There is something sacred about the moment when one year ends and another begins, even if we pretend not to notice it.

We may say it’s just another day on the calendar, just another turn of the clock, but something inside us knows better. There is always a quiet pause—sometimes brief, sometimes heavy—where we look backward without meaning to and forward without certainty. We carry the residue of what didn’t work. We carry hope that feels cautious instead of bold. We step into a new year not empty-handed, but full of memory.

If Jesus were standing in front of you in that moment—right there, in the stillness between what was and what will be—He would not rush you past it.

He would not scold you for what you didn’t accomplish. He would not pressure you with a checklist of goals. He would not demand a better version of you before He spoke peace.

He would look at you.

Really look at you.

He would see what the past year took out of you. He would see the prayers you whispered instead of shouted. He would see the strength it took just to stay faithful when enthusiasm faded. And before saying anything else, He would ground you in truth.

Then, gently—but with authority—He would say something that sounds almost unreasonable given what you’ve lived through:

This is going to be your best year yet.

Not because everything is about to improve. Not because struggle will suddenly disappear. But because something in you has changed.

And Jesus always measures “best” by who you are becoming, not by how comfortable your circumstances feel.

---

Most of us have been taught—subtly, consistently, almost unconsciously—to measure a good year by outcomes.

Did things get easier? Did life feel lighter? Did we make progress people could see? Did doors open faster than they closed?

We are conditioned to believe that the best year is the smoothest one, the most successful one, the one with the fewest disruptions and the clearest path forward. We celebrate years that feel impressive and quietly endure the ones that don’t.

But Jesus never measured life that way.

He spoke openly about hardship. He warned about storms. He talked about loss, waiting, persecution, and seasons where faith would feel costly instead of convenient. And yet, in the same breath, He promised abundance—not the shallow kind, but the kind that endures pressure.

Abundant life, in the way Jesus speaks of it, is not about external ease. It is about internal anchoring. It is the kind of life that can stand upright even when circumstances lean hard against it.

That is why Jesus would tell you this can be your best year yet—not because it will be free of difficulty, but because difficulty no longer has the same power over you that it once did.

You have been shaped.

---

There are seasons in life that feel productive, and there are seasons that feel formative. We tend to prefer the productive ones because they are visible, measurable, and affirming. But formative seasons are the ones that actually change us.

The past year—or years, for some of you—may not have produced the kind of results you hoped for. You may not have seen clear breakthroughs. You may not have felt consistent momentum. You may have spent more time surviving than advancing.

Jesus does not dismiss that.

In fact, He honors it.

Because survival with faith is not stagnation. It is preparation.

There is a quiet kind of endurance that does not announce itself. It does not post updates. It does not feel heroic in the moment. It simply keeps showing up, keeps trusting, keeps walking—sometimes slowly, sometimes limping, but still forward.

Jesus sees that kind of faith clearly.

He has always had a particular tenderness for people who keep going without applause.

---

If Jesus were speaking directly to you, He would likely address the weight you’ve been carrying more than the goals you’ve been setting.

He would acknowledge how tired you are—not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. He would recognize the effort it took to stay steady when answers were slow and clarity felt out of reach.

There are people who enter a new year energized. And then there are people who enter it worn down, quietly hoping that whatever comes next does not require more than they have left to give.

Jesus speaks especially gently to the second group.

He never shamed exhaustion. He never dismissed weariness. He invited it closer.

“Come to Me,” He said, “all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Notice what He offers first.

Not solutions. Not strategies. Not outcomes.

Rest.

Rest is not something you earn after success. It is something you receive before transformation.

That alone reframes what a “best year” might actually look like.

---

The truth is, many of the years we later describe as the most meaningful did not feel good while we were living them.

They felt uncertain. They felt slow. They felt heavy.

But they quietly reshaped us.

Jesus understood this pattern deeply. Before public ministry came obscurity. Before authority came obedience. Before resurrection came burial. Growth always preceded glory, and surrender always came before renewal.

He even said that unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone. But if it dies, it produces much fruit.

That metaphor is uncomfortable because it reminds us that life often requires letting go before it can multiply. Something must be released. Something must be buried. Something must end.

Many people resist this truth, not because they lack faith, but because they misunderstand God’s timing. We assume that if something feels like loss, it must be punishment. If something feels like delay, it must be denial.

Jesus tells a different story.

Sometimes what feels like loss is actually preparation. Sometimes what feels like delay is refinement. Sometimes what feels like burial is the beginning of fruitfulness we cannot yet see.

Roots grow in darkness.

---

If the past season felt like pressure, it may be because something strong was forming beneath the surface.

Pressure has a way of exposing what is real. It clarifies priorities. It strips away false confidence. It reveals what we trust when everything else is shaken.

Jesus never wasted pressure. He allowed it to do its work.

And that is why He could say, with complete sincerity, that this can be your best year yet—because you are no longer entering it untested, ungrounded, or unaware.

You are entering it with discernment.

You know what drains you now. You know what matters. You know which voices to listen to—and which ones to release.

That knowledge did not come cheaply.

---

One of the most freeing things Jesus ever did was refuse to define people by their worst moment.

He did not reduce Peter to denial. He did not reduce Paul to persecution. He did not reduce the woman at the well to her past relationships.

He saw people as they were becoming, not as they had been.

And yet, many of us continue to live as though our past mistakes have permanent authority over our future.

We replay old failures. We rehearse old regrets. We carry labels that God has already removed. We step into new seasons while mentally living in old chapters.

Jesus would gently interrupt that cycle.

He would remind you that you do not live there anymore.

If you are in Christ, you are not a revised version of your old self—you are a new creation. That does not mean you forget the past. It means the past no longer gets the final word.

This year can be your best year because you are finally learning to live forward instead of backward.

And that changes everything.

---

There is a subtle but powerful shift that happens when a person stops trying to outrun their past and starts trusting God with their future.

They become lighter. They breathe easier. They stop striving for validation. They stop punishing themselves for growth that took time.

Jesus would tell you that freedom is not dramatic—it is quiet and steady and deeply stabilizing. It shows up not in loud victories, but in calm responses. Not in perfection, but in peace.

That kind of freedom does not make life easier, but it makes life clearer.

And clarity is one of the greatest gifts a new year can offer.

---

Perhaps the most counterintuitive thing Jesus would say is that the best years often begin with surrender, not achievement.

We are taught to start the year by setting goals, increasing effort, and pushing harder. Jesus invites something different. He invites trust.

Trust that you do not have to control everything. Trust that your worth is not measured by output. Trust that rest is not failure.

Some years are meant for building. Others are meant for healing. Healing years rarely look impressive to others, but they are holy in the eyes of God.

If this is a year where your soul needs recovery more than recognition, Jesus would not rush you past that.

He would meet you there.

---

And this is where the idea of “best year” truly shifts.

