This week our Board voted, and our governance pages stopped describing what it was about to decide. Twelve documents are adopted, our unpaid Co-Creative Directors are indemnified, and Mila Krambo joined our About page as Treasurer. On Stimpunks.World, the street became a place people meet: a Town Hall with a door for every kind of meeting, a channel and a call in every room, and the first room somebody built for themselves. It also gained a Mission, a page saying how the site is made and how we use AI, a MUD with nobody to fight, three animal shelters, and a search box. David Gray-Hammond’s NeuroHub Community joined our knowledge garden, bylines and all. And our team began moving out of Notion and HubSpot: our working documents into a shared drive our team garden can read, and our contacts, grant requests, and tasks into a trial of EspoCRM, an open source CRM.
The sentence that kept going false this week was one of ours. Our bylaws page said "not yet in force" in bold, just above a new line saying the Board had adopted them. Stimpunks.World’s Mission said nothing on the street is counted, and nine hours later a tree was keeping a count. The small print on every call panel said we keep nothing about a call, and then we started keeping who was in one. A licence said every typeface on the street was under one licence, and some are under another. A comedy club billed one set as the longest until a longer one went up. Most of these were true when written and went false when the thing they described moved. One was false on arrival: a room opened saying its radio was not switched on yet, read off a decision record nobody had re-checked. A sentence about the site is part of the site, and it goes out of date with it.
Throughline
- Change the promise in the open, or keep the thing it promised. When our Board adopted its policies, the Town Hall’s Board room on Stimpunks.World had to re-copy our governance text, and its own tool refused the old words saying the bylaws were only proposed. That is what it was written to do. When Pando Calrissian started counting water, Ryan kept the number and changed the Mission instead, from nothing is counted to nobody is counted, and then again, when Count Me In kept a highest step, to the numbers on the street belong to nobody. When calls started keeping who was in them, the panels stopped saying we keep nothing. Even our grant email templates turned out to be carrying two sentences that did not say what we meant. A promise that has to move should move where readers can see it did.
- Seeing is the same switch as being seen. It started on the Slake on Sunday and reached every room by Tuesday: you see who else is here only once you choose to be seen, and then by handle, in alphabetical order, with no count. Reactions name who and never how many. Pando counts water and never waterers. The forever list at the shelters never knew who adopted anybody. A picture on the CB is redrawn in your own browser before it leaves, so the camera’s GPS never does. Names without numbers, and numbers without names.
- When the first real person fails the check, check the check. Our import tool refused Isha Snow’s NeuroHome three times, and all three reasons were ours, one of them a gap our own prompt had told her to leave for a photograph. The Cooldown Room’stool first refused Cucumber Coins and the fuel pumps, and we narrowed the rules rather than adding exceptions. A share-card tolerance that could not tell another Mac’s anti-aliasing from a real contrast fix was built and thrown away. A rule that refuses the person it was written for is the broken thing, not the person.
- The domain is not the byline. NeuroHub runs guest authors, so our mirror credits each post’s own byline and never just the site. Wiring it in found our concept pages had filed queering.earth and the Map of Monotropic Experiences, both made with Helen Edgar, under our name alone. On the street, the Fishbowl credits its format to James Carrier at PeopleShift, Executive Session credits BoardSource rather than passing as our policy, Norah’s tray is written exactly as Norah gave it, and the Faery Yurt’s tagline is in Helen’s words and her spelling. Credit the hand, not the address.
The Work
The Board Voted, and Our Pages Caught Up
At our board meeting on 29 September, every decision passed unanimously, with the whole Board and our staff behind each one. So our governance pages now say what the Board decided, not what it was about to. All twelve documents that carry a Document ID now read Adopted by the Board of Directors on 29 September 2026: the bylaws, the Conflict of Interest, Whistleblower, Document Retention, Gift Acceptance, and Expense policies, Board Roles & Responsibilities, both onboarding guides, and three forms.
Changing a Status line was not enough. The bylaws page still said "not yet in force" in bold, just above the new Status. It had also promised to report the vote when it happened, so now it does. The family qualification for directors is gone from §2.1.
The Transparency Log gained nine rows for the meeting. They record the resolution to end our private foundation status, which starts our conversion to a public charity and does not finish it. They record the move to accrual accounting, a January signing cycle for the Conflict of Interest Statement, and the election of Mila Krambo as Treasurer and director, filling a seat that had been empty. Our Board & Governance page listed her on Wednesday, and on Saturday she joined our About page.
