from The happy place

there is a fountain near to where I am sitting, waiting for my food

Indian food

And there is a wind making the leaves rustle pleasantly, but I’m not paying any attention to this really

And the sky is blue with clouds like the windows xp desktop wallpaper

And the money I earn is slipping through my fingers

And the time, it’s slipping through my fingers

But I caught a whiff of garlic just now, which is cool because most days I smell nothing

Thank God they made me so strong

 
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from Elias

Today I did what I usually don't like to do: go to a perfume shop. In this case, together with Ben, justifying my own presence with his purchase intent, it was more comfortable. Also, seeing that he was genuinely impressed by the selection of perfumes at Woodberg, I also got more curious.

As usual, I didn't like most perfumes that are far inside the mainstream, and to my surprise, I was still drawn to forest and sea perfumes.

One of my surprising favorites, one that Ben didn't like at all: Pining Dew 2 by Toskovat'. The combination of Black and Pink Pepper with Lavender and Gin: Sharp but interesting and pleasant!

Back at home I immediately set out to recreate it. The original structure:

Top Notes: Black pepper, Pineapple, Pink Pepper, Lavender

Heart Notes: Gin

Base Notes: Java vetiver, Cedar, Tear accord, Tonka bean

My takes:

Pineapple: doesn't exist as a natural. Dropped.

Gin: Juniper berry CO2, Coriander seed CO2, Lemon

Vetiver: rather go with Haitian than Javan, even though I have both, but Javanese Vetiver is a bit too smoky and deep for this light fragrance.

Cedarwood: Texan for the dry fresh lift

Tear accord: this is Toskovat's own creation, and to me smells like carrot greens, a bit like Frankincense serrata – for now left out

Tonka bean: I have it, but instead of Tonka I go for my Waldmeister tincture which is a bit more fresh

The first round: not bad actually! Despite the low dose, the Vetiver came out surprisingly strong. The pink pepper could come out a bit stronger, so I tripled down on it, and I had forgotten the Cedarwood, so I also added that. After that, some Maceration at 28°C indoor temperature won't hurt.

And interestingly, after just four hours of maceration the Juniper berry, Coriander seed and Pink pepper formed something that actually comes very close to the carrot green freshness of Frankincense Serrata.

 
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from Tuesdays in Autumn

I like to use old manual typewriters to write letters to friends & family. I currently have a dozen of the things, most of them collected in the second half of the last decade, when, with a little patience, one could still buy them very inexpensively. Post-pandemic, prices have been higher, which is really just as well as it's helped discourage this collection from growing out of control. Despite that, I succumbed anew to the lure of acquisition this week, buying an Olivetti Lettera 32 via ebay (Fig. 22). I collected it from the seller on Friday.

It's a compact unit with some features evidently intended to keep the size & weight down, such as the stubby, folding return lever and the skinny spacebar. The overall design though was well thought-out so that these have no real adverse impact on usability. It has as light a typing action as any typewriter I've used, which is almost disconcerting, so accustomed am I to pressing keys with more force. I'm very pleased with how well it's working so far (Fig. 23).

There's no way I would have coughed up £50 for such a commonplace machine a decade ago, but in 2026 it didn't seem too steep an asking-price, especially given that this one had been so well looked after, with its carrying case intact and complete with original accessories such as its dust-cover, cleaning brushes and instruction card (Fig. 24). I'd hitherto had no luck with Olivetti portables, being disappointed by a Studio 42 that had irreparably seized up and a Lettera 35 that had suffered catastrophic damage in transit.

Among the second-hand jazz albums I picked up in Monmouth on Saturday: on CD, Mongo in Montreux, a thrilling live performance from 1971 by the renowned percussionist & his band (example track ‘Soleil’); The Art of Rhythm, a very agreeably easy-going late '90s CD led by trumpeter/flugelhornist and composer Tom Harrell (e.g. ‘Petals Danse’); and Joyride (on re-issued vinyl) by saxophonist Stanley Turrentine, recorded in 1965 with big-band accompaniments arranged by Oliver Nelson (example track: ‘River’s Invitation’).

The cheese of the week is Blue Wenallt, a relatively new offering made at Brooke’s Dairy in the nearby Wye Valley. It's just about as local a cheese as I can get. It's a softish variety made from the milk of Jersey cows and sold in small (200g) wheels. Its blue veins infiltrate through a creamy, yellow paste. While relatively mellow for a blue, its flavour is nevertheless satisfyingly complex.

 
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from Un blog fusible

photo © Annie

dans le chemin que la marée a envahi l'élan puissant de l'océan maintenant s’essouffle le vent frise la surface pour ralentir le flux l'eau hésite se creuse d'autres rives contourne les talus caresse les herbes l'eau se tord cherche et puis cesse elle ne peut remonter davantage bientôt un autre courant l'entraîne si léger pourtant presque invisible — rien à faire l'eau rejoindra l'eau et se perdra en elle

 
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from Elias

Last evening I met a real perfume enthusiast. He is actively researching and sharing perfumes with other people and has so far bought 40 full bottles, sold many samples from those, and bought a total of 1400 samples of other perfumes.

