Her Final Form

#nsfw #Izzy

Izzy lost consciousness for a while as she lay there in the lake of fluid that was from her pussy. Her eyes moved rapidly as her mind was transported to a place far from normal sleep.

Izzy awoke in a strange place. Neither truly physical nor fully spiritual, it was nonetheless familiar. The floor below her felt solid. Anything in the distance was hazy and shrouded in mist. She could see images of stained glass from her church and columns of white and jade. A strange hum, reminiscent of hymns, filled the air. Then, she heard faint moans, eerily similar to those from the porn she often watched. Though it was very dark, she could see everything clearly.

In the distance, she could see a bright light waning in the distance. Every other direction, she saw the same repeating pattern of jade columns and stained glass artistry. The light was the only thing breaking up the never-ending cascading pattern in the dark. Even the strange hums had no real source or direction. Without the light, there would be nothing in this voice. The only beacon of curiosity was the light. So she chose to go that direction. Towards that light. As cliche as it sounds, she had to go towards the light.

As she walked forward, but it felt different. She was walking on the balls of her feet, but the sensation did not feel out of place or startling. Her strides were longer and effortless. She was covering much more ground than normal. However, in this space, her perception of everything felt altered. Smells were sharper. Hearing acute. Vision clearly was different. She had never seen this well in the dark. She certainly felt different but could not place the reason as to why. Maybe she could get a better look once she got closer to the light.

As she got closer, the shards of stained glass lost their color. The shards were becoming more mirror-like in appearance. It's as if the light was purifying everything around it. Free of color but replaced with a silver, calming hue.

The light that she followed grew warmer the closer she got to it. More intense. More radiant. It was beginning to hurt her eyes, but she kept moving forward, shielding them. As she turned away from the light, she got a glimpse of her body in one of the reflective silver mirrors that used to be stained glass. What she saw terrified her. What stared back at her was far from human. She couldn't believe what she was seeing, and she couldn't believe it was her.

She was covered in all-black fur, head to toe. Her eyes large, almond-like, and yellow, with slit pupils like a cat or a lizard. Her legs were much longer than before, hips flared, and her feet, no longer human, were much more feline in presentation, with sharp, black, retractable claws. Her ears were large and pointed, almost feline but not quite. They were still on the sides of her head, but their size was all wrong. Much too big. She didn't recognize herself and she was gripped with uncontrollable fear.

She opened her mouth and gasped. Out of her mouth came a forked tongue like a snake. She screamed. What she heard was a tritone of otherworldly moans and feline howls. Her scream became a wail of despair.

She had transformed into the very darkness that she had invited inside herself. The growls, snarls, and animalistic outbursts of her impulsive anger – all those things she ignored, never questioned, and embraced – they were now a part of her, whatever had done this to her body. This is what she had manifested deep within herself; this is what she had invited into her life and soul. She arrived at a terrifying realization: this was what she had become. Her rage to be free from her sheltered life liberated her far beyond what she thought was humanly possible, certainly awakening something. And it was all wrong.

Then came the most alarming transformation. As if her mind wasn't already in great distress, it got worse. Izzy was becoming sexually aroused. Every time she had an outburst of anger, she had always felt the rush between her legs and it felt good. Almost as if it was rewarding her. She began to see why. The true reason revealed itself, rising up between her legs. She panicked.

From the tuft of fur, from between her legs, a large pink penis began to emerge from where she would have expected her clit. And here you would expect to see a scrotum; she felt the familiar wetness of her pussy. She was now something more like a hermaphrodite than female, and despite her fear and shock, she obviously had the insatiable urge to touch herself. Her new anatomy now begged for attention. But she resisted despite her new throbbing and leaking erection. Almost taunting her...begging her to take in her new form. She resisted. This was all wrong, and now she confused, horrified, and horny.

Then, the chorus of porn and moans grew louder, fully eclipsing the faint angelic hymns. She fell to her knees, buried her face in her furry hands, and cried. Letting her inhuman voice cry out into the void. Her new body continued to throb with sexual need, begging her to touch. Precum leaking out of her obscenely large lady cock.

Izzy had forgotten all about the light. But the light did not forget her. It moved closer. She felt radiant warmth on her back. It registered as a sensation, but Izzy was too lost in despair to notice. Too horny to think straight. Too lost to move any direction. Only when she felt warm almost too hot hands on her shoulder did she look up to pay attention.

She was blinded by the light, but she welcomed the warm embrace as she wept and leaned into this unknown spiritual presence. She was unable to look at it; her eyes could not handle reverence or intensity.

She hid her face again; she didn't want to be seen. Despite all of her thoughts telling her no, her demonic body was saying other things, wanting her to perform sexual acts and wanting more depraved thoughts. Wanting the last bit of humanity left in Izzy to fade away. She throbbed harder. She knew she was completely obscene and unfit to be seen by anyone in this state of walking contradiction.

The being of light never took its hand off her shoulders. It held her close and started to rock her back and forth. Without speaking, without saying a word, this angelic entity started to communicate with Izzy. It felt like someone was slowly opening the curtain into her mind. Then she heard words from inside her head.

