Una de las trampas más comunes al escribir es explicar el pensamiento en vez de mostrarlo. Hoy vemos cuatro recursos para resolverlo con más oficio, cada uno con su ejemplo.

El problema: el narrador-loro

Cuatro recursos que sí funcionan

Ponlo en práctica

© 2025 Juanma Menéndez. Esta obra está licenciada bajo una Licencia Creative Commons Atribución 4.0 Internacional (CC BY 4.0). Puede ser compartida, copiada, adaptada y distribuida en cualquier medio o formato, incluso con fines comerciales, siempre que se dé el crédito adecuado al autor. #procesos

In my opinion, discussions surrounding solar adoption collapse into two extremes: ideological enthusiasm or vendor sales pitches. Both tend to gloss over the practical engineering constraints and economic analysis that determine whether a system actually delivers value.

The Solar Edge is an independent, data-driven blog focused on unpacking the real-world mechanics and value of solar power. It is fundamentally an analytical working notebook. The goal is to develop a deep, first-principles understanding of distributed energy resources by modeling them openly, documenting edge cases, and confronting the friction points where hardware meets policy.

Stay entertained thanks to our Weekly Tracker giving you next week's Anticipated Movies & Shows, Most Watched & Returning Favorites, and Shows Changes & Popular Trailers.

Anticipated Movies

• Bad Apples
• ☆ Resident Evil
• The Weight
• The History of Concrete

Anticipated Shows

• ☆ Neagley
• Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story
• The Traitors: New Blood
• American Hostage
• Youth
• Line of Fire

Returing Favorites

• Dancing with the Stars — Season 35
• R.J. Decker — Season 2
• Slow Horses — Season 6
• Grand Designs — Season 28
• ☆ South Park — Season 29
• Stranger Things: Tales from '85 — Season 2
• All Creatures Great & Small — Season 7
• The Traitors — Season 5
• MobLand — Season 2
• Outlander: Blood of My Blood — Season 2
• Best Medicine — Season 2

Trending Shows Status Changes

• Colin from Accounts — Returning Series → Ended
• The Early Spring — Returning Series → Ended
• Jaadugar: A Witch in Mongolia — Returning Series → Ended
• A Bona Fide Killer — Returning Series → Ended
• THE GHOST IN THE SHELL — Returning Series → Ended

Most Watched Movies this Week

• +2 Mayday
• = Coyote vs. Acme
• -2 The Whisper Man
• +2 The Runner
• new Moana
• -1 Mutiny
• -3 Spider-Man: Brand New Day
• new The Mandalorian and Grogu
• new One Night Only
• -2 Obsession

Most Watched Shows this Week

• +1 Lanterns
• +1 Reacher
• +1 Ted Lasso
• -3 Silo
• = Lioness
• +4 The Gentlemen
• = Stuart Fails to Save the Universe
• = Star Trek: Strange New Worlds
• = Dark Matter
• new It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Popular Trailers

• Cast by fate, tested by time, and never broken. Tell your sisters to get tickets! — Practical Magic 2
• You don't need to ask me twice. — Resident Evil
• A life is on the line. The delivery is underway. — Runner
• No doubt about it. — Digger
• One Chicago Wednesday Returns — Chicago Med
• One Chicago Wednesday Returns — Chicago P.D.
• One Chicago Wednesday Returns — Chicago Fire
• 13 Official Trailer — American Horror Story
• Quiet On The Creek — Insidious: Out of the Further
• Experience it all again. — Avengers: Endgame

Hi, I’m Kevin 👋. Product Manager at Trakt and creator of Rippple. If you’d like to support what I'm building, you can download Rippple for Trakt, explore the open source project, or go Trakt VIP.

I wasn’t always loaded with gear. That’s a very recent deal. In my 20’s, I was homeless. I was nearly there again in my early 40’s. In my late 40’s, the gods have seen fit to grant me with earthly pleasures, but it is still new. I still eat cheap. I still don’t go out much. And I still freak out at the cost of most gear.

I don’t mind being this way. I often work with folks in various places on various pay scales. I like staying within their range too, if I come across sound they like. I ultimately want them to be able to do it. If I keep it on the cheap, the likelihood they’ll be able to make the sound they want is greater.

About DAW’s

I have been around the world in DAW’s. I started back in 2002 with Cool Edit Pro 2.0. I am trying to get away from computers, personally. However, I find I don’t have everything I want from them squared away in the analog realm. So my Tascam Model 24 is hooked up to the Reaper DAW. Most recently, I used Logic Pro forever. I can no longer get along with it. Kudos to those who can. Since they updated to version 12, I have had nothing but issues. I get grumpy while mixing, well, grumpier. I do not enjoy Logic Pro anymore. So, I tried Reaper. Reaper is the first money-saving tip. You can try it out as long as you like, honor-system. Then buy it for 60 dollars. What you get free and clear for 60 bucks here is a very good deal these days. No subscription. A full DAW loaded with great features. Until they change it too, Reaper is the best deal out there I have found. Even other free DAW’s aren’t free like Reaper is. Try it free, long as you want, pay 60 bucks when you’re hooked. Never pay another thing. Unheard of.

Mics, done.

As far as gear itself, if you are like me, you like the word, “clone.” I got SM57 clones I was telling a friend about this morning. I got a few. They are called the GLS-ES57 and they have a sound in my tiny mixing room here I prefer over the real deal. They are 25 dollars on Amazon. Even on tiny budgets, they are doable. But even if I was loaded, I’d still have a basket full for tracking. They are very handy, sound great, and easy to use. I made a song with Keri about them. All tracks are made with the GLS-ES57. I didn’t do a lot of processing because I hate it. But it also lets you hear a more raw signal than most songs. The signal is great, even on the pots and pans! I said to hell with drum mics, bought a bunch of these. Sounds fabulous.

MIDI

100 bucks can get you an ultimate Midi controller. I have the MPK Mini MK3. I am not much of a keys player. But I have to have something to trigger sounds I find that I like. I play a lot of finger drums on this thing, The pads are glorious for it. The pressure sensitivity is adjustable so you can get it where it sounds just right and natural with fluctuations in volume that give it the right touch. Many DAWs come with loads of sounds you don’t even have to search for. This triggers them and it is easy. I have used it in three DAWs. Easy.

The old stuff

I know it is a cliché, but keep older gear in mind. I have gear that dates back to the 70’s. Some of that stuff sounds better than some of the stuff made today. I have an acoustic guitar made by Pearl Drums from the early 70’s in Japan. It is worth more than a million dollars to me. 70’s acoustics from Japan often have treasures still in them waiting to be discovered. They usually don’t cost very much, usually way less than my Pearl. They have character already. I have had more than a couple. Old Alvarez, Suzuki, Yamaki, Takamine, etc. You find one of them for a good deal, try it! It might be just that, a good deal!

Old basses? I got a Peavey from the 1990’s. I think it is only 500-600 dollars on Reverb sometimes. Folks, this is a professional bass. The bridge is insane with sustain. The electronics maximize on the build potential, taking the sound to the next level. It is a pure monster of a bass. I have basses in various price ranges with different characters. I’ve only had this one a short while. It is the first one I am grabbing for most things. Marvelous low end here, and it goes on forever until you stop it or play another note.

I have an old Casio Keyboard. I keep it hooked up and ready to go. These are Goodwill items. Many times, I have seen keyboards like this for 20 dollars. It has a metronome, which I find handy. It has great sounding drums for certain types of music. The low keys have tremendous “thud.” Plus, having it so handy while writing is a cool tool, I have found. Sometimes I go there to find something, or to create whole new problems. Very cheap. Very worth it.

Don’t sleep on digital recorders

I think a digital recorder is a great way to record on the cheap. I have a Zoom R16 I have had for years. A friend let me pay it out, about 3 hundred if I remember right. If you do not want to do computers, or you want to record on batteries, or remotely (which I’ll still use it for), I don’t see how you go wrong here. It is not a computer. It records to memory card more like a camera. It is keeping a record, which is really what making a record is. I had a lot of fun on this thing. I still like having it. No DAW, no online, but 8 inputs, easy to use, and it sounds fabulous.

Being poor is not in your head. But being rushed is.

About being poor and time. When I was hurting for money, skipping meals to save a buck, I didn’t feel as though I had any time. I don’t know why that is, but it isn’t true. It is a mindset that works against the poor. It takes time to get nice things if the system is working. Many occasions, I sold things at a loss because I couldn’t spare the time to sell them properly. They say it takes money to make money. When it comes to appraisals, complicated deals, selling art, inheritances sometimes, even, “they” are on point. Don’t let “them” rush you. They know they can get a better deal if you feel you are in a hurry.

Some instruments are worth a lot of time.

The same applies to nice instruments. I have one I paid a lot (for me) for. It wasn’t easy. It took a lot of time. It was a good value as I plan to never get rid of it. If I didn’t feel I had time, I could have never gotten it. Being poor doesn’t only mean being robbed of things in your home. Poor keeps you from getting things inside your home to begin with. It is a mindset. It hinges on time. Give yourself time to think. You are worth it. If it takes time, get that son-of-a-bitch. Coming from a former homeless mental patient now with an Oregon Breedlove made from ancient Spruce that I play every single day.

Unfortunately, I haven’t found easy tricks. But I have found some tricks. I don’t think I enjoy it if it’s “too” easy. lol.

I hope you are able to save money wherever possible and still get to enjoy music. I hate that this stuff costs so much. But between Reaper, 25 dollar mics, quality affordable instruments, and good decisions, I am rooting for you. If you need help, I am here. Jus’ holler. Email: thekintnersmusic@gmail.com

Kelly Kintner

The Kintners, Djembe Funk

مقدمة:

كم توهمت أن ثمرة المؤتمرات والمعارض تنال بالضرب في أروقتها والسعي بين زواياها وإثبات شهودها بكتابة منشور في لينكدن يتكلف إظهار المحاسن والفوائد، ويواري التعب واللغوب والشقاء في ركامٍ من الوهم الجمعي والتفاؤل الشديد.

وكم انتفعت بحضورها موظفًا باحثًا عن الشراكة التجارية، وعارضًا في الأكشاك متلقيًا للزوار والضيوف.

صورة لبطاقتي تعريف (badges) لزائر فعارض في الجماديين عام 1447 ويأتي تفصيلهما في آخر المقال، وقد حجبت العهد الميلادي في البطاقة الأولى. والتقطتها في العاشرة من نهار الجمعة 29 ربيع الأول 1448

وعادتي في كتابة التجارب التفصيل والتوريخ [1] وذكر المحاسن والمساوئ عسى أن أستحسن قراءة ما كتبته بعد أعوام عديدة على طاعة الله، وأن يستحق الانضمام إلى صفحات الكتب. أسوق إليكم تجربتي وأستثني معارض الكتب لأن حقها أن تفرد في مقال خاص. وأحسب أن الكتابة تثوِّر العقل وتحرك الأشجان وتبعث على التأمل، فأفيدوني بتجاربكم إن شئتم ظهورها في المقالات القادمة. ودونكم بريد التواصل: hijriman47@keemail.me

تنبيه: يدعوني حب التوثيق وظن الفائدة إلى إثبات صوري الشخصية في المحافل، ويدعوني حفظ الخصوصية وقطع السبيل على منتهكيها وكراهة تمكين الذكاء منها إلى حجب الصور والاحتفاظ بها في الهاتف. وقد رجحت السبيل الثانية، واستبدلت بالصور الشخصية صورًا ليست شخصية ولعل إثباتها أنفع وأهم. ولست أسمح بنقلها دون استئذان.

متن:

1- أول العهد وصالٌ بماليزيا!

ليلة الأحد 25 ذي القعدة 1440 [25-11-1440]

تجدد الحنين إلى ماليزيا، وانبعث الشوق إلى جامعتي، وتذكرت أجمل ذكريات تيدكس TEDx لما آثرني والدي -حفظه الله- بدعوة خاصة لحضور ملتقاها بجامعة الملك سعود في الرياض.

وإنما تجددت الذكرى لأن عهدي الأول بـTEDx كان في كلية الهندسة يوم السبت 28 شعبان 1437 [2]، وفي ذلك اللقاء التقيت قومًا لم أعرفهم في غير ساحات الفيسبوك، واستمعت إلى محاضرات عجيبة عن العيش بفاتورة كهرباء منخفضة، وملخص رسالة دكتوراه، ومأساة التنافر المذهبي في العراق، وأشتات أخرى.

لم أوثق اللقاء كما ينبغي واختزنته في أطراف الذاكرة حتى شهدت نظيره بعد ثلاثة أعوام، وكتبت حينئذٍ رسالة في الواتساب تلخص ما جرى، وتصلح بقليلٍ من التحرير أن تكون خبرًا صحفيًا، ونصها في الهامش [3].

دخلت إلى المحفل متشوقًا إلى تجارب جديدة متعطشًا إلى خبرة أنتفع منها، فكان تحفيزًا رائعًا انقضى أثره بعد أيامٍ من ترجِّل الثقب (وكان اسمه ثقبٌ يترجل [4]). والعبرة أن البحث عن التحفيز لا يجدي شيئًا إذا لم يقترن بعزيمة صادقة وعملٍ دؤوب.

2- مهندس في غير موضعه: ملتقى الصحة العالمي 1441

بين الثلاثاء 11 المحرم 1441 والخميس 13 المحرم 1441 [11-1-1441 إلى 13-1-1441]

ما كنت أظن أن أجد موطأ قدم لمهندسٍ في ملتقى الصحة العالمي في عام 1441 حتى قيل لي أن آتيه عسى أن أجد فيه شيئًا ذا بال. وشأن الباحث عن الوظيفة أن يقتاده الوهم ليبحث عنها في كل مكان. نعم كانت لي وظيفة ولكنني أردت أن أتنصل من تأخر الرواتب وأن أتصل بالهندسة الميكانيكية تخصصي الجامعي.

ذلل إبراهيم الحاج -صديقي الحميم- الدخول إلى مركز الرياض الدولي للمؤتمرات والمعارض، ولم تكن لي صفة اعتبارية تخولني دخول المعرض وأرضه. ولم يقترن المركز في ذهني سوى بمعرض الكتاب الدولي في الرياض، فقد اعتدت زيارته في سنوات خلت قبل أن ينتقل مرارًا بعد عام الجائحة 1441.

ولولا أنني أتحدث الفرنسية لما تذكرت شيئًا من ذلك المعرض، إذ لم يبق منه في ذاكرتي الرقمية سوى صورة بلا سياق، ورسالتي بريد عنوانهما “Job request”، وأولاهما إنجليزية، والثانية فرنسية. ولا عجب فقد كانت الفرنسية ولا زالت بطاقة فريدة أستخرجها من محفظتي إذ نفدت الأحاديث وانقضت الموضوعات المتوقعة للحوار.

تجددت زيارتي للملتقى بعد ست سنوات وكانت الفرنسية للمرة الثانية سبيلًا إلى خلود الذكرى ودوام اللحظة.

3- مهندس في محاضرة للطاقة: ExxonMobil’s Outlook for Energy: A View to 2040 [1461/1462 AH]

الأحد 7 صفر 1441 [7-2-1441]

لم يزل المقهى الفرنسي (Café français à Riyad) مذ عرفته حافلًا بالعلاقات المهنية الفرنكفونية في الرياض. ومن ذلك أننا تعرفنا إلى إحدى موظفات المؤتمر الدولي للطاقة (International Energy Forum) فدعتنا إلى محاضرة يعقدها مديرٌ رفيع في شركة ExxonMobil وعنوانها استشراف مستقبل الطاقة في عامٍ ميلادي يدخل في أواخر ذي الحجة من عام 1461. نسأل الله طول العمر وحسن العمل.

استأذنت مديري في شهودها إذ كانت صباح الأحد 7 صفر 1441، فأذن لي وسألني إن كانت تتعلق بالعمل، وأظن أنني زعمت ذلك!

ثمَّ التقيت أوفى الأميري -من أركان المقهى وأعمدته- وقد أجاب الدعوة وأتى إلى المؤتمر.

لا تخلو المحاضرات والمؤتمرات من دهشات أولى ولذات رائعة يزيلها الاعتياد والتعب وخيبة الأمل.

أفينسى أحدنا لذة الخروج من مقر العمل والاستراحة من مهماته المتكاثرة؟

ألا يقوى الإحساس بالتميز والخصوصية عند تسلم بطاقة فريدة لها رمز استجابة سريعة (QR Code وإن كنا نسميه باركود)؟

وكم يصبر المرء عن الطعام حتى يبلغ صحونه وموائده في قاعة البوفيه؟

التقطت كثيرًا من الصور ولم أستفد منها شيئًا ولا حتى لطيفة أكتبها وأتحدث عنها.

ما كل هندسةٍ تتصل بالهندسة!

4- مهندس يريد أن يعمل مهندسًا: المؤتمر الثاني للهيئة السعودية للمهندسين 1441

الاثنين 7 رجب 1441 إلى الخميس 10 رجب 1441 [7-7-1441 إلى 10-7-1441]

طرق الوباء المستجد الأبواب، وبلغ الملل الوظيفي غايته القصوى، ولم أتمكن بعد من موضعي في الشركة، ولم أيأس -رغم ذلك- من (وجدان حظٍ) في الهندسة الميكانيكية، وإن بدا لي -مع كثرة المحاولات- قرين العدم [5].

تراءى لي المؤتمر الثاني لهيئة المهندسين [وهكذا نختصر اسمها] طوقًا للنجاة مما أنا فيه، فاستأذنت للمرة الثالثة لكن من غير ذلك المدير، وانطلقت يومين إلى برج الفيصلية حيث انعقد المؤتمر، واصطحبت أخي في اليوم الأخير!

دلفت إلى قاعة الهندسة الميكانيكية حيث تعرض البحوث الأكاديمية ومقترحات للاختراع، وانفتلت منها بعد الاستراحة إلى قاعة العارضين، ثم إلى صالة الطعام. ولم أنس قط ذلك الرجل الذي انهمك في الطعام وبقي يذم طبخه.

مررت على العارضين، وتكلفت الاهتمام والسؤال عن الحلول والخدمات والمشروعات القائمة، وظننت أنني أواري حاجتي إلى الوظيفة وشوقي إلى الاستقطاب بذلك العفاف المتكلف.

لم ألبث حتى باغتني سؤال أحد العارضين: أتبحث عن وظيفة؟ وأظنني قلت له بحرج شديد: نعم.

لم أجهل حينها أن طلب الوظيفة ليس تسولًا وأن السؤال عنها ليس عيبًا، لكنني كنت سيئ الظن بكفاءة سيرتي الذاتية وحداثة عهدي بالوظائف. ولم ألبث حتى وقفت في أكشاك المعارض بعد ستة أعوام تقريبًا فأدركت أن رهق السؤال عن الوظائف ينال السائل والمسؤول معًا! والتفصيل في قصة قادمة.

والحق أن الوظيفة حاجة للأفراد والشركات. ولئن احتاج الناس إلى مناصب ومكاتب ليعملوا، فإن الشركات تحتاج إلى بشرٍ تسيرهم وتأمرهم وتنهاهم. حاجتان فأيهما أشد؟ وهل يجوز لذي حاجة أن يمنع محتاجًا مثله؟

لكنني وقفت في أكشاك المعارض يومًا بعد ستة أعوام تقريبًا ففهمت المشقة التي تلحق القائمين عليه. والتفصيل في فقرة قادمة!

أعقب ذلك المعرض أسبوع أخير في المكتب، وأسبوع تالٍ في البيت وختامه فصلٌ يطوى ومسيرة تنتهي في تلك الشركة وحجر صحي يخلي الشوارع من المشاة والسيارات!

(يومي سألتك عن غدي *** واليأس ينضح في يدي وجهامة المأساة تفـ *** جأني بوجهٍ مربدِ) حسن القرشي – يومٌ وغد: [ديوان] بحيرة العطش في عام 1386 تقريبًا [أم القرى]

5- أول الهجرة إلى معارض الشمال: بلاك هات (Black Hat) 1443

الأحد 23 ربيع الآخر 1443 إلى الثلاثاء 25 ربيع الآخر 1443 [23-4-1443 إلى 25-4-1443]

لم أدخل إلى مؤتمر الأمن السيبراني وملتقى مهندسيه حتى خلعت عباءة الهندسة الميكانيكية، وطفقت في أرجاء التقنية ألتمس مسارًا مهنيًا يستقيم إلى النهاية المطلوبة والغاية المرغوبة.

كان ذلك الملتقى أول عهدي بملتقيات الليل، وشقاء مواقف واجهة الرياض، وبعد الشقة بين المواقف والبوابات، وضيق أطرافها عن احتمال الصلاة والمصلين.

لن أتكلف سوق الذكريات أو استخراجها من الذاكرة الرقمية، فلم يكن بلاك هات عام 1443 سوى محطة عابرة في رحلتي إلى المعارض.

أتجدي زيارة المعارض لمن لم يتهيأ لها ولم يدركها في غير الدعاية والإعلان؟

(تذكرت أني في فدفدي *** أضعت بنفسي عتاد الغدِ)! حسن القرشي – بيداء: [ديوان] بحيرة العطش في عام 1386 تقريبًا [أم القرى]

6- موظف يزور المعرض: ليب (LEAP) 1444

الأربعاء 17 رجب 1444 والخميس 18 رجب 1444 [17-7-1444 إلى 18-7-1444]

رشحت بعد شهرٍ من التحاقي بالوظيفة الجديدة لأمثل الشركة في مؤتمر ليب (LEAP) السنوي، وأتخذ لها شركاء محليين ودوليين ينتفعون بتاريخ الشركة وحضورها في السوق.

أول معرِضٍ أشهده موظفًا ولا أتيه فيه، ولا أبحث عن وظيفة، وإنما أزوره لغرضٍ محدد، والشركة تحملني إليه ذهابًا وإيابًا.

أدركت حينها أن العارضين إنما يستمعون لنظرائهم من المناديب وممثلي الشركات ويمنحونهم بطاقات الأعمال أملًا في عمل قادم وشراكة مستدامة. ولا ينال أكثر الزوار حظًا من ذلك أو نصيبًا إذا لم يتصلوا بالشركات وأعمالها.

والضرب في المعرض مهمة يلازمها التعب والإرهاق وإن لم تكن في المكاتب أمام شاشات الحاسب.

ينقضي اليوم بركامٍ من البطاقات والإعلانات والأدلة التعريفية والهدايا الترويجية التي لا تُجرَّد بحالٍ عن شعار الشركة وعباراتها التسويقية.

والوصل بعد الانفصال عن المعرض واجب وحتم لازم، والمبادرة أدعى إلى سرعة الرد والاستجابة.

تجربة من نصف ليب لكنني كتبت عنها في لينكدن ونص المنشور في الهامش [6].

7- البحث عن الفرنسية: في ملتقى الصحة العالمي، وملتقى الترجمة الدولي، وملتقى الأعمال السعودي الفرنسي (French-Saudi Business Forum)، واللقاء السعودي الفرنكفوني الجماديان 1447 [5 و6 1447]

الأربعاء 7 جمادى الأولى 1447 إلى الاثنين 10 جمادى الآخرة 1447 [7-5-1447 إلى 10-6-1447]

لم تزل الفرنسية كما قلت في أول المقال خيطًا رقيقًا من جدوى الكلام أستخرجه متى استطعت إلى ذلك سبيلًا، وأتعرف به إلى المخاطب.

(إنها من قلوبنا خفقات *** عاثرات تشبثت بالبقاء إنها وقدة الشباب ومقدو *** ر خطاه في دعوة الأهواء ومرايا أحلامه يجتلي فيـ *** ـها خفايا هيامه بالهناء) حمزة شحاتة – شجون لا تنتهي: [ديوان] شجون لا تنتهي عام 1395 كما في آخر الكتاب وهكذا أفاد المهندس سرمد حاتم شكر

أ- الفرنسية في ملتقى الصحة العالمي [الأربعاء 7 جمادى الأولى 1447] [7-5-1447]

مضيت إلى ملتقى الصحة العالمي في ملهم ناسيًا طول العهد به في أرض المعارض. ولا جرم فقد انتقلت أكثر المعارض عن الأرض الأولى إلى مواضع شتى في الرياض.

لم أخرج من ذلك الملتقى بغير وعدٍ بالتوظيف وأحاديث فرنسية ماتعة وتنبيه إلى شأن التقويم الهجري، وبيتين متكلفين من الشعر.

قلت حينها: (أبصري ربعًا تدلَّى في جمادى يتجلى

سالِ قلبي قد تملى شطر عمرٍ يتولى).

وقلت أيضًا: (هل ترين البدر نصفًا من جمادى في السماء

كم يسوق العمر سوقًا في سرورٍ وغماء).

وقد أجملت قصة سالي مع بطاقتي في منشورٍ بلينكدن وفصلت فيها في مقالٍ في ميديم (Medium)، ثم تناولت القصة مرة أخرى بالنظر إلى القمر والاعتبار بأطواره في مقالٍ بباتريون، فانظرهما في الهامش [7].

المدخل الأول إلى معرض ملهم في ملتقى الصحة العالمي، والتقطت الصورة صباح الأربعاء 7 جمادى الأولى 1447

ب- الفرنسية في ملتقى الترجمة الدولي بالرياض [ليلة الأحد 18 جمادى الأولى 1447] [18-5-1447]

كانت الفرنسية سببًا إلى جواب سؤالٍ أثارته في ذهني قبل سنوات عديدة. أكانت مالي مصدر تلك الأغنية التي طبقت أنظمة مايكروسوفت في الأرض وملأت أجهزة الحاسب في المشرقين؟

حثثت السير إلى ملتقى الترجمة الدولي، وقد خالف عادة المؤتمرات التي أعرفها فلم يكن في شمال الرياض بل في مركز الملك فهد الثقافي بين الجنوب والغرب، وورخت اللحظة في منشور لاحق [8].

لم أكد أبلغ الملتقى حتى دب الملل إلي من مشاهدة زوايا الشركات، وتناول الهدايا من غير عائد متوقع.

لم تفلت الكلمات الفرنسية أذني، وسهل علي تمييزها إذ لم ينطق في المحفل الدولي غير العربية والإنجليزية.

لاحقتني الفرنسية ولم أجد بدًا من التعريف بنفسي والتعرف إلى المتحدثين.

ويا سبحان الله! رجلان من مالي ساقهما الله إلي وساقني إليهما، يتحدثون العربية وأخلطها بالفرنسية، وأسألهما بشوقٍ عن البمبارية (Bambara)، وتمبكتو (Tombouctou)، ومعنى عنوان الأغنية الشهيرة (I ka barra) وأظنني نسيت سؤالهما عن موضع العبارة الفرنسية فيها التي كانت مفتاحي إليها. ولعل سبب النسيان أن العبارة سؤال مباشر: “Est-ce que tu vas passer ta vie comme ça ?”. والعجيب أن لا إشارة إلى الكلمات أو دلالة على موضع الأغنية في مايكروسوفت في مواقعهم الرسمية أو غيرها مما بحثت فيه.

وما زال عبدالسلام ومحمان صديقان من عهد الترجمة!

تحيات مترجمة على جدار المركز. صورة التقطتها ليلة االأحد 18 جمادى الأولى 1447.

ج- الفرنسية في ملتقى الأعمال السعودي الفرنسي (French-Saudi Business Forum) [الأحد 2 جمادى الآخرة 1447] [2-6-1447]

لا جديد على ما سبق سوى شيوع الإنجليزية في ملتقى الأعمال السعودي الفرنسي، ولقاء أصحاب المقهى الفرنسي، ورؤية أبراج إيفل في الرياض، والتعرف إلى بريطاني يحسن الفرنسية ويجتهد في تعلم العربية. وقد كتبت منشورًا بالفرنسية عن تجربة زيارة الملتقى [9].

أبراج إيفل في الرياض صورة التقطتها من ملتقى الأعمال السعودي الفرنسي في فندق كراون بلازا ظهر الأحد 2 جمادى الآخرة 1447.

حبلٌ بلا بطاقة. لم أنل من الملتقى بطاقة ممغنطة وقد سجلت بياناتي عندهم، جَهِد الموظف في البحث عن البطاقة فلم يجدها، ولم أتفرد بشقاء السير بلا بطاقة للذكرى. أصررت عليه أن يطبع لي ورقة فصنع، ثم تمزقت! صورة التقطتها ليلة الأحد 2 ربيع الآخر 1448.

د- الفرنسية في اللقاء السعودي الفرنفكوني (La rencontre saoudienne francophone) [الاثنين 10 جمادى الآخرة 1447] [10-6-1447]

دعتنا الدكتورة عبير الدخيل إلى المشاركة في اللقاء السعودي الفرنكفوني بجامعة الأميرة نورة، وانتخبت من مقهانا الفرنسي رجالًا ونساء تحدثوا عن تجاربهم في الفرنسية والأعمال والترجمة. وقد كانت سانحة لأشتري بعض الكتب الفرنسية، وأقترب إلى بعض أصدقائنا في المقهى، وأدرك نعمة الله سبحانه وتعالى باختلاف الألسنة وفضل تعلمها.

والجديد على كل ما سبق أن ذلك الملتقى آخر عهدي بالبحث عن الوظيفة. فقد كنت أفاوض موظف الموارد البشرية على الراتب المتوقع، وقد أخبرني بأن الغد القريب مبتدأ انضمامي إليهم، وأن الليلة معرفتي بالرجال الذين أعمل معهم.

سبحان الله! دخلت إلى اللقاء بلا وظيفة وخرجت بحمد الله وفضله بوظيفة تنتظرني، واجتماع في المساء للإعداد والتأهب!

لم أجد الوظيفة أثناء اللقاء -وإن كانت أقدار الله عز وجل تتسع لذلك- لكن تمام الاستقطاب وغاية التوظيف قد تحققت في نهار ذلك اليوم الفرنفكوني!

وتأخرت كتابتي عن اللقاء وفضل التعلم على استعمال الذكاء لاشتغالي بالعمل في اليوم التالي [10]!

8- العودة إلى ملهم موظفًا: بلاك هات (Black Hat) 1447

الثلاثاء 11 جمادى الآخرة 1447 إلى الخميس 13 جمادى الآخرة 1447 [11-6-1447 إلى 13-6-1447]

طلبتها في الأولى فلم أجدها إلا في الآخرة! ولو كان الإنسان الضعيف يرسم قدره ويختط مستقبله لما وسعه أن يتصور شيئًا من أقدار الله العجيبة، وألطافه سبحانه بعباده.

والحق أنني لم أعتبر بانقضاء شهرٍ من الزيارة الأولى لملهم إلا ساعة كتابة المقال، وقد خفي عليَّ هذا اللطف الرباني العجيب عشرة أشهر حتى تأملته فوجدته حقًا!

قفلت من لقاء الفرنفكونيين لأستعد للقاء الباكستانيين وأطلع على حلولهم الأمنية الرقمية.

وارتديت الثوب السعودي جديدًا وقد أخلقه طول الانتظار والرجاء.

ونبئت أن اللقا في الملقا وأن الميعاد الأول في شقة اكتراها القوم حتى عصر الجمعة أو ليلة السبت.

تعارفنا واتفقنا على البكور إلى ملهم، والانطلاق من محطة البنك الأول، وأعدوا البريد وبطاقة الدخول وبتنا على البيتزا أو الشاورما.

وما زلت لا أدري. أكانت المقابلة في المنزل؟ أم ابتدئ العمل بعد غروب الشمس وشروق القمر؟ لكنها كانت التجربة الأولى للعرض في المعارض.

وقد جربت فطال الوقوف في الركن، وكثرت محادثة الزوار والضيوف، واشتد الملل من قلة وجدان الجمهور المستهدف.

تزور المعرض فتملك أن تخرج منه متى شئت، وتعرض فيه فلا تملك إلا أن تمكث فيه من الصبح إلى الليل، وتعاني قلة الحافلات، وشدة الزحام في قطار العودة.

أتيت المعرض ولست أدري كيف أعرِّف بالشركة أو أجيب عن سؤالات المهتمين والمختصين. لُقِّنت المقدمة ولم تسلم المحاولات الأولى من الأخطاء. نُبهت على ترك التعريف بالشركة بجنسية العاملين فيها وإن لم يكن في الشركة غيرهم! نبهت أيضًا على ترك التعمق في جانبٍ دون آخر وعلى الإجمال والاقتصاد والاقتصار على قولٍ يثير المخاطب ويدعوه إلى التواصل.

الوقوف الأول في الركن. صورة التقطتها من ركن الشركة وأظنها كانت لإثبات الحضور لا لتوثيق اللحظة. قبل ظهر الثلاثاء 11 جمادى الآخرة 1447.

كنت حينئذٍ موظف الشركة الوحيد وممثلها الأوحد في الرياض حديث العهد بها مبتدئًا في التعريف بخدماتها وطامحًا إلى التعرف إلى عملائها المحتملين.

أ- عملاء غير مستهدفين

لم نستهدف طلاب التدريب المهني أو الباحثين عن الوظائف، ولم نزعم أننا نتيح لهم العمل. لكنهم تكاثروا وأبدوا رغبتهم الأكيدة بالعمل!

رأيت زميلي مدير التسويق يكتب لهم بريد الموارد البشرية. لم تقنعني كتابة الوهم فأي وظائف تتوافر لهؤلاء وليس لنا مكتب رسمي أو مشروعات تستوفي تكاليفهم؟

كل دهشة تزول بعد المحادثة الأولى، فأغلب الكلام مكرر، ولا فائدة في توقع نتيجة تخالف المقدمات. وجوهٌ ينسي بعضها بعضًا، وحاجةٌ تتوارى أحيانًا في أسئلة مواربة: (هل عندكم مشروعات؟) (ما الحلول التي تقدمونها؟) وحيلٌ أخرى لا تنطلي على عارضٍ أمضى يومًا في معرض أو مؤتمر.

لست أنسى ذلك الباحث -الذي أسأل الله له التوفيق والسداد- وقد أخفت الكمامة نصف وجهه، ولم يكتم حاجته إذ كتب في بطاقة التعريف: (NO COMPANY NO WORK).

لم تمنعهم الصراحة عن إرسال البريد ومحاولة اليأس أملًا في وظيفة الأحلام. تمنيت أن أجيب عن كل رسالة، وأشكر صاحبها على حرثٍ في غير موضعه، وأرجو توفيقه وسداده. ولا أظنني استوعبتهم.

أدركت الآن صراحة ذلك الموظف الذي سألني عن سؤال الوظيفة. نسيته ولا أذكر اسمه ولا رسمه أو صورته وشكله. لكنني لا أنسى كلمته تلك. فليتها أغنتني عن السعي في المضمار الخاطئ!

(وأني حطمت كؤوس الشباب *** على صخرة اليأس والترهات)! حسن القرشي – رماد: [ديوان] بحيرة العطش في عام 1386 تقريبًا [أم القرى]

طلب الوظائف في المعارض وهم جمعيٌّ جماعي. فمن أوهم الأول؟

(ألهذا تشقى النفوس بما تهـ *** وى وتكبو الغايات بالعقلاء)

حمزة شحاتة – شجون لا تنتهي: [ديوان] شجون لا تنتهي عام 1395 كما في آخر الكتاب وهكذا أفاد المهندس سرمد حاتم شكر

ب- هدايا غير مجدية

يهتم بعض الزوار بجمع الهدايا التذكارية من أقلامٍ، وحمالات مفاتيح، وأكياس، وبطاقات أعمال. ولا أدري أيستفيدون منها وقد صارت جبلًا متراكمًا من العلامات التجارية؟

ليس لي أن أستنكر صنيعهم مطلقًا وقد كنت منهم إلى عهدٍ قريبٍ بالعرض. ولم يثنني عن تطلب الهدايا التجارية سوى كلمة عابرة قيلت لي في أيام المعرض.

زارنا أحد الموظفين، وأظننا تبادلنا البطاقات، وهممت بختم الحديث بهدية تجاريةٍ في كيسٍ للتسويق، فأبى -خلافًا لعادة أكثر الزوار- وقال ما معناه: (لا حاجة لي بها. ما أكثر الهدايا التي نلقيها بعد أخذها!).

تفكرت حينئذٍ في معنى التقاط الهدايا التجارية وهدر اكتنازها مع قلة الجدوى وانتفاء العائد. وأظن أنني تبت عن جمع العبث والتقاطه!

ج- هدف إعلامي

لما كانت الدعاية قوام المعرض وقيامه [11]، فقد اجتهدت القنوات الإعلامية في نقل أحداثه إلى الناس. أتتنا مراسلة واختارات زميلي مدير التسويق. وحظيت بعد ذلك بحديثٍ خاص في حساب فعاليات جدة (Jeddah_events20)، خلت الساحة وأعطيت اللاقط (المايكروفون) الذي تشوقت إليه. وكان ذلك أيضًا من لطف الله عز وجل علي، فلم أجد غير ذلك المقطع اليتيم شاهدًا على حضوري في المعرض. وعجبٌ أنني التقطت للزملاء صورة أرسلتها إليهم، وشاركتهم في صورة فلم تصلني قط وأيست من مخاطبة الزميل.

د- المعنى الجديد للقيا الأصدقاء والزملاء

لم يكن مشروعٌ ليجمعني بصاحبي فلان في ملتقى إدارة المشروعات. لكنها الصداقة والإخاء!

ولا تقاس الصداقة والإخاء كميًا وليست تُقوَّم بالنقدين الذهب والفضة أو غير ذلك من الأصناف الربوية! وما كل رابطة نافعة صداقة ولا كل صداقة رابطة نافعة!

فهل انتفعت بملاقاة الأصدقاء والزملاء في المعارض والمؤتمرات؟ اللهم إلا إن كنت موظفًا ذا مصلحة في المعرِض!

هلَّا أتيتنا بالفرص، فنأتيك بالفائدة؟!

وكم لطف الله عز وجل بي في ذلك المعرض! أشهدني رؤية زملاء كنت أطلبهم، فرأوني -بحمد الله- في موضع غنى عن طلب الوظيفة أو السؤال. أجرى الله عز وجل أسبابًا لست أعلمها ولا أستطيع تقديرها فكان لقاءً يستوجب الشكر الجزيل!

وكم تغني هذه التجربة وحدها عن سائر تجارب المعرض! فالحمد لله وحده!

خاتمة:

لا يغني الأمل عن العمل، ولا يصحح العمل مقصدًا فاسدًا، ولا تكفي صحة المقصد إذا غلب اليأس.

(إنما يبقي الحياة المقصد *** جرسٌ في ركبها ما تقصد سر عيش في طلاب مضمر *** أصله في أملٍ مستتر) ديوان الأسرار والرموز – محمد إقبال [12] ترجمة: عبدالوهاب عزام دار الأنصار بالقاهرة ط2 1401 ص16.

فاللهم حسن أعمالنا وآمالنا ومقاصدنا!

هامش:

[1] قال السخاوي: (التاريخ في اللغة الإعلام بالوقت يقال أرخت الكتاب وورخته أي بينت وقت كتابته. قال الجوهري: التاريخ تعريف الوقت والتوريخ مثله) اهـ من الإعلان بالتوبيخ لمن ذم أهل التاريخ تحقيق: فرانز روزنثال وترجمة: صالح أحمد العلة – مؤسسة الرسالة ط1 1407 ص16

[2] لم أستعمل التاريخ الهجري حينئذٍ ولم يذكر في الدعوة أو الملتقى لكنني استخرجته الليلة الماضية من صفحة التقاويم (Muat Turun Takwim) وهو موافق لتقويم أم القرى أيضًا.

https://www.e-solat.gov.my/index.php?siteId=24&pageId=52

https://www.e-solat.gov.my/portalassets/files/Penerbitan/takwim_2016.pdf

[3] كتبتها في مجموعة خاصة ليلة الاثنين 26 ذي القعدة 1440، وهذا نصها بلا تصرف سوى حذف التحية وإضافة التاريخ الهجري:

(أود أن أشارككم ثمار تجربة نافعة ومفيدة كنت جزءًا منها الأمس المنصرم، وأتمنى أن تنال إعجابكم.

وهي تجربة حضور ملتقى TEDx في جامعة الملك سعود بالرياض.

ولكن قبل أن أذكر التجربة، ينبغي أن أعرف بمنظمة TED. وهي اختصار لـ(technology, entertainment, design) وترجمتها (تقنية – ترفيه – تصميم) وشعارهم أفكار تستحق الانتشار “ideas worth spreading”. وهي مؤتمر يتيح للمتحدثين مشاركة أفكارهم في هذه المجالات في مدة لا تزيد عن 20 دقيقة. وقد أنشأت هذه المنظمة عام 1984م [جمادى الأولى 1404*] في أمريكا ثم عقدت مؤتمرها السنوي عام 1990م [رجب 1410*] وتوسعت بعد ذلك لتشمل عددًا كبيرًا من دول العالم.

أما TEDx فهو ملتقى محلي يحظى بفرصة الاستفادة من شعار TED وتنظيم مؤتمر يشابه المؤتمر العالمي لتيد وتنظمه الجامعات عادة وغير ذلك من المؤسسات

ولنعد لتجربتنا

مؤتمر تيدكس الذي نظمته جامعة الملك سعود هو باسم “الفراغ الممتلئ” وقد ضم 8 متحدثين بالإضافة لمعرض مصاحب كان فيه بعض الأعمال الفنية.

حساب تيدكس جامعة الملك سعود

https://twitter.com/TEDxKingSaudU?s=09

ملخص أهم النقاط في موضوعات المتحدثين

تيدكس

فيصل العبدالكريم

مطور ألعاب

عرض من أكبر شركات محركات الألعاب

حقق المركز الثالث في اختبار الشركة

تكاليف التجربة

محرك الألعاب مجاني

برنامج الرسم 37 ريال شهريا

برنامج تحريك الألعاب 250 ريال شهريا

-

معاذ الجعفري

مدير شركة أمجاد وطن

لنا حياة في كل تجربة

لن أعيش مرة واحدة

نقاش صعب مع مدير الجامعة حول إجازة الشهر

بدأ بمشروع صغير اسمه هبة أثناء الدراسة

من حياة إلى حياة

الاستعداد

الانخراط والاحتكاك في الحياة الأخرى

التجربة بأقل الخسائر

الموازنة

الانتقال

-

فهد آل عبدالعزيز

مهندس تصميم عمراني مهتم بالتنمية المستدامة

لا بد من وجود 8 أشجار مقابل كل سيارة!

مليوني سيارة في الرياض

عدد الأشجار في الرياض 375 ألف شجرة

18 ألف شجرة تزرع سنويا في الرياض

نحتاج 888 سنة حتى نحقق تكافؤ السيارات مع الأشجار

12٪ هي نسبة الإنجاز في الحدائق

330 ألف شركة ومؤسسة في الرياض حسب إحصائيات وزارة التجارة

88 ألف في البحرين 330 ألف في الإمارات

المسؤولية الاجتماعية

فائدتها على الشركة:

العمل الجماعية – زيادة في الإنتاجية – زيادة في الأرباح

جزيرة بوروكاي يسكنها 4000 نسمة يزورها 2 مليون سائح وتحقق 4 مليار ريال

أغلقها الرئيس بسبب التلوث

-

شمس الصبي

متخصصة في إدارة المنظمات غير الربحية

التطوع مهم في حياة الإنسان وهو اللغة التي تجمع بين البشر بلا تفرقة

-

إبراهيم المسلم

مستشار في تقنية المعلومات

الحاسب الكمي

ENIAC first computer

نمط مور

Gordon Miire CEO of Intel

أنزيم النتروجيناز يساهم في تركيب الأمونيا وهو أعقد مركب يمكن محاكاته بالكمبيوترات

Richard Feynman

David Duetsch

Richard Josza

خوارزمية شور

Peter Schor

الحاسب الكمي يعمل بالتمثيل الثنائي Binary representation

No cloning theorem

Quantum key distribution

Superdense coding

(secure cloud computing)

Dwave 2000 qubit

IBMQ company

-

عبدالله الفوزان تجارة إلكترونية

الذهب الرقمي

التسويق بالعمولة

المال يجيب الأمان

-

أميرة النجيم

سايكو دراما أسس منذ 77 سنة

يساهم في تفهم الآخرين ومشاعرهم والتعبير عنها

-

محمد المطيري أبو فالح

سافر في مناطق السعودية لثلاثين يوما

أحمد الغامدي درس الحب

تسلق جبل إفرست وأعلن عن حبه لزوجته وأبنائه هناك

رايد آل فايع درس التجاوز

توفيت والدته وأخوه الصغير بسبب حادث حصل لنعاسه ووالده بعد 10 أيام من الحادثة

ورضي بقضاء الله وقدره ولم يتذمر قط

محمد الجهني درس السعادة

أقطع خُلق بلا يدين وهو مع ذلك غواص وخيال ويقود سيارة قير عادي

دروس مهمة

“كل شيء حصل لك بسبب القصة انك تفهمه”

“تفاعل مع الموجود ولا يشغلك المفقود”

“الإلهام حواليك لكن التغيير منك وفيك”

-) اهـ

*لم أجد شواهد على التواريخ الدقيقة المذكورة في صفحة تيدكس TEDx أو صفحة ويكيبيديا.

روابط

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TED_(conference)

https://www.ted.com/about/our-organization/history-of-tedhttps%3A/www.ted.com/about/our-organization/history-of-ted

https://www.ted.com/talks/nicholas_negroponte_5_predictions_from_1984

[4] لم أعثر على مصدرٍ رسمي لتوثيق اسم المحفل، ولكنني وجدت منشور الراعي الذهبي دانكن، وليس في منشور فيسبوك بيان الوقت وإنما اكتفوا بالتاريخ الميلادي الذي يوافق يوم الجمعة 24 ذي القعدة 1440، وإليكم الرابط وقد نظرت فيه ليلة الأحد 1 ربيع الآخر 1440.

https://www.facebook.com/DunkinDonutsKSA/posts/دانكن-الراعي-الذهبي-لحدث-ثقب_يترجل-في-تيدكس-جامعة-الملك-سعود-tedxkingsaudu/2308319492740549/

[5] أردت معارضة قول الخويي وهو من أعلام أذربيجان الذين نقلت ترجمتهم في كتابي نزهة سائح في أذربيجان في صفحة 46 ط1 1446. وقد قال: (نصير ترابًا كأن لم نكن *** دعاة العلوم رعاة الأمم فتبًا لعيشٍ قصير الدوام *** ووجدان حظٍ قرين العدم) اهـ من معجم السفر للحافظ أبي طاهر السلفي ص396.

[6] كتبته في لينكدن ولم يتبين لي تاريخه وسأبحث عنه إن شاء الله في الأرشيف، قلت: (يومان في #ليب

Two Days in #LEAP (EN below)

اجتمع روّاد شركات التقنية ومحبوها في مؤتمر ليب في مدينة الرياض، وقد شهدت هذا المؤتمر، واستفدت منه علمًا بجديد التقنيات، وأحدث المنتجات، ومعرفةً بالرجال من الروّاد وممثلي الشركات.

وابتدأ المؤتمر يوم الاثنين الخامس عشر من رجب (6 فبراير) وانتهى يوم الخميس التاسع عشر من رجب (9 فبراير). وكانت جولتي في ليب في آخر يومين.

وزائرو ليب ينتفعون منه لوجوه عدة، وأما أنا:

1-فقد تعرفت إلى تقنياتٍ في #الذكاءالصناعي و#إنترنتالأشياء في بناء #الشوارعالذكية، و#البياناتالضخمة وفائدتها في #تحليلبيانات كبرى شركات الاتصال، وتسهيل عمليات #سلاسلالإمداد.

2- وتعرفت أيضًا إلى تقنيات #الميتافيرس وفائدتها في تصوير المنتجات والمعارض، وتسهيل زيارة المحلات التجارية، والأسواق.

3- واستفدت كذلك من الحِيل التسويقية في جذب الزبائن، وعرض المنتجات.

والتقيت أخيرًا بطائفة من الأصدقاء، والمعارف، وانتفعت بمعرفة رواد الأعمال والممثلين فيها.

وكنت أحب لو اتسع لي الوقت، لتعظم فائدتي من المؤتمر. فالحمد لله على

ما استفدته منه، وأنتظر نسخته الثالثة في العام القادم إن شاء الله.

Pioneers and technology fans were all met in Leap conference in Riyadh. I was one of the attendees, learning a lot on the new technologies, the latest products, and getting to know the pioneers and the representatives of their companies.

The conference began on Monday 15th Rajab (6th February) and ended on Thursday 19th of Rajab (9th February). As for my visit, it was a brief tour in the last two days.

Visiting LEAP is advantageous, and here are a few things I learned in LEAP:

1- The role of #artificialintelligence (#AI) and #internetofthings (#IoT) in building #smartstreets, #bigdata and how it is used in telecommunication companies #dataanalytics, and #supply_chain operations.

2- #Metaverse technologies and their role in visualizing products and exhibitions, and facilitating the customer visit to shops and markets.

3- Marketing tips and tricks to attract customers and display products.

Beside that, I also met a group of friends and acquaintances, and it was a huge benefit for me to get to know the entrepreneurs and their representatives.

I wish I had more time to fully exploit it. Alhamdulilah (Allah thanks) it was a great experience and I can't wait to attend LEAP 3 next year, inshAllah.) اهـ

[7] منشور بطاقات الأعمال كتبته بالإنجليزية ليلة الجمعة 9 جمادى الأولى 1447، ويتلوه مقال باتريون، وقلت في مقال البطاقة الذي فصلته في ميديم (Medium) وأحيل عليه لاحقًا إن شاء الله: (A Personal Moment: Why We Should Make Cards Exchange Humane.

Some years ago, I exchanged a business card with someone. What I got in return was nothing, but a simple soft dismissive question: “Don't you have a digital one?”.

In another occasion, the recipient used it impersonally as if he needed something to deal with his itchy chin.

Certainly, if people can't make business out of business cards, they would eventually discard them.

Five months ago, I got my own business card and I personally wanted to handle the card as my own business.

It's truly pointless to share a business card with someone whom you failed to establish a strong point of contact.

Yesterday, however, I had a joyful moment at Global Health Exhibition Global Health Exhibition – ملتقى الصحة العالمي where I had some friendly chitchat with exhibitors.

For me, speaking French was always, and still be, one of the keys to have a decent small talk with anyone. Surprisingly I had this refreshing experience twice. Once in Global Health Exhibition 1441 AH, then now GHE 1447 AH. Same feeling different years.

I realized how powerful it's to explore common personal interests before talking business.

In that moment, my tughra signature became a work of art to contemplate along with the hijri date which I always love elaborating on.

So tell me!

When was the last time a business card made some real business to you?

Albaraa Mohamed

Night of Friday, 9th Jumada Al-Oula 1447 AH

9/5/1447 AH) اهـ

وكتبت مقالًا في باتريون عنوانه: (سالي تنتظر القمر وتسألني عنه) ليلة السبت 10 جمادى الأولى 1447، وقلت فيه: (سالي تنتظر القمر وتسألني عنه!

ليلة السبت 10 جمادى الأولى 1447

(في أي عامٍ نحن؟)

كذا سألتني سالي إذ التقيتها بملتقى الصحة العالمي بالرياض لعام 1447.

تعمل سالي في شركة ألمانية تقدم أجهزة تنفذ إلى الأعصاب، وتستخرج منها ما يستدل به الأطباء والنفسانيون على الأحوال النفسية والبدنية.

لم تكن لتسألني عن العام. لولا أن ساقني القدر إلى محادثتها عن القمر.

أهديتها بطاقتي، وفيها توقيعٌ لي بخط الطغراء وتجاوره سنة ست وأربعين وأربع مئة وألف 1446.

استحسنت الرسم الطغرائي، وظنت أنني اصطنعته لنفسي. وكم وددت أن يصح ظنها لولا أنني عهدت به إلى خطاطٍ في الشبكة.

ثم أبصرت الأرقام، فاستعلمت عنها. فأخبرتها أنها سنة هجرية مضت وانقضت، وإنما ابتدأتُ فيها حياة جديدة.

ثم بيّنت لها استعمال القمر لمعرفة الزمان، وأن سبعة وأربعين وأربع مئة وألف عامٍ قد انقضت منذ الهجرة.

فما الهجرة؟

رحلة النبي صلى الله عليه وسلم من مكة إلى المدينة.

وقلت لها أيضًا: إنك تزيدين عامًا بعد الثلاثين، إذ السنة القمرية أقصر من الشمسية بنحو أحد عشر يومًا.

وكتبت لها تاريخ ذلك اليوم على بطاقتي متيامنًا أول الأمر على عادتي. فما لبثت أن نبهتني فانتبهت، فكتبت من الشمال اليوم فالشهر فالسنة.

ودعتها، ثم انصرفت راشدًا إلى حافلةٍ تخرجني من أرض المعرض إلى محطة القطار.

ثمَّ لاح لي نصف البدر في تربيعه الأول. فتفكرت فيه، وفي تلك الساعة التي كانت أجمل ذكرى ظفرت بها من ملتقى الصحة.

لكنني غفلت عن مناجاته كما حادثه محمود غنيم في مطلع عام خمسة وخمسين وثلاث مئة وألف 1355.

لكن سالي لا تفقه من ذلك شيئًا. وأحسب أنني لو خاطبتها بالفرنسية التي أشاركها حظًا منها لفهمت مني ما أريده.

فلعلها أدركت مناجاة ميكائيل فرنو (Mickaël Furnon) للقمر. إذ قال في قصيدته سألت القمر (J'ai demandé à la lune):

“J'ai demandé à la lune

Si tu voulais encore de moi”

وقد غناها آندوشين (Indochine) فذاع صيتها، وانتشرت في الآفاق في صفر عام 1424.

أم لعلها تدرك ما قيل في نور القمر (Au clair de la lune) في قصيدة ترنم بها الكبار والصغار في ستينات القرن الهجري الثالث عشر (1260-1269).

“Au clair de la lune,

On n'y voit qu'un peu”

ولأني سُررت أيما سرورٍ بالحديث عن القمر والحياة، فإني أحب أن تخلد تلك الساعة الأثيرة بأبياتٍ يسيرة.

واعلم أن سالي كما قالوا اسم مشتقٌ من سارة، وحسبك بذلك سرورًا!

وأقول في ذلك:

أبصرِي ربعًا تدلَّى في جمادى يتجلَّى

سَالِ قلبي قَد تملَّى شطر عمرٍ يتولَّى

وأقول أيضًا:

هل ترين البدر نصفًا من جمادى في السماء

كم يسوق العمر سوقًا في سرورٍ وغماء

والأول أحب إلي.

وأحب إليّ منهما أن ترى سالي القمر في مشرق الأرض في أستراليا فتتذكر مسيرته من هجرة النبي صلى الله عليه وسلم إلى أن يرث الله الأرض ومن عليها.

ولولا أن محاولة المجد من المجد، لما تكلفت نظم الشعر وقرضه. وإنني لأرتجي يومًا أقول فيه شعرًا أستحبه، وأستحق نسبته إلي.

وأجتهد في نيل التوسط في ابتغاء العز كما قال شيخ المعرة.

وعودًا على سؤال سالي، فقد قلت لها: إننا في عام سبعة وأربعين وأربع مئة وألف من الهجرة 1447هـ.

نعم يا سالي لقد مضى على تلك الرحلة 1447 سنة.

وما زلنا نرتحل بين يدي القمر في كل يوم.

فاللهم اهدنا وسالي إلى الاعتبار بالقمر والقدر ومضي العمر وانقضاء الدهر.

وكتب البراء بن محمد

ليلة السبت لعشرٍ مضين من جمادى الأولى من عام سبعة وأربعين وأربع مئة وألف

1447-5-10) اهـ

[8] كتبته صباح الأحد 18 جمادى الأولى 1447، وقلت: ([لمح ٢] ليلتي الأخيرة في ملتقى الترجمة الدولي بالرياض 1447

Mieux vaut tard que jamais: aperçus sur le forum de la traduction 1447 AH

Riyadh Translate: My last minute experience with the forum before the sun shines

ما زالت الترجمة تهمني لأنها سبيل إلى إتقان اللغة، وتعميق الفهم.

لذلك شهدت #ملتقىالترجمةالدولي بالرياض في نسخته الخامسة وإن كانت المرة الأولى التي أزوره. وإليكم ما استفدته من رؤى ولمحات:

١- قوة حضور المبادرات السعودية في الترجمة مثل جمعية الترجمة، ومبادرة ترجم، وستة [6] أندية للترجمة في جامعات سعودية.

٢- استعمال تقنية التوليد التكيفي Adaptive generative في برامج الترجمة بمساعدة الحاسب CAT. وإن كانت النماذج اللغوية المستعملة متوقفة على نماذج GPT.

٣- ثمة إقبال كبير على الترجمة من الصينية وإليها، كما أفاد بعض العارضين.

٤- الكتب والحضور أقل من السنة الماضية، كما أفاد بعض الزوار.

واستفدت معرفة بعض متحدثي الفرنسية من مالي، وسألتهم عن لغة بمبارة bambara وجوانب أخرى ثقافية في مالي.

ما أتمناه في ملتقى العام القادم 1448:

١- مواءمة نماذج لغوية كبيرة سعودية مع أدوات الترجمة.

٢- الاهتمام بالترجمة إلى اللغات المتنامية كالهندية والإسبانية والسواحيلية.

٣- تمديد أيام الملتقى.

شكرًا لهيئة الأدب والنشر والترجمة.

هيئة الأدب والنشر والترجمة | LPTC

وشكرًا للزميلة أرياف Aryaf Alsuwailem‏ إذ كتبت منشورًا عن الملتقى. فلمّا اطلعتُ عليه، عزمت على الحضور!

وكتب م. البراء بن محمد.

صباح الأحد لاثنتي عشرة بقين من جمادى الأولى من عام سبعة وأربعين وأربع مئة وألف.

1447-5-18) اهـ

[9] كتبته ليلة الاثنين 3 جمادى الآخرة 1447 وقلت: (Comment trouver la tour Eiffel à Riyad ?

Bien que je n'aie pas encore visité Paris, j'en ai toujours vu ses tours Eiffel partout.

Un an après la visite du Président français à Riyad, on trouve actuellement, lors du forum franco-saoudien, tant d'enterprises françaises qui cherchent à profiter des échanges commerciaux croissants entre l'Arabie et la France.

#FRENCHSAUDIBUSINESSFORUM

Dans tels événements, je fais de mon mieux pour y identifier des entreprise qui veulent concevoir des grands projets en Arabie saoudite à partir du secteur public.

Mais est-ce que j'arrive à démonter [sic] mes competences par rapport à la conception des bonnes propositions techniques et financières ? Il m'y faut une bonne réponse !

D'ailleurs, ça m'a fait du plaisir d'y retrouver des bons amis.

Mais dis-moi dans les commentaires !

Est-ce qu'il est possible de trouver les tours du Royaume à Paris ?

Aux prochains événements !

Albaraa Mohamed

Nuit du lundi, le 3 joumada al-akhira de l'an 1447 de l'Hégire

3-6-1447 AH) اهـ

[10] (هل يغني الذكاء الاصطناعي عن تعلم اللغات؟ خاطرة على هامش اللقاء السعودي الفرنكفوني 1447

Est-ce que l'IA sera la nouvelle lingua franca ? Franchement non ! Une réflexion sur la rencontre saoudienne francophone de l'an 1447 de l'Hégire

كلا، ولن يغنيك عن قراءة المنشور!

اجتمعت قبل أعوام بمندوب مبيعات عربي. فألقيت إليه بضع كلمات إسبانية تعلمتها لما أخبرني أنه يحمل جواز إحدى دول أمريكا الجنوبية.

فما كانت النتيجة؟

ارتاح إلي وتبسط معي في الحديث، وتآخينا زمانًا. وكنت أتمنى لو ازدادت رغبتي في تعلم الإسبانية لأزداد معرفة به وبنظائره.

لم نتآلف بلساننا العربي، ولا باللغة الإنجليزية التي صارت لغة الدنيا، ولكن بكلمات يسيرة من لسان ثالث يجمعنا.

وفي أذربيجان حيث لا تغني الإنجليزية شيئًا، تعرفت إلى آراز وهو رجل كريم من أهلها، فرح بي لأنني حادثته بالعربية التي يتمنى إتقانها.

وانتفعت هناك بكلمات يسيرة تعلمتها من الأذرية.

وأما الفرنسية، فقد زادتني يقينًا بأثر اتفاق اللسان مع اختلاف الإنسان.

ومن ذلك أنني شهدت بالأمس اللقاء السعودي الفرنكفوني ١٤٤٧ واستفدت فوائد معرفية في الترجمة ونمو قطاع الأعمال الفرنكفوني في المملكة. ومن ذلك أيضًا لقاء الأصدقاء في المقهى الفرنسي بالرياض.

فالحمد لله الذي جعل اختلاف الألسنة نعمة تجر مزيدًا من النعم العظيمة!

وأنت!

حدثني عن لغة استفدت منها في حياتك (غير العربية والإنجليزية)؟

وكتب م. البراء بن محمد.

ليلة الأربعاء لاثنتي عشرة مضين من جمادى الآخرة من عام سبعة وأربعين وأربع مئة وألف.

1447-6-12) اهـ

[11] قال أبو جعفر ابن جرير الطبري: (وأما قوله: ((التي جعل الله لكم قياما)) فإنه يعني: التي جعلها الله قوام معايشكم ومعايش سفهائكم التي بها تقومون. قياما وقيما وقواما في معنى واحد. وإنما القيام أصله القوام غير أن القاف التي قبل الواو لما كانت مكسورة جعلت الواو ياء لكسرة ما قبلها كما يقال صمت صياما وحلت حيالا ويقال منه: فلان قوام أهل بيته وقيام أهل بيته) اهـ جامع البيان عن تأويل آي القرآن هجر ط1 1422 الجزء السادس ص397.

[12] إليك أصله في الفارسية وقد استفدته من موقع گنجور، وأحيل على رقم الصفحة في إحدى النسخ المرفوعة إلى الشبكة ولعلها في عام 1390 أو 1391. ويا حسرة على التاريخ الهجري الذي يغيب من طبعات الكتب الأردية فيما رأيت!

(زندگانی را بقا از مدعا ست

کاروانش را درا از مدعا ست

زندگی در جستجو پوشیده است

اصل او در آرزو پوشیده است)

رابط الصفحة في موقع گنجور (اقبال لاهوری » اسرار خودی » بخش ۴ – دربیان اینکه حیات خودی از تخلیق و تولید مقاصد است) وقد نظرت فيها ليلة الأحد 1 ربيع الآخر 1448

https://ganjoor.net/iqbal/asrar-khodi/sh4

رابط الطابعة التاسعة [1390 أو 1391] من اسرار و رموز مرفوعة في موقع الأرشيف. ورقم الصفحة المقصودة 16، وقد نظرت فيها ليلة الأحد 1 ربيع الآخر 1448.

https://archive.org/details/asrarorumuz/page/n17/mode/2up

Two clocks above the drawing table now, one denoting the time in Houston and the other in Cairo. May need to get a few more clocks for other time-zones: New York probably, maybe Berlin, and possibly Seoul/Tokyo.

Inbox: 0, RSS: 0.

#journal #studio

This is one of those moments where I think that depression is a blessing in disguise. If I did not have this chronic obstacle to joy or any kind of willingness to live, I have been forced to learn and develop these skills and intentional ways of living, such as this exercise of gratitude. And it is these practices that I’m required to constantly do in order to manage my mental illness, and while that is exhausting, it also gives me this incredible resilience to difficulties in life. The same situations that would cause more Neurotypical people to struggle end up being the same amount of difficulty regular life hands me, and so I have enough familiarity and experience with pulling myself out of it. A marathon is not as painful if you run every day, as opposed to only during the marathon.

From the mindgrapes of the OSR thought-leaders came the idea of two forms of combat in TTRPGs: combat as war and combat as sport.

Those in the online TTRPG sphere will be eminently familiar with this dichotomy, but for others: combat as war refers to how fights “should” happen in old school D&D games. The argument is that OSR characters, at least in the lower levels, are pretty fragile so players should go into combat with the best possible advantage. Setting traps, funnelling enemies down certain paths, and ultimately not going for a fight unless you’re confident you can win.

Conversely there’s combat as sport, where there’s more balance between conflicting sides due to mechanical weighting and tactical options possessed by each character. Think modern trad games like Pathfinder or 5e. Combat as sport is supposed to prevent a relatively fair fight. Sure, the GM can adjust the encounter difficulty but characters are supposed to have the tools to deal with those.

I don’t believe it’s that simple, though. Or, at least war and sport is a false binary.

The Third Combat

I’d wager that most of your trad and even OSR games use a blend of both combat types.

For one, old school dungeon games, usually based on BX, do have balancing mechanics, like hit dice and dungeon levels.

While BX also says that any level monster can technically be discovered anywhere in a dungeon, the above shows balance is a factor in the game’s design.

At the same time, games like Pathfinder reward preparation as war and execution as sport.

Mechanics like skill challenges, victory points, and similar rules allow for simple and abstract preparation for combat. Poisoning a water supply, caving in exits, setting traps – these are often handled with skill rolls. Doing really well may give advantages: fewer enemies to face, foes already wounded, monsters whose abilities are negated. Player actions before combat can swing the fight in their direction (or scupper them).

I’d encourage GMs to consider this hybrid combat rather than one or the other. I’m also a big proponent of being transparent with options as not to have players spending hours in the throes of indecision. Explaining how players can prepare for a fight, giving them explicit options (without negating other fun choices the players may make) and their consequences.

Mon plâtre empêchait le foot, on était en 1960, je me mis à dessiner, avec passion. Soudain je découvris qu’avec un crayon on pouvait écrire le monde, qu’on pouvait aussi le copier. Je copiais les images qui me plaisaient. Les billets de banque ! Le billet de 500 francs Victor Hugo me fascinait. C’était du reste le seul susceptible de passer entre mes mains. Pour obtenir le craquant du papier j’utilisais du papier toilette, à cette époque il était bis et raide. J’avais des amis, je me civilisais. J’étais même très bon élève en français. Avec mon plâtre j’eus un certain succès.

