.
The glow stick is the odd one out: it is chemistry, not stored light, so you bend it once and it glows until you leave.
A change to the caverns’ plan, in the open. The brief had this room glowing orange only and ruled out blue as Light It Up Blue. Ryan’s call reversed both: Light It Up Blue shouldn’t take blue away from us, and other rooms shouldn’t limit what this room does. Nothing here flickers at any setting, and at Gentle a toy stays lit for its time and goes dark in one step, with the same words.

2026-09-26 — Derek Sarno cooks mushrooms in Mycelium Munchies

Mycelium Munchies has Derek Sarno’s mushroom cooking videos: his whole Mushroom Masterclass playlist on one press, and the most recent videos in it in a rack, newest first, each saying how long it runs before you press it. Nothing loads from YouTube until you do.
Want to grow your own? The room points at North Spore and their guide to using a mushroom fruiting block kit. It is a shop, which is unusual for a link here; we are not affiliated with them and the link carries no tracking.
The rack is a copy of the playlist taken on 26 September 2026, and says so. His titles are quoted as he wrote them, and everything is credited in the liner notes.

2026-09-26 — Big Steep Fermentables opens on level B1

Big Steep Fermentables is open at the top of the caverns: a brewery and cellar in the rock for wine, beer and kombucha, lit from behind so the light comes through the drinks. Its button on the lift panel is lit.
Try our house styles: three beers, two wines and two kombuchas, and every one comes as two pours. The alcohol-free pour comes first and is the same size, because it is not the lesser one.
Every pour says how strong it is before you take it. The cellar says what alcohol-free means for a beer or a wine, and that kombucha is never quite zero: its fermented pour gives the most it can be, and its alcohol-free pour is the tea not fermented, with none at all.
Nobody asks why you are not drinking, nothing counts how many, and nothing claims to be good for you. The pours with alcohol in them are for adults, and everything else is for everybody.

2026-09-26 — Mycelium Munchies opens on level B2

Mycelium Munchies is open in Arlesglad Caverns: a mushroom farm with a restaurant at the end of the growing rooms, lit by the heat lamps over the pass. Its button on the lift panel is lit.
On the pass: crispy fried oyster mushrooms, lion’s mane nuggets and mushroom steaks. The rest of the menu serves every mushroom the farm grows, all kinds of ways, and every dish says what is in it before you order.
Everything on a plate was grown here, and the growing rooms say what each mushroom looks like on the shelf, what it is like cooked, and what it grows on. Nothing is served raw.
Nothing here helps anybody identify a wild mushroom, nothing is named in Latin, and nothing is sold as good for your brain. A mushroom here is dinner. The room is here because of a line of our own about composting, and it links the post it comes from.

2026-09-26 — Stay Breezy remembers your usual

Stay Breezy now remembers your usual: the speed you last set on each fan, which fan is on your table, and which fans you last had on. It is kept in your own browser and nowhere else, and the privacy page lists it.
It never switches a fan on by itself. Your speeds come back when you arrive, and the fans start only when you press Switch on my usual, which says which fans and speeds before you press it. Forget my usual clears it.

2026-09-26 — Stay Breezy, a room full of fans behind Stay Frosty

Stay Breezy is through the door at the back of Stay Frosty: a pale hall full of fans, for anybody who loves moving air and the noise it makes. It is Ryan’s, and his words for why are on the page.
Pick a fan off the floor and switch it on, or as many as you like, each with three speeds. Or take a room of your own, with its own ceiling fan and a table to perch a fan on; it has a door, so the hall’s fans go off while you are in it.
Every fan says what it feels like and what it sounds like before you switch it on, and nothing makes a sound until you do. The sound is made in your own browser and none of it is a recording. Switching more fans on makes the hall fuller, never louder than its slider says.
Every ceiling fan’s lamp hangs below its blades, so nothing flickers. At Gentle the blades stay still and the fans keep running. Stay Frosty itself is still silent, and says so beside its new door.

2026-09-26 — Stay Frosty opens at the bottom of the caverns

Stay Frosty is the first room open in Arlesglad Caverns, at the bottom of the lift. Its button on the panel is lit.
A quiet place to chill, literally: chill as in calm, not cold. It keeps the National Park Service’s measurement for Carlsbad’s lowest point, 68°F (20°C) all year, and says where that came from on its thermometer.
Nothing to press, nothing moves at any setting, nothing makes a sound, and nothing in there is for anything. It is not cold therapy, the room counts and keeps nothing, and the CB radio stays upstairs.
It is lit only by reflections: the handrail’s light reaches the bottom as a point in every bead of damp on the rock. Credits are in the liner notes.

2026-09-26 — Arlesglad Caverns, under the street

Arlesglad Caverns is a new area under the street, for everything that needs things to stay the same. The way down is a lift beside the stoop with the stair beside it, and the lift is the ordinary way, not the alternative to the stair.
The only light down there is the handrail: one strip at hand height along the route, so the rock is lit where the path goes and nowhere else. Nothing in the passage moves at any setting.
The lift’s panel is the area’s board, one button for every room: Big Steep Fermentables, Mycelium Munchies, Glow Go Gee Gaws, Buoyant Bodyminds and, at the bottom, Stay Frosty. None of them is open yet, and each unlit button says so rather than doing nothing when pressed.
The name is a play on Carlsbad Caverns, with a glad spin and with ARLES in it, the Stimpunks Design Method, whose ladder starts at the bottom. Stay Frosty’s 68°F is the National Park Service’s own measurement of Carlsbad’s lowest point, credited on the page and in the liner notes.
The front page, the map and the Adventurer’s Guild know about it: a lift head on the pavement, a lower board at the foot of the model, and a job that sends you down. The guild’s class III now names all three ways off the street, and it did not grow a fourth class for the one that goes down.

2026-09-26 — Ryan’s welcome in the Hermitage

The Solarpunk Hermitage is Ryan’s place, and it now opens with his portrait and a short welcome, the way Helen’s Faery Yurt does.
The photograph is the one on Enid’s wall, with Ryan’s own description. It hangs in a cedar frame like the rest of the cabin’s woodwork, and is not cropped or filtered, which is the wall’s promise wherever one of its photographs is hung.

2026-09-26 — A sound system at the Hermitage’s campfire

The campfire has a sound system: a long low console against the wall behind the chairs, with a tall speaker at each end, a subwoofer in the console’s cupboard, an amplifier and pre-amp, a CD player and a turntable, all drawn in the room’s own colours.
Ryan’s records are beside it, each a whole album: John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman, Charles Mingus’s The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady, Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon in its 2023 remaster, and AURORA’s What Happened to the Heart?
Every record says how long it runs before you press it, like every channel on the television, because an album is finished and has a length. Nothing plays until you press.
Where the performers wrote none of the songs, the songwriters are named on the record, and the years are first releases rather than the dates on the uploads. All of it is credited in the liner notes.

2026-09-26 — A speaker in the Hermitage’s cave

The Solarpunk Hermitage’s cave has a speaker at the foot of it, tucked into the curtain by the chair, playing Ryan’s playlist Oblivion Slip: Erik Satie, Philip Glass, Steve Reich, Brian Eno, Nils Frahm and others. It is one of the stimming and coping playlists on our Our Stims page.
Nothing loads until you press it, like every other player on the street. It starts at the top, in Ryan’s order.
It says no runtime, on purpose. Every documentary at the campfire says how long it runs before you press it. A playlist keeps growing, so any total would soon be wrong, and the button says it runs until you stop it.
It is credited in the liner notes, and Now Playing shows it as what the Hermitage puts on first.

2026-09-26 — Squelch on the CB

With Speak new messages aloud on, every message now comes over the air the way it would on a CB: a burst of static as the station keys up, the words, and the tail of static as it lets go. Messages take turns, one station at a time.
The static follows the dial and the words never do. At Gentle the radio reads the message with no static round it. There is never static without a message being spoken, so with Speak off the radio is as silent as it always was.
It is made in the page, out of filtered noise, and nothing is fetched to make it.
Your browser only lets a page make a sound after you have pressed or typed something on it, so after walking into a new room the radio says so rather than going quiet without saying why.

2026-09-26 — The CB can speak

A new switch on the radio, Speak new messages aloud, for those of us not using a screen reader. Switch it on and the radio reads each new message out as it comes in, handle first, in your own device’s voice, which is what a CB sounds like. The screen reader switch is still there and still separate, and it is labelled New messages to a screen reader now, so the two cannot be mistaken for each other.
It is off until you turn it on, it never reads out what was already on the channel when you tuned in or came back to the tab, it never reads your own messages back to you, and folding the radio away stops it mid-word.
Only voices on your own device. Some browsers offer voices that are a speech service somewhere else, which would send the words on the channel to a third party. The radio will not use those, and the privacy page says so.

2026-09-26 — The Doom Scoop: daily news, usually bad

A new shopfront, The Doom Scoop: an ice cream parlour after closing, with the only light coming from the dipping cabinet, and a tub in the cabinet for every morning of the last week. Each tub holds what Ryan’s sources put out between five the morning before and five that morning, Mountain time: MeidasTouch for the independent news, A Closer Look, the Late Night monologues, Jimmy Kimmel Live and The Daily Show for late night, and Jason Salmon, Texas Paul, Tennessee Brando, Lawyer Oyer and Hawk’s Podcasts for the YouTubers.
A week, and then it is gone. The eighth morning is not archived. It goes from here and stays on the channel that posted it. Every morning is a flavour, and the flavour is the day of the week.
Nothing plays until you press it, and every scoop says how long it runs, when it went up and whose channel it is on before you do. Shorts play upright. A video whose channel will not let it be shown on another site is a door out to YouTube, and says so.
Nobody here watches any of it first. A timer fills the cabinet every morning, and the page says when. The headlines are the channels’ own, word for word. Nothing is ranked or counted.
Ground News and MeidasTouch News publish no feed a timer can read, so they are doors on the counter rather than tubs in the cabinet.

2026-09-26 — A wicker basket in the Faery Yurt, Helen’s first pebble, and her soundtrack

The Faery Yurt’s soundtrack is no longer coming soon. It is Helen’s own playlist, Faery Yurt’s Yarn, from her own channel: one press puts it on and it runs until you stop it, and nothing reaches YouTube before the press. The songs on it are listed underneath, with who plays them and how long each runs, as the playlist stood the day it was read. Every one was checked that day: it plays, and it may be embedded here, and the whole list was played from inside the yurt before it went up.
The yurt is on Now Playing, the bill on the poster column, which noticed on its own that the room had something to play.
Helen Edgar filled her basket, and asked for it to be a basket: a wicker one, drawn in her own browns with a handle over the rim, with each pebble a smooth stone sitting in it. Press a stone and it takes you where it goes. The name on a stone is a real link, so it reads and tabs like any other.
The first pebble is the amethyst cave at Jupiter Artland, near Edinburgh: Anya Gallaccio’s The Light Pours Out Of Me, a 30-second video on the Yoga & Healing Fairy channel, which is not Helen’s. The line on the stone is hers, and so is the wish for a magical glimmer day.
The basket’s look is the yurt’s own. The Hermitage’s basket stays a list: two rooms do not share a basket any more than they share anything else. Nothing in it moves at any setting.

2026-09-26 — Pebbles by the door, in the Hermitage and the Faery Yurt

The Solarpunk Hermitage and the Faery Yurt each have pebbles by the door. A basket of things the host has put out for anybody to take, and a bowl for leaving a pebble of your own: a line in your own words, and a link if the thing is somewhere else. It was Helen Edgar’s idea, the day she came to the Hermitage to watch a film.
Anybody can see what is in a bowl; leaving a pebble takes a CB sign-on, and a pebble stays seven days, the chalkboard’s rules. A link shows its whole address, so what you read is where it goes. The privacy page says what the bowls keep.
Nothing is counted: not what was taken, not what was left, not who came to the door. Leaving a pebble is the only footprint there is, and nobody has to leave one. Both baskets are empty until their hosts fill them.

2026-09-26 — The CB’s teleporter

“CH 19” on the CB’s bar is a Teleport button now. Press it and a list of every room on the street opens under the bar; type to narrow it, use the arrow keys to move, and press Enter to go. The room you are in says you are here. Escape puts it away.
Teleporting is an ordinary link: it sends nothing to the channel and tells nobody where you went. The button hides while the radio is folded away, because folded sends nothing at all.

2026-09-25 — The CB can be made small

A Small button on the CB’s bar shrinks the radio to the bar and the newest message, so you can keep an eye on the channel while you watch something in a room without the radio covering the screen. It stays tucked into whichever corner you put it in, and it stays small until you press the button again, even after you move to another room.
Small is still switched on: it hears the channel exactly as the full-size radio does, and a screen reader still hears what arrives. To send a message, make it full size again. Folding it away is still the way to switch it off.

2026-09-25 — The CB: rooms by #name, and a log that stays put

Name a room on the CB with a #. Type # and the start of a room’s name, like #den, pick it from the list, and everybody on the channel sees #The Den, linked, so you can ask somebody to come and find you there. It works from the keyboard: arrows to move, Enter or Tab to pick, Escape to leave your # alone. The list is every page on the street, in the street’s own order, and a new room is on it the day it opens.
A room’s full address in a message, like stimpunks.world/the-den.html, is a link too. An address anywhere else stays plain words you can copy, because the channel is strangers’ words and it should not be able to send anybody off the street without their noticing.
Scrolling up the channel stays where you put it. The radio used to jump back to the newest message every few seconds; now it only follows new messages when you were already at the bottom, or when you have just sent one.
The radio fetches the list of rooms from this site once, the first time it listens. The privacy page says so.

2026-09-25 — The Broadsheet Broadside’s sheets are CC0

Every sheet on the press is dedicated to the public domain under CC0 1.0, like the Stimpunks broadsides they are modelled on: print a stack and give them away, with no permission needed and no credit required. Each sheet says so on the paper, and asks for its credits to stay on it anyway.
The dedication covers the sheets’ words and layout and nothing that is not ours: the typefaces keep their own licences, and Danny the Street’s name is DC Comics’. The room around the sheets stays under this street’s licence, CC BY-SA 4.0, and the licence file says which is which.
Printing a sheet no longer comes out with blank pages in it when you are signed on to the CB, or when a browser extension has added something to the page.

2026-09-25 — The Broadsheet Broadside, and its first sheet

A new shopfront on the street, The Broadsheet Broadside: manifestos and mementos served across your bow. A broadsheet press in the side of a ship, printing broadsides the way the Stimpunks broadsides and whysheet.press do: one sheet, printed both sides, ink on white, on a page that fits both A4 and US Letter. Side A carries one thing you can read across a room, to pin up; side B does the work, to hand over.
No. 1 is an introduction to Stimpunks.World: one street with no two rooms alike, the dial, nothing playing until you press, where to go, what stayed careful while the street got loud, and whose idea the street is. Print the page, or press the button over the sheet, and only the sheet comes out, one side to a page.
The storefront is the side of a ship in the Nelson chequer, seen from a boat at the waterline, with a sheet of paper in every open port where a gun would be. No gun is drawn, nothing is fired, and nothing moves at any setting. The only light is the sun thrown back up off the sea. The ship’s name is painted in Bodoni Moda; the sheets are set in Atkinson Hyperlegible Next and Mono, the faces the Stimpunks broadsides use. All three are read off their own records and are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s picker.
Every sheet is checked by printing it. The street’s print check now renders the press to a real PDF and refuses anything but two pages a sheet in the sheet’s own two inks; its first run found the page margins printing in Chrome’s dark canvas, which is fixed. The press’s own tool refuses a sheet that is not two sides, a claim line too long to read across a room, two sheets sharing a pair of inks, a link that does not read as its own address, and a sheet that tells its reader what they must do.
A job marker, a share card, the map, and a slot on the Community Center’s service board, because the press takes ideas for its next sheet.

2026-09-25 — The Live Room, and Looming Rocks goes outdoors

A new shopfront on the street, The Live Room: a recording studio seen from the control room, over the desk, through the glass, with the red light on. It is for sessions played in a studio rather than at a gig, and it opens with three studios: Austin City Limits, a television studio with a crowd in it, and the live rooms of two radio stations, KEXP in Seattle and KCRW in Santa Monica. The desk takes suggestions.
Every session is a channel strip, its name written in marker on masking tape, with where and when it was taped, whose channel it is on, a line of ours, and a play button that says how long it runs before you press it. Nothing reaches YouTube until you press. Every video was checked on its own watch page first, and every date and venue on a strip was read off that video’s own description. One Austin City Limits upload is titled a full concert and has six songs cut from it, and its strip says so before the press.
The glass is two panes set out of parallel, the way studio glass is, so everything lit in the live room is drawn twice, the second time faint. The red lamp is steady at every setting and nothing in the room moves. Nobody is drawn in the live room. B612, drawn for aircraft cockpit displays, carries everything you read; Just Another Hand writes the names on the tape. Both are read off their own records and are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s picker.
Looming Rocks is for outdoor music in general now, not only for Red Rocks, and Noah Kahan’s set at Austin City Limits Music Festival 2023, in Zilker Park, is on its bill. Every act says where it was played, and the room’s tool refuses one that was not played outdoors. That rule arrived in the same message as nine Austin City Limits television tapings, which are indoors, so they went to The Live Room, whose tool refuses the opposite: a session that was not played indoors.
Three of Looming Rocks’ notes had stopped being true as the bill grew, and they were fixed: one said a film was last on the bill when it was sixth, one said the oldest show was nearly forty years older than the rest when it is thirty-four, and one said nobody else on the bill had been born yet, which was not true of every band on it.
A job marker, a share card, the map, a slot on the Community Center’s service board, and a place on the Now Playing poster.

2026-09-25 — Cavendish Coworking: the Hang Suites, up the stairs

Cavendish Coworking has Hang Suites, for when you just want to hang out or work on something together: the Cave, a quiet room for co-presence with no spoken chat; the Campfire, for small groups working, watching or listening together; and the Watering Hole, for come-and-go chat where random and off-topic are on-topic. Each is a Proton Meet room behind its own door.
Every door says how things go in there before you knock, in the room’s own norms, and none of them has a time on it: they are drop-in rooms. Lurking with your camera and mic off is fine in all of them.
They are named for David Thornburg’s caves, campfires and watering holes, the three kinds of Cavendish Space, and the room says whose they are. A note under them, on communication access: you do not need to speak to belong here.

2026-09-25 — Cavendish Coworking is Henry Cavendish’s house now, and every door in it is shut

Cavendish Coworking opened this afternoon as a glass office with every door propped wide, and that was the wrong idea of open. Ryan’s correction: transparency does not mean an open floor plan and always-open doors.
It is a Georgian house now, after the one in Bedford Square where Cavendish kept his library and opened it for borrowing: green throughout, and every door a shut mahogany door in a stone case with a fanlight, a brass plate and a note saying what is behind it and when. None of them is locked. You decide whether to knock.
The blinds are down, and you can see through them. That house’s mahogany blinds were lined with green transparent canvas, so the shelves show through them in the drawing. And its rules were his too: he signed the register for every book he took out of his own library.
Everything about his houses is from Christa Jungnickel and Russell McCormmach’s Cavendish: The Experimental Life, credited on the page. The type is Caslon for reading as well as for the name, his century’s letter; Inter has left the street. The doors, their words and their times are unchanged, and the tool that builds them now refuses the open-plan vocabulary too.

2026-09-25 — Cavendish Coworking: every door propped open onto one of our calls

A new shopfront on the street, Cavendish Coworking: glass all the way along, and every door in it opens straight onto a Proton Meet room. Our Operations and Editorial meetings are open to the world, and until now the only way in was our Discord, which a great many people will not use. The room our events meet in is there too.
No Discord, no account and nothing to install. Each door was opened as far as Proton’s guest page and no further: it asks for a name, names the room so you can check it, and lets you in with your microphone and camera off. The room says that Proton’s own terms apply over there, before you press.
They are doors and not windows, and that was measured. Proton Meet only lets Proton’s own apps frame it, and this street gives no page your camera or microphone, so a call inside the page would have been a blank box. Nothing reaches Proton until you press a door.
Every line on a door is our events page’s, word for word, and the times are Central as that page gives them, with the same hour worked out on your own clock underneath, in your browser. Nothing is stored or sent. A new tool builds the doors, reads the events page again every time, and refuses a line that has gone from it, a door without its room’s password, a door out of the page’s order, and the call framed in the page. Broken on purpose first; all eight caught.
Named for Cavendish Space, and Henry Cavendish, who wanted to stand off to the side soaking everything in: there is a chair by the wall for anybody who would rather come in that way. Libre Caslon Display and Inter, both OFL and read off their own records, on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s picker. A job marker, a share card, the map and a street door.

2026-09-25 — Plural Mural’s chalkboard: a note for whoever comes by next

Plural Mural has a chalkboard leaning against the foot of its wall, on the pavement and not on the paint. It is Helen Edgar’s idea, after the board at her floatation tank place: somewhere to leave a note for whoever comes by next.
Anybody can read it, and only people signed on to the CB can write on it. That is what keeps it in the community’s hands. The box you write in says, above it, that the board is public.
A note stays up for seven days, and the board holds thirty, so a full board loses its oldest note. The base station can rub one out sooner. There is no archive and no copy, and every read asks search engines not to keep what is on it.
The privacy page changed first. It has a section on the chalkboard now, and every sentence on it that said the CB was the only thing that sends anything, or that the pass only travels when the radio listens, says what is true with a chalkboard in it. The Community Center’s account of the radio says it too, since the same sign-on writes on the board.
Three small functions beside the CB’s, sharing its code: one to read the board, one to write on it and one for the base to rub out. They use the same conditional write as the channel, which was tested with fifteen people chalking at once: every note told it had gone up was on the board. Nothing a person chalks is logged, and no address is kept.

2026-09-25 — The Playhouse’s secret word: a new one every day, and the room screams

The Playhouse’s secret word changes every day now, at your own midnight, working through a rota of words out of our glossary. It said MONOTROPISM and nothing else since the street opened. The whole rota is printed under the sign, so a page with no scripts still has every word.
And it does what a secret word is for: when anybody in the room says it, everybody screams. The toys talk, so when Chairy, the word clock, the telephone or the infodump says today’s word, the scream goes on the end of the sentence and the room makes a noise it makes nowhere else: five voices, not the yell button’s one. Or press SAY IT OUT LOUD on the sign. The words are the same at every setting; at MAX GLITTER the sign also jumps. Nothing flashes, and nothing is counted: no tally of screams, no streak of days.
make-toys.py builds the sign and refuses a word nothing in the room ever says, because a secret word no toy can say only screams when somebody presses the sign, which is not the joke. It matches with the same pattern the script does, so the two cannot disagree about a hit. Broken on purpose first: an unsaid word, a word on the rota twice and a word that is not one word were all refused.
The bit is Pee-Wee’s Playhouse’s and the sign says so on its face, and also that Groucho Marx had a secret word first, on You Bet Your Life. The first draft of the credit said Paul Reubens made it up, which is how an idea’s history gets shorter.

2026-09-25 — Community Library, L-Space and Oook: a public library, the space behind it, and a world behind that

A new shopfront on the street: the Community Library, our Library in this street’s clothes, and it opens with a celebration of the public library: free to all, a patron and not a customer, the front desk, a palace for the people, Ranganathan’s five laws, library joy, and the library economy. Our collections are laid out on the front desk. Nothing requires a card. It is a public reading room at eleven in the morning with its windows set high over the shelves and the sky in every one of them, which makes it the one room indoors on this street where you can see the sky.
Behind it, through a gap in the stacks: L-Space, Terry Pratchett’s idea that every library is joined to every other by the weight of what is in them. A deep violet room where every shelf bends towards the well in the middle and the only way through is a ball of string, with the anti-library, Books of the Edges, and threads from our glossary to pull.
And at the far end of the string: Oook, a Discworld homage in the Librarian’s own colours, rust and banana. The Disc on its elephants and its turtle, the rules of L-space, and why we find the Librarian of Unseen University relatable: his body changed, he found it suited the work, he declined to be changed back, and he kept his job because he was the only one who knew where all the books were. He is not drawn anywhere on this site.
Every quotation in the three rooms says how it was checked, and for every one the answer is: read off our Library page, not against the book. Two of them have no source on that page at all and say so where they stand. Our Library page links the 2000 graphic adaptation of Guards! Guards! for lines out of the 1989 novel; these rooms link the novel, and the tool refuses the other record. The Linda Lindas’ line and the pictures of the Librarian stay on our Library page, because a lyric and those licences are things this site cannot carry.
Marcellus SC and Andika in the library, Gravitas One and Source Serif 4 in L-space, Sniglet and Libre Baskerville in Oook, all under the SIL Open Font License and on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s picker. A job marker in each room, a share card for each, a street door, and the map now draws a room behind a room behind a room.
GNU Terry Pratchett. Every page on the street now sends X-Clacks-Overhead: GNU Terry Pratchett, the clacks tradition from Going Postal that people began keeping in their websites’ headers after he died: send it on, do not log it, turn it round at the end. Oook says so, and the line in _headers says Oook depends on it.
New: community-library.html, l-space.html, oook.html, data/library.json, tools/make-library.py.

2026-09-25 — Plural Mural: an end wall that will not stay one colour

A new shopfront on the street: Plural Mural, an end wall with a mural on it, and then another. The street is Danny’s, and Danny repaints. The first murals are the lines of the street’s own tagline, one to a wall: queer without fear, interdependent and here, divergent and proud, living out loud, plucky pluralism, and becoming and belonging.
At MAX GLITTER the wall repaints itself every three minutes, one mural dissolving into the next, and you can keep the one you like up for as long as you stay. At Gentle and Regular it holds still until you turn it over yourself, because a picture that changes without being asked is something moving on the page. Every mural is listed under the wall in words at every setting, with a button to put it up.
Propose a mural of your own, in words, and the house paints it and puts it up in turn, credited to you. Nobody real is painted on the wall, nothing is voted on, and it comes down the moment you ask. It has a slot on the Community Center’s service board.
Seen from across the road at golden hour, with the sun behind you and the lamppost’s shadow lying up the wall, the same over every mural. Chango and Commissioner, both under the SIL Open Font License, are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s picker. A job marker, a share card, and a place on the map.
New: plural-mural.html, mural.js, data/mural.json, tools/make-mural.py.

2026-09-25 — Now Playing: a poster column beside the Pebble Board

Street furniture on the pavement, beside the Pebble Board: a poster column with one bill pasted round it, Now Playing. Every room with something in it to press and play, on the street, behind its doors, in the campgrounds and down the road out of town, with a line about what is on there and what each one puts on first when you get there.
What is on first is read off each room’s own page, every time the poster is printed: the first thing in there you can press, with its name and running time exactly as that room prints them. When a room changes what it opens with, the poster changes with it. Where a room puts on a whole playlist, the poster says so, and says what the room says about it.
Beside the board and not on it, because the glass holds what our people brought each other, and a bill printed off every room is not a pebble.
Nothing on the poster plays, nothing on it is counted, and there is no headliner: every room’s name is the same size, in the order you would walk to them.
Screenprinted in two inks and no black, pasted on a painted iron column. Rammetto One and Instrument Sans, both under the SIL Open Font License, are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s picker. A job marker, a share card, and a place on the map.
New: now-playing.html, data/now-playing.json, tools/make-now-playing.py.

2026-09-25 — A look of your own, at the Dress-Up Den

The Dopamine Dress-Up Den takes looks from our community now. Tell us what you wear, in your own words, and it goes on the peg with your name on it, or as somebody in our community: your words exactly as you give them, prints and colours picked off the rails to match, and anything you wear that is not on a rail yet drawn and hung up for anybody to wear. Words, not a photograph, because nobody’s body goes on the stand. Nothing is rated, and it comes down the moment you ask.
It has a slot on the Community Center’s service board, beside everything else the street takes in, held to the room’s own words so the two cannot come to disagree. Taking something back now lists your look as well.
Changed: dopamine-dress-up-den.html, data/community.json, community-center.html.

2026-09-25 — Dopamine Dress-Up Den: try it on, and nothing comes in a size

A new shopfront on the street: Dopamine Dress-Up Den, a boutique for dopamine dressing. The room and its name are Helen Edgar’s idea. Put an outfit together on a wooden valet stand out of the rails — something on your head, something over the top, something underneath, the bottom half, your feet, and a feather boa or a long scarf — in any print and any colours: florals, big blocks of colour, patchwork, stripes, polka dots, gingham, moons and stars, sequins, or plain. Or press Surprise me.
The rails start from Ryan’s wardrobe: Thai fisherman pants, button-down shirts, a haori over the top and beanies and slouchy beanies in every colour there is. Then Helen’s cardigans and flowing dresses, and then the full show, with a big wig, a velvet cape, a sequin gown, platform boots and the boa, for anybody in our community who wants all of it at once. Each of those is a look off the peg you can put on the stand and change. And Crocs, on Ryan’s ask the same day.
Every garment says how it feels and how it goes on and comes off, because our glossary defines dopamine dressing as colours, textures and styles, and Ryan wears his pants for sensory and comfort reasons first. The fastenings follow his own field guide page on dressing: every jacket says how you get out of it, and the knot on fisherman pants is not accessible to everybody, so every other bottom half does up without one.
Nobody’s body is drawn. The clothes hang on a stand rather than on a paper doll, because a doll is one shape, one skin and one gender handed to everybody who walks in. Nothing comes in a size, no rail is for men or for women, and nothing is rated, kept or sent; the copy button puts what is on the stand on your own clipboard.
Black is a colour in there too. Every rail comes in all black, because our Dress Codes entry has a school that banned black clothing on the grounds of mental health, and a room that told people colour was the cure would be that dress code with a nicer name. The room also makes no claim about brain chemistry: dopamine is in the name because that is what people call it.
The light is the only light on the street that has been taken apart. The sun comes in the front window white, which lets every colour on the rails look like itself, and a crystal hanging in the window throws small rainbows on the lavender wall. At MAX GLITTER they drift a little as it turns, and nothing flashes or sparkles on its own at any setting. The dial never takes anything off the rails.
Two new typefaces: DynaPuff, by Toshi Omagari and Jennifer Daniel, for the sign and the headings, and Plus Jakarta Sans, by Tokotype, for everything you read. Both are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s font picker, with their designers named.
Changed: dopamine-dress-up-den.html, dressup.js, data/dressup.json and tools/make-dressup.py (all new), og/dopamine-dress-up-den.png (new), fonts/, index.html, love.css (§52 is the new room; small screens and print are §53 and §54 now), data/quests.json, liner-notes.html, the Foundry and the Mopery’s picker, and the map.

2026-09-24 — A placemat and some crayons at The Small Hours

Every table at The Small Hours now has a paper placemat and a sleeve of crayons. Pick a crayon, then press a shape to colour it in, or switch to scribbling and draw wherever you like, over the lines included. The wax has the paper’s tooth in it, so it looks like crayon rather than paint.
Every part can be coloured in by name from a list under the placemat, with a keyboard or a screen reader, and each name says what colour that part is now. Scribbling is the one thing that needs a pointer or a finger.
Nothing on it is kept. A fresh placemat throws the old one away, and leaving does the same. Take it home saves a picture of it to your own device and sends it nowhere; the house rule saying nothing is kept now says so about the placemat too. tools/make-small-hours.py refuses the room’s script if it ever starts storing, sending or reading the clock.
With scripts off, the placemat is still there to print out and colour in with real crayons.
Changed: small-hours.html, small-hours.js, data/small-hours.json, tools/make-small-hours.py, love.css (§2 has the paper and the crayons; §44 has the placemat), tools/check-contrast.py, liner-notes.html, README.md, llms.txt, CLAUDE.md.

2026-09-24 — A documentary’s title at the campfire, corrected

Corrected: on the Solarpunk Hermitage’s campfire listing and in the liner notes, the title of Coastal Seas showed three stray characters where “World’s” has its apostrophe. YouTube’s own page had it right; our copy of the title had been read in the wrong encoding. It is YouTube’s title again, and tools/make-hermitage.py now refuses text read that way anywhere in the room’s data.

2026-09-24 — The community service board

The Community Center has a community service board: a painted steel sorter on the wall by the desk, with a slot for every room on the street that takes something in from our community. A photograph for the Polaroid Wall in Enid’s Room, a collection for The Collection Collection, a yell for the Playhouse, a pebble for the Pebble Board, a quotation for the Zibaldone, a page for the zine, your samefoods, something to watch or listen to for the rooms with a screen or a playlist, a poem for the Doomscroll, an idea for Your Room, and an idea for a new shop, pitch or turning.
Two slots are for when something is wrong: one for anything we got wrong, including anything you cannot read, reach or press, and one for taking back anything with you in it. That comes down when you say so, and coming down means gone.
Nothing on the board sends anything. Every slot says how its own room already asks to be reached and points at the room’s own words. The CB is not a way in: it forgets at midnight and everybody on it can read it.
A slot repeats another room’s terms, so it is held to them. tools/make-community.py reads each room’s published page and refuses if the room has stopped saying what its slot says, so the board cannot keep promising something a room has changed. It also refuses a form, a route no room offers, and any hint of a score: nothing on the board counts who gave what.
The rooms with a playlist or a screen now say so themselves. Dance, Punks, Vital Plant Living and Club Chronic take song suggestions, and Laughingstock, the Lightbulb Picture House, Looming Rocks, Black Leather Lagoon and the Hermitage’s campfire take recommendations, each in its own words, and the board is held to every one of those sentences the same way. The Collection Collection already said how to put something in a cabinet, so its slot points there now.
Changed: community-center.html, data/community.json, tools/make-community.py, love.css (§51), tools/check-contrast.py, every room named above, and an anchor on the heading each room already had for sending something in, which changes nothing you can see.

2026-09-24 — The Community Center, and the CB

A new shopfront on the street: the Community Center, a painted block hall at ten in the morning with the blinds half open, the chairs stacked against the wall and a radio on the front desk. It holds the house norms for the CB and points at our covenant.
The CB is a chat channel patterned after citizens band radio. Sign on at the front desk with a handle and this week’s password, and the radio rides along in the bottom right corner of every page until the password changes or you sign off. Drag it by its bar, or press Move and use the arrow keys. It keeps the latest ten messages and deletes everything at midnight, Colorado time. There are no alerts: no sounds, no notifications, no badges, and nothing saved up for when you come back. Open, it listens; folded away or in another tab, it sends nothing.
It is the first thing on this site that sends anything, so the privacy page changed first. What the channel keeps, what it never keeps (no IP address, no list of who signed on, nothing written into a log), where it lives and who can read it are all written out there. The security policy now lets a page talk to this site and nowhere else (connect-src ’self’), and the radio’s script is never downloaded by anybody who has not signed on.
The radio stays out of the Healing Checkpoint, which promises it writes nothing down about you. In the rooms where it does go, a few promises that had been about the whole page now say what they were always about: the Arcade’s cabinets, Quill Drift, the Guild’s stamps, the Repeater’s open line, and the headset and the stage in Dance, Punks and Looming Rocks.
Two new typefaces: Varela Round, by Joe Prince, for the letterboard, and Radio Canada, by Charles Daoud, Coppers and Brasses, Alexandre Saumier Demers and Jacques Le Bailly, for everything you read. Both are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s font picker.
Changed: community-center.html, cb.js, cb.css, netlify/, package.json, love.js, love.css (§51 is the new room; small screens and print are §52 and §53), privacy.html, SECURITY.md, _headers, _redirects, and the rooms named above.

2026-09-24 — Chelsea’s tray at Samefood Cafe

A new regular at Samefood Cafe: Chelsea, whose tray is written exactly as she gave it, capitals and all. Her samefood of the moment is a strawberry Uncrustable, drawn in its bowl from above, round and crimped all the way round.
Changed: data/samefood.json, samefood-cafe.html, tools/make-samefood.py (it can draw a crimped edge now), love.css (one new ink in §47), tools/check-contrast.py.

