Want to join in? Respond to our weekly writing prompts, open to everyone.
✝️
from 
💚
Our Father Who art in Heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil
Amen
Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!
Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!
⏰
from 💚
20 Hours
Russia sees its reward In coming clean at first And time’s original thought Why verses Rome to court Apart as we are Symphonic distress To the notions that be A place in Quispamsis becover And Nuuk across the arc What difficulty Rome In quarts of lethal wonder To the sacristy we kept And Donald never came And stole our world And our share of thoughts to know Cavity to stream Pieces fired anew And Jehovah’s Witnesses came To speak across the road Inefficiency be And Nuuk would go to Rome Beatified at night Thus early cross Fit for dozen wonder Why excessive Kushner For all to fall forget And banking proud To Russia as they saw Greenland across the bay.
🇨🇦
from 💚
Put it To Rest
In today’s better and remain We sought what we all have A night into the aether And legions by the year Hurried to Afghanistan Apparently by rote And Rome And rote And war The efficacy men In letting grass remain And off accustom view Witnessing the trial Men ahead, Ascension Ligatures and light
And who was there for fortune cure Every Justice called to act A year for portmanteau In lucky shares to Telluride
Nothing for suggesting But the ruse I thought you knew Mentality is sinking On this ice and growling sheen Up and coming just this once To be better then and back As a difficult endeavour We sought and we elect
In time Europa kneeling We hug the best at dawn Raoul rather than rather The Earth shall keep us keen While the Taiga at its will For us to row and without flight The licensure in keep Too much vernal but we show And in this crisis might I should Ever after on this cay What good redemption, Peter In a better view and pie
Thought to body ransom Impure to fight to loss Renewing what is spoken To the court and country worth
Oxygen to wherewithal Standing fortress by the board In between our haught appeal Roads to roses, then and for
Isn’t limelight for the limited As a day in Holy curfew We ascended to the Trinity In this day alight to shore And the mercy we extended All our neighbours Sultan row No more laughter but in daylight No duress, my Doukhobor
Maybe set and in discretion Digitalis on the Moon My redemption has no Heaven But to you, my God above
And in this peace of Ferdinand We obsessed with what we have Inner order and of strength This to wherefore by the sea
Intonating every know-how Fresh to bloom in cotton air I can see my city running Golden lava, just to there.
🌊
from 💚
Kim (part 7)
Four fires to the Ocean We can seek the Holy ground And nights appear Ron and Ron respect This day of interstition Waking days by tone The World is watching We do this until dusk Pretensions of joy And Rome will reappear As Scotland and unseen Though between these doors Made for all respect Of If I the big in World And as for ten We speak to the Chinese Why to this prefigure The Russians have a think On high and in due course The lights alone And to this mayhem, a crowd We are due in December,- for a child The King of courage change We fight in this pretest A thousand notes of home To flights Koryo Atlanta and the sun We appease the Lord And find that I am near In days of Summer last An omen such as this That we were made to be Korea A task – solely ours Reneging to the States And Apple will believe In our better constitution For these times I arrive What portend we silence But the view to Satin Grove Nights be this,– a prayer to better men Assorted trust And to the stars ascending Royalty is due.
from 💚
There were days of must-be-able Thoughts of better grace In time, one was born The sure and makefire to believe Accosting no-one but a graph In deals to this group- Fit for the better of Rome Let’s let this peace renew our vow Accomplice to the extra For great esteem and the love of night Fortune mend rebate Our evidence is clear- Tears for six people of the cloth- who must be laughing at Vladimir Patience is code and known as our lot The sympathy of this great leader,- and mercy to be known that In even-time,- we will solidify our view And just as the day end,- in our path,- Europe awaits,- and as we are,- the next view.
On "Defining Sentences"
The Essayist's NotebookWhile revising one of the essays on method, a question emerged that felt larger than the editing itself.
Which sentence is the defining sentence?
Literary criticism often looks for one. The sentence that unlocks the piece. The sentence from which everything else follows. The sentence that resolves the argument and allows the essay to close neatly upon itself.
There is elegance in that approach. But I find myself increasingly resistant to it.
It's a question of focus – here are a few words I scribbled in the margin: I think at this point I don't want the piece to have a clarity of focus – I want a vagueness to it – that encourages the reader to explore, perhaps to define for themselves – I don't want to close the circle in that way – I know that literary critics would see that as elegant, but a pedestrican crossing is more than stripes on the tarmac.
Yes the image that came to mind was a pedestrian crossing.
A critic might look at a pedestrian crossing and see a successful arrangement of white stripes on tarmac. They might admire the geometry, the symmetry, or the way each stripe contributes to the overall design.
Yet a pedestrian crossing is more than stripes on the road. It may even have lights. It is an invitation to cross. A convention shared by drivers and pedestrians. A piece of civic infrastructure. A relationship between risk and trust. The visible part is not one thing, and it's not the whole thing.
I am trying to construct my essays to work in a similar way. Readers rarely leave carrying away an entire argument. More often they carry fragments. A phrase. An image. A question. A way of looking; perhaps even an adjusted disposition.
One reader may remember: Dig where you stand. Another may remember: The contradiction remains interesting. Someone else may carry away: The argument can wait.
I am not convinced that any one of these must become the master key to the others. Readers bring themselves to the page. They are not all some idealized type.
The temptation to identify a single defining sentence is really a temptation to close the circle. To say: this is what the essay is about. Yet some essays are less concerned with bringing a reader to a destination than equipping them for a journey. Perhaps essays do not always need a centre. Perhaps they need landmarks.
A landmark is not the destination. Nor does it prescribe a route. It helps someone orient themselves within a larger landscape. That thought seems increasingly important to my own practice. I am less interested in delivering conclusions than in offering navigation tools.
A useful essay may not tell a reader where to go next. It may simply help them recognise where they are standing. And from there, they can decide the direction for themselves.
