Tomorrow ushers in August of 2026, and I fear I have neglected this laboratory journal with the sort of guilt usually reserved for forgotten corpses in the cellar. My apologies to the six of you still breathing who wander these halls… and to the spambots. Especially the spambots.
So much has transpired though so little has happened. Time is a peculiar fungus.
Should any of you unfortunate souls stalk my Instagram or YouTube, you may have noticed the eerie silence. The machines have not stopped singing…. I have merely wandered into a different wing of the asylum. Part burnout, certainly. My gears required replacing. But mostly…
Claude.
Not a gentleman in a waistcoat, sadly, but an unnervingly capable accomplice. Together we’ve descended headfirst into code. Not sensible code. Experimental code with some strange little digital machine bugs that twitch, mutate, and occasionally achieve consciousness before breakfast. Things I always wished I could build years ago but lacked the proper scalpels.
Most of it lives quietly on my own machines for now, hiding from the evil algorithmic empires. A few web experiments are beginning to crawl toward the light. They’re still malformed creatures, still missing a few limbs, but they’ll be ready for public observation soon enough.
And so my dear reader, perhaps my greatest act of necromancy…
Kranioclast.com lives again!
My old laboratory of Flash animations from 1999 to 2009 has clawed its way out of the grave.
Corporate executioners like Apple unfortunately put Flash against the wall years ago, DECADES AGO, declaring it obsolete with all the warmth of a tax auditor. Adobe held the smoking pistol, though I still reserve a peculiar affection for the old Macromedia days, when Flash felt less like software and more like bottled lightning. Pure alchemy. Every frame hand-built, every button a tiny spell.
Thanks to the magnificent sorcery known as Ruffle, many of those original experiments breathe once more. Some have even undergone successful cranial reconstruction in glorious 4K. Imagine that. The old ghosts receiving new skeletons.
So do have a wander. Poke the jars. Press the suspicious buttons.
Beyond that, I’ve built an absurd number of things. Tiny code experiments. Curious digital contraptions. Entire games. Half-finished realities. Most exist simply because they demanded to exist. Creation has become less about finishing and more about opening another forbidden door to see what leaks through.
Curiously, however… I miss graphite. I miss ink beneath my fingernails. Have I gone full digital? Am I now made of Ai? I miss drawing until my wrist complains. I miss hand animation, the beautiful, stubborn act of convincing dead lines to breathe one frame at a time. I suspect I shall soon divide my hours more wisely between machine and man. Silicon and pencil. Circuit and soul. One must never allow the machines to have all the fun.
Outside, Los Angeles continues its annual experiment of becoming Salvation Mountain without the paint. The sun hovers somewhere around ninety-five degrees, busily attempting to sterilize civilization.
I shall endeavor to write here more often. Even if my only audience consists of pharmaceutical advertisements, fake Russian casino accounts, and WordPress spambots desperately insisting I have won several million dollars in Bitcoin. They may outnumber me and may clog my comment section with cursed hyperlinks. But I refuse to surrender this peculiar corner of the internet!!!
The web belongs to us weirdos. Not to Meta nor Google. Not to whatever Lovecraftian advertising engine currently harvests our dreams while we sleep.
I’ve even been tempted to mirror this strange little laboratory over at Neocities. Now there is a place that still smells faintly of the old internet with handmade, gloriously impractical, stitched together by curious minds instead of engagement metrics.
Until next time… The specimens require feeding.
Warm regards, Dr. Mangor
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