Is there an uncomplicated program that can be used to back up a Livejournal? It’s been pointed out to me by Matt that I should really have a copy of it somewhere. I remember looking into this about a year ago, but losing the thought in the shuffle that was last summer. I’m almost certain there was a utility available.
edit: http://www.ljbook.com/ is where it’s at. Dear god, my journal’s now on my desktop as a very pretty little, (well, not little, no), PDF file. It took maybe four minutes.
(A toul that describes how many people you’ve in common with the users on your flist would also be nice.)
As well, does anyone know enough about the S2 formatting to teach me how to make a decent layout? Now that TAGS are an option, I would very much like to use them. However, I don’t like the profferred S2 layouts and I’m simply not savvy enough to make any worthwhile changes.
That and, er, hello to the almost one hundred people who’ve friended me who I don’t really know. I knew I shouldn’t have looked at my user info. Now I’m nervous. Who are you people? Why are you here?
Actually, better thing. I’ve been sitting on a little meme for a few weeks. This may be the time to whip it out:
1. How did you first find my journal?
2. Why did you originally decide to friend me?
3. What’s your favorite part of my journal?
4. What’s your least favorite part of my journal?
5. Ask me a question. Be as random as you want.
6. Recommend a band to me. I’m curious what you think I should be listening to.
7. Recommend an LJ user to me and maybe I’ll friend them.
my comment stats
My house is divided. One night, two evenings, three days, four fingers, five. A hand without you, counted every time the sun goes down and terrified of my heart. Another night, another day, that’s two more. Arithmetic on my body. My shadow on fire, blazing something tired and nameless whenever I close my eyes and don’t hear your voice. Haunted by more words than I can encompass without looking into your eyes, by letters unwritten in every pore of my skin that remember your lips. I’m not sleeping so well. Instead I dream of stars, painful pointillist versions of a city I’ve never been to, haven’t seen pictures of. Fire on top of pillars. It’s all under the same moon, I tell myself, the words like a broken bridge tumbling into a river in slow motion. Instead my eyes sting with the splinters of roses and I imagine a painful sprouting of wings from my back. Dark feathers to take me away from here.
My fingernails are long again, white crescents I could place in the sky. I would offer to prostitute my soul if it meant that I would be able to create exquisitely as Alessandro Bavari does. His art is enchanting, captivating my eyes to the exclusion of time. I look outside and the warm air’s been pulled out over the ocean, taking the light with it like a blanket to tuck in the other side of the world.
edit: a re-write for lj user inktea
A little boy looks up at a man with graying hair, “Why do you play with desperation?” The man, he puts down his worn clarinet and replies, “Because they live in every town I have a gig.”
Two-thirds of the populace were living alone when it happened. Hallucinations, at first faint, flickerings in the reflected blue light from television screens, almost transparent in the cheap halogens found over bathroom mirrors. There were rumours of an LSD dump in the reservoir. Doctors complained that there was no standard procedure for treating so many for psychosis. Somebody blamed violence in video games. A week later, they had mass, depth. Archetypes, like a fat sodden guilt that would sit in the fridge and pout whenever the door opened, were haunting the under stimulated, the lonely, and the old. Stocks in drug companies soared, there was a run on anti-psychotics. Cities were drastically effected, tall office towers especially, but not as much as the small towns, rife with tiny disasters. In one rural area, an entire nursing home committed suicide.
Fishermen catch a missile.
Pictures of the Mermaid Parade.