2026-09-24 — Vital Plant Living: build your own bowl, and everything in it touches

A new shopfront on the street: Vital Plant Living, a plant-based kitchen. Build your own bowl or wrap out of Ryan’s own pantry, the list he cooks from at home, in his three steps — base, texture, flavour — or start from one of the combos on the board, each standing on a flavour base from somewhere in the world that is off his list: the Cajun holy trinity, a sofrito, a mirepoix, garlic, ginger and scallion, and the rest.
Copy your bowl or wrap to the clipboard and take it shopping: everything in it comes out one per line, under the pantry’s own section names. Nothing is stored and nothing is sent anywhere; closing the page empties the bowl.
Everything in the room is drawn cut through the middle, the way a cook sketches a dish to show what is in it: your bowl, wrap or sandwich changes as you tick, with every layer sitting on the one under it and the sauce running into the rice. It is Samefood Cafe the other way up, a few doors along, where nothing on a plate touches anything, and the house rules send anybody who needs their food apart there by name. The pots on the shelf over the counter are cut open too, and every one of them is something in the pantry.
The room was briefed as Ital Plant Livity, and it says where the name went. Both words are Rastafari’s, and Rastafari has been a big influence on Ryan; but this kitchen cooks with salt, MSG and things out of packets, which many people who keep Ital do not, and how Ital is kept varies from person to person and is not ours to settle. So the name over the door is the plain-English one, the menu never calls a dish Ital, and the room says all of that near the top rather than in a footnote.
The stereo plays Ryan’s playlist of songs about food, most of them reggae and dancehall, and nothing plays until you press play. Every song is listed with who made it, how long it runs and who uploaded it, because several were put up by fans rather than by the musicians.
The menu makes no claims. Nothing on it is called authentic, nothing is good or bad for you, and nothing is counted; where a combo is thinking about a dish usually made with something the pantry does not keep, it says so. tools/make-vital.py refuses a combo that brings in anything the pantry does not keep, and refuses all of that vocabulary in the room’s own voice.
Two new typefaces: Bagel Fat One, by Kyungwon Kim and JAMO, for the kitchen’s name and its headings, and Be Vietnam Pro, by Lâm Bảo, Tony Le and ViệtAnh Nguyễn, for everything you read. Both are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s font picker, with their designers named.
Changed: vital-plant-living.html, vital.js, data/vital.json and tools/make-vital.py (all new), og/vital-plant-living.png (new), fonts/, index.html, love.css (§50 is the new room; small screens and print are §51 and §52 now), data/quests.json, liner-notes.html, the Foundry and the Mopery’s picker, and the map.

2026-09-24 — The Map: the whole street in white card, and a Where am I? on every page

New street furniture by the front door: The Map, the whole street as a model in white card on a cutting mat. Every shopfront stands where it stands, on the side of the road it falls on, with the rooms behind rooms standing behind them; the garden’s gate is halfway down; the campground’s field is off the top of the board past the treeline and the road out of town is off the bottom past the last streetlight. Every building, tent, sign and tag on it goes to the place it stands for.
Every page now has a Where am I? at its foot, next to the liner notes. It opens the map at the page you were on, with a flag on it saying you came from there. Nothing is stored and no script is involved: the page’s own name is the address of its place on the model.
Nothing on the model is painted. Every room here has its own light and its own colours, and a map that painted them all would be telling you they belonged to one set. So it is one white card, and each room is left to be itself when you get there.
Nothing on it was placed by hand. The model is built out of the street itself — the front page’s row of shopfronts in the order they stand, the campground’s board and the road’s signs — so it grows when the street does, and a new room cannot open without going up on it, because the build refuses until it has. On a phone both sides of the road are kept, because which side a room is on is the point of a map.
Two new typefaces: Architects Daughter, by Kimberly Geswein, for the lettering on the model, and Albert Sans, by Andreas Rasmussen, for everything you read. Both are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s font picker, with their designers named.
Changed: map.html, data/map.json and tools/make-map.py (all new), og/map.png (new), fonts/, index.html, every page’s sign-off (tools/signoff.py), love.css (§49 is the map; small screens and print are §50 and §51 now), data/quests.json, liner-notes.html, the Foundry and the Mopery’s picker.

2026-09-24 — The Collection Collection: the house brings the furniture, the light is theirs

A new shopfront on the street: The Collection Collection, a dark gallery of our people’s collections. Every collection stands in a cabinet of its own under a lamp of its own, and no two lamps are alike: a daylight lamp over Ryan’s pens, paper and ink, because a warm bulb lies about the colour of an ink, and a strip light inside his perfume cupboard’s door, because light spoils perfume.
A cabinet with nothing in it yet stands with its lamp off, and its label is exactly as easy to read as a lit one. Ryan’s pens, paper and ink are in, under their daylight lamp, and his perfume cupboard is still dark, waiting for its photographs. Norah and her husband’s leather swatches and stamping tools, Chelsea’s house plants and Helen’s books and rocks each have a cabinet with their name on it, say that Ryan relayed them, and stay empty until they send something. Their lamps are theirs to choose.
The house describes every photograph so that nobody has to. Writing a title, a description and a caption for every picture is work, and work is what stops people sending a picture at all. So Claude writes them, looking at each photograph, and every cabinet says so on its label. It describes only what it can see and never names a maker or a model from what a thing looks like; an owner’s own words win wherever they give any. This is the opposite of the polaroid wall on purpose: a description of a person is theirs to write, and a description of a pen is not a description of anybody.
Nothing is counted, priced, valued or ranked, and nobody asks how many.
Every photograph is stripped before it reaches the site. A new tool takes phone photographs in, turns them the right way up, removes the location and every other scrap of metadata a phone writes, makes them smaller without cropping them, and leaves a record that stops the room building until somebody has described each one and looked at the whole frame for a person or an address. The room’s own tool refuses a photograph that still carries any metadata, a filter on any photograph, and two cabinets with the same lamp.
The photographs are not under this site’s Creative Commons licence, so that anything can still come down when its owner says so.
Two new typefaces: Gloock, by Duarte Pinto, for the room’s name and every label’s heading, and Hanken Grotesk, by Alfredo Marco Pradil and Hanken Design Co., for everything you read. Both are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s font picker, with their designers named.
Changed: collection-collection.html, data/collection.json, tools/make-collection.py and tools/intake-collection.py (all new), og/collection-collection.png (new), fonts/, index.html, love.css (§48 is the new room; small screens and print are §49 and §50 now), liner-notes.html, adventurers-guild.html, foundry.html, the-mopery.html, LICENSE, .gitignore, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-webp.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-classes.py, tools/structured.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, sitemap.xml, llms.txt, feed.xml.

2026-09-23 — The feed keeps a busy day in order

Entries from the same day used to arrive in any order. Every one of them carried the same time, noon, so a reader had nothing to sort them by. On a day with more than ten, stimpunks.org’s feeds page showed ten of them in an order of its own and left out the newest.
Now the top entry of a day keeps noon and each one under it is a minute earlier, so every reader lists them in the same order as this page. The dates are still true. The minutes are only the order, and not a claim about when anything was written.
Nothing reappears as new. Each entry keeps the identifier it was published under.
Changed: tools/make-feed.py, feed.xml.

2026-09-23 — The street is Stimpunks.World now

The site lives at stimpunks.world, and it is called Stimpunks.World. We had been calling it Stimpunks World for a while, as it grew past one street into rooms behind rooms, a campground past the treeline and a road out of town, so the domain was registered to match and the name moved with it: every page title, the feed, the favicon, the share cards, and the wordmark on the front door, whose pink second line now says .world.
Every old link still works. stimpunks.love stays ours and sends you, page for page, to the same place here. The certificate covers both.
Your feed reader should not see anything twice. Each changelog entry keeps the identifier it was published under, so moving house did not turn a week of entries back into news.
The older entries below still say stimpunks.love where that was where the street was at the time. We did not go back and rewrite them to match.
Changed: every page’s head (title, canonical, Open Graph, structured data), index.html’s wordmark, every share card in og/, sitemap.xml, llms.txt, feed.xml, robots.txt, site.webmanifest, favicon.svg, _redirects, /.well-known/ (the agent skill moved to stimpunks-world, and the old path redirects), data/arrivals.json, data/foundry.json, and the tools that write any of them. tools/make-feed.py keeps its guids on the old domain.

2026-09-23 — Samefood Cafe: your favourite, the way you have it

A new shopfront on the street: Samefood Cafe, for samefoods and safe foods, and for understanding food aversion rather than correcting it. The kitchen knows its regulars: it keeps what each of them has, the way they have it, and is ready for the day their samefood changes with the season. The menu is whatever the regulars ask for, a dish goes on when somebody asks, and nothing comes off because somebody else got bored of it. Samefoods have seasons, and the room says so.
Nothing touches unless you want it to, and that is the room. Separation is offered, never imposed: the house’s divided plate keeps different foods apart and the ramekins keep red things off everything, and a bowl is one person’s dish, the way they eat it, touching as much as they like — some of us need everything apart and some of us do not mind at all. It is drawn from directly above the table, under one even light that is the same at every hour, so every object sits in its own soft ring of shade. Every plate on the page is the same plate — the menu, the book and every tray — which is Covenstead’s mismatched china turned inside out, one door along.
The menu is three entries from our glossary, Samefood, Safe food and Food aversion, each with one short line from somebody who has written about it: C.L. Lynch at NeuroClastic, Kari Burroughs Kraakevik at Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism, and Matthew Broberg-Moffitt. Two were read against their own pages; the two from the book could not be, and the room says so beside them.
On the counter: Color Taste Texture, by Matthew Broberg-Moffitt, with its details read off Open Library’s record, and a way to find it in a library as well as a shop.
The regulars’ samefoods are on trays of their own, written down exactly as they were given and not tidied, sorted, ranked or added up. Ryan’s, Helen’s and Ronan’s are the first, each with a bowl of their samefood of the moment — ramen with fresh green onions, pesto pasta, chicken nuggets; more are being collected in our community’s Discord. Every list comes down when its person asks, and every food drawn on the plate in the window is off one of them.
We default to structure, separation and predictability, and every guest is accommodated individually — never regarded as fussy, picky or too much, just quietly and professionally accommodated. Nobody’s way imposes on anybody else’s plate: Ronan has red things in a ramekin of their own, so his ketchup comes that way, and the room’s tool holds his food, and nobody else’s, to it.
Two new typefaces: Fredoka for the café’s name and headings, and Inclusive Sans, drawn so that no letter can be taken for another, for everything you read. Both are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s font picker, with their designers named.
Changed: samefood-cafe.html, data/samefood.json and tools/make-samefood.py (all new), og/samefood-cafe.png (new), fonts/, index.html, love.css (§47 is the new room; small screens and print are §48 and §49 now), liner-notes.html, adventurers-guild.html, foundry.html, the-mopery.html, data/quests.json, data/foundry.json, data/foundry-faces.json, sitemap.xml, llms.txt, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-classes.py, README.md, CLAUDE.md, DECISIONS.md.

2026-09-23 — The Small Hours gets a jukebox, and one song printed in full

The Small Hours plays both of Josephmooon’s albums, So Far So Good and Hand in Heaven, every track, streamed from the band’s own site and hosted nowhere here. Josephmooon is the music project made for the lyrics of Ronan Boren, a Stimpunk, and Stimpunks helped produce it. Every button says how long its song runs before the press, measured off the file itself; only one song plays at a time; and the two album buttons say how many songs and how long before they start several.
“Up All Night” is on the counter with its words printed in full, a song about Autistic insomnia, with its credits: Ronan Boren, all lyrics; Bill Paige, vocals and guitar; Ronnie Nice, guitars, keyboards, bass, drums and programming; Ian Nice, piano, keyboards and backing vocals. That is permission rather than quotation: every other room quotes a line or two of a song or none, and this is the one song on the street published whole, because Stimpunks holds permission to distribute it and its lyrics. make-small-hours.py refuses a lyric without a written-down permission, the words are excluded from this site’s licence in LICENSE, and the agent skill’s “no lyrics” line now names the one exception.
A recording from somebody else’s server needed its own origin list. love-embed.js has an AUDIO_ORIGINS array beside its frame list and builds the players; make-csp.py reads it into a new media-src, path and all, because without one the policy falls back to 'self' and the jukebox would be a row of buttons that press and play nothing. The privacy page lists the band’s site among the services a press can reach.
Changed: small-hours.html, small-hours.js (new), data/small-hours.json, tools/make-small-hours.py, love-embed.js, tools/make-csp.py, _headers, love.css §4 and §44, privacy.html, LICENSE, the agent skill, liner-notes.html.

2026-09-23 — Four new turnings off The Outskirts, each lit a way the road had not been

Turning 04, Dance, Punks: a silent disco on an old airstrip, lit by nothing but the headsets. Three channels that are our Dance, Punks playlist started in three places — the room says so, and never calls it shuffle — and tuning is silent while the headset is off. The volume is on the player, so the loudness this whole street hands the visitor is handed to every dancer. The three channel colours are held at least 1.5 to 1 apart in brightness so they stay three headsets in greyscale, and nothing on the runway strobes or moves at any setting. Each channel’s opening song was pressed and heard starting where it says.
Turning 05, The Small Hours: an all-night diner seen lit from the dark car park, for bodies that keep other hours. Crip time in Alison Kafer’s words, a clock with no hands, a menu with no prices, and no sleep advice anywhere, for a reason one of its quotations gives. The sign does not read your clock. The crayons passage in our Sleep entry is Sarah Kurchak’s, and this room nearly credited it to somebody else from memory: our entry links the book without naming its author, so every author here was resolved against a library record.
Turning 06, The Repeater: a radio mast on the ridge at the far end of the road, where everything is a silhouette against the glow of everybody else’s light. Our Shared-Signal Space entry is its argument, a log confirms every kind of contact and counts none, and a line you can leave open is a quiet noise made in your browser that sends nothing and listens to nothing. The Autistic Rhizome was first credited here to Helen Edgar alone; our own entry shows DGH Neurodivergent Consultancy named it, and both are credited now. That article’s own address now serves a holding page, so the room links our entry instead.
Turning 07, Nothing For Sale: a free market in a lay-by, lit by a ring of cars that pulled up nose-in and left their headlights on, so everything in the middle throws one shadow for every car. Solidarity, not charity; tables of free things of ours, each checked against its own page; no proof of need; nothing counted. Our mutual aid grants are pointed to rather than laid out, because they have an application and a waiting list and a table would promise otherwise.
A new tool for each, and every refusal in them was broken on purpose and fired. Two were wrong on their first run and were narrowed rather than excepted: the disco’s animation check refused its own section’s comment describing the refusal, and the lay-by’s charity check refused the room’s sentence explaining what charity is.
check-jukebox.py had not been able to run since Laughingstock opened. That room’s data file carries acts as well as sets, the branch for acts came first, and the comics were read as videos with no artist, so the whole run refused before checking anything. sets is tested first now, and the disco’s three opening songs are in its lists. The diner’s jukebox is not, because none of it is on YouTube.
Syncopate is under the Apache License 2.0, not the OFL, and the first draft of two credits said otherwise; the pulled record caught it. Looming Rocks’ board, description and house rules still said six concerts when the bill has ten, and say whole concerts now rather than a number.
Changed: four new pages, scripts, data files and tools; love.css §1, §4 and §43–§46 (Small screens and Print are §47 and §48); the-outskirts.html; looming-rocks.html; fonts/; data/foundry.json; data/foundry-faces.json; data/quests.json; tools/make-guild.py, make-og.py, make-sitemap.py, check-contrast.py, check-classes.py, check-jukebox.py; liner-notes.html; four new share cards.

2026-09-23 — The Lightbulb Picture House: every screening is a relaxed screening

A new shopfront on the street: The Lightbulb Picture House, a picture house showing films about autism, ADHD and neurodiversity, most of them made by the people they are about. It is named for Thriving Autistic’s short film Lightbulb Moments: Being Autistic, which is on its first screen.
Two screens, both our own playlists: Animated Introductions to Autism, ADHD, and Neurodiversity and More on Autism, ADHD, and Neurodiversity. Each plays whole and runs until you stop it, and every film on them was checked on its own watch page before it went up.
The rack has a card for every film on Screen One, in the order it plays: who made it, where it was published, how long it runs, a line of ours about it written from the film rather than from its title, and what is in it, said before you press — a panic attack, a bullying scene, jokes about suicide, a sponsor segment. Where one of our own pages already carries the film or the idea, the card links to it.
Every screening is a relaxed screening. The house lights stay up, the captions come on by default, and you can move, stim, sit on the floor, come in late and leave early. The drawing of the auditorium is lit all over, with a floor cushion in the aisle and a pair of ear defenders on a seat.
Nothing in the building is blue. A lightbulb theater lit blue would be Light It Up Blue, the awareness campaign autistic people have spent years refusing, and Amy Sequenzia says why on the page. The bulbs are warm, the ornament over the screen is the gold infinity, and tools/make-picture-house.py reads the room’s palette and refuses a blue — along with the vocabulary of awareness in our own voice, a film with no note of what is in it, and a pronoun for any maker, because none of the films says what theirs are.
Two new typefaces: Limelight, an Art Deco fascia face, for the name and the headings, and Outfit for everything you read. Both are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s font picker. At MAX GLITTER the popcorn in the second row pops; no bulb ever flickers.
Changed: lightbulb-picture-house.html, data/picture-house.json and tools/make-picture-house.py (all new), og/lightbulb-picture-house.png (new), fonts/, index.html, love.css (§42 is the new room; small screens and print are §43 and §44 now), liner-notes.html, adventurers-guild.html, foundry.html, the-mopery.html, data/quests.json, data/foundry.json, data/foundry-faces.json, sitemap.xml, llms.txt, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-classes.py, tools/check-jukebox.py, README.md, CLAUDE.md, DECISIONS.md.

2026-09-23 — Laughingstock: a comedy club where only the comics stand in the light

A new shopfront on the street: Laughingstock, a comedy club down a ramp rather than a flight of stairs. It leads with our own writing from the Campfire Learn Together Being Disabled Can Be Pretty Funny: comedy is a form of knowledge, and disabled comics take the stage on their own terms, in their own voice, controlling the frame.
The stage is our own Disabled Comedy playlist, put on whole and running until you stop it, and beside it is the bill — every set on that playlist, one press each, the comics named on every one and the runtime said before you press. Josh Blue, Tina Friml, AJ Wilkerson, Benny Feldman, Steve Way, Ahren Belisle and Fiona Cauley. Nothing plays until you press play.
The light comes from behind you, and the only thing that stands in it is what the comics said. One follow spot throws a hard-edged pool onto a brick wall, and each of Josh Blue’s and Tina Friml’s lines stands in an oval of that light with their name under it. Everything of ours — the write-up, our notes, the house rules — is out in the dark with the audience. Nobody is drawn on the stage: a mic, a stool, a glass of water, and a ramp up to it.
House rules: no cover and no two-drink minimum, nobody in the front row made part of the act without asking, talk to the comic and not to whoever came in with them, bombing is allowed, nobody is called brave, and nobody headlines. tools/make-laughingstock.py refuses the vocabulary of inspiration and of ranking in the room’s own voice, and skips the comics’ own lines, so that “I suffer from people” is allowed to say suffer.
Two new typefaces: Yellowtail, a sign-writer’s script, for the neon and the comics’ names, and Bricolage Grotesque for everything you read. Both are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s font picker, with their designers named. At MAX GLITTER the water on the stool goes sparkling; the neon never flickers.
Changed: laughingstock.html, data/laughingstock.json and tools/make-laughingstock.py (all new), og/laughingstock.png (new), fonts/, index.html, love.css (§41 is the new room; small screens and print are §42 and §43 now), liner-notes.html, adventurers-guild.html, foundry.html, the-mopery.html, data/quests.json, data/foundry.json, data/foundry-faces.json, sitemap.xml, llms.txt, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-classes.py, tools/check-jukebox.py, README.md, CLAUDE.md, DECISIONS.md.

2026-09-23 — Dead Tired Society: the big lights off, the door ajar, and nobody in the light

A new shopfront on the street: Dead Tired Society, peer support by and for people in burnout and people on the far side of it. The name is a play on Dead Poets Society, and the name is the only thing taken from the film — no line, no scene, no character.
It is a borrowed room after hours with the big lights off and the door left ajar, and the only light is the corridor’s, lying across the floor through the gap. Every word on the page stays in the shade on purpose: masking is performing under a light, and this is the room where nothing has to. Nobody is drawn in the picture of it, because nobody in there is on display.
By the door there is a row of pegs for what people carried in — masking, minority stress, epistemic injustice, justice sensitivity, moral injury and neuronormativity, and more named further along the wall. Each says what is hanging on it, gives one short line from somebody who has written about it, credited to them, and adds a line of ours. Every line was read off our own glossary, and where a source was named only by title or initials the authors were looked up rather than guessed.
Standing orders nobody is standing for, and a talking piece you can pass, because passing is a whole turn. What you type into it goes nowhere and is not kept.
What it will not do is written on the page and enforced by its tool: no advice nobody asked for, no tips, nobody praised for resilience, no timeline, nothing counted, nobody at the front. It is not a meeting and says so, and points at our community and at mutual aid. Near the top, a line for anybody whose night is worse than tired, pointing at our Help and Coping pages.
Two new typefaces: Sorts Mill Goudy for the society’s name, and Lexend for everything you read, which was drawn to ease reading fatigue. Both are on the Foundry’s shelves and in the Mopery’s font picker, with their designers named.
Changed: dead-tired-society.html, dead-tired.js, data/dead-tired.json and tools/make-dead-tired.py (all new), og/dead-tired-society.png (new), fonts/, index.html, love.css (§40 is the new room; small screens and print are §41 and §42 now), liner-notes.html, adventurers-guild.html, foundry.html, the-mopery.html, data/quests.json, data/foundry.json, data/foundry-faces.json, sitemap.xml, llms.txt, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-classes.py, README.md, CLAUDE.md, DECISIONS.md.

2026-09-23 — The Guild signs off once

The Adventurer’s Guild ended with two lines of links once every page got its sign-off: its own, on the desk beside the credits, and the shared one under it. The desk’s line is gone. The desk keeps its credits and the dial; the way back to the street is the link at the top of the page, as it is in every room.
Changed: adventurers-guild.html.

2026-09-23 — Lighter pictures, where that is measurably true

Fifty-six of the street’s JPEGs are WebP now, and the pictures on those pages weigh about 29% less — 2.4MB across the scans, prints, engravings, photographs and thumbnails. The biggest single waste went with it: the Pebble Board’s video thumbnails were stored 1280 pixels wide and are never drawn wider than 170, and they are 512 now, which still covers a phone screen at three times density.
Twenty-four stayed JPEG, each for a reason written down. Every file was converted at the lowest quality that measured as faithful to its source, and swapped only if that saved at least a tenth. Most of Doré’s and Tenniel’s engravings did not clear that bar: fine hatching is the one thing lossy formats are worst at, and at the same fidelity WebP was no smaller than the JPEG, sometimes larger. Converting them anyway would have meant a heavier file or a softer engraving, chosen for the format’s sake. data/webp.json holds every decision and its numbers.
The first attempt measured the wrong thing and was undone. It compared colour as well as detail, and WebP always stores colour at half resolution, as most JPEGs do — so on small, bright thumbnails it concluded no quality was good enough and left the oversized ones exactly as they were. It had deleted JPEGs under that rule, so everything went back to the last commit and ran again measuring detail, which is what the eye looks for.
Nothing about the pages changed but the files. WebP goes into the same image tags, so no room’s layout moved; AVIF was often smaller still, but serving it safely means wrapping every picture in a new element, and at least one room’s layout depends on its images not being wrapped. The share cards and icons stay PNG, because link previews and home screens do not all read anything else. Every picture on the affected pages was loaded and checked afterwards, and the photographs still carry no location or device data.
Changed: images in raven/, oracle/, alice/, pebbles/ and photos/, data/mopery.json, data/oracle.json, data/rabbit-hole.json, data/pebble-board.json, data/webp.json (new), the pages those generators write, og/oracle-deck.png, tools/make-webp.py (new), tools/make-og.py, README.md, CLAUDE.md.

2026-09-23 — Honest sitemap dates, three videos unsquashed, and a consent date for every voice

The sitemap stopped saying the whole street changed every time it was rebuilt. Every page’s lastmod used to be the day the sitemap was generated, which tells a crawler that everything is new whether or not anything is — the exact mistake the specification names. Each page’s date is now the day of the last commit that touched it, read out of the repository’s history, and the tool refuses to run where there is no history to read rather than guessing.
Three videos on the Pebble Board were squashed. Every play button takes the shape its player will have, and three of the board’s videos are older and four-by-three: their thumbnails were being stretched to fill a sixteen-by-nine box, every face in them a third wider than it is. They are fitted now, with the board’s own night either side, which is what the player shows once you press it. Not cropped: those frames have no bars to cut, and taking a quarter off a music video to fill a box would be the same fault the other way round.
Every recorded voice on the street now has a consent date, the readings in Hear Queer Here included. The yells and the Faery Yurt’s recordings always carried one; the readings did not, which is why the privacy page had to word its promise around them. They were agreed to on the day each recording landed, and that date is now read off the commit that added each file rather than typed. make-readings.py refuses a recording without one, as the other two audio tools do, and the privacy page makes the plain promise it could not make before.
Changed: sitemap.xml, tools/make-sitemap.py, love.css (the Pebble Board’s section), data/readings.json, tools/make-readings.py, privacy.html.

2026-09-23 — Structured data, and a note for any agent reading the street

Every page describes itself in JSON-LD, the format search engines and agents treat as fact. Everything in it comes out of that page’s own head — its title, its description, its address — so it cannot say anything the page does not. The publisher is marked with the same identifier Star Stuff uses, so two of our sites describe one Stimpunks Foundation rather than two. The licence is on the site, not on each page, because the photographs of people are excluded from it. The missing-address page gets none: it has no address to describe.
There is a skill for agents, at /.well-known/agent-skills/stimpunks-love/SKILL.md: how to read, quote and cite this site. It says where the indexes are, why the site gives no count of its rooms and what to do if you need one, that the rooms are different on purpose, that two of them must not be summarised as advice or a fortune, and what the licence covers — including that the photographs are not to be reused. The counting check reads it, so it obeys the site’s own rule.
/.well-known/api-catalog lists every machine-readable resource (RFC 9727), and every response now points at it. It uses only link relations that are actually registered, which is why the sitemap and the skill are not in it under relations they do not have — Star Stuff found out the hard way and published the correction. Both files are generated: the skill’s sha256 is computed from its bytes on every run, and the catalogue refuses to name a file that does not exist. Both refusals were tested by breaking them.
Changed: every page’s head, llms.txt, _headers, .well-known/api-catalog, .well-known/agent-skills/ (new), tools/structured.py, tools/make-structured.py and tools/make-agent-files.py (new), tools/make-foundry.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-counts.py, README.md, CLAUDE.md.

2026-09-23 — Every page signs off, in its own voice, with a way back to the top

Every page now ends with the same short line: back to the top, the liner notes, Your Room, the changelog, the privacy page, the feed, and whose street this is. Somebody looking for how to leave, who made this, or what happens to them finds it in the same place wherever they are, which is what the privacy page in particular needed.
It is not the front page’s footer, on purpose. The street ends on its chalk pavement and keeps it; our own notes have said since the Guild opened that the street’s footer reaching into a room would be the one piece of the street’s look in a world that has its own. So the line brings no colour, no typeface and no ground: it is set in whatever the room already uses, the way the job markers are, and reads as the room signing off. The pavement takes its links from the same list, so the two cannot disagree.
Back to top is a plain link, and it moves the keyboard too. It jumps rather than scrolls, at every dial setting, and the next Tab after it lands on the skip link at the top of the page rather than on whatever followed the line. It works with scripts off.
One room needed its own. The Zibaldone’s link colour is a rubric red chosen for paper, and the line lies on the dark desk below the sheets — 1.07 and 1.74 there. It takes the laid paper’s own colours on the desk now. Every other room’s links already cleared their own floor.
It does not print. A link on paper goes nowhere and “Back to top” at the foot of a sheet is false — and it pushed issue #2 of the zine onto a second sheet the day it arrived, which check-print.py caught.
Changed: every page, love.css §4, the Zibaldone’s section and Print, tools/signoff.py and tools/make-signoff.py (new), tools/make-foundry.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-print.py, README.md, CLAUDE.md.

2026-09-23 — A privacy page, which is short because there is very little to say

The privacy page says what this site knows about you, and all of it. No cookies on any response; two settings in your own browser, both things you asked it to remember; nothing from any other service until you press play, with each player’s own policy linked; and the ordinary logs our host keeps. Netlify’s analytics is not switched on. It names who publishes the site, where to write, what your rights are, and that every change to it will be dated here.
Every sentence on it was checked against the site rather than written from what a privacy page usually says. The storage keys were read out of the scripts, the absence of cookies off live responses, the embed services out of the one list the site frames, and each outside policy link was requested. One draft sentence did not survive: it said every recording on the street had a dated consent record, and the readings in Hear Queer Here, read by the people who made that room, do not carry one. The sentence says what is true instead.
It is linked from the front door’s footer, the liner notes, the Polaroid Wall and the security policy, is in the sitemap, and has a share card. It carries no job marker: the page somebody reads to find out what happens to them is not a stop on a walking tour.
Changed: privacy.html (new), index.html, liner-notes.html, polaroids.html, SECURITY.md, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/make-guild.py.

2026-09-23 — Sentences that had stopped being true, somewhere to report a hole, and a real favicon.ico

The site was still counting its rooms in places the counting check could not see. The Playhouse opened by giving its own number on the street, Your Room said it was linked beside a number of others, the Arcade’s description gave its number too, and the favicon’s own source said its stripes were the rooms, one each. check-counts.py looked only for a number in front of a noun; it now also catches the number after one, and the total left hanging at the end of a sentence with the noun understood. Its first run refused a count of tilted leaves in our own notes, and the pattern was narrowed rather than the sentence excepted. It reads the favicon, netlify.toml and SECURITY.md now as well.
llms.txt said every typeface was under the SIL Open Font License. Four are Apache 2.0, which the Foundry found out by reading each family’s own record. The line is generated from that record now instead of typed, so it names both licences and will name a third if one ever arrives.
A comment in netlify.toml said the domain redirect was still switched off. It was switched on on 2026-09-19.
There is a way to report a security hole. /.well-known/security.txt, per RFC 9116, and a SECURITY.md saying what this site actually is and what is worth reporting. The contact is GitHub’s private vulnerability reporting, switched on for this repository today, because an issue on a public repository discloses a report the moment it is filed. make-security.py writes the file and refuses from thirty days before its expiry date, because a lapsed security.txt is invalid rather than merely old.
/favicon.ico exists. Browsers and crawlers ask for it whatever a page’s head says, and until today every one of those requests got the missing-address page. There is an Apple touch icon, and the manifest carries 192, 512 and maskable icons for installs. Every one is rendered from favicon.svg by make-icons.py, at each size directly rather than scaled down, and the manifest’s list is written by the same tool, so an icon cannot be declared without being drawn.
The security header upgrades anything insecure it meets. Nothing on the site loads over plain http today; upgrade-insecure-requests is there so that a link pasted into a room tomorrow gets upgraded instead of blocked as mixed content.
The Faery Yurt’s two photographs reserve their room before they load. Helen Edgar gave a standing yes today to maintenance that changes nothing a visitor can see, and this is the first of it: both photographs were measured before and after, at desktop and phone width, and render identically. Anything that changes how her room looks is still hers to decide, and the liner notes say so.
Changed: playhouse.html, your-room.html, arcade.html, faery-yurt.html, favicon.svg, every page’s head, love.css comments, netlify.toml, _headers, site.webmanifest, SECURITY.md (new), .well-known/security.txt (new), favicon.ico, apple-touch-icon.png and three manifest icons (new), tools/make-icons.py and tools/make-security.py (new), tools/check-counts.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/make-csp.py, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-foundry.py, tools/check-contrast.py, README.md, CLAUDE.md.

2026-09-23 — A focus ring you can see in every room, and the headings, links, tables and pictures a screen reader walks

On fourteen pages the focus ring was very nearly invisible somewhere. The ring is 4px of yellow, chosen for a street that is near-black, and it is right there. The pale rooms were never given one of their own: on the Guild’s manila it measured 1.01, and it was no better than 1.31 on the Garden, Covenstead, both zines, the Zibaldone’s paper and the Hermitage’s daylight, on the white cards in Pink Pony Club and the Playhouse, on Club Chronic’s flyers, on the Pebble Board’s cards, on the Den’s track cards and on the pebbling cabinet’s overcast shore. Somebody moving through those rooms by keyboard was moving an indicator nobody could see.
Each room chose its own, which is the point. There is no new street-wide ring: every room that needed one takes the ink it already writes in, set in its own section beside its own link colour — the clerk’s ink, the loam, the tea-dark brown, photocopier black — and where a room has a dark panel inside a pale one, or a pale card on a dark floor, the panel decides. The Hermitage needed four, because its cave is velvet, its television is glass and its coffee table is cedar. Every one clears 3:1 against every ground it lands on, and the dial keeps its yellow in every room because it is always a dark box.
Nothing had ever measured a focus ring, so there is a tool that does. check-focus.py renders every page, focuses every control and measures the ring against what it is drawn on. It measures a gradient at every one of its stops and passes only the worst, and it was wrong twice before it was right: it first counted the dark room behind the Latibulum’s plaster as a ground the ring might stand on, then composited the Den’s three layers of shag onto the room instead of onto each other. Both were fixed in the tool, and the Guild’s ring was removed on purpose to prove it still fails.
Three pages skipped a heading level, and all three were generated. Looming Rocks’ running order and the Hermitage’s campfire went from h2 to h4, and the Doomscroll’s headlines were h3 with each poem’s title as an h2 inside them — upside down. Fixed in the generators, and every heading’s computed style was compared before and after, so nothing moved on the page. check-headings.py refuses a skipped level now.
Links that did not say where they went. The Latibulum’s dictionary link said here; it says whose dictionary now. Club Chronic’s twelve flyers each said Go, which a screen reader moving from link to link hears as twelve identical words — the flyer still says Go, and the rest of the sentence is there for the ear. And one card on the Pebble Board was a link with no name at all.
Every table has a caption and every column header says it is one. Twenty-two tables across the liner notes, the photograph promises and Your Room. The captions are visually hidden, because each table already sits under a heading saying the same thing to anybody who can see it.
Pictures reserve their room before they arrive. Sixty-nine images on the Pebble Board, in the Mopery, in the Rabbit Hole and on Enid’s wall had no width or height, so the page jumped as each one landed. The generators read the size off the file’s own header now, through one small shared reader checked against every image in the repository, and every picture was measured before and after so that none of them changed shape. The two photographs in the Faery Yurt are Helen Edgar’s markup and were left alone.
Changed: love.css §3 and the section of every room that needed its own ring, pink-pony-club.html, zine-table.html, zine-issue-2.html, latibulum.html, liner-notes.html, polaroids.html, your-room.html, the pages the generators below rebuild, tools/check-focus.py (new), tools/check-headings.py (new), tools/imgsize.py (new), tools/make-looming.py, tools/make-hermitage.py, tools/make-doomscroll.py, tools/make-club.py, tools/make-pebble-board.py, tools/make-mopery.py, tools/make-rabbit-hole.py, tools/make-polaroids.py, tools/make-og.py, README.md.

2026-09-23 — An address that is not on the street, and the Gentle default when storage is blocked

A missing address has a page now. Until today any URL nobody built got Netlify’s own teal “Page not found”, with the right status and no way back to the street. 404.html is fog: a house-number plate on a post with no house behind it, rooftops going back into the air until they are gone, and the ways out — the street, the garden for our other sites, a person to tell. It still sends a 404, it is marked noindex, and every path on it starts with a slash because it answers at any depth.
Fog is lit from everywhere, and nothing else on this street is. Every other world is lit from somewhere or from nowhere; fog scatters light until it arrives from every side at once, so nothing casts a shadow, nothing has a lit face, and the only thing that tells near from far is how pale a thing has gone. That is what keeps it off the Adventurer’s Guild, which is lit from nowhere and has no depth at all. Nothing moves in it at any setting.
It has no share card, no job marker and no place in the sitemap, and each tool says why by name. It has no address of its own to unfurl, post a job at or list. make-og.py, make-guild.py and make-sitemap.py exempt it explicitly, so every other page still refuses to ship without all three.
One sentence on it was false in its first draft and a measurement caught it. It said a capital letter or a stray space was enough to land here. Netlify folds both back to the right page; what actually lands here is a dropped letter, or the full stop or bracket a link picks up when it is copied off the end of a sentence. The dev server is no guide to this, because the disk it serves from ignores case.
The render checkers were looking at a different page from the one that ships. A root-absolute path loaded from a file:// probe points at the root of the disk, so check-contrast-live.py and check-gentle.py would have measured the 404 unstyled — and an unstyled page passes everything. Both probes now resolve those paths against the repository, and check-ids.py stopped counting /love.js and love.js as two scripts.
The dial’s default ignored a device asking for less motion whenever storage was blocked. The snippet every page runs before first paint read the stored setting first and fell back to Regular if that threw, which some private windows do — so a visitor who had asked for reduced motion got the louder version, which is the precise failure the dial exists to prevent. It reads the device’s preference first now and only lets a stored choice override it. The CSP hash moved with it, and make-foundry.py reads the snippet off the front page instead of keeping its own copy, which it would have put back on its next run.
The web manifest was still counting rooms. Its description said how many there were, which is the sentence check-counts.py exists to refuse — and it had never looked at the manifest, which is shown when the site is installed. It is on the tool’s list now, read as code rather than prose, because a JSON file is nothing but quoted strings and skipping quotation there skips the whole file.
Changed: 404.html (new), love.css §2 and §39 (Small screens and Print are §40 and §41 now), every page’s pre-paint snippet, _headers, site.webmanifest, tools/check-counts.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-contrast-live.py, tools/check-gentle.py, tools/check-ids.py, tools/check-classes.py, tools/make-foundry.py, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-sitemap.py.

2026-09-22 — Looming Rocks Amphitheatre, and a stage lit from the ground up

Turning 03 in The Outskirts is a venue. Looming Rocks Amphitheatre is an open-air stage at the foot of two enormous rock faces: six full concerts, a lighting desk that walks the bill without loading anything, and a great deal of stone that was here long before the stage was. It earns that road rather than the campsite — crowds, volume and staying out late is exactly what the road is for.
The light is thrown upward and nothing else on this street does that. Floods stand on the ground and point up the rock, so a face is brightest at its foot and goes dark towards the top, and there is nothing overhead at all. That is the exact inverse of Sithen one turning back, lit by a full moon from directly above, and of the Lagoon two turnings back, flat frontal light across water at eye level. Three rooms on one road, three directions of light, and vertical was the one nobody had taken.
And what glows is not the lamp. The lichen fluoresces — it takes light you cannot see and gives back light you can — which is emission rather than reflection, and the third kind of transmitted light here after Swaying Sweetgrass (through grass) and The Feed (through a mask). The lamps are violet; what comes back is cyan-green. That green is the pair to watch: the Lagoon’s acid is a yellow-green one turning along the same road, and the two are far apart in blue on purpose.
The stage is the Hermitage’s set on a rock face, and it keeps that set’s promises. While the stage is dark, tuning is silent and nothing is fetched; once something is playing, tuning changes the picture. The desk names the act it is about to move to and how long that runs before the press, which matters more here than at the campfire: these are full concerts, the shortest nearly an hour and the longest over two. looming.js is a separate file from hermitage.js on purpose — the two sets look alike and are not the same object, and a shared widget would be the harmonising instinct arriving through a script tag. The running order is a <details> and opens and closes with no script at all.
A refusal was copied from the herbarium and did not survive the move. That room catches a guessed Latin binomial with a shape test — one capitalised word, one lowercase word — which works on a page of short labels and, run over prose, matches the start of nearly every sentence. Its first run here refused “Rocks that”, “Once something” and “Ferrell sings”. Excepting those phrases would have been the mistake this repo has already written down three times, so the pattern was narrowed structurally instead: sentence starts are ignored, and it only reads sentences that are about lichen at all. Verified in both directions — a real binomial in a lichen sentence is caught; a band name in a note is not.
The room stopped explaining which half of itself was invented. A first draft had a section headed what the rocks are, and which half of that is made up. Ryan cut it: this is a street named after a genderqueer, shape-shifting road, and a disclaimer explaining that the sentient rocks are fiction is a page apologising for being the thing it is. His own intro is the room’s opening now. What still needs saying is the part about somebody else’s property, and that is a different job living in the credits.
The real venue is credited as somebody else’s. Red Rocks Amphitheatre, near Morrison, Colorado, owned and operated by the city of Denver, formed by two sandstone monoliths with a third between them, seating 9,525 — and every recording here was made there. Stimpunks has no connection to it and is not endorsed by it. Every id was checked on its own watch page before it went up: status, playableInEmbed and length, all of them OK and embeddable, runtimes measured rather than typed. Ten acts, fifteen hours of stage time, six of them posted by the artist or the band themselves — which is the most durable shape of upload this site carries.
The count and the range are generated, because both were typed by hand and both were wrong within the hour. The page said six full shows and a shortest of 57 minutes; four more arrived and neither line knew. They come out of the data file now, and so does the grammar around them — a line reading “1 of them … themselves” is a hand-typed total wearing a disguise, which is the mistake the Jungle Room made with its dead cams. A note claiming one of the new acts was the shortest on the bill was wrong too, by ninety seconds, and was caught by sorting the runtimes rather than by rereading the sentence.
The room was missing from check-jukebox.py’s list for a day, which is the gap that tool’s own docstring warns about in as many words: a new set of facades belongs in LISTS in the same commit that opens the room, because a checker reporting “all tracks checked” while silently not knowing about a room reads as coverage and is worse than not running at all. It is registered now, with a branch for this file’s shape. It is also the list with the most to lose per row: a dead id here is not a three-minute disappointment, it is somebody clearing two hours for a video that has gone.
The card overflowed its own box on the first build and the tool caught it, reporting the drawing running to 652 on a card 630 tall. Trimmed rather than cropped. Two new faces, both OFL, designers resolved; Bevan is the fourth heavy slab on this street and is told apart by era and making rather than by weight — routed, pressed, carpentered and, here, painted on a board out in the weather.
Changed: data/looming-rocks.json, tools/make-looming.py (new), looming.js (new), looming-rocks.html, the-outskirts.html, love.css §1 and §38 (Small screens and Print renumbered to §39 and §40), fonts/, data/foundry.json, data/foundry-faces.json, data/quests.json, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-classes.py, liner-notes.html, and one new share card.

2026-09-22 — Covenstead moves onto the street, and changes worlds doing it

It was turning 03 in The Outskirts and it is a shopfront now. Ryan’s call, and the reasoning is about what each area is for rather than about decoration: the campgrounds are for people who want to be somewhat apart from each other, at peace in nature, with the street still in reach; the road out of town is for night revelry in crowds and for anybody who wants to be as far off as they can get. A covenstead is neither — a group that meets regularly wants a premises with a door on a street where people already are.
Helen Edgar’s observation sharpened the split, and it is worth keeping as a test: everything out on that road could sit on the campsite if it had planning permission. So the question to ask of anything placed in either area is would this be just as happy on the campsite? — and if the answer is yes, it is probably not an Outskirts room.
It changed worlds when it moved, which is the part that mattered. A room relocated with the same stylesheet would be telling you the areas do not mean anything. Out there it was a dark kitchen lit by several lamps that did not match — the only room on the street lit by more than one source. On the street it is daylit, warm and domestic: one window, mid-afternoon, limewash, and the good china out.
And the argument moved with it rather than being dropped. The device carrying several people who do not match, meeting anyway is now the china — nobody’s cup is anybody else’s cup. That is load bearing and is written into the section, the data file and the card’s alt text: if the crockery is ever made to match, the room has lost its subject and kept its wallpaper.
Three pale rooms already existed and the light is what tells them apart. The Hermitage is a landscape under low morning sun with solar infrastructure on it; the Garden is midday from overhead through leaves, everything tinted green; the Guild has no light source at all and is lit like a photocopy. This is an interior with one window in the side of it. Its wall is warm and slightly pink where both the other daylit rooms are green-white — if this limewash ever cools towards green it has become the garden with furniture in it.
A repaint leaves dead var() behind and nothing warns. Replacing the palette orphaned the job marker, which went on stroking a custom property that had stopped existing — and CSS drops an unknown one and paints nothing, so the kettle rendered with no line at all. Not an error anywhere, and check-contrast.py had nothing to say because the pair was gone rather than wrong. Caught by grepping the old names, which is now the written rule: markers, card CSS and generator drawings all sit outside the section you are editing.
And the card was redrawn rather than recoloured, for the same reason the room was. It is a dresser shelf with eight pieces of crockery on it, every one a different shape as well as a different glaze — three identical outlines in three inks would be a matching set that had been painted over, which is the opposite of what the room is about.
The quest dropped from class III to class I, since the walk is now along the street rather than out past the last streetlight, and its posted text no longer describes a road. The Outskirts says out loud that a turning moved and where it went, rather than quietly having one fewer.
Changed: covenstead.html, love.css §5 and §37, data/covenstead.json, the-outskirts.html, index.html, data/quests.json, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py, liner-notes.html, CLAUDE.md, and that room’s share card.

2026-09-22 — Covenstead, and the only room here lit by more than one lamp

Turning 03 is open, and The Outskirts now has a road behind every board. Covenstead is a meeting place with the door shut and the kettle on: a greeting with the goodbye built into it, counsel that stayed counsel, a law the tradition argues about, and the practice of watching your own first thoughts.
It is the only room on this street lit by more than one source, and that is the argument rendered as physics rather than decoration. Every other world here has exactly one light — a lamp, a screen, a fire, a moon, a headlight, the sun, or nothing. A covenstead is where a group meets, so everybody brought their own: one pool is candle-amber, one a cold bulb, one a rose shade, all at the same height because everybody is sitting down. That is also what keeps it off the warm interiors, the collapse this street has now refused six times — every one of those is one flame turning everything amber together. If the three lamps ever drift into the same hue this has become the burrow with more chairs in it.
Indoors was the one axis that area had left. Turning 01 is a screen standing in water and turning 02 is a ring standing in a field, both outdoors and both at night. And it is not The Mopery, the other room full of furniture and argument: that is a cold building you stand up in, with an institution’s books in it.
Terry Pratchett’s words are on that page, and they are the point of it. The first draft named First Sight and Second Thoughts and linked out for the words, on the reasoning that they are quoted properly elsewhere on our own sites. Ryan said that was too limiting, and he was right — these sentences are the tenets, the way the Rede’s couplet is, and a page describing them at second hand was sending a reader elsewhere for the thing it was about. They are quoted in full now, and every quotation names its author, its work and its year and links to the edition.
The room sets its own quotation cap rather than borrowing the Zibaldone’s, and the difference is what the two rooms are for. That one is a quote bank, where the danger is drift — nobody decides to republish a book, they add one good line at a time until the page is the work — so thirty words is right there. This room quotes a handful of named passages the commentary is about, and the sentence defining First Sight runs to thirty-five words. Sixty fits a defining sentence and refuses a scene: the long Miss Level exchange the shorter lines come out of runs to several hundred words and stays a link, because our own philosophy page is the better thing to read and is there to be linked rather than raided. The tool refuses a quotation arriving without an author, a work and an edition to point at.
The Rule of Three is argued about inside the tradition, and the room says so rather than settling it. It is not a universal article of faith: there are Wiccans who read it as an over-elaboration on the Rede, others who consider it a modern innovation built on Christian morality. A page stating it flat, as the witch law, would be deciding a live argument inside somebody else’s religion on their behalf, from the outside, for atmosphere — and the flattened version is always the one that travels. The tool refuses a tenet marked contested that does not say what is contested about it.
Rede means counsel, not commandment, and that is the hinge. Middle English for advice; the best-known couplet was first publicly recorded in a 1964 speech by Doreen Valiente and has stayed counsel for sixty years rather than hardening into a code somebody can be expelled for breaking. make-covenstead.py refuses a tenet written as an order — which is the exact opposite of the rule one turning up the road, where make-sithen.py refuses advice outright. Two rooms in one area holding opposite rules about the same vocabulary, for the same underlying reason. They must not be made to agree.
Nobody is initiated and nothing is counted. No degrees, no levels, no test at the door, no record of how often you came. The tool refuses gating vocabulary, and that guard was nearly published untested: the first attempt at breaking it used a sentence containing “you must”, which the order guard caught first, so the refusal that fired was not the one under test. Re-run with three sentences carrying no order vocabulary at all — it fires on each. A verification that shares an assumption with the thing it verifies is not a verification.
Ten contrast pairs and no ornament entry, which is a first here. Every other room has at least one colour allowed to be faint because it only draws something. All three lamps carry text in this one, so all three are held to the body bar on both grounds.
The unlit-board section no longer claims a board is standing there. With every turning open, that paragraph described a state the page no longer has. It now says the state is kept rather than retired — two of those boards stood lit and empty for a while, and an area has that state whether or not it is currently using it.
A cross-room class leak was caught before the checker saw it: this page was drafted wearing Sithen’s mound__art. Renamed to its own. Two new faces, both OFL, designers resolved — deliberately plain ones, because the witches this room is partly built on are practical and unglamorous and a page about that set in something carved would be arguing against itself in the typeface.
Changed: data/covenstead.json, tools/make-covenstead.py (new), covenstead.html, the-outskirts.html, love.css §1 and §37 (Small screens and Print renumbered to §38 and §39), fonts/, data/foundry.json, data/foundry-faces.json, data/quests.json, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-classes.py, liner-notes.html, and one new share card.

2026-09-22 — The Outskirts had a wrong side of town in it, and this street does not have one

The Outskirts shipped carrying the ordinary real-world reading of an edge-of-town, and it was wrong here. Three lines: premises that were never going to get planning permission, a bullet saying out-of-town is where everything gets pushed that a town has decided is not respectable, and a fair amount of that is us, and a Covenstead described as a group the town would rather not think about. Ryan caught it. All three are gone.
The objection is structural rather than a matter of taste. Our town is stimpunks.love and it accepts everybody, so it has no outside to push anybody to. A street named after a character who turns up wherever somebody needs shelter and rearranges himself for whoever has arrived cannot also have a wrong side of himself. The framing was imported from real towns, where it is perfectly true, into the one place on this site whose whole premise contradicts it.
It got past everything because it arrived sounding sympathetic. This is where the disreputable ends up and we are the disreputable reads as solidarity, and on most pages it would be. Here it quietly builds a category of people this site would rather not look at, and then generously puts us in it — which is a thing to remember, because no checker on this street can see an argument that is wrong only in context.
The road is a direction and not a verdict. What replaces the bullet says so outright: nothing out there was sent out there, a fort stands in a field and a screen stands in water because that is where they are, and out is not the same as out of favour. The words that area actually wants are about hours and room — things that keep their own time and want space around them — never about being unwelcome somewhere else.
Written into CLAUDE.md rather than only fixed, because the next turning will invite exactly the same sentence: Covenstead is still to build, and a coven is a group the town would rather not think about is the first line anybody would reach for. The correction is recorded where the next person will meet it, which is what this repo does with a correction that came from Ryan rather than from a tool.
The dated entry below is left as it was. It describes what was built that day, including the phrase now removed, and rewriting it to match today would be falsifying the log — the rule check-counts.py already states about this page.
Changed: the-outskirts.html (page description, card description, lede, one house rule and the Covenstead board), CLAUDE.md, llms.txt, and that area’s share card.

2026-09-22 — Sithen, and the room that does not open its own door

Turning 02 off The Outskirts is open. Sithen is a fairy fort seen from the outside under a full moon: a ring of earth and whitethorn you can walk all the way round, a catalogue of rules nobody will say out loud, and a door this room does not go through.
Staying outside is the design, and it solves three collapses at once. A faerie mound is structurally The Latibulum, thematically the Faery Yurt and narratively The Rabbit Hole — no room here has had to dodge three at once, and they are all the same move: warm interior, underground, lit by one small flame. A fairy fort is an outdoor object, and the inside is the part the tradition is careful never to show you. There is no interior here and no flame. If a door is ever opened it becomes a subroom with its own world, the way The Den hangs off the Jungle Room — not this page with rooms added to it.
The room it could most easily have become is the campgrounds, the other cold night ground on this site. Two things hold it off, and both are structural: there is no green in it anywhere — that field is blue-green spruce, lichen and moss, and grass under a full moon has a brightness rather than a colour, so every value here sits on one grey-violet line — and the campgrounds is an open field with posts standing about in it while this is one object that you circle. Moonlight is also from directly overhead where the road outside is lit from one low angle, so nothing in here has the area's single bright edge.
The name was checked rather than assumed, and that was the point of checking. Scottish Gaelic sìthean, a hillock inhabited by fairies, cited to Colin Mark’s Gaelic–English Dictionary (Routledge, 2003) by way of Wiktionary. One of the two novel series that pointed us here uses this exact spelling for the fae court, so a room taking the name while claiming to owe those books nothing would have been advertising a debt it does not otherwise have. The word is older than both, and the room says so rather than leaving anybody to assume either way.
The two novel series are credited as the pointer and nothing is drawn from them — Ryan’s call. Laurell K. Hamilton’s Merry Gentry books and Seanan McGuire’s October Daye books are named and linked in the room as the reason it exists; not one court, character, politics or cosmology of either is used, because those are living authors’ invented worlds. The refusal is enforced rather than remembered: make-sithen.py will not build the page if a rule’s source names either series or either author. The friendly edit here is real and it will arrive — the folklore is thin in exactly the places a novel is rich, so the most useful material lying around is the one thing this room may not pick up.
“Knowe” is deliberately not in that guard. It is a genuine Scots word for a knoll, older than any novel that uses it, and refusing it would be the tool handing a living author a word that is not theirs — the mirror image of the mistake it exists to prevent. The guard names the series and the authors, which is what actually identifies a borrowing.
The page is in two halves and says which is which. The documented half is earthworks and a motorway — ringforts, the thirty to forty thousand identifiable in 1991, the whitethorn taboo, and the 1999 campaign that saved a thorn bush from the M18 at Latoon in County Clare. The folklore half is traditional and every rule names its source. Everything under what it is like is ours, written for this room and not claimed to be in the tradition, because a reader cannot tell those apart by tone.
That reading is why the room is on this site at all. The fae taboos are a catalogue of consequential rules nobody will state out loud, where breaking one is punished and no one explains — the ordinary weather of neurotypical convention for a great many autistic people. And the accommodation comparison writes itself: a whole country reroutes a motorway around a tree on the strength of this matters and I am not going to justify it, and the same country asks a Disabled person for a letter before it moves a desk.
Nothing on that page tells anybody how to behave, and the tool refuses the vocabulary of advice in the second person. A page about unwritten rules that ended in tips for following them would be a social skills curriculum with thorns on it. It also refuses a rule with no plain reading, a rule with no source, a charm set as verse, and an HTML entity in any field. All nine refusals were broken on purpose and watched to fire.
Two new faces, and the pairing is one this street has never had. Italiana is very thin and very high-contrast — the only thin thing here, which is most of why it arrived, since every other display face we hold is heavy. Literata carries the body deliberately without atmosphere: a fae room is under constant pressure to set its text in something uncial and unreadable, which is the Doomscroll’s blackletter problem arriving in a hill. Both OFL, both designers resolved rather than typed, and check-faces.py refused the build until the Mopery and the Foundry held them.
The marker is drawn in the moon and not in the room’s own thorn colour, because that colour measures 3.69 on the field and a marker is held to the body threshold — the Jungle Room’s quills rule. A sprig nobody can pick out of the dark is a control nobody can use.
Rank III already covered this. Yesterday’s renaming from “past the treeline” to “off the street” meant a second turning on the new road needed no further change to the guild — which is what that rewording was for.
Changed: data/sithen.json, tools/make-sithen.py (new), sithen.html, the-outskirts.html, love.css §1 and §36 (Small screens and Print renumbered to §37 and §38), fonts/, data/foundry.json, data/foundry-faces.json, data/quests.json, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-classes.py, liner-notes.html, and one new share card.

2026-09-22 — The Outskirts, and a drive-in screen standing in black water

The street has an edge at each end now. The Outskirts is the second area — past the last streetlight rather than past the treeline — and the road out is reached from a piece of street furniture at the far end of the front page, the way the campgrounds and the garden are. It is seedy edge-of-town: the mystical, the eldritch and whatever only opens after dark.
It is lit by headlights, which is a light nothing else here uses. The campgrounds is the room this could have collapsed into and the separation is physical rather than tonal: that field is lit by nothing — open, evenly dim, the sky still on it, and you can see to the treeline. This is one low, level, close beam from off the page, so a sign has a bright face and no back and the road goes black an inch past it. A campground sign is routed into wood by a machine and maintained; a sign out here was painted once by whoever owned the premises. Alfa Slab One against Bowlby One SC, which is where that difference actually lives. And it is not Danny the Street, which is the other road on this site: that is a road seen from directly above under sodium, with no shadows because nothing stands up in it. This is a road seen from on it, at eye level. Same subject, opposite position.
Two of its turnings are signs with no road behind them, named and not built — Sithen, a faerie mound, and Covenstead, a coven’s meeting place. The campgrounds already settled that an area has this state and a website usually pretends it does not. The post is dashed and the words are not dimmed, which is the whole care in the rule: a board you cannot read is not a subtler board, it is a broken one. They are not links, not disabled controls, and not hidden.
Black Leather Lagoon is the first turning off it, and it is an appreciation of The Cramps: a drive-in screen standing in black water, our Halloween playlist on the screen, and a rack of their records on posts out in the shallows. Turning 01 in a new area, which is exactly where the Faery Yurt already proved an area does not get a house style — the road in is cold, dead, khaki and hand-painted, and this is wet, lit, acid green and printed.
The room it must not collapse into is Club Chronic, and that is the hardest call since The Den. Both are music rooms, both dark, both an appreciation over a rack of records, and both hold the same pair of runtime rules. The club is a wall — flat, frontal, no light source anywhere in it, no depth, a hundred rectangles of paper pasted onto black. This has a horizon: one bright rectangle out in the water and everything else lit off it. There is no paper in here at all. Anton against Chivo, and the type is the front line: the obvious face for a monster bill is a condensed gothic, which is precisely the face the one room this must not resemble has owned since it opened.
Nothing in it flickers, at any setting. A drive-in screen is a flickering object — nearly its definition — and building one without the flicker took more work than building one with it. That is Club Chronic’s rule about strobes arriving in the room most likely to talk itself out of it, and the room says so in its own door policy so nobody finishes it later.
The year beside a record is the record’s year and not the upload’s, and that is the most useful thing this room turned up. Every one of these is an auto-generated upload from a licensor’s catalogue, and each carries a “Released on” line giving the date of the reissue that was licensed — 1984 for most of this rack, which is a compilation, and 2014 for three. Taking it at face value would have printed 1984 beside a 1978 single, in the one field a reader has no way of checking. The years were resolved separately against MusicBrainz, and make-lagoon.py refuses a song that arrives without one. A tenth song was dropped rather than published with a year nobody had checked.
And a song was pulled by the check for a reason nothing here had met. Can Your Pussy Do the Dog? answers LOGIN_REQUIRED rather than OK: it is age-gated, so it plays perfectly for a signed-in adult and would have rendered a refusal inside our frame for everybody else. That is neither a dead video nor an embedding permission — it is a third thing. Playing is not the same permission as embedding, once more: playing is not the same permission as playing without an account, on a street whose whole promise is that nothing is asked of you before the press.
Not one line of any of those songs is on the page, and make-lagoon.py refuses a note shaped like verse — several short hand-broken lines, which is what a lyric looks like in a JSON string and what a sentence never does. A room built out of one band, whose words are half of why anybody loves them, is exactly where this street’s rule would have been broken affectionately. It also refuses a ranked rack (no best, no greatest, no countdown), a half-credited cover, and an HTML entity in any field. All eight refusals were broken on purpose and watched to fire before the tool was believed.
The Napa show is on the page and is not told the usual way. In June 1978 the band played a free concert for patients at the state hospital in Napa. That tape is almost always written up as a joke at the patients’ expense — you cannot tell the lunatics from the band — which is psychiatric patients used as the punchline that certifies how wild somebody else is, and we are a Disabled people’s organisation. The room says what it will stand behind, and leaves the gap visible: whether anybody in that room had a good evening is not ours to narrate.
This is the unusual case of a room built on something no page of ours has ever written about, so every word of the appreciation is the room’s own and the sources are named on it: the band’s history and the covers off Wikipedia, ids, runtimes and channels off YouTube, release years off MusicBrainz.
Rank III stopped saying “past the treeline”, because a class defined by geography cannot name one edge and mean both. Not a fourth class: IV would encode a false ordering, since the field and the road are opposite directions rather than different distances. That sentence lived in the tool, in the data file, in the guild’s own house rules, on its card and in llms.txt, and none of those is in the file that changed — the same shape as last night’s sentence about The Chappell living in the dancefloor’s copy.
Three new faces, and each cost two other rooms an edit. Bowlby One SC, Creepster and Chivo, all OFL, all with their designers resolved rather than typed. check-faces.py refused the build until the Mopery’s picker and the Foundry’s shelves held them, which is exactly what that tool is for. Creepster sets the h1 and the bill line and nothing else, ever — the Doomscroll’s rule about blackletter, in the room whose subject matter asks for it on every line.
Two colours are ornament and say so with their numbers. The road’s dead khaki (4.04 and 3.51) and the lagoon’s poster red (3.35 and 3.05). The khaki shipped on the topline note and under every turning for as long as it took to measure it, and both were moved to the fine print’s own colour; the lagoon carries a lighter red beside the dark one precisely so the room is never tempted to let the dark one speak.
Verified as rendered, not as markup. Zero iframes and zero requests to YouTube on load; one press produced one iframe at the right playlist at 549×306 with the correct referrer policy and the other nine buttons untouched. The pressed container is a bare <div class="facade">, so the room’s styling is applied from the container rather than the button — the fault that shipped Swaying Sweetgrass’s players at 0×0. Both pages pass the live contrast sweep and all three dial settings with nothing moving.
Changed: data/lagoon.json, tools/make-lagoon.py (new), the-outskirts.html, black-leather-lagoon.html, love.css §1, §5, §34 and §35 (Small screens and Print renumbered to §36 and §37), index.html, fonts/, data/foundry.json, data/foundry-faces.json, data/quests.json, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py, tools/check-jukebox.py, tools/check-classes.py, adventurers-guild.html, liner-notes.html, and two new share cards.

2026-09-22 — The decks on the dancefloor, and a playlist that turned out to be broken at the top

Pink Pony Club has decks now — whole playlists off our own channel, as against the jukebox’s ten single tracks. Neuroqueer Is a Noun and a Verb and Queercore are both on them, and the second one took a detour worth writing down.
Queercore’s embed rendered YouTube’s “Video unavailable” plate instead of a player — a button somebody presses and presses, which is the one thing this street refuses outright. Diagnosed with a control rather than guessed. The plain embed failed twice; the same playlist started at its first visible video played; and the Neuroqueer playlist, framed identically, played. Its page said thirteen unavailable videos were hidden — the page hides them and the embed does not, and one was sitting at position 1. The first five visible videos all answered status OK and playableInEmbed true, so the order was the fault and not the videos.
It was not worked around, and that is why it got fixed. Storing a known-good starting id would have worked that afternoon, and it would have been an id that drifts plus a playlist still opening on a dead video for anybody reaching it on YouTube. It was held instead — nothing rendered — and reported with the diagnosis. Ryan removed the dead entry from the playlist the same day, and it was re-checked exactly the way it was diagnosed: header 83 → 82, hidden 13 → 12, plain embed plays, control still plays. Both decks are live.
The episode stays in the data file rather than being quietly dropped, because the lesson has no other home: a playlist can be perfectly healthy and still fail to embed because of what sits at the top of it, and nothing in this repo can see that. love-embed.js only asks whether a URL is on an allowed origin, and check-jukebox.py asks watch pages about single videos — it says in its own source that a playlist is not one video.
held survives as a state, and it earned its keep on its first day. It is the Jungle Room’s dark cam arriving on a dancefloor: the entry keeps its place in the data with the date and the diagnosis on it, and nothing renders, because the room does not carry a control that cannot work. make-jukebox.py refuses a hold with no reason written down — a hold nobody can explain is deleted by the next person to read the file — and refuses a tray with everything held, which would be a heading over an empty box.
That tool had no refusals at all before today. It now also refuses a runtime on a playlist — the pair of rules make-club.py and make-chappell.py already hold — a frame this site will not build, and a frame with no list= in it, which is not a playlist at all. The origins are read out of love-embed.js rather than restated.
And this room was carrying a sentence about the room next door that yesterday’s work made false. It said every button in there says how long the thing runs before you press it — true until The Chappell got a chancel, whose whole point is that it cannot say. Nothing caught it, because it is a claim about one room living in another room’s copy, and no generator owns that. Corrected here, and worth remembering: when a room’s promise changes, the rooms that describe it are not in its tool.
The decks are not a second jukebox. Same cream tray, same white card, same dark red rule, same small plum credit line — every colour already a pair check-contrast.py holds, so they introduced nothing to measure. What separates them is proportion: the jukebox packs narrow cards into columns and the decks never have more than one across, because a record you put on is not a thing you scan. If they ever grow a second column they have become the jukebox with longer titles in it.
No new origin and no CSP change, and no random start: these have an order we chose, where Club Chronic’s stage opens a five-hundred-track list somewhere random because nobody reaches the end of it. Verified as rendered: zero iframes on load, and one press produced one iframe at the right playlist at 516×288 with the other deck still a button and the ten jukebox buttons untouched.
Changed: data/jukebox.json, pink-pony-club.html, love.css §6, tools/make-jukebox.py.

2026-09-22 — The Chappell gets a chancel, and the one button in it that cannot say how long

The Chappell now plays its whole playlist — our own, from our own channel, the one the arcade was lifted from — at the east end of the nave, after the thirteen niches you visit one at a time. No random start, and that is a decision rather than an omission: Club Chronic opens a five-hundred-track list somewhere random because nobody is going to reach the end of it, and these thirteen were put in an order, so starting in the middle would be this site overruling the person who chose it.
It is a chancel and not a fourteenth niche. Same ground, same gold, same cream serif, same glass — every colour already a pair check-contrast.py holds — so the east end introduced nothing to measure. What makes it the chancel is size and solitude: a deeper arch and no siblings beside it. If it ever grows a colour of its own, this room has started having two of everything.
Adding it would have made two published sentences false, which is the whole reason this took more than an embed. The room’s consent banner said every button says how long the thing is before you press it, and a playlist cannot — a list we keep adding to has no length, and a number there is wrong the next time it changes and authoritative meanwhile. The banner now says every button that plays one thing says how long, and that the one playing the whole playlist says instead that it runs until you stop it.
And make-chappell.py holds both halves of that rule now, which is the pair of rules make-club.py already holds, arriving where a room’s whole organising promise is the half it has to break: it requires a runtime on every track and refuses one on the playlist. make-jungle.py refuses a runtime on a live camera and make-den.py requires one on a song; they are the same promise and must not be made to agree. It also reads the framed origins out of love-embed.js rather than keeping a copy, and refuses a frame with no list id — a “playlist” that is not one is a lie about what the button plays.
The share card told the same lie and was chased down twice. The card’s serif line and its alt text both claimed every label says how long. Updating the page’s description did nothing, because make-og.py builds the card from og:description — two meta tags one line apart, and the first edit landed on the wrong one and looked like it had worked. Both are corrected and the card and its alt are regenerated from the fixed one.
No new origin and no CSP change. youtube-nocookie has been on this street since it opened, so this one is genuinely just a frame.
Verified as rendered. Zero iframes on load; one press produced one iframe at exactly the playlist URL, unmodified, at 543×304, with the thirteen niche buttons untouched. club.js is not loaded on that page at all, so nothing can quietly move its starting point.
Changed: data/chappell.json, the-chappell.html, love.css §12, tools/make-chappell.py, and that room’s share card. foundry.html and one other card carry make-og.py’s own reordering and a re-encode, which is tool churn rather than a change.

2026-09-22 — Apple Music on the stage, and a service that states both permissions itself

The playlist is on Club Chronic’s stage a fourth time, on Apple Music, and this one is a real screen. Unlike Qobuz the day before, Apple publishes an embed, so it gets a facade like the other players rather than a door.
Apple says both halves of this street’s oldest rule out loud, on two hosts. music.apple.com — the address the playlist actually lives at, and the one Ryan sent — refuses every frame twice over, with X-Frame-Options: DENY and frame-ancestors 'none'; the console refuses it in as many words. embed.music.apple.com sends no X-Frame-Options and its policy has no frame-ancestors directive at all. Same company, two hosts, opposite permissions — playing is not the same permission as embedding, stated by the vendor rather than discovered by us. Both were framed side by side to see it.
Ninety-second previews, measured rather than assumed. Signed out, three different songs by three different artists each reported a 1:30 total, and real songs do not all happen to be exactly ninety seconds. The deck says so in its own copy, the way the Spotify deck says what signing in changes.
A fourth framed origin, which is one edit and one re-run. embed.music.apple.com went into love-embed.js’s ORIGINS and make-csp.py rebuilt frame-src from it. The header was not touched by hand, because that line is generated and a hand edit to it is put back silently on the next run — which is exactly how videopress once shipped working locally and refused live.
And make-club.py stopped keeping its own copy of that list. It held a two-item tuple with a comment saying three places were deliberate; it was a hand-kept copy of something with a single source of truth, and it would have refused a deck the browser was perfectly willing to frame. It reads love-embed.js now, which is what make-csp.py and make-sweetgrass.py already did. A copy was removed rather than added to.
The player is sized from the container, never from the button. Apple’s playlist embed is 450px and wants a 16:9 box even less than Spotify’s does — artwork, a transport and a scrolling track list stacked together, so 16:9 crops the list off the bottom. love-embed.js replaces a pressed facade with a bare <div class="facade"> and anything the button wore evaporates, which is how Swaying Sweetgrass once shipped its players at 0×0.
Verified as rendered. Zero iframes on load; one press produced one iframe at the embed host at 561×450, referrerpolicy intact, and the other thirty-eight facades untouched. Apple’s player shows a grey placeholder for about ten seconds before it initialises — that is its loading state and not a fault, which is worth knowing before somebody “fixes” it. A console error naming music.apple.com turned out to be left over from the probe page and was chased down rather than reported: a clean load of the room has no iframe on it at all.
Changed: love-embed.js, _headers (generated), data/club.json, club-chronic.html, love.css §20, tools/make-club.py.

2026-09-22 — A door on the stage, because Qobuz publishes no embed

The playlist is on Club Chronic’s stage a third time, on Qobuz — and it is a door rather than a screen. Ryan asked for an embed. Qobuz does not publish one, so what the stage carries is a way out, shaped like one and labelled as one.
It frames perfectly, and that is the trap. No X-Frame-Options, no frame-ancestors, nothing anywhere for a checker to catch — and what renders inside the frame is a catalogue teaser: the Qobuz logo, a TRY FOR FREE button, the cover mosaic, one Listen on Qobuz button, and a track list whose rows are plain text with no play control on any of them. Qobuz’s own share dialog offers a URL, copy, Facebook, Twitter and email, and no embed code, which is as close to an authoritative answer as that question has. A link dressed as a window promises the one action it cannot do — the rule The Jungle Room and Swaying Sweetgrass already hold, arriving where nothing in the machinery would have stopped it.
The door is deliberately not given the facade’s box. The Jungle Room’s link-outs take 16/9 because they stand in a grid of screens and have to line up with them. On a stage a 16:9 plate IS the shape of a player, so this one is not given an aspect ratio at all, and its border is dashed where every facade in that room is a solid bootblack plate inside a solid marker ring.
No new framed origin, and the Content-Security-Policy did not move. This street frames three services; a door is not one of them, so love-embed.js’s ORIGINS and frame-src are untouched. Nothing reaches Qobuz until somebody follows the link, which is a stronger promise than the facade makes, not a weaker one.
The page says 500 tracks and 25h 52m and neither is stored here. make-club.py refuses a runtime on a playlist, for the reason it has always refused one: a list somebody keeps adding to has no length, and today’s total is wrong next week and authoritative meanwhile.
Three new refusals, all of them shapes somebody halfway through a change would leave behind. A deck that is both a door and a screen; a door carrying start points nothing will ever read; and a deck with no note at all, which is a bare link with a heading over it.
The door introduces no colour the room had not already measured — --paste on --bootblack is a facade’s own label pair, and the sub-line is in that same ink on purpose rather than in a quieter grey nobody had checked. Anton shouts and Barlow does not, which is how this room makes that distinction anyway. Verified as rendered rather than as written: zero iframes on the page, a real focusable <a> at 567×88 with aspect-ratio: auto, and the sub-line measured standing on bootblack rather than assumed to inherit.
Changed: data/club.json, club-chronic.html, love.css §20, tools/make-club.py.

