13 JUN 2026 — STATION 7New
I got a letter today. Now, the first thing I thought was: amazing, a letter,
who is it from? Then I thought. Who delivered it? I mean, who did deliver it?
There were no tracks in the snow, from a scooter, nor from shoes. Nothing.
Somehow the letter made it through, though. My initial thought was that it may
be from the government, but it had no official stamp, which it usually does.
It was handwritten, shaky letters, saying "to Jaran, facility manager." That's it.
So I opened it, and it said: "to whom it may concern, and if it doesn't, don't be
concerned, it also concerns you. I.e. life." That's it.
— logged 21:18
11 JUN 2026 — STATION 7
I had an idea. What if I use webbing from the fluorescent spiders to restring
my ukulele? Obviously not webs in use, but webs left behind. They move around
a lot, the spiders. Busy bees. Now, there are six of them. Theodore The Thing,
Lisa Lucky Lucy, Mathis The Mutilator, Rocket Rick, Pedro Peninsula, Oscar The
Oblivion. Weird ones, all of them, but I think they are highly intelligent.
They hang out outside the green door. If only I spoke spider, I'd ask them
about it, but I don't, so I won't. Oh well.
— logged 16:47
09 JUN 2026 — STATION 7
So I heard the whistle from MS Svalbard howling tonight. Five rapid blasts.
I have to get dressed, and go check it out. I wish Ingrid was made for harsh
conditions. I'd like to have a robot by my side in this seemingly endless
blizzard. Perhaps I should read "Build a Robot, and Deal With It" by Thomas
Rust. It just seems like a daunting task to read five thousand pages AND
understand it. Perhaps I could read "Sewing for Divers" by Roger Gudmundsson
instead. A leaflet in comparison. That way I could make a salt-proof suit for
Ingrid instead of risking her already pristine machinery.
— logged 02:51