David Marshall
Flic en Flac, Mauritius
Prima experiență Pink Floyd
from 
Midus
Publicat la 6 septembrie 2011
Pe vremea când încă mai primeam mașinuțe, eram cu părinții în vizită la o fostă profesoară universitară a mamei mele. Nu eram ca Dl. Goe, așa că ei nu-și făceau griji că aș putea face ceva rău (asta s-a întâmplat într-o altă vizită). Din locul în care mă jucam, am auzit-o pe doamna profesoară povestindu-le cu mândrie părinților mei un episod aproape de neconceput la acea vreme. Fiul ei, student la acea vreme, mirat că profesorul său îl tot apostrofa pe un alt student, a îndrăznit să i se adreseze astfel:
„Hey, teacher, leave the kid alone!”
Ați recunoscut, probabil, unul dintre faimoasele versuri ale nu mai puțin faimoasei piese Another Brick in the Wall, de pe excepționalul album The Wall, al formației rock Pink Floyd.
Era primul meu contact cu Pink Floyd.
Și încă nu venise Revoluția!
Doamna profesoară locuia la Timișoara. Aveau să treacă ani buni până la libertatea de exprimare. Iar în decembrie ’89, tocmai de acolo avea să înceapă prăbușirea zidului care ne înconjura viețile.
Dar acel prim contact a fost atât de puternic — sunt tentat să fac o analogie tehnică, dar mă abțin — încât, de fiecare dată când ascult Pink Floyd, mă trec fiorii sau mi se face pielea de găină…
Coincidență sau nu, primul album Pink Floyd pe care l-am avut a fost The Wall, înregistrat pe o casetă BASF de 90 de minute!
Între timp, l-am oferit unui vecin adolescent, cu gusturi muzicale în formare…
Mai poate fi o coincidență faptul că avatarul meu preferat este o secvență din Comfortably Numb, cu Bob Geldof într-un fotoliu?
Cred că nu!
De fapt, avatarul acesta avea să-mi fie de folos mult mai târziu, după desființarea comunității ascultătorilor Virgin Radio. Împrăștiați care-ncotro, ne-am regăsit, totuși, câțiva dintre noi.
La un moment dat, cineva mi-a spus că mi-a recunoscut avatarul și că și-a dat seama că eram chiar eu, nu altcineva.
Și nici nu era de mirare.
Fotografia fusese făcută în 2007, la Budapesta, la concertul lui Roger Waters, The Dark Side of the Moon — spectacol care avea să includă și episoade din The Wall.
Așa că, dacă primul meu contact cu Pink Floyd a fost o voce auzită cu mult timp înainte de Revoluție, iar primul album a fost The Wall, poate că avatarul acela nu era chiar o simplă coincidență.
Poate că era doar o altă cărămidă din zid.
Avertisment ;-)
from Midus
Publicat la 6 august 2011
Ieri am primit un email prin care unul dintre „contactele” mele mă avertiza că este periculos să deschid un email având un anumit subiect — aparent o actualizare de software.
Deoarece contul respectiv de email îl verific destul de rar, m-am gândit că avertismentul ar putea fi tardiv. Astfel, aș fi putut deschide emailul cu pricina, primit în contul de email pe care îl folosesc mai des, înainte să fi fost pus în gardă. Este puțin probabil să se fi întâmplat chiar așa ceva, dar mă gândeam la posibilitatea asta, în general, nu neapărat la situația mea.
Dacă utilizatorul — experimentat, aș zice — citește cu atenție titlul emailului, își poate da seama că actualizarea respectivă nu se referă la un program pe care îl are instalat pe calculator. Este vorba despre o aplicație online a firmei care i-a furnizat și sistemul de operare. Actualizarea se face fără intervenția utilizatorului, așa că citirea emailului este inutilă, ba chiar periculoasă, după cum suntem avertizați.
Văzând o listă întreagă de adrese de email — am numărat peste 50, printre care multe ale unor persoane pe care nu le cunosc — m-am întrebat care o fi, de fapt, scopul acestor mesaje.
Protecția unui cont de email nu depinde doar de utilizator. Serviciul de email are propriile filtre care încearcă să detecteze mesajele suspecte, iar programele de securitate de pe calculator mai adaugă și ele un strat de protecție. Dar, până la urmă, mai există și utilizatorul, care poate apăsa pe un link tocmai pentru că mesajul pare suficient de convingător.
Cel mai probabil, lista aceea lungă de adrese putea fi rezultatul neglijenței expeditorului. Sau poate că cineva care are nevoie de asemenea liste ar putea profita foarte bine de o asemenea neglijență. Dacă ai nevoie, din diverse motive, de o listă de adrese de email, trebuie să plătești pentru ea. Și cum o poți obține fără să plătești?
Îți avertizezi prietenii să nu deschidă un email foarte periculos care circulă pe web!
Este foarte probabil să se întoarcă destul de repede o listă mai stufoasă decât cea pe care ai trimis-o tu.
Calea către iad este pavată cu bune intenții.
Desigur, nu știm dacă acesta era motivul pentru care mesajul fusese trimis. Poate era pur și simplu o încercare bine intenționată de a-i avertiza pe ceilalți.
Și pentru că vorbeam de o lungă listă de adrese de email, am mai observat că, în anumite situații, emailurile trimise unui număr atât de mare de destinatari ajung direct în folderul Spam, de unde este foarte probabil să nu fie citite. Astfel, inițiativa — lăudabilă, poate — de a-ți salva prietenii ajunge să fie ignorată „din oficiu”…
Cel mai bine, într-o asemenea situație, ar fi ca mesajul să fie trimis fiecărui prieten în parte. Asta înseamnă, desigur, un consum mai mare de timp.
La un moment dat s-ar putea chiar să te plictisești să trimiți atâtea mesaje…
Așa e când ai o mulțime de prieteni!
Dar oare toți îți sunt prieteni adevărați? Pe toți vrei să-i salvezi? Ce-ar fi să încercăm să facem o selecție? Una serioasă!
Oare cu câți prieteni adevărați am rămâne?
Dar asta este un alt subiect, așa că nu îl dezvolt mai mult decât am făcut-o deja…
În fine, cred că cel mai adecvat comportament în ceea ce privește emailurile nesolicitate este un pic de reținere.
Dacă mesajul ne este adresat și îl așteptăm, verificăm expeditorul și conținutul. Dacă nu îl așteptăm, chiar dacă pare să vină de la cineva cunoscut, este bine să fim precauți.
Dacă nu cunoaștem expeditorul, cu atât mai mult.
Dacă mesajul nu ne este adresat și nu cunoaștem nici expeditorul, îl ignorăm.
Iar dacă vreunul dintre mesajele de mai sus a ajuns în Inbox, îl putem declara Spam. Dosarul cu mesaje de acest fel se golește, de obicei, automat, dar nu se supără nimeni dacă îl mai golim și noi din când în când.
DSPS – Sindromul fazei de somn întârziate
from Midus
Publicat la 4 august 2011
DSPS/D (Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome/Disorder) – sindromul/dereglarea fazei de somn întârziate – este o dereglare/întârziere a ritmului circadian al unei persoane. Dacă subiectul nu are un program de respectat (școala, serviciul), aș spune că un program de somn decalat față de cel al semenilor cu un program de zi (de la 9 la 5) nu reprezintă o problemă.
Situația se complică doar atunci când trebuie să se trezească înainte de a-și fi terminat cele 8 ore de somn pentru a respecta programul impus de societate.
Este ca și cum ceasul biologic ar fi rămas în urmă cu două-trei ore față de ceasul social.
Eu am această dereglare de la sfârșitul adolescenței. Mă întreb oare dacă mi-aș putea regla bioritmul (ritmul circadian) schimbându-mi domiciliul cu două fusuri orare spre apus…
Dar, cum nu mi-am propus să fac această schimbare, îndrăznesc să îi întreb pe cei ce citesc această postare și s-au confruntat cu o astfel de problemă. Știu că probabilitatea este extrem de mică, dar nu mă costă nimic să lansez întrebarea. Să fie acesta motivul pentru care nu am plecat în vest până acum? ;–)
Vorbind de probabilități, 3 persoane din 2000 au această problemă. Dintre cele peste douăzeci de milioane de vorbitori de limbă română, mulți sunt copii, mulți nu au acces la internet, iar dintre cei cu acces la internet puțini sunt interesați de această postare, iar în sfârșit, dintre cei din urmă, câți să aibă acest tip de dereglare?
În fine, chiar dacă aș reuși să îmi reglez bioritmul astfel încât să mă regăsesc printre ceilalți 1997 cu un ritm circadian normal, trebuie să fac față și unei alte probleme: dereglarea datorată muncii în schimburi/ture: SWSD (Shift Work Sleep Disorder)… Dar după atâția ani de lucru în ture, aș spune că nu e chiar rău! Problemele diverse rămân totuși pe tapet…
- Notă, 2026: În textul de mai sus am pornit de la o statistică de 1,5 persoane la 1.000, pe care am transformat-o în 3 persoane la 2.000 pentru a putea face mai ușor calculul probabilistic din postare. Între timp, am avut și ocazia să-mi verific într-un fel întrebarea despre fusul orar. Am petrecut o lună la New York, la aproximativ șapte fusuri orare spre vest de România. Cu toate acestea, continuam să adorm în jurul orei 3 și să mă trezesc dimineața târziu, în jurul orei 11. Dacă mai putem spune că 11 AM este dimineață… Experiența nu este, desigur, un experiment științific, dar este un mic răspuns personal la întrebarea pe care mi-o puneam în 2011.*
Ten-Things-a-Thon
from hypocritepoet
I hate the way...
SO many great movies.
Tonight, since it's a nice 10based number, we watched Ten Things I hate About you.
Julia STyles was amazeballs on Dancing with the stars and it seemed perfect to watch her movies.
Ten things and Save the last, as well as an animation festival.
busy night drawing goofy things and just being.
WONDERFUL weather tonight for a walk.
But ten things;
MAG. NA. FIQUE!!
I hate the way you talk to me And the way you cut your hair I hate the way you drive my car I hate it when you stare I hate your big dumb combat boots And the way you read my mind I hate you so much that it makes me sick And even makes me rhyme I hate the way you're always right I hate it when you lie I hate it when you make me laugh Even worse when you make me cry I hate it when you're not around And the fact that you didn't call But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you Not even close Not even a little bit Not even at all
—
Of course, it's 2am. But since the seal on Ledger is cracked, it seems appropriate to now watch A Knight's Tale.
Remind me why I don't get more writing done.
I could do it with no regrets
from An Open Letter
I went to the store to buy a bag and a card for my friend‘s birthday, I know that something that kind of hurt me earlier was thinking about how I will likely put in more effort than I will receive for things like my birthday or Christmas because to me, I understand how much they matter and how much I wished for them and so I would like to be able to do that for others that I care about. But a part of me would always kind of hurt a little bit feeling about how I would do this thing that I would so desperately want in return, but maybe it’s just the endorphins after a good leg day, but I’m strong enough and proud enough that I can do this with no expectation of return. I am doing this because of the love that I am filled with, and this is not conditional, this is not at all tied to anything I will get back in return, I do these things because that is the love I would like to put into the world. This is the same logic in the same reasoning that makes me proud to smile at people even when they explicitly frown in response, and I’m assuming it’s mostly just because they’re caught off guard, but I will regard this continue to smile and be kind to people and polite, even if I am not treated the same way back. And I am so incredibly happy and proud of myself every time I face rejection like that because that is a sign that I’m alone with my desire of who I want to be, even without the benefits, I continue to be positive and a friendly face. And I am so proud of that fact. I believe that I can do the same thing with presence and giftgiving, it’s a little bit more difficult because of my history and my need for it to some extent, but I can recognize that and still continue to give from the bottom of my heart. And when I think about it like this, I feel warm, because I am not worried about some other expectation about receiving anything in response, I rather just get to enjoy doing something nice. And I think this is the kind of person that I am incredibly proud to reflect on. I made another friend at the gym today, and I talked to a couple new people, and I fell in love with certain songs again to the point where I was singing along on the drive home at the top of my lungs. I caught myself with the drummer mouth while I was trying to pick up the drum line for some of the songs, and then that made me happy because I thought about how the more I imitate, the less I imitate. And today is just one of those days where I don’t need to fight to be grateful and happy for being alive, it just simply is.
Style sheet
Rebellion against a false premis
There is no single route into the work. Style must be capable of meeting readers in different terrains without sacrificing coherence.
Apple Seeds
from hypocritepoet
We are out for a walk tonight. It is finally the diminishing of a cruel summer. It comes to my mind a wonderful concept of how small we are:
A man can count the number of seeds in an apple. But only god can count the number of apples in a seed.
Huge crescent moon setting tonight in the western sky. Sitting on a bench at the university with a a plaque indicating an event of some sort in 2010.
Lining the ten foot wide walkway are elm trees. The little gold leaves rustle in the warm night breeze. The trees have taken a note from the grasses and slipped into preservation mode against the hear t and the absolute dry at the end of summer.
Perhaps they pray, as do we all, that next week will bring relief from this furnace of existence.
At my feet I can see motion in the cracks of the sidewalk. A closer inspection reveals the little black ants are hard at work in spite of the late hour. I wonder if the grasshopper is nearby in a tiny hammock between two branches of a small shrubbery.
In spite of the breeze, it’s a hot night. As they have been for months. But it’s nothing compared to the daytime.
We started early this morning with the missus headed north with an elderly friend who wanted company on a shopping trip across the Red River. They bought nothing, but it reportedly was worth the time as the older friend needed to vent.
She lives with her sister. They are both widows and in spite of both of them having children, they really have each other. For one reason or another, their offspring see them not at treasures to be guarded, but as resources to be harvested.
And though they really only have each other, they fight like two cats. Sometimes kind and sometimes murderous.
Once she was back, we started prepping to deliver some furniture we no longer need to a new woman in the congregation. I’m not sure what her story is, but she has almost no possessions. So it is very helpful to find a home for this sofa and the table.
Hoping to avoid lifting AT ALL, I call a couple of of young friends. The 16yo is game, but the 25yo is just too busy. So, some lifting, I guess. I hook up my little trailer I have affectionately named Kermit the Towed and, load the table and the couch and head over to pick up Leo.
His mom didn't name him after the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Not to mention: Meet me In St Louis (1944) An American in Paris (1951) Hard Days Night (1964) Once (2007) Cabaret (1972) – Okay, 16 is probably a little young for this weight Fame (1980)
Eeesh. I could be at this all day.
The point is, Leo needs to see the musical landscape. And get a clue.
When I asked him what kind of degree a HS music teacher needed, he answered, 'Uh, not sure, I guess a masters?'.
Seems a bit much.
'How much will that degree cost you?' Prodding to see if he'd considered all the costs.
'Ummmmm, not sure. Maybe, like $4000?' He answered ponderously.
I laughed, 'Per credit HOUR?'.
I encouraged him to look into those little details while he's catching up on all the glorious Musi captured on celluloid.
Heading out into the heat, I realize I’ve skipped breakfast and lunch, solved by a stop at Luigi’s for a slice of Mediterranean pizza. I’m so glad they stared a by-the-slice shop.
Luigi is selling a 2006 version of our poor dinged-up Benz. I neither need nor want a new-to-us vehicle. But, the low miles and good price make it very tempting.
I will later go home and get a microfiber and a bottle of goo-gone. A half an hour later, the car looks positively dignified. No perfect, but the damage will be hardly noticeable.
After pizza, we make our way to the QT down the street to fuel up. Walking in to pay, a rough looking fellow sitting at one of the shaded tables comments, ‘I like your shirt! Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!’
It is a design of my own from the MyPopYourPop I did 10 years ago.
TEN years ago? Christ!! I’m old enough that 10 years now feels like yesterday. While 10 months ago feels like a millennia.
How. Weird.
I smile at the man. He has the rough edge of a homeless man. But not the complete disarray.
So I go in to the store and pick up a drink, on the way out, I make eye contact and nod.
The man then says, 'Say there, Danger, don't have a couple of quarters you could spare, do you?'
Smiling, I say, 'Sure!' And reach in my pocket and snatch the loose coins flopping around.
Then I used an old trick any time I patronize a panhandler: I ask for more info. I feel like I've purchased the entry fee to a bit of a show. If that diminishes the human, I'm sorry. But it is is a public space and they approach me, so I feel no guilt.
“So,” I begin, “homeless? That must be rough. How long have you been toughing it out here in the raw world?”
“Yeah. It ain't easy. But you gotta do what you gotta do. I've been out on the streets for about 3 years.”
“Three years!” I said. “How on earth do you end up from regular life to no place to live... we're probalby about the same age? Maybe I'm a little older.“ ”I'm 53, born April 10, 1973. It's wild. I used to have a job and a family. But then I made a series of bad choices and ended up in prison. While I was inside, my parents passed away. MY wife moved on and I lost everything.”
I was flabbergasted. Though, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. We talked for about 15 minutes and we exchanged names. I related some of my fears as an aging man in the United States with no retirement plan, savings or substantive possessions of value. Essentially, we both saw how tenuous our existence is in this world. Everyone clawing to keep their place and that ledge of place is getting narrower and narrower al the time.
Eventually, I felt comfortable enough to pitch a hope from the Bible.
“You know Robert, I'm a long time student of hte Bible. And I've lived almost every day of the last 40 years expecting the world to scene to shift dramatically. Do yo u mind if I share something from the Bible?”
“Oh, yeah, sure man. I'm a Christian, I'm confident God will fix this eventually.” Robert said.
I opened by app to Psaml 37: 10, 11.
Just a little while longer, and the wicked will be no more; You will look at where they were, And they will not be there.
But the meek will possess the earth, And they will find exquisite delight in the abundance of peace.
“Man, that sounds great... I just wish it would hurry up.” Robert told me.
“I know. Me too. I've been praying for it for decades. And I won't lie, I get nervous sometimes that it won't come soon enough. But you know what the Bible says God CANNOT do?” I asked.
Robert smiled, “Huh... you know I just always heard everything was possible with God.”
“Two things that are impossible for the Creator, Robert,” I smiled “He cannot die and he cannot lie. That means if he says the train is coming' it's coming.”
“I guess that's true. I never thought about that.”
My wife was waiting and it was about 105º. I offered to look for him in the future and explain why we can have so much confidence in God's word.
As a parting farewell, I dug out my last two dollars and offered them to Robert. His eyes lit up.
“Oh! God bless you, man! That's all I needed to get a slice of pizza! I'll keep you in my prayers.
We're busy counting the one, two, three, four in front of us. Meanwhile, the Creator is watching not just you and I, but every human ever. And He understands something we cannot comprehend: the complex path that brings all of creation back into its original state.
Eventually all these imbalances will corrected. Perfection, the Bible promises.
Maybe I belong where Robert is. Cast into the wild to figure it out for myself.
I'm suddenly thinking of Samson. How we all start powerfully and with the best of intent. But with time and a series of questionable decisions, we lose our power entirely.
But not ourselves. Samson may have been in fetters and blind, but he still had a desire to be the man he was before. Someone who loved Jehovah.
Maybe that's what keeps us going. Robert, Samson, me, You... that desire to be the potential in each of us.
Robert's just living day to day. Hoping for something better. Asking for it. But not always responsive when it comes.
Sounds familiar.
And what I said was true, I've been waiting for the train to come for decades. Some waited their whole lives. I might be too.
For some it's harder than it is for others. The right team makes long days short and years fly by quickly as a wink. Again, choices.
I'll keep my eyes peeled for Robert. And keep him in my prayers. Maybe you can t0o. We'll both pray for a man who maybe deserved what he got. But then again, who deserves this life?
We were created to worship God. To live, to have laughter and warmth and happiness. Peace all of our days. To be known and seen and valued. Prized and loved. Not commodified or treated as decoration.
My life isn't perfect. I've made some critical errors. Some are extremely difficult to live with. But I can live with them.
I have to.
If I got the chance to push those pillars, I'd take it. Bet you would too.
The Ray Reunion
from Sightless Scribbles, syndicated
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The call comes in completely unexpectedly, as, I'm sure, all great things do.
It’s Ray. He knows I wanted to come over to his house today, but he asks me if I want to have him come over here to my apartment complex, today.
Usually, I don't like for people to come here because my apartment isn't exactly the best thing for hosting guests, but his voice is so soft and so attractive that it coats me in a never-ending calm, and immediately quiets my nerves. It doesn’t so much speak as it does settle, a change in the atmosphere transmitted through the phone’s tiny speaker.
"Sure," I say, the word feeling small against the backdrop of his warmth. "Come over."
As Ray is driving over here, I take the most comfortable shower of my life. The hot water doesn’t last long, but I'm feeling so good about this meeting I can't even get mad at the landlords bullshit. The lukewarm spray feels like a clean slate.
Ray is a racialized light-skinned Black man—who has talked with me before—but We've fallen out of touch until recently. At first, I presumed there to be trepidation about seeing him again. Instead, there's an electric anticipation in the air. It's a wash of excited warmth and unabashed joy that a kind person will soon enter my space.
Finally, a vibration from my phone. He texts that he's in the lobby. I practically race down there, my cane tapping out a frantic, staccato rhythm against the linoleum, a stark contrast to the slow, steady beat of my own heart.
The hiss of the lobby’s sliding glass door announces someone's arrival. The air here is sterile, smelling of industrial cleaner. I hear the low murmur of the receptionist’s radio behind his desk, then a soft, feminine voice announces, "Floor one. Going up," from the elevator shaft.
The outer doors swish open again, and a different quality enters the air—a subtle shift in pressure, a scent of cool, clean air and something else, something warm and masculine that is uniquely his.
"Robert?" The voice. It’s even better in person. Not a sound, but a presence. A low and steady hum that quiets the hum of the frantic beating of my heart. It’s the feeling of a weighted blanket made of sound.
"Ray." I turn toward it, my hand outstretched.
His hand finds mine. It’s large, the palm soft but the grip firm, a gentle heat that radiates up my arm. He holds it just a second longer than necessary. "It’s good to finally meet you in person, baby boy."
The endearment, spoken in that deep timbre, makes the tension drain from my shoulders. It’s not patronizing. It’s… a placement. Like he’s carefully setting me down in a safe space.
"You too," I manage. He’s holding something in his other hand; I can hear the faint rustle of cardboard. "What’s that?"
"A little something for you," he says. The weight of it shifts as he walks with me in the elevator, then up to my floor.
"Just a little cake."
Just a little cake. People don’t just bring me cake. People want something, or they offer things with a tangle of strings attached. This box feels clean. Simple. An offering.
Upstairs, in my studio, the space feels small, made even smaller by a guest’s presence. The low hum of the kitchenette’s mini-fridge is a constant companion.
"Sorry it’s so cramped," I say, the apology instinct kicking in. "We can… sit on the bed?" It comes out as a question, highlighting my vulnerability.
"The bed is perfect," Ray says, and his voice makes it so. He moves with a quiet deliberation, the soft scuff of his shoes on the floor a comforting sound. I feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge, his weight a solid, grounding presence. I sit beside him, the cardboard box between us.
