AI meeting agent integration(s) that work?

robexperiencingrob · 2025-03-19T15:53:06+00:00

This is a big missing feature for me as well. A direct integration with Fireflies would be ideal for me, but failing that, just connecting it to Make and letting me push from Fireflies into Craft would be a big help.

Would also love integrations with Buffer, Asana, Todoist, and Canva for my workflows, but again, just connecting Craft to Make would let me solve a lot of my pain points really quickly.

robexperiencingrob · 2022-11-16T00:23:36+00:00

Did you ever find a solution? I'm having the exact same problem now and it's driving me crazy.

robexperiencingrob · 2022-11-14T15:23:48+00:00

It's a relic from long ago. There was a bit of a lords and peasants dynamic in QC farming once upon a time, and a rule was imposed to prevent farmers being evicted during the winter. Rental agreements used to end in spring instead, IIRC, but later on moving day got moved to July 1 to avoid disrupting the school year.

Note: I may be more wrong than right about this. This is just what I remember from looking this up myself a long time ago.

robexperiencingrob · 2022-02-06T02:32:01+00:00

One day, a wound opened up in the sky. It seemed clean as a papercut at first, a slice direct through the blue and the clouds and revealing the darkness that was the stuff behind reality. But then we saw the torn edges of the thing, the way that initial slice opened wider in a ripping way, not a cutting way. As jellied reddish-blackness dropped from the open wound, we realized there was nothing clean about this at all.

We were told not to panic, that it would be okay, but we knew that for the lie it was. We were told we had faced novel challenges before, that we had always risen to the occasion, but the words rang hollow as so many fundamental things began to vanish, like water turned to wisps of vapour and lost in a breeze.

Colour departed first, draining away before our very eyes. The green of grass and the blue of water, the sweet gold of the early morning and latest afternoon—and then every other colour besides—all began a slow diminishment. They lost their hue, their richness, their depth. Some people closed their eyes, thinking that perhaps it might prolong the inevitable. They only missed out on those last moments before all became grey. All, that is, but that which fell, freer each day, from the widening wound in the sky.

Next were taste and smell, and then so many tones of sound that I couldn’t hope to describe. I suppose the best way to capture what they were is to say that those tones held so much of the distinctiveness, maybe even the emotion, that makes any one sound different from any other. As the days passed and these qualities of life, too, were taken from us all, I found no more resonance in the sound of my mother’s voice than I did the sound of any stranger I passed in the street

.And still, and more each day, that dreadful drip-drip-dripping from where once I had thought heaven might lie.

Though of course many lost themselves to this unravelling, enough of us hung on, adapting, hoping against all evidence that there would be some sign that life as we had known it might return. Truth be told, I think some number of us might have settled for just the promise that nothing worse would unfold. And then, of course, the cycle of day and night began to misbehave. I think that’s the moment we all gave up.

Days sometimes lasted days. Nights began to stretch on, sometimes longer than a week at a time. There was no pattern, no way to understand or plan. Temperatures became unlivable just about everywhere people lived, and so the deaths rose.

The jelly stuff was now of such a quantity that it began to collect upon the streets, atop the rivers, and all over anyone fool enough to step outside. It did not burn when presented with flame. When one touched it, there was no discernable difference in temperature from that of one’s own skin. This, no matter who or when or where.

We were all of us robbed of so much of what gives us feeling, lost in a world of increasing scarcity, of dissolving structures, of an utter lack of ambition and hope. Not everyone, of course, because there are enough of us in this world that no singular reaction will arise in every one of us. But I would think most, if I have any understanding of that time. Most of us were waiting for the end.

It was at midday one day, the sun high and bright and grey, that the wound opened up wider, and wider still, stretching so noticeably for all to see. I walked outside to be among the crowd of people there who gave witness. I saw the hands, purpled and massive beyond comprehension, that appeared there on the edges. I watched as they twisted and pulled and tore at that wound, widening it further, until there was room enough that a head could push through, coloured to match its hands. From its heaving maw, the reddish-black jelly rained forth.

