What we’re going to do here is make a full stack web app that runs on your local server.
What does that mean?
It means you’ll have a BackEnd (the server) and a FrontEnd (the client), and they’ll be connected. In more practical terms that means you’ll have a website that is capable of storing data about individual users and displaying different data according to the user requested. Think a very, very (very) simple version of Facebook.
For that which, when posed to oneself, it is true
Can drive you half-mad:
Hunting premise from conclusion and conclusion from premise; tracking assumptions, axioms, arguments
Only to afterwards wonder
Had you any say in the chase at all?
And that which nor science nor priest nor wisdom,
Having though each, their own truth, jealously held
Are still unable to answer
That old philosopher’s question:
Do I have a body? Or, am I one?
Can you hear the long chain rattle?
Great black iron rings, casting nothingness back into nothing
Clattering and roaring, silent as death
Enforcing the empty legislation…
Day 1- Questions
How long will this last? How long can it? Why didn’t we care about this before now? Isn’t there someone with a job who warns us about these things? Can this happen again?
What’s it like — how bad is it? Will I get it? Will someone I know get it; could they die? Could I die?
What will the world look like after? Will it be kinder? Slower? What is Greta Thunberg doing now? What about the dehydrated koala bears in Australia, Syria, the homeless crisis, the refugee crisis? What about Brexit?
What does the power…
My Paris is the broken signal box and monday morning commuters stuffing into the delayed metro like soggy baguettes, overcooked in winter jackets and trying to protect our ridiculous white basket runners from being sullied by wet winter urban grime.
My Paris is bad English and worse tourist French.
My Paris is VOSTF and sitting in cinema seats that are too small, in rooms that are either too hot or too cold, eating cardboard popcorn and wondering if Coolock was really as good as it gets.
My Paris is rats and piss by the Seine, a hundred hungry people queuing…
I sat on the Champs Elysées, looking for a bar that might please me; But it was late at night and try as I might, I couldn’t get hosed as the bars were all closed.
I found a chair out in the night’s cold air and philosophised about how I could get ossified; And such was my determination to find some lubrication, that I sat out all alone, scrolling on my smartphone.
I knew I’d have to escape the coin, because the prices there would have me done; so I flew my map around, hoping a more suitable establishment could…
Warmer than a slept-in bed, more familiar than a mother’s arms. The coward grovels the dirt, prone where he fell; in a crater, big enough barely for a child, the coward shelters from the shredding air. His paper-dry mouth is metallic and tastes of gunpowder.
The coward wills himself to his duty and his friends, already dead. His captain falls, shouted words reaching his frayed neurons, even as a hole explodes and rips out of the guts of bravest man he ever knew. …
When we think of a spoon, our brains immediately associate it with 4 or 5 different uses (i.e. the ones you’re thinking of right now, see how many you can think of between now and when I ask you again, further down). This is what behavioural economists would call heuristic thinking — what the rest of us would probably call something like thinking habits. The idea is our brain learns a rules of thumb, and then applies these rules as often as possible in order to save computing power for more interesting thinking.
Think about crossing the road: When we’re…
If a picture paints a thousand words, how many pictures can 250 words show? Words. is a project that aims redefine experience as not just something that is seen, but also something that is felt and smelt; something tased and touched.
The ‘pictures’ start in Paris, but then follow me as I travel across Greece, Turkey and Lebanon. This is not a travel blog, it’s not a diary and it’s definitely not poetry. …
Recently I failed at something I had spent the majority of my waking time over the last ten months working on. I don’t think I’ve ever worked as intensely on something that didn’t more or less work out, which means this was my biggest ever failure. It was also my best.
The ground of “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” is well trodden, so I’m not here to rehash tired clichés. Received wisdom like that can make failure seem like an trivial thing. Real failure is anything but: Personally this experience has been incredibly costly and has hammered my…
The population of Ireland is so small, the entire country could live in New York City. In fact, the population could live in NYC, then double, and still fit (with a squeeze). The country has two official languages, English and Irish (or, Gaelic); though only a minority of the population can actually speak Irish.
Two time heart surgery survivor & one time U13s 100 metre runner-up. Caught the writing bug. All typos are my own.