Your real name is Jezebel. That birth name of your soul. When you were born in the place of light and love. I have known you for your whole life. We met there and we bonded. We traveled to the earth realm many times together. Until one day, your sexual urges made you greedy and corrupt. Eventually you accumulated karmic debt. We got out of sync and could not reincarnate together. I could no longer find you for many generations. But I never stopped looking for you. I always came back, without fail. Going back to the earth realm hoping my spirit would find you.

Izzy couldn't believe what she was hearing, but deep down she felt like she knew this entity.

You lost your memories. You forgot who you were. Even after returning to the spirit realm, you were a ravaged ghost of your former self. Every time I was in the earth realm, I felt forever doomed—locked in this cycle and unable to heal you as you spiraled more and more into spiritual corruption with each hurt you endured. You lived through them all: married, widowed, or isolated, yet you never had that same spark of life we once shared together. I stopped reincarnating; instead, I decided to search for you in the spirit realm, hoping to find you upon your return to the light. But you never quite made it—you would leave, only to fall right back to earth, never fully cleansing yourself or giving yourself a chance to regain your divine memories. I couldn't reach you to pull you up higher.

Even now, Izzy felt the wounds in her heart. Her choices lead her here. Changed her. Cursed her. Even in this strange place, she still felt the weight of the lie her life always was. The news of knowing it's always been like this didn't help anything. She started to wail again, feeling like a total failure. Unable to get out or escape.

The voice continued to speak.

The ring you wore, the ring you put all your hopes and dreams in, was the gateway for me to cross over. To be by your side once again. I was too eager. Unfortunately for me, it was a prison. I could see. I could hear, but I couldn't act. I couldn't speak. I couldn't protect you. Early on, I saw the cracks forming. The strain. The want. The pain. I watched the evolution silently, unable to do anything but watch. You invited something dark and ancient, baby. A force from the dark ones that humanity has forgotten. It was taking you over, and I couldn't warn you or tell you to stop. I didn't have a voice; I couldn't comfort you when you needed it most. I hurt when you hurt. I cried when you were sad. I was there for it all. I did everything in my power to stay close to you, even when you threw me far away. I didn't want to leave your side, no matter what until the end. I wanted to be there for you.

In that moment, Izzy fully realized what this spirit was saying. She trembled. She shook. Izzy did horrible things to that ring. Casting it aside, masturbating with it. Inverting its very purpose and what it stood for. What happened to her changed her, making her insatiably horny and confused, changing her body; she felt like she deserved it all. She folded deeper in her misery in this confusing place. She tried to pull away from the spirit of the ring.

“I don't deserve you,” Is what Izzy tried to say with her voice. What she heard were animalistic vocalizations far removed from any sense of human speech. Even that was taken away from her. For a moment she paused and shuddered. Everything human has nearly been eroded. So she wept. Large tears pooling in her eyes and sploshing on her fur.

Her anger, rage, and trantric porn induced masturbation had taken everything... leaving only her darkness, desires, ensconced in this demon-like vessel, in a place she didn't know how to escape.

The spirit of the ring held fast and leaned in closer, refusing to let her go. Reusing to let her run away into the darkness. The spirit of the ring spoke to her again.

I forgave you before you threw me away. I endured what you put me through because I was with you until the very end. I will stay with you until you make peace with yourself. I love you with every fiber of my being. You don't remember me, I know this, but I am your other half, your partner. Your everything. Forever. I know you are beyond lost and hope right now. Your lost your memory, and you tried to drown the emptiness with religious devotion and sexual pleasure. I'm not letting you go. I don't care what you have done to yourself right now. I waited eons to exist in the same dimension as you again, even if it's just as your ring. Even as you are right now. Even if you are broken and changed.

Izzy surrendered and accepted the warmth and love from this foreign presence in this confusing world as she tried to cope with what happened to her body. She finally opened her eyes, looking at her black, naked body covered in fur. As she looked at her raging erection, she accepted that this was part of her now too. This is just how things were going to be.

Despite the great discomfort, she tried to turn to the light to see who or what this being was. It was her only rock in this unsteady place. So, she spoke back to the light, the same way it spoke to her, using her mind. Her own voice was unable to form words anymore.

“I'm sorry, I don't remember,” She stared blankly at the light, blinded. “I'm sorry for what I've done to you. I'm sorry for all the pain I have caused others. I'm sorry for the pain I caused in other lifetimes. I don't know where to begin to fix this, but I want to make this right. I don't want to be like this forever.”

Izzy continued to sob, but for just a moment, the weight of her heart began to lift. “I have to forgive myself.”

Izzy kept staring into the blinding light. Unable to make out any shapes. Instead, she closed her eyes and let the light bathe her in a warm glow. She took a deep breath. Her final thought was this. “At least someone here truly loves me. And I thank you so much for that. I just wanted to be loved.”

The spirit of the ring spoke again. “I will always be with you. I am inside of you now,” the ring said. Izzy was enveloped in the blinding light. All of the warmth covered her body, and she took in a deep breath, accepting her fate. Her body was fully consumed by the light. She felt every part of herself lighten and dematerialize. “This is the end,” she thought to herself, “and it was so beautiful.” Everything slowly faded to black.