The best year is not the one where everything changes around you. It is the one where something changes within you that affects everything else.

Peace alters how you experience stress. Faith reshapes how you face uncertainty. Trust changes how you walk into the unknown.

Jesus focuses on internal transformation because He knows it lasts longer than external success.

---

As you stand at the edge of this year, Jesus would want you to know one thing clearly: you are not walking into it alone.

He promised His presence not as a temporary comfort, but as a constant reality. Not just when things go well, but when they don’t. Not just when faith feels strong, but when it feels quiet.

You are accompanied.

Even on days that feel ordinary. Even on days that feel slow. Even on days where nothing seems to happen.

Those days matter more than you realize.

---

This year may not announce itself with fireworks. It may unfold quietly. But quiet years often reshape the future in ways loud years never could.

And that is why Jesus would tell you—without hesitation—that this can be your best year yet.

Because becoming matters more than achieving.

Because faith that endures is stronger than faith that performs.

Because God is not finished with you.

Jesus would also want you to understand something that often gets lost in the noise of modern faith conversations: transformation rarely announces itself when it begins.

It happens quietly.

It happens in the unseen places—in decisions no one applauds, in moments where obedience feels small, in days where faith looks ordinary rather than impressive. The most meaningful shifts in a person’s life usually start internally, long before anything changes externally.

That is why so many people miss what God is doing in their lives. They are waiting for visible confirmation before they believe growth is happening. Jesus asks us to trust the process before the evidence arrives.

This year may not start with clarity. It may not begin with confidence. It may not feel dramatically different at first.

But it may be laying foundations that will hold you for the rest of your life.

---

Jesus was never in a hurry.

That alone should comfort us.

He did not rush conversations. He did not force outcomes. He did not pressure people into instant transformation. He allowed growth to take the time it needed, because rushed faith does not last.

We live in a culture obsessed with speed. Faster results. Faster healing. Faster answers. Faster progress. We feel behind if things do not move quickly enough.

Jesus offers a different rhythm.

He invites us to walk.

Walking implies pace. Walking implies endurance. Walking implies trust in the journey, not just the destination.

This year may not be about sprinting ahead. It may be about learning how to walk steadily without fear of falling behind.

And that kind of steadiness produces peace.

---

One of the most powerful shifts that can happen in a person’s life is when they stop seeing waiting as wasted time.

Jesus spent thirty years in relative obscurity before three years of public ministry. He was not inactive. He was preparing. He was growing in wisdom. He was living faithfully in ordinary life.

If Jesus did not rush His own calling, we should not assume ours must be hurried.

Some of you have been waiting for things to change for a long time. You have been faithful without clarity. Obedient without assurance. Patient without visible reward.

Jesus sees that.

And He would tell you that waiting does not mean nothing is happening. It means something important is being formed.

This year may not eliminate waiting—but it may finally give it meaning.

---

There is also something Jesus would want to free you from as you move forward: comparison.

Comparison is one of the quietest thieves of peace. It convinces us that we are behind when we are actually being prepared. It makes us doubt our progress because it does not look like someone else’s.

Jesus never asked anyone to follow another person’s timeline. He asked them to follow Him.

Your path is not supposed to look like anyone else’s.

Your growth will not happen on someone else’s schedule.

Your faith will mature in ways unique to your story, your wounds, your calling, and your temperament.

This year can be your best year because you are finally learning to walk your own road without apology.

---

Jesus often emphasized the condition of the heart more than the outcome of events.

He knew that a heart at peace could survive circumstances that would crush a restless one. He knew that faith rooted in trust would outlast faith rooted in excitement.

That is why He spoke so often about abiding—remaining connected, staying grounded, continuing even when the external environment changed.

Abiding does not mean stagnation. It means stability.

And stability allows growth to happen without chaos.

This year may not be dramatic. But it may be deeply stabilizing.

And stability is a gift many people never receive.

---

Another quiet truth Jesus would remind you of is this: not every good thing feels good while it’s happening.

Pruning is painful. Refinement is uncomfortable. Letting go can feel like loss even when it leads to freedom.

Jesus spoke openly about pruning branches so they could bear more fruit. He did not pretend the process was pleasant. He simply promised it was purposeful.

Some of what you are releasing this year—habits, relationships, expectations, identities—may feel difficult. But difficulty does not mean destruction. It often means preparation for something healthier.

This year can be your best year because you are becoming more honest about what needs to change.

Honesty is the doorway to healing.

---

As this year unfolds, Jesus would encourage you to stop waiting for a perfect version of yourself to begin living faithfully.

You do not need to be fearless to move forward. You do not need to be fully healed to be faithful. You do not need to be certain to be obedient.

Faith was never about certainty. It was about trust.

And trust grows through use.

Each small step matters. Each quiet decision counts. Each moment of obedience builds something lasting.

The best years are often built from ordinary faithfulness repeated consistently.

---

Jesus would also want you to understand that peace is not found in having everything figured out. Peace is found in knowing Who walks with you while things remain unclear.

He promised His presence, not predictability.

That promise still holds.

You are not walking into this year unsupported. You are not navigating it alone. You are not expected to carry everything by yourself.

Grace meets you daily, not all at once.

And daily grace is enough.

---

As the year progresses, there will be moments where you wonder if anything is really changing. There will be days where progress feels invisible. There will be times where old fears resurface and doubts whisper again.

Jesus would not be surprised by that.

He would remind you that growth is not linear. Faith deepens through repetition, not perfection. What matters is not whether doubt appears, but whether you continue walking despite it.

Continuing matters more than feeling confident.

And you are capable of continuing.

---

When Jesus spoke about the future, He often framed it with hope—not because circumstances would be easy, but because God would be present within them.

Hope is not denial. Hope is perspective.

Hope allows us to move forward without knowing everything. It allows us to trust without controlling outcomes. It allows us to rest even when answers are incomplete.

This year may not answer every question—but it may finally teach you how to live without needing all the answers at once.

That is a profound kind of freedom.

---

If Jesus were to summarize all of this in one sentence as you step into this year, it might be something like this:

The best year of your life does not begin when everything changes around you. It begins when you trust Me with whatever comes.

That trust does not remove challenges. It reframes them.

It allows you to walk steadily instead of anxiously. It allows you to respond rather than react. It allows peace to coexist with uncertainty.

That is what makes a year truly meaningful.

---

So step into this year gently.

Not with pressure to perform. Not with fear of repeating the past. Not with the belief that you must prove anything to God.

Step into it with trust.

Trust that what has shaped you was not wasted. Trust that growth is happening even when it is unseen. Trust that God is present in both movement and stillness.

This year can be your best year yet—not because it will be easy, but because it will be honest.

And honesty with God is where transformation begins.

---

Final Reflection & Prayer

Jesus,

You see what each person reading this has carried. You know the weight of their questions, the quiet strength of their faith, the places where hope feels fragile.

