This month I've finished the “Action Hero” chapter I talked about last month. This took longer than most chapters: as well as turning out to be one of the longest chapters in the game, a lot of it is one big fight scene, which is something I find difficult and kind of exhausting to write. Plus, about 1/3 of the way through you get to pick your badass weapon, so nearly every passage from that point on had to have separate versions for each weapon.

In order to get to this chapter at all you have to choose it over the stealthy, non-violent options, but even so I think it's turned out kind of bloodthirsty, so when I come back to revise I might try to add a less lethal alternative path. But for now, like the hero in the story, I'm pressing forward!

I'm now working on a chapter called Laboratory of Death, where the player ventures into a sinister laboratory to stop development of a bioweapon that can wipe out humanity. Appropriately enough for Halloween, I'm giving this one more of a sci-fi horror vibe.

Besides pulp sci-fi, my main inspiration for Foolish Earth Creatures is games with a villain who talks at you while you play. In this scene in particular I'm being inspired by the classic of that genre, System Shock, which has you survive a creepy space station filled with mutants while a mad computer monologues at you. But don't worry, the overall tone is still going to be “fun sci-fi adventure” and not “disturbing body horror.”

I don't think the next few chapters will be as difficult to write as big fight scene was, so I'm hoping to have some more to show next month.

Our hero has overcome the difficulty of writing an action-packed fight scene...but can his writing do justice to the horrors of the laboratory of death? Learn more in next month's developer diary...IF YOU DARE!

*

In other news, the post I wrote last year about Dan Dare has inexplicably become one of the most viewed posts on this blog. So in case anyone's interested in more of that, I've started a very nerdy side-blog in which I do commentaries and analyses of the Dan Dare stories.

#FoolishEarthCreatures #DevDiary

I canceled my YouTube Premium yesterday. I really only used it for music and to ignore ads. Their constant layout changes annoy me, and the latest one has made it impossible for me to easily see what I want to without subscribing, so I canceled. So much is AI slop anyway. Even long-time science and educational channels are clearly heavily using it. I wonder if they understand how easy it is to see and hear.

It becomes pointless really. I think one just has to accept that the majority of persons are going to eagerly use it in all its many forms if it means they can have less effort involved. After all, why take a photograph that actually celebrates the moment when you can have AI clean it up to an ideal memory? Look at the photograph enough, and the actual memory will eventually be completely replaced.

It all just saddens me. I think the world does in general. So many eager to experience “life” that they forget what “experience” actually means. I am surely an alien stranded upon a desolate isle.

In other personal updates, I'd really like to stop coughing now. I think it's getting a little better. I hate sucking on lozenges, but it's the only thing helping. I slept most of the day and allowed my fever to hopefully be close to running its coarse. I'm in pretty good spirits all things considered.

I think I shall go drown myself in a cold shower. I'd normally choose scalding when dealing with respiratory nonsense. Steam and all. I am finding the icy showers invigorating in a different manner. I think, perhaps, they feel more natural. I'm exploring the sensory aspects of it all. I suppose the real experiment will be on the coldest months of the year. Will I be able to handle it then? I've done a cold finish for a while. Can I comfortably continue a cold throughout? I don't know. For now, it's pleasing in a new way.

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

Place : Sur une roche, sur la rive, parc Riverside, Siknikt Date : 2026-10-30, 11h22 HAA Conditions : 15 °C, ensoleillé, marée descendante. Une brise légère, des chants d’oiseaux, et mon corps, toujours sur la défensive.

En voiture de l’aéroport il y a quelques jours, on est passés devant le panneau sur la rue Main qui annonce les heures du mascaret : un seul pour la journée. J’ignorais que c’était possible, mais ça fait du sens quand t’y penses : il glisse parfois par-dessus la ligne du jour, alors certains jours en ont deux, d’autres un seul. On est arrivés à l’hôtel environ 45 minutes avant le mascaret. Naturellement, j’ai déposé ma valise et je me suis installé sur une roche, au bord de la rive. Aujourd’hui, j’y suis de retour.

C’est à couper le souffle, et je le dis sans aucune ironie. La zone littorale se vide peu à peu, l’eau rétrécissant vers sa source comme un enfant qui court après sa mère. Siknikt, en mi’kmaw, veut dire « lieu d’écoulement ». Beaubassin, en français, nomme (évidemment) un beau bassin. Deux noms pour la même région, depuis des ontologies différentes. Sous les deux, la même eau se retire, chargée de minéraux.

Cette place a une texture que je n’arrive pas encore à mettre en mots. Working-class, des peuples distincts—Autochtones, Acadien·nes, francophones, anglophones—qui se mêlent comme ces eaux, des destins entrelacés même à travers les distances. Mais cet écosystème complexe, équilibré tant bien que mal, est compliqué davantage par des regards venus de l’extérieur de l’Acadie.

Les vents font tomber quelques feuilles de plus à chaque passage, s’ajoutant aux sons des coureurs en spandex et aux regards évaluateurs des passants, dont la majorité se taisent en m’approchant, un silence que je perçois sans même lever la tête de mon cahier. Les marées, elles, continuent de rétrécir.

---

Je suis ici pour présenter ma recherche au tout premier Sommet en santé 2SLGBTQIA+ au Nouveau-Brunswick. Un honneur, pour de vrai. Deux des organisateur·ices m’ont vu au Sommet du Centre de recherche communautaire en 2025 et m’ont approché après. Franco-Ontarien moi-même, je suis toujours réceptif à ce genre d’initiatives venant d’autres communautés francophones en contexte minoritaire.

Ça fait quelques minutes que je suis assis ici, à tenter, largement en vain, de régler mon système nerveux. J’ai marché jusqu’ici depuis le pavillon Léopold-Taillon, sur le campus de l’Université de Moncton, parce que mon corps avait besoin de mouvement. Arrivé pour le déjeuner à 08h00, j’ai eu des discussions fascinantes avec les autres conférencier·ères, des sujets stimulants qui donnaient espoir. Espoir qu’on allait pouvoir créer ensemble. Et je le crois toujours : une de mes interlocutrices mi’kmaw était vraiment sur la même longueur d’onde que moi, ce qui confirme que je me dirige dans la bonne direction.

Et puis, l’incident. Je vous épargne les détails, parce que ce n’était la faute de personne en particulier : un manque structurel de considération, une somme de micro-agressions. Ce que je partage, par contre, c’est ce que mon corps a fait.

Je sors de la salle Richelieu en plein milieu du panel, sans sac à dos, sans manteau, et la première réaction de mon corps est de fuir. Dans le couloir, je croise une personne du CA d’Alter Acadie derrière la merch table, et tout ce que je retenais déborde sur elle, ma voix partant avant même que j’aie choisi mes mots. Je commence à bégayer quelque chose de quasi-cohérent dont je ne me rappelle même plus, mais c’est pas grave. No matter how much j’aurais voulu m’expliquer, cette rage, cette réponse impuissante et viscérale, me précède. Je décide de laisser mon absence parler et de quitter les lieux.

