The Digital Homestead Blog

You enter an artisan's shop and you see weird tools all around.

Not "weird" as in exotic. Weird as in unaccounted for. There is a chisel that is clearly a screwdriver that is clearly a spring that is clearly somebody's Sunday afternoon. Nothing has a label. Everything has a history.

You ask where he got them from, because they are nothing like the ACME Inc stuff you buy off the shelves, and he smirks the smirk of a man who has answered this question a hundred times and still enjoys it:

I made them myself. That one is its Mk 45. It's good, but not perfect yet, it only saves me 10h a week.

Mk 45.

Forty-five. On a hand tool. This man has been shipping versions of a stick since before "iteration" was a word startups rented. And note what he leads with: not the forty-four failures, the yet. The tool is good. It is not perfect yet. The artisan's tools are never finished, only current.

Have you ever been asked: "When are you going to be done with this?". Always a very weird question to answer.

What does "done" mean? It's always a matter of when to draw lines and when to say "NO" to further enhancements.

When you hit diminishing returns it's a good starting point for ending and be done... well, until change happens and the variables change^2 everything again. So is "done" really achievable? Only when you deal with your perfectionism and with the fact that your systems -will- have flaws and that your job is to make sure to cover the majority of the cases gracefully, in a way you can learn from instead of failing spectacularly without ever knowing what was wrong.

Success lies in the tradeoffs. So does failure. But you fail only if you stop at Mk 1 or even before then. Everything else is learning.

The carver's daughters

Back in the day, way back, master carvers used to carve beautiful women on doors, boats, staircases. Figureheads, door knockers, the odd scandalous banister. Turning a hunk of wood into a talisman of luck, lust, and let's be honest, a bit of a flex: look what my hands can do.

Today we do waifus.

Before you snicker: it's the same gesture. It's still an attempt to humanize the craft, to have a relationship with the thing you make. The sailor who carved a woman into his ship's bow wasn't confused about wood. He was negotiating with the sea. The anime girl on a mechanical keyboard is not (always) a cry for help. She's a sigil. Mine keeps the regex honest.

Nothing is new under the sun. Our source-code didn't change much.

I wrote that last line as a joke and then it followed me around for a week, because it's not a joke. Our source-code didn't change much. The carver and the programmer are running the same program on different materials. Both of us:

• Stare at a raw material that does not care about us (wood does not care; the compiler does not care)
• Build tools to shape it, because the shelves don't sell the tool we need
• Put a face on the output, because a face is how you say this one is mine
• Version everything, out loud, with a smirk

The commits? The PRs? They are your Mk 1, 2, 3 .... 152562. You might think it's too microlevel but the devil is in the detail and a single commit, even a oneliner can have a huge impact on your project.

ACME Inc does not know your hands

Here is the actual difference between the shelf tool and the Mk 45, and it's not quality. It's fit.

A shelf tool is an average. It is designed for the median hand doing the median task, which is to say: for nobody. It works fine, which is the most damming thing you can say about a tool. The Mk 45 works for him. It has his calluses mapped into its handle. It is illegible to everyone else in the shop. You would pick it up and put it back down, confused... because it is shaped by forty-four rounds of one man's specific failures.

This is what your dotfiles are. This is what every hacker's .zshrc is: a groove worn by one hand. My terminal is my Mk 45. I have been carving it for two decades and it saves me, conservatively, an ungodly number of hours a week, and to anybody else it looks like a chisel that is clearly a screwdriver. When I built my own terminal — a whole terminal, like an idiot, like a carver — the question was never "why not buy one?", "why not just get this open source one, it's just one download button away!".

The question was what shape does my work want? You cannot answer that at the store or in a README.md on github or on a /download route on a website.

And the tools accumulate you back. Muscle memory is a relationship, not a feature. After enough years, the tool knows your hand, and you stop thinking, and that is the entire point: the tool disappears and only the work remains. The carver wasn't showing me tools. He was showing me the parts of his hands that live outside his body.