We place this year in Your hands—not with demands, but with trust.

Teach us to walk instead of rush. To listen instead of strive. To rest without guilt and move forward without fear.

Heal what has been heavy. Strengthen what has been weary. Guide what still feels uncertain.

May this truly be our best year—not because circumstances are perfect, but because You are present in every step.

Amen.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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#faith #hope #christianwriting #spiritualgrowth #trustgod #christianreflection #newseason #faithjourney

I’m sure many of you are tired of the countless New Year resolution articles popping in your feeds. Probably won’t bother having one this year. Usually, the problem is people overload themselves that they never accomplish a single goal. Also, why bother waiting until New Years to self-improve? Shouldn’t that be done regardless?

Well, I’ll stick to one resolution this year and add more throughout 2026. And no, it’s not trying to write more. I’m going to be more patient. I noticed that getting older the more easily frustrated I get. Having two kids may seem the reason, but this was happening before I got married and had children.

I guess that’s another con to being old. Realizing that you have less time in this world and your body is more susceptible to injuries and especially diseases, you don’t want to deal with any bullshit or anything that wastes your time. I want to spend my precious time with God, family, friends, and my hobbies.

So if you’re going to have a New Year’s resolution, best to have and stick with one. And realize self-improvement is a 24/7, 365 days a year, kind of thing. Here’s to you and me improving ourselves one day at a time.

Happy New Year!

#happynewyear #resolution #selfimprovement

TIMES SQUARE — On what sources confirm is the final thirty minutes of the outgoing mayor’s administration, a detective assigned to the lame duck security detail reportedly entered the City’s most sacred transitional ritual: trying to cash in “whatever pull is left” like an expiring MetroCard with one swipe remaining.

Witnesses say Det. Sandra “Do You Know Who I am” Gonzalez arrived near the New Year’s Eve ball drop wearing a suit and coveted “intel pin” that the Department has purchased in bulk from Temu, seeking to escort a busload of people in spite of strict instructions from the commissioner, who was a mere block away.

Sources also says she appeared to be experiencing a common side effect of long-term security work: forgetting what it’s like to wear an actual uniform and be treated like a human traffic cone for 15+ hours.

“Listen, I’m on the mayor’s detail,” Gonzalez explained to several rookie officers who had been on post long enough to develop a special relationship with the metal barriers which, coincidentally, were in the right location for the first time in six decades.

When asked is the Mayor was actually here, Gonzalez replied, “No, but I basically speak for him, he’s granted me that authority even when I hold his umbrella,” she said, implying that she has been delegated authority over the commissioner.

She went on, “I can’t believe I’m getting treated like regular people,” Gonzalez said, audibly sighing in a way that suggested the concept of respect for fellow UMOS was an outdated concept, failing to listen when told that other cops were being turned away at the next checkpoint.

“Do you know how many holiday parties I attended? Sure, mostly as a chauffeur or a human ballistic vest, but do you know how many hands I didn’t shake so the mayor could shake them? That’s service,” she proclaimed, using the traditional “finger waving in your face” technique, the hallmark of Departmental entitlement.

Several officers noted Gonzalez also appeared to be suffering from what medical experts call Earpiece Delusion Syndrome (EDS), a condition in which a person inserts a clear coil into their ear and immediately believes they have the legal authority to enter any and all spaces, including but not limited to: restricted areas, roped-off sidewalks, closed kitchens, and the emotional boundaries of fellow cops.

“Once you put that earpiece in, you start thinking you’re cool,” one anonymous source said, who is in his third year of recovery from EDS. “According to one officer on scene, the exchange was described as, “Watching someone try to use an expired Bed Bath and Beyond coupon to buy a toilet brush.”

Gonzalez’s frustration allegedly escalated when she encountered other cops assigned to the event, whom she greeted with the traditional courtesy of someone who believes they are a rank above the laws of common decency.

“Yo, boss,” she said to a uniformed supervisor who was visibly not her boss, “Do me a favor and have your guys open that gate.” Sources say the supervisor had spent the last five hours explaining to people that no, they cannot just “go to the front.”

Undeterred, Gonzalez continued. “Don’t make this a thing,” she added, bravely, escalating it into a thing. “I’m calling the chief.” At press time, it remained unclear who Gonzalez planned to become on January 2, but sources close to the situation believe it will have to be a command that doesn’t require any actual skills.

When questioned about her behavior, Gonzalez defended herself by citing the unique hardships of executive protection. “You know what you don’t understand?” she said with no follow up, leaning against a barrier she has not moved in years.

“Listen, I’ve been at City Hall at all hours. Sometimes I had to wait in a lobby. A lobby! With nothing but bottled water and the crushing weight of being a lapdog for a corrupt politician. “Do you have any idea what that entails? That’s not something a mere patrol cop would understand.

“I mean sure, I got there because I knew a guy who knew a guy who knows the mayor, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t deserve it,” she added, saying that her skill set places her above other detectives that actually follow leads and work cases.

Gonzalez further explained that, on the mayor’s detail, “You don’t get respect, you command it,” then demonstrated this philosophy by calling someone on speakerphone and saying, ‘Tell them I’m who I say I am!”

“Let my people in, and we’ll just stand in the corner,” she proposed. “We’ll be discreet. I’m basically invisible. I’m used to it.”

With that statement, she then came to an internal realization about what had transpired, proclaiming that after all, “Executive protection is really just walking three steps behind someone who won’t make eye contact with you unless the cameras are on.”

Moments later, witnesses say she pivoted to Plan D: trying to enter her busload of visibly embaressed revelers through a different checkpoint while loudly explaining to no one in particular that, “The job is dead.”

She then drove off into the night, headed toward a new year where her influence is expected to drop faster than the ball itself. Sources later said she was assigned to answer phones at the Intelligence Bureau command center.

Where Is My Church?

A Documentary Narrative

Introduction: Searching for the Spirit

The story of the Bel family, and especially Rich, begins with a question: Why do people, even with earnest spiritual goals, so often lose their way?

In the early 1990s, the pain inflicted by the traditional church led the Bel family to step away from organized religion. Rich, the central figure, recalls this as a pivotal moment—a time marked by both reward and pain.

Disillusioned by churches that seemed more concerned with appearances than substance, Rich chose to follow God and the Holy Spirit, leaving behind the institutional church. For a period, he had no congregation, missing some aspects of church life but refusing to 'play church.'

The Encounter: A New Kind of Church

During this season, a friend persistently invited Rich to a small group in town. His first visit was jarring: loud music, exuberant worship, and practices he had once condemned. Initially, Rich wanted nothing to do with it. But the preacher’s message resonated deeply, echoing truths Rich had long held but never heard from a pulpit. Despite his discomfort, Rich returned and gradually embraced the Spirit-led spontaneity of the group. Over time, what he once despised became the highlight of his week. The people were genuine, praying boldly and serving joyfully. Rich’s beliefs were reshaped as he became part of a community that lived out Kingdom principles.

Growth and Transformation

Midweek gatherings took place in homes, modeled after early Church cell groups. These meetings were marked by worship, open sharing, prayer, and service. The church grew organically, transforming lives and fostering miracles. Rich found himself living the Kingdom church he had only read about in Scripture. It was a season of spiritual prosperity, but with growth came new challenges.

The Shift: From Spirit to Structure

Eight or nine years into its existence, the church began to change. Growth brought structure, and spontaneity gave way to rules. Leadership formed a government, and expressions of the Spirit were increasingly regulated. Home groups became scripted, and programs replaced Spirit-led freedom.

The church expanded physically, building a new worship center and hiring new staff, often at the expense of long-time servants. Central doctrines became law, and participation in leadership required speaking in tongues—a practice that became a source of confusion and exclusion, especially among the youth.

The Disappearance: Losing the Spirit

As the church became more like a business, laws multiplied, and control replaced freedom. Rich felt the loss deeply. The church he had cherished disappeared, replaced by an institution governed by human authority.

The breaking point came during the dedication of the new building, when Rich felt a clear message from God: 'You don’t belong here; this is not for you.' He left, grieving the loss of the Spirit-led community he had loved.

Reflection: Lessons from the Journey

Rich’s experience echoes the words of Paul: 'Oh, foolish people…why are you so foolish? You started in the Spirit, but now try to reach goals through human plans.'

The story raises questions about the possibility of a church wholly led by the Spirit when it grows in numbers. Growth seems to demand rules, and success appears to require structure. Yet, the early church thrived with few guidelines, relying on the Spirit for discipline and direction, yet their church and message spread worldwide.

History reveals a pattern: human plans often replace God’s Spirit, and churches risk becoming cult-like assemblies centered on charismatic leaders and loyalty.

Conclusion: The Call to Be the Church

Rich’s journey ends not with a return to organized religion, but with a call to 'be the church.'

The documentary narrative invites readers to reflect on the tension between Spirit-led freedom and human control, and to consider what it truly means to live as the Body of Christ.

It was New Year’s Eve yesterday. It went as expected, which is oddly reassuring given our 3-year old was running around like crazy – like on any other day recently. A dinner-playdate, with just a few sips of whiskey and, arguably, far too much food went smoothly. Firework extravaganza at midnight, typical for the area, resembled active war zone for a few hours too many, guaranteeing total disaster of whatever was left of local ecosystem’s mental health.

Nothing new.

Morning was a bit unorthodox though. No hangover, not anymore. Smart people in their forties don’t have these. More like a general sense of overwhelm and overload. Yes, it’s a New Year. New opportunities (not really, nothing has changed in one day). New habits (ha, let’s see about this one in two weeks). New conclusions (that aren’t really new), including one that this time it is actually almost guaranteed to go downhill. The second part of life, cemented and anchored, here to stay. Then, new old memories, once forgotten, now rediscovered for whatever reason. New regrets. New commitments and new decisions to drop commitments.

The usual New Year’s mental chaos with a hint of melancholy.

And on top of that, a layer of zucchini cake, pasta salad, beans with tomatoes, and probably a dozen more lies along the lines of “I’ll just try this one.” All soaked in an exotic mixture of four vastly different brands of whiskey. Well, actually three brands of it and one serious sip of bourbon from some forgotten by gods republican hellhole.

And this, just this, was too much.

Today couldn’t simply start the same way as usual then. Breakfast, lunch – why, what for? Just because it’s the normal way? Because that’s what adults do, eat breakfast when it’s breakfast time? Well, yesterday was out of ordinary, to the point of me experiencing primal fears before stepping on the bathroom scale. As it turned out, rightly so, but it’s another thing.

It’s just not natural to do things the same way again, when the day before was so vastly different from the normal one (assuming it exists at all). When there’s feast, there’s fast – or, at the very least, should be. That’s exactly what I did – nothing at all.

No breakfast, just black coffee.

No lunch, just rooibos tea.

Light dinner after weirdly satisfying walk in freezing rain gracefully reinforced by stormy wind? Well, yes please. Light one, a leftover from yesterday, just a cup (or two, if we’re completely honest) of pasta salad full of hastily chopped vegetables.

No LinkedIn, finally with no remorses! I hate that thing anyway.

No serious writing, just this post here.

No TV. No radio. No news.

Also: not a thought about new opportunities, habits, conclusions, memories, regrets, and commitments. I might’ve jumped on the stationary bike for some deeply satisfying minutes, but that’s different. Addictions are not relevant.

Fast for the midship then – and fast for the bow. One gets narrower, the other less cluttered.

What a glorious day.

Happy New Year!

I could care less about sleeping in anything else, but never socks. Never.

For the record, Wolf hates sleeping in socks.

Given the choice, I prefer sleeping as I was created: nothing between me and my dreams but a downy cover. If it’s warm, you can keep the blanket.

But my feet? They must always be naked.

I am so weird about my feet.

My third Friday in Europe turned out to be way more of a party than I anticipated. A day that started late, grew organically, and delivered some of the highest highs, along with a bit of a sour note at the climax. Busy days and late nights mean slow starts in the morning. The day saw me rousing between 8 and 9 a.m. CET. As the apartment is on the first floor and settled between rows of tall buildings, it is never clear to me early in the morning if the sun is shining or not.

Stepping out into the frosty morning in my flannel pajamas, I glimpse blue sky and deduce that today will be a brilliant day to be out running around. So I do the next logical thing:

I sit inside and write for four hours.

When the wife finally stirred, we planned a visit to the Sofía Reina to see art—specifically Picasso’s Guernica. There is some debate as to the best way to transfer: bus, train, or Uber. Bus is the most convenient for short hops, and so we shower, dress, and dash out the door.

Naturally, we can’t just get on the bus. First, we have to find an orange. In the neighborhoods of Madrid, there are fruit stands on every block. Sometimes two. Oranges are in season right now, so you look for the orbs with leaves attached. It’s an indication that they are the freshest. Twenty cents for a plump, luscious bite of citrus.

Then, of course, we needed a café, where I stumbled through my very limited Spanish to order a coffee and empanada. I failed to correctly distinguish between meat (carne) and chicken (pollo). But it was very good in spite of the mis-order.

Strolling and window-shopping is a delight on a brisk, sunny Friday morning, and so we leisurely gawk at stunning evening gowns, fancy luggage, and sundries of all kinds.

I’ve just eaten, but I find the smell of fried chicken irresistible. Stopping at an open window, I ask for “un pollo, por favor.” It takes a moment, as the cook fries it only when you ask, and it is deliciously hot and fresh—a plump, juicy breast so hot it steams in the morning cold. Thank you, missus chicken. You were delicious.

I finish just in time for the number 39 to roll up and swipe my metro card twice. Beep, beep. A total of three euros for us both to ride across town to the Sofía Reina.

I have discovered I really enjoy riding the buses here. They are clean, well-lit, and cared for. People-watching is a lot of fun, though drawing while riding is kind of a challenge, as we’re rarely on the bus very long. And there’s plenty to see through the windows.

Hopping off at the Atocha stop, we cross a VERY busy intersection. This is close to the city center and the busiest spot I’ve yet walked. I think I could spend all day here watching the mortar going about their lives. The Museo Sofía Reina is in the middle of a 20-year upgrade/restoration. The exterior is in varying states of shrouded construction tarps and fancy louvered metal veneer. The veneer is interesting, but it is most certainly one of those design styles that will age poorly and forever date the upgrade.

After tickets and an audioguide, we start the sojourn into this MASSIVE institution. It might be the biggest museum I’ve ever been in. It is a repurposed government building, and so it isn’t ideal. The structure is a large rectangle whose middle is a courtyard/garden. From above it looks like a giant, squared-off letter “O.”

The galleries are all old office spaces on the outer wall. This is awkward because it creates a labyrinth: some galleries huge, some tiny, some dead ends. And the official map is pretty useless.

So getting lost becomes a ritual. We ask “¿Dónde estamos nosotros?” (Where are we?) of the museum attendants. They can almost always show us on the map where we are, but it isn’t super useful information since nothing else is clearly labeled.

But the art is worth it.

The first floor hosts traveling exhibits, and we are able to see work by little-known Spanish artists. Very intriguing shapes and colors, and carnival scenes that seem universal to every human.

One gallery has massive—I mean MASSIVE—monolithic steel slabs. The literature says they weigh thirty-eight tons.

The placard explains that they were lost for twenty years, stored in a warehouse that was sold and sold and sold until no one knew where the humongous slabs went.

My assessment: sold for weight.

So in 2002, the artist recreated the monoliths and made the Sofía Reina docents very happy—and no doubt lined the artist’s pockets handsomely. Good for you, artist. Grab that money for the rest of us. There is an exhibition by a very old artist who has spent her lifetime painting crisp works in gouache and acrylics. Her most striking pieces depict people—mostly women—with agricultural themes. I am inspired by her portraits and larger works that carry aquatic and agrarian motifs.

As with most moving art, I question why I don’t paint more—especially portraits. The people who mean the most to me should get painted. I am also in love with her nudes. I love painting nudes and believe everyone should experience the power of either being the artist or the subject. Both, if possible. I have yet to be the subject for someone, but I think I might be ready.

For a certainty, I long to paint some more than others. My first real thrill, though, comes from Picasso’s Woman in Blue. His figurative work always surprises me because his cubist work is so heavily promoted. But Woman in Blue is quite lovely and striking. She’s heavily gowned in a massive, rich dress and completely covered except for her face, which is painted as heavily powdered with red cheeks. Her expression is forlorn, eyes distant—somewhat sad.

The placard explains that she is a prostitute, and that Picasso loved portraying the marginalized people he found in life.

I am reminded of my own recent realization and fascination with what I termed the “mortar” of life—those people and places largely overlooked by society, yet absolutely part of the fabric. We love the lightbulb, but need the miles of wire to make what it is.

The hour is late, and as the museum opens its doors for free during the last two hours of the night, I worry about the crush of incoming art lovers. I decide I’ll have to return another day to experience all of Picasso’s galleries—but I must see Guernica.

I need only follow the din.

We can hear the crowd from several galleries away. Late in the day on a Friday, everyone wants to see the famous painting. I am most excited because of its history, as laid out in Russell Martin’s Picasso’s War—an excellent history of why the painting was made and its complex life in the public eye.

Pictures do not do a work like this justice. Nor do crowds. This work needs time and space.

Interestingly, the crowd has created a buffer at the front of the viewing.

The painting is twelve by twenty-five feet, and there is a cordon keeping viewers about ten feet back. Between the crowd and the cordon is a no-man’s land. I can only assume the crowd is being polite to one another—or perhaps they instinctively know they need distance to take it all in.

I decide that, in this moment, the more interesting aspect is the guards watching the painting and the crowd. So I turn my camera and my sketchbook on them, not Guernica itself.

In drawing, I begin to realize how important this is to the Spanish, and to humans in general. As I internalize how cruel humans can be, I am moved to tears—which I believe is exactly what Picasso intended. To affect the viewer.

Mission accomplished.

As the free hour triggers, the place becomes mobbed, and we decide it’s time to be somewhere else.

Dipping out of the museum, we drop into a McDonald’s for a snack and some warmth. Madrid has mastered the electronic order kiosk, which I loathe. I prefer human interaction. But I have to admit, as a non-Spanish speaker, the kiosk is much more efficient and less stressful. This is how the robots win.

Wandering the streets until after dark, we find that instead of worn down, we are energized by the nightlife. My wife spots a Hard Rock Hotel, and we investigate the possibility of a live show. None are forthcoming.

So we decide to call it a night. Seven-thirty, cold and dark, and we are thin from the day’s museum visit.

As we try to figure out which bus will get us home to the Latin Quarter, I recall seeing an ad on the ride out. The bus in front of us had “CABARET—see it live” emblazoned in Spanish.

A quick search turns up that the Kit Kat Klub is in fact performing the show in less than an hour. We are only a thirty-minute walk away, but my wife—though excited and eager to see it—has no interest in trekking through Madrid that night.

So Uber it is. Mistake.

We’ve been operating under the assumption that traffic always flows. This is our first real experience with central Madrid on a Friday night. We live west of here, out of the tourist zone, where traffic is usually fluid. But here it is a grind.

We sit and sit as our driver battles it out. The worst part is watching the map as we inch to within fifty meters of the theater entrance, only to be pulled into traffic in a tunnel beneath the old town—where we’ve been drinking, eating, and living.

I want to jump out and dash to the theater, but instead we sit for twenty more minutes while he escapes the tunnel and gets stuck in a roundabout. We finally abandon him and make the ten-minute walk to the venue.

We are in luck—minutes to showtime. I misunderstand the clerk and instead of buying seats up close, I buy them in the back. Better, because there is less crush of bodies; worse, because I have not brought my distance eyewear and the whole show, while beautiful, is slightly blurry.

And speaking of the show—wow.

I expected half-measures with lots of reliance on titillation and suggested nudity, but to the director’s credit, they told a compelling story. Well sung. Well acted. Yes, the performers were stunning in their mostly naked states, and I applauded the daily work required to maintain such peak human form.

But by the third act, I was in tears. Blinding tears.

We started with a bottle of wine, and by intermission it was long gone, as were the two mini bottles of whiskey my wife smuggled in. Feeling no pain, we decided a second bottle of wine would be ideal to finish the show.

We should have stopped at one.