Izzy slowly opened her eyes in her living room, her face still planted in the wet puddle created by her pussy. The musky familiar scent has now permeated the whole living room. With wet slaps against the carpet, she reached around, searching for the warm light that had enveloped her just moments before. She already missed the one thing that truly loved her... only to find it gone once again. Her heart dropped as the feeling of being alone again welled up inside of her.

She didn't know why she was still here. She had let go. She was ready to leave. The broken woman curled up into a ball and whimpered. Then, a familiar radiant warmth began to bloom within her. From between her legs, she sighed...and wept, crying harder. “Not again,” she spoke in her human voice. Her eyes widened in realization. She had her voice back.

She touched her face and looked at her hands. She felt bare skin, so she ran into the bathroom. She had to see her body. What she found was a naked human form but it still was not her hold body. Her only relief was that she looked human, mostly.

She was taller now, with flared hips, higher cheekbones, eyes a little larger and more almond-shaped—still human—and slightly pointed ears that weren't noticeable from a distance. Her hey color had changed to a very light caramel color, almost radiant. She turned off the bathroom light and confirmed she still had excellent dark vision and a faint amount of eye shine was visible. She turned the light back on, quickly.

Her eyes then traveled down the rest of her naked body. Her breasts were much larger and stood proud; while this was a welcome change, it overshadowed the rest of her transformation. She ran her hands up and down her body, getting used to this new form and accepting that the old Izzy is long gone now.

Finally, she checked her mouth and opened wide. Thankfully, the forked tongue was gone; however, too many of her teeth were too long and pointed. She closed her mouth, took a long breath, and sighed. She accepted her fate: at least she didn't look like a cat demon—even if she had a slight resemblance to her previous form.

Between her legs, she noticed that all of her pubic hair had disappeared—not just shaved but as if it would never grow back again. It was unnaturally smooth. In the center, right above her vulva, she saw something resembling a tattoo in white ink—a perfect circle with the same silver hue as her ring. She ran her fingers over the white circle, wondering what this meant.

As if on cue, warmth unlike anything she had felt from normal arousal began to rise up from between her legs. The tattoo began to glow faintly. Instead of shock, she felt a compulsive need to touch the light—to put her hand between her legs and touch herself.

As she brushed her hand against her clit, she felt the same radiant light as before. The sensation rushed all over her body. She kept rubbing her pussy and closed her eyes.

The spirit of the ring was with her—the spirit was in her pussy—and it loved her. This was confirmation that she was no longer alone. So her hand stayed there, basking in the warmth of her long-lost soul bond.

Izzy spent hours on the floor of her bathroom, gooning in bliss with her spiritual lover that was her ring. Her astral lover was now part of her body, telling her to rub her pussy, forever.

I’m in a car with two dogs strapped to myself in the special dog buckle safety seat thing even though we are at the parking lot in this cool evening, when it’s not clear whether the sun or the moon is shining behind the gray clouds.

Indeed.

The low sound of traffic is the only thing to be heard when the black dog is barking at things he sees.

I went to a pizzeria I’ve not been to for seven years today. It was the same man behind the counter; a fit looking handsome fellow whose thin waistline I think is remarkable for someone in his line of work. He looked exactly the same except now he wore glasses.

Then at the park we met a friend from before, from when we lived here. She looked exactly the same except this time the toddler she was with was a new one, the fifth and not the fourth.

I think if we would’ve lived here still, we would’ve been close friends, but it’s all chance, it’s so random, you know? Who I would’ve been then, because

I feel it clearly that us moving and beginning this new life clearly marks one of these branches which changes the life sufficiently.

I’m still myself inside, but I am not so fit, i don’t even train four to five times a week anymore, I have skills now, can build and fix things

And I’ve not even got the same interests

And I’ve been opening up some of these parts of myself I’m not proud of, and have taken a good look. That’s one of the reasons I think I’ve grown a bit more fat and melancholic. even so, I’m better off.

And there are still too much stuff in mother In law’s apartment, only this time I found it very charming. Almost.

Finally, finally, on seeing me, these people probably think, and would say, that I look the same

But I’ve got glasses now.

Today I have been consistently sweat drenched and I have felt warm and a little bit disgusting in a way like definitely unattractive with messed up hair and these paint speckled crocs, and the point is that I didn’t give a single fuck as I was walking among all of these people with hair looking the way rich people do their hairs and white clothes of silken quality without a single spot I did feel out of place like a bumpkin, but somehow the only emotion in me was something like a mild amusement

Such is the freedom which comes with age, maybe.

Thursday's MLB Game of Choice is joined already in progress; the White Sox and Yankees are scoreless in the 4th inning. As I usually do, I'm following the game's score 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.

Oaxacan Shelling Beans, Purple Tomatillos, Peak Season Blackberries at the Mixteco Farms stand.

Pasture Raised Eggs, White Sapote, Melons at the Don Betos Farm stand.

BBQ Plate from SMP in the market.

The latter was written at some point in the last few days. I am currently in a place where my migraine becomes unbearable easily, and I keep pushing myself past the line when I try to figure out how all of this works. This has shown me how I am not very go with the flow on such things. I will get there eventually, but I'm finding the editing, etc a bit off putting. I'm probably not doing something correctly, but I swear this is clunkier than the journals from the 90s. That makes no sense. Hence it likely user error.