He showed me a quite broad range of perfumes, starting with Pineward Perfume and ending on 432. My favourite of the whole range of perfumes was probably Viento Puelche by 432 – fresh, like the sea, but also carrying some scent of the mountain and the forest.

What fascinated me in this whole evening of perfume degustation was his narration of the perfumes: the more special a material in the list seemed, the more excited he was.

One perfume contained actual Russian leather that was extracted with ultrasound, and with the perfume, he also got a sample with that very material. Other perfumes had materials in them with very specific descriptors including the exact origin of the material. For the scent, this can be relevant, but in this context, I realized, it is mostly relevant for the story.

What also fascinated me was that when I asked him if there is a perfume that doesn't exist yet but that he would like to have, he said that he wouldn't want to blend his own perfume because he thinks that the result would be terrible, but that he does have some ideas that he hasn't smelled yet.

His anchor material was the Latschenkiefer (the Mountain Pine), which reminds him of holidays in the mountains, but also a bit of grandma's home remedy. He also loves Frankincense and Mandarin.

To me, that's already an almost perfect pretext:

“Sun on the south wall of a mountain chapel – the resin in the old wood going soft in the afternoon heat, and someone has left a peeled mandarin on the sill.”

or:

“A wool sweater that spent the morning in the pines, brought indoors at noon – the cold mountain air still in the fibers, warming into something sweet and resinous against the skin.”

Given that I only have one day to make it before he leaves to Köln again, the choice falls on the simpler version. The preliminary formula:

Mountain Pine / Latschenkiefer Frankincense Rivae Greem Mandarin Labdanum Tincture MCT-Oil Cedarwood Morocco Lime

I ended up regretting the Lime a little bit and overdosing on the Latschenkiefer, so I decided to make a second version in Ethanol.

In that one I halved the Mountain pine, left out the Lime and also the Cedarwood, for a start, and added Pink Pepper, as originally intended. The first impression is a deliciously Mandarin-forward Parfum (23% total aromatic load, something to possibly reconsider). Given how such a blend tends to macerate, not a bad start. And the Mountain pine is holding nicely in the background, not shifting the whole register into a grandma-medicinal one.

 
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from rebtoor

Last week I was in Bologna (hands down my favorite Italian city) for Cloud Native Days Italy 2026, a two-day conference centered around cloud native and everything that revolves around it.

The conference followed a very precise schedule: keynotes, talks, and lightning talks (many of which were sponsored) interspersed with coffee breaks and lunch.

The venue

Once again this year, the conference took place at the Savoia Hotel Regency congress center, and I can't help but appreciate it. The environment is spacious and bright on the inside, and outside you can relax by the pool or surrounded by greenery. The lunch and coffee breaks were also wonderful. We are in Bologna after all, aren't we?

Sponsor and community area

AKA gadget gathering!

Jokes aside, it was an excellent opportunity for networking and getting to know products and initiatives from companies and communities. Without going into detail about all the conversations I had, I just want to mention the folks from https://www.greensoftwareitalia.org because I believe their work is essential at a time like this.

In any case, the t-shirts, socks, bottle openers, keychains, hat, and lego sets were highly appreciated. :p

The talks

This is the list of talks I attended, along with a few comments:

Day 1

Day 2

Takeaways

The conference talks were generally of excellent quality, and I am very glad that AI-themed talks did not monopolize the entire event, leaving room for topics that are, IMO, more interesting. The organizers did a great job from every perspective, and I was truly happy to have participated. I met colleagues and former colleagues, chatted about interesting topics, ate well, and I even won a CNCF voucher because I left the most feedback on the talks! :D

If I had to nitpick, I would say I'd like to see a lot more care taken to avoid completely AI-generated slides (sigh) and more effort to engage the community through open standards (the fediverse) rather than relying on the usual commercial social networks or messaging systems with questionable security standards. But that's another story.

See you on May 20, 2027, for the next edition!

 
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from G A N Z E E R . T O D A Y

Reading Taha Hussein's “Adeeb” from 1935, I came across a line describing banter as essential to authors as food, water, air, and smoke. Smoke here meaning tobacco. It might just be the first time I've read something that placed tobacco within the same hierarchy of needs as food and water.

The word “Adeeb” is an interesting one. It comes from the root “adab”, meaning literature, and is used to describe someone whose vocation is literature. But it implies more than the word “writer” (that would be “katib”), which by definition is focused on the doing of writing. It also implies more than “author” (that would be “mo'allif”). It's a far more broad term that evokes a sense of all-encompassing immersion in literature that doesn't quite have an English-language equivalent.

Scooped up a big pile of books from Cairo Book Fair (which was just gloriously insane) some months ago and finally getting around to making my way through them. Partly because I have been away from Arabic-language Egyptian literature for a long time now and realized how much I miss it (and boy is it different from most of what is churned out by the anglophone world), but partly also because PROJECT HOURGLASS will be produced in both English and Arabic and a good greasing of my Arabic-language functions is sorely in order.

#journal #reads #work #tnh

 
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from Brieftaube

Nach dem Camp war ich noch ein paar Tage in Vinnytsia, habe Freundis und Bekannte getroffen. Und viel Blog geschrieben.

