„Ein Name, der euch gestört hat“

Mein Name klang euch zu fremd, zu anders, zu wenig weichgespült, zu wenig europäisch, zu wenig christlich.

Ich war Derya. Und das war euch zu viel.

Der andere? Der hat seine Kinder Jason genannt. Kevin. Emily. Damit ihr lächