codename: Fussyspider.

Ever since Yahoo bought Astrid and shut it down, I’ve been looking for a to-do app that I can use the same way I used that. Moving from Android to iOS hasn’t made it any better; there are a lot of iOS to-do apps, but they all refuse to work the way I want to. Almost everything wants me to categorize my tasks into separate “lists”, to which tasks belong. I prefer to just tag all the things and filter by tag. And nothing wants to do Astrid’s location-based alerts; sure, various to-do apps let me put a location alert on a particular task, but nothing lets me say “if I have anything on the ‘drugstore’ list then alert me when I get close to the local drugstore”.

I’d been using Remember the Milk for a while, because at least it does the tags thing pretty nicely, and doesn’t have the annoying habit of giving every to-do a due date by default that a lot of to-do apps have. But it’s started crashing on launch on my phone. And I’ve been lost in an endless sea of to-do apps that all hew to some super-rigid (mis-?)interpretation of “Getting Things Done”.

So I’ve been playing with designs for my own.

I’ve been calling it “Miss Fussyspider”, as that is a thing I sometimes call myself when I’m bopping around the apartment cleaning stuff. And I’d intended to have some cute cartoon drawings of said Fussyspider pop up now and then to give it character. But when you get down to it, spiders are work to draw.

Last night, I sat down with my sketchbook and started doodling various characters of mine, with an eye to casting them as the face of this to-do app. And when I settled on a simpler one, it really started to take shape…

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Dark and muted because holy crap why does almost every productivity app on my iThings want to double as a flashlight at night and ruin my dark vision.

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Working out the basics of what’s on the screen. Tap on the current tag name to switch to the list of tags (which would also include things like ‘untagged’) ; tap a tag in that list to switch to showing that tag.

The bottom bar might also have a button to toggle showing deferred tasks; see my typed text below about changing “reminders” to “do laters”.

It’s also worth noting that if the tag/task lists are shorter than the screen, they should be at the bottom rather than the top. I use my phone one-handed a lot, and prefer bottom-focused UIs.

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‘stared tasks at top’? Starred tasks. Could either sort alphabetically with everything else, or sort to the top of the list. There’s a pref switch, maybe a button on the top of the screen.

Also that extra prefs switch off on the left should be ‘show notes in task list’, not tag list – with it on, tasks with notes attached to them would have one line of text from the note shown beneath the task title.

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The above page would be what pops up on a first launch, to explain the basic ideas behind the app. There might also be a screen that labels all the icons.

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I really hate it when a task app hides tags and/or location-based reminders behind a paywall. This would be fully-featured for free, with no limitations – but there’d be a few IAP purchases to say thanks. “Buy Kalinda a beer”, “Buy Kalinda a six-pack”, “Fill Kalinda’s fridge with beer”, etc, with prices starting at a few bucks and going up. You can buy them multiple times if you like, and it’ll keep track of how many you bought. Maybe even tell you how long you’ve been using the app,and how much you’ve sunk into it, in a confirmation dialogue when you hit the button. None of this is part of the Minimum Viable Product of the app.

Neither is building a pile of code to run on a server somewhere. I don’t want to worry about keeping it running, or keeping it secure. Use Apple’s Reminders as a backend. (Or Google Tasks, or whatever MS’s to-do service is, if we want it to be more cross-platform. But the MVP just uses Reminders because that’s easy for me to dump my existing tasks into, and to use the stock OSX Reminders app for basic ‘put task in todo list’ functionality if we don’t build an OSX app in parallel with iOS.)

The nag screen would show up pretty infrequently. It might get a little more frequent after a year of unpaid use. But not very much so. It probably wouldn’t show up at all until you’d checked off like 30-50 things.

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As I put this post together, I was struck by an idea: Perhaps instead of “reminders” you can simply set tasks as “future”, with a date when you want them to show up. Future tasks are hidden from view until their time comes, with a prefs switch or screen button (maybe at the top?) to show them. You can have Kalinda remind you that you can now do this thing, but the explicit concept is that this is not about saying “I have to do $THING at $TIME”. That’s what your appointment book is for, IMHO. This app is about saying ‘here are things you said you wanted to do’ and ‘hey, you’re where you said you wanted to do some things’, not ‘You have to do this thing now’. If it was about ‘you have to do this thing now’ it’d be called “Touch The Puppet Head” and would have a very different feel.

Mostly switching to ‘future tasks’ would involve a different icon from the little bell, and adding a ‘Remind me?’ switch beneath the date selection.