Inebriation heightened my sense of the story’s development. By the third act, I was undone. Up until then, everyone is managing—hiding in music, wit, appetite, motion. Then the story closes its exits. Pleasure stops being refuge and starts looking like delay.

Love and history arrive at the same moment and ask to be taken seriously.

What broke through for me was the quiet grief of realizing that fantasy can be sincere and still be unsustainable, and that some reckonings can’t be danced around forever.

My muse once said she identifies with Sally, and I understand why. Sally survives by keeping the lights on, by choosing momentum, by believing in the moment she’s standing in. Hitching rides with stars. Watching it, I felt the pull of Cliff—not because I’m leaving or want to, but because I recognize the fear he carries: the dread that two people can love each other deeply and still not want the same future, or need the same kind of ground. The film touched that nerve—the uneasy knowledge that loving someone doesn’t always guarantee harmony, and that seeing clearly can feel like a threat even when it’s an act of care. All this, in Spanish. I didn’t realize I had internalized the story so completely.

It was the emotional tearing that drowned that second bottle of vino. When the performance ended, we stumbled into the night, red-eyed and full of yearning.

We should have gone straight home. But even close to midnight, Madrid was alive in a way we’d never seen. Plazas and avenues shot full of people. And so we swayed and danced in the streets like real Spaniards under the holiday lights.

It was magical.

Another stop at a pub added insult to our alcohol injury. By one a.m., we knew we were toast.

The glory of being completely smashed comes with hard consequences, and we both paid the price. My poor wife on a side street, revisiting the evening’s dinner and snacks. Me, once home, after she was safely in bed.

The old adage is true: beer then liquor, never sicker—or whatever idiom covers wine, then liquor, then wine, then beer, and the long night that follows.

At the very least, I made sure that before it all went quiet for the night, my feet were free and unencumbered for sleep. No amount of drink in the world can erase that need.

We’d had the experience of a lifetime in Madrid that day. It was among the highest highs of the adventure and the lowest lows.

I wouldn’t trade a thing.

Except maybe, save Sally from her sadness.

---

---

Drawing

Highmark Stadium, then Ralph Wilson Stadium, 14 Sept. 2014 (A. Kotok)

On Sunday afternoon, the Buffalo Bills play their last regular-season home game at Highmark Stadium in nearby Orchard Park, against division rival New York Jets. The Bills are in the National Football League playoffs this year, but in second-place in the AFC East division, so they will likely play their playoff games elsewhere, making Sunday’s game probably their last game at Highmark.

My photo of that stadium, taken during a 2014 season game, is probably my most-viewed shot ever. Here’s how it happened.

The stadium, built in 1972 started out as Rich Stadium with naming rights sold to a local dairy products company, but in 1998 became Ralph Wilson Stadium after the team’s owner, which lasted until 2016. Thus the stadium became known locally as The Ralph, and that nickname stuck as other naming rights came and went. Highmark is a health insurance company that bought the naming rights in 2021.

For several years my two brothers and I — all Buffalo natives — along with their kids and grandkids, went to a Buffalo Bills home game each season. Bills fans, called the Bills Mafia, have a fierce legendary loyalty, despite the team’s ups-and-downs, portrayed in indie films old and new. The Bills Mafia is even the subject of a Hallmark feature film, released this past holiday season.

In Sept. 2014, we got tickets to the Bills game against division rival Miami Dolphins at The Ralph. We discovered, however, that those mid-field seats were up in the nose-bleed section, near the last row. (By the way, the Bills won that game 29-10.)

So I decided to make lemonade out of those lemons. With my Canon point-and-shoot camera, I took three slightly overlapping photos of the field and crowd, then after the game stitched them together with Microsoft’s photo-editing software into a panorama image.

After the game, I posted the image on my Flickr page, and gave it a Creative Commons license, making it freely available with attribution and a link back to the original Flickr file. About a month later, the photo was imported into Wikipedia and Wikimedia Commons.

The image soon appeared on the Ralph Wilson Stadium, now Highmark Stadium page on Wikipedia, where it still resides. For some time, it also appeared on the Buffalo. N.Y. Wikipedia page. Plus, Bills defensive back Jordan Poyer used the photo for a while as the title image on his Twitter page.

The team is building a new stadium, also called Highmark and also outdoors, across the road from the current stadium. I will have to get nose-bleed tickets next season for another photo.

Copyright © Technology News and Literature. All rights reserved.

JOURNAL 1er janvier 2026

Presque 22h. Tout le monde s'est retiré. Restent deux filles un peu fatiguées. On sirote doucement un super sake (cadeau de papi) qui reste au chaud dans la marmite avant de se faire un onsen sous la neige. Un vrai luxe, des images de magazine. On est comme des reines en somme. Les clients nous ont remerciées aujourd'hui, ils ont eu hier une des plus belles fêtes quils aient connu dans l'auberge. Ils espèrent que ça pourra se reproduire. On a promis d'être là aussi longtemps que ça sera possible.

I just wanted to put up a quick blog post and wish everyone a Happy New Year. Let's pray and hope that God blesses us all. I'm looking forward to this year on many fronts. I want to continue getting my heart under control with my Obstructive Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy, do more self-hosting with AI, and learn more coding. This is also my 25th year of proper blogging (more posts coming on that later).

With all the computing power I'm putting together, I'm hoping to learn more about web development, self-hosting, and becoming less dependent on big tech. I'm one year closer to retirement, which I'm looking forward to. Instead of focusing on an employer's needs, I'll be able to focus 100 percent on what interests me and devote more time to my faith. Putting my love of God and technology together.

So Happy New Year to everyone, and let's see what 2026 brings for us all. Should be an interesting year, especially on the home front with the United States of America hitting 250 years.

#personal

Almighty and Everlasting God, from Whom cometh down every good and perfect gift: We give Thee thanks for all Thy benefits, temporal and spiritual, bestowed upon us in the year past, and we beseech Thee of Thy goodness, grant us a favorable and joyful year, defend us from all dangers and adversities, and send upon us the fullness of Thy blessing; through Jesus Christ, Thy Son, our Lord. Who liveth and reigneth with Thee and the Holy Ghost, ever One God, world without end. Amen.

— Common Service Book of the Lutheran Church, 1917

#prayers

I just didn’t sleep until this late. I think I’ve honestly found my person, it’s like finding someone that just gets a lot of different parts of me and it feels like the more I reveal or let my guard down with, the more I’m accepted. It’s such a strange feeling for that. It’s not like we are the exact same, we definitely have our flaws and things that grate on eachother, but I wouldn’t want it in any other package.

JOURNAL 1er janvier 2026 #auberge

Hier super soirée : koto et flûte, un pensionnaire avait prévu, il joue en duo avec mamie tous les ans depuis des années. On a passé 4 heures à table, A et mamie à la cuisine, moi et papi au service, entre on prenait place à table aussi c'était extrêmement chaleureux. Le concert parfait, des vrais pros. À minuit super sake de fukushima ça n’existe plus, c’est encore plus précieux. Comme je faisais aussi le service je n'ai pas beaucoup bu, je suis assez contente de moi.