The Volunteer Agreement was reissued at 2.0, because our unpaid Co-Creative Directors are now indemnified. The page and the form say so in the same words. The page had refused to promise that coverage until it was real, and it still refuses to promise insurance we have not confirmed.
Over on Stimpunks.World, the Town Hall’s Board room carries our Governance & Ethics section word for word, checked against our mirror of stimpunks.org on every build. After the vote it had to be re-copied, and its own tool refused the text that said the bylaws were only proposed. A copy that can notice when its source has moved is the only kind worth keeping.
Out of Notion and HubSpot: Read Here, Edit There
We use a sliver of what Notion does, its task management is missing things dedicated task managers have, and we would like to add more people to it than we comfortably can. HubSpot’s introductory tier was never a fit, and CRMs in general are a poor fit for a nonprofit. Ryan’s goal is open source and self-hosted tools that save money, let us add more people, and keep our data our own. This week we started.
The documents went first. Our internal Field Guide, meeting minutes, weekly reviews, notes, outside grants, expenses, and templates moved out of Notion into one Google shared drive, Team Docs. The one thing Ryan’s own notes said he would miss from Notion was editing a document together during a meeting, so everything went over in a format we can co-edit.
On Saturday, our team garden began showing that drive as a section of its own, folder by folder. Every page carries an Edit in Google Docs link at the top, because Google Docs stays the only place they change. A link from one team doc to another opens the garden’s copy, so nobody gets sent back into Drive halfway through reading. Spreadsheets show as tables with real dates and checkmarks, and search can narrow to a single folder. The copy refreshes before every nightly deploy, and a page says so when it falls more than two days behind.
A copy is only as private as its guest list. The garden is opening to everyone in our Team group, with personal emails welcome. Leaving the group takes someone out of Drive at once, and out of the garden not at all. So every deploy now names who can sign in, and how many of them could switch the login off. Before anything went up, we checked all 424 docs for card, bank, and Social Security numbers and written-out passwords. We found none, and the build now holds back any doc that looks like it carries one. Read here, edit there.
Relationships went into a trial of EspoCRM, an open source CRM, on its hosted service while we decide. Over Thursday and Friday we moved in more than two thousand contacts, our grant requests with their stages and the dates they were submitted, and our collaboration requests as cases. We did not carry over old request descriptions. They hold sensitive information and were already due for deletion, and a migration is no reason to keep what we meant to delete. We built a small WordPress plugin that hands a form straight to EspoCRM as a request linked to its contact, with no Zapier in between. If EspoCRM does not answer, it tries three more times over the next few hours, then emails us.
Our HubSpot email templates came across too, and copying them turned up two sentences we had been sending people. One said we could not provide requests to minors without a guardian’s approval, when we meant fund them. Another said in one place that Mutual Aid Grantees are selected monthly and in another that awards go out every other month. Both now say every other month. Then came grant reports, a dashboard, our open Notion tasks, and recurring tasks that create themselves each morning. Nothing is committed yet. The rest of the team tries it next.
NeuroHub Joins the Garden, and the Domain Is Not the Byline
David Gray-Hammond gave us permission to mirror NeuroHub Community into our knowledge garden, and he is adding stimpunks.org to his in return. Its 488 posts and 53 pages are now searchable alongside our own writing and Helen Edgar’s.
NeuroHub has more than one author, so the site’s name cannot tell you who wrote a post. Its guest authors include Tanya Adkin, Katie Munday, Adele Murray, and Helen Edgar, and 39 posts carry more than one name. So the mirror now keeps each post’s byline as the site shows it, and our tools credit that name, not the site. WordPress’s own author field names David even on guests’ posts, so we do not use it. We left out NeuroHub’s shop listings, which are a storefront, not writing.
Wiring it in turned up an older mistake. Our concept pages filed every site without its own label under stimpunks.org, as our own published words. So queering.earth and the Map of Monotropic Experiences, which we made with Helen, were credited to us alone. Each site’s label now comes from one list of whose words each mirror holds, and a site missing from that list is marked unclassified, never ours. Mirroring someone’s site is a favour they grant, not a licence.
