I began this website in June 2016. The summer now feels like it passed underwater.

I had just moved into Inger's house in Wedding. With the huge windows open, I created the first virtual environment.

cst$ virtualenv mi1glisse

cst$ source mi1glisse/bin/activate

cst$ pip install wagtail
cst$ wagtail start glisse
cst$ cd glisse

cst$ ./ migrate

I've created Django sites using the Wagtail CMS so many times that I can run these commands on autopilot. Sometimes when I'm updating the site on my server, my fingers move so quickly that I've finished three commands before my brain catches up. 

cst$ ./ createsuperuser
cst$ ./ collectstatic
cst$ ./ runserver

The site had an intensive, slow build comprised of week-long sprints in June, August, September, and October. 

This slowness was necessary. I also designed the site, and having such a diverse set of responsibilities required me to move and let settle, move and let settle. In the settling, my strategic thinking caught up with and renegotiated my intuition. In some ways, the site has benefitted from this; in other ways, certain thoughts were left hanging, unfinished -- their purpose misremembered when I returned a month later. 

These poorly healed breaks indicate that the site haunts itself. So much of it was created in a mania of production. The pauses between sprints were not only necessary to allow my strategy to catch up with my intuition, but also to allow my brain to extract itself from the website for breathing. To sleep without seeing the code in my dreams; to walk down the street without the css color hexes in the periphery of my vision. 

To be so consumed in something is to give it more of yourself than you realise. What is in here? To you it is a labyrinthine publication system; to me, it is an impression in my brain down through my body, just as I am embedded inside of it. 

In the mornings I awoke thinking about what needed to be fixed, and I went to sleep thinking of the same. The thoughts in the morning were clear; the thoughts at night quickly became hallucinations that defied the constraints of a text editor and a browser. Manipulations of code that I found impossible to articulate even as I could still visualise its contours. 

My memory of myself during this time is augmented by my memory of the website. I see the code that I saw on the elliptical trainer at my gym and on the sidewalk; I see myself seeing it; I see it standing outside myself as I stand outside myself. I no longer have any questions about the website, but those that I once had are given physical forms in my memory.

 To experience the immersion in memory is to experience its shell; to see what I saw at a degree of removal, without the fever that allows the initial augmentation. It's not that the augmentation is no longer accessible because I now see a completed puzzle; there is no determined point of completion for this website. It's more that questions behind the website precipitated into structures that connected to each other and became too entangled and unwieldy to move.

 Once stabilised, there was no longer any point of immersion for me. The surface solidified and locked me out. 

Typing this, in my cold flat in December, I rest my fingers on the hot lower edge of my laptop for several seconds to warm them up.

Six months ago in this same chair I began the website.

Now the leaves have fallen. To the south, the Fernsehturm has, over the past month, slowly crept into view.