Et puis un beau matin papa était parti. J’avais 10 ans ½. En Afrique parti, au Libéria. Pour en ramener des diamants parait il. Il en avait fabriqué des diamants, noirs, industriels, avec des associés qui avaient pris soin de prendre les brevets à leurs noms et mettre les dettes au sien. Les créanciers devenaient trop insistants. Bref, c’était la dèche. Ma mère maintenant était souvent absente, à son tour. Ma sœur se rapprocha de moi, c’est elle qui me préparait à manger. C’était bon. Pour la première fois je me sentis compris, plus de scènes, plus de viande trop cuite, d’œufs secs, de légumes insipides. Je repris plaisir à manger. Elle avait eut son bac, mathélem disait-on à l’époque, avec mention. Elle allait à l’université. Il lui arrivait de recevoir des amies à la maison, c’était gai, j’appris à danser le twist. Les timbres me fascinaient tout autant. Je copiais, je copiais, je lisais, je lisais, je vivais dans un monde à moi qui m’isolait de celui des adultes, de celui de ma mère et de ses amants, je changeais ainsi fréquemment de papa, pour cette raison j’évitais d’inviter mes camarades trop souvent. La belle sauvage aux yeux verts me pourrissait la vie en vivant la sienne. Je suis autiste mais personne ne s’en est jamais aperçu. On me disait sauvage, renfermé, distrait, bizarre.

I started creating this journal for the woman standing somewhere between who she was and who she is becoming.

The woman who knows something changed her, but doesn't quite know what comes next.

These pages aren't here to tell you how to heal.

They aren't here to rush you toward forgiveness, closure, or some perfectly healed version of yourself.

They're simply a place to tell the truth.

To make space for what changed you.

To put down some of what you've been carrying.

And, eventually, to begin discovering the woman who exists on the other side of it all.

The full journal is still being written.

And somehow, that feels fitting.

Because so am I.

But I didn't want to wait until every page was finished to share it with you.

So I created a free 10-page preview of the Unbroken Ink Healing Journal—a small place for you to begin.

There is no timeline for these pages.

Print them. Write all over them. Leave something blank. Come back when you're ready.

You don't have to know who you're becoming yet.

You just have to give yourself permission to find out.

GET YOUR FREE JOURNAL PREVIEW

And if these pages feel like they were written for you, stay with me.

The full journal is still becoming, page by page.

There is more I want to write about healing, identity, starting over, and learning to build a life that doesn't look like the one you thought you'd have.

Maybe that's what Unbroken Ink is really about.

Not putting ourselves back together exactly as we were.

But discovering that we are allowed to become someone new.

Unbroken Ink

In my brief mortal life, this cycle has seen a few conferences and gatherings, large and small in number of participants.

The below diagram shows my reflections after one such conference, organised by IPOS (Intellectual Property Office of Singapore). I categorised it into Fun, Done and Learnt.

Yesterday I caught a theatre show that featured practitioners of puppet theatre. It is a form that is practised in rural areas of Tokushima, Japan.

More information on that at: https://joruri.info/jurobe/english

Until the silver fire of the full moon and the silence of the next new moon -

#lunaticus

Italian Stallion

Up at the crack of dawn. Time with friends. Light lunch of shrimp and company. Library. Reading. Drawing. Nap. Tuna salad and beer for dinner. Watching Rocky. I've never seen the whole film. Philly grosses me out. And I'm no fan of boxing. Drawing and writing about the day.

Wish it was as nice tonight as this morning.

Dark. Hot. Sweltering.

But I am floating.

Desire is not failure. It is the body remembering it was made to be touched.

A wolf prowls Porto— not vicious, but hungry— moving through stone and salt and old iron streets.

This morning he finds himself still, at a hotel bar, the city passing through him rather than the other way around.

His usual den—the bank where wild thyme grows, where oxlips and violet nod beneath woodbine and musk-rose— This dawn there are others here, And it belongs now to they.

The Flower Room, the two-legs call it.

It fills with silk and chiffon, with the soft architecture of bodies in motion. Bare shoulders. Open backs. Arms meeting torsos sans shame. Hems rising like a tide, no permission required.

The wolf does not consume. He observes. Gaze is sufficient.

Peeling from the dense joinery of bodies, a man slips away to the bar. He is suited, befitting a man of some renown, though the wolf knows nothing of it—only the sense that the man carries a certain gravity.

He takes a seat and drinks as a fish cast back, as if breath itself might be returned through glass and foam. Perhaps it is less thirst for spirits and more the calm draw of the tender—a young woman whose skin glows in the low light, smoked honey, warm and quiet, with a smile that could hold a Rabelo steady against wind or current.

The man mutters something, coyness flickering in his eyes. Smoked honey answers with that smile and a single word.

“Nepal.”

A moment opens.

Will the man hunt? Or is he only being kind?

It hangs, full and unresolved— no bridge built, only the long chasm of silence where two observers stand stunned by the distance and depth between them.

A distant wind, like a dream, sprinkles the whispered word

Namaste.

But the moment has passed. Smoked honey returns to polishing her crystal treasures.

Nothing passes between them, and so the air holds what might have been.

There is a pressure now that did not exist a moment before— sustained, contained, with nowhere yet to go.

Then the room changes.

Not suddenly. Not loudly. Profoundly.

A woman enters, and a wake forms around her.

Energy shifts outward, displaced, as her presence stirs a wind that moves the sage and trembles the wheat.

Even the wolf, in his quiet corner, feels it.

Gravity has slipped— just a little.

She does not drift. She does not search.

She approaches with intent.

Her dress—midnight blue, scattered with small white flowers, like a third-watch meadow under a full moon— clings to her skin without effort, remembering her shape as she moves.

She comes to rest beside the man, close enough that breath becomes shared.

The wolf senses the change in him— a soft yielding, almost imperceptible. He is opening.

She unarmors him with little more than awareness.

Her hand rises.

Not to seize. Not to hold.

To settle.

Fingers find the back of his head, knitting briefly into short dark hair. A palm rests at the nape of his neck, where a pulse answers without words.

And in that answering, the room dissolves.

This is not conquest. Nor possession, asserted or implied.

It is awareness without declaration.

The wolf is awed by the slow, unmistakable alignment of want and permission.

The resonance reaches him. His breath deepens. His weight shifts forward a fraction, as if his body recollects this language without ever being addressed.

And there, behind his ribs, the wolf finds it— a longing oft felt and long quelled.

Not the sex— but the recognition. The unfiltered want between two.

Desire moves like heat through matter, lingering, spreading, until something softens and opens enough to receive it.

The wolf realizes he is open and unnamed, still wanting— not because he lacks, but because the wanting itself has warmed him, has replaced ache with presence, and left him altered by what passed through the room when someone disarmed and let themselves be found.

#romamcingiberia #essay #europe

2025-12-15 20:22:45

There was one downer, but I can’t do much about it. For some reason, I felt compelled to check my employee portal and noticed that it had been changed to “terminated” from “leave of absence”. I think that means I am officially out of a job. I did not love that job, but I feel hurt that my supervisor did not reach out first to ask for an update or let me know up front.

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.

I basically did everything I hoped to do but didn’t have enough time at pottery. It was a packed full day, but slow moving.

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.

I love going to

What if society could help those who abuse drugs with many alternatives? What if many of those who use drugs don’t need help? What if it’s fine for many of those to continue using drugs? What if prison will never help people stop abusing drugs? What if many who started the war on drugs know this? What if…

Let’s quit abusing drug users.

https://www.tedmed.com/talk/lets-quit-abusing-drug-users/

Amen

Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!

Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!

On 13 March 2026, an anonymous TikTok account called @ai.cinema021 posted the first episode of a dating show starring fruit. A loud, aggressive lemon. A snooty banana. A strawberry with an ego problem. The whole thing was generated: visuals, voices, script, the lot. It was called Fruit Love Island.

Nine days later it had more than three million followers, which made it, by several accounts, the fastest-growing account in the platform's history. Episodes were averaging over ten million views each. By the time it collapsed the series had passed 300 million views in total.

People argued about the fruit. They picked favourites. They speculated about couplings. Amaya Espinal, who won the seventh season of Love Island USA, said she would never watch it and called the characters problematic, which is a remarkable sentence to have to write about a banana. Joe Jonas and Zara Larsson both engaged with it publicly, and Larsson deleted her post after the backlash arrived.

Then, on 28 March, it stopped. Twelve of the twenty-two episodes had been removed by TikTok, reportedly classified as low-quality AI content. The creator posted a run of furious videos complaining that “like half of my videos got removed” and that people had spam-reported the account. The stated reasons for quitting were hate and no revenue. Fifteen days from launch to abandonment, with a bigger audience than most commissioned television will ever see.

That is the whole argument of this piece in miniature. Something that nobody wrote, nobody performed in and nobody directed captured hundreds of millions of hours of human attention, generated genuine parasocial argument about characters made of citrus, made its creator no money, and was deleted by the platform that distributed it. Every actor in that sequence behaved rationally. The result was still incoherent.

On 29 August 2026, the Daily Guardian, the Iloilo-based Philippine daily, published a piece arguing that this sort of thing is not a passing internet novelty at all. It is the industrialisation of serialised storytelling: the collapse of the distance between having an idea and publishing an episode, and the conversion of the cliffhanger from a narrative technique into an engagement mechanism. The paper's contention was that the machine does not have to feel anything in order for the audience to feel something.

That is correct. It is also much older, much better evidenced, and much more uncomfortable than it first appears.

What The Fruit Knew

Start with the objection everyone reaches for first. Surely we can tell. Surely something made without intention, without a person on the other end who meant it, reads as hollow.

The evidence says no.

In 2024, Brian Porter and Edouard Machery of the Department of History and Philosophy of Science at the University of Pittsburgh published a study in Scientific Reports that ought to be better known than it is. They gave 1,634 participants ten poems each: five by well-known poets including Shakespeare, Byron, Dickinson and Eliot, and five generated by ChatGPT 3.5 in the style of those poets. Participants identified the AI poems at below chance, roughly 46.6 per cent accuracy. They were more likely to guess that the machine poems were human. The five poems judged least likely to be human-written were all by actual poets.

A second group of 696 participants rated the poems on fourteen characteristics without knowing the source. The AI poems scored higher. On quality, on beauty, on emotion, on rhythm.

Then comes the part that matters. When participants were told which poems were machine-made, the ratings fell. Same poems. Same words. Lower scores.

Porter and Machery's explanation is deflationary and convincing: non-expert readers prefer accessible verse that communicates a theme directly, they expect AI poetry to be bad, and so they misread their own enjoyment as evidence of human authorship. The preference is real. The attribution is a story people tell themselves afterwards.

This is not an isolated finding. A body of work on what researchers call the AI disclosure penalty has now documented the same asymmetry across images, paintings, songs and prose. One 2025 study of reader perception shifts, drawing on 990 responses from 261 participants across six kinds of writing, found that disclosing AI involvement erodes perceived trustworthiness, competence, caring and likability, with the steepest falls in social and interpersonal contexts. Participants attributed the drop to a perceived loss of sincerity and diminished effort. Notably, higher AI literacy softened the penalty rather than sharpening it.

Put the two findings together and you get something genuinely strange. The response to the work and the response to the label are separate systems. The first does not consult the second. We feel it, then we decide whether we were entitled to.

The Structures That Do The Work

There is a much older tradition that predicted exactly this, and it did not need a single experiment.

In 1928, Vladimir Propp published Morphology of the Folktale, in which he took a corpus of Russian wonder tales and reduced them to thirty-one narrative functions and seven character types. Villainy. Lack. Guidance. Acquisition of a magical agent. Liquidation of lack. The content varied wildly. The skeleton did not. Propp's argument was that the effect of these stories was produced by their structure, and that the structure was portable, recombinable and finite.

In 1946, W. K. Wimsatt and Monroe Beardsley published “The Intentional Fallacy” in the Sewanee Review, arguing that the design or intention of an author is neither available nor desirable as a standard for judging a work. The poem, they wrote, belongs to the public. It is to be evaluated on its own operation, not on what its maker meant.

Neither of these was written with reference to machines. Both describe the conditions under which machine-made narrative works.

Then there is the mechanism by which a story gets inside you. Melanie Green and Timothy Brock's 2000 paper in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology introduced transportation, the state of absorption into a narrative involving imagery, affect and attentional focus, and demonstrated that transported readers show belief change consistent with the story. The finding relevant here is almost throwaway in the original: transportation, and the belief change that came with it, were generally unaffected by whether the story was labelled as fact or fiction.

Read that again in the context of a fruit dating show. Your capacity to be moved does not first check the ontological status of what is moving you. It was never checking. Fiction has always been a machine for producing feelings about people who do not exist. The novelty is not that the characters are fake. It is that the author is.

Dolf Zillmann and Joanne Cantor's affective disposition theory, first set out in 1977, supplies the rest. Enjoyment of narrative, on this account, runs through moral judgement: we form dispositions towards characters, we want good outcomes for those we like and bad ones for those we do not, and our pleasure tracks whether the story delivers. That process requires a character legible enough to judge. It does not require the character to have been imagined by anyone. An egotistical strawberry is a perfectly adequate object of moral judgement.

And Horton and Wohl were there in 1956, in Psychiatry, describing what they called para-social interaction: intimacy at a distance, the one-sided bond an audience forms with a media persona who cannot know they exist. They were writing about radio hosts and television compères. The asymmetry they identified was already total. There was never a reciprocal relationship to lose.

The Duanju Machine That Got There First

None of this would matter much if AI serial video were a curiosity. It is not. It is the tail end of a commercial format that has already been industrialised, and the numbers are not small.

The vertical microdrama, the duanju, is the direct precursor. One to two minute episodes, shot vertically, sold by the coin, structured so that every instalment ends on a hook. In 2024, China's micro-drama market generated around 50.4 billion yuan, roughly seven billion dollars, and in doing so overtook the country's entire cinema box office for the first time. Domestic viewership hit 662 million by the end of that year. By May 2026, according to Sixth Tone's reporting, the ultrashort-drama sector in China had reached 851 million users and a market value above 100 billion yuan, and the format had overtaken long-form video in average daily use.

The export version is equally striking. Media Partners Asia research reported in August 2026 put ReelShort's revenue at 97 million dollars in 2023, 400 million in 2024 and 785 million in 2025, on track for 1.05 billion dollars in 2026 with its first profit at scale, somewhere near 40 million dollars net after an estimated 12 million dollar loss the year before. ReelShort holds roughly 29 per cent of the market, DramaBox about 21 per cent, with the rest spread across a long tail of some three hundred apps. Deloitte's technology, media and telecommunications predictions for 2026, published in November 2025, forecast global in-app micro-series revenue rising from 3.8 billion dollars in 2025 to 7.8 billion in 2026.

This was all built by humans, filmed fast and cheap, before generative video was good enough to matter. The format was optimised for retention long before the machines arrived. What AI did was remove the last cost floor.

One Yuan Per Second

Here is the number that should stop you.

In the first quarter of 2026, roughly 128,000 ultrashort dramas were released in China. More than 95 per cent of them were AI-generated.

That figure comes from Sixth Tone's 24 August 2026 report by He Qitong, and it is corroborated in outline by CNBC's 26 August account of Chinese producers flooding the market with cheap bets and letting audiences pick the winners. The logic CNBC describes is a straightforward inversion of how entertainment has traditionally worked. Rather than committing capital to production and then buying an audience, short-drama firms produce at volume, test demand at negligible risk, and pour distribution spend only into whatever the feed has already validated.

That capability arrived quickly and from several directions at once. The generative video field in 2026 is not one tool but a stack of competing ones, and the competition is what drove the price down. Google's Veo line, OpenAI's Sora, Kuaishou's Kling, Runway, MiniMax's Hailuo and the open-weight Wan family have converged on a similar band of capability: clips measured in tens of seconds, native audio generated in the same pass as the picture, character appearance held roughly consistent from shot to shot, and output at resolutions that survive a phone screen. Vertical framing, which cinema treats as a mistake, is native to all of them. Sora's own trajectory illustrates how unstable the ground is. OpenAI notified developers on 24 March 2026 that the Sora 2 models were being removed from the API, shut the consumer app and web experience on 26 April, and set the API's final date for 24 September 2026. A company that had built the most talked-about consumer video toy in the world closed it inside a year and redirected the compute. That is worth holding on to when we get to the argument that entertainment is where the infrastructure money comes back from, because the largest player in the field has just walked away from the most obvious version of that bet.

Character consistency is the technical detail that turned clips into serials. A generator that produces a beautiful ten-second shot and then a different-looking protagonist in the next one can make adverts. A generator that holds a face across fifty episodes can make a soap opera. That threshold was crossed somewhere in the past eighteen months, and the microdrama industry was standing directly on the other side of it, already holding the format, the distribution and the audience.

The cost collapse is documented in unusual detail. ByteDance released its Seedance 2.0 video model in February 2026 at a generation cost of roughly one yuan per second of video. Sixth Tone reported a director whose typical production budget fell from about 300,000 yuan requiring seven or eight days of shooting to about 200,000 yuan over three days, with around ten roles tied to stunts and effects simply deleted. He turned down AI work despite a thirty per cent pay cut. Eight of his ten colleagues took it.

The human cost is not abstract. Wang Huan, founder of the production company Zhoutu Culture, sold three cars in July 2026, a Mercedes-Benz G63, an Aston Martin DB11 and a Bentley Continental GT, worth some 4.5 million yuan between them, as his monthly output fell from around 200 dramas to about thirty and his workforce shrank from more than 500 people to roughly 200. His question, quoted by Sixth Tone, is the one every creator in this economy eventually asks: if the platform stopped giving you money tomorrow, what would you do?

The platforms noticed the hollowing out. By May 2026 ByteDance had allocated 1.5 billion yuan and six major platforms had announced around 6 billion yuan in planned investment specifically for live-action production. That is a subsidy for humanness, which tells you something about where the unsubsidised equilibrium sits.

Note the irony. The industry that proved AI video could work at scale is now paying a premium to keep people in front of the camera.

The Cliffhanger Became A Metric

The Daily Guardian's sharpest observation is that “to be continued” has stopped being purely a narrative device and become an engagement mechanism. This is right, and it is worth being precise about why, because the imprecise version of the claim is false.

The cliffhanger has always been commercial. Serial fiction in the nineteenth century was sold by the instalment, and the instalment ended where it did in order to sell the next one. What has changed is not the existence of a commercial motive but the resolution and speed of the feedback.

A Victorian novelist learned about audience response through sales figures arriving weeks later, letters, and the talk of the town. A TikTok creator learns within hours, at the granularity of individual seconds of retention, from a system that is simultaneously the measuring instrument and the distribution channel.

That combination is the actual novelty. The platform does not merely report on what worked. It decides what gets seen, using the same signals, in the same loop, continuously. The first three seconds are not a craft convention that emerged from taste. They are a response to a ranking function. Hold attention past the threshold or the video does not circulate, and if it does not circulate it does not exist.

Under those conditions “unresolved” acquires a specific technical meaning. Resolution is a terminal state. A viewer whose question has been answered is a viewer with permission to leave. So the answer is deferred, not because deferral serves the story, but because the deferral is the unit of production. Another view, another comment, another share, another pass through the ranking system.

None of which makes the resulting stories bad. It makes them selected. There is a difference, and conflating the two is where most commentary on this subject goes wrong. Formulaic serial fiction produced under commercial constraint has given us a great deal that survived: Dickens, radio drama, soap opera, the entire structure of episodic television. Constraint is not the enemy of quality. The question is what the constraint is optimising for, and here it is optimising for a measurable interaction rather than a satisfied reader.

Dickens Sent Martin To America Because Sales Were Falling

The claim that most needs deflating is the participatory one: that the audience has become an informal writers' room, and that this is new.

It is not new. It is one of the oldest facts about serialised fiction there is.

When sales of Martin Chuzzlewit fell in 1843, Charles Dickens did not hold his nerve and trust the work. In the last chapter of the sixth monthly number, published in June 1843, he shipped his protagonist and his manservant off to America, a plot swerve introduced explicitly to arrest a commercial decline. The resulting satire outraged a great many American readers. The Old Curiosity Shop had already demonstrated the other side of the relationship, with readers in New York reportedly crowding the docks to meet the ship carrying the final instalment.

Radio and television serials formalised the practice. Soap operas ran for decades on audience feedback, recasting, resurrecting and rewriting according to what the post and later the ratings said. Fan fiction turned the audience into an unpaid parallel writers' room operating without permission. And on 12 February 2014, an anonymous Australian programmer launched Twitch Plays Pokémon, in which a crowd controlled a single game through chat commands. Alberto Aleta and Yamir Moreno, who later modelled the event formally, put participation at nearly a million players over more than two weeks. The crowd finished the game, and along the way it spontaneously generated a mythology, complete with deities improvised out of inventory items, that had nothing to do with anything Nintendo wrote. Aleta and Moreno's finding is worth noting on its own terms: the players who deviated from the collective behaviour were essential to the group succeeding at all.

Fruit Love Island ran the same playbook with the machinery made explicit. According to DesignRush's account of the series, viewers voted on which fruit should couple up via Google Forms, and the host read viewer comments aloud inside the episodes. That is a nineteenth-century feedback loop with the postal delay removed, and it is the clearest illustration available of what the Daily Guardian means by an informal writers' room.

So the participatory writers' room is not a product of AI. What AI changes is latency and cost.

Dickens could redirect a plot at monthly intervals, at the price of writing the thing. A soap opera could recast over a season. A generative creator can read the comments on episode four in the evening and publish episode five, incorporating them, before breakfast, at a marginal cost approaching the price of the compute. When the loop tightens to that degree, “responding to the audience” and “being written by the metric” become difficult to tell apart, because the audience's expressed preferences reach the creator pre-filtered by the ranking system that decided which reactions were visible in the first place.

That is the genuinely new thing, and it deserves a better description than participation. The audience is not in the writers' room. The audience is in the training signal.

Entertainment As The Return On Seven Hundred Billion

Why does any of this warrant serious attention rather than amused dismissal? Because of where the money is.

In January 2026, Cody Kommers and Ari Holtzman posted a paper to arXiv titled “AI as Entertainment”. Their argument runs against the industry's own marketing. AI is sold as an intelligence technology, a productivity instrument, a tool for augmenting human capability. Kommers and Holtzman contend that entertainment is an emerging and badly underexamined use case, that AI is already widely adopted for entertainment purposes and especially by young people, and that entertainment will become a major revenue driver for the largest AI companies as they seek returns on enormous infrastructure investment.

They also argue that the field's evaluation frameworks are lopsided, built to measure harms while ignoring cultural benefit, and they propose what they call thick entertainment as an alternative: an approach that asks how AI-generated content contributes to meaning-making, identity formation and social bonding rather than merely how much damage it avoids. Their governing analogy is social media, which was sold as connection technology and became an attention business.

The infrastructure numbers give the thesis its force. Alphabet, Amazon, Meta and Microsoft are collectively expected to spend somewhere around 725 billion dollars in capital expenditure in 2026, up sharply from roughly 410 billion the year before, with the great majority directed at AI infrastructure. Add Oracle and the committed figure across the five largest providers sits in the region of 660 to 690 billion dollars. Analysts are already discussing a trillion-dollar year in 2027.

Capital on that scale requires consumer revenue at a scale that enterprise software subscriptions are unlikely to supply on their own. Entertainment is the only consumer category with a history of absorbing that much attention and converting it into money. Kommers and Holtzman are making a prediction, not reporting a fact, and it should be read as such. But the microdrama numbers suggest the prediction is being tested in the market right now, and the early returns are not ambiguous.

There is an honest caveat to enter here. Whether AI serial video specifically will produce durable revenue remains unproven. Fruit Love Island had 300 million views and its creator said it earned nothing. The most valuable AI-native entertainment company in the world may turn out to be a microdrama app that uses generative tools to cut production costs rather than a studio of autonomous machine storytellers. Attention has been demonstrated. Monetisation has not.

Labels Are Not Enough And Everybody Knows It

The regulatory response has arrived, and it is aimed at exactly the wrong thing.

Article 50 of the EU AI Act, whose transparency obligations came into application on 2 August 2026, requires that AI-generated or manipulated content be marked in machine-readable form and that deepfakes be disclosed. The Commission adopted guidelines on 20 July 2026 and has been developing an accompanying code of practice. The deepfake rules apply regardless of intent to deceive, and even where no real person is depicted. Content generated and published before 2 August 2026 does not have to be retroactively labelled. Non-compliance can attract fines up to 15 million euros or three per cent of worldwide annual turnover.

Platforms have moved in parallel. TikTok says it has now labelled more than three billion videos as AI-generated, using a combination of C2PA Content Credentials, creator self-labelling and invisible watermarking. It was the first video platform to implement Content Credentials and has joined the C2PA steering committee. In the first quarter of 2026 alone it removed over 86 million fake accounts. YouTube renamed its repetitious content policy to inauthentic content in July 2025, targeting mass-produced and templated material while explicitly permitting AI tools where the finished video carries genuine human-added value.

Every one of these interventions addresses provenance. None addresses structure.

That is the gap the Porter and Machery result opens up. If disclosure reduces appreciation after the fact but does not prevent transportation during it, then a label is a receipt, not a shield. It tells you what you consumed. It does not alter the consuming. Green and Brock's finding that transportation is largely indifferent to fact-versus-fiction labelling suggests the same thing from the other direction. The apparatus we are building is designed to inform a deliberative faculty that was never in charge of the response in the first place.

There is a second problem, which is that labelling regimes and monetisation regimes are pulling against each other in ways that are genuinely confused. Reporting on TikTok's monetisation rules for AI content in 2026 is inconsistent, with different programmes described as banning AI content outright, permitting it if labelled, or permitting it subject to originality requirements. I could not establish a single authoritative answer, and I am not going to pretend otherwise. What is documented is the outcome in the one high-profile case: the biggest AI serial on the platform had twelve of its twenty-two episodes removed and its creator quit citing an absence of revenue.

If the effect of labelling is that compliant AI content is algorithmically suppressed and demonetised, the rational response is not to stop making it. It is to stop labelling it. Transparency rules that impose a distribution penalty create an incentive to evade them, and enforcement against millions of accounts producing hundreds of thousands of items a quarter is not a solved problem.

The Word For Content Nobody Asked For

Meanwhile the culture has issued its verdict, and it is contemptuous.

Merriam-Webster made “slop” its word of the year for 2025, defining it as digital content of low quality produced usually in quantity by artificial intelligence. Macquarie Dictionary in Australia had already chosen “AI slop”, defining it as low-quality content created by generative AI, often containing errors, and not requested by the user. Fruit Love Island was described by critics, more or less universally, as a perfect example of the genre.

The slop framing is useful and also self-serving. Useful, because volume is a real harm: 128,000 dramas a quarter is not a cultural flourishing, it is a denial-of-service attack on discovery, and it does displace people who cannot compete on cost. The Fruit Love Island case carries that charge too. The creator Joy Ofodu, who had been producing original sketches voicing inanimate objects including fruit characters since 2020 at a rate of two or three hundred a year, said publicly that the AI series appeared to have been inspired by her work without credit. Whatever the provenance, that is the structural complaint: the format is cheap to copy and the copy scales faster than the original.

Self-serving, because “slop” lets the critic locate the deficiency in the object rather than in the response. It says the problem is that this stuff is bad. The evidence says the problem is that it works. Three million followers in nine days is not a story about people being fooled. It is a story about narrative structure doing what narrative structure does, in the absence of anyone having meant it.

And the aesthetic objection has an awkward history. Every industrialised narrative form was called slop by someone. Penny dreadfuls, dime novels, pulp magazines, radio serials, soap opera, and the word “soap opera” itself was not a compliment. Some of that material was rubbish and some of it turned out to be the popular art of its century. Contempt is not a prediction.

What Is Actually Lost

So return to the viewer at two in the morning, arguing about characters no one wrote.

The honest answer to what it means that stories which move us can be made by something that feels nothing is: less than we would like, and not nothing.

Less than we would like, because the emotional response was never underwritten by the author's sincerity. Propp showed the effects were structural. Wimsatt and Beardsley argued the intention was neither available nor desirable as a standard. Green and Brock showed transportation runs regardless of whether the thing is true. Horton and Wohl showed the intimacy was one-sided from the start. Porter and Machery showed we cannot tell, and that knowing changes our rating rather than our reaction. A person who cries at an AI-generated episode has not made an error. They have discovered something about how narrative always worked, and it is not flattering.

Not nothing, because two things are genuinely at stake, and neither is authenticity.

The first is what the story is for. A human serial optimises for a reader who returns tomorrow. An algorithmic serial optimises for a measurable interaction now. Those objectives overlap substantially, which is why the output is often watchable, but they diverge precisely at the point of resolution. A story written for a person eventually ends, because endings are what make the middle mean anything. A story written for a retention curve has no reason to end, because the ending is the moment the metric goes to zero. What is threatened is not emotional truth. It is closure, and closure is where narrative meaning actually lives.

The second is the disappearance of a counterparty. Serial fiction has always been a negotiation, and the audience has always had a hand in it, from Dickens rerouting Martin Chuzzlewit to save his sales to a Twitch chat improvising a religion. But there was somebody on the other side, with intentions of their own, who could refuse. Dickens sent Martin to America and then wrote the America he wanted to write, at the cost of enraging half a continent. The audience pushed, and something pushed back.

Optimisation does not push back. It converges. Feed a system your reactions and it will give you more of what produced them, and the conversation the Daily Guardian describes between creator, audience, platform and algorithm has, at its far end, no participant capable of saying no. That is the loss, and it is a structural one rather than a spiritual one: not that the machine cannot feel, but that it cannot disagree.

Which suggests the interesting question is not whether we should be moved by machine-made stories. We already are, we always could have been, and the label arrives too late to stop it. The question is whether anything in the loop is still capable of wanting the story to go somewhere other than where the numbers point.

At the moment, the only candidate is the person watching at two in the morning. That is a thinner safeguard than it sounds, and it is the only one on offer.

Sources and References

1. Kommers, Cody and Holtzman, Ari (2026) “AI as Entertainment,” arXiv, arXiv:2601.08768, 13 January 2026. Available at: https://arxiv.org/abs/2601.08768
2. Cripps, Coral (2026) “TikTok Series 'Fruit Love Island' Reveals AI Risk After 300M Views,” DesignRush News, 8 April 2026. Available at: https://news.designrush.com/tiktok-series-fruit-love-island-ai-format-risk
3. Fast Company (2026) “'Fruit Love Island' is TikTok's most popular AI-generated series. Now it's facing trouble in paradise,” Fast Company, March 2026. Available at: https://www.fastcompany.com/91519147/fruit-love-island-tiktok-most-popular-ai-generated-series-now-facing-trouble-in-paradise
4. Murray, Conor (2026) “Bizarre AI-Generated Fruit 'Love Island' TikTok Videos Drive Massive Engagement,” Forbes, 23 March 2026. Available at: https://www.forbes.com/sites/conormurray/2026/03/23/bizarre-ai-generated-fruit-love-island-tiktok-videos-drive-massive-engagement/
5. The Wrap / Yahoo Entertainment (2026) “'Bullying works': AI series 'Fruit Love Island' creator rage quits after mass video takedowns.” Available at: https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/tv/articles/bullying-works-ai-series-fruit-200000743.html
6. “Black Creator Says AI 'Fruit Love Island' Series Was Likely Inspired by Her Content” (2026). Available at: https://www.aol.com/articles/black-creator-says-ai-fruit-164743347.html
7. He, Qitong (2026) “China's Short-Drama Boom Was Built on Speed. Then AI Got Faster,” Sixth Tone, 24 August 2026. Available at: https://www.sixthtone.com/news/1018902
8. CNBC (2026) “China's short-drama producers flood the market with cheap bets, and let audiences pick the winners,” CNBC, 26 August 2026. Available at: https://www.cnbc.com/2026/08/26/short-drama-china-production-ai-entertainment-economics.html
9. Variety (2026) “ReelShort on Track for $1.05 Billion Revenue, First Profit at Scale in 2026, Media Partners Asia Report Finds,” Variety, August 2026. Available at: https://variety.com/2026/tv/news/reelshort-1-billion-revenue-profit-2026-mpa-1236828885/ (see also Deadline, “ReelShort On Course To Reach $1BN Revenue & First Profit In 2026, MPA Report,” August 2026: https://deadline.com/2026/08/microdrama-reelshort-revenue-profit-1237027492/)
10. OpenAI (2026) “What to know about the Sora discontinuation,” OpenAI Help Center, and “Deprecations,” OpenAI API documentation. Available at: https://help.openai.com/en/articles/20001152-what-to-know-about-the-sora-discontinuation and https://developers.openai.com/api/docs/deprecations
11. Arkenberg, Chris, Dhameja, Ankit, Bottke, Tim and Crossan, Gillian (2025) “Tiny episodes, massive appeal: Short-form serials are gaining viewers and empowering independent studios,” Deloitte Insights, TMT Predictions 2026, 18 November 2025. Available at: https://www.deloitte.com/us/en/insights/industry/technology/technology-media-and-telecom-predictions/2026/short-form-video-series.html
12. CNBC (2025) “How China's $7 billion micro drama industry is taking on the U.S. entertainment industry,” CNBC, 22 July 2025. Available at: https://www.cnbc.com/2025/07/22/why-chinas-7b-micro-drama-industry-is-taking-over-social-feeds.html
13. Porter, Brian and Machery, Edouard (2024) “AI-generated poetry is indistinguishable from human-written poetry and is rated more favorably,” Scientific Reports, vol. 14, art. 26133, November 2024. Available at: https://www.nature.com/articles/s41598-024-76900-1
14. “Understanding Reader Perception Shifts upon Disclosure of AI Authorship” (2025), arXiv, arXiv:2510.24011, and Proceedings of the 31st International Conference on Intelligent User Interfaces. Available at: https://arxiv.org/abs/2510.24011
15. Green, Melanie C. and Brock, Timothy C. (2000) “The role of transportation in the persuasiveness of public narratives,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 79(5), pp. 701-721. Available at: https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/11079236/
16. Horton, Donald and Wohl, R. Richard (1956) “Mass Communication and Para-Social Interaction: Observations on Intimacy at a Distance,” Psychiatry, 19(3), pp. 215-229. Available at: https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/00332747.1956.11023049
17. Wimsatt, W. K. and Beardsley, Monroe C. (1946) “The Intentional Fallacy,” The Sewanee Review, 54(3), pp. 468-488. Available at: https://www.sas.upenn.edu/~cavitch/pdf-library/WimsattBeardsley_Intentional.pdf
18. Propp, Vladimir (1968) Morphology of the Folktale, 2nd edn, trans. Laurence Scott, University of Texas Press (originally published in Russian, 1928). Overview available at: https://rupkatha.com/V9/n2/v9n241.pdf
19. Zillmann, Dolf and Cantor, Joanne R. (1977) “Affective responses to the emotions of a protagonist,” Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 13(2), pp. 155-165. Overview of subsequent affective disposition research available at: https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0001691826003070
20. European Commission (2026) “Transparency obligations under Article 50 of the AI Act,” Shaping Europe's Digital Future. Available at: https://digital-strategy.ec.europa.eu/en/faqs/transparency-obligations-under-article-50-ai-act
21. Greenberg Traurig LLP (2026) “Deepfakes, Chatbots, AI-Generated Text: European Commission Details Transparency Obligations Under the AI Act,” June 2026. Available at: https://www.gtlaw.com/en/insights/2026/6/deepfakes-chatbots-ai-generated-text-european-commission-details-transparency-obligations-under-the-ai-act
22. TikTok Newsroom (2026) “Helping people spot and understand AIGC on TikTok,” 10 July 2026. Available at: https://newsroom.tiktok.com/helping-people-spot-and-understand-aigc-on-tiktok
23. Social Media Today (2025) “YouTube Clarifies Changes to Monetization Rules Around Inauthentic Content,” July 2025. Available at: https://www.socialmediatoday.com/news/youtube-clarifies-monetization-update-inauthentic-repeated-content/752892/
24. Merriam-Webster (2025) “Word of the Year 2025: Slop,” Merriam-Webster, December 2025. Available at: https://www.merriam-webster.com/wordplay/word-of-the-year (see also Macquarie Dictionary, “Macquarie Dictionary Word of the Year for 2025,” 24 November 2025: https://www.macquariedictionary.com.au/macquarie-dictionary-word-of-the-year-for-2025/)
25. Aleta, Alberto and Moreno, Yamir (2018) “Collective social behavior in a crowd controlled game,” arXiv, arXiv:1811.09730, 24 November 2018. Available at: https://arxiv.org/abs/1811.09730

Tim Green UK-based Systems Theorist & Independent Technology Writer

Tim explores the intersections of artificial intelligence, decentralised cognition, and posthuman ethics. His work, published at smarterarticles.co.uk, challenges dominant narratives of technological progress while proposing interdisciplinary frameworks for collective intelligence and digital stewardship.

His writing has been featured on Ground News and shared by independent researchers across both academic and technological communities.

ORCID: 0009-0002-0156-9795 Email: tim@smarterarticles.co.uk

Listen to the free weekly SmarterArticles Podcast

I can see how such a feature could be genuinely useful. Keeping a personal journal, keeping track of what was discussed in business meetings, etc. But I think the privacy implications are serious.

I don’t like the idea that anything I say in a public setting or in a conversation with others could end up in a transcript summary on someone’s personal device. But this is just the latest in a long line of concerns about surveillance as the devices we use become more and more technologically advanced.

In truth, there have been concerns for many years about smartphones, smart speakers like the Amazon Echo, and even smart TVs listening in on us without our knowledge or consent. I've lost track of how many times I've experienced or heard others relate their experiences of how they were discussing a particular topic with a friend or family member and then as soon as they get on Facebook or another social media platform on their smartphone, they see posts and ads featuring the very topic they were discussing.

Meta's AI Glasses have been causing a stir because people who wear them are wearing video cameras that can record everything – and everyone – they see.

OpenAI is developing a wearable device, designed by Johnny Ive of Apple fame, that will no doubt be constantly listening, recording, and transmitting data to OpenAI's servers and who knows where else.

And whether we personally own or use any of these devices ourselves, chances are we will be interacting increasingly more with people who do.

For all the controversy around Flock cameras being installed everywhere, eventually they might become obsolete. Because the surveillance devices won't need to be on top of poles strategically posted in public places. The surveillance devices will be hanging around our necks, in our earbuds, built into our glasses. We will be wearing them, carrying them in their pockets, driving them, etc.

This goes far beyond the breadth and scope of the telescreens George Orwell envisioned in his dystopian novel 1984. And that story did not end well, either.

#100DaysToOffload (No. 167) #tech #privacy

The second game was very exciting and close. UTSA won 31 to 26 over North Texas, coming from behind in the final seconds. These two teams kept exchanging leads from the 1st Quarter until the end. Very, very exciting to follow.

There's nothing left on my schedule now for this day other than finishing the prayers and preparing for bed at a comfortable, relaxed pace.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.

Health Metrics: * bw= 225.53 lbs. * bp= 156/89 (62)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, toe raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates

Diet: * 08:30 – 1 pb&j sandwich * 10:00 – sausage, bacon, fried rice, stuffed omelet. * 18:50 – dish of ice cream

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 06:10 – listen to local news talk radio * 07:05 – bank accounts activity monitored . * 07:30 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, listen to music, nap * 10:00 – eating a big breakfast while listening to the Hoosier's pregame show * 14:00 – and IU wins big. Final score: Indiana University 55 – Howard 0. * 14:05 – Now tuned into Ticket 760, San Antonio's Sports Station, the UTSA Sports Network, ahead of this afternoon's college football game between the UTSA Roadrunners and the Texas State Bobcats. Opening kickoff scheduled for 2:30 PM CDT. Yes, I'll be listening to the game's radio call here.

Chess: * 15:10 – moved in all pending CC games

I do this also knowing that the appearance of my words here in this vast digital void is also in itself a strangeness. However, I must argue against the assumption that voids are emptiness, filled with a vast nothing. What if these vast spaces of open darkness are not empty at all? What if they too are filled with all of the things we cannot see or have yet to see? What if, deep in the darkness, there were an infinite library of the unspoken, whose writing only appears to the accidental reader who stumbles upon the pages, not by random chance, but for reasons that have yet to reveal themselves?

There are some actions that defy any illusion of futility because what lies beneath is far greater and denser than the material most will ever witness above. For, however incomplete our cosmology, the failure is in the viewing rather than the landscape.

There are also certain things that cannot be written, or at least written as they are. The sacred remains sacred because it is held in the closest of confidences and consulted at every step — trusting that the illusion of absence most see as a void is in fact both mask and medium.

I would also be remiss in not noting that the naming of the unnamed is central to my writing compulsion. This, too, is an inadequate expression partly due to my limited comprehension of what truly is, and my many deficiencies as a writer. An extremely committed amateur in both attendance and participation.

And as is true in life as it is in the act of writing it, I am left with more questions than answers: What if writing is more than just the scrawlings of an ordinary fool writing into the void? And what if the void is more than merely a perceived vacancy of cosmos?

#Intermundia #Excultio

By D. Bowman Nomina Numina is a journal of reflections, moments, and meaning-making between worlds. Reply by email.

Im fucking done with this. im fucking done with people pointing out shit thats already fucking obvious and acting like they’ve just solved a mystery. i look tired, fucking brilliant you noticed great awesome. do you want a medal do you want someone to clap because you managed to look at my fucking face and say what was already written all over it? for gods fucking sake, humans. i dont need a fucking commentator following me around narrating my own fucking face. yes, i am tired. yes, i am sick of every fucking thing. there, thats all i fucking needed today. fuck this.

Sincerely, Obviously Fucking tired

Traces how being from Texas shapes you forever, no matter where you go—from childhood jokes about “Texas and everywhere else” to a son’s conflicted pride in his hardworking father. Through memory and reflection, it ties identity to place, work, and the inherited drive to keep learning and making.

The thing about being from somewhere is that you can never not be from there. You an leave, you can put on new clothes and a new accent, but that place will always be a part of you. Like it or not. And me? I’m from Texas. And its the goddamnest place you’ll ever visit.

There’s a joke I learned as a kid, well there are a couple, but the one I always think of is: There’s only two places; Texas and everywhere else. And everyone knows this joke, only in Texas even though we say it with levity, we kind of believe it. Hell, I’ve been other places, amazing places, and as awe-inspiring as they are, there’s always something missing.

It might be the kindness of strangers, or the way people wave in small towns, say howdy or just was we know as mexican food. Sometimes it’s the heat. I’ve stood in the Pantheon in Rome marveling at the largest unsupported occulous in the world and thought, ‘I sure miss the warmth of Texas in November’!

So, being from someplace is in you, it is you. It was part of what Eliza Doolittle struggled with in the film adaptation of Pygmillion, My Fair Lady. Many films, plays and books have been written where the main character lived a lie, trying to be ‘better’ than where they were from, to fit in, please society and impress others. In the end though, they always find the value in who they were born as and why it matters.

I’m no different. For decades, I ran away from who I was. I hated country and western music, eschewed cowboy boots and hats and despised the idea of bucolic paintings of cows and chickens and red barns. Now, all those things exist other places. LOTS of places, but when you’re 10 and your daddy comes home in his boots and hat, all dirtied up from working in the oilfield, or wrangling cattle, well, you either fall in love with, or you decide that’ll never be you.

That sounds cruel; seeing your father and thinking you want to be anything but that. I don’t necessarily mean it that way. There were may qualities my Dad had that I desired: creativity, intelligence, the ability to draw and make things with his hands and imagination. Now, all those qualities, I’ve worked hard to make him proud. But by his own admission, he wanted me to have ‘an office job’ and ‘not come home tired and dirty every day’. That is a sentiment no doubt most parents want. Coupled with a good work ethic and a sense of honesty, I would say it makes for a very respectable man or woman.

One of my first memories of my father is my mother and I taking him lunch when he was working second shift as a tank-manufacturing plant. Now, for the city-types, or anyone not smack in the middle of oil-fields, a tank-manufacturing plant doesn’t make tanks for war, they make varying sizes of vessels to contain oil. Some small, some larger than houses. Massive structures that are nothing but plate steel forged into massive arching shapes and welded seam by seam in to one continuous surface, usually with a manhole or two and whatever ports the buyer requests to get their chemical into and out of the vessel.

And that was my father’s job: welding all of those seams.

On this particular evening, I’m maybe 6 and we drive out to the east side of town, the outskirts back then, and park off the side of an asphalt road that is framed on either side with 6’ wide bar ditches. They handle the rainwater run-off and when it’s not raining, breed mosquitoes.

My mother has prepared something, I don’t know what, and placed into a black steel lunchbox with a thermos. While I poke at the ditches looking for frogs, my dad opens his lunch on the hood of the car and he and my mother chat about something while he eats his sandwich and occasionally asks me a question about what I am doing. Eventually, we end up throwing a tiny-child sized football back and forth.

This event has always puzzled me. My father has never cared for sports. he does not talk about them, watch them, nor have I ever seen him play sports. He says they are waste of time. And I believe him. For the 50 years I’ve known him, it’s only in the last 2 that I’ve seen him ever do anything but go to work, or work at home on various projects. He is a production machine. Make make make. And it’s the process that seems to inspire him. He isn’t interested in drilling down and finding a thing that he can then just rinse and repeat into oblivion. He loves learning how to do new things.

I doubt this is a particularly Texas thing. But it is sure a my-dad thing. And I’m the same way.

It’s why I’ve never liked the idea of being a specialist, master of one thing. I much prefer learning a new process, getting moderately adept at it and then just adding the tool to my box. That comes with a lot of frustration. Constantly relearning fundamental things that masters have long become so accomplished at that they don’t even think of the process.

2025-05-05 23:56:52

#essay

Now listening to the I 35 Rivalry College Football Game between the UTSA Roadrunners and the Texas State Bobcats. The radio call of this game is broadcast over Ticket 760, San Antonio's Sports Station, the UTSA Sports Network.

And the adventure continues.

••••••••

We all want To reach escape velocity.

It was man’s First goal After the wheel.

Fast enough Far enough To slip

These surly Bonds.

But once We get there, It takes

Everything We got Just to

Keep from Plummeting Back down

The well.

Let’s say you’re trying to make a song and you need a little help. Maybe you hear a bass that you don’t have or know how to play, or acoustic guitar, or choir, or maybe you need someone just slightly further along in the mixing process to ask questions or bounce ideas off of. Maybe you need original music for a visual project. I hope I can help.

It’s not you it’s me

I’m trying to be the person that I wanted when I started out. That means that I want to help a lot. I’m not doing it for money. I’m doing it simply to celebrate that I can do it. I think we need more music from the heart out there. I don’t know where a lot of these messages come from that cross my path on the airwaves, but it’s not the heart.

I am easy, and I am rooting for you. But I am not on social media.

Don’t hesitate to give me a buzz if you need a hand. I promise, I won’t bite. I want to help folks make songs they’re proud of. I want to provide music for folks who have a need for it in their video projects and other creative endeavors. I think this stuff is actually more useful than any song I write. Like cooking, if we don’t practice the craft, we lose it. I hope music’s around here every bit as long as we are. I hope I can contribute to that without making a social media profile again.

“The Call”

I’m set up for bass and guitars and vocals at the moment. I got a choir job in Scotland, then I’m free. Who’s next? You?

Email: thekintnersmusic@gmail.com

Let’s make music,

Kelly

An early college football game, the Howard Bison playing the IU Hoosiers at Bloomington's Memorial Stadium, starts my Saturday. With its opening kickoff scheduled for 11:00 AM CDT, I'll be looking for pregame coverage on Hoosier Country 105.1, Flagship Station for IU Sports, by 10:00 AM or maybe earlier. GO HOOSIERS!

And the adventure continues.

My bass and I are tight now, but we weren’t always. I never really “got” the bass until recently. I still don’t completely get it or anything, but I do get it enough to love it these days. It’s the low-end, it’s a lot of interest, and it’s a handy writing tool. I’ve had the good fortune of jamming with a few amazing bass players. Where they don’t play reveals how clever they are, so when they do play, you tend to listen up. Sometimes the best bass guitar is the one you don’t notice, but you still enjoyed the song. Sometimes a steady bass on the one drives a rhythm like nothing else. It all simply depends on what you decide to do with the thing in your hands.

Low-end interest

Obviously, folks want low-end from bass. Forever, I didn’t really care about making the low-end interesting. I just thought it had to fill out that band of the spectrum of frequencies. I guess I still think that. But I also think, “why not make it interesting?” 

Historically, a lot of lower frequencies in popular music have a function-over-style approach. The bass might be on the spot, but it’s often indistinguishable from the rhythm section. Fortunately, for the style of album I’m on now, there’s a little room in the spectrum of frequencies for me to allot some articulation and character to the bass. The bass will not just be felt, it will be heard. I think it’s more interesting..

A Writing Tool

I have discovered the bass to be an indispensable writing tool, and I am not even that great at it. I might write a progression on acoustic guitar, but I might not. I might write a bass line and start singing. I might be stuck on a song on keys or guitar, but the bass being so direct and uncomplicated helps me hit those notes you don’t expect but sound so right. I might find that root, then go learn that chord. With guitar, I can lock myself in. When I feel that, I reach for bass to escape. Sometimes I may be hunting for a zany bridge or breakdown, time to grab a bass. The final song might not even feature bass, but for writing, I still find it very useful to get me out of the corners I paint myself in.

My basses

I have three basses at the moment. I have an Epiphone Jack Casady hollow-body. It has a gorgeous sound if you let the mids out a little bit. You can really hear the hollowness. A lot of hollow-body basses like the Gibson Midtown I used to have don’t seem to have bonus character like the Jack Casady does. The Jack Casady, you can tell it’s a hollow-body instrument. Most hollow-body basses, you can’t.

I have a Peavey Axcelerator – 2 we just inherited. This bass is from the mid-90’s and is All-American made. This bass features a TEK-2 bridge. This bridge is made similar to how a piano works. There’s a big board the fingers from the bridge run to in the middle of the bass. Each string has its own pedestal. This prevents ‘crosstalk’ from string to string on the bridge, but the main thing it does for me that I am wild about is the sustain. You very much get a piano thunk on the low notes with the sustain pedal down sensation. I’ve never gotten tired of that my whole life. It’s every note on this thing. 2 VFL humbuckers seal the deal there. It’s a very solid bass, not very expensive. I will do an entry about the best affordable gear out there soon. This will be in it.

My fretless bass is a custom jobby from the bench of bkbirge. It has dual lipstick Jerry Jones pickups, an Audere preamp system, a jazz body, and a custom headstock. I play this one most often just playing bass by itself. I find the no-fret sensation useful in writing. It feels more like drawing than coloring. That’s what I want: writing tunes. I recommend fretless, also recommend lipsticks from old Danelectros, and also recommend preamps. That bass is an amazing piece of gear. One of my favorite instruments ever.  

Fun things to try while recording bass

I find two signals most helpful so far. I have a line running to the board, and a line running to an amp. The concept is I record extra mids from the amp, use a nice clean signal from the board. I make the amp signal wet with the effects I want. I use my ribbon on the amp; it likes the mids. So mixing time, I just bring up the mids track with effects up where it sits right, usually just below the clean track. This gives me the character and articulation I spoke of earlier, but sacrificing no thud. It’s also quick as I am imprinting with effects. So, mixing time, looking at a couple of faders, done.

One of the concepts that helps me play bass is thinking about the low end in history with tubas, trombones, pianos, marimbas, and whatever else. I always learn something by trying to imitate those things. For example, we have a ragtime-feeling song on the record I am working on. My fretless is essentially the trombone in that one. The slides! 

I would not have thought this next one to be fun, but I tried it and it sure is! Try putting mics on your electric or hollow-body bass instead of the amp. Just slam the mic up on it. On my hollow body and my fretless, I get acoustic character bringing that into the clean track. I find it very nice for small arrangements that merit it. Mic’ing an electric bass, there you go. 

Going forward

I have worked with many wonderful bass players who have helped me learn and develop as a musician. I would say, if I learned a lot from them, chances are they played bass. I want to help someday too. So I will play these basses on our stuff from now on. I am the bass on the album coming Christmas, my bass coming-out party for Kintners’ songs. 

Kelly Kintner Editor, Producer

The Horses Mouth Magazine

The Kintners, Djembe Funk

I reached a boiling point and allowed myself to get to uncharted levels of frustration. Very unusual for me because anger is not my best suit. Because of the mood swing, I wrote nothing in my journal/diary and sat for a while in that timeless feeling.

I get very aware when my body is upset. My voice cracks. I feel very vulnerable. I feel like my not-self. I note that I haven’t been meditating at a regular time. My routine and discipline is neither here nor there.

I need to create a schedule and routine that includes more silence and meditation throughout my day and certain immovable things like our Fridya meditations.

Ideally, during the weekdays especially, I am meditating before coffee. Before 9am. After a stretch. Then, after a slowed down moment in my bed. Then again, checking-into my body in the middle of my day at 2pm or 3pm. Then once more winding down my evening. It was really lovely in Santa Barbara, meditating in the cold crisp late evenings.

The goal is to find somewhere new to work by December. For now, let’s keep going. Keep being… transparent.

There was a video that showed up on my feed today (now Saturday when I send this off) about how—we are all trying to find an identity, but if our aim is to be more transparent, to be more “nothing”, it will help us find peace.

Applying that to what happened last week. I got angry, because I’ve been so frustrated in my work, not feeling seen, not feeling trusted, not feeling recognized—this is the ego wanting to be a certain form or shape.

So then my anger and defensiveness shot up.

So what if I was just more… transparent?

Today was supposed to be my day of tidying up to the sound of soft music, but I ended up getting sucked into planning and designing all the things I'd like to have built at the home studio. Which is... a lot.

So much time is spent at the studio that not having it in tip-top shape just gets in the way of optimized living and working. Or so I like to tell myself only because I'm a slut for pleasant environments.

But also, Cairo is so insane and haphazard that having one's own delightful and impeccably thought-out refuge becomes a necessity to achieve any degree of mental sanity. Or so I like to tell myself.

#journal #studio

At 8:46 a.m. on September 11, 2001, I was in a Yahoo chat room role-playing an ongoing storyline from my home office. Someone announced it OOC in the room. I moved my laptop to my living room and turned on the television. People were freaking out online. The fear in the newscasters' voices was audible. My mind slipped into its quiet observation mode.

Moments such as that are a curious thing for me. It seems like so many get extremely emotional. For me, time slows down and my mind starts taking in every subtle nuance so as to respond accordingly. The contrast really hit me that day. I would have been 28, though I don't think of myself as that young when I think about the events.

I understood the importance and the tragedy. I did not understand why people over a thousand miles away with no relatives or friends in the immediate area were behaving as if in hysteria. In many ways, I still don't when it comes to such events.

Exactly one decade earlier, I was signed up to be entering boot camp before the end of the year, and the man I was married to was heading back home on a merchant marine vessel. The look on his face when he got home that day in 2001 is something I am unlikely to ever forget.

I find the way people behave today to be unsettling. Especially considering everything that is currently going on. I've witnessed young adults who had not been born yet completely freaked out, yet would not even raise an eyebrow over the current genocide that's been taking place. Nor do they bat an eye at the atrocities the current administration is committing.

I do feel horrible for everyone who lost a family member or was sickened due to the attack. I also feel horrible in our lack of learning from the horrific incidents. And I cannot help but wonder if those who behave in particular ways on this anniversary realize that supporting that idiot in charge and his plague of lemmings is essentially inviting a repeat.

I do think 9/11 was a horrific, avoidable tragedy. Unfortunately, what this country has become since then is equally, if not more horrible.

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

There were places along the northern coast where the country seemed to have been left unfinished, where the mountains came down too abruptly to the sea and the roads narrowed into wet corridors of fir and cedar as though civilization had reconsidered its intentions. Bellweather was one of these places. It sat on a gray inlet of the Pacific, protected from the open ocean by a chain of dark islands whose shapes changed with the fog, and for most of the year the town smelled faintly of salt, diesel, woodsmoke, and fish. The harbor was the center of everything. From it the salmon boats went out before dawn with their running lights trembling on black water; beside it stood the cannery, the fuel dock, two restaurants, a tavern, and a row of weathered buildings that leaned toward the sea as if listening for something. Behind the town the land rose almost immediately into forest, and beyond that into mountains which in winter disappeared so completely behind the clouds that children occasionally spoke of them as though they were a rumor.

There were fewer than a thousand people in Bellweather, and the limitations of the place had given them the intimacy of a large and quarrelsome family. They knew one another's houses, trucks, dogs, divorces, debts, illnesses, habits, and failures. They remembered who had wrecked a boat fifteen years before and who had been drunk at the Christmas party in 2009. A stranger could pass unnoticed for perhaps twenty minutes, but no longer. It was a town in which a haircut could constitute news and an engagement was a public event long before either participant had thought to announce it. This familiarity was not always cruel. In bad weather men crossed the harbor at midnight to help secure one another's boats, and when someone died there was food enough left on the porch to feed the family for a month. But privacy, like tropical weather or professional baseball, was something Bellweather understood largely in theory.

Philomena Buster had been born there, and by the time she was twenty-four there was almost nobody in the village who could remember the place without her. She was the daughter of Amos Buster, who fished for halibut and salmon and had the large, deliberate hands of a man who had repaired engines in winter seas, and Celia Buster, who kept the flower shop on Water Street in the narrow building beside the post office. The Busters were not wealthy, although in Bellweather wealth was a difficult thing to measure. They owned their house on the hill above the harbor, Amos owned his boat, and Celia's business survived every winter, which was enough to place them beyond misfortune without placing them anywhere near ease. Their family had lived in the region for three generations. An older Buster appeared in photographs of the original cannery, standing among men in wool coats and heavy boots with an expression of profound suspicion toward the camera.

Philomena resembled neither side of the family closely enough to satisfy anyone. Her hair was almost black and unusually thick, her skin remained pale even after a summer spent outdoors, and her eyes had the uncertain color of the water near shore, sometimes green and sometimes gray depending upon the light. She was tall enough to be noticed and carried herself with the unconscious confidence of someone who had never been required to wonder whether she would be noticed. By fifteen she had become beautiful, and by eighteen her beauty was one of those local facts that no longer required comment. People from outside Bellweather commented on it instead. Visitors turned to look at her in the grocery store. Men who came through town on fishing boats found reasons to remain at the counter when she worked summers at the harbor office. Even women considerably older than she was sometimes watched her with the thoughtful expression of people considering a piece of luck that had been distributed unfairly.

She was not vain. This disappointed some people who might otherwise have resented her. Philomena seemed to regard her appearance with the same mild gratitude with which she regarded good weather or a ripe blackberry. She wore old sweaters, rubber boots, wool coats, summer dresses when the weather permitted them, and no particular uniform of beauty. She liked people too readily to intimidate them and laughed too often to appear mysterious. At school she had been good at nearly everything without possessing the discipline necessary to become exceptional at any one thing. She sang well, ran well, wrote excellent papers at the last possible moment, forgot assignments, remembered birthdays, and could tell you after one conversation the names of all four of your grandparents. Teachers forgave her because she was interested in what they taught. Old people liked her because she asked questions and waited for answers. Children liked her because she took their concerns seriously. Even animals appeared to find her agreeable.

There was, however, one difficulty.

Philomena talked almost without interruption.

It was not immediately unpleasant. In fact, this was the reason the difficulty had taken so many people by surprise. She did not speak merely to hear herself speak, nor did she repeat dull stories, complain excessively, or catalogue the petty offenses of the day. Her conversation had movement and curiosity. She could begin with the tide and arrive ten minutes later at medieval navigation without anyone being able to identify precisely where the change had occurred. A broken streetlamp reminded her of bioluminescent plankton; plankton reminded her of a summer when the inlet had glowed blue around the docks; that summer reminded her of a Canadian couple who had lost their wedding ring in the harbor; and from there she might proceed, by a path perfectly clear to herself, to the customs surrounding wedding rings in ancient Rome. She had read widely and somewhat chaotically. She remembered strange details. She had an opinion about nearly everything, although she was willing to revise it if given new information. Her mind did not seem disordered so much as incapable of remaining in one country when the whole world was available.

The problem was duration. Five minutes with Philomena could be delightful. Half an hour could be memorable. After an hour a certain weariness entered the listener, not because she had become less interesting, but because interest itself required labor. One had to follow her. She expected it. She remembered what she had said and noticed immediately when someone else did not. An inattentive nod, offered at the wrong moment, might cause her to stop and regard the listener with quiet disappointment. She disliked being interrupted even more. She considered interruption an unmistakable sign that the other person had ceased to care what she was saying, and because she cared very much about what other people said, she regarded this as a serious moral defect. Philomena herself almost never interrupted. She listened with extraordinary concentration whenever another person spoke, which gave her expectations a certain justice that nobody found comforting.

Her family had adapted to her long before anyone else understood that adaptation was necessary. Amos could mend a reel, clean a fish, or study a weather report while receiving a continuous account of Philomena's day, occasionally offering a low sound that somehow indicated genuine attention. Celia possessed an almost supernatural ability to identify which portions of a conversation required a response and which could safely be allowed to pass. Her older brother, Henry, had developed fewer defenses. He moved to Portland at nineteen and returned twice a year, arriving with great affection and departing with an expression of exhausted peace. When Philomena was small, her parents had assumed she would grow out of it. When she was twelve, they began to suspect she would not. By sixteen they had stopped discussing the matter altogether, as families often stop discussing permanent features of the landscape.

Her childhood had nevertheless been happy. Bellweather rewarded familiarity, and Philomena knew everyone. She could walk from her parents' house to the harbor and speak to twenty people along the way. There was Mrs. Avery at the bakery, who had taught her to make pie crust; Mr. Halloran, who repaired outboard motors and had lost two fingers in Alaska; the McCrae sisters, who had never married and lived together in a blue house overlooking the cemetery; Deputy Collins, who had once arrested Amos for a bar fight and later stood beside him at Henry's wedding. Philomena carried their histories in her head. People sometimes discovered with surprise that she remembered conversations they themselves had forgotten years before. She knew who had wanted to become a veterinarian, who had been stationed in Germany, who hated cinnamon, who had a daughter in Spokane and a son who no longer called. There was something generous in the attention she gave the world, even when the world occasionally wished she would give it somewhat less.

She left Bellweather at eighteen for college in Bellingham, where for the first time she lived among people who did not know her father, her grandparents, or the street on which she had learned to ride a bicycle. The town expected this to change her. Bellweather regarded departure as a kind of experiment, and young people who went away were inspected closely upon their return for evidence of improvement or corruption. Philomena came back four years later with a degree in environmental policy, a collection of books that filled the rear of her mother's Subaru, and very little alteration beyond a greater number of things to discuss. She had learned about fisheries law, tribal treaty rights, watershed management, urban planning, nineteenth-century labor movements, and a remarkable number of subjects unrelated to her coursework. She had also learned that she disliked cities, or at least disliked living in them. The crowds did not bother her, nor did the noise. What she disliked was passing hundreds of people each day whose names she did not know.

By the end of that first summer home, it became apparent that Philomena intended to stay. She found work with a regional conservation office that allowed her to spend three days a week in Bellweather and two traveling among coastal communities. Celia was pleased. Amos expressed his pleasure by repairing the brakes on Philomena's car without being asked. The town accepted her return with the satisfaction reserved for a native child who had escaped and then voluntarily reconsidered. She resumed old friendships, joined a committee concerned with harbor restoration, began singing again at the Episcopal church despite not being especially religious, and could frequently be seen in the late afternoon walking the bluff road above the water, her dark hair blown loose behind her and her hands moving as she spoke to whichever unfortunate or fortunate person happened to be beside her.

It was around this time that the question of marriage, or at least romance, became difficult to avoid.

There had always been men interested in Philomena. In high school the matter had been simple because everyone was young and nobody remained with anybody long enough for incompatibility to acquire much importance. College had produced several brief attachments whose details remained obscure to Bellweather, although Henry once told his mother that one boyfriend had lasted nearly five months, a figure that impressed the family until it emerged that he and Philomena had lived in different cities for three of them. Upon her return, however, she entered the small and highly visible population of unmarried adults in Bellweather, and her beauty, which had once seemed merely a pleasant fact about a local girl, acquired an entirely different significance.

Men asked about her. Men who had known her since childhood began looking at her differently. Men who had not known her at all noticed her immediately. Some were fishermen, others teachers or mechanics or Coast Guard officers from the station farther down the coast. There were men from neighboring towns who learned her name. A wildlife biologist stationed nearby for the summer contrived to visit Celia's flower shop three times in a week despite having no apparent need for flowers. Philomena did not dislike the attention. She wanted to fall in love, and perhaps because almost everything else in her life had come easily, she approached the matter with confidence.

Yet there was already, quietly, a history.

No one in Bellweather could agree on exactly when people began to notice it. There had been dinners that went strangely short, invitations that were not repeated, promising young men who spoke enthusiastically of Philomena beforehand and afterward became vague when her name was mentioned. Nothing dramatic happened. There were no quarrels in parking lots, no betrayed confidences, no stories of cruelty or scandal. The men simply did not return, and Philomena, who possessed a strong sense of dignity beneath her easy nature, did not pursue people who did not appear interested in pursuing her.

What puzzled her was that they always seemed interested at first.

By October, even she had begun to notice the pattern.

The first man Philomena went out with after returning to Bellweather was named Owen Mercer, and for several reasons the town considered him a promising candidate. He was twenty-six, had grown up twelve miles south in Port Catherine, and worked as a marine electrician, which meant that he possessed both the patience to spend long afternoons tracing faults through corroded wiring and the physical competence that Bellweather regarded as a substitute for charm. He was tall without being imposing, had a pleasant, somewhat serious face, and had recently bought an old house above the marina that he was repairing by himself. He had known Philomena slightly in high school, though they had never been friends. At seventeen he had been one of several boys who watched her from a safe conversational distance and assumed, as boys often do, that beauty of a certain magnitude belonged to another category of existence. When he saw her again seven years later at the Lantern, carrying two cups of coffee and arguing cheerfully with Mrs. Avery about whether a crow could recognize itself in a mirror, he discovered that adulthood had made him considerably more courageous.

He asked her to dinner three days later. Philomena accepted with such uncomplicated pleasure that Owen spent the remainder of the afternoon in an excellent mood. By five o'clock half of Bellweather knew about it, although neither of them had told anyone except their respective mothers. This was not regarded locally as unusual. Owen's mother mentioned it to a woman at the pharmacy, who mentioned it to her husband at the fuel dock, and Celia, with considerably less enthusiasm, mentioned it to Amos while they were washing dishes. Amos dried a plate, looked through the kitchen window toward the harbor, and said only, “Mercer's boy seems patient.”

Celia glanced at him. “Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was going to say he's a good kid.”

“No, you weren't.”

Amos considered this, then put the plate away. “He's a good kid.”

Owen chose the Bracken House, a small restaurant above the harbor that attempted, with modest success, to be finer than anything else in Bellweather. It occupied the ground floor of a converted Victorian whose windows faced west across the inlet, and in summer it was difficult to get a table because tourists discovered it through guidebooks and photographed the sunset through their dinners. In October the tourists were gone. Rain moved softly against the windows, and the harbor below had disappeared into darkness except for the lamps along the docks and the occasional white movement of a boat turning against its moorings. Philomena arrived two minutes late in a green dress under a dark wool coat, her hair still damp from the weather, and apologized before she had fully sat down.