A Town Hall, and a Call in Every Room
Stimpunks.World opened the Town Hall in the small hours of Tuesday, a round hall under an open dome, and by five in the morning every door round its wall led somewhere. The Fishbowl is a glass bowl on a sunny sill for community fishbowl meetings, with a ring of stones inside that always keeps one gap. The Directors’ room lists our directors exactly as our About page does, and its generator refuses an anchor the About page no longer has. The Board room is one long table with the same lamp at every seat. The Moderators’ room sits above the street at night and says where to report a concern. And Executive Session, the board without staff, is a dark room lit only by the EXIT sign.
Anybody can walk into these rooms, but their radio and call are locked on the server, not the page. A moderator’s password signs on only a handle on a named list, each with its roles. Passes are re-checked on every request, so removing someone takes effect the next time their radio listens, and a list that cannot be read fails closed. Executive Session is the one room the administrator key does not open, by Ryan’s call. Every lock was broken on purpose before it was believed.
The day before, every room on the street got a CB channel of its own, shaped exactly like the street’s: ten messages, gone at midnight. Every room also got a call, through 8×8’s Jitsi as a Service. Everybody arrives muted, leaving the page hangs up, and only the base can record. The security header now refuses the camera, microphone, and screen to anything but the call. Sharing a YouTube video in a call meant switching on a Jitsi setting that also covered analytics, avatar lookups, and Giphy, so we turned those off by name. The privacy page now says that a shared video loads youtube.com for everybody in the call.
The radio learned to talk about films, too. A time like @34:12 in a message is a button that moves your own copy of the film there, without pressing play. Ryan found a spot from one room moving another room’s film, so a spot now names its film and its room. Host this film puts a beacon on the channel, and anybody in the same room can Catch up, or Follow the host so their film plays, pauses, and moves with the host’s, at their own volume. Following is off until pressed, never remembered, and sends nothing.
That evening every door at Cavendish Coworking opened a room of its own. The Events Room is a lighthouse keeper’s watch room, with our recurring events as its light list and the hour on your own clock. The Operations Room is a plant room with every main painted the colour of what it carries. The Editorial Room is a designer’s light table in a dark studio, with crop marks, a colour bar, and a loupe. Those three hold our open meetings, so their calls are public: a guest types a name, knocks, and waits in the lobby. The Watering Hole is a pan of water in the Namib at noon, for come-and-go chat. The Campfire is a fire in a clearing at night for small groups, and the Cave is a tunnel in glacier ice, lit through its own walls. Proton Meet has gone from the street, and the generator now refuses any link to it. The Community Center gained a meeting hall for our group chat on Stoat. Stoat refuses to be framed, so the hall is a link, and nothing on the street sends anything to Stoat.
A MUD With Nobody to Fight, and Nobody Watching Unseen
Ryan asked for a non-violent graphical MUD after watching Majuular’s Ultima Online retrospective. On Sunday, the MUD Room opened, and out of its back door is the Slake, a tidal estuary made of words and drawn as a map. It runs from the sea wall through reedbed, saltmarsh, a tea hut, and a tide mill to the mudflat, the ferry steps, and a causeway to an island with a day beacon. You can type or press, and every button does what a word does. The guidebook is the game: every place, thing, person, and way on is written into the page as a book, so with scripts off the Slake is still there, walked by links. Nothing is counted, and the tide turns only when you wait somewhere dry. The tool refuses a way on with no way back, a way onto the mud that ignores the tide, the vocabulary of a fight or a score, and foraging advice.
Each resident is doing something our glossary has an entry for, and names it the second time you talk to them: parallel play, place-based education, third places, affinity spaces, constructionism, omni-directional learning, and monotropic time, in Helen Edgar’s words.
The room opened with a false sentence, that the CB was built but not yet switched on. It came from a stale decision record, read as the current state instead of checked. It was fixed within half an hour, with a correction at the top of the site’s changelog for readers who had already pulled it. By 23:16 other people could meet you there, and seeing is the same switch as being seen, so nobody watches the Slake unseen. You meet others only in the place you are in, never on the map. Who is here is given as names in alphabetical order, with no count. Moving replaces your record, so there is no trail. The privacy page changed before the code did.
On Tuesday that switch reached every room. Be seen here works both ways: once you are seen in a room, you see who else is, by handle, in alphabetical order, with no count. Who is in a room’s call comes from 8×8’s participant webhook, so it includes guests. It is checked against 8×8’s signature and keeps a name, a flag, a time, and a hashed id, never the email. The small print on every call panel used to say we keep nothing about a call. That stopped being true, so it stopped saying so. The privacy page, the house norms, and the public calls’ notice say what is kept now. Every call can share files, too, and a shared file goes to 8×8 and never to us. The privacy page says 8×8 publishes no retention period for it.