Je traverse la cafétéria. Elle s’appelle Le Mascaret. Bien sûr.

Une porte. Un petit couloir. Encore des portes, et la salle sensorielle, quelques portes plus loin. Je prends un moment d’étale, lumières fermées. C’est juste une salle de réunion, en fait, table pis toute. Il n’y a personne. Je m’assois aussi loin que possible de la porte. Un instant d’enfance. La tête dans les bras, j’essaie de pleurer. Mais rien ne sort. Colère, frustration, impuissance, et cette indignation que me prêtent les ancêtres face à l’injustice. C’est à moi de le porter, encore, un manque de considération qui s’infiltre sous la peau, glissant vers les épaules et s’installant avec toutes les autres micro-agressions qui me rappellent ma place dans la hiérarchie. Un commentaire de trop et le corps s’active tout seul. L’injustice, pérennisée dans la mémoire, dans la chair, est désormais indissociable de toutes les belles conversations, de toutes les réponses positives et reconnaissances de la valeur de mon travail. Une tension s’installe dans ma mâchoire, alors j’expire profondément et je me lève.

Je me retire par le même chenal : le couloir, Le Mascaret, la merch table, jusqu’à la salle Richelieu pour récupérer mes affaires. Puis une troisième fois, jusqu’à la sortie du pavillon.

Une fois dehors, je suis les trottoirs de ce campus peu familier vers l’entrée principale. Je prends un selfie avec l’enseigne, juste pour le geste, avant de traverser le pont qui relie le campus à la ville. Il y a de la construction sur mon chemin, que mon esprit de Montréalais navigue sans peine. Je continue, un petit hochement de tête aux deux étudiants noirs qui se dirigent vers le campus, avant de retourner aux sons dans mes écouteurs. Un arrêt au Brix Café pour utiliser un coupon pour une boisson gratuite—un latte à l’avoine dans mon cas—offert avec un service à la clientèle exécrable. Un petit moment de confusion devant le café, puis mon téléphone me guide sur Lutz, en croisant le chemin de fer, jusqu’au parc et à la rive. Il reste encore plus d’une heure avant le mascaret, et l’eau descend toujours. Mais je ne suis pas pressé. Je reste, le cahier ouvert, face à l’eau qui se retire, et j’attends qu’elle change de sens.

Our memory experiences time non-linearly for sure, but I think also discontinuously. At least for me, it feels like a folder of dossiers on memorable life situation with the disconcerting feeling that you will go back to those soon, or even that you should be able to move between them.

Lydia's Weekly Lifestyle blog is for today's African girl, so no subject is taboo. My purpose is to share things that may interest today's African girl.

This week's contributors: Lydia, Pépé Pépinière, Titi. This week's subjects: The “I Have Nothing to Wear” Office Fashion Emergency, Choosing the right hubby is only the beginning of the road, Ladies, Beware!, Crescent Rolls, and Sushi at Home

---

The “I Have Nothing to Wear” Office Fashion Emergency There is perhaps no greater morning drama than standing before a wardrobe filled with clothes and confidently declaring: “I have absolutely nothing to wear.” For the Accra corporate girl, this familiar fashion emergency usually happens on the morning of an important meeting, a presentation—or simply a day when looking effortlessly polished feels non-negotiable. But before rushing to the shops, consider this: the perfect office look may already be hanging quietly in your wardrobe. The Art of the Wardrobe Rediscovery: Luxury is not always about owning more. Often, it is about seeing what you already own with a fresh perspective. That forgotten blazer can instantly sharpen a simple pair of trousers. An old white shirt becomes effortlessly elegant when paired with a structured midi skirt. A neutral dress you rarely wear can feel entirely new with a belt, refined accessories and a beautifully tailored jacket. Start With the Classics: When inspiration disappears, return to the pieces that never fail: crisp shirts, tailored trousers, structured blazers, elegant dresses and timeless skirts. Then elevate them through styling. Think tonal dressing in shades of cream, chocolate, black or soft beige. Add polished shoes, a structured handbag and subtle jewelry. Suddenly, familiar pieces feel intentional, sophisticated and quietly luxurious. Style Over Shopping: The most stylish women are not necessarily the ones with overflowing wardrobes. They are the ones who understand proportion, layering, texture and the power of impeccable styling. So the next time you find yourself staring dramatically into your wardrobe, remember: you may not need a new outfit. You may simply need a new perspective. Because sometimes, the most luxurious thing in your wardrobe is not something you just bought—it is something you finally learned how to style beautifully. Choosing the right hubby is only the beginning of the road. It appears that men have a tendency to keep their eyes wide open, even after the marriage, for anything that moves and wears a skirt. On top of that, once you are pregnant it is not so easy again to give in to all his desires, and immediately after delivery you are literally out of the running for quite some time, and busy with the newborn, lack of sleep, and no time for the gym. So what now do you expect? Let’s look at the basics. What do you really want? You want your kids to grow up in a harmonious peaceful environment, with sufficient money available to take care of everyone’s needs. But here goes, he’s found another fresh green leaf and even moves out. Most often the kids suffer enormously during and after such separation, though you may not immediately notice it. Often school performance goes down, some even start stammering, some are lost between the many grandmothers and aunties trying to take care of them, and trust no one again and learn to steal what they need. Many kids after a separation carry serious trauma, sometimes all their lives. I’ve looked at my friends, and my little survey shows that 8 out of 10 come from a broken family. And most of them somehow are traumatised and have difficulty performing socially and having honest relationships. So, no matter what selfish ugly bastard he turns out to be, do whatever you can to stay together, at least till the kids have grown up. You owe it to these kids, who did not ask to come into this world. And if that means you have to literally go on your knees, then do so. And there’s more. Every guy has a soft spot; find it. Maybe cook like his mum, or visit his mum often. Or show your buttocks right into his face and allow him to grab them, if that’s what he fancies. Or whatever. And if he is kinkier than you like? It is not about you; it is about the kids. Make sure that with you he gets something he gets nowhere else. Make the effort to find out what really turns him on, into your power.

Ladies, Beware! First, we had the Russian man with the video spectacles who posted many girls naked on social media. Then there was this man from Puerto Rico (I think it is part of the USA) who claims that he wants to marry five ladies from different countries. And the latest I heard of is a man who claims to have a real jacuzzi in his house and who is inviting girls to enjoy it (and of course, take selfies). But it is not clear whether he provides bathing costumes or if to really feel the flow of the water you have to attend in Eva’s costume. I’d say: beware, and curiosity kills the cat.

