Why do we learn new things? Interest or curiosity. Somebody else tells us to. It serves some sort of a purpose in our lives. It’s needed for survival.

The part we struggle with in schools is what we tell kids they need to know. If it's interesting to them, they'll learn it anyway. If it fills a meaningful purpose, they'll probably learn it anyway. But just because the curriculum says so is a much harder thing to convince a student to go along with.

For the most part, the content that gets taught in schools has not meaningfully changed over time. We have changed emphasis, language, sequencing, outcomes, and sometimes the tools students use. We have added things like digital literacy, Indigenous perspectives, media literacy, coding, financial literacy, and more explicit attention to critical thinking. But the core academic structure is quite stable: reading, writing, arithmetic, science, social studies/history, and then progressively more specialized versions of the same subjects.

Kindergarten through Grade 8 is generally where foundational skills are taught. While I absolutely believe that there is room to question what we're teaching and why at those levels too, I think there is a far more profound change that needs to be made at the high school level.

High school is where we need to seriously question how easy access to information has changed what we teach and why we teach it. If the student is using AI to write the 500-word history essay for them, the question is why?

It's easy to just say they are lazy. But if we go back in time, who were the kids that traditionally didn't write essays or had somebody write it for them? Why was that happening then? We never actually fixed the underlying problem. Now that it's getting easier to get the essay written, the problem is just more obvious.

Does the student have the skills to successfully write the essay themselves to begin with? Is the student just not interested in the topic and therefore wants to avoid the essay? How do we resolve boredom in the classroom? How do we make sure kids have the skills or have access to the help that they need to be successful in the classroom?

One problem calls for instruction, scaffolding, practice, and support. The other calls for reconsidering the task itself, the topic, the purpose, the audience, or how much choice the student has.

What is the purpose of the essay? Regurgitation is boring. Writing for the sake of writing is also boring. Checking a box on a list of outcomes may be meaningful to you as the teacher, but has no value to the student.

What is the value to the student in learning the information? If the information is easily accessible anytime, anywhere, then we have to question how that affects a student's desire to learn, write about, or memorize the information.

Why is this being taught? Nice to know? Needed to function as an adult in the world? Somebody decided it was important in 1980 because walking to the library was inconvenient?

There are things worth knowing even when the information is easily accessible because knowledge provides context, judgment, cultural literacy, pattern recognition, and the ability to evaluate new information. You cannot critically assess everything from a completely empty head. But that still does not justify every fact currently sitting in every curriculum.

It's time to reconsider the value and importance of the information we're teaching. As technology makes it easier for students to avoid assignments, schools have the difficult job of determining what's still important and what's not, while finding ways to keep students engaged in a world where information is increasingly cheap.

Why is information cheap?

Easy access to anything makes it less expensive. That works in retail. It works in manufacturing. Mass-produced anything is generally cheaper. The Internet and AI have made information something that is mass-produced.

It’s not a question of whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. It simply is, and that’s the part we just have to get okay with. We can’t go back to the world where information was hard to get. That’s like trying to convince people that we should stop streaming and go back to 8-track tapes and Walkmans. It’s not going to fly. The nostalgia will continue to exist, but the world has forever changed.

So how do we renegotiate learning and education around cheap, mass-produced information? Or how do we convince kids that cheap doesn’t mean unimportant?

A can of beans is cheap, but that doesn’t make food unimportant. A pair of socks can be cheap, but it doesn’t make clothing unimportant. The two things can coexist. It also provides a useful lens. What parts of the curriculum are still important even though the information itself may be easy to get?

Our individual valuation of importance is not what matters. If you don’t like beans, it doesn’t matter that they are cheap; you’re not going to buy them anyway. But that doesn’t mean nobody else likes them or needs them. A love of a given subject or topic doesn’t necessarily mean the information is more or less valuable or needed by anybody else.

In my opinion, there are specific criteria for determining what makes information important.

• Do I need the information to function as an adult? Is it going to help me order food, budget, find a place to live, or be successful in a career I may not have chosen yet?
• Does it help me critically assess new information I come across?
• Does it expose me to new ideas, opinions, or interests?
• Is it something I’m already interested in?
• How likely am I to need that information in the near future? What is the likelihood that in 5 or 10 years I will forget that I ever learned the information because I never used it?

We can all think of plenty of topics in the curriculum that we never used again outside of the classroom we learned it in. That matters in a world where information is easy to get because it increases the likelihood that students will use AI to get around the assignments. They already know, as we did when we were their age, that the information would be of little value in the long run.

“When am I ever going to use this?” is one of the most valuable questions we can ask when determining what information matters in education and what doesn’t. “I might need it in university or college” isn’t good enough anymore. Post-secondary institutions have an obligation to teach the skills that are not important until that specific degree/diploma/certificate is wanted or needed. That information includes a certain amount of high school history/social studies, math, language arts, and science.

We can no longer assume that a student will graduate high school, choose a career, and stay on that path for the next 40 years. Kids often graduate high school with no idea of what they will do with their lives. I tell my own kids to make a 5-year plan. They just need to be doing something. It doesn’t have to be permanent. If they try enough things, eventually the breadcrumb trail leads to a possible long-term career option that makes new knowledge valuable.

High school needs to lead from that same place. Expose kids to as much information as we can without requiring them to memorize and regurgitate all of it. Teach for interest. Teach for a love of learning instead of mastery of every subject area, and then let students decide what they want to continue learning about.

All information can have value, even information we aren't particularly interested in. The interests students already have are valuable too. We can build on them. But not if we're stuck teaching something that happened 100 years ago simply because “everybody needs to know the history of our country.” That isn't enough of a reason on its own. In fact, it may be a very good reason for a disengaged student to get AI to write the essay.

That doesn't mean history isn't important. It means history needs to be learned in context and without the inflated valuation we sometimes give it simply because it has traditionally been part of the curriculum.

Yes, it's important. But not knowing a particular historical fact probably isn't going to dramatically change the course of most students' lives either. Both things can be true. And we need to be able to hold both ideas at once when deciding what students genuinely need to know in a world where information gets cheaper and easier to access every day.

The shortest sci-fi story ever.

1

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1. Well, you know what I mean.

Top: Denis Mukwege, below: José Andrés. Both photographed at the Atlantic Council, 18 Sept. 2026

New photos of respected humanitarians and news media leaders are now available in the TechNewsLit portfolio at the Alamy photo agency. We took both sets of images at events in Sept. 2026.

Dr. Denis Mukwege, who received the Nobel Peace Prize in 2018, and World Central Kitchen founder José Andrés discussed their work at an Atlantic Council event on 18 Sept. Mukwege works with wartime rape victims in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and surrounding countries, treating not only their immediate wounds but also addressing the underlying social, cultural, and legal causes. World Central Kitchen, begun by chef Andrés, serves thousands of meals to people affected by wars and natural disasters worldwide.

Top: New York Times Washington reporter Carl Hulse. Below: Former CNN anchor and bureau chief Frank Sesno. Both photographed at the National Press Club, 14 Sept. 2026.

New York Times correspondent Carl Hulse and former CNN journalist Frank Sesno recounted their stories of covering the terrorist attacks on Washington, DC on 11 Sept. 2001. Both journalists were in Washington at the time, and told their stories to a packed National Press Club event on 14 Sept. 2026. The discussion quickly evolved into the deteriorating climate for press freedom in the U.S. under the Trump administration.

All image sets are available from the TechNewsLit portfolio at the Alamy photo agency.

Copyright © Technology News and Literature. All rights reserved.

I’m listening to Iggy Azaleah, sitting in the bar of my own kitchen. A fire is burning in the fireplace.

I’m back again to my old self!

It took only two or three years?

She’s pretty bad, but I know now that a Loubouiton is a shoe.

It’s never a bad thing to gain knowledge. The point is, you never know which curveballs life throws your way; the more you know, the higher the probability of sucess

Just gather it all in the head

And lo and behold, it’s just like a junk room up there

With Loubouiton’s, C#, weather stations and Pokémon.

#nonfiction #books #politics #socialism

The Left excels at diagnosis. There is no shortage of books, articles, papers, podcasts, documentaries, reports and more decrying the ills of late-stage capitalism. From deepening inequality to the breakdown of the biosphere, we can argue convincingly how capitalism fails us. What, however, is to be done about it?

Here we are on substantially weaker ground. Marx famously declared that he was not in the business of writing the cookbooks for the post-revolutionary workers’ state, and this injunction against utopianism has hung like a shadow over socialist writers ever since. The nature of actually existing socialism limited the imagination even further, equating post-capitalist society with dreary authoritarianism. Yet even where alternative futures are being imagined, such as in visions of degrowth or solarpunk, the question of how we get from here to there often remains unanswered. Attaining the future we want is not merely a matter of having the right ideas, it is also about building the power to get there.

Erik Olin Wright’s How to Be an Anti-capitalist in the 21st century directly grapples with this question. Wright’ final book, it builds on decades of Marxist sociological research and activist practice, distilling these into a delightfully short primer on how to change the world. It is not an instruction manual for building a community group or trade union along the lines of Jane McAlevey’s Organising for Power and similar works, but a guide to what anti-capitalist organisations can do to move us closer to a better future. Although the book contains some policy ideas, it is not a catalogue of nice but unachievable policy prescriptions either, but instead presents a strategic framework that organisers can use to assess whether their efforts are likely to erode capitalist dominance.

Ecosystem socialism

While it might be assumed that readers picking up a book titled How to be an Anti-capitalist in the 21st Century would already be persuaded of the evils of capitalism, Wright nonetheless starts off with a succinct overview of the arguments against it. As an Analytical Marxist, Wright has disavowed Marxism’s original foundation on the teleological movement of history and the exploitation of workers through the extraction of surplus value. Wright’s case against capitalism is instead purely moral, grounded on capitalism’s inherent tendency to undermine equality, freedom and community. It is an elegant first chapter, and while traditional Marxists may well find it too milquetoast for their liking, it will appeal to a much wider left-wing readership. The availability of multiple arguments against capitalism in any event strengthens rather than weakens the case.

Wright’s Analytical Marxism similarly excuses him from the search for a revolutionary subject charged to be the sole agent of historical progress, something much left-wing writing has been agonising over after the failure of the traditional proletariat to usher in the socialist new dawn. Hopes have been pinned on revolutionaries in the global periphery, other oppressed groups such as women or ethnic minorities, students, or a new generation of ‘networked workers’. Not that hope in the working class has been fully abandoned either: there are still those yearning for a return to the centrality of the working class led by a reinvigorated communist party to act as the revolutionary vanguard. Wright avoids this fruitless search for a single historical subject, and instead roots his analysis in a recognition that capitalism harms people in many different ways, leading them to organise against it for different reasons and with different goals. It is diversity instead of uniformity, and to Wright this is a strength rather than a weakness, although he does not downplay the difficulties of organising across an ecosystem of groups, communities and movements. In this, he his much closer to writers like Rodrigo Nunes who in Neither Vertical nor Horizontal also advocates for ecosystemic approach, than to Jodi Dean’s argument in Comrade for a return to the traditional communist party. Or, as revolutionary poet Diane di Prima explained:

NO ONE WAY WORKS, it will take all of us shoving at the thing from all sides to bring it down.

If I wanted to get there, I wouldn’t start from here

Once you recognise that it will take a multitude of us shoving at the thing from all sides, the logical next conclusion is that it will also take a multitude of methods. Wright thus takes the holistic view that an ecosystem of actors will deploy a range of strategies to bring about the demise of capitalism, depending on their situation, capacities and preferences. How to Be an Anti-capitalist in the 21st Century identifies five types of strategy: smashing capitalism through revolution, dismantling it by political means, taming it to limit its worst effects, resisting it locally, or attempting to escape it altogether. Discarding revolutionary rupture on the grounds that it is neither likely nor desirable in advanced democracies, Wright concludes that a combination of the other four strategies must be used to erode capitalism.

Selecting ‘all of the above’ may look like a trite way out of an analytical quandary, but Wright’s assertion is deeply considered and its value lies precisely in its ability to pragmatically transcend both the sterile argument about an ideologically ‘correct’ course of action and the fatalistic sense that because revolution is not on the horizon everything is futile. It cannot be denied though that Wright’s assertion here rests in large part on faith. In essence, Wright’s gambit is to replace the belief in an inevitable historical telos with a hope that the strategic combination of the four strategies remaining to us will be sufficient to carve out a path beyond capitalism through gradual change. This is of course not a novel position. Reformist or gradualist approaches have been advocated for as long as there have been socialists, with the most famous proponents of this approach probably the British Fabian Society. What How to Be an Anti-capitalist in the 21st Century adds is a recognition that parliamentarianism alone is also not enough, but that it will require the combination of political advances, grassroots campaigning, and the nurturing of anti-capitalist modes of living in the interstices of the capitalist system to secure victory. By pointing at the interdependency of these strategies, Wright prompts us to identify opportunities to deploy them in mutually reinforcing ways: changing laws or institutions to make cooperatives more viable, or using grassroots action strategically to extract political demands. Although not explicitly referenced, How to Be an Anti-capitalist In the 21st Century bears the influence of André Gorz’ non-reformist reforms: changes that don’t just deliver immediate material gains, but change the terrain on which class struggle plays out to our advantage.

The ecumenical perspective may not appeal to all, and traditional Marxist or communist readers will likely take issue with absence of dialectical materialism or the endorsement of market socialism. For socialists wedded to revolutionary rupture, I imagine that Wright’s alternative will feel either too soft, too utopian, or both. Wright does not dispute that eroding capitalism is not going to be easy. He is well aware that conditions are far from optimal, the road long and arduous, and success far from certain. Yet for anyone who accepts that revolution is either unlikely or undesirable, How to Be an Anti-capitalist in the 21st Century gives a lot of useful food for thought. This is true even if the reader does not wholly agree with Wright’s premises or conclusions, and that is precisely because Wright’s proposal is expansive and accommodating of different approaches and perspective. In essence, Wright’s strategic programme is a contemporary rearticulation of Laozi’s ancient wisdom that water is stronger than stone:

There is nothing softer and weaker than water, And yet there is nothing better for attacking hard and strong things. For this reason there is no substitute for it.

At ~150 pages, How to Be an Anti-capitalist in the 21st Century can only give a cursory introduction to many of the concepts and strategies discussed, though it is a testament to Wright’s mastery as an academic and writer that he does everything he covers a great degree of justice in the limited space available. It is a great tragedy that Wright was never able to write the intended, more extensive companion book for How to Be an Anti-Capitalist In the 21st Century due to his death to acute myeloid leukemia in 2019. Instead, How to Be an Anti-capitalist will have to be a starting point or roadmap for those who want to engage more with socialist thought, rather than a detailed compendium in itself. But its real value lies in what it was always intended to do: offer activists not only a framework and a theory of change to take into the world and act, but also the hope to do so. The purpose of philosophy is not, after all, to merely understand the world, but to change it.

Notes & Suggestions

• None of this is to say that anti-capitalism is easy, and the capitalist system has both direct and indirect ways of facing off challenges. Some of the very direct tactics were exposed in Confessions of a Union Buster, whereas Hegemony Now! analyses the more subtle methods by which consent and compliance are maintained.
• One attraction of Wright’s approach is that it doesn’t lock you into one specific form of activism on the ground that this is the One True Path. You don’t have to stand outside your local library flogging badly stencilled pamphlets. On the other hand, this does mean that you have to work out for yourself what you can do. Wright’s strategic outlook accommodates a multitude of approaches, so if you are unsure, see if there are campaign groups active in your local area, or based on issues that are important to you. If you are in work, always join a union, or set one up if there isn’t one yet. If you want to influence national politics where you live, join or donate to a political party to support them. How to Be an Anti-Capitalist in the 21st Century tells you that you don’t have to do everything yourself. All it asks is that you find ways for your actions to clear the way for others.

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: London Fashion Week, Odd Fashion Shows, Films, Water, Canoe Beach Sushi & Grill, and Full Moon this Saturday

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London Fashion Week. Forget the runway. London was the runway—and darling, the pavement was fully booked. Give London a little rain, a few black cabs, a red double-decker and a fashion crowd dressed like they’re late to something extremely important—and suddenly the whole city is serving Fashion Week. From Soho to Hyde Park, trench coats were flying, boots were marching, sunglasses were appearing in questionable weather, and the Tube was basically transporting fashion editors from one outfit change to the next. London wasn't just hosting Fashion Week. It was wearing it. London Fashion Week 2026: London, Take Your Bow !!! The runway was everywhere. From September 17–21, 2026, London Fashion Week turned the capital into one giant fashion set—and the pavement was just as important as the catwalk. More than 220 designers brought collections, presentations and experiments across the city. Paul Costelloe opened with a nautical-inspired collection, while outside, the street-style crowd was already serving: oversized tailoring, dramatic coats, boots, statement bags and sunglasses—because apparently grey skies are no excuse for bad accessorising. Then came Olympia London, where H&M brought the star power with names including Lila Moss and Alex Consani. Outside? Another runway. Cameras flashed as fashion editors, models and influencers moved between shows. Across London, Burberry, Simone Rocha, Alexander McQueen and Mulberry pulled the fashion crowd from venue to venue—and every journey became another street-style moment. Meanwhile, Fashion Scout's 20th anniversary season brought emerging-designers energy, while Art Hearts Fashion transformed St. John's Church in Hyde Park into another fashion destination. And naturally, London supplied the special effects. Rain. Wind. Wet pavements. Black cabs. A coat billowing dramatically in the breeze? Editorial. A puddle reflecting a perfectly styled outfit? Content. Hair slightly ruined by the weather? Call it texture. Meanwhile, the Accra fashion girl is watching from 30°C thinking: “Gorgeous. But please show me the linen version.” The venues brought the fashion. The streets brought the attitude. The weather brought the drama. And London turned the whole city into a runway. Odd Fashion Shows. Currently we have all these big fashion shows: New York, London, Milan and Paris and then Glitz Fashion show and Accra Fashion Week coming up. And last week we had an unusual one: a garden show. Among the flower displays at Efua Sutherland Children's Park, garden plants, pots and whatever else you can think of, and opened by H.E. the Vice President Naana Jane Opoku-Agyeman, a fashion show was held with the theme “Flowery.” One wonders. Nevertheless, the show featured 15 designers, with 7 designers from foreign countries, representing Nigeria, Benin, Togo, Côte d’Ivoire and Liberia. Among the Ghanaian participants was Dizgrace Fashion, an upcoming fashion brand, alongside designers such as Adetutu from Nigeria and Roderm Arts from Benin, established adding a strong international dimension to the showcase. Dizgrace Fashion

Films. Often when I ask people what they do in their free time, the answer is: “Watching films.” And, like fashion, there are film festivals: Cannes and Venice. There used to be Ouagadougou as well. Here, unusual films with big potential are shown, and often films from countries you hardly knew existed come to the forefront. Cinema is much bigger than Hollywood. The rise of South Korean cinema is a good example of how films from outside America can reach and influence audiences around the world. Directors such as Park Chan-wook and Bong Joon-ho have brought distinctly Korean stories and perspectives to international audiences, with films such as Oldboy and Parasite. Cannes has also played an important role by giving films from different countries a prestigious international platform. Parasite, for instance, went on to win the Palme d’Or in 2019. Its story is deeply rooted in Korean society and social class, yet its themes are easily understood across cultures. This shows that audiences do not only look to Hollywood for compelling stories. European, Asian, African and Latin American filmmakers all have their own voices, experiences and ways of telling stories, making world cinema far richer than the American film industry alone.

Water: Simple: water. But it is less simple than we think. Typically, one needs to drink 2–3 litres of water per day in Accra. You can ask AI: “What is the daily water requirement for a 60-kilogram woman who mainly works indoors?” and you get quite detailed answers, including whether you use air conditioning or not. And if you don't drink that much water? AI will tell you that you will automatically drink sufficiently because your body tells you when you are thirsty. I disagree. We have learned to override that thirst feeling. If you do not drink sufficiently, you may get headaches, have difficult or hard stools, feel easily tired and become irritated more quickly. A good yardstick is the colour chart below: every time you urinate, just check the colour and, if necessary, drink more. A small side step: around 40% of women in Accra have a UTI (Urinary Tract Infection) so be careful which toilet you use. You can even get it in our hospitals. Now, the water we need to drink. Since about 30 years, sachet and bottled water have become popular. The cost? Say three sachets a day — that is roughly 1.5 litres. The rest of your water probably comes from the food you eat. At GHC 1.50 per day, that is about GHC 550 per year. Assuming you live until 65, that would be around GHC 35,000 over a lifetime. Would that buy a car? What happened before sachet and bottled water became popular? People drank from the tap, and there were water sellers on the streets. They carried a tank on their back, rather like a spraying machine, and sold you a glass of water on the spot. Also for just a few pesewas. Water from the tap? Yes. The Ghana Water Company disinfects the water seriously, using chlorine. That is one reason we have relatively few cases of cholera in Accra. Drinking water from the tap would also reduce our garbage problem. Thousands and thousands of tonnes of plastic end up in our landfills — and we paid dollars to import that plastic in the first place. Water. Simple.

Canoe Beach Sushi & Grill. 19th 4th Circular Road, Paul Weijer Street, Cantonment, Accra. The place is run by a real Korean fisherman, born here, with a real fishing boat. Tema used to be full of Korean fishermen and still is. And they didn't only catch fish. The restaurant has a cozy outdoor area and a very chic interior. The prices are chic wherever you sit, and our tablecloth was sheer luxury. We had white-fish carpaccio, which turned out to be hammer fish, at GHC 375. It was decorated with sweet oranges, which made for a nice combination. Then came sushi octopus at GHC 295 — indeed, something very special. The lobster was GHC 480, but it could have been fresher, and the sauce did not improve it. The little fried fish were nice. There was no barracuda. A big Club beer — they didn't have small ones — goes for GHC 77. And be careful: on top of all this, there is an 8% service charge, like it or not. The prices put me off, but the quality was above average.

Full Moon this Saturday. Nice beach walk at Laboma beach to admire the results of building without a license if you have no friends.

2nd October is grandparent's day. Don't forget.

Lydia...

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Just checking to see if this works. If so, this afternoon's mood tunes. I can't dance on my feet, atm, so I shall dance while sitting.😸

https://youtube.com/watch?v=Rz9ydImMz_c&si=7JgjuOIntWMXg85KA

Friday's MLB Game of Choice.

Can't say how much of tonight's game I'll be able to catch, we may have a busy afternoon / evening today followed by an early start tomorrow morning. But surely I'll be able to manage a few innings at least. My Texas Rangers will be traveling to Target Field in Minneapolis to play the Minnesota Twins. The game is scheduled to start at 7:10 PM CDT. As usual I'll be following the game's scores and stats in real time via MLB's Gameday Service where we can also find links to the radio-call of the game provided by announcers of either team we choose.

And the adventure continues.

Cauchemar Je me suis levée. Ma princesse dort. On a eu du mal à s'endormir. Ma chérie est occidentale, elle a davantage de mal à gérer le deuil. Nous on est éduquées à tout supporter, comme des mules Pour une fois c’est moi qui la console. J’ai réalisé que de 6 à 12 ans forcée, puis plus tard volontairement sous la conduite de mon sensei, j'ai reçu un entraînement mental qui me permet aujourd'hui sans doute de tenir. Ça n'est pas le chagrin qui me dévaste c’est une colère folle une rage qui bouillonne, comme celle qui m’habitait lorsque je suis sortie de la secte et que j'ai exprimée ici dans mes premiers posts tous perdus aujourd'hui. Ma première instance ça devait être en 2005 a disparu.

Je vais boire un peu puis me recoucher. Il est minuit ½ je me lève dans 5 heures j'ai des cours à assurer demain. Pardonnez mes absences, par moments je n'ai vraiment pas envie d'écrire là, je cherche à effacer ce cauchemar d'impuissance et d'injustice qui m'a réveillée, écrire m'aide.

J’essayerai d'être en forme demain pour vous

#shieko

Aiesha's gets Caught

#nsfw #Aiesha

Aiesha was driving naked in traffic with the windows down, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She was chanting to herself to make it normal, determined to reprogram decades of backward thinking in one night. As she took the long way home and some of the less-traveled back roads, she thought about all her life choices that got her here.

The gravity of her situation is that she’s about to become a middle-aged woman with very abnormal habits...habits so opposite of the mainstream that she’ll be fundamentally incompatible with anyone else when this is all over.

A full year of constant porn consumption had already made things permanent. She’d adapted to single living, accepted the consequences of low funds and old age, but refused to pair off just for the sake of sharing resources without love. So while she had good health and a few more years ahead of her, she’d chosen this path. She had silently accepted the consequences.

Her free hand played with her left nipple as she kept the wheel steady with her right. The only thing she really needed to get used to was operating the pedals barefoot. It wasn't as effortless as driving with shoes on. She was going to normalize barefoot driving too. She didn't want to be a 'nudist.' She honestly didn't give a shit about the wholesome values that shunned sex like it was something humans don't do. She wanted to be naked in the clothed world without apology. She wanted to be an exhibitionist.

As her thoughts and memories came into focus in her mind, she didn't have any regrets to what she had done. No regrets relapsing into porn addiction. No regrets into roaming around naked in public places and masturbating. And now she was going to keep escalating and getting worse. Obliterating her traditions has been a liberating experience.

The idea of tying her orgasms to being naked in public started to really turn her on. The thought of only cumming outside electrified her. There would be no closed doors anymore. Just days of edging until she had to go out naked again for her next release.

The nipple play became a little more aggressive as she drove naked through town. She started pinching her nipple which in turn electrified her clit. Even though she had a hard orgasm while naked in public just a few minutes ago, she was already getting turned on again. Her promise to only cum in public might be an actual reality already.

She was only a few minutes away from her apartment and knew just the right place to park—where she could cum and remain unseen. She planned to leave all her clothes in the car and walk back to her apartment naked.

“I really am going to do this here,” she thought. She really didn't have a reason not to.

She glided into the parking lot, found her special spot, and opened the door as though it were ordinary. No hesitation, no anxious glances. Just moving as if she were fully clothed. It was nerve-wracking, but she was resolute in her quest to make her nakedness feel normal in public. She picked up her phone and her lanyard with the key around her neck, and for the second time that night, she left her car naked—shielded only by her hands and her resolve.

Aiesha made her way to a common area with a gazebo that was across from the back entrance of her building. Without hesitation, she sat down, spread her legs, started to masturbate in the night as she took in all the nighttime sounds at 2 a.m. Her apartment wasn’t near the city center, so not many younger people lived here. Not many people stayed out late. But there was still risk. She loved the thrill, so she kept playing with her pussy.

“I'm just like the porn I watch,” she thought to herself as another wave of arousal bloomed through her legs. She didn't think she'd be doing this outside her apartment on her first outing, but here she was. Escalating her perverted lifestyle to the extreme—quickly. She loved it.

She tried to savor the moment, but the need to cum in public was rising faster than her ability to hold back. She let it build, and she had a satisfying release, her pussy leaking onto the bench and slow dribbles trickling down the wood by her feet. She felt good about her life choices that led her here.

Aiesha gathered her things, and just like before, she forced herself to act normal, not checking her surroundings. She wanted to be the resident porn-addicted, naked recluse. It felt right to own this identity.

She walked to the entrance and opened the door. As she looked at the mailboxes, she decided to test her luck and check the mail. She already checked earlier, but she was just prolonging her exposure.

“I really have turned into an exhibitionist because of my porn addiction.” She thought to herself. Once again, her hand drifted between her legs. She was having a serious problem controlling herself now. She was fully nude, far from her clothes, barefoot, and now she was risking everything by exposing herself in her apartment. She couldn't help it. Eventually, a small voice of reason grabbed hold of her, nudging her to get back inside, albeit reluctantly.

She walked naked to the elevator, rode up to the 3rd floor and casually padded her way to her apartment, none the wiser.

Once inside, Aiesha turned on her screens, started her porn playlists, and began preparing for her shower. Her legs were still sticky, her feet dirty—but she didn’t mind. It was an honor to wash off some of the nighttime grime and grit from being out naked in public. A reminder of her having an amazing time.

She was just about to step into the shower when she heard a faint knock on the door, barely audible over the sound of the water, but her heart dropped. She didn't want her intuition to be right, but she decided to go through with it. She turned off the water, rubbed some of the grime off her body quickly, turned off her screens, muted everything, and grabbed her robe from the front door. She looked through the peephole to see one of her neighbors—a younger Black woman in her late 20s, standing there with her head down. She knew she lived on this floor, but never knew her name. She was just as reclusive as she was, only seeing her in passing as she went to and from work. Nothing more.

Slowly, Aiesha opened the door until the security bolt caught. The younger black woman looked very nervous, as if something had happened. Aiesha acted concerned, holding her robe shut; but she knew what this was all about.

“Did something happen? Are you alright?”

The woman at her doorstep was so shy. Aiesha unbolted the door and invited her in and asked her to take a seat on her guest chair (the one she never gooned on)

The woman still didn't make eye contact with Aiesha, looking at her shoes instead sitting uncomfortably. The silence was eerie.

“What's your name?” Aiesha asked, trying to break the tension. “Sonya,” the young woman said, still looking down, barely audible. “Are you ok, should I call the police?” Still silence. Aiesha still played coy, but she knew the reason why this quiet shy woman was in her apartment.

Sonya to a slow breath and spoke.

“I saw you outside. I just got off work scrolling on my phone, and then I saw you get out of your car and walk to the gazebo. And then stand at the mailboxes...” Sonya's voice as quivering, like she had gotten in trouble.

Aiesha's heart was pounding in her chest, blood rushing through her ears. She knew she would be seen eventually, but not on her first night out. She was only getting started.

Aiesha took a deep breath. She was caught and found out. She decided to own it.

“Yes Sonya, I was outside naked. You caught me. It's something I wanted to try tonight.” Aiesha stood there holding her robe closed. Sonya didn't look up from her shoes.

The timid woman slowly looked up, still not making eye contact kind of looking off to the side, but said something Aiesha wasn't expecting. “I want to try that too.”

Aiesha blinked. This woman, while her neighbor, practically a stranger just confessed she wants to do the same thing Aiesha is doing. She wanted to go naked in public. Aiesha decided to take charge of the conversation, she pulled up a chair and sat next to Sonya.

“Baby, I'm not gonna bite,” Aiesha said, calling on her mentoring skills. “But you don't have to be ashamed for what you saw or what you just said. If you really want this, we gotta get you more comfortable. You haven't done anything wrong or seen anything wrong.” Sonya took it literally and started taking off all her clothes—quickly and eagerly.

“I want to get comfortable,” Sonya said softly.

Aiesha didn't stop her; she just watched this woman bare everything in front of her. Then, Sonya finally made direct eye contact with Aiesha, still visibly nervous, yet with a faint look of resolve and conviction. Sonya opened her mouth to speak again.

“I just broke up with my boyfriend today. My boss always yells at me. I'm always broke. My parents say I'm a failure because I have not bought a house yet. My life is miserable. I was crying all day from the stress. Watching you get out and walk across the parking lot naked, masturbating, and then waking into our building was the hottest thing I've ever seen. I'm getting turned on again thinking about it. I want to change something in my life. I can't afford to go anywhere or take a vacation. What you're doing looks so exciting. I need something in my life that's exciting. I'm nervous as fuck. I know this looks crazy but I want to be naked like you. I've never done any of this, but the way my life is going, I want to know why you do this. I don't care if I sound like a crazy person; I just want to do something in my life that makes me happy. So yeah I'm naked right now, but its better than whatever I have been feeling today.”

Sonya's eyes filled with tears and she started to weep. Her confession pulled something out of her. Drained her. Broke her. “Please?” she sobbed.

Aiesha walked over and hugged the naked woman, letting her robe fall open. She's seen mental breakdowns at her job more than once in her career, but nothing like this. She gave the naked woman a hug and patted the back of her head, letting the young woman's face rest against her bare chest.

“It's going to be okay, sweetie. I got you,” Aiesha cooed. Sonya shuddered at the warmth and care of this stranger. Someone who could have been her older sister. Someone who said something kind. This woman was doing something she never received from her parents: approval of simply existing.

Sonya let out an ugly cry. Tears soaked Aiesha's chest and robe. The young woman let out years of hurt all at once in front of this naked stranger.

Instinctively, Aiesha rocked Sonya back and forth as her sobs subsided. Aiesha let the robe fall off her body completely, clumping in pile next to Sonya's clothing. It's been so long since Aiesha embraced anyone naked. The skin on skin contact was very comforting to her despite the circumstances. She took in the scent of coconut and body spray, taking in the subtle cues of holding a woman. This was the first time she's ever done this. Secretly she wanted to get used to this.

Eventually, Sonya pulled back, wiping tears from her eyes and looked at Aiesha from head to toe. “You are so beautiful. I like your body.”

Aiehsa smiled as she looked at Sonya's naked body in kind. Taking a good look at her.

Sonya had a slender, graceful frame that suggested both poise and a quiet intensity. Her skin was smooth and warm-toned, reflecting the soft light of the dimly lit apartment, and her high cheekbones added to her subtle natural beauty. Her dark hair, tied back in a loose bun like Aiehsa's, framed a delicate face with a downward gaze that betrayed her nervousness. Her lips were slightly parted, hinting at a mix of hesitation and curiosity.

She had large areolas that framed her nipples perfectly. As Aiehsa's gaze drifted down her body, she noticed a tuft of hair below her belly button that flowed into a well-trimmed bush. Sonya had a beautiful thigh gap, and the dim light from Aiehsa's apartment shone through her legs.

In short, Sonya was a stunning woman resembling the porn goddesses she gooned to daily.

“Sonya, you are beautiful. First, I need to take a shower. You can either wait here for me, or we can exchange numbers and talk about this tomorrow—your choice.”

Sonya stood nude and pondered for a moment. She gracefully squatted down, grabbed her keys and phone, then stood back up, looking up at Aiesha again.

“I need to take a shower too. Let's exchange numbers.”

Aiesha stood there nude, calling out her cell phone number. Sonya saved it, did a test call, and picked up her purse.

“Thanks, Aiesha. I'll text you when I get out of the shower if you're not sleeping,” Without hesitation, Sonya grabbed the door, stepped outside nude as if it was the day she was born, walking down the hallway to her apartment. The rest of her clothes were still piled up on Aiesha's floor.

“Wait, aren't you…?” Sonya turned with a devilish grin, looking back at Aiesha. “I don't need clothes. You've proven that to me.”

Aiesha watched the naked woman walk down the hallway, nude and barefoot as if it was perfectly normal, put her key in the lock, open the door, and step inside with a smile and wave.

Aiesha blinked again, wondering what she had awakened in Sonya.

Publicat la 17 aprilie 2016

Vânătorii de zmeie – Khaled Hosseini Editura Niculescu

Este o carte excepțională! Dacă la început am mai lăsat-o din mână, părând a fi o lectură ușoară, cu o acțiune lejeră, la un moment dat totul a luat o întorsătură la fel de bruscă precum evenimentele ultimilor patruzeci de ani din istoria Afganistanului!

Sunt multe de spus despre carte, dar orice aș fi scris nu ar fi putut reprezenta o recenzie care să se ridice la înălțimea cărții, așa că m-am abținut.

Totuși, nu recomand filmul înaintea cărții! O sută și ceva de minute de film nu pot surprinde drama unei persoane și, cu atât mai puțin, drama unei societăți.

Aș spune că fiecărei națiuni i-ar trebui câte un scriitor de talia lui Khaled Hosseini!

Aștept cu nerăbdare să treacă pauza recomandată de circa șase luni de „sedimentare”, înainte de a continua lectura cu A Thousand Splendid Suns (Cetatea celor o mie de sori)!

Iată câteva dintre fragmentele pe care le-am notat în timp ce citeam:

Trecutul își face drum spre lumină cu ghearele. [pag. 5]

Când omori un om, furi o viață. Îi furi soției lui dreptul de a avea un soț și copiilor – dreptul de a avea un tată. Când spui o minciună, furi cuiva dreptul la adevăr. Când înșeli, furi acelui om dreptul la corectitudine. [pag. 23]

Asta e treaba cu cei care spun numai ce cred. Își închipuie că și ceilalți fac la fel. [pag. 64]

Eram doar eu și Homaira împotriva lumii întregi. Și să-ți spun ceva, Amir Jan: În cele din urmă lumea câștigă. Așa stau lucrurile. [pag. 112]

Ceai, Politică și Scandaluri – ingredientele unei duminici afgane la talcioc. [pag. 154]

Poate că e nedrept, dar ce se întâmplă în câteva zile, uneori într-una singură, poate schimba cursul unei vieți. [pag. 158]

Există o cale să redevii bun. [pag. 211]

„Pentru tine, de încă o mie de ori!”

Nu există decât ceea ce faci și ceea ce nu faci. [pag. 221]

Întotdeauna e mai dureros să ai și să pierzi, decât să nu fi avut deloc. [pag. 233]

Dar timpul poate fi atât de lacom – uneori îți fură toate detaliile și le ține numai pentru el. [pag. 235]

Eu încă mai bâjbâiam în căutarea cuvintelor potrivite și, dintre noi doi, eu eram scriitorul. [pag. 242]

Tăcerea înseamnă serenitate, pace, înseamnă să dai încet butonul VOLUM din viața cuiva. Liniștea înseamnă să apeși butonul de ÎNCHIDERE. Să închizi sistemul. Cu totul. [pag. 393]


no more chips

Between me and the writing is always something, whether friend or foe. It happened this afternoon to be both. Between me and my scrawling in this tiny pad was my hoping self, drawn up to a desk, with a handful of freshly opened gourmet potato crisps, which I had loosed into a pristine white porcelain bowl, against which every salted fold and expertly burnt crisp edge was scandalously undressed. My salivating intensified tenfold. And beyond that porcelain bowl of crisps lay a copy of Henry Miller on Writing and the intention for it to catapult me into a writing frenzy. A wary man without choice, I devoured the whole bowl of crisps as if I were going at Sex itself. Collect yourself. I pushed back the chair, pressing my greasy fingertips against the desk for stability, and picked up the bowl ringed with salt and crumbs, and strode to the kitchen. Emptying the remainder of the crisps packet into the bowl was swift work. There was markedly less in the bowl than that first helping, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t look almost pristine again. Returning to the table, I methodically placed the bowl back in its position. I took in what was before me. Which is to say that I checked to reassure myself that writing in this pad was exactly as far away as when I had set upon the first bowl of crisps. Then I wolfed down that second helping with the same measure of vigour. No more chips. Having thought myself better off for vanquishing this foe, I stretched my arms wide and smiled supremely. The late summer sunshine had been pouring through the window by the desk. So while I had been feasting on my two bowls of crisps, I too was bathed in sunlight. And so I rose and came across my flat to this second shadowy desk. With my newfound solar strength I read straight through the first eight pages of the Miller. And, seized in its thralls, I immediately penned this down as I had always intended.

Publicat la 17 noiembrie 2015

Cu o mică excepție (postarea anterioară), am constatat că nu am mai scris pe acest blog de la sfârșitul lunii august. După câteva încercări în care nu am adăugat nici măcar un cuvânt, nici la titlu, nici în corpul textului, m-am hotărât să preiau aici un comentariu pe care l-am scris în data de 6 noiembrie, ca reacție la evenimentele tragice de la „Colectiv”.

Iată-l în continuare.

Eu nu am scris Ulysses! Eu nu am ieșit acum în stradă! Eu ascult rock! Zilele astea am (tot) ascultat Days of Rage (Iced Earth)! Am mai spus-o!

Mai demult am ieșit în stradă! Mai demult ascultam tot rock! Mai demult am mers la vot! Am fost la fiecare tur de scrutin. Odată am fost chiar primul votant! Astăzi am donat sânge! Pentru „Colectiv”? m-a întrebat doamna asistentă… Da, pentru „Colectiv”. Pentru victimele de la „Colectiv”. Voi mai merge la vot! Voi asculta tot rock și de acum înainte! Voi ce faceți? Nu-mi răspundeți! Asta vă privește doar pe voi, nu pe mine! Vă privește doar pe voi atât timp cât libertatea voastră nu-mi îngrădește libertatea mea!