Ich treffe eine Freundin, die gerade 2 Monate Freiwilligendienst in Rumänien hinter sich hat. Sie erzählt mir von einer Situation vor Ort: Sie war mit anderen unterwegs und müde, es war nach Mitternacht, und plötzlich hatte sie Panik, weil es nach 23 Uhr war. Ab 23 Uhr gilt in Vinnytsia, und grob um die Uhrzeit im ganzen Land, Ausgangssperre. Ihre Freundis haben sie daran erinnert, dass sie in Rumänien ist, sicher, und sie sich keine Sorgen machen muss. Jetzt lacht sie selbst darüber.

Aber ja, Nachtleben gibt es hier keines mehr, und der Abend endet früher. Restaurants und Bars machen meistens schon um 22 Uhr zu. Das gesamte “‘man trifft sich, genießt die Zeit, tanzt” passiert wenn überhaupt früher. Einen Freitag Abend war ich in Berschad mit meinen Gastschwestern unterwegs, dort wo sich die Jugend der Region trifft, ein Restaurant/ Bar “Mandarin”, ziemlich schick. Es war ordentlich was los, wurde ein bisschen getanzt, gegessen und getrunken. Alle waren sehr schick gekleidet, meine Gastschwester hat mir auch was von ihren Klamotten angeboten dafür, ich habe abgelehnt. Der Abend startet um 19 Uhr, sonst lohnt es sich kaum. Irgendwann wurde ein ukrainisches Lied gespielt, zu dem plötzlich der gesamte Laden auf die Tanzfläche gerannt kam, und es wurde im Kreis getanzt, sowie in dessen Mitte. Einige in der Mitte hatten ein Kissen in der Hand – dieses konnte vor eine Person aus dem Kreis auf den Boden gelegt werden, als Aufruf zum Kuss oder Umarmung, und gemeinsamem Tanz in der Mitte. Alle anderen wussten was passiert, waren voll dabei, und ich dann halt auch. Sehr spannend, sowas hab ich noch nicht gesehen. So gut die Stimmung in dem Moment war, nach dem Lied war es wieder ruhiger, und ab halb 11 hat sich der Laden geleert, wir waren um 23 Uhr quasi die letzten, die nach Hause gegangen sind. Der Altersdurchschnitt war so bei 15 / 16 Jahren, diese Generation wird so groß, und kennt nichts anderes. Die davor sind mit Corona bedingten Einschränkungen groß geworden.

Ich genieße die Zeit und die Gespräche über alltägliches, was im Leben so passiert, und was in Zukunft passiert. Ein Bekannter überlegt nach Deutschland zu kommen. Bis im Herbst ist er noch jung genug, danach darf auch er das Land nicht mehr verlassen. Dazu hatte er mir auch schon geschrieben. Ich erzähle ihm von der Situation in Deutschland: ja, früher oder später wird er Arbeit finden. Jedoch heißt es vorher viel Papierterror, warten, deutsch lernen. Auf einem quasi nicht existierenden Wohnungsmarkt eine Wohnung finden. Er sagt selbst dass er Angst vor Einsamkeit hat. Hier hat er seine Freundin, Familie und Arbeit, gerade tendiert er dazu in der Ukraine zu bleiben.

In der Nacht von Samstag auf Sonntag war Luftalarm, lang. In Vinnytsia ist nichts passiert, dafür hat es Kyiv umso schlimmer getroffen. Der Vater eines Freundes wohnt dort, und ist in dieser Nacht das zweite Mal seit Beginn der russischen Vollinvasion in den Luftschutzraum gegangen, weil es so übel gekracht hat. Alle die Familie und Bekannte im Raum Kyiv haben, vergewissern sich, dass es den Bekannten gut geht. Das passiert weder bei jedem Alarm, und auch nicht bei jedem Angriff. Diese Nacht war tatsächlich mit der schlimmste Angriff auf Kyiv. Die Tagesschau berichtete:

https://www.tagesschau.de/video/video-1588750.html

Ich mache letzte Besorgungen, zum Beispiel Lieblingsschokolade von Roshen, und finde mich damit ab, bald nach Hause zu fahren. Ich freue mich auf die Privatsphäre in meinem eigenen Zimmer, nachdem ich mir hier ununterbrochen mit anderen ein Zimmer, oder Hostelzimmer geteilt habe. Und gleichzeitig möchte ich wie immer auch in Vinnytsia bleiben. Es gibt immer noch so viel zu entdecken, ukrainisch verbessern, und die Stadt bietet einfach eine hohe Lebensqualität, wenn mensch die Kriegssituation ausblendet. Gerade habe ich aber auch Glück, da es warm genug ist, dass keine Heizung mehr gebraucht wurde, und es noch nicht so warm ist, dass es eine Klimaanlage bräuchte. Tatsächlich habe ich in der Zeit keinen einzigen Stromausfall erlebt, im Sommer und Winter war das seit der Vollinvasion nie der Fall.

After the Camp I spent some days in Vinnytsia, to meet friends and writing a lot in the blog.