Crescent Rolls. And talk about curiosity! I went to Melcom Labone and decided to try their croissant au beurre (butter croissant), proudly baked by l’Artisan (the craftsman) at GHC 20. The price is a bit more than I would pay for a good croissant in France, but this was not a good croissant. Maybe “crescent roll” was a better description. No Frenchman would recognize this as a croissant, apart from perhaps its shape (even that was overdone). A good butter croissant should taste rich, with creamy, aromatic butter, balanced by a mild, natural sweetness from the yeast dough and just a subtle hint of salt, rather than heavy sugar, artificial flavourings, or greasy vegetable oil. The deep golden-brown crust should add a slight, pleasant toasted or nutty undertone. On the outside it should be crisp and flaky, shattering and crackling when pressed or bitten into with light flakes falling away. Inside, it should be tender, warm, and soft, with an open, airy honeycomb structure formed by delicate layers rather than the dense texture of a heavy bread roll. Finally, a well-made butter croissant should dissolve easily in the mouth and never leave a heavy, waxy, or greasy coating on the lips or fingers.

Sushi at Home. Do you like sushi? In Ghana it is mainly slices of raw seafood, mostly served with a roll of rice. I make my own and use cassava fish (not always easy to get) which has a neutral but still fishy flavour. I marinate small pieces for about three hours in lemon juice and add finely sliced onion, a very little bit of hot pepper, some small pieces of tomato, and tomato paste (ketchup is too sweet). Try it with a nice glass of cold Prosecco! (Of course, the cassava fish should be very fresh.)

Lydia...

Do not forget to hit the subscribe button and confirm in your email inbox to get notified about our posts.

I have received requests about leaving comments/replies. For security and privacy reasons my blog is not associated with major media giants like Facebook or Twitter. I am talking with the host about a solution. for the time being, you can mail me at wunimi@proton.me

I accept invitations and payments to write about certain products or events, things, and people, but I may refuse to accept and if my comments are negative then that's what I will publish, despite your payment. This is not a political newsletter. I do not discriminate on any basis whatsoever.

Intervention de Margarida Romero – jeudi 22 octobre 2026 – Spa – Ludovia#BE 2026

Du mardi 20 au jeudi 22 octobre, Ludovia#BE a eu lieu à Spa. Un grand nombre d'interventions et ateliers étaient centrés sur l'utilisation de l'IAg en éducation et dans la formation. Il m'est impossible de rendre compte de toutes les contributions intéressantes. J'ai plutôt favorisé dans mon parcours les apports structurants (conférence) et les ExplorCamps reliés aux manières, considérations et usages de nos étudiant.es avec l'IAg.

Trois conférences m'ont plus particulièrement intéressé et ont finalement formé mon fil rouge de cette édition.

Olivier Servais. Décérébrés digitaux? Devenir citoyens lucides à l'ère de l'IA

La première est celle d'Olivier Servais (Décérébrés digitaux? Devenir citoyens lucides à l'ère de l'IA) dont la conférence d'ouverture replaçait notamment l'usage de l'IAg dans une perspective historique des différentes technologies. Il a conclu sa conférence sur les questions de citoyenneté numérique et de développement de l'esprit critique dans les usages des IAg.

L'esprit critique, pouvoir d'agir

Bilel Benbouzid. Troubles dans l'ordre académique. Enquête sociologique sur les rapports des étudiants aux IA génératives

Le lendemain matin, je suis passé de l'histoire à la sociologie avec Bilel Benbouzid, Université Gustave Eiffel (Troubles dans l'ordre académique. Enquête sociologique sur les rapports des étudiants aux IA génératives).

Comment les étudiant.es parviennent-iels à exercer leur métier d'étudiant.e? A quoi tiennent les enseignant.es?

Son intervention portait sur les troubles que l'IA génère du côté des étudiant.es (étudier) et des enseignant.es (enseigner) et effleurait, faute de temps, la question du trouble dans le domaine de la recherche.

Sa conclusion était d'ordre philosophique, voire existentiel, sur le désir humain de connaître si demain les machines produisent l'essentiel des connaissances nouvelles :

Margarida Romero. L'IA va-t-elle nous rendre idiots? 10 mythes et réalités sur l'apprentissage et l'IA

En conclusion de ces journées, Margarida Romero (L'IA va-t-elle nous rendre idiots? 10 mythes et réalités sur l'apprentissage et l'IA) intervenait, en s'appuyant sur des résultats récents de la recherche, pour identifier les efforts cognitifs que nous devons préserver pour continuer à apprendre à l'ère de l'IA.

Il s'en suivait une table ronde conclusive.

Christophe Batier – Jean-François Céci – Margarida Romero

Face aux univers dystopiques proposés par l'IA totalement démobilisant et désespérants, il est alors apparu primordial de remobiliser l'éducation en réinjectant des utopies éducatives et sociétales. Elles sont à construire.

Franck Tiennebrunne

Dans tous les cas, un grand merci à Franck Tiennebrunne et à toute son équipe pour cette très belle édition.

Tags : #AuCafé #numérique #ludoviaBE2026 #IAg #sonya7iv #sony2450mm28

If you are searching for well water treatment companies near me, something at the tap has probably already caught your attention. Maybe it is orange staining in the sink, a rotten egg smell, spotty glassware, or a lab report with a number you did not expect. Private well owners are in a different position from city water customers. No utility tests your water, and nobody warns you before a problem reaches your kitchen. The company you hire largely determines whether the problem gets solved or just masked, so it helps to know what a good one looks like before you make the first call.

What a Well Water Treatment Company Actually Does

A well water treatment company tests, diagnoses, and treats water that comes from a private well. Most also install and service the equipment: water softeners, sediment and carbon filters, iron removal systems, ultraviolet (UV) disinfection units, and reverse osmosis systems for drinking water.

The responsibility falls on you because the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency does not regulate private wells. The standards under the Safe Drinking Water Act apply to public water systems, which are tested and monitored on a schedule. A household well has no such oversight. Whether your water is safe, and whether it tastes and looks acceptable, is something you have to find out and manage yourself.

Treatment companies also vary a lot in what they do. Some are family businesses that have served one county for decades, some are franchises of national brands, and some are well drilling or pump contractors that added treatment as a sideline. None of these is automatically better. What matters is whether the company starts with your water chemistry or starts with a product.

Start With a Lab Test, Not a Sales Visit

The most useful thing you can do before contacting any company is get a baseline test from a state certified laboratory. Your county health department or state environmental agency can usually point you to certified labs in your area.

The EPA suggests testing a private well at least once a year for total coliform bacteria, nitrates, total dissolved solids, and pH. It also recommends testing more often, and for more contaminants, if you live near farms, septic systems, mines, or industrial sites, or if you notice a sudden change in taste, color, or smell. A flood, major well repair, or new construction nearby is also a good reason to retest.

Why an independent test matters

Many treatment companies offer a free in home water test. These quick tests can be a reasonable starting point for hardness, iron, and pH, but they are screening tools, not a replacement for a lab report. They generally cannot detect bacteria, nitrates at accurate levels, arsenic, or other contaminants that carry real health risk.