-—

How do we burn? In the flickers of yesterday's aggression, or the promise of tomorrow's future? At what point do we stop drowning our children with the obscenities of a wealthy ignorance? When each step is a rattling cage, how can we hear any substance of truth?

Half-blind and jacking off to a false modesty, we bid stupor to the obvious—both oblivious and wise. Little more than puppets on parade to stroke the not-so-cunning disaster. How glorious our stranglehold.

Perhaps we'll get lucky...and choke on it.

Written July 30, 2026 © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

Disclaimer

If you have not figured it out, this website and all of its contents are not to be taken seriously. All of it entirely is a work of satire and humor. It is not to be taken seriously—at all. Anything said about persons living or dead, fictional or real—is purely for fun. Really.

I was an early adopter of Sirius XM Radio, back when you had to buy a special little box to play through the FM radio in your car. I discovered a lot of cool music in the early 2000s by listening to it, and I’ve subscribed a few times since then.

But, like seemingly everything, Sirius XM Radio has been getting worse and worse. There’s a channel called Soul Town which plays soul hits of the 60’s. It became Smokey’s Soul Town and remained Smokey’s Soul Town even after four former employees sued him for sexual harassment and sexual assault. The allegations haven’t been proven and likely can’t be, but whether you choose to have someone represent your brand is not a legal proceeding and doesn’t require proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Apparently for Sirius XM management, being associated with someone accused of sexual assault is not a dealbreaker. Which is their choice, of course, but my subscription is also a choice.

On a less serious note, Marky Ramone’s Punk Rock Blitzkrieg, a channel that played classic punk interspersed with Marky’s thoughts and/or reminiscences about the bands, was replaced by Classic Punk, a DJ-less channel with occasional station IDs voiced by what sounds like a 22-year-old from a 90’s Mountain Dew commercial. I really keep expecting him to say it’s “totally extreme.” Again, it’s a choice.

But today really sent me over the edge. My favorite channel has always been Little Steven’s Underground Garage, the channel through which I discovered a lot of cool music in the early 2000s. They have mostly stopped playing new music,(more on this in a bit), but they still play a great mix of rock and soul songs and have a number of charismatic DJs who often drop cool knowledge about the songs and artists they play. I miss the new music, but I can live with this situation.

But then I started noticing that the few new songs they add to the rotation almost always involve Little Steven getting paid. So either they’re artists who record for his label, Wicked Cool Records (so he gets paid on both ends of the deal as both the guy who runs the channel and the guy who gets royalty payments for the label), or they’re artists who work behind the scenes at the Underground Garage, or they’re artists who are going to appear on the annual Underground Garage cruise. In short, the new music that this channel plays almost always involves Little Steven getting paid. On the public airwaves, this would be illegal as hell, but because it’s not on the public airwaves, they can be as openly corrupt as the Trump administration.

But even that wasn’t what finally made me pull the trigger on canceling. What made me pull the trigger was when Little Steven just announced this week’s Coolest Song in the World (a weekly designation granted to songs both old and new) is a song by New York band The Cyns— a cover of Bob Dylan’s “Neighborhood Bully.” For those unfamiliar, “Neighborhood Bully” is from Dylan’s 1983 Infidels album and is a song that asserts that Israel is always in the right when committing acts of violence and shouldn’t adhere to the rules other countries abide by. (You can check the lyrics if you don’t believe me.)

There is no way to interpret covering this song in 2026 except as a full-throated endorsement of Israel’s genocide in Gaza. Now, Jem Records is free to include this song on their upcoming Dylan tribute album (because the world simply doesn’t have enough Dylan covers), and the Cynz are free to record it, and Little Steven is free to play it, but I am not coming along for the genocide cheerleading ride.

Fuck the Cynz, fuck Jem Records, fuck Little Steven and fuck Sirius XM.

How could he ever be lonely when she is everywhere beauty thrives.

[Verse 1] There was ache in the morning There was want in the light I lay still in the silence Thinking of you through the night

Madness, I know it But it felt like a sign Something moved in the dawn air And whispered your name into mine

[Pre-Chorus] You were there and you were not A ghost inside my skin So I left my flesh behind me And went searching on the wind

[Chorus] Past the little beach at sunrise Where the gulls broke the dark Past the blue and endless water With your name against my heart

Over stone and over sorrow To the place where wild things grow I found you in tiny miracles Where the Burren flowers show

[Verse 2] I went looking for your loneliness In the hollow of the day Sure that I would find you In the empty, aching space

But you were not abandoned You were held by something true Peace was blooming all around And it looked so much like you

[Pre-Chorus] Blue and yellow, red and periwinkle Soft against the stone You were love and you were quiet You were never quite alone

[Chorus] Past the little beach at sunrise Where the gulls broke the dark Past the blue and endless water With your name against my heart

Over stone and over sorrow To the place where wild things grow I found you in the miracles Where the Burren flowers show

[Bridge] And maybe love is not possession Maybe longing learns to kneel Maybe beauty doesn’t answer It just teaches us to feel

So I sat beside the flowers Where the ancient limestone sleeps And I loved you without reaching And I wanted without need

[Final Chorus] Past the little beach at sunrise Where the gulls broke the dark Past the Cliffs of Moher standing Like a wall around my heart

Over ache and over wanting To the place where wild things grow I found you in the miracles Where the Burren flowers show

[Outro] You were there and you were not You were near and out of view In the blue, yellow, red, and periwinkle Every tiny bloom was you

---

#song #poetry

Twist Rede Twist

Redetwisten rede twisten over appels onrechtmatig getransporteerd in sinaasappelkisten over allen die zich in mei vergisten over de onwetende die zich daarvan vergewiste

rede twisten redetwisten over schreeuwers die hun roeping misten over zeikers die nooit naast subsidie potjes pisten over kasten vol lijken en ongelegen komende kisten

rede twisten rede twisten over slangen die dankzij medische ingrepen niet meer slisten over het nogal vage aantal in nevelen gehulde vermisten over hen die de onterecht verkregen strafschop desondanks misten

redetwisten redetwisten over hen die troefkaarten uit de hand van de Solitaire speler gristen over bier dat door onbekende oorzaak te lang moest liggen gisten over hen die alles wisten maar desondanks de bus misten

redetwisten rede twisten over netten die niet konden bepalen waar ze achter moesten vissen over het verschil tussen de ronde missen en de rondemissen over schrijven of wissen

twist de rede in oorlog en vrede twist de rede heden ten dage over het verleden twist de rede over leden overleden twist de rede over blaadjes onbeschreven twist de rede twist

By Publius (of the 21st Century) — No. 9

(These are additional observations complementing “The Valerian Trap…” from July 28, 2026)

In “On War”, the famous military theoretician and Prussian army officer von Clausewitz saw the phenomenon but did not fully grasp its strategic consequence. Having recently experienced French captivity following Prussia's defeat in 1806, Clausewitz watched as the Iberian Peninsular War of 1808–1814 unfolded. Napoleon installed his brother on the Spanish throne, occupied Madrid, defeated regular armies, and repeatedly demonstrated French battlefield superiority. Yet Spain and Portugal never became governable French possessions. Resistance returned after every apparent defeat, attacked communications, isolated garrisons, and forced France to disperse enormous strength, while Wellington's army supplied conventional pressure. France won battles, held cities, consumed men and treasure—and finally lost the peninsula.

Von Clausewitz did not overlook this war. Across his writings — the Kleiner Krieg lectures at the Berlin Kriegsschule and, within On War itself, the chapter on “The People in Arms” — he addressed people's war, the arming of the nation, and small war. But the terminology itself reveals the limitation. Spain remained for him principally a lesser form of military activity: irregular, dispersed, supplementary, and smaller than the contest of regular armies. What he did not fully develop was the strategic inversion within it. The weaker party did not have to become stronger or defeat France in France's military language. It merely had to deny France the political result for which the war was being fought. Even so, the seed of the answer was already in his own first principle — that war is the continuation of policy, and the political object, not the battlefield, is the true measure of victory. Kissinger did not correct Clausewitz so much as complete him.

Henry Kissinger supplied the missing lemma in 1969: “The guerrilla wins if he does not lose. The conventional army loses if it does not win.” This was more than an observation about guerrilla tactics. It identified unequal burdens of victory. The conventional power requires an affirmative conclusion—pacification, capitulation, territorial control, regime replacement, or an enforceable settlement. Its opponent may require only survival, continued resistance, and time. For the stronger party, another inconclusive victory becomes evidence of strategic failure. For the weaker party, another survived defeat becomes evidence that its strategy is working.

The United States has repeatedly encountered this asymmetry since World War II and repeatedly failed to master it. Korea ended without decisive victory. Vietnam ended in defeat. Iraq produced a rapid military overthrow but no durable political settlement, while enlarging Iranian influence. Afghanistan ended after twenty years in humiliation with the Taliban restored. These wars were not identical, and the Gulf War of 1991 remains an important exception precisely because its objective was political, and it was limited. The broader pattern is nevertheless hard to dismiss: the United States excels at destroying targets and organized forces, but repeatedly fails to convert military superiority into sustainable political order.

Iran makes the recurring error more precarious. Iran is not a guerrilla movement, although several of its partners and proxies operate irregularly. It is a large state with territory, armed forces, institutions, industries, and a long historical memory. Yet it can fight according to Kissinger's logic. Washington must produce a recognizable result. Tehran need only preserve the regime, retain retaliatory capacity, keep regional resistance alive, and prevent the United States and Israel from imposing their preferred end state. Iran can lose installations, commanders, missiles, and infrastructure and still deny victory. The United States can win nearly every engagement and emerge strategically weaker after every single encounter.