2026-09-22 — Club Chronic drops the needle, and the word it will not use

The stage’s YouTube deck now starts somewhere random in the playlist and plays on in order from there. Ryan asked whether the embed could be set to shuffle. It cannot, and the room says so in its own copy rather than borrowing the word: that is not shuffle: the player has no such button.
Three levers were measured before anything was built, because two of them look like they work. Framed from a served page so the referrer was real: shuffle=1 is inert; index= is inert on both the videoseries and the listType=playlist form; only /embed/<id>?list= moves the starting point. The first pass of that measurement read the posters and would have reported index= as working — the poster is the playlist’s first entry whatever the player then does, so all four were re-checked with muted autoplay. The Playhouse’s lesson in a different room: the DOM was right and the screen was wrong.
The only lever that exists takes an id, so the file holds ids rather than a count — and that cost was stated before it was paid. A random start therefore needs the playlist mirrored here, and the mirror drifts by design: a song added to the playlist cannot be picked until somebody pulls again, and a song removed becomes a start point the list no longer has. Neither is visible on the page. pull-club.py --check is the only thing that sees either.
The obvious continuation token is the wrong one, and taking it mirrors a hundred rows of nearly four hundred while reporting success. A playlist page carries two: the section list’s sits at the tidy continuationEndpoint.continuationCommand.token, and the video list’s — the only one that pages the songs — is buried inside a commandExecutorCommand. The tool now takes any token it finds anywhere inside the node. A short list is not an error anywhere, which is why it also refuses rather than carrying on when it cannot read the page at all.
The playlist’s own header claims a number YouTube will not serve — The Chappell’s discrepancy, met again and written down rather than rounded off. The hidden rows are not marked unplayable, they are simply absent, so the guard against private entries dropped none of them.
Nine songs are in that playlist more than once and each is one start point. Checked rather than assumed: every repeat has its own setVideoId, so the list genuinely holds those songs twice and one of them three times. A start point is a video rather than a position — /embed/<id>?list= opens at the first occurrence whichever one you meant — so a second copy cannot be reached and would only double that song’s odds. make-club.py refuses a repeat, and the refusal says which of those two things it means.
love-embed.js is still the only thing on this site that builds a frame. club.js builds nothing: it rewrites the button’s data-embed-src before the press reaches the document, and the shared builder then does exactly what it always did with exactly the attributes it always read. The ordering is the whole trick — this listener is on the button and that one is on the document, so this runs at the target and that runs on the way up. It fails back to the top of the list, never to nothing.
“Nothing plays until you press play” was re-verified rather than reasoned about. Zero requests to youtube on load, with a control to prove the recorder was awake; one press produced one iframe at /embed/<id>?list=, rendered 561×313 rather than 0×0, with its referrerpolicy intact; three presses gave three different tracks; and the Spotify deck was untouched, still a button, still carrying no start points it could not use.
New: club.js, tools/pull-club.py and its --check. Changed: data/club.json, club-chronic.html, tools/make-club.py and this README. Not changed: the Content-Security-Policy, which already covers a script of our own, and love-embed.js.

2026-09-22 — Danny the Street, and the credit that was only in a marquee

The street’s own name has a page: Danny the Street. Ryan’s brief — an about page for the character this site is built out of, its origin and its history in comics and on television, with our Danny taking they/them. Where the name came from, what Danny has been since, the television version, the pronoun question, and which parts of Danny are ours to take.
The credit already existed and only sighted readers could get it. The front page has said DANNY IS THE STREET since it opened, in a marquee that is aria-hidden because it scrolls and is decoration — so the one place the architecture is credited was unreachable by a screen reader, on a site whose two surviving careful habits are contrast and attribution. There is now a paragraph under the loudness dial, in text, above the shopfronts it explains, and it declares its own link colour: the street has no base link rule at all, which is the hole The Doomscroll and the Playhouse both fell down.
It is the road surface seen from directly above, under one sodium lamp, and the collapse to watch is the front page itself. A first: every earlier separation on this street was between two rooms, and this one is between a room and the page it hangs off. Both are a street at night. §5 is seen from the pavement, at eye level, looking into lit windows, with everything in it standing up and a typeface per shopfront. This is a plan — kerbs down both sides of the page, a broken centre line through the middle of it, nothing standing up anywhere, one typeface and one hue.
One hue, because a sodium lamp has one wavelength in it. Low-pressure sodium is effectively monochromatic, so under it nothing has a colour of its own — only a brightness. That is what keeps this off the warm rooms, and by now the warm family has arrived seven times: the Faery Yurt, The Latibulum, The Den, the Hermitage’s cave, The Mopery and Swaying Sweetgrass are all lit by a flame or by the sun, and in every one of them things keep their own colours. Sodium takes colour away, and there is nothing in here to sit on. If a second hue ever appears in §33 the lamp has been changed for a different kind of lamp.
The campgrounds is the other outdoor night, and the separation is the sky. The field is cold blue with the sky still on it. Under a lamp you cannot see up at all: the light is a lid and the dark past the kerb is absolute. The Rabbit Hole is the other hard grey and is cold, wet and vertical; this is warm, dry and flat.
One new face, and it is the road’s own. Overpass, by Delve Withrington, Dave Bailey and Thomas Jockin for Red Hat, is drawn from the lettering on American highway signs — the only family on this street whose whole reason for existing is being painted onto or bolted above a road, read at speed, from a long way off, by somebody who is doing something else at the time. It sets the nameplate, the road legends and the dates. The prose is the base’s Space Grotesk, which makes this the only room here with a display face and no text face of its own — the exact inverse of the Garden, which has two text faces and no display face, because a garden has labels and no signage. Under the SIL Open Font License.
Nothing on that page was written from memory, because half of what everybody remembers about Danny is somebody’s retelling. The debut issue and date, the creators, the pun on Danny La Rue, the Polari, the Men from N.O.W.H.E.R.E. and every later form were read rather than recalled; so were the air date, writer and director of “Danny Patrol”. The spelling of Dannyzens came off DC’s own page, because it varies everywhere else. And an unsourced origin story for the character that is still circulating was left off deliberately — the herbarium’s refusal to guess at a binomial, arriving in a fandom.
The one quotation was chased to the original and the chase is published. Morrison’s line about genderqueer and non-binary not existing as words in the late 1980s is quoted from the Uproxx interview it was given to — but uproxx.com renders its article text through JavaScript and hands a fetch nothing but navigation, so it was read against the Internet Archive’s capture of 23 July 2025 and the page says so. Swaying Sweetgrass’s rule: do not let an unchecked quotation sit among checked ones looking identical.
The pronouns are three different answers and the page keeps them apart. The comics write Danny as he, in 1990’s vocabulary; the television version is genderqueer and uses they/them; the Danny in our marquee uses they/them, which is a decision about this site rather than a correction of anybody’s canon. On a site run by and for neurodivergent and Disabled people, they is what we would default to for a person whose pronouns we had not been told.
Nothing of DC’s is reproduced and the page says so where somebody will read it. No panels, no artwork, no dialogue: every drawing on that page and on its share card is of a road, which is a thing nobody owns. What the page is, is a namesake credit — the habit the liner notes keep for every song, typeface and borrowed phrase, applied to the borrowed thing holding the whole building up.
No ambient layer at any setting, which is Club Chronic’s rule in the quietest room that has ever held it: the lamp is on at Gentle because it is the light in here rather than an effect, and nothing else moves, because nothing on a street at four in the morning does. There is no transform in §33 either — a painted road legend is stretched along the road, and a scale is exactly what check-gentle.py reads out of the computed matrix and cannot tell from a page tilting itself. The legends are letter-spaced and left alone, which is the call The Foundry made in the room where a slant is a control.
New: danny-the-street.html, §33 of love.css, Overpass self-hosted at two weights, a share card drawn as tarmac with a street nameplate bolted to it, and a drain in the gutter with a job in it. Changed: index.html, the liner notes, data/quests.json, data/foundry.json, fonts/_sources.json, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py and tools/check-classes.py’s own cross-reference. Small screens and Print renumbered to §34 and §35.

2026-09-22 — One Space Grotesk, and a bold the bench had been hiding

Space Grotesk was stored three times over, byte for byte. Same sha256, same 22320 bytes, and fonts/_sources.json recorded the same gstatic URL for all three, because the family ships as a variable font and Google serves one file for every weight. On the shared base that every page on the street loads, that cost about 45KB. It is one file now, declared three times against the weight axis, the way §1 already handles Cabin, Karla and the rest. The Feed was preloading the copy that got deleted, which would have 404’d on a published page; it preloads the one that survives.
And then the interesting half: identical bytes are not an absent bold. The obvious reading of three identical files is that a weight-700 declaration renders the same drawings as the 400 — and The Foundry had been built on exactly that reading since it opened, grouping each family’s variants by the sha of the file they point at and keeping one. It is the wrong question. A variable font carries a weight axis inside the file, and the browser instances it at every @font-face declaration: same bytes, genuinely different outlines. The rule was throwing away bolds that work.
Measured rather than argued about, because the premise sounded right. Rendered out of one file at 64px: Cinzel’s 700 lays down 68% more ink than its 400, Work Sans’ 600 45%, Space Grotesk’s 700 41%, Nunito’s 39%. Not one pair on the shelves came out the same. Twelve families had a weight the street holds and the bench was keeping in a drawer — Cabin, Cinzel, EB Garamond, Faustina, Jost, Karla, Mulish, Nunito, Quicksand, Rubik, Space Grotesk and Vollkorn — and every one of them is offered now.
tools/check-weights.py is the check the sha was standing in for. It renders the published picker — never the generator, which is check-quests.py’s rule — and refuses two offerings of one family that come out the same drawings, a weight love.css does not declare, and a declared weight the room does not offer. Advance width alone cannot decide it: Courier Prime and Space Mono are monospaced, so their 400 and 700 share an advance to the hundredth of a pixel while the bold lays down about 40% more ink. It measures ink and advance and calls two the same only when both match.
It found a bug in itself on the first run, which is why it was broken on purpose first. @font-face is lazy, so nothing is downloaded until a page sets it — and a canvas asked to draw a font it has not got silently draws the fallback instead. The first draft measured before loading anything, so every face on the street would have measured identically and been reported as the same drawings. It loads, waits, then measures, and still asks whether each face actually arrived. Fed a static face declared at two weights, it correctly calls the second one a control that does nothing; that is the protection the sha was giving, and it is still there.
Nunito’s bold was not in the record at all. love.css declares that one file at 400 and 700; fonts/_sources.json listed only the 400, and nothing compared the two. The new checker reads the stylesheet the browser actually obeys, so that class of drift now refuses rather than sitting there.
Two things found and deliberately not changed. Jost is still stored twice — jost-400.woff2 and jost-500.woff2 are byte-identical, the same duplication Space Grotesk had — and it is logged here rather than swept into a commit about something else. And the campground sets its emphasis in Alfa Slab One because Bitter’s bold “was byte-identical to its regular”: that reasoning is the one corrected above, so the decision rests on a premise that turns out to be false. It is a room’s own design decision and not a bug, so it stays until somebody who owns that room says otherwise.

2026-09-22 — The Foundry, and the first room whose content is the typefaces

A type foundry on the street: The Foundry. Ryan’s brief — a font play storefront, your own text or text out of The Playhouse, The Mopery and The Zibaldone, every setting the type has, and a way to print it. A grey iron workshop under a dirty roof with a bench in it. Every other room on this street uses a typeface; this is the one where they are the thing in the window.
It is the first mid-grey ground here, and that is the whole separation. Every other world on the street is either a night ground with light applied to it or a sheet of paper with the room cropped away. This is the middle — the colour of the metal — and the only pale object in it is one proof lying on a bench. The four paper rooms are the obvious collapse and each one is held off by something structural: The Mopery is a cold building you stand up in whose type is impressed into the page, the guild is manila lit like a photocopy from nowhere, The Doomscroll is one unbroken roll of warm foxed newsprint, and The Zibaldone is bound leaves with a gutter and a fold. There is no fold in here and nothing is bound.
It is the third daylit room, and north light is what a workshop was built for — the glazing faces away from the sun so the work has no glare on it, which means flat, cool, directionless daylight and no lit face on anything. The Hermitage has a low morning sun with long sideways shadows; the Garden’s light has come through leaves and tints every pale surface green. A furnace would have been the obvious build and would have made this the seventh warm room on a street that already has six. The only warm value in here is brass, and brass is a metal rather than a light.
Nothing about any typeface was typed. tools/pull-foundry.py reads every family’s own record out of github.com/google/fonts — family name, designer, licence, copyright, repository, classification — and cross-checks the licence against which directory of that repository the family lives in. It refuses a family it cannot resolve rather than publishing a face with nobody’s name under it. It is kept out of the pre-deploy sequence with check-jukebox.py because it needs the network, and make-foundry.py needs nothing but the file it writes. Do not merge them.
The first thing it found was that four of these families are not OFL, and three published pages said they were. Permanent Marker, Rock Salt, Special Elite and Ultra are under the Apache License 2.0. love.css’s §1 comment said “every family here is OFL-licensed”, the liner notes said “all are licensed under the SIL Open Font License” and again “the typefaces keep their own OFL licence”, and the Mopery’s generated credit line said it a fourth time. All four are corrected and every face now carries its own licence on the shelves. A licence nobody has checked since the file was added is a claim rather than a fact, which is the whole argument for a tool that goes and reads.
The Mopery’s picker had quietly lost eighteen families, and tools/check-faces.py is why it cannot again. That room says in its own copy that the picker holds every typeface on this street and llms.txt says the poem can be set in any face on it; both had been false for a long time, because adding a file to fonts/ and adding an <option> in a room two doors away are two edits in two places and only one of them is obviously required. The picker is generated now, from the same record The Foundry’s shelves are built from — when something has to agree in several places, make the others read it rather than write it out again, which is love-embed.js’s ORIGINS lesson. The new checker reads both rooms’ published markup and never the generators, in both directions, and it was broken on purpose before being believed.
An italic is not a slant, and the bench is built to show you rather than tell you. A real italic is a second alphabet, cut separately, with different letters in it. A machine slant is the upright pushed over by something that has no idea what it is looking at. Both are offered and both are labelled, and the italic is disabled where this site holds no italic file — because the browser answers a request for one it has not got by inventing it, nothing looks broken, and the room has told you a lie about somebody’s typeface. Measured rather than assumed: on Rye, a requested italic renders at the roman’s own advance widths; on Cardo, which has a real italic, oblique 12deg comes out at 399.65px against the italic’s 377.42px, so the slant really is the roman pushed over.
The slant is a font setting and never a transform, deliberately. check-gentle.py reads rotation and skew out of the computed matrix and cannot tell a leaning page from a leaning letter, so a skewX() here would be reported — correctly — as this room’s decoration outranking somebody’s Gentle setting. There is no transform anywhere in §32, which is the call arcade.js made with left/top and the Oracle Deck made with its lozenge.
A weight is offered only where the bytes differ. Seven of these families ship as variable fonts, so love.css declares one file against two or three weights — and a bold that renders the same drawings as the regular is a control that does nothing, which is make-chappell.py’s typo that never becomes a video arriving as a dropdown. The puller records a sha for every variant and the bench groups by it. Hashing the whole shelf also turned up Space Grotesk stored three times over, byte for byte, on the shared base that every page loads; that is logged separately rather than fixed in this commit.
Four ink and paper pairs, each printing its own measured ratio on its own control, and the tool refuses one under 4.5:1. This is the one room on the street where somebody other than us picks the colour of the text, which makes it either the place contrast quietly stops being ours to keep or the place it becomes a thing you can watch being kept. There is no colour picker and there is not going to be one.
The light moved rather than the palette. The north light was a fixed full-height wash to begin with, which composites the floor to #596267 — and against that the room’s link brass measures 3.14 and its fine print 3.34, both under the bar. Worse, fixed, that composite could arrive under any paragraph on the page depending on how far somebody had scrolled, which is the shape The Rabbit Hole’s scrolling ground already taught this stylesheet. It is 340px tall and absolute now: the light comes in at the top of the room and the page scrolls out from under it, which is also what happens in a building. A light that follows the viewport is not a light, it is a veil in front of the reader. The only words standing in it are the topline’s, and they are bone at 5.19 for that reason.
The proof prints and the room does not, and what prints carries a colophon naming the family, the person who drew it, the licence and every setting it was pulled at — because printing somebody’s typeface is exactly where the credit should travel with it. It comes out black on white whatever pair is on the screen: paper colour is a screen decision and a printer would spend your toner on it. Measured rather than asserted: the rendered PDF is one page with two fonts embedded in it, the proof’s face and the colophon’s, which is how you can tell the shelves did not print.
Nothing here describes a typeface, and that is a refusal rather than an omission. A line of appreciation beside every family on this street would mean inventing type history at scale in the format most likely to be believed — the herbarium’s refusal to name a pressed plant to species, arriving where there is one to write for every face. What the room says truthfully is who drew it, what licence it travels under and which room here sets it, and that last claim is checked against love.css: make-foundry.py refuses a line the stylesheet does not support. A derived version got it wrong on its first run, because the street letters each door in that room’s own face.
Nothing is counted. Not the faces, not the proofs pulled, not the sizes tried, and there is no favourite and no ranking of one designer’s work against another’s. This is the room most likely to want to boast about how much type it holds, and the generator refuses the sentence as well as the habit.
Two new faces. Stardos Stencil sets the nameplate and the headings and nothing else — a stencil letter is a hole rather than a mark, a shape cut out of metal so it can be used again, which is the idea of type arriving four centuries early and in the wrong material, and it is what gets painted on a workshop’s crates. Anton is the street’s other condensed display face and is Club Chronic’s: solid, on a black wall, under a marker. Work Sans is the prose and is a workhorse on purpose, because a room whose content is other people’s typefaces cannot have a voice that argues with the window. Both under the SIL Open Font License.
New: foundry.html, foundry.js, data/foundry.json, data/foundry-faces.json, tools/pull-foundry.py, tools/make-foundry.py, tools/check-faces.py, §32 of love.css, Stardos Stencil and Work Sans self-hosted, a share card drawn as a galley with its letters mirrored the way cast type is, and a single sort lying on the workshop floor with a job on it. Changed: index.html, the-mopery.html and tools/make-mopery.py so the nook’s picker is generated, the liner notes, data/quests.json, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py and tools/check-classes.py’s own cross-reference. Small screens and Print renumbered to §33 and §34.

2026-09-22 — The Healing Checkpoint, room 429, and the first room lit from the floor

The guild’s bed exists: The Healing Checkpoint, room 429. Ryan’s brief — a guest room for the Adventurer’s Guild, patterned after the Healing Checkpoint, leading with an appreciation of rest built out of our own Rest entry. A save room: an arched alcove with a spring in the floor, a bed in it, and nobody at the desk.
It is a shopfront on the street AND a back stair out of the guild, and the two doors are the argument. A room saying rest is owed rather than earned cannot be reachable only by walking through the place that hands out the work — that would make it structurally something you get to after the jobs. So the front door is on the street, where anybody arrives at it having done nothing, and the guild’s unattended counter is the back way up. It is the first room here with two entrances. No job sends you to it; the one job that lives in it is a question about a status code.
The light comes UP, and that one physical fact is the whole separation. Every other world on this street is lit from somewhere else and no two from the same place — the Jungle Room from above through leaves, the Zibaldone from one side at desk height, Swaying Sweetgrass from behind and a hundred feet off, The Feed through a mask in front of a lamp, The Garden from directly overhead, the guild from nowhere at all. Here it comes out of the floor: every top surface is dark, every underside carries a rim, the shadows run up the walls, and the room gets lighter towards your feet.
The warm enclosed family is the collapse to watch and by now it has arrived six times. The Faery Yurt, The Latibulum, The Den, the Hermitage’s cave and The Mopery are every one of them lit by a flame you could put your hand over. There is no flame in here; the light is under water and you could put your hand in it. All five are brown, amber or candle-gold, and there is no warm ground anywhere in room 429 at all — only one warm ink, which is what pale stone looks like with a cold light on it. The guild is its other door and its exact opposite: manila, square, ruled, hairlined, lit like a photocopy from nowhere. There is not a straight edge in the checkpoint anywhere. A board and an inn share a building and nothing else.
The generator refuses instrumental rest, which is a refusal nothing else here makes. tools/make-checkpoint.py sweeps its own data and the published page for the vocabulary of rent — earn, deserve, recharge, productive, bounce back, so you can — with a negation window so the room can still say out loud that it will not. Star Stuff’s zine No. 58 refuses rest so you can produce in as many words and otterly.js already holds that line for one cabinet; this is where the whole street says it. The friendly edit here arrives from somebody being kind, because every wellness page on the internet is written the other way round, and one encouraging sentence would turn rest from a thing owed into an investment.
Nothing in it is counted and nothing is stored. No total, no streak, no visits, no local storage, no server — the pebbling cabinet’s refusal of a tally arriving where a counter is the most obvious improvement anybody could propose, and one link above a job board that does keep a list in your own browser. A checkpoint that remembered you would be keeping a record of how often you needed one. The trope’s other two promises are refused in the room’s own copy: it restores nothing, because you are not a health bar, and there is no hard part waiting on the other side.
The tally check was copied wrong and its first run caught it. make-guild.py narrowed points years’ worth of care ago — “a book it points at” is the verb — and this file reproduced the flat version from the identical shortcut. What refused it was save point, which is what a healing checkpoint is. The narrowed pattern was taken over rather than the phrase excepted, which is check-counts.py’s first-run lesson arriving a fourth time. Every refusal was then broken on purpose before being believed — a long quotation, an off-site trail entry, an entity in a field, a missing checked date, and an instrumental sentence planted in the page itself.
Five Retry-After slips, and they send nothing anywhere. 429 Too Many Requests is Nottingham and Fielding’s, RFC 6585, April 2012, and it says the rate is wrong rather than that the sender is, which is a thing a great many Disabled people have spent a great deal of energy trying to explain to somebody holding a deadline. Each slip is a <details> that works with scripts off; checkpoint.js only adds a copy button, which ships hidden so a page without JavaScript shows no dead control. It is the spoon drawer’s shape — it hands out the sentences and not the thing itself — and the Zibaldone’s clipboard, for the Zibaldone’s reason. The answer lands on the slip you pressed, not at the top of the page, which is the Playhouse’s lesson, and it was measured rendered at 653×28 rather than asserted from the DOM.
Two new faces, and the crowding is written down rather than hoped about. Quicksand is display only — the third geometric sans here, kept apart from Jost and Josefin Sans by job and by its semicircular terminals, which is what lets it carry a room whose every corner is a long radius. Rubik is the text face, and The Latibulum is the collision: that room’s Nunito is a humanist rounded face paired with a slab, and this is a grotesque with eased corners and flat-cut terminals. Two warm-shaped text faces kept apart at the stroke, which is the only place they could be. Both under the SIL Open Font License.
Nothing flashes at any setting, which is Club Chronic’s rule holding in the room whose entire subject is not being jolted. The steam over the water drifts at MAX with a translate and a scale — rotation and skew are all check-gentle.py can read — and is gone at Gentle. The light in the floor is not the dial’s and is on at every setting: it is not an effect, it is where the light in the room comes from, and a Gentle that unlit the room rather than quieting it would be the lite-version mistake with a torch.
Two things on the Rest entry are named here and deliberately not copied onto this street: Kristina Daniele’s poem, and three illustrations of Disabled people resting by Jonathan Soren Davidson and Campbell Royales for Disabled And Here. A page built out of somebody else’s page should say what it did not take. The three lines it does quote are Fergus Murray’s and Tricia Hersey’s, each under the thirty-word limit the tool enforces and the room prints, each naming the page and the day it was read off the mirror. Tricia Hersey and The Nap Ministry are credited in the room’s own copy rather than in a footnote, which is what the guild promised when it said the bed was not built yet.
Added: healing-checkpoint.html, checkpoint.js, data/checkpoint.json, tools/make-checkpoint.py, §31 of love.css and a share card of its own. Changed: index.html, adventurers-guild.html, the liner notes, data/quests.json, tools/make-guild.py, tools/make-og.py, tools/make-sitemap.py, tools/check-contrast.py, and tools/check-classes.py’s own stale cross-reference. Small screens and Print renumbered to §32 and §33.

2026-09-22 — Ivy and stars instead of a fence, because Helen asked

The boundary in The Garden’s two plots was a woven fence this morning and is winding ivy with stars caught in it now. Helen Edgar’s call, on a drawing of her own gardens: my first thought is fenced in though. Her sites, her say — the same rule the Faery Yurt has kept since it was pitched.
She was right about more than the picture. A fence says KEPT OUT. Ivy says THIS IS AS FAR AS WE CAN SEE. That line was never marking the edge of where anybody may go; it marks the edge of what we know, which is why the drawing stops there in the first place — we do not get to draw the roots of somebody else’s garden. The second reading is the only correct one on a page about somebody else’s work, and the picture had been quietly making the first one.
The refusal underneath it is unchanged and still bites. below_the_fence() is below_the_ivy() and FENCE_Y is IVY_Y; the walker still refuses a coordinate past the line, re-broken on purpose with a frond pushed under it. The rename was scoped to the one section that owns those names — the fence in §20 of love.css belongs to another room and was left alone — which is the rule this repository has now written down three times and broken twice.
The stars are glimmers and not a sky. This room is midday and stays midday: nothing is lit by them, no ambient layer was added to the page, and the street’s one daylit garden is not quietly turned into a night one. They are limewash white carried by an outline, because white on that path measures 1.07 and what has to separate is the edge — the ghost pipe’s answer in Queering.Earth’s bed, arriving in a star. No new colour anywhere in it. Threads, glimmers, and soft, weird spaces is More Realms’ own line about itself, which is where the word comes from; they are not the meadow’s fireflies, which are many small lights carrying a dark field.
Every ivy leaf is turned by baked coordinates rather than by a transform, because check-gentle.py reads rotation out of a computed matrix and a room must not ask a checker to take its word for something — arcade.js’s call about its sprites and quest.js’s about its sparks, arriving in a leaf.
The correction is written down in five places — make-garden.py, data/garden.json, the room’s own copy, the liner notes and here — for the reason the one colour of hers this repository ever changed is written in four. Except that this one runs the other way, from a contributor to us, and a correction in that direction is worth recording at least as loudly as one we made to her work.

2026-09-22 — The garden next door, which is not a bed and could not be made one

Autistic Realms and More Realms are in The Garden, over the fence. Ryan’s call. They are Helen Edgar’s own sites — the grounded one and the wilder ground beyond it — and they are named, linked and credited to her on the face of the page rather than in a footnote.
A bed is a site WE publish, so neither of these could be one. The garden’s roster is data/arrivals.json, whose order is stimpunks.org’s own feeds page, and the only way to plant one of hers would have been to write it into that file — which would put it on The Feed as one of our wires and claim her work as ours in the one place this room may not invent anything. So the two refusals in make-garden.py now face each other: a bed that is not on the roster is refused, and a plot that is on it is refused, and no edit to the garden’s own data file can move a site across that fence.
You can see over the fence and not into the ground, and the drawings say so before the words do. Every bed shows its soil and most of them show what is under it. A plot shows a woven hurdle across the foot of the frame and nothing below it, because we do not get to draw the roots of somebody else’s garden — the tool walks every coordinate and refuses one that reaches under, which is the soil-line walker with the ink filter taken off. It was broken on purpose first, with a frond pushed under the rail, a circle whose edge dipped below and a relative path that walked down; it caught all three. And nothing over there casts a shadow, although everything in the beds does: the sun has not moved, the floor a shadow would land on is on the far side of the fence.
A plot must say what of it is already in this garden, and the tool refuses one that does not. Without that line the section is a list of a friend’s websites on a page about ours. With it, it is the other half of every with line in the beds above: those say who helped us, and this says whose garden that help walked out of. So the link rule widens by exactly our own roster — a plot may point at its own ground or at ours, and a third garden is still refused.
A plot’s name is not on a limewashed board, and that is the whole visual difference. Every bed’s label is a stake driven into our own ground, and nobody gets to go and put a label in somebody else’s garden, so the name over there is simply written down. The rule under a plot is double where a bed’s is solid — two rails repeating the hurdle, as a bed’s heavy plank repeats the plank along its soil — and the plots stand as narrow columns side by side, which is the fourth geometry this site has for a list of places. No new colour anywhere in it; the fence, the plants and every word are in the room’s own inks on the room’s own path.
One habit each, across the fence as well as along the path. Autistic Realms is a nurse tree, planted to take the weather off whatever is growing under it until that can stand in its own light — her argument rather than our metaphor, since her page puts feeling accepted and understood before the flourishing. More Realms is a crozier, a fern still coiled, the one thing in either garden that grows by unwinding rather than by reaching, after that site’s own phrase for how it moves. The drawing dedup now spans both sets, because two drawings alike is two drawings alike whichever side of the hurdle they stand on — which is also what keeps the crozier off the Monotropic Map’s tendril.
What each of them is was read off its own pages, in the Knowledge System mirror rather than from memory, and the phrases in quotation marks are theirs and are marked as theirs. Counts, ranking and dates are refused in a plot exactly as in a bed, and the ranking refusal matters more here: ranking a neighbour’s garden against ours would be worse than ranking our own beds. Changed: data/garden.json, tools/make-garden.py, the-garden.html, §28 and the small-screen block of love.css, and the liner notes.

2026-09-22 — The Rabbit Hole, and the first room that carries a song without its words

A new storefront, and it is not a room: The Rabbit Hole. Ryan’s brief. Every other door on this street opens onto somewhere you can stand; this one opens onto a shaft with no floor at the bottom of it. It leads with our own glossary entry, Rabbit Hole, and the argument is that one: for monotropic minds the rabbit hole is not a detour, it is the destination, and three hours you did not mean to spend is not a failure of discipline. It carries all seven of that page’s embedded videos, six wood engravings from 1865, a feed your head section, and a trail out.
The glossary entry prints the whole lyric and this room prints none of it, which is the one place a room here deliberately does less than the page it came from. Song lyric reproduction is a minefield in the United States in a way prose is not — music publishing enforces on quotation where prose publishing shrugs, the licensing is separate from the recording, and one line is a far larger fraction of a song than of a novel — which is the reasoning that already makes the Zibaldone refuse a song outright. The friendly edit here is real and it will arrive: a room whose spine is one song, whose source page has the words on it already, and whose section headings are phrases from it, reads thin without them, and whoever pastes them back will be right about the page and wrong about everything else. So tools/make-rabbit-hole.py refuses a lyric field and any value shaped like verse — several short hand-broken lines, which is what a lyric looks like in a JSON string and what a sentence never does. The recordings are offered instead, with Grace Slick’s own published account of writing it, and the two headings that are her phrases are credited to her where they stand.
The Latibulum is the hardest collapse this street has had, harder than any subroom, because these two rooms are literally both holes in the ground. Every earlier version of the temptation came with a structural excuse attached — it is only a subroom, an area should look like an area, they are both cosy — and this one needs no excuse at all: the floor plan is the same. What keeps them apart is that the burrow is somewhere you arrive and the hole is somewhere you keep going. The burrow has a floor, walls, furniture, a lamp at knee height and a shelf; it is horizontal, it is at rest, and almost every word in it sits dark on lit plaster. This has no floor, no walls to lean on and no furniture whatsoever; it is vertical, the light is above and behind you and there is less of it the further down you read, and every word is pale on the dark. The burrow is earth and is brown. There is no brown in this room at all — it is wet slate — and if these greys ever warm up, the two rooms have become one and it is this one that moves.
The ground darkens down the document, which is a shape of ground the contrast tools had not met. The Zibaldone’s rule is a flat background-color under the gradient, and its flat colour is the darker end; here it is the lightest end, because that room sets dark type on pale paper and this one sets pale type on a dark wall. In both cases the flat colour is the worse case for the type standing on it, which is the actual rule and is what makes the live checker’s answer the pessimistic one. And because the gradient runs the height of the document rather than of a sheet, the colour under a word depends on how far somebody has scrolled — so every block that carries text sits on a flat panel of its own and the wash carries nothing but the header’s lines.
Two grounds, two link decisions, made at the room. Brass measures 6.74 and up on all three dark grounds and 1.83 on the paper mats the engravings sit on, so a single room-level link colour would have shipped an illegible provenance line under every plate. That is the hole The Doomscroll left and the Playhouse had been carrying since it opened — a colour nobody decided leaves no pair for check-contrast.py to hold — caught this time before the room shipped rather than by somebody looking at the page.
Six engravings by John Tenniel, 1865, public domain, shown rather than linked because each scan says so. Tenniel was born in 1820 and died in 1914 and the book came out in 1865, so they are out of copyright everywhere, and every file used carries an explicit public domain statement on Wikimedia Commons — which is exactly what the Mopery’s Library of Congress facsimile did not have and the reason that one is still a door and not a window. The 1865 edition captioned none of its illustrations, so unlike that room’s Doré plates there is nothing printed to quote: every word beside an engraving here is ours, which engraving sits beside which paragraph is our reading and the room says so, and the generator refuses a plate with no sentence of ours, no rights page, or no file on disk. Nothing was cropped, tinted or filtered, and every file was re-encoded with no metadata carried over.
One performer is not named on their own upload and the room does not guess. The trailer edit describes itself as an edited remix of the Jefferson Airplane recording and credits no remixer in its title, its description or on its channel, so the plate says what the upload says and says the hand is unnamed there — which is the herbarium’s refusal to guess at a binomial, applied to a credit. And the running order is the glossary page’s own, which interleaves the videos with the quotations they sit under, so it is an argument somebody made rather than a playlist to re-sort — the rule the Jungle Room keeps about its cams. Three of the seven are published by a rights holder and four are re-uploads on individuals’ channels; each plate says which, because that changes how long a link lasts, and the generator refuses a track that does not say.
The room carries our own entry’s warning as well as its argument. Be wary of the holes you rabbit, and the reason: the appetite a recommendation engine farms is the same appetite, and what changes is who chose the next thing. So there is no autoplay in there, no next-up, and nothing that decides for you what comes after — seven things, all named, and nothing reaches YouTube until you press it.
Nothing in that room moves at any setting, and it has no transform in it anywhere. Not a tilt, not a rotation, no flicker and no strobe; at MAX GLITTER the wash of daylight from the mouth of the hole is a little stronger and that is the whole of it. A rotation is indistinguishable from a tilt to check-gentle.py, which can only read the computed matrix, so a room with no transform in it cannot get that argument wrong — the call arcade.js and The Oracle Deck both already made. The trail’s stepping indent is a padding for the same reason. New: data/rabbit-hole.json, tools/make-rabbit-hole.py, rabbit-hole.html, alice/ with six 1865 scans in it, §30 of love.css (Small screens and Print renumbered to §31 and §32), Playfair Display and Jost self-hosted, the room added to check-jukebox.py’s lists in the same commit that opened it, a share card drawn as a hole rather than as a place, and an engraver’s block on the shaft wall with a job on it.

2026-09-22 — The Zibaldone, and a quote bank that refuses to become a book

A new storefront, asked for by somebody in our community: The Zibaldone. The request was a quote bank — quotes for any state of mind and emotion, seeded by us and added to by anybody. It is built as a commonplace book, which our own glossary has had an entry for since 2022, and named for the Italian miscellany notebook: a zibaldone is a heap of things. Montaigne kept one and invented the essay out of it; the Meditations is one.
A quote bank is the most dangerous shape of page this site has built, and the danger has no moment anybody could catch. Nobody decides to republish a book. They add one good line, then another, each individually reasonable, and a year later the page is the work instead of pointing at it. So tools/make-zibaldone.py refuses a quotation over thirty words, the number lives in the tool, and the room prints it — because “we quote lightly” is not something a page can promise and not enforce. Where the line is not enough, the book is linked.
No song lyrics, refused structurally rather than by care. Ryan’s reply to the person who asked: song lyric reproduction is an intellectual property minefield in the US. Music publishing enforces on quotation where prose publishing shrugs, the licensing is separate from the recording, and one line is a far larger fraction of a song than of a novel. This street already says that nothing musical is hosted here, and a quote bank is exactly where that promise would have been broken in the way that looked most harmless. The first thing that check ever refused was a false positive — the word song matched Whitman’s Song of Myself — and the pattern was narrowed rather than the poem excepted, which is check-counts.py’s own first-run lesson happening for the third time.
Every line names its printing, not its title, and says how it was checked and when. A title is not a source: these texts differ between printings, and a quotation nobody can trace is the thing The Doomscroll dropped a poem over. The Emily Dickinson is the proof it matters — it is in the Second Series of 1891, edited by Mabel Loomis Todd and T. W. Higginson, not the first, and the only thing that found that out was reading the title page above the poem instead of remembering it. The Thoreau is the other proof: the version everybody quotes has somebody marching to a beat, and he wrote neither word. The public domain lines were grepped out of the transcriptions each card names; the contemporary ones were read off our own published pages.
A translated work has to clear the public domain twice — a trap this repository had not met before. make-doomscroll.py’s test is the author dead more than seventy years, everywhere rather than in one country; but a translation is a copyrightable work of its own, so a Roman emperor in a modern English is a modern book. The Meditations here is Meric Casaubon’s 1634, and he is credited on the card. Seneca is not in the room at all and the data file says why: our glossary quotes him on words becoming works, that wording is a modern translation the entry does not name, and the public domain one does not read that way. A gap somebody has already checked is worth more than a line nobody can place.
There are no faces in that room, and that is the whole answer to “any state of mind”. The obvious build is a grid of moods you pick from, and the obvious drawing for a mood is a face — which on a Disabled people’s site is the emotion flashcard autistic people spend their childhoods being drilled with. The Playhouse settled this for its sound board and the answer is the same here: each card says what it is for in a sentence about a situation, and the tool refuses an emoji in that field. Nothing is ranked, counted or voted on either, checked with make-guild.py’s negation window so the room can still say so out loud.
The quotations are set in type and only the margins are handwritten. The room varies the face per entry, which is what was asked for — EB Garamond for the oldest, Newsreader for the nineteenth century, Lora for the living — and Kalam is the hand and never carries a quotation, refused by the tool. A passage in a handwriting face is an access failure wearing atmosphere, which is the lesson The Doomscroll’s blackletter already carries one room over. The margin note on every card is ours, and the tool refuses a quotation mark in it, because margins that could hold quotations would quietly become a second uncited quote bank running down the side of the cited one.
The room it could collapse into is every other paper room on this street, and the separation is that all of those are PRINTED. The Mopery is a cold building you stand up in, with type punched into the page by a press. The Doomscroll is one unbroken machine-set roll of cold grey newsprint with nothing cut and nothing rotated. The zine table is a photocopy made in a hundred copies to give away. This is one object at arm’s length, seen from above, written into by hand, and bound — there is a fold down the left of every sheet, and the fold is what makes it a book rather than a page. And where the guild is lit like a photocopy and the garden’s light has come through leaves, this is the one room lit by something in the room with you: a lamp on the left, at desk height, which is why the paper has a tooth and the fold has a shadow in it.
The attribution slip is TASL plus the three fields a quotation also needs, and it sends nothing anywhere. Creative Commons’ Title, Author, Source, Licence is the right skeleton for a photograph, where the thing you point at is one file at one address; a quotation comes out of a work, in a printing, and the person copying it found it somewhere else again — and that last field is the one that catches a misquotation, because most of them are copied in good faith off something already wrong. There is no form action and no endpoint: the button writes a block of text to your clipboard and you send it however you already talk to us. Its fields are generated from the same list the cards are checked against, so the day somebody adds a field to an entry cannot be the day the form stops asking for it.
A colour under the bar, and a tilt with no reset, both caught before it shipped. The pencil grey carried every citation, margin note and provenance line and measured 4.43 on a pasted leaf; check-contrast.py refuses a colour it has never seen, which is how it surfaced, and it was darkened. check-gentle.py then found all seven leaves still lying at their pasted angles at Gentle: :where() guarantees a tilt cannot be out-ranked but does not conjure a rule to outrank it, and §3’s reset names the shared tilt classes and nothing else. The room resets its own now, which is the fault that shipped on the Faery Yurt’s windowsill. New: data/zibaldone.json, tools/make-zibaldone.py, zibaldone.html, zibaldone.js, §29 of love.css (Small screens and Print renumbered to §30 and §31), EB Garamond, Newsreader, Lora and Kalam self-hosted, the only pale shopfront in the row, a share card that is a page lying on a desk, and a steel nib laid down beside the book with a job on it.