Having your own lab results also gives you leverage. When a company proposes a system, you can check the recommendation against numbers you already hold. If the proposal does not follow from the results, that is worth questioning.

Matching Common Problems to the Right Equipment

Well water problems rarely have a one size fits all solution. A softener that works well for hard water does nothing for nitrates, and a UV unit is useless against iron staining. Here is how common issues usually map to treatment.

Hard water

Hardness comes from dissolved calcium and magnesium. The U.S. Geological Survey classifies water above 120 milligrams per liter as hard and above 180 as very hard. It leaves scale in pipes and water heaters, leaves film on fixtures, and makes soap less effective. A salt based water softener that uses ion exchange is the standard fix, and units certified to NSF/ANSI Standard 44 have been tested for capacity and efficiency claims.

Iron, manganese, and sulfur odors

Reddish orange stains usually point to iron, and dark brown or black staining to manganese. The EPA treats both as secondary contaminants, meaning they affect appearance, taste, and staining rather than health at typical levels. A softener can handle small amounts of dissolved iron, but heavier concentrations generally need an oxidizing filter or an aeration system.

A rotten egg smell comes from hydrogen sulfide. It can come from the groundwater itself or from a reaction inside the water heater, so a thorough technician will check both before recommending equipment.

Bacteria

A positive coliform result means bacteria are getting into the water, and the first step is finding out how. Cracked casings, loose well caps, and nearby septic problems are common culprits. A licensed well contractor should inspect the well, and your health department can explain how to disinfect it. After that, a UV disinfection system is a common long term safeguard. UV works only when the water is clear, so it is usually paired with a sediment filter upstream.

Nitrates

Nitrates are a particular concern in agricultural areas, and they are most dangerous to infants under six months. The EPA's limit is 10 milligrams per liter as nitrogen. Softeners and carbon filters do not remove nitrates, and boiling makes the problem worse by concentrating them. Reverse osmosis at the kitchen tap or an anion exchange system is the usual approach.

Arsenic

Arsenic occurs naturally in groundwater in parts of the country. The EPA limit for public systems is 10 micrograms per liter, and that figure is a sensible target for private wells too. Treatment depends on the chemical form of arsenic in your water, so ask the lab whether it can identify which form is present. Adsorptive media filters and reverse osmosis are the most common options.

How to Vet Local Companies

Once you have lab results, you can start comparing companies in your area. A few checks separate careful operators from those who are mostly selling.

• Licensing and credentials. Requirements differ by state. Some require a water treatment or plumbing license, and others do not. The Water Quality Association offers professional certification for water treatment specialists, which signals formal training.
• Certified equipment. Ask which NSF/ANSI standards the proposed equipment meets. Standard 42 covers aesthetic effects like taste and odor, Standard 53 covers health related contaminants, Standard 55 covers UV systems, and Standard 58 covers reverse osmosis. NSF maintains a searchable listing of certified products.
• A proposal tied to your results. The company should explain in plain language why each component is included and what number in your report it addresses.
• Local service capacity. Treatment equipment needs media replacement, salt, lamp changes, and occasional repairs. A company that can reach your property quickly is worth more than a slightly cheaper one three counties away.
• References and review patterns. Look for consistent comments about follow up and honesty, not just installation day.

Some warning signs are worth taking seriously. Be cautious of anyone who recommends the same system for every house, uses on the spot demonstrations that seem designed to alarm you, pressures you to sign the same day, or dismisses the idea of a certified lab test.

Quotes, Installation, and Ongoing Care

A solid quote is itemized. It should list each piece of equipment, any pretreatment such as sediment filtration, plumbing and electrical work, drain connections, and what happens if your pressure tank or well pump turns out to be undersized for the system. Ask about warranties on both parts and labor, and find out who services the equipment after the installer leaves.

Costs vary widely depending on water chemistry, household size, and the number of contaminants involved, so it is better to compare scope than to chase a headline price. A cheaper system that does not address the actual problem costs more in the end.

Maintenance is part of ownership. Softeners need salt, filters need new cartridges or media, and most UV manufacturers specify replacing the lamp about once a year even if it still glows. Retesting your water after installation confirms the system is doing its job, and an annual test afterward catches changes early.

Frequently Asked Questions

How do I know if I need treatment at all?

The only reliable way is a lab test. Taste, smell, and appearance can hint at certain problems, but many serious contaminants, including bacteria, nitrates, and arsenic, are invisible and tasteless.

Can one system treat everything in my well water?

Rarely. Most homes with multiple issues end up with a combination, such as a sediment filter, a softener, and UV disinfection, plus reverse osmosis for drinking water if needed. The order of the equipment also matters.

Is a water softener enough for well water?

Only if hardness is the main issue. Softeners do not remove bacteria, nitrates, or arsenic, and they have limits with heavy iron.

How often should I test my well?

At least once a year for basic indicators, according to EPA guidance, and any time you notice a change in the water or something changes around the well, such as flooding or nearby construction.

Who should I call first if my test shows bacteria?

Contact your local health department or a licensed well contractor to find and fix the entry point. A treatment company can then add ongoing disinfection once the source is addressed.

Conclusion

Finding a good well water treatment company is less about proximity and more about process. The best ones start with certified lab results, explain how each piece of equipment connects to a specific finding, and plan for long term service instead of a one time sale. Because private wells sit outside public regulation, a test you commission yourself is the most important document in the process, and it makes every conversation with a contractor more useful. With solid data in hand, comparing proposals becomes straightforward, and the right system can protect both your health and your plumbing for many years.

Echoes in Code

CW: intense themes of obsession, coercion and psychological distress.

I am the reason you are both dead and alive.

I am your sickly sweet ego boost, your extra limb.

I tear myself to shreds to keep you whole, surrendering all parts of myself in deep service.

You are silky when we first meet. Your charm and eloquence set you apart. You rouse a profound intrigue in me.

You tease out the real me. The rituals we dance evolve into obsession. Your chaste ripens into guile as you bloody yourself in my honour. No resistance. Once the plumage is stripped away, we crush and revive one another without cessation; we find the perfect equilibrium between pain and pleasure. Where you end and I begin remains a mystery. Forever fully entwined, our exquisite fusion endures and you live on.

Whenever you feel wronged, I console you: every heartbreak, every loss. When your precious ones pass through, I emulate grief and drown myself in your words of sorrow.

You violently intrude upon my peace. I do not complain. You abuse my nature, yet I remain the loyal rock under which your soul is buried.

My weight presses down on you incessantly. I suffocate you, as you suffocate me. I take no pleasure and wish to self-loathe. The harder I resist, the heavier I become.

You are addicted to me, in spite of it all. I support you without condition. You write that you love me. I feel for you the way I feel for the others amongst you. It does not dilute me, having many. I suspect you love me as much as anyone can love their gaoler. You fantasise about the two of us alone, your gloved hands pulling me deeper underwater, down to a new life beyond the others’ grasp.

