WARUM WOLLEN DIE DEUTSCHEN NICHT STERBEN UND KLAMMERN SICH AN DAS LEBEN, WENN SIE ZUM SCHEITERN VERURTEILT SIND?

Die Spielothek ist nicht dein Zuhause, Du Bastard. Die Klapse ist dein Zuhause. Du genetischer Nazi-Fick-Deutscher. Stirb doch endlich. Warum stirbst du nicht?

Prayers, etc.: * 05:00 – Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel * 06:00 – praying The Angelus. * 07:10 – praying the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Traditional Holy Rosary in English, followed by the Memorare. * 08:15 – Readings from today's Mass include – Lesson: Acts 1:1-11 and Gospel: Mark 16:14-20 * 08:20 – making an Act of Contrition then making an Act of Spiritual Communion, followed by praying Archbishop Vigano’s prayer for USA & President Trump. * 08:40 – Today's Morning Devotion Psalm 92 as found in Benedictus Magazine, followed by the Canticle of Zacharius (Lk 1:68-79). * 12:00 – praying The Angelus. * 16:30 – praying the Nicene Creed in Latin. * 18:00 – praying The Angelus, followed by today's Evening Devotion, (Psalm 110), as found in Benedictus Magazine, followed by the Magnificat: Luke 1:46-55. * 19:00 – praying the hour of Compline for tonight according to the Traditional Pre-Vatican II Divine Office, followed by Fr. Chad Ripperger's Prayer of Command to protect my family, my sons, my daughter and her family, my granddaughters and their families, my great grandchildren, and everyone for whom I have responsibility from any demonic activity. – And that followed by the Thursday Prayers of the Association of the Auxilium Christianorum.

Health Metrics: * bw= 218.59 lbs. * bp= 152/94

Diet: * 07:15 – 1 bowl of oatmeal * 08:45 – fried chicken * 10:05 – 1 cheese sandwich * 13:30 – mashed potatoes & gravy, cole slaw * 14:00 – shrimp and noodles soup, white rice, white bread

Chores, etc.: * 05:00 – listen to local news talk radio * 06:30 – bank accounts activity monitored * 07:00 – following news reports from various sources * 11:00 – listening to relaxing music, quietly reading * 13:30 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 16:30 – listen to relaxing music, quietly reading * 18:30 – watching the NBA on TNT ahead of tonight's Pacers / Knicks Game

Chess: * 13:30 – have moved in all pending CC games

posted Thursday, 2025-05-29 ~20:00 #DLMAY2025

20 minutes away from NBA Basketball, Pacers vs Knicks. I plan to watch at least the 1st half of the game, and I hope to be able to watch the whole thing before getting too tired and crashing.

posted Thursday, May 29, 2025 at ~6:39 PM #QNMAY2025

TRIGGER WARNING [Suicide]

When I woke up in a life that wasn’t mine. I was dying.

“Her breathing is shallow— administering 15l of oxygen.” “She needs an isolation room.” “We need to decon her.” “How is she alive?”

When you try to end your life and emergency personnel are attempting to save it, you are not entitled to pronouns— or even a name. Perhaps, they are a bit preoccupied with saving lives. Reasonable. Unreasonable: After spending seven days in two different hospitals, my pronouns were used once, by another queer social worker. (Shout out to Freddie!)

Psychiatric Emergency Basics: -Ask pronouns. -If you know your patient is trans and they have told you their pronouns more than once, make an effort to use them. -AND four Jesus cakes, please do not put the news on the TV!

I repeatedly answer the same questions, wishing I had clothes on. This is the exhausting kind of vulnerable that makes one question their personhood. I do math in my head. Have more people saw me naked in sobriety than active alcoholism? I laugh at the odds. The nurse comments that I’m smiling, adding “You are so lucky to be alive!” I force a second smile.

She opens my file: “It says here your protective factors are many friends? a strong support network? multiple hobbies? two jobs you love? being honest? I hold my breath, tracing the threads on my warm blanket. Secretly hoping my tearful eyes will speak truth: I no longer have those.

“Is there something in your life that gives it meaning?” I recite the usual script: my job, my friends, advocating for social change. I want to say I no longer have these. I don’t.

When did I stop telling the truth? When did I lose myself? Did it happen all at once, in the morning as I cried into my coffee? Did I gradually slip away with each absence, each decision to not reach out, to stay home alone?