2026-09-22 — The Garden, and a palette that splits at the soil line

A gate in the wall, and a garden behind it: The Garden. Ryan’s brief. Our knowledge garden as a place you can walk: an intro to what knowledge gardening is and how this one is tended, one bed for every site we publish, the Garden Spider, and everything needed to start a garden of your own. Every bed links straight out, because each of those sites is already its own room — so it is not a door in the grid but an opening, and it is the one place on a night street where the sun is up.
The roster is not in the garden’s own data file. Which sites exist, in what order, with what names and addresses, is read out of data/arrivals.json — the same list The Feed runs on, whose order is stimpunks.org’s own feeds page. So a bed cannot be invented, a site cannot be quietly left out, and re-sorting the garden would mean overruling a decision made somewhere else, which is the rule the Jungle Room keeps about its cams. data/garden.json holds nothing but our own writing about each site.
The Feed is the room this one could collapse into, and both rooms list every site we run. So the division is structural rather than tonal: a board is a timetable — a title, a date, a destination and the minute it was set — and this is a planting plan: what a site is for, whose hands are in it, and nothing that changes when somebody publishes. Hence no network in tools/make-garden.py, no pull step beside it, and a refusal of dates in a bed, because that is the edit that would turn one room into the other.
The drawings are told apart by FORM, which is the campground’s grammar inverted on purpose. Out in the field every pitch gets one lit colour of its own — the yurt emits, the hermitage catches, the meadow carries — and that runs out at about the fourth pitch, because there are not many kinds of light. There are as many kinds of growth as you like: a rhizome, an umbel in flower, a plant with no chlorophyll in it, a frame with seedlings under glass, a runner rooting a new plant beside itself, a dry seed head, a scramble over the path, a tendril. Each one says something true about its site, and every habit is also written out in a sentence beside its bed, because the drawings are decoration a screen reader never reaches and the habit is the argument.
No bed says how much a site holds, and nothing is ranked. No glossary-term count, no sheet count, no biggest or busiest. A number like that is wrong within the week and authoritative-looking meanwhile — the fault The Feed spends a paragraph avoiding — and a garden measured by volume is an inventory. Both are refused in the generator, the ranking one with make-guild.py’s negation window so the room can still say that it does not rank anything.
Green on that earth measures 1.38, and no brown can fix it. check-contrast.py put the two greens at 1.38 and 2.14 against the soil, and because they are only 1.55 apart from each other no soil colour clears 3:1 against both at once — so there was no palette fix available and the drawings changed instead. The palette splits at the soil line the way a plant does: green above it, pale below it, so every root, rhizome, mycelial thread, spilled seed and blanched shoot is drawn in the path’s own colour, which is also what a shoot looks like before it reaches the light. make-garden.py walks every coordinate of every green element and refuses one that crosses the line — broken on purpose first, with a stem pushed two pixels under and a leaf circle whose edge dipped below, and it caught both.
The two rooms it could collapse into are the two other daylit ones, and the separation is physics. The Solarpunk Hermitage’s light lands on a warm plaster wall, with everything standing in front of it and the shadows falling sideways off a low sun. The Adventurer’s Guild has no light source at all, lit like a photocopy, with nothing casting anything. Here the sun is overhead and has come down through leaves: every pale surface is tinted green, and every shadow is small, hard and directly underneath the thing that made it. And the palest thing in the room is not the ground — a limewashed board is brighter than the path it lies on, where both neighbours put their panels darker than their paper.
It sets no display face at all, which is the room’s one claim about type. Every other world here has something that shouts — a woodtype, a condensed grotesque, a fat slab, a blackletter, a pixel face — and a garden has no signage in it, only labels. So Faustina sets the garden’s own name and the label on every bed in the same breath, Mulish carries the notes, and the loud things in the room are the plants. Both are under the SIL Open Font License.
The Garden Spider is an orb weaver and not a mascot, and its panel is careful in our own words rather than softer ones: a spider is a guide to the garden and never a replacement for it, its best answer is an entrance, it can be wrong, and every trail it puts you on ends at a page a person wrote. Those lines are from our Ask page, quoted from ourselves, with the ethics pages linked beside them and a way to reach a human instead.
Every bed says whose hands are in it, on the face of the bed. Half of these sites were made with Helen Edgar of Autistic Realms; Star Stuff is a collaboration with More Realms; the Cavendish model is David Thornburg’s by way of Steve Silberman’s NeuroTribes; monotropism is Dinah Murray, Wenn Lawson and Mike Lesser’s; the pebbling locution is Amythest Schaber’s. The generator refuses a bed with nobody on it, and refuses a link inside a note that points somewhere that is neither ours nor that bed’s own site — make-hermitage.py’s rule about the Star Stuff table. The with line is the exemption, and that is the whole reason it exists.
The leaf shadow is still at Gentle, drifts at Regular and drifts further at MAX. The light is never taken away, because the light is not the wobble — the campground’s own call about its grass. Both are keyframes, so §3 kills them at Gentle with !important; nothing flashes, pulses or strobes at any setting, which is Club Chronic’s rule holding in the brightest room on the street. New: data/garden.json, tools/make-garden.py, the-garden.html, §28 of love.css (Small screens and Print renumbered to §29 and §30), a gate on the street, Faustina and Mulish self-hosted, a share card whose row of labels is read off the beds, and a plant label lying on the path with a job on it.

2026-09-21 — The Feed, and a board that says when it was set

A new storefront: The Feed. A dark station concourse with a freestanding split-flap indicator board standing in it for every site we run, read off their own RSS feeds. Ryan’s brief. The object is a Solari di Udine machine and the one in there is drawn from nothing in CSS; it makes no sound.
It cannot be live, so it says the minute it was set. None of those hosts sends a browser the header that would let our page read its feed, and the ways round that are a proxy we do not run and a third-party reader we would be handing visitors to without asking. So tools/pull-arrivals.py reads the feeds, tools/make-arrivals.py draws the board, every plate carries the minute its own wire was read, and the hall carries the minute the board was set — both generated from the same file the rows come out of. This is make-jungle.py’s refused runtime upside down: a live camera has no length to give and publishing one would be a number that goes quietly wrong, and a board has a time it was set, so leaving that off would be the identical fault the other way up.
A row is a title, a date and a destination, and the tool refuses one carrying a summary. A departures board does not read you the contents of the train — which is the metaphor and also what keeps that page from republishing everybody else’s writing onto one surface it does not own. That edit is a friendly one and it will arrive: the rows look bare, somebody helpfully pastes the opening lines back in, and the board has become a reader. Refused rather than merely not done, the way make-sweetgrass.py refuses a reading marked as a screen.
Nothing is ranked and no site’s activity is added up. No busiest, no quietest, no rows-per-week, nothing saying which of our sites has been getting on with it. A board that showed that would turn publishing into a race between our own people, most of whom are Disabled and several of whom are one person — the pebbling cabinet’s refusal of a tally, arriving between sites rather than inside a game. The vocabulary is refused in the room’s own copy, with the negation window make-guild.py uses so the room can still say that it does not rank anything.
Each wire names which feed it carries, because two of those sites publish more than one. “The latest from Star Stuff” is an ambiguous sentence when Star Stuff keeps a feed of the pieces and a feed of the reasoning, and a board that picked quietly between them would be answering a question nobody knew it had been asked. The running order is not ours either: it is the order those sites appear in on stimpunks.org’s own feeds page, which is the Jungle Room’s rule about its cams. And this street is on its own board, fetched over the network like every other wire, so the board can be out of date about this site too.
The seam through the middle of the letters had to go, twice. A real flap splits straight through the glyphs, so that is what it was: one near-black hairline at 50%. On the share card the row lettered NEVER read as a word struck through. Two solid faces with a lit fold between them fixed the card and then failed worse on a phone, where a destination wraps to three lines and 50% of a tall row lands inside somebody’s second line. The reason is structural and is not going away: a real board’s rows are one line of fixed-width characters and cannot wrap, and ours carry the titles people actually gave their pages. There is no proportion of a row that is not inside a sentence, so the lower leaf sits at the foot of the flap, where no width can push it into a word.
The dial governs the clatter and never the arrivals. Still at Gentle, one downward settle per row at Regular, a riffle before settling at MAX. Both are keyframes rather than static transforms, deliberately — §3 kills animation at Gentle with !important and nothing out-specifies that by accident, so the fault check-gentle.py exists to catch has nowhere to live here. Neither animation touches opacity, because three fast opacity steps in a row is a flicker whatever it is called, and Club Chronic’s rule holds on the whole street.
The room it could collapse into is the Adventurer’s Guild, and this is the hardest case since The Den. Both rooms are made of ruled rows, both are square, and in both of them nothing is rotated and nothing overlaps — and that room’s own section says its tidiness cannot spread. What holds them apart is not the layout, because the layout really is the same: the guild has no light source and no depth, lit like a photocopy of a document, with nothing casting anything, and this is nothing but light and depth. A clerk filed that; an engineer bolted this together and switched it on.
And the light is a third kind of transmitted light, because a neighbour already owns the idea. Swaying Sweetgrass is lit through a translucent body — diffuse, no edges, nothing with a lit face. This is lit through an aperture: a hard light behind a mask, so every letter has a crisp edge and every flap throws a hairline shadow. New: data/arrivals.json, tools/pull-arrivals.py, tools/make-arrivals.py, the-feed.html, §27 of love.css (Small screens and Print renumbered to §28 and §29), Michroma and Space Mono self-hosted, a share card, and a job marker on the concourse floor.

2026-09-21 — a contrast checker that reads the page instead of the intention

check-contrast.py is a list of pairs somebody wrote down. tools/check-contrast-live.py is the page. It renders all 29 and walks every piece of text against the ground it actually sits on — what check-gentle.py already does for motion, and what nothing did for colour. It exists because the pair list was blind three times, each found by a person looking: a link colour nobody ever decided, a decided colour that lost the cascade, and three hexes that had never rendered at all. Same shape every time — the colour that renders is not the colour that was written down.
It found the skip link unreadable in twenty-one rooms. .skip carries its own yellow ground and near-black ink at (0,1,0); every room sets .room-x a at (0,2,0). So the first control a keyboard user meets took each room’s link colour on a yellow box: 1.26 in the chapel, 1.10 in the arcade, 1.00 — yellow on yellow — on every plain room. Nobody had seen it because it sits off-screen until focus and nobody screenshots a focused skip link. It carries !important now, for the reason §2’s [hidden] guard does.
And it found two of the Hermitage’s bean bags under the bar. The chairs take their colour inline out of data/hermitage.json; the checker had three lighter hexes in it that the page has never used, so every run passed while the magenta sat at 2.79 and the teal at 3.38 against the 4.5 their copy needs. The constants are read from the page’s own values now and the failure is written into the checker’s notes beside the Pink Pony Club’s, because which colours those chairs are is a choice about the room rather than a checker’s to make.
Three dead custom properties came out of :root with it. --bag-1/2/3 were referenced by nothing — .bag reads var(--bag), singular, which only ever exists on the element. A dead declaration is not harmless when something else is checking against it, and the old checker’s own guard caught them the moment the constants were corrected.
Its first run reported 314 failures and most of them were the tool’s fault, which is the point of breaking a checker before believing it. About a sixth of this site’s text stands on a linear-gradient with no background-colour under it — the Doomscroll’s newsprint, The Den’s shag — and walking up to the body reported 222 pieces of pale text as near-black on near-black. It declines rather than guesses now: a gradient in the chain makes a piece of text unmeasurable, counted and reported as such, and left to the hand-written list where those grounds are recorded with their measurements. It also unhides every [hidden] element and opens every <details> before measuring, because the bug it was written for was in a control that ships hidden.
Both findings are fixed and the sweep is clean: 0 under the bar on 29 pages. The Hermitage’s magenta and teal chairs were lightened rather than re-coloured — hue and saturation untouched, all three now sitting together at 4.80 to 4.82. Taking the lighter palette the checker had been assuming would have put the teal at 7.34 and made one chair a different weight from its neighbours, in a room whose own comment says no two of them are the same colour because nobody furnishes a room like this by agreeing. The Pebble Board’s slug ink was darkened by four thousandths of lightness to clear 4.41. New: tools/check-contrast-live.py.

2026-09-21 — six more toys, and three links in that room that measured 1.31

The blank column in the Playhouse is full. Ryan looked at the page and asked for more buttons. The toys grid was 353px of tiles beside 1293px of prose and dial, so six more close it: THE ECHO, THE DOUBLE EMPATHY TELEPHONE, THE SAFE FOOD TIN, THE SPOON DRAWER, THE OFF SWITCH and THE INFODUMP. Ten tiles, ten fills, none repeated.
Every toy is an idea out of our own glossary wearing a costume, and a line under the tile says which idea. Echolalia, the double empathy problem, safe food, spoon theory, infodumping. The slugs were checked against the Knowledge System mirror rather than fetched, because on stimpunks.org a 301 is a failure rather than a pass and a live fetch will cheerfully confirm a page that does not exist — curb cut effect was dropped for being in our posts and not in the glossary. A toy is not an explainer: the tile does the thing, the line says where the thing came from, and nothing teaches, quizzes or asks anybody to show they have understood.
The credit is on the face of the tile and make-toys.py refuses one that is not. Damian Milton on the telephone, Christine Miserandino on the spoon drawer. A credit recorded in a data file and not in the copy is a credit nobody reads, which on this site is the one habit kept when the other three were dropped.
The spoon drawer hands out the sentences and not the spoons. The obvious build gives you a spoon every time and never runs out, which is generous and quietly deletes the limit Miserandino wrote the essay to describe. It holds the things you can say to somebody across a table instead, which is what she invented spoons for. Nothing is counted and nothing is deducted — the tool refuses the scoring vocabulary on every tile, because the stim box already says “nobody is counting” as a joke about counting and the joke does not survive a second toy repeating it straight.
The double empathy telephone never says which account was right, because the idea it is wearing is that neither was wrong. Two handsets, one encounter, two honest reports of it; pick up both ends and the next press is a new call. Its tile is a <div> and the handsets are the buttons, since a button cannot be nested in a button and the alternative was one control pretending to be two.
The off switch has no are-you-sure. It stops every sound on the page at once, closes the audio context so nothing the sound board has scheduled survives, and says so. A stop button that asks whether you meant it is not a stop button, and that room can now stack nine sound-board keys and two recorded yells with no single way out.
An aria-live region does not announce text it already holds, and two of these toys exist to repeat themselves — the echo says the last thing again, the tin says the same sentence forever. Written the obvious way both are silent to the one reader who most needs them while looking perfectly correct on screen, which is a failure with no symptom for anybody watching. The region is cleared and set back on the next tick, which is what makes a repeat a change.
An HTML entity is right in a blurb and wrong in a payload, and nothing in a data file shows which is which. The blurb is written into the markup as HTML; anything that becomes a data- attribute is written by the script with textContent, so “ there arrives on the page as five literal characters. The spoon drawer shipped its first draft that way. The tool refuses an entity in a payload field now.
The generator caught a fill collision on its first run. The newcomer had taken .toy--violet, which the word clock has owned since the room opened, and two rules in one section would have settled it by source order in silence. That is check-classes.py’s collision arriving inside a section, where that tool deliberately does not look. The newcomer was renamed rather than out-specified.
And that room had three live contrast failures nothing could see. .room-play a was yellow, which is right on the near-black boxes — and every link on the page sits either on the blue ground or inside a white card. The house-rules links measured 1.31, the quest marker’s hand-in link 3.88, on a page published since the street opened. check-contrast.py holds a pair for every colour somebody decided on, and an inherited colour was never decided, so there was nothing to hold a pair for — the exact hole the Doomscroll left, found again in an older room. The room decides at each ground it actually has now: white on the blue at 5.08, the room’s own blue on the white cards at 5.08. Every link in there was re-measured afterwards.
Every toy makes a noise now, because six of them making none read as breakage. In a room where nine other things answer out loud, the quiet ones feel faulty rather than quiet — Ryan's report. Each one is its own short synthesised sound, no two alike and none alike to the sound board's keys: an echo of a blip, a line opening, one unchanging note for the safe food tin, a teaspoon against a mug, two notes down for the off switch, and a fast run for the infodump. make-toys.py refuses a toy without one. The off switch's noise comes after the silence, which is the only order that makes sense for that button, and its copy says so.
And the echo plays the last sound back as well as the last words, which is Ryan's idea and makes the toy the thing its name says it is — including sounds made by the board next to it. The mechanism is that a toy's noise is a factory: called once to choose, handing back a function that plays that choice. The obvious version, calling the toy's noise again, silently advances anything that varies, so the echo of the stim box would be the next note up the scale and nothing would look wrong. Measured: two stim presses give 659 then 784, two echoes give 784 twice, and the next press resumes at 880; a recorded yell echoes as that person's yell rather than a fresh draw.
Four of the new answer boxes were rendering near-black on near-black at 1.00:1, and three more between 1.28 and 1.48. .toy--orange span was written when a tile held one span; the readouts arrived later, also spans, and that rule is (0,2,0) against .toy__said at (0,1,0). Styling by element is a rule that cannot see what it will hit. The blurb has a name now and every fill rule is scoped to it. check-contrast.py passed the whole time, because it holds pairs somebody wrote down and not pairs that render — the pair was declared correctly and lost the cascade. That is the second time in a day the pair list was blind, after the inherited link colour, and both were found by a person looking at the page.
The first attempt at that fix missed a tile, and so did the check on it. The rescope was a regex expecting one space before span; .toy--green span had two. The grep that verified the work carried the same assumption and reported clean. Break the check differently from the fix.
And then the buttons looked broken, because the room answered somewhere nobody could see. Every press wrote into the one live region at the top of the page, which is off the screen by the time anybody has scrolled to the toys — let alone to the sound board underneath them. Ryan pressed the toys he had asked for an hour earlier and thought they were faulty. Nothing caught it because every check, ours included, was reading the box: the handler fired, the text was right, the live region updated, and the person pressing saw nothing. That is the 0×0 iframe again in a different shape — the DOM correct and the screen wrong. Every toy answers on the tile you pressed now, and the sound board in one strip under its keys, since a key is a hundred pixels wide and a sentence does not fit on one. One readout at a time, all of them aria-hidden with #playhouse-says still the only live region, and all of them shipping hidden so a page without scripts shows no empty boxes.
Chairy’s blurb stopped being a hand-typed number. It said “one of twenty-eight things”, which had been right by luck since the day the sayings stopped being five; it is generated from data/chairy.json now. New: data/toys.json, tools/make-toys.py. The tool carries Chairy’s sayings and the yell button’s recordings across untouched, because a generator that silently empties another generator’s output is the _headers trap with two tools in it instead of one.

2026-09-21 — a sound board in the Playhouse, and a row of moods with no faces on it

The Playhouse has a sound board on the wall. Ryan’s brief: everything in that room is a button, so a three-by-three board of stimmy noise keys, with the bottom row holding mood keys that toggle between happy, sad and angry noises, and a different visual fanfare for each key at MAX GLITTER. A click, a pop, a rainstick, a chime, a purr and a squeak; then a hum, a spring and a drum with three moods each.
The bottom row is not a feelings chart, and that is why there are no faces on it. A face is the first thing anybody sketches for a mood key, and a row of happy/sad/angry faces on a Disabled people’s site is the emotion flashcard — the thing autistic self-advocates spend their lives being drilled with. What a mood is here is the shape of a noise: a hum that lifts a third and stays up, the same hum sagging a tone and a half, two drones fourteen cents apart buzzing against each other. Each one is a word, a drawn waveform and a sound, and the room says so in its own copy rather than leaving the absence for somebody to helpfully fill in. It also says that a sad noise is a perfectly good thing to want, and that you can leave a key on angry and go and do something else.
A mood key shows the mood it is about to play. Press it and you get that noise; the key then offers the next one. The face of a button should describe what pressing it does, which the alternative — naming what you just heard — does not. The flourish keeps the colour of the noise that just happened while the label has already moved on, which is why that button carries two attributes and not one.
Every noise is synthesised in the browser and nothing is fetched, so the room’s own house rule stays true: it is silent when you walk in and silent if you never touch anything. Oscillators, filters and a buffer of white noise, built inside the click handler — the AudioContext cannot start without a gesture, which is the platform enforcing the promise rather than us making it. A bell is 880 and 2.76 times 880, which is the whole difference between a bell and a sine; a purr is a trill at twenty-two on the gain rather than on the pitch; a bubble goes up, which every first draft of that sound gets backwards.
Every key says what it sounds like, in words, on the press. A board made of sounds is the one thing on this street that can lock somebody out completely, so the room’s live region gets the noise described rather than just its name — the Jungle Room’s rule that colour is never the only channel, in a room where the channel is audio. make-soundboard.py refuses a key without that line, and refuses two keys that claim to sound the same.
Three files have to agree about every key and none of them is near the others, so the tool reads all three: the markup is in the page, the noise is a registered voice() in love.js, the colour and the flourish are rules in love.css. A key whose voice is missing is not an error anywhere — it is make-chappell.py’s typo that never becomes a video, arriving in a room where the press is the content. A key whose flourish is missing is quietly ordinary at MAX, which nobody would notice because nobody screenshots MAX. Both refuse now, along with two keys sharing a flourish, a mood key anywhere but the last row, and a mood set that is not the same three in the same order.
Nothing on it is counted. No total, no streak, nothing kept between visits. A board of nine keys is exactly the shape of thing that grows a press counter, and the stim box one object over already counts its own presses as a joke about counting — a joke that does not survive being repeated by a second object with a straight face. The pebbling cabinet’s refusal of a tally, arriving a third time.
Nine flourishes and no two alike, at MAX GLITTER only. Rings, bubbles, falling hairlines, a burst thrown eight ways, widening bars, darts, flat arcs off the bottom edge, a stretching coil, confetti — each clipped to its own key, so the flourish belongs to the button that made the noise. Everything moves with a translate or a scale and nothing rotates, which is arcade.js’s call and quest.js’s: rotation and skew are all check-gentle.py can read, and a checker must not be asked to take a room’s word for something. Nothing flashes and nothing strobes — Club Chronic’s rule, in the loudest room on the street. At Gentle nothing is built at all and the words are identical; measured at all three settings, along with the rendered boxes of the pieces themselves, because “the elements exist” is a question about the DOM and this was a question about paint.
Red was the obvious colour for angry and it measures 3.06 on the mood keys’ near-black. Angry is orange at 8.03, sad is cyan at 10.7 and happy is yellow at 14.5. The mood ink is on the word as well as on the line, so these are body-text pairs rather than graphics ones. Seven new pairs.
A media block written above the rules it overrides loses exactly the declarations the base rule also sets, and keeps the rest. A new failure shape here, and it renders as a layout nobody wrote: the phone block sat before .stimpad, so flex-flow and a font size lost to the base rule while a flex basis the base rule does not set went straight through. Half a breakpoint. It looked like a stale stylesheet and it was source order.
And it is three across where there is room and one column on a phone. Held at three columns at 375px, a key gets about seventy pixels of text column and every blurb sets one word to a line. Hiding the blurbs to keep the grid would have been the lite-version mistake arriving through a breakpoint, so the grid gave way; the sentence describing the board’s shape is generated and carries its own caveat. New: data/soundboard.json, tools/make-soundboard.py.

2026-09-21 — The Adventurer’s Guild, and the one tidy room

The Adventurer’s Guild has opened a shopfront on the street. Ryan’s brief: the trope with the inn and the job board, jobs ranked by difficulty class, sending people on quests across the rooms; a discreet clickable drawing in each room as the quest target; a code revealed at the target and redeemed at the board; hints; and fanfare that follows the HOW LOUD DO YOU WANT IT? dial.
The room is tidy, and that is its entire costume. On a street whose architecture is that nothing matches, somebody has come in and filed everything: manila, printer’s ink, hairline rules, ruled rows, a class in the margin, a stamp. Nothing in §26 has a gradient, a shadow, a rounded corner or a rotation in it. It is the second room you can read by daylight and it has no light source in it at all — the Hermitage has a sun in it, with a direction and shadows falling away from it; this is lit the way a photocopy of a document is lit, evenly, from nowhere. And it is the second pale ground on a dark street: the Doomscroll is one unbroken roll of foxed newsprint with nothing ruled on it, and this is made of rules.
It states its own link colour, at the room, which is the hole the Doomscroll left the day before: that page declared a colour for one line and every other link fell through to the base stylesheet’s pink, at about 2.4 on paper, and the contrast checker had nothing to hold a pair for because nobody had decided anything.
Every room on the street carries a marker, and no two markers are alike. A staple on the zine table, a token on the arcade carpet, a spindle adapter on the den floor, a tent peg in the field. make-guild.py holds one drawing per room and refuses a room it has no drawing for — make-og.py’s refusal, for make-og.py’s reason, because the failure mode of guessing is one shared glyph quietly appearing in every room on a street whose whole point is that the rooms share nothing. Each marker is drawn in its room’s own declared colours and every one is held against the floor it lies on at the body-text threshold, the Jungle Room’s quills rule: a marker you cannot pick out of the floor is a control you cannot use. The Playhouse lost that argument to its own floor — its yellow measures 3.88 on that blue, so the block is white at 5.08.
The marker is a native <details>, and the way out of a question is another one. So the code, the hints and the “give me the answer” escape all work with JavaScript off; the scripted part is only the answer box, which ships hidden and is revealed by quest.js, so a page without scripts shows no dead control. Discreet means visually quiet and nothing else: every marker is a full-size target in the tab order with a real name on it, which is The Den’s door rule. And every marker is on the floor of its room, said out loud on the board, because scattering them at a different depth in each room would have made finding one a test of eyesight and of a mouse rather than a walk between rooms.
The marker is never the play button, although the example in the brief starts from one. A facade is two elements and love-embed.js replaces the pressed <button> with a bare <div class="facade">, so anything it was wearing evaporates — the fault that shipped Swaying Sweetgrass’s players at 0×0 the day before. A play button that also does a second thing hands a popup to somebody who only wanted the song, and gating a quest behind a press would put it behind consenting to a third-party frame. So the George Jones job is a spindle adapter on the den floor and its question is what makes you read the tile: who wrote She Thinks I Still Care, which the room credits to Dickey Lee and Steve Duffy on the cut itself.
Nothing is scored, and the tool refuses the vocabulary. No total, no percentage, no streak, no rank you climb, nothing that expires. A job board is exactly the shape of thing that grows a score, and a score beside a walking tour of a Disabled people’s site turns a wander into a workload — the pebbling cabinet’s refusal of a tally, in the room most likely to talk itself out of it. The difficulty class is how far you walk, enumerated in the tool and defined by geography, so it says nothing whatever about the person doing it.
The first thing that tool ever refused was a false positive, and the pattern was narrowed rather than excepted. “A book it points at” is the verb, and a scoring pattern that cannot tell it from a points system is check-counts.py’s first draft refusing “no two rooms alike”. A point is only a point now when it is being awarded or counted.
The fanfare follows the dial and the words never do. Gentle says its piece and adds nothing; Regular chimes; MAX chimes properly and throws sparks that rise once and fade. The sentences are identical at all three, and nothing flashes or strobes at any setting — Club Chronic’s rule. The sparks move with a translate rather than a rotation, deliberately, because rotation and skew are all check-gentle.py can read and a checker must not be asked to take a room’s word for something.
A marker’s link carries its code to the board and stops there. It fills the box; the visitor still presses. That press is what the fanfare is consented by, and it is the accessible path for anybody who finds typing expensive, which is most of the reason it exists.
The board holds a checksum of each code rather than a second copy, and the tool says out loud that this is a courtesy and not a lock. Every code is printed in plain text in the markup of a public page — that is the mechanism. What the checksum buys is that opening the source of the board is not a spoiler sheet for every room at once.
check-quests.py reads the published HTML and never the data file. The generator writes both surfaces, so they cannot disagree the moment it runs; this is about every moment after that, when a generated line sitting in a committed file gets edited by hand. That is the frame-src shape exactly. It found a bug in itself on its first run: it sliced each marker at the next </details>, the marker’s own hints are <details>, and it reported eighteen missing escapes that were all present. It slices on the generator’s end marker now.
check-classes.py caught this page wearing two of the street’s classes — pavement and masthead__dial — which is the tagline leak again, and the newcomer was renamed rather than out-specified. The guild ends in its own voice, like every other room.
The marker does not print. It is a control whose whole content is a code to type into a page you cannot type into on paper, and the zine room’s one-sheet promise has been broken by a single paragraph twice.
Pitch 01 got a marker and it is ours, not Helen Edgar’s. A candle stub on the Faery Yurt’s windowsill, drawn in her own declared colours, added on Ryan’s call so that her pitch is not the one room on the street with no job in it — and written into the liner notes beside the one colour of hers this repository has changed, because a change to a contributor’s room should be visible somewhere other than a diff. Helen has the final say on whether it stays.
Two pages carry no marker, on purpose and by name in the tool. The changelog is a dated record and writing new furniture into a log is the same instinct as rewriting a September entry to satisfy a linter; the guild is where jobs are handed in, so a marker there would be a job that sends you to the room you are standing in. Everything else refuses to ship without one.
Two faces nothing else here sets — Rye, a woodtype face for posted bills, and Public Sans, which was drawn for United States government forms, which is the room’s joke set twice. Thirty-five new contrast pairs and one measured ornament. New: data/quests.json, tools/make-guild.py, tools/check-quests.py, quest.js. love.css gains §26 and the two cross-cutting sections renumber to §27 and §28.
Still to come: the bed. A guild is an inn as well as a board, and this one has no room over it yet. When it does it will be about rest as something owed rather than earned, which means it will owe a great deal to The Nap Ministry and Tricia Hersey and will say so in its own copy. The board says that out loud rather than leaving a gap.

2026-09-21 — Swaying Sweetgrass, and a book we are not going to serve

Swaying Sweetgrass is pitched on pitch 02, which had been open ground since the field opened. Ryan’s brief: a meadow of sweetgrass left alone, except for a natural-surface path a wheelchair can use, running to a clearing at the centre with a communal fire pit under open sky.
The light is behind the grass, and that is the only thing keeping this out of a family it would otherwise join. The Faery Yurt, The Latibulum, The Den, the Hermitage’s cave and The Mopery are every one of them lit by a flame you could put your hand over. Here the sun is low, a hundred feet off and behind everything, so nothing has a lit face at all — the blades glow because the light is coming through them. That is why the greens go yellow while the ground stays dark, and it is a different warmth from tallow or varnish. There is no furniture in a meadow either; the only built things are the path and the fire ring.
The fire is painted in the room’s own two golds and given no colour of its own, deliberately. A flame with an orange to itself would have made this the sixth flame-lit room on the street by the back door.
Ryan’s brief pointed at 21 chapters of Braiding Sweetgrass read aloud, and they are published as doors rather than screens. The playlist is uploaded by The Anarchist Audio Library and is an unauthorised reading of a book that is in copyright — Milkweed Editions, 2013, Robin Wall Kimmerer living, publishing, and narrating the real audiobook herself. Every chapter plays and every chapter embeds, so nothing in the machinery would have stopped them going in beside the fire: love-embed.js only asks whether an id is well formed and check-jukebox.py only asks whether a video works. What stopped them is that this room’s whole argument is the honorable harvest — never take the first, never take more than you need, ask — and a page making that argument cannot serve somebody else’s entire book off its own surface while doing it. Ryan’s call once the provenance was put to him: keep both, her voice as the fire and these as a way out. make-sweetgrass.py refuses a reading marked as a screen, so the decision survives being tidied by somebody who thinks the doors look broken next to the presses.
What is at the fire instead is Kimmerer in her own voice — her publisher, Bioneers, TEDxSitka, Harvard, the New York Botanical Garden, On Being, the Museum of Science, the Natural History Institute, the Commons KU — shortest first, so three minutes and an hour and a half are both a real option. Every id was resolved against YouTube on the day: status, playableInEmbed, length, title and channel, off one fetch of each watch page. That check is the only reason the two lists are two lists; the readings arrived looking exactly like the talks and the channel is what told them apart. The build refuses a talk whose channel is the readings’ channel, in either direction.
The 21-strand teaching is somebody’s, and the video does not say whose. Seven generations behind, seven sacred laws, seven ahead. It was matched to its source rather than guessed at — the transcript panel was opened and read against the words, and it is Sweet Grass Teaching, published by Shawenim Abinoojii Inc., at 0:53, which was already in Ryan’s own field-guide list. The description says only “Made for Shawenim Abinoojii Inc.”, there is no name card at the end and the channel does not say, so the room credits the organisation and states plainly that the Elder is unnamed there rather than inventing a name. That is the herbarium’s refusal to guess at a binomial, applied to a person. make-sweetgrass.py counts the bundles and refuses one that is not seven — the opposite of check-counts.py’s rule and for the opposite reason: a count that belongs to somebody else is a fact to protect, not a total that goes stale.
Nothing on that page teaches sweetgrass. Six teachings from Indigenous organisations, institutes and nations, Ryan’s selection, each linked and credited with one line of ours saying what it is about — and nothing anywhere instructing anybody how to harvest, braid or burn it, because that is not ours to hand out.
A correction we owe is on the page rather than in a commit message. Our own glossary attributes a framework called reciprocal ethical unity to Barry Lopez and he never wrote the phrase; Star Stuff’s zine No. 72 went and read the essay. The room is quoting from the pages that carry the error, so it says so near the top instead of further down. When two of our own pages disagree, the one that checked wins.
Three of the four passages were checked against the mirror and one could not be. The sheaf, the braid of stories and “becoming indigenous to a place” are verbatim on our own Nature, Place-Based Education and Offline pages. The Cajete and goldenrod-and-asters passage is on no page of ours, and archive.org’s search-inside was unreachable and Google Books rate-limited every attempt, so it is published on Ryan’s word and the liner notes say so rather than letting it sit among the checked ones looking identical. Zine No. 72’s own caveat on a fourth is still open and is recorded too.
Ryan’s ten seconds of backlit bunchgrass is in there, and it is not sweetgrass. He said so when he sent it. It is already published by us on the Nature entry, underneath the line about immediate contact with the outdoors, which is exactly the argument: place-based means the ground you are standing on, not the sacred meadow somewhere else. The plant is deliberately not named to species — nobody here determined it, and a plant named on a page reads as a determination.
VideoPress is the third origin this site will build a frame for, and getting it there took two goes. It was added to _headers by hand, confirmed in the file, and shipped — but that CSP line is generated by make-csp.py from a string literal of its own, so every later run put the old list back. The dev server serves no headers at all, so the room worked locally and the live site refused the frame; Ryan found it by pressing the button. The allowlist is one place now: love-embed.js’s ORIGINS array, which make-csp.py reads to build frame-src and make-sweetgrass.py reads to refuse a bad URL at build time. Both refuse outright rather than falling back to a default if the array is missing, because a silently narrowed frame-src is a room full of blank boxes and a silently widened one is a hole.
Verified in a network panel: zero iframes and zero external requests on load, with eighteen presses on the page; one press produced exactly one iframe, at the right URL, with the right referrer policy, and left the other seventeen alone.
The field’s sign for the pitch needed a light of its own, because the two on that board are taken. The yurt emits and the hermitage catches, so this one is carried: fireflies low in the grass, many small lights and no source you could point at, with the path going in and a thread of smoke where the clearing is. The fire is not drawn lit, because from the treeline the grass is taller than the clearing and what you can see from there is what gets drawn.
Two name collisions, one of them caught by a tool and one by six sudden failures. check-classes.py refuses a custom property declared twice; and an unprefixed GLOW in check-contrast.py’s own Python silently repainted the Faery Yurt’s ember composite, turning six of Helen’s pairs red in a room nobody had touched. That is the --leaf collision arriving in a second file. The newcomer was renamed, scoped to its own block.
Two layout faults the room’s own argument caught. The rule under each recording sat wherever its text happened to stop, so a row of two had its ground at two heights — in a room whose stated structure is that things stand on a line. Same for the three bundles of the braid. Both now fill their row and push the press to the foot.
Two faults in one press, found by Ryan pressing a button. A facade is two elements — a <button> before the press and a <div> after it — and love-embed.js gives the replacement only the class facade, so anything the button was wearing evaporates. The portrait clip came out landscape and letterboxed; worse, the fire’s players rendered at 0×0 while the sound played, because align-items: flex-start on that column stopped the div stretching and the iframe inside it is absolutely positioned, so it contributes no size. The column defaults to stretch now and only the button opts out, and the portrait box is scoped from its container the way the Pebble Board already did it. Both had passed a check that confirmed one press produced one iframe at the right URL — which is a question about the DOM, where this was a question about paint. The rendered boxes are measured now: 16/9, 16/9 and 9/16.
Two faces nothing else here sets — Eczar, whose serifs flare like a blade opening, and Alegreya Sans, a sans with a handwriting skeleton still in it. Sixteen new contrast pairs and two measured ornaments. New: data/sweetgrass.json, tools/make-sweetgrass.py. The room joins check-jukebox.py’s lists in the same commit that opens it. love.css gains §25 and the two cross-cutting sections renumber to §26 and §27.