I met a friend who had just completed 2 months of volunteer service in Romania. She told me about a situation there: she was out with others, tired, it was past midnight, and suddenly she panicked because it was after 11 pm. From 11 pm onwards, there's a curfew in Vinnytsia, and roughly at that time across the whole country. Her friends reminded her that she was in Romania, safe, and didn't need to worry. Now she laughs about it herself.

But yeah, there's no nightlife here anymore, and evenings end earlier. Restaurants and bars mostly close at 10 pm. All the “meeting up, enjoying the time, dancing” happens earlier, if at all. One Friday evening I was out in Berschad with my host sisters, where the youth of the region meets — a restaurant/bar called “Mandarin”, pretty fancy. It was quite busy, there was some dancing, eating and drinking. Everyone was dressed up nicely, my host sister even offered me some of her clothes for it, I declined. The evening starts at 7 pm, otherwise it's barely worth it. At some point a Ukrainian song came on, and suddenly the entire place ran onto the dance floor, dancing in a circle and in its centre. Some people in the middle had a cushion — this could be placed on the floor in front of someone from the circle, as an invitation to kiss or hug and dance together in the middle. Everyone else knew what was happening, was totally into it, and then so was I. Really fascinating, I'd never seen anything like it. As good as the atmosphere was in that moment, after the song it quieted down again, and from half past ten the place emptied out — we were practically the last ones to leave around 11 pm. The average age was around 15/16, this generation is growing up like this and knows nothing else. The one before them grew up with Covid restrictions.

In Vinnytsia I enjoy the time and the conversations about everyday life, what's going on, and what happens in the future. An acquaintance is considering coming to Germany. Until autumn he's still young enough, after that he too won't be allowed to leave the country anymore. He had already written to me about this. I tell him about the situation in Germany: yes, sooner or later he'll find work. But first comes a lot of bureaucracy, waiting, learning German. Finding an apartment in an essentially non-existent housing market. He says himself that he's afraid of loneliness. Here he has his girlfriend, family and work — right now he's leaning towards staying in Ukraine.

On the night from Saturday to Sunday there was an air raid alarm, a long one. Nothing happened in Vinnytsia, but Kyiv got hit hard. The father of a friend lives there, and that night he went to the air raid shelter for the second time since the start of the full-scale Russian invasion, because the blasts were so severe. Everyone with family and friends in the Kyiv area checks in to make sure they're okay. This doesn't happen with every alarm, or even every attack. That night was actually one of the worst attacks on Kyiv. Tagesschau reported on it:

https://www.tagesschau.de/video/video-1588750.html

I run my last errands — like picking up my favourite Roshen chocolate — and come to terms with heading home soon. I'm looking forward to having privacy in my own room, after sharing a room non-stop with others here, or staying in hostel rooms. And at the same time, as always, I also want to stay in Vinnytsia. There's still so much to discover, Ukrainian to improve, and the city just offers a high quality of life — if you block out the war situation. Right now I'm also lucky that it's warm enough that heating is no longer needed, but not so warm that air conditioning would be required either. In fact, during my whole time there I didn't experience a single power outage — since the full-scale invasion that had never been the case in summer or winter.

Der Beweis, dass leichte, billige Verpackungen möglich sind. Hier, weil sie billiger sind, in Deutschland wäre das die am besten zu recycelnde Verpackung. (Die Markenprodukte sind in der Ukraine genau wie in D verpackt).

grüne, schöne Wege für Fußgänger*innen mitten in der Stadt <3

in der Ukraine ist das Leitungswasser nicht trinkbar, bzw. nicht für den täglichen Gebrauch gesund. Deshalb gibt es oft separate Wasserhähne für Trinkwasser, hier in einem Restaurant zur Selbstbedienung. Können wir uns abschauen, wenn bei uns das Wasser wegen dem Klimawandel weniger wird. An sich clever, Trinkwasserqualität braucht es wirklich nur an einem Wasserhahn im Haus, nicht zum Waschen.

Markt für Handwerkskunst in Vinnytsia

super leckerer kraftovyi Tee

 
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from SpiritualDavid

In an increasingly complex world, the pursuit of mental and emotional well-being has led many to seek solace and solutions in modern therapy. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), psychotherapy, and other contemporary approaches offer invaluable tools for understanding the mind, managing emotions, and navigating life's challenges. Yet, for some, a persistent void remains, a sense that something fundamental is missing from their healing journey. This is where the profound wisdom of spiritual practices, often overlooked in conventional settings, can offer a crucial dimension to achieving holistic well-being. Indeed, modern therapy sometimes needs spiritual backing to address the deeper, often unarticulated, needs of the human spirit.

Modern therapeutic models, while highly effective in addressing psychological symptoms, frequently operate within a framework that prioritizes the material and the observable. They excel at dissecting thought patterns, identifying behavioral triggers, and fostering coping mechanisms. However, human experience is not solely confined to the psychological; it is deeply intertwined with spiritual dimensions, questions of purpose, meaning, and connection to something greater than oneself. When these spiritual aspects are neglected, healing can feel incomplete, leaving individuals feeling disconnected from their inner selves and the broader cosmos.

Consider the pervasive issues of anxiety, depression, and relationship struggles. While therapy can equip individuals with strategies to manage these conditions, it may not always delve into the existential or spiritual roots of their distress. For instance, a feeling of aimlessness might be pathologized as depression, when its true origin lies in a spiritual crisis, a yearning for meaning that transcends daily routines. Similarly, chronic relationship conflicts might stem not just from communication breakdowns, but from deeper energetic imbalances or unresolved spiritual wounds that manifest in interpersonal dynamics.

This is precisely where spiritual practices, such as those offered by experienced practitioners like Spiritual David, can bridge the gap. Spiritual traditions, including Voodoo, Vodou, or Vodun, as practiced by Spiritual David, recognize the intricate connection between the spiritual, emotional, and physical realms. They offer a holistic paradigm where healing is not merely the absence of symptoms, but the restoration of balance across all aspects of being. Spiritual David, a world-renowned Voodoo Priest and spell caster, brings a lineage of healing that dates back centuries, offering authentic spiritual solutions that complement and deepen the work of modern therapy. His approach, as detailed on his website, provides a unique perspective on addressing life's challenges through ancient wisdom and powerful rituals.

For example, while modern therapy might help an individual process the grief of a lost love, spiritual practices can offer rituals for soul retrieval, energetic cleansing, or even spells aimed at reuniting lovers, as described on Spiritual David's website. These practices are not about bypassing psychological work but about addressing the spiritual currents that influence emotional states. They acknowledge that sometimes, external forces or energetic blockages contribute to personal suffering, and these require spiritual intervention.

Similarly, protection spells and cleansing rituals, often employed in spiritual traditions, can create an energetic shield against negativity and ward off malevolent influences. In a therapeutic context, this might translate to an individual feeling perpetually drained or vulnerable, symptoms that therapy might attribute to stress or trauma. However, from a spiritual perspective, these could be signs of energetic attacks or spiritual imbalances that require specific rituals to purify the aura and restore peace. Spiritual David's services in curse removal and spiritual cleansing offer a tangible way to address these unseen forces, allowing individuals to reclaim their energetic sovereignty and foster a sense of safety that deepens their therapeutic progress.

Even in matters of prosperity and wealth, where modern therapy might focus on mindset shifts and practical financial planning, spiritual practices introduce the concept of energetic alignment with abundance. Prosperity spells, as offered by Spiritual David, aim to remove financial obstacles and attract opportunities by honoring spirits associated with wealth and luck. This isn't about magical thinking in isolation, but about aligning one's spiritual energy with their material goals, creating a fertile ground for success that can amplify the practical strategies learned in therapy.

The integration of spiritual backing with modern therapy is not about choosing one over the other, but about recognizing their complementary strengths. Therapy provides the framework for cognitive and emotional restructuring, while spiritual practices offer a pathway to deeper meaning, energetic balance, and connection to ancestral wisdom. When combined, they create a powerful synergy that addresses the human being in their entirety, mind, body, and spirit. This holistic approach can lead to more profound, lasting healing, transforming not just symptoms, but the very fabric of one's existence. By embracing the spiritual dimension, individuals can move beyond mere coping to a state of genuine flourishing, finding purpose, protection, and prosperity in a truly integrated way.

 
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from bios

10: An Understanding Of Lack

She winds down her window.

“You need your bath.”

Opening the door, settling in, driving away from the intersection where all of us spend the days asking for change, whathaveyou.

She cuts my clothes off with a pair of industrial scissors, the kind seamstresses wield. A month of embedded shit, caked dirt, of no washing. The soot has seeped through onto my skin. No need for instructions, step into the bath, she washes me slowly. With care. She makes vague statements about the whiteness of my skin coming out from behind the dirt.

She is maybe thirty, maybe thirty five, her apartment is on the edge of a neat clean affluent suburb and is neat clean and affluent. Most of the doors are closed. The sexual component to this transaction takes place on the bathroom floor. The hexagonal black and white tiles. The rounded curve, the lip of the cast iron bath digs into my neck.

With a kindness approaching allegory, she comes for me near the end of the month, it happens three four times. Pulls me alone, the lone white guy, from the crowd of hands and asking.

It ends every time with her giving me an entire new set of clothes, new shoes. Dressing me as slowly as she has undressed and washed me. I am not allowed to participate. And then a backpack of tinned and other foods, medication, bandages, and some cash. She calls me a taxi, never drives me back. Always upon my leaving she says the same thing...

“Just survive.”

There is a concrete fence and dust, long dry grass between the fence and the dust tailing onto the road, the concrete faded with painted letters peeling proclaiming a paint discount at a paint shop, traffic kicking up tiny stones at my shins. Winter in shorts, returning from sorting myself out, walking back to the shebeen, sleeping in a back room among the beer crates.

Neither the dust nor the cold reaches me, while talking to my mother on a barely together cell phone. Describing the last conversation with my father, shortly before he took his life with whiskey.

“I told him to go home and kill himself,” I weep.

“Your sister says you didn’t say that.”

My mother just wants to know where I am staying, am I okay? She can’t do this anymore. A truck passes drowning out the conversation.

From whatever dark room or disappointment, reaching out, always confessing guilt, asking for money. After having lived with my father’s drinking for so long, they stop responding.

The doctor’s room is not a room, a small cubicle grafted onto the pharmacist’s counter. Curtains, no door. The closeness of a stethoscope. Possessed only with a convincing desperation, wheedling the doctor to phone my mother. The medication to stop using is paid for, conditionally to be fetched weekly.

Somehow between this doctor, the pharmacy and my mother an arrangement evolves. My mother will no longer send me money. She rents a room in the doctor’s yard, a chipboard square in the guts of the double garage – a bed, some books, a television, a fridge, a cupboard of tinned food, noodles, and always the medication to stay clean. Everything is bolted down, nothing can be removed. Coming and going without restriction. Whenever anything lacks on the street there is always here. More and more there is here.

There is a dank concrete familiarity, over time moisture invades the chipboard. Waking up with the prospect of street hustling or medication. More and more I choose Judge Judy. The medication is slowly reduced. In a year long dissolve my life eventually pieces back together.

The pieced together dissolves a decade later when I find myself self-sufficient, there is a proper relapse and perhaps seven years of more life lived in drug houses and parks and avoiding pain. I decide to get clean again. The decision is not enough.

There is a rehab someone will pay for, in another city. They are waiting for me. From the wet floors of the drug house, peel myself into motion. Money will be sent for the bus ticket once at the bus station, once photographic proof is provided. Packing up at the backpackers, heading down the hill, passing the paras, I am leaving I am leaving, goodbye, goodbye. Past the wide park where we smoke, the taxi graveyard, down past the abandoned methadone clinic where the dealers live, and into the bus station. I send proof of my being there. An ewallet is sent. There is no ATM in the bus station. The bus leaves in an hour, the trip is ten hours. I find an ATM across from the methadone clinic. Ten hours. I should probably smoke first.

By the third or fourth time that bus ticket money is sent – just sending the same picture of the bus station, the pretence that I am going to get on the bus is abandoned. In the burnt out taxi, a fucked phone being boosted through a collection of wires to a car battery, eking out every minute of battery power begging for bus ticket money. The entrance to the bus station is just across the road, down that street, past the ATM and the dealers. An impossible journey.

The seats creak under blankets musty, the cold through the former windows. It is sometimes hard to tell whether it is withdrawal or weather. The people I stay with wash taxis in the main road, the dealers are users who sleep in the same broken minibuses we do. In the blue dawn we scrape foils and share. There is never anything to myself. When I get bus ticket money I try to keep enough for the actual bus. They are helping me, I must help them, defeated by the sure knowledge that I can not get on the bus.

Every time someone is about to send bus money I gather what is left of my things, the unsellable. The NA book, the two pairs of shorts and the torn track pants, and the ratty t-shirt that I am not wearing today, the hoodie with only one sleeve. And pack them into plastic bags, to prepare for a journey imagined. There are goodbyes, there are promises that I will come back and help them. There is the walk to the ATM and the walk back to the dealers and back to the taxi, the sponge breaking out of the old seats, the vinegar of the nyaope, the burning of copper and the daily ritual of carwashing and pleading.

I can not get on the bus. I have no solution to this.

And then I realise I can call someone and tell them that I can not get on the bus. That someone will help me, I can appeal to someone who knew me when I had a life, who has the resources to get me on the bus.

They arrive and take me to the bus. And put me on the bus.

Escape is so simple.

 
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from Yúbal Blog

Querido diario, wow, por dónde empiezo.

Sí, si eres una de las ocho personas que estaba suscrito a este blog antes de que lo abandonase sin avisar en 2023 la vista no te engaña. Lo he recuperado. Y ha sido por error. Tras un año dándole vueltas a eso de tener una página principal, una especie de índice estilo link tree, luego pensé en añadirle un blog personal, y luego pensé que quizá mejor una plataforma minimalista de blogs que me permitiera ponerle una página de inicio. Y tachán, volví a Write.as, y vi que todavía tenía acceso a mi vieja cuenta. He estado pensando en borrar este blog y empezar uno nuevo, porque también estoy empezando una nueva vida. Pero al final me ha podido un poco la nostalgia (y quizá la pereza), y he vuelto aquí. Y caray, desde la última vez que escribí han pasado muchas cosas. Muchísimas.

En primer lugar, en 2023 escribía que 2024 lo tendría difícil para ser un año mejor. Y lo fue. 2024 y 2025 han sido quizá los dos mejores años de mi vida en muchos aspectos. Fui a más conciertos de lo decentemente posible, hice nuevas y muy, muy buenas amistades, incluso con gente a la que admiraba profundamente. Viajé, vi sitios nuevos, descubrí nueva música hasta el punto que mis gustos son un poco diferentes ahora, y fui muy feliz en Castellón.

