Ethan Marcotte now blogs at Unstoppable Robot Ninja.



Back in Boston, but missing Austin.

Dream journal, day #10754

Thirty yards away or so, the car sped up, and suddenly everyone on my dream-block became as bone-coldly aware of the car as I was.


Nice one, and try to lay off the techno.

South by.

Putting the mild post-SXSW depression aside for a moment.


So, then, you’d better get started.


What they will be again, and then more so.

Birthday thanks

You all rock harder than Dokken.

Inquiring mine

it wasn’t until much, much later that you realized this.

Why I come home

Happy anniversary, my one and lovely.

Tagging out

After much deliberation, I’ve decided to leave the Web Standards Project.

These Chicago women

The night is fine.

It begins

Good lord, I shouldn’t be blogging after four hours’ sleep.

Hard time floor

Better be sure.


It’s quiet now, and I turn back to my work.

Before I sleep

On public speaking, deadlines, and sleep deprivation. And now, this fanboy could stand about thirty-eight hours of sleep. A good day to you.

In gratitude

Gratias agamus, gratias tuo.

Thesis dreaming

What is old, is new again. My time management still sucks, but at least I’ve forgotten where the tape dispenser is.

Everything but what I listen to

You look at each other before sitting down, smiling.


Contracts were read, checks signed, belongings packed, and trucks rented.

A day, still

You miss her.

The short walk

Happy anniversary, to my one and lovely.


Rounding corners, reminiscing.

End of an era

The names have been changed to protect the irrational.

Taking inventory

She’s here, for awhile.

For reference

You’d each sip from your drinks, laugh, and begin the conversation again.

Stoppard’s tech support

Unstirring the custard.

Pinterian tech support

Enough subtext to gag a hippo.

A day in the day of.

In that order.


Like I like my women. Or something.

Twelve below

Sent, received. Response.

Make it happen

There are always, I suppose, things to consider, and paths to take.

First draught

You follow. Or you would.

Second draft, discarded edition

the half bottle of cheap wine sits on the table, forgotten, a word on the periphery that’s unwelcome, cackling, fat.

Second draft

In which things remembered, are.


Communicate, rinse, reiterate.


Anticipation’s a bitch.

In memoriam

A moment of silence.

Even in Cambridge

Which is the small?

Alone, but one.

She called back.


Quick catalog of things done not so quickly.

On emergency rooms.

We were in the process of haggling over which desserts she should order when the seizure hit. My grandmother’s face went ash-pale, and she dropped the menu with which she’d been fanning herself.

In progress

You grab a putty knife, face the wall, and scrape; if you’ve any feeling in your arm after the first hour or two, more power to you.

An office moment.

I stood stock-still in the doorframe, in the dark of the alcove outside my office, listening to an unseen guitarist playing on the floor above mine.

All the wrong reasons

A poem written, for all the wrong reasons.


A presentation, not a representation.


"Neque porro quisquam est qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit…"

But we listened, every one.

Something quiet, something beautiful, something ignored.

Zen moment of the day

Voices from the ether. And in front of the laundromat, no less.

And miles to go.

There’s something humbling about having a Vermont highway to yourself at 10.30pm on a snowy Friday evening.