Ce matin déneigement de l'entrée, ça réchauffe et met en forme. La neige n'a pas cessé de tomber, on a plus de 70 cm dehors. Si ça continue on devra déneiger les toits à nouveau, à un mètre c’est critique.

Feuillets de décembre 2025

Quand tu as ouvert la porte entre nos deux mondes En moi quelque chose a respiré Je me suis sentie soulagée d’un poids resté trop longtemps invisible J’ignorais les dragons rouges aux larmes de givre coincés dans mon corps Alors qu’au dehors je ressentais le souffle du moineau apeuré Je n’ai jamais su déchiffrer les langages des humains Mais votre sang s’invitait en tambour dans mon coeur Je cherchais dans vos phrases une clef capable de décoder l’ineffable Aveugle dans ma propre grotte je devais juste soulever les paupières Sentir les ondoiements de mon souffle jusqu’aux racines et aux cîmes de mon être Faire la lumière dans cet espace qui m’abrite Et l’écouter fredonner cette mélodie qui est la mienne J’apprendrai à aimer cette musique qui a la forme du sang et des étoiles Qui est tissée aux bordures de la peau et des rêves Qui est unique et semblable à toute vie J’apprivoiserai ma propre langue Nous parlerons des dialectes distincts Mais leur musicalité nous rassemblera dans la lumière des feux de joie

  J’ai longtemps cherché quelqu’un Qui se serait assis à l’intérieur de moi et m’aurait emplie toute entière Il aurait allumé un feu dans cette pièce pleine de vide Et mis de la musique pour apaiser les silences il aurait construit des ponts pour me relier au dehors et tissé un cocon pour me protéger des intempéries il aurait effacé toutes les distances affreuses sur les visages impassibles il aurait dessiné des sourires il aurait troqué les gifles de violence et les embruns indifférents contre la douceur des étreintes et la joie irradiante dans les jours moches, avec la folie rouge, à travers les pleurs qui déforment tout : il m’aurait aimée partout et tout le temps jamais il n’aurait fermé la porte et encore moins abandonnée j’ai toujours cherché au dehors de moi comme une évidence sur ma condition volatile je me suis vue feu follet, opaline, volutes, je vivais sur une lune où la pesanteur n’a pas cours et je cherchais quelqu’un pour assurer, m’assurer, me rassurer quelqu’un pour faire contrepoids à ma légèreté si extravagante qu’elle en devenait odieuse dans cette pièce pleine de vide j’ai oublié trop longtemps qu’il y avait déjà quelqu’un toute petite, si petite qu’elle en était presque invisible, sa voix fluette devenue soupir, une petite fille pleurait dans une larme bleue, ses sanglots cachés dans un brouillard opaque, ce jour-là, un jour de décembre, pour la première fois je l’ai entendue sangloter doucement et je suis descendue dans la pièce qui était toujours aussi froide mais qui n’était plus vide, je suis descendue, j’ai allumé un feu et j’ai mis de la musique je me suis assise par terre, à l’intérieur de moi pour la première fois, juste à côté d’elle, et j’ai pris sa main dans la mienne

  Toute mon enfance s’est étirée dans une longue nuit d’hiver J’avais entre le monde et moi un bouclier d’argent Il ravalait mes larmes quand je pensais vous perdre, quand ma tête imaginait les horreurs qui pourraient un jour me séparer de vous et vous séparer de moi Longtemps j’ai tout vu par le filtre de cette distance J’imaginais des tourbillons de mélasse, des abysses indomptables, d’ineffables abîmes et des cyclones plus profonds que le plus profond des trous de la terre Longtemps j’ai cru que tout le monde portait en lui ce gouffre d’infranchissable, composé d’angoisses mutiques et de cris mutilés Plus tard seulement j’ai su que non J’ai compris avec stupeur que je m’étais trompée : chacun voit la vie avec son propre regard, teinté d’unique et de coquillages ambrés, fêlé ou déformé, les nuances sont trop nombreuses pour être décrites dans un poème et je me rends compte que je ne sais rien des yeux des autres et de leurs peaux qui respire des parfums inconnus Des milliards de fragrances ennuagent la terre où nous habitons et je ne suis consciente que de si peu d’entre elles Je nous pensais semblables mais nous étions uniques Quand nos regards divergeaient, je transformais ma pupille en lame d’acier, je ravalais un sanglot indompté qui venait se débattre dans ma gorge à m’en étouffer Je n’ai jamais accepté que nous puissions être différents, sans cesse je cherchais à vous rameuter à moi-même, pour m’unifier dans une étreinte désespérée J’ai toujours eu si peur de ce qui nous séparait J’ai toujours cru que je ne le supporterais pas, que le dragon coincé dans mon corps, ivre de panique, déchirerait ma peau, la folie rouge m’engloutirait, je finirais avalée, honteuse, dépossédée, sans sang, sans chair, sans amour Je ne sais pas pourquoi j’ai pensé cela si longtemps, pourquoi je me suis sentie en sursis, si vulnérable, prête à être attaquée n’importe quand, à l’affût, l’œil apeuré, acéré Il me semble que je ne croyais pas à ma propre existence Furtive et diaphane, elle était pour moi une erreur dans la marche du temps Un jour, on allait se rendre compte qu’on m’avait donné une vie et qu’elle ne m’était pas destinée, Je devais me faire toute petite, passer inaperçu, sans quoi on m’arrêterait et on me mettrait à la porte de ma propre existence Je me suis toujours apprêtée à mourir, et j’ai toujours craint de disparaître sans avoir pu incarner ma vie au moins une fois, une heure, une minute C’est votre regard seul, votre présence seule, votre approbation qui consentait à me rendre vivante Je pensais qu’il fallait mériter d’être en vie, et que ce mérite, vous seuls pouviez me le donner Seul mon cœur ouvrait d’autres possibles et dans l’instant se nourrissait de beauté, revêtait sur mes lèvres une douceur rosée Je l’ai laissé m’apprivoiser et j’ai nourri notre amitié Maintenant, chaque aube m’adoucit Je me familiarise avec ma propre existence et je lui reconnais son droit à être Quand je remercie la vie, ce n’est plus avec un sourire coupable mais avec un rire franc Comme si soudain j’avais pris racine et que je ne pouvais plus m’envoler au moindre souffle de vent Je sais que chacun passe sur cette terre avec ses folies emmurées, ses éclats de fée, ses lumières odorantes et ses abysses qui lui sont propres et ne se dévoileront peut-être jamais Je ne regrette rien et je ne m’apitoie pas J’ai une tendresse immense pour celle que j’ai été et pour tous les êtres sur cette planète qui tournent en rond, immobiles, dans la prison de leur tête, qui peinent à ouvrir la fenêtre Je les comprends tellement Parfois encore, je suffoque, ma boule dans la gorge revient, l’air s’absente, tout devient étriqué : moi, le temps, l’espace, l’amour Parfois encore j’ai mes murs qui sentent le moisi et mes vitres sont si pleines de crasses que je ne vois rien au dehors Ce grand nettoyage-là ne finit jamais Mais il en vaut la peine Pour toutes les grâces qui s’invitent dans nos vies quand on ne craint plus les courants d’air Pour tous les éclats de lumière qui ne viendront certes jamais nous apporter un sens sur un plateau d’argent Mais si une goutte de rosée traversée par l’aube a le droit d’exister sans raison, simplement d’être, pleinement, sans attente et sans tension, pourquoi pas nous ?