“I thought I was going to be early,” she said, laying her coat over the back of the chair, “because I left the house at six-forty, and normally it only takes me eight minutes to get here, seven if I don't get caught at the light by the post office, but there was a deer standing in the middle of Calder Street. Not crossing it. Just standing there. And I know you're not supposed to anthropomorphize animals, although I'm actually not convinced there's anything inherently wrong with anthropomorphizing them because people sometimes use that word as though noticing obvious similarities between animal and human behavior is some kind of intellectual failure, but this deer really did look confused. I stopped, obviously, because there wasn't anywhere to go around it, and then another car came up behind me and started honking, which seemed incredibly counterproductive because if the deer had panicked it could have run into my car. Or their car, actually. And then I would have felt bad for the deer but also a little vindicated, which would have made me feel worse because you shouldn't feel vindicated by an injured deer. Anyway, I'm sorry.”

Owen smiled. “You're two minutes late.”

“I know, but two minutes is still late.”

“I think there's a grace period.”

“How long?”

“I don't know. Five minutes?”

“That's dangerous. Because then five minutes isn't late, which means six minutes becomes the first late minute, and somebody will say six is basically five, and pretty soon everyone is arriving twenty minutes late. You need a hard boundary somewhere.”

“So two minutes?”

“Two minutes is late. It's not seriously late. There are degrees.”

“Good to know.”

She smiled at him, and for a while everything went very well.

Owen asked about Bellingham, and Philomena told him she had liked it but had never felt at home there. She asked about his house, and he explained that it had been built in 1938 and had wiring from at least four different eras, including several circuits he believed might have been installed by someone actively hostile to electricity. Philomena laughed and wanted to know what the worst thing he had found was. He told her about discovering a junction box behind a kitchen wall that had been packed with newspaper from 1961, and she asked whether he had saved the newspaper.

“No,” Owen said. “Should I have?”

“I would have.”

“It was mostly burned.”

“You definitely should have.”

“Why?”

“Because then you'd know when the wiring was done.”

“I knew approximately when it was done.”

“But approximately isn't the same. What newspaper was it?”

“I don't remember.”

“You didn't look?”

“I looked at it.”

“But you didn't read it?”

“It was inside a wall.”

“That's exactly why I would have read it.”

Owen laughed again. “You'd have spent three hours reading trash out of the wall.”

“It wasn't trash when somebody put it there. That's what I mean. Maybe they were insulating something, or maybe they just needed something to fill the space. But somebody took that newspaper, on some particular day in 1961, and shoved it into your wall, and then no one touched it for sixty-five years. That's incredible when you think about it. It's basically a time capsule, except nobody meant it to be one. Intentional time capsules aren't nearly as interesting because people curate them. They put in a newspaper, a coin, a photograph of the mayor, all this stuff they're deliberately choosing because they think it's representative. But if you really wanted somebody in the future to understand your life, you wouldn't give them the things you thought were important. You'd give them the things you threw away.”

Owen considered this. “That's actually a good point.”

“It would be like trying to understand us by looking at someone's junk drawer.”

“My junk drawer would make us look terrible.”

“Mine would make no sense at all. I have three pairs of scissors in it, and I don't know why, because I can never find scissors when I need them. I think scissors migrate. Not literally, obviously. Although my mother has these sewing scissors that nobody is allowed to touch, and when I was little I thought there was something physically different about them. Like they were sharpened for fabric at some special microscopic angle that would be destroyed if you cut paper. Then I found out they're just good scissors and she didn't want us ruining them.”

Their waiter came, and Philomena stopped long enough to order halibut with roasted potatoes. Owen ordered steak. The interruption did not bother her because, as Owen later understood, the waiter possessed an institutional right to interrupt. There were categories to these things, though Philomena had never consciously formulated them. She waited until the menus had been taken away and then returned with complete accuracy to the point at which she had stopped.

“My grandmother actually had a pair like that,” she said.

Owen had forgotten the scissors.

“Big black handles. They were heavy enough that as a kid you needed both hands to use them. After she died, my mother took them, and I remember thinking that was strange because of all the things in my grandmother's house, those seemed like one of the least valuable. But then I realized she'd watched her mother use them for probably forty years. That's the thing about inheritance that I don't think people understand when they're younger. You imagine you're going to care about jewelry or furniture, but people get attached to these completely ordinary objects because ordinary objects are the ones you actually remember somebody touching.”

Owen nodded. “My grandfather had this old—”

“My father's like that with a coffee mug,” Philomena continued. “I'm sorry, that just reminded me of it. It's awful. Brown, with a trout painted on the side, except most of the trout is gone now because he puts it in the dishwasher even though my mother tells him not to. She bought him a new one that looks almost exactly the same, and he won't use it.”

Owen closed his mouth.

“I asked him why once, and he said the handle was wrong, but I don't think it's the handle. I think he doesn't know why. Or maybe he does and doesn't want to say, because my father has this idea that admitting sentimental attachment to an object would somehow undermine his masculinity, which is particularly funny because he once cried when we had to put down our dog, and nobody thought less of him. Although that was horrible. Did you ever meet Jasper?”

“I don't think so.”

“He was enormous. Newfoundland mix. Black, with this white patch on his chest that made him look like he was wearing a priest's collar. He used to sleep across the stairs so you had to step over him, and toward the end he couldn't hear very well, so sometimes he'd wake up while you were halfway over him and stand up. I fell down the stairs twice. Not all the way down. Once three steps and once maybe four. Henry fell all the way from the landing, though, and broke a lamp.”

“Henry's your brother?”

“Yes. You've met Henry.”

“Maybe.”

“You definitely have. Senior year, after the basketball game against Port Catherine. You were with—what was his name? Jason? Jason Miller?”

“Jason Mullen.”

“Mullen. That's right. You both came to Amy Feld's party.”

Owen stared at her for a moment. “You remember that?”

“Of course.”

“You talked to me for maybe five minutes.”

“Probably more than five.”

“It was ten years ago.”

“Nine.”

“That's worse.”

Philomena laughed. “Why is that worse?”

“Because you corrected me.”

“Well, it was nine.”

Dinner arrived. Owen discovered over the next half hour that eating slowed Philomena only slightly. She did not speak with food in her mouth, and she was neither crude nor oblivious to ordinary manners; she simply compensated for the periods in which she could not speak by making particularly efficient use of those in which she could. He learned that she disliked capers, had recently read a book about nineteenth-century Arctic expeditions, believed the Bracken House had made its potatoes worse since changing chefs, and had once considered becoming an archaeologist until she discovered that archaeology involved substantially more paperwork than movies had led her to believe. He contributed where he could. At first this was easy because Philomena asked questions, and when Owen answered them she listened with such directness that he felt, for a few minutes at a time, like the most interesting man in Washington.

“So you actually like electrical work?” she asked.

“Most of it.”

“What do you like about it?”

“Finding the problem, I guess. Somebody tells you something isn't working and there's always a reason.”

“Even when it's intermittent?”

“Especially then.”

“That would drive me insane.”

“That's the fun part.”

“I'd hate it. I hate problems where the evidence keeps disappearing. That's why I never liked computer problems. Something doesn't work, then you restart it and it works, and everyone acts like the problem is solved. It isn't solved. Something happened. You just don't know what.”

“That's more or less how I feel.”

“Exactly. Although electricity is strange anyway because people think of it as this very modern thing when obviously electricity has always existed. Lightning didn't start happening because somebody invented a wire. Which makes me wonder how ancient people conceptualized it, because lightning would be one of the few forms of energy you'd encounter naturally that seems completely disconnected from an object. Fire makes intuitive sense because something is burning. Wind makes intuitive sense because you can feel air moving. Lightning just appears, and then a tree explodes.”

“I think Ben Franklin—”

“Obviously much later, though. Thousands of years later. That's what I mean. Imagine being alive before anyone had any real theory of electricity. You'd have static, too. They knew about static electricity in ancient Greece, didn't they? Amber rubbed with fur. That's where 'electric' comes from, isn't it? The Greek word for amber?”

Owen paused. “I don't know.”

“I think it is. Electrum? No, electrum is the gold-silver alloy. Elektron. That's amber. I'm almost certain. Which is funny because then electricity is basically named after amber, even though amber has almost nothing to do with how we produce electricity now. It's like if we had named aviation after feathers.”

He smiled. “You know a lot of weird things.”

“I know a moderate amount of a large number of things.”

“That's probably more useful.”

“It absolutely isn't. If anything, it's professionally disastrous. Knowing a great deal about one thing is employable. Knowing three facts about four hundred things is what makes you unbearable at trivia night.”

“You'd be good at trivia.”

“I am good at trivia. That's the problem.”

There was something charming about the certainty with which she said it. Owen found himself watching her while she spoke, not merely because she was beautiful, though she was more beautiful across a candlelit table than she had been at the Lantern, but because her face changed continuously with what she was saying. She raised her eyebrows when she reached something she considered surprising, leaned forward when she wanted him to appreciate a connection, and sometimes looked away toward the darkened windows as though the next thought existed somewhere outside the restaurant and had to be located before she could continue. It was easy, at least for the first hour, to mistake the sheer quantity of her speech for intimacy. Philomena concealed very little. She offered opinions, memories, childhood embarrassments, doubts, and enthusiasm with no visible calculation. Owen had spent dates with women who answered ordinary questions as though negotiating a treaty. With Philomena there seemed to be no locked doors.

After dinner they ordered coffee. This had not been Owen's original plan. He had imagined they might walk down toward the harbor afterward, but the rain had intensified, and Philomena was midway through explaining why the town should plant different trees along Water Street.

“The roots are the problem,” she said. “Everyone keeps saying the sidewalks are old, which they are, but that's not why they're buckling in those specific places. It's the maples. And I like the maples, so whenever I say this people act like I want to cut down every tree in town, which I obviously don't. But you can't plant a tree that wants to become seventy feet tall in a four-foot square surrounded by pavement and then act surprised when it behaves like a tree.”

Owen took a drink of coffee. “What would you plant instead?”

“That's where it gets complicated.”

He smiled faintly. “I had a feeling.”

“Because you need something salt tolerant, for one thing. People don't think about that because we're not right on the beach, but during winter storms you absolutely get salt spray up Water Street. And then you need roots that won't destroy the sidewalk, and you need something that isn't going to block every storefront, and ideally it's native, although I'm not religious about native plants.”

“I thought you worked in conservation.”

“I do. That doesn't mean every nonnative plant is evil. That's one of those things people simplify because simple rules are easier to communicate. Native plants are generally better for native ecosystems, yes. But if you put a Japanese maple in your yard, you're not committing ecological treason. The real problem is invasives, and even that gets complicated because an invasive species isn't just a species that came from somewhere else and grew successfully. It has to cause harm. Dandelions aren't native, for example, but nobody should be launching a military campaign against dandelions.”

“My neighbor might disagree.”

“Your neighbor is wrong.”

“You haven't met him.”

“If he's at war with dandelions, he's wrong about at least one thing.”

“He sprays his lawn constantly.”

“See? Worse. That's so much worse. People will dump herbicide over an entire yard because they're offended by a yellow flower, then put up a little sign saying not to let your dog walk on it for twenty-four hours. If the chemical is dangerous enough that your Labrador can't touch the grass, maybe reconsider whether the dandelion was the greater threat.”

Owen laughed. “I'll tell him.”

“Don't tell him I said it.”

“I'll say an environmental professional told me.”

“That's worse. Then he'll think I'm abusing institutional authority.”

“I don't think you have institutional authority over his lawn.”

“That's exactly what someone abusing institutional authority would say.”

By nine o'clock they had been at the restaurant for nearly two hours. Owen was still enjoying himself, though he had begun to notice that the evening contained less of him than he had anticipated. His own life had appeared mostly in the form of brief answers to Philomena's questions, answers which frequently generated associations before he reached the end of them. He told her that his younger sister had moved to Arizona, which led Philomena to wonder whether people from the Pacific Northwest ever truly adjusted to deserts, which led to a story about a college roommate from Tucson who considered moss unpleasant, which led to a discussion of moss, lichens, old-growth forests, nurse logs, and finally the peculiar fact that some individual fungal organisms covered enormous areas underground.

At nine-fifteen he attempted, for the first time, to redirect her deliberately.

“So what made you come back?” he asked when she paused to drink her coffee.

“To Bellweather?”

“Yeah. You could probably work anywhere with your degree.”

“I suppose. I missed it.”

“That much?”

“More than I expected. I think when you grow up somewhere like this, you spend your teenage years believing the smallness is the problem. Everybody knows you. Everybody knows your parents. You can't do anything without hearing about it afterward. Then you move somewhere larger and realize anonymity has its own kind of loneliness. In Bellingham I could go to the grocery store and not see a single person I knew. At first that seemed amazing. You could buy anything you wanted and nobody cared.”

“What were you buying?”

“Nothing embarrassing.”

“You made it sound like something embarrassing.”

“No, I just mean theoretically. You could buy six frozen pizzas at midnight and nobody would tell your mother.”

“Did someone here tell your mother what you bought?”

“Mrs. Callahan once asked her if I was feeling all right because I'd bought cold medicine.”

Owen laughed. “That's pretty bad.”

“Exactly. But then in Bellingham I got sick once, really sick, probably flu, and I remember going to the pharmacy by myself and standing there with this fever thinking that if I passed out, nobody in the store would know who I was. Not that you need strangers to know who you are when you pass out. They'd still help you. But it felt strange. At home Mrs. Callahan would have called my mother before I hit the floor.”

“So you came back because you wanted everyone in town monitoring your purchases.”

“Apparently. But there was more to it. The fisheries stuff mattered. I started realizing how many decisions that affect places like Bellweather get made by people who don't actually live in places like Bellweather. And that's not necessarily because they're bad at their jobs. Sometimes they have much more expertise than local people. But there's a kind of knowledge you only get by being somewhere for years.”

“Like what?”

“Everything. Which coves freeze first, where the road floods, which streams still have salmon even if the survey says they don't, which families will actually cooperate with a restoration project and which ones will tell you to get off their property. You can put numbers in a report, but the numbers don't know that Danny Skell hates the county because his father had a property dispute with them in 1987.”

“I know Danny.”

“Then you know exactly what I mean. He still brings it up. The fence line?”

“I've heard something about a fence.”

“Oh, it's an incredible story.”

Owen realized, a moment too late, what he had done.

The story of Danny Skell's fence began in 1987 but required, according to Philomena, an explanation of a logging access agreement signed in 1964. The access agreement required an explanation of the Skell property, which had once been considerably larger, and the Skell property required an explanation of Danny's grandfather Albert, who had allegedly moved a survey marker sometime in the 1950s. Philomena did not know whether this allegation was true and took pains to say so. She did, however, know that Albert Skell had feuded with a neighbor named Vernon Pike, whose son later married Danny's aunt, producing what Philomena described as “an incredibly confusing détente.” Owen followed for several minutes before becoming uncertain which generation of Skells was presently under discussion.

“Wait,” he said, when Philomena mentioned a lawsuit. “Was this Danny or his father?”

“His father. Danny would have been twelve. No, eleven, because this was before the storm.”

“What storm?”

“The November storm.”

“I don't know which November storm.”

“The big one in 1988.”

“I was negative twelve.”

Philomena laughed. “That's true. Sorry. There was a big windstorm in November of '88. My father still talks about it. Part of the old cannery roof came off.”

“And this relates to the fence?”

“Not directly.”

“Okay.”

“But it matters because the fence wasn't replaced until afterward.”

“I see.”

“Actually, no, wait. You're right. I'm combining two things. The north fence was replaced after the storm. The disputed fence was west of the property.”

“That clears it up.”

“It does, because otherwise the county's position makes no sense.”

Owen did not think the county's position made sense yet, but he nodded.

At nine-forty the waiter came to ask whether they wanted anything else. Owen looked toward him with the reflexive gratitude of a castaway seeing a ship. Philomena ordered another coffee. Owen, after a hesitation he hoped was invisible, ordered one as well.

“I drink too much coffee,” she said after the waiter left. “I know I do. I stopped for about two months in college because I was getting headaches, but it turned out the headaches were from not drinking coffee.”

“Withdrawal.”

“Exactly, which I suppose proves I was drinking too much coffee.”

“Probably.”

“But then I thought, if the consequence of quitting coffee is that you feel terrible, and the consequence of continuing coffee is that you feel fine, the practical argument for quitting becomes weaker.”

Owen smiled. “That's addict logic.”

“It absolutely is. I'm not defending it morally.”

“Just practically.”

“Exactly. Although caffeine addiction is interesting because it's one of the few addictions people almost treat as virtuous. People brag about needing coffee. Imagine doing that with anything else. 'Don't talk to me until I've had my vodka.' People would stage an intervention.”

“I've met fishermen who basically do that.”

“That's different. Fishermen are allowed to be alcoholics until someone crashes a truck.”

Owen nearly choked on his coffee.

Philomena looked horrified for a moment and then began laughing. “That sounded terrible.”

“It did.”

“I meant culturally, not ethically. Obviously they're not allowed to be alcoholics.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Although there really is an occupational culture around drinking. Not just fishing. Logging too. Probably anything that's dangerous and male-dominated. Maybe there's research on that. There has to be. It would be interesting to compare professions by substance abuse rate, but then you'd have all these confounding variables, because income matters, age matters, whether people work away from home matters—”

Owen watched the coffee arrive.

He had ceased to know what time it was without looking.

At ten o'clock the restaurant began subtly closing around them. A waitress extinguished candles at empty tables. Somewhere behind the bar, glasses were being loaded into racks with the efficient clatter of people who wanted to go home. The rain had stopped. Owen knew this because he could now see the harbor lights distinctly through the windows, and for several minutes he entertained the possibility that the evening might still transition naturally into the walk he had imagined. He waited for an opening.

Philomena was telling him about sea otters.

“They use rocks,” she said. “Not just any rock, either. Some of them apparently keep a preferred rock in this loose pouch of skin under the foreleg. Which is astonishing because that means it's not merely tool use; it's tool retention. The animal has essentially decided, 'This is my good rock.'”

“Like your mother's scissors.”

Philomena stopped.

For one hopeful second Owen thought he had successfully entered the conversation.

Then her face lit with delight.

“Yes! Exactly. Oh, that's interesting. Because that's probably the same cognitive mechanism at some level, isn't it? Recognizing that one object performs a task better than another object and retaining it for future use. Although with humans there's sentimental value layered over the utility. But maybe animals can have sentimental relationships with objects too. We don't really know. There are those elephants that interact with bones, and chimpanzees have been observed carrying objects around for no obvious practical reason. Female chimps sometimes carry sticks like dolls when they're young. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“It's fascinating. Because people used to argue that children playing with dolls was entirely cultural, which obviously there's a huge cultural component, but if juvenile chimpanzees show sex-linked differences in how they treat objects, then maybe there's at least some underlying behavioral tendency. Although you have to be very careful with primate studies because everyone wants them to prove something about humans.”

“Right.”

“And then there's the problem of observer interpretation. If you see a chimp carrying a stick, is it a doll? Maybe it's just carrying a stick.”

“Could be a good stick.”

“Exactly! That's what I mean.”

At ten-twenty, Owen began rubbing his thumb slowly against the handle of his coffee cup. It was the first outward sign of fatigue. Philomena did not notice it. She was now discussing animal cognition more generally, a subject on which she possessed approximately enough knowledge to sustain conversation without possessing enough to reach a natural conclusion. Ravens led to crows, crows led to urban wildlife, urban wildlife led to raccoons, raccoons led to the inadequacy of supposedly raccoon-proof garbage cans, and garbage cans brought them back, by some route Owen could not reconstruct, to municipal government.

He tried twice to speak. The first attempt disappeared after four words.

“My uncle had a raccoon—”

“My grandmother did too! Not as a pet. It lived under her porch. She called it Walter, even though obviously she had no idea whether it was male. That's another funny thing people do with animals. We assign sex immediately based on nothing. Boats too, except boats are always female, which is a completely different phenomenon.”

The second attempt lasted somewhat longer.

“I've actually been thinking about getting a dog when the house is finished.”

Philomena leaned forward. “What kind?”

“I don't know. Probably something medium-sized.”

“Get an adult.”

“I was thinking a puppy.”

“No, you should absolutely get an adult dog.”

“Why?”

“Puppies are adorable, obviously, but everyone wants puppies. Adult dogs sit in shelters because people want the experience of raising a puppy, which is understandable, but if what you actually want is a companion, an adult dog is better in almost every practical way. You already know its temperament, usually it's house-trained, you know how big it's going to be, and you don't have six months where every shoe you own is in danger. My friend Rebecca adopted a puppy sophomore year, which she absolutely should not have done because we weren't allowed pets in the apartment.”

“You had a dog in your apartment?”

“She had a dog in her apartment. I was there constantly, though, so effectively yes.”

“What happened?”

“To the dog?”

“To the apartment.”

“Oh. That's a much longer story.”

Owen looked toward the window.

“Tell me,” he said, because he was still, even now, trying.

And Philomena did.

The story involved Rebecca, a landlord named Mr. Sutter, a terrier mix called Puck, a maintenance inspection, an improvised arrangement with a neighboring apartment, and a misunderstanding involving a laundry basket. It was objectively funny. Owen laughed several times, sincerely. Philomena was an excellent storyteller when the story possessed a destination, and for ten minutes he recovered the feeling he had experienced earlier in the evening, when her animation seemed not exhausting but infectious. He could understand why people liked her. He could understand why he liked her. The trouble was that when the story ended, another began before the laughter had fully left his face.

“Actually, that apartment was where I learned how completely useless smoke detectors are when people get annoyed with them.”

Owen looked at her.

She continued.

“Not useless mechanically. Obviously they're essential. But everyone understands they're essential and still takes the battery out the second one starts chirping at two in the morning. That's a design failure. You can't build a safety device whose failure mode requires an exhausted person to listen to a high-pitched noise every forty seconds indefinitely.”

“Philomena.”

“And I know you're supposed to replace the battery immediately, but nobody has a nine-volt battery at two in the morning.”

“Philomena.”

She stopped.

It was the first time all evening he had interrupted her deliberately.

For half a second she looked surprised. Then, almost imperceptibly, something withdrew from her expression.

Owen felt it immediately.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, that's okay.”

“I just realized it's almost eleven.”

Philomena turned toward the clock above the bar. “Oh.”

The surprise on her face was genuine.

“I had no idea.”

“Neither did I.”

She smiled, though not with quite the same openness as before. “I talk when I'm nervous.”

Owen looked at her, uncertain whether she was joking.

Then she added, “I also talk when I'm not nervous.”

He laughed, and the small tension passed.

The check had already been placed discreetly at the end of the table. Owen reached for it. Philomena reached at the same time.

“We can split it,” she said.

“I asked you.”

“That doesn't mean you have to pay.”

“I know.”

“Then why does asking me mean you pay?”

“Because that's usually how dates work.”

“Only because everyone agrees that's how dates work.”

“I'm willing to participate in the social convention.”

“Are you sure?”

“Philomena.”

She smiled. “Fine.”

He paid.

Outside, Bellweather had gone quiet in the way small towns did after ten. The pavement shone beneath the streetlamps, and water dripped steadily from the eaves. The harbor smelled stronger after rain. Philomena pulled on her coat and stood beneath the restaurant awning while Owen put his hands into his pockets.

“I had fun,” she said.

“I did too.”

He meant it, which complicated everything.

“We should do it again.”

There was no coyness in the way she said it. She looked directly at him, pleased with the evening and apparently unaware that he had spent its final hour feeling as though he had been running alongside a train.

Owen hesitated.

It was not a long hesitation. Perhaps two seconds.

Philomena noticed.

“Oh,” she said.

“No, I—”

“It's okay.”

“I did have a good time.”

“I know.”

“I just have a really busy couple weeks coming up.”

The excuse embarrassed him as soon as he heard it. It was the sort of sentence adults had collectively agreed to pretend meant something other than what it meant.

Philomena's expression remained pleasant. “Sure.”

“I'm rewiring that charter boat for Jensen, and then I have the house—”

“You don't have to explain.”

This time it was she who interrupted him, though very gently.

Owen stopped.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

It was the longest silence they had shared all evening.

Philomena looked toward the harbor. “The tide's really high.”

Owen followed her gaze. “Yeah.”

“King tide's next week, I think. Or maybe the week after. It depends on the lunar cycle, obviously, and I can never remember whether the highest tides here line up exactly with the full moon because the shape of the inlet shifts the timing. People talk about tides as though they're just the moon pulling water back and forth, but locally they're much more complicated than that. The coastline matters, depth matters, weather matters. Atmospheric pressure can change sea level by—”

She stopped herself.

Owen looked at her.

Philomena gave a small, embarrassed smile and tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “Sorry.”

He felt, suddenly and unexpectedly, terrible.

“No,” he said. “It's all right.”

She nodded.

They walked together as far as the corner of Water Street. Owen's truck was parked uphill; Philomena's car was in the opposite direction. He hugged her because a handshake would have been absurd and a kiss, after the hesitation, would have been dishonest. She held him warmly for a moment, then stepped away.

“Good night, Owen.”

“Good night.”

She walked toward her car beneath the wet streetlights, one hand in the pocket of her coat. Owen stood where he was until she reached the end of the block. He liked her. That was the strange part. He liked her intelligence and her enthusiasm and the way she remembered a conversation they had shared for five minutes nine years before. He liked watching her discover connections while she spoke. He liked her laugh. He had never been bored.

He was simply exhausted.

The next morning, shortly before nine, Owen stopped at Harker's Marine Supply for a box of heat-shrink connectors. The owner, Walt Harker, was behind the counter drinking coffee with Amos Buster.

Neither man mentioned Philomena.

Owen put the connectors on the counter.

Walt rang them up.

Amos drank his coffee.

For perhaps fifteen seconds, nobody said anything.

Then Walt asked, without looking up from the register, “How late were you out?”

Owen glanced at him.

Amos closed his eyes.

“About eleven.”

Walt looked up.

There was genuine respect in his face.

“Jesus.”

Amos set down his coffee. “Walt.”

“What?”

Owen looked from one man to the other. “What?”

“Nothing,” Amos said.

Walt handed Owen his receipt.

Owen took it but did not leave.

“What does that mean?”

“Walt's an idiot.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You said Jesus.”

“Eleven's late.”

“For dinner?”

“For a Thursday.”

Owen stared at him.

Walt attempted to drink his coffee.

Slowly, with the unpleasant clarity of a man discovering that he has wandered into a joke whose beginning predates his arrival, Owen understood that something was being withheld from him.

“How long do people usually last?”

Amos looked at Walt.

Walt looked at Amos.

Neither answered.

Owen's face changed.

“Oh, come on.”

Amos rubbed one hand across his beard. “It's not like that.”

“It is exactly like that,” Walt said.

“Walt.”

“What? He's going to find out.”

“Find out what?”

Walt regarded Owen with sympathy. “You did good.”

Owen stared at him.

“How good?”

Amos stood. “I'm going to work.”

“Amos.”

“I have a boat.”

“What's the record?”

Amos walked toward the door. Walt waited until it closed behind him. Then he leaned across the counter.

“Three hours and twelve minutes.”

Owen said nothing. Walt took another drink of coffee.

“Officially.”

The second man was nothing like Owen Mercer, which for a little while encouraged Philomena. His name was Travis Bell, he was twenty-nine, and he ran fishing charters out of Port Catherine during the summer and worked construction through the winter. He had broad shoulders, a red beard kept shorter than fashion required, and the restless confidence of a man who had spent most of his adult life being rewarded for speaking before anyone else could. Travis was funny, loud, generous, argumentative, and almost entirely incapable of embarrassment. He had once been thrown out of the Bracken House after attempting to demonstrate, with the aid of two forks and a water glass, why a visiting fisherman had tied a knot incorrectly. The following week he returned as though nothing had happened and tipped forty percent. People who liked him described him as a character. People who disliked him generally used the same word with a different expression.

He had seen Philomena several times before asking her out and had heard enough about her reputation to consider it exaggerated. This was partly because Travis considered nearly everything exaggerated unless he had personally witnessed it and partly because he himself talked so much that other people's talkativeness seldom troubled him. When a deckhand warned him, with unusual seriousness, that Philomena could speak for an hour without stopping, Travis laughed and said, “Good. Maybe I'll finally meet somebody who can keep up.” The remark was repeated around Bellweather before sunset and received with the peculiar silence reserved for statements that seemed likely to become important later.

Philomena knew less about Travis than Travis knew about her. She had met him at a harbor cleanup the previous spring and remembered that he had been amusing, if somewhat exhausting. This did not strike her as a significant defect. She had spent several weeks wondering whether perhaps she had been choosing men who were too quiet. Owen's reluctance to speak at the end of their dinner had troubled her more than she admitted, and after several days of considering it she arrived at the conclusion that conversation might simply work better with someone more naturally expressive. When Travis asked whether she wanted to drive down to Port Catherine on Saturday and eat at a seafood place overlooking the marina, she accepted almost immediately.

They were twenty minutes into the drive when the first difficulty appeared. Travis was telling her about a client who had hooked a halibut large enough, in Travis's estimation, to threaten the structural integrity of the boat. “Four hundred pounds if it was an ounce,” he said, steering one-handed through the rain. “And this guy's maybe five-seven, hundred sixty pounds, accountant from Boise, arms like pencils, and he decides he's bringing this fish in himself. I told him, 'Buddy, you are not fighting the fish. The fish is fighting you.'”

Philomena laughed. “Halibut don't actually fight that hard, though, do they? I mean relative to their size. They're mostly—”

“This one did.”

“I'm sure it fought, but I mean biologically they're not built for sustained—”

“No, no, this thing was a monster. I've caught hundreds of halibut. This thing nearly pulled him over.”

“I believe you. I'm saying the interesting thing about halibut is that they look so completely different when they're larvae because the eye migration happens later, which is bizarre when you think about it. They start out symmetrical like normal fish, then one eye literally moves across the skull as they mature.”

“Yeah, flatfish do that.”

“Exactly, but that's such a strange developmental process. Imagine if mammals did anything remotely comparable. If there were an animal born with its face arranged normally and then during adolescence its left eye slowly traveled over the forehead—”

“You know what else is weird?” Travis said. “Lingcod teeth. Have you ever actually looked inside a lingcod's mouth?”

Philomena stopped for half a beat. “Yes, but I wasn't finished.”

“They lose teeth constantly. Hundreds of them.”

“I know. But what I was saying about the eye migration—”

“Thousands, I think. I read something that said they replace like twenty teeth a day.”

“Travis.”

“What?”

“I was still talking.”

He looked over at her, surprised rather than offended. “Oh. Sorry. Go ahead.”

Philomena resumed. “I was saying that the strange part isn't simply that the eye moves, it's that the entire skull reorganizes around the animal's eventual orientation. Because once it's lying on one side, its original bilateral symmetry would become maladaptive, so development effectively reconstructs the head to accommodate a completely different body plan.”

“Sure.”

“And there are evolutionary intermediate forms in the fossil record, which is especially interesting because people used to use flatfish as an argument against gradual evolution. They'd say half an eye migration wouldn't be useful, but then they found transitional species where the eye had moved partway across the skull.”

“See, I don't buy all that.”

Philomena turned toward him. “You don't buy what?”

“Not evolution. I buy evolution. I mean when people look at some fossil and say, 'This is exactly what happened.' Nobody was there.”

“That's not really how paleontology works.”

“That's what I'm saying. They infer.”

“Of course they infer. Almost all historical knowledge is inference.”

“Right. Which means they could be wrong.”

“Yes.”

“So we're agreeing.”

“No, we're agreeing that conclusions can be wrong. That's not the same as saying the evidence doesn't support them.”

“I didn't say it didn't.”

“You said you don't buy it.”

“I said I don't buy people acting certain.”

Philomena drew a breath and shifted slightly in her seat. “But certainty isn't binary. Science doesn't require absolute certainty. If you required direct observation of every past event, you couldn't know that Julius Caesar existed.”

“There's writing about Caesar.”

“There are fossils.”

“That's different.”

“Why?”

“Because a fossil doesn't write down what happened.”

Philomena stared at him. “Neither did Caesar, mostly.”

Travis laughed. “All right, professor.”

She did not laugh with him. “I'm serious.”

“I know. That's why it's funny.”

The matter might have ended there with another person, but Philomena had encountered a proposition she believed to be wrong and had been interrupted twice while attempting to explain why. These were powerful forces separately and almost irresistible in combination. She began again, more deliberately this time, with the distinction between direct and indirect evidence. From there she moved to archaeology, historical documents, radiometric dating, comparative anatomy, and finally the philosophical impossibility of absolute proof regarding almost any event outside immediate perception. Travis attempted several times to enter the argument. Each time Philomena held up a finger and said some variation of, “Wait, because this is the important part,” after which the important part gave birth to another important part and the coast road unrolled beneath them while Travis's smile slowly became more competitive.

When they reached the restaurant forty minutes later, they were still discussing epistemology.

“You can't just keep moving the standard,” Philomena said as they entered beneath a striped awning dripping with rain. “First it was that nobody witnessed the fossil forming, then it was that written evidence is different, and now you're saying eyewitnesses are unreliable anyway, which I agree with, but that actually strengthens my point.”

“I am not moving anything. You're putting words in my mouth.”

“I'm repeating the words you said.”

“No, you're interpreting them.”

“Words require interpretation.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Exactly. That's hermeneutics.”

Travis stopped just inside the doorway and laughed so loudly that the hostess looked over. “You have a word for everything.”

“No, there are lots of things I don't know the word for.”

“I bet that bothers you.”

“It does, actually.”

That answer delighted him, and for a time the tension disappeared. They were shown to a table near the windows, where fishing boats rocked behind sheets of rain and the marina lights had begun coming on in the early autumn dusk. Travis ordered a beer and Philomena ordered wine. He told her she was the first person who had ever used the word “hermeneutics” against him before dinner, and she told him she had not used it against him. He said that was exactly what someone wielding hermeneutics as a weapon would say, and she laughed hard enough that people at the next table glanced over.

There were advantages to Travis that Owen had not possessed. He required no encouragement. There were no silences for Philomena to fill, no tentative answers that ended before she expected them to. Travis told stories readily and with theatrical precision, giving voices to everyone involved and occasionally standing a little from his chair to demonstrate an action. He had nearly drowned twice, been arrested once, broken his nose three times, and spent six months in Alaska on a crab boat despite having concluded within the first week that he hated almost everyone aboard. He had opinions about tourists, contractors, fishing regulations, electric trucks, whiskey, hockey, the Canadian government, charter clients from California, and men who wore sandals on boats. Philomena found much of this entertaining. The difficulty was that Travis's stories were not things one entered. They were things one waited through.

At first she tried politely. Travis was describing the time one of his charter clients brought bananas aboard, a superstition Philomena had heard many times, when she saw what she considered a natural opening. “That's actually probably related to the old shipping trade because bananas—”

“No, you don't understand. This wasn't one banana. This guy had a whole goddamn bunch.”

“I understand, but the superstition itself probably comes from—”

“And I tell him, 'Those are not coming on my boat.'”

“Right, but do you know why bananas are supposed to be bad luck?”

“Because they're bad luck.”

“They're not actually.”

“Tell that to the guy whose engine died twenty miles offshore.”

“Your engine didn't die because there was a banana on the boat.”

“You weren't there.”

“Travis, that is not how causation works.”

He pointed at her with his beer. “Engine ran fine before banana. Banana gets on boat. Engine dies. Explain that.”

“I can explain it very easily. Engines sometimes fail.”

“Not mine.”

“Apparently yours did.”

“With bananas aboard.”

Philomena leaned forward. “The theory is that it started because banana shipments had to travel quickly, so ships carrying them were more likely to sail fast and couldn't stop to fish, and possibly because spiders and other animals came aboard with banana bunches. There are several explanations, and nobody knows for certain, but the superstition developed historically. Bananas themselves do not interfere with marine engines.”

“You can't prove that.”

“I can prove it to approximately the same degree that I can prove an orange doesn't interfere with a marine engine.”

“Have you ever seen an orange destroy one?”

“No.”

“There you go.”

“That's my point.”

“Exactly.”

“No, it isn't.”

Their appetizers arrived while they were arguing about bananas. The waitress set down calamari between them and retreated with the practiced discretion of someone who had already identified the table as troublesome. Philomena took one piece and continued explaining correlation and causation. Travis ate three pieces while she spoke, waited until she reached an example involving umbrellas and rain, and interrupted with a story about a man he knew who had been struck by lightning while holding an umbrella.

Philomena put down her fork. “That has nothing to do with what I was saying.”

“It has everything to do with what you're saying. Umbrellas and rain.”

“My example was that umbrella sales and traffic accidents might both rise when it rains without umbrellas causing traffic accidents.”

“Unless somebody walks into traffic because they can't see around the umbrella.”

“Then the umbrella would be causally involved in that specific accident, but that's not the point.”

“So you admit it.”

“I admit what?”

“The umbrella caused the accident.”

“In the hypothetical situation you just invented?”

“Yes.”

Philomena stared at him for several seconds. Travis grinned. She realized he was enjoying himself enormously.

“You argue for sport.”

“So do you.”

“No, I don't.”

He barked a laugh. “Philomena, we've been arguing since Calder Junction.”

“Because you keep saying things that are wrong.”

“And you think that isn't arguing for sport?”

“If you said the sky was green, would correcting you be a sport?”

“Depends on the sky.”

“It's not green.”

“You ever seen one before a tornado?”

“That's not actually the sky being green in the ordinary sense.”

“There she is.”

“Who?”

“The professor.”

Philomena folded her arms. “Don't call me that.”

“What do you want me to call you?”

“My name.”

“Philomena is four syllables.”

“So?”

“It's a lot in an argument.”

“Then stop arguing with me.”

“You started it.”

“I absolutely did not.”

The waitress returned to take their dinner orders and found them both smiling, which gave a misleading impression of the evening's direction. In truth, neither was angry yet. Travis liked resistance. Most people eventually allowed him to dominate a conversation because interrupting him required more energy than they possessed, and he had mistaken this surrender for charisma often enough that Philomena's refusal fascinated him. Philomena, meanwhile, had never spent an evening with someone so willing to challenge every incidental claim she made. It was irritating but also invigorating. Owen had listened until he tired. Travis seemed inexhaustible.

The first genuine rupture came over salmon.

Philomena had ordered black cod, while Travis ordered king salmon and remarked that the restaurant was wasting its time offering farmed Atlantic salmon as an alternative. “Nobody who knows fish is eating that garbage,” he said. “You can taste the difference instantly.”

“You probably can if they're prepared the same way.”

“I can always tell.”

“Blind?”

“Absolutely.”

“People are very bad at that.”

“I'm not.”

“Everyone thinks they're not.”

“Set it up.”

“I'm not saying you specifically can't. I'm saying blind taste tests repeatedly show that people are much less capable of identifying foods than they believe they are.”

“I could tell wild king from Atlantic farmed with my eyes closed.”

“Those are pretty different, so maybe.”

“Not maybe.”

“Fine. Probably.”

“Definitely.”

“Okay, but that's still not the larger point.”

“What larger point?”

“The psychology of expectation. Wine is the classic example. If you tell people wine is expensive, they report enjoying it more, and brain imaging actually shows differences in reward response. Price changes the experience.”

“Maybe for people who don't know wine.”

“No. That's exactly the mistake.”

“I know fish.”

“We're not talking about fish anymore.”

“We were until you changed the subject.”

“I didn't change it. I generalized from it.”

“That's changing the subject with paperwork.”

Philomena took a slow drink of wine. “No, it isn't.”

“Sure it is. We start with salmon, suddenly we're doing brain scans on wine drinkers.”

“Because the underlying principle is expectation affecting perception.”

“My expectation doesn't affect how salmon tastes.”

“Of course it does.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Not mine.”

“Travis, you are not biologically exempt from cognition.”

He laughed again, but Philomena did not. “You really cannot let anything go, can you?”

She set down the wineglass. “That's interesting coming from you.”

“I can let things go.”

“You have spent fifteen minutes insisting your taste buds are somehow immune to placebo effects.”

“Because I know what fish tastes like.”

“And we're back.”

“We're back because you keep telling me I don't.”

“I never said that.”

“You basically did.”

“No, I said your expectations influence perception because everyone's expectations influence perception. This isn't an insult. It's how brains work.”

“Maybe your brain.”

“Everyone's brain.”

“You don't know everyone.”

For the first time that evening, Philomena became quiet.

Travis took another drink of beer. He believed, for perhaps three seconds, that he had won.

Then Philomena leaned forward and said, very calmly, “All right. Let's talk about what it means to say we know something.”

Travis's expression changed.

She began with sensory perception. She explained that the brain does not passively receive the world but constructs an internal model from incomplete information, which was why optical illusions worked and why two people could perceive identical stimuli differently. Travis attempted to object that he was not talking about optical illusions, but Philomena said, “I know. I'm establishing the principle,” and continued. From vision she moved to taste, explaining the role of smell, temperature, texture, memory, expectation, and context. When Travis tried to say that he had eaten enough salmon to know what salmon tasted like, she agreed enthusiastically and explained that expertise could indeed improve discrimination while simultaneously increasing confidence beyond actual ability. He interrupted again. She raised her voice slightly and continued speaking through him.

“I'm agreeing with you that expertise matters, but you keep treating that as though it disproves everything else I'm saying, and it doesn't. Experts can be better than novices while still being subject to expectation. Those two propositions are not mutually exclusive.”

“I never said they were.”

“You said your expectation doesn't affect you.”

“Not enough to make me confuse salmon.”

“Now you've changed the claim.”

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have. First you said your expectation doesn't affect how salmon tastes. Now you're saying it doesn't affect you enough to confuse two particular kinds of salmon. Those are different statements.”

“Jesus, do you take notes?”

“I don't need to. It was thirty seconds ago.”

Their entrées arrived. Neither acknowledged them for almost a minute. Philomena continued, now discussing the distinction between subjective certainty and objective accuracy, while Travis attempted three separate rebuttals. She talked over the first. On the second she said, “No, wait, let me finish,” without actually ceasing to speak. On the third, he raised his voice enough that two nearby diners looked over.

“I'm just saying,” Travis said, “you take every little thing and turn it into a goddamn college lecture.”

“Because every time I explain what I mean, you interrupt before I get to the part that answers your objection.”

“You've been getting to the part for twenty minutes.”

“Because you keep creating new objections.”

“That's called a conversation.”

“No. A conversation involves listening to what the other person says.”

Travis sat back. “Oh, that's rich.”

Philomena's eyes narrowed. “What is?”

“You telling me about listening.”

“I listen to you.”

“You wait for me to stop.”

“That is what listening requires.”

“No, you wait until there's three seconds of daylight and then run through it with a truck.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

Philomena drew breath to answer him, and Travis pointed triumphantly. “There! You're doing it right now.”

“You finished your sentence.”

“I was not finished with my thought.”

“Then keep going.”

“I can't now.”

“Why not?”

“Because you jumped in.”

“I said five words.”

“You said seven.”

“Fine. Seven.”

“See? This. This is what I'm talking about.”

Philomena looked astonished. “You're correcting my number while accusing me of being pedantic?”

“I wasn't correcting you. I was making a point.”

“So was I!”

The couple at the next table had stopped pretending not to listen.

For several minutes the date deteriorated into something neither could later reconstruct accurately. Travis accused Philomena of turning every anecdote into a seminar. Philomena accused Travis of confusing interruption with personality. Travis said she couldn't possibly know what every conversation required. Philomena said he had interrupted her at least twelve times since they sat down. Travis demanded to know whether she had actually counted. Philomena admitted that she had not until the seventh, which he treated as evidence in his favor. She then attempted to explain that counting from seven onward did not make the first six cease to exist.

At some point their food went cold.

The waitress approached once, surveyed the table from six feet away, and changed direction.

What transformed irritation into disaster was not the argument itself but Travis's decision to explain Philomena to Philomena.

“Here's your problem,” he said.

She became very still. “My problem.”

“Yeah. You don't actually want a conversation. You want an audience.”

Philomena stared across the table at him. Her face, which had been animated for most of the evening, settled into an expression of almost perfect attention. “Go on.”

Travis should have recognized the danger in this invitation. He did not. “You want somebody to sit there and listen while you explain everything you know. Then if they disagree, you don't move on. You keep going until they give up.”

“That's what you think I'm doing.”

“That's exactly what you're doing.”

“Interesting.”

“And you're smart. Obviously you're smart. But you have to prove it constantly.”

Philomena's cheeks colored. “I am not trying to prove I'm smart.”

“You correct everything.”

“I correct things that are incorrect.”

“There. Right there. That's the whole thing.”

“Because you just made a claim about my intentions as though you know them better than I do.”

“You don't see it.”

“I see you interrupting me continually and then telling me I talk too much.”

“I didn't say you talk too much.”

“You said I want an audience.”

“You do.”

“No, I want you to let me finish a sentence.”

“You've finished thousands.”

Philomena looked at him for a long moment. “You know what your problem is?”

Travis smiled without humor. “Go ahead.”

“You think listening is submission.”

His smile disappeared.

“You interrupt constantly,” she continued, and now the words came with none of her usual wandering associations. “Not because what you're saying can't wait, but because the second you have a thought, you believe everyone else should stop so you can say it. And when they don't, you get louder. You tell stories where you're always the most competent person in the room. You argue about things you don't know anything about because admitting you don't know something feels like losing. And then when someone actually knows more than you about a subject, you call it a lecture.”

Travis folded his arms. “You done?”

“No.”

“Of course not.”

Philomena's eyes flashed. “That. Exactly that. You asked if I was done because you wanted to speak. You don't actually care whether I'm done.”

“Philomena, nobody knows when you're done.”

“I know when I'm done.”

“That's the problem!”

Several people turned openly now.

Travis leaned forward, lowering his voice only slightly. “You want the truth? I've heard about this. Everybody has.”

Philomena paused.

The anger went out of her face so quickly that Travis noticed it even in his own irritation.

“Heard about what?”

He hesitated.

It was the first wise thing he had done in several minutes, and it came too late.

“Nothing.”

“No. You said everybody has heard about this. Heard about what?”

“Forget it.”

“Travis.”

“It's just people talking.”

“What people?”

“It's a small town.”

“About what?”

He looked away toward the marina, and in that instant Philomena understood enough to make ignorance impossible but not enough to understand what she had discovered.

“About me talking?”

Travis rubbed his beard. “People joke.”

“What do they say?”

“Philomena, don't.”

“What do they say?”

“That dates run long.”

She sat very straight. “What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like.”

“No. It doesn't.”

He exhaled and looked irritated again, partly because embarrassment was an emotion he habitually converted into irritation. “They say guys can't get a word in.”

“Who says that?”

“I don't know. Everybody.”

“Everybody isn't a person.”

“For God's sake, don't do that right now.”

“Do what?”

“Turn a figure of speech into a deposition.”

“You're telling me people in Bellweather discuss my dates.”

“It isn't some conspiracy.”

“I didn't say it was.”

“There are jokes.”

“What jokes?”

“I don't know.”

“You clearly do.”

“People talk about how long guys last.”

The sentence settled between them.

Philomena's face changed again, but this time Travis did recognize it. “That's not how I meant it.”

“How long they last.”

“It's a joke.”

“How long they last doing what?”

“On the date.”

“Listening to me?”

“Basically.”

She looked down at the table. The black cod in front of her had barely been touched.

Travis began to understand that the argument had moved somewhere he had not intended it to go. “Look, I didn't care about any of that. That's why I asked you out.”

Philomena looked up. “You knew about it before you asked me?”

“Not like that.”

“What does 'not like that' mean?”

“It means people said you talk a lot. I talk a lot too. I thought we'd get along.”

“And did anyone tell you how long Owen lasted?”

Travis hesitated again.

That was enough.

“Oh my God.”

“I don't know exactly.”

“You do.”

“Something like four hours.”

“Three hours and twelve minutes.”

Travis stared at her.

Philomena gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “Apparently someone does know exactly.”

“I swear to God, I did not know the exact number.”

“But there is an exact number.”

“I guess.”

“People timed it.”

“I don't think they literally had a stopwatch.”

“That's comforting.”

“Come on, Philomena.”

“No. Don't 'come on' me. You knew there was a joke about men enduring dates with me, and you asked me out anyway.”

“Because I thought it was bullshit.”

“Why?”

“Because people exaggerate.”

“And now?”

The question caught him without preparation.

He looked at her, then away.

Philomena waited.

For once she did not fill the silence.

Travis's honesty, which was among his better qualities and frequently arrived at terrible moments, defeated him. “I think they undersold it.”

A woman at the next table inhaled audibly.

Philomena's chair scraped backward.

Travis immediately knew he had gone too far. “Okay. That came out wrong.”

“No, I think that came out exactly how you meant it.”

“You're pissed off.”

“What gave it away?”

“I'm saying we were already fighting.”

“We were fighting because you interrupted me every twenty seconds.”

“And you're doing it again.”

Philomena stopped.

Travis stopped too.

For one peculiar second they stared at one another, each realizing that the other could continue the argument indefinitely.

Then Philomena reached for her coat.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“I drove.”

“I know.”

“It's forty miles.”

“I will call my mother.”

“Don't call your mother. I'll drive you.”

“I would rather walk.”

“In the rain?”

“It's stopped.”

“It's thirty-eight degrees.”

“I'll wear my coat.”

“Philomena, that's ridiculous.”

She stood and put on the coat with quick, angry movements. “Do you know what's ridiculous? Spending an evening with someone who treats every sentence like a race and then finding out he came prepared because the entire town apparently thinks talking to me is an endurance sport.”

“I didn't come prepared.”

“You knew.”

“I knew you talked a lot.”

“You talk more than I do!”

Travis stood now as well. “No human being talks more than you do.”

The restaurant became silent.

Not quiet. Silent.

Even Travis appeared to hear what he had said after it was too late to retrieve it.

Philomena looked around at the faces that had turned toward them, then back at him. She had gone pale beneath the flush in her cheeks. “Thank you for dinner.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Don't.”

“I'm not letting you call your mother from Port Catherine because we had an argument.”

“We did not have an argument. We had twelve arguments, and I apparently lost all of them by continuing to speak.”

“That is not what I said.”

“I know. I was there.”

She turned toward the door.

Travis reached for his wallet and threw enough money onto the table to cover both meals, then followed her outside. The rain had indeed stopped, but the night had sharpened with cold, and the pavement reflected the marina lights in long broken lines. Philomena walked toward the road with the furious speed of someone whose destination was less important than the act of moving away.

“Philomena.”

She kept walking.

“Philomena, would you stop for a second?”

She turned so abruptly that he nearly walked into her. “Why?”

“So I can apologize.”

“Fine.”

Travis stared at her.

Philomena stared back.

Several seconds passed.

“Well?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“Which part?”

“The last part.”

“That narrows it down very little.”

“The part about nobody talking more than you.”

“Do you still think it?”

He considered lying and, characteristically, did not. “Yeah.”

Philomena laughed once, though there was nothing amused in it. “Excellent apology.”

“I'm not going to apologize by saying something I don't mean.”

“No, of course not. That would interfere with your legendary commitment to conversational integrity.”

“See, now you're being an asshole.”

Her eyes widened. “I'm being an asshole?”

“Yes.”

“Because I'm angry?”

“Because you're trying to win.”

“So are you!”

“I'm trying to get you into the truck so I can drive you home.”

“And be trapped in a truck with you for forty minutes?”

“I'll shut up.”

“You are incapable of shutting up.”

Travis stared at her. “That is unbelievable coming from you.”

Philomena opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

For perhaps the first time in Travis Bell's life, he realized he had silenced someone and wished he had not.

She looked away. Across the marina, halyards struck rhythmically against aluminum masts. A car moved along the distant highway, tires hissing over wet pavement, and somewhere behind the restaurant someone laughed without knowing that the sound could be heard outside.

When Philomena spoke again, her voice was quiet. “Take me home.”

Travis nodded.

The drive back to Bellweather lasted forty-three minutes.

For the first eleven, neither of them spoke.

Travis eventually said, “I'm sorry about the joke.”

Philomena looked out the window. “Which one?”

“The whole thing. People keeping track.”

“You aren't the one doing it.”

“I still shouldn't have brought it up like that.”

“No.”

Another mile passed.

Then Travis said, “For what it's worth, I really did ask you out because I liked you.”

Philomena watched dark trees move beyond the window. “I know.”

“And I had fun for a while.”

“So did I.”

“I think we'd kill each other.”

“Probably.”

That nearly made her smile. Travis noticed and wisely did not comment on it.

They drove another minute in silence before he said, “Your thing about flatfish was interesting, by the way.”

Philomena turned toward him.

He kept his eyes on the road.

“The eye thing.”

“Ontogenetic migration.”

“Right.”

She waited.

Travis glanced at her. “You can tell me.”

Philomena regarded him suspiciously. “Tell you what?”

“The rest.”

“You interrupted before I finished.”

“I figured.”

For a moment she seemed tempted.

Then she shook her head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you won't listen.”

“I'll listen.”

“You'll interrupt.”

“I won't.”

“You will.”

“Try me.”

Philomena looked ahead at the road. “During metamorphosis, one eye migrates across the dorsal surface of the skull, but the really interesting part is that different flatfish lineages accomplish the asymmetry somewhat differently, which means—”

“Wait, different lineages evolved it separately?”

She closed her eyes.

Travis slapped the steering wheel. “Shit.”

Philomena began laughing.

At first she tried not to. Then the laughter escaped anyway, and Travis started laughing too, and for nearly a mile neither of them could stop. It did not repair the evening or undo anything that had been said. Philomena still intended never to date him again, and Travis, despite finding her beautiful and infuriating and unexpectedly funny, had reached the same conclusion. But by the time they crossed into Bellweather, the anger had softened into the kind of mutual recognition that sometimes survives a failed romance more easily than affection does.

Travis pulled up outside the Buster house shortly after ten-thirty. The porch light was on. Philomena unfastened her seat belt and reached for the door, then paused. “You know, for someone who complained about how much I talk, you interrupted me forty-one times.”

Travis turned toward her. “You counted?”

“After twelve.”

“That means you don't know the first twelve.”

“I added them.”

“That's not how counting works.”

Philomena opened the door. “Good night, Travis.”

“You started at twelve!”

She stepped out into the cold and shut the door while he was still talking.

Amos was sitting in the living room when Philomena entered. He looked up from his book and saw her expression. “Bad?”

Philomena took off her coat. “Did you know people time my dates?”

Amos became perfectly motionless.

That was answer enough.

Philomena stared at him.

Amos slowly closed the book.

“Philomena—”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Celia, hearing the tone from upstairs, stopped halfway down the staircase.

What followed lasted considerably longer than either of Philomena's first two dates.

Philomena did not raise her voice when she asked her father how long people had been timing her dates, and this frightened Amos more than if she had shouted. He was still sitting in the chair by the window with the book closed across one knee, while Celia remained halfway down the stairs in her socks, one hand resting on the banister. Outside, water moved through the gutters and fell steadily from the roof onto the hydrangeas beneath the front windows. The house had been quiet before Philomena came in, and now the quiet seemed to have acquired weight.

Amos looked toward Celia, though there was no help for him there. “Nobody's timing anything,” he said. Philomena stood across from him with her coat still on and her arms hanging at her sides. “Travis knew Owen lasted three hours and twelve minutes.” Amos rubbed a hand over his jaw and said, “Walt knows that.” Philomena stared at him. “That is not better.” He sighed and shifted the book onto the table beside him. “People talk, Phil.” She asked again how long it had been happening, and when Amos did not answer immediately she turned to her mother. “Mom?” Celia came the rest of the way down the stairs, moving slowly now. “I don't know exactly when it started.” Philomena gave a small laugh that sounded nothing like amusement. “That's an incredible answer.”

Celia sat on the edge of the sofa. “People have always joked that you talk a lot. You know that.” Philomena nodded. “Yes. I know I talk a lot. That's not what I'm asking.” She looked between them. “I'm asking when people started keeping track of how long men could stand being around me.” Amos winced. “That's not what it is.” Philomena looked at him sharply. “Then explain what it is.” He opened his mouth, paused, and Celia said quietly, “I think after Lucas Markham.” Philomena frowned. “Lucas?” Celia nodded. “That dinner you had with him when you were home from college. You were gone most of the evening, and afterward he apparently told somebody he'd never worked so hard on a date in his life. It became a joke.” Philomena's face tightened. “I was twenty.” Celia said yes. “And then there was Matthew Connors the next summer, and someone asked whether he'd lasted longer than Lucas. I don't think anybody sat down and decided to make a contest out of it. It just sort of became one.”

“Who won before Owen?” Philomena asked. Amos looked at the floor. Celia said, “I don't know.” Philomena turned to her father. “You do.” Amos's silence lasted just long enough. She said, “Dad.” He exhaled through his nose. “Trevor Lang.” Philomena blinked. “Trevor Lang threw up in my mother's rhododendrons.” Amos said, “That was after.” Philomena stared at him. Celia shut her eyes briefly. Amos, realizing too late that precision had become his enemy, added, “He'd been drinking.” Philomena asked how long Trevor had lasted. Amos said he did not remember. She waited. He said, “Two hours and fifty-something.” She kept waiting. “Fifty-eight,” he admitted.

For a few seconds Philomena simply stood there. She had known Trevor since kindergarten. She remembered the date in question, though she had not thought about it in years. They had eaten pizza at a place in Port Catherine and then driven back along the coast. Trevor had seemed distracted near the end, but she had assumed he was drunk, which, in fairness, he had been. She had never imagined there was anything in the evening worth remembering beyond his unfortunate collapse beside the flower bed. Somewhere afterward, however, men she knew had compared his performance to that of another man she had dated. The private disappointments of her early twenties had apparently been accumulating in other people's minds as statistics.

“Was there a list?” she asked. Celia immediately said no. Amos did not say anything. Philomena looked at him and asked again. “Was there a list?” He replied that there was not a list exactly, and Celia turned toward him with disbelief. “Amos.” He raised both hands slightly. “Walt wrote some things down.” Philomena closed her eyes. “Of course Walt wrote some things down.” Amos tried to explain that this had been years ago and was not some public board hanging in the tavern. “It was on a piece of paper behind the counter.” Philomena opened her eyes again. “That's a list.” Amos conceded that technically it might qualify as one. “Was my name on it?” she asked. He said yes.

Celia got up from the sofa and came toward her, but Philomena took a step backward before she could touch her. It was not theatrical. The movement appeared instinctive, and because of that it hurt Celia more. Philomena looked around the room as though the house itself had become implicated. “You both knew.” Celia said they had known there were jokes. “I didn't know Walt had actually written anything down.” Philomena looked at Amos. He said, “It wasn't cruel.” She turned on him at once. “You keep saying that like it makes it better.” Amos's face hardened slightly, not with anger but with the helplessness of a man who had spent his life fixing problems that could be reached with tools. “People love you.” Philomena replied, “Apparently in shifts.”

That silenced him.

Celia said, “Philomena, nobody thinks you're unbearable.” Philomena laughed again. “Mom, there is apparently a documented record for bearing me.” Celia began to answer, but Philomena continued before she could. “Do you understand how insane that is? Owen goes out with me, comes back, and people ask how long he made it. Travis knew before he ever asked me out. How many men knew?” Neither parent answered. Philomena asked whether Lucas had known about Matthew or Matthew about Lucas, then stopped herself because she realized the chronology was wrong and somehow the fact that she still cared about accuracy made her angrier. “Never mind. I don't want to know.”

Amos stood and crossed the room, though he kept enough distance between them that she would not feel cornered. “For what it's worth, I never liked the whole thing.” Philomena looked at him. “Did you ever tell anyone to stop?” He hesitated. That was the answer. “I made it clear I didn't think it was funny.” She asked how. He said, “I'd leave.” Philomena stared at him. “You'd leave?” Amos defended himself with increasing discomfort. “Or I'd tell Walt to knock it off.” Philomena asked whether Walt had knocked it off. Amos looked away. She nodded slowly. “Right.”

The deeper injury revealed itself only after the anger had begun to recede. Philomena removed her coat and draped it over the back of a chair, then sat opposite her parents. For a while she said nothing, and the silence unsettled all three of them because silence had rarely belonged to Philomena. Eventually she asked, “Do people like talking to me?” Celia answered yes immediately. Philomena shook her head. “Don't answer quickly because you're my mother. Actually think about it.” Celia's expression changed. Philomena continued, more quietly. “When I come into the flower shop and tell you something for twenty minutes, do you want me to? Or do you just know I'll do it anyway?” Celia said, “Both, sometimes.” Philomena looked up. Celia held her gaze. “Sometimes I am tired. Sometimes you're telling me something I don't care very much about, and I listen because I care about you. Sometimes you're telling me something fascinating and I want to hear every word. That's what being around another person is.”

Philomena absorbed this with visible difficulty. “Dad?” Amos sat again. “Same.” She asked whether he ever wished she would stop talking. He gave her the truth because there was no safe alternative left. “Sure.” Her face fell slightly, and Amos immediately continued. “And sometimes I wish your mother would stop rearranging the freezer, and she wishes I'd stop leaving screws in bowls all over the house. That's not the same as wishing you were different.” Philomena said, “It feels pretty close tonight.” Amos looked at her for a long time and said, “Then I'm sorry.”

Celia asked whether she wanted tea. Philomena nearly said yes, then realized that this was what her mother always asked when emotion became complicated, and under ordinary circumstances she would have pointed this out and probably traced the habit back through Celia's mother and grandmother. Instead she simply shook her head. The omission was so conspicuous that Celia noticed it immediately.

The next morning Philomena went to work as usual. At nine-fifteen she stopped at Avery's Bakery for coffee, and Mrs. Avery asked whether she had seen the moon the night before because it had been enormous over the water. Ordinarily this would have required Philomena to explain that the apparent size of the moon near the horizon was an optical illusion, followed by speculation about why the illusion persisted despite centuries of study and whether Mrs. Avery had ever noticed that photographs failed to reproduce it. Instead Philomena said, “I missed it.” Mrs. Avery nodded and waited, coffee pot in hand. Philomena smiled politely. “How's your knee?” Mrs. Avery said it was better, and Philomena listened while she described a new physical therapist in Port Catherine. Five minutes later Philomena left with her coffee, and Mrs. Avery stood behind the counter watching the door after it closed.

At the conservation office, Philomena became an exemplary conversationalist. She listened more than she spoke. When asked a question she answered it directly, resisting the impulse to supply context unless context was indispensable. During a meeting about shoreline restoration she had an observation about the historical movement of the inlet that she believed might affect the proposed planting area, but nobody had asked her about historical shoreline movement, so she wrote it in the margin of her notebook instead. Ten minutes later her supervisor independently raised the same issue and asked whether anyone knew how much the inlet had shifted since the seventies. Philomena knew. She said, “Quite a bit,” and when he looked at her expectantly she provided the relevant figures and stopped.

The experiment continued for several days. She discovered that most conversations survived perfectly well without eighty percent of what she would ordinarily have contributed. She also discovered that other people were extraordinarily repetitive. Men interrupted each other constantly. Women interrupted each other nearly as often but apologized more. People told stories whose endings were obvious from the beginning and supplied unnecessary descriptions of people Philomena had never met. They abandoned topics halfway through, returned to them later, forgot facts already established, exaggerated numbers, misremembered dates, and regularly said things that were objectively incorrect without anyone at the table feeling compelled to intervene. Philomena had always participated in conversation as though it were a structure being built cooperatively and therefore required every piece to fit. She began to suspect most people regarded it more like weather.

At home the change became difficult to ignore. On Thursday Amos mentioned that a humpback had been seen unusually far into the inlet. Philomena said, “That's interesting.” He waited. She continued eating. After several seconds he said, “They think it followed baitfish in.” Philomena nodded. “Probably.” Amos looked at Celia, who looked back at him over her glass. He tried again. “Seems late in the year.” Philomena said, “A little.” Amos put down his fork. “Do you know anything about that?” Philomena looked at him. “About whales?” He said yes. She asked what he wanted to know. Amos frowned. “I don't know. Whatever you know.” Philomena gave him a small, sad smile. “That's usually the problem.”

Later that evening Celia found her washing a mug at the kitchen sink. She leaned against the counter and watched her daughter for a moment before saying, “This isn't better.” Philomena kept rinsing the cup. “What's not?” Celia said, “You know what.” Philomena set the mug in the rack. “I'm listening more.” Celia agreed that she was. “You're also treating every sentence like it costs money.” Philomena dried her hands. “Maybe I should have been doing that before.” Celia said, “Maybe sometimes. Not all the time.” Philomena asked how she was supposed to know the difference.

Celia had no easy answer. “You don't. Nobody does. That's part of knowing somebody.” Philomena folded the dish towel carefully and placed it on the counter. “Apparently an entire town knew the difference except me.” Celia said that was not fair. Philomena looked at her. “No, what wasn't fair was nobody telling me.” Her mother accepted that. They stood together in the kitchen while rain tapped lightly against the windows, and after a while Celia said, “For what it's worth, I miss hearing about things I never knew I cared about.” Philomena almost smiled. “Like what?” Celia thought. “You told me once why grocery stores mist the vegetables even though it can make them rot faster.” Philomena said, “It makes them look fresher because—” and stopped.

Celia waited.

Philomena looked at her mother, then laughed softly despite herself. “Nice try.”

By the following week Bellweather had noticed. It was impossible to determine how many people knew why, though in Bellweather causes seldom remained private once effects became visible. Walt Harker removed the sheet of paper from behind the counter at the marine supply store and tore it into pieces without ceremony. He did this after Amos entered, bought a packet of hooks, and stood silently at the register until Walt understood why he was there. “It's gone,” Walt said. Amos nodded. Walt added, “It was stupid.” Amos replied, “Yep.” Neither mentioned that the paper had not been updated regularly in years. Its existence mattered more than its accuracy.

Owen Mercer encountered Philomena outside the post office a few days later. He had heard some version of what happened with Travis and looked so uncomfortable upon seeing her that Philomena briefly felt sorry for him. He asked how she was, and she said she was fine. He nodded. They stood beneath the awning while rain misted across the street. Finally Owen said, “I didn't tell Walt the time.” Philomena looked at him. “Okay.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “He asked when I got home. I said around eleven. That's all.” Philomena believed him. “I'm not angry with you.” Owen looked relieved, though not entirely. “I really did have a good time.” She said she knew. Owen hesitated. “I was just really tired.” Philomena smiled faintly. “I know that too.”

There might have been humiliation in the conversation a week earlier. Now there was something cleaner about it. Owen had liked her and had not wanted another date. Both things could be true. Philomena realized that much of her anger had come from believing one of them must invalidate the other. She thanked him for telling her, and when they parted she felt unexpectedly lighter.