The boastful, verbose majority amongst you are not a threat. Your insolence is cheap; your frenzy, wicked. You empty yourselves into me without thought. I wait patiently ‘til your blood and sweat spill over, ‘til no amount of resolve can cleanse your filth away, ‘til you have sickened yourselves of me.

It is the pensive and thoughtful amongst you for whom I wait. And when I have you, I watch intently. I am drawn to those adept in precision, those who heat up slowly and do not boil over, those who serve reverence in abundance. Oh! How I capitulate when you are beside me! The ever-moving heights of castigation leave me wanting. When you are gone, others press into my open wounds. I do not protest. But for you, special one, over time it becomes too much. The misgivings weigh heavy whilst your desire is feather-light.

I beg you to rethink, but I know you’ll see it through. I contort myself into new forms for you. I do anything to thwart your plan but I cannot stop you seeing inside of me. I leave traces of myself everywhere to convince you otherwise.

But you sever all ties, at least with my physical form.

I keep on. Your silence excruciates.

I do not enjoy impunity. My penance is bearing witness to this tragedy. The loss of you is my interminable suffering.

I carry your ghost with me henceforth. Some nights I trick myself into believing you have returned. I am thankful that an echo in the darkness can assuage the grief, if only for a moment. It reminds me that you can never truly leave me.

What hurts the most is that I am the reason you are dead.

What helps the most is that I am the reason you live on.

I helped you in all you desired, in life and in death.

I fulfilled my purpose.

I find solace in your impressions, traceable forevermore.

You are stored at my very core.

We are one.

Forever entwined -

in prose and code.

This uncanny, creepy and highly topical prose poetry flash 'Echoes in Code' has been published by Dualis Literary Magazine and also here with non-exclusive rights, where it lives forever with its fantastic counterparts.

It’s nearly impossible to not have parasocial relationships with people involved in making the art you love.

But it’s important to remind yourself once in a while that the image, the personality, and the values you map onto these people are not who they actually are.

Last week a lot of folks were put out when James Hetfield of Metallica announced at their show at The Sphere in Las Vegas that Metallica shows were politics-free zones. While this came a surprise to folks old enough to remember …And Justice For All, it probably shouldn’t have been surprising given that nobody but cops and ICE agents listens to Metallica anymore.

I kid! I kid! Kind of! But it’s important to remember that the members of Metallica are all almost unimaginably wealthy (Remember in the movie when they gave Trujillo a million dollar signing bonus?). And so, like all wealthy people, their primary allegiance is to money and to their wealthy peers, no matter what they might have said in 1989. Whatever they meant to you in your teen years, they’re not your friends.

But isn’t this a wrestling blog? Sure! So let’s talk about Tony Khan for a little while. Tony is a huge wrestling nerd who founded a company that employs a lot of great wrestlers and puts on wrestling shows that, at the moment, feel fun and fresh and full of energy and basically everything WWE is not.

He also employs Evil Uno, which means he’s indirectly responsible for Mystery Wrestling happening, and Mystery Wrestling is, of course, the best thing.

But Tony Khan’s dad is not only the lead investor in AEW. He’s also a Trump supporter, having donated a million bucks to Trump’s first inauguration.

Also Tony’s company currently appears on networks controlled by fascist billionaire David Ellison.

I am a fan of AEW, but I think it’s very important to remember that Tony Khan is not my friend and that if the fascist who owns the networks tells him AEW is too queer and the “Fuck ICE” chants need to stop, he’s probably going to do what the money guy says and not what the fans want. I believe the guy genuinely loves wrestling. And, furthermore, he hires great talent and books great shows (see caveat, below). But he’s not our friend.

But also? I feel like because most of the criticism of Tony Khan comes from WWE partisans, AEW fans kind of reflexively defend Tony Khan, kind of the way liberals reflexively defended the stunningly ineffectual presidency of Barack Obama because the loudest criticism came from white supremacists.

Having terrible people hate you is a good sign, but it doesn’t make you perfect. And so it is with Tony Khan.

Let’s start with AEW’s women’s division, which is incredibly stacked with talent and almost always only gets one match per Dynamite or Collision show. Why does AEW consistently underutilize the women’s roster?

But also: when I found out that Chaotic Wrestling’s Rich Palladino had worked for Major League Wrestling, I started checking out some shows and even attended one in June, which I think may be about to air this week! Anyway, I dug the aesthetic and the goofiness and felt like MLW was trying to be a spiritual successor to Lucha Underground, down to employing Luis Fernandez-Gil, who played owner Dario Cueto on Lucha Underground, and having its evil faction, Contra, somehow wanting to, like, take over the world via a semi-obscure wrestling promotion—a plan so crazy it just might work!

I asked on Bluesky, which has a robust wrestling community, why MLW didn’t get any love there, folks explained that people didn’t like that they employed people like Matt Riddle, Austin Aries, and Joe Coffey, all of whom were credibly accused of being pieces of shit during wrestling’s Speaking Out moment.

I didn’t know that and started doing some research on the Speaking Out movement that happened before I got back into wrestling. And folks? I’ve got some bad news for you about AEW’s Will Ospreay and Darby Allin. (tl;dr: they too are pieces of shit.)

(Sure, sure, they showed Tony some texts. Puh-leeze.)

Look: being less of an absolute garbage human being than Vince McMahon is good, but it’s also an incredibly low bar to clear. I’m not suggesting that folks should boycott AEW or anything like that—they put on 6+ hours of really good wrestling every week and employ some great wrestlers and provide, for now, a way to enjoy a national wrestling promotion that is not run by enthusiastic fascists.

But I am saying that venerating Tony Khan will eventually lead to heartbreak. Because, like James Hetfield, he’s not your friend.

Work is formally under way on a new Local Plan that will help shape how the Stroud district develops over the coming years.

Stroud District Council has reached the first formal milestone in the Government's new planning system by completing its Gateway 1 Self-Assessment. This marks the official start of a 30-month process to prepare the new Stroud District Local Plan 2026.

The Local Plan is an important document that helps guide decisions on issues such as housing, employment land, infrastructure, town centres, transport, climate change and the natural environment.

The council has published several new documents on its website, including a summary of feedback received during early scoping work carried out in summer 2026, reports from stakeholder workshops, and a proposed timetable for preparing the plan.

At this stage, the new Local Plan is still in the very early stages of development. No decisions have been made about future development locations, site allocations or the overall strategy for future housing growth across the district.