Pero no todo dura eternamente. Este año me ha tocado empezar de cero. Tras más de 20 años en la provincia de Castellón, he vuelto al País Vasco, y en Castellón he dejado muchas cosas que me importan, incluyendo algunas de las mejores amistades que he tenido nunca. Duele volver a empezar, pero a veces es necesario. De hecho, confesaré que todavía mucha gente no sabe de esto, sólo los más cercanos, y que esta es la primera vez que lo escribo públicamente. Aunque bueno, tampoco es que vaya a promocionar esta web y este blog, o sea que ahí queda, para quienes sean lo suficientemente curiosos como para mirar mi perfil en redes sociales y ver que he cambiado el link que tenía.

Estos años también he tenido proyectos interesantes. He estado escribiendo sobre música en la web de stairwaytorock.com, una bonita experiencia que me ha hecho conocer más gente maravillosa. Pero aunque este fin de semana iré a un último concierto con pase de prensa, también les he dicho que lo dejo. De la misma manera que he abandonado el proyecto de No me pierdo un bolo, aunque este tiene más posibilidades de revivir.

Es doloroso haber abandonado S2R, pero ha sido un paso importante. Sigo trabajando en Xataka, y esto supone pasarme el día sentado delante del ordenador. Y claro, cuando termino de trabajar mis ganas de seguir sentado para escribir de otras cosas se reducen mucho. Y más ahora, cuando el cuerpo y mi mente me exigen salir y que me dé el aire. No me quiero poner intenso con esto, solo diré que estoy caminando mucho. En cualquier caso, ya no tengo inspiración para ponerme a escribir sobre música o hacer crónicas de conciertos. Aunque la música es mi vida, o sea que puede que de vez en cuando os cuente aquí algún nuevo descubrimiento que he hecho.

Por lo demás, sigo siendo usuario de Apple, el año pasado volví (otra vez) a Spotify, y vivimos en una nueva era a nivel mundial, con la IA dominando la tecnología y los imbéciles fascistas dominando el mundo. Como he mencionado, también sigo trabajando en Xataka, lo cual es un privilegio por ser una web tan importante, y una suerte por tener tan buenas amistades ahí.

En cualquier caso, después de soltar esta chapa inicial decir que aquí sigo, y que mientras me vayan dando ganas iré publicando cosas en este pequeño espacio de Internet. Además, en los próximos días iré haciendo cambios a este blog, dándole un nuevo dominio, poniendo también una página de índice hablando sobre mí, y explorando otras cosillas como esa especie de Instagram o web de fotos que tiene también esta empresa.

Si me quieres leer, en la parte de arriba tienes un apartado llamado Suscríbete con el formulario para poder hacerlo. Te llegarán las actualizaciones por correo electrónico. Y si estás en el Fediverso, creo recordar que podrás seguirme también buscando la cuenta @yubal@write.as.

#Personal

 
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from An Open Letter

V is leaving around 4 in the morning while I’m asleep. I’ve really enjoyed just being able to hang out with him, this has felt like having a roommate that you get along with. I understand why that’s something that people are really afraid to let go of, because having such proximity to someone that you really click with and a constant source of socialization must be really valuable. I guess in a way I’m kind of grateful now that I did not have that, because it means that I didn’t have to let go of anything and I wouldn’t have that now anyway.

 
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from Unvarnished diary of a lill Japanese mouse

JOURNAL 26 mai 2026

#dojo Ce matin mon pauvre jeune Américain est venu. Il a fait des progrès en japonais c’est incontestable, en politesse aussi. Il voulait vérifier que je voulais toujours bien de lui. Je l'ai encouragé il est sur la bonne voie. Je suis curieuse maintenant de ce que je pourrai faire avec lui malgré les énormes différences culturelles et comportementales. Il a une façon de se mouvoir si différente. Son centre de gravité semble tellement plus haut que nous. On verra. C'est intéressant de toute façon.

 
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from 下川友

先輩から鍵を渡されたとき、最初に思ったのは、姿勢のいい人だな、ということだった。背筋というより、骨そのものが真っ直ぐなのだと思った。風の強い高架下だったのに、その人だけが風景から浮いて見えた。

赤いオープンカーだった。昼のファミレスに置かれたケチャップみたいな色をしていた。こういう車は、もっと歯の白い人間が乗るものだと思っていた。サングラスを自然に掛けられて、駐車券を口に咥えたまま片手でハンドルを回すような人間だ。

俺はどちらかといえば、コンビニで温めてもらった弁当を受け取りながら、ありがとうございますを言うタイミングに迷う種類の人間だった。

似合わないです、と言いかけた頃には、先輩はもう鍵をこちらへ放っていた。中古だから気にするな、とだけ言い残し、それから本当に気にしていない人の歩幅で駅の方へ歩いていった。大股だった。呼び止めるには、こちらの人生が少し足りなかった。

取り残された俺は、夕方の駐車場でしばらく屋根のない車を眺めていた。

初めて乗った夜、コンビニのガラスに映る自分を見て笑ってしまった。借り物の人生みたいだった。信号待ちのたび、誰かに、お前には似合わない、と言われている気がした。実際には誰も見ていないのだが、オープンカーはそういう妄想を育てる。