Driving for me is the finest example, I don't know if you feel the same but sometimes it's like breathing, it's second nature. The car is like an extension of your legs. If something is wrong with your car you can just feel it. The odd vibration, the weird noise, the different responsiveness of the pedals, etc.

The forty-four are the resume

We keep the wrong artifacts. The shelf tool arrives perfect and stays perfect and teaches you nothing. The Mk 45 arrives wrong, forty-four times, in public, and each wrongness is a decision you can point at: here I learned the handle was too short. Here I learned I don't need the spring at all.

A perfect tool is a finished conversation. A versioned tool is a friendship. With all it's highs and lows.

This website is on Mk-something-hundred — I stopped counting somewhere around the hundred-and-fiftieth hand-built theme, each one a little wooden face saying this one is mine. And yes, some of them are pure AI slop, inspired/driven by a direction. I'll try random themes and make adjustments to them until I realize if it's the case to make them better, more "mine" or just to delete them and move on. The point is that the site is designed to have hundreds of themes.

Why?

Why not?

Nobody asked for a terminal-themed blog. That's how you know it's carved and not bought.

So, what's your Mk 45?

Not your job. Not your stack. The thing you made for your own hands, that nobody else would recognize, that saves you ten hours a week and is still not perfect yet.

If nothing comes to mind — that's not a shame, it's an open door. Start with something small and stupid. Carve the woman on the door. The sea will negotiate.

Enjoy the craft, everything else follows.

polymatto.com is up! This is the first real deploy: static site, themes, blog, Easter eggs, bugs, the whole lot.

I'm testing things out as I go. Layouts may shift, posts may appear and disappear, and something will probably break at least once. That's the point of a homestead: you fix it.

If you landed here by accident: hello!? If you meant to be here: thanks for reading while I figure this out.

More soon.

“You are a failure!” “You should get a job and a girlfriend!” “You are addicted to these games. Go get some fresh air!”

And so on.

That what I have been told basically from puberty onwards. Well, up until I started my company. I had tried the streaming thing, I had a following, made a bunch of cash but I felt like if I was a drone. I had to perform for an audience. The audience was controlling me, remotely, via the interactions we had.

I was stressed, I wanted out, playing for fun is one thing but playing to have your audience have fun watching you it’s a job. I had lost interest and the numbers showed that clearly as well.

A friend of mine had a drones channel, acrobatic stuff. He never showed his face. Not because of his persistent acne but because the drones did all the work, he just had to pilot them and he was having a blast doing it.

I was jealous so I started getting into drones as well. I could code and I was more familiar with my gaming controller so I developed a custom interface. With that I could pilot my drone like if I was playing a game. From there I wanted to control multiple drones, and make them do choreographies. I added some LEDs to them and I started to do some shows for people. It was fun but not crazy fun.

These drones could pull some weight, especially if I made more drones move together, tether them to the payload and then control them via the software I had developed.

For fun and giggles I had tried to move my car from my driveway to the garden. I recorded the whole thing, uploaded it and. Damn. It went viral. My small fleet of drones had lifted my car, made it waltz in the air and then parked it perfectly next to me. I also starred in the video, I was on a sunbed with my laptop and when the car landed next to me, one of the drones entered one of the car windows and brought me a can of beer that was inside the car.

It was silly but people liked it.

I didn’t realise what I had developed. I could transport stuff, pretty cheaply to very hard to reach destinations.

Having to deliver a Cybertruck to this billionnaire’s private island was one of my first contracts. Of course I asked if I could stream the whole thing and we agreed on not showing anything that could harm my client’s privacy.

So, that I did.

Few months later, I delivered my dad his dream car. A 1968 Ford Torino GT. Attached to the key, acting as a keychain, a Ledger Nano. In it, I put their retirement fund. They’ll never have to worry about money and they can finally enjoy themself a little bit.

On top of that, I hugged my parents and I thank them for their patience. Not for having believed in me, because they didn’t, but probably that was what I needed to achieve what I had achieved.

— “You are a failure!” “You should get a job and a girlfriend!” “You are addicted to these games. Go get some fresh air!”