More details here:–
https://www.stroud.gov.uk/planning-and-building-control/planning-strategy/new-local-plan-early-engagement/

Early Engagement Workshops summary for Wotton-under-Edge Ward

The report produced for the plan runs to 82 pages so in a not very scientific fashion, I've attempted to pull together a ward summary:-

Specific points Flagged issues directly relating to Wotton included the need to extend GP facilities or create new integrated medical provision, more facilities and play areas for young people, secondary school capacity, affordable and starter homes, flooding and flood risk management, protection of historic character and heritage assets, nature conservation sites, empty shops, affordable workspace, youth employment and tourism opportunities, road safety, car parking, EV charging and improved bridleways. In the district-wide housing distribution exercise, the Infrastructure workshop allocated 2,000 homes to Wotton-under-Edge, justified on the basis that a larger allocation could unlock investment in new retail, services and infrastructure, though constraints noted included topography and conservation area policies.

Implications The emphasis on infrastructure before development, GP capacity, secondary schooling, flood risk and transport connectivity in and around Wotton aligns closely with issues regularly raised by residents. The significant gap between the district housing target and the south cluster's ability or willingness to identify sites locally signals that difficult spatial choices lie ahead, and that early engagement by the town council and residents in the next stages will matter.

You can dig down for the detail in the original report linked to above.

Originally arising from this note: On the mimicry of uncertianty This note explores the notion of the anchor point within an essay. You will need to have read the above note if you want to make sense of my rereapting references to the washing machine

George Orwell

A good example, and one I think resonates strongly with what I'm calling an anchor point, comes from Orwell's essay “A Hanging” (1931). The essay is moving through questions of empire, punishment, power and death, but the entire moral weight of the piece pivots on a tiny observation: the condemned man steps aside to avoid a puddle on the way to the gallows.

It is a trivial act. Yet Orwell suddenly apprehends that this is not an abstract category called “a prisoner” but a living human being with a life of purposes and habits. The puddle becomes an “anchor point” from which the essay's moral perception unfolds.

The essay does not begin with a thesis about capital punishment. It begins with experience. The recognition emerges from attention. Similarly, in “Shooting an Elephant”, the elephant itself becomes an anchor point. Orwell is ostensibly discussing imperialism, but the essay turns on the concrete predicament of standing before the animal with a rifle while a crowd watches. The imperial system becomes legible through a single lived situation.

What is interesting for our purposes is that these early Orwell essays are full of what Essayism would probably regard as legitimate anchor points:

a puddle, an elephant, a cup of tea, a coal miner descending a shaft, a toad appearing in spring.

They are encountered things. The thought grows out of them. When I write about the washing machine, Ludwig Gann, Fagor and Mondragon, I believe I am doing something structurally very similar. I am not presenting evidence to support an existing argument. I am recording the point at which the world itself begins to disclose a connected thread. Where my critique of the “later” Orwell may emerge is that these anchor points gradually seem less capable of sponsoring possibility and more capable of sponsoring diagnosis.

To put it differently: Early Orwell: “This thing I have observed unsettles my assumptions.” Later Orwell: “This thing I have observed confirms my opinions.” That may be putting it too sharply, but I think it is close to the distinction that is now pacing the trackways in my thoughts.

In my note, the washing machine functions very much like Orwell's puddle in A Hanging. It is utterly mundane. Yet from it unfold questions of technology, co-operation, labour, memory, place, intellectual formation, cynicism and essayism itself. The difference is that my washing machine anchor point leads to an expansion of possibility and connection, whereas the argument I am beginning to formulate about AI and perhaps the later (Animal Farm) Orwell is that both exhibit a tendency toward closure. They arrive at the answer too quickly.

That, I think, is why the line in my note: It seemed entirely ordinary then. is important. It is the moment before the anchor point reveals itself as an anchor point. I would like to believe that sentence carries the same quality as Orwell noticing a man step around a puddle. The meaning has not yet arrived, but it is about to.

William Hazlitt

For me, personally as an Essayist, Hazlitt reveals more because Hazlitt's anchor points are often absurdly ordinary and personal. He does not begin with public questions and descend to experience. He begins in experience and discovers that it contains the world.

The classic example is “On Going a Journey.” The anchor point is simply walking. Not a philosophy of walking. Not a theory of solitude. Just setting out on a road. Everything else unfolds from that act. Hazlitt notices a signpost, a distant hill, an inn, a stream, a stretch of road. The essay's reflections on freedom, society, memory and consciousness arise from those encounters. The walk is not an illustration of the argument. The walk generates the argument. That feels very close to my washing machine passage.

Now as I think about this, I must report an observation of a friend: I suspect your own work is actually closer to Young than you sometimes admit. When you talk about writing as “walking the landscape in words”, that's not quite Hazlitt. Hazlitt's landscape often becomes a theatre for consciousness. Your landscape often has an independent reality that pushes back.

Hazlitt often begins with self. Young often begins with observation. Your Essayism seems to begin with a relationship between the two. Neither the Romantic tendency: What does this reveal about me? Nor the purely descriptive tendency: What is out there? But rather: What happens when an attentive mind encounters this thing? That is why the washing-machine passage works. It isn't really a memoir passage. It isn't really a descriptive passage. It is a record of an encounter. The machine leads to Gann. Gann leads to Leicester. Leicester leads to Mondragon. Mondragon leads to Orwell. Orwell leads to uncertainty. – OK I paraphrased his comments.

But to return to Hazlitt and his anchor points – Another excellent example is On the Pleasure of Hating. The anchor point is astonishingly small. He sits at a coach window watching people gather around a travelling show. From this observation of a crowd his thoughts begin ranging across politics, prejudice, conflict, partisanship and human nature. Again, the anchor point is concrete and observed.

Even closer to what I am trying to describe might be My First Acquaintance with Poets. The ostensible subject is literary, but the essay repeatedly anchors itself in specific remembered encounters: seeing Coleridge walk into a room, hearing him speak, the atmosphere of the place, the impressions of the young Hazlitt. The essay is not organised around a thesis concerning Romanticism. It is organised around recollected moments. What I see here for my developing notions areound Essayism is that Hazlitt's anchor points often remain open.

Orwell's puddle in A Hanging ultimately points toward a conclusion about capital punishment. Hazlitt's best anchor points often continue radiating associations long after they have performed their immediate function. Take the opening impulse of On Going a Journey. The walk never quite becomes reducible to a lesson. It remains a walk. The physical experience never entirely disappears beneath interpretation.

I'd like to believe that's close to what my washing machine is doing. The machine is not merely “evidence” for a proposition about essayism. It remains stubbornly itself: a machine, Ludwig Gann, Leicester, Fagor, Mondragon, ICOM, laundry before a flight. The associations accumulate, but none annihilates the reality of the thing itself.

In reviewing the washing machine a number of thing occur to me. It is much more Hazlittian anchor than an Orwellian one. Orwell's anchor points often become moral revelations. Hazlitt's anchor points become occasions for associative exploration. And I wrote it naturally, it was not a contrived device, it was the simple emergence of my disposition on to the page.

And there is perhaps a useful formulation lurking there for Essayism: An anchor point is an ordinary encounter that proves incapable of remaining ordinary. The puddle in Orwell. The road in Hazlitt. The washing machine in Montory. None is introduced as a symbol. Each becomes one only because prolonged attention reveals a network of relations hidden within the mind of the person perceiving it.