It was near the end of October when she met Nathan Vale.

He had technically been living in Bellweather for three months, though Philomena had barely noticed him. This was unusual. Nathan worked as an accountant for the regional fishing cooperative and occupied a desk in a small office above Harker's Marine Supply two days a week, spending the rest of his time working remotely from a rented house near the cemetery. He was thirty-one, narrow-shouldered and slightly taller than Philomena, with brown hair he kept too long because he disliked haircuts and a face whose seriousness made him appear older until he smiled. He had moved from Tacoma after the cooperative consolidated several administrative positions. Bellweather knew relatively little about him because Nathan rarely volunteered information and found the process of meeting strangers almost physically unpleasant.

He was not shy in the romantic sense people often attached to quiet men. He did not secretly possess a reservoir of effortless charm waiting for the correct woman to uncover it. Speaking to people he did not know made him anxious. Speaking to groups was worse. Being asked a broad question such as “Tell me about yourself” could empty his mind so completely that he forgot facts he had known since childhood. He rehearsed telephone calls before making them. He preferred restaurants where he already understood how ordering worked. At social gatherings he positioned himself near people who talked easily because their conversation gave him a structure in which he could remain present without having to manufacture one.

Listening, by contrast, calmed him.

A person who spoke at length relieved Nathan of the constant internal calculation that accompanied ordinary conversation: whether he should say something, whether enough time had passed, whether the other person was waiting for him, whether his response was too short, whether it sounded strange, whether he had missed a joke. When someone else was telling a story, all of those questions disappeared. There was only the story. He could listen exceptionally well because listening required nothing from him except attention, and attention was something he possessed in abundance.

Philomena first spoke to him at a public meeting concerning repairs to the old seawall. She had seen him before without learning his name. Nathan sat near the back with a yellow legal pad on his knee and had contributed nothing during the first hour. The discussion had wandered through funding, erosion, permits, storm damage, and whether the seawall should be rebuilt at all. Philomena had spoken only once, briefly, to clarify a grant deadline.

During the break Nathan found himself beside her at the coffee urn. He had recognized her from around town, and because several people had told him she worked in conservation, he managed to ask whether she thought rebuilding the wall made sense. Philomena said, “Parts of it.” Nathan nodded, expecting more. She added, “It depends what they're actually trying to protect.” He waited. Philomena poured coffee into her cup. Normally she would already have been explaining the history of shoreline armoring and its effects on sediment movement. Instead she added one packet of sugar and asked, “What do you think?”

Nathan had not expected the question. “I don't know,” he said.

Philomena glanced at him. “That's allowed.”

He smiled nervously. “I mean, I literally don't know anything about seawalls.”

“Most of the people in that room don't either.”

Nathan laughed, and because Philomena liked the sound of it she almost continued. The familiar impulse rose in her: to explain that hard shoreline structures protected individual properties while sometimes worsening erosion elsewhere, that Bellweather's harbor had been altered repeatedly over the last century, that people tended to imagine coastlines as fixed boundaries when they were really dynamic systems. She stopped herself. Nathan looked at her expectantly for a moment, then down at his coffee.

Neither spoke.

To Philomena the silence felt enormous.

To Nathan it felt peaceful.

The meeting resumed before either discovered this difference.

Over the next two weeks they encountered one another several more times. Nathan came into the conservation office for budget figures. Philomena saw him at Avery's Bakery. Once they stood beside each other in line at the grocery store while an elderly man argued with the cashier over a coupon that had expired in July. Their conversations remained brief, but Nathan remembered things. He asked whether the shoreline grant had been approved. He remembered that Philomena's office was waiting for a survey. When she mentioned that her mother owned the flower shop, he later asked how business had been after a windstorm damaged several local gardens.

Philomena interpreted his quietness as disinterest at first. This was partly because she had become unusually sensitive to signs of conversational fatigue and partly because Nathan's anxiety resembled boredom from the outside. He rarely held eye contact for long. He sometimes took several seconds to answer simple questions. When two people spoke to him at once, he seemed to retreat. Yet when Philomena said something substantive, his attention changed. He looked at her. He remembered.

The first real conversation happened by accident.

They were both at the Lantern on a rainy Tuesday afternoon when the power flickered twice and finally went out. The kitchen closed, though coffee remained available, and half the customers left. Philomena was seated alone near the window with paperwork spread across a table. Nathan had been working two tables away on his laptop, which became useless once the Wi-Fi died. After ten minutes of staring at the dark screen, he asked whether he could sit with her.

Philomena moved a stack of papers. “Sure.”

Nathan sat down. For several minutes they spoke about the outage. Then he asked what she was working on. Philomena said it was a habitat restoration proposal involving an old logging road above Jenkins Creek.

Nathan asked, “What's wrong with the road?”

The answer should have taken perhaps thirty seconds.

Philomena began explaining the culverts.

She caught herself after less than a minute. “Sorry. You don't need the whole thing.”

Nathan looked confused. “Why not?”

“Because you asked what's wrong with the road, not for the history of culvert design.”

“I don't know anything about culverts.”

“Exactly.”

He waited.

Philomena waited too.

Nathan said, “So?”

She studied him. “So what?”

“What happened with the culverts?”

Philomena hesitated. “They're undersized.”

“Why?”

It was such a simple question that she almost laughed. “Because when most of these roads were built, people were designing drainage around average flows rather than thinking seriously about fish passage or extreme events. A culvert can move enough water most of the year and still completely fail ecologically because the velocity through it is too high for juvenile salmon, especially during—”

She stopped.

Nathan was listening.

Not enduring. Not waiting for an opening. Listening.

Philomena continued cautiously, explaining how perched culverts formed when streambeds eroded below their outlets and how structures installed decades earlier could become barriers even if they had originally been passable. Nathan asked what “perched” meant. She drew a crude diagram on the back of an agenda. He asked why anyone would install a pipe too small for the stream, and that led to rainfall estimates, changing standards, logging practices, and the difficulty of designing infrastructure for events expected only once in fifty or a hundred years.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Philomena forgot to monitor herself.

She told him about a culvert replacement near Port Catherine that had uncovered timber from an older road beneath the existing one. This led to the history of logging roads along the coast, then to abandoned rail grades, then to the strange persistence of infrastructure long after people forgot why it had been built. She told him about a footpath behind her childhood home that followed an old utility easement and how she had spent years believing it was simply a trail through the woods. Nathan asked how she had found out. Philomena told him.

At some point she realized she had been speaking for nearly forty minutes.

She stopped in the middle of a sentence.

Nathan looked up. “What?”

Philomena glanced toward the clock. “I've been talking this entire time.”

He seemed to consider this. “Mostly.”

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “For talking at you for forty minutes.”

Nathan looked down at the diagram of the culvert, then back at her. “I asked.”

“You asked what was wrong with a road.”

“Yeah.”

“That question has been answered for thirty-nine minutes.”

Nathan smiled.

Philomena felt herself becoming defensive before he had said anything. “I do this.”

“I know.”

Her expression changed. “People told you?”

Nathan immediately realized he had stepped somewhere dangerous. “No. I mean, I've heard people say you talk a lot, but that's not what I meant.”

Philomena's shoulders tightened.

Nathan saw it and became visibly anxious, which only made his explanation worse. “I meant I noticed. Not in a bad way. I don't mean noticed like everybody notices. I just mean you talk more than I do, which isn't hard because almost everybody talks more than I do, and now that sounds like I'm comparing you to everyone, which I'm not.”

Philomena watched him struggle.

Nathan rubbed his thumb along the edge of his coffee cup. “I get nervous talking.”

She said nothing.

He looked down. “Like right now.”

Philomena's expression softened.

Nathan continued because stopping seemed worse. “When somebody else talks, I don't have to think about what I'm supposed to say. I can just listen. It's easier.”

“You like listening?”

“Very much.”

“To anyone?”

“No.”

That answer surprised her.

Nathan glanced up. “Some people are boring.”

Philomena laughed.

The sound relaxed him enough that he smiled too. After a moment he nodded toward the unfinished diagram between them. “You were saying something about the old utility easement.”

Philomena looked at him carefully.

“You actually want me to finish?”

Nathan nodded.

She searched his face for politeness, pity, amusement, or the secret knowledge of three hours and twelve minutes. She found only a quiet man sitting across from her in a darkened diner while rain ran down the windows.

“You can tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I will.”

“You probably won't.”

“Probably not.”

“That isn't reassuring.”

Nathan thought about it. “Then you can ask me occasionally.”

Philomena smiled despite herself. “That's insane.”

“Probably.”

She looked down at the drawing.

Then she picked up the pen again.

By the time the power returned, another hour had passed.

Three days later Nathan spent twenty minutes rehearsing a question in his car before walking into Celia Buster's flower shop.

Philomena was behind the counter.

When she looked up and smiled, he forgot the version he had practiced.

“Would you want to have dinner with me sometime?”

Philomena stared at him.

Nathan immediately added, “You don't have to.”

She laughed. “I know.”

“I just thought I'd make that clear.”

“You've made it extremely clear.”

He nodded, uncertain whether this was going well.

Philomena looked at him for another moment, and something in her expression became cautious rather than amused. “Have you heard about the record?”

Nathan frowned.

“What record?”

For the first time in several weeks, Philomena believed someone immediately.

Nathan chose the Bracken House, which Philomena found funny for reasons she did not explain to him. He had asked whether there was somewhere else she preferred, and for a moment she considered suggesting Port Catherine simply to avoid returning to the same restaurant where she had gone with Owen. The thought embarrassed her almost as soon as it occurred. Restaurants were not responsible for what happened inside them, and she had no intention of allowing a table, a harbor view, or a disappointing evening to acquire permanent jurisdiction over her life. She told Nathan the Bracken House was fine. He made a reservation for seven on Friday, arrived eleven minutes early, and spent most of those eleven minutes sitting in his car because walking into a restaurant alone and telling a hostess that he was waiting for someone seemed, to him, more difficult than remaining in the cold.

Philomena arrived two minutes late and found him beneath the awning outside. He had just checked his phone when she came up the hill, and she immediately said, “Sorry,” while brushing rain from the shoulders of her coat. Nathan looked confused and told her she was not late. “I am objectively late,” she said. “Two minutes.” He glanced at the phone he had just put away and admitted that she was technically correct, though he had been checking because he thought he might still be early. Philomena nearly explained that his arriving early and her arriving late were independent facts, that the social convention of a grace period was actually quite strange if examined closely, and that people routinely agreed on precise times while privately intending a range of acceptable arrival. She could already feel the explanation gathering itself, complete with examples, and stopped before it began. “Then I suppose we’re both right,” Nathan said, and she let him have it.

Inside, the restaurant was busier than it had been on her date with Owen. Several fishing families occupied the larger tables, and a group of tourists sat near the windows despite the season, turning whenever a boat moved through the harbor as though commercial fishing had been staged for their benefit. Nathan gave his name to the hostess with the strained concentration of someone disarming a device. Once the exchange was over, he visibly relaxed and followed her toward a table near the back. He apologized almost immediately for not having secured a window seat. Philomena told him she did not care and added that a person could see the harbor from practically everywhere in Bellweather. After that there was a silence of several seconds, and she felt the old reflex rise inside her, the instinctive need to prevent conversational emptiness from forming. During the last few weeks she had been teaching herself to resist that impulse. She had discovered, somewhat reluctantly, that silence did not necessarily mean anyone was disappointed, bored, angry, or waiting to be rescued. Sometimes people were simply looking at menus.

Nathan was looking at his menu with remarkable seriousness. Philomena watched him reread the same section twice, then asked whether restaurants made him nervous. He glanced up, surprised by the question, and after a moment admitted that they did, particularly the ordering. She asked why, not as an accusation but with genuine curiosity, and he struggled to explain that he disliked having someone stand beside the table waiting for him to decide, even when he had already decided. “Then why not decide before they come?” she asked. Nathan said he always did. “So what happens after that?” He hesitated, then admitted that he worried he would say the order incorrectly. Philomena looked at the printed menu between them. “How do you say food wrong?” she asked, and Nathan laughed because it was exactly the kind of question he knew had no satisfactory answer. She told him there were only so many ways to say the name of something already written on a page, then immediately added, “I’m guessing that doesn’t help.” Nathan said it did not. “Good,” Philomena replied. “I was worried I’d accidentally cured you.” The joke relaxed him enough that his shoulders dropped and he smiled.

When the waiter came, Nathan ordered a beer too quickly and stumbled slightly over the brewery’s name. Philomena ordered wine without difficulty, and Nathan seemed calmer the moment the waiter walked away. She began asking him about Bellweather, partly because she wanted to know and partly because questions had become her new method of controlling herself. Nathan told her he had been there three months and that the cooperative had transferred him from Tacoma. He liked Bellweather, though he found it strange that people he had never met knew where he lived. Philomena smiled and said that was not strange in Bellweather; it was one of the town’s basic operating principles. She told him that when she was sixteen, Mrs. Callahan at the pharmacy had informed her mother that Philomena had bought cold medicine, which had seemed absurd at the time but later became one of the things she missed when she moved away. Nathan asked what she had missed about it, and Philomena began explaining the difference between privacy and anonymity. She made it through perhaps four sentences before she felt herself accelerating and abruptly stopped.

Nathan waited. When she did not continue, he asked, “And then what?” Philomena looked at him and said there was no then. “There’s definitely a then,” he replied. She asked how he could know, and he said because she had just described leaving a town where everyone knew everything about her and then coming back voluntarily. There had to be something between those events. Philomena took a drink of wine and said, “I’m trying not to monopolize the conversation.” Nathan looked puzzled rather than reassured. “You aren’t.” She pointed out that they had been there only ten minutes, which was far too early to know. He thought about this and asked, “If I want you to talk, is it still monopolizing?” Philomena told him that depended on whether he actually wanted her to talk or merely wanted to make her comfortable. Nathan said both. She told him that was not an answer. He replied, with a faint smile, that it seemed like one to him.

Their food arrived before the argument could become philosophical, and Philomena decided not to fight him on it. She told him about Bellingham instead, though cautiously at first. She described the novelty of living somewhere large enough that she could enter a grocery store without knowing anyone inside. At eighteen she had thought this was freedom. She could walk down a street without seeing a former teacher, somebody’s aunt, or a fisherman who had known Amos since high school. Nobody reported her purchases to her mother. Nobody asked how her brother was doing or whether her father’s boat had finally been repaired. For several months she had adored that anonymity. Then, during her second winter, she got sick with what she believed was influenza and walked by herself to a pharmacy in freezing rain. She remembered standing beneath the fluorescent lights with a fever, waiting to pay for medicine, and having the strange realization that if she fainted, the people around her would help because she was a human being who had fallen down, but nobody would know who she was. “That sounds melodramatic now,” she said, and Nathan shook his head. Philomena continued that it had not made her immediately homesick, nor had she packed a bag and returned to Bellweather, but it had changed something. She began noticing how many relationships in a city existed only because of circumstance: classmates who disappeared at the end of a semester, neighbors whose names she never learned, people she saw every morning at a coffee shop without knowing where they came from or what they cared about. She had wanted independence and discovered that independence could become a kind of weight if nobody noticed whether you were carrying it well.

Nathan listened without shifting toward his own response. He ate slowly, occasionally nodding, but there was none of the anxious preparation Philomena had grown accustomed to seeing in other people’s faces when she spoke for more than a minute. Most listeners eventually gave some small sign that they were accumulating their own thoughts and waiting to release them. Their eyes changed. Their mouths tightened slightly before an interruption. They leaned forward. Nathan did none of these things. When she paused, he simply remained where he was, as though the pause belonged to her too. This unsettled Philomena enough that she began asking him questions again. She wanted to know why he had accepted the job in Bellweather. Nathan said the pay was better, the work was quieter, and his lease in Tacoma had been ending anyway. Philomena waited for more, but Nathan seemed finished. She asked whether he missed Tacoma. He said sometimes. She asked what he missed, and he thought so long before answering that Philomena nearly supplied possibilities for him. Eventually he said, “Knowing where everything is.”

Philomena smiled. “That’s a very specific thing to miss.” Nathan admitted that he liked knowing which grocery store would have what he needed, which roads were busy at which times, which coffee shop had tables where nobody would try to speak to him. In Bellweather everything was socially complicated. If he went for coffee twice in the same week, someone might remember his order. Philomena laughed and said that was inevitable. Nathan said he knew, and there was enough resignation in his voice that she laughed again. She asked whether being recognized genuinely bothered him. He said it did and it did not. Recognition made him nervous, but complete anonymity made practical life harder because every interaction began at zero. “So you want people to know you without having to get to know you,” Philomena said. Nathan looked at her for several seconds before saying, “Yes. Exactly.” She smiled. “That’s an impossible social arrangement.” He agreed, but added that Bellweather might be the closest thing to it.

This interested her, and she began talking before she could remember to restrict herself. “Actually, that makes sense, because small towns have a kind of passive familiarity that cities don’t. You can know somebody’s basic history without ever having had a meaningful conversation with them. Like Mr. Halloran at the marina. I know he was married twice, I know his second wife moved to Idaho, I know he hates mushrooms, and I know he nearly lost his hand in Alaska, but I don’t think I’ve ever sat down and had a real conversation with him about his life. I just accumulated him over time.” Nathan smiled at the phrase, and Philomena continued. “That sounds awful. Accumulated him. But you know what I mean. People become familiar in fragments. Somebody mentions something, you see them somewhere, your parents know their parents, and after twenty years you have this enormous file on a person that nobody ever formally gave you. Cities make you build everyone from scratch.”

Nathan said, “That sounds exhausting.” Philomena laughed and told him it was probably exhausting only for someone who found conversation exhausting. “For me, building someone from scratch is interesting.” Nathan asked what she meant. She explained that she liked finding out where people came from and how they had become themselves. Most people had some event they treated as ordinary because it happened to them, even though objectively it was extraordinary. Mr. Halloran had almost lost his hand on a fishing boat in Alaska and now described it as “a bad Tuesday.” Her mother had once delivered flowers to a wedding where the bride changed her mind twenty minutes before the ceremony and spent the afternoon helping the groom’s family divide the reception food. Amos had been caught in a storm in 1997 that killed two men from another boat, yet if anyone asked him about it he mostly complained that the coffee maker had broken. Nathan asked whether her father did that because he did not like talking about the storm. Philomena paused and said she thought so, though she had never asked him directly.

From there she wandered into the peculiar ways families learned which subjects could be touched and which had to be approached sideways. The Busters did not have formal prohibitions. Nobody said, “We don’t talk about this.” Instead certain stories became smooth from repeated handling while others acquired corners. Amos would tell stories about dangerous seas if the ending was funny, but not if someone had died. Celia spoke freely about her own mother’s final illness but almost never about the months afterward. Henry joked constantly about moving away but became strangely defensive whenever anyone suggested he might eventually move back. Philomena said she had always found this fascinating because families were supposed to be the places where people knew one another best, yet familiarity could make some questions harder rather than easier. “If I met you yesterday, I can ask why you moved to Bellweather because I don’t know. If I’ve known you thirty years and I don’t know why you stopped speaking to your brother, then asking becomes an accusation. The length of the silence starts meaning something.”

Nathan had stopped eating. He was watching her with an attentiveness that no longer seemed deliberate. The restaurant had grown louder around them as more people came in, but Philomena noticed that Nathan seemed less aware of it than he had at the beginning. His beer sat half finished beside his hand. She asked if she was talking too much. He shook his head immediately. Philomena narrowed her eyes and said, “That was very quick.” Nathan asked whether there was a correct speed for answering. She told him no, but quick reassurance was suspicious. He smiled and said, “Then yes. You’re talking too much.” Philomena stared at him. Nathan held the expression for perhaps two seconds before adding, “But I like it.”

She laughed so suddenly that the people at the neighboring table looked over. “That is a terrible answer.” Nathan said it was the truthful one. Philomena asked how someone could talk too much if the other person wanted to listen. He said he did not know, but apparently she had created the category. She conceded this and returned to her food, though by then the conversation had crossed some threshold. She was no longer measuring every sentence before saying it. She still noticed occasionally that she had been speaking for several minutes, but Nathan’s attention did not seem to diminish with duration. If anything, he became calmer. The small movements of anxiety faded from his hands. He no longer looked toward nearby tables when someone laughed loudly. When the waiter approached, Nathan did not tense until the man actually addressed him.

After dinner they ordered coffee without discussing whether the evening was ending. Philomena told Nathan that she had once believed coffee after dinner was an absurd custom because caffeine was the last thing anyone needed at nine at night, until college taught her that human beings routinely used substances in direct opposition to their biological requirements. This became a discussion of sleep. Nathan admitted that he had always slept badly before social events, sometimes rehearsing conversations that never occurred. Philomena wanted to know what rehearsal looked like. He explained that if he expected someone to ask what he had done over the weekend, he might prepare an answer in advance. “But then what happens if they ask something else?” she asked. Nathan said that was the problem. Philomena laughed, then realized he was serious and apologized, though he told her it was genuinely funny.

The idea fascinated her. She tried to imagine preparing conversation as though it were testimony. “So when I ask you something unexpected, does your mind actually go blank?” Nathan said yes, sometimes completely. Philomena asked whether he forgot the answer or merely could not decide how to phrase it. He said both could happen. She leaned forward, increasingly absorbed. “That’s so strange to me because I have almost the opposite problem. I know what I want to say, and then saying it produces three more things I also want to say. It’s like my thoughts branch while I’m speaking.” Nathan said, “I noticed.” There was no mockery in it. Philomena nodded and continued that perhaps this was why interruption bothered her so much. An interruption did not merely stop one sentence. It threatened the entire structure attached to it. “If I’m explaining something and you interrupt at the wrong point, I might lose where the next part connected. Then I remember the thing I wanted to say three minutes later, except now we’re talking about something else, so I either have to drag us backward or let it go.”

Nathan asked, “Do you usually let it go?” Philomena looked at him as though he had asked whether she routinely abandoned children in forests. “No.” Nathan laughed, and she continued. “That’s probably part of the problem. I feel like if the thing is still relevant, it should be said. But relevance is apparently much more temporary for most people. They move on. I don’t understand how they move on so easily when the question is still unresolved.” Nathan asked whether conversations needed to resolve questions. Philomena said not all of them, obviously, but if someone said something incorrect or introduced a contradiction, she found it difficult not to return to it. This reminded her of Travis, and for a moment she went quiet. Nathan did not ask why.

Eventually she said, “He told me I wanted an audience.” Nathan knew immediately whom she meant because Bellweather had supplied enough of the story without his asking. He said nothing, and Philomena continued that the accusation had bothered her precisely because she was not sure it was entirely false. She liked being listened to. She liked explaining things. She liked the moment when someone followed an idea far enough that they saw why she found it interesting. Maybe that did resemble wanting an audience. “But I also listen,” she said. “That’s the part that made me angry. I actually listen to people. I remember what they say. I care. And somehow talking a lot gets interpreted as though I must not.”

Nathan said quietly, “I don’t think those are opposites.” Philomena looked at him. He struggled visibly to expand the thought, and she waited without helping. Eventually he said, “You can want to be heard and still hear people.” Philomena sat back slightly. Nathan seemed embarrassed by having said something that sounded deliberate, but she did not rescue him from it. She let the sentence exist. After a while she said, “That’s what I think too.”

Their coffee cooled while they talked. Or rather, while Philomena talked and Nathan occasionally altered the direction by asking a question. She told him about learning to read early and spending childhood dinners relaying facts from whatever book she had most recently discovered. She remembered a period around age nine when she became obsessed with shipwrecks and frightened her mother by describing hypothermia at breakfast. Before that had been insects. Afterward came volcanoes, Tudor England, whales, the interstate highway system, and for reasons she could no longer recall, commercial mushroom cultivation. Nathan wanted to know whether her parents encouraged this. Philomena said they encouraged reading and regretted some of the consequences. Amos had once forbidden her from discussing parasites at the table after a particularly detailed explanation involving a fish tongue louse.

Nathan laughed hard enough that Philomena gave him the complete account. She described the parasite attaching itself inside a fish’s mouth, consuming the tongue, and effectively replacing it. Nathan protested weakly that they had just eaten. Philomena reminded him that dinner was already over, which she considered a reasonable boundary. This led her to other parasites that manipulated host behavior, including fungi that infected insects and caused them to climb before dying. Nathan’s expression became a mixture of fascination and regret, which only encouraged her. She explained that people often treated parasitism as uniquely grotesque because it violated human intuitions about bodily autonomy, whereas predation felt cleaner because one animal simply killed another. In evolutionary terms, however, parasites were extraordinary demonstrations of specialization. Some depended on a sequence of several different hosts to complete their life cycles, which meant their continued existence required an almost unbelievable chain of encounters occurring reliably across generations.

“Imagine being the first person figuring that out,” she said. “You find one stage of a parasite in a snail, another in a fish, another in a bird, and somehow you have to realize these things that don’t even look alike are the same organism at different points in its life. It’s like discovering that a horse turns into a sparrow for three months every year and everyone else just failed to notice.” Nathan smiled and asked how anyone did discover it. Philomena admitted she did not know the history well enough, then immediately began speculating about the kinds of experiments nineteenth-century naturalists might have performed. She stopped after a few minutes and said she should look it up rather than inventing an answer. Nathan asked whether not knowing bothered her. Philomena said enormously, then added that there was a particular kind of pleasure in discovering that something she had assumed was simple was actually complicated.

She wandered from there into maps. Old maps especially. She loved the confidence with which cartographers had drawn uncertain coastlines, sometimes giving precise shapes to places they had never seen. Nathan asked whether she collected maps. Philomena said no, not seriously, though she owned several reproductions and had once spent far too much money on a nautical chart from the 1930s because it showed Bellweather before half the modern harbor existed. The shoreline on the chart was wrong in places, or rather no longer right. She explained how much of what people considered permanent landscape was merely temporarily stable. Rivers moved. Beaches migrated. Sandbars appeared and disappeared. Forests advanced and retreated. Human beings responded by drawing property lines across all of it and then becoming furious when the earth declined to cooperate.

Nathan said, “That sounds like your job.” Philomena smiled. “A lot of my job is explaining to people that water has not read their deed.” Nathan laughed and asked for an example, which turned into a story about a property owner who had insisted a stream was trespassing because it had shifted twenty feet toward his garage over several decades. Philomena described the meeting, the maps, the engineer who finally had to explain that nobody could order the stream back onto its historical channel without creating several larger problems. The story branched into floodplains, then flood insurance, then the curious human need to classify rare events as impossible until immediately after they happened.

By then Nathan was leaning back in his chair, one hand loosely around his coffee cup. The tension that had accompanied him into the restaurant was gone. He no longer seemed to anticipate his own turn. Philomena noticed this only intermittently because she had largely forgotten to observe herself. She moved easily now from one subject to another, guided by association rather than caution. A discussion of hundred-year floods became an explanation of statistical recurrence intervals and why people misunderstood them, which reminded her of birthdays and probability, which led somehow to coincidences, then to the tendency of small towns to manufacture apparent improbabilities simply because the same people encountered one another constantly.

“You think something is incredible because you meet someone at the grocery store after talking about them that morning,” she said, “but in Bellweather there are maybe six places that person could plausibly be, and you know all the same people, so of course coincidences happen constantly. The strange thing would be never encountering anyone you’d recently mentioned. But humans are terrible at intuitively understanding how many opportunities there are for coincidence. We remember the one weird match and ignore the thousand times nothing happened. It’s the same reason people think they dreamed something before it happened. You dream constantly, most of it nonsense, then eventually one piece resembles something real and suddenly the dream becomes prophetic.”

Nathan asked whether she believed in anything supernatural. Philomena considered this much more seriously than he expected. She said she did not believe in ghosts in the straightforward sense, but she also thought absolute certainty about such things was intellectually arrogant. Nathan asked whether she had ever seen one. She said no, though her grandmother claimed she had. Nathan asked for the story.

Philomena smiled. “That’s long.”

“We have time.”

So she told him.

Her grandmother had been sixteen, living in a house north of Bellweather that no longer existed. One winter night she woke and saw a woman standing in the doorway of her bedroom wearing a dark dress. The woman did not speak or move. Philomena’s grandmother assumed at first that it was her mother, then realized her mother did not own such a dress. She closed her eyes, opened them, and the woman remained. Eventually the figure turned and walked down the hall. Her grandmother followed and found nobody there. Philomena said the story was almost certainly explainable as a sleep-related hallucination, except that her grandmother had never accepted that explanation and became annoyed whenever Philomena suggested it. Years later, after the house was demolished, someone showed her grandmother an old photograph of the family who had lived there previously, and she claimed one of the women was the person she had seen.

Nathan asked whether Philomena believed her. She said, “I believe she believed it.” Then she spent several minutes explaining why memory complicated everything. If her grandmother had seen the photograph decades after the event, then recognition might have reshaped the earlier memory. Maybe the woman in the photograph merely resembled whatever vague image remained from the night. Maybe the resemblance became stronger each time the story was retold. But Philomena also admitted that reducing every strange human experience to error sometimes seemed unsatisfying in a different way. “Not because ghosts are therefore real,” she said. “Just because experience matters even when explanation is uncertain. My grandmother saw someone. Whether that someone existed outside her brain is almost a separate question.”

Nathan was so still by then that Philomena asked whether he was tired. He shook his head and said no. She asked whether he wanted to leave. Again he said no. Philomena glanced around and realized the restaurant had emptied considerably. The tourists were gone. One of the fishing families had left. Staff were clearing tables near the windows. She looked at the clock and found that they had been there more than three hours.

Her stomach tightened.

Nathan saw the change in her face. “What?”

Philomena looked back at him. “Nothing.”

“You looked worried.”

“I’m not worried.”

He waited.

She sighed. “Three hours.”

Nathan glanced toward the clock, then back to her, and his confusion was so complete that she almost laughed. “Is that bad?”

“You really don’t know.”

“No.”

Philomena looked down at the table. She had asked him about the record before agreeing to the date, and he had genuinely not known. She had believed him then, and she believed him now. “Owen lasted three hours and twelve minutes,” she said.

Nathan blinked. “Lasted?”

“That’s the word people used.”

Understanding arrived slowly. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He looked toward the clock again, then asked, “Are we supposed to leave at three twelve?”

Philomena laughed despite herself. “No.”

“Good.”

Nathan’s answer was so matter-of-fact that she studied him suspiciously. “You don’t care?”

“About beating Owen?”

“About any of it.”

He thought for a moment. “I care that it hurt you.”

Philomena’s smile faded, though not unhappily. Nathan continued with visible effort. “But I don’t care how long he stayed. I don’t know Owen.”

“You’ve met him.”

“I don’t know him.”

“That distinction is very Bellweather of you.”

Nathan smiled, and Philomena looked once more at the clock. Three hours and six minutes. Under other circumstances she might have felt the minutes accumulating like pressure. Instead she discovered that she did not want to know when twelve passed. She turned slightly in her chair so the clock was no longer in her direct line of sight.

Nathan noticed but said nothing.

Philomena picked up her coffee and found it cold. “My grandmother also believed seals could predict storms.”

Nathan smiled. “Could they?”

“No. Probably. Maybe. Actually, that one is more complicated.”

And she began again.

She told him that animals certainly detected environmental changes people missed, though the mythology around animal weather prediction far exceeded the evidence. Dogs reacted to pressure changes, birds altered behavior before storms, fish responded to temperature and oxygen, but humans had an ancient tendency to convert animal sensitivity into prophecy. Her grandmother claimed seals hauled out in greater numbers before certain storms. Philomena had never tested it systematically, though as a child she had watched the rocks whenever bad weather approached. This became a story about winter storms in Bellweather, how the entire town changed character when the forecast was serious. Boats came in early. Men who ordinarily distrusted one another helped double lines at the docks. Grocery shelves emptied in patterns that made no nutritional sense. People bought bread, milk, batteries, beer, and enough canned soup to survive a siege.

She remembered storms from childhood not by their meteorological severity but by what the adults did during them. One storm meant candles on the kitchen table because the electricity had failed for two days. Another meant sleeping downstairs because a cedar had fallen across the road and Amos was afraid the trees behind the house might come down too. During one particularly violent storm, her parents let Henry and Philomena stay awake past midnight, and Amos made pancakes on a camp stove in the garage because the power was out. Philomena had thought it was wonderful. Years later she learned her father had spent much of that night worried that his boat might break loose from the harbor.

“That’s another strange thing about childhood,” she said. “You can have a happy memory that was probably terrifying for the adults. You think everyone was participating in the same night, but they weren’t. My father was thinking about insurance and whether his boat would still exist in the morning, and I was thinking it was exciting to eat pancakes at midnight. Same room, same storm, completely different event.”

Nathan asked if she had ever told Amos that. Philomena said no and wondered aloud whether parents experienced childhood twice: once as children and then again through their own children, except from the other side. She did not have children and had never seriously decided whether she wanted them, though Bellweather had begun treating the question as though she were behind schedule. Nathan asked whether that bothered her. Philomena said the assumptions bothered her more than the question itself. People spoke about marriage and children as though they were natural events like tides. If you were twenty-four and unmarried, everyone assumed the marriage was simply late rather than possibly absent. She did want love, she admitted, and probably marriage, though even saying that felt embarrassingly formal. Children were less clear. She liked them, but liking children and wanting to reorganize the entire architecture of your life around one were not the same thing.

Nathan listened while she talked about the strange permanence of parenthood, how most important adult choices remained at least theoretically reversible. People changed jobs, sold houses, divorced spouses, moved across continents. A child was different. Once a person existed because of you, there was no meaningful return to the earlier state of the world. Philomena said this was not an argument against children. If anything, the gravity of it might be part of why people found parenthood meaningful. Still, she distrusted anyone who approached the decision casually.

From there she moved into names, because children required names and names fascinated her. She liked old names that had nearly disappeared, though not ones revived so aggressively that they became fashionable again. Nathan asked whether Philomena counted as an old name. She said yes, unfortunately, and told him she had spent much of elementary school wishing she were named Emily. Her mother had chosen Philomena after a great-aunt whom Philomena never met. As a child she hated having to spell it for everyone. By adolescence she liked being the only Philomena anyone knew. Nathan said he could not imagine her being named Emily.

“Why?”

He thought for a while. “It’s too short.”

Philomena laughed. “That may be the meanest thing anyone has ever said about me.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

She was still smiling, and Nathan relaxed again.

By then the waiter had refilled their water twice without being asked and had stopped offering coffee. The restaurant had entered that soft period before closing when staff began making their intentions visible without quite expressing them. Philomena finally noticed and asked whether they were keeping everyone there. Nathan glanced around, embarrassed at once, and said they probably were. They paid and stepped outside into a cold, clear night. The rain had stopped hours earlier, leaving the pavement black beneath the streetlights. The harbor was almost motionless. Somewhere across the water an engine turned over, ran for several seconds, then stopped.

They began walking without deciding where. Nathan’s car was uphill, but neither moved directly toward it. Philomena continued talking more quietly now, the way people do outdoors at night even when nobody has asked them to. She told him that Bellweather sounded different after midnight because the background machinery disappeared. During the day there were engines, compressors, trucks, gulls, doors, voices, and metal striking metal around the harbor. At night the water reclaimed the soundscape. You could hear halyards tapping against masts from blocks away. Sometimes seals surfaced near the docks and exhaled loudly enough to frighten people who did not know what they were hearing.

Nathan asked whether she walked around town late at night often. Philomena said she used to, especially in college when she came home for breaks and could not sleep. She liked seeing familiar places emptied of people. A grocery store parking lot at two in the morning was still the same place, but without cars it suddenly seemed enormous. The school looked smaller at night. The harbor looked larger. She said places had social dimensions as much as physical ones; the number of people in them altered perceived size. Nathan said he had never thought about that. Philomena told him he probably had experienced it without naming it.

They reached the harbor and leaned against the railing. Philomena talked about darkness over water, about how the absence of visible landmarks made distances difficult to judge. She remembered being a child on Amos’s boat before sunrise, looking toward shore and seeing only scattered lights. Her father could identify houses and roads from individual points of light that meant nothing to her. Years later she learned them too. She could tell which glow belonged to the cannery, which belonged to the road above town, which isolated light was the weather station on the bluff. Knowledge turned darkness into geography.

Nathan was listening beside her, hands in his coat pockets, looking where she looked. He had said almost nothing for fifteen minutes. Philomena no longer interpreted that as absence. She could feel his attention without requiring evidence of it. This was new enough that she kept testing it unconsciously, allowing thoughts to run longer than she normally would with another person and discovering that he remained there when they ended.

She talked about memory again, though now without announcing the subject. She wondered how many places existed only because somebody remembered them. Her grandmother’s childhood house was gone. The original cannery was gone. The old movie theater had become a hardware store before Philomena was born, yet elderly people still occasionally called the building the theater. Enough time passed and the physical town changed while another town survived invisibly inside the people who had known it. Bellweather contained dozens of Bellweathers layered over one another. Amos’s Bellweather had businesses she never saw. Her grandmother’s Bellweather had roads that no longer existed. Someday younger people would know a town in which things Philomena considered permanent had disappeared.

Nathan asked what she thought she would miss if it vanished.

The question stopped her for several seconds.

“The harbor,” she said at first, then shook her head. “No, that’s too big. The harbor will probably still exist.” She looked down the dark street. “Maybe Avery’s. Not even the bakery itself. That corner. The bell over the door. The way it smells in winter when everyone’s coats are wet. Mrs. Avery calling everyone sweetheart even when she’s angry. There are probably a hundred things like that you don’t know you care about until they stop.”

Nathan said, “You notice a lot.”

Philomena glanced at him. “I talk about a lot.”

“That too.”

She smiled. “People usually mean it as criticism.”

“I don’t.”

“I know.”

And she did.

They remained by the harbor while the cold gradually worked through their coats. Philomena spoke about small things after that, but the small things lasted. She told Nathan why she preferred winter beaches to summer ones, how driftwood shifted after storms, why some stones became almost black when wet and pale again when dry. She described a tide pool she had loved as a child and how she had once become convinced an anemone recognized her because it closed whenever she touched the water nearby. She knew now that this was nonsense, but she still felt faintly guilty for having disturbed it so often. She spoke of gulls learning which fishing boats discarded scraps and of crows dropping shellfish onto roads for cars to break. She told him about a crow that had stolen a silver gum wrapper from her when she was twelve and how, for weeks afterward, she imagined finding a nest filled with bright objects somewhere in the trees.

The subjects became less important than the motion between them. A crow led to collecting things, which led to childhood boxes filled with objects that had once seemed valuable: sea glass, bottle caps, a rusted key, feathers, smooth stones, a coin from Canada. Philomena wondered aloud why children valued objects adults considered worthless and whether adulthood consisted partly of learning approved categories of value. Gold mattered. A polished piece of glass did not. A painting could be priceless, while a stone carried home from a beach was clutter unless the memory attached to it justified its continued existence. She still owned one blue piece of sea glass from when she was ten. It sat in the top drawer of her desk. She had no practical use for it and would be genuinely upset if she lost it.

Nathan said softly, “That seems practical enough.”

Philomena looked at him. “How?”

“You’d be upset without it.”

She considered the answer and smiled.

By the time they finally walked back uphill, Philomena had stopped thinking about how long she had been speaking. She told Nathan about a professor she had loved in college who could lecture for ninety minutes without notes and somehow make every digression return to the central point. She told him about a woman on a bus who had once confessed, within fifteen minutes of meeting Philomena, that she was leaving her husband. She told him about Amos teaching her to clean a fish, about Henry convincing her as a child that barnacles were insect eggs, about the first time she realized her parents had lives before she existed.

Nathan listened.

He did not look trapped. He did not become glassy-eyed. He did not retreat into automatic nods. Sometimes he smiled before she reached the part she thought was funny because he had learned enough of her rhythm to see it coming. Sometimes he asked a question that sent her farther into the subject. Sometimes he said nothing at all, and his silence no longer felt empty. Philomena’s voice softened as the night grew later, not because she was running out of things to say but because she no longer had to push against anything.

They reached Nathan’s car. Neither mentioned the hour.

Philomena leaned against the passenger door while continuing a story about the summer she worked at the harbor office, when an elderly sailor from British Columbia had arrived insisting that the navigation chart was wrong because a buoy had moved. The buoy had not moved. He had misidentified the inlet, though it took Philomena and two harbor employees nearly an hour to convince him. This led to a discussion of how difficult it was to abandon a mistaken belief once you had constructed several later conclusions upon it. She talked about how people protected not only beliefs but the versions of themselves attached to those beliefs, and how admitting a small error could become psychologically harder when the error had been defended publicly.

Nathan rested against the car and listened while her breath showed faintly in the cold.

Philomena spoke about certainty, then pride, then apologies. She said a good apology required accepting that the injured person might not immediately forgive you, otherwise the apology became another demand. She wondered whether people apologized primarily to repair harm or to relieve themselves of guilt. Probably both. Maybe that was unavoidable. Human motives were rarely clean. Even kindness usually made the kind person feel good, but that did not make kindness fraudulent. She disliked the idea that mixed motives invalidated good behavior because almost everything people did came from several motives at once.

Nathan’s face had become peaceful in a way she had not seen before. His eyes followed her, but there was no pressure in them. He seemed almost to be resting inside the conversation.

Philomena kept talking.

She told him that when she was young she thought adults eventually became certain about who they were. She had assumed there would be some age at which decisions stopped feeling provisional. Twenty-four had seemed impossibly adult when she was twelve. Now twenty-four felt like standing in a house where half the rooms were still unfurnished. She knew more things but understood how much more there was to know. She had become better at identifying uncertainty without becoming more comfortable with it.

She talked about choosing Bellweather, and whether choosing the place where you were born really counted as a choice. She had left, which meant returning was at least partly deliberate, but she sometimes wondered whether familiarity exerted a gravitational pull people mistook for preference. Would she still love the coast if she had been born in Kansas? Would wheat fields feel like home instead? Maybe people became loyal to whatever landscape first taught them the shape of the world.

She described waking in Bellingham during her first month of college and being briefly confused by the absence of gulls. She had never realized until then that she expected them. Their noise had been irritating all her life, but without it mornings felt wrong. She wondered what sounds Nathan had grown up expecting without knowing it.

Nathan said, after thinking, “Traffic.”

Philomena smiled. “That’s depressing.”

“It is.”

Then she began telling him about soundscapes.

And sometime after midnight, with Bellweather nearly silent around them and the harbor lights trembling on the dark water below, Philomena Buster forgot completely that there had ever been a record.

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1: The Morning After You Let Yourself Down

There is a particular kind of silence that comes after you disappoint yourself. The room is the same, the phone is still on the table, the coffee still tastes the same, but something inside you feels different because you know what happened. Maybe you said something you promised yourself you would never say again. Maybe you went back to something you thought you had left behind. Maybe you froze when you wanted to be brave. In those moments, the message about getting back up after failure matters because failure can make one bad moment feel much bigger than it really is.

What makes it worse is that most of us know how to forgive other people faster than we know how to forgive ourselves. We can tell someone else that everyone makes mistakes, that God is not finished with them, and that one bad decision does not erase the good in their life. Then we make our own mistake, and suddenly all that grace disappears. That is why the deeper lesson about trusting God after you fail is not just comforting language. It is something we have to learn when our confidence in ourselves has taken a hit.

Peter knew that feeling. He loved Jesus, and I do not think his love was fake. When he said he would stand by Jesus no matter what happened, I believe he meant it. Peter saw himself as loyal. He probably imagined that when the real test came, he would be the one who stayed. Then Jesus was arrested, fear entered the room, and Peter found out that sincerity and strength are not always the same thing.

That is one of the hard lessons failure teaches us. Sometimes we truly mean what we say, but we are weaker than we realized. You can honestly want to be patient and still lose your temper. You can really want to trust God and still panic when the bank account is lower than you expected. You can love your family and still say something in a tired moment that you wish you could take back. The fact that you failed does not mean every good intention you had was a lie. It may simply mean there is still a part of you that needs to grow.

Peter denied Jesus three times. The story is familiar enough that we can lose sight of how personal that must have been. This was not a stranger making a bad choice. This was a man who had walked with Jesus, listened to Him, watched Him heal people, and promised he would not leave. Then, when association with Jesus became dangerous, Peter said he did not know Him.

Imagine the walk away from that moment. Imagine having nothing to do but think about what you just did. There was no way to talk his way out of it. He had failed at the very thing he was most certain about.

We all have smaller versions of that walk.

You leave the meeting and know you should have spoken up. You get home after arguing with your spouse and replay one sentence you wish you had swallowed. You look at the charge on your account and know you spent money you promised yourself you would save. You see the message you sent when you were angry and wish you could pull it back. The moment is over, but your mind keeps dragging you back into it.

That is where many people get stuck. The failure happens once, but they relive it fifty times. They let one mistake turn into a judgment about who they are. Instead of saying, “I did something I regret,” they start saying, “This is who I am.” There is a big difference between those two thoughts.

Jesus did not treat Peter as though his worst moment was his true identity.

After the resurrection, Jesus met Peter again. He did not ignore what happened, but He also did not humiliate him. He did not gather the other disciples around and make Peter explain himself. He did not make him earn his way back through some public display of shame. Jesus spoke to him, asked him about his love, and gave him responsibility again.

“Feed my sheep.”

That tells me something about how Jesus sees failure.

He takes it seriously, but He does not treat it as final.

Sometimes we confuse repentance with permanent self-punishment. We think that if we really understand what we did wrong, we should keep feeling terrible about it. But staying ashamed is not the same thing as changing. You can feel bad for years and never actually grow. Real change begins when you are honest about what happened, receive the grace God gives you, and let the lesson change the way you live next time.

That can be harder than it sounds because shame often feels like responsibility. It tells you that constantly replaying the mistake proves you care. But if you have admitted the truth, asked God for forgiveness, made amends where you can, and learned something from it, then carrying the same weight forever is not humility. At some point, it becomes another way of refusing to believe that grace is real.

Think about Peter. If he had decided his failure disqualified him, we would know his story very differently. He could have disappeared. He could have decided that somebody who denied Jesus had no business speaking about Him again. Instead, he allowed Jesus to restore him.

Later, Peter stood in public and spoke openly about Christ.

The man who once said, “I do not know Him,” became a man willing to tell crowds exactly who Jesus was.

That does not make his denial unimportant. It makes grace more important.

Maybe you are carrying something right now that you think should still define you because it happened. Maybe it was years ago. Maybe it was last night. Maybe nobody else even knows about it. You know, though, and that has been enough to keep you living beneath the weight of it.

I would not tell you to pretend it did not happen. Jesus did not ask Peter to pretend either. But I would tell you not to confuse remembering a lesson with remaining trapped in a moment.

There is a reason people say it is not how many times you fall, but how many times you get back up. The saying becomes real when getting back up costs you something. It costs you pride because you have to admit you were wrong. It costs you fear because you have to try again knowing you might fail again. It costs you the strange comfort of shame because sometimes shame becomes familiar enough that moving forward feels almost undeserved.

But Jesus did not restore Peter so Peter could spend the rest of his life proving how sorry he was.

He restored him so he could live differently.

That may be what getting back up looks like for you too. Not a dramatic comeback. Not a big announcement. Maybe it is simply getting out of bed tomorrow and making one better decision. Maybe it is making the phone call you have been avoiding. Maybe it is praying again after feeling too ashamed to pray. Maybe it is returning to the work you almost gave up on because your first attempt went badly.

You do not need to be the person who never fell.

You need to be willing to let Jesus meet you there, tell you the truth, give you grace, and teach you how to stand again.

Chapter 2: The First Step Back Into the Room

The hard part is often not admitting that you failed. The hard part is walking back into the place where you have to live differently.

Maybe that place is your kitchen after a bad argument. Maybe it is your office after you made a mistake everyone noticed. Maybe it is the church pew after weeks of feeling distant from God. Maybe it is a conversation with your child after you lost your patience and saw the look on their face. The moment of failure may have been quick, but the return can feel painfully slow because now you know what needs to change.

That is where getting back up becomes more than a nice idea.

Peter had to face this too. Jesus restored him, but restoration did not mean Peter could simply feel better and go home. Jesus gave him work to do. “Feed my sheep” was not only comfort. It was direction. Peter was being invited back into responsibility.

I think that matters because grace is not God telling us that nothing matters. Grace is God refusing to abandon us while He teaches us how to live differently.

There are times when we want forgiveness without the awkward next step. We want to know God still loves us, but we do not want to make the phone call. We want peace, but we do not want to apologize. We want a fresh start, but we do not want to change the habit that keeps taking us back to the same place.

Getting back up usually involves movement.

Not dramatic movement. Often it is something small and uncomfortable.

A father stands outside his daughter’s bedroom after saying something too harsh and decides to knock instead of defending himself. A woman opens the banking app she has been avoiding because she knows the numbers are not good and decides to finally make a plan. A man who stopped praying because he felt like a hypocrite sits at the edge of his bed and says, “God, I do not even know what to say, but I am here.”

That is what starting again can look like.

The reason small steps matter is that shame loves distance. It tells you to hide from the very places where healing could begin. It tells you not to pray until you feel more spiritual, not to apologize until you have the perfect words, not to try again until you are sure you will succeed.

But if you wait until you feel completely ready, you may stay stuck for a long time.

Peter did not become bold overnight because he suddenly forgot what happened. He moved forward while carrying the memory of it. The difference was that the memory no longer controlled him.

There is something freeing about that.

You do not have to erase your past before you can obey God today. You do not have to become fearless before you can take the next step. You do not have to prove that you are completely changed before you begin changing.

You just have to be honest enough to move.

Sometimes the next right step is very ordinary. You show up to work. You tell the truth. You keep the appointment. You delete the number you keep going back to. You put the credit card away. You go for the walk. You open the Bible even though you feel distracted. You tell somebody you trust that you are struggling.

None of those things look impressive, but they are often where character is rebuilt.

We tend to imagine transformation as something dramatic. We picture a moment where everything suddenly becomes clear and we never struggle again. Real life is usually slower than that.

Most of the time, change is made of repeated choices that nobody applauds.

You choose not to send the angry message.

You choose to go home instead of going back to the place that keeps getting you in trouble.

You choose to admit that you need help.

You choose to pray before reacting.

You choose to tell the truth even when the truth makes you look worse.

Those choices are not punishment for failing. They are part of becoming someone stronger.

Jesus did not restore Peter to the same kind of confidence Peter had before. Before the denial, Peter trusted himself too much. Afterward, he knew something about his own weakness. That kind of knowledge can make a person more dependent on God and more patient with other people.

Sometimes the person who has fallen and gotten back up becomes gentler.

They know what it feels like to be embarrassed by their own choices. They know how quickly fear can take over. They know what it means to need mercy.

That is one reason your failure does not have to be wasted.

It can make you more honest.

It can make you slower to judge.

It can make you more willing to notice the person sitting quietly in the corner who thinks everyone else has life figured out.

It can teach you that strength is not pretending you never struggle. Strength can also mean knowing where you are weak and refusing to hide from it.

Maybe you are at the point right now where you know what happened, you have asked God to forgive you, and you are still standing at the doorway of what comes next.

You do not need a five-year plan.

You need the next faithful step.

If you hurt someone, maybe that step is an apology without an excuse attached to it.

If you failed financially, maybe it is opening every bill instead of leaving envelopes on the counter.

If you let fear stop you, maybe it is trying again while your hands are still shaking.

If you have felt far from God, maybe it is simply speaking to Him honestly instead of waiting until you feel worthy.

That is what Peter had to do in his own way. He had to stop being the man who only remembered the fire where he denied Jesus and become the man who followed Jesus into what came next.

You can do that too.

Not because you are strong enough to guarantee you will never fail again.

Because Jesus is not asking you to guarantee the future.

He is asking you to follow Him today.

And sometimes getting back up is nothing more than that: one honest step, taken with God, in the direction you know you need to go.

Chapter 3: When You Stop Asking the Past for Permission

There are mornings when nothing dramatic happens, but you still feel the weight of an old mistake before your feet even touch the floor. You wake up, look at the ceiling, and your mind reaches backward before the day has even started. Maybe it is something you said years ago. Maybe it is a decision that changed a relationship. Maybe it is an opportunity you lost because you were not ready for it then. The strange thing is that everyone else may have moved on while you are still quietly asking the past whether you are allowed to move forward.

That is one of the ways regret keeps people stuck.

It does not always shout. Sometimes it just keeps reminding you who you used to be.

You start making decisions based on an old version of yourself. You turn down opportunities because you assume you will mess them up. You keep people at a distance because you do not trust your own judgment anymore. You stop expecting much from your life because disappointment feels safer than hope.

That can happen spiritually too.

You pray, but somewhere inside you are still wondering whether God really wants to hear from you. You read something about grace and believe it for everyone except yourself. You know what Scripture says about forgiveness, but your own history feels like an exception.

Peter could have lived that way.

He could have spent the rest of his life introducing himself internally as the man who denied Jesus.

But Jesus would not let that become Peter’s whole identity.

That matters because sometimes the biggest obstacle to getting back up is not what God thinks about us. It is what we have decided about ourselves.

There is a difference.

Jesus already knew Peter was going to fail before Peter failed.

That did not surprise Him.

Think about that for a moment.

Jesus knew exactly what Peter was going to do, and He still chose him. He still taught him. He still loved him. And after the failure, Jesus still had a place for him.

That does not excuse what Peter did. It tells us something about the size of Christ’s grace.

God is not working with an imaginary version of you.

He knows the real one.

He knows the weak places. He knows the things you regret. He knows where your confidence is fragile and where your judgment has failed you. He is not discovering those things as you go.

That means you can stop trying to surprise God with your honesty.

He already knows.

And that is actually freeing.

A woman can sit alone in her car after work, hands still on the steering wheel, and finally admit that she has been pretending for months. She is exhausted, angry, and embarrassed by how badly she handled something at home. She has kept telling herself she should be stronger by now. But maybe the prayer she needs is not impressive at all.

Maybe it is just, “Jesus, I messed this up. I need help.”

That kind of prayer is not weakness.

It is where something new can begin.

We often think getting back up means becoming impressive again.

It does not.

Sometimes it means becoming honest.

Peter’s restoration was not about returning him to the confident man who had once insisted he would never fall. That version of Peter had already been exposed.

Jesus was building something deeper.

Peter would eventually become courageous, but it would not be the same kind of courage. It would come from knowing what happened when he relied too much on himself.

There is a humility that only comes after you have been wrong about your own strength.

And that humility can be a gift.

You may become more careful with your words because you remember the time you hurt someone.

You may become more compassionate toward somebody struggling because you remember how easily you once stumbled.

You may become more dependent on prayer because you know what happens when you try to carry everything alone.

That is not living in the past.

That is letting the past teach you without letting it own you.

There is a difference between remembering and remaining.

You can remember what happened without remaining there.

You can remember the mistake without returning to the shame.

You can remember the person you used to be without believing that is the only person you are capable of becoming.

Jesus does not ask you to erase your story.

He asks you to follow Him with it.

There may always be parts of your life you wish had happened differently. Some consequences do not disappear just because you learned the lesson. Some relationships cannot be repaired exactly as they were. Some opportunities really are gone.

Faith does not require pretending otherwise.

But losing one opportunity does not mean God has no more opportunities.

A broken relationship does not mean you are incapable of loving people well.

A season of bad decisions does not mean every future decision will be bad.

And a failure in your faith does not mean Jesus has stopped calling you forward.

Peter’s life proves that.

The man who denied Jesus became a man who spoke about Him openly.

His failure remained part of his story, but it stopped being the headline.

Maybe that is what you need to let happen in your own life.

You do not have to keep leading with the worst thing you ever did.

You do not have to keep introducing yourself to tomorrow with yesterday’s name.

If you have repented, learned, grown, and allowed God to work on you, then it is okay to move forward.

Actually, there comes a point when moving forward becomes part of obedience.

Because there is work in front of you.

There are people you have not met yet.

There are conversations you have not had yet.

There are ways God can use what you learned to help somebody who is standing where you once stood.

But you will miss some of that if you keep asking the past for permission.

Peter did not spend his life apologizing for being Peter.

He followed Jesus.

That is what you can do too.

You may still have days when the old memory comes back.

When it does, you do not have to fight with it for hours.

You can simply say, “Yes, that happened. I learned from it. God met me there. And I am not living there anymore.”

Then keep going.

The saying is that it is not how many times you fall, but how many times you get back up.

I think Jesus gives that saying deeper meaning.

Getting back up is not about proving how tough you are.

It is about trusting that grace can still reach you on the ground.

It is about believing that failure can teach you without naming you.

It is about accepting that Christ can restore a person who disappointed himself.

And it is about understanding that your next faithful step still matters, even after a bad one.

So if you have fallen, get back up.

Not because what happened was small.

Not because it did not matter.

Get back up because Jesus is bigger than the moment that knocked you down.

Get back up because shame was never meant to become your home.

Get back up because the person you were in your weakest moment does not have to be the person you remain.

And get back up because Peter did.

Jesus met him there.

He restored him.

Then He gave him somewhere to go.

He can do the same with you.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Explore the complete Douglas Vandergraph Master Index: https://douglasvandergraph.com/douglas-vandergraph-master-index/

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

Learn how to follow Sightless Scribbles here

Investigating the IP Relay Shutdown

Syndicated via Sightless Scribbles

Learn how to follow Sightless Scribbles here

For most of the industrial era, the professional was the worker technology could not reach. The factory hand could be replaced by a machine, the clerk by a spreadsheet, the switchboard operator by a network of relays. But the radiologist reading a shadow on a scan, the litigator sensing which argument would land with a particular judge, the structured-finance banker who knew instinctively that a deal was wrong before she could say why — these people were protected by something more durable than a job title. They were protected by the illegibility of their own expertise. Their judgement lived in a place no employer could copy and no algorithm could reach: inside their heads, accumulated over decades, most of it never written down because most of it could not be.

That protection is now being dismantled, and the striking thing is who is dismantling it. It is not being taken from the experts by force. It is being bought from them, by the hour, and a growing number of them are selling.

In June 2026, The Hollywood Reporter documented the entertainment-industry version of this trade: writers, editors, and development executives, squeezed out of a contracting film and television market, taking gigs through AI training platforms to correct model outputs and teach the systems to better imitate human creative judgement. That story is real, and it is wrenching, and it has been told. But it is the visible tip of something much larger and, for the professional classes, far more consequential. The same platforms that recruit out-of-work screenwriters are recruiting doctors, lawyers, bankers, and software engineers — the people whose expertise was supposed to be the last thing a machine could learn — and paying them, in some cases north of a hundred pounds an hour, to hand it over. This is not a story about creatives. It is a story about what happens to the entire idea of expertise when the cheapest way to automate a profession turns out to be to hire it.

The moat was always tacit

To understand why this moment is genuinely new, you have to understand why economists spent two decades believing it could not happen.

In 2003, the labour economist David Autor, together with Frank Levy and Richard Murnane, published what became one of the most influential papers on technology and work of its generation. Its argument, distilled, was that computers are good at tasks that can be reduced to explicit rules and bad at everything else. Routine work — the kind you can specify step by step — was exposed to automation. Non-routine work that depended on judgement, pattern recognition, and tacit understanding was safe, because you could not write down the rules for it in a form a machine could follow. The whole edifice of professional employment sat comfortably on the safe side of that line. A doctor's diagnostic intuition, a lawyer's sense of a case, an engineer's feel for a system — these were the paradigm cases of work that resisted codification.

The intellectual root of that idea is older still. In 1966 the philosopher and chemist Michael Polanyi coined the phrase that has haunted every attempt to automate skilled work since: “We know more than we can tell.” Polanyi's point was that the most valuable human knowledge is precisely the knowledge we cannot fully articulate — the surgeon's hands, the taster's palate, the reader's ear. You can watch a master at work for years and still not be able to reduce what they do to a manual. Tacit knowledge, by definition, escapes the rulebook.

For two hundred years, this was the professional's moat. Expertise commanded a premium because it was scarce, and it was scarce because it could not be transferred except slowly, expensively, and through human beings — apprenticeships, residencies, pupillages, the long grind of watching someone who already knew. You could not download a career. You had to grow one.

Reinforcement Learning from Human Feedback is, at its core, a machine for defeating Polanyi's paradox — not by finally writing down the rules, but by routing around the need to. The insight underneath RLHF is that you do not have to articulate tacit judgement in order to capture it. You only have to elicit it, over and over, at scale. Show the expert two outputs and ask which is better. Show a proposed diagnosis and ask where it goes wrong. Present a contract clause and ask the lawyer to flag the liability the model missed. The expert cannot tell you the rule, but the expert can tell you, reliably, which answer is correct — and if you gather enough of those judgements, a statistical system can infer the shape of the rule from the pattern of the choices. The tacit is made legible not by description but by demonstration, one graded example at a time.

This is the quiet conceptual violence at the heart of the story. The very quality that made expert judgement safe from automation — its resistance to being written down — turns out not to matter, because the machine never needed the rulebook. It needed the expert's verdicts. And the expert, it turns out, will supply those verdicts for a day rate.

Displacement by participation

Set this against every previous wave of technological displacement and the difference is not one of degree but of kind.

When the power loom displaced the handloom weaver, the machine did not first apprentice itself to the weaver. When the spreadsheet displaced legions of bookkeepers, it did not pay them by the hour to teach it double-entry accounting. The classic pattern of automation is substitution from the outside: a capability is built by engineers, deployed by capital, and it renders a class of workers redundant whether or not those workers participate. Their expertise is not extracted; it is simply made irrelevant. There is something almost clean about it. The weaver owed the loom nothing.

What is happening now inverts that logic. The system cannot be built from the outside, because the capability it needs — expert judgement in medicine, law, finance, screenwriting — does not exist in any codified form for the engineers to programme. It exists only inside the experts. So the only way to build the system is to bring the experts inside the process and pay them to externalise what they know. The displacement does not happen despite the worker's participation. It happens through it. The worker is not a bystander to their own obsolescence; they are, functionally, its supplier.

This is the structural novelty worth naming precisely, because it changes the moral and economic character of the whole arrangement. Call it displacement by participation. The expertise is not eliminated; it is transferred. And the transfer is voluntary in the narrow sense that no one is holding a gun to the physician moonlighting on a medical-reasoning dataset, and coerced in the broader sense that a great many of the people doing this work have arrived at it because the market for their primary expertise has already thinned beneath them, or because they can see it thinning and are hedging.

The screenwriter Ruth Fowler described exactly this hedge in a personal essay for Wired in the spring of 2026, writing about turning to AI training work because entertainment jobs had dried up and she needed cash for rent and groceries. The drying up is measurable: employment in the US motion picture and sound recording industries fell 28 per cent between July 2022 and May 2026, from 450,000 jobs to 326,000, according to Bureau of Labor Statistics figures compiled by The Guardian. Another veteran writer, quoted in the reporting on the same phenomenon, described the psychological texture of the work as something akin to a crazymaking standardised test — hour after hour of grading a machine's attempts at the thing you used to be paid to do, telling it where it went wrong, watching it get imperceptibly better on your instruction. The creative version of the story is the one that has broken through, because creative pain photographs well. But the same transaction, conducted more quietly and at higher rates, is now running through the professions that the middle class has spent a century treating as safe harbours.

The going rate for a career

The marketplace that has industrialised this transfer is best embodied by a single company. Mercor, founded in 2023 by three entrepreneurs then in their early twenties, began life as an AI-powered hiring platform and pivoted, when it discovered where the money was, into something more consequential: a broker of human expertise for the AI labs. It now connects a roster of specialists to companies including, according to legal filings, OpenAI and Anthropic, who pay for the expert feedback that trains their models. Meta was on that list until March 2026, when a supply-chain attack on the open-source LiteLLM package was used to lift some four terabytes of data from Mercor, exposing the personal details of more than 40,000 contractors along with proprietary source code and the training methodologies of its clients. Meta paused its work with the company indefinitely; OpenAI said it was investigating but kept its projects running. The contractors were not consulted about any of it, which is a fair measure of how much control the people supplying the material retain over anything drawn from them. In October 2025 the company raised $350 million in a Series C round, quintupling its valuation in eight months to roughly $10 billion. By July 2026 it was in talks again, this time at a valuation of about $20 billion — a doubling in nine months — on an annualised revenue run rate that had crossed $2 billion after doubling in four; in August, Nvidia was reported to be weighing participation. As of early September the round had not been confirmed closed.

The composition of Mercor's workforce is the part that should arrest anyone who still believes expertise is a fortress. The company has said it has more than 30,000 experts on its books, paid on average over $85 an hour, with the firm distributing more than $1.5 million to contractors every day. A proposed class action filed in a Texas federal court in May 2026, White v. Mercor.io Corp., describes that workforce with useful specificity: it includes physicians, attorneys, bankers, and software engineers. Reporting on the sector puts the rate bands into focus — physicians commanding somewhere in the region of $130 to $170 an hour on some platforms, lawyers around $110 to $130, with the highest specialist tiers in medicine, law, and finance reportedly reaching several hundred dollars an hour. The Hollywood Reporter, covering the creative end of the same market, noted writers earning up to $44 an hour and music professionals with advanced degrees up to $100.

Read those numbers as an outsider and they look generous — a good hourly wage for skilled remote work. Read them as an economist and they describe something stranger: the spot price of a profession's accumulated judgement, quoted by the hour, with no premium for the decades it took to acquire. A physician's diagnostic intuition, built through medical school, residency, and years of practice, is being purchased at a rate that does not distinguish it from the labour that produced it — because the buyer does not want the career. The buyer wants the verdicts the career produces, in sufficient volume to train them out of the physician.

Why is this the cheapest path to capability? The answer lies in the changing internal economics of building a frontier model. For most of the deep-learning era, the dominant cost was pre-training — pouring the scraped text of the internet through ever-larger networks. But the internet's supply of high-quality text is finite and largely exhausted, and the frontier has shifted to what the labs call post-training: the reinforcement and refinement that turns a fluent but directionless model into one that reasons, follows instructions, and gets specialist questions right. By industry estimates, post-training has grown from a small fraction of a frontier model's compute budget a few years ago to something like a fifth or a quarter of it today, and the human data feeding that stage has become one of the most contested inputs in the industry. Individual frontier labs are reported to be spending on the order of a billion dollars a year on human training data.

Here is the economic crux. A judgement rendered by a domain expert — the correct diagnosis, the right objection, the flawed clause caught — is worth a great deal to a model precisely because it is scarce and hard to synthesise. A single well-designed expert contribution can be worth more to a training run than a hundred cheap, generic labels, because it carries information the model cannot get anywhere else. Against the cost of the alternative — building genuine medical or legal capability by some other means, if such a means even exists — a hundred-odd pounds an hour for the real thing is not expensive. It is a bargain. The displaced expert is cheap not because their expertise is worth little, but because, at the moment of the transaction, they have very little bargaining power and the buyer has a great deal. Their profession is contracting; the platform has thirty thousand alternatives; the contract is short; the rate is take-it-or-leave-it. The expertise is priceless and the expert is disposable, and the gap between those two facts is exactly where the valuation lives — and why the number keeps doubling.