And so on.

That’s what I had been told, basically from puberty onwards. Well, up until I started my first company. I had tried the streaming thing; I had a following and made a bunch of cash, but I felt like a drone. I had to perform for an audience that was remotely controlling me through our interactions.

I was stressed and wanted out. Playing for fun is one thing, but playing so your audience can have fun watching you is a job. My interest waned, and the declining numbers clearly showed it.

A friend of mine ran a channel for drone acrobatics. He never showed his face—not because of his persistent acne but because the drones did all the work; he just had to pilot them, and he was having a blast doing it.

Jealous, I started getting into drones as well. With my coding skills and familiarity with my gaming controller, I developed a custom interface. This allowed me to pilot my drone as if I were playing a game. I wanted to control multiple drones and make them perform choreographies. After adding some LEDs to them, I started doing shows for people. It was fun, though not mind-blowingly so.

These drones could pull some weight, especially if I had multiple drones moving together, tethered to the payload, and controlled via the software I had developed.

Just for fun, I tried moving my car from the driveway to the garden. I recorded the entire process, uploaded it, and—damn—it went viral. My small fleet of drones had lifted my car, made it waltz in the air, and then parked it perfectly next to me. In the video, I starred, lounging on a sunbed with my laptop as one of the drones entered a car window and brought me a can of beer from inside the car.

It was silly, but people loved it.

I hadn't realized what I had developed. I could transport stuff, quite cheaply, to very hard-to-reach destinations. Of course, not for long distances but I was solving a problem apparently.

Having to deliver a Cybertruck to a billionaire’s private island was one of my first contracts. Of course, I asked if I could stream the whole thing, and we agreed on not showing anything that could harm my client's privacy.

So, I did. Went viral beyond my most optimistic predictions and that’s how I had to scale up my team all around the world essentially. I had some VCs reaching out but I never took a cent. Bootstrapped, solo founder, giving equity to the team as it should be. Innovating and trying to keep everyone happy.

A few months later, I delivered my dad his dream car, a 1968 Ford Torino GT. Attached to the key, acting as a keychain, was a Ledger Nano. In it, a retirement fund. My parents will never have to worry about money again and can finally enjoy themselves a bit.

On top of that, I hugged them both and thanked them for their patience—not for having believed in me, because they didn’t. But probably because their scepticism and criticism was what I needed to achieve what I had achieved. I knew they were coming from a good place. I was just having fun, I only had to figure out a way to get paid for have fun.

https://twitter.com/polyMatto/status/1785381208899133910

It was snowing a week ago. Today it’s like 25°C. The flowers had all died out, some had closed but now they are in full blown beauty contest mode. Like if nothing happened. Actually, you can almost appreciate that the strongest and biggest stems that survived are now showing even more beautiful flowers than before the odd late April snow.

You were insulted in your DMs by a stranger and you skipped work today because you feel, deep inside, that these words had grounds. That stranger, namely “rocketd2003” got under your skin. You didn’t even shower, your steps count matches exactly the three round trips you did to the bathroom so far and you ordered fried chicken that you will most likely end up eating in bed.

Behind the closed blinds, it’s a beautiful day. You would know if you only glanced behind the blinds you are using as some sort of shield. But you keep looking with a scared side eye at your phone and at your laptop. The only discipline that you are showing, if we can call it like that, is to stay away from what’s currently hurting you.

Bzzz Bzzz. Your phone vibrates, it’s probably the Uber driver. You have to look.

It’s not, it’s rocketd2003 again. You swallow a big chunk of stale saliva that somehow materialised inside your mouth, making you realise that you hadn’t even brushed your teeth yet. You open the DM.

“I was joking dude, it’s just banter. I was expecting a cumeback haven’t seen you online at all today, sup?”

Mixed feelings. Then you start explode crying for no apparent reason. Maybe because of the relief you felt or because of the shame about yourself for the way you felt in the first place.

Bzzz Bzzz. Bzzz Bzzz. Another one? No. You are confused, it’s not your phone, you are holding it.

