As I read more of the spec, I became more intrigued about [[HomeObject]]. [[HomeObject]] is used by the super keyword:

let parent = {
x: 'parent'
let child = {
x: 'child',
papaX() { return super.x; }
child.papaX(); // undefined
Object.setPrototypeOf(child, parent);
child.papaX(); // 'parent'

super when used inside of one of child's methods is basically the equivalent of Object.getPrototypeOf(child), whose value can change between call to call. However to do that a method (clarification: a method is a function like papaX, declared with the shorthand notation) needs to know which object it was defined in. …

Disclaimer: This is a rant, but I mean it to be a useful rant. The point of this article is to be mad and things, offer solutions and explore them. However, I will not fully explore the solutions offered so they may appear to be half-baked. My intention is not to dwell too much on their details but to stimulate your mind and try to shake some of the stupid status-quo.

Oh, and it’s also not as long as it seems. It features some images and an optional appendix. It’s going to be fun, promise!

Standard Streams

Think about a program you’ve had to write. Because you’re a true Unixer you accept your input from stdin output to stdout. There’s a beautiful simplicity to it, which is further enhanced with pipes. Pipes are truly beautiful. No joke. They’re an amazing concept, and they make sense conceptually. Not a lot of things have that. …

I had a balloon.
But I don’t any more.
One day,
I got up,
and the balloon was gone.
I looked in the closet,
in the drawer,
in the other pocket,
But the balloon was nowhere to be found
It was pretty sad.
After all, it was my balloon.
I sat in a chair and stared out the window,
Dreaming it might pop by and say,
“hello, did you miss me?”
A day passed.
And another.
And another.
And another.
And the balloon didn’t come back.
I took a balloon whistle and a balloon net,
and got out on a search.
I walked up and down the street.
Maybe it got tangled on a wire.
Maybe it fell down a trash can.
But it was nowhere to be found.
People asked me, what are you looking for?
My balloon.
Oh, your balloon.
It was right there,
around the corner,
near that building,
you just missed it.
So I excitedly went and looked,
and there was a balloon.
But it wasn’t mine.
It was a different balloon.
Entirely different.
I went to the city.
Maybe it wanted to
go shopping, or
see a movie?
It was very loud.
I couldn’t hear myself searching.
Between the people and the tall buildings,
how could I find my balloon?
People said “here,
I have your balloon”.
So I looked.
And I smelled.
And I listened.
But it wasn’t my balloon.
I can understand their mistake:
it sounded similar,
or it smelled similar,
or it looked similar,
but there’s no mistaking it:
Theirs wasn’t my balloon.
Balloon, where are you?
I went to the mountains,
climbing hills and
crossing rivers.
I yelled. Balloon!
Where are you?
Answer me! …

Both hands on the counter, he lowered his gaze towards his legs, to the mahogany floor. Smoke debris, bad incense and a myriad of cheap perfumes congregated together in the thick air, choking him, failing to conceal the sweaty stench emanating from down the hall. He carried the picture album with him to one of the sofas leaning against a strawberry coloured wall. His shaking hands opened the album. Women looked back. Fancy names, above less-than-fancy women in little clothing. He turned a page. More women stared blankly at him. Another page, different women, each trying to draw his attention, to bring him to her, to make him point and say “her”. His lower lip curled downward, his brows furrowed. Page after page after page. At some point he stopped seeing, stopped discerning one woman from the next. A blur of flesh, brunette, redhead. …

Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.
Maybe we’ll talk, joke and think. Smile,
be serious, maybe even get sad.
Maybe meet again after that. Argue over
which is better, Fender or Gibson*. You’d get it
wrong. That’s okay.
Maybe we’ll exchange presents. Flowers or some
chocolates, the ones with the cream you like but
me…not so much.
Maybe we’ll go to the movies, be in awe or laugh
or piss our pants. You’d eat most of the popcorn.
I don’t mind.
Maybe we’ll lay on the grass, look up to the stars,
a canvas dotted by a blink child.
Maybe we’ll wonder what’s out there. And then wonder what’s in here, inside of us,
and then maybe we’ll get closer, a bit closer, and maybe even kiss.
Maybe I’d meet your parents. Your mother might not like me, she thinks
I’m not good enough for you, and she’d be right on that. Your father though
likes my sense of humour, much to your mother’s dislike. …

Lying to your right, she turned to face you, her right arm under her head, her left folded across her chest. Hair falling over the sides of her head, looking faintly almond-like in the scarcely moonlit room. You were half awake, in a daze, your head heavy. Between nearly shut eyes, you could see her lips moving. “Here, little maggot brain”.

Image for post
Image for post

It passed through your head. Over and over. “Here, little maggot brain”. Was it inviting? Was it mocking? Was it a question, or a statement?

Here, little maggot brain.

A short story.

Wandering through the streets, I can’t help but wonder what they’re thinking. The man with a fancy suit, angrily talking on his phone. The teenage friends laughing with one another. The woman who clutches her purse tightly. What did they do to bring them here, walking near me? Maybe he was just losing a deal as he raced to his car. Maybe they skipped school. Maybe she thought she was being stalked. What grim thoughts…assuming the worst. He could just as easily be annoyed at his child for not taking the dog to the vet, they could just have finished early, and she, well, maybe I was misreading that, and she just thought of a scary scene from a movie. …



Hobbyist of life

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