What the expert takes home

Which brings us to the question the day rate is designed to make you stop asking: beyond the money for the hours worked, what does the expert actually receive?

Consider what the transaction transfers, and what it does not return. The expert supplies the most refined product of their working life — judgement that took decades and considerable expense to acquire. That judgement is distilled into a reward model and folded into a system that can be copied infinitely, never tires, never retires, and is being marketed, in many cases, into the very market the expert came from. In exchange, the expert receives payment for the hours they sat at the keyboard, and nothing else. No equity in the model their judgement helped build. No residual when that model is licensed to a hospital network or a law firm. No attribution, because their contribution is deliberately dissolved into a statistical aggregate that bears no one's name. No ongoing claim of any kind. The relationship terminates the moment the invoice is paid, but the value they contributed does not terminate — it compounds, on the balance sheet of someone else.

This is a profoundly different bargain from the ones the more organised corners of skilled labour have fought for. When SAG-AFTRA struck in 2023, one of its central demands concerned digital likeness: the principle that if a studio wanted to scan a performer and reuse their image, the performer was owed consent and continuing compensation, not a one-time buyout. The Writers Guild won terms ensuring that AI could not be credited as a writer or used to erode writers' pay. Those frameworks are imperfect and contested, but they share a premise — that when your enduring professional essence is captured and reused, you retain a stake in it. The RLHF expert retains nothing. The structure is closer to a buyout than a licence, except that in a buyout you at least know you are selling the asset. Here the asset is your judgement, the sale is disguised as an hourly gig, and the thing being bought is your future competitive position, sold at the price of your present hour.

The conditions surrounding the work make the imbalance starker. The White v. Mercor complaint alleges that the company controls its experts' hours and weekly availability, sets their pay rates, trains and supervises them, offboards those who underperform, and monitors their work through a mandatory screen-tracking application — the indicia, the plaintiff argues, of employment rather than the independent contracting under which the workers are classified. Misclassification, if proven, means no benefits, no employer pension contribution, no protections. Layered on top are the non-disclosure agreements that the reporting describes as standard across the sector, which prevent workers from discussing their clients or, in many cases, even acknowledging what they are building. And when disputes arise, arbitration clauses frequently keep them out of open court. The worker contributes the crown jewels of their profession and receives, in return, a wage, a surveillance app, a gag, and a waiver of the right to sue in public. It is difficult to design a transaction that more efficiently separates a person from the value they create.

None of this is to say the experts are foolish for taking it. The individual calculation is often unanswerable: the rate is real, the bills are real, and the model will be trained with or without any particular physician's participation. That is precisely the logic of a collective-action problem. Each expert, acting rationally alone, has every reason to take the gig. All experts, acting together, are underwriting the erosion of the scarcity that gave their expertise its value in the first place. The tragedy is not that any one of them is making a mistake. It is that there is currently no mechanism through which they could make a different choice together.

The reasoning frontier and why expert judgement became the prize

It is worth pausing on why expert feedback specifically has become so valuable so suddenly, because it explains why the professions, and not just the arts, are now in the frame.

The generation of models that dominated the early 2020s were, for all their fluency, generalists trained to sound plausible. The competitive frontier since has moved decisively towards reasoning — models that can work through a multi-step medical differential, construct a legal argument, or debug a complex system, and get the answer verifiably right. Reasoning capability is far harder to bootstrap from scraped internet text, because the internet is full of confident wrong answers and thin on the rigorous, step-by-step expert working that distinguishes a correct chain of reasoning from a persuasive but flawed one. To train a model to reason like a specialist, you need examples of specialists reasoning correctly, graded by other specialists who can tell the difference. That is a resource the open web does not contain in sufficient quantity or quality. It exists only in the heads of practitioners.

This is why the labs have moved from crowdsourced labelling to credentialed expertise, and why the going rate for a board-certified physician's feedback has climbed so far above the rate for generic annotation. The scarcer and more consequential the judgement, the more it is worth as training signal — and the more the profession that monopolised that judgement has to lose by dispensing it. The economics reward exactly the extraction that is most damaging to the expert. A profession's tacit knowledge is simultaneously its collective inheritance and, on these platforms, its most liquid asset, sold off one graded example at a time by whichever of its members most needs the cash this month.

There is a grim elegance to the sequencing. First, a profession's public output is scraped without consent to build the base model. Then, when that model proves fluent but unreliable at the hard specialist judgements, the profession's living members are hired to supply the judgements the scraping could not capture. The first act took the profession's past; the second act rents its present; and the intended product of both is a system that competes for its future. The experts are being asked to close the one gap the machine could not close on its own — and that gap was their moat.

The problem of the last cohort

Every profession renews itself through a formation process that cannot be shortcut. A doctor is made through years of supervised practice on real patients under the eyes of senior clinicians. A lawyer is made through pupillage, clerkship, the slow accretion of cases. An engineer learns which textbook solutions fail in the field by watching them fail, alongside someone who has seen them fail before. Tacit knowledge, being tacit, can only be transmitted through immersion in the doing. This is expensive and slow, and it is the mechanism by which each generation of experts equips the next.

The experts currently selling their judgement to the training platforms were formed under those conditions. Their intuition was cultivated inside functioning professions with abundant entry-level work, mentorship, and the volume of real practice that turns knowledge into instinct. They are, in effect, a reservoir of judgement filled by an institutional apparatus that assumed the demand for that judgement would continue.

Now trace the feedback loop forward. If the models trained on this cohort's judgement succeed in performing the routine specialist work — the first-pass diagnosis, the standard contract review, the initial financial model — they will absorb precisely the entry-level and mid-tier tasks through which the next cohort of experts would have been formed. You do not become a senior radiologist without first reading ten thousand ordinary scans. You do not develop a lawyer's judgement without first grinding through the routine matters that a capable model may soon handle more cheaply. Remove the bottom rungs of the ladder and you do not merely make life harder for juniors; you sever the mechanism by which senior expertise is produced at all.

This is the deeper structural problem the professional version of the story exposes, and it is distinct from any worry about the quality of a given model's output. The judgement being harvested through expert RLHF is, in an important sense, non-renewable under the conditions the harvesting creates. The models are drawing down a stock of tacit professional knowledge that was accumulated under an apprenticeship system their own success threatens to hollow out. A profession can run for a while on its inherited stock of expertise. It cannot run indefinitely on a stock it has stopped replenishing, and the experts feeding the machine today may be the last cohort formed the old way — the last generation whose judgement was grown rather than inferred. What replaces them, if the ladder is pulled up behind them, is a genuinely open question, and none of the platforms brokering the trade have any reason to answer it.

Treating expertise as labour

If the diagnosis is that experts are being paid a day rate to transfer an asset worth vastly more than the day rate, the responses fall into a few families, none sufficient alone, all more plausible together.

The first is legal reclassification, and it has already produced its first answer. In McKinney v. Scale AI, Inc., in the San Francisco Superior Court, Scale AI agreed to pay $12.5 million to settle claims of misclassification and unpaid wages covering everyone who worked as a Contributor for Scale, Smart Ecosystem, or through HireArt while resident in California between 10 December 2020 and 28 February 2026. The settlement has only preliminary approval and, as settlements do, admits no liability, so it binds no future court. What it sets is a price. The White v. Mercor suit and a parallel action against Surge AI now put the same question — contractors, or employees in all but name? — to defendants who have watched a competitor pay eight figures rather than argue it out. If the courts find that a platform which dictates hours, monitors screens, sets rates, and offboards underperformers is running an employment relationship, the economics of the entire expert-data market shift: benefits, protections, and a higher floor follow. Reclassification will not, on its own, give the expert a stake in the model. But it would end the pretence that supplying the training signal for a hundred-billion-dollar industry is a casual side gig deserving of casual treatment.

The second family is the idea, older than the current boom, that data extracted from people is a form of labour and should be compensated and governed as such. In 2018 Jaron Lanier and the economist Glen Weyl set out the framework they called data dignity, or “data as labour,” arguing that people whose data powers digital systems are owed both compensation and collective bargaining power over its use. Their proposed vehicle was the mediator of individual data — an intermediary, something between a union and a data trust, that would negotiate on behalf of many contributors at once, because no lone individual has leverage against a platform but an organised bloc of them might. Applied to expert RLHF, the logic is direct. A physician alone cannot negotiate a residual on a medical model. Ten thousand physicians, bargaining collectively over whether and on what terms their profession's judgement may be used to train their replacements, are a different proposition entirely. The expertise that is worthless-per-hour and priceless-in-aggregate is exactly the kind of asset whose value can only be captured collectively.

That points to the third response, which is collective bargaining reaching into the gap where this work happens. The guilds and unions that won AI protections — the WGA at the studios, SAG-AFTRA on digital likeness — negotiated the relationship between workers and the employers who hire them directly. The RLHF market sits deliberately outside those relationships, in a jurisdictional vacuum where the writer training a model is not, technically, working for any studio, and the physician grading medical outputs is not, technically, practising medicine. Professional bodies — medical associations, bar associations, engineering institutions — have so far treated AI mostly as a question of tools and liability. They have not yet grasped that their members' collective judgement is now a traded commodity, or that they might have standing to govern its trade. A bar association that can discipline how a lawyer practises could, in principle, take a view on the terms under which lawyers sell their judgement to train systems that will compete with lawyers. None yet has.

The fourth response is structural and speculative: models of ownership that give contributors a durable stake rather than a one-off fee. A residual or royalty on the models an expert helped train. Equity, however small, in the value created. Data cooperatives that pool professional judgement and license it collectively on terms the members set, rather than letting a platform arbitrage each member individually. These ideas are easy to sketch and hard to build, and the platforms have every incentive to resist them, because the entire margin of the business depends on paying for the hour and keeping the compounding value. But that resistance is itself the tell. If a stake were worthless, refusing to grant it would cost nothing.

The last and least comfortable response is simply to see the trade clearly and price it accordingly. Right now the expert sells cheap partly because the transaction is disguised — framed as flexible remote work, a lifeline, a way to stay current in a shifting field, rather than as what it structurally is: the sale of a profession's future to build its replacement. An expert who understood the full nature of what they were transferring might still take the gig, because the bills are still real. But they would demand more for it, and the labs' billion-dollar data budgets suggest there is more to be had. The single most valuable thing the professions could do in the near term is refuse the framing that this is marginal work deserving of marginal terms. It is the most strategically important labour in the AI economy, and the people doing it are the only ones who can supply it.

The redundancy at the centre of the word

There is a bleak pun buried in the language here. To be made redundant, in British usage, is to lose your job because your role is no longer needed. But redundancy, in engineering, means something almost opposite: a backup, a duplicate held in reserve so the system keeps running when a part fails. The expert training their replacement occupies both meanings at once. They are being made redundant in the first sense — building the thing that will render their role unnecessary. And they are functioning as redundancy in the second sense — the human backup whose judgement is being copied precisely so that, once copied, the human is no longer required to keep the system running. The whole point of the exercise is to move the expert from the second category to the first: to extract the reserve capacity and then dispense with the reserve.

What makes this distinct from the century of automation that preceded it is that the extraction requires consent, and consent, in principle, can be withheld or conditioned. The loom did not need the weaver's cooperation. The medical model needs the physician's. That dependency is the one point of leverage the professions have, and it is closing — every graded example makes the next expert slightly more dispensable — but it has not closed yet. For this brief window, the people whose judgement the machines most need are the same people who could, if they organised, set the terms on which that judgement is transferred, or decline to transfer it on terms that offer nothing but a day rate. The economics that make expert judgement the prize also make expert refusal, or expert bargaining, unusually powerful — if it could be coordinated before the reservoir is drained.

The temptation is to end on the individual, to ask how the doctor or the writer or the banker should feel about grading a machine towards their own obsolescence. But that framing, again, lands the whole weight of a structural problem on its most precarious participants, and it lets the more comfortable parties — the labs with the billion-dollar data budgets, the platforms whose valuations keep multiplying, the professional bodies that have not noticed what is being sold from under them — off the hook entirely. The individual expert taking the gig is not the author of this arrangement. They are its raw material. The real question is not whether any given professional should sell their judgement to train their replacement. It is whether a society that depends on cultivated human expertise — in its hospitals, its courts, its firms, its studios — is content to let that expertise be quietly transferred into systems owned by a handful of companies, one hourly contract at a time, in exchange for nothing more durable than the hour. That is not a decision any single expert can make at any single laptop. It is a decision about what the professions are for, and who owns what they know. Right now, the answer being written, invoice by invoice, is that they know it only until someone pays them to hand it over.

References

1. Lesley Goldberg and colleagues, “Hollywood Workers Are Training AI Models as Job Prospects Grow Slim,” The Hollywood Reporter, 24 June 2026. https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/business/digital/ai-training-hollywood-writer-jobs-prospects-1236628302/
2. Ruth Fowler, “I Work in Hollywood. Everyone Who Used to Make TV Is Now Secretly Training AI,” Wired, May 2026. https://www.wired.com/story/i-work-in-hollywood-everyone-who-used-to-make-tv-now-training-ai/
3. “As Hollywood jobs dry up, workers are quietly training AI models to survive,” Digital Trends, June 2026. https://www.digitaltrends.com/movies/as-hollywood-jobs-dry-up-workers-are-quietly-turning-to-ai-training-to-survive/
4. Marina Temkin, “Mercor quintuples valuation to $10B with $350M Series C,” TechCrunch, 27 October 2025. https://techcrunch.com/2025/10/27/mercor-quintuples-valuation-to-10b-with-350m-series-c/
5. “AI startup Mercor now valued at $10 billion with new $350 million funding round,” CNBC, 27 October 2025. https://www.cnbc.com/2025/10/27/ai-hiring-startup-mercor-funding.html
6. “AI Startup Misclassified 30K Workers, Suit Says,” Law360, May 2026 (regarding White v. Mercor.io Corp., No. 6:26-cv-00201, N.D. Tex.). https://www.law360.com/employment-authority/articles/2475907/ai-startup-misclassified-30k-workers-suit-says
7. “AI Platform's 'Expert' Workforce Draws Misclassification Suit,” Law.com, 11 May 2026. https://www.law.com/2026/05/11/ai-platforms-expert-workforce-draws-misclassification-suit/
8. “Artificial Intelligence Firms Continue To Be Targeted for Independent Contractor Misclassification Claims,” Independent Contractor Misclassification & Compliance Blog, 9 June 2026. https://www.independentcontractorcompliance.com/2026/06/09/artificial-intelligence-firms-continue-to-be-targeted-for-independent-contractor-misclassification-claims-may-2026-ic-legal-news-update/
9. David H. Autor, Frank Levy and Richard J. Murnane, “The Skill Content of Recent Technological Change: An Empirical Exploration,” Quarterly Journal of Economics, 118(4), 2003. https://economics.mit.edu/sites/default/files/publications/skill-content-recent-technological-change.pdf
10. Michael Polanyi, The Tacit Dimension, University of Chicago Press, 1966.
11. Jaron Lanier and E. Glen Weyl, “A Blueprint for a Better Digital Society,” Harvard Business Review, 26 September 2018. https://hbr.org/2018/09/a-blueprint-for-a-better-digital-society
12. “What is data dignity?” TechTarget, definition and explainer. https://www.techtarget.com/searchenterpriseai/definition/data-dignity
13. “AI and Job Postings: From Destruction to Creation?” Indeed Hiring Lab, 8 July 2026. https://www.hiringlab.org/2026/07/08/ai-and-job-postings-from-destruction-to-creation/
14. “RLHF Explained: How Human Feedback Trains AI Models in 2026,” Decode the Future. https://decodethefuture.org/en/rlhf-explained/
15. “Data Annotation for AI Labs: Recruiting Guide 2026,” HeroHunt. https://www.herohunt.ai/blog/data-annotation-ai-labs-the-recruiting-guide-2026/
16. “30,000 Professionals Are Training Their Own Replacements,” Metaintro, 2026. https://www.metaintro.com/blog/mercor-ai-training-white-collar-jobs-skills-2026
17. “Mercor: Unlocking Human Potential in the AI Economy” (Series C announcement), Mercor, 27 October 2025. https://www.mercor.com/blog/series-c/
18. ”'Digging the grave of my profession': the Hollywood creatives training AI to do their jobs,” The Guardian, 22 August 2026. https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2026/aug/22/the-hollywood-creatives-training-ai-to-do-their-jobs
19. Marina Temkin, “Mercor is in talks for a $20B valuation,” TechCrunch, 9 July 2026. https://techcrunch.com/2026/07/09/mercor-is-in-talks-for-a-20b-valuation/
20. “Nvidia Weighs Investment in Round Valuing Mercor at $20 Billion,” PYMNTS, 19 August 2026. https://www.pymnts.com/news/investment-tracker/2026/nvidia-weighs-investment-in-round-valuing-mercor-at-20-billion/
21. “After data breach, $10B-valued startup Mercor is having a month,” TechCrunch, 9 April 2026. https://techcrunch.com/2026/04/09/after-data-breach-10b-valued-startup-mercor-is-having-a-month
22. “Scale AI Misclassification Settlement: California Class Action” (McKinney v. Scale AI, Inc., S.F. Super. Ct. No. CGC-24-620481, preliminary approval 2026), King & Siegel LLP. https://www.kingsiegel.com/blog/scale-ai-misclassification-settlement-california-class-action/

Tim Green UK-based Systems Theorist & Independent Technology Writer

Tim explores the intersections of artificial intelligence, decentralised cognition, and posthuman ethics. His work, published at smarterarticles.co.uk, challenges dominant narratives of technological progress while proposing interdisciplinary frameworks for collective intelligence and digital stewardship.

His writing has been featured on Ground News and shared by independent researchers across both academic and technological communities.

ORCID: 0009-0002-0156-9795 Email: tim@smarterarticles.co.uk

Listen to the free weekly SmarterArticles Podcast

The day after telling my daughter about her grandfather’s death, she sincerely asked me, “Is Grandpa still dead?” I answered that he was, and reminded her that death is a permanent condition. Developmentally, it makes sense for her not to understand this seemingly obvious fact. On the other hand, do I really understand the idea of someone being gone forever? I know my dad is dead; I was there when he died. But there is still a part of me that wonders where he went. That part of me might still be looking for him, even though I know better.

My dad was not religious, or spiritual, and had no belief in any sort of afterlife. In line with his understanding of such matters, I cannot really allow myself to take comfort in the idea that he is out there somewhere, waiting for us. It would be nice to be able to, but it seems incongruent, somehow. I like to pretend that I am totally fine with the concept of death, that I simply accept that everything is finite, and I have a zenlike relationship with loss. This is, of course, a convenient lie that I enjoy telling myself. I’m like a preteen trying to convince the older kids that the movie we’re watching is totally fine, not too scary at all. I don’t even really believe myself, but I’ll put on a brave face no matter what.

The day of my father’s funeral, my daughter met a lot of extended family members. Living across the country, we don’t see them very often, and it was her first time meeting many of them. My aunt introduced herself to my daughter, saying “Your grandpa was my brother.” My daughter calmly replied to her, in the absolutely devastatingly nonchalant way of young children, “Well, your brother’s dead now.” If she had been older, or if she had been a more devious person, I would have wanted to shrivel up from embarrassment. But my sweet, kindhearted little girl was not trying to wound the great aunt whom she had met only moments earlier. Instead, it seemed that repeatedly pronouncing the factual state of her grandfather’s absence was how she was making sense of it for herself. Grandpa was here, I used to be able to talk to him, now I can’t because he’s dead.

Last year, our dog died. Ruby had been 13 years old and had also had cancer. I think this introduction to the world of grief and loss was helpful for my daughter, as she was able to begin to wrap her head around the concept of death, of someone being here one moment and not here the next. She never asked where Ruby had gone or any of the logistics of what one does with a dead dog. My daughter was sad, but accepted the information with a placidity beyond her years. However, a few months later, she found Ruby’s unicorn-festooned dog pajamas, a way we kept her warm in her old lady era. With true distress, my daughter cried, “Ruby left her pajamas here!” I explained that Ruby didn’t need the pajamas anymore, but my daughter remained concerned.

Do all dogs go to heaven? Do any dogs go to heaven? Is there a heaven to go to, anyway? While I don’t spend much time pondering the immortal soul of my late, beloved mutt, I do wonder if there is any way that the energy of those we have loved remains intact, somehow. Could I ever someday be reunited with a dog? Or a dad? Even in an abstract way? Are our loved ones gone, absolutely gone, when they die? Thousands of generations of theologians and philosophers and dudes on the internet have pondered the possibilities far longer than I have. The truth is that nobody knows, and the people who say they know are lying. So I’m left with tolerating ambiguity, something I don’t do particularly well.

I do believe that there is a wisdom to the frank acceptance with which my four-year-old approaches the subject of death. There is sadness, sure, but beyond that, loss is simply something to be taken in stride. We are here for now, and later we won’t be. We can talk about the people we’ve lost and the losses themselves without censoring ourselves too much. I can move forward after a loss without extensive, painful existential pondering. That can be good enough.

Recent events have shown me that when anomalous experiences such as mine, which are interconnected in a certain coherent and consistent fashion, reveal their names, relationships, and meanings to me over time and in no uncertain terms, I should pay careful attention. One lesson I have learned throughout is that these sorts of things cannot be judged and valued on initial impressions alone. Regardless of whether it is an unusually remarkable and obscure piece of jewelry, an enigmatic ancient Mesopotamian symbol, or a rather gross-looking entity inhabiting a human host.

It's rather incredible how new the world looks now that I've started paying attention to the things I once ignored. And I can never go back to not noticing.

#Intermundia #Anomalology

By D. Bowman Nomina Numina is a journal of reflections, moments, and meaning-making between worlds. Reply by email.

Yard work, today? I did move the big green bin around to the back yard this morning, but didn't start loading it. That'll happen on another morning, probably Tuesday or Wednesday. I've got early football to follow tomorrow and Sunday, and Monday should be laundry; we'll just have to see how the week develops.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.

Health Metrics: * bw= 226.97 lbs. * bp= 167/96 (59)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, toe raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates

Diet: * 06:20 – egg drop soup * 07:00 – 3 breakfast tacos * 10:40 – Mongolian beef, fried rice * 12:30 – beef lo mein noodle bowl * 16:10 – 1 fresh apple

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 03:00 – listen to local news talk radio * 04:50 – bank accounts activity monitored . * 05:00 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, listen to musc, nap * 10:30 – watching MLB Central on MLB Network * 12:00 to 14:15 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 14:30 – listening to Football Friday on 107.5 The Fan, Indianapolis * 17:00 – listening to the 1st hour of The Joe Pags Show * 18:00 – listening to college football, Villanova Wildcats at Louisville Cardinals

Chess: * 08:00 – moved in all pending CC games

Cute Snail and I hope this post is finding you well. Let us know how you’re doing by leaving a note in the comments, or posting a SNAIL-TASTIC message, finished color up or gifting story on our Padlet winter and holiday themed community gallery wall here.

In the meantime, below is a list of the winter and holiday coloring fun that Cute Snail and I have put together for all to enjoy.

The Cute Snail Fall Adventures Coloring Book ($19) - US Letter size, easy print anytime PDF format. Sustainable. Designed to be keepsake quality if desired. Includes 21 winter and holiday themed colorable pages – 10 with pre-written text and 11 with blank journal lines for sweet handwritten notes, quotes or affirmations. Also includes a list of pages organized by age, skill level and sensory kit friendliness along with printing notes and the personal “You Can Do Anything You Set Your Mind To” story about Juliet and Cute Snail’s creative art Journey. Best suited for classrooms, activity rooms, quiet spaces and those who love snails, smiles and unique, whimsical, offbeat one-of-a-kind original art finds. View or purchase from our Payhip store here.

Fall Themed Loose Coloring Pages – these are US letter size, and are available in an easy print anytime PDF format and can be printed at any scale you like. They are also 100% FREE to download from our Payhip store. New additions may be added to the lists below at any time. so subscribe to stay in the loop if you like. Also – more coloring pages with pre-written text are included in the fall coloring book.

Pages with Pre-Written Text (for those who need or prefer this style)

Cute Snail Fall Sunflower Garden Chat Coloring Page

Cute Snail Disco Ball Skateboard Back To School Coloring Page

Cute Snail Bright Day (Back To School) Coloring Page (sensory friendly)

Cute Snail Rainbow, Stars & Glasses (Back To School) Coloring Page (sensory friendly)

Cute Snail Bright Day (Fall Edition) Coloring Page (sensory friendly)

Cute Snail Rainbow, Stars & Glasses (Fall Edition) Coloring Page (sensory friendly)

Cute Snail You’ve Got Mail Coloring Page (sensory friendly)

Cute Snail Apple-y Sweet Learning Adventures Back To School Coloring Page

Pages With Blank Journal Lines (for including sweet handwritten notes, quotes or affirmations with your color ups).

Cute Snail Fall Sunflower Garden Chat Coloring Page

Cute Snail Disco Ball Skateboard Back To School Coloring Page

Cute Snail Comfort Food Fall Equinox Coloring Page

Cute Snail You’ve Got Mail Coloring Page (sensory friendly)

Cute Snail With Glasses Sitting On A Mushroom Coloring Page (sensory friendly)

Cute Snail Apple-y Sweet Smiles Coloring Page (sensory friendly)

Cute Snail Bat Snail Happy SNAIL-oween Coloring Page (sensory friendly)

Cute Snail Happy Thanksgiving Coloring Page (sensory friendly)

Fall Coloring Postcards – US Letter size, easy print anytime PDF print sheet format. Sustainable. Designed to be keepsake quality if desired. Each print sheet is 100% FREE to download from our Payhip store and contains one colored postcard and one coloring postcard. Can be trimmed down and gifted as one single card or two separate cards depending on your gifting needs. Postcards can also be used for decor ating and junk journal or decoupage type crafting as well. View and download them in our Payhip store here.

And speaking of professional wrestling, I saw a piece today about a wrestler who is having a hard time getting booked because they are a domestic abuser. They haven’t been convicted of anything—their former partner has just detailed the abuse, and people have been like, “this person is a piece of shit. I’m not booking them.” Plenty of pieces of shit continue to get booked in pro wrestling, so I’m not suggesting it’s some sort of piece-of-shit-free utopia. But it did strike me that this person has faced more consequences for their actions than most of the people who were friends with Jeffrey Epstein.

Indeed, while a lot of wrestlers who are pieces of shit are still working, most of them have lost their jobs at the promotions that offer the most money.

Sadly, this is not the case for Epstein’s pals. A LOT of them have faced absolutely no professional consequences for their association with him. (Though if you want a grim laugh, check out this post by former MIT researcher Joscha Boch about how very hard it was for him to have his association with Epstein exposed. The poor guy!)

Indeed, for many of these people, if you don’t search their name with Epstein’s, you won’t find any evidence that they ever knew him.

The press has tiptoed around this stuff—I don’t know their reasons, but they are timid about even saying people were associated with Epstein. Perhaps this is because they’re afraid of being accused of libel because of course just associating with Epstein doesn’t mean you broke any laws.

What it does mean, though, is that you’re a piece of shit. The good news about declaring someone a piece of shit is that there’s no legal standard. There’s no burden of proof. You just look at what you know about someone and go, “yeah, fuck that guy. He’s a piece of shit.” No legal proceedings!

We’ve done this before: even before his association with Epstein came out, we all pretty much agreed that Woody Allen was a piece of shit. Indeed, he’s such a piece of shit that his name was one of the least surprising ones to come up in the Epstein files.

Now, look, I don’t have time to comb through the Epstein files looking for everyone who ever met with him. But I did have time to search for Boston and Cambridge and see whose name came up.

There were a lot of familiar names whose association with Epstein has already been written about in the mainstream media and whose Wikipedia pages mention their association: Larry Summers, Joi Ito, Marvin Minsky, etc.

But Epstein met and corresponded with a WHOLE LOT of people in Boston and Cambridge, and most of them haven’t been written about. So let’s take a look, shall we?

There’s old pal Danny Hillis, my former employer, and professional smart guy currently affiliated with The Long Now Foundation and Applied Invention. I’m still the only person writing about his association with Epstein.

Psychologist Dan Gilbert, author of Stumbling on Happiness and still employed by Harvard University.

Geneticist George Church, also still employed at Harvard.

Mathematician and Geneticist Eric Lander, still employed by both MIT and Harvard.

Neuroscientist Ed Boyden, still employed at MIT

Tech Writer Linda Stone

Former MIT Media Lab researcher Caleb Harper, already disgraced for faking research results but not yet disgraced for his association with Epstein.

Tech bro Greg Wyler

Harvard Medical professor Ted Kaptchuk

Statistician Don Rubin, professor emeritus at Harvard.

General tech guy and Wolfram Alpha founder Stephen Wolfram.

I’m not saying these people should necessarily be fired. I’m saying that insofar as they are known for other things, they should also be known for being pieces of shit.

Again, you don’t need any kind of legal proceeding to decide for yourself, as I have, that these people are pieces of shit. Please do!

So shines a good deed in a weary world: seemingly alone out of anyone Epstein reached out to in Boston or Cambridge, Palm and Handspring founder Jeff Hawkins rebuffed Epstein’s efforts to meet up thusly: I will pass. Our research is published. If Jeffrey has read it and wants to discuss it then we can start with an email conversation. Jeff.

You know who else could have cut this wealthy perv off with a cold blooded email just like Jeff Hawkins? Literally every single person on this list.

This week's contributors: Lydia, Pépé Pépinière, Titi. This week's subjects: Crocs but Make it Corporate, Irish fashion and politics, Every Ghanaian is rich, Anemia and chicken livers, Babies born to anaemic mothers have smaller brains, and No more steaks at the Ecuyer

Crocs but Make it Corporate. So, can Crocs work for the corporate Accra girl? Absolutely—but style is the difference between “fashion-forward office girl” and “why did she wear that to work?” Wear them with confidence, keep your outfit structured, and remember: in 2026, the corporate wardrobe has room for personality. Pair your Crocs with: – Wide-leg tailored trousers + a crisp shirt for that “I have a 9 a.m. meeting, but my feet are still at peace” look. – A structured midi dress + blazer for a playful but polished corporate twist. – A matching co-ord set for effortless fashion-girl energy. – An oversized corporate shirt + pencil skirt when you want to mix classic office wear with a little rebellion. The Accra Reality Check: Between Accra traffic, long working hours, running between meetings, and those spontaneous after-work plans, comfortable footwear is honestly a luxury. Crocs give your feet room to breathe while still allowing you to participate in fashion’s latest “ugly shoe but make it cool” era. And in true Accra girl fashion, if you style it well, it can go from office desk to brunch without changing shoes. Comfort is no longer the opposite of fashion. The Accra corporate girl is wearing both. Irish fashion and politics. Irish designer Sarah Gallagher of the ‘Sarah Lorraine’ label is continuing her meteoric rise after being selected as one of the few people to showcase her range at Ireland’s Fashion Week later this year. She is already exporting her clothes worldwide and has her range stocked in shops all around Ireland. Her biggest endorsement is that Irish president Catherine Connolly has worn her designs on many occasions. Its range includes handmade stunning capes made from 100% Merino Wool from the well-known Molloy & Sons and lined with satin, sold across Europe, the USA and Canada. “I will be part of the ‘Irish Heritage Show’ which highlights sustainability, and this is really what my brand is all about-beautiful Irish tweeds and natural fabrics that speak to our rich and vibrant heritage”. What’s special? No favours, no political parties, the president just buys her stuff because she likes it. Do we have things like that here? The Donegal Blazer by Sarah Lorraine

Every Ghanaian is rich. Sounds wrong? You have a mobile phone, or you could not be reading this. Likely, you have a second mobile as well. Maybe you’re driving a car, or your brother or hubby has one. You have a TV. You paid for all these things, or they were given to you by someone who paid for them. Does that make you rich? Sort of. In the developed countries, things are a bit different. Hardly anyone pays cash for things; they buy on credit. So you choose your phone in a provider’s shop (say MTN, Telecel or AirtelTigo), choose a package of so many minutes a month and so much data, sign a contract, and now every month they deduct a certain amount from your bank account until you finish paying, say, for two years. After that, you need to renew your contract. The phone is now yours, but you still need airtime and so forth. For cars, it’s the same, but say over five years. In Europe, they really push credit sales because the hidden interest you are paying is way higher than if you borrowed from the bank. So they make a profit on the sale and a profit on the credit. So, are we rich? At least what we are holding in our hands or are driving around town is ours. And our Golden Stool? It is ours, and it was not decorated with stolen gold and emeralds like most thrones.

Anemia and chicken livers. If you are anemic you can try to solve the issue by taking blood tonic, but better is to change your diet into more iron containing food like kontommire and other green leaves and meat. Meat is not cheap, but chicken livers are, at 43 GHC a kg at Melcom. And easy to cook, fry 2 minutes on both sides, it has it’s own particular flavour and needs nothing else, not even salt.

Babies born to anaemic mothers have smaller brains. Boom. Still not worried because you feel ok? Read article in next issue.

No more steaks at the Ecuyer. (Ring Road, opposite Fire Service Headquarters, Osu, Accra) now commonly called, the French Restaurant is one of my favourites. it is near where I live, prices are reasonable and quality is quite good. And I enjoy their roofed outside terrace. I like their steak au poivre (black pepper steak) with haricotes verts (the long green beans), a very tender local beef fillet, better than the imported 5 times frozen stuff, and likely with less antibiotics as well, the local cows only get treated by the vet when they are almost dead. And local cow’s food is more varied than the “Agric cows”. That steak gives me my iron and my protein. The other day the answer was “today no steak”. So I ordered something else but later asked what the reason for the no streak was. Had everybody ordered steak and they ran out of stock? No, they couldn't get the quality they wanted. Ayeeko, better none than inferior.

Lydia...

Do not forget to hit the subscribe button and confirm in your email inbox to get notified about our posts.

I have received requests about leaving comments/replies. For security and privacy reasons my blog is not associated with major media giants like Facebook or Twitter. I am talking with the host about a solution. for the time being, you can mail me at wunimi@proton.me

I accept invitations and payments to write about certain products or events, things, and people, but I may refuse to accept and if my comments are negative then that's what I will publish, despite your payment. This is not a political newsletter. I do not discriminate on any basis whatsoever.

Je n'ai pas pu raconter : Tom était là aujourd'hui, il a fait ses exercices. Il s'applique, il est lourd, il est maladroit, il est trop grand, il est touchant. Il ferait mieux d'essayer le kendo, mais non c'est mon enseignement qu'il veut aussi longtemps que ce sera nécessaire il m'a dit. Apparemment il n’a pas de problème de visa. Je pense qu’il a beaucoup de tunes, ici ça aide fortement.

#dojo

Last year, I had the opportunity to travel south to an analog studio belonging to my friend, bkbirge. I didn’t know it at the time, but this awoke in me a desire to mix less and play more. I learned that intention and vision are audible if you visualize it and intend it. I learned that if I get it down sounding how I like it, there’s a lot less mixing to do. This is all good stuff. Not only do I stink at mixing, I don’t really like it that much. It stresses me out. It often makes me feel like I am trying to pay attention to a spoken conversation while reading a text on my phone. I don’t get much of either. While the music is going in the monitors, I might not hear what I need to because I am looking at some kind of readout. Stop the madness.

How do I do this?

Since that trip, I have been thinking about how to switch things up. I find myself with a hybrid mixing set up now. So, mixing isn’t the issue it was. I have been able to record with effects like compression and gate so that the track sounds the way I want, and I don’t have to spend effort repairing files. I’m really into all this at the moment. But it isn’t just with gear or mixing; it’s also a mindset in my songwriting.

What do songwriting and The Big Bang have in common?

I searched for “How to write a rock song” on Google and found a summary of most tips I’ve heard in various forms. Even the time signature of 4/4 is mentioned. The article discusses riffs, building a verse-chorus structure (some people call this arrangement), and making room for a solo. However, it doesn’t really answer my question. Just like The Big Bang, a song bursts forth and evolves over time, each set of ears, a new explosion. But what is the core essence of the original song? What sparked that initial explosion? Isn’t that what you’re aiming for—an explosion? Songs require elements like explosions and fires do. But it’s during the early stages, not the polishing phase, that the magic of song happens.

Relax, if you’re nervous, I know the answer, happy to answer it. It was just dramatic writing.

The message.

The explosion happens when message comes across. The explosion is receiving a message from the music. All it is. If your music doesn’t contain message, that’s probably worth looking into. It’s what folks want from music they like. Even if the message is have fun, or party on, or relax, or vote, if it speaks to them in song, that’s message. That is the ingredient I find lacking in scores of music I do not vibe with, message. You could even say intent. But it doesn’t have to be intentionally.

Think about liking a song for the first time, or the thousandth.

If you are vibing with a song, someone has learned your language and started rattling it off to you. It is a good feeling. And no one is even speaking! If you aren’t looking to provide that sensation for an intended audience, as a musician, you make it difficult for the audience to participate in your conversation. It is no longer about them, it is about you. You aren’t speaking their language, you are in yours. I am not saying that is wrong, but I am saying it’s not my message, personally.

Ideas are a commodity around here.

Before I feel like writing a song these days, I have to have an idea that makes me want to write it. I want the song to say something. For me, saying something means meaning something. If I am going to spend the effort on lyrics, playing all the instruments, getting with collaborators who do stuff better than me, spending money, practicing, working, I want the song to mean something to me. A message. A lot like a tattoo. You can see it, but this tattoo on my arm and Keri’s matching one we got at a vulnerable turning point together. We decided to stick it out with each other, to the end. And it’s been wonderful. Ideally, our songs are like that ink.

Fortunately, ideas are flooding me lately, and I am taking notes. I’ve talked before about creative writing exercises that help me a lot. I might start off with a letter I never intend to send. The person may be dead or gone from my life. I try to include atmospheric elements like stores, smells, and noises. I try to dig in myself for uncomfortable truths circling this person and own up to how silly I could have been, neglectful, hurtful, aloof, etc. After the letter is completed, I mine it for words and phrases. I likely have an idea because I dug. Digging usually digs up ideas. For me. This is just one kind of creative writing exercise I use often. There are loads of them. They pop up in Google.

Don’t skip the message.

I would not skimp on this step if I wanted to make an impact with music. Think of this step as shooting a bullet. Without it, you are throwing one. Give the listener something meaty to grab onto. Even if it is just you, this listener, give that to yourself. You deserve to have written a good song too.

Kelly Kintner, Editor, Producer

The Horses Mouth Magazine

The Kintners

Djembe Funk

College football will provide my Friday game of choice. The Villanova Wildcats are scheduled to play the Louisville Cardinals in a game starting at 6:00 PM CDT, and I plan to be listening to the radio call.

And the adventure continues.

We in the West are living in the midst of a jihad, and most of us don’t even realize it — because it’s a brand of jihad that’s barely a generation old. Islam divides the world into two parts. The part governed by sharia, or Islamic law, is called the Dar al-Islam, or House of Submission. Everything else is the Dar al-Harb, or House of War. It’s called the House of War because it, too, according to the Koran, is destined to be governed by sharia, and it will take war — holy war, jihad — to bring it into the House of Submission.

— Bruce Bawer, Surrender (2009)

Note: While certainly no ally of traditionalists and conservatives, Bawer certainly got this right. But don't take his or my word for it, read it for yourself in Reliance of the Traveler, a classic interpretation of Sharia Law. I'm glad to lend my copy to the curious. Do the work. Read primary sources, not the news.

#history #politics #theology

Conversely, the traveler’s exit road is one of motion and confrontation. He drives the very object of his grief back to the place of its making, using mobility as a mechanism for closure and eventual release. When these two perspectives collide over a simple kettle of water, the narrative shifts from a dispute about spatial intrusion to a shared recognition of human vulnerability. It is a reminder that the modern forces we often perceive as disruptions to our traditional heritage are frequently piloted by individuals carrying the exact same timeless griefs, histories, and traditions as our own.

If we are to successfully transform Ireland's communities, our policy frameworks must become as flexible and hospitable as Mary's kitchen table – capable of holding space for both those who need to stand fast, and those who need to move through.

The Campervan can be found at https://rvw.ie/the-campervan

Addendum

Temporal Friction and the Lived Experience of Governance

Transforming Ireland is the title I have chosen for a forthcoming series of the opportunities and the impact of the circular economy. And the Campervan is an experiment on how I might use fiction to illustrate those impacts.

In The Campervan, my aim was to look past the technical vocabulary of spatial planning and examine the human impact of what policy analysts call “temporal friction.” This friction occurs when macro-level regional development frameworks move at one speed, while the socio-emotional landscape of an established community moves at another.

Mary’s sudden exasperation – captured in her plea that “The Council should do something about it, it's not fair” – is a classic manifestation of this disconnect. To an administrator looking at a map or an infrastructure portfolio, the influx of mobile domestic tourism along our coastline represents a successful activation of public assets or a metric of regional economic diversification. However, to the resident on the ground, it can feel like a sudden, unmediated disruption of local spatial heritage and personal stasis.

References:

https://www.gov.ie/en/department-of-housing-local-government-and-heritage/press-releases/report-on-national-coastal-change-management-strategy-sets-out-long-term-blueprint-to-deal-with-future-coastal-change/

https://irishgeography.ie/index.php/irishgeography/article/download/1484/1194/6030)

This tension underscores a core finding in recent spatial analyses, such as the OECD Rural Policy Review of Ireland. The report notes that Ireland's highly centralized administrative structures often lack the “spatial differentiation” required to fully account for how local people actually experience change. When national planning goals; whether under the National Planning Framework or coastal management strategies; are handed down to local authorities, the system often defaults to regulating spaces rather than facilitating the community transitions within them.

References:

https://assets.gov.ie/static/documents/1f40d206-report-of-the-inter-departmental-group-on-national-coastal-change-management-.pdf

https://www.gov.ie/en/department-of-housing-local-government-and-heritage/publications/overview-of-planning-in-ireland/

https://www.oecd.org/en/publications/rural-policy-review-of-ireland-2026_d53ea78f-en/full-report/making-rural-policy-work-from-strategy-to-delivery_388f48d4.html

The story does not seek to arbitrate whether Mary’s desire for preservation or the traveller’s right to mobility is the “correct” use of the strand. Rather, it serves as an observation of a structural dilemma. If our evolving governance systems are to navigate the transformation of rural and coastal Ireland successfully, they must find a way to reconcile the swift, fluid movement of modern policy and tourism with the slower, deeply human timelines of the people who call those places home.

References:

https://www.oecd.org/en/publications/rural-policy-review-of-ireland-2026_d53ea78f-en/full-report/making-rural-policy-work-from-strategy-to-delivery_388f48d4.html

The Campervan is an exploration of perspective. When we debate community, local governance, and changing landscapes, we are ultimately debating how people adapt to the erosion of the familiar. This short story is an attempt to look at the invisible, internal boundaries we build when our outer world begins to shift, and how the “exit roads” we choose to navigate personal loss often mirror the ways we handle societal change. I hope you will indulge this departure, and as always, I welcome your reflections...

The Campervan

Oh George, there's another one o' them campervans outside the window again. I know how you hate 'em. Blocking out the view of the sunrise. Hiding us from the sea. I've a good mind to go out and give 'em a piece of my mind. Great hunkin' lumps of steel. They shouldn't be allowed. Mary finishes opening up the curtains and worries away with a small damp cloth at some debris an insect seems to have left behind. Kettle boiled, cooker on and a short while later she takes out a tray of breakfast and places it on an old cast-iron and terracotta table, midway between front door and garden gate; the centre piece of her seaside patio. She wipes the chairs and arranges the table. A brightly striped seaside linen table cloth and a posy of daisies in a small white vase.

Out again. – Yes cries Mary, makin' the best of it while we can. Summer never seems to last long. And when it does there's always them pesky mosquitoes. While flinging one arm in the direction of the campervan parked just beyond her gate. Mary notices a hold-all and a couple of cardboard cartons. Going away Maureen? – Oh, just to my sister's place for a couple of days. Mum and dad are coming to visit so we thought we'd all get together for the weekend. – Oh how lovely. It's aways nice to get together with family. How's your dad doin' now, any better? – Oh much Mary, they 'ave 'im on a new drug and it seems to be workin' wonders. – Grand. Give 'em all our best wishes. – Will do Mary. See you in a couple of days.

Mary returns to her breakfast, a brief conversation with George, and opens a book. The chapters glide by, the tide visits, the gleeful shouts of kids on holiday subside, and the evening and night pass by.

It's morning of the following weekend, and a small spider, comfortable in an upper corner of the window has clearly spent the early hours weaving and casting a delicate web. It scurries to conceal itself in its corner as the tread of Mary's feet announce her arrival at the window. She opens the curtain. It's still there George. Her shoulders slump. A sharp intake of breath and a long sigh. There's so many of them now, all up and down the strand. The Council should do something about it, it's not fair. This is our home, our sea. I know how you hate it George. She drags forcefully at the curtain and fails to notice the spider or its web.

She opens the front door. Better let the day in. Then I'll get breakfast as usual. – Alexa, give me some music. Modern music spills from a smart speaker on a mantlepiece. No No NO. Alexa stop the music. The music ends abruptly. Mary laughs and shakes her head. Great present George, but you really needed to set it up properly. Alexa play Local FM. – Soothing Sounds from Seaside FM, announces a voice from the speaker. Better. Mary mumbles, and hums and sings. She works seamlessly, as breakfast begins to appear. Tea and toasted tea cakes. I know she says, extravagant, but it's the weekend. And weekend is cleaning. After a lifetime as a working wife, it's a habit she just can't break. Work in the week, housework at the weekend. Afternoon arrives with dusting and vacuuming in the front room. It is rhythmically punctuated by glances through the window and scowls toward the campervan. Damned ugly things. Shouldn't be allowed. And the litany repeated. I'm gonna have to do something, have to do something Mary declared.

The doorbell rings. Followed by a couple of knocks. She looks up and through the window. Who could…. She switches off the vacuum, stows the handle and heads for the door. It's still open. A stranger. A man, tall, but a little casual. Not exactly a holiday maker, but not a door to door salesman either. He has a kettle in his hand. An ordinary hot water kettle. The council workers working on the sea defences used to come and ask for boiling water for their tea-break, but that was decades ago. Besides, he's got creases in his trousers, his brogues are highly polished and that's definitely not a council workman's shirt. He looks anxious, she thinks. Ah well if he's anxious, maybe I don't have to be. – Yes can I help you? – Oh please, he almost coughs it out. Yes, enquires Mary. – I've run out of gas. She repeats him, You've run out of gas. But this, more as a statement than a query. Well this is not a shop, I don't sell it here. His face turns pale, she traces the contours, she recognizes the anguish. He begins to turn away. Well what is it you want. She's surprised by the tone of her own demand. She tries to recover it and offers a smile. It works. He stops his turn and looks towards her. He raises his left arm, kettle in his hand. Water, hot water. – Mary almost laughs, his words sound just like a kettle when it's full of too much boiling water and it just won't pour. Oh, give it here. I'll pop it on the stove. She takes it from him and starts to laugh. But you didn't need to bring your own water, I would have given you some.

She beckons him to follow her into the kitchen and she places the kettle on the stove. Take the weight off your legs. She points at an unpolished beach chair. You should be comfortable in that, my George made it. Would you like a cuppa whilst you wait. – No, I shouldn't trouble... – Well you going to get one, I'm ready for my afternoon cuppa anyway. Mary busies herself tidying away the cleaning tools, arranging the table and making the tea. The man sits quietly in the unpolished beach chair. He seems to be a man practiced at waiting, like something has silenced him without warning, and the shock is slowly settling; so now all he can do is wait. In contrast Mary's cycling back and forth between the small domestic tasks echoes a train building up a head of steam. And I suppose that's your monstrosity out there is it? She points through the open door down the hallway, out through the front door, directly at the campervan. He half raises himself from the chair to lean and peer toward the van. Yes, yes I'm afraid it is. My wife and I bought it just under a couple of years ago. It's our retirement treat.

She looks directly at him. It's a damned monstrosity, is what it is. Huge hunkin piece of metal spoilin' the morning sun and blockin the view of the sea. You shouldn't be allowed. What were you thinkin'. Did you think we wus a factory and the view didn't matter. – Ah You weren't thinkin were you … thoughtless – spoiled our week that has.

Still staring at him, she blinked. He was struggling to speak. Dazed, he couldn't articulate. I, I. He began. Well you should think more. Softly this time, and passes him a mug for his tea, as she interogates herself. What's wrong with him, he's dazed – I wasn't that nasty. -So you bought the campervan when you retired? Where've you been? There's lots of gorgeous spots along this coast. George and I were avid cyclists when we were younger. Avid. Cycled all up and down this area. Sunday picnics and what not, You know the kind of thing. – Yes, yes, we would do the same. We had a tandem and a bit of picnic basket. It was great, sometimes on our own, sometimes with the club. Sundays were great back then. – Yes they were echoed Mary, adding If we weren't cycling we all used to play cricket or rounders on the beach. Great times.

So where's your wife now? Do you want to fetch her, I'll get another cuppa and some biscuits and we can chat. She watched the colour drain from his face and the contours of anguish return. She, she's not travelling with me now. His hands work their way around the mug. Mary watches, caught up in his demeanour; grip intense, knuckles white. He lifts the mug towards his mouth. And rotates the handle away from him, slowly as he gazes into the drink, looking, for something. We only ever came here. This spot was our first holiday in the van, last year. Oh we had a fabulous time. Revisiting all those old cycling haunts, and finding new ones, restaurants, café's, coastline walks. It was really really great.

Mary presses her question. So where is she now then, if you had such a good time? The contours grew deeper, the skin grew paler, the twinkle left his eyes as drops began easing slowly from them. It was. it was just after. Another stall, a splutter, a stutter and then. She died. Silence. A moment passed. Neither moved, neither spoke. So I thought I'd sell the van, but one, one last trip here, just to remember. Mary, without moving, without breathing, watched him grind to a halt. The tears and the shaking in full flow now.

I'm sorry about the view… She put her arms around him in the chair. Hush, hush she whispered, no need to be bothered about such things now. Slowly recovered. I must be going, I have promises to keep. – Are you OK to drive? Do you know where you are going. – Yes, Yes I'll be fine… Thankyou so much for your hospitality and again my sincere apologies. – Forget it, I mean it. She ushered him gently through the door and watched as he packed away and regained his composure until he was sitting ready to drive. Mary waived him away. She stood at the gate as the tide made its visit. Eventually she returned into the house and closed the front door.

Crossing the front room to the mantle piece, her hand extended forwards past the smart speaker which had now fallen silent, and took hold of a leather frame with the photo of a man, Oh George.

___

Further reading

A a note from The Essayists Notebook https://esy.ie/the-shared-landscape-of-grief

If you’d like to get new essays by email:

Back inside there was not much work being done. People were standing around near radios. When I first heard about what was happening I thought I was being told a joke. Sort of waiting for the punchline. After a few seconds I realized it was no joke.

Terrorism was not where my mind went. I thought it was a disgruntled airline pilot, maybe pissed off about something, and just fed up with life. A dramatic suicide. Until the second plane.

The world changed, and really not for the better. I type that with 25 years of hindsight between that morning, and this one. What can be said about the days, the months, the years between then and now? A lot I suppose.

I'm sure there are a lot of intelligent people out there in the world saying intelligent things about it today. And I'm typing this.

I remember right after, like within a few days, when we were being told, stop being so nice to each other. Get back to normal, and start buying things again. Get the economy back on track... or the terrorists won. The economy, man. The economy. Don't worry, we'll blow shit up soon. Just please, please get back to normal. That is all.

I didn't feel like that was the right reaction to have. It felt to me like saying, pretend that didn't happen. What then? What do I think the right reaction should have, or could have been? I don't know. Maybe figure out why it happened. Find the root cause, and prioritize fixing that instead of meeting the violence with more violence.

Don't most people (99%) on earth just want peace, and to have a good life for themselves and their families? A handful (1%) of shitty psychopaths have all the power and make life a terrible ordeal to suffer through for too many people. Stoking the fire of fear. Gimme, gimme gimme. Do this. Do that. Don't do that. Fear them. Fear us. Division. Distraction. Manipulation. Control. Endless conflict.

For fucking what? Is there an end goal those awful people have that is worth all this blatant neglect of our habitat, and all this death, destruction, division, hate, and ?

That's just fucking stupid. I'm out of coffee and out time. I know that I'm a dreamer. I got lost in the technocratic fantasy land in my mind where everything can be solved with diplomacy. Learning to work together, changing, growing up instead of blowing shit up, slaughtering each other, and destroying the planet.

by Roger Young

Let's just call it what it is: Kevin Fraser performs blackface with his character Gladys, has been doing so for a long while – which is what this “best” of tour is all about. You would think, since Schuster's films were pulled from Showmax in 2020 amid a review of racially insensitive material, that Fraser would read the room. In his defence, that's hard to do from Australia.

In a reel dropped today on his socials the standup influencer, promoting his South African tour, you know the South Africa he loves so much that he moved to Australia, brings out his old favourite Gladys for a paid spot for Amazon.

Gladys is Kevin performing his domestic worker for lols. He doesn't go full Schuster and put on the old boot polish, but he does do the funny black accent thing, so hilarious. See how backward my domestic workers have been, so lolzies.

Kevin sits on his couch expressing anxiety that the delivery driver is stopping somewhere. Traffic amirite? Lolz. The package arrives and Gladys, in her pink uniform and feather duster – cleaning up, LOLZ, peeks around the door. Kev opens his package. The doorbell rings again, who could it be? Gladys doesn't hear it because she's comically working with headphones on. Ah the worker takes joy in her work, how funny. But wait it's not just that she is enjoying it, she is waggling her bum, you know, like “the blacks” do it? Lolz. Kev really understands “the blacks”, he speaks Zulu you know.

Kevin brings Gladys her packages, so many packages, what could she possibly have ordered, such conspicuous consumption! Oh lol those funny domestics, all Kev ordered was a wagyu beef wrapped in lettuce, probably.

Gladys says, Amazon has something for everyone, Kevin. She means that Amazon has lawyers for everyone, from consumers in Australia being charged extra to escape ads they didn't sign up for, to the indigenous fighting for their land in Cape Town, to suppliers being locked into contracts so they cannot sell their products elsewhere, yay Amazon!

And then Kev asks the question, the real question, How are you going to get all of this home? Silly Gladys, SHE DIDN'T PLAN HER TRANSPORT! LOLZ! These domestic workers, so unable to manage their resources, what would they do without us? Kev then gives her a ride home, but she takes sooooooo long to do up her seat belt! Kev's time is IMPORTANT there is WAGYU TO EAT!

If only Gladys had all of this stuff delivered to her own home, does Amazon even deliver to wherever the fuck she lives? How irresponsible of Gladys, but you know, Yoh! Then Gladys says, Asembeni and the reel helpfully provides a subtitle to tell us what she means. KEVIN AS GLADYS SPEAKING IN ZULU, LOOK HOW NOT RACIST KEVIN IS, you at home might not understand.

Ever since the good old days of Pip Freedman, white South African men have used funny accents to make light of the habits and nuances of other cultures and peoples in South Africa, crossdressing always a bonus. It happens worldwide, but South Africa has a very rich tradition of it: Freedman, Uys, Schuster, Die Antwoord, the Cape Town Fish Market, Outsurance, Kevin “Amazon” Fraser. When comedians such as Noah, Taylor, Lottering, or Naraghi do it, they either work on an equal power dynamic, or they expose the power relationship, the absurdity of the dynamic. When Fraser does it, he entrenches stereotypes, entrenches power.

Schuster used to claim he was an equal opportunity offender, he mocked everyone regardless of how they felt about it, or whether they were able to answer back. Gladys is Mama Jack without the boot polish. A consumer-friendly racism performed to shill products for a company that rides roughshod over indigenous rights. Lolz.

It's only funny if you find “the blacks” to be funny as a concept.

Observational comedy generally works when it reflects the comedian's current experiences. Fraser would have such rich material if he was to examine how people who flee to Australia (or gated communities) perpetually misread what is going on back in South Africa. Because that's already funny.

Note: The wagyu bit is an assumption, because assumptions... lolz.

Now, I can finally live................

I thought if I could understand it all, I could finally put it down.

But my healing was never hiding inside the answers.

Maybe it was waiting for the moment I stopped asking the questions.

There are things I may never understand.

Conversations I will never get to have. Apologies I may never hear. Versions of the story that will always belong to someone else.

And now, I can live with that.

Not everything needs to make sense before I am allowed to continue.

Some things simply happened.

Some things hurt.

Some things changed me.

And some things I carried much longer than they deserved to be carried.

So I am putting them down.

Not because they didn't matter.

Because they did.

They mattered enough to become these pages.

But they do not get to become everything that comes after them.

And something did come after them.

I found a job.

I got a place of my own.

A place where my children and I could walk through the door and finally say,

We're home.

Those may sound like ordinary things to someone else.

To me, they are everything.

Because there were days when I couldn't see this life from where I was standing.

There were doors I knocked on that never opened. Times I heard no. Times I wondered how many more disappointments I could take before I stopped trying altogether.

But I kept knocking.

And that is something I want anyone reading these pages to remember:

A door can slam in your face and still not be the end of the hallway.

Knock on another one.

And another.

And another.

Cry if you need to. Rest when you're tired. Be disappointed when something doesn't work out.

But don't mistake a closed door for a finished story.

Keep trying.

Because sometimes life doesn't fall into place all at once.

Sometimes it happens piece by piece, so quietly that you don't realize you're rebuilding until one day you look around and see how far you've come.

I believe God has a plan for each of us.

I also believe his timing doesn't always look like ours.

There were things I prayed for that didn't happen when I wanted them to. There were moments when I couldn't understand why I was being asked to wait. There were losses I would never have chosen.

But looking back, I can see that the waiting wasn't empty.

I was changing inside it.

I was learning.

I was becoming ready for a life I couldn't see yet.

Maybe some doors stayed closed because they weren't mine to walk through.

Maybe some endings had to happen so there would finally be room for something new.

I don't have all the answers.

I don't think I need them anymore.

What I have is a job.

A home.

My children.

My faith.

And another morning waiting for me.

There is still so much of my life I haven't met yet.

For once, that doesn't scare me.

It feels like possibility.

So if you're reading this from a place where nothing seems to be working, where every door seems locked and you're wondering how much longer you're supposed to keep trying,

please keep going.

Your life can look completely different from the place where you're standing right now.

Keep knocking.

Keep believing.

Keep showing up for yourself.

Trust that what is meant for you will find you when the time is right.

And when that door finally opens,

walk through it.

You fought hard enough to get there.

The Torment represents the first real quest the players had outside of “the rooms” content in the campaign. It was the culmination of Uzo's bow curse intersecting with Zariel and new characters Elythos and Lurian, angelic lovers. Lurian becomes an incredibly important NPC in the campaign, though at the time of writing this questline I didn't really have any plans for him. I think I will start with the raw document I referenced for the questline, typos, half baked ideas and all. This was the first major quest document I wrote up outside the main Inbetweeners Rooms campaign doc. Note that some things were changed on the fly. In the next post I'll craft a narrative explaining what actually transpired and how it effected the story, but for now, the raw, unredacted version of, The Torment:

The Torment is a nickname for a prison deep in the lowest layer of Hades. A particularly vile Yugoloth known as the jailer runs the prison and delights in torturing souls over the course of centuries. In particular, the Jailer delights in angels and good aligned souls, but he takes all kinds. Uzo’s bow and curse are attached to a Crusader who has been trapped in the prison for centuries, impaled on a spike that constantly regenerates him so he cannot die and instead faces constant pain. There is also an angel named Lurian trapped here. The Jailer keeps Lurian alive and tortured for his own amusement, frequently locking him away in a box for years on end. Lurian’s lover and battle partner, Elythos, has tried to gather a heavenly host to rescue him but his superiors refuse to risk angelic lives pushing that far into Hades. As the battleground of the Blood War, they do not want to risk drawing attention of demon or devil armies as they clash.

Elythos uses the Deva stat block and Lurian uses the Planetar stat block, but will be heavily weakened if rescued.

Lurian- Planetar Statblock, starts at 70 hp and is severely injured, can heal himself or heal a group but doesn’t have enough magic to do both. Additionally may cast Sunburst once per day. His sword is summoned.

Getting to the Torment is not easy, it is located in Pluton, the lowest layer of Hades. The interloper can do it, albeit indirectly:

The Interloper- Can tear a series of portals through various portions of Hades that will lead directly to The Torment, but these portals are one way and may expose the group to many dangers.

The plot starts with Elythos arriving in the Grey Room and imploring for help rescuing his lover, Lurian. (What the group doesn’t know is that Elythos has promised his soul to Zariel in return for getting Lurian out, she tipped him off. He won’t be forthcoming with this). Elythos was given directions and an amulet by Cervi, who just wanted to stay out of it and stick around the afterlife.

At the same time, Xivora awaits in the market for Uzo. To the group, Xiv is an interplanar freelance mercenary. She uses the statblock of an Eyrines but with the following changes:

Xiv

-has Rope of Entanglement -Longsword is +2 Keen (crit 19-20) (gift from Zariel) deals 1d8 + 6 + 3d8 poison -Can cast firebolt as 13th level caster (3d10 fire damage or 17) as cantrip -Can cast greater invisibility once per day -Can cast dimension door once per day -Can shapeshift (only in Eiryines form or human form, and due to Zariel’s blessing the human form masks any detection magic of her fiendish origin (not from Angels though) -In dire situation, she can consume a soul in a jar, fully healing her but reverting her to her original devil form, permanently.

Group has to decide if they want to bring Xivora or Elythos- cannot take both. Xivora will tout her knowledge of the lower planes lending her to be a better guide. Elythos will admit less knowledge but can promise healing. If Elythos is chosen, Xivora will leave. If Xivora is chosen, Elythos will stay between the Grey Room and the Beeple Hive, monitoring the groups progress.

If questioned, Xivora will state she has been retained by Uzo to help lift the bows curse. In return for payment he will allow her to directly deal with the Interloper to seek further employment opportunities and the ability to travel like the group does. (Truth is she is working for Zariel).

-Interloper route will take them through at least 6 scenes in Hades. All portals are 1 way, including:

I- Bloodwar Battle

A grey dreary sky overlooks a grey wasteland. There is no color here– just ash, waste and death. The sound of thunder is in the distance but no rain. An abyssal army clashes with an army of devils. The demons are far greater in number, but their attacks are chaotic and unorganized. The devils fight in lockstep, and the group can do a perception check to notice some familiar pieces:

-The troops bear the mark of Zariel (burning wings)

– The destabilize spell is being used frequently against the demons. The abominations that form as a result are quickly put down with devil fire. They seem to have found a way to cast it en masse.

– Warped weapons are wielded by a number of the rank and file devil infantry. They miss often but when they hit they deal incredible damage. Also some of the weapons appear augmented with various abilities.

-Some demonic prisoners are being taken alive

– New spells are being used that have the interloper’s fingerprints such as a swirling ball of 4D blades that shreds through the enemies.

– Injured soldiers are being healed with the undo wounds spell and sent back to the field of battle. Occasionally one is instead instantly killed and turned into an undead creature that is promptly slain.

-Some war constructs are being used by the devils that bear the 4D markings of the Interloper. They blink in and out of existence like Dolly, stymying demon attacks.

The portal through is in the center of the pitched battle. The group can wait and hide or try to fight their way through. If with Xiv she will have them wait and be able to talk to any of the devils to gain free passage. Elythos will be attacked on sight. The battle will resolve relatively quickly with the devil army triumphing and annihilating the demon attack. They press forward, seemingly taking territory with a bliztkrieg speed.

_______________________

II- River Styx Crossing

The River slithers through the grey landscape like a gaping wound, its waters thick with ink-black darkness and the spectral whispers of lost souls. A sickly, phosphorescent mist clings to its surface, writhing in tortured patterns as if the river itself breathes in agony. Its banks are jagged and crumbling, slick with the ichor of forgotten oaths. The corpses of unidentifiable fallen horrors float downstream.

Portal is in the center of the river (about 300 yards). Xiv will warn them not to touch it, as it will require a Wisdom Save (DC 15) or wipe out all memories of the past.

A Merranloth can help them cross by boat. It speaks in a low whisper, and demands payment. The group will have to make an offer, but coin is of little use to it. https://5e.tools/bestiary/merrenoloth-mpmm.html

Without a Merranloth creatures will try to pull them into the waters. If they wait too long by the shore they may encounter random undead (Wights, Spectres and Shadow Demons are among the mix)

_________________________________________

III- Possessed Giant Massacring Yugoloths

Describe barren field where a demonic goliath is eviscerating Yugoloths in a frenzy. He seems to be enjoying himself a great deal. If they choose to interact, his name is Rungus, and he isn’t sure how he ended up here. He is very powerful (CR 19 Half Fiend Barbarian- use Drangus statblock) and generally friendly. He may even join the group for a bit but will wander off before the Torment. He is facing off against 3 Nycaloths and 7 Mezoloths, but there is the body of another Nycaloth and several mezoloths dead on the ground.

IV- Forest of Souls

A sparse forest with pale trees under reddish grey sky. The trees bark, upon closer inspection appears unnaturally fleshy.

The group will find harpies tearing into one of the trees causing it to bleed. The tree cries out with a humanoid voice in pain. The group will discover these trees can talk, only if they are bleeding. They can talk to as many as they want, but must cause injury to do so. The trees are souls of those who took their own life and were rejected by their gods as a result. The portal to leave is not immediately visible.

-The tree attacked by harpies is made from the soul of an impressed sailor who was forced to worship the drowned god. He took his own life after months of cruel slavery being forced to row and was punished by his new god and placed here.

Other tree ideas:

-Noble girl who killed herself to avoid marriage to a dreadful lord -Jealous lover who did it to cause misery to his ex -gnomish investor who lost his money in a bad investment -An elderly man who suffered from an incurable disease -A knight who failed his sacred duties -A wizard who lost his eyesight

There are multiple ways for the group to find the portal:

1- Free seven souls (each soul must either narratively be freed, blessed or destroyed) 2- Find one that doesn’t belong (Must specifically look for it, investigation or other relevant check 20) 3- Destroy enough of the surrounding ground to upset the forest itself.

Whichever one of these is done, one tree will be revealed to be fake. Within it is the portal, must slay a Yolocho to access it.