2026-09-21 — The Mopery, and a facsimile this site is not going to copy

The Mopery is open — a dark academia library, reading room and parlour, with two rooms behind it. Ryan’s brief: goth, brooding, vampire librarian, used book shop, moon phases, eldritch tomes.
It is the first COLD enclosed room on this street, and that is the whole reason it can stand beside the other four. The Faery Yurt, The Latibulum, The Den and the Hermitage’s cave are each lit by one warm source and the light reaches the walls — canvas, plaster, panelling and curtain all go amber. This room has candles the whole way along every top shelf and the walls stay blue-black stone, because that is what a candle actually does: it lights about a foot of a very large room. Cosy is what those rooms are. This is what it is like to be let into a building after everybody has gone home.
The type is the other half of it. IM Fell English is a face that was punched — Fell’s Oxford types with the ink spread and the battered counters left in — against the yurt’s Cormorant, which is high-contrast, clean and cut yesterday. Two warm serif rooms kept apart at the stroke rather than at the palette, which is the only place it holds.
One scan is shown and one is pointed at, and the difference is a single line of metadata. The reading nook was meant to show a scanned page beside the text. The Library of Congress’s facsimile of The Raven in Poe’s own hand is the obvious candidate and it carries “reproduction prohibited without permission” along the foot of its own first leaf — that printing was made in 1949 for an exhibition at Yale, and loc.gov answers a script with a bot check rather than with its rights statement, so the notice is the only rights information anybody here had actually read. Copying it onto a CC BY-SA site would be relicensing somebody else’s asset under a licence it may not carry, which is the Penguin Pebbling problem with a different deck. Ryan then found one that says the opposite in as many words: an 1865 Tyndale & Mitchell printing, illustrations engraved on wood by Scattergood, digitised by Lehigh University and published by the Internet Archive under the Public Domain Mark 1.0. Three leaves of it are in the room and the whole book is linked. The facsimile is still linked and still not copied, and the nook says which is which and why.
All twenty-six of Gustave Doré’s engravings are in the poem, from the 1884 edition by way of Project Gutenberg’s ebook #17192. Doré died in 1883, so they are out of copyright everywhere — the same test the Doomscroll applies to its poets. Ryan asked for them.
Where each plate sits is our decision and the page says so. That edition printed the poem straight through and put the plates after it, each captioned with the lines it illustrates. Here every plate stands at the lines its own caption quotes, which is a reading decision rather than a reproduction of the 1884 layout — so the room states it rather than letting anybody assume they are looking at that book.
And the captions caught a textual difference nobody was looking for. Matching twenty-six captions to stanzas by their opening words failed on exactly two, because the 1884 edition reads “’T is some visiter” where our text reads “’Tis”, and “Be that word our sign of parting” where ours reads “Be that our sign”. The captions are printed verbatim and the difference is left visible rather than smoothed out. Two printings of one poem are not one text, which is the fact the Doomscroll is built on and the reason The Darkling Thrush is not on it.
Every image in the room carries alt text and the build refuses one that does not — twenty-six engravings, three scanned leaves and thirteen plates in the deck, each described rather than left as a rectangle. Two new mounts were measured while they were at it: the plates and the leaves sit on paper-coloured grounds, because a near-white engraving dropped straight onto blue-black stone floats with no object under it.
The poem is set in whichever voice you like, and the picker holds every typeface on the street. That is the one place here where borrowing all of them is the joke rather than the failure: nothing of the Playhouse arrives when you read The Raven in Titan One, only the letterforms. @font-face is lazy, so choosing a face is what downloads it and a reader who never opens the picker never pays for one. The choice is not remembered between visits — the only thing this site stores is somebody’s tolerance, and quietly re-applying a typeface next week would be the page deciding it knew how you wanted to read.
One screen, many versions of one song, and tuning is not playing. The parlour carries Paint It Black nine ways behind two guttering candles — the Rolling Stones’ own record, then eight people answering the cello arrangement Danny Elfman and Chris Bacon wrote for Wednesday. The behaviour is the Hermitage’s television: with the screen off, previous and next fetch nothing, and the whole listing can be walked without a request leaving the page. Verified in a network panel — three tunings, zero requests, zero iframes; one press produced exactly one iframe at the right id on youtube-nocookie with the right referrer policy.
Every cut names Jagger and Richards, and make-mopery.py refuses one that does not. That is The Den’s rule arriving where it bites harder: eight of the nine are covers, the performer’s name is the entire draw, and a wall of covers is precisely where crediting only the voice would pass unnoticed.
Two things the link text got wrong and the data does not. One of those videos is played on a viola, not a cello. Another’s own description credits the song to “Mick Jagger (1943)”, which is his year of birth. And one is an acknowledged unofficial upload — the channel says so in the first line of its own description — so the room says so too, rather than dressing it up as a release.
Every book can be borrowed before it can be bought, and the tool refuses a title with no way to. Nine novels, and not one of them is a book our own pages already argue from — the opposite of the Hermitage’s shelf, whose rule is that every spine has a citing page. This is a second-hand shop inside a library and a shop stocks what it likes.
The links are searches and the room says why. Open Library’s pages and Bookshop’s product pages both answer a script with a bot check, so no product id was invented to paper over it. Every work id was resolved against Open Library’s search API and came back carrying the right title and the right author — the rule data/hermitage.json records the hard way, where an id written from memory pointed at a different book in the file whose own header forbids exactly that.
No content notes, and that is a decision rather than an oversight. Ryan’s call, asked directly, with the dark romance on the shelf named in the question. Written into the data file so nobody “finishes” it later.
The Oracle Deck asks and does not answer, and the build enforces it. Thirteen engravings between 1514 and 1891 with a question on the back of each. No reversals, no spread, no yes, no no, nothing about what is going to happen to anybody — make-oracle.py refuses a card that does not end in a question mark and refuses the vocabulary of prediction outright. A deck on a Disabled people’s site that told somebody how their life was going to go would be doing the thing the rest of these pages exist to refuse, in the one room dark enough to get away with it, and it would arrive as a friendly edit from somebody who thought a question was a bit thin.
And nothing in that room is behind the dice. The whole deck is face up on the page; drawing moves a copy of one card into a slot. A room that made somebody gamble to reach its contents would have put its contents behind chance, which is the “lite version” mistake holding a deck.
Every plate is from one collection, and the tool refuses one that is not. Dürer, Mellan, Piranesi, Meryon, Goya, Redon and Bresdin, all public domain works in the Metropolitan Museum’s Open Access collection, released under CC0 — which is what lets that page make one rights statement somebody could check instead of thirteen. CC0 asks for nothing; every card names its artist anyway.
The Doomscroll is a feed of public domain doom on an actual scroll, newest first by first publication, back to 1609. The date is when it went public and not when it was written, and for a third of that scroll the two are decades apart: Hopkins sat in a friend’s desk for twenty-nine years, Hardy’s in a drawer for thirty-one, Dickinson’s until four years after she died, retitled and a stanza short. The tool sorts on the year rather than trusting the file, so an entry pasted at the bottom cannot end up rendered at the bottom of a feed that claims to be chronological.
Every poem there is out of copyright everywhere, and that cost the scroll its best opener. The rule is the author dead more than seventy years, checked against the current year rather than a date written into the file. T. S. Eliot’s The Hollow Men would have sat at the top and is public domain in America; Eliot died in 1965 and it will not be in much of Europe until the 2030s. A site that serves everybody cannot publish somebody’s whole poem on a technicality that holds in one country.
The Darkling Thrush is not on that scroll either, for the other reason: Wikisource’s page for it names no printing and carries its own banner saying the source document is unknown. These poems exist in several printings and they differ — the 1890 Dickinson is retitled and edited, the 1609 Shakespeare keeps its compositor’s slip. A text nobody can trace is the one thing a scroll built out of dates cannot carry.
The zine table is the room the scroll could have collapsed into, and the split is the object. The zine is a photocopy: stark white, pure black, cut with scissors, scattered at angles, and the page is the sheet. This is foxed newsprint, warm and grey, one unbroken roll with nothing cut and nothing rotated, lying on a desk you can see the edges of. The blackletter sets the masthead and nothing else — never a headline, never a line of a poem, because eighteen lines of blackletter is an access failure wearing atmosphere.
All three popups are clones of markup already on the page, not renderings of data- attributes: one copy of every book’s note and every poem’s text in the document, so a shelf cannot disagree with its own popup. With scripts off, each room’s <noscript> unhides them — the library becomes a catalogue and the doomscroll becomes more itself, a very long scroll you keep going down.
check-gentle.py caught a decorative rotation before it shipped. The deck’s cut-rule lozenge was a square turned 45°, which is indistinguishable from a room’s tilt outranking somebody’s Gentle setting, because all that tool can see is the computed matrix. It is clipped out of a square now — the same call arcade.js made when it moved its sprites with left/top rather than transform.
And check-counts.py caught two totals, one of them in a note about Piranesi’s prisons that had nothing to do with this street at all.
Six faces nothing else here sets, forty-three new contrast pairs and four measured ornaments. New: tools/make-mopery.py, tools/make-oracle.py, tools/make-doomscroll.py, mopery.js, oracle.js, doomscroll.js. The Mopery joins check-jukebox.py’s lists in the same commit that opens it. love.css gains §22 to §24 and the two cross-cutting sections renumber to §25 and §26.

2026-09-21 — a noticeboard that is not a shopfront, and a rule that failed the person it was written for

The Pebble Board is street furniture, not a storefront. A room on this street is permanent and singular; a board is defined by being replaced, edition after edition, with the old ones kept. A shop whose entire stock is swapped out every gathering is a periodical, and giving it a shopfront would quietly have made every other shopfront look temporary. So it stands on the pavement outside the shops, in the same category as the signpost to the campgrounds. Your Room also already holds the one community storefront, and that one means something exact: one person decorates one room.
The frame is constant and the paper is not — the second place on this street where two pages are meant to resemble each other, and the second is not a licence for a third. A noticeboard, like the Arcade’s cabinets, is one body with different things behind the glass. Each edition still gets its own share card, because the card is where the shortcut would be invisible.
The first edition is Norah Hobbs’s, collected at a gathering on 2026-06-25 and built by her in the block editor before being rebuilt as a page. The cream, the tape, the tabbed drawers and the wording are hers. Two of her three typefaces were substituted and one was kept: Caveat is the Faery Yurt’s hand and Special Elite is the Zine Table’s typewriter, so a punk-paper noticeboard set in the zine’s own typewriter was the exact collapse this street refuses. Atkinson Hyperlegible stayed, because it is the Braille Institute’s low-vision face and swapping the body text would have been an access regression rather than a style choice.
Twenty-one hotlinked thumbnails became twenty local files, and the security header did not move. The page arrived pointing every card at img.youtube.com, which img-src 'self' renders as a broken image — and loosening the policy to let them through would have asked Google for a picture on every card the moment the board opened, telling them who was reading it before anybody pressed anything. Cached at build time instead. Verified in a network panel: every request on load is same-origin, and one press produced exactly one iframe at the right id with eighteen buttons untouched.
Two of the twenty-one videos were not what the board thought they were, which is the argument for resolving ids rather than trusting them. OK Go’s “And the Adjacent Possible” had gone private since the gathering; the entry is kept in the data with what was measured, the way the Jungle Room keeps its dead cams. NEONI’s “Carry On Wayward Son” plays and refuses to embed, so it is a door dressed as a door rather than a play triangle that cannot play.
Four images came off and their cards stayed on. A screenshot of the City of Austin’s Facebook post wrapped around a crowd of about forty identifiable strangers at a Pride event; a screenshot of an Instagram story carrying somebody’s phone status bar; a foundation’s product render credited as a photograph of two people wearing it. Two widely-reproduced memes were dropped for having no attributable source. The stories are all still there, in our own words, which is what the cards were carrying anyway.
No total. The board arrived saying how many things had been collected. check-counts.py would have refused a typed one and a generated one would have passed — and still been wrong, because the pebbling cabinet refuses a tally on the grounds that pebbling is explicitly not about volume. Same practice, no game in the room, same answer.
A lightbox, because a watercolour spread at 250px is not a watercolour spread. A native <dialog>, so the focus trap, the inert background and the return of focus are the browser’s rather than ours. The description is shown as words under the picture rather than only announced, so it reaches everybody. Escape is handled explicitly anyway: with the lightbox open and focus inside it, a real Escape keydown arrived undefended and the dialog stayed open. That may be an artifact of the browser it was tested in — but a modal a keyboard user cannot leave is not a thing to take on trust, and the fix is four lines.
A rule was rewritten because it failed the person it was written to protect. This site said flatly that it does not publish photographs of children, reasoning that a parent can consent but the child cannot take it back in ten years. That reasoning was sound and aimed at the wrong case: it read as a ban on a teenage volunteer consenting for herself, and would have taken her own activity off the board while leaving the two adults standing beside her on it — which is what nothing about us without us exists to refuse, and that motto has no lower age bound. What carries over unchanged: the consent must be the young person’s own and a parent’s does not substitute for it, withdrawal is deletion and works for them exactly as for everybody, and somebody too young to give that consent themselves is still not published with no parental override. Ryan’s call. Rewritten on the terms page and in the data; the old decision is marked superseded rather than deleted, because the old reasoning is why the new one has to say which case it is about.
A consent record is not a booking for Enid’s wall. Every photograph here used to hang there, so “has an entry” and “is on the wall” were one fact. The board’s are the first that belong to another room only, and hanging them on her wall to satisfy a bookkeeping rule would have been a tool curating a room it is not about. make-polaroids.py keeps the whole contract and only declines to build the polaroid — and refuses outright if a photo is off the wall and published nowhere else.
Sharing a drawing at a gathering is not publishing it. Community artwork now records its maker’s permission as a fact separate from the maker’s name, and make-pebble-board.py refuses without it — make-polaroids.py’s rule about photographers, arriving for the people who draw.
New: tools/make-pebble-board.py and pebble-board.js. The board joins check-jukebox.py’s lists in the same commit that opens it, every edition rather than only the current one, because a dead link on a back issue is worse than one on the page people are reading. love.css gains §21 and the two cross-cutting sections renumber to §22 and §23.

2026-09-21 — Club Chronic, and the room that refuses the one effect it obviously wants

Club Chronic is open. Freaks to the front: punk music and punk community, the story of scenes that built their own doors, every playlist we keep pasted up by the entrance, and a rack of records along the back wall. Ryan’s brief.
It does not strobe, at any setting, and the room says so on the door. A punk club has exactly one obvious ambient effect and it can cause seizures. That looks like the campgrounds’ rule and is a different rule — the field is still because quiet is what it is for, and this room is still because the obvious idea here hurts people. A room whose whole argument is come in as you are cannot have a light in it that puts somebody on the floor. MAX GLITTER buys nothing in here and the copy says that is on purpose rather than unfinished.
And it says out loud that a loud room is itself an access barrier. Volume, crowds, no exit, no quiet room, no seat — for a lot of us the gig this room is about is unsurvivable. A scene that lets anybody in and then builds the only entrance out of volume has not finished the job. The honest thing about this being a page is that you can leave mid-song and nobody notices.
The zine table is the room this could have collapsed into, and the split is structural. Both are punk, both are photocopied, both are made of paper. But the zine is one sheet you hold, cut up with scissors and scattered at angles, and the page is the paper. This is a hundred small rectangles pasted onto a black wall, flat and overlapping, because that is what a wall by a venue door does over years — collage as sediment rather than collage as violence. One sets a typewriter and a handwriting; this sets a condensed display face, because a flyer crams a whole bill onto one sheet, and a marker that went over the paper rather than being it.
The selection in the rack is not ours and the room leads with that. Six racks, their order and their themes come from It Take a Joyful Sound on Star Stuff. Every note was written for this room rather than lifted from that page, which is make-readings.py’s rule about the glossary applied to a sibling site: two of our own sites reciting the same paragraphs makes an argument you can only follow by having read the other one. The essay is linked and is the better thing.
Thirty-six ids, every one checked on its own watch page before it went up — status, embeddability and length — and every title and channel resolved against YouTube rather than taken from the link text they arrived with. All thirty-six play, all thirty-six can be embedded, and every button says how long it runs before you press it.
Spotify is the first frame on this street that is not YouTube. The signature playlist is on both, and the Spotify one is the complete version, so the stage carries both. That cost an origin in the Content-Security-Policy and one in love-embed.js’s own allowlist — and the generator checks the same list a third time, because a URL that is in neither renders as a blank box with no error anywhere. Three places on purpose: the browser enforces one, the script enforces another, and the build refuses before either can show somebody nothing.
Neither playlist says how long it runs, and make-club.py refuses one that does. A song has a length; a list somebody keeps adding to does not, and storing today’s total publishes a number that is wrong next week and authoritative in the meantime. That is make-jungle.py’s rule about live cameras arriving on a record shelf — and this is the first room that holds both halves at once, requiring a runtime on thirty-six objects and refusing one on two others, in the same tool.
One builder still makes every embed. The playlists need a whole URL rather than an eleven-character id, and a builder that accepts any URL is a hole — the id check was always really refusing to point this site’s frames somewhere nobody chose. So the URL form is allowed and checked against a list of origins.
The counter caught a stale claim in the new stylesheet before it shipped, where a comment called this the second room whose type runs both ways. Rewritten to stay true however many there are.
Three faces nothing else here sets, twenty-five new contrast pairs, and one colour retuned: red on flyer paper measures 2.91, so the siren stays on the wall and never touches the paste-up. The staples measured 2.00 and are their own darker grey now — a fixing you cannot see holding up a thing you can.

2026-09-20 — the thirteen unmeasured colours, and a gold room that had been rendering green

All thirteen are resolved, and resolving them found a live bug in two other rooms. The list came from a note this site started printing after a colour in the contrast checker drifted from the stylesheet. It is a refusal now: every colour declared in :root is either measured or named with a reason, and nothing else gets in.
Five were a palette the pebbling cabinet outgrew. That room once kept its six carryable things in :root; then it decided every fill had to clear 4.5 against the outline that draws it, which squeezed them all light, and the new values went into pebbling.js beside the shapes they fill. The dark originals sat on afterwards, declared and painted nowhere — a palette that looked like the source of truth and had not been true since. They are deleted. Every colour the game actually paints was already measured.
One carried text and nobody knew. --peb-glass was the shore’s START button on hover — a real text ground — and it was named after the sea glass in the game, which is a different green entirely. Renamed --peb-press and measured: 4.72, which passes. The misleading name is why nobody had looked.
One was Helen’s ivy, and one was her ember. Both are painted with hexes written inline in her page, the way her crown is, so nothing here had ever named them. Her own copy says the ivy came in through the window frame and was never asked to leave, which is as clear a statement as a room can make that you are meant to see it. Measured on all four of the yurt’s grounds: ivy 3.9 to 4.9, ember 6.0 to 7.5.
One was a brand strip on the campfire’s television at 1.54 against its own casing. Invisible ornament is not ornament; it is lightened until you can see it.
The rest are ornament that carries no text, exempt with their measurements written down rather than waved through. The Chappell’s four stained-glass colours sit at 1.75 to 2.46 on the nave, and they are deep because stained glass is — lifting them to 3:1 would not make the window clearer, it would make it not a window. The campground’s post and board frame at 1.48, in a field that is deliberately the dimmest ground on the street and whose type carries all of it. The dark half of Helen’s ivy at 2.53 against the ivy it shades, which is two tones of one drawn plant. The plank under her bookshelf is at 1.38 and is left as she drew it, with the number recorded so the next person finds a decision rather than an oversight.
And then the check found two custom properties declared twice in one :root. The Solarpunk Hermitage had taken --leaf for its green and --sky for its daylight, and both names were already in that block: --leaf is The Chappell’s gold leaf and --sky is the pebbling shore’s overcast. A duplicate there is last-wins and silent, so for as long as that was live a gold room rendered green and a grey sky rendered blue, in two rooms nobody had reason to reopen. They are --sprout and --daysky now.
The same collision had already been caught once, in the contrast checker’s own Python, and fixed only there. Nobody thought to look for it in the stylesheet, because the Python failed loudly and CSS does not fail at all. check-classes.py refuses a custom property declared twice now, alongside the class names and the section numbers — three kinds of name in one file, all of them last-wins, all of them silent.
The coverage check was vacuous on its first pass and was rewritten. It scanned the whole source for a colour, which meant the exemption list counted its own entries as measured and the run passed while doing nothing at all. It reads the pairs now, and it was tested by adding a colour, by changing one, and by putting a hex in a comment — refusing the first two and ignoring the third, since that block quotes colours in its own prose.

2026-09-20 — the set said it was off while it was on, and the stylesheet was the one lying

Ryan found the television reporting the wrong thing about itself. A column of text beside the running video announcing THE SET IS OFF, overflowing its own box, and sometimes naming a different programme from the one playing. Three symptoms, and underneath them one bug and a half.
The bug: [hidden] loses. The browser’s own rule for the hidden attribute is [hidden] { display: none } at specificity (0,1,0) — which any ordinary class rule that sets display ties with and then wins, because it comes later in the file. So offPanel.hidden = true did nothing visible. The script was correct and the stylesheet was overruling it, silently. The panel had never once been hidden.
It was the third time in one room, which is the actual finding. The way-out link had it, the play button had it, and both were patched one selector at a time — which is exactly how the whole off panel was left still waiting to be found. The guard is in §2 now, for everything on the street, and the per-component patches are gone: doing it per component is what hid the third one.
And the half: the panel was only ever written on the path that does not play. Retuning while the set was on built a new player and left the panel holding whatever had been tuned the last time it was off — so the stale text Ryan saw was not a rendering artefact, it was a real second bug wearing the first one’s clothes. What the panel says is derived from the tuned channel on both paths now. A panel that is only correct on one of two paths is a panel that will be found wrong.
The overflow was real too, and the fix is that 16:9 is a floor rather than a ratio. A channel title runs to a hundred characters; at phone width that is four lines, and with the runtime and the button under it the panel wanted 215px inside a 152px screen — putting the one control that matters below the bottom of the set. Scrolling inside a television to find the play button is not a fix. The screen is a grid now whose row takes the height of the tallest thing in it, so the set is exactly 16:9 on every channel at normal widths and grows only on a phone, where 16:9 would be too small for the card to fit in. Nothing is truncated and nothing is unreachable, which matters more than a set that never moves.
The runtime and the play button moved onto one line, because they are one sentence — how long it runs, and the control that starts it — and because it saves the set a whole row of height where the room is tightest.

2026-09-20 — one television instead of twelve, and two sections numbered twenty

The campfire is a room now rather than a grid. Green shag, three bean bags in colours nobody agreed on, a wooden coffee table with rings on it, and one shared television the chairs are all pointed at. Ryan’s brief. The twelve separate players are gone; the listing moved into a Channel Listing that opens and closes, and the set plays whatever you pick.
Tuning and playing are two different things, and the set keeps them apart. While it is off, previous and next move the channel in silence — the screen says what it is on and how long that runs, and nothing is fetched. You can walk the entire listing without a single request leaving the page; verified in the network panel at five channel changes, zero requests, zero iframes. Once it is playing, changing channel changes the picture, because by then you have asked for a television and pressing play twelve more times would be a worse room and no more consented.
The dial says where it is going before you press it. A next button that only says “next” is the one place this design could have quietly broken the rule that every control on this street names its runtime first — so the slip of paper beside the buttons names the channel it is about to tune to and how long that one runs.
The channel that cannot be embedded is not skipped. It sits in the running order like everything else, and reaching it turns the screen into a door: the play button disappears, the runtime says this one will not play here, and a way out to YouTube appears instead. Stepping silently over it would hide a fact about somebody else’s permissions that this room states out loud everywhere else.
One place builds a YouTube iframe, and now two things call it. The set retunes, which the press-to-play plate never had to do — but a second copy of those attributes is one copy that gets a referrerpolicy fixed and one that does not, silently, in the security-relevant half of that file. love-embed.js exposes the builder and keeps the contract in one place. Writing that exposed a hoisting bug on the way: naming the local variable frame would have shadowed the function it was calling one line above, and node --check passes that happily because it is valid syntax.
The bright chairs cannot carry themselves. Every one of them measured under 2.3 against the rug — a chair you cannot pick out of the carpet, which is the Jungle Room canopy arriving as upholstery. So every object in that scene is carried by its outline, measured against the rug on one side and its own fill on the other. The television is the single exception: it is dark enough to separate from the rug by itself and a dark line round it would only muddy it.
And the coffee table cannot carry a sentence in either direction. Body copy on that wood measures 3.29 in the dark ink and 4.20 in the pale one, both under the threshold. It is furniture, not a surface to set type on, so the explaining sentence came off the table and onto the page; what stayed is the buttons and a pale slip of paper, which carry their own grounds with them.
Two class names were already taken, twice. .telly and .dials are The Latibulum’s wireless and television, and .tuner is its tuning scale — check-classes.py refused all three in turn. The repair went wrong in a way that tool cannot see: renaming across the whole stylesheet instead of one section rewrote the burrow’s own selectors, leaving latibulum.html wearing a class with no rule anywhere. A class nobody styles is exactly the check that file deliberately does not make, and for good reasons it states. The section was restored verbatim from the last commit rather than patched again.
And underneath all of that, two sections numbered §20. The Hermitage was added with the number Print already had, and dropped in between §18 and §19 — so every cross-reference by number in that file had two places to land. check-classes.py read both and reported collisions as “§20 and §20”, which looked like a display bug. It refuses a duplicate or an out-of-order section number now, and the file runs in sequence again.
A colour in the checker had drifted from the stylesheet. --cedar was lightened so a drawing’s outline would pass, and check-contrast.py kept the old value — so one pair in that file spent a commit measuring a colour that was no longer on the site. It is fixed, and every run now prints which colours declared in :root the checker has never heard of. There are thirteen, all pre-existing; they are reported rather than refused, because some are genuinely decorative and one is a variable nothing uses at all, and a checker that blocks a deploy on somebody else’s unfinished decision is the wrong shape.
The three chairs have something on each of them, and each names a real entry in our glossary. Stimming, parallel play — being alone together, which is what three chairs and one screen and no obligation actually is — and stim-watching, which is Jim Irion’s term and his account, and is the reason nobody here will ask why you have put the hummingbirds on for the fourth time. Two of the three carry somebody else’s words and say so on the chair.

2026-09-20 — three benches in the Hermitage, and a check that stopped guessing at Latin

The watering hole is open, which finishes the room. Three tables pushed together under the long window: a herbarium, a solar bench, and a table of Star Stuff. A watering hole is where you learn from the people next to you, so nothing on these benches is a lesson — it is somebody else’s work left out where you can pick it up.
One room, three postures, and that is what keeps the three zones apart. The cave is enclosed, round-cornered and dark and you are sitting in it. The campfire is seated too, and its cards are rounded because a bean bag has no corners. The workshop is flat-topped and square — worktops with a lip at the front, things laid out on them, and you are standing up.
Every specimen in the herbarium is there because one of our own pages argues from it, and make-hermitage.py refuses one that is not. Dandelion, tulip and orchid off the sensitivity metaphor; a bamboo rhizome for Helen Edgar’s Autistic Rhizome; a fern frond because it is the picture our glossary reaches for to explain a fractal; moss, lichen, mycelium and an envelope with nothing in it, off four Star Stuff pieces. There is no sunflower, although sunflowers are the plant growing outside the door — we have no page about them, so there is nothing to press, and the table says so.
Nothing in it is named to species, and the check that enforces that had to be thrown away and rewritten. A Latin binomial typed from memory is a taxonomic claim nobody checked, wearing the one kind of authority a herbarium sheet has. The first version looked for Latin endings — and missed Taraxacum officinale, the single most likely binomial to end up on this table, then missed two more after two rounds of widening, while every widening walked it closer to firing on ordinary prose. A tripwire that is allowed to miss and at risk of crying wolf is the worst of both. So the shape is the check now and the English words are the allowlist: a name of one capitalised word and one lowercase word is refused unless the second word is one this table has declared. That catches every binomial rather than the ones somebody anticipated, and it costs one word added on purpose when a plain name like fern frond arrives. All of this was found by putting a binomial in on purpose, which is the only reason any of it is known.
The solar bench is books and videos about the thing on the roof. The videos came off our own Solarpunk entry and the reading off our own Electrify Everything — which is the only item on any of these three tables that we wrote. Every id was checked on its own watch page and every title and channel resolved against YouTube rather than taken from our link text, which mattered here: our glossary credits the first of them as “ft. @Andrewism”, and the channel that published it is Our Changing Climate. Two different facts, and only one of them was written down.
Griffith’s Electrify is the second id in this file resolved by search rather than lifted, for the same reason Care Work was, and it was requested and answered before it went up. Twice in one room is a pattern rather than an accident: our pages name an author far more often than they link a book.
The Star Stuff table refuses anything that does not point at starstuff.earth. A bench with somebody’s name on it holding something else is a mis-filed thing that reads as a claim. Six pieces, all linked out and none reproduced — including A Field Guide to the Ways of Being Alone, which says a lone wolf is not an outcast but a disperser, and is the keystone of this whole pitch arriving from the sibling site rather than from us.
Three of the herbarium’s sheets come off pieces on the third table, and they say so. That is what a workshop with three benches in one room looks like, and it is the argument for putting them in one room rather than three.
Nine new contrast pairs, including the first ground on this street that is a lighter card on a darker surface — a pressed sheet laid on a worktop, which is the opposite way round from every card here. 338 pairs, none failing.

2026-09-20 — the first daylit room on the street, and a laptop that frames the street inside it

The Solarpunk Hermitage is open, on pitch 03 at the far end of the campgrounds. Ryan’s own place: a wood cabin on wheels bristling with panels, sunflowers taller than the door, an aerial going up out of the quiet.
It is daylit, and that is the whole of its separation from everything else here. Every other world on this street is a dark ground with light put on it — neon on black, candle on canvas, lamp on earth, a screen in a dark arcade, shafts through a canopy. This one is the morning. A cabin that runs on the sun and reads as midnight would be an argument against itself, and the panels on that roof are the reason the lamp in the cave never gutters. It also means the arrival works twice in opposite directions: out of the field’s cold dusk into a lit tent at pitch 01, and out of the same dusk into full sun at pitch 03.
The cave, the campfire and the watering hole are David Thornburg’s and are named as his. They are the primordial learning spaces from From the Campfire to the Holodeck, which our own glossary documents: the cave is where you learn from yourself, the campfire is where you learn from a storyteller, the watering hole is where you learn from peers. Taking a framework’s shape and not its author’s name is the failure this site keeps attribution for. There is a fourth, Life, where you make something out of what the other three gave you; the room says out loud that it is not in here, it is the door you came in by.
And the argument the pitch stands on is Betsy Selvam’s. Lone wolfing is being alone well rather than being left out, and that distinction is hers, credited by name in the room and in the liner notes, not folded into our “we”.
The cave is the hardest room this street has had to keep apart from its neighbours. It is the fourth warm enclosed space here, after the Faery Yurt, The Latibulum and The Den — and “it is a cosy reading nook, it should feel like the other cosy places” is the Latibulum argument arriving a second time, which is exactly when it stops sounding wrong. Three structural things keep it: the other three are each lit by one flickering source in the dark and this one is evenly lit at reading brightness, with the candles as ornaments on a room that does not need them; the others are canvas, earth and panelling and this is textile, with no wood and no straight edge in it but the shelves; and you reach the others out of the cold, while you reach this one out of full daylight and it is darker than where you came from.
Every book on those shelves is one we already argue from, and each says which page of ours put it there — read out of the Knowledge System mirror’s own frontmatter rather than typed. Butler, Baldwin, Thornburg, brown, Kropotkin, Piepzna-Samarasinha, Chapman, Totton, Silberman, Kelly. A borrow link is required and a buy link is not, and make-hermitage.py refuses a spine without one: our library page says knowledge is infrastructure and access to it is mutual aid, and a shelf that could only tell you where to buy would be a shop with an argument painted on it.
One of those ids was assembled from memory and was wrong, in the file whose own header says not to do that. Care Work is the one book our pages link without an Open Library id, and the id written for it pointed at a different work entirely. It was caught by checking, resolved against Open Library’s search, and the whole episode is written into the data file rather than quietly corrected — every borrow and buy link in there was then requested and answered before any of it went up.
The campfire is Ryan’s list of documentaries and nothing on it was chosen in this repo. Every id was checked on its own watch page — status, embeddability and length — and every title and channel was resolved against YouTube rather than typed off the links that arrived. Every button says how long it runs before you press it, and make-hermitage.py refuses one without a runtime, which is the exact inverse of make-jungle.py refusing a cam that has one. A live camera has no length to give and a film does; the two tools keep the same promise and must not be made to agree.
One of the twelve plays and cannot be embedded, which is the Jungle Room’s lesson arriving in a new room from a new list. It is published as a door out rather than a screen, shaped like a door so it does not promise a picture it cannot show, and saying why on its own face. Its title and channel came off the watch page, because YouTube’s oEmbed refuses it too.
The laptop in the cave frames stimpunks.love inside stimpunks.love, and it is the real street — you can walk down it from in there. It still waits to be pressed, for a different reason than the jukebox facades: nothing third-party is involved, but a whole copy of the street loading itself unasked means a second intensity dial underneath the first, every font served twice, and a screen reader walking the entire site again for somebody who came in to read a book.
And it refuses to nest. A laptop showing the street is a laptop you can walk back into this room through, and the third one is not a joke any more — it is a page that will not stop loading and an accessibility tree nobody can get out of. A hermitage that finds itself already inside a frame says one screen is enough instead of offering the laptop.
The security header had to change for any of that, and it is the only loosening in the policy. frame-ancestors was 'none', which forbids this site being framed by anybody, itself included, and X-Frame-Options was DENY. They are 'self' and SAMEORIGIN now. Clickjacking protection against every other origin is unchanged; what is permitted is exactly one page of ours embedding another page of ours, after a press. The reasoning is in _headers and in tools/make-csp.py beside the line that generates it.
The contrast checker had to learn a room that is dark on light. This is the first one on the street whose type sits on a bright ground all the way down, which inverts the usual failure: the dangerous inks here are the pale accents rather than the dim greys. It refused three things before the room shipped — the cabin’s outline on its own timber, the leaves drawn on the ground band, and a sunflower held to the wrong threshold — and it also caught a collision in its own source, where the new room’s green was named LEAF and silently overwrote The Chappell’s gold, failing five of that room’s pairs. A checker catching a bug in itself is the argument for having it. 329 pairs, none failing.
Two faces nothing else here sets, because no two rooms on this street share a voice. Fraunces swells and curls; Sora is drawn on a grid with flat terminals. Tech and nature, set in type, rather than one of them in fancy dress.
The watering hole has its benches in and nothing laid out on them. A herbarium, a solar bench and a table of Star Stuff, marked as what they are rather than hidden until they are ready — the same honesty the empty storefront and the zine’s empty line use.