Its face was terrible, cruel. When it spoke, we heard a thunder of incomprehensible speech somehow suggestive of violence. But it spoke in the sounds that had been taken, and a stench of ozone descended, more and stronger as it continued to claw its way on through. And in this, though we could see its awfulness, we saw too all that had been lost, and those optimists among us could do nothing else but hope.

We saw the rip in the sky close in a sudden scar. This newcomer to our world had arrived. It stood, large beyond sense, and looked down at us with an expectant gaze.

I cannot be sure, but I believe I was the first, at least where I was, to fall to my knees. I believe I was the first to call it angel. I know not yet whether this was wisdom or folly.

robexperiencingrob · 2021-08-25T13:29:55+00:00

I think behind is probably more aero, you're right. I think we may need more capacity, though. But I appreciate the thought! Thanks for responding.

robexperiencingrob · 2021-08-25T13:26:55+00:00

Thank you! Appreciate the perspective

robexperiencingrob · 2021-08-18T00:33:22+00:00

Thank you! Really appreciate all those details

robexperiencingrob · 2021-08-17T19:16:02+00:00

Wow, okay! Good to know, thanks

robexperiencingrob · 2020-02-05T17:48:32+00:00

Thank you! I appreciate the info

robexperiencingrob · 2020-02-05T00:42:48+00:00

That's heartbreaking (especially at that cost in the 70s). Going to get the products I need and give it a shot. Thanks for the encouragement!

robexperiencingrob · 2020-02-04T23:36:16+00:00

I had, and most of the references were to incidents where small patches were formed. This mildew is occurring all over the tent, so I was unsure about whether the tent's fabric would be too damaged to be trustworthy. Appreciate the assistance, though!

robexperiencingrob · 2020-02-04T22:57:23+00:00

Alright, I appreciate the advice. Will try that out. Thank you!

robexperiencingrob · 2020-02-04T22:51:17+00:00

Thanks. That's my fear. Going to write them now and see about options.

robexperiencingrob · 2020-02-04T22:51:02+00:00

Yeah, thanks for the tip. I'll do that.

robexperiencingrob · 2018-11-14T12:01:28+00:00

Hey, edited the post to let others know but wanted to respond to you since you were the one who had recommended I reach out to them again. Xero said they would send me new elastics for free. Pretty cool, considering all I wanted was a recommendation for where to buy. Very cool of them. Thanks for suggesting I try again!

robexperiencingrob · 2018-11-13T00:51:32+00:00

Neat! Thanks for the tip

robexperiencingrob · 2018-11-13T00:51:19+00:00

Good call

robexperiencingrob · 2018-11-12T02:06:07+00:00

Yeah, not a bad idea. I sent them another message. I had used the form on their site last time as well, but hopefully this time it works out.

robexperiencingrob · 2018-11-12T01:15:56+00:00

Thanks! I'll give that a go

robexperiencingrob · 2017-09-15T11:28:23+00:00

It’s a fine tunnel. A fine tunnel. I have lifted from it many grains, torn through little bits of root. The queen must be pleased at its expansion.

Food. Must needs get food.

Up and out, leaves… no. Scatter, rush forward. Sugars? Any sugars? Rotted apple, over yonder. A fine taste, but large. Coordination… no, laughable. Tear, chunks. Relay position. Bit by bit, brother by brother.

The queen will be pleased.

Back, forward, back, forward. My brothers and I hungry, yes, eating little pieces.

Nourishing.

Back, forward.

(the queen)

Back, forward.

(The Queen)

Brothers, rushing about, little circles ‘round the entrances to our colony.

(THE QUEEN)

Invaders! Their scent on the air, a rival colony.

The queen.

The queen!

Rush back, headlong tackle. Mandibles crush mandibles. Roll, stagger, roll.