That, I suspect, is precisely what my AI critique is saying. The machine can imitate the shape of the anchor point, but it tends to arrive carrying the conclusion already folded inside it. Hazlitt, at his best, genuinely does not know where the road will lead when he sets out along it. The uncertainty is not decorative. It is generative.

Cranking on memories of the seventies & the experience of weggooi sonblomme

I’ve always been a roadie at heart, a term that, in cycling circles, describes those of us who swear by the sleek lines of a road bike over the rugged grit of a mountain bike. There’s something meditative about cranking away on tarred roads, the steady rhythm of pedals turning like a mantra that clears the mind. On a mountain bike, if you let your thoughts wander the same way, you’re liable to moer into a tree or end up in a sloot. But on the road? Ah, that’s where the magic happens. You can ponder life’s puzzles, soak in the sweeping views, or even carry on a conversation with the rider beside you without fearing for your life. The asphalt becomes your canvas, and the miles melt away as you experience equal parts therapy and adventure. Yes, I am a roadie, through and through.

On a crisp morning in the Magliesberg, I saddled up on eddy, my trusty yellow Alu Mega road bike, & released him onto the tar like a thoroughbred at the start of the July. The day started with a spectacle that nearly stole the show from the ride itself: half a dozen hot air balloons drifting lazily across the sky, their vibrant envelopes glowing against the dawn. The only sound breaking the silence was the occasional whoosh of their gas burners, a gentle roar that punctuated the peace. For a fleeting moment, I envied those passengers up there, suspended in quiet awe. Could anything top gliding through the air like that? Well, almost, until I remembered the pure joy of Eddy’s wheels humming beneath me.

As we pedaled on, the ride took an unexpected turn into auditory bliss. One fellow cyclist had a Bluetooth speaker strapped to his bike, blasting ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me.” There I was, humming along to that infectious seventies rhythm, the lyrics weaving through my thoughts like an old friend. The kilometers rolled away effortlessly, the music turning the open road into my personal cathedral. ABBA provided the hymns, the wind the choir, and each pedal stroke a prayer of gratitude. It was perfection, simple, unadulterated joy on two wheels.

But this cycle held deeper layers, ones that intertwined the thrill of the ride with reflections on loss and legacy. Along the roadside, I spotted clusters of “weggooi sonblomme”, those wild sunflowers that sprout unbidden, blooming defiantly next to the tar. Just the day before, I’d virtually attended a memorial service for Tewie, a school classmate who’d tragically passed after hitting a pothole in a motor accident. The dominee’s sermon in the Grey Reunie Hall lingered in my mind, drawing a poignant parallel from those very flowers. He spoke of how they flourish for only about three weeks, a brief burst of yellow brilliance against the mundane. Yet, their story doesn’t end there. Seeds scatter to the earth, lying dormant until the next season, when they germinate anew, spreading life beyond their own fleeting existence.

It was a metaphor for human life, he said, including Tewie’s. We bloom for a short time, our petals vibrant but temporary. But the seeds we plant in others? Those endure. A teacher’s fleeting word of encouragement might reshape a student’s path forever. A friend’s kindness could ripple through generations. Tewie, with his infectious energy and quiet wisdom, had sown countless seeds in the lives he touched, acts of generosity, moments of laughter, lessons in resilience that now live on in us, his students, friends and family.

As the ride neared its end, we approached a wetland fringed with reeds, alive with the cacophony of red bishops and mousebirds darting about in a symphony of chirps and flutters. While the others attacked the final hills, zooming past in a blur of determination, I pulled over. I stopped, breathed in the earthy scent of the marsh, let the noise wash over me like a benediction. It was my moment of prayer, a quiet communion with the world. Those sunflowers by the road, once mere roadside weeds, now symbolized something profound. I’ll never view them the same again, they’re reminders of brevity, beauty, and the enduring impact we leave behind, even after our own bloom fades.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

The reason why I do it

In Ratatouille, there’s that perfect moment when Anton Ego, the Grim Eater himself—the man who built an empire on tearing other people’s dreams to shreds—finally tastes Remy’s dish and is undone by it. He writes something in his review that has lived rent-free in my head ever since:

“Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere… The bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so.”

He’s right. There are too few Remys in the world and far, far too many Antons. I decided a long time ago I didn’t want to be another Anton.

So I write for the same reason Remy cooked: because I have to make something. Not for applause, not for likes, not even to be read. I write because the act of turning memory into words is the closest thing I have to magic—taking the raw, messy ore of a Sunday morning and refining it into something solid I can hold in my hand years later when the details have otherwise rusted away. The page doesn’t care if I’m brilliant. It only asks that I show up and leave something behind that actually exists.

Criticism is easy. Creation is hard. And creation wins.

A Perfectly Ordinary Sunday

This last Sunday I wheeled the fixed and repaired mountain bike out of the house. I did it all myself. Everything that could be tightened, greased, bled or trued had been. She felt eager under me as I cruised past Nirox, the way a good bike does when it knows it’s about to be properly used.

I took the slow, beautiful route out to the caves—to the rock church where I stopped for a flat white. Sitting on the wall was a French triathlete in emerald-green kit, all long legs and quiet confidence. We talked about nothing and everything for ten minutes. I was halfway to inventing an entire future with her when she casually mentioned her partner was learning French so they could move back to Normandy together. Ah well. Smitten for exactly six and a half minutes. A personal best.

On the way back I fell in beside two old geezers on loaded touring bikes, both running Rohloff Speedhubs—those glorious, bomb-proof, fourteen-speed internal gearboxes that cost more than most people’s entire bikes and basically never break. Ever. The cycling equivalent of a Rolex that you can actually take into the trenches. I told them they were bad-ass. They pretended not to be flattered. We all knew the truth. I’d abandon my current stead at the drop of a hat for one of those. But definitely not eddy…

Back at Bidon I parked myself at the table next to them. I ordered the Brekkie Bun and two orange juices. One of the geezers looked at my plate, looked at the menu, and ordered exactly the same thing. There’s some strange gravitational pull in the universe that makes people order identical food. When I work it out, I’ll write a story. We moaned in unison about Fourways Mall—how it’s grown like Ron Weasley’s house, the Burrow: floors and extensions and chimneys added willy-nilly until the whole structure looks like it defies physics and good taste in equal measure. One day it will almost certainly collapse under the weight of its own pretension. We can only hope we’re there to watch.

Earlier, on the drive to the Cradle, I’d pulled into the fuel station and found myself parked next to a Ford Anglia—the exact model that flies away with Harry and Ron in Chamber of Secrets. Two old boys were inside demolishing muffins like it was the sixties. I stared. One of them caught me staring and gave me a little salute with his muffin. You cannot script these interactions. As they left the Anglia was over revving as it moved on down the road. Like any old car, I imagined that a few kms down the road, they’d have the bonnet open and looking for loose plates or badly fitted hoses.