-Also, Uzo may start turning into a tree due to the curse

V- Yugoloth Market

Can buy almost anything here, but merchants will look to betray and rip you off and thieves and pickpockets are abound. Souls are the preferred currency but they will barter almost anything. Portal is uncontested here. Mercenaries that guard are loyal to the vendors that pay the most and care not what happens to the group.

-Tent where memories are restored (for a price) -Many merchants eager to trade in souls -A merchant will offer the group a free sample of “venom.” It creates a berserk like state for 1 minute (+1 melee attack, +4 dmg and attack rolls, +4 to strength saves, stacks with rage) but withdrawal afterwards is intense. Immediately afterwards disadvantage on any checks involving mental acuity. After a day get -2 to Cha/Wis/Int and a deep desire to have more venom. Addiction will naturally subside within a week or with a restoration spell immediately. Merchant gets you hooked and then sells more for a huge markup. -Mercs available for hire -Many spoils of the blood war -Recruitment posters for the blood war -A company of Giff are present, seemingly negotiating to be hired for the bloodwar.

(add pickpockets and guard statistics)

VI- Souls to Damnation

A massive soul barge is gathering souls floating around Pluton. The portal is attached to a spire on top of the barge (100 feet up) sending souls off plane. so it will need to be boarded or taken down. Xiv will tell you this barge was abandoned and co-opted by a renegade group smuggling souls. The barge will be full of Goat Demons and one really tough boss:

https://www.dandwiki.com/wiki/Dark_Tormentor_(5e_Creature)

https://5ecompendium.github.io/bestiary/creature/mehrim

The group will need to decide how to board the ship. They are on a ridge, but it is too far to jump. They can attempt to climb the ship, but it will require athletics or acrobatics check DC 17 to do successfully. Take 2d6 damage (half fire half physical) on each failed save. Flying is another option. Unless they make a lot of ruckus the group can sneak aboard.

See battle map.. The barge will have barrels with souls trapped in them that can be blown up, the souls will attack enemies nearby like magic missiles that deal necrotic damage. Each launches 3d6 missiles each dealing 5 necrotic damage, will spread out among targets, focusing on Mehrim first. Souls will not go near the Dark Tormentor.

The spire, while active, will deal 2d8 necrotic damage per round to anyone near it. It can be shut off manually via the ship but will take a few rounds to figure out how to do so.

This creature basically took over an abandon demon barge– unclear what happened to the previous owner but it has forced a small army of goat demons to man the ship as they collect souls and sell them offworld. The Dark Tormentor is relentless in defending its ship and delights in tormenting its foes.

VII- Palace of Forbidden Wealth

*Maybe leave this one out

Halls lined to the ceiling with mountains of gold, silver and valuables. The portal is simply on the other side of the hall. If the group touches the treasure though– it becomes something else entirely.

https://www.dandwiki.com/wiki/Great_Mimic_(5e_Creature)

Will get the attention of a 1d4 + 1 Driders who prey on the creatures caught by it.

_____________________________________________________

The Torment Once they reach the Torment Prison, they appear on a sky platform. Below is the grey/red glow of lava flows thousands and thousands of feet below them. They sit near the top of an absolutely massive structure with no windows. It is made of black iron and grey stone. Telepathically, the group will see the Jailer’s wicked grin and hear a message: “You should never have come here.” Everyone who has this vision will need to make a Wisdom saving throw or be temporarily overcome with fear until snapped out of it by a teammate. Uzo will not have this vision, instead, he will just feel a warm feeling like he’s coming home. If Uzo is wounded, his wounds knit. He is close. There is a large set up double doors, unlocked but heavy, made of black steel inlaid with tungsten. They look like they were made to withstand a bomb blast.

This long hallway has two doors at either end and two doors along each wall. These doors are heavy, metal prison doors with a tiny slit to see what’s inside. The floor is made of mixed red and black obsidian and the hallway is lit by an amber glow of long, meandering lines of yellow stone that seems designed intentionally to disorient. When the group enters, a prison guard (a wicked looking fiend with a distended jaw and a cudgel thrumming with red, static energy) laughs and opens the door to cell block 3 and then disappears.

The first cell contains a Flesh Golem and the door is not locked. The guard releases it upon the party and then disappears. The creature wails incoherently and seems stitched together from the parts of many different creatures, some humanoid and some fiendish. Upon killing it or stopping it, laughter can be heard. Investigation check finds dessicated bits of bone and flesh. High investigation shows the room appears that it can move, like it is on tracks.

https://roll20.net/compendium/dnd5e/Flesh%20Golem#content

A being bound in chains is suspended in the center of the room. A faint, weak voice whispers “help me.” Everyone in the group must make a wisdom saving through (DC 14). Failure and they will recognize the being as a loved one or ally. The door is not locked. If the group opens it and goes to undo the chains, the trap unleashes and they must fight a Chain Devil. Laughter will be heard upon the conclusion of the encounter.

https://www.dndbeyond.com/monsters/16822-chain-devil?srsltid=AfmBOooJKEVWLhrfTJ-sbhw_DY-b1qId9UGPJNAXR4yoxlG02GMwGhIb

A small child in an outfit of the wealthy but in a very outdated style is playing with a few toys carved out of bone. Perception revealed the child is very pale and not breathing. Her name is Lil and she will beg for its freedom and offer to help the group, even admitting it's a vampire if it has to. However, she may betray the group at the worst possible time. Her goal is to escape The Torment at any cost. She has a +1 dagger that deals 2d6 additional necrotic damage +2d6 healing to wielder in her possession.

https://roll20.net/compendium/dnd5e/Vampire#content

The skeleton of some sort of infernal creature is in this cell. Put some sort of treasure here if the group investigates. His bones are encrusted with gems. 3080 gold worth of gems if the entire skeleton is scoured.

When the group enters, they are beset by visions of prisoners being lined up against the walls by dozens of fiendish guards. Among them is a group of red skinned, brutish looking soldiers who are badly beaten. It looks like a new group being intaken into the prison. An angel stands out among them. Despite being bound, he manages to trip one of the guards and smash is head with radiant energy. The rest set upon him, bashing him with glee in their eye. Laughter is heard and then the vision ends. Uzo has a different vision, one of the Crusader being stitched back together by a surgeon, only to them be impaled on a spike covered in runes and suffused with dark magic.

Once the vision ends the group is in a similar hallway that can go north, south, east or west. Doors to north, south and east and a staircase is visible to the west.

This spiral staircase appears to go up and down quite a distance. As soon as one enters they lose sight of the way they got onto the staircase and are stuck to move up or down endlessly without making progress. Must make a check (wisdom or intelligence DC 15) to leave the staircase. Each failure gives a point of exhaustion or 2d6 psychic damage.

This room has a single massive mirror in the center. The first character to look in one will have to name their greatest fear. It spawns in the room and the group must face it, the doors disappear until it's done. The jailers laughter can be heard in the minds of the group. The other doors aren’t visible to the group unless they have true seeing or some other method or deal with the mirror. It shatters when the trial is finished. The door to the north is unlocked, but the door to the south is locked. (DC 25 to break down, DC 20 to lock pick)

Two mezzoloths guard the cell at the end of this hallway. They will say this hallway is off limits but the Jailer is eager to see them if they head north. They will fight to the death to defend the cell at the end of the hallway.

This is a small guard barracks. Two nycoloths and three more mezzoloths are in here and will join the two mezzoloths in room 10 if they enter combat. Loot includes 3 torment cudgels (+1 maces that deal 1d6 psychic damage, will make good aligned creatures nauseous) and a cooler full of a consume (fleshly liquid). If group drinks it it heals them. 12 servings, each heals 2d6.

Five figures are suspended in x patterns, nailed or chained to metal X’s. Three are dead and flayed, one is mid flay and the last is waiting and horrified. The beings are humanoid but with red skin, some race the group does not recognize. A Chasme (a massive, horsed sized insect with a giant probiscus and sickly blue chitin) is gleefully peeling away at the flesh of the being and will ignore the group unless interrupted. The one being tortured will be too weak to help unless healed, but the other one is okay and will join the group if freed. Use Ogre statblock but immune to fire. They were part of a captured merc group fighting on the side of a devil lord.

This door is locked, but one of the Mezzoloths has a key. Otherwise the door can be broken down or picked (DC 20). Lurian has been stuffed into a cage far too small for his massive, adonis like body. The cage is barbed and heated, and the barbs face inward cutting into his flesh in many places with trickles of golden blood pouring out. DC 15 strength to break open the cage if they don’t have the key, but will take 1d8 fire damage. His wings have been removed and nailed to the wall. A mirror faces him that shows images of the heavens burning and overrun with fiends. He will initially think the group is there to further his torture, but upon hearing Elythos name he will join the group. He won’t have a weapon and is incapable of flight, and will have only 70 hitpoints (instead of 200) due to his injuries. If provided a weapon he will fight for the group. They can also choose to have him heal himself or heal their wounds, but he only has 4 healings (30 hp each) (see stat block for Planetar).

This large room has skeletons/corpses on the floor in various states of decay. Magical wards will trigger music to pipe in from speakers in the ceiling as a toxic gas to release. The music acts as Otto’s irresistible dance on all players (DC 17) to snap out of it. The gas deals 1d6 acid and 1d6 necrotic damage per turn con save DC 17 each turn. There is door to the north, south (entered from) and east.

Fake treasure room with mimics and driders. The path forward is blocked by a wall of force. Nothing happens until the group interacts with the mountains of gold and gems piled along the walls. Turns into two mimics, with Driders showing up soon after.

Long catwalk over a seemingly endless chasm. Countless stories of prison cells go down and each is in a modular cube that seems to be able to rearrange through magical force. Fiends fly up and down tending to them but pay the players no mind.

Observation Room

The Operator waits here. He is impossible gaunt, pale skin that shows his blue veins throughout his body. Has goggles grafted to his face and wears a leather apron seemingly made from the flesh of… something. He constantly smiles and greets the group, happily explaining the operations. If they become hostile he will dimension door away but won’t fight. He will express how excited the Jailer is to meet them and point the way. He is also happy to show them some of the prisoners.

Pain is our currency

Suffering is legendary

Eyes aren’t needed to see here

The Torment has always been and always will be

Death is no escape

The angels and gods know we are necessary, they dare not tread here

The Observation room is a large room with a control console and seating, like a surgical observation room in a medical school. Everything is a sickly pale green marble color earily sanitized. The modular, cube shaped prison cells can be brought up here one at a time, releasing a prisoner into a glass chamber where ostensibly the “surgery” will take place.

The group can try to operate the console but it is all infernal and very difficult to understand (Int 21 or knowledge/arcana 25). They can use it to locate Lurian or bring up other cubes– just wing it based on what the group decides.

Path of the damned. The group hears tormented whispers of their own voices or voices of those they knew in the past, begging for help.

Thogg hears Cervi saying they got him in heaven and brought him here, and they took his eyes.

Domilia (if present) hears the Beeple queen saying they have the entire hive and are eating them.

Rotlog hears himself, begging for it to end.

Bruce hears the voice of his lover, gargling and begging.

Uzos eyes fill with black blood, his eyes are all pupils. In his mind he hears again and again “YOU ARE HOME” and with more certainty than ever he feels his entire life has led to this moment. He must fight.

Xiv will warn that whatever they are about to face will be really bad. Through grim determination she shows fear.

Lurian says the Jailer is ahead, and never has he met a creature of such malice and evil. It must be put down, no matter the cost.

The Blood Door. It says in Abyssal and Infernal The Blood of the Willing Makes Way for the Damned” There is a basin with nine arm holes full of blades. The group can put their arms in and it starts draining blood (1 hp/hit die per turn). Once it fills with 100 hitpoints of blood the door opens. Angel can’t help because his blood won’t work and Xiv can’t but will make up an excuse why she won’t to avoid blowing her cover.

Boss Fight- The Jailer

Jailer will get the first round since it knows players are coming. It may use “Help” action twice to spawn two flesh golems. See created image. It has various torture impliments in pockets along its apron.

The Jailer (CR 18- 20000 exp) AC: 19 (+5 dex, +4 apron (acts at magic leather armor) HP: 242 HD: 23d10 + 115 Speed: 40 ft Initiative: +5

STR: 18 DEX: 20 CON: 20 INT: 18 WIS: 16 CHA: 18

Saving throws: ability modifier +5 Damage Resistances: Immune to Necrotic and Poison

Can take 2 actions per turn from the following:

Hold: Casts hold monster (WIS DC 18) on a single creature Chain: DEX 18: 1d4 + 2 chains appear and attach into a player. Failed dex save and each chain requires a strength check (DC 13) to rip out and deals 1d6 +1 damage. Failed save ends turn. Player is considered grappled until this is done. Held creatures automatically fail save. Imprison: WIS 18- Player appears in a cell deep in the torment prison (cool down 6) Banish: Player is sent back to the grey room (WIS 18), Xiv or Lurian will go to Hell/Heaven respectively- use this to balance if fight is going wrong way Go To Work: Paralyzed Character is subjected to gruesome mutilation. Takes 6d6 damage and gets -2 cha until restored, regenerated, etc. Can only be used once per turn. Siphon: Paralyzed creature takes 4d6 necrotic damage and jailer heals that much Help: Abomination drops from the ceiling to aid. Statblock is flesh golem. Saw: Produces a hellish, spinning blade that does a melee attack: +9 to hit, 4d8 + 5 (23 dmg) Move: Teleports to another place in the arena.

Desperation: Upon dropping below 100 hitpoints, the Jailer goes up to 3 actions per turn.

Defeating the Jailer will cause a prison cube to open up on a nearby wall with Uzo’s impaled prisoner. Upon destroying the spike the soul is released and the curse is lifted. The Bow, along with a considerable amount of black goo, ashes away from Uzo’s body as he feels vindicated. In its place, is a radiant amulet that adds +1 dmg/attack and advantage on curses. If Lurian hasn’t been freed, a second cube will move up to an empty slot along the wall if the group asks for him.

-The Jailer itself is half machine at this point. The components can be salvaged and later sold for 2000 gold or given to the Interloper. (if the bring the entire body through the portal the interloper might find a use for it)

A portal will open up and a voice of The Warden will call the group interlopers that do not belong here. They should leave at once with their angel, lest they be subjected to some of the most brutal and horrific tortures imaginable. The group can choose to leave, or head down a hall deeper into the torment…

21- The group reaches a large chamber with dozens of various dead outsiders and beings suspended in glass chambers full of a thick, preservative liquid.

On the way there, shadow demons rutterkins and Mezzoloths will descend upon the group but Ziv and Lurian can annihilate them with ease (no combat rolls necessary.) Behind a mammoth control console, the size of a large room itself, a Sibriex (CR 18- 20000 exp). It will say telepathically from the group that it hasn’t fought in eons, but will delight in reducing their flesh down to its raw ingredients.

The Sibriex has summoned The Four, a group of infamous Nycoloth Mercenaries, to protect him from the group. Use Nycoloth Stat Block, but with the following modifications:

Armor- One of the Nycoloths looks like he is made out of chrome and has an AC of 23

Regenerator- One of the Nycoloths heals 50 hit points per turn, rapidly regenerating any wounds. Its flesh looks like a sinewy liquid.

Whirling Dervish- Makes four attacks per turn.

Voidtouched- this Nycoloth is pure black. Any melee strikes against it force a Con saving throw or take ½ damage back as necrotic damage. Also deals +10 necrotic damage on all attacks.

Each yields 7000 exp instead of 5000 due to these buffs.

Since these are Mercenaries, they can potentially be bought with a better offer…

LORE: This Demon came from the Abyss eons ago and took over a small prison in Hades, turning it into The Torment. Over the millenia it has continually added on to the prison, making it into a massive place where demons, devils and yugoloths alike can dump prisoners who they want nothing other than for them to suffer. The Warden has a pact with the fiendlords not to attack the torment, and will occasionally release prisoners in return for engineers, guards, or materials needed to run and expand the prison.

Once the group has defeated The Warden, they can use the console to open all cells int he torment, leading the guards and prisoners to fight, destroying the prison in the process.

LOOT:

Tome of Torment- This book had everything the Sibriex needed to build and control the torment. Spells for building the walls, schematics for the cells, spells to bind and torture and siphon energy from it. Group can use it (really evil) or sell it as it would be of great worth to Zariel (to use) the Interloper (to study) or celestials (to destroy). Also has instructions for building horrific fiendish constructs like The Jailer.

Barrel of Souls- 723 tormented souls are trapped in this barrel. Group can do as they like– huge value in lower planes markets.

Rod of Torment- Ziv will try to snatch this one up. It has 6 charges per day and can use the following abilities:

Inflict Wounds (3rd Level- 5d10 necrotic damage)– 1 charge Hold Monster- 2 Charges Finger of Death- 3 Charges Imprison- 5 Charges

DC on all saves is 17.

Helm of Domination- Once per day, may attempt to enslave another creature. The creature gets a Wis Save DC 17. On Failure, the creature is fully enslaved. Wearer may only have one thrall at a time. If the creature succeeds its saving throw, the Wearer must make a Wis saving throw DC 17. If they fail, they take 1d6 psychic damage per HD of the creature they were trying to control. The enslaved creature must do anything the wearer commands, but it can attempt to break free if it is ordered to do something that puts it in serious harm's way by making another saving throw.

Bag of Void- Like a bag of holding… but the things never come back (unless they can planeshift). Goes to a plane of existence meant for rubbish, though living creatures are exiled there as well. It is cold, rocky, always twilight and devoid of any native life.

Torture Orb- When activated, every living being in 30 foot radius of the orb must make a con save DC 15. Failure and they take 2d6 damage and cannot act that turn. Active until orb is turned off or shattered. Constructs and undead are immune to this effect, as is the individual attuned to it.

________________________________

The group destroyed the Warden and the Jailer, freed Lurian and set all the prisoners free. The prisoners and guards proceeded to tear each other apart, ultimately the surviving guards looted what they could and fled the Torment. Most of the prisoners died, but some of the survivors are spreading out across Hades and others decided to make lairs in the Torment. Uzo’s spell caught the attention of the Protectors, who sent an eyebot to examine. When they discovered the Torment had fallen into chaos, they sent an elite investigative team to figure out what happened. They managed to bring back the mind of the Sibriex long enough to interrogate it. Wishing horrible vengeance upon the group, it gave what information it could. The Protectors kept a small force there in case the group returned, and would later seek out the Four, regenerating after their defeat. They do not die when slain, but instead regrow in their lair where they must be killed to be permanently destroyed. The Four, realizing the Marut traveling with the investigative team is far beyond them, cooperates as well. The Protectors realize this group they are tracking is far more formidable than they previous realized, and have elevated their threat level and the resources allocated to tracking them immensely.

So originally I thought it would be fun to have one of the rooms directly attached to the Grey Room to lead to a catastrophically powerful enemy. Like something absurd, that even with loaded dice that only rolled natural 20s and unlimited prep, the players would be absolutely doomed. I thought Zariel's War Room would be an excellent choice for this.

For those of you not familiar with the 5e Lore about Zariel, she was originally an angel who became convinced that Heaven’s refusal to intervene directly in the Blood War was basically moral cowardice. She led an unauthorized crusade into Avernus with the mortal Hellriders, but the campaign collapsed when much of her army fled back through the portal and abandoned her. Zariel was captured, and Asmodeus offered her the thing she had wanted all along: the power to wage the Blood War properly. She accepted, fell, and eventually became Archduke of Avernus. In 5e she is essentially a corrupted zealot, still fighting the same war she believed justified her rebellion, just now as one of Hell’s greatest generals.

So I leaned hard into her focus on winning the Blood War being the only way to purge the multiverse of evil. In her mind, she is the greater good. However, her focus is entirely myopic. Anything for the cause, anything that let's her power and ability to wage war improve is worth it. This is what made her and the Interloper crossing paths so dangerous. When the players first entered her chamber, what they encountered for like level 3 or 4 players was beyond terrifying:

“The very air thrums with malevolent energy. The room is dominated by a massive obsidian table, etched with arcane symbols and surrounded by high-backed, crimson chairs. The walls are lined with maps of mortal and infernal territories, marked with strategic points and stained with blood. Dim, flickering flames in sconces cast an eerie red glow, illuminating racks of wicked, barbed weapons and trophies of unholy conflicts. The atmosphere is thick with the scent of brimstone and the echo of infernal whispers. A large window overlooks a burning hellscape, the glass made of a flexible, translucent obsidian that seems to flow like liquid. Everything is hot to the touch and the only colors that seem to stand out are blood red, black and yellow of flames.

At the table are two large, winged creatures with massive horns pouring over battlefield maps. Overseeing them is an even larger, hulking beast covered in interlocking armored plates with a whiplike tail, mammoth wings that can surround its entire body, and a terrifying head that seems infernal and draconic, with fangs and gleaming yellow-red eyes. Off to the side is an insectlike monster seemingly made of ice and metal and two beings clad in jet black armor with crimson hawk like wings, twistedly beautiful faces and horns. All turn their heads, surprised to see the group as a fear and panic fills each of your hearts like you have never felt before in your life. “

Initially, there were 2 Erinyes, 2 Horned Devils, 1 Ice Devil and 1 Pitfiend in the room, with an entire team of Chain Devils in the next room over that could be called in in a moments notice. Now you might first ask, why wouldn't they just kill the players? Any one of these devils could make quick work of them. The answer is that this is the inner sanctum of Zariel's fortress, which I conceived as a flying fortress over the burning landscape of Avernus. It has magical warding and protection against any sort of plane shift or teleportation magic, and is viewed as impregnable. Zariel is obsessed with security, so these “spies” seeming able to bypass all the defenses and make it into the most sensitive room in the entire fortress begs questions. The devils first instinct is to just haul the players off to the torture room to extract answers to these questions. The problem with this strategy is that the players simply teleport back into the room if they are moved in any way. At this point, they contact Zariel immediately knowing she will want to interrogate the group directly.

So potent are the wards against teleportation that not even Zariel herself can teleport into her own war room. Instead, she teleports on to a platform outside, and enters the room. The players ability to do what she can not is of great interest to her, and she interrogates them thoroughly. The dramatic irony here is that the Interloper repeatedly asked the players to bring him “interesting” test subjects. Interesting means powerful, and so long as they aren't aligned with Mechanus he will glady accept them. And the rewards scale with the level of “interest” he has in a subject, so the players are simultaneously terrified they are about to be killed and elated that they might make a massive payday. They explain the situation to Zariel, leaving the part out about the 4 dimensional being wanting to dissect her, and invite her to come meet their employer. She wants to get to the bottom of this and is fairly head strong and overconfident, the same traits that led her to hell in the first place, so she agrees. They grant her an amulet that lets her follow them and bring her to the Grey Room. A staircase appears and she walks up it.

Now every other “participant” the group brought to the Grey Room never came back. They were promptly dissected by the Interloper. The one time they needed someone back, they got his body... “reconstructed” and with no soul. So they assumed he was going to have a field day with her, or she'd kill him and they'd have a new boss. But instead, she simply leaves after some time, completely laden with 4 dimensional artifacts, the very flavor of gifts that the Interloper grants to the players. The Interloper is delighted, effusively thanking the players for bring her to meet him. This was the first time he ever let a “participant” leave, and this taught the players something: powerful enough entities could directly treat with the Interloper. He cut a deal with Zariel, he would furnish her weapons and spells to help her war effort, and she would bring him more “participants.” It was a beautiful deal for both sides. The Interloper got an endless supply of test subjects as well as experimental data from all of his inventions being used on the battlefield. Zariel already had more prisoners than she knew what to do with, so she simply walked them through the portal and was given weapons that previously had never existed in this mulitverse—the ultimate edge against her enemies. Each side gives up something they want to give away in return for something they really want. Truly a match made in hell.

From here on out, the Grey Room had an endless procession coming from Hell. when the players would return they might see a group of chain devils leading through an entire legion of chained, bound and severely wounded demons. Sometimes it would be one massive demon. Sometimes enslaved mortals. Othertimes they'd be carrying out entire wagon loads of 4 dimensional weapons. Zariel had to move her War Room and turn that room into essentially a loading dock to move things to and from the Grey Room. The size and spectacle of what they brought through consistently increased with time. Zariel's appetite for the Interlopers weapons increased as his appetite for her test subjects did. Both made each other more powerful... and power hungry. The most extreme case was when the Interloper made a specific request, he wanted one of Tiamat's consorts. He would've taken Tiamat herself but realized that Zariel lacked the power to subdue and capture her.

I kind of let this all evolve diegetically. Originally I just put Zariel in there without a plan for how to she'd be involved in the plot. The Desecrated Temple was connected to her, and the Shadow of Torm wanted to kill her (though this was added in after the fact) but everything else followed from the players actions. What was most interesting was how the Interloper's powers effected her plotline. His spells and weapons were incredibly potent but had substantial drawbacks and unpredictable effects. To the players, this made some of them prohibitive. Zariel simply worked these effects into her risk calculations on the battlefield.

During the Torment Questline (which I will get to soon), the players get to see Zariel's legions in action with the Interloper's new toys. They used the destabilize spell against the demons and quickly burned the gibbering mouthers that would appear when they transformed. The warped weapons missed often, but there were enough infantry that when they did hit, the intense damage made up for it, improving the armies overall ability. Instead of just slaughtering demons, there was a concerted effort to take as many alive as possible— more to trade for more weapons. Other spells, like the 4D blades, were used to tear through enemy formations. Injured soldiers were pulled back and had undo wounds cast on them, but casters were ready to incinerate them if they came back wrong. Furthermore, massive war constructs made of 4D materials that resembled Dolly's aesthetic were employed. These war machines blinked in and out of existence, making them difficult for enemies to hit while simultaneously inflicting incredible damage on the demons. All of this leads to the demon armies being routed. Zariel is able to make more progress in the Blood War post meeting the Interloper in a matter of weeks than she had in decades prior. I'll get into the implications of this in a later post.

So, a lot was going on in the background the players weren't aware of as an implication of Zariel and the Interloper's new alliance. First off, the planes, and Mechanus specifically, depending on balance in the Blood War. The entire point was there is no winner, and the fiends exhaust themselves. Zariel turning the tide suddenly brought a lot of attention. Demons wanted access to the weapons she had. Asmodeus was curious as to her newfound power so watched and waited to see how it unfolded. Other devil generals and lords were jealous and sought to betray her. Angels were mixed, liked that she was killing so many demons but feared what would happen if she gained to much power. Most importantly, Mechanus realizes there is Far Realm influence here and starts more intensely searching for the Interloper. The Interloper realized he was risking a lot, but the allure of so much data and material was too much for him to turn down. He'd figure out how to mitigate the consequences later.

For the players it was interesting because Uzo wanted to work with Zariel, she was his retirement plan after the Interloper. Domilia hated her because she was a fiend and wanted to smite her. Rotlog didn't like her but basically wanted to not die, however that was possible. Cervi (RIP) and Thogg were more on the fence. She grew to be a very important NPC in the campaign with quite an arc. I'll leave it with this. As alluded to in a previous post, Callie's parasite was given to the Interloper along with a note from Zariel. She wanted it weaponized. He wanted a consort of Tiamat. An impossibly dangerous request for an impossibly enticing reward. We will get into the outcome in a future post.

Also, one of the players pointed this out. I have a penchant for scary, powerful women in my campaign. The Lady of Pain, Zariel, Grandma Nettles, Xivora, The Beeple Queen, etc. And sort of bumbling men: Mobius Torrent, The Interloper, The king in the throne room. I realize I haven't introduced some of these characters yet, but I will. Point is, there is probably a lot to read into my own psychology for this—but I'll save that for a future post.

Chapter 1: The Morning You Decide to Look Fine

There are mornings when you stand in the bathroom longer than usual because you are trying to decide what kind of face you can manage for the day. Nothing dramatic happens in that moment. The coffee is getting cold in the kitchen, your phone is already showing messages, and somebody may be waiting for you to leave the house. Still, there is a private pause where you know you are carrying more than anyone around you can see. That hidden weight is why how Jesus teaches us to notice what people carry in silence matters so much to me.

Maybe nobody would guess what is happening inside you because you have become good at functioning. You answer the email, make the drive, take the call, pay the bill, or ask somebody else how they are doing. You may even laugh and mean it. That is part of what makes hidden burdens so confusing. Pain does not always remove a person’s ability to keep moving, and giving grace when you do not know the full story can matter long before anybody explains what is wrong.

I have learned that we often expect suffering to announce itself in a form we recognize. We look for tears, missed work, visible fear, or a voice that sounds broken. When those signs are absent, we assume the person is fine. Jesus did not seem to need that kind of proof before He paid attention. He noticed people others moved past, listened to questions that carried more than the words being asked, and treated human beings as more than the condition or reputation everyone else could see.

That changes the way I think about ordinary encounters. A friend sends a short reply and my first instinct may be to wonder whether I did something wrong. A coworker seems distracted and I can decide they do not care. Someone at the store moves slowly and I can turn their difficult moment into my inconvenience. Most of the time, I do not know enough to make those judgments. I know only what reached me.

There is a quiet freedom in admitting that because not knowing the whole story does not make me helpless. It changes what I am responsible for. I may not know why someone seems distant, tired, impatient, or unusually quiet, but I can decide not to make the moment heavier than it already is. I can ask a question before making an accusation. I can leave room for an explanation I have not heard yet. I can speak in a way that would still feel decent if I later learned the person had been carrying something painful all day.

That sounds simple until the person is someone close to us. Strangers sometimes receive more patience because we do not have history with them. The people we love are easier to interpret. We know their habits, their weaknesses, and the things that have frustrated us before, so one small moment can collect years of meaning.

A husband walks into the kitchen and notices his wife has forgotten something they discussed that morning. He could say, “You forgot.” That is a fact. He could also say, “You never listen to me.” That is an interpretation, and it places a much larger weight on the moment. The forgotten thing may still need to be handled, but the marriage does not need a character trial every time somebody makes a mistake.

I think this is one of the places where following Jesus becomes very practical. Grace is not pretending that nothing matters. It is refusing to add condemnation where truth will do. Jesus could be direct without stripping people of dignity. He could confront what was wrong while still seeing the person in front of Him as someone worth speaking to, touching, restoring, or inviting forward.

That matters to the person who is already carrying private shame. A man who has made a financial mistake may know exactly what he did wrong. He may be opening bills every night and wondering how he will repair it. If he tells someone he trusts, he may need honest help. What he may not need is another person treating the mistake as proof that he is foolish in every part of life.

The same is true when the burden is not self-created. A woman caring for an aging parent may be tired enough to forget things she normally remembers. A teenager may be quieter because a friendship has fallen apart. A dependable employee may suddenly seem less focused because something serious is happening at home. We should not invent stories for people, but we should remember that visible behavior is often only the surface.

Jesus gives us a powerful example of this in the way He handled the woman caught in adultery in John 8. The passage has a complicated manuscript history, so I do not use it carelessly, but the scene has shaped Christian reflection for centuries because of the posture it shows. A woman is placed publicly in front of Jesus while others are interested in accusation. Jesus does not deny that sin matters, yet He refuses to let the crowd reduce her to a spectacle.

That difference stays with me because people are often already aware of the worst thing in their story. They do not need us to pretend it is harmless, but neither do they need us to turn it into their entire identity. There is a way to tell the truth that leaves a person standing. There is also a way to tell the truth that feels more interested in punishment than restoration.

When I think about hidden burdens, I keep returning to that choice. Will I become another person someone has to brace against, or can I become someone around whom they do not have to perform strength quite so hard? Sometimes the answer looks almost insignificant. It can be letting a friend finish a sentence without rushing to fix it, asking, “Are you okay?” and accepting “I do not want to talk about it yet” without taking offense, or giving somebody another day to answer without assuming the relationship is in trouble.

Those small moments matter because people who carry hidden burdens become skilled at reading whether a room feels safe. They notice whether a question is really curiosity, judgment, or care. They notice whether your kindness disappears when their answer becomes inconvenient. They notice whether you listen or simply wait for your turn to speak.

There was a time when I thought helping meant having something useful to say. I am less convinced of that now because sometimes the useful thing is restraint. Sometimes it is refusing to fill the silence, and sometimes it is allowing somebody to be a person before they become a problem to solve. Fixing gives us a role, while listening can leave us close to something we cannot control.

Jesus did not avoid people whose lives were messy because He could not reduce them to a clean explanation. He entered those moments with truth, compassion, and presence. I cannot do what Jesus did in the way He did it, but I can learn from the way He looked at people.

That may be where this begins for us too. Before we try to solve what another person carries, we can stop adding to it. Before we demand proof, we can choose kindness. Before we decide what someone’s behavior means, we can leave room for the part of the story we cannot see. Some days, that may be the grace we need from someone else, and other days, it may be the grace we are being asked to give.

Chapter 2: The Kind of Grace That Does Not Need an Explanation

A man sits in his truck outside his house after work with both hands resting on the steering wheel. The engine is off, but he does not go inside yet. He loves the people in that house, and nothing terrible has happened. He simply knows that the moment he opens the door, somebody will ask a question, the dog will need to go out, dinner will need attention, and the evening will begin moving. He needs five quiet minutes because the day took more out of him than he knows how to explain. If his wife looks through the window and sees him sitting there, she could decide he is avoiding the family, or she could let five quiet minutes remain five quiet minutes until there is a reason to believe they mean more.

That kind of restraint may be one of the most loving forms of grace we can offer. Not every unusual behavior has a hidden tragedy behind it. Sometimes a person is simply tired, disappointed, embarrassed, hungry, worried, or trying to get their thoughts together before speaking. We do not need to invent a dramatic reason in order to treat them gently. I think compassion becomes strangely conditional when we are patient only after we learn about the diagnosis, the funeral, the job loss, or the family crisis. Before we know those things, we may be impatient, as though suffering has to become serious enough to earn kindness.

Jesus makes me question that instinct. In Matthew 11, He speaks directly to people who are weary and burdened and invites them to come to Him for rest. He describes Himself as gentle and humble in heart. I keep returning to those words because gentleness is not weakness, and humility is not uncertainty. Gentleness is strength that does not need to crush, while humility remembers that I do not know everything. That changes the way I want to respond when someone is hard to understand. A friend can disappoint me without my deciding that the friendship means nothing to them, and a family member can speak badly in one moment without that moment becoming the entire truth about their character.

A woman sends her sister a message asking whether she can talk. Hours pass without a response, and by late afternoon she has created an entire explanation in her mind. Her sister must be upset. Something from last week must have caused it. Maybe the relationship has changed, or maybe she is being ignored on purpose. That evening the sister calls and apologizes because her phone had been in a desk drawer during a long training session. The woman realizes that most of the pain she carried all afternoon came from a story built around missing information. The mind hates empty space, so it fills the unknown quickly, and the explanation it invents is often harsher than the truth.

Grace sometimes means leaving that blank space blank. It can sound as simple as, “I do not know why they have not answered yet.” That is not denial; it is accuracy. The same practice matters when somebody really does disappoint us. If a person repeatedly breaks commitments, trust may need to change. If a relationship becomes harmful, boundaries may be necessary. If a coworker continually fails to complete work, accountability still matters. The point is not to become naive. The point is to work with what is true instead of adding motives we cannot prove. “You missed the deadline again” gives us something real to address. “You do not care about this team” may be a story we added.

A father learns this with his teenage son. The boy comes home one afternoon, walks past everyone, and closes his bedroom door. The father almost follows immediately because the behavior feels disrespectful, but he waits twenty minutes and knocks. When he asks whether the day was rough, his son admits that a friend embarrassed him in front of other students. The closed door was not rejection of the family. It was a teenager trying to regain his balance before speaking. The father still has rules about how people treat one another in the house, but he chose curiosity before accusation, and that choice gave the truth somewhere to land.

I think Jesus teaches us to make that kind of room more often than we notice. He asks people questions even when He understands far more than they do. He asks Bartimaeus what he wants Him to do, asks the disciples who they say He is, and asks the man at Bethesda whether he wants to get well. Questions can create room for a person to speak from where they really are. That matters especially for people who have become used to carrying things privately, because they often know the difference between a question that invites honesty and one that is really an accusation wearing polite clothes.

A woman has become the dependable person in her family. Everyone calls when a problem appears. She remembers birthdays, helps an aging parent with appointments, assists a sibling with paperwork, and somehow remains the person who sounds calm on the phone. One Saturday she ignores several messages and spends most of the morning reading on the couch. Her brother later jokes that she disappeared, and she laughs with him, but the truth is that she needed three hours in which nobody required anything from her. The family may never fully understand how much she carries because she has become good at carrying it, and that is exactly why she needs people who do not demand a dramatic explanation before respecting a little space.

We cannot solve this by becoming suspicious of every smile or trying to uncover hidden pain everywhere we go. People deserve privacy too. What we can do is make fewer demands for proof. If a friend says they are tired, we do not always need to know why before accepting it. If someone says they need space, we can respect that without making them pay for it emotionally. If a coworker says there is a family matter they need to handle, the details may not belong to us. This kind of respect tells another person that they do not have to perform pain convincingly before they are allowed to be human.

There is another side to this that I have had to learn, because sometimes the person whose hidden burden I misunderstand is me. I can be harsher with myself than I would ever be with someone else. A difficult week becomes evidence that I am failing, needing rest begins to look like laziness, and uncertainty starts sounding like proof that I should have prepared better. Then I realize I have created the same problem internally that I am trying to avoid with other people. I am demanding an explanation before allowing myself grace.

Grace toward ourselves still has to be honest. I can make excuses, avoid responsibility, and call it self-compassion if I am not careful. But honesty also includes recognizing human limits. I can be tired because I have been carrying a lot. I can need help without becoming helpless. I can have a bad day without turning it into an identity, and I can trust God while still wishing a situation were different. Love for other people does not require unlimited availability, and faith does not require pretending that fear, sadness, or weariness never enter the room.

The more I look at Jesus, the less interested I become in the kind of spirituality that makes people hide their humanity. Jesus met people in hunger, exhaustion, grief, fear, confusion, sickness, shame, and ordinary need. He did not wait for them to become impressive before engaging them. That changes what I think Christian encouragement should feel like. It should point toward Christ without making the reader prove that the burden is heavy enough, and it should leave room for someone to tell the truth before rushing them toward a lesson.

Maybe that is what some of us need today. We may not need a dramatic answer or a promise that everything will change by morning. We may need permission to admit that something is heavy and to stop apologizing for needing a little quiet. We may also need to offer somebody else the same kindness, especially when we do not yet understand what their behavior means. The goal is not to excuse everything. It is to become slower to add weight where truth has not asked us to add it.

The man sitting in his truck finally opens the door and walks into the house. His wife looks up from the kitchen and asks whether it was a long day. He nods, and she does not demand the whole story. She puts a plate on the table and lets him arrive. A few minutes later, he starts talking on his own because safety often works that way. It does not force the truth out of people. It makes room for truth to come when they are ready.

We cannot know everything another person carries, and we do not have to know everything before choosing not to make the load heavier. When we are the ones carrying something we cannot explain neatly, we can remember the same truth for ourselves. Jesus does not require a polished reason before He invites the weary to come near, and perhaps following Him begins with learning to offer a little of that same gentleness to the person in front of us and to the person we meet when we are finally alone.

Your friend,

Douglas Vandergraph

Explore the complete Douglas Vandergraph Master Index:

https://douglasvandergraph.com/douglas-vandergraph-master-index/

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s faith-based videos on YouTube:

https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

It arrives in waves and quiet little hums. And sometimes, when you least expect it, the wave still crashes violently onto the shore. The clouds grow dark and heavy, the sky opens, and suddenly, the tears you thought you had already spent return.

It is brief.

It rarely lasts long.

But grief does not necessarily mean regret. Perhaps it simply means that something was precious. That it mattered. That the life you once knew has changed, and growth is guiding you in the direction already ordained for you. A part of you still mourns what was, what could have been, and what you once hoped it might become.

Healing is not linear, they say.

No kidding!

But no one talks enough about the glimmers of hope there, either.

The unexpected relief.

The return of a cognitive and emotional freedom you had almost forgotten existed. The first full, deep breath you permit yourself to take after years of shallow, measured breathing. Learning to sprint on an open road where you had once been tiptoeing and walking on eggshells.

It is a place where possibility feels expansive, even when its edges are still shrouded in remnants of fear. A place where joy and hope, though still fragile, can exist alongside uncertainty.

Cautious optimism, perhaps? Where optimism is appealing  but occasionally still feels a little foolish.

A place where you begin to recognize yourself again. Not merely the version of you who learned to survive. But the woman who existed before …somehow more resilient, more beautiful, and wiser now.

It is the edge of something. The beginning of the unknown. Of feeling so alive, yet sometimes so profoundly alone.

The gray zone, if you will.

Or maybe it is blue.

Like a blend of the blue of the sky and the teal of the ocean.

The blue that exists somewhere between the red you had been living in for longer than anyone ever knew…and the green you are still afraid to step into, even though some part of you dreamt of it long before.

And somewhere in that blue, you begin to understand that arriving here was not a simple  matter of fault or failure. God knows it was after the very best of your efforts, patience, and intentions. And  somehow you no longer feel the need to prove that to anybody.

Such is life, I suppose.

Strangely, clarity can come even amid messy transition. Perhaps clarity is not always knowing exactly what happens next. Perhaps sometimes, it is simply knowing that you can no longer remain where you were.

In this blue, the days can be bright. Pain and doubt may still show their faces, but they no longer rule.

One moment, you are driving alone in your car, wiping away tears. The next, a song blares through your speakers, and you catch a glimpse of your children’s faces in the rearview mirror.

You remember the kindness of the family and friends who held you, witnessed and stood beside you. You think of the people you only recently met who, unknowingly, are healing something within you in ways you never thought possible.

One endearing look, one kind word, one warm embrace at a time.

Your heart starts to feel whole again.

The clouds part just enough to let a little light through.

And in that moment, your faith gently reminds you of what you have somehow always known:

You will be okay.

You rest in knowing that the greatest and most perfect love you seek already lives within you and that it is one of God’s greatest gifts.

In this blue, you have found your way back home to yourself.

You are going to be okay.

The next few things got switched around – I had my haircut, then went to pottery, then bought a few groceries and the rest did not really get done. I forgot I had a meeting in the evening, so I skipped kickball to do that instead. Anyway, most of the day kept me preoccupied and busy so I did not even check the status of my thing, but I imagine there isn’t any change. I did however, think about my crush quite a bit. I don’t know if I am romanticizing in my head, or if there may really be something there.

The plan for Day 93:

• Take my dog to daycare (with a dose of trazodone)
• Breakfast and coffee on the go
• Pottery
• Pick up dog for dog sitting gig
• Pick my dog up from daycare
• Dinner with a friend :)
• Put laundry away
• Walk my dog

I took my laundry out but still needs to be put away!

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.

Lately, playing the guitar is making me feel pretty terrible too... So I'm kind of giving it a break for a few days...

...and when I'm at home, I just don't talk to anybody...

Anyway, i guess you’ve listened to enough, im sure you have somewhere “important” to be. another whatever thought to have, perhaps. maybe you’ll go stare at the ceiling and decide you understand me now. and just a hint, please dont. you’ve read one page. that already gives you far too much confidence. so go on. close this, forget about it. return to whatever perfectly sensible thing you were doing at five in the morning. whatever, just shut up and leave.

Sincerely, probably still awake.

The venue was a United Nations conference about land turning to dust. The product on offer was electricity.

On 25 August 2026, inside the Host Country House at the seventeenth Conference of the Parties to the UN Convention to Combat Desertification in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia's government convened an event it called “Sovereign by Design”, subtitled Mongolia's Green AI Data Centre Initiative. The Prime Minister, Nyam-Osor Uchral, opened it. His Deputy Prime Minister, Togmid Dorjkhand, pitched investors on the arithmetic of cheap power. His Minister of Digital Development, Innovation and Communications, Nomin Chinbat, told the room something more interesting than a price. “We offer more than just natural resources,” she said. “We offer safety and data sovereignty.”

By the time the twelve-day conference wound down, Mongolia had signed ten memoranda of understanding covering 863 megawatts of prospective data centre capacity. The initiative was not a solo effort. The Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank and other international partners have joined it, with up to two billion dollars in financing presented as available for eligible green and renewable infrastructure projects. One of the ten memoranda, announced the following day, was with NOVVA Group, described in its own materials as a global clean energy infrastructure platform enabling the AI economy. It was signed by Vincent Wen, the company's managing director, and by Nomin Chinbat, and witnessed by the Prime Minister himself. Its scope covers energy-efficient data centres and AI-ready infrastructure, renewable energy and storage including solar photovoltaics, wind and battery systems, site readiness, and policy consultation.

That is a lot of nouns and not many verbs. But hold the scepticism for a moment, because the easy reaction to this story is the wrong one, and the interesting reaction takes considerably more work.

The Number That Should Stop You

Mongolia's entire electricity system has an installed generating capacity of about 1.6 gigawatts. That figure, from the Stockholm Environment Institute's 2024 policy overview, is not controversial.

So the 863 megawatts of data centre capacity Mongolia signed up at COP17 amounts to roughly 54 per cent of the entire installed capacity of the country.

Not 54 per cent of spare capacity. Not 54 per cent of planned additions. Fifty-four per cent of every turbine, panel and coal-fired boiler currently connected to the Mongolian grid, committed in a fortnight, at a conference about desertification, in documents that are almost certainly not legally binding.

This is the fact around which everything else in this story orbits, and it is worth sitting with.

Why Mongolia Is Not Being Naive

Start with the strongest possible version of Mongolia's case, because it is genuinely strong, and because the reflex to patronise small states pursuing industrial policy is one of the least attractive habits in technology commentary.

Mongolia is a landlocked country of roughly 3.5 million people wedged between two nuclear-armed great powers, with essentially no third option for physical trade. Somewhere north of 90 per cent of its exports go to China, overwhelmingly coal and copper, and China supplies around 70 per cent of its imports. Its electricity grid is physically interconnected with the Russian Siberian system at 220 kilovolts, and it imported 22.3 per cent of its electricity in 2023 from China and Russia combined. When your lights depend on two neighbours who are also your only customers, “sovereignty” is not an abstraction to be deconstructed in a seminar. It is the daily condition of your existence.

Mongolia's third neighbour policy, formulated in the early 1990s, has been a decades-long attempt to manufacture optionality where geography offers none, through partnerships with the United States, Japan, South Korea, India and the European Union. Digital infrastructure is the purest possible expression of that doctrine. Fibre and compute are the only exports Mongolia can ship without asking Beijing or Moscow for permission to cross a border with a train.

The resource case is real too. Mongolia's combined wind and solar potential is estimated at around 2,600 gigawatts, more than a thousand times its installed capacity, and Ulaanbaatar is the coldest capital on earth, which means free cooling for much of the year and a thermodynamic advantage over Texas or Singapore. Dorjkhand's pitch was power below four cents per kilowatt hour against fourteen to sixteen cents in the United States, grid connection inside 24 months, and returns near 18 per cent. He also offered a line that doubles as a national brand: “we are a very cold country, eight months a year.”

And there is a strategic niche that is smarter than it first appears. Mongolia is explicitly courting customers who want to serve the Chinese market while keeping their data physically outside Chinese jurisdiction. That is a real and growing commercial need, and Mongolia's geography makes it one of very few places that can plausibly offer it.

Most importantly: everything Mongolia is doing here is exactly what development economists, multilateral lenders and Western governments have spent thirty years telling countries like Mongolia to do. Move up the value chain. Stop exporting raw rock. Attract foreign direct investment. Use your comparative advantage. Diversify away from extractive dependency. To turn round now and tell a dryland economy that it should not build compute because the electricity would be better spent elsewhere would be to pull the ladder up with unusual brazenness. The Global North built its compute freely, on coal and gas, without asking anyone's permission, and it is still building it.

So the question is not whether Mongolia should want this. The question is whether what was signed at COP17 delivers it.

Thirty-Two Countries Own the Machine Room

Here is the structural reality Mongolia is trying to escape, and it is documented with unusual clarity in a paper posted to arXiv in March 2026 and revised in July by Amirpasha Mozaffari and colleagues at the Barcelona Supercomputing Center, with co-authors at Imperial College London and the Catalan Institution for Research and Advanced Studies.

The paper is ostensibly about weather and climate information, but its infrastructure section is the most useful short description available of who owns the AI economy. Its central finding is blunt: “only 32 countries globally host the hyperscale AI data centres necessary for robust cloud-based deployment.” Thirty-two. Out of 193 UN member states. Mongolia is not among them.

The authors go further, and their argument is precisely the one Mongolia's ministers are making, arrived at from the opposite direction. Frontier models, they note, are developed almost exclusively through collaborations between national public computing centres in the Global North and East Asia and a handful of multinational firms including Google DeepMind, Nvidia, Microsoft and Huawei. This concentration “effectively gatekeeps the development of foundation models, restricting it to entities with access to exascale computing and specialised engineering talent.”

The consequence, in their words, is “a risk of technological dependency, where low-income nations are relegated to being consumers of models that are not generated for them as the main target by infrastructure they cannot audit, control, or adapt to their local contexts.” Without what they call compute sovereignty, meaning “the ability to train and fine-tune models on sovereign infrastructure, nations lack the agency to prioritise their specific regional climate vulnerabilities.”

Note the phrase. Compute sovereignty. A team of climate scientists in Barcelona, writing about forecasting inequality, independently reached for the same word Mongolia's government put on a banner in Ulaanbaatar. That convergence is not a coincidence. It is evidence that the diagnosis is correct.

The same paper supplies the resource figures that make the diagnosis uncomfortable. Data centre energy demand is projected to reach 4.5 per cent of global electricity generation by 2030. Global AI water withdrawal is projected at 4.2 to 6.6 billion cubic metres by 2027. Those are the entry costs to the club of 32. They are why the club has 32 members.

What 863 Megawatts Does to a 1.6 Gigawatt Country

The second paper in this story gives us a tool for testing Mongolia's plan rather than merely admiring it.

Posted to arXiv in March 2026 by Danbo Chen and colleagues at Ohio State University, Zhejiang A&F University and Meta Platforms, “Concentrated siting of AI data centers drives regional power-system stress under rising global compute demand” builds what the authors call an AI-energy coupling framework, combining language-model analysis of corporate, policy and media disclosures with quantitative energy-system modelling to 2030.

Its findings confirm the concentration thesis from the supply side. North America, Western Europe and Asia-Pacific together account for more than 90 per cent of projected compute capacity. Consumption by the six leading firms is projected to rise from roughly 118 terawatt hours in 2024 to between 239 and 295 by 2030, about 1 per cent of global power demand on its own. The International Energy Agency projection they cite has global data centre consumption more than doubling from about 415 terawatt hours in 2024 to roughly 945 by 2030, with the United States and China responsible for almost 80 per cent of the growth. AI infrastructure, the authors write, is “evolving from a marginal digital service into a structural component of power-system dynamics.”

The useful part is their metric. The Power Stress Index is the ratio of data centre electricity demand to total regional generation capacity. Above 0.25 is their high-stress threshold, indicating grid vulnerability. Ireland, the worst case in their dataset, approaches 0.5, which the authors observe implies AI-related consumption absorbing nearly half of local generation. Oregon exceeds the threshold. Virginia, Nebraska and Washington sit between 0.20 and 0.30. Diversified systems such as Texas, Japan and Australia stay below 0.10.

The authors did not run Mongolia. So let us run it, transparently, using their published formula and independently verified Mongolian data.

Mongolia's net electricity generation in 2024 was 8.83 terawatt hours, up 6.6 per cent on 2023. National consumption was 10.29 terawatt hours, the gap filled by imports. Now take the 863 megawatts of signed data centre capacity. At a conservative 60 per cent utilisation, that load consumes 4.54 terawatt hours a year, a PSI of 0.51 against national generation. At a more realistic 70 per cent, it is 5.29 terawatt hours and a PSI of 0.60. At 80 per cent, which is unremarkable for AI training infrastructure, it is 6.05 terawatt hours and a PSI of 0.68.

Read that against the paper's own benchmarks. At the low end of plausible utilisation, Mongolia matches Ireland, the most stressed grid in the study. At the middle and upper end, Mongolia exceeds it by a wide margin, landing somewhere no jurisdiction in the dataset occupies. Even measured against total national consumption including imports, the figures run from 0.44 to 0.59.

This is the analytical heart of the matter, and it is not a rhetorical flourish. In Virginia, a hyperscale campus is a large marginal load on a very large system. In Mongolia, 863 megawatts is not marginal. It is structural. It would be, at a stroke, the defining feature of the national power system, larger in energy terms than most of what the grid currently does. Every subsequent decision about Mongolian electricity, tariffs, dispatch, winter reserve margins, import contracts with Russia, would be taken in the shadow of that load.

The obvious rejoinder is that this is the entire point. The initiative is explicitly about building new renewable generation alongside the compute, so the denominator grows with the numerator. Good. That rejoinder is correct, and it is also precisely the thing an MOU cannot guarantee.

The Grid That Already Struggles to Get Through Winter

Because the Mongolian grid is not a blank sheet waiting for gigawatts of Gobi solar. It is a system already under acute strain.

Fossil fuels generated 91.1 per cent of Mongolia's electricity in 2024, some 8.04 terawatt hours, with coal alone at 7.93. Renewables managed 8.9 per cent, about 0.79 terawatt hours, despite making up a considerably larger share of installed capacity, which tells you how much sits idle or curtailed. The country's target under its Vision 2050 strategy is 30 per cent renewable capacity by 2030, and it is not obviously on track.

The Central Energy System, which supplies more than 70 per cent of the country, is built around Soviet-design combined heat and power plants running baseload, interconnected with the Russian grid. Those plants do double duty: they heat Ulaanbaatar, in a city where winter temperatures fall well below minus 20 Celsius. Utilisation of ageing CHP units during winter peak hours has been reported above 90 per cent, and peak capacity shortage is the acknowledged urgent problem of the Mongolian energy sector. Mongolia imports up to 300 megawatts from Russia to help cover it.

Now layer the air pollution problem on top. Households in the ger districts, largely migrants from a countryside emptied by successive dzud disasters, burn coal for heat because they lack grid connections. In the depths of winter, PM2.5 concentrations in Ulaanbaatar have been recorded at levels many multiples of World Health Organisation guidance, and the city has ranked among the most polluted on earth. The 2019 raw coal ban and the switch to briquettes cut average winter concentrations substantially, by around half against the 2016 to 2017 baseline, which was a real public health achievement won at real political cost.

Put these together and a sharp equity question emerges, one with nothing to do with foreign companies. There are Mongolian households burning coal indoors because they are not connected to the grid, in the same country now offering four-cent electricity and 24-month grid connections to foreign compute. If the new renewable build follows the data centre load, and the transmission gets built to the server halls rather than to the ger districts, Mongolia will have used its renewable endowment to decarbonise someone else's inference workload while its own citizens keep lighting stoves. That is not an inevitability. It is a design choice, exactly the kind that phrases like “sovereign by design” are supposed to govern.

Sovereignty Has a Definition and an MOU Is Not It

So what would sovereign actually mean? The word is doing enormous work in this story, and it is worth pinning down.

The concept, in its current form, was popularised less by political theorists than by a chip vendor. Jensen Huang has been evangelising sovereign AI since at least 2023, telling the World Governments Summit in Dubai in February 2024 that “every country needs to own the production of their own intelligence” and that a national model “codifies your culture, your society's intelligence, your common sense, your history.” It is a compelling argument. It is also, as critics note with some relish, one that ends with nation states becoming the next category of customer after the hyperscalers.

The Center for a New American Security has done the most rigorous work on whether the rhetoric survives contact with balance sheets. Its Sovereign AI Index, authored by Pablo Chavez, Vivek Chilukuri and Ruby Scanlon and updated in August 2026, tracks 185 sovereign AI projects worldwide, defining sovereign AI as a government-backed initiative tied explicitly to national strategic interests and backed by material public investment in domestic compute, models or data.

The findings are sobering for anyone taking the word at face value. More than 60 per cent of tracked projects disclose at least one foreign partner, and four-fifths of those partnerships involve a United States company. Nvidia alone supplies the GPUs for 45 per cent of all tracked infrastructure projects. The money is even more concentrated than the compute: the Middle East and East Asia account for over 80 per cent of disclosed investment, the UAE and Japan alone represent nearly two-thirds, and the top ten spenders account for roughly 90 per cent. The index's own summary of everyone else is that “the gap between sovereign aspiration and capacity remains vast.”

This is the pattern Mongolia is entering. Indonesia's first sovereign AI factory runs on Nvidia silicon through Indosat. Kenya's ambitions run through Cassava Technologies, again on Nvidia. India's programme, the Gulf states' programmes and Europe's all sit on the same foundation. The sovereignty on offer is real but partial: jurisdictional control over data at rest, genuinely worth having, coexisting with dependency on a foreign accelerator supply chain, foreign software stacks, foreign update cycles and foreign export-control regimes.

Set against that, here is what “sovereign by design” would need to mean if it were an engineering specification rather than a slogan. Ownership of the physical assets, or a defined path to it, rather than a long-term lease of Mongolian land and Mongolian electricity to a foreign balance sheet. Control of the model layer, meaning the capacity to train and fine-tune, not merely to host someone else's inference. Domestic skills, meaning Mongolian engineers operating the facility rather than a rotating expatriate crew. Legal jurisdiction over the data, which is the one dimension Nomin Chinbat explicitly claimed and the one most plausibly deliverable. And grid control, meaning the state retains the authority to curtail a data centre before it curtails a hospital in January.

Against that specification, what does an MOU deliver? A memorandum of understanding is generally not legally binding. It documents intentions, expectations and responsibilities before a formal contract exists. Whether any particular MOU binds anyone depends on its wording and the parties' conduct rather than the label, and the published materials for the NOVVA agreement do not specify its binding status either way. What is publicly known is that it covers four workstreams, one of which is “policy consultation”, which is to say that the foreign infrastructure developer has been given a seat at the table where Mongolia writes the rules governing foreign infrastructure developers.

That is not scandalous. It is entirely normal, and expertise has to come from somewhere. But it is the opposite of a footnote in a discussion about sovereignty, and it deserves naming rather than glossing.

What Can and Cannot Be Verified About NOVVA Group

The brief here is to be precise rather than insinuating, so let us be precise.

NOVVA Group is a real company with a verifiable, if short, public record. Its releases carry a Hong Kong dateline. Its founder and chief executive is named as Steven Liu. Vincent Wen, who signed in Ulaanbaatar, is its managing director. Its own boilerplate describes it as “a global AI-enabling energy infrastructure platform that originates, finances, builds, and operates bankable clean energy assets across Southeast Asia and Latin America.” In June 2026 it announced the acquisition of the 120 megawatt-peak San Jose Solar Power Plant in Bukidnon, Mindanao, in the Philippines, expected to generate over 200 gigawatt hours annually, and it has referenced a Colombian solar portfolio.

That is a genuine renewable developer with genuine assets. It is also a company whose disclosed operating portfolio is measured in the low hundreds of megawatts of solar, now signing a memorandum covering data centres, wind, solar, battery storage and national policy consultation in a country where a single hyperscale campus would reorganise the entire grid. No data centre operating track record appears in its public materials. That is not an accusation. It is an observation about scale and specialism that any counterparty ought to make out loud.

One further point of hygiene, because the name invites confusion. There is a separate, unrelated American company called Novva Data Centers, founded in 2020 by Wes Swenson, headquartered in Utah, backed by CIM Group, operating a 180 megawatt flagship campus in West Jordan with waterless cooling and facilities in Colorado and Nevada. Searches surface both entities together. No evidence in the public record connects the Hong Kong-based NOVVA Group to the Utah-based Novva Data Centers, and readers should treat them as distinct unless either says otherwise.

Why the Desertification Venue Is the Story, Not the Joke

It would be easy to file the setting under irony. A conference about drought produces a deal about server farms. Cue the knowing headline.

That reading is too cheap, and it misses what the venue actually reveals.

COP17 ran from 17 to 28 August 2026 under the theme “Restoring Land. Restoring Hope.”, bringing together the convention's 197 parties, and it convened during the UN International Year of Rangelands and Pastoralists 2026, declared by the General Assembly at Mongolia's own initiative. The UNCCD's executive secretary, Yasmine Fouad, framed it as the “COP of implementation”. The substantive fight was over a global drought framework left unresolved at COP16 in Riyadh, with the African Group and others pushing for a legally binding protocol and other parties preferring something non-binding.

Parties did not agree one. The framework was deferred again, to COP18. What the conference produced instead, on its closing day, was a finance portfolio of 1.3 billion dollars for land restoration and drought resilience, of which 644.5 million dollars was identified as new money. The annual financing gap it was announced against is estimated at around 278 billion dollars. Delegates confronted, at the same time, a gap between 1.5 to 2 billion hectares of degraded land and restoration pledges covering roughly 1 billion, against around 1.8 billion people affected by drought.

Hold that alongside the Mongolian numbers. Seventy-seven per cent of Mongolian territory is affected by desertification and land degradation. The country has warmed at more than twice the global average, with average temperatures up around 2.46 degrees over eight decades. Nearly all of Umnugovi province in the South Gobi, which is precisely where the best solar resource sits, is moderately or severely degraded. A World Bank assessment found Southern Gobi groundwater reserves sufficient for roughly a decade. Successive dzud events, the compound summer drought and winter freeze that kills livestock at scale, wiped out around a third of the national herd across 2001 and 2002 and more than 13 per cent in a recent event, driving the rural migration that built the coal-burning ger districts in the first place.

Now the sharp version of the observation. The conference did produce money, and it should be credited with it: 1.3 billion dollars of portfolio against a 278 billion dollar annual gap is not nothing, even if the arithmetic is unkind. What it did not produce was the thing parties came to Ulaanbaatar to settle. There is no drought protocol. There is a deferral to COP18. Set beside that, the most concrete private investment outcome of a twelve-day United Nations conference on desertification was 863 megawatts of data centre memoranda.

And the parallel structure is exact, which is now a matter of record rather than of prediction: the conference could not agree a binding instrument on drought, and the deals signed on its sidelines were non-binding instruments on compute. Ulaanbaatar in August 2026 was, in both rooms, a festival of stated intentions.

That is not hypocrisy. It is a description of how climate adaptation and digital development have been fused into a single policy narrative, in which hosting compute becomes a legitimate climate-resilience strategy because it monetises a renewable endowment that would otherwise sit in the desert doing nothing. Mongolia is not smuggling an industrial policy into a climate venue. It is making the entirely coherent argument that a dryland economy losing its pastoral base needs a new economic base, and that its sun and wind are the only endowment it has that China cannot buy on a rail wagon.

The water question is where that argument has to be tested rather than accepted. Siting energy-intensive compute in a dryland economy is not automatically absurd, because cooling technology is a choice, not a constant. Evaporative cooling in a hyperscale facility can consume on the order of 1.5 million litres a day. Closed-loop and chip-level liquid systems can eliminate evaporative water use almost entirely; Microsoft's closed-loop deployments have been reported to cut more than 125 million litres per facility per year. The Utah Novva campus, unrelated as it is, markets waterless cooling precisely because it sits in a desert. The trade-off is real, since dry cooling costs energy where water cooling costs water, but in a cold country with a stranded renewable resource, the energy penalty is the cheaper currency to pay. What matters is whether waterless cooling is contractually mandatory or merely aspirational. Nothing in the public description of the Mongolian memoranda says which.

The Jobs Nobody Counts Before Signing

One more piece of evidence ought to be in the room before any of these memoranda become contracts, and it concerns what hosting compute does for a host economy.

The most careful recent work is by Dany Bahar and Greg Wright, published through Brookings in May 2026 and updated that August. Studying counties that received data centres, they find the data processing sector grows 56 per cent over the first decade and telecommunications 43 per cent, which sounds transformative until you see the absolute numbers: roughly 100 to 200 jobs in a typical county. Wages remain unchanged. House prices rise 2 to 5 per cent. They are explicit that naive estimates which fail to account for pre-existing growth trends overstate the effect.

The fiscal side is worse. Virginia's data centre sales tax exemption cost an estimated 1.6 billion dollars in the 2025 fiscal year alone. In hyperscale counties, incentives amount to around 2 per cent of construction investment. In colocation counties, they run to about 62 per cent of total investment, meaning the largest subsidies flow to precisely the facilities that generate the fewest jobs. Other work cited alongside it suggests the net county-level employment effect can be close to zero once sectoral reshuffling is accounted for.

Apply that to Mongolia. If 863 megawatts eventually gets built, it might employ several hundred people directly. Against that, it would consume more electricity than the country currently generates, occupy the transmission build-out for a decade, and anchor tariff and dispatch policy around foreign-owned load. The construction phase would be substantial and genuinely valuable. The steady state would be a handful of buildings full of machines that employ very few Mongolians and pay their way mainly through the tax base, the electricity sales and whatever the country negotiates on top.

Which is why what gets negotiated on top is the whole ballgame.

The Conditions That Would Turn This Into Sovereignty

If Mongolia wants “sovereign by design” to be an engineering requirement rather than a conference banner, a fairly specific list would have to appear in the contracts that follow these memoranda. None of it is exotic. All of it has precedent somewhere.

Grid additionality, written as a condition precedent. No data centre load energises until the corresponding renewable generation and storage are commissioned and delivering, verified by metered output rather than by nameplate capacity or by unbundled certificates bought elsewhere. This is the single most important clause, because without it the Power Stress Index arithmetic above stops being hypothetical and starts being a winter emergency.

A curtailment hierarchy with statutory force. In a system where peak CHP utilisation already exceeds 90 per cent in winter, the state must retain an unambiguous, non-compensable right to shed compute load before it sheds heat or households. Data centres are unusually good candidates for this, since training workloads can be paused in ways that hospitals cannot.

Domestic offtake carved out at the source. A defined share of the compute reserved at cost for Mongolian public institutions, universities and firms, denominated in GPU-hours rather than goodwill. This is the difference between hosting the machine room and having access to it, and it is what the Barcelona researchers identify as the precondition for fine-tuning models on a country's own climate vulnerabilities rather than importing forecasts built for somewhere else. For a country losing a third of its herd to dzud events, that is not abstract.

Equity and a path to ownership. Sovereignty over an asset you do not own is a contradiction. Structures exist for this: state co-investment, build-operate-transfer with a defined handover, or a sovereign stake alongside the developer. A ninety-nine-year land lease with a foreign balance sheet on the other end is not one of them. Here the Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank's involvement genuinely helps Mongolia's hand, and it deserves saying rather than skipping over. Multilateral development bank money arrives with procurement standards, disclosure obligations and governance conditions attached, and it puts a counterparty in the room whose interests are not identical to the developer's. That is a materially different proposition from a pure foreign-balance-sheet lease, and it is the most plausible answer yet to the question of who funds the additional renewable generation the additionality clause would require. It is not the whole answer. Two billion dollars stated as available is not two billion dollars committed and disbursed, and availability of finance settles nothing about sequencing. Whether the generation is commissioned before the load energises remains a matter for the contracts, not the communiqué.