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Tags could possibly alert on multiple locations (there are two drugstores in walking distance of my place, and it’d be nice to be reminded there were things I wanted to get when I pass both of them) but it’s not necessary. The location chooser would be a pretty standard one, hopefully skinned to match the rest of the generally-dark UI rather than being Glaring Apple Default White.

That, I think, is pretty much it. A friendly little face on a to-do app focused on tags and locations, rather than lists and obligations.

I know there are some programmers out there following my work, some of whom might want a side project or whatever. If you’d like to help make this happen for iOS/Mac – and maybe for other platforms in the future – then drop me a line. I’ll pay you for your time, regardless of whether or not anyone ever hits the tip button.

memory totems

Wow. I was not prepared for how sad taking my mom’s stuffed elephant out of the box of books we shipped from her library and putting it on top of my bookshelves would make me.

I wish I knew his name. I think she’d told me once, long ago, but I can’t remember it, and neither can her sister. I kinda want to say “Elmer” but I also kinda want to say it wasn’t something alliterative. I don’t know.

I put him where he can’t see the giant beanbag. Too many shenanigans happen on that thing for me to be comfortable with him watching that.

Bop.

Scene: Trader Joe’s. “She Bop” is on the speakers.

Cashier: “…Do you know who sings this? We were trying to figure it out yesterday.”

Me: “Um… Cyndi Lauper.”

Cashier: “That’s it! Thank you.”

Me: “She bop, he bop, we bop; I bop, you bop, they bop. The only song to teach you how to properly conjugate the verb ‘to bop’.”

 

And at that point, I really wished I’d paid any attention at all the year I failed Latin in high school. It would have been perfect to attempt to improvise the proper declension of the verb ‘boppare’.

 

(edit: boppo, boppas, boppat, boppamus, boppais, boppant – thanks to the fine folks at Jaridium Press for that!)

The Penwiper Saga

Penwiper-SagaYesterday, I left a comment in a thread on /r/fantasy discussing the phenomenon where some series blend together into one huge-ass book, especially if you read them electronically after the whole series is done.

I was of the opinion that, well, it varies. Some series are more prone to this; you’re much more likely to remember an individual Discworld novel than an individual segment of A Fantasy Epic Split Into Multiple Volumes For Financial Reasons. And then I went on a stoned riff about an imaginary series, as an example of how you’re more likely to have a memory of individual books if you read them as they came out:

It doesn’t matter if book 5 of the 7-volume Penwiper Saga has a terrible case of middle book syndrome, with next to no work spent trying to get readers up to speed, and nothing that brings the particular events of the book to a satisfying stop; it’s just a place where you stop and stretch a bit before picking up the next one. If you read the books as they were published, you’ll have read book 1, then maybe re-read book 1 when book 2 came out, skimmed 1 and re-read 2 when 3 hit the shelves, and so on. Plus maybe re-readings now and then between new volumes if you were a super hardcore fan of The Penwiper Saga. So you’d have a very good sense of what happened in book 1, “The Affair Of The Unclaimed Head” as distinct from how kind of nothing really happened in book 5, “Adrift On The Clockwork Sea”. And the buildup of anticipation to the final volume, “The Black Doll”, would be inextricably bound up with your re-skimming of all six previous books, and the disappointment when [spoiler]Matilda Penwiper sold the ancestral manse to Dr. Minos instead of using the titular doll to destroy his twisted soul forever[/spoiler].

Being stoned, of course, I couldn’t let go of the idea. And I have decided that The Penwiper Saga may end up being a running joke in my work: a series that is immensely popular in the various imaginary worlds of my stories. I will, hopefully, never actually write this series in any capacity beyond giggling a lot as I write a couple of pages to show up in a close-up, or tiny excerpts to go along fake fan-art. I’m pretty sure it’s a darkly comedic YA fantasy series, what with everything but “Adrift On The Clockwork Sea” being a Gorey reference.

Tentative titles for the series:

  1. The Affair Of The Unclaimed Head.
  2. The Case Of The Ascending Lizard.
  3. The House With The Wrong Number.
  4. The Dragon In My Pantry.
  5. Adrift On The Clockwork Sea.
  6. The Curious Adventure Of The Gyrobicupola.
  7. The Black Doll.