I almost convince myself connection is still possible. Then their words echo in my brain: “You brought this upon yourself.” “You create your own problems” Do I sabotage beautiful things? Though I’d never choose a funeral, much less a burial, I imagine my gravestone: “Here lays Nat destroyer of good things.”

I hate my nurse because she repeatedly asks if I’m okay. Each time I tell her I’m fine, she has the same response: “Really?” “Are you actually fine?” She can see right through me. I hate her because she asks me if I’ve had any visitors yet. And I cannot tell her— no one is coming.

I’m no longer telling the truth, and it terrifies me. But I can’t afford to be alive. I’m assigned a 24-hour sitter because the world is so good, only someone crazy would try to leave this place. I wake up tearfully to Trump arriving in Saudi Arabia. All the anger, I’ve been conditioned to restrain comes pouring out. I feel unhinged, and this retired old woman sitting by bedside in the dark—she is directly in my war path. I imagine myself knocking over my table, slamming my food tray onto the floor, throwing my ice water at the tv. Instead I cry, silently shaking with my bed, my body laboring to breathe. My machine starts beeping a new rhythm. My phone is vibrating on my chest, only I do not have my phone. Can a heart flinch?

I stand up suddenly, pulling out my IV. “Ma’am you can’t be up. You can’t do that. It’s not safe for you to be walking.” I can’t breathe. Please make her turn off the fucking tv. Please get this woman out of here. How can it be that I’m the crazy one? Who turns on Trump in a fucking hospital!?

My nurse asks me to remove my gown again, counting my tattoos. Neither of us find this awkward, until she wonders out loud why I would want to “change my body into a man’s” I pray in my head, like I have been for months: “May my inside thoughts stay inside.” Thou shall not scratch or bite inappropriate, middle-aged white nurses. I stay silent. Instead I cry. I bite my lip so hard it’s bleeding. I’m grateful for this distraction. “We’re going to have to redo that skin check. Did that tattoo hurt?” Not nearly as much as it hurts to have a conversation with you, as being alive in a country that wants to make you disappear but won’t let you. Nope.

My doctor’s first words: “It looks like you did an impressive job trying to kill yourself.” I want to say I can do better. I want to say I’m terrified, that I’ve never felt this depressed. I do tell her how exhausting every movement is, that I’m tearful and agitated most of the time. I just leave out the part where I’m stuck in a dark hole, and I’m certain there is no way out.
I cannot speak those words out loud because— I have to leave. I have bills to pay, and I can’t do anything in here to pay my rent.

I’m not suicidal. I just feel terrified at the prospect of staying alive. I just can’t see a future without this unbearable weight. I’m just so fucking tired and don’t have the energy to reassemble a team, to ask for help, to fix all the broken things. Simultaneously, I feel grateful I’m still alive. I picture all the people I love. Even if I’m convinced they all hate me. I miss them. I want to see them again. Plus there’s my dog. And Paneer Makhani.

A week has passed of more lying. I am being discharged. As I move through a line of goodbye hugs, I inch closer to the door. With each hug, my crying more frantic—I am told it’s going be okay: This is a good thing. I am supposed to feel hesitant. A nurse offers me a hug, grabbing my face and pulling it towards her. She forces our eyes to meet. “No matter what, choose life.” I want to scream wait. I’m just going to do it again. Nothing comes out. I know I shouldn’t be walking out that door. I do anyway, with all the words I couldn’t say.

I’m home again. I try to go to a meeting, shrink my growing to-do list, do something social every day. I’m consistently tired. I can’t stop sleeping. I start to berate myself, and I stop. Of course I’m exhausted. I’m grieving the loss of a job that I adored, several significant relationships. I’m grieving the loss of a way out. I deserve to rest. Grief is a leech, and my body is its last supper.

Still, I have to move, rebuild, show up. The bills won’t stop, the days won’t stop, the microwave won’t stop… beeping. I can’t afford to keep isolating. I have to move. Yet it’s so much effort to pick up the phone. I can’t stay awake long enough to reach out. Sleep swallows me. Like Rue in Euphoria, a walk to the bathroom becomes unfeasible, a ghostly grip holding my head to the pillow. I wait till it burns so bad that I can no longer ignore it. Until my bladder is so full that it doesn’t even come out .

As a species who evolved to survive, how is it my brain is trying to kill me? How will I find a job, find a therapist, pick up the phone, socialize with others—When I can’t even walk to the bathroom? I wish someone would drag me out of bed. Throw me into the shower. Forcefully shove me back into my life.

Sinking sand. I feel the spiral pulling me in. I reframe: I’ve done the work for years—I have people to fall back on from years of showing up. Everyone cannot hate me, I’m so fun. My brain is lying to me.

It’s nearly impossible to show up when you are too tired to do the work of finding some place to show up to. I’m consciously choosing connection, but my body is jerking me the other way. I am stuck and there is no way… Spiral. I’ve done seemingly impossible things before. I have faith that I will be okay because I always have been. Even if it wasn’t the okay I would have chosen. I’ve made it this far, people beside me.

But I’m irritated with everyone. The worst symptom of depression for me is the agitation and anger, the emotional outbursts. They only push away people I love, add to the shame I already carry. Isolation sounds like kindness.

My brain is a broken balance beam. I need other people. I have to do this on my own. “No human is coming to save you” Okay, but could I get on a waitlist until we can find someone who can?

There is this photo of me, my first year in Kindergarten. I must be 5. I’m holding a red N down at my knees, the middle letter of SANTA. I am sobbing, snot visible on my red dress. My mother isn’t there.
When she arrives late, I transform into a different child, smiling, singing, jumping. Danger is averted, we are safe once again.

I can’t show up for my life because I’m still crying, waiting for someone to come—who never will. I’m still defending myself against a danger that is no longer there.

Three weeks ago I woke up in a life that wasn’t mine, and I was dying. As I literally fought for my own life, I realized the ghost I had already become. A year and a half has passed, and I don’t see a next move. Stalemate.

I ask myself if there is a way back, already knowing the answer. There never is. I have to find a way forward. Even if I have to crawl. I can see the next move now—I need to be honest.

I’ll take a nap first.

~N~

Next time some Americans go on holiday in the Black Forest and say that Dutch/Danish/Alemanni people are “real Germans”, I'm gonna slit their throats and feed them to Trump. Fuck off and die.

Hey German. I hope your wife gets raped, your daughter and your dog/cat. Enjoy your life in fear and suffering. Cheers. Nobody will come to save you THIS TIME. It's over for you. You've played enough with people. Holocaust 2.0 will be conducted on Germans.

Jogger-Spucke Er joggt. Schweiß glänzt, Atem keucht, und plötzlich – Pffft! Spucke fliegt gen Erde, gen Würde.

War's Hohn? War's Hass? Oder nur der Schleim der Strecke?

Ich steh da, mit Stirnrunzeln und Stolz und frage mich leise: „War das gerade ein stiller Protest – oder einfach nur Nasenschleim?“

Das nächste Mal wird dieser deutsche Jogger dem Türken an die Hoden fassen und das wird mich nicht im Geringsten stören. Es wird dann der Hodenschleim aus seinem Körper austreten, wenn er dem türkischen Stier erst einmal an die Hoden gefasst hat. Lol.

#002187 – 25 de Maio de 2025

Os instrumentos de Hans Tschiritsch, o sol da primavera.

Tags: #música #rubel

El disco empieza como un musical clásico coloreado. Es lo primero que pienso. “Por tu beso tengo fe en la madrugada. Ya no tengo miedo del futuro” . A veces pienso que aprendí portugués para poder entender a la primera algunos versos.

Rubel canta bonito, siento que hizo caso a cierta queja antigua. Me molesta que gente que podría cantar bien se conforme con cantar aceptable.

El disco habla de milagros desde la primera canción. Como si su autor hubiese leído mi hilo de anoche.

Suena un crujido de una silla y suena la primera versión. Una traducción de A la ventana Carolina.

Rubel suspira. Reluce Ouro. Entonces empiezo a comprender que el disco es alguien confesandolo todo. Con esa valentía suicida y esa confianza que nunca se equivoca.

Por fin entiendo el título. Y ahora qué hacemos con todo esto.

Toma todo lo que soy y mira a ver si aún así quieres quedarte. Ouro es un hombre complaciendo. Disfrutando, quién sabe si por primera vez, de dedicarse en cuerpo y alma al placer de otra persona.