The CB can carry a picture now, which reverses our earlier words-only recommendation, by Ryan’s call. The radio redraws every screenshot or photo on a canvas in your own browser, so GPS and the rest of a camera’s metadata never leave it, and the server refuses any file that still carries some. A picture is part of its message and is deleted with it. A description is offered and never required. Links to other sites now say they are leaving: they open in a new tab with no referrer, and the host is written after the address the way the browser spells it, so a lookalike address shows its punycode.
By Wednesday you could claim the handle you are on, with your own password and no email. Moderators can look up one username by name, and there is no list of everybody. The desk refuses to let one moderator reset another’s password, because a reset code would let one moderator become another. Reactions show the handles in alphabetical order and never a count. And the Brass Tacks Board is the one place built for posts meant to last: only a moderator posts there, and the author’s username is public.
Nothing Counted, Then Nobody, Then the Numbers Belong to Nobody
Just after midnight on Wednesday, Stimpunks.World said what the street is for. The Mission opens with Ryan’s own words and Anaïs Nin, quoted as she appears on stimpunks.org’s front page. Every aim names the page that keeps it and the failure that would show we had stopped. It also says plainly that the street is not mutual aid. Broadside No. 2, Ribald Songing, argues the masthead line by line, CC0, in the wordmark’s pink and cyan darkened until they pass for print.
That morning, three games from our Discord’s Collaborative Nonsense channels became shopfronts, and each one made a published sentence false by lunchtime. Pando Calrissian is one aspen grove that is everybody’s: you water it from the CB, and another stem comes up from the one root. The Fridge of Sighs builds a sentence one word magnet at a time, and nobody puts up two words in a row. Count Me In is a stairwell everybody climbs together, one number each.
The Mission had said nothing on the street is counted. Nine hours later the tree kept a count. Ryan chose to keep the number and change the promise, so now it says nobody is counted. The tree counts water and never waterers. It has no per-person total, no leaderboard, no streak, and no goal. Then the stair kept a highest step, the first record on the street to beat, and the promise moved again, to the numbers on the street belong to nobody. Ryan made that call knowing what it reversed.
The stair also has a chairlift, "so everyone can join." Riding it asks for the next step instead of typing a number, so it needs no sums, can never send anybody back to one, and counts exactly the same. Nothing records which way you came up. A wrong number sends the stair back to one and names nobody, and the tool refuses the vocabulary of blame, because every counting bot announces who ruined it. The fridge keeps finished sentences for good, which is only simple because no word carries a name. Its one trace of a person is a keyed hash of the last word’s author, replaced by the next word and never sent to any page.
The same afternoon three animal shelters opened: Rescue A Cat, the dark end of the street by torchlight; Rescue A Dog, a park the morning after snow; and Rescue Small Animals, the crawlspace under a shop. The Discord game they come from is a collection with a leaderboard. These are neither. No animal is rarer than another: every coat, marking, and mood is one entry in a flat list. We moved from one byte of a hash to 32 bits when one byte made four coats a twentieth less likely. Some animals have three legs or one eye, said plainly. Pets are the one thing the street keeps under a person, filed under a hash of the handle so they follow you to any device, with a Forget Me beside them that asks once more before it deletes. The forever list shows the animals and no names of the people who adopted them. Our first rule sent an unadopted cat off to a home after a week. Ryan reversed it that afternoon, and now a cat waits in the shelter until somebody adopts it.
The First Room Somebody Built for Themselves
On Monday, Your Room gained a prompt anybody can give Claude or another AI to build a room of their own, and a tool that brings that room onto the street or says every reason it cannot. The prompt interviews the person first, then builds one self-contained page they can keep changing. It asks for the street’s conventions: scoped styles, the room’s own colours, openly licensed fonts, the intensity dial’s levels, 4.5:1 text contrast, media as buttons rather than embeds, nothing sent or kept, and a credits section. The page says plainly that the room will be credited as built with an AI, that the AI works from the person’s own words and does not write their story, and that what they tell an AI goes to its company. The import tool refuses with every reason at once, renders the room as it would ship, and runs it through the same checks as every other room. We tested it against twenty-three broken rooms, each refused for its own reason.