Also there is short story taking place between #3 and #4 titled “Bernie And Matilda Play It Cool” which only appeared on C. D. Hallifax’ Livejournal until the 10th anniversary reissue; in retrospect, it foreshadows all of the harsh truths about Dr. Minos that fans would claim came out of nowhere in books 6 and 7.

change of approach

Somewhere in the past few weeks I seem to have decided to adopt a new approach to managing my e-mail. For years, I’ve worked out of a few smart mailboxes showing me stuff that’s unread for various timeframes; if something needs to stick around, then I’ll mark it as ‘unread’ every time I look at it and decide not to deal with it.

I now have a smart mailbox for things I’ve labeled with an orange flag. Which I have named “Needs Attention”.

I am still not going to try and practice “Inbox Zero”. I’m just gonna leave all this stuff in my inbox. I don’t want to have a zillion mailboxes that I file stuff into. But I feel like I have reached a point in my life where I need to take Things I Need To Get Done a bit more seriously.

 

I have no idea if this is related to my mom dying. Honestly I think it’s more that I’m getting tired of repeatedly marking stuff as unread.

on weeping

Since coming back home I've kinda quit crying so much. I'm not sure if this is because I'm not in the middle of Mom's place, full of reminders of her, or if it's because I've been all alone in my apartment with nobody to come pet me if they hear me crying. Maybe some of both. Emotions are weird.

I've still got some stuff to take care of with regards to her things. But the back of my brain is starting to mutter about not having drawn any Rita for most of a month. And that given how much she was about supporting the creative arts she'd definitely want me to be getting back to creating soon…

some photos of MJ

This gallery contains 10 photos.

One of Marie-Jeanne’s friends had asked for a photo of her. Here are several, taken from a cache of slides Russell (her husband, and my father) had taken. If there are any lying around of her as an older woman, they’re somewhere else in her house; these are all from the early 70s. If you’re […]

the sordid business of wrapping up my mother’s affairs

I just recorded a new outgoing message for my mother’s answering machine.

“Hello! You have reached the home of Marie-Jeanne Trauth, who has recently departed to that mysterious country from whose bosom no traveller returns. If you’re calling about a business matter other than rent or utilities, the window for that discussion has, sadly, passed. Otherwise please leave a message.”

I like to think she would have given me a stern look, then giggled.

Marie-Jeanne

Yesterday, I went and sat on a big rock in Ravenna Park for an hour and wrote this. It seems to have helped my mood a lot. I could probably edit it some but fuck it: stream-of-consciousness. Go.

 

Let me tell you about my mother.

 

She was born on Christmas*, in 1943. She got stiffed for gifts her whole life because of that. Her mother was, frankly, not a woman who should have been raising kids; all the stories Marie-Jeanne told about her were bad, at best.

Her father died when she was young. Later, the man she married would die on their kid’s twelfth birthday. We are not a lucky family, I think.

But she did her best to convert from a housewife to a single mother. Despite me being an ungrateful, difficult ball of grief and misery. She did pretty damn good at that, in fact. I feel like her parenting method boiled down to one thing: what would her mother do in any given situation? Do the opposite. Lots of abused children grow up to pass it on; she chose to break that cycle, and I can’t ever express how grateful I am for that.

She was raised in the ass end of the city. She read voraciously despite a lengthy trip to the library. Her apartment has one room dedicated to her library: a wall of recreational etymology and reference books, a bunch of fiction. A couple shelves full of nothing but riffs on the story of Camelot; if I was at a loss for a gift, I knew that would always work – if I could find the rare one she hadn’t already acquired. It was just a given that fantasy and SF would be part of my reading.  A shelf unit full of books on New Orleans. She loved that city; in her early adulthood, she left it for California, but came back and really never left it again for more than a few weeks out of any year, at most. A few shelves filled with video tapes and DVDs of musicals. God, she was a sucker for those things. Old Technicolor spectacles, new contemporary ones. I saw more of them than I could say; she dragged me along to quite a few big Broadway productions that came through town, as well as countless bits of children’s theatre.

In another life, she might have been a dancer. Or an actress. Or something on the stage. She put those dreams aside, in part, to raise me. Perhaps. We never really talked about it while she was alive. All I really know is that she once wanted to be a ballerina, and was a regular face in the crowd of dance and theatre around town, until the heart failure curtailed her mobility. And that the first words I heard were Shakespeare; she was working her way through the complete works when I was born, and shifted to reading it out loud to me. She instilled a love of creativity and narrative, supported my own groping towards that. I wish she’d lived to see more of my adult work.