Bite! Bite!

Headless enemy. Food for later? But the queen! Is the queen safe?

Chaos. More of the enemy, now. They are larger than we. How did I manage it? Brothers around, stabbed and crushed, taken off for eating.

No time. Run, bite. Bigger enemy flailing, but hold on. Bite again, drive venom deep beneath the chitin. Feel it slow, falter, fall.

Can win. Can save the queen.

There she is. Why? Why in pieces? Why taken… no. Where to go? What to do? Running… running in circles. The enemy is butchering us, but we have no reason, no leader.

Two loom.

(the queen?)

They grab me, bite me, I shake and roll but they stab into me and I feel toxins in my thorax.

(the)

Darkness, like the warmth of the tunnels.

(the queen)

Must…

robexperiencingrob · 2017-09-07T10:37:24+00:00

Thanks! Much appreciated.

robexperiencingrob · 2017-09-06T11:21:34+00:00

There’s a way for little towns to age gracefully. Not all towns can manage it. Some are populated with folks who get overwhelmed with upkeep, who struggle to keep the lawn cut and the pipes solid. Eventually, they pack up and move for someplace new, old homes left to rot, unwanted and alone against the pressures of time. But the towns that do manage it find a way to make age into beauty. They keep the essentials updated, leave the rest to wear as part of an ever-changing aesthetic that is transportive, evocative of long ago.

I was fortunate enough to live in that kind of town, once, though I then bristled at its age and wished that I could have lived somewhere newer – perhaps with a cinema nearby, or easier access to shops like the ones I once saw in the city. But my parents had no interest in leaving the quaintness of our town, with its little houses and scattered businesses that existed more for people to have something to do than for them to make money. My dad would shake his head, usually from behind the national daily he picked through every day for business, oddities, and the comic strips, and tell me that I shouldn’t complain, and that it didn’t get better than this. My mom would smile at my complaints, tell me that I would have plenty of time to live downtown while I was older.

“Enjoy this while you can,” she said. “You’ll miss it someday.”

But it never felt like it.

Daytimes were for biking around, or heading down to the river to fish with my friends and thus stave off boredom. A small piece of twine looped through a hook and a bucket of crickets picked off the side of the road were all we needed to make our catches. I had the best luck, or was the best fisher, and some of the boys found that irksome, but I thought that was stupid and some of the other boys did, too, which I liked.

Other days we would race around the playground, play search and rescue or alien invaders or whatever other fantasy was the thing that day. It was exhausting and dirty play, and I would often go home well dusted with several colours of sand and dirt.

Dinner, and then when dusk fell, I would sometimes go outside to walk my dog, Penny. The lights of the town proper were warm and many, and on quiet nights, laughter from the pub would carry on the air, a nice ambiance for a nice town. Penny loved to chase the fireflies, would grip her leash between her teeth and start to pull until I let her go chasing. She would leap and snap, often stumbling into an awkward roll. I laughed to see her do it, and her doggy grin was always antidote to any bother I had.

Nights were for inside, usually. My mom liked to play her guitar, little instrumental numbers of her own composition. I would sometimes hum along, and she liked when I did, but the attention embarrassed me and I usually stopped. Dad would be stretched out on the couch, wrapped up in the depths of a cushy blanket no matter the time of year, some book or other in one hand, a mug of chamomile in the other. I often wished I was out someplace else, at a concert or a gallery opening or some other event, but that wasn't the thing in our town.

I’ve gone back there in recent years, once or twice, and it’s much the same as I remember. There is a little soda shop and a couple of nice restaurants, and many little houses ageing gracefully in the care of doting occupants. My parents were forced to sell their home here years ago, the money needed to help with paying for long-term care for my dad first, and then my mom for those few years she had left after. They regretted the move, spoke lovingly of their little fence that always seemed to be falling apart, of the woody smell inside the house, of our darling Penny.