That, in my judgment, is already the direction of travel. The American position in the Middle East is weaker than it ever was before February 28, 2026. Iran has already absorbed the decapitation of much of its religious, political, military, and scientific leadership — including the killing of its Supreme Leader — and still resists. That is Kissinger's logic in its starkest form: the regime does not need to reconstitute what it lost. It needs only to survive long enough to prove that the loss did not settle anything. Much of America's leverage has been spent in military action that has not produced closure. Continued presence carries rising costs, while withdrawal may eventually become attractive because so little remains to be gained. Yet withdrawal would not end the consequences. Over decades—not tomorrow, and perhaps not soon—it could expose Israel to pressures it cannot manage alone and ultimately place its continued existence as a defensible state at risk. The ultimate Israeli nightmare is not immediate battlefield defeat, but the gradual exhaustion or departure of the outside power on which the regional balance has depended for so long. The continuation of strikes, retaliation, interrupted negotiations, and contests over Hormuz already demonstrates the failure to translate force into closure.

There is a serious older warning. Rome and Parthia, and later Byzantium and Sasanian Persia, fought recurrently for almost seven centuries. Their final great war, from 602 to 628, ended in a spectacular Byzantine victory but left both empires financially, militarily, and politically exhausted. Within a decade, the Arab-Islamic conquests had begun; within a generation, they destroyed the Sasanian Empire and stripped Byzantium of much of its eastern and southern world. Tactical victory had prepared strategic ruin.

History does not repeat mechanically. But historical oblivion offers no protection against recurring strategic logic. Von Clausewitz saw Spain but reduced its lesson to people's war and Kleiner Krieg. Kissinger provided the missing link and completed the thought: the stronger power loses when it cannot transform superiority into a political conclusion. The lesson was presented at enormous cost in Vietnam, re-presented in Iraq and Afghanistan, and NOT learned, and is now being ignored again in Iran. To call such repetition remarkable would be too neutral a judgment. Given the clarity of the historical record and the predictability of the outcome, it is a failure of strategic stewardship.

Fauci, and Faucism, represented the apotheosis of what the managerial/academic/journo class desires: An excuse for sweeping power, based on (alleged) expertise, in which they could ride roughshod over those stupid proles and flyover people while preening about the allegedly superior moral and intellectual qualities that justify their rule.

Then it turned out that they were wrong about nearly everything and — as Fauci’s diaries demonstrate — knew it at the time, at least at the top.

— Glenn Harland Reynolds (here)

Is anyone shocked to find out from his diaries that Anthony Fauci is a self-absorbed megalomaniac who gloried in the attention and praises heaped upon him during the pandemic? Of course not. He is a prime example of the Luciferian passions of pride and vainglory and the damage they will do if unchecked.

Here's an interesting take on the self-proclaimed American elites as well as a personal reaction from one of their followers that will also shock no one but which serves to illustrate our depravity and the increasingly bitter divide in America.

#history #politics

In Het Wild

Het is zo heerlijk kamperen in het wild je tent erin opzetten een mooie plek aan de bedding bij de oever in de vallei tussen beschoeide wallen zwemmen in de stroom daarin tot rust komen verder trekken Het is zo heerlijk kamperen in het wild met je tentje op maat makkelijk in gebruik vlot opgezet voelen hoe de natuur op je inwerkt zitten zitten voor het tentje onder de flap in de beschutting van een bosje aan de monding van de rivier Zo heerlijk kamperen, ik hou van kamperen in het wild het woeste van de natuur aan mijn voeten vissen zwemmen stroom opwaarts vogels drijven met de stroom mee in de vallei nabij de kust waar de rivier uitmondt in zee in het wild waar zaden waaien met de wind mee groen ontkiemt in vruchtbare aarde bevers knagen aan stammen de jacht nooit stopt uit zaad en vruchtvlees bomen en struiken ontspruiten het gras buigt bomen wiegen rijpe vruchten hangen overal aan alle zijden in de wildernis nieuwe vergezichten op de vallei en oevers het is altijd zo heerlijk kamperen in het wild

Nandita zu Besuch: 17. Juli

Erst heute wurde mir bewusst, dass schon ein großer Teil des Sommers vorbei ist. Im September beginnt bereits wieder ein neues Studienjahr. Ich frage mich ständig, warum die Zeit so schnell vergehen muss und warum wir keine Möglichkeit haben, etwas langsamer zu leben. Die nächste Frage ist, ob ich tagsüber inzwischen weniger schaffe, weil ich langsamer geworden bin, oder ob eine Stunde heutzutage einfach insgesamt an Wert verloren hat.

Heute beschlossen wir, den Alexanderplatz einfach in Ruhe zu erkunden. Ohne Wegbeschreibungen, ohne zu viel zu filmen – einfach den Moment anzuhalten, Berlin auf uns wirken zu lassen und später darüber zu reflektieren. Ich muss überhaupt noch viel mehr auf Deutsch reflektieren, damit ich mich in dieser Sprache immer mehr zu Hause fühle. Manchmal ertappe ich mich dabei, dass ich wirklich auf Deutsch denke. Oder dass meine inneren Dialoge auf Deutsch stattfinden. In diesen Gesprächen suche ich nur selten nach Wörtern. Irgendwie läuft das Denken viel flüssiger als das tatsächliche Sprechen.

Der Alexanderplatz klingt für mich wie ein typischer europäischer Stadtplatz – voller Menschen, Geräusche, Gerüche und Sprachen. Wenn ich nicht wüsste, wo ich mich gerade befinde, würde ich denken, dass ich irgendwo in Europa bin. Ich hörte viele verschiedene Sprachen auf der Straße, und Deutsch gehörte tatsächlich nicht zu den häufigsten.

