想起来昨天到了一包新的 Oma 的豆子,最近好像每次买他们家烘焙的都不错,自从我和 ChatGPT 要了一个冰冲方案,每天都一模一样,不过今天没做咖啡,和 Claude Code 一起编程让我不想离开电脑。
今天做了很多测试工作,桌上一堆测试机。今天也是和 Claude 一起编程的第五天,一开始我定的计划是每个月更新一次花样文字,昨天我已经激进地改为了每周,甚至今天我提交一个版本后,吃完晚饭梳理任务,立马又做了一个我认为至关重要的改进。虽然这个改进 Claude 努力了三次都没搞定,最后是我通过和 ChatGPT 聊天找到了方案。多 AI 一起其实就是如何用好 AI 范畴内的,也就是多个成长背景的小弟一起来帮你干活。
最后瓶颈会落在产品和视觉设计。对于产品部分,我已经有了想法,和代码一下,学会不纠结,先让 AI 给方案呗,不行再说么。视觉部分暂时还是需要设计师支持,不过晚上看到了 figma mcp,研究研究。
最近还在折腾 Wise,虽然很早就注册,一直没用过,之前也没有什么需求。不过为了给这些 AI 服务商送钱,还是得找一些新的稳定的支付方式。国内用户想用上最新科技太难了。今天还测试了一下用 Wise 的美元户收钱,到时候再测试打到支付宝。
下午继续和 Claude 推进花样文字项目,确认了昨天线上闪退的原因,接着解决了工程里所有的 warning,这种时刻真的很爽,和我每周六拿吸尘器把家里里里外外吸一遍一样爽。网站也有新进展,给 GA 增加了事件统计,还上线了 Apple Smart Banner,顺便把必要的图标也都更新了一遍。我进入编程的状态真是太快了,这效率让我激动。
昨天 WildCard 倒闭了,不能给 AI 们付钱我可有点着急。开始研究下 Wise,下午成功充进了港币和美金。继续读《你喜欢柴可夫斯基吗》,今天听了 1958 年多拉蒂指挥的《1812 序曲》,最后的炮击声太爽了,居然是真的大炮!很想跑到公司用办公室音响试试。
今天没约到人打麻将(我怀疑他们是自己在打了😭),于是是认认真真继续指挥 Claude Code 干活的一天。Claude 一直一直惊艳我,除了完成了几个 APP 的需求。傍晚脑洞一开,注册了一个域名,让 Claude 按照 APP 的样子做了个 Web 版,直接在 APP 的工程里写,因为有足够的上下文,分分钟搞定。我和它一起又花了不少时间调整细节,甚至做了 SEO 优化。Cloudflare 一配置,顺利上线。今天一共花了 22 美金,超值。
中午还是「笑傲江湖」外卖,感觉没昨晚好吃了,昨晚一定是我太饿。写写代码、睡睡觉、看看书,一个充实的周末。要是去打麻将,我的网站就没影了,还是写代码好啊。越写越有十年前刚入行的感觉,AI 对我这种满脑子 idea 的人,真实太有用了。
At my 8th grade lunch table, we compared hands, budding palm readers, one and all. Marcus Pappas blurted out “Cann’s and mine look like old lady hands.” He had a point—thin and boney—but it irked me that he said this out loud. Marcus died thirty-five years ago while still good looking, except, I suppose, his hands. My hands resemble weathered saddle bags, scarred and spotted with tea stains. Still thin and boney, add wrinkly now too. Veins squiggle beneath the surface like caffeinated worms.
I last saw Marcus at Tilden pool in the mid-eighties. My neighborhood had two pools with competing vibes. To me, Tilden seemed the more laid-back pool. And, it had a swim team. Tilden pool attracted the athletic families. The other pool, Old Farm, is where the rich kids went to bask in the sun. My family wasn’t wealthy, but we weren’t athletic either.
Tilden threw annual parties on the Fourth of July. Beers, burgers, a greased watermelon in the center of the pool for the teenage boys to fight over. My high school friend Drew invited me as a guest one year. Drew’s family were Swimmers—note the capital “S.” When he teamed up with my brother and me on a triathlon relay team, Drew’s leg was the ocean swim. Tilden families! His older brother coaches swimming to this day.
We were just out of college, still living at home. Drew guarded at the pool on weekends, and I settled into the job I loathed for the next ten years. Marcus showed up at the party. His feet were messed up, misshapen, apparent through his heavy black boots. He walked using metal crutches with forearm cuffs. Dark glasses shielded his unseeing eyes. He roughhoused with his service dog on a grassy hill, the two of them smiling, juking, and rolling around. Much of the crowd looked on. My vocabulary still underdeveloped, I didn’t yet know the word, but I understood performative when I saw it. Marcus wore a goatee, and his wavy hair flipped up at the bottom of his ears. A beautiful boy at the end of his life.
~
In my first weeks of college, I looked to qualify the growing internal ill-ease that washed over me. I charred my knuckles on my desk lamp’s molten metal shade. I sparred with a fire alarm box, punching out the safety glass. I plucked the shards from under my skin to hide the evidence of my crime. I held the glowing ember of a lit cigarette against the back of my hand in a deserted minor league ball park. My friend O looked on, his expression inscrutable. Thanksgiving break, my mother clenched my scabbed hands and tried to read my mind.
~
In the final weeks of my junior year, I punched an oak tree leaving my knuckles rough and swollen. I sneaked out of a mixer early, too self-conscious to talk or dance with my date, I abandoned her for the night. I craved destruction. Not the tree, though, it was four feet wide. A week later, a different tree, a twin, a couple dozen yards away, crashed to the ground on a sunny afternoon. Across campus, drinking beer on the lawn, we looked to the heavens and wondered about thunder from a blue sky. Had I punched that tree, I could have claimed victory when it fell. I couldn’t untwist the cap from a plastic Pepsi bottle for years. Arthritis flares when I make a fist.
~
My wife Susan spotted a porch glider as we drove past a junk shop. The aluminum frame seemed sound, but the wooden seats rotted through, the hardware fused with rust. We crammed it in the back of our Subaru on a fifteen-dollar investment. Susan took the kids to Storytime at the library while I took a reciprocating saw to the glider, cutting off the useless parts. Dripping with sweat as I hacked away at rotten wood and rusted metal, my hand slipped into the oscillating blade, slicing off an unnecessary chunk from the end of my index finger.
Assessing the damage under a running faucet, I could see the wound wasn’t stitchable, and it didn’t seem to impact the function of my finger, just the shape. I wrapped it in paper towels and focused on dismantling the glider before Susan and our kids got home.
~
The skin surrounding my right thumb is numb from the joint in the center of my hand to its very tip. It’s a bizarre lingering result of a dramatic over-the-handlebars mountain bike crash. In the time since, my dislocated shoulder has hurt and slowly healed, but my tingly thumb never improved. It’s annoying and it causes me to drop stuff. The surgeon says he can’t fix it, and he says no, it won’t get better with time. As an ironic insult, despite the surface numbness, I’m often left with shooting pains deep inside after I grip something for an extended period of time.
William Shakespeare popularized the saying the eyes are the window to the soul. That might be true for him, but for me, apparently, it’s my hands. They tell my story, draw a map of my past—a lifetime of dis-ease, recklessness and bad luck. Of course, it would be nice if my hands weren’t so chewed up, achy and numb, but wishing for that is wishing against the person I am today. We are the sum of our triumphs and mistakes.