My fingers find the tab on the box. The smell that rises is rich—chocolate and something else, a sweet, creamy frosting. My stomach gives a little flutter.
"Do you have silverware?" He asks. I nod, but then answer,
"I only have plastic forks," I confess, gesturing toward the kitchenette.
"A plastic fork will do the job just fine."
I retrieve one, and we eat sitting side-by-side on my bed. The arrangement is so intimate it feels like we’ve skipped three dates. The cake is decadent, melting on my tongue. I eat too fast, a habit born of scarcity, and a small dollop of icing lands on my index finger. I bring it to my mouth, licking the sweetness from my skin, and when I lower my hand, the silence in the room has a different texture. It’s charged. Heavy.
Ray clears his throat, a low, gentle rumble. "You got a little something… right there."
"Also, he says, with a laugh that makes my dick jump, "You got some chocolate on your finger."
I want him to say, finger again. Hell, I want him to record me the most dirty audio possible. I'm imagining this as I try and lick the chocolate off my finger, but when he says I didn't get it with a laugh, inside, I am screaming with comfort and calm and playfulness.
Regarding my face, My own fingers are useless. I don’t know where he means. Before I can get flustered, the air shifts. The warmth of him is suddenly closer, his scent enveloping me. A thumb, impossibly soft, brushes against the corner of my mouth, wiping away a stray bit of frosting. The touch is feather-light, but it lands in me like a meteor, a point of searing heat that radiates through my whole body.
He doesn’t pull away immediately. His thumb rests there, on my skin, for a single, thundering heartbeat.
His hand moves from my face, but only to settle on my shoulder, a warm, solid weight that anchors me. My own hands are trembling slightly where they rest on the mattress. The plastic fork feels flimsy, ridiculous.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"Any time," he murmurs, his voice a slow-moving river. The space between us is no longer empty; it’s filled with a humming energy that pulls me forward. I lean into it, just a fraction, because I am asking a question without words.
His hand slides from my shoulder, up the column of my neck, his fingers tangling gently in the short hairs at my nape. His other hand comes to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. It’s not a prelude to anything frantic or hungry. It’s an exploration. A form of listening with his hands.
And then his lips find mine.
They are as full and soft as I imagined, and warm. The kiss is like his voice—deliberate, unhurried, a slow settling. There is no demand, only an offering. He tastes of chocolate and something that is just him, a taste I feel I could spend a lifetime learning. My own lips part on a sigh, and the kiss deepens, a gentle, reciprocal escalation. It’s the kind of kiss that rewrites history, that erases the memory of every other mouth that was careless or cruel.
I can't help it, I keep kissing him. I want his lips to be fully locked on mine, forever.
It feels like hours pass, measured in the slow slide of his lips against mine, the gentle pressure of his hands holding my face like something precious. When he finally pulls back, the loss of contact is a physical ache. I chase it, pressing my forehead against his, my breath unsteady.
His scent, his warmth, the solid presence of him—it’s an entire world. I think, for a wild, fleeting moment, about his voice. About what it would be like to have a recording of it, a short, filthy message I could listen to in the dark, my hand wrapped around myself. A voice like that could unravel a man completely.
But the thought dissolves as soon as it forms, broken by a reality that is somehow more intense. He’s here. His care is not a fantasy; it’s a physical force field around me. It’s the softest hands I’ve ever felt moving from my face to my shoulders, then down my arms.
"You’re tense, baby boy," he says, his voice a low vibration against my skin. His hands find mine, turning them over, his thumbs pressing into my palms. The simple act feels revolutionary. It isn’t a prelude to sex; it feels like an act of service. Like he’s trying to knead the years of anxiety out of my very bones.
I want to respond that life's hostility has a habit of making one tense, but his hands halt the desire almost immediately as they nestle on me, grounding me to this moment in time and space.
Soon, I am being massaged, and it's the best feeling in the world. His hands feel as if they could cure all my disabilities. He massages me, and I am not a religious man, but I think I found my own heaven.
I feel him shift, moving to bring my leg up, with me on my back, and a miracle happens.
Then his warm, soft hands are on my feet. I flinch, not from aversion, but from the sheer, unexpected intimacy of it.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice not missing a beat from his position on the floor.
"Yes," I breathe. It’s more than okay. Nobody touches my feet. His thumbs work into the arch, firm but gentle, and a sound escapes my throat, something between a sigh and a sob. Every point of contact is a statement: You are safe. You are worthy of care. You can let go.
We fall back into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by our breathing and the gentle friction of his hands on my skin. After a while, a playful energy starts to bubble up inside me, a giddiness born of this impossible safety. I reach out, my hands finding the smooth, warm dome of his head. It’s shaved, perfectly smooth, and I can feel the low thrum of his being under my palms.
"I have a confession to make," I say, my voice slightly teasing, as I kiss the top of his head.
A small chuckle escapes his lips. "What's your confession, baby boy?"
"I'm a cereal killer," I say, and it comes out with the biggest, most adorable dorky snort ever.
He doesn’t miss a beat. His full lips engulf my eager mouth again, a quick, laughing kiss. I can feel the smile in it. "Oh really?" he says, his voice playful against my lips. "How do you kill people? Hmm?"
My brain short-circuits with pleasure and joy. "I… uh… I… shit. Ask me that tomorrow when you’re gone from here and so I can—"
"So you can think of a way to use weapons, right?" His mouth snakes up to my ear, his breath warm. "I have a secret too," he says, his voice low and everything captivating. It takes every ounce of mental energy I have to stay grounded, because I'm an absolute goner.
"I'm a cereal killer too."
We both laugh, a shared, genuine sound that fills the small apartment and makes it feel like a cathedral. The joke hangs in the air between us, a silly, perfect bridge connecting his world to mine. The next hour disappears. It doesn't pass; it dissolves into a seamless flow of touch and talk and quiet. He tells me about his week, about a meeting he’s proud of, his voice a slow-moving river, and I listen, truly listen, without the usual anxious buzz in my head that asks what I should say next. I am simply there, held in the warm current of his presence.
Hours pass by in a sea of naked bodies, skin on skin, flesh on flesh, with him jacking me off, and a part of me wishes he would deep throat me, but hours pass by in minutes.
All too soon, a soft alarm chimes from his direction. The sound is an intrusion, a crack in the perfect sphere of the afternoon.
"Ah, hell," Ray says, the sound a low rumble of regret. He shifts, the movement reluctant. "I’m sorry, baby boy. I’ve got a board meeting I have to get to."
The ache of his impending absence is immediate and sharp. "Oh. Okay." I try to keep my voice even, to not let the desperate whine I feel in my chest escape.
He stands, and the loss of his warmth beside me is like a sudden drop in temperature. He takes my hands and pulls me to my feet, holding me in a hug that feels like a promise of return. He’s solid, real, his arms a fortress.
"I had a really good time, Robert," he says into my hair.
"Me too," I say into his chest, the words muffled by his shirt.
The hug ends, and his hands linger on my shoulders before he steps back. I hear him gathering his things, the soft jingle of keys. I stand there, adrift in the middle of my own room. I should walk him to the door. I should say something clever or charming. But all I can do is listen to the sounds of him preparing to leave.
Then I hear a different sound. Not the sound of departure, but a soft rustling. A smooth, sweeping sound. The snap of a sheet being pulled taut from the corner of the mattress.
My mind struggles to place it. He’s not at the door. He’s by my bed. My bed, the centerpiece of my entire apartment, the place we just shared.
"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice small.
"Just tidying up a little," he says, his voice matter-of-fact, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He’s making my bed.
The thought is so stunning, so profoundly alien, that I can’t move. Men don’t do that. Men take what they want and leave a mess behind—emotional, physical, or both. They don’t smooth your sheets. They don’t plump your pillow. They don’t restore the one sanctuary you have in the world after they’ve shared it with you. Nobody has ever done that before. Ever.
The rustling stops. I hear his footsteps approach, feel the warmth of him in front of me one last time. A gentle kiss is pressed to my lips again.
"Sleep well tonight," he says. It is not a clipped farewell, but a long, resonant note that hangs in the air like the last chord of a lullaby.
I walk him down, but I want to hold him forever. I want to keep him in my apartment forever, I want to just sit in one spot and trace his palms with my fingers, reading a lifetime of experiences in them. I want to bask in his skin, his long beard again, his scent, everything.
He pulls away, and I forget what floor I am on. I make it back up to my apartment and close the door.
The door seems to shut with a knowing nudge. I stand by my bed, my impossibly made bed, Ray’s scent still permeating the room, bathing my apartment with a lingering memory that I never want to let go. I'm miles away, and yet, my whole world has stopped. It's stopped because, for one day, for one afternoon, one man has shown me more kindness than I've ever received from anybody. I touch the made bed, the blanket smooth and cool under my fingertips, unable to stop the single tear that slowly escapes my duct and slides down my face. I place a shocked hand to my mouth, realizing a bunch of things all at once.
The first thing is that I'm taken aback. I'm beyond cloud nine. I'm floating on a profound sense of joy and amazement; I don't know what's winning in the battlefield of my heart. I wonder if Ray can tell the impact he's had on me.
The other thing is that I desperately want to see him again. I am certain, as certain as I know the Sun will orbit the earth, that I desperately want to see him again. His absence is like I've lost a long-lost friend, one that I reconnected with after years of being away. The silence he left behind isn’t empty. It’s shaped like him. It’s warm. It feels, impossibly, like hope. I hope he likes me. I hope he thinks I'm worth seeing again, because he's changed my life, whether he knows it or not.
- * *
If you've enjoyed this story, you might enjoy Reckless Love by Willow Aster
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So much to do, so little stress.
from The disconnect blog
I don't think I've ever been in this sort of situation in life. I used to have a lot less to do, and a lot more stress. These days I have just about endless projects but I'm never really all that worried or stressed out about any of it. Sure there are times I'm worn down, tired, and a little irritated but it isn't the same. The things to do I enjoy and if some of it never gets done things will be okay.
We've had quite the summer on the homestead this year. Many things went wrong but we have learned a lot through it all. Right now we are nurturing a heifer that has a swollen knee and another bull got very lethargic and bloated. The bull is on the up and up recovering. The heifer is slowly getting to the barn, she'll be in there tomorrow. We splinted her leg and put a comfery compress on it to help the recovery. We'll give her a long rest in the barn so we can keep an eye on her and give further aid. Our garden was fairly unproductive this year but we still have a harvest. It's been a great year. And we still have a lot to do. But why worry about it all?
The main things we are laboring on now is firewood, garden, fencing (I like to pretend this is sword play, but it's more boring than that), sheep and turkey barn, and bull winter shelter. I think we can finish this all before winter. The only mandatory thing in my view is the firewood. The rest is gravy, and it's likely most or all of that gravy will be pouring in by the time winter hits.
It's been a great year. Love you all, hope your year has been great as well. There likely is not much need to stress about the things coming, gone, or never quite done around the home.
Friday Night Thoughts
from AnOublietteofThought
Do you ever stop and think about all the things you have done in life and all the skills you have learned? It's not something I really think about. Not often, anyway. I have a girlfriend who sends me these little memes that list any number of things that someone is supposed to have done, because she knows I enjoy that sort of thing. She tells me her score and persons she works with who also take it, and I am always quite surprised. I have usually done most of the things on the list, if not all of them. Often at a much younger age than the group she is telling me about ,who has done almost none of them.
I used to think that was a generational thing, or a location thing. Maybe a socioeconomic thing. It's probably all of the above, and a little bit more. It is strange how so much becomes lost so quickly. There are things I just take for granted as common sense knowledge that most people I know have no idea how to perform. I would say that in the last decade or so, my perspective of people has changed quite a bit.