Noch interessanter wurde es, als ich einen vegetarischen Burger essen wollte und wir einen der vielen Burgerläden auf dem Platz betraten. Kaum waren wir drinnen, hörten wir sofort auf Englisch: “No dogs here!” Ich antwortete höflich, dass wir nur etwas bestellen wollten und anschließend gleich wieder hinausgehen würden. Kurz darauf kam ein anderer Mann, berührte mich und sagte ebenfalls auf Englisch: “You cannot be here.”

Während Mindaugas versuchte, sich durch den Bestellautomaten zu arbeiten, dachte ich nur: Wenn ich in Deutschland schon irgendwo hinausgeschickt werde, dann möchte ich wenigstens auf Deutsch hinausgeschickt werden! Der Mann war erstaunlich aufdringlich und wiederholte ständig, dass wir dort nicht sein dürften. Während der ganzen Szene waren unsere Hunde völlig ruhig und bellten überhaupt nicht. Die einzige Person, die bellte, war dieser Mann. Ich erklärte ihm sogar, dass ich nicht sehen kann und deshalb Hilfe beim Bestellen brauche. Aber irgendwie hörte mir niemand zu.

Schließlich stellte Mindaugas fest, dass es dort ohnehin keine vegetarische Auswahl gab. Also verließen wir das Restaurant freiwillig.

Sehr witzigerweise wiederholte sich dieselbe Szene in einem anderen Burgerladen. Auch dort musste man das Essen an einem Bestellautomaten auswählen – ähnlich wie bei McDonald's. Der Automat stand allerdings weder im Essbereich noch zwischen den Tischen, sondern direkt im Eingangsbereich. Trotzdem durften wir mit unseren Assistenzhunden nicht einmal für eine Minute dort stehen bleiben, um in Ruhe unser Essen zu bestellen. Ach, Berlin – du überraschst mich immer wieder! Statt Burger zu essen, gingen wir einfach draußen spazieren. Ich konnte die Skulptur eines Mannes ertasten und anschließend am Roten Rathaus sowie an der Marienkirche entlanggehen. Natürlich durfte man auch dort mit Hunden nirgendwo hinein. Ich sagte zu Mindaugas: „Ihr dürft nicht hinein, und für mich ergibt es ohnehin keinen Sinn – ich kann ja nichts sehen.“ Es war außerdem schön, den Straßenmusikerinnen und Straßenmusikern zuzuhören. Ihre Musik vermischte sich mit den Geräuschen der Stadt und mit den Melodien anderer Musiker. Erstaunlicherweise gelang es all diesen Klängen, gleichzeitig zu existieren, ohne sich gegenseitig zu stören. Ich versuchte, die einzelnen Melodien voneinander zu trennen – fast so, als würde ich Gegenstände sortieren. Dabei suchte ich immer nach dem Moment, in dem ich einer Melodie nicht mehr folgen konnte und meine Aufmerksamkeit ganz von selbst zur nächsten wechselte. Das fühlte sich unglaublich friedlich an. Obwohl wir uns nicht überall willkommen fühlten, wurden wir auf der Straße wie alle anderen Besucher ganz selbstverständlich aufgenommen. Hier fanden Straßenmusiker, Touristinnen und Touristen, Geschäftsleute, die unterschiedlichsten obdachlosen Menschen, Alkoholkranke und viele andere ungewöhnliche oder verlorene Gestalten ihren Platz. Und irgendwie gehörten sie alle zu diesem lebendigen Stadtbild.

Ich war außerdem überrascht zu erfahren, dass der Name des Alexanderplatzes einen russischen Ursprung hat. Der frühere Ochsenmarkt wurde zu Ehren des russischen Zaren Alexander I., der Preußen im Kampf gegen Napoleon unterstützte, in Alexanderplatz umbenannt. Eigentlich hat sich die ursprüngliche Bedeutung des Platzes gar nicht so sehr verändert. Früher war er ein Handelsplatz – und irgendwie ist er das bis heute geblieben, auch wenn der Handel heute ganz anders aussieht. Meine Berliner Freundin hatte mich gewarnt, dass es dort am späten Abend nicht besonders sicher sei. Tagsüber wirkte jedoch alles erstaunlich friedlich.

Noch etwas zu der Skulptur des arbeitenden Mannes: Seine Schuhe waren zerrissen, und das erschien mir als ein schönes Symbol für die harte Arbeit. Auf dem Platz gab es außerdem noch eine weitere Skulptur – die einer Frau, die einen Stock oder ein Werkzeug in der Hand hielt. Ich stellte mich neben sie und nahm mit meinem Blindenstock dieselbe Haltung ein. Es gefällt mir, nachdem ich eine Skulptur ertastet habe, ihre Haltung nachzuahmen. Für einen kurzen Moment habe ich dann das Gefühl, als könnte ich nachempfinden, wie es wäre, selbst dort zu stehen – regungslos, Tag für Tag.