You open your eyes and… you get it. It was all a dream, a nightmare to be precise. You are all sweat and your heart is beating very fast. That was terrifying.

For a moment you thought you gave a fuck.

–

It was snowing a week ago. Today it's like 25°C. The flowers had all died out; some had closed, but now they are in full-blown beauty contest mode, as if nothing happened. Actually, you can almost appreciate that the strongest and biggest stems that survived are now showing even more beautiful flowers than before the odd late April snow.

You were insulted in your DMs by a stranger and you skipped work today because you feel, deep inside, that these words had grounds. That stranger, namely "rocketd2003," got under your skin. You didn't even shower; your step count matches exactly the three round trips you did to the bathroom so far, and you ordered fried chicken that you will most likely end up eating in bed. Sweaty shenanigans in bed with chicks was going to have a completely different meaning for you.

Behind the closed blinds, it’s a gorgeous day. You would know if you only glanced behind the blinds you are using as some sort of shield. But you keep looking with a scared side-eye at your phone and at your laptop. The only discipline that you are showing, if we can call it like that, is to stay away from what’s currently hurting you.

Bzzz Bzzz. Your phone vibrates; it’s probably the Uber driver. You have to look. You are hungry, your growling stomach reminds you that loudly and clearly.

It’s not; it’s rocketd2003 again. You swallow a big chunk of stale saliva that somehow materialized inside your mouth, making you realize that you hadn’t even brushed your teeth yet. You open the DM.

“I was joking dude, it’s just banter. I was expecting a cumeback; haven’t seen you online at all today, sup?”

Mixed feelings. Then you start to cry explosively for no apparent reason. Maybe because of the relief you felt, or because of the shame you feel about yourself for the way you felt in the first place.

Bzzz Bzzz. Bzzz Bzzz. Another one? No. You are confused; it’s not your phone, you are holding it.

You open your eyes and… you find yourself trying to turn off your alarm using your muscle memory. You get it now. It was all a dream, a nightmare to be precise. You are all sweaty, and your heart is beating very fast. That was terrifying.

For a moment you thought you gave a fuck.

“That’s it, a window in front of the sink, that is having made it” the realtor confidently boasted right before laughing with a very loud voice, an incredibly deep one. He looked like a very pleasant man, round glasses, like a Statistics professor or something, was a bit chubby but you could tell he used to lift back in the day from the size of his tailored suit around his arms. His voice was the most memorable thing, clearly it served as a sales tool as well. You could almost feel his laughter with your chest like if you were out in a club. Insane.

We kept looking around and, as you can imagine, the decisionmaker in disguise—the wife—was already sold on the kitchen.

Make it cute. Functional, with storage space and a peninsula and you are golden. Any extra is just insurance. That’s what I had learnt from staging my own properties but now I was on the other side of the fence and I just wanted to be done.

Viewings are painful.

“Look, we can sit the kids there after we cooked something all together while playing some jazz” she said with an angel’s face.

“Do you think that peninsula can hold the weight?” she said with the fallen angel’s face.

Fine, the gravel fell. I was sold on that last sentence. I thought I was a rational man and indeed I probably was up until I broke the rule to never ever take the wife with me to view a property.

I summoned my inner stoic, it was hard but I succeeded somehow. That’s life. Often, it gets good after it gets hard.

“There’s no extractor fan, how do you dry up your plates and stuff if you are washing something by hand? You know I basically meditate while massaging pans and giving them the odd slap to remind them who’s the boss” I jokingly answered her, knowing that she likes to do that. The meditating part.

Doubts started creeping in her head, I could almost see them visiting the left and then the right hemisphere.

“Yeah. You are not wrong… Let’s think about it” she replied, sounding defeated.

“Turn off your engineer brain. Turn on.” my tattooed mantra worked once again. I probably saved us a few grand already. Pavarotti noticed the change of tone in my wife and me heading for my shoes. Getting ready to leave after having checked the outside once more.

https://twitter.com/polyMatto/status/1784798340808323182