On Tuesday, Isha Snow’s NeuroHome became the first room on the street somebody built for themselves. Isha (she/they) built it with Claude on our prompt: her tiny home at the NeuroHomes Community by the Columbia River, with her bookshelf, a desk with a radio and her instruments, a creativity corner with her books, podcast, and talk show, her collages on the walls, and a garden and bee yard out the front door. Every choice and every word in it is hers.
The import tool refused it three times, and all three reasons were ours, not hers. Our own prompt told people to leave a marked space and send a photo separately, which she did, and the tool refused any room still waiting for one. Now a photograph gets a consent record and a file of its own, the import puts it in with its alt text, and withdrawing it is still deletion. That reverses the tool’s written rule, by Ryan’s call. The tool had also misread a scoped style as unscoped, and refused a colour scheme the street works out for itself. Her six collage photographs are in their frames, with every scrap of metadata removed.
The same day, the Samefood Cafe got a new regular: Norah’s tray, written exactly as Norah gave it, brands and "etc." and all. Norah’s samefood of the moment is Knorr Chicken Broccoli Rice, drawn in its bowl from above, and the drawing tool learned a broccoli floret for it.
On Wednesday the street gained a guest bar, a folded bar with the teleporter and a way onto the CB for people not signed on. It stayed out of Helen Edgar’s Faery Yurt until she said yes. When she did, she also said she need not approve future additions. So Ryan made it a rule of the street: every personal room takes the street’s conventions as they develop, and a convention nobody likes goes to the Town Hall. Conventions never touch a room’s own look or words. Early the next morning the yurt’s tagline changed to Helen’s own words, in her own spelling.
How We Use AI, Said Out Loud
Stimpunks.World now has a page saying how this site is made, like the design pages Queering Earth and Star Stuff keep, and it says plainly who does what. Ryan and Helen Edgar decide the street. Claude writes nearly all of the code and drafts most of the words, and the drawings are code it writes. No image generator or AI voice is used, and nothing a visitor does reaches an AI. The page names the mistakes a language model makes and how the site catches them. Writing it turned up a false sentence of our own. The licence said every typeface on the street is under the SIL Open Font License, and some are Apache 2.0. The licence now says so, points at the Foundry’s own data, and says it was wrong until that day.
On Saturday, Learning Large opened: a glasshouse at night carrying the argument of our AI pages, under Ryan’s tagline, Models are spiky. Humans are too. The glasshouse is lit by old red and blue grow lamps, two narrow spikes of colour matched to what a leaf takes in, so the light itself is a spiky profile and nothing under it is green. The generator refuses a green anywhere in the room. The argument runs through spiky profiles, competency networks, the legibility test, harm reduction, constructionism, and Papert and Cynthia Solomon’s Logo, and every quotation is checked word for word against our mirror on every build.
Its sowing log is the street’s own changelog of the times something here came up wrong, most of them Claude’s, and who or what noticed. The room refuses an AI given a mind, an AI "teammate," a sales pitch, and a tally, and it has no chat box. A bench screen holds the last month from the AI channels Ryan chose, refilled each morning. On the first fill, five channels’ feeds did not reach back a whole month, and the page says so under each one.
One Strobe on Purpose, and a Window That Never Flashes
Last week Club Chronic promised it does not strobe at any setting, because a room whose whole argument is come in as you are cannot hold a light that puts somebody on the floor. This week the Rebellion Rave Room turned 08 off the Outskirts: an old aircraft hangar at the end of the airstrip road, taken over by sensory seekers who wanted somewhere to stim loudly and brightly. Scaffolding runs up every wall, the DJ booth is two floors up, and a lift reaches every deck.
It holds the one strobe on the whole street, and the reversal is an opt-in and nothing else. The warning sits above the rig, and the rig ships hidden. The strobe takes two presses, and the second press answers a question that names the rate. Escape, the Stop buttons, a hidden tab, and leaving the page all stop everything, and coming back does not restart it. Nothing is stored. The knob starts at four flashes a second, the HSE’s figure for a club as the Epilepsy Society reports it, and stops at eleven, by Ryan’s call. The flash is white and lands only on the hangar picture unless you take it full screen. We make no claim of safety or treatment. Every other room’s own no-flash promise still holds.
Through the other door is the Cooldown Room: small, soft, and lit by a free vending machine of snacks made by locals of the road. Every slot says what is in it and how it feels. Its tool refuses a price, a verdict on food, a brand, and any script that keeps or sends anything. Its first two refusals were false positives, Cucumber Coins and the fuel pumps, and we narrowed the rules rather than adding exceptions.