She never married again after my father died. There was a brief on-and-off thing with a widower, but it never came to much. She got used to being alone. A thing I can sympathize with; we’d come to the agreement that about a week, maybe a week and a half, was about as long as we could stand sharing a space, once I was out on my own.

Our relationship had spikes. Her husband was a snarkbucket. So was I. There was a cruelty there she’d inherited from her mother, I think, but we made a game of it. And she could hold her own – even near the end, she made me grin when the nurses in Intensive Care could recognize me because she’d described my dress sense as “rich bag lady”. Which… I prefer “hot witch” but yeah. I can’t argue with that. Point to MJ. Later that day I said something equally comedically cruel. I forget what. But she grinned at me and made a tally mark in the air: point to Peggy. She was much more graceful in her bitchiness than I can ever hope to be.

She was also incredibly accommodating of her strange, broken child. I was a pain in the ass even before Russell died. It only got worse afterwards. In the past few years she told me that she’d been tempted to change the locks while I was out; I paused, then nodded, and agreed that must have been a hell of a tempting thought sometimes. But she never did.

And when I returned from Los Angeles one day, and she asked why I’d started plucking my eyebrows, I told her I was trans. She just asked questions, not knowing what this meant. She’d figured I was probably at least gay for ages. By my next visit, she’d become a regular at a local support group for trans people and their families, and did her best to not be harsh about my utter lack of fashion sense as of yet.

In the last weeks of her life, she fought hard. She came out of the operation to install a dialysis port with a slur in her voice; the doctors theorize a bit of plaque had been knocked loose, and cut off blood to a part of her brain that had fine motor control over her mouth and throat. By the evening, she was already speaking more clearly: she’d been reciting nursery rhymes to herself, to try and regain control with simple exercises. She asked for a couple books of more complex children’s verses for further practice.

When I was in school, people started urging her to put me on the then-new psychopharmacutuicals that went with the rise of ADD as a diagnosis. She resisted. I was a distractable, smart, easily bored kid, and she didn’t want to see me dulled down to fit in better. She fought for my chance to be whatever the hell I was going to be, and to be that as hard as I could.

One of my boyfriends, after meeting her, described her as “a space alien from the planet Cool”. I feel incredibly lucky to have had her in my life for as long as I did. And I rage that her body failed her long before she was ready to leave.

The day before she died, I went to see “Mad Max:Fury Road”. Near the end of this insane car chase across a wasteland, there’s a gang of incredibly hard-assed old ladies struggling to survive. They hook up with the heros to shepherd them through the outrageous chaos of the final act, and one by one, each of them dies. But they die fighting; they die laughing at the face of Death. I saw my mother in them. I saw the same iron will to survive beneath a sweet exterior. And I hope that she kicked that motherfucker Death in the face before she went on to whatever afterlife there may be. Or maybe punched God when she met that bastard.

I only hope that someday I can be half as awesome as she was.

* It says the 26th on her birth certificate and obituary, but she was always told the 25th. And as a side note: my father was born on All Saint’s Day, and I was born the day after the US’s Independence Day. We were a holiday family.

Fury.

Yesterday, to take a break from worrying about my mother, I went to see “Mad Max: Fury Road”. Add my voice to the chorus saying that it is an amazing film.

I’ve been thinking about its title. The obvious meaning is just HEY A LOT OF ANGRY EXPLOSIONS. But I think it’s got another layer. An old, old layer, as old as civilization.

 

In Greek mythology, there were three goddesses. Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone. Variously, they were known as the Erinyes, the Kindly Ones (a euphemism akin to calling elves the Fair Folk), and… the Furies. They were ancient deities, older than the majority of the pantheon; born either from the primeval god of the sky, or of night. They manifested as monstrous crones, with bat wings, serpents in their hair, and scourged the wicked with whips made of scorpion’s tails. Their purpose? Vengeance.

 

The two things that people tend to mention as their drives in this film? Redemption. Vengeance. If I recall correctly, the main character Imperiator Furioso is seeking redemption. But vengeance is there in spades.

(Yes, I know it’s Max’s name on the title, and his story that we open with. But it’s Furioso who really gets everything moving; she’s the one who makes plot-driving choices, and Max is as much her sidekick as the hero.)

And, of course, the final act introduces the utterly bad-ass Vuvalnians, a gang of kindly old ladies from before the Nameless Apocalypse who shepherd the caravan of main characters through the last trials, leaving a trail of death behind them and laughing as they do it. (I would totally watch the hell out of a movie starring them, too.)

So yeah. That’s the Furies. And that’s Fury Road.