  En moi il y a un cheval fou Je ne pense pas qu’il soit fou Et je doute que ce soit vraiment un cheval pourtant parfois il est comme fou et se cabre comme un cheval il pourrait déchirer ma peau avec ses sabots et cependant il m’aime et veut me protéger en me protégeant me brise je tends la main vers lui et ses flancs sont couverts de sang il a si mal des blessures qui ne lui appartiennent pas je te dirai tout doux mon beau je te dirai des mots muets pour t’écouter, mon front sur le plateau de ton front je t’entends et aujourd’hui je suis responsable de ma vie je saurai me défendre s’il le faut tu peux ranger ta carapace de guerrier et tes fouets tu peux te reposer toi qui es sans cesse sur le qui vive à l’affût de la moindre bravade quand tu t’agiteras encore je te dirai tout doux mon beau je sais tous les risques que j’encours j’ai rangé le bouclier à lame d’argent je l’ai troqué contre l’orbe d’un lac ça n’a l’air de rien mais c’est très efficace dans le monde du dehors tu peux ruer et te cabrer mon cheval fou j’ai la peau endurcie des tanins du soleil et des nodosités des grands chênes un jour tu auras plus de paix et ta folie ne sera plus folie elle aura l’allure d’une danse étrange et fantasque si douce qu’on ne peut que la chérir pour toujours

  J’écris pour m’expliquer à moi-même Pour vous dire des choses que je ne savais pas mais que vous connaissiez peut-être Que chacun se pense être le miroir de l’autre et du monde Et que c’est faux Il y a une multitude invraisemblable de vérités Chacun porte sa capeline et son flambeau et traverse son chemin, rebrousse les forêts noires et espère découvrir la lumière derrière le repli d’une clairière J’aimerais avoir ce regard qui ne cherche pas à tout prix ce qui rassemble Et qui dans l’écart révèle une étreinte Nous sommes tous à la recherche d’un reste troublé de l’enfance Une zone à réparer Je construis ma cabane qui ne ressemble à aucune autre dans l'espoir de m’accoler avec grâce au reste du monde

  Je n’aime pas ces moments où la nuit redevient ennemie Je dois m’extraire de l’obscurité, marais des pensées Elles s’enroulent et s’emberlificotent à l’ombre de mon oreiller Je ne peux pas les empêcher d’exister et leur présence bruyante m’empêche de dormir Font planer une menace sans nom Ou trop terrifiante du moins pour être nommée Comme si le noir allait d’un instant à l’autre définitivement, irrémédiablement Tout engloutir C’est une luxuriance assoiffée, un foisonnement qui annonce un chaos terrible Je ne lutte plus Après les avoir senties m’assaillir pendant une heure je me lève Il ne sert à rien de se cacher Je suis là et elles aussi, je n’aime pas les sentir fourmiller autour de moi comme autour d’une carcasse à dépouiller Je me lève avec un essaim de corbeaux qui dépasse de ma tête Je me fais un café en chemin certains volatiles se sont déjà avoués vaincus Comme si le mouvement seul les décourageait Je me fais un café et me voilà dans la nuit et cette fois je suis seule avec un silence fatigué et le salon désert Dehors le jardin s’enroule dans une étole de brume et ses sillages cotonneux ajoutent encore de la respiration dans ma nuit attaquée Je respire j’écris De la vie j’aime les contrastes et la profondeur Je suis partie en exploration sous la surface du monde Là où d’autres voyages d’est en ouest ou de nord en sud Je ne fais que creuser pour m’engager vers le ciel Dans une verticalité vertigineuse et sublime D’une douceur et d’un amour que je sais absolus Je louvoie entre les abysses et les cîmes Quand d’autres voguent de New-York aux Carpates ou que sais-je encore Je n’aurai jamais de photographies à montrer aux amis, un soir d’hiver Seuls ces poèmes écrits sur un ordinateur Pour retracer l’ébauche d’un chemin Et partager avec vous maladroitement ces quelques pérégrinations intérieures

Écriteur, je publie mes textes depuis 2008 sur Chemin tournant qui migre doucement à partir de ce jour de la côte Ouest (Wordpress) à la côte Est du Web, de SF la ville du brouillard à NYC qui ne dort jamais, sans quitter pourtant la grande forêt équatoriale de son origine, urbaine désormais, puisqu’après 25 ans passés dans la région de l’Est-Cameroun, je vis à Yaoundé.

Il ne s’agit pas d’une traversée bien périlleuse, mais d’un changement tout de même. J’ignore où il me conduira.

En attendant que le chemin tourne pleinement ici, vous pouvez découvrir mon labeur d’écriture à cette future ancienne adresse : chemin tournant.

Au tournant du chemin est mon infolettre mensuelle, gratuite et démodée.

In Summary: * Another good day, with more quality family visiting than we've had for a long time. With the Miami / Ohio St. game currently in the 3rd qtr., I'm wondering if I'll be able to stay awake through the rest of the game. Eyes are getting heavy and the brain's starting to fog.

Prayers, etc.: My daily prayers

Health Metrics: * bw= 222.2 lbs. 100.80 kg * bp= 150/86 (67)

Exercise: * kegel pelvic floor exercise, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups

Diet: * 06:30 – 1 banana, 1 peanut butter sandwich * 11:35 – plate of pancit * 15:00 – steak, home made vegetable soup, mashed potatoes, white rice, fresh fruit, cake

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 05:00 – listen to local news talk radio * 05:30 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * 07:45 – bank accounts activity monitored * 11:23 – tuned into the ReliaQuest Bowl, Iowa Hawkeyes vs Vanderbilt Commodores, the game already in progress, Iowa leads 7 to 0 in the 1st qtr. * 11:30 to 18:00 – daughter-in-law and her fiance came over and spent the day visiting. He and I “sort of” watched Duke beat Arizona St. while doing “chores” to help the women as they fixed us a big meal. * 18:30 – listening now to NCAA Football, the Cotton Bowl Game, Miami Hurricanes vs Ohio St. Buckeyes

Chess: * 11:20 – moved in all pending CC games