The same day, every room on the street gained a fractal window in its sign-off: a small, slow fractal drawn only in that room’s own colours, switched on by a press and never by the intensity dial. It never flashes. The script limits how fast any pixel can change brightness and red, so a flash takes most of a second, where WCAG 2.3.1 allows up to three a second. Without that limit, most rooms’ pictures flashed at the fastest speed. A test counts flashes in the painted pixels for every recipe, and fails an unlimited strobe on purpose to prove it still counts. Two rooms shipped with it off, each with its reason in the data. Stay Frosty promises nothing to press and nothing moving, so it stays off. The Faery Yurt is Helen’s room and so her call, and twenty minutes later it was on, because Helen said yes.
Every Campfire on a Screen, and a Notebook Left Open
Lightbulb Picture House opened Screen Three, with every Campfire Learn Together on it, newest first. Its rack has a card for every film each session watched, written from the film’s captions, or from its description and our post where YouTube had no captions or refused them, and the data says which. Each card carries the campfire’s date and a link to our post. Campfires whose films cannot go on a YouTube playlist are listed under the rack, with the reason. Any card can now put its film on its rack’s screen, and Ryan made the fold-away rack the pattern for racks from now on, recorded as a decision about behaviour, not looks.
Four more rooms took it on Tuesday. Mycelium Munchies plays Derek Sarno’s videos on the masterclass screen, and gained ten more of them. Club Chronic’ssleeves along the back wall each put a record on the stage, and fixing it caught a bug no gate would have seen: the playlist would have restarted from the top while its label says it starts somewhere random. The Doom Scoop has a screen in every morning’s tub, empty until you choose, because a morning is not a list anybody can put on whole. And Swaying Sweetgrass’sfire pit, which had talks round it and no fire in it, now has a whole playlist of forest campfires.
Big Steep Fermentables gained three cellars that belong to other people, to leave on: long ambience videos on their makers’ own channels. The room says plainly that they are not this cellar. They have barrels, wood, and fire, and none of that is in Big Steep’s glass and steel. We read every video on the day and measured runtimes rather than taking them from titles: the speakeasy says 4 hours in its title and 5 in its description, and runs 4:46:57.
Vital Plant Living has a telly showing the last month of videos from the plant-based cooks Ryan listed, refilled every morning. The video titles are the cooks’ own, so our house sweeps never rewrite them. Laughingstock put eight new comics on the bill: Joe Wells, Fern Brady, Tim Renkow, Stuart Laws, Pierre Novellie, Hannah Gadsby, Lara Ricote, and Rosie Jones. Adding them made one of our own notes false, because a set billed as the longest stopped being the longest when another went up. So the generator now refuses "longest," "shortest," and "newest" in a note.
And on Saturday, The Open Notebook, a journaling shop that opens with Ryan’s piece on bullet, junk, and interstitial journaling, in full. The room is a desk under a window with a notebook that has lain open since first light, so every hour’s patch of window light lies on the page at once, dawn blue on the left to dusk rose on the right. Each list of videos in the piece became a taped note in the margin, marked with the bullet journal’s own sign for "migrated." The reflection questions from our Infodumplings write-up follow, checked against our copy of that post on every build. There is nowhere on the page to answer them, on purpose. The tool refuses a form, an input, or anything editable. Nobody here watched the videos on its laptop first, and the room says so.
Two Machines, One Street
Stimpunks.World can be searched now. It started with Helen Edgar’s asks: typing "fire" should find The Campfire, a keyword should find the rooms that are about it, and there should be a search bar at the top. The teleporter now looks inside the words of a name and through each room’s own description, and a checker runs Helen’s asks against it on every build. By noon Ryan had asked for the rest, because all of our other sites have it, and the finder now searches every section of every page. Quotations are filed separately and shown with their credit, never cropped. The parts the morning timers rewrite are left out of the index, and so is the one lyric we have permission to use. We chose not to use Pagefind: its WebAssembly would loosen the site’s script policy, its index would change every morning, and both machines would need it installed. Nothing anybody types is sent anywhere.