2026-09-20 — two drawings on the campground’s board, and a pitch taken at the far end

The field’s pitches have pictures on them now. A yurt sat against the trees with its doorway lit, and a wood cabin on wheels bristling with solar panels. They are what you can see of each pitch from the gate, which is what the board has said it is for since the field opened: read the sign before you go in.
An open plot has no drawing at all, and that is the whole grammar rather than an omission. What is pitched is what you can see from here; bare ground looks like bare ground.
They are signs, not rooms, which is the only reason two of them may sit on one board. Both are drawn in the field’s own inks — spruce and bark for the masses, moss for every line, weight rather than tint doing the hierarchy — because you are looking at them across cold ground at night. Neither one is a preview of the world inside it, and neither one may become one.
What tells them apart is one lit colour each, and the two lights do opposite things. The yurt emits: candle amber out of the crown, out of the doorway and onto the grass in front of it, round and soft-edged and strung with lights. The hermitage catches: nothing on it glows except one window, the moon lands on its panels, three sunflowers hold the only warm colour on the pitch, and the aerial is the one line reaching off it. Round and warm against angular and cool. The rule for the next pitch is written beside them in love.css: the field’s inks, one light of its own, and not either of those two lights, because they are taken.
And that one window is a screen rather than a flame, which is the pitch’s argument in the only place a drawing can make it. Lone wolfing is not being unreachable; it is choosing the reach. A hermitage lit by a candle would have been a nicer picture and a different idea.
Nothing in either drawing moves, at any setting, like everything else out here. The yurt’s fairy lights twinkle on its own page and are still on the board, because this is the field’s drawing of the tent and not the tent.
Pitch 03 is taken and has no door yet. The Solarpunk Hermitage, Ryan’s, at the far end — which is where the board already said it was for the people whose whole specification is distance from the street. It is a post with a sign and a drawing and no link, because a campground has that state and a website usually pretends it does not. The honest alternative was publishing a room before it was a room.
The card stopped listing the pitches by hand. make-og.py had the plots typed into a string literal, and again into the alt text, in the file whose entire argument is that a card must not be able to disagree with its page. It reads them off the board’s own posts now — middots on the card, commas in the alt text, because a screen reader reads a middot out loud — and refuses to build a field with no plots in it.
The drawings are measured, because WCAG does not reach them. The canopy in the Jungle Room is why: it came in at 2.18 against the ground behind it, a smudge with no telling one leaf from another, and nothing was looking. Ten new pairs — every line against open ground and against the ground band, both lit colours against the mass they sit on, the dark disc inside a sunflower, the glazing bars on that screen. 294 in the file, none failing. Holding one ink at one threshold is why there are ten and not thirty: a ladder of dimmer greens would each have needed arguing about.
The drawing of Helen’s yurt is ours and is said to be. It is the field’s sign for her pitch, in the field’s inks, seen from outside in the dark; it changes nothing on her page. That is written into the liner notes beside her credit rather than left to be inferred, for the same reason the one colour of hers this site changed is written down in four places.

2026-09-20 — a door at the back of the Jungle Room, and the other Jungle Room behind it

The Den is open, and it is an easter egg. There is no door for it on the street. The way in is a quiet line at the foot of the Jungle Room — the same shape as the door through to The Chappell, turned right down: a hairline, small type and the room’s dimmest ink, below everything else in the room. You find it by getting to the bottom.
Quiet is a visual setting and not a perceptual one. That door is an ordinary focusable link with real words in it, in the tab order, at full size, read out by a screen reader like anything else on the street. On a Disabled people’s site a secret only a sighted mouse user can find is not a secret, it is an exclusion, so the floor is written into the stylesheet beside the rule: nothing hidden, no one-pixel target, no display:none.
It is Graceland’s Jungle Room, which is a real room and a better joke than the pun. Elvis Presley’s den: Polynesian furniture bought after Blue Hawaii, fur over the seats, an indoor waterfall of cut field stone on the north wall, and a green shag carpet. People have been rude about it for fifty years. And in 1976 it was converted into a recording studio, and the bulk of his last two albums came out of it — From Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis, Tennessee and Moody Blue. That fact is what turns a pun into a room: a carpet is a joke, a discography made on top of one is a listening bench.
Sixteen cuts, in the order they were recorded, with the night each one was made. Twelve from the February week and four from the three nights in October, ending on the last studio session of his life. The track list, the session dates, the songwriters and the album attributions came off the two albums’ own articles.
Nothing was guessed and nothing was typed from memory. Each title was searched on YouTube, the candidates filtered to Presley’s official channels, and every id then checked on its own watch page — channel, playability, embeddability, length. Twelve are on the estate’s art-track channel and four on his VEVO. And every runtime was matched against the released one, because searching any of these turns up alternate takes on the same official channels: a room whose argument is these are the records that came out of that carpet cannot quietly hand somebody a rehearsal.
The writers are named on every cut. Presley wrote none of these songs. Gatlin, Sedaka and Cody, Mark James, Dennis Linde, Fred Rose, Layng Martine Jr., Lloyd Webber and Rice, and the rest. A room that credited only the voice would be doing the one thing this site keeps attribution for, in the room where the performer’s name is the entire draw.
Every button says how long it runs, and that is the parent’s rule inverted rather than broken. make-jungle.py refuses a runtime because a live camera never ends; make-den.py refuses a track without one because a song has a length and withholding it keeps back the thing that lets somebody decide. Two generators, opposite checks, one promise. Read them together.
The hardest subroom yet, because this one shares its parent’s name and its parent’s colour. The Chappell at least did not sound like Pink Pony Club. So the split is structural and stated: upstairs the green is the darkness and the light falls from above; down here the room is brown, the carpet is the brightest thing in it, and the track list is set dark on the green. Same hue, opposite job. One is outdoors, open and has no straight edge in it; this is low, closed and rectangular, full of carved frames with the corners notched out. One sets a serif whose strokes swell as they curve; this sets a slab with no contrast in it at all, because one is a botanical plate and the other is a record sleeve from 1976.
The share cards invert too, and had to. Its parent’s card is a dark green field with a roof of leaves and light coming down. This one is a brown panelled wall with a slab of bright shag across the foot and the type dark on it. If the two had not inverted, splitting them into separate cards would have bought nothing.
And the contrast checker caught the thing the eye does not. A track card is a pane of cream at 78% laid on the shag, so the type on it sits on what those two make and not on the green — measured against the carpet it would have been measuring a ground no word in the room is actually on. The composite lesson again, arriving in the place it is easiest to miss, because the carpet is the thing you see. Twenty-seven new pairs, 284 in the file, none failing.

2026-09-20 — the critter cam comes back as a door, not a window

Ryan sent a replacement for CritterVision’s Critter Cam, and it is not dead. The new id answers OK and was live when it was checked — but playableInEmbed is false, on the same channel id as the one it replaces, with oEmbed refusing it with a 401 the same way. CritterVision has embedding switched off across the channel, so no id from them would come out differently. It is published as a way out to YouTube rather than as a screen that would show a refusal where the picture should be.
Which is the distinction that room was built around, arriving from outside it. Playing and embedding are two different permissions, and the obvious assumption — a working replacement is an embeddable one — is wrong here. The check is one line and it is now written into CLAUDE.md beside the rule about not picking ids from this repo.
Nothing in the room is dark. Both cams that answered UNPLAYABLE have come back from the events page, both were measured before they went up, and both entries carry a replaced note saying what was measured. The jelly cam came back as a screen and the critter cam came back as a link, which is the honest difference between them.
A door does not get pressed, either. Every plate in the room ended pressing is what sends the request, which is true of a screen and false of a link-out — following one is. It is generated per state now, and the three notes stopped repeating what the door already says on its own face.
And the note in the room had to learn to say that. With nothing dark it said only that every cam is playing — true, and it would have let a reader assume they could all be opened here. It counts the link-outs in the same breath now. That is the second time in two days this paragraph has been wrong about its own grammar: the number word and the noun were glued into one lookup, so the first build of this sentence published “Three cams of them”. Two maps now, and both branches agree with their own counts.

2026-09-20 — the jelly cam comes back, and a generated number with hand-written grammar around it

The Live Jelly Cam is in the Jungle Room again. Ryan sent a new id the same day the old one was found dead, which is the process working exactly as DECISIONS.md said it should: the ids on the events page are his, a replacement chosen in this repo would have been a cam nobody chose, and this one came from the person who curates the list.
It was checked before it went up. oEmbed returns the same title and the same channel, the watch page answers OK, and playableInEmbed is true — so it is the same cam under a new stream rather than a different thing with a familiar name. That is written into the entry as a replaced note, because a replacement nobody checked is the original bug with a fresh id on it.
CritterVision’s Critter Cam is still dark, and the room now says so in the singular without anybody editing a paragraph.
Which turned up a small thing worth keeping. The room’s note about dead cams generates its count, for the reason check-counts.py exists — and it generated the count while leaving the rest of the sentence plural, so one dead cam read as “One cam … has gone dark … The entries are … Replacing them”. A generated number in front of hand-written grammar is a sentence that goes wrong the moment the number changes, which is a hand-typed total wearing a better disguise. The whole sentence agrees now. The same edit went through the liner notes, which had the count typed out in full.

2026-09-20 — a viewing room under a canopy, and the one facade on this street that must not say how long it runs

The Jungle Room is open. A door on the street that opens under a closed roof of leaves: light coming down in shafts, and screens cut into the shape of the gaps. Every screen is somebody else’s camera pointed at somewhere real, and every one of them is off until you open it. Ryan’s brief.
The cams are our own events page’s, and so is the order they are in. Our Watering Hole Hangs puts one of these up in the background every weekday — no slides, no presenter, no outcomes — and this room is that list, in that page’s own groups and that page’s own sequence. It is a list somebody keeps, not one for this street to re-sort. The ids came off the hrefs, read out of the Knowledge System mirror rather than fetched live, because on stimpunks.org a 301 is a failure and not a pass. The train cams are deliberately not here: a cab view down a Norwegian line is a fine thing to hang about in and it is not a watering hole.
And this is the one room on the street where a runtime would be the dishonest thing. Every other press-to-play control here says how long it runs before you press it, and make-latibulum.py refuses a track without one, because that number is what lets somebody decide. A live camera has no runtime. The reflex arriving from three other data files is to store the length of whichever stream happens to be up today, which is a number that is wrong tomorrow and looks authoritative in the meantime — so make-jungle.py refuses a cam that has one, which is the exact inverse of the burrow’s check and the same promise. The label says the true thing instead: it runs until you close it. And the room says out loud that the picture may be darkness, rain, an empty waterhole, or a cam between streams, because a camera pointed at somewhere real is often pointed at nothing, and sitting with nothing happening is most of what the room is for.
Playing and embedding turned out to be two different permissions, and nothing here knew that. love-embed.js checks that an id is well-formed and builds an iframe; it cannot know that the video’s owner has switched embedding off. The frame loads and shows a refusal where the picture should be — a button somebody presses and presses that never becomes a video, which is the failure make-chappell.py exists to prevent, arriving through a door no checker was watching. Two of these cams are like that. They get a way out to YouTube, dressed as a door rather than as a window, saying why. check-jukebox.py reads playableInEmbed off the same fetch as the status now, for every facade on the street, and a cam already published as a link-out is not reported.
Two cams on our own published events page are dead, and that page does not know it. Monterey Bay Aquarium’s Live Jelly Cam and CritterVision’s Critter Cam both answer UNPLAYABLE. They render nothing here and the room says so in its own copy, with their names in it, because a gallery quietly shorter than the page it came from is this site correcting a published page by deleting the evidence. The entries stay in the data file with the date they were found dead on. Replacing them is a curation decision on the events page and not one this street gets to make on its own — Ryan’s call.
Nothing was typed off our own link text. Every title and every channel was resolved against YouTube’s oEmbed endpoint, and the three ids oEmbed refuses were read off the watch page’s own owner name. None of these cameras is ours; attribution is the one careful habit this street kept, and a credit taken from a link somebody wrote by hand is a guess wearing a citation.
It is night-green under a roof, next to a field that is night-blue under nothing. The campgrounds is the pairing to watch here the way the yurt and the burrow were last time: both are outdoors, both are dark, both are green. What keeps them apart is structural. The field is bare and open with the sky still on it and posts standing alone on the ground; this has a roof, and nothing in it stands alone because everything overlaps something. The field routes its lettering like a park sign, flat and incised; this sets a face whose strokes swell as they turn, because a rainforest is the one place where growing and thickening are the same verb. You are outside in one and inside the other.
Every screen is a leaf — two pointed corners, two round ones, the same silhouette on the card and on the aperture, and the player is clipped into it when the button becomes an iframe. It is the reason thirty-odd rectangles of video do not read as a spreadsheet.
The contrast checker found the canopy. The band of leaves across the top measured 2.18 against the ground behind it — a smudge, with no telling one leaf from another. WCAG does not reach ambient decoration and it was measured anyway, for the reason the Arcade’s quills were: a canopy nobody can make out is not a canopy, it is a dark strip pretending to be one. All three greens went up. Twenty-six new pairs, and every ink is held against the lit ground as well as the dark one, because the shafts land where they land and a word that only clears in the shade is a word somebody reads in the one place it fails.
The light got a layer of its own, and the second reason is the one that mattered. Painted on the text column it stopped at the column’s edges and drew a hard bright line across the page under the canopy — a shaft with a lid on it. But at MAX the light shifts, and whatever carries the light is what fades: on the column, MAX GLITTER would have dimmed every word in the room by a tenth, twice a minute, in a room built for people who came here to stop being asked to work.
The share card broke the fit checker, and the fix was in the checker. make-og.py measures where ink lands and refused this card for a crop that does not exist: the canopy’s leaves hang off both sides of their band and are clipped by it, so their boxes run past the edge while nothing is painted there. It skips descendants of a clipping <svg> now — reading the computed overflow rather than assuming it, so this stays a statement about paint — which is the same narrow exclusion check-gentle.py makes for transforms inside a drawing. It also caught a real one on the way: width: 100% resolves against the padding box, so the band’s negative right margin moved nothing and left a visible step 60px in from the edge of the card.
Two new faces, and the room is the reason. Yeseva One and Cabin, self-hosted and OFL like everything else here. Cabin is a variable font, so one file is stored and declared twice against the weight axis — the same as Nunito.

2026-09-20 — a burrow under the street, and three class names that were already taken

The Latibulum is open. A door on the street that goes down into a hill: round door, lamp, thick walls, a wireless with one station on it, a tube television with one programme, and a shelf of things to do with a bodymind. Ryan’s brief, and his word.
The word does both jobs already. Latibulum is Latin, and Lewis and Short give it as “a hiding-place, lurking-hole, covert, den, of animals” before giving the figurative sense and quoting Cicero calling a place the latibulum et perfugium doloris mei — the hiding-place and refuge of his grief. Ryan met it in a Walkabout Saga post; the room checks the sense against the dictionary rather than restating the post, so the two can be read against each other. In our own vocabulary it is a cave, the quiet end of a Cavendish Space, which is what stops it being a theme.
It is the second warm brown room on this street, and that is the whole design problem. The Faery Yurt is also candlelit, also earth-toned, also built to hold somebody — and “they are both cosy, so they should feel the same” is the subroom excuse in a woolly jumper. The thing keeping them apart is structural rather than decorative: the yurt reads cream on dark all the way down, and almost every word in the burrow sits dark on a lit plaster wall. One is a pitched column of canvas with lights strung across it; the other is dug into a hill and has no sky in it anywhere. Two new faces for the same reason — a planed slab and a rounded sans, because a smial is carpentry and the yurt is calligraphy.
The wireless is Adriel’s and stays where he put it. Ocean Waves is by Adriel Jeremiah Wool, a Stimpunk, and he has given us permission to use it however we like. It is a press-to-play facade anyway, because a permission is not a reason to take a copy of somebody’s seventy-four-minute composition off its own shelf, and because this street does not host anything musical. It is also not a recording of the ocean and the room says so: Ryan’s own line calls it a fractal composition of the nature of the ocean, and knowing that before you press it changes what you do with it.
The television is a class you can take lying down. Annette of Itstimefitness, 22:45, seated tai chi and qigong — Repulse Monkey, Parting the Horse’s Mane, Cloud Arms — chosen for our own Campfire Learn Together on somatic practice. Everything in it is seated and not as a modification: as the design.
The shelf refuses to be a checklist. Stretch, flap, fidget, meditate, stim dance, body scan, eat, drink, pee — lifted from our own Bodymind Break, and not one of them is a button. No ticks, no streak, nothing that notices which ones you did. A shelf that kept score would have turned a bodymind break into a small unpaid job, which is what the break is a break from — the same argument the pebbling cabinet makes about tallies, arriving in a room with no game in it.
MAX GLITTER, down here, is one lamp breathing. Nothing in the room rotates at any setting, so there was no tilt to reset; the single animation is an opacity change over nine seconds on the lamp flame. The room says that on its own face rather than leaving somebody to turn it up and wonder whether it worked.
And then the interesting bug, which was in the stylesheet rather than in the room. This site is one love.css holding a set of worlds that share nothing, and a class name is global whatever section it is written in. Four of this room’s names were already taken: .scrawl belongs to the zine table, .shelf to the bookshelf in the Faery Yurt, .knob to the Arcade’s speed control, and .tagline to the street’s six-typeface masthead. Only one of them was visible — the burrow’s trail line came out in the zine’s Rock Salt, which is how it was noticed at all. The other three were quietly inheriting a timber gradient, a button’s border and display: flex from rooms on the other side of the file.
So there is a checker for that now. check-classes.py refuses a class claimed by two rooms’ sections of love.css, and — the half that catches the .tagline case, where the stylesheet is innocent and the markup is not — refuses a page wearing a class name another room has claimed. It is the CSS twin of check-ids.py and exists for the same reason: the browser applies the winner and says nothing. A third check was written and thrown away: a class styled in love.css that nothing wears is real dead weight, and it cannot be told apart from a class a script builds through a helper, because svgEl('frond', …) in otterly.js puts a class on an element without the word class appearing near it. It reported seven drawings that are on the screen right now, and a checker that cries wolf is one people stop running.
And it found three leaks that were already here, none of them new. Two rules belonging to the quantum room had been left stranded at the bottom of the file, after the print section, which is how the print section came to look like it was claiming .fringe; they are back in their own room. .scrawl turned out to be worn by the zine table, issue #2 and Enid’s room while living inside the zine’s section — three rooms on one class makes it furniture whichever section it was typed in, so it moved to §4 rather than being renamed twice. And the Faery Yurt’s tagline had been quietly taking display: flex and a 940px max-width from the street’s masthead since the room shipped. That one is a class name and not a design decision, so it is .yurt-tagline now; nothing of Helen’s moved, and the room renders pixel for pixel as it did.
The share card is two grounds. Earth at the top with the lamp on it and the round door drawn on it, a band of lit plaster along the foot carrying dark type. That inversion is the room rather than a flourish, and a card that left it out would be advertising a different room. New contrast pairs for both halves; the brass moved from #C28F3C to #E3BB6A because a knob measured 1.93 against the lightest of the three woods behind it — a knob you could not see on the cabinet it is screwed to.
The burrow’s two facades are in check-jukebox.py. A room with two of them is exactly the size at which somebody decides a list is not worth adding to a checker, and a dead station in a room built for people who are already flat is the worst place on this street to find rot.

2026-09-20 — a pebbling cabinet, and the licence that decided what it could be

Penguin Pebbling is in the Arcade. A shore, pebbles on it, three neighbours with nests. Walk into something to pick it up, carry it over, press GIVE. Every gift is taken and every one gets something different said back, because giving is how you find out who somebody is rather than a lock to pick.
The first thing to say is that there is already a Penguin Pebbling game, and this is not it. Penguin Pebbling is thirty cards across all five locutions, by Helen Edgar and Ryan Boren, 2026, with Helen’s artwork. Go and play that one. The cabinet takes nothing from it — no cards, no prompts, no artwork, no five-locution structure.
And the reason is a licence rather than modesty, which is worth writing down because it nearly was not noticed. The deck is CC BY-NC-SA 4.0. This site is CC BY-SA 4.0, with no non-commercial clause. An adaptation would have dragged NC onto a page that cannot carry it; share-alike means it could not be quietly absorbed; and relicensing is not ours alone to do, because half the authorship and all the artwork are Helen’s. So the cabinet is built on the locution — coined by Amythest Schaber (Neurowonderful), documented by Stimpunks in 2022, written up by Helen at Autistic Realms in 2023 — which belongs to the community. Two of our own things with two different licences is exactly the case attribution exists for, and it is the first time on this site that a licence has changed what a page is rather than what it says at the bottom.
It refuses a count, and that is the locution rather than a difficulty setting. No tally of what you gave, no total, no streak, nothing at the end. The neighbours bring you things on their own clock whether or not you have ever given them anything — built as a timer rather than as a reward, because a gift that arrives because you gave first is a trade. A number beside a practice that is explicitly not about volume would quietly make it about volume.
The pale screen is the only one on the street, and the contrast work is why the pebbles have shapes. Everything on a shingle beach is a mid-tone including the shingle, so nothing on this screen is carried by its fill: every pebble, penguin and nest is drawn with the same dark outline, and check-contrast.py measures that outline against the three grounds and then each fill against the outline. That is the honest reading of WCAG 1.4.11, which asks about adjacent colours rather than about a fill against a distant background. But holding the fills to 4.5 against the outline squeezes them all light — and a narrow band of light tones is a narrow band of things nobody can tell apart. So the six things you can carry are six different shapes: a round pebble, a smooth one, a shard of sea glass, a speckled stone, a feather, a broken shell. Shape carries it, and the name said out loud on every pick-up carries it again. Thirteen new pairs, 195 in the file, none failing.
The card inverts too, and had to. Gold on a pale sky measures 1.9, so the type is dark on light — the only share card on this street that is. It was decided by a measurement rather than chosen.
A duplicate id, and a bug that would have been much worse anywhere else. The penguin’s drawing sits in the page’s <defs> as #peng and the player’s sprite was also id="peng", so getElementById returned the definition and the game threw on the first line of start(). It took thirty seconds to find because pressing START does something visible. The same mistake in markup nobody presses would have sat there, which is why the other cabinets’ cloned sprites were built out of <use> against one definition in the first place. All four arcade pages were swept; no others.
So there is a checker for that now, and it immediately found a worse one. check-ids.py refuses a page that uses an id twice, and refuses a script that asks by name for an id no page loading it has. Run against the whole site it turned up seven elements sharing id="yurt-says" in the Faery Yurt — make-yurt-sound.py had been emitting a live region inside every sound tile, so six of them were dead markup that had never received a word, and love.js only ever reached the first. It had been live since the regulation nook shipped and nothing had said so, because a duplicate in markup nobody presses does not announce itself. The generator emits one shared region now. Broken on purpose with both real bugs put back; it named both.
Two things found by looking at the screen rather than by any check. Every penguin was the same size on the same line, so there was no telling which one you were steering — the neighbours are drawn smaller and staggered up the beach now, and you are the one in front. And the nests were single filled ellipses that read as puddles the penguins were standing in; a nest is a rim with a hollow, which is also what the animal actually builds.
And an honest note about the penguins, on the page. Adélie and gentoo penguins do build nests of stones, carry them about, and steal them from each other. The tidy romance — one penguin choosing the perfect pebble for its beloved — is the popular retelling rather than the finding. The locution is named after the image and is not weakened by that. A metaphor does not have to be a finding. There is no stealing in the cabinet, because the game is about the locution and not about penguins.

2026-09-20 — a second cabinet in the Arcade, in which floating gets you nothing

Otterly Adorbs. You steer an otter round a kelp bay. It twirls, somersaults, dives and floats on its back; three other otters keep their own rhythms; fish come through at feeding time and go again. Ryan’s proposal, and the name is his.
It turned out not to be a blank sheet, which changed the design. The Stimpunks Solidarity Session has been leaving an otter cam running every Saturday for months — cameras on or off, some speaking, some in text, nobody has to watch. Helen Edgar wrote down what that was doing for her in Stimpunks Solidarity and Otters, and Star Stuff built The Stone You Keep (No. 58) on top of it, sourced to the primary literature. So the cabinet is built out of findings rather than out of charm, and otterly.js names the paper beside each one.
Floating fills nothing up, and that is the single sharpest constraint in the build. No meter, no stamina, no bonus afterwards — the cabinet says so out loud the first time you roll over. Zine No. 58 refuses rest so you can produce in as many words: the otter is not recharging in order to forage better tomorrow. The friendly version of this game rewards resting, and the friendly version would have put a sentence on this page that another of our pages spends a spread refusing. It is written into CLAUDE.md so the next well-meant improvement gets stopped.
A clam takes between 6 and 88 presses, and those are the real numbers. Two observers at Point Lobos in 1964 watched thirty instances over six days: a mussel took a mean of 35.5 blows, range 6 to 88 (Hall & Schaller). The game rolls in that range unrounded and reports your number with no target beside it. The urchin opens in a couple of goes and a stone does not help with it, which is Law et al. 2024 — some otters never carry one, because they are on the prey that does not need one, and the ones who do carry one keep their teeth.
Nothing ranks the other three otters. Under food limitation a real population does not converge on one best way to be an otter; it fans out into specialists, each measurably better at its own thing (Tinker, Bentall & Estes, 2008). One of ours mostly floats, one mostly dives, one mostly turns in circles, and there is no scoreboard for any of it.
The kelp does the holding. Float in the fronds and you stay where you are; float in open water and you drift. That is co-regulation stated as physics rather than as a metaphor, and it is the one mechanic that is also the reason the Saturday session works.
It follows the zine’s correction rather than our own changelog. stimpunks.org’s week-28 entry describes the otter keeping “a favorite stone tucked in a pouch of skin” and returning to it “again and again”. No. 58 went to the primary and found the lifelong favourite rock in an armpit pouch is a popular retelling; what Hall & Schaller support is a stone kept and reused across successive food items within a bout of feeding. The game does the second thing. When two of our own pages disagree, the one that checked wins.
A twirl is drawn frames, not a rotation, and that cost real work. Rotating the sprite would have been three lines — and would have made the room’s own comment false, because check-gentle.py reads rotation out of the computed matrix and this room says in its stylesheet that there is nothing there to read. So the otter has five drawn poses and a trick is a run through them. The angled poses are rotated, inside their own <svg>, where a transform is part of the picture the way a path’s d is. Frame-swapping is also what an actual cabinet did.
The contrast checker found the seabed. It measured 1.10 against the water above it — invisible — and lightening the floor until it cleared 3:1 started swallowing the cobbles and the urchin that sit on it, which are the things a player reaches for. So the boundary is carried by a line instead, at 8.44 on the water and 9.25 on the bed. The information is “here is the floor”, and a line carries it perfectly well. Nineteen new pairs; 182 in the file, none failing.
Buoyancy was winning an argument the player was trying to have with a clam. An otter is buoyant, so doing nothing takes you up — at the first setting that was about eight per cent of the bay a second, and it pulled you off the bed before you could pick a stone up. It is a quarter of that now, and it stops entirely while you are working on a shell, because an otter cracking something is holding itself there.
Then the room split, and the share card is what decided it. Both games lived on one page for about an hour. Which meant a link to the otter game unfurled as a picture of a porcupine — the exact fault make-og.py exists to refuse, being committed by a room against its own second game. The Arcade is a foyer now, with the cabinets standing in it under lit marquees, and Quill Drift and Otterly Adorbs are pages with a machine on each. Three cards where there was one, and the two new ones are the screens: a flat dark field with Esmx and loose quills, and a kelp bay with an otter on its back.
Those three pages share a carpet, a marquee, a cabinet build and a pixel face, and that is correct here. On this street that normally reads as the tidying instinct winning, so it is written into CLAUDE.md before somebody either “fixes” the similarity or cites it as licence to harmonise actual rooms. An arcade is precisely a room whose machines share a body and differ behind the glass. The worlds here are the screens, and a dark field and a kelp bay have nothing to do with each other. The chrome moved to a .arcade class so that the thing which styles and the thing which unfurls are never the same word — each page carries exactly one class make-og.py has a card for, and no ordering inside a class attribute decides anything.
Each cabinet carries its own panels, its own refusals and its own credits. A single shared sidebar stopped working the moment there were two machines: a readout headed YOUR ESMX floating above an otter game is furniture belonging to nobody. The foyer keeps only what is true of every machine in the room — no timer, nothing chasing you, no sound, no memory, nothing moving until you press start. check-counts.py gained cabinets and games while this shipped and immediately refused two sentences calling one of them “the second cabinet”.

2026-09-20 — the street stops saying how many rooms it has, and a checker to keep it that way

Ryan’s call: the number of storefronts is going to grow well past anything worth writing down, so nothing here states a total any more. Not the pages, not the stylesheet’s comments, not a generator’s published strings, not the docs. The street’s own description, its share card, llms.txt, the feed’s description, the liner notes, the campground’s lede and the empty storefront’s opening line all say something that stays true however many there are — no two rooms alike, one card per room, a row of shopfronts, a storefront with nothing in it.
The change that opened the Arcade is the argument for this, and it is not a flattering one. That commit carefully updated the room count in twelve places — and shipped three sentences still carrying the old one. love.css went on describing the doors and the shopfronts by a number that had stopped being true the moment the seventh one landed, and CLAUDE.md went on giving the number of share-card designs as one fewer than existed. All three were written by the same session that was updating the other twelve, and nothing caught them, because nothing was looking. A total is a fact about the whole site that gets written in a dozen places and updated in one.
So check-counts.py refuses a number or an ordinal sitting in front of a thing that grows when a storefront opens — rooms, storefronts, shopfronts, doors, worlds, card designs. It is deliberately small. The jukebox’s tracks and The Chappell’s are real counts of real data, generated from files holding exactly that many, and it leaves them alone.
It starts at four, because the first draft refused its own fix. Written to catch any number from two upwards, the very first thing it flagged was “no two rooms alike” — the count-free phrasing this whole change exists to encourage — along with “two rooms turned out to be putting text on a background nobody had measured”, which is a finding rather than a claim about the size of the street. Below four, a number in front of these nouns is nearly always counting instances. A street’s total will be four and rising.
Quoted text is skipped in prose and not in code, and the asymmetry is the point. A page or a doc has to be able to say what it corrected, so a count inside quotation marks there is evidence rather than a claim. In a generator every quoted string is a candidate for publication — make-og.py writes its card footers out of string literals — so there is no safe quotation, and the checker’s own docstring therefore describes the three stale counts rather than quoting them. It is the one place where a tool’s prose has to obey the rule it enforces. The first version scanned line by line and refused itself, because the quotation it makes its argument out of wrapped across two.
Broken on purpose in all three shapes that actually shipped — a page’s prose (“the seventh storefront”), a stylesheet comment (“the six doors”) and a generator’s docstring (“eleven card designs”) — and it named all three with their file and line. Then the working tree was put back.
One count it missed on the way, which is why it grew a word. The Arcade’s own source said the room “shares nothing with the six next door”, and the first rule sailed past it because next was not in the short list of words allowed to sit between a number and its noun. It is in the list now, and the sentence says the rooms next door.
The share card changed with the street. Its footer read ONE STREET · SEVEN ROOMS · A FIELD PAST THE TREELINE and now reads NO TWO ROOMS ALIKE, which is the better line anyway: the count was never the interesting claim, and the thing it was standing in for is the one this site is actually about.
The room numbers on the doors stay. room 04, room 05, ROOM 07 are addresses, and a house number has never told anybody how long the street is.

2026-09-20 — the second yell, and a duration that lies about itself

The yell button has two voices in it. The Playhouse holds a yell from Enigma, lent on 2026-09-20 — the first on that button from somebody other than the person who built the room. It is published under the name it came with, the room says whose yell it was out loud on the press, and it is credited in the liner notes as well. It carries no onward licence, unlike everything else here: CC BY-SA cannot be revoked, and a voice somebody lends us has to be one they can take back.
Two tools refused it on arrival, which is what they are for. The file sat in audio/yells/ with no entry in data/yells.json, so make-yells.py stopped — a yell with nobody’s name on it is the one thing it cannot publish — and make-yurt-sound.py’s sweep of every audio file in the repo stopped on the metadata: com.apple, Core Media, and a creation timestamp to the second. Neither tool strips anything, and that is deliberate: what to do with somebody’s recording is theirs to decide, not a script’s. It was stripped once there was a decision to strip it.
And the obvious way to check that strip is misleading. The instruction in both docstrings is to compare the duration before and after, because -c copy re-muxes rather than re-encodes. It went from 4.160s to 4.096s — 64 milliseconds apparently gone, which reads exactly like a bad edit. It is not. -map_metadata -1 drops the iTunSMPB tag, which is the container’s declaration of encoder padding, and the start offset went 0.044 to 0.000 with it. Decoding both files to raw PCM gives 196,608 samples each, identical at every one of them, same peak. The audio is untouched; the 64ms was never audio. Written down here because the check the tools recommend will keep producing that number, and the next person to run it should not go looking for what they cut off.
The house rule rewrote itself, which is the whole reason it is generated. The Playhouse now says the button holds “2 recorded yells” rather than one. A claim a page makes about itself should not depend on somebody remembering to edit it. Verified in the network panel afterwards: zero requests to audio/ on load, one per press, and both names reached the live region.