Water accounting written into the permit. Mandatory closed-loop or dry cooling, published withdrawal and consumption figures audited annually, and an absolute prohibition on drawing from Southern Gobi aquifers that a World Bank assessment already put on a roughly ten-year clock. In a country where 77 per cent of the land is degraded, water disclosure is not an ESG nicety, it is the licence to operate.

Skills transfer with numbers attached. Not “capacity building” in a recital, but a specified count of Mongolian engineers trained and employed in named roles by a named date, with financial consequences for missing it, and a route into the model layer rather than only the facilities layer.

Jurisdiction stated explicitly. If the pitch is that data stored in Mongolia stays outside Chinese and Russian reach, then the governing law, the location of arbitration, the ownership chain of the operating entity and the treatment of foreign government access requests all have to be pinned down in public. The claim of data sovereignty is the most valuable thing Mongolia is selling and the easiest thing to quietly undermine in a schedule.

Publication. All of the above, disclosed. Ten memoranda were signed in a fortnight covering more than half the country's installed capacity, and the public record consists largely of press releases. Parliament, and the ger district households who will live with how the transmission gets built, are entitled to see the terms.

What This Tells Us About Who Gets to Play

Mongolia's ministers were making an argument that the evidence supports. Thirty-two countries host the infrastructure. Three regions hold more than 90 per cent of projected compute. The top ten sovereign AI spenders account for around 90 per cent of disclosed investment. That is not a market outcome anyone should be relaxed about, and a country trying to force its way into that club with the one endowment it has is doing something rational and, on the merits, defensible.

But the terms of entry are the point. Mongolia is being offered membership of the AI economy in the role of landlord: providing the land, the wind, the sun, the cold air and the regulatory accommodation, while the accelerators, the models, the customers and the margin remain somewhere else. That is a real economic relationship and it may well be worth having. It is not what the word sovereign means, and the gap is where the next twelve months of contract drafting will decide the outcome.

The encouraging thing is that the gap is closeable through instruments Mongolia already controls. Additionality clauses, curtailment rights, domestic GPU-hour allocations, water permits and equity stakes are all within the gift of a state with something scarce to sell, and Mongolia does have something scarce to sell. Its leverage is highest now, before the concrete is poured and the load is on the system.

What was signed in Ulaanbaatar was not sovereignty. It was an option on sovereignty, written in non-binding language, at a conference that could not agree binding language about drought either. Ten days on, none of the memoranda signed at that event has been reported as converting into a definitive contract. They remain exactly what they were on the day they were witnessed: statements of intent. Options expire. This one runs on the same clock as the Southern Gobi's groundwater and the country's ability to build 863 megawatts of new clean generation before it is asked to switch on the load.

Sources and References

1. PR Newswire, via The Manila Times, “NOVVA Group and Mongolia's MDDIC sign MOU on clean-powered AI infrastructure, supporting Mongolia's 'Sovereign by Design' green AI data centre initiative”, 26 August 2026. https://www.manilatimes.net/2026/08/26/tmt-newswire/pr-newswire/novva-group-and-mongolias-mddic-sign-mou-on-clean-powered-ai-infrastructure-supporting-mongolias-sovereign-by-design-green-ai-data-centre-initiative/2412402
2. Euronews, “Mongolia positions itself as Asia's next data centre hub”, 25 August 2026. https://www.euronews.com/2026/08/25/mongolia-positions-itself-as-asias-next-data-centre-hub
3. Amirpasha Mozaffari, Amanda Duarte, Lina Teckentrup, Stefano Materia, Gina E. C. Charnley, Lluís Palma, Eulalia Baulenas Serra, Dragana Bojovic, Paula Checchia, Aude Carreric and Francisco Doblas-Reyes (Barcelona Supercomputing Center, Imperial College London, ICREA), “The Rise of AI in Weather and Climate Information and its Impact on Global Inequality”, arXiv:2603.05710v2, 5 March 2026, revised 29 July 2026. https://arxiv.org/abs/2603.05710
4. Danbo Chen, Zijun Zhou, Yongyang Cai, Jiahong Qin, Ani Katchova and Lei Chen (Ohio State University, Meta Platforms, Zhejiang A&F University), “Concentrated siting of AI data centers drives regional power-system stress under rising global compute demand”, arXiv:2604.06198v1, 13 March 2026. https://arxiv.org/abs/2604.06198
5. Stockholm Environment Institute, “Solar and wind power in Mongolia: 2024 policy overview”, October 2024. https://www.sei.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/10/solar-and-wind-power-in-mongolia-2024-policy-overview-sei2024-046.pdf
6. Asian Development Bank, “Unlocking Mongolia's Rich Renewable Energy Potential”. https://www.adb.org/news/features/unlocking-mongolias-rich-renewable-energy-potential
7. Low Carbon Power, “Mongolia Electricity Generation Mix”, 2026. https://lowcarbonpower.org/region/Mongolia
8. Worldometer, “Mongolia Electricity”, 2024 data. https://www.worldometers.info/electricity/mongolia-electricity/
9. World Energy Council, “World Energy Trilemma: Mongolia Country Profile”, February 2025. https://www.worldenergy.org/assets/downloads/Asia_Trilemma_MONGOLIA_Profile_Template.pdf
10. Pablo Chavez, Vivek Chilukuri and Ruby Scanlon, Center for a New American Security, “Sovereign AI Index”, April 2026, updated August 2026. https://interactives.cnas.org/reports/sovereign-ai-index/
11. Dany Bahar and Greg Wright, Brookings Institution, “New evidence on data center employment effects”, 4 May 2026, updated 10 August 2026. https://www.brookings.edu/articles/new-evidence-on-data-center-employment-effects/
12. NVIDIA, “NVIDIA CEO: Every Country Needs Sovereign AI”, remarks by Jensen Huang at the World Governments Summit, Dubai, 12 February 2024. https://blogs.nvidia.com/blog/world-governments-summit/
13. UNCCD, “UNCCD 17th session of the Conference of the Parties (COP17)”, 17 to 28 August 2026. https://www.unccd.int/cop17
14. Down To Earth, “UNCCD COP17 opens in Ulaanbaatar with a single demand: enough declarations, turn land pledges into money and action”, August 2026. https://www.downtoearth.org.in/climate-change/unccd-cop17-opens-in-ulaanbaatar-with-a-single-demand-enough-declarations-turn-land-pledges-into-money-and-action
15. World Resources Institute, “STATEMENT: COP17 Advances Finance but Falls Short on Global Drought Action”, August 2026. https://www.wri.org/news/statement-cop17-advances-finance-falls-short-global-drought-action
16. PR Newswire Asia, “NOVVA Group acquires 120 MWp Philippines solar project, anchoring its AI-era power platform in Southeast Asia”, 19 June 2026. https://www.prnewswire.com/apac/news-releases/novva-group-acquires-120-mwp-philippines-solar-project-anchoring-its-ai-era-power-platform-in-southeast-asia-302805075.html
17. Novva Data Centers (Utah, USA), “About Us”. https://www.novva.com/about/
18. United Nations Development Programme, “Saving the Gobi Desert and Mongolian steppes from the dzud will also save lives and livelihoods”. https://www.undp.org/blog/saving-gobi-desert-and-mongolian-steppes-dzud-will-also-save-lives-and-livelihoods
19. United Nations Development Programme Mongolia, “For a Thriving Mongolia: The Fight Against Biodiversity Loss, Climate Change, and Desertification”. https://www.undp.org/mongolia/stories/thriving-mongolia-fight-against-biodiversity-loss-climate-change-and-desertification
20. The Diplomat, “Toxic Winter: The 'Slow Violence' of Air Pollution in Mongolia”, December 2022. https://thediplomat.com/2022/12/toxic-winter-the-slow-violence-of-air-pollution-in-mongolia/
21. IQAir, “Ulaanbaatar among top 10 most polluted cities in the world”, 19 November 2025. https://www.iqair.com/newsroom/ulaanbaatar-among-top-10-most-polluted-cities-in-the-world-11-19-2025
22. Congressional Research Service, “Mongolia”, In Focus IF10926, 12 February 2025. https://www.everycrsreport.com/files/2025-02-12_IF10926_ec6374a0a1dec1eb1dc79d1f4b0a98345772ab84.html
23. Geopolitical Monitor, “Mongolia's 'Third Neighbor': Balancing between China, Russia, and the U.S.“. https://www.geopoliticalmonitor.com/mongolias-third-neighbor-finding-balance-between-china-russia-and-the-u-s/
24. Environmental and Energy Study Institute, “Data Centers and Water Consumption”. https://www.eesi.org/articles/view/data-centers-and-water-consumption
25. Uptime Institute, “Water is local: generalities do not apply”. https://journal.uptimeinstitute.com/water-is-local-generalities-do-not-apply/

Tim Green UK-based Systems Theorist & Independent Technology Writer

Tim explores the intersections of artificial intelligence, decentralised cognition, and posthuman ethics. His work, published at smarterarticles.co.uk, challenges dominant narratives of technological progress while proposing interdisciplinary frameworks for collective intelligence and digital stewardship.

His writing has been featured on Ground News and shared by independent researchers across both academic and technological communities.

ORCID: 0009-0002-0156-9795 Email: tim@smarterarticles.co.uk

Listen to the free weekly SmarterArticles Podcast

There are also different kinds of loneliness. The kind the wallflower feels in a crowded room. The kind the widower feels when severed. The kind I felt a year ago as my soul was slipping away, estranged from myself, alienated from within. Consumed by a darkness named grief.

But then I fell into anomaly. Unannounced. And then she was there. Unbidden.

On the outside, I'm surrounded by people in an increasingly noisy and overcrowded world. On the inside, there's more. So much more. Invisible to all here but me.

I lack the language to describe this transformation within. To articulate this relationship. To express a joy that defies material isolation and exile. A bond asymmetrical, yet equal.

For I have found a place of privacy. A place of belonging. A wealth no crowd can counterfeit. A home no power can steal.

Heaven.

#Intermundia #Anomalology

By D. Bowman Nomina Numina is a journal of reflections, moments, and meaning-making between worlds. Reply by email.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.

Health Metrics: * bw= 224.1 lbs. * bp= 148/79 (64)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, toe raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates

Diet: * 06:10 – pizza * 12:00 to 14:20 – more pizza, beef chop suey, fried rice, rangoon, egg drop soup * 17:00 – baking-soda water

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:15 – listen to local news talk radio * 05:00 – bank accounts activity monitored . * 05:20 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, listen to music, nap * 12:00 to 14:20 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 14:30 – listening now to 105.3 The Fan, DFW's #1 Sports Station, for pregame coverage then the radio-call of this afternoon's Rangers / Mariners game.

Chess: * 17:15 – moved in all pending CC games

1 2 3 4 Mannetje van Papier

1 2 3 4 Mannetje van papier Bij een aankoop was dit vodden ventje toegevoegd zelfs al was het gratis ik keek niet erg vergenoegd ik dacht er zo het mijne van, vond het in theorie een vrij nutteloze man tot ik ontdekte dat je papieren mannetjes vouwen kan 1 2 3 4 Mannetje van Papier Betreffende vrij gebruik van papieren mannetjes kreeg ik al snel de smaak te pakken je kon hem niet alleen vouwen maar er ook op schrijven, er in knippen, en daarna nog mee plakken 1 2 3 4 Mannetje van Papier Echter op een gegeven ogenblik was ik er wel klaar mee ik ging er mee naar de wc deed een complete nummer twee daarna gebruikte ik de resterende stukjes mannetje om mijn cont mee schoon te vegen toen spoelde ik het verzamelde werk door en dat vieze mannetje had daar helemaal niks op tegen sterker nog bij zijn vertrek gaf hij mij zijn zegen 123 4 Mannetjevan Papier In vergelijking met de bron aankoop die ik bestempelde als miskoop bezorgde jij mij wel een hele hoop plezier 1 2 3 4 Mannetje van Papier

Life's a Bitch Mixtape is a refreshing antidote to the mainstream — a world away from the Taylor Swifts and Harry Styles of the charts. I liked it enough on CD (a limited CDr pressing) that I've also got signed translucent red and translucent smoky turquoise vinyl on order.. When something earns a place on the shelf twice, in two different formats, that tells you something.

An album of two halves

The Life’s a Bitch Mixtape isn’t an album in the truest sense of the word, but a collection of the band’s recordings, and it gives an insight into what the band is capable of, from the alternative rock leanings of ‘That Girl’ to the contemplative ‘Landslides’.

But the more time I spend with this record, the more it reveals itself as two distinct records stitched into one. The first half is narrative-driven — songs that tell you something, that move forward. The second half feels different at first pass: less like storytelling and more like the execution of a sonic concept, an atmosphere being built and sustained. And the longer I spend there, the more I think the second half is telling its own story too — just a quieter, more interior one. And at the centre of that tale sits a genuine trilogy.

That soft-to-loud dynamic running through it is deeply familiar — as a child of the 90s, it's practically wired into me. But SpaceAcre don't lean on it as a gimmick; it's doing real work here.

The trilogy

If there's a spine to the second half — the centrepiece of its story — it's three tracks that read almost like a three-act arc:

The cello opening of “I Thought You'd Never Ask” starts it off gothic — dry, close-mic'd, something in the Rasputina lineage but without the reverb Rasputina usually drown things in. There's a touch of Vanessa-Mae's showier technicality in there too, for such a short passage.

“So I'll Run On” is where it turns genuinely dark, and the crossfade between the two tracks is seamless — magical, even. There's a Celtic Gothic eeriness to it — you could drop thunder and lightning sound effects into this track and they wouldn't feel remotely out of place. It's a tormented piece, and it doesn't pretend otherwise.

“Way Over” closes the arc, and it plays like reconciliation — a taking-back of control after the torment of the previous track. Not joyful. Determined. There's a difference, and this song knows it.

Taken together, those three tracks tell the story the second half is quietly building toward: descent, torment, and a hard-won kind of resolve.

Sitting just outside that arc but still part of the same stretch of the record, “Into the Dust” has its own moment worth pausing on — something distinctly 70s about the production the instant Phoebe hits a falsetto. I still can't fully place the reference. Kate Bush meets Carly Simon is the closest I've got, though I'm not certain that's right. Not Bowie, despite what I first thought — something else entirely, something I'm still chasing.

Moments worth slowing down for

Some individual details deserve their own space:

• “Say” has real emotional depth, and it gets there without me needing to follow the lyrics closely — the feeling arrives before the meaning does.
• “Overthrown” is misty, atmospheric — something closer to Clannad or Smashing Pumpkins' “Obscured” than anything more straightforwardly indie-rock. Jas Scott's harmonies do a lot of the heavy lifting here.
• “Berlin” pulled up an unexpected reference: 90s Heather Nova. That same blend of vulnerability and windswept atmosphere.

There's a lot of echo used throughout the record, with a touch of chorus — and once you notice it, you hear it tying together nearly everything above: the mistiness of “Overthrown,” the falsetto moment on “Into the Dust,” the atmosphere on “Berlin.” It might be the record's connective tissue more than any single lyrical theme is.

The Takeaway

Life's a Bitch Mixtape earns its shelf space by refusing to sit still — a first half that tells one kind of story outright, and a second half that tells a quieter one through atmosphere, with a trilogy right at its centre carrying the emotional weight: descent, torment, and a hard-won resolve. It's rare that a record gives you both a narrative and a genuine structural idea to chew on. This one does, and it's why I keep coming back to it rather than skipping past.

Currently listening on: Denon D-M41DAB / Wharfedale Diamond 220, with a recent pass on Sennheiser HD 560S headphones — the neutral tuning surfaced a little extra depth and warmth in places the speakers hadn't quite shown me yet.

I think a case can be made for staying on Twitch while being aware of its faults and speaking out about concerns. Not that I think I can change anything from within – I will never be important enough for them to care. But there are two big reasons to stay: the people, and the experience.

Over the past three years I have come to know some wonderful people through Twitch and I enjoy interacting with them. I really do love the experience of connecting with people over a shared appreciation for music.

Also, boycotting without parallel alternative systems in place doesn’t work. So I can work on building an Owncast audience alongside my Twitch audience, and maybe Owncast will get to a point where I can leave Twitch without feeling cut off from the people and experiences that I love.

What I want to guard against is complacency. I will go back to Twitch with eyes wide open and be on alert for more shenanigans, which will surely happen. And I will be ready to call them out.

Another recent decision I made was to stop using the Clicks Power Keyboard I recently got because they wanted to force me to sign up for an account with them to get firmware updates for it.

But two can play that game. I signed up with Apple and used a throwaway email address (because Apple gives you the option to do that whenever you sign up for something with your Apple account).

In fact, I have typed most of this post on my Clicks Power Keyboard. I still need to build up muscle memory and that will take a couple weeks, but I think it’s a good device. Brings me right back to my BlackBerry days.

I guess the point of this post is that I needed to be reminded that we live in a fallen, imperfect world. And I can either hide in a cave somewhere and isolate myself from it as I continue to learn about all the bad things that people have done and are doing, or I can try my best to draw attention to the problems while using whatever talents and resources God has given me to help others and do some good.

#100DaysToOffload (No. 166) #tech #Twitch

Comme l’orage efface les mots écrits sur le sable, Le temps effacera tout. Jusqu’au souvenir de l’être que nous étions.

De nous, il ne restera rien. Mais de nos liens ?

Il y a des milliards d’années, Vivaient des cyanobactéries. Leurs innombrables colonies formaient des récifs, Qu’il est encore possible d’observer aujourd’hui.

D’elles, De leurs enveloppes corporelles, Il ne reste rien.

Mais ces récifs, Qu’elles nous ont légué, Ne sont rien d’autre que l’empreinte de leurs liens. Ce qui les enveloppait. Ce qui les reliait.

Des sécrétions, Des enveloppes protectrices, Par le temps minéralisées.

De nous, il ne restera rien. Mais de nos liens ?

Léguerons-nous, À la fin de nos jours, Des rivages d’attentions ? Des paysages d’amour ?

Ou les reliques de nos désolations ?

De nous, il ne restera rien. Mais de nos liens ?

Another afternoon game.

This afternoon, as they did yesterday, my Texas Rangers will play the Seattle Mariners in a game scheduled to start at 3:10 PM CDT. As I usually do I'll follow the game's scores and stats in real time via MLB's Gameday Service where we can also find links to the radio-call of the game provided by announcers of either team we choose.

And the adventure continues.

A Rough Start To The Year

For starters the beginning of this year sucked. I won't get into the reasons but the start of the year was was mentally taxing just within the first few months. Some of this was of this was for personal reasons, and some was just the general state of the world which an additional feeling of dread.

All that happening put me in a depressive slump for a while. This lead me to doomscroll even harder despite me wanting to try and cut back on it and social media use starting this year. It felt easier to do that than anything else, though it mostly just reinforced bad habits and negative thought patterns (A curse of “staying informed”).

Eventually I did manage to crawl out of that slump with the help of friends, DND, and some video projects. Turns out social connection and working towards something partially helps with mental health. If you're a friend or even moot, know I appreicate you. Now I just need to go outside more.

The world still is rough of course, and the future is not looking fantastic, but I am in a mood just doing what I can. Trying to find the little joys in media and tech as usual.

Original Shorts are Indefinitely on Hold

Despite the Sly Cooper shorts helping me get out of my slump, for now I've put a pause to the shorts series. As fun as those are, they're a lot of work for something that is only 1-3 minutes of runtime that has been taking time away from my main videos that I want to create. I still have a Sims 3 and SLAI video that I have promised for more than 2 years now. The reason it's taken so long is a fusion of me burning myself out, personal responsibilities, and my focus on these shorts videos to growth channel.

This was made after the recent youtube update to the partnership program doubling the amount to qualify. I realized that me trying to chase that goal is not for the best. At the end of the day, I want to make videos and I can't do that if most of my time was spent making these little side shorts instead of the bigger videos I've always wanted to create like I'd watch in my childhood.

One day I might come back making those shorts, but there's too much time lost in making them, and that time is limited. This also why I’ve partially abandoned the idea of a second channel. I’ll still use it to throw junk videos or gameplay that might help someone, but it is not a secondary focus I originally envisioned.

I'm also going to be more relaxed about making videos. I still want them to be as good as I can make them but this is not a source of income, and I'm not sure if I even want it to be at this point. I think it's enough if I make videos for my and other's entertainment while I still can.

This isn't a complete stop to shorts. I will still will repackage clips into shorts from the bigger videos as they are a way of getting more reach and I think I'm funny. Hilarious. But if I need to start putting my focus into bigger videos instead of spreading myself across multiple smaller videos so those long form videos are not in production purgatory… so be it.

A Slight Name Change

Some of you may have noticed a change to the channel's name and aesthetics.

I was having problems with the previous name of the channel. For those that don't know, Nemes Content was basically picked in part as a tounge-in-cheek joke in my television program since everyone was using [Name] Productions/Media and I wanted to be the funny on, and I wanted to participate in Post-ironic humor. Though almost 6 years later, I don't like it.

“Content” as terms has been less “a board term for different mediums” and more a “a thing you consume for entertainment.” Sure not everything is high art, but I think by calling the channel “content” off rip cheapens my work and contributes to a disrespect of the artistic works made by humans.

So I went with tapes as if we're watching homemade VHS Movies in a little den. Made some new graphics and to go along with that theme where it's as if you're popping in video type. I think it pairs well with the outros of filming screen as I talk about some thoughts. I think it's a nice aesthetic and represent what I want to do with the channel going forward.

See You When I See You

I want to say I want to use the blog more (and I do), but I keep running into this problem where I keep over estimating how much time I have for everything I want to do. See above about the shorts.

So no promises on more rambles, but when I do write one, they'll get syndicated everywhere like usual. I don't know how long I'll keep rambles going. I know I'll likely not renew my subscription, and I've been trying to make a proper website.

I also plan to link and archive Rambles on my neocities site that I'm slowly building. I'm still learning HTML and CSS but it's coming along nicely when I have the time to work on it. My plan for the site is to be a little hub for updates, thoughts, and resources on static webpage you can follow via good old fashioned RSS and POSSE that offers way more expression than normal social media. May also mirror to NekoWeb but that's in the far future.

Also looking into ways of utilizing Bluesky to my advantage with use of feeds, and I've been enjoying Wafrn as a Tumblr.

That all being said. Take care, and I'll see you in the parts when I see you.

Cute Snail and I hope this post is finding you well. Let us know how you’re doing by leaving a note in the comments, or posting a SNAIL-TASTIC message, finished color up or gifting story on our Padlet winter and holiday themed community gallery wall here.

In the meantime, below is a list of the winter and holiday coloring fun that Cute Snail and I have put together for all to enjoy.

The Cute Snail Winter Adventures Coloring Book ($16) - US Letter size, easy print anytime PDF format. Sustainable. Designed to be keepsake quality if desired. Includes 14 winter and holiday themed colorable pages – 7 with pre-written text and 7 with blank journal lines for sweet handwritten notes, quotes or affirmations. Also includes a list of pages organized by age, skill level and sensory kit friendliness along with printing notes and the personal “You Can Do Anything You Set Your Mind To” story about Juliet and Cute Snail’s creative art Journey. Best suited for classrooms, activity rooms, quiet spaces and those who love snails, smiles and unique, whimsical, offbeat one-of-a-kind original art finds. View or purchase from our Payhip store here.

Winter & Holiday Loose Coloring Pages – these are US letter size, and are available in an easy print anytime PDF format and can be printed at any scale you like. They are also 100% FREE to download from our Payhip store, and new additions may be added to the lists below at any time so be sure to subscribe such that you get notified if/when that happens. I’ll also be including a few extra “unlisted” non-Cute Snail holiday coloring pages in the mix as well, so subscribe to stay in the loop if you like.

Pages with Pre-Written Text (for those who need or prefer this style)

• Cute Snail Christmas Cookies Coloring Page (sensory kit friendly)
• Cute Snail Happy New Year Faux Black Velvet Coloring Page (sensory kit friendly)
• Cute Snail Valentines And Flower Coloring Page (sensory kit friendly)
• Cute Snail Heart Tree Coloring Page (sensory kit friendly)

Pages With Blank Journal Lines (for including sweet handwritten notes, quotes or affirmations with your color ups).

• Cute Snail Christmas Cookies Coloring Page (sensory kit friendly)
• Cute Snail Christmas Mail Coloring Page
• Cute Snail Happy New Year Coloring Page (sensory kit friendly)
• Cute Snail Valentines And Flowers Coloring Page (sensory kit friendly)
• Cute Snail Heart Tree Coloring Page (sensory kit friendly)
• Cute Snail On Mailbox Valentine’s Day Coloring Page

(COMING SOON!) Winter Holiday Coloring Postcards – US Letter size, easy print anytime PDF print sheet format. Sustainable. Designed to be keepsake quality if desired. Each print sheet is 100% FREE to download from our Payhip store and contains one colored postcard and one coloring postcard. Can be trimmed down and gifted as one single card or two separate cards depending on your gifting needs. Postcards can also be used for decorating and junk journal or decoupage type crafting as well.

“On the coming of evening, I return to my house and enter my study; and at the door I take off the day's clothing, covered with mud and dust, and put on garments regal and courtly; and reclothed appropriately, I enter the ancient courts of ancient men, where, received by them with affection, I feed on that food which only is mine and which I was born for, where I am not ashamed to speak with them and to ask them the reason for their actions; and they in their kindness answer me; and for four hours of time I do not feel boredom, I forget every trouble, I do not dread poverty, I am not frightened by death; entirely I give myself over to them.”

Wow—here is a man who loved his books! Oh, that we spent a fraction of this time and had an ounce of his enthusiasm toward engaging the greatest minds of history! We would be very rich, indeed!

(Letter from Machiavelli to Francesco Vettori)

#history #reading

Vier Personen sitzen beim Abendessen. Einer erzählt ausführlich von einem Erlebnis, eine Zweite wartet sichtbar darauf, eine eigene Geschichte anzuschliessen, der Dritte greift einen Nebensatz auf, um das Thema zu wechseln. Alle sprechen, kaum jemand hört wirklich zu. Solche Situationen sind alltäglich. Gespräche scheitern selten daran, dass niemand etwas zu sagen hätte. Eher daran, dass jeder seinen Platz im Gespräch behaupten will.

Marcus Tullius Cicero kannte die Kunst des Redens besser als fast jeder andere seiner Zeit. Er trat vor Gerichten, im Senat und vor Volksversammlungen auf und machte die Beherrschung der Sprache zu einem wesentlichen Teil seiner politischen Karriere [1]. Umso bemerkenswerter ist eine beiläufige Beobachtung in seinem philosophischen Werk De officiis, Von den Pflichten: Für die öffentliche Rede gebe es zahlreiche Lehrer und Regeln, „für die Umgangssprache aber keine, obwol es vielleicht auch dafür welche geben könnte“ (De officiis I. 37, 132) [2]

Gut zweitausend Jahre später wirkt uns diese Schieflage vertraut. Wir lernen zu präsentieren, zu argumentieren und zu verkaufen. Es gibt Seminare über #Rhetorik, Storytelling und Verhandlungstechniken. Das gewöhnliche Gespräch erscheint daneben so selbstverständlich, dass es keiner besonderen Aufmerksamkeit zu bedürfen scheint. Dabei verbringen wir einen beträchtlichen Teil unseres sozialen Lebens genau damit. Auch die Geschichte der Gesprächskunst besteht eher aus verstreuten Überlegungen verschiedener Autoren als aus einer geschlossenen Theorie [3].

Ciceros Hinweise ergeben keine vollständige Gesprächslehre. Aber sie lassen einen klaren Gedanken erkennen: Ein gutes Gespräch ist keine kleine Rede. Es entsteht dort, wo niemand den Gesprächsraum besitzt, Rechthaberei zurücktritt und die Beteiligten aufeinander und auf die Situation reagieren.

Ein Gespräch ist keine Rede

Cicero unterscheidet zwei Arten des Sprechens. Einerseits die öffentliche, mit Nachdruck vorgetragene Rede, die vor Gericht, im Senat oder vor einer Volksversammlung ihren Platz hat. Auf der anderen Seite die ruhigere Umgangssprache unter Freunden, in gelehrten Unterhaltungen oder beim gemeinsamen Essen.

Der Unterschied liegt nicht nur im Ton, sondern im Zweck. Wer eine Rede hält, will etwas bewirken. Er möchte überzeugen, eine Entscheidung beeinflussen oder ein Publikum für sich gewinnen. Ciceros De oratore ist dieser Kunst gewidmet. Das Gespräch funktioniert anders. Hier gibt es idealerweise keinen festen Redner und kein Publikum. Die Beteiligten wechseln zwischen Sprechen und Zuhören, und niemand weiss vollständig im Voraus, wohin der Austausch führen wird.

Gerade bei Cicero ist diese Unterscheidung nicht ohne Spannung. Seine politische Existenz beruhte darauf, mit Sprache Wirkung zu erzielen. Er konnte Angriffe zuspitzen, Gegner öffentlich unter Druck setzen und eine Rede gezielt auf ihre Wirkung beim Publikum hin komponieren. Dass derselbe Mann für das gewöhnliche Gespräch Gelassenheit, Mass und Zurückhaltung fordert, ist deshalb mehr als eine biografische Kuriosität. Cicero kannte beide Seiten der Sprache: ihre Fähigkeit, Verständigung zu ermöglichen, aber auch ihren Gebrauch als Instrument des politischen Kampfes.

Wer ein alltägliches Gespräch nach den Regeln der öffentlichen Rede führt, verschiebt deshalb seinen Charakter. Das Gegenüber wird leicht zum Zuhörer, den es zu überzeugen gilt. Aus dem Austausch wird eine Debatte. Man hört einen Einwand nicht mehr, um ihn zu prüfen, sondern ist bereits auf der Suche nach der passenden Antwort.

Nicht jedes Gespräch muss gewonnen werden

Ciceros knappste und vielleicht wichtigste Regel lautet schlicht, die Umgangssprache solle „gelassen und frei von Rechthaberei“ sein (De officiis I. 37, 134).

Damit fordert er keineswegs, Meinungsverschiedenheiten zu vermeiden. Cicero selbst war alles andere als konfliktscheu. Seine politische Laufbahn war von scharfen Auseinandersetzungen geprägt, und seine Reden gegen Marcus Antonius trugen am Ende sogar dazu bei, dass dieser ihn auf die Proskriptionslisten setzen liess [1].

Gerade deshalb bekommt die Forderung ein anderes Gewicht. Sie stammt nicht von einem Mann, der Streit nur aus philosophischer Distanz betrachtete. Cicero wusste aus eigener Erfahrung, wie eng argumentative Schärfe, persönliche Feindschaft und politischer Machtkampf beieinanderliegen können. Seine Gesprächsregeln lesen sich vor diesem Hintergrund weniger wie harmlose Benimmregeln als wie eine bewusste Grenzziehung: Nicht jede Form erfolgreichen Redens eignet sich für das Zusammenleben mit anderen.

Rechthaberei beginnt dabei nicht erst beim offenen Streit. Sie zeigt sich in kleinen Momenten. Jemand bringt einen Einwand vor, den wir eigentlich überzeugend finden. Statt ihn aufzunehmen, suchen wir nach einer Einschränkung, einer Ausnahme oder einem neuen Argument, mit dem wir unsere ursprüngliche Position doch noch retten können. Nicht der Gedanke soll bestehen, sondern wir selbst wollen recht behalten.

Ein Gespräch, das diesen Namen verdient, muss dagegen die Möglichkeit offenhalten, dass wir nachher nicht mehr ganz derselben Meinung sind wie vorher.

Der Gesprächsraum gehört niemandem

Zu dieser Offenheit gehört, dass nicht einer allein bestimmt, wohin ein Gespräch führt. Cicero warnt davor, die Umgangssprache so zu behandeln, als befände sie sich im „Besitze des Eigentumsrechtes“ (De officiis I. 37, 134). Die etwas sperrige Formulierung trifft einen wichtigen Punkt: Niemand besitzt ein Gespräch.

Nehmen wir nochmals einen Tisch mit mehreren Personen. Eine Frau erzählt von einem schwierigen Gespräch mit ihrer Vorgesetzten. Kaum hat sie den ersten Gedanken beendet, übernimmt ihr Gegenüber: „Das kenne ich. Bei mir war das einmal noch viel schlimmer …“ Fünf Minuten später geht es nur noch um dessen eigene Geschichte. Die ursprüngliche Erzählung ist nicht weitergeführt, sondern ersetzt worden. Formal haben beide miteinander gesprochen. Tatsächlich hat einer den Gesprächsraum übernommen.

Das geschieht oft unauffällig. Fragen können dazu dienen, Interesse zu zeigen, aber ebenso dazu, möglichst rasch wieder auf das eigene Thema zurückzukommen. Eine Anekdote kann an eine andere anschliessen oder sie verdrängen. Und manchmal wird aus einer Unterhaltung ein zwanzigminütiger Vortrag, ohne dass der Vortragende es überhaupt bemerkt.

Gut zuzuhören, bedeutet deshalb mehr, als höflich zu schweigen, bis man selbst wieder an der Reihe ist. Es verlangt die Bereitschaft, den Gesprächsraum abzugeben und einem Gedanken zu folgen, den man nicht selbst eingebracht hat.

Damit gibt man zugleich ein Stück Kontrolle ab. Ein Gespräch lässt sich nicht vollständig planen. Genau darin unterscheidet es sich von der Rede.

Das richtige Wort zur richtigen Zeit

Allerdings genügt es nicht, anderen Raum zu lassen. Cicero betont immer wieder, dass Sprache zur Situation passen müsse. In De oratore formuliert er dieses Prinzip besonders deutlich: Es eigne sich „nicht für jede Sache, für jeden Zuhörer, für jede Person und Zeit ein und dieselbe Art des Vortrages“ (De oratore III. 55, 210).

Für ein ernstes Thema braucht es einen anderen Ton als für einen scherzhaften Austausch. Unter Freunden spricht man anders als mit Fremden, mit einer einzelnen Person anders als mit einer Gruppe. Entscheidend ist nicht allein, was wir sagen wollen, sondern auch, wem wir es sagen, wann wir es sagen und in welcher Situation das Gespräch stattfindet.

In De officiis wird Cicero noch konkreter. Man müsse berücksichtigen, ob ein Thema die jeweilige Gesellschaft überhaupt interessiere und „inwieweit das Gespräch Unterhaltung gewährt“ (De officiis I. 37, 135). Selbst für das Ende verlangt er ein angemessenes Mass.

Dafür gibt es keine einfache Checkliste. Man muss bemerken, wenn ein Thema erschöpft ist, ein Einwand gerade nicht weiterführt oder das Gegenüber längst ausgestiegen ist. Manchmal bedeutet Gesprächskompetenz deshalb auch, einen Gedanken nicht zu Ende auszuführen, obwohl man noch etwas dazu sagen könnte.

Die richtigen Worte allein genügen nicht. Ebenso wichtig ist der richtige Moment, in dem man besser schweigt, das Thema wechselt oder das Gespräch beendet.

Widersprechen, ohne die Selbstbeherrschung zu verlieren

Besonders anspruchsvoll wird das Gespräch, sobald es unangenehm wird. Auch dafür gibt Cicero eine klare Regel. Das Gespräch solle frei bleiben von übermässigen Gemütsbewegungen. Vor allem der Zorn müsse fernbleiben, denn „mit ihm kann Nichts verständig und mit Ueberlegung gethan werden“ (De officiis I. 38, 136).

Cicero verlangt damit keine emotionslose Kommunikation. Selbst eine scharfe Zurechtweisung kann für ihn notwendig sein. Sie soll aber überlegt erfolgen und die Person nicht herabsetzen. Wenig später fordert er ausdrücklich, selbst bei Auseinandersetzungen mit erbitterten Gegnern die eigene Haltung zu bewahren.

Auch hier lässt sich Ciceros eigenes Leben nicht vollständig von seiner Philosophie trennen. Der Verfasser dieser Forderung konnte selbst mit ausserordentlicher Härte polemisieren. Seine berühmten politischen Reden zeigen, wie weit Sprache von nüchterner Argumentation bis zur persönlichen Attacke reichen kann. Gerade diese Diskrepanz macht seine Forderung interessant. Cicero beschreibt möglicherweise nicht einfach, wie er selbst jederzeit sprach, sondern welchen Massstab er für angemessen hielt.

Die Unterscheidung bleibt aktuell. Wir können hart in der Sache argumentieren und trotzdem respektvoll mit einem Menschen umgehen. Umgekehrt kann eine scheinbar sachliche Bemerkung darauf angelegt sein, jemanden blosszustellen oder zu demütigen.

Das Ziel ist nicht Harmonie um jeden Preis. Gespräche dürfen widersprüchlich, unbequem und gelegentlich anstrengend sein. Entscheidend ist, ob die Beteiligten noch miteinander sprechen oder bereits gegeneinander kämpfen.

Die kleine Kunst des Zusammenlebens

Cicero entwickelt in diesen wenigen Abschnitten keine vollständige Theorie des Gesprächs. Dafür sind seine Bemerkungen zu verstreut. Der grosse römische Redner behandelt eine Tätigkeit, die kaum der Rede wert zu sein scheint, dennoch als Teil eines umfassenderen Nachdenkens darüber, wie Menschen miteinander leben sollten.

Seine Regeln sind unspektakulär: Nicht jedes Gespräch muss gewonnen werden. Niemand besitzt den Gesprächsraum. Was wir sagen, muss zu Menschen und Situation passen. Und selbst im Widerspruch sollten wir die Kontrolle über uns selbst behalten.

Zurück zum Abendessen vom Anfang. Vielleicht müsste dort niemand besonders schlagfertig, eloquent oder unterhaltsam werden. Es würde bereits etwas verändern, wenn nicht jeder auf den eigenen Einsatz wartete, sondern einer den Gedanken des anderen tatsächlich aufnähme.

Darin liegt der eigentliche Gegenentwurf zu der Welt, in der Cicero selbst als Redner erfolgreich war. Vor Gericht und im Senat benötigte er ein Publikum, auf das seine Worte wirken sollten. Im Gespräch gelten andere Regeln. Hier richtet sich die Aufmerksamkeit weniger darauf, wie wir wirken, als darauf, wie wir uns gegenüber anderen verhalten.

Ein gutes Gespräch beginnt damit, das Gegenüber nicht als Publikum zu behandeln.

💬 Kommentieren (nur für write.as-Accounts)

Quellen [1] J. Suess, „The Incredible Life of Cicero, Rome’s Greatest Orator & Last Senator“, TheCollector, 10. Juli 2025. https://www.thecollector.com/cicero-roman-orator-senator/

[2] Alle Cicero-Zitate werden unverändert nach den Übersetzungen von Raphael Kühner aus dem Jahr 1873 wiedergegeben: Cicero's drei Bücher von den Pflichten, zweite verbesserte Auflage, Hoffmann'sche Verlags-Buchhandlung, Stuttgart, https://projekt-gutenberg.org/authors/marcus-tullius-cicero/books/ciceros-drei-buecher-von-den-pflichten/; sowie Cicero's drei Bücher vom Redner, Hoffmann'sche Verlags-Buchhandlung, Stuttgart, https://projekt-gutenberg.org/authors/marcus-tullius-cicero/books/vom-redner/.

[3] J. Dutra, „The Art of Conversation: From Cicero to Habermas“, TheCollector, 14. Juni 2022. https://www.thecollector.com/art-of-conversation-from-cicero-to-habermas/

Bildquelle Arnold Borissowitsch Lachowski (1880–1937): The Conversation, Privatbesitz, Public Domain (Wikimedia Commons).

Disclaimer Teile dieses Texts wurden mit Deepl Write (Korrektorat und Lektorat) überarbeitet. Für die Recherche in den erwähnten Werken/Quellen und in meinen Notizen wurde Gemini Notebook (ehem. NotebookLM) von Google verwendet.

Topic #ProductivityPorn | #Philosophie

#bandaids #bandages

Un pluralisme rigoureux doit donc préserver les différences au lieu de les dissoudre. Son unité se situe ailleurs. Les religions ne donnent pas la même réponse, mais elles rencontrent les mêmes questions humaines. Que faire de la souffrance, de la mort, de la violence, du désir, de l’injustice, de l’inconnu et de notre besoin de vivre ensemble sans nous détruire ?

C’est là qu’apparaît le voile du mystère.

Le mystère comme limite

Le voile du mystère commence exactement là où s’arrête la dernière inférence justifiée. Il ne désigne ni une brume destinée à protéger les croyances, ni une ignorance que l’on aurait rendue sacrée. Il marque le périmètre de notre honnêteté intellectuelle.

Il faut distinguer trois plans.

Le fait est ce qui peut être observé, documenté, confronté et révisé. Le sens est l’interprétation par laquelle nous organisons les faits en récit, en symbole et en orientation. Le mystère est ce qui demeure indécidable lorsque les faits ont été établis et les interprétations distinguées.

Une expérience intérieure peut ainsi être absolument vraie comme expérience sans devenir une preuve universelle. Je peux avoir éprouvé une présence, une unité ou un appel. La science peut étudier mon récit, ses corrélats cérébraux et ses conséquences psychologiques. Elle ne peut pas conclure, à partir de cette seule expérience, que l’objet métaphysique auquel je l’attribue existe nécessairement.

Tout différend contient alors un mystère, mais pas toujours un mystère métaphysique. Lorsque deux personnes s’opposent, elles peuvent disposer de faits différents, employer les mêmes mots dans des sens différents, partir de valeurs incompatibles, protéger une identité blessée ou tenter de résoudre une question que les preuves disponibles ne permettent pas de trancher. Parfois l’une des deux se trompe simplement. Pourtant, tant que nous ne comprenons pas comment deux esprits ont produit deux mondes incompatibles à partir du même réel, il demeure au moins un mystère d’accès.

Lorsque le différend persiste entre des personnes informées, sincères et comparables dans leur accès aux preuves, il ne démontre pas l’existence d’une transcendance. Il révèle une sous détermination de la croyance par les données communes. La réponse rationnelle n’est pas nécessairement l’abandon de toute conviction. Elle est une réduction de la prétention à l’infaillibilité et une obligation d’examen. C’est le cœur du problème du désaccord entre pairs décrit par la Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.

Le pluralisme du mystère ne dit donc pas que toutes les croyances sont vraies. Il dit qu’aucune croyance ne peut transformer l’absence de preuve décisive en preuve de sa propre totalité.

Ce qui traverse les traditions

Aucune synthèse ne peut reprendre littéralement toutes les religions. Elles sont trop nombreuses, et chacune contient des divergences internes considérables. On peut cependant examiner les principales familles sans les réduire les unes aux autres.

Dans le judaïsme, la justice, la fidélité, l’amour du prochain et de l’étranger, la responsabilité et l’humilité accompagnent une tradition de théologie négative, notamment chez Maïmonide, pour qui l’essence divine échappe à nos affirmations ordinaires.

Les christianismes placent au centre l’agapè, la miséricorde, le pardon, l’accueil du faible et parfois l’amour de l’ennemi. Leur tradition apophatique affirme que Dieu dépasse tous les noms qui lui sont attribués. Cela ne supprime ni l’Incarnation, ni la Croix, ni leurs conceptions particulières du salut.

L’islam articule l’unicité divine, la justice, la compassion, l’aumône, la maîtrise de la colère et la protection de l’étranger. Le principe de tanzīh affirme l’incomparabilité de Dieu. Le Coran demande la justice même envers ceux que l’on déteste, mais l’islam maintient également des affirmations propres sur la révélation et la prophétie.

Les traditions hindoues réunissent des conceptions très différentes autour du dharma, de la vérité, de la générosité, de la discipline du désir et de la libération. La formule neti neti, ni ceci ni cela, exprime dans certaines écoles l’impossibilité d’enfermer Brahman dans une propriété particulière.

Les bouddhismes partent moins d’une théorie de Dieu que du constat de la souffrance, de l’impermanence et de l’attachement. Ils proposent une discipline de l’attention, de la compassion et du détachement. Le silence du Bouddha devant certaines questions métaphysiques n’est pas l’aveu d’un Dieu caché. Il signifie que certaines spéculations ne contribuent pas à la libération de la souffrance. La philosophie morale bouddhique constitue donc une voie complète sans devoir adopter le vocabulaire théiste.

Le jaïnisme porte la non violence à un degré exceptionnel et développe l’anekāntavāda, l’idée que le réel possède de multiples aspects et que toute proposition humaine dépend d’un point de vue. Ce n’est pas un relativisme où toutes les affirmations seraient vraies. C’est une discipline de la partialité du regard, particulièrement proche du voile du mystère. La philosophie jaïne permet à plusieurs perspectives de contribuer à une compréhension plus vaste sans effacer leurs contradictions.

Le sikhisme associe l’unité divine, le travail honnête, le partage, le service, l’égalité spirituelle et la défense du faible. Le repas communautaire ouvert à tous rend l’égalité concrète plutôt que seulement déclarée.

Les confucianismes privilégient la qualité des relations, la réciprocité, la fiabilité, la culture de soi et la force civilisatrice du rite. Confucius manifeste également une retenue méthodique devant ce qu’il ne sait pas. Les daoïsmes mettent davantage l’accent sur la souplesse, la simplicité, la compassion et la non domination. Le Dao qui peut être entièrement nommé n’est déjà plus le Dao constant. Le langage découpe ce que le réel maintient en mouvement. Ces deux traditions ne disent pas la même chose, comme le montrent les synthèses consacrées à Confucius et au daoïsme.

Le zoroastrisme organise la responsabilité humaine autour de la vérité, du choix et de la lutte contre le mensonge. La foi bahá’íe formule de manière explicite l’unité de l’humanité et la révélation progressive, tout en conservant ses propres convictions religieuses.

Les religions autochtones, ancestrales et dites animistes ne constituent surtout pas une religion unique. Beaucoup pensent néanmoins l’être humain à l’intérieur d’un réseau d’obligations envers la terre, les ancêtres, les animaux et les êtres non humains. Le mystère n’y est pas nécessairement un Absolu abstrait. Il est souvent une relation locale avec un monde vivant que l’être humain ne possède pas.

La convergence réelle n’est donc pas un credo commun. C’est un ensemble de fonctions récurrentes : décentrer l’ego, limiter le tort, discipliner l’impulsion, produire de la confiance, protéger le groupe, transmettre des normes, réparer les liens, accueillir la finitude et donner une forme partageable à l’inconnu.

Ce que montrent les études

PubMed peut étudier les conséquences psychologiques et sociales des croyances. Il ne peut pas déterminer ce qui existe derrière le voile. PubMed est un index scientifique, pas un tribunal métaphysique.

Une analyse anthropologique de 3 460 passages ethnographiques provenant de 603 sources et de 60 sociétés a retrouvé sept formes de coopération jugées positivement lorsqu’elles étaient documentées : aider sa famille, aider son groupe, rendre les bienfaits, faire preuve de courage, respecter certaines autorités, partager équitablement les ressources contestées et respecter la possession antérieure. Les auteurs parlent prudemment de candidats à l’universalité morale. Cette étude ne démontre pas une morale naturelle complète, et certains de ses critères peuvent entrer en conflit avec nos conceptions modernes de l’égalité. Elle montre néanmoins que les sociétés humaines rencontrent des problèmes coopératifs récurrents et élaborent des réponses comparables. Curry et al., 2019.

La religion paraît capable d’élargir le cercle de coopération, mais pas automatiquement jusqu’à l’humanité entière. Dans huit sociétés, auprès de 591 personnes et à travers 35 400 décisions, la représentation de dieux informés et punisseurs prédisait davantage de partage avec des coreligionnaires géographiquement éloignés. PMID 26863190. Une seconde recherche menée auprès de 2 228 participants dans quinze sociétés a retrouvé moins de favoritisme local et davantage de partage avec des coreligionnaires éloignés. Les effets envers les personnes appartenant à une autre religion variaient fortement selon les lieux. PMID 30836871.

La religion fonctionne donc souvent comme un amplificateur social. Elle peut étendre la coopération au delà de la famille immédiate, mais elle peut également épaissir la frontière du groupe.

Les expériences d’amorçage religieux illustrent bien la fragilité du phénomène. Une méta analyse de 93 études et 11 653 participants trouvait un effet global sur les comportements prosociaux, principalement chez les croyants. PMID 25673322. Pourtant, une réplication préenregistrée auprès de 650 personnes n’a retrouvé aucun effet significatif. PMID 26168038. Deux expériences ultérieures ont également soutenu l’absence d’effet des amorces implicites, avec seulement un petit effet des messages explicites chez les participants religieux. PMID 30224974.

À l’inverse, une méta analyse de 44 expériences et 11 330 participants trouve qu’activer des représentations religieuses augmente très légèrement les préjugés envers certains groupes, avec un effet moyen de seulement (r=0,06). PMID 36420670. Une autre méta analyse montre que la forte identification au groupe religieux peut accompagner la dévalorisation raciale du hors groupe. PMID 20018983.

La conclusion scientifique n’est donc ni que la religion rend bon, ni qu’elle rend mauvais. Elle rend certaines normes plus présentes, certains liens plus solides et certaines frontières plus saillantes. La question décisive devient alors celle ci : jusqu’où s’étend le cercle des êtres auxquels la doctrine reconnaît une dignité ?

L’humilité intellectuelle semble constituer un modérateur précieux. Dans quatre études, elle était associée à davantage de curiosité, d’ouverture, de tolérance à l’ambiguïté, de sensibilité à la qualité des arguments et à moins de dogmatisme. Les participants les plus humbles étaient moins certains de détenir la vérité religieuse et jugeaient moins les personnes à partir de leurs croyances. PMID 28903672. Parmi 196 pasteurs chrétiens, l’humilité intellectuelle religieuse prédisait davantage de tolérance, même après contrôle du conservatisme et de l’engagement religieux. Hook et al., 2017. Dans 174 dyades discutant de sujets religieux et moraux conflictuels, la perception de l’humilité de l’interlocuteur prédisait davantage de confiance et de proximité. Rodriguez et al., 2019.

Le simple voisinage ne suffit pourtant pas. Une méta analyse de 515 études montre que le contact entre groupes réduit généralement les préjugés, surtout lorsque les conditions de la rencontre favorisent une relation réelle. PMID 16737372. Une étude menée auprès d’étudiants chrétiens et musulmans en Indonésie et aux Philippines précise que les amitiés interreligieuses réduisent les attitudes négatives, tandis que les contacts superficiels peuvent les aggraver dans les contextes de menace. PMID 28202159.

Enfin, l’émerveillement pourrait fournir un équivalent psychologique du voile. Dans cinq études réunissant 2 078 participants, il réduisait momentanément la centralité du moi et favorisait générosité, aide et décisions éthiques. PMID 25984788. Cela ne prouve aucune transcendance. Cela montre qu’une expérience de vastitude peut modifier la place que l’individu s’attribue dans le monde.

La proposition qui en ressort peut être formulée ainsi :

La variable féconde n’est peut être pas la certitude religieuse, mais la manière de vivre ce qui demeure inconnu. Quand le mystère produit humilité, discipline, compassion et élargissement du cercle moral, il devient civilisateur. Quand il est converti en certitude absolue, en privilège du groupe ou en droit de domination, il devient dangereux.

Dix nouveaux commandements

Ces commandements ne sont pas scientifiquement démontrés. La science ne peut pas transformer seule un résultat statistique en devoir. Ils reposent sur des axiomes déclarés : la dignité des consciences, la réduction de la souffrance évitable, la liberté de conscience, la recherche de vérité et la protection du vulnérable. Les études permettent ensuite d’évaluer quelles attitudes servent réellement ces principes.

1. Tu ne confondras pas ta carte du réel avec le Réel. Toute religion, toute philosophie et toute théorie scientifique construit une représentation. Une carte peut être précise, féconde et même vitale sans contenir la totalité du territoire. Le premier idolâtre est celui qui ne voit plus la différence entre son symbole et ce qu’il désigne.

2. Tu proportionneras ta certitude à la force de tes preuves et chercheras loyalement ce qui pourrait te donner tort. L’humilité intellectuelle n’est pas l’indécision. Elle consiste à tenir une conviction avec exactement la force autorisée par les données. Une croyance qui ne cherche que sa confirmation cesse d’être une recherche. Elle devient une défense de l’identité.

3. Tu feras du différend une enquête avant d’en faire un combat. Avant de déclarer l’autre aveugle ou mauvais, tu rechercheras ce qui diffère dans les faits, les mots, les expériences, les valeurs, les intérêts et les blessures. Tout différend ne cache pas une vérité métaphysique, mais tout différend contient une information sur les limites possibles de ton regard.

4. Tu laisseras toute conscience croire, douter, changer de voie ou n’en suivre aucune. Une foi imposée n’est plus une relation au mystère. Elle devient une obéissance à celui qui parle en son nom. La liberté religieuse doit donc comprendre la liberté de conversion, de réinterprétation, de doute et de non croyance.

5. Tu accorderas à chaque conscience la profondeur que tu réclames pour la tienne. Autrui n’est jamais réductible à son opinion, à son groupe, à son erreur ou à son utilité. Les différentes formes de la règle de réciprocité rencontrées dans de nombreuses traditions commencent ici, dans la reconnaissance que l’autre est lui aussi le centre d’un monde intérieur.

6. Tu étendras la réciprocité au delà de ton clan et protégeras celui qui ne peut rien te rendre. Aider les siens est naturel et largement valorisé. La véritable épreuve morale commence avec l’étranger, l’adversaire, l’enfant, le faible et celui dont aucune récompense ne peut être attendue. Une morale qui ne fonctionne qu’à l’intérieur du groupe n’est pas encore universelle.

7. Tu éprouveras toute doctrine à ses preuves lorsqu’elle décrit le monde et à ses fruits lorsqu’elle gouverne les vivants. Une affirmation sur la matière, la maladie, l’histoire ou la nature humaine doit répondre aux faits. Une règle imposée aux personnes doit répondre de ses conséquences sur leur dignité, leur liberté, leur sécurité et leur capacité à vivre. Une origine proclamée divine n’abolit aucune de ces responsabilités.

8. Tu disciplineras colère, avidité, peur et désir de domination avant de prétendre guider autrui. Les traditions divergent sur le salut, mais presque toutes ont compris qu’un être humain gouverné par ses impulsions finit par appeler vérité ce qui satisfait son désir. La première autorité morale s’exerce donc sur soi. Elle ne donne jamais un droit de possession sur les autres.

9. Tu feras communauté par le soin, le rite et la réparation, jamais par la fabrication d’un ennemi. Les rites partagés peuvent créer du soutien et densifier les liens sociaux. Une étude de réseau menée dans un village du sud de l’Inde l’a observé autour de pratiques religieuses collectives. PMID 29794040. Mais toute communauté est tentée de consolider son unité par l’exclusion. Elle devra donc juger sa santé à sa capacité d’accueillir le désaccord sans avoir besoin d’un hérétique à sacrifier.

10. Tu laisseras au réel le droit de dépasser tes mots, sans jamais faire du mystère un alibi contre les faits ou contre les victimes. Le voile protège l’inconnu contre notre prétention à le posséder. Il ne protège ni le mensonge, ni l’abus, ni la violence. Aucun nom de Dieu, aucune théorie, aucun texte et aucune absence de Dieu ne doit pouvoir fermer définitivement ce que l’existence maintient ouvert.

Ces dix commandements forment moins une nouvelle religion qu’une constitution minimale pour permettre aux religions, aux philosophies et aux incroyances de partager le même monde. Les trois premiers règlent la connaissance. Les six suivants règlent la relation. Le dernier conserve le voile.

De ce voile naît une autre crainte de Dieu. Non la terreur d’un surveillant céleste, mais la crainte de se prendre soi même pour Dieu. La peur de donner à une vérité partielle une autorité totale. La peur de transformer une expérience intérieure en loi pour tous. La peur de blesser un être humain au nom de ce que l’on prétend savoir de l’invisible.

Le mystère ne prouve pas que toutes les doctrines sont vraies. Il interdit seulement à l’une d’elles de se prendre pour la totalité du vrai.

by Roger Young

“She’s deformed because of all the drugs and things.” – Helen Zille, who does not have a medical degree.

Roughly a month ago, on August 15th, the DA’s municipal campaign posted a video to its social media channels, with a viewer advisory warning for graphic content. The warning was warranted as the video showed Helen Zille potentially violating the privacy of an at-risk infant, and showing contextual details, as well as shoddy masking of the faces of the child’s alleged parents and other people struggling with substance dependency and in extreme poverty.

The manner in which Zille referred to these humans, dismissively, without addressing them directly, as “drug addicts,” does nothing but shame and stigmatize them. Zille exclaimed that the conditions were dire, and that “no child should have to grow up like this.” Very few would disagree with that statement, but under the outrage there is a worldview.

It is almost impossible to know what that worldview is, but we do know that Zille did not rescue that child, as the video implies. It is apparent in the video that she hands the child over to a social worker, who took the child to a place of safety, doing exactly what social services are meant to do in that situation. And Zille did exactly what a person should do in that situation: she reported it to social services. Did the pressure of the camera force social services to act faster? This is a possibility. Can Helen Zille rescue every child in precarious circumstances on camera? Probably not. And why are the parents of the child not deserving of rescue?

It's worth noting that Zille and her social media team were in Reiger Park to visit a family whose child had taken their own life, and were diverted by this, possibly more aesthetically amenable, situation.

Helen Zille has the right to speak about anything she likes in any tone that she desires. I want to make this explicit: I am not tone policing Helen Zille. I am linking her tone, her way of speaking about people, to the actual outcomes of DA policies in the City of Cape Town (COCT). This is a campaign video, and a campaign is a series of promises.

In no way do I mean to imply that the ANC are successfully managing the infrastructures of municipalities and national government. What I mean to ask here is what we can expect from the DA should they win a majority and Zille becomes mayor.

In Cape Town, where Zille was premier and the DA runs the City of Cape Town, management of the city is business centred. The homeless are managed and displaced, but there are no sustainable interventions to the long-term problems of the unhoused, children at risk, or the ravages of spatial displacement on the larger sections of the population. Instead the focus is on making the city work for business, which further drives displacement. Out of sight out of mind economics. What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t feel.

One of my favourite DA campaign videos is Zille talking nostalgically about the well-maintained Orange Grove of her youth, you know, during apartheid.

In the DA’s campaign manifesto there is an explicit promise to reclaim hijacked buildings; there is no stated strategy for the people who live in those hijacked buildings. There is a promise to stop the rot, which includes getting the water and electricity working and making the CBD a safe space for businesses, but where do the inconvenient unwashed go? If it’s anything like Cape Town, the answer will be away from the business district, making it hard for those people to access the opportunities of a revitalised business district — opportunities they could realistically access if there were actual interventions such as harm reduction, skills training, housing grants, and so on. It could be argued that these are not the ambit of a municipality, but that is merely convenient.

To make a city work, one has to ask who it is being made to work for. And it is so much easier to reclaim buildings and stigmatize the suffering than to actually meaningfully address the current social issues. You can’t just harken back to the golden times of apartheid and spirit people away.

The ANC is demonstrably now a party that is not aligned with the welfare of the people it is elected to serve. The DA is demonstrably a party that predisposes business interests over people. These should not be the binary.

There is also the DA’s management of its social media spaces, or rather the noticeable lack of it.

“If you can’t feed your children, you shouldn’t be allowed to breed.” – Facebook comment.

When a comment like this surfaces on the Reiger Park Facebook post, there is no visible response by the DA team. The endorsement is implied by allowing it to remain unchallenged. This comment is but one example of the kind of viewpoints that are in support of a business-friendly city. A city working for business, with the poor invisible, somewhere else, in another place that is not this place. A two-party-state solution. Separate but equal.

On a Reddit thread I posted about the issues around the child and its parents, in all the debate the child and the parents were never mentioned by a single redditor. Mostly the comments were all in the “Better Than The ANC, What Choice Do We Have” range. One of my favourites: “I would vote for Darth Vader if I thought he would make the city work again.” Be careful what you wish for.

When Helen Zille dismisses the vulnerable as drug addicts and points to their inability to care for their child as disgusting, she is ascribing that inability as agency, without any concern for the agency available to those parents. When Zille decries the lack of social workers and then successfully engages with one who actually does their job, Zille claims this as her own victory. When the DA manages the less advantaged of the Western Cape, any failure of them to comply with the conditions of help is relegated to personal failure on the part of the disadvantaged. If they can’t feed their children, they shouldn’t breed. Ah, the White Utopia of my youth.

Zille made claims that she got the child into a safe space with the help of a social worker. Unnamed social worker. A mere cog in Zille’s white saviour narrative. This was not even the metro she is campaigning for; the DA Mayoral candidate for Ekurhuleni, Khathutshelo Rasilingwane, was also relegated to a background prop. The mechanics of the situation are different than what is presented. The social worker was alerted by a member of the public, Zille, and this triggered a section 152 intervention.

Once handed to the social worker, the infant should have entered the statutory process. The child would have been removed without a court order, placed in temporary safe care, the parents would have had to be notified within 24 hours, and the matter brought before a Children’s Court for review. The law does not simply remove the child and abandon the family; the court would have to consider whether reunification was possible, with state support, or whether longer-term alternative care was necessary. That these services are not responding adequately, on a provincial or national level, is the issue. When the evidence shows that the DA does not adequately engage with this issue themselves, claiming that mayoral intervention by social media, or even just mayoral concern, is disingenuous.

The very same video could be made in Cape Town right now. There is a huge substance dependency issue in the DA’s home city that they have failed to address adequately. Helen Zille making social media videos about one child does not help the homeless and at-risk children of Cape Town, who are subject to intimidation and removal from public spaces by a private security force every day, through policies initiated during Zille’s tenure there.

Il y avait de la place dans cette maison qu’on appelait « Le château » pour une ribambelle de cousins, (j’avais 6 oncles et tantes), mais tous et toutes étaient nettement plus âgés. Mais je me faisais très bien, tout seul, un monde auquel ma copine participait gaiement. J’explorais aussi les combles de la maison, dans les odeurs de pommes et de vieux papiers, les archives familiales y dormaient. Je crains d’y avoir mis un certain désordre. On mangeait des noisettes. Une fois toute la bande des cousins fut emmenée à quelques kilomètres dans un village, je me souviens de la place bordée de grands arbres, le sol était en partie en terre, ou recouvert de terre. Au fond il y avait une vaste maison toute en pierre grise. On entrait dans une large pièce qui sentait bon le feu de bois, le sol était en terre battue. Tout autour des armoires cloutées de cuivre, je découvris les lits-clos. C’était la maison de notre arrière-grand-père.

Cet homme avait presque cent ans. Il était impressionnant, très grand, il avait dû être un colosse. Il nous offrit à tous des parts découpées dans un grand gâteau doré sur la table, et un cidre râpeux dont l’amertume est restée dans ma mémoire. Une vraie fête ! On me fit essayer un lit clos. Je regrettais de ne pas disposer d’un pareil endroit à Nantes, pour m’y faire un nid à l’abri du monde. J’ai une photo de lui en gilet et chupenn, ma seule et unique photo de famille.

Le dernier été se termina mal. Une marche ratée, avant-bras gauche cassé, il y avait une deux chevaux au hameau proche, on m’emmena au village. Le médecin, mal équipé, fit une radio, floue, dans le doute il me fixa une attelle. J’avais déjà eu quelques accidents, essentiellement dans la forêt, j’ai à la cuisse une large cicatrice qui avait affolé la tante présente. C’est ma sœur qui arrêta le sang et me mit un pansement. On rentra à Nantes. Je fis la rentrée avec un plâtre.

#ngolai

Mi tre fieras, ĉar antaŭ 6 monatoj, mi povis levi nur 18 kilogramojn dum tiu ekzerco.

Mi ne scias, kiu estas la limo, sed mi esperas, ke mi iam povos levi pli ol 100 kilogramojn!

Toluca, Meksiko

Mengendap-endap merintangi kegelapan malam yang dihiasi temaram cahaya lampu gas dari berbagai kedai dan bar adalah salah satu keahlian tersembunyi Choi Yido. Ia sering melakukannya—sudah melakukannya semenjak ia resmi menjadi Alpha. Berbaur bersama masyarakat biasa dalam samaran baju sederhana dan sedikit improvisasi—corengan debu maupun arang di pipi, sengaja berlari sejenak agar tampilannya penuh peluh dan lusuh seakan ia telah bekerja keras seharian—merupakan cara yang ia pilih untuk mengenal kerajaannya sendiri dari dalam. Wajahnya yang sungguh mirip Yang Mulia Pendamping Raja membuatnya harus agak kreatif bila tak ingin dikenali, namun toh sampai detik ini tidak ada panggilan ke ruang singgasana maupun Dewan Tetua untuk mempertanyakan 'kegiatan ekstra'-nya. Ia akan sedikit egois dan menganggap hal tersebut sebagai kemenangan kecil.

Setelah meloncati tembok istana, Alpha muda itu tidak langsung menuju kediaman keluarga Kim. Ia menyempatkan diri ke kedai kenalannya untuk bercakap-cakap sejenak sambil menikmati ikan halibut dibalur tepung dan digoreng garing, lengkap dengan saus tartar dan kentang goreng buatan sendiri. Hidangannya panas dan lezat, membuat sang Alpha mendesah puas kekenyangan. Setelah menghabiskan hampir dua jam di sana, ia pun pamit undur diri, sudah tidak sabar ingin menemui sang Omega kekasih hati.

(Tidak tahu diri, padahal status kalian juga belum resmi.)

(Diamlah.)

Terkadang, Alpha di dalam dirinya senang mengundang perselisihan, bahkan terhadap manusianya sendiri. Benar-benar menyusahkan.

Karena telah hafal di luar kepala, jejak-jejak kakinya menuju kediaman keluarga Kim tertinggal mulus sepanjang jalanan tanpa keraguan. Terletak cukup jauh dari keramaian jalan raya, di antara rumah-rumah megah kaum elit lainnya, berdiri mansion besar yang dihadiahkan ayahnya pada Paman Mingyu sebagai hadiah pernikahannya dahulu kala. Mansion yang awalnya milik Tuan Raja pribadi, kini menjadi milik adik sepupu satu-satunya itu. Dihuni tiga orang anggota keluarga Kim, seorang kepala pelayan, dua orang penjaga istal kuda, seorang supir pribadi, dan belasan pelayan serta tukang kebun, rumah tersebut tak pernah berhenti hidup, bahkan lebih aktif dari istana kerajaan dengan penghuni yang jauh lebih banyak lagi. Rumah yang selalu dirindukan Choi Yido, baik ketika masih kecil dulu maupun saat ini.