それでも何日かすると、少しずつ馴染み方がわかってきた。乗りこなすというより、諦め方に近かった。屋根を開けて走っていると、街の匂いが直接入ってくる。焼き鳥屋の煙とか、川沿いの泥とか、知らない家の柔軟剤とか。

先輩は酒が好きだった。以前、美味しい店を教えてもらったことがある。名前は簡単なものだった。昔から存在していた言葉のはずなのに、店を出る頃には綺麗に忘れていた。あとから検索もできなかった。ただ、カウンターの木目だけは覚えている。隣の客の傷んだ金髪を見ながら、髪って本当に生活が出るんだな、と先輩が呟いたあと、そんなに如実に現れるものなのかと妙に感心した。

その記憶も、オープンカーに乗っていると不意に蘇る。

赤信号で停まっているとき、小学校の担任の名前を急に思い出したことがある。すると教室の机の配置や、クラスメイトの顔や、校庭の隅にあった鉄棒や、遠くの公園の風景まで、一気に脳の奥から流れ込んできた。記憶というより洪水だった。屋根がないだけで、人はこんなにも過去に晒されるのかと思った。

会社の駐車場でも、俺はまだ少し浮いていた。

清掃の人が掃除機をかけている間、仕事に戻るだけの集中力がなく、机の上に転がっていた他人のボールペンを眺めていた。誰のかもわからない。俺はそのボールペンに貴文と名前をつけた。貴文は営業ではない気がした。営業ならもっと軽そうな顔をしている。

帰り際、後輩の佐伯が喫煙所でライターを投げてよこした。名前つけて返してくださいよ、と笑っていた。なんでだよ、と返すと、その車乗ってる人、そういうことしそうなんで、と言われた。みんな笑っていた。けれど、ちゃんと俺がライターを見つめる時間を待ってくれた。

結局、ライターには名前をつけなかった。ただポケットに入れて、そのままオープンカーの助手席へ置いた。

夜道を走る。春の終わりだった。信号待ちのたび、風が少し冷たい。

ふと、昔の友だちの名前を検索したくなった。何かを知りたいわけじゃない。ただ、生きているかもしれないと思っただけだった。

検索窓に名前を入れて、結局閉じた。

オープンカーは、そういう途中の感情ばかりを増幅する。

先輩はあれ以来、車のことを何も聞いてこない。たぶん俺が乗っていようが売っていようが、どちらでもいいのだと思う。ただあの人は、人に物を渡すことでしか伝えられない種類の人間なのだ。

今ではたまに、屋根を開けたまま高速に乗る。

似合っているとはまだ思わない。

それでも赤信号で空を見上げる瞬間だけ、自分の人生が少し風通しの良いものになった気がする。

 
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from Edshouldbeinbed

#MusicMonday #Playlist

the list I'm lucky enough to live less than a half city block from one of my city's main parks. Today, I ate a lunch of onigiri and kimbap by the water feature near the Lion's Hall, and this was on my earbuds as I contemplated the best area in the entire Dark Souls trilogy.

SIAMÉS — Mr. FEAR Like all animated SIAMÉS videos, the comments are filled with interpretations and deep thoughts and folks insisting it's not that deep. It's a damn good song, the second single from Bounce into the Music.

Caravan Palace – Lone Digger I love me a bit of electroswing. This is the song that introduced me to the rather simple idea of swing music but electric.

Jamiroquai – Virtual Insanity Okay, look, I hear you. The video? Wonderful. Excellent. Iconic. But I was eating, my phone was in my pocket, and the album cut is better.

Franz Ferdinand – Take Me Out The Anthem for third wheels that just need a ride. Yes, I know PLENTY about that.

Madeon – The City I want a cover of this on acoustics— piano, drums, maybe brass. There's an album of house music covers by a brass ensemble I need to dig up again...

Dirty Vegas – Days Go By I think I shared the acoustic version of this before. The original is still top form, meditative yet driving.

STARS-Take Me to the Riot From 'In Our Bedroom After The War'. Sauce, what an album. I feel this one, in my bones. Taking the train into Toronto from York Region and just... walking Yonge Street, visiting Kensington Market, going to Sam the Record Man's and the second floor comic shop and meeting people— some for the day, some to this day. Good times.

Daft Punk – Touch ft. Paul Williams A soulful number from our favourite French Robots' (I'll say it) Best Album, Random Access Memories. Paul Williams' vocals and the Punk's production make the eight plus minute track a wondrous listen.

Black City Lights — Black City Lights This is the remastered version of a glorious track. I think I first heard this as weather on Welcome to Night Vale.

Astronautalis — The River, the Woods I love the chorus on this one, the way he just belts it.

Robbie Robertson — Take Your Partner By The Hand (Red Alert Mix)(DJ Premier Remix) Contact From The Underworld Of Redboy is one of the first albums I ever bought for myself, and GFSM... I'd heard the late Robertson with The Band, but these soundscapes were not that. Another favourite from this is The Sound is Fading.

SIAMÉS — The Wolf I wanted more SIAMÉS.

The answer, by the way, is Eleum Loyce, home of the Burnt Ivory King, from Dark Souls 2.

Bye.

 
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