island hopping

Continuing from yesterday’s post I’ve been working through figuring out my deployment of Archipelago. I decided to go down what I thought was the simple route of reverse proxying to the Docker container with NGINX, and initially Drupal cooperated without issue. The snag came with the IIIF image server, i.e. Cantaloupe. At first I tried copying the config of our Islandora server at work:

upstream cantaloupe {
  server  127.0.0.1:8182;
}

server { #standard server stuff left out here

location /iiif/2/ { proxy_read_timeout 90; proxy_connect_timeout 90; proxy_set_header X-Forwarded-Proto $scheme; proxy_set_header X-Forwarded-Host $host; proxy_set_header X-Forwarded-Port $server_port; proxy_set_header X-Forwarded-For $proxy_add_x_forwarded_for; if ($request_uri ~* "/(.*)") { proxy_pass http://cantaloupe/$1; } } #below here is the base location, i.e. reverse proxy to Drupal }

I had some trouble with that if section, but I think ultimately this would have worked just fine. The problem was that the upstream server had assets at its root that conflicted with Drupal. So no problem, reverse proxy the whole image server from its own subdomain, right? womp womp. Hello CORS issues. Fine then, I’ll just copypasta some NGINX CORS lines to wildcard subdomain. Foiled again. Double CORS header errors in the browser. Turns out Drupal sets its own default CORS options in its config. Final answer:

  1. Copy default.services.yml to services.yml in Drupal’s web/sites/default folder.
  2. Change the default cors.config to the following (for example).
  cors.config:
    enabled: true
    # Specify allowed headers, like 'x-allowed-header'.
    allowedHeaders: ['x-csrf-token','authorization','content-type','accept','origin','x-requested-with', 'access-control-allow-origin','x-allowed-header']
    # Specify allowed request methods, specify ['*'] to allow all possible ones.
    allowedMethods: ['GET']
    # Configure requests allowed from specific origins.
    allowedOrigins: ['*.albertmin.com']
    #I left defaults for the rest of the configuration below here.

Done and done. Onto the next set of troubles.

my islandora for an archipelago

Around this time last year I deployed Islandora 8 on my server and created a few objects with the intention of exploring the stack further. I never quite got around to the getting-any-further part, and now a new open source digital repository (developed mostly by the indefatigable Diego Pino, a major contributor to Islandora) is on the verge of being released. I’ve decided, both for work purposes and also out of personal curiosity, to give it a go, and since there are port conflicts in running both together, I’ve halted the vagrant box that was Islandora 8, and deployed the docker container that is Archipelago 1.0.0-RC1. Anyway, here is the same audio recording I ingested then as an Archipelago file:

regressions

Regression renders 4 months in off-toned shadows. Variegated ahead run days, warp of timestamped I (weft of joy), probabilistic and sutured to reveal construction. Marcelo fitfully in milestones sleeps, and I slip into forgetfulness that joy returns also.

develop resolve

Five years resolve in eleven developed.

Some of the above (which are only selections from each roll) are cropped because I think a bit of tape was hanging over the lens. I hadn’t even had time to test the camera out before committing to 11 rolls so after getting back the initial set of digitized prints of mostly underexposed night shots, I still wasn’t sure what would come of the rest. As they came in I felt a bit of glee, a glimmer of joy, that the Holga hadn’t been a dud. Shoutout to The Darkroom for the smooth process in bringing these back to life.