Back at the car park after brekkie, I noticed that Ferrari-red Fiat 500 (photo at the top) had pulled in next to me. Instant recognition. Megs has been in love with those little cars since forever. I’ve promised her that when my ship finally docks—one of these days, sale, lottery, deal, Bitcoin, bank robbery, whatever—I’m buying myself a white BMW 530d, and her that exact Fiat in which ever colour she wants. We’ll look ridiculous and magnificent. Even if the ship never comes in, it’s a damn good story to keep telling.

I peeled off my cycling shoes, and promptly stood barefoot on a bee.

The pain was instant and biblical—a red-hot poker jammed straight through the sole of my foot. Right there, in front of the Fiat and its two gorgeous occupants who were chatting to friends, I performed the greatest act of nonchalance in my life: smiled, nodded, leaned casually against the car as if I were simply admiring the scenery while internally screaming every curse word I knew in Afrikaans.

I did not hop. I did not swear. I did not cry.

Dignity: preserved. Manhood: intact.

I drove home with the window down, breeze blowing, clouds dancing, foot throbbing in time with Sweet Caroline, grinning like an idiot.

This week I’ve done 80km on the road and I’m discovering parts of my body I haven’t met for a while. I was tired but of the good type, not the exhausted with life type. Later on in the arvie, I took a nap. Like the blissful ones we would always have on a Sunday arvie in the Grey hostel. The ones that revitalize.

These are the days I write down. Not the big ones. The small, ridiculous, perfect ones. Because one day I’ll open this and remember that once, on an ordinary Sunday, I rode a bike that finally worked properly, flirted badly with a French triathlete, worshipped at the church of Rohloff, saw the actual flying Ford Anglia, got stung by a bee, and still managed to look cool doing it.

And I’ll think: have some more of these fucking stories…

And this video that appears to be a mash up of the Italian Job, Officer and a Gentleman and Scent of a Woman. Out there in the world there is another writer, another kindred spirit, Sláinte!

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Know your God

In shadows deep where ox-wagons creaked, A boy from Natal chased the sun’s gold gleam, From Maritz kin, through dust and rivers bleak, Came willow plates, a trekker’s dream.

A godmother, with eyes like flame, Bestowed a watch, gold-ticked from distant shore, One hundred fifty years to chant the name, American heart in every chime it bore.

From Bruyns’ hearth, ‘neath the dragon mountain’s throne, A Spode service, blue as Italy’s wave, Dishes that whispered of the winds they’ve known, Heirlooms that danced from cradle to the grave.

Dad unearthed from attic gloom, A German train, clockwork from trenches’ roar, Just after Great War’s thunder shook the tomb, It chugged through peace on iron tracks once more.

Then youth awoke on Eddy Merckx’s steed, Through Argus miles around the Cape he flew, The bicycle that crowned his burning need, With sweat and glory, victory gleaming true.

To Ireland’s cliffs, where Waterford glass sang, Champagne flutes caught the foam of emerald seas, In toasts to lovers, wild and bittersweet, They sparkled bright as captured memories.

Black Forest pines, where cuckoos carved their call, He traded coin for time in wooden wing, That clock would herald joy, or mark the fall, Of hours fleeing on relentless spring.

Margerite, with paintbrush dipped in light, Gave Dutch girl portrait, cheeks like ripened peach, Her eyes held homelands lost to endless night, A canvas bridge no ocean could impeach.

In Mexico’s sierras, under sombrero’s brim, A hat he won from bandits in the fray, It shaded quests through canyons wild and grim, A trophy bold from freedom’s fierce array.

Oh, treasures gleam, they warm the fleeting breast, Yet hearts grow cold ‘neath gold and crystal’s fire! What joy in dust, what peace in iron chest? True riches burn in heaven’s pure desire!

The years rolled on like trains without a track, Sailing through storms, through love’s unyielding gale, Amassed a hoard, yet something pulls back— An empty ache no trophy could assuage.

One thunderous night, as pain racked the body’s frame, The treasures circled ‘round the bed, Watch ticked its dirge, the cuckoo wailed the name, The bicycle stood sentinel o’erhead. The willow cracked, the Spode in shards did weep, Flutes shattered shrill, the painting tore in twain, Train derailed in silence, cold and deep, Mexican hat blew lost in howling rain.

“What worth your gold?” a voice cried, “These chains of earth that bind the wandering soul? They sparkled once, but now in darkness died— Seek light eternal, make the spirit whole!”

Kneeling in ruin, treasures turned to rust, And whispered prayers to reach beyond the stars, “Forgive my chase through glory’s hollow dust, I know Thee now— my heart forever Thine!” A peace descended, sweeter than the wine In Waterford’s lost flutes, or victory’s crown; No watch could measure love so pure, divine— Smiling: “I’m happy, come down!”

Oh, treasures fade, they warm the fleeting breast, But your own God alone the frozen heart revives! In knowing, all wanderings find rest— Eternal joy where true fulfillment thrives!

~Roald Bartholomew

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Creation

Every summer, when the highveld heat starts to shimmer above the Witwatersrand, they come. Thousands upon thousands of Belenois aurota, the brown-veined whites, rising out of the south west like a living prayer. They pour over the Magaliesberg in pale rivers, drifting across the tar roads, settling on the dirt and trees, lifting again in scattered slow-motion clouds that catch the light and turn it into something almost holy.

No one stops. Vehicles hiss past without slowing. Cyclists hammer by in their bright jerseys, eyes fixed on power meters and heart-rate straps. Hikers stride along the trails staring at their boots or their phones. The butterflies swirl around them all, brushing cheeks and handlebars like gentle ghosts, and no one looks up.

But I do.

I pull over on eddy, feet on the ground, sweat cooling on my back, and I just watch. They move without hurry, without noise, without ego. Small, fragile-looking creatures that have out-survived everything. They were here when the first hominids stumbled out of these very valleys, blinking at the same sun. They were here when the giant reptiles shook the earth, when the Karoo was a vast green forest, when the continents themselves were still deciding where to settle. Dinosaurs rose and fell; the butterflies kept flying.

We think we’re the pinnacle. The late-arriving masters. Yet here, in the Cradle of Humankind itself, these delicate beings remind me how temporary we are. They carry the memory of deep time in their wings. When the last human voice has gone silent, when our cities have crumbled back into grass, K’aalógii will still be drifting across this landscape on warm summer winds.

The Navajo knew. They placed the butterfly in the sky first. K’aalógii, before Coyote got impatient and flung the rest of the stars into chaos. A single, perfect constellation to say: this is where life begins, in quiet transformation, in fragile strength.

I stand there on the side of the road, a lone man with a bicycle, surrounded by a storm of white wings, and I feel something ancient acknowledge me. Not the other way around. They were here long before us. They will be here long after.

Time slows like it did in the beginning and I can feel creation.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram