For a long time, I’ve had a strange problem.

I know the web inside out. I can set up servers, configure reverse proxies, wire up CI pipelines, optimize builds, tweak performance, design systems, automate workflows — all of it.

And yet, my own website sits there, half-updated.

Not because I don’t have anything to say.
But because publishing feels heavier than it should.

Every time I want to update something, there’s friction.
A build step. A deploy step. A context switch. A small cognitive tax.

And friction kills momentum.

So instead of complaining about platforms, algorithms, and the current state of the web, I decided to fix the one thing I actually control: my own publishing workflow.

I built myself a tool.

Nothing revolutionary.
Nothing loud.
Just something that makes updating my own site feel as easy as posting somewhere else.

The goal is simple:

• Write in plain text.
• See the result immediately.
• Preview safely.
• Publish with one click.
• Keep everything portable.
• Keep everything mine.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how the web used to feel. It was smaller. More personal. A little weirder. Pages didn’t try to optimize you. They just existed.

Somewhere along the way, publishing shifted from “make a page” to “feed the machine.”

I don’t want to feed a machine.

I just want a place on the web that is mine — and easy to maintain.

So I built something that lowers the barrier between having a thought and publishing it. Something that removes the tiny but constant pain that has kept my own site quieter than I’d like.

In the end, it’s about reducing friction.

If publishing on your own site feels as effortless as posting to a platform, you don’t reach for the platform first anymore.

And maybe, if more of us make it just a little easier to maintain our own corners of the web, the web itself becomes a little more human again.

A little less optimized.
A little less centralized.
A little more personal.

Own your space on the web.
Publish instantly.
Stay weird.

I’ve joined Ocean Throne as their guitarist.

I went to try out with the band, and after one rehearsal it was pretty clear this was going to work. The songs felt right, the playing felt solid, and nothing felt forced. It just made sense.

Playing death metal again feels really good. I didn’t fully realize how much I’d missed it until we started jamming. There’s a certain weight and intensity in this style that you don’t really get anywhere else.

A couple of months ago we shot new band photos for the current lineup, and I’ve also been working on the band’s new website at https://oceanthrone.com.

Recently, I've been trying to keep in mind one thing: whenever I perform a repetitive task on the computer, I should write a script for it. Just a small one. I often think, 'I'll remember this', but just as often I forget.

The manual steps get forgotten, changed or go wrong. Yet it's easy to leave a script undone because I think, 'I can't do it now' or 'it's not that complicated'. But that little bit of laziness always pays off later.

I've found that trying to script things forces you to understand what you're actually doing. And the next time it's all there, you don't have to think or guess because you can just run the script and move on.

The goal: if the same thing is done twice, it will be scripted.