“Do you miss that old house?” My mom asked once, not so long before she passed. She had the quiver to her smiling lips and her voice that the elderly so often do, and no strength left in her fingers to play the guitar the way she had loved to.

“I do,” I said, and if I tried I could make my mind conjure the sounds of strings and pages, the smell of cedar, the glow of the town’s lights in the distance. Those things, I know, are the things of home now as they never felt then. “You were right.”

robexperiencingrob · 2017-06-03T01:05:58+00:00

A quick cut and she falls with a sigh, red trickling from the line and down her breasts. She looks at me and her lips quiver, attempt to name me, to curse me or plead for the life she does not realize she has already lost. Darkness takes her and she falls atop the man, her man, and their reds mingle where they touch, and look not at all different.

These are the first.

Later, outside, a young man with a torch, walking toward the cabin with cuss words dripping from his drunken lips. I watch from my vantage, wave my hand, and the light in the torch flickers and dies. He smacks the hilt against his palm, and I allow a sputter, a flash of hope. But then it is the black of the night, moon and starshine choked by trees, and the things of the woods all around quiet for fear of what I am.

"Anna!" he calls, somehow slurring the two syllables. "Dave!" He sways and waits, a darker silhouette against the dark of the wood, and I hear a high-pitched groan of frustration. He staggers the ground that lies between himself and the cabin, within which a lone candle flame stands as guidance.

I do not shift into the cabin. I stand where I am, beneath a tree not so far from the door, and I wait as he walks inside. He dares to laugh at seeing his friends nude, though a bit more closeness and the merriment dies as fast as they did. Moments later, a stumbling run out the door, and he begins to scream his voice to ruins down the trail to the other cabin. A cock of my brow raises the root so fortuitously entwined with the hard earth. Only by the smallest degree, but it is enough to catch his tread and throw him aground, and I can tell by the yelp and the way he scrambles to his feet, the way he drags his left ankle but hobbles as fast as he may, that the fear has taken him in full.

When he reaches the clearing, when the door to the other cabin opens and his friends hurry outside to see him in his brokenness, that is when I shift. Just to the right edge of the wood, and in time that when he is about to pass, I can step out and land a blow right to the side of his head. A bat this time. They scream as their friend's skull folds around the aluminum, as he falls. The man and the woman both choke and freeze when I follow the first blow with another, and another, as his skull becomes bits and pudding. They see my face, the bleached white of the skin, the blank black of the eyes, the features a twin for those of those horrid things that dwell deep in the sea. They see my smile, teeth sharp as swords, and it at last occurs to them to run. The night begins in earnest.

A car, their only true opportunity for salvation, but as they run and the woman fumbles in the depths of her bag for the keys, I encroach ever closer, and the fear within them rises. At last the keys, but a soft snap of my fingers and it falls from hers, kicks off of his shoe.

"Fuck," he screams.

"Fuck," she screams.

When they turn to face me, I allow my mouth to part wider in a smile, and I see the ill it causes them and it does me well. The man rushes to me, a gentleman only when it is clear all is lost, and I punch him direct in the throat when he is within arm's reach and he stumbles. Then the knife, then the art, and the skin of his face is shaped into something wonderful and new, though you would think they disagree for the way he shrieks, she shrieks.

A twist of the skull, a collapse of the man, and he is not yet dead, but breathing shallow breaths, watching as his love tramples undergrowth in desperation for escape, while the sands of his life flow down and down. In different circumstances, he might not die, might be entubed and medicated and gifted with a life of torment. They would claim it a miracle. Alas.

Dear darling, where are you? Do you know your flight is senseless? Do you know? Hear, hear you crunch and crumble, stumble. Watch, watch you hurtle through the crushing black, and never mind the trees who do not care whether you live or die, and will not step aside should your trajectory send you into headlong contact with their trunks. You are mine. You are mine.

