“No Rest Until They Learn”

I won’t rest until every Brit, whether sipping tea in London or pretending to own the stars in L.A., has learned German.

Not tourist-German. Not grammar-book polite. But the weighty kind— the kind carved by exile, by mothers who swallow grief between compound words and children raised in echoes.

Let them twist their tongues around our thunder. Let them taste the bite of consonants, the dignity in every umlaut they never cared to hear.

Let them feel the silence in a language that doesn’t bow.

Because for too long, they’ve spoken and the world answered. They’ve commanded and the world translated.

But I won’t.

Not anymore.

I will watch them stumble through every sentence until they understand that language is not a gift we owe them—

it is a mirror they must finally face.

“I Will Not Speak for You”

I will not speak English for the English. Not anymore. Not when words have only ever flowed one way.

They will have to learn German — with all its edges, its depths, its weight. Just as we once were forced to breathe their tongue.

Because language does not heal when only we translate, only we bend.

I am done with a world that always shapes itself to suit them.

You want to understand? Then learn. Not just the words — learn what it means to be heard in a language that isn’t yours.

Only then can the world begin to recover.

„Ich spreche nicht für euch“

Ich werde für die Engländer kein Englisch sprechen. Nicht mehr. Nicht, wenn die Worte immer nur in eine Richtung fließen.

Sie werden Deutsch lernen müssen – mit all seinen Härten, seinen Tiefen, seinem Gewicht. Wie wir einst ihren Klang unter Zwang atmen mussten.

Denn Sprache heilt nicht, wenn nur wir übersetzen, nur wir uns biegen.

Ich habe genug von der Welt, die sich immer nach ihnen richtet.

Wollt ihr verstehen? Dann lernt. Nicht nur die Wörter – lernt, wie es ist, gehört zu werden in einer Sprache, die euch nicht gehört.

Sonst wird sich die Welt niemals erholen.

„Ich bin Kurdin / Türkin“

Ich bin Kurdin. Ich bin Türkin. Zwei Feuer – keines zu löschen, keines zu bändigen.

Ich bin das, was ihr nicht einordnen könnt, nicht aufteilen, nicht besitzen.

Ich trage Berge und Steppe, Lieder in zwei Sprachen, Wunden, die sich nicht entschuldigen.

Wer gegen mich plant, der vergesse nicht: Ich bin geboren aus Überleben. Und wer mich brechen will, wird selbst im Versuch zerspringen.

#Transmission

The quantum receiver spat static for 47 years before the signal cleared. A single sentence looped in binary: “They buried us upright. The trees here sing in ultraviolet.” My fingers hovered over the delete key—until the transmission appended itself: “Don’t trust your own carbon.” The screen went dark. My reflection grinned back with too many teeth.

Martian winds carved sermons into the rover’s hull. “We were wrong about water,” it scratched in rust. By sol 3,000, the words became a chant. Then the drill bits started turning themselves.

“The Spaniard”

The Spaniard speaks of Sardinian blood, as if an island’s whisper makes him kin to deserts he’s never crossed, to prayers he’s never heard in a mother tongue not his.

He says, “We have Sardinian DNA— so we, too, are West Asian.”

But no, Spaniard. You are not born of drought and fire, not carved by exile, not sung by winds that pass over Zagros and beyond.

You are olive groves, conquests, cathedrals in gold. Not the cracked earth of forgotten names, not the ink of our lost scripts.

You wear fragments like ornaments, but you have not bled for them. You have not wept for a homeland they keep taking with words like yours.

Spaniard, your maps do not include the ache that makes us.

„Verwandt“

Ich saß im Schatten der Worte, unsichtbar und doch wach. Sie dachten, ich höre nicht.

„Wir sind verwandt mit den Georgiern“, sagten sie – Spanier, mit Münder voll kolonialer Wärme und süßem Stolz.

Verwandt, als wäre Blut ein Preis, den man sich nimmt wie Land.

Ich spürte, wie mir das Herz verrutschte, wie ein Echo in mir schrie: Das ist Verrat.

Denn meine Wurzeln, meine fernen Berge, meine Lieder in Nebel und Feuer getaucht – sie gehören nicht euch.

Ihr wollt Verwandtschaft ohne Erinnerung, Ohne Schmerz, ohne die Tiefe unserer Geschichte.

Doch ich – ich vergesse nicht. Und ich verzeihe nicht jenen, die sich selbst zu Brüdern machen, nur um uns zu nehmen, was noch unser ist.

B & E wanted me to burn—and not just metaphorically. They needed a public bonfire. One where they could toss every scrap of my independence, light it up with false narratives, and dance around it, congratulating themselves on “rescuing” my son from the ashes.

But here’s the part that sent them over the edge: I was doing just fine without them.

Actually, I was thriving. Gerald—sober and steady—was a town favorite. I was building a life. My kids were happy. And the version of me they had spent years trying to sell to everyone else? It wasn’t sticking anymore.

That reality made them desperate.

Gerald and I weren’t just surviving; we were showing up. Green was still playing sports—one of the many activities B had pushed onto him over the years. Green, being the loyal and sensitive kid that he is, never wanted to let anyone down. The pressure had always been immense. But he was good—really good—and he loved the game. So I stayed involved. I did what any “deadbeat mom” apparently does: I volunteered. I joined the board. I brought the sports wagon with more gear than most professional teams. I was ready.

Then came the call.

The team needed another coach. Gerald was stretched out beside me, and I half-jokingly asked if he wanted to do it.

Without hesitation: “Absolutely. Hell yes.”

This was his chance to show up for Green in a meaningful way—and let’s be honest, the man lives for a little limelight. Coaching would be a redemption arc for him, and a bonding opportunity for them.

We didn’t fully understand how intense the small-town sports politics were. You’d think we were training future Olympians, the way these parents acted. Everyone was convinced their child was the next big thing—even if their kid couldn’t walk in a straight line or keep a jersey clean for longer than five minutes. It was absurd.

Gerald went to “the draft,” which—yes—is an actual thing here, and ended up with a team that was, frankly, a mess. Half of the kids were too old for the beginner league but not ready for competitive play. It was a recipe for disaster.

The first practice was brutal.

But Gerald?

He rose to it. He memorized names, got parents involved, and found a way to motivate even the most distracted players. He built something out of nothing. The team began to click. And for the first time in a long time, Green was thriving—on a team coached by his sober, present stepdad.

And then came the first game. And with it… B & E.

They showed up, naturally. Not to cheer Green on, but to destroy whatever joy he had built. They planted themselves close to where he was playing and tore into him mid-game, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear:

• “Why are you on this team with that drunk?”
• “Why aren’t you on the good team?”
• “You’d be faster if you lost weight.”
• “You throw like a girl—thanks to your mom.”

I wasn’t there to hear it firsthand. I’d made it a point to stay back, knowing they’d use any interaction against me. But Green came off the field in tears, shaking, and said words no parent ever wants to hear:

“Please make them stop.”

I couldn’t—not right then. I hadn’t witnessed it. And I knew that no one listens to children in these situations unless an adult backs them up.

So I started building my case.

One witness at a time. One statement at a time. Because this wasn’t just a sports field—it was another battleground. And the fight was coming whether we were ready or not.

And then, as if on cue, I was served again.

This time, I had a plan. A chunk of child support had finally come through, and it went directly to my new attorney—The Shark. She didn’t play games. She cost a fortune. And she was worth every dime.

Her advice was simple and non-negotiable: “Document everything. Report everything. Build the record.”

So I did.

I filed reports. I submitted statements. I got witnesses on record. I did the boring, meticulous, exhausting thing of proving the truth, one piece at a time. And in our town? Those police reports end up in the newspaper. So when B & E’s behavior started becoming public, it hit differently. Their reputation—which was already pretty scorched—started smoking.

They retaliated, of course. Hired a full law firm. Filed for full custody of Green. Hit me with a defamation claim. It was all noise, but loud enough that I had to keep my focus razor-sharp.

And meanwhile, Gerald—sweet Gerald—was becoming a town legend.

His underdog team made it all the way to the championship and won.

He was then elected to coach the all-star team for State. That success? It lit B & E on fire. They showed up at the State tournament—this time with Mr. Whoopi and his entourage—and managed to corner Green in the hotel pool, yelling at him in front of the entire league. It was mortifying.

We came home, humiliated but undeterred.

At this point, E’s obsession with us reached new heights. She started driving by our house daily. The kids couldn’t play in the yard. We couldn’t go to the skate park or the pool without risking a run-in. And then came the message—from the wife of one of their employees.

She warned me that they were paying people to drive by and take photos of my house. That they were actively trying to get Green taken from me.

She wouldn’t go on record—her family would lose everything. But her message told me what I already knew: This was war.

We pushed forward. Collected more statements. Logged more incidents. And then came the final straw: the court brought in a custody evaluator.

It should have been straightforward. It wasn’t.

Politics. Money. Influence. But the truth eventually made its way to the surface.

The evaluator concluded that the relationship between B & E and Green was damaging to his mental health. The result: They were to have no contact.

Did everyone respect that ruling? No. But it was on the record.

The custody battle pressed on. We were gathering more for trial: Stalking orders, phone records, statements from ex-employees. And then, the day before their “big trial win”—a day when they planned to march in their curated list of character witnesses to drag me through the mud—my team was ready too.

We had:

• B’s criminal history
• Testimony from people he had assaulted
• My sister’s public meltdown track record
• And even better: former employees and friends who knew exactly what B & E had done during the first custody battle with Mr. Whoopi.

We weren’t just prepared. We were armed.

And then? They folded.

They gave in. They agreed. In my favor.

Prayers, etc.: * 05:00 – Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel * 06:00 – praying The Angelus * 07:20 – praying the Glorious Mysteries of the Traditional Holy Rosary in English, followed by the Memorare * 07:45 – Readings from today's Mass include – Lesson: Acts 3:13-15,17-19 and Gospel: John 21:1-14. * 09:35 – making an Act of Contrition then making an Act of Spiritual Communion, followed by praying Archbishop Vigano’s prayer for USA & President Trump. * 10:00 – Today's Morning Devotion (Psalm 99) as found in Benedictus Magazine, followed by the Canticle of Zacharius (Lk 1:68-79). * 10:15 – He Loved Them Unto the End – SSPX Sermons * 10:30 – Thought for today from Archbishop Lefebvre: God has revealed His mercy: it is a simple fact. The whole life of our Lord and particularly the Passion are a manifestation of mercy. The question now is how souls are going to react to it. * 12:00 – praying The Angelus * 16:10 – prayerfully reading The Athanasian Creed, * 18:00 – praying The Angelus, followed by today's Evening Devotion, (Psalm 111), as found in Benedictus Magazine, followed by the Magnificat: Luke 1:46-55. * 19:00 – praying the hour of Compline for tonight according to the Traditional Pre-Vatican II Divine Office, followed by Fr. Chad Ripperger's Prayer of Command to protect my family, my sons, my daughter and her family, my granddaughters and their families, my great grandchildren, and everyone for whom I have responsibility from any demonic activity. – And that followed by the Wednesday Prayers of the Association of the Auxilium Christianorum.

Health Metrics: * bw= 225.20 lbs. * bp= 134/79 (65)

Diet: * 06:10 – 1 bowl of oatmeal w. raisins, ½ Whataburger cheeseburger sandwich, 1 banana * 09:30 – 1 fresh apple, 1 fresh orange * 15:00 – bowl of stew, and white bread * 16:45 – cottage cheese, applesauce

Chores, etc.: * 05:00 – listen to local news talk radio * 07:40 – following news reports from various sources * 13:30 – go to clinic, have blood drawn * 14:45 – watch old game shows, eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 16:30 – following news reports from various sources * 18:30 – now watching college baseball, IU vs Ball St.,

Chess: * 17:55 – moved n all pending CC games

posted Wednesday, 2025-04-23 ~20:05 #DLAPR2025

Winding down this Wednesday watching College Baseball, IU vs Ball St. Relaxing. Nice.

posted Wednesday, Apr 23, 2025 at 7:57 PM #QNAPR2025

It’s baseball season again. Along with that, it’s playoff time for basketball and hockey, F1 is back, and soccer is on, so I've been spending a lot of time watching live sports—and, as a result, I’ve been spending a lot of time watching commercials. Despite my advanced education, I am fundamentally a stupid, stupid man who makes stupid, stupid choices and is constantly entranced by stupid, stupid things on the TV or the Instagram. The other day I saw something about Mountain Dew Legend, a flavor of Mountain Dew available only at Buffalo Wild Wings. Today, I gave in and got takeout from Buffalo Wild Wings—a shameful choice, since I live in a town with a great wings restaurant (520 Wings in Savannah) and where even the shady sports bars and the fancy gas station by the ports make better wings than Buffalo Wild Wings. But I can't do the special Dew at those places. So I must debase myself.

I got what I wanted: 20oz of the purple Mountain Dew Legend, which I hoped would be as good as the Grimace Shake from McDonald's—a delicious shake that proved purple can taste good. But Mountain Dew Legend tastes like watered-down black cherry soda, or like a Fanta flavor from a freestyle machine at a movie theater. In other words, it tasted kind of normal: no weird aftertaste, no extreme sugar or caffeine kick, just a normal soda.

But that's not what Mountain Dew should be. Mountain Dew is supposed to be a caffeinated self-flagellation—a punishment for the series of decisions in life that led you to want a Mountain Dew. It's supposed to be awful but delicious at the same time, a form of catharsis, an experience of pleasure through pain. But Mountain Dew Legend is just a drink. I don't feel weird for drinking it. I don't regret it. I don't have a weird taste in my mouth. My body isn't reacting strangely to the caffeine and sugar. I just drank a soda, and that's not what I want from Mountain Dew. This is a disappointment—a double disappointment—because now I also have to eat dinner from Buffalo Wild Wings. There's will be no joy in my house tonight, only sadness as I silently munch on lemon pepper boneless wings and way too many cold tots. It’s nights like this when I could really go for a Mountain Dew.

A told me last week how S invited them to a softball game, and I didn't really want to hear that. The thought I wanted to get out of my head by writing down was how a part of me wants to say that S chose A over me in the breakup – which feels bad given the context I know that I can't really write here in good conscience. I remember when we broke up I asked A to let me have S as a friend and they agreed, but it kinda feels like the opposite happened. The depression wants me to think that A forced her hand, or that S made a conscious decision to prioritize her. I know these thoughts are irrational so I don't give them much thought.

But I think the important part is putting my money where my mouth is; I was talking with R and she mentioned how she sometimes struggles with jealousy over her partner, and how in theory my take is if your partner would cheat, then that isn't the partner you would want. I also immediately acknowledged how for me that only works in theory. To a different extent I think that applies here however.

Independent of cause or scenario, I think I have lost solid amount of feedback on what my relationship with S looks like. I asked them if they wanted to do something for deltopia and they agreed, but and we didn't really communicate and we did different things. Also it's not like we communicate much or frequently given the 2 day delay. So we work out once a week, and if that doesn't happen we don't need to reschedule. It's a pretty low stakes friendship, and so that's the mental model I need to work under. Do I think it would be nice to hang out and do stuff? Yes – but that's given the very important context of them wanting to do that past the barrier for initiating. And so if that's not the case, it doesn't really make sense to hold it in my mind.

I think this reads very negative or passive aggressive, but I really don't hold any negative feelings towards S. I'm just surprised how my brain latched onto this information. Realistically it's just some variation of abundance. S is plenty busy and her social niches are met, and so proximity and frequency of interaction probably accounts for invitation. Like I love A to death, when he came last Friday it was fucking awesome, we spent like the whole day together. I love hanging out with him, but also I have other more accessible friends right now like T and E, and so I do things with them. This parallel makes me also feel like this dynamic for me exists because of the low maintenance for A. If he was more needy or a shaky relationship, it wouldn't look like this. So a nice thought is thats my situation with S also. It's not like I'll get upset at S and make passive aggressive comments about plans or try to force myself in. And so if I was in her shoes the relationship is stable. And so isn't that great? After all it's not like I'm unsatisfied with my social connection right now. So I have to have anxiety and ask if I'm happy and they're happy what's the issue? All that's really weighing on me is the past relationship we had but things change. If things never changed, things would have never changed. I really like that quote because of how stupid it sounds. I'm glad I wrote about this because I feel better now! God what a strange thing to be a brain and to have thoughts and change so easily.

#NSFW

This post is NSFW 19+ Adult content. Viewer discretion is advised.

My toast popped up like a surrender flag. The avocado pit clung to the knife—a tiny green kamikaze pilot. I scraped its remains into the trash, whispering: “Tomorrow, we try again.”

Dress socks staged a mutiny this morning. One vanished. Its twin glared from the laundry pile—a woolen Judas. I went to work mismatched like a rebel.