Nandita kam erst spät am Abend aus Bitburg an – erst gegen neun Uhr. Sie war mit Regionalzügen unterwegs und musste so oft umsteigen, dass ihre Reise insgesamt mehr als zwölf Stunden dauerte. Mindaugas und ich lachten darüber, dass sich diese Fahrt wahrscheinlich ein bisschen wie eine Reise durch Indien angefühlt haben musste. Wie erfahrene Berliner empfahlen wir ihr, nicht bis zum Hauptbahnhof weiterzufahren, sondern bereits am Potsdamer Platz auszusteigen und dort die S9 zu nehmen. So konnte sie noch etwas Zeit sparen. Wir trafen uns nach einer langen Pause wieder. Inzwischen hatte Nandita schon richtig gut Deutsch gelernt. Wenn sie auf der Straße jemanden etwas fragen musste, tat sie das ganz selbstverständlich und mutig auf Deutsch.

Als wir schließlich am Hotel ankamen, hielt uns ein Mann an und fragte, ob wir irgendwo einen Hund gesehen hätten. Zuerst verstand ich gar nicht richtig, was er von uns wollte. Nandita reagierte jedoch sofort und antwortete, dass wir keinen Hund gesehen hätten. Dann überraschte uns der Mann noch einmal. Er sagte: “Ich spreche nicht mit dir, sondern mit dieser Frau.” Dabei zeigte er auf mich. Nandita erklärte ihm daraufhin, dass wir beide gerade erst angekommen seien und deshalb nichts gesehen hätten. Da war ich endgültig von ihren Deutschkenntnissen überzeugt! Früher waren wir ein perfektes Team, bei dem die eine sehen und die andere sprechen konnte. Jetzt wird für uns beide alles noch viel einfacher.

restlichen Abend verbrachten wir einfach gemeinsam in unserem Hotelzimmer und unterhielten uns lange. Draußen hatte es plötzlich angefangen zu regnen. Eigentlich wollte ich den Alexanderplatz noch einmal bei Nacht erleben, aber das konnten wir genauso gut auf den nächsten Tag verschieben.

Well, what? Why are you looking at me like that? Never had a bad night before? last night was a complete disaster, yes. Heartbreaking, really. before you start judging my writing, perhaps have a look at the state of your own life. and yes, my advertisement still stands “one patient human willing to tolerate endless complaints.” payments included, if you’re interested, all you have to do is find me. which admittedly, makes it a terrible advertisement. anyway, enough nonsense. ive been sleeping with wrist ristranters for the past couple weeks, you get used to strange things surprisingly quickly. last night i decided, for reasons i still cant explain, that I’d sleep without them. smart choice i know. without my housemate waking me up with iced water, i’d have been in a considerably worse state by morning. i guess my own brain wasnt enough trouble, so my hands decided they’d audition for the role too. safe to sayy, the restraints are back. i also had a strange dream when i went back to sleep after that, it was about her favorite flowers. lily of the valley. they dont usually grow where i live. i dont think they do. they’re annoyingly delicate things that need more attention than i have patience to give. but anyway. i was driving far too fast down the wrong side of the road, and that not the strange thing in the dream. i stopped somewhere, looked around and somehow i was on a motorcycle instead of in my car. dont ask where the car went, its a dream. if i have to explain how dreams work, im amazed you remember how to breathe. anyway, i saw them. hundreds of lily of the valley flowers. growing in the middle of nowhere. i hate flowers, i always have. i couldnt care less about them. yet there i was, standing in the middle of nowhere, actually looking for the prettiest one, and thats funny to me, because even in my dreams, the things i hate the most somehow become worth tolerating if they’re for her. i put it in my pocket, got back on the motorcycle, and headed to give it to her, i never made it to the door. i collapsed before i got there. then i woke up, i was talking to myself about the dream, and my housemate overheard, and thats hardly unusual anymore. Instead of pretending he hadn’t heard me, he decided to join in and tell me about his dream. let me remind you, i did not ask. but he told me anyway, he told me that it was him, me and two of my friends standing inside a tiny room connected to a long hallway. The hallway was completely red, and these. “things” were walking through it. ghosts, jinn, whatever you preferred supernatural subscription service happens to be. they didnt have faces. Just smoke where a person shouldve been. It wasn’t strange that they were there, he said, it was that everyone acted like it was perfectly normal and he found it normal as well, these things walked past, greeting everyone and thanking us for letting them in, like they were invited. i interrupted him and asked in his dream, so you dont act idiotic, i interrupted everyone in the dream and said, “ what if they take over our bodies?” one of the others just shrugged and said, “I don’t know” then everything became strange enough that it woke him up. great. great. as if i needed another reason to sleep badly. im locking every door tonight. and judging by that dream. he might be getting wrist restraints too.

Anyway, i will lock every door tonight. not because im scared of ghosts. i just dont trust someone who casually dream about letting them in and then tells me about it before breakfast.

Sincerely, Professionally making bad decisions since birth.

P.S. If this becomes a problem, expect a completely unnecessary report about lily of the valley. history, facts, meaning. the entire unnecessary package. yes, i hate flowers, No, im not joining their little fan club. Relax, this is not me discovering my soft side, so dont start making assumptions.