The two machines were also fighting over the share cards. The same version of Chrome, on two versions of macOS, draws the soft edges of letters differently, so every run of the full check on either Mac rewrote every share card on the street. Helen’s Claude found it and measured it. We built a pixel tolerance first and threw it away. Anti-aliasing moves the core of a thin stroke by about ten levels, and a real contrast fix to its ink moves it by about twenty, so no single threshold accepts the first and catches the second. Instead each card now records what decides it: its markup, every computed style, the bytes of every font it asks for, and the hash of the picture. When all of that matches, the committed card stays. A tolerance guesses at the difference. A record of the inputs knows it.
Week 40 Changelog
- Published the Week 39 changelog: 78 links resolving and zero
latex.phpimages, from a source with no editor artifacts at all, and still 4 stray asterisks in 2 damaged emphasis runs. WordPress’s own Markdown converter breaks emphasis too, so a clean source is not a clean page. Repaired the same day. - Published the Week 38 reflection: 43 links resolving and 8 stray asterisks in 3 runs, this time from backslashes our editor added on its last save. Stripping them reproduced the committed paragraph exactly. Repaired the same day.
- Our governance pages now say what the Board decided on 29 September: twelve documents adopted, the family qualification gone from the bylaws, nine new rows in the Transparency Log, and the Volunteer Agreement reissued at 2.0 with our unpaid Co-Creative Directors indemnified.
- Added Mila Krambo, elected Treasurer and director, to our About page.
- Moved our team’s working documents out of Notion into a Google shared drive, and gave them a read-only Team Docs section in our team garden, with an Edit in Google Docs link on every page and a check that holds back anything that looks like a card, bank, or Social Security number.
- Started a trial of EspoCRM for our contacts, grant requests, collaboration requests, email templates, and tasks, with a small WordPress plugin that hands a form straight to it, no Zapier in between. Copying our templates corrected two sentences we had been sending people.
- Mirrored David Gray-Hammond’s NeuroHub Community into our knowledge garden with his permission, crediting each post’s own byline, and stopped our concept pages filing queering.earth and the Map of Monotropic Experiences under our name alone.
- Stimpunks.World opened the Town Hall, with the Fishbowl, the Directors’ room, the Board room, the Moderators’ room, and Executive Session, and its radio and calls locked on the server, not the page.
- A CB channel and a call in every room, film spots, hosting, and Follow the host, and six rooms behind the doors of Cavendish Coworking. Proton Meet has gone from the street.
- Seeing is the same switch as being seen, on the Slake and then in every room. Pictures on the CB lose their metadata before they leave your browser, links to other sites say they are leaving, and reactions name who and never how many.
- Wrote the Mission and Broadside No. 2, then opened Pando Calrissian, the Fridge of Sighs, Count Me In, and three animal shelters, and changed the Mission’s promise twice in the open: from nothing counted, to nobody counted, to the numbers on the street belong to nobody.
- Isha Snow’s NeuroHome is the first room somebody built for themselves, through Your Room’snew AI prompt and import tool, which refused it three times for three reasons that were all ours.
- Published how Stimpunks.World is made, including plainly how we use AI, and corrected the street’s licence, which had said every typeface was under one licence.
- Opened the MUD Room, the Rebellion Rave Room with the street’s one opt-in strobe, the Cooldown Room, Learning Large, The Open Notebook, and Screen Three at Lightbulb Picture House, with every Campfire Learn Together on it.
- Gave every room a fractal window that never flashes, measured against WCAG 2.3.1 by a test that fails a strobe on purpose.
- Put fold-away racks in Mycelium Munchies, Club Chronic, the Doom Scoop, and Swaying Sweetgrass. Added three other people’s cellars to Big Steep Fermentables, a cooks’ telly to Vital Plant Living, and eight new comics to the bill at Laughingstock.
- Gave Stimpunks.World search across every word on the street, starting from Helen Edgar’s asks, and stopped two Macs redrawing every share card on every run.
This was the week the Board voted and the street filled with people. Our governance pages stopped describing what was about to happen and started saying what did, and a room on another site refused its own old words the moment they went false. Stimpunks.World grew a Town Hall, a channel and a call in every room, and a switch that lets you see others only once you let them see you. Its promises moved in the open, from nothing counted to nobody counted to numbers that belong to nobody, and every time one of our sentences went stale, we changed the sentence rather than leave it standing. The first room somebody built for themselves was refused three times by our own tool, for reasons that were all ours, and the tool changed. A strobe went up behind two presses, and a window went up that cannot flash at all. NeuroHub joined the garden credited post by post, because the domain is not the byline. And our team began leaving Notion and HubSpot for tools we can read here and edit there. Broken systems, not broken people.