I started watching Twitch again after taking a break for 7 weeks. It's only been a few days, but I think it's causing me to slip back into old thought patterns and habits. I need to cut way back and limit myself to specific streams and times. Or stop watching altogether.

One of the things I'm trying to do is pay attention to how I feel and how I am affected when I reintroduce the things I abstained from during Lent. I'm done with video games for good – I'm already quite aware of how negatively those affect me. But I'm not sure exactly what it is about Twitch streams that has made me stop and say “woah...this feels weird.”

Most of the streamers I watch are DJs and musicians, so not quite as sensory-overload as video game streams. Even so, I have been a lot more sensitive to things than I was before, and have found most of the streams I usually watch to be visually and aurally over-stimulating.

It's like being teleported from a quiet library into a crowded dance hall. My thoughts have been clouded and jumbled. I find it hard to focus. I feel unsettled. I worry that I'm backsliding.

Here's my plan:

• Aggressively and diligently curate my followed streams. Unfollow those that I'm really not interested, are just too much for me visually and aurally, or that generally leave me feeling worse.
• Chat less, hide chat unless I have something to say. A lot of that over-stimulation comes from chat – emotes, bot messages, etc. It's fun to interact with the stream in that way, but maybe too much interaction is part of the issue for me.
• Set a viewing schedule and stick to it. Part of the issue is me just looking to kill time and clicking through followed and suggested streams. I'll set a viewing schedule and not watch Twitch outside of that.

If these steps don't help me regain some control (and I'm hopeful they will), then maybe I have to be done watching Twitch and just stick to the streaming part. That would be hard, but obviously not impossible. And if there's anything I learned during Lent, it would be worth it.

#Twitch #media #mentalHealth

One of the most common defenses of poor liturgy, bad music, and casual irreverence is deceptively simple: “They’re doing their best.” It’s offered as a shield against critique, a plea for patience, a way to sanctify low standards. It is often said with sincerity. But sincerity is not the issue.

The issue is truth and whether what is being offered is worthy of the name liturgy at all.

Yes, many parishes are under-resourced. Yes, not every community has a trained musician or a willing choir. Yes, some pastors are overwhelmed. But to say that “everyone is doing their best” ignores two things: the difference between effort and formation, and the gap between intention and consequence.

Good intentions are not enough

A well-meaning person with a guitar and a heart full of love can still lead music that is theologically shallow, musically inappropriate, and spiritually unmooring. The kindness of the effort does not change the content of what is offered or the long-term impact it has on the faithful.

In no other area of sacramental life would we accept this logic. We do not say of a poorly formed priest, “Well, he’s doing his best, let him make up the Eucharistic Prayer.” We do not allow untrained volunteers to hear confessions or write catechisms. But we routinely hand over the Church’s public worship to those with no liturgical, musical, or theological preparation, because it feels kind to do so.

But misplaced kindness can do real harm.

Poverty of resources is not poverty of standards

It is true that many parishes are small and rural. Not every community can afford a professional musician. But this does not mean that beauty and reverence are inaccessible. It means we must form communities to understand what the Church asks, and teach them how to respond within their means.

A small parish that learns the Ordinary of the Mass in chant, well and simply sung, is closer to the mind of the Church than a large parish with microphones, praise bands, and endless novelty. The issue is not scale. The issue is orientation.

You do not need a pipe organ to offer God something beautiful. You need fidelity. You need silence. You need seriousness.

The problem is not resources. The problem is expectations.

Most parishes are not failing because they lack money. They are failing because they lack vision. The liturgy is not seen as the source and summit. It is seen as a weekly obligation, a backdrop for social belonging, or a platform for emotional uplift. When liturgy is not understood, it is not prioritized. And what is not prioritized declines, quietly, but inevitably.

“Doing our best” becomes a substitute for formation. And mediocrity becomes moralized.

There is no charity without truth

It is not uncharitable to ask whether what we are offering at Mass is worthy of God, worthy of the tradition, and worthy of the people. It is not uncharitable to expect competence, preparation, and reverence. In fact, to withhold those expectations is a kind of neglect.

The Church’s tradition is clear: liturgy is not a personal project. It is a sacred act that demands our highest attention and our most honest effort, not just emotionally, but intellectually and liturgically.

So yes, some are doing their best. But many are not. And even when they are, that effort must be oriented by something greater than sentiment.

Doing your best only matters if you know what you’re aiming for.