Știați că în istoria rockului au mai existat evenimente asemănătoare cu tragicul eveniment de la „Colectiv”, nu-i așa? Poate vă amintiți sau poate că ați uitat de Smoke on the Water (and Fire in the Sky), a celor de la Deep Purple.

Mi-aș dori să aflu că toți cei ce mai sunt acum în spital se vor întoarce sănătoși acasă! Fie ca cei ce nu mai sunt printre noi să se odihnească în pace! În memoria lor, piesa Watching Over Me (am început cu Iced Earth, închei tot cu Iced Earth).

This morning I lap a leisure pace. I've really no spare time to be doing so, and yet here I lie, wistfully poking at my phone. It is not uncommon. I shall likely procrastinate as long as I draw breath. I will casually glance at the time and calculate whether I still have enough remaining to do all I need. I'm pushing it this morning while debating necessity and ego. A danger when living alone, perhaps. “Danger” is surely the wrong word.

I'm hungry, but haven't quite planned that into my procrastination. So much for languishing in bed. Definitely the wrong word there, but I love the sound of it. Why must it be a negative? Languish. Stretch out. Succumb. Relish the reduction of a demanding go. There is a grand satisfaction in taking a moment to feel the body's recline.

I got busy after writing that. Then, while clearly not paying the attention I should have been, I sliced a box cutter through my heel while breaking down boxes. Not what I needed today. I've rinsed it, waterproof bandayed it, and put a light bandage on my heel to hold everything in place. (Yes, yes. Not a word. Whatever. It should be.)

It's about 1.5 inches long and not quite a quarter inch deep at a diagonal. It's at the top right area of the meaty portion, so I'm good as long as I keep infection away. I'll change my weekend plans to give it scabbing over opportunity. I didn't want to put shoes on anyway. A weekend of studies and paperwork it is. I'm so excited.

Time to start the ice maker up and make like a gargoyle looking for a dopamine hit. crunchcrunchcrunch.

Oh! Oh! Perhaps this universe has just delivered me a demanding stay. Shall I acquiesce? I think I shall. After I finish what I was doing. It's beginning to get its sting on. I'm alive!

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

Publicat la 9 noiembrie 2015

Cine sapă groapa altuia, cade singur în ea.

Există o excepție: groparii!

Place: A bench facing southeast on the Flour Dock, Peel Basin, Tiohtià:ke Date: 2026-09-25, 08:05 EDT Conditions: 10ºC and sunny. Clear skies reflecting off the calm water. A crisp autumn breeze.

I woke up early again today. I facilitated a post-screening panel for Club Sexu and the National Film Board of Canada last night, and it felt good. I felt in my element, and crashed shortly after getting home. I crawled out of bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth, then slid my bomber jacket over the restlessness that has pressed on my shoulders for months. Wandering sleepily down Sainte-Catherine in the morning light, I ended up, as I often do when I’m downtown this early, at Café Olimpico.

The place was full, as always, and there was just one barista at that hour. Today, a group of cyclists in matching spandex and white helmets crowded around the edge of the bar, right by the door. I could only assume they were European, since they took their coffees standing at the bar despite the room having absolutely no space for it. In town for the UCI Road World Championship, I surmised. The already cramped space was more perilous with their presence, my backpack and my eyes dodging unintentional elbows and sideways glances. I’m used to it in this city, in this body.

I ordered an oat latte and a chocolatine to go, tipped with a smile, and snaked my way out the door. By this time, those same cyclists were crowding the sidewalk. I brushed my way past, not even sure where I was going until I saw the 35 idling at the corner of Union and Maisonneuve. The Transit app says it leaves at 07:35, so I meander on board and grab a seat.

The sun had been out the whole time, though you could hardly tell. The towers block its light from the street at this time of day, leaving only the wind. Sharpening the breeze into something that cuts. I glanced out the right-hand window and saw an ad on a neighbouring bus: Encourager le français, ça donne du courage. It’s meant to encourage francophones to be patient with business owners who are still learning the language. A plea for empathy from a campaign that now feels as if it’s from another time.

These days, politicians have been talking differently about language. The structures that facilitated inclusion have been defunded by austerity’s thousand cuts, sharp like the autumn breeze, and those who were already struggling to get by are left in the dark. Painted to be the problem for society’s ills. Scapegoated. Marginalized. I felt the tension rise in my body, so I took a photo and turned my attention to the other window as the bus wandered down Côte-du-Beaver-Hall, Saint-Jacques, and McGill. The bikers from the café, in an even larger, even more spandex-clad group made their way past us on the protected path by our side. They eventually make their way past the bus and we don’t see them again. Returned to the current of a city sleepily coming to life.

---

I’ve been exploring this same route for days now, largely without meaning to, and I don’t think that’s coincidental. When I first moved here, I used to call this area “Little Toronto.” There was something about the tightly packed condo towers, the chain storefronts, the suspicious absence of parks. The corner of Peel and Wellington, where I got off the bus with a quick merci to the bus driver, makes the case on its own. The traffic lights here have a bright yellow border, which is common in Toronto, but much less so here. There’s a protected left turn that gets priority over pedestrians. The cycle stays red on all sides for just a beat too long, daring anyone to run it. These structures have already decided who they’re for and who gets the luxury of moving through them unencumbered. That knowledge too settles onto my shoulders and folds into my route toward the water.

The buildings have been hiding the sun’s warmth since Sainte-Catherine. That is, until I get to the rail underpass just past the corner of Peel and Smith. It breaks free for a glorious moment, bathing my skin and the Farine Five Roses sign in its warm, morning glow. Wind threads my coat, brushing my neck, and for a heartbeat, the world holds. I take it in with a profound inhale before moving toward that bench facing southeast on the Flour Dock that’s been calling my name.