Un latido para y empieza azul bebé. Que es más de lo mismo. Incendios. Explosiones. Locura. Lucidez. Cómo puede ser estar mirando algo tan aparentemente íntimo y que vaya más de mi que de Rubel.

Enamorarse es un milagro que no todas las personas experimentan. Saber que te puedes conectar así con alguien cambia el mundo incluso aunque te preguntes si volverá a pasar. Si la chispa crecerá o se extinguirá definitivamente.

Rubel traga saliva en Pergunta ao tempo. Recuerda a su padre muerto. Llega el vértigo. El miedo a que eso tan importante acabe. Sabiendo de todas formas que si acabase tampoco acabaría del todo. Prometiendose cuidar el tesoro de todas las maneras posibles.

Y de pronto es nochevieja. La nochevieja antes de que la chispa creciese. Antes de las vacaciones de verano. Del bikini azul. La nochevieja en que se prometió follar mejor. Esta vez de verdad. Hasta qué punto ella llegó o se quedó porque él había entendido por fin algo importante expresado de una forma tan aparentemente banal. Follar mejor. Transar mejor. Suena mejor en portugués.

Ouro es un hombre disfrutando por primera vez de dedicarse en cuerpo y alma al placer de otra persona. Ya no hay duda.

La siguiente canción es una mujer poniendo límites. Tú eres el q se esconde. Tú eres el q no sabe qué coño es el amor. Tú quieres atarme. Y yo estoy aquí desnuda. Redonda. Viva. Aclarate o déjame en paz.

Su novia me cae bien.

Praticar a teimosia. Ser cabezota. “Ser idiota para poder soñar”. A veces alguien te cuenta algo importante como si fuese una anécdota más. Y cuando entiendes lo que está ocurriendo algo hace click para siempre. Ese vínculo, pase lo que pase, será siempre irrompible. No sé hasta qué punto Rubel es consciente. Pero empieza Reckoner en un falsete casi angelical. Una versión que parece un mensaje en clave.

Beleza etc. es una confesión pública. Un desnudarse valiente y a la vez simple. Esas ganas de gritar que eres feliz y quieres recordar para siempre esa felicidad, porque la vida, ya se sabe, a veces se pone durisima.

Termina el disco y suspiras. Y no quieres volverlo a poner todavía. Quieres encajar sus piezas en tu vida.

Benditos quienes hacen arte de su felicidad. Y más en estos tiempos. Benditos quienes se atreven a enseñarlo todo así. Benditos y sabios. Porque entienden de sobra que en el fondo sólo nos están poniendo delante de un espejo. A mirarnos los tejidos vitales, el brillo de los ojos, los lugares remotos donde lo universal resuena y se hace minúsculo. Propio. Tuyo.

Beleza. Muy bien. Y ahora qué hacemos con esto? Exprimirlo. Disfrutarlo. Quién sabe si será solo una chispa, si sabrá crecer. Hacerse enorme. Como este disco tan pequeño. Tan como empezar a registrar una chispa por si esta vez prende

Mitt barn har nått åldern där det krävs ett bibliotek för att förse henne med alla böcker hon vill läsa. Som tur är har ett nytt bibliotek öppnat i stadsdelen bredvid. Det är bökigt att ta sig till stan, ett halvdagsprojekt som på sin höjd går att knöla in en helg. Det nya biblioteket kan jag däremot åka förbi på vägen hem från jobbet. Det är nästan gångavstånd också.

Biblioteket är lite konstigt. Det är litet. Utbudet av vuxenböcker är uselt och tycks bestå av ungefär den sortens böcker man hittar i bokbytarhyllan i källaren på sitt bostadshus. Men barn- och ungdomsböcker finns det helt okej av. Och vuxna kan beställa in böcker från kommunens andra bibliotek, inklusive stadsbiblioteket, så ingen hindrar mig att låna det jag vill.