2026-09-20 — a seventh storefront, with one cabinet in it

The street has an arcade on it. The Arcade is room seven, sixth door in the row, and it holds one game: Quill Drift, starring Esmx the Porkypine. Loose quills drift across a dark field, Esmx walks, and a quill joins the mane on contact and only on contact. No timer, no lives, no score, no streak, nothing chasing anybody and no way to lose a quill once it is in.
The one rule is the mechanic, not a note at the bottom of it. A porcupine cannot shoot a quill — cannot throw, fire or launch one; it comes away in whatever touched it, and an attacker has to come to the animal. That is card No. 3 of the Quillery, sourced there to Uldis Roze. A spiky mascot invites precisely the opposite reading, so the game has no verb for it: there is nothing to aim, nothing to press but a direction, and nothing on the field but Esmx and the quills. “Non-violent” was the brief; refusing the one verb everybody expects is what it turned into.
The point of the game is a variant, which is what the licence asks for. Twelve quills fill the mane, and what you are left with is a mane in an order nobody else walked into — written out in words beside the cabinet as well as drawn on the sprite, because a mane nobody can read is a mane nobody can tell anybody about. Esmx’s own page does not merely permit this: feel free to customise! Make variants of Esmx to represent your community.
A correction, caught by Ryan mid-build and worth the space. The room shipped its first draft calling Esmx “our mascot and not ours”, and borrowed the framing from the Quillery, which says Kaya Oldaker’s artwork “is not ours to redraw stroke for stroke”. That is wrong about the facts. Stimpunks commissioned Esmx and holds the IP; Kaya is the artist. The credit line stays on every surface it was on — in the room, in the liner notes and in the drawing’s own markup — because holding the rights to a commission is not a reason to stop naming the hand that drew it, which is a different and better sentence than the one that was there. Attribution here is a courtesy as well as a licence, and it turns out the courtesy is the half that was doing the work.
Esmx is drawn again rather than pasted in, and not because anybody needed permission. The originals are a download away and ours to use. A PNG would have been the only thing in the arcade that came from somewhere else, in a room whose whole argument is that it shares nothing with the six next door — and taking our own invitation seemed like the least we could do with it. The marks that make Esmx Esmx are kept: the pig snout, the earring in one ear, the chunk out of the other, and a mane that comes apart at the tips.
An arcade in particular, because the mascot already came from one. Kaya’s notes say Esmx resembles a Sonic character or a Pokémon on purpose, due to their popularity within the Autistic community. Nothing of either is used here. The room is not a costume put on the mascot; it is where the mascot came from.
The dial and the speed knob are two controls, on purpose. The dial governs the room — the cabinet glow, the marquee bulbs — and the game’s speed belongs to the player. The dial picks the knob’s starting position, Slow if you arrived on Gentle, and then stops having an opinion; all three speeds are offered at every dial setting. Tying the game to the dial would have made Gentle a different game, which is the “lite version” mistake with a joystick on it.
And nothing on the playfield moves until a coin goes in — the jukebox’s consent model in a different costume, and the reason a room with a game in it does not make the dial lie. Motion the visitor started is not ambient motion. The cabinet also makes no sound at all, ever, at any setting; an arcade that is silent by choice seemed better than one that is silent until it isn’t.
Everything moves with left/top, and that is a decision about the checker rather than about performance. Rotation and skew are what check-gentle.py reads out of the computed matrix, and a room that put its game behind a transform would be asking that tool to take the room’s word for something. There is nothing to take on trust if there is no transform to read. The two that are there are the sprite’s centring translate and a scaleX(-1) when Esmx turns round — both of which the tool already reads as layout, and both of which it can see. Broken on purpose with an unreset rotate(-2deg) on the cabinet marquee: it named p.cab-marquee and the matrix it found. 192 elements in the room, measured at all three settings, none tilting.
Thirty-six new contrast pairs, two of them against grounds nobody chose. #0F1F24 is what the screen becomes under its scanline stripe and is the lighter of the two grounds the playfield makes, so it is the one that decides; #2D1C25 is the carpet under the cabinet’s own glow, where the headline and the eyebrow sit. The eight quills are in the list too — WCAG 1.4.3 does not reach a graphic, but a quill you cannot pick out of the background is a control you cannot use, and they are held to the body threshold rather than the 3:1 one so that nobody has to remember later which bar applied. Each quill also has a name, said out loud on contact, because colour is never the only channel here. 162 pairs, none failing; broken on purpose by dimming one grey, and the composite ground failed harder than the flat one, which is the whole argument for having both in the file.
make-og.py refused the room until it had a card, which is exactly what it is for — the eleventh design, and the one that is mostly a drawing, because this is the only room whose subject is a character rather than an argument and a poster for a game showing nobody playing it would be a poster for the wrong thing. Esmx and the marquee bulbs are lifted out of the page rather than retyped, alongside the campground’s stream and the yurt’s crown, so the card cannot come to disagree with the room. The mane on it is the markup’s own default rainbow; the game only ever overwrites those twelve fills with what a player actually caught.
Press Start 2P is the eighteenth family and the only face in the room. A pixel face is the one thing no other room on this street could have borrowed without turning into the arcade. 4.7KB, latin only, self-hosted like the other seventeen — verified in the network panel: every byte on the page comes from this origin, and the cabinet fetches nothing when you press anything, because there is nothing to fetch.
Playtested, and the first build was over before its own instructions were. Six quills on the field at a reach of 7.5 filled a twelve-quill mane in about ten seconds. Dropping to five at 6.2 went too far the other way — a full lap of the field turned up one quill and the game went slack. Six at 7.0 fills a mane in something under a minute of walking, measured over a sixteen-leg random walk rather than guessed.
“Six rooms” was written down in twelve places — the street’s description and its card alt, llms.txt, love.css’s own header, the liner notes, the campground’s lede, the feed’s description and the street card’s footer. It is seven now, and Your Room is the seventh storefront rather than the sixth. The derived files are derived, so make-sitemap.py and make-feed.py carried their own copies of the sentence and had to be edited at the source rather than in the output.
The pad takes a press-and-hold or a single click, because a control that only works while a button is held down is not a control for somebody driving it with a switch or a screen reader. The arrow keys are bound to the playfield rather than to the document — arrow keys that stop the page scrolling from anywhere on it would be a trap — and Escape hands them back.

2026-09-20 — a checker for the dial, and the windowsill it caught

The dial had nothing watching it. check-gentle.py loads all fourteen pages in headless Chrome, sets the intensity to Gentle, Regular and MAX GLITTER in turn, and reads what actually moves out of 2,253 computed styles — rather than reading the stylesheet and believing it. The global half was always safe: animation and transition are killed at Gentle with !important, and nothing out-shouts that by accident. The tilts were never safe. Every room sets its own rotations and resets them room by room, unprefixed, so a reset is one selector away from being outranked — and CSS does not warn when that happens. It applies the winner and says nothing.
It found the Faery Yurt’s windowsill on its first run. A book at rotate(-3deg) and a pen at rotate(24deg), both still tilted for anybody who had asked the wobble to stop, because that room shipped without a single Gentle rule in it. Twenty-four degrees is not subtle. The room was a day old and two people had read it. The sill keeps its angles at Regular and MAX — they are Helen’s and they stay; the reset is the dial, which is our plumbing and applies to every room on the street.
Rotation and skew are the wobble; a mirror and a translate are not. The tool reads the off-diagonal terms of the computed matrix, which are non-zero for exactly those two and nothing else, so a vine flipped with scaleX(-1) and a positioned layer pass without needing an exception. Transforms inside an <svg> are excluded on purpose: a transform on a <g> is part of the drawing, the same kind of thing as a path’s d, and flattening one would produce a broken picture rather than a calmer page.
It checks the other half of the sentence too. “Never the words” means the visible text of a page has to be identical at Gentle and at Regular. It is, on all fourteen — which is the moment to write the check, rather than after somebody has a paragraph they would rather drop at the quiet setting.
Broken on purpose three times before being believed, because a checker that has only ever passed is a checker nobody has tested. Restoring the near-miss on Enid’s wall — the tilt selector written one level too specific — and it names figure.polaroid. Hiding a .scrawl at Gentle and it reports the pages whose word count drops. Leaving an !important animation running and it names the element. Then the working tree was put back.

2026-09-20 — the wall becomes a wall, and a tilt that nearly outranked the dial

Enid’s photographs were stacking in a single narrow column, and the prose panel beside them was being stretched to match: 1,291 pixels of bordered box holding 218 pixels of writing, and 1,073 of nothing. The row they sat in never carried align-items, so it defaulted to stretch — and the row one level up already had flex-start, which is the tell that this was an omission rather than a decision.
It was correct the day it was written and rotted as the site succeeded. With the wall grey, the column was one note at 222px and the panel was 218px; stretch looked like alignment. Every photograph anybody sent added about 350px of emptiness to the panel next door, because aspect-ratio: auto is the no-crop promise and a portrait renders at full portrait height. The third photo is what made it impossible to miss. Nothing would have reported this — it is not a failing check, it is a room that looks slightly wrong and gets slightly wronger.
So the wall is a wall now: sticker wall, then photographs across it, then the prose underneath. Polaroids are one fixed size, the way real ones are, and they pack across and wrap — the tenth photograph widens the wall instead of lengthening the page. Heights stay ragged, because the frame still adapts to each picture. Simulated eight photos in the page to watch it wrap: 3 / 3 / 2, the short last row staying short rather than stretching one polaroid to full width. The page is 1,175px where it was 2,860.
Every other photograph leans the other way, because three in a row all tilted -2deg reads as one skewed strip rather than three separately pinned pictures.
And that tilt nearly turned the wobble back on for the people who turned it off. The obvious selector — .polaroid-wall .polaroid:nth-child(even) — is specificity (0,3,0), and the Gentle reset is html[data-intensity="gentle"] .polaroid at (0,2,1). The decoration would have outranked the dial, in the one room whose photographs are of real people, and nothing here checks computed transforms so it would have shipped silently. It is written :where(.polaroid-wall) .polaroid:nth-child(even): :where() contributes no specificity, which holds the rule at (0,2,0) and under the reset. Read the computed transform at all three settings rather than trusting the arithmetic — Regular and MAX GLITTER tilt −2°, +1.5°, −2°; Gentle is none, none, none.
The generator moved two spaces and learned nothing else. make-polaroids.py writes the wall between its markers and has no opinion about the container, so the restructure was ours to make; only its indentation changed, to match the new depth. Re-ran it against the rebuilt room and the output is byte-identical, which is the property that matters — the next photograph has to land in a row, not quietly restore the column.

2026-09-20 — the regulation nook makes noises, and a hole between three tools

The Regulation Nook makes noises. All six of Helen’s tiles in the Faery Yurt are buttons now — blankets, squishmallows, fairy lights, cupcakes, coffee, cheese and pesto — and each plays a couple of seconds of Ryan making the appropriate noise. An easter egg Ryan and Helen wanted in her room. Each sound owns exactly one marker pair in the page and nothing else, rather than the tool generating the whole list: a tile whose recording is withdrawn goes back to being Helen’s own markup, and that has to be a change to one tile rather than a rewrite of six.
An easter egg that still tells you it is there. A tile with a sound wears the same candlelit card as its neighbours, and a small ♪ 2s surfaces on hover and on focus; the button’s accessible name says it is a sound and how long. The discovery is meant to be “one of these is a button”, not “a page I was reading quietly made a noise at me” — a hidden noise would be the exact thing the dial and the press-to-play facades exist to prevent, arriving as a joke. At Gentle the marker is simply always shown, because the quiet setting should reveal more and never less.
Nothing is fetched until you press. Verified in the network panel: zero requests to audio/ on load, one per press, and never two playing at once — pressing a second tile is a change of mind, not two people talking over each other. Whose voice it is is said out loud into a live region on every press rather than only filed in the liner notes, where it is also filed.
Every runtime is measured off the file, not typed. The six labels say 2, 2, 3, 2, 4 and 2 seconds because that is what the containers report. Every press-to-play control on this street promises a duration before the press — the jukebox, the thirteen arches, the audio room’s sequence — and a hand-kept number is a promise one edit away from being false.
Then the interesting part: three tools guarding audio, and a hole between them. make-readings.py refuses stray recorder metadata on passages, make-yells.py on yells, and the new tool on the yurt’s — and every one of them only ever looked at files its own data file named. Recordings sat in audio/ for an afternoon carrying com.apple.VoiceMemos (iPad Version 26.6.2), a creation timestamp to the second and a voice-memo UUID, belonging to no tool’s patch, one git add -A from being permanent in a public repository. make-yurt-sound.py now walks every audio file in the repo instead. Three guards with a hole between them is a hole.
It refuses rather than strips. What to do with somebody’s recording is theirs to decide, and a tool that silently rewrote the files people dropped in would be worse than one that says what is wrong and names the file.

2026-09-20 — the third photograph, and the promise it broke on arrival

Helen sent her portrait, for both places at once. It is on Enid’s wall and it is the picture beside the welcome in her own room — the empty slot the yurt shipped with two commits ago, because the file was not ours to invent. Description, caption and naming are hers, and she took it herself. No EXIF, not resized, not cropped.
And not filtered, which is the part worth writing down. Her mockup put a sepia wash over this photograph — filter: sepia(.18) saturate(1.05) brightness(.96) — and the terms promise, in these words, that we will not “Crop you. Filter you.” A promise the site makes to everybody is not waived by the one person it happens to be about this time, because the next photograph would arrive under a rule that had already been bent once. The wooden frame is matting and stays: a border, a shadow or a mat goes around a picture; a filter is done to it.
So the tool checks it rather than trusting anybody to remember. make-polaroids.py now refuses a filter in an <img>’s own style attribute, and refuses any rule in love.css whose selector reaches a photograph and carries one. Every photograph on the site wears class="photo" so there is something exact to look for.
The first version of that check did not work, and the way it failed is the point. It scanned only the classes on the <img> itself, so it sailed straight past .portrait-frame img { filter: … } — the filter was on a descendant selector, which is the shape this actually arrives in. It was written, it passed, and it was wrong; it only got caught because putting the sepia back and watching the tool say nothing is cheaper than believing it. A checker that passes a case it was built for is worse than no checker, and this one nearly shipped as exactly that. All three shapes refuse now — descendant selector, the plate’s own class, and an inline style — each one tested by breaking it on purpose.

2026-09-20 — the street grows an edge, and Helen pitches a yurt on it

There is a signpost at the end of the shopfronts now. The Campgrounds — a field past the treeline with numbered pitches on it, for the people who do not want a storefront. A row of lit shops is a wonderful place to be and an exhausting place to live, and a site that only had one of those was telling its own quiet people that the loud room is the only room. The signpost is deliberately not a seventh door: a door here is a shop you walk into, and this is where the street stops.
Nothing in the field moves at any setting — not at Gentle, not at Regular, not at MAX GLITTER. Every other page has an ambient layer waiting for the dial to be turned up; this one has none, and says so on the page. An area that exists for people who want quiet cannot have a loud setting and mean it. The dial still governs each pitch, which are their own worlds and set their own noise.
Pitch 01 is the Faery Yurt, and it is Helen Edgar’s room rather than ours. The palette, the three typefaces, the drawings, the twelve book spines, the shutters on the glimmer window and every line of copy came from a mockup she built and sent. We added the plumbing and changed one colour. It is credited to her in the liner notes, in a section that did not exist until there was a room by somebody else to put in it.
The yurt shares nothing with the field it is pitched on, and that was the hardest version of this rule yet. The Chappell at least had a parent room to differ from; this is the first thing in a brand new area, where “an area should look like an area” is the most reasonable-sounding sentence the tidying instinct has produced here since “it is only a subroom”. The field is cold blue spruce, bone signs routed like park lettering, and bare ground. The yurt is candlelit brown, old serifs and soft cards. You walk in out of the night air; the contrast is the door. They got a share card each, ninth and tenth, for the same reason.
The contrast checker caught two things in Helen’s mockup before it shipped. Her smallest grey, #8a7462, carries the eyebrow, the shelf note, the window hint, the animal cards and the footer — and it measures 4.30 on the flat tent ground, 3.85 on a card and 3.43 under the ember glow, failing everywhere it is used. It is #A4907B now. Her fourth book spine ran to #9a6c2f, where the cream lettering measured 3.74; it stops at #8A5F26. Thirty-nine new pairs, including one against #31231A — a colour nobody wrote, which is what the yurt’s canvas weave and ember crown actually composite to. 126 pairs, none failing. This is the only thing about her room this site changed, and it is written down rather than quietly applied.
The consent record now guards every page, not just the wall. The yurt hangs one of Enid’s photographs in Helen’s own room, which put the consent record and the publication in two different places for the first time — exactly the gap where a withdrawal gets half-honoured. make-polaroids.py walks all the HTML now: a photo published anywhere without an entry is a refusal, a photo hung outside the wall without that entry saying so is a refusal, and a file sitting in photos/ with no record at all is a refusal. Delete a withdrawn entry and the tool refuses to run until the yurt lets go of it too, instead of leaving a broken image on a page nobody thought to check.
Five typefaces arrived at once, which is what it costs to open an area whose two pages share nothing with the street or with each other. Alfa Slab One and Bitter are the campground’s routed sign and its field notice; Cormorant Garamond, Crimson Pro and Caveat are Helen’s, named in her own mockup. All five are self-hosted, so the yurt still makes no third-party request — verified in the network panel, along with the field: every byte on both pages comes from this origin.
A keyboard fix the mockup could not have caught. The glimmer window’s shutters are opened by a visually hidden checkbox, so the site’s focus ring was landing on something invisible and a keyboard visitor had no way to tell they were on it. The ring goes on the window frame now.

2026-09-20 — the second photograph

Enid’s wall has somebody else on it. Helen Edgar, on a grand staircase — the first photograph up there from somebody other than the person who built the room, which is the difference between a process and a person waving his own picture through. The description and the caption are the words it arrived with, because the terms do not allow any other kind.
The photographer is credited without being named. A friend took it and would rather stay anonymous, and the permission is on the record anyway — the tool refuses a credited photographer with no permission logged, and anonymous is a way of being named rather than a way of skipping the question. Being in a picture is not the same as owning it.
Checked before publishing, not promised: no EXIF, so no location data left on the file; the photograph keeps its own shape, because the plate stopped cropping when the first one went up; and it carries no onward licence, so it comes down the day she says so and nobody else gets to reuse it in the meantime.

2026-09-20 — a door at the back of the dancefloor

Pink Pony Club has a subroom. The Chappell — thirteen Chappell Roan videos under the heading Unabashed Pleasure and Righteous Inclusion, which is the name of a playlist we already published. The room argues that the two halves of that title are usually kept apart, that Disabled people get handed the righteous one and told the other is a reward for good behaviour, and that unabashed pleasure is not the opposite of inclusion but what inclusion is for.
Rhinestone Vatican, and it shares nothing with its parent. The dancefloor is flat hot pink, cream Shrikhand and ten small white cards inside one big cream tray. This is votive indigo, gold Monoton, and thirteen free-standing arches with stained glass over each one, standing on the bare ground. A subroom is the place where inheriting the parent’s look would have seemed most reasonable, which is exactly why it does not — and it got its own share card for the same reason, the eighth.
Monoton was the last unclaimed display face on the street. It held one 27px line on the index, “Living out loud”, and no room had taken it as a headline. A neon marquee face set in gold leaf is the whole joke of this room in one typeface.
Every button says how long before you press it. There is a twenty-three minute Tiny Desk concert in there sitting beside three-minute videos, and “press play” is only consent if you know what you are agreeing to — the same reasoning that put the passage count on the audio room’s sequence control. The generator refuses a track with no runtime rather than rendering a blank one, because a missing runtime would not look like a bug, it would look like a choice.
Nothing was guessed. Ids came out of the playlist page’s own data and were cross-checked against the playlist panel on the watch page; titles, channels and runtimes were resolved against YouTube; every id was then put through the same playability check that caught the dead track on the dancefloor, and all thirteen answered OK. Guessing which song goes with which video id is the exact fabrication the zine table spends a page arguing against.
The playlist says fifteen and thirteen render. YouTube counts private and deleted entries in that total and shows nothing at all for them to anybody but the owner, so the missing two cannot be read from outside. Thirteen is what plays and thirteen is what is published — written down in data/chappell.json rather than quietly rounded off.
The rot checker now watches both lists. It only knew about the dancefloor’s ten, and would have left thirteen facades unwatched while printing “all tracks checked” in a tone of complete confidence. That is worse than not running it, because it reads like coverage.
The contrast checker learned this room’s ambient layer before it shipped, not after. Thirteen new pairs, and two of them are against #4E2E60 — a colour nobody wrote, which is what the rose window actually makes over the nave. The gold headline measures 11.21 flat and 6.73 at the brightest point of the glow. The pony’s cream is 3.01 and 2.64 in the same comparison, which is why its card leaves the rays off and this one keeps them. Eighty-seven pairs now, none failing.

Every page has an image now when somebody pastes its link, and there are seven card designs for eleven pages — one per room, allowed to contradict each other exactly as the rooms do. The street’s collides six typefaces; the zine’s is a ransom note on photocopier grain; Hear Queer Here is a terminal face over interference fringes; the Playhouse keeps its bunting and its checkerboard floor. A single template would have been the tidying instinct arriving in the one asset nobody reviews, because nobody opens a PNG in a diff.
The cards are built with the site’s own stylesheet rather than a copy of it. Each one is a scrap of markup on the page’s own body class with love.css attached, and the h1 is lifted from the page verbatim — which is how the zine’s card keeps its per-word ransom spans and the street’s keeps its two-part wordmark. Change a room and its card changes with it.
No card ships without alt text. The tool has no way to write an og:image without an og:image:alt, because words baked into a picture are words nobody can hear, on a site that exists to say so.
“It fits” is measured, not eyeballed. Chrome reports the layout back out of the same run that takes the screenshot, and a card whose content runs past 1200×630 fails the build. A slightly longer title is enough to push a word off the edge, and the crop lands in somebody else’s timeline looking like our bug.
It found contrast nobody had measured. The checker held 66 named pairs and every one of them assumed a flat background; the rooms have ambient glows over those backgrounds. Enid’s aside grey is 4.55:1 on the black wall and 3.22 in the corner where the green half of the glow peaks — the card’s footer uses a lighter grey, and the room has the same line in its other corner at 3.39.
And one we have not fixed, on purpose. The Pink Pony Club’s cream headline measures 3.01:1 on flat hot pink — clearing the 3:1 large-text threshold by four thousandths — and 2.64 over the room’s own mirrorball rays, where it fails. How that room looks is not a checker’s call to make, so it is written down at the foot of check-contrast.py rather than quietly patched, and the pony card leaves the rays off until it is decided.

2026-09-19 — the yell button yells, and takes yours

It was blooping. It played the same oscillator as the stim box, an octave and a half down, and a pure tone is a bloop however low you put it. It builds the noise now — breath through a filter that sweeps as a shout runs out of air. Measured: zero-crossings went from 158 a second to 1,747, which is the difference between a tone and a shout.
It can be your voice. Send us a yell and it joins the others, one chosen at random on each press, with the room saying whose it was out loud. The synth stays as the fallback, so the toy works whether or not anybody has sent one.
The house rule rewrites itself. The page said the noises are synthesised and not fetched from anywhere, which stopped being true the moment a recording landed. That sentence is generated from the same data as the button now, because a claim the site makes about itself should not depend on somebody remembering to edit it.
A correction we owed the readings. Enid’s wall refuses a photograph carrying EXIF; audio was never held to the same rule. The first yell arrived with the recording device, its OS build and the exact second in it — and so did all five readings already published. All six are stripped, re-muxed rather than re-encoded so the sound is untouched, and both audio tools now refuse a file that still carries any.

2026-09-19 — Chairy learns twenty-three more things to say

Five sayings became twenty-eight, drawn from our philosophy, framing and creed pages. They live in data/chairy.json now rather than an HTML attribute, because an attribute cannot record where a line came from.
Two of them are not ours, and Chairy says so out loud. “Nothing About Us Without Us” is a motto of the self-advocacy movement — credited on our own page to Michael Masutha and William Rowland of Disabled People South Africa, 1993 — and “Design for Real Life” is a book by Eric A. Meyer and Sara Wachter-Boettcher. A talking chair passing a movement slogan off as a house line would be the exact thing this site argues against, so the credit is spoken rather than filed.
Every source URL was read from the mirror’s own frontmatter, not constructed from a slug — the same rule the jukebox ids follow.

2026-09-19 — the first photograph

Enid’s wall has a picture on it. Ryan, a tankard, and a description and caption in his own words — which is the process working rather than being waved through by the person who wrote it.
It exposed a promise the code was breaking. The polaroid plate was square with object-fit: cover, and cover crops — while the terms promise in as many words that we will not crop anybody. Nobody caught it while the wall was grey, because there was nothing in the frame to cut. A photograph keeps its own shape now.
Checked before publishing, not promised: no EXIF, so no location data; resized for the web but not cropped and not filtered; the alt text is the subject’s own sentence, not our description of him.

2026-09-19 — a second term, and a second voice

Hear Queer Here holds two terms now. Developmental Pace joins Monotropism, five passages each. The entry itself makes the case for the pairing: monotropic time is what happens to time inside a flow state, and developmental pace is the longer arc — when a capacity arrives at all.
The panel now measures a term as well as a pattern. With one term, “collapse to A” was unambiguous; with two it is not. There is a picker above the collapse row, which keeps the argument rather than working around it — the instrument and the object both matter, and you choose both.
These passages are cut from our own entry rather than written fresh. Monotropism’s entry is mostly other people’s work and exactly one line in it was ours, so its passages had to be written. Developmental Pace is substantially our own prose, so it could be read as the room originally promised. The rule is the same either way: we read our own words and nobody else’s.
A borrowed voice is not ours to licence. LICENSE said nothing about recordings. Ours are our work; a reading by anybody else carries no onward licence, because CC BY-SA cannot be revoked and somebody who lends us their voice has to be able to take it back. Fixed before the recording exists rather than after — the first time on this site that has gone in that order.
Five slots are waiting on a voice, credited in the future tense until they are filled.

2026-09-19 — the panel plays the sequence

All five passages are recorded. What monotropism is, the A side, the B side, both are measurements, and a love language — read by Ryan Boren, one minute thirteen seconds end to end. The room stops promising audio and starts having some, and the Not built yet list below is one item shorter.
Collapsing to a reading now lets you hear it. The panel only highlighted passages before, which set an expectation it did not keep. A plays what monotropism is and then how the clinic writes it down; B plays it and then what it looks like from inside; leaving it open plays the whole argument, ending on the line that resolves it.
One press, several passages — and the label says so first. “Play the A sequence — 2 passages, 39 seconds”, not a bare triangle. Starting a sequence you asked for is still press-to-play; getting four minutes you did not expect would not be.
The collapse buttons still make no sound. Choosing a measurement and listening to one are separate acts, which also means you can collapse to A and read it somewhere you cannot play audio.
Missing recordings are skipped and counted, so the control works at two of five exactly as it will at five — and the passage playing is marked on the page and announced for screen readers, with a stop always available.

2026-09-19 — the first passage is recorded

“What monotropism is” has a voice. Eighteen seconds, read by Ryan Boren. The room that has been promising audio since launch now contains some. Four passages to go, and the words for all five are on the page either way.
The generator would have ignored it. It looked for .mp3 and the recording is .m4a — what a Mac produces by default — so the first real recording of this project would have been silently skipped. It now accepts whatever a recorder gives you: .m4a, .mp3, .opus, .ogg, .wav, .aac, .flac. A tool that quietly ignores the file it was built for is worse than one that refuses.

The licence would have swept up your face. This site is CC BY-SA 4.0 and LICENSE excluded the typefaces, the songs and the borrowed names — but said nothing about photographs. A community photo published under that licence would have let strangers reuse a Disabled person’s picture commercially, and CC licences cannot be revoked. Photographs now carry no onward licence at all, which is the only thing that makes “it comes down when you say so” true.
The terms are written down — what we ask for, what we promise, and how a photo comes back off the wall. You write the caption and the description; your name is however you write it, including not at all.
The promises are enforced rather than intended. tools/make-polaroids.py refuses a photo with no alt text, no named subject or no consent date — and refuses any file still carrying EXIF, which is where a phone records where and when a picture was taken. Sending us a photo should not tell the internet where you live.
We do not publish photographs of children. A parent can give the consent; the child cannot take it back in ten years when it matters to them.
The wall is no longer grey. Ryan sent the first photograph, of himself, with the description and the caption in his own words. One photo is a wall that has started.

2026-09-19 — the audio room, built and waiting on a voice

Hear Queer Here stops promising something it does not do. It said “the glossary read aloud, in our own voices” and delivered nothing. It now holds five written passages on monotropism, each shown as text, each with a visibly empty slot where its player will be. A passage goes live the moment its audio file exists.
The prose is new, and that was forced by attribution. The glossary entry is mostly curation — the explanation in it belongs to Dinah Murray, Wenn Lawson and Mike Lesser, to the Monotropism Questionnaire’s authors, and to Helen Edgar, whose opening is hers. Exactly one line in it was ours. So the passages were written for this room rather than lifted, and nothing recorded here is anyone else’s to clear.
The superposition panel finally has a subject. It was a mechanism with no content: A and B were not readings of anything. Three of the passages now answer to it — the clinic’s description, the monotropic one, and both at once. Its old caption said “neither one wrong”, which asserted a symmetry we do not hold; it now says that only one of the two knows it is a measurement.
The words are the point, not the transcript. Every passage is printed whether or not the audio exists. An argument you can only follow by hearing it is an audio-only requirement, and this is a Disabled people’s organisation.

2026-09-19 — the changelog has a feed

There is a feed now, and it is generated. The front door briefly linked /feed.xml before the file existed and the link was removed rather than the file invented. tools/make-feed.py builds it from this page, the way the sitemap is built from the pages’ own heads, so a changelog entry and its feed item cannot drift apart.
Every entry here now has a stable anchor, because that anchor is the feed item’s permalink. The generator refuses to run if one is missing — a feed whose guids move republishes every old entry into somebody’s reader as though it were new.

2026-09-19 — the zine prints in black and white, for real this time

The second half of the room’s own sentence was false. “Prints to one sheet on a bad office printer, in black and white” — the ransom headline printed in full yellow, cyan and red, and the print rules reset backgrounds only on a fixed list of components. Anything not on that list kept its dark ground while the text on it was forced to black: 1.14:1, invisible. What actually vanished on paper was the most prominent quotation on each sheet and the entire credits box, on the page that argues attribution is the cheapest thing you can do.
Colour and text are now reset together, universally. Fixing either alone breaks the other — pale citation text on a newly-white ground would have been just as unreadable the other way round.
check-print.py now checks both halves, reading the inks out of the rendered PDF against an allowlist rather than a threshold, so a new colour on the page has to be looked at by a person instead of quietly tolerated.

2026-09-19 — a dead track on the dancefloor

Bad Cop / Bad Cop, “Warriors”, has a new id. The id carried over from our Double Rainbow page had started returning “Video unavailable” inside the embed. Replaced with one that plays, resolved against oEmbed like every other entry, with the old id and the reason kept in data/jukebox.json rather than quietly overwritten.
Two channel names now read the way a person would write them. The credits said “via Merge Records on YouTube”, which is genuinely what that channel is called now, and “via Bad Cop Bad Cop - Topic”, which is an auto-generated name missing the slashes the band uses. Both print properly now. YouTube’s exact wording is kept beside them in data/jukebox.json so the checker can still tell a real rename from a choice we made.
The other nine were checked too, and all nine play. Worth saying plainly how, because two obvious tests are useless here: YouTube’s oEmbed endpoint answers 200 for a video that will not play, and loading an embed URL directly fails identically for every video, working or not. What distinguishes them is the watch page’s own playabilityStatus, which read UNPLAYABLE for the dead one and OK for the rest.

2026-09-19 — the zine table takes issues

The Zine Table stops being one sheet and becomes a table with sheets on it.

Issue #2, One Root, Two Rainbows — seven lessons from our own Neurodiversity and Gender course cut down to seven lines, using the course’s own one-idea-per-line device. Seven glossary terms linked, each one checked before it was written.
Submissions have a route now. The room asked for pages by paper, photo, voice note and AAC, and the link under the ask pointed at Your Room — which is a whole storefront, a different and much larger offer. The zine table now carries the spec and the contact route itself, and names Your Room as the separate thing it is.
Correction: the one-sheet promise was not true. The room says every page in it prints to one sheet and that the print stylesheet is not a joke. Rendered to PDF, issue #1 came out at three sheets — the two columns wrapped into one long one and every link expanded to its full URL after it. Fixed with print rules scoped to this room and a declared page margin, so it no longer depends on the print dialog. Both issues now land inside one sheet, and tools/check-print.py renders them through headless Chrome on every run so the claim cannot quietly come apart again.
The rule on quoting songs changed. This site launched saying it would reproduce no lyric at all. That was never argued for on its own terms, and queering.earth had already settled it properly: a line or two, never the chorus alone, the songwriter named separately from the performer. The deciding argument is an access one — “go and listen to the recording” is an audio-only requirement. We follow that policy by reference now rather than restating it.

2026-09-19 — the street opened

Six rooms, one front door, and a dial. Live the same day at stimpunks.love, with the source public at github.com/Stimpunks/Stimpunks-Love.

The Stoop — the front door, six shopfronts, and the tagline set in six typefaces because that is the thesis rather than the decoration.
Pink Pony Club — ten tracks lifted from our own Double Rainbow page, each one a press-to-play facade that contacts YouTube only after you press it.
The Zine Table — xerox and ransom note, and the page that says which two habits survived the move: attribution and contrast.
Hear Queer Here — quantum queering, with Barad and Helen Edgar quoted and cited, and a superposition panel where “leave it open” is a real answer.
Enid’s Room — colorful goth, a sticker wall wired to seven glossary entries, and somewhere to sit when the glee runs out.
The Playhouse — four toys, all real buttons, all synthesised rather than fetched, all reachable by keyboard.
Your Room — the sixth storefront, left empty on purpose, with the terms written down.
The intensity dial — three settings on every page, defaulting to whatever your device asks for and letting you turn it up past that. Gentle takes away the wobble, never the words.
Twelve typefaces self-hosted, so reading a page here makes no third-party request.

Not built yet

Enid’s polaroid wall has two photographs and room for more. Issue #2 of the zine has a quotation slot shaped for the last line of the course and nothing in it, because the credit that line needs is not something we will guess. All of them are listed here rather than hidden, because a room that says what it is missing is more use than one that pretends.

Changelog

2026-11-08 — Fernand Deligny on the Faery Yurt’s shelves

2026-11-08 — Cel Street and the Campgrounds in a VR headset

2026-11-08 — Away by itself, for your availability

2026-11-07 — Through the Faery Yurt’s doors in a VR headset, and turning by gliding

2026-11-07 — Walking with the stick in a VR headset

2026-11-07 — A forum topic for every book on the Solarpunk Hermitage’s shelf

2026-11-07 — The people in the 3D yurt, as figures, and the yurt’s chat with them

2026-11-07 — The Faery Yurt, in a VR headset

2026-11-06 — The hosted film, in a popped-out call

2026-11-07 — Comfort, a part of the radio of its own

2026-11-06 — Every emoji as a reaction, our own too, and : in the message box

2026-11-06 — Emoji, our own emoji, and one picker for GIFs, stickers and emoji

2026-11-06 — GIFs on the CB, from Gifbox

2026-11-06 — A popped-out call: a warning first, the chat beside it, and the way back

2026-11-06 — Who is in a call, on Who’s online and Happening now too, with avatars

2026-11-06 — Who is in a call, under its channel on the chat page

2026-11-06 — Your status & availability, a part of its own on the radio

2026-11-06 — Spoiler tags, on the CB and everywhere it reads Markdown

2026-11-07 — Clear windows on New Partington Power’s porch

2026-11-06 — New Partington Power’s House, at the edge of town by the farm

2026-11-06 — The Scalable Feast Ballroom, cozy grandeur

2026-11-06 — Em’s nails between the parts of the street

2026-11-05 — Luis’s Burrow, a cave in the wood at pitch 07

2026-11-05 — Through the glass from the bottom of the Rabbit Hole

2026-11-05 — Looking-Glass House, through a looking-glass in Helen’s yurt

2026-11-05 — The newest rooms, on Cel Street and Paper Street

2026-11-05 — Rowena’s photographs in the Aerial Arbour

2026-11-05 — Rowena’s circus tent at pitch 06

2026-11-05 — The Community Center, Cavendish Coworking and the mountain cabin, again on Cel Street

2026-11-04 — Norah’s Spaceholder Saloon

2026-11-04 — The city over the bridge from Widdershins, and three rooms in it

2026-11-04 — Candles, a record and fairy lights in the Faery Yurt on Cel Street

2026-11-04 — Excursions, and Norah Hobbs’s Retail Therapy on its rack

2026-11-04 — The Faery Yurt’s rooms, a second time, on both streets

2026-11-04 — The Garden on Cel Street, to sit in

2026-11-04 — Paper Street walks into the rooms behind rooms

2026-11-04 — Paper Street walks into every room

2026-11-04 — The Chappell on Cel Street, in glass and its light

2026-11-04 — A teleporter on both streets, and your companions on Cel Street

2026-11-04 — Cel Street and Paper Street say which room you are in

2026-11-04 — The dial stands beside the room’s words

2026-11-04 — Stay Frosty has the dial too

2026-11-03 — The Operations and Editorial Rooms leave the cams on

2026-11-03 — The Moderators’ room has a table of contents

2026-11-03 — The code is MIT

2026-11-03 — Powered by Netlify, and a code of conduct

2026-11-03 — Champuru’s screen in the doorway

2026-11-03 — Champuru: a table in the shade of a lane

2026-11-02 — Widdershins leads with Raising Steam

2026-11-02 — Widdershins closes with The Turtle Moves

2026-11-02 — Cel Street: Widdershins

2026-11-02 — Widdershins: against the way of normativity

2026-11-04 — The dial in every room

2026-11-04 — Walk this room

2026-11-04 — Cel Street: a second pass on more rooms, and Champuru walks in

2026-11-04 — Public restrooms on the street, and benches and drinking fountains

2026-11-03 — A Quiet Pint: the piano’s other shelf

2026-11-03 — Cel Street: a second round on the showcases

2026-11-03 — Cel Street: a second pass, five showcases, and Danny’s banners

2026-11-03 — Paper Street: looking round, zooming, full screen and game controllers, and A goes in

2026-11-03 — Cel Street: looking round, zooming, full screen and game controllers

2026-11-03 — Cel Street: the street furniture

2026-11-03 — Cel Street: Nature’s Contribution

2026-11-02 — Cel Street: the caverns’ levels

2026-11-02 — The office can post to Threads and our Facebook Page

2026-11-02 — Stimpunks Social catches up with Bluesky

2026-11-02 — Lyrics are welcome on the street

2026-11-02 — Stimpunks Social moves here

2026-11-02 — The office posts to our networks

2026-11-01 — JOLLY on Hey, Good Cookin’s rack

2026-11-01 — Every call is for people on the CB, and Jitsi’s chat is off in all of them

2026-11-01 — Infodumplings on the Events Room’s rack

2026-11-01 — The Events Room is ready for Campfire Learn Together and Solidarity Sesh

2026-11-01 — A call can stand beside the radio

2026-11-01 — The radio has a Half size, for talking while you watch

2026-11-01 — The call fits under the screen, and minus and plus size it there

2026-11-01 — The call right under the screen

2026-11-01 — Watching together, under the room’s screen

2026-11-01 — A call’s chat is the room’s channel