Incidentally, I’d only waited five years because at one point I’d bought the chemicals thinking I’d set up a diy darkroom, gave up on that ghost, started researching places that do medium format film, decided they were too expensive, moved onto other things, and finally decided now that I could afford it. Now that I know the camera’s good, I may start shooting again.

knocked wood

Marcelo is 16 lbs. 7 oz. today. I spotted the woodpecker while pushing him home from the pediatrician’s office, mom next to me with an insulated bag of tortas from Doña Maty’s. I’m listening to Angel Olsen’s All Mirrors as a sliver of sleep expands in my soul. Last night I was up until about the same time as now assembling baby’s crib, cutting up its oversized box, and trashing its styrofoam bits. The crib’s color is called lagoon. It’s a mini so it’s a mini lagoon I guess. Marcelo is swimming or floating then. The pediatrician knocked on wood to emphasize the expression, which is something some people do. I briefly thought of William Carlos Williams only because we are with a doctor in Spanish Harlem I guess. People are dying daily for a very specific reason we’re all aware of instead of the usual nebulous ineffable shadow undergirding all our pedestrian sightings of knocked wood.

101 days

The days though arbitrary have number once you pick one to count. There’s disagreement about the first day, but the last is indisputable as we know. The room is warm with sleep, wake, sleep again. Cedarwood sticks in rice send up wisps of farm in summer Korea—sun, frogs, heavy rains tamping dust.

bee sting and nothingness

Now he reaches far away from being and been. He’s at his ends. I live in half sleep liminal. The room swoons, and the void renders me unavoidable. Tomorrow a hundred days, sacral mortal number, cardinal luck for soju and rice cakes’ offering.

later elations

His hands move now with more intention. He holds them centered looking intently for his will in their grasping. He chatters loudly to us and mumbles to himself with a gaze that seems lost in thought. There’s a deep satisfaction in seeing what I’d experienced but of which I’d had no awareness. There’s joy in his joy that can’t be stifled. As the world becomes clearer for him so does our shared experience clarify something for me though I’m not quite sure what it is.

head’s thread

This thread I’m pulling now is pulling me through the hearted now. This is a record of today. We woke in the baby’s slow wake to feed. 404 push-ups / 406 crunches/leg lifts. Mom bought bagels from Bo’s for herself and dad. Baby burbled with new sounds. Roasted the last 8 ounces of Flores Ranaka Robusta while pourover of same brewed, and the smoke alarm stirred around minutes after second crack. Mom and baby done, baby into bouncer, and we bounce sounds while the coffee is clean but dark and slim bitter. Marcelo on the bed for second time with head raised. Out for groceries alone and return to him asleep, mom’s watch waning, wakes to our lunch. Walk east, three of us in mostly shade for a latte and espresso. Marcus Garvey Park is bubbling with muted joy of kids and dogs. I push the stroller, espresso pushing too. Home to dinner of lime butter white wine shrimp pasta, peeling de-veining freezer-burned thirteen in the sink listening to our collective MLK memories.

Something like a low gurgling joy through all of this, thread/river pulling mind alive. Maybe something waking to this baby boy.

familiar familiar

There is a bubble of ecstatic joy pressing up above the river beneath the quotidian air of my life. Something says it’s been there. What releases it? It’s surrounded by a fractal web of feelings that map against momentary stations of a lifetime. Each node is a world. How do I see this more clearly? How do I instantiate this state?

enjoy it

It takes courage
to enjoy it
—Bjork, “Big Time Sensuality,” Debut

Here I am following the forgotten feeling, the lost mundane pleasures. There’s still something new to be had, to be taken in, to be possessed by. Flickers of felt memory call, the stream of small, past pleasures mark the way but not the way. There’s a pleasure in the remembering too, the thread of life I’d lost shimmering in the weft.

in between days

Mom and baby asleep is my time. Pre-babe daily hour’s meditation still ripples its years’ groove, but the static of entropy obscures in grey-matter spaces. Now I write to gather thread, to remember the dowser’s angle and make my way to the river music. To be revealed again and again, ephemeral and vital, the feeling is buried by battered consciousness. Maybe it’s the thing known by the unmediated body’s minding. Here at every moment, I follow, I forget, I follow, I follow.

handedness

A week or two ago, Marcelo began to notice the first premise of the external world’s proof of his right hand. He’s begun to gurgle and coo with greater variation, to startle with particularity and to gain some control of his reflexes. Our first new year.


All Teh Taaaaaaaags