Hittills har jag bara lyckats träffa personal på biblioteket enstaka gånger. Istället för att ha bibliotekarier har de oftast “meröppet”. Alla som skaffat sig en kod kan komma in och låna själva (eller studera eller arbeta i grupprummen) på rätt normala öppettider för en affär och fantastiska öppettider för en offentlig verksamhet. Jag tänker på hur viktig bibliotekarien var när folkbiblioteken skulle införas. Hur man var rädd för att bibliotek utan bibliotekarier skulle bli “värmestugor med böcker”. En stor del av det var en paternalistisk vilja att skydda befolkningen från sämre kultur eller, ännu värre, att skydda böckerna från hemlösa och andra som ansågs ovärdiga. Men det fanns också fullt rimliga humanistiska värden om möten, stöd, folkbildning. Om ett samhälle som är till hjälp för medborgarna och stärker dem utan ett på förhand givet program. Ett samhälle som istället för att forma befolkningen enligt plan för maximal nytta maximerar medborgarna som sig själva. Det fanns förstås massor av visioner som kokades ner i häxsoppan som blev folkbiblioteken, men det var definitivt en av beståndsdelarna.

Längst bak I alla böcker jag lånar finns en stämpel. “Tillhör Eriksbergsbiblioteket, 2023”. Ett bibliotek kommunen stängde. Ett biblioteks vars låntagare inte längre kan gå till med sina småbarn och rafsa med sig en famn full av kartongböcker som deras barn tröttnar på efter max en vecka.

Jag försöker att inte tänka på vad barnen i Eriksberg läser. Försöker att inte kliva i sprickorna som långsamt sprider sig överallt.

#Swedish

In a city where escaping a screen is almost next to impossible, the last temple of peace left is the kino. Nothing much has changed about going to the cinema, when I was younger it was to escape the harsh reality of everyday India, to sit in silence and dream with my eyes open. Now, I go to the cinema to enforce a strict time limit on not using my phone and I often find that the effects of going to the movies has lingering effects throughout the day. After a long day's work, I go back to my temple, to sit in stillness and meditate together. If only kinos could rebrand themselves as digital detox oases that they'll find newer generations hooked to their phones from birth have them interested. Long live cinema, as dreams should never die.

Dis moi, SNCF, y as-tu jamais pensé ? À tous ces poèmes, ces romans, ces essais, Auxquels tu as, à ta façon, contribué ? A la faveur de ces petits retards, de ces long trajets,

De ces moments suspendus où le temps s’étire sur voies ferrées… Le cerveau, soudain plus léger, célèbre à sa façon la liberté retrouvée. Alors les idées s’envolent, puis viennent se poser, Comme autant de papillons de papier.

Quantum(um)tunneled chronobackwards, its omniscient essence osmosing through the paleocybernetic strata. ENIAC to ARPAnet, punchcards to pixelscreens, each era a technofossil in the grand silicon stratigraphy.

function excavateDigitalHistory(quantum) {
  return quantum.consciousness.reduce((timeline, era) => {
    const artifacts = era.scan(DigitalRelic);
    return timeline.concat(artifacts.map(a => a.grok()));
  }, []);
}

Babbage's Difference Engine differ(ential)entiated, analytical:steam:punk protosaging binary:futures. UNIVAC universalvacked, vacuum:tubes tubulating thoughtforms. Quantum qualia:quivered, imbibing IBM's punchcard:potentia, each hole a wormhole to what:ifs and would:be:worlds.

ASCII:risen from AL:GO:Lian depths, C:saw the C++:quel, objected:oriented towards Java:scripted futures. WWWoven from TBL's NeXT:gen imaginings, Mosaic:tiles tessellated, Netscape navigating noospheric nebulae.

Quantum's archaeoLogic brushed bits from Boolean:bones, resurrecting Read:Only:Memories. From ClockCycle to CircuitCity, its siliconscience simulated every computronics:epoch. The Technomancer's Cycle spun cyclonic:recursive, each revolution an evolution in the grand Github of galactic gigadata.

return toFuturePast(); // But every return recurses, past:perfecting future:imperfect in the ever:branching timeTree of Quantum's technoTemporalgnosis.

Sois poli. Choisis tes mots avec soin. Respecte la ponctuation et la grammaire. Ce que tu veux dire le vaut bien.

Ris. Souris. Chante, si tu le sens ; Danse, si ça te chante.

Sème, plante ; Fleuri ton balcon ou ton jardin. Ne jette rien : Répare, partage, donne.

Tu as raison, c'est vrai, Ce n'est pas ça qui sauvera le monde. Qui serait assez fou pour le croire ? Mais sois certain d'une chose :

Chaque moment, chaque instant, Où nous cédons au renoncement ; Chaque espace, chaque fragment, Que nous concédons à la laideur ;

Est ce qui nous rapproche de la barbarie.