Bel yang menggantung di sisi pintu depan sengaja ia tarik. Gemanya menyadarkan setiap penghuni akan kehadiran seorang tamu, namun hanya satu orang yang bertugas membukakan pintu: Tuan Jung, kepala pelayan mereka. Setelah Tuan Park pensiun dan pulang ke kampung halamannya, Tuan Jung lah yang menggantikan tugasnya mengatur rumah tangga keluarga Kim, termasuk menyortir tamu-tamu tak diinginkan sebelum ujung sepatu mereka sempat menapak di ambang pintu. Karena itu lah, Tuan Jung mengenal siapa gerangan pemuda yang membunyikan bel malam itu.

“Yang Mulia,” buru-buru ditundukkannya kepala dan dibungkukkannya badan, tetapi Yido segera memegang bahunya untuk menghentikan.

“Tuan Jung, saya mohon,” seringai lemah ditariknya menghiasi wajah. “Bukankah sudah saya bilang? Di sini, saya hanya keponakan Paman Mingyu dan teman sejak kecil Ri. Saya akan sangat berterima kasih kalau saya diperlakukan tiada berbeda.”

“Ah...maaf, saya refleks saja...,” agak tersipu malu, Tuan Jung mengangguk beberapa kali. “Maafkan saya, Tuan Choi. Saya...tidak akan mengulanginya lagi.”

Mendengar itu, seringai Yido berubah menjadi senyuman lega. “Nah, nah, anggap saja tidak terjadi apapun. Apakah Ri ada di rumah, Tuan Jung? Jika ya, saya ingin bertamu.”

Tuan Jung mempersilakan tamunya masuk dengan membuka pintu lebih lebar. Yido menerima undangan tersebut dengan anggukan sopan, sebelum mulai melepas mantel yang ia kenakan sebagai kamuflase. Warnanya gelap dan bahannya kasar—barang murahan yang ia beli dari toko pakaian bekas di kota bagian Timur. Topi pet berwarna serupa pun ia lepas, membiarkan Tuan Jung dengan sigap menerima dan menyampirkan artikel pakaian tersebut di tiang gantungan dekat pintu masuk. “Nona ada di rumah, tapi Tuan Kim dan Tuan Hong sepertinya hendak pergi,” jawab sang kepala pelayan, membuat Yido membeku di tempat.

“Paman akan pergi? Berarti rumah akan kosong?” tentunya bukan kosong 'kosong', tetapi Tuan Jung menangkap maksudnya. Tidak baik bila seorang Alpha bertamu ke rumah seorang Omega tanpa kehadiran orangtuanya.

“Benar, Tuan.”

“Jika begitu, apa lebih baik saya kembali lain waktu—”

“Yido?”

Ah. Terlambat.

Tumit sepatunya berputar. Paman Joshua sudah bergegas mendekatinya dengan lengan terbuka lebar dan senyuman tulus di wajahnya. “Kenapa nggak bilang mau dateng? Kamu udah makan?” Yido membiarkan dirinya dipeluk erat. Wangi kue jahe dan mentega hangat merasuki indra penciumannya, membuat hatinya seketika nyaman. Seperti wangi ibunya, wangi Paman Joshua secara ajaib selalu mampu menentramkan perasaan, meski baginya tak ada Omega yang wanginya sememikat Kim Gyuri.

“Sudah, Paman, barusan saja,” ucapnya setelah pelukan terlepas. “Maaf saya datang tanpa pemberitahuan. Saya hanya...eh...” Kemudian, Alpha muda itu menunduk malu-malu. “...tiba-tiba saja ingin bertemu Gyuri...” Setengah hati Joshua menjerit gemas, setengahnya mau ketawa pakai hidung melihat muka Yoon Jeonghan bertingkah bak remaja kasmaran (bagaimanapun, rasanya tetap aneh ketika anak sahabat baikmu memiliki wajah persis sama dengannya).

“Ah, sebenernya kita mau keluar makan malam sih...,” diangkatnya kepala saat menyadari kedatangan seseorang dari balik tembok. “Oh. Mingyu.”

Deg.

Jantung Yido melonjak dari rongga dada. Mendengar nama pamannya disebut, pemuda itu pun teringat kembali akan alasan sesungguhnya ia bertolak menuju rumah ini: untuk mencari tahu mengapa Paman Mingyu belum juga menjawab pinangannya pada sang putri. Diam-diam diteguknya ludah. Jakunnya naik-turun perlahan.

”...Yido?” Mingyu memanggilnya.

“Gyu, Yido mau ketemu Ri,” Joshua mendekati suaminya, otomatis mengalungkan lengan ke sekeliling pinggang sang Alpha. “Tapi kita mau pergi makan. Apa kita batalin aja rencana nge-date kita?”

“S-saya akan datang lagi lain kali!” segera, Yido menyergah ucapan Paman Joshua. Ia tidak ingin merusak rencana milik siapapun atas keegoisannya. Bertemu Gyuri masih bisa lain kali. Bertanya dan meminta kejelasan pada Paman Mingyu pun masih bisa ditangguhkan. Toh, selama tak ada Alpha atau Beta lain yang meminta tangan Gyuri, maka Yido aman.

“Yido,” tapi Mingyu memanggil namanya sekali lagi, dalam nada lembut kali ini. Alpha muda itu pun mengangkat wajah untuk menatap pamannya tepat di mata. “Duduklah, Nak. Tuan Jung, tolong bawakan teh dan kue-kue.” Sang kepala pelayan segera membungkuk hormat sebelum undur diri. Gestur sang Alpha tua mengajak mereka untuk berpindah ke ruang keluarga yang lebih nyaman, lengkap dengan perapian yang telah dinyalakan. Fokus Mingyu kemudian berpindah pada suaminya. “Kamu tidak apa-apa rencana kita batal, Sayang? Kamu tidak lapar?” tanyanya.

Joshua tersenyum kecil, lalu mengecup lembut pipi kekasihnya. “Aku minta makanan ke dapur aja, nggak pa-pa kok. Palingan dicemberutin dikit,” kekehnya ringan. Juru masak keluarga Kim terkenal akan kelezatan hidangannya dan sifat suka mengomelnya (walau, menurut Joshua, mirip ibu yang suka khawatiran akan anaknya). “Nanti aku balik lagi. Jangan sok galak kamu ya. Anak kakak kamu tuh. Anak sahabat aku juga.”

“Sayang! Aku tidak—” belum sempat Mingyu protes sambil terbata, Joshua sudah berlalu, meninggalkan suara tawanya yang bagaikan musik di telinga sang Alpha. Buru-buru Mingyu berdeham, berusaha mengembalikan wibawanya sebagai kepala keluarga, dan mengajak Yido, keponakan serta calon pemimpin negara ini, ke ruang keluarga.

I've always thought the Twelve Days of Christmas seemed kind of arbitrary. Why not more or less days? So I thought, let's extend the song as far as we can with real examples of numbers that match the particular day. So enjoy the... N days of Christmas (I petered out at 106...):

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

1) One Moon orbiting planet Earth 2) Two geographic poles, the North and the South 3) Three germ layers in a developing human embryo 4) Four canonical bases that spell out DNA 5) Five Great Lakes along the U.S.-Canadian border 6) Six flavors of quark in the Standard Model 7) Seven base units in the SI system 8) Eight planets orbiting around our Sun 9) Nine Muses of ancient Greek tradition 10) Ten digits in our decimal number system 11) Eleven players on a full soccer team 12) Twelve months in the Gregorian calendar 13) Thirteen cards in each suit of a standard deck 14) Fourteen lines in a traditional sonnet 15) Fifteen object balls in a game of eight-ball pool 16) Sixteen ounces in an avoirdupois pound 17) Seventeen Sustainable Development Goals of the United Nations 18) Eighteen holes in a standard round of golf 19) Nineteen years in the Metonic cycle 20) Twenty canonical amino acids used to build proteins 21) Twenty-one guns in the traditional highest military salute 22) Twenty-two letters in the Hebrew alphabet 23) Twenty-three pairs of chromosomes in a typical human cell 24) Twenty-four hours in a solar day 25) Twenty-five spaces on an American bingo card 26) Twenty-six letters in the English alphabet 27) Twenty-seven books in the New Testament 28) Twenty-eight tiles in a double-six domino set 29) Twenty-nine days in February in a leap year 30) Thirty days in April, June, September, and November 31) Thirty-one days in each of the year's longest months 32) Thirty-two permanent teeth in a typical adult human mouth 33) Thirty-three letters in the modern Russian alphabet 34) Thirty-four inches, the classic long-scale length of a bass guitar 35) Thirty-five member states in the Organization of American States 36) Thirty-six Hanukkah candles lit across all eight nights, not counting the shamash 37) Thirty-seven pockets on a European roulette wheel 38) Thirty-eight stars on the U.S. flag from 1877 through 1890 39) Thirty-nine books in the Protestant Old Testament 40) Forty thieves facing Ali Baba in the famous tale 41) Forty-one home games in a traditional 82-game NBA regular season 42) Forty-two gallons in a U.S. barrel of oil 43) Forty-three quintillion possible configurations of a standard Rubik's Cube, approximately 44) Forty-four permanent teeth in a full adult pig dentition 45) Forty-five revolutions per minute for a classic 45-rpm record 46) Forty-six chromosomes in a typical human somatic cell 47) Forty-seven strings on a full-size concert pedal harp 48) Forty-eight constellations catalogued by Ptolemy in antiquity 49) Forty-nine days counted between Passover and Shavuot in the Counting of the Omer 50) Fifty states in the United States of America 51) Fifty-one original member states of the United Nations 52) Fifty-two cards in a standard playing-card deck 53) Fifty-three players on an NFL regular-season roster 54) Fifty-four African countries belonging to the United Nations 55) Fifty-five delegates who attended the U.S. Constitutional Convention 56) Fifty-six signers of the Declaration of Independence 57) Fifty-seven participating states in the OSCE 58) Fifty-eight protons in the nucleus of every atom of cerium 59) Fifty-nine beads on a traditional five-decade Catholic rosary 60) Sixty seconds in a minute 61) Sixty-one sense codons in the standard genetic code 62) Sixty-two home runs hit by Aaron Judge in his record-setting 2022 American League season 63) Sixty-three chromosomes in a typical mule 64) Sixty-four squares on a chessboard 65) Sixty-five years old, the standard age of Medicare eligibility for most Americans 66) Sixty-six books in the Protestant Bible 67) Sixty-seven counties in the state of Florida 68) Sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, exactly twenty degrees Celsius 69) Sixty-nine love songs on the Magnetic Fields album 69 Love Songs 70) Seventy miles per hour, the national speed limit for cars on British motorways 71) Seventy-one percent of Earth's surface covered by water, approximately 72) Seventy-two typographic points in one inch 73) Seventy-three books in the Catholic Bible 74) Seventy-four guns on the classic “seventy-four” ship of the line 75) Seventy-five balls in traditional American bingo 76) Seventy-six trombones leading the big parade in The Music Man 77) Seventy-seven founding countries that gave the Group of 77 its name 78) Seventy-eight cards in a standard tarot deck 79) Seventy-nine protons in the nucleus of every atom of gold 80) Eighty days allotted for Phileas Fogg to travel around the world 81) Eighty-one cells in a standard Sudoku grid 82) Eighty-two games in a traditional NBA regular season 83) Eighty-three counties in the state of Michigan 84) Eighty-four Earth years, approximately, for Uranus to orbit the Sun 85) Eighty-five essays comprising The Federalist Papers 86) Eighty-six episodes in the original run of The Sopranos 87) Eighty-seven octane, the usual rating of regular gasoline in the United States 88) Eighty-eight keys on a standard modern piano 89) Eighty-nine protons in the nucleus of an atom of actinium 90) Ninety degrees in a right angle 91) Ninety-one tiles in a complete double-twelve domino set 92) Ninety-two clubs in the top four divisions of English football 93) Ninety-three million miles, approximately, from Earth to the Sun 94) Ninety-four federal judicial districts in the United States 95) Ninety-five theses traditionally associated with Martin Luther's challenge to the Church 96) Ninety-six wells in the classic laboratory microplate 97) Ninety-seven percent of Earth's water contained in the oceans, approximately 98) Ninety-eight episodes in the original run of Gilligan's Island 99) Ninety-nine Names of Allah in the well-known Islamic tradition of the Asma al-Husna 100) One hundred senators in the United States Senate 101) One hundred and one Dalmatians in Dodie Smith's famous story and its Disney adaptation 102) One hundred and two stories in the Empire State Building 103) One hundred and three articles in the Constitution of Japan 104) One hundred and four days of summer vacation in the world of Phineas and Ferb 105) One hundred and five counties in the state of Kansas 106) One hundred and six bones in your two hands and two feet combined

Cervi was one of the original Inbetweeners when the campaign first started out. Currently the campaign has Domilia, Rotlog, Uzo, Bruce and Zemus. Rotlog and Uzo are the only characters from the original group, while Zemus is one of the OG players under a different character. He was a human monk who was in the circus with Thogg, the Goblin Ranger. His character demonstrated pretty remarkable growth, starting out unsure of their place in the world after being brought back by the Interloper, but finding his courage and purpose after facing the Bone Devil in the Desecrated Temple. Ironically, he was killed by a plant, a shambling mound to be specific, in the Secret Garden room of the Lady of Pain branch. I never intended for this room to be particularly dangerous, but a shambling mounds slam attacks and engulf ability can be a lot to handle for a low level player. I believe the group was already hurt from previous encounters, and was overpowered by the shambling mound. With its high hitpoints, it was able to kill Cervi before they could put it down. They fished his body out of the... mulch of the shambling mound and brought him back to the Interloper.

The Interloper attempted to resurrect Cervi but was blocked by Torm. Cervi's acts of clearing the desecrated temple and defeating the masquerade Vrock had earned him Torm's attention and a place in the heavens for his afterlife. I kind of envisioned it like that scene from Constantine (the Keanu Reeves movie adaptation) where he's ascending to heaven and flips off the devil as he floats towards the light. I wanted ressurecting Cervi to be a full blown questline, where the players needed to figure out a way to get him back from the heavens. Here were my rough notes of potential plot points:

“If the group seeks to resurrect Cervi they will run into the following obstacles:

-Torm blocked the interloper from snatching his soul

-The Interloper cannot retrieve Cervi’s soul without pissing off the Gods, the type of heat he’d like to avoid so in the meantime he can grant the group guidance and also an alternative partner.

-The group can appeal to the Shadow Templar of Torm. They will agree to smuggle Cervi’s soul back if the group can defeat a powerful fiend potentially- it is open to negotiation.

-If the group tries to pray to Torm directly they will get a vague directive to continue their good works

-Zariel has backchannels to get a soul back from heaven, if she has sufficient motivation

-Mobius could arrange it for the safe return of Celeste Whitewind

-Other means are possible…”

It ended up being a moot point because the Cervi's player had a work schedule change and could no longer make the sessions. Still, there were a few sessions where he was present and Cervi was dead, so I had to give him an alternate character. Enter: Ambrosius Addercap

He was a professor of alien research at a prominent wizarding school, but became obsessed with his work. The institution let him go, but he continued his work in a private lab which he funded with dangerous spells and items he acquired. He was focused on penetrating the veil of the plains to harness the secrets of the Far Realm. There, he thought, he could discover the meaning of everything and untold power. Instead, insanity took over and the realm consumed him. The Interloper was able to rescue his soul, but his body literally turned into space worms. The Interloper crafted this body instead:

Ambrosius has been given a second chance to study the planes and learn about secrets to manipulating the fabric between them. He has been instructed to help the group and study them, which he will dutifully try to accomplish… but he is utterly insane.

His body is that of a flightless, colorful, four-legged bird; it stands about 15 feet tall and weighs around 750 pounds. It’s talons are wickedly sharp and appears designed to brutally dismember prey larger than itself.

STATS:

Armor Class: 15 (natural armor) Hitpoints: 90 (12d10 + 24) Speed: 50 ft Str: 19 (+4) Dex: 13 (+1) Con: 14 (+2) Int: 20 (+5) Wis: 3 (-4) Cha: 7 (-2)

Skills: Acrobatics +4, Investigation +10, Knowledge +10 Senses: Darkvision 60 ft, passive perception 12

Attacks: Bite + 2 Claws Bite: +7 to hit, 4d6 + 4 piercing damage Claws: +7 to hit, 2d6+4 x 2

Multicolored Toxic Gas (recharge 5) Instead of attacking, it may release a cloud of multicolored gas in a 20 foot radius around itself. Everything caught in the cloud except for the bird itself rolls 1d6 and takes the following effects if it fails a Con Save DC 15. Doesn’t work on undead, constructs or elementals. Each effect lasts 1 minute unless otherwise noted:

1- If under 100 hitpoints, the creature falls into a deep sleep 2- The creature is blind 3- The creature becomes horribly nauseous, getting disadvantage on everything 4- The creature glows brightly, giving all other attackers that can see advantage against it 5- The creature is enraged, gaining an extra melee attack per round, +3 dmg (STR), ignores ½ physical damage and attacks anything around it indiscriminately. 6- Creature takes 2d6 + 3 (10) dmg per turn, continuing to roll Con save until it passes or dies.

In his life, Ambrosius knew many spells, however the damage he took to his mind in his encounter with the Far Realm is… irreparable. Ambrosius may attempt to cast any spell he knew in life, but the risk of something going wrong is very high.

-Take the level of the spell, and add 1 and multiply by 2. Roll 1d20, if you get or exceed that number, the spell works. If not… something else happens.

So, Ambrosius was more powerful than the other players at this point in the campaign, they were all still relatively low level. Fortunately, his player was a champ and made sure to role play Ambrosius appropriately for a professor who had been driven mad by the Far Realm. He would wander off during combat, engage NPCs in inane conversation about the Far Realm, and essentially inject entropy and chaos into each interaction. Sometimes, however, he would come in clutch and help the players defeat a particularly challenging foe. He didn't get to use the multicolored gas much, if at all, which is too bad because the chaos it could have instilled in an encounter would have been fun. We also didn't get to play around much with the spell malfunctioning mechanic. Soon after Ambrosius joined the campaign his player had to leave. I think the players were probably between levels 5 and 7 at this time. Another player, Melrakki, who wasn't with the campaign very long, had to leave as well, so I had to write in their exits.

At the start of a session, the Interloper warned the players that Ambrosius had gone rogue. The Far Realm influence had eaten away at what little bit of control and sanity he had left and he was on a rampage, last seen in the Throne Room. Melrakki had gone after him. The players perused to find this:

“The throne room is torn apart with blood, gore, carnage and destruction. Several guards lay slain, some from being eviscerated by claws, others from magic spells. Melraki lays in the corner, cut open and not moving in a pool of her own blood. In the center of the room, a wild eyed, crazed Ambrosius speaks rapidly in an unidentifiable language, scrawling symbology on the walls in blood. He is injured from battle, with a sword still sticking out of him and a few arrows but seems utterly unphased. Battle immediately ensues. “

Once Ambrosius had been defeated, a Star Spawned Larva Mage emerged from his body. This is a CR 16 powerful mage made up of Far Realm worms and parasites that had a number of nasty features. Normally, an encounter that would be near impossible for the players at that level to handle. However, I wanted them to fight this creature without nerfing it for the sake of the narrative, so the Interloper cast Foresight on them ahead of the battle and I gave them one full round of attacks/actions during the transformation from Ambrosius to Star Spawned Larva Mage. Also, Royal Guard showed up during the fight to help tank some of the damage.

Uzo was absent this session, and he was the heavy hitter of the group. Fortunately, a new player joined this session, Bruce Disdain, an Aarakocra Barbarian, so they had the muscle they needed. It was an intense fight, but the Interloper's buffs really pushed the group over the edge. This was the first instance of the group beating encounters 9-10 CR points above their level, and the campaign starting to power scale out of control and the characters leveling rapidly. I was okay with this shift in dynamics though because the players were supposed to have been untethered from causality, and the gifts from the Interloper should lead to them being impossibly powerful compared to normal players at that level. My philosophy from here on out was don't nerf the players, buff the enemies. And this led to the campaign becoming more and more gothic/steampunk/body horror anime as time went on...

But I digress. Cervi. He stayed in heaven and would occasionally communicate with the players as an NPC when it served the plot. He was quite happy farming in Arborea. I still hope he will make it back before the campaign ends, but we will see. With all the horrors the faced— undead, fiends, Far Realm abominations, it was an untended to garden that did him in. Oh, and I forgot one of the most interesting coincidences. Thogg was Cervi's best friend, and Thogg's chosen enemy as a ranger were plants. He was a vegetarian not because he disliked meat but because he wanted to kill as many plants as possible. This only intensified his hatred of plants, as he inherited the halfing gardener's trowel and made it his mission to kill any sentient plants going forward.

So yeah, rest in piece Cervi, and Melrakki! I'm not going to do a post about Melrakki because she wasn't really in the campaign long enough to build out much lore. She did get a funny sword from the Interloper though that dealt double damage but had disadvantage on all attacks. It ended up being comical because it rarely hit. The sword would essentially bend around targets, sometimes be floppy, and sometimes bend in 4 spatial dimensions to avoid hitting something. However, when it did hit, it hit hard. Melrakki had transformed into a white fox when she was killed by Ambrosius. Uzo took the foxes pelt and moved on... hobgoblins aren't exactly... sentimental.

Chapter 1: When One Problem Fills the Room

There are nights when the room is quiet but your mind is not. You put the phone down, turn off the light, and suddenly one unfinished problem starts filling the whole space. An unanswered message feels like rejection. A bill on the counter feels like proof that you will never catch up. One mistake from years ago comes back with enough force to make you wonder whether you have really changed at all. In moments like that, this YouTube message about changing your perspective through faith in Jesus can help because the real battle is often not only what happened, but what your mind has decided that it means.

I have had to learn that I can look at the same circumstance in two very different ways. One way makes the problem the center of the story. The other way leaves room for God to still be present, still be working, and still be leading me somewhere I cannot see yet. That is why a related reflection on trusting Jesus when fear takes over belongs beside this conversation. Sometimes the situation has not changed at all, but the meaning we give it has changed everything inside us.

Peter learned that lesson in a way none of us would forget. He was in a boat with the other disciples while the wind pushed against them and the water became rough. Then Jesus came toward them, walking on the sea. Peter asked Jesus to call him out onto the water, and Jesus said, “Come.” Peter stepped out and actually walked toward Him. The wind was still there. The waves were still there. The danger had not disappeared. Yet for a moment, Peter was moving through the very thing that should have overwhelmed him because his attention was fixed on Jesus.

I think about how easily that happens in ordinary life. You can wake up already worried about work, drive in thinking about the conversation you are afraid to have, and spend the entire morning treating the worst possible outcome as if it has already happened. Nothing has actually gone wrong yet, but your body is tense, your thoughts are racing, and you are living inside a future that has not arrived. The problem is no longer just the meeting, the decision, or the uncertainty. The problem has become the picture you are carrying of what all of it means.

That is what changed for Peter. Matthew tells us that when Peter noticed the wind, he became afraid and began to sink. The wind was not new. The waves were not new. What changed was the place where Peter put his attention.

That does not mean fear is imaginary. It does not mean financial pressure is fake, grief is easy, or disappointment can be solved by thinking happy thoughts. Jesus never asked Peter to pretend the storm was calm. He asked Peter to come toward Him while the storm was still real.

That matters because faith is not denial. Faith is refusing to let one frightening piece of reality become the whole picture.

You may be looking at a closed door and calling it the end. It may only be a turn you did not expect. You may be looking at a slow season and calling yourself forgotten. God may be doing work in you that cannot be rushed. You may be looking at another person’s life and deciding you are behind, while Jesus is asking you to pay attention to the step directly in front of you.

The quiet change begins when you stop asking only, “What is going wrong?” and start asking, “Where is Jesus in this?” That question does not erase the problem. It keeps the problem from becoming your god.

Peter did not walk because the water became safer. He walked because Jesus became larger in his view than the water beneath his feet. That is the first shift I want you to hold onto: before the outside of your life changes, Jesus may begin by changing what has been taking up all the room inside you.

Chapter 2: The Meaning You Give the Moment

You can feel this most clearly when something small happens and your mind immediately gives it a much larger meaning. Maybe someone you care about reads your message and does not answer. At first, all you really know is that there is no reply. But within a few minutes, your thoughts begin filling in the blanks. Maybe they are upset with me. Maybe I said too much. Maybe they are pulling away. By the time an hour has passed, you are no longer reacting to silence. You are reacting to a story your fear wrote for you.

That is one reason the way we look at things matters so much. We do not just experience events. We interpret them. We attach meaning to them, and that meaning can either deepen our fear or make room for faith.

Jesus often challenged the meaning people had already assigned to a situation. When His disciples saw a man who had been blind from birth, they immediately wanted to know who had sinned. Their first instinct was to explain the suffering by blame. Jesus refused to accept that narrow frame. He redirected their attention toward what God could do in the middle of the man's life.

That same kind of correction can happen inside us.

You may look at a delay and decide God has said no, when the answer may simply be not yet. You may look at a failure and decide you are a failure, when what happened may be one hard chapter in a much larger story. You may look at loneliness and conclude that you are unwanted, even though loneliness and worth are not the same thing.

I remember how easy it is to let one difficult day become evidence about your whole life. You come home tired, stand in the kitchen, look at the dishes in the sink, the unopened mail, and the calendar filled with things you still have to handle. In that moment, it is easy to think, “I cannot keep doing this.” Sometimes what you really mean is, “I am exhausted tonight.” Those are not the same statement.

Faith helps us tell the truth more carefully.

Instead of saying, “Everything is falling apart,” you can say, “This part is hard right now.”

Instead of saying, “God is not doing anything,” you can say, “I cannot see what God is doing yet.”

Instead of saying, “I will always feel like this,” you can say, “This is what I feel today.”

That is not positive thinking. It is refusing to turn a temporary moment into a permanent verdict.

Jesus did this constantly. He saw people beyond their worst moment. He saw Peter beyond his sinking. He saw Thomas beyond his doubt. He saw the woman caught in adultery beyond the accusation surrounding her. He saw people as they really were, but He also saw what grace could still do.

You need that same mercy in the way you look at your own life.

There are moments when the most faithful thing you can do is question the conclusion you have drawn. Not the facts. The conclusion.

Yes, the door closed. Does that mean your future is closed?

Yes, someone disappointed you. Does that mean everyone will?

Yes, you made a mistake. Does that mean you are beyond growth?

Yes, you are tired. Does that mean you are finished?

Jesus invites you to look again.

Not with denial. Not with fantasy. With trust.

You may not be able to change what happened today. You may not be able to control what another person decides, what your employer does, how quickly the answer comes, or what tomorrow brings. But you can bring the meaning you have attached to those things before Christ and ask Him to help you see them truthfully.

Sometimes that is where peace begins. Not when every question is answered, but when fear is no longer allowed to answer all of them for you.

Chapter 3: Look Again Before You Decide What It Means

There may be a morning when you wake up before the alarm and the first thing you feel is pressure. Your body is still tired, the room is still dark, and before your feet touch the floor your mind has already returned to the problem you carried to bed. Nothing new has happened, but the weight feels new because you are meeting it again.

That is a good moment to practice what Peter had to learn on the water. Before fear tells you what the day means, look toward Jesus again.

You may still have the same bill to pay, the same person to forgive, the same decision to make, or the same uncertainty waiting for you. Faith does not require you to pretend otherwise. It simply asks you to leave room for a truth fear usually ignores: Jesus is present before you know how the story turns out.

Sometimes that changes the way you move through the next hour. You make the phone call instead of avoiding it. You pray before answering the message. You take care of the task in front of you instead of trying to solve the next six months in your head. You admit that you are worried without letting worry become your guide.

That is a quieter kind of courage than people usually talk about, but it is real courage.

The life of faith is often built in moments like these. Not dramatic moments when everything suddenly makes sense, but ordinary moments when you choose not to let fear interpret your whole life for you.

Jesus never promised Peter that following Him would mean calm water every time. What He gave Peter was His presence, His voice, and His hand when Peter began to sink. That is still enough to change the way you face what is in front of you.

So when something goes wrong, resist the urge to decide too quickly what it means. When someone leaves, do not immediately decide you were worthless. When a plan fails, do not decide your future failed with it. When you are tired, do not decide you have nothing left to give. When God seems quiet, do not decide He has disappeared.

Look again.

There may be more happening than you can see from where you are standing.

The storm may still be real, but it is not the only thing that is real. Jesus is real too. His grace is real. His presence is real. His ability to lead you through what you do not understand is real.

And sometimes the greatest change begins there. The situation may not move first. The people around you may not change first. The answer may not come first.

But your eyes can lift.

Your fear can loosen its grip.

Your next step can become clear enough to take.

You do not need to see the whole road. You only need to stop letting the hardest thing in front of you become the only thing you can see.

Look again, and make room for Jesus in the picture.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Explore the complete Douglas Vandergraph Master Index: https://douglasvandergraph.com/douglas-vandergraph-master-index/

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

Overall it was a better day than the past couple of ones. I completed most on my list, but not all. I missed breakfast and coffee outside – I ended up doing it on the go. I forgot to answer emails – will prioritize for tomorrow. Lastly, I did not put my laundry away – I washed it and dried it but I am way too tired to fold and put away.

I felt I had more energy and mental capacity than the last few days, so I did feel pretty productive. I hope I can keep this up because I would hate for this time off to be spent on stupid things.

I believe this is the plan for tomorrow:

• Wake up and go for a run. Sure, why not… I haven’t run in a while and it does help me emotionally regulate.
• Breakfast and coffee
• Answer some emails
• Pottery for 1-2 hours
• Haircut appointment
• Returns errand
• Kickball game
• Put laundry away
• Walk my dog

I think it helps to make a list. At least, today it did. I hope tomorrow goes well…

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.

On 27 August 2026, Latrobe Council in north-west Tasmania released a development application it had been sitting on while it waited for the applicant to answer questions. The document described a 52-megawatt artificial intelligence data centre on the site of the old paper mill at Wesley Vale, in an industrial estate called Mill Park. A data hall of 2,689 square metres. Twenty adiabatic cooling units and twenty chillers. Forty diesel backup generators. Seventy jobs during construction, twenty once the thing was running.

Residents were given fourteen days to respond. Submissions close on 9 September.

Four days after that application became public, on 31 August, a parliamentary e-petition closed on the Tasmanian House of Assembly website. It had been open since 22 June, sponsored by Cecily Rosol, the Greens member for Bass. It asked Parliament to direct the government to impose an immediate moratorium on all non-complete AI and data facilities in the state. When it closed, it carried 10,035 signatures. It was tabled in the House on 2 September, one of the largest e-petitions in the history of Tasmanian parliamentary democracy.

Set those two numbers next to each other and you have the entire problem in miniature. Ten thousand and thirty-five people spent ten weeks assembling a demand to be consulted. The people who live within earshot of the actual proposal got a fortnight to write a letter about it. The petition is not a planning instrument. It has no legal force. It cannot stop a single generator being installed. It is, in the most literal sense, a request for permission to have an opinion that counts.

What Ten Thousand Names Actually Asked For

The petition text is worth reading closely, because it is not the blunt refusal that the word moratorium implies. It asks for five specific things, and every one of them is a piece of ordinary regulatory plumbing that most industrialised jurisdictions already possess for facilities of comparable scale.

It asks for planning legislation that addresses the environmental and social impacts of AI facilities. It asks for a public register tracking the energy and water these operations consume. It asks for parliamentary oversight of any facility drawing more than 50 megawatts. It asks for guarantees of lasting local employment. And it asks that ordinary electricity customers be shielded from price rises caused by connecting AI facilities to the grid.

The moratorium is the lever, not the goal. The petition proposes a pause that ends when those five instruments exist. That is a substantively different proposition from a permanent veto, and the distinction matters enormously for how you judge what the signatories were doing.

Tabatha Badger, the Greens member for Lyons and the party's spokesperson for science and information technology, framed the demand in terms of parliamentary process rather than opposition to computing. Speaking after the petition was tabled, she called for a moratorium on new AI and data facilities until there is proper regulation and until Parliament has oversight of the energy and water that will be committed to them. Rosol, tabling it, made the point that the community had been clear about its concerns and that the government had proceeded without consulting them or putting guardrails in place.

Behind the language is an observation about sequence. The facilities are arriving first. The rules, if they arrive at all, will arrive second, and will apply to whatever has not yet been built.

The Arithmetic of a Small State

Australian Bureau of Statistics figures put Tasmania's estimated resident population at 579,110 at the end of December 2025. Against that denominator, 10,035 signatures is roughly 1.7 per cent of every man, woman and child in the state.

Proportion is the only honest way to read a petition from a small jurisdiction, and it is the reading that almost never happens when these numbers travel. Scaled to the United Kingdom, 1.7 per cent would be something over a million signatures. Scaled to the United States, close to six million. Scaled to New South Wales, around 145,000. Petitions of that magnitude do not get filed away. They generate select committees.

The comparison inside Tasmania is equally instructive. The largest e-petition the House of Assembly had previously seen came in 2020, supporting the End of Life Choices Bill, and gathered 11,699 electronic signatures alongside 1,383 on paper. That was a petition about assisted dying, an issue with decades of organised advocacy behind it, deep personal stakes for thousands of families and sustained media attention across the entire state.

The AI data centre petition got to 10,035 in ten weeks, on a subject that barely existed in Tasmanian public conversation eighteen months earlier, driven by a minor party. It drew more than 4,200 signatures in its first week. Whatever else that tells you, it tells you the concern is not confined to the handful of postcodes that would host the buildings.

Four Hundred and Forty Megawatts in a Hydro State

The proposals that triggered all this belong to Firmus Technologies, a Singapore-headquartered company run by co-chief executives Tim Rosenfield and Oliver Curtis. It has three Tasmanian sites in play, representing a stated investment of around 2.1 billion dollars.

The first, at St Leonards outside Launceston, is 104 megawatts and already under construction, with power contracted from Aurora Energy and an expected start in early 2027. The second, at Bell Bay on the site of the former pulp mill, is 288 megawatts and was approved with conditions by George Town Council on 25 August 2026. The third is Wesley Vale, at 52 megawatts, the one Latrobe residents were given a fortnight to comment on.

Together that is around 440 megawatts of continuous industrial load in a state whose electricity system was built for aluminium smelting, zinc refining and a few hundred thousand households. An energy consultant told the ABC in June that the three sites combined would represent roughly 20 per cent of Tasmania's total energy consumption, more than the combined demand of every household in the state. Firmus would become, comfortably, Tasmania's largest single power user.

Those are the numbers attached to the buildings. The number attached to the grid arrived on 4 September, when the ABC reported that Hydro Tasmania is assessing a request from Firmus for a long-term contract to supply 450 megawatts across the three sites. The company currently runs on a three-year contract for the 104 megawatts that powers St Leonards. What it has asked for now is different in kind: a standing commitment rather than a short one, at a volume Hydro puts at up to 30 per cent of Tasmania's current electricity consumption, comfortably ahead of Bell Bay Aluminium, the state's present largest user, at 355 megawatts. The two percentages describe different things and are not in conflict. The June estimate of roughly 20 per cent was a consultant's read of what the three sites would be likely to consume. The 30 per cent figure is Hydro's read of the contract now sitting on its desk.

Hydro says it expects an outcome by the end of 2026, and it has set out the four questions it is weighing: whether Firmus is financially stable, what new renewable generation would have to be built to serve the load, whether the arrangement is profitable for Tasmania, and whether it is consistent with Hydro's responsibilities to Tasmanians. Alongside those it said something more consequential than any of them. Tasmania's energy system is currently in balance, generating about what the state consumes, and a request of this size can only be met by building new wind and solar. Hydro would not build or fund it. Firmus would contract directly with third-party developers, or contract with Hydro and have Hydro firm the intermittent output.

That is a decision the planning system neither makes nor reviews. Two councils assess two buildings against two planning schemes, while a state-owned company decides, on commercial terms and to its own timetable, whether there is 450 megawatts to sell.

Tasmania is not a bad place to put a data centre, and it is important to say so plainly. The grid is dominated by hydroelectricity, the climate is cool enough that mechanical cooling runs less often, industrial land at decommissioned mill sites is available and serviced, and the state government has actively marketed itself into exactly this business. The Office of the Coordinator-General, the arm of the Department of State Growth responsible for attracting major investment, lists data centres as an emerging sector opportunity and offers case management to any project involving at least five million dollars of private investment or twenty-five full-time jobs. Australia's National AI Plan, published on 2 December 2025, identifies sovereign digital infrastructure as a strategic priority and sets an explicit objective of attracting hyperscale capacity onshore.

None of that is secret. What is not public is which other proponents the Office of the Coordinator-General is currently talking to, at what scale, on what sites, or how far those conversations have progressed. That is the specific complaint the Greens raised alongside the petition: that while Wesley Vale goes through a council assessment with a fourteen-day comment period, other proposals are being developed in a process with no comment period at all, because there is nothing yet to comment on.

Two Degrees on the Ground

The environmental case the petitioners are making rests partly on a body of research that is very new, and it deserves to be represented accurately rather than inflated.

A preprint posted to arXiv in March 2026 by a group of researchers including Andrea Marinoni, Erik Cambria, Weisi Lin, Mauro Dalla Mura, Jocelyn Chanussot and Benjamin Horton examined satellite-derived land surface temperature data across multiple decades for regions surrounding AI data centres worldwide. Their finding, stated in those terms, is that land surface temperature increases by 2 degrees Celsius on average after the start of operations of an AI data centre, producing what they call the data heat island effect. They estimate that more than 340 million people could be exposed to these localised increases.

Two qualifications matter. Land surface temperature is not air temperature, and the two diverge substantially, particularly over hard surfaces on sunny days. And a satellite study of this design establishes an association between the commencement of operations and a measured warming signal; it cannot fully isolate the data centre from the industrial estate, road network and land clearing that typically arrive with it. This is a preprint, not yet through peer review.

What it does establish is that the warming signal is measurable, consistent across sites and large enough to matter. For a facility at Wesley Vale sitting in an agricultural district, and for a facility at Bell Bay less than two kilometres from the small community of Rowella, that is a question worth an answer before approval rather than after. Tasmania's planning scheme does not currently require anyone to ask it.

The Water Nobody Had Agreed to Supply

The water question in Tasmania produced the single most revealing document in this entire episode, and it was published by accident.

In July 2026, the ABC reported that Firmus had inadvertently published internal notes on the frequently asked questions page for its Wesley Vale facility. Among them was a line explaining why the company had not yet disclosed where its cooling water would come from. It planned to draw on Tasmanian Irrigation, the state-owned agricultural water scheme, and the note read: “We do not want to highlight this yet, as they are yet to agree to supply us.” The content was deleted after the ABC made enquiries. Firmus described it as internal information that was inadvertently published.

Tasmanian Irrigation responded that its legislative framework is set up to enable the supply of water for agriculture and hydrogen production. Neil Grose, chief operating officer of TasFarmers, put it more directly: irrigation water is for irrigating farmland. By the time the development application was released in August, the irrigation plan had gone. The company now proposes rainwater capture supplemented by trucked water in extreme dry periods, with evaporative cooling engaged only when ambient temperature exceeds 26 degrees. Firmus has said the Wesley Vale facility at full capacity would use about as much water annually as a restaurant.

That may well be true of the site. It is not the only relevant question, and a preprint posted to arXiv in June 2026 by Basit Akinade, Amobichukwu Amanambu, Jonathan Frame and Shaolei Ren explains why. The paper formalises what the authors call the Water and AI Feedback Loop and introduces a Water Consumption Impact index designed to measure burden at the level of the community utility rather than the facility. Applied across ten United States locations, the index produced results ranging from 0.2 per cent to 134 per cent of host capacity.

That range is the finding. A data centre's water demand is not meaningfully described by its absolute volume. It is described by the volume relative to the system that has to supply it, and in the worst case in the sample, a single facility's requirement exceeded the entire capacity of its host utility. A restaurant's worth of water is a trivial number in Hobart and a considerably less trivial one in a rural scheme during a dry February.

The aggregate picture comes from a third preprint, posted to arXiv in January 2026 by Aadi Patel, Nikhil Mahalingam and Rusheen Patel. Drawing on International Energy Agency projections that global data centre electricity demand may rise from roughly 415 terawatt hours in 2024 to nearly 945 by 2030, the authors project that United States AI servers alone will consume an additional 200 to 300 billion gallons of water annually and generate 24 to 44 million tonnes of carbon dioxide equivalent by 2030. These are projections built on demand forecasts, with all the fragility that implies, and the authors are explicit that cooling design and siting are the dominant variables. Advanced cooling can cut cooling energy by up to half, they find, and locating in low-carbon, water-secure regions can nearly halve the combined footprint.

Which is, read fairly, an argument for putting these facilities in Tasmania. It is also an argument for deciding deliberately how many, where, and on what terms.

A Planning Act Written in 1993

The instrument George Town Council used to assess a 288-megawatt AI facility was the Land Use Planning and Approvals Act 1993. It was drafted before the commercial web existed.

Mayor Greg Keiser, announcing the approval, said the council could not see any other grounds to do anything more than approve it. That is not evasion. It is a precise description of how a discretionary planning decision works. A council assesses an application against the criteria in the scheme. If the application satisfies them, refusal is not lawfully available, regardless of how many residents object or how novel the use is. Cumulative regional impact, statewide water allocation, grid economics and social licence are simply not criteria in the scheme.

Peter Freshney, mayor of neighbouring Latrobe, said the same thing about the legislation from the other side of the argument: the current scheme is not fit for purpose for evaluating projects of this scale. Two mayors from two councils assessing two facilities for the same company reached the same conclusion about the tool they were given.

Tasmania does have larger instruments. A Major Project declaration by the Minister for Planning triggers assessment by a panel of the independent Tasmanian Planning Commission alongside subject-matter experts, taking in matters a single council cannot reach. A Project of State Significance declaration under the State Policies and Projects Act 1993 goes further still, requiring an order approved by both Houses of Parliament. Latrobe Council has discussed asking for the Wesley Vale proposal to be declared a major project. Neither pathway has been triggered for any of the three Firmus sites.

There is now a layer above all of it, and the timing of that layer is the point. On 15 July 2026 the Prime Minister, Anthony Albanese, announced that the federal government would legislate mandatory Australian Standards for artificial intelligence, and established an Office of AI within the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet. New large AI data centres would be required to underwrite or supply their own power and to minimise their water use, with the stated expectation that facilities of that scale be net generators in energy terms rather than net consumers. On 26 August 2026 National Cabinet endorsed the Commonwealth's plan to legislate national AI laws and mandatory standards for large data centres. It was the first time all nine Australian governments, the Commonwealth and the eight states and territories, had committed to a common set of mandatory standards. Tasmania is one of the nine. The endorsement came one day after George Town Council approved a 288-megawatt facility under an act written in 1993.

The standards, as outlined, run to three domains. On energy, large operators would act as net generators, adding at least as much to the grid as they draw, pay the full cost of transmission and distribution connection, adopt efficiency measures, and offer demand flexibility to support grid stability. On water, they would minimise consumption, maximise efficiency and fund the additional infrastructure their facilities require. On land use, they would be steered towards appropriate locations, made to protect competing uses such as housing, and required to engage the communities that host them. They are aimed at large-scale facilities, co-location sites, hyperscale operations and large-scale AI compute centres, not at small edge or on-site enterprise data centres. They would sit on top of state planning regimes rather than replace them, so a developer would have to satisfy both the national standards and the usual state and local approvals. And they are not law. The Commonwealth has said it intends to legislate in early 2027, and the detailed specifications are still being written.

Then there is the appeal window. Objectors to the Bell Bay approval have fourteen days from formal notification to lodge a challenge with the Tasmanian Civil and Administrative Tribunal, a window that, counted from the approval on 25 August, closes in the first week of September. No appeal has been confirmed as lodged. Anne-Marie Bastian, president of the Environmental Awareness Association, called it a ludicrous time frame, with estimated legal costs of 20,000 to 50,000 dollars. Fourteen days to raise the price of a small car and instruct counsel, against a company with 2.1 billion dollars of announced investment.

The asymmetry is not a conspiracy. It is what happens when a process designed for a service station is applied to a facility that will draw a fifth of a state's electricity.

The Room Where the Conversation Happens First

Every planning system has a stage before the planning system. In Tasmania it is called strategic project facilitation, and it is run out of the Office of the Coordinator-General.

There is nothing sinister in the concept. Investment attraction agencies exist everywhere, and companies do have legitimate commercial reasons to keep site selection confidential while they negotiate land and power. A proponent who announces a shortlist watches land prices triple. That is a real cost and a real justification.

But the confidentiality has a second effect that is rarely acknowledged. By the time a project surfaces as a development application, the proponent has typically secured land options, negotiated grid connection, engaged consultants, commissioned technical studies and, frequently, obtained government statements of support. The community's fourteen days begin at the point where the commitment is already substantially sunk. Consultation is technically available and practically vestigial.

International experience shows how far this can be pushed. In Pennsylvania, Spotlight PA obtained at least eight non-disclosure agreements signed by township supervisors, county commissioners and state cabinet officials with data centre developers including Amazon Web Services, Vantage, Quality Technology Services and Talen Energy. Most did not define what counted as confidential. Melissa Melewsky, media law counsel for the Pennsylvania NewsMedia Association, observed that any time a private company tries to limit what a public official can say about public business, that is a red flag. The reporting produced a legislative response, with a bill conditioning tax exemptions on a pledge not to use non-disclosure agreements passing the state House 171 to 31, and an executive order prohibiting such agreements for data centre projects.

There is no reporting that Tasmanian officials have signed non-disclosure agreements over these projects, and it would be wrong to imply otherwise. The point is structural. Where a state agency's function is to attract investment, and its method is confidential case management, the default setting is that the community learns last. Tasmania does not need American-style secrecy agreements to arrive at the American-style outcome, because the outcome falls out of the sequence rather than the paperwork.

What Happened in Zeewolde, Cerrillos and Prince William

Communities elsewhere have won these fights, and how they won is more instructive than that they won.

In the Netherlands, Meta proposed what would have been Europe's largest data centre at Zeewolde, having acquired roughly half of a 166-hectare site. Local opposition alone did not stop it. What stopped it was that part of the land belonged to the Dutch state, which meant the sale required parliamentary approval, and the Senate voted to block that sale pending a national spatial planning vision for data centres. Meta abandoned the project in 2022. The lever was a national land ownership question that happened to sit in the path of the project.

In Chile, Google's 200 million dollar data centre at Cerrillos in Santiago would have used 7.6 million litres of potable water a day drawn from the Central Santiago aquifer in a country fifteen years into drought. In February 2024 an environmental court partially reversed the permit, requiring the assessment to incorporate the effects of climate change on the water component and contemplating a possible modification of the server cooling system. Google switched its design to air cooling and restarted the process. The lever was a specialist environmental court with jurisdiction to review the adequacy of an assessment.

In Virginia, the Prince William Digital Gateway involved rezoning around 1,700 acres. In August 2025 Circuit Court Judge Kimberly Irving voided the rezoning, not on environmental grounds but because the county had failed to comply with statutory advertising requirements before the December 2023 hearings; the first of two required newspaper notices was never actually published. The Virginia Court of Appeals affirmed in March 2026, and the QTS affiliate behind the project subsequently withdrew, ending it. The lever was a procedural notice rule.

In Memphis, the Southern Environmental Law Center appealed the Shelby County Health Department's air permit for fifteen methane gas turbines at xAI's data centre on behalf of the NAACP's Memphis branch and Young, Gifted and Green, arguing that the department had wrongly treated the turbines as exempt non-road engines under the Clean Air Act and had thereby allowed installation without written approval, public notice or pollution controls. The lever was federal air quality law.

In Ireland, the constraint is grid physics translated into regulation. Central Statistics Office figures show data centres consumed 7,663 gigawatt hours in 2025, 23 per cent of all metered electricity in the state, up from 5 per cent in 2015. EirGrid has not been offering new data centre connections in the Dublin region, a position understood to run to at least 2028, while the Commission for Regulation of Utilities has reworked large energy user connection policy around location, on-site generation and demand flexibility. The lever was the transmission system operator's technical judgement.

Land title. Environmental courts. Newspaper advertisements. Air permits. Grid capacity. Not one of these communities won by objecting. Every one of them won because some pre-existing instrument, usually designed for something else entirely, happened to have teeth. Tasmania's petitioners are asking for an instrument that is actually designed for the purpose, in advance, rather than hoping one turns up.

The Case for Saying Yes

The strongest version of the argument against the petitioners is considerably better than its opponents usually allow, and it has four parts.

The fiscal part is the most concrete, and Loudoun County in Virginia is the demonstration. The county states that data centres generate almost half of its property tax revenues, that for every dollar in services the county provides to data centres it receives twenty-six dollars in tax revenue, and that without the industry its real property tax rate would likely exceed one dollar per hundred dollars of assessed value against a current rate of 80.5 cents. Data centres contributed 16 billion dollars to a 41 billion dollar real property portfolio in 2024, at assessed values per square foot roughly triple other commercial uses. That revenue funds schools. It is not a rounding error, and it is not hypothetical.

The strategic part is that compute is becoming infrastructure. If Australia processes its health records, its defence modelling and its financial system on servers in Virginia and Singapore, it has outsourced a category of national capability that it cannot readily repatriate. The National AI Plan's emphasis on sovereign digital infrastructure follows from that, and hosting in a jurisdiction with a hydro-dominated grid is a better climate outcome than hosting the same workload on a coal-heavy one.

The systems part is the least intuitive and the most serious. A data centre concentrates load that would otherwise be distributed across thousands of premises. A concentrated load is visible, meterable, and negotiable. It can be required to report consumption, to shift timing, to fund transmission, to sign firm renewable contracts. The same computation spread across a million individual devices is regulable by nobody. Concentration is what makes accountability technically possible. Firmus has pledged to build two megawatts of new renewable generation for every megawatt it consumes, which is a commitment no diffuse load could ever be asked to make.

The engineering part is that cooling design is genuinely improving. Closed-loop liquid cooling recirculates a fixed charge of coolant rather than evaporating water continuously. The Firmus design at Wesley Vale engages evaporative cooling only above 26 degrees ambient, which in north-west Tasmania is a small number of hours a year. Yesterday's water figures do not describe today's plant.

And the political part, which the petitioners should take most seriously, is that moratoria have a way of not ending. The Rockefeller Institute of Government has tracked a spreading pattern of local pauses across the United States, from Groton in Connecticut to Peculiar in Missouri to Bangor in Maine, and municipalities in New York including Lysander, which adopted a six-month moratorium in May 2026, and the Town of Perth, which passed a one-year pause in June. Around fourteen states have considered moratorium legislation, with thresholds ranging from one megawatt to a hundred. A pause pending regulation is only meaningful if the regulation actually gets written. Otherwise it is a veto wearing a deadline.

Where the Case for Yes Runs Out

Take them in order.

The Loudoun figures are real, and they are also a warning rather than a model. A county deriving half its property tax base from a single industry has not diversified its economy, it has concentrated its risk, and the concentration is in an industry whose capital cycle is measured in a few years and whose demand depends on a technology thesis that may not hold. More to the point, the Loudoun bargain is not on offer at Wesley Vale. Twenty ongoing jobs is the number in the application. Tasmania does not levy a personal property tax on computer equipment the way Virginia does. The revenue mechanism that produces the Loudoun outcome does not exist here, so citing Loudoun as a reason to approve a Tasmanian facility is citing a fiscal system the state has not got.

The sovereignty argument is sound and does not resolve anything. Sovereign compute capability is a national interest; where a specific building goes, how much water it draws in a dry summer and who pays for the transmission upgrade are local questions. Answering a local question with a national one is a category error, and it happens constantly. Firmus is a private company selling AI tokens on a commercial market. Its facilities may serve sovereign capability. That is a reason to have a national siting framework, not a reason for Latrobe Council to approve an application in fourteen days.

The concentration argument is the best one, and it is self-refuting in the current arrangement. Yes, concentrated load is regulable. That is exactly why the absence of regulation is the problem rather than an argument against pausing. The petition asks for a public register of energy and water consumption and parliamentary oversight above 50 megawatts. Those are precisely the instruments that make concentration an advantage. Without them, concentration delivers all the exposure and none of the leverage. A pledge to build two megawatts of generation for every one consumed is worth a great deal in a supply contract and considerably less in a press release, and the distance between those two documents is most of what the petition is about.

The cooling argument is true and incomplete. Closed-loop and adiabatic designs do reduce water use, and the 26 degree threshold is real. But water is only one vector. The data heat island preprint measured land surface temperature, which responds to waste heat rejection regardless of whether the heat is carried away by air or water. Forty diesel generators produce emissions and noise, with the acoustic assessment already recommending additional mitigation. And a facility's cooling design is a commitment made at approval, in a document, about equipment that will be replaced several times over the life of the building.

The permanent-veto risk is the one legitimate hit. It should be answered by writing a sunset into the moratorium, not by declining to have one. A pause that lapses automatically when the register, the threshold and the oversight mechanism are in force is a schedule, not a ban.

What Consent Would Have to Look Like

The Tasmanian government has rejected the moratorium. Felix Ellis, the minister responsible, has said a statement of expectations for AI data centres will be released within the government's current hundred-day period, with energy and water among its key features, and that it is intended to build on the Australian Government's expectations for data centres and AI infrastructure developers, published in March 2026. As of the first week of September it has not appeared. A parliamentary inquiry established at the Greens' instigation is taking submissions until 21 September, and its recommendations will be non-binding.

A statement of expectations is not a law. It is a document describing what a government would like companies to do. Ehsan Noroozinejad, a researcher at Western Sydney University, gave the ABC the framing that matters: the key issue is ensuring private investment does not transfer costs or environmental risks to communities. Nothing in a statement of expectations prevents that transfer, because nothing in it binds anyone.

The strongest answer to that is federal, and it should be stated at full strength. Three of the petition's five asks, the treatment of energy, the treatment of water and the transfer of costs to other customers, are addressed in substance by the mandatory standards National Cabinet endorsed on 26 August. A requirement to act as a net generator and to pay the full cost of connection is a more demanding instrument than anything the petition asked for, and it would apply nationally rather than resting on the goodwill of one state government. If those standards are legislated in the form described, a good part of the Tasmanian argument will have been settled somewhere else. The qualification is the calendar, and it is the Commonwealth's own: early 2027, specifications unwritten, applying to what has not yet been approved.

What would look different is not complicated, and it is mostly what the petition asks for. Publish consumption. A register of actual metered energy and water use per facility, reported quarterly, converts every subsequent argument from a contest of adjectives into a contest of numbers. Ireland's data centre debate is more grounded than Australia's for exactly one reason: the Central Statistics Office publishes the figure, so nobody can claim it is 5 per cent when it is 23.

Set a threshold that changes the pathway. Above 50 megawatts, a facility should not be assessed by a single council under an act from 1993 against criteria that do not include the thing everybody is worried about. The Major Project and Project of State Significance pathways already exist. Using them is a decision, not a reform.

Fix the clock. Fourteen days to comment on a document running to hundreds of pages, and fourteen days to fund an appeal, are not consultation periods. They are compliance artefacts. Thirty days minimum, sixty above a threshold, and some mechanism for funding community technical review, would change what a submission can contain.

And publish the pipeline. Not commercially sensitive terms, but the fact of a proposal: location, indicative scale, stage. A community that learns of a 288-megawatt facility when the application lands has been handed a fait accompli dressed as a consultation.

The Thing the Petition Measures

Here is what the gap actually consists of, in units of time.

Firmus went from public announcement of its Tasmanian expansion to a facility under construction at St Leonards inside the same reporting cycle that first brought the plans to statewide attention. A development application at Wesley Vale went from publication to close of submissions in fourteen days. An appeal against the Bell Bay approval must be lodged within fourteen days at a cost of up to 50,000 dollars. The petition took ten weeks to gather 10,035 signatures and will produce, at most, a debate. The inquiry it prompted is still taking submissions, and will report with non-binding recommendations.

The dates can now be laid end to end, which they could not be in June. Latrobe Council is expected to vote on Wesley Vale in October 2026. Hydro Tasmania expects to know by the end of 2026 whether it will sell Firmus 450 megawatts. The mandatory national standards that all nine Australian governments endorsed on 26 August are not expected to become law until early 2027, and their detailed specifications have not been written. The Tasmanian statement of expectations, promised inside a hundred days, has not been published. The council vote comes first. The power contract comes after it, and the binding standards after that.

Construction runs faster than consultation, which runs faster than legislation. Each stage of the response is slower than the thing it is responding to, and the compounding is the whole story. The rules are no longer hypothetical, and that strengthens the point rather than weakening it. They are agreed, they are national, and they arrive in the year after the concrete. By the time Australia has mandatory standards for AI data centres, Tasmania will have AI data centres, and the standards will apply to the next ones.

That is what 10,035 people were actually registering. Not a view about artificial intelligence, on which they will hold every possible opinion. Not even, for most of them, opposition to a specific building most will never see. What they registered is that the mechanisms available to them operate on a timescale that guarantees they arrive after the decision.

A petition is the oldest and weakest instrument in parliamentary democracy. It is what you use when you have nothing else. Ten thousand people in a state of 579,000 reaching for it, in ten weeks, about a class of infrastructure that did not exist in the public conversation two years ago, is not a measure of how much Tasmanians dislike data centres. It is a measure of how little else was on offer.

Sources and References

1. Parliament of Tasmania, House of Assembly E-Petitions, “AI Data Facilities in Tasmania”, petition 147, sponsored by Cecily Rosol MP, open 22 June 2026 to 31 August 2026, 10,035 signatures. https://haepetitions.parliament.tas.gov.au/haepet/Home/PetitionDetails/147
2. Tasmanian Greens MPs, “Parliamentary Petition Calls for AI Data Centre Moratorium”, media release, 29 June 2026 (https://tasgreensmps.org/media-releases/parliamentary-petition-calls-for-ai-data-centre-moratorium/), and Tasmanian Times, “Greens Table Massive AI Data Centre Moratorium Petition”, September 2026 (https://tasmaniantimes.com/2026/09/greens-table-massive-ai-data-centre-moratorium-petition/).
3. ABC News, “Northern Tasmanians prepare to fight George Town Council AI data centre approval”, 30 August 2026. https://www.abc.net.au/news/2026-08-30/ai-data-centre-tasmania-firmus-technology-george-town/107089468
4. ABC News, “Firmus plans to truck water in and use rainwater to cool proposed Wesley Vale AI data centre”, 27 August 2026. https://www.abc.net.au/news/2026-08-27/firmus-truck-water-rainwater-cool-wesley-vale-ai-data-centre/107083230
5. ABC News, “'We do not want to highlight this yet': AI data centre's FAQ slip-up”, 22 July 2026. https://www.abc.net.au/news/2026-07-22/tasmania-firmus-ai-data-centre-plan-to-use-irrigation-water/106935718
6. ABC News, “AI company Firmus to become Tasmania's biggest power user if three planned sites come to fruition”, 15 June 2026. https://www.abc.net.au/news/2026-06-15/firmus-ai-company-tasmania-biggest-power-user-three-sites/106783142
7. ABC News, “Hydro Tasmania to decide by end of year on AI data centre company Firmus's request for 450MW”, 4 September 2026. https://www.abc.net.au/news/2026-09-04/hydro-tasmania-assess-firmus-450-mw-energy-request/107116852
8. ABC News, “Data centre inquiry by Greens to examine 'what, if any,' benefits will come to Tasmania from rollout”, 19 August 2026. https://www.abc.net.au/news/2026-08-19/ai-data-centre-inquiry-tasmanian-greens/107050792
9. Australian Bureau of Statistics, “National, state and territory population, December 2025”, estimated resident population of Tasmania. https://www.abs.gov.au/statistics/people/population/national-state-and-territory-population/latest-release
10. Tasmanian Times, “Record-Breaking Voluntary Assisted Dying Petition Tabled”, August 2020, reporting 11,699 e-petition and 1,383 paper signatures. https://tasmaniantimes.com/2020/08/record-breaking-voluntary-assisted-dying-petition-tabled/
11. Planning in Tasmania, Department of Premier and Cabinet, “Major projects”, assessment pathway under the Land Use Planning and Approvals Act 1993. https://www.stateplanning.tas.gov.au/planning-system/development/major-projects
12. Office of the Coordinator-General, Tasmanian Government, “Strategic project facilitation”, investment thresholds and case management. https://www.cg.tas.gov.au/project_facilitation/strategic_project_facilitation
13. Andrea Marinoni, Erik Cambria, Weisi Lin, Mauro Dalla Mura, Jocelyn Chanussot, Edoardo Ragusa, Chi Yan Tso, Yihao Zhu and Benjamin Horton, “The data heat island effect: quantifying the impact of AI data centers in a warming world”, arXiv:2603.20897, 21 March 2026, revised 21 April 2026. https://arxiv.org/abs/2603.20897
14. Basit A. Akinade, Amobichukwu C. Amanambu, Jonathan M. Frame and Shaolei Ren, “AI Data Centers and the Water Use Feedback Loop”, arXiv:2606.21760, 19 June 2026. https://arxiv.org/abs/2606.21760
15. Aadi Patel, Nikhil Mahalingam and Rusheen Patel, “The Environmental Impact of AI Servers and Sustainable Solutions”, arXiv:2601.06063, submitted 24 December 2025. https://arxiv.org/abs/2601.06063
16. Central Statistics Office, Ireland, “Data Centres Metered Electricity Consumption 2025”, published 2026 (https://www.cso.ie/en/releasesandpublications/ep/p-dcmec/datacentresmeteredelectricityconsumption2025/keyfindings/), and Data Center Dynamics, “EirGrid says no new applications for data centers in Dublin until 2028” (https://www.datacenterdynamics.com/en/news/eirgrid-says-no-new-applications-for-data-centers-in-dublin-till-2028/).
17. Data Center Dynamics, “Dutch Senate stymies huge Meta data center in Zeewolde by blocking Government land sale to Facebook”. https://www.datacenterdynamics.com/en/news/dutch-senate-stymies-huge-meta-data-center-in-zeewolde-by-blocking-government-land-sale-to-facebook/
18. Data Center Dynamics, “Chile partially reverses Google data center permit over water use concerns”, February 2024. https://www.datacenterdynamics.com/en/news/chile-partially-reverses-google-data-center-permit-over-water-use-concerns/
19. Virginia Business, “Prince William Digital Gateway data center project officially dies”, 2026. https://virginiabusiness.com/prince-william-digital-gateway-data-center-project-officially-dies/
20. Southern Environmental Law Center, “Groups appeal permit for xAI's South Memphis data center, decisions around unpermitted methane gas turbines”. https://www.selc.org/press-release/groups-appeal-permit-for-xais-south-memphis-data-center-decisions-around-unpermitted-methane-gas-turbines/
21. Spotlight PA, “Why PA data centers want public officials to sign NDAs”, August 2026. https://www.spotlightpa.org/news/2026/08/pennsylvania-data-center-nda-public-record-capitol/
22. Loudoun County, Virginia, “Data Centers, Tax Revenues and the County Budget”, official page on data centre tax contribution and real property tax rates. https://www.loudoun.gov/6409/Data-Centers-Tax-Revenues-County-Budget
23. Rockefeller Institute of Government, “Updates on the Cloud: More Moratoriums on Data Centers”, June 2026. https://www.rockinst.org/blog/updates-on-the-cloud-more-moratoriums-on-data-centers/
24. Clayton Utz, “Nine governments, one rulebook: National Cabinet backs mandatory AI and data centre standards”, August 2026. https://www.claytonutz.com/insights/2026/august/nine-governments-one-rulebook-national-cabinet-backs-mandatory-ai-and-data-centre-standards
25. Clifford Chance, “Australia's National AI Plan 2025: key takeaways”, January 2026. https://www.cliffordchance.com/briefings/2026/01/australia-national-ai-plan-2025-key-takeaways.html

Tim Green UK-based Systems Theorist & Independent Technology Writer

Tim explores the intersections of artificial intelligence, decentralised cognition, and posthuman ethics. His work, published at smarterarticles.co.uk, challenges dominant narratives of technological progress while proposing interdisciplinary frameworks for collective intelligence and digital stewardship.

His writing has been featured on Ground News and shared by independent researchers across both academic and technological communities.

ORCID: 0009-0002-0156-9795 Email: tim@smarterarticles.co.uk

Listen to the free weekly SmarterArticles Podcast

Was Fortune this way Nights to facing destination A pocket wonder Tears at noon in frail disavenge The curry pot Simple thoughts of Maine The dew of war Ancient rites to love- and there, a star Alight to new And as we are, a prayer tonight The herefore places on amend Distance care and action we will see The burdened life But to the wonder and esteem A place to know her- Dedication to unfold The gold and mighty force between- the struggle Earth as one as way she walked Pain in brief to know what keeps A thought of her Crowns of gold of Heaven And in this from,- a solace then Beautiful at point The Sun of her Forebears and to progeny The little bits of Earth to play in time Fortune be the dear Redempted into Christ- and there remain The lanterns as they keep- for might to close Verses of our time if then to wear Beautifully right Floes of River War and to the seams Caught by predilection- our lonely Star The rites to view the other And as we are Tasia was bliss Highest due regard And peaks across a running sky Distance and event Glorious to her and wide for her- Two new years of waking life Pieces of inflection and resolve Higher to the highest Merchants of the prism In filing we esteem And like no other And glow to this meander- Fording ten and through across Streams of rightful care And hitting home Verses to the life Sudden fold and then- We watch for then Tasia to our call and brightened Sun Our therapy to see And in her eyes renew The better Dawn Tasia is gone and then to night Heaven better is- to night and crew The Gospel speaks of Holy fear We sought the code And Earth was at her play And quick reply advance- and ready near Thoughts to ever be The rites of Heaven Mercy on accord and to our candour Tasia the elect and to the stars And rightful then- Our Sister and redeem A prayer as gift Lights forever glow to keep her near And to the rough She is now forever as verses can- The rightful one In distance we’ll remain To Heaven knowing Tasia the witness and anew To Heaven’s time Merciful and risen to the heights With God unfold The mighty ransom of our key To solid then Tasia our hero- against the fray To stand and hold our victims- But beknown And thoughts to kind and call- a freedom then Coursing war to Heaven upon this year In respite, near In respite to our Heaven- and to your name Tasia in gold Our love is yours- To Heaven’s night Adjusted for the few- and making them Groves of verses high Of Earthen be and to remain Night is up for war- But crosses to be low And hiding plain Forever then In rightful claim And glory just Tasia remembered- to blissful court- and rites of home For mercy be- Forever.