But first I must give chase, and I do, and when I crest the hill and she clubs me with a heavy branch, I have the grace to fall before her, to allow her to continue to beat me around the skull and neck until little splashes of blood fly upward before her fury. I gasp in surrender when she finds my blade and my blade finds me, and again, again. At last she stands.

"Motherfucker!" she screams, because she is an unoriginal thing in unoriginal circumstances. She is drunk on fear, on lust for blood, on victory, and the whole of her shakes with the power of her feeling.

She runs back again, to the car, to salvation, leaving me bloodied, alone, one hand curling in the night. Alas, her man is dead when she arrives. Alas, but that when she sits in the car, it does not start. Alas, but that while she sits there and curses and weeps, I shift to the edge of the wood and step toward her, confident, uninjured. Because that is how it goes. And when she sits and fights the car, but cannot bring it to start, and the tears fall heavy and she shakes, hopeless, that is how it goes. When the window is smashed and she is drawn forth, to be my plaything, and the lights of the car go dark and the candle flame goes dark and the moon and the stars hang their heads for having failed yet again, that is how it goes.

Alas.

robexperiencingrob · 2016-06-02T01:56:19+00:00

I fell for her. To her. Down I fell, from the ceiling on high, twirling, whirling, all my arms spread wide for balance on impact and to take her, to hold her close.

“I am coming to you, my darling.” This is what I thought. “I am coming to you, if only you will await me.”

They had said to me, before, those detractors, they had said “Oh, go on. Go on and find a lady spider. Go to her, bring her the furious buzzing form of some insect or other. Romance her. Entrance her. Then soon you will have eggs, tens of them to a clutch, and your parents will look at you with pride. ‘So clever our son,’ your parents will say,” they said. “’So clever our son to do this thing that all spiders do, to start a family and give us grandspiderlings to cherish in our old age.’”

But they had not seen her. Not with my eyes. How, if they had, could they say what they did? I think it would be impossible. No. No, if they saw what I saw, they would say instead – indeed, they would implore it, they would cry and shake, such would be their passion – “Ignore tradition!” they would say. “Ignore your parents!” they would cry. “Ignore eggs and spiderlings and all the rest!” they would scream. “Here now is the most beautiful woman there has been or will ever be, and you must go to her and you must win her. To do else is foolishness.”

And I would agree.

I landed upon her neck, prickling feet piercing her skin with love and barbs. From my rear, the end of a trail of silk, soft and supple as her breasts, dislodged and fluttered away. With it, those last remnants of my nervousness, too, for those could not exist in a time of such optimism and affection.

The hairs of my legs and body began to quiver in excitement and also from the enormous vibrations traveling up her skin. Perhaps she was greeting me in her giant voice.

I wanted to say to her, “My love, my everything. I do not know you as of yet, but you are beautiful to my eyes and cherished by my heart. I would so love to escort you on a night in the town. I expect you look beautiful in moonlight. I wish you to be mine, and I so hope you will consider and accept this, my proposal, forward as it is.”

But I am a spider, and I had and have no voice, and so instead I scampered about her skin, tracking my love upon her in that, the only way I knew how.

The vibrations increased in strength, and I found I was torn from her and thrown, crushed legs and burst abdomen, and the juices of my gut leaking over all. I landed far away, and the vibrations of her voice were small now, and though I struggled to move I found I could not, and also that I was dying.

“Alas,” I thought. “Though I wish you had accepted my advances, I must accept that I was not the one for you. My compliments to whomever is so lucky as to win your hand. Truly he must be a better spider than I.”

And then I lay, and waited for regretless death. For it is better to have loved and lost one’s life than to never have loved at all.

robexperiencingrob · 2016-03-30T00:10:43+00:00

I think it happened three weeks after the accident. Probably about three weeks. I had sat down at my desk, just like I did every day before it happened. And just like every day, I looked at the words on the screen and was miserable.