We place so much emphasis on diplomas that often teach book skills, but can forget the importance of hands-on training. We also forget that a person does not need to attend a university or college to educate themselves on a subject in today's world. We forget to analyze, question, discuss, and think in a broad direction. We are also not taught to listen. Listen. Listen. We judge persons for their vocabulary, and we weaponize language and dialect. Yet we never know where a good idea will come from or what might spark our imagination.
I think that I am very fortunate to be part of Gen-X. At my earliest years, I was being taught by people who were alive in the 1800s. I was shown skills from people who participated in both World War I and World War II. Not to mention everything that came afterwards. I was taught how to grow my own food. How to track an animal. How to navigate through the woods. How to find clean water. How to gather seeds. How to work traps. How to shoot a rifle. The aspects of working on a car. How to do all sorts of things both inside and outside of the house, before I ever attended school. Obviously, just the basics at that time. But I was a sponge soaking up everything around me, and everything around me was teaching me how to survive without modern help necessarily.
I listened to the stories being told by both men and women. I do not even remember the names of some of the older generation, but I adored them at the time. I learned how to ride a horse. I attended many a rodeo. I learned how to do things that I probably don't even realize that I learned how to do, just by listening and watching. I was curious. That curiosity was encouraged. I quickly learned how to read and devoured books. All kinds of books. Including encyclopedias. Encyclopedias were magical at that time. I deeply enjoyed reading them from cover to cover because I never knew what I was going to discover. But there was always the chance to inspire further exploration.
I ran all over town both on two legs and on a bicycle. Adult totally knew where I was going if I actually told the truth about where I was going. I did eventually get to wherever I said I was going, so that I wasn't lying, but I wandered a lot. I learned to climb high, to take risks, and to be thoughtful in doing so. I learned how high I could go and jump before it started to hurt. I also learned landing the wrong way from a very short height at the right trajectory could break a bone. I aspired to be both a monkey and a dolphin. I wanted to be an eagle. It is fortunate that I could not get supplies to attempt to make myself “proper” wings without being caught.
It is also probably fortunate that I did not live anywhere near cliffs. I would like to think I was bright enough not to do something stupid, but I would not have bet money on that. I was always pushing myself and doing things considered crazy by today's standards. At the time, it was just explorative play and mini adventures. That is all still just my childhood. And it continued to grow as I got into my teens. Then came the adult years. I look at what I have done and the knowledge I have acquired between those years, and I admit that I might be a little impressed with myself. Or rather I should say, that if someone else told me what I know I have learned, I would be impressed with them. It's a little different since it is just me. To me, it's no big deal because it's been acquired naturally.
I am often told that I shouldn't disparage myself. Usually the person who says it doesn't realize I'm not disparaging myself. I'm confident in my skills. I'm also aware of how much I don't know, and I'm not afraid to admit it. There is so much that I don't know, but damn will it be fun trying to acquire more and more knowledge with the years that I have remaining in this particular body.
In recent years, I was conversing with someone and they asked if I saw myself as a renaissance woman. I contemplated it for a moment, and thought how wonderful would that be. I think I said something along the lines of, “Maybe. Or a polymath. I'm just a perpetual student with infinite curiosity.” They then explained how being a renaissance man is a negative thing in today's society. I listened to their reasoning, and was a bit humored. Give me a renaissance man! They are very under-appreciated.
Today, I look around at everything around us. Our entire society uses mechanisms that we cannot recreate ourselves. We cannot make computer chips or many other things by ourselves. The majority of the world does not even have the understanding of how to do it. Much less the multi-million dollar machines required to do it. Hell, most people no longer know how to change a tire by themselves. They're driving this car day after day, and cannot make a simple repair. They can't change their spark plugs. They can't change their oil filter. They can't change the oil. Many people can't follow instructions. Simple instructions.
I think about that. There is fortune in being able to do something with your own hands. Yes, sometimes it is not necessary. Yes, time is priceless. But so is knowledge, understanding, and capability. A vast lack of knowledge and willingness to learn and continue learning is a big part of what is wrong in our world. Not to mention arrogance, hard-headedness, ego, laziness, and selfishness. With a dash of being blind to the big picture, time, and just how essential ecosystems are. Nobody likes vultures, cockroaches, or sanitation workers. Yet without them, we would be royally fucked. Completely and royally fucked.
I wonder where we are going. The powers that be want us to believe it is outer space. That is such an impossibility on so many levels at this time that it is mind-boggling how many people don't comprehend the vast hurdles that have to be jumped in order to make that happen. (Hello, run on.) We simply don't have the data nor the ability to do so much of what is required to make that a reality. We are nowhere near it. We are so far away from it, that we don't even know everything that we need to be looking for.
I suppose that is how it has always been with us, isn't it? Instead of relishing and nurturing what is under our own feet, we look out to the stars and want to be planted anywhere but where we actually grew from. I have no room to talk. I wanted to get away from as young as I can remember. Yet no matter what I've learned, or where I've gone, deep inside I am still that young child who just wants to dig her toes into the soil, and listen to the Earth sing.
Perhaps that is something else we have forgotten—the healing beauty of song and dance. As well as the wondrous orchestra of Mother Nature.
How about you? What have you learned? What do you not know, but hope to one day learn? What experiences have you acquired that are good to pass on?
We tell stories. We make judgments. We stand firm in our ideals. But do we remember the importance and gift that it is to be self-aware, to be capable of sharing, and if one's belief system says it to be true, do we know how to be good stewards? Or do we just flaunt a title with little to no responsibility or accountability for our actions or lack there of? Sometimes, I think that perhaps we are not as self-aware as we like to aggrandize ourselves to be.
I think of all I've learned and all I've done...It is a lot. But it's but a fraction of a fraction of a microscopic fraction of all that is waiting for me to soak in.
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