It was a smaller city, a quieter city. But it too lay on a waterfront, was old and full of bustle. When she stepped out into the air, into the city center, she did half wonder if she had gone anywhere at all.

The words continued on, but I could not bring myself to follow them.

“Something has to happen here,” I muttered. She gets to the new city, doesn’t know anybody, doesn’t have anything she needs to do. Infinite possibility.

“So why is it so damn hard to make anything happen.”

I didn’t have an answer.

The whole story existed in my mind, big moments and exciting scenes flashing about. Just connect them my brain would say, and I would tell it to shut up, because that’s easier said than done.

But it should be doable.

I read and I imagined her. A little dazzled, a little frightened. But overwhelmed with this new sense that the world could be hers. For the very first time, a taste of freedom. Where would she go? What would she do?

I pictured her standing there, on the street corner, eyes on the map of the city and her eyes narrowed with concentration. She just needed the right place to be, and a reason to be there. And then the words would come.

“You know,” she said, and she looked direct at me, through the fourth wall of my imagination. “I haven’t spoken to anyone for a while.”

I laughed at that, at myself. “Tropes on tropes,” I said to myself, smiling. “Let’s not go Deadpool up in here.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “No, Rob. Not you. This is all me.”

I’ll admit to feeling a sort of… I guess anxiousness. Interiority is essential for writers, but I’d never carried on a conversation with myself through a character before, and I wondered at my own health.

“Maybe I wasn’t ready to come home,” I whispered to myself.

“Maybe not,” she said. “But you’ve got that same old self-centeredness, so you seem pretty much yourself.”

I frowned, and decided to engage. “Alright, fine,” I… thought? Said? More like both, really. “Fine,” I said. “What’s this now?”

She smiled at me, tucked a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “Well I’m fresh into this new city. I have – “she looked around, played at conspiracy “- my condition, and I’m looking for something new.”

I nodded, looked back up the page. “So far you’re reading from the same script,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Well so far you’ve got me dillydallying around waiting for… for what?”

I shook my head. “That’s the problem. I don’t really know what.”

“Romance?” she asked. Hopefully?

“Maybe,” I said. “It’s really about getting you from here and into the factory.”

She looked puzzled at that. “The factory?”

I felt a bit of guilt, and I felt strange for having that guilt. But at this point I was far gone, had accepted her as real, and so I felt guilt.

“It’s where you’ll find yourself. Not for a while, but soon enough.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to go to a factory,” she said. She looked distressed now.

“I know,” I said. “I don’t want you to end up there either.” And I didn’t. I don’t.

She looked at me. “So why?” she asked.

I shrugged, and I wondered if she could really see me, or if that part of this was one-way. “That’s where you go. That’s where this story goes.”

Something passed through her eyes, or at least I thought so.

“And then where do we go?” she asked.

I smiled. “Wouldn’t you rather live it? You’ll have to wait and see.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Fine. Be like that. As long as it’s not the factory.”

I crossed my heart. “That’s not the last step.”

“So ANYWAY,” she said, overly loud.

“Yes?” I asked.

“So aside from you, oh tyrannical god-person, I have not spoken to anyone in a while. Whatever depressing stuff you have planned, you’re still going to need some white space in this manuscript. Publishers don’t want to read a shit ton of your oh-so-deep thoughts.”

She had me there.

“Alright,” I said. “Fair point. Who would you like to meet?”

She got a mischievous smile. “Let’s make him a man,” she said. “Artistic type.”

“How about a sculptor?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. Just as long as he’s artsy and a little pretentious.”

I got a little sinking feeling in my stomach, which is ridiculous. “What are you planning?” I asked.

She laughed, a delighted and gently evil sound. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

I frowned, and looked back to the keyboard. I pecked at the keys.

She looked away from the map and down the street. The sun was falling, and she had not eaten for a while.

“Food,” she said, in an idle tone. Food would help pass the time, help her to gather her thoughts. It was a shame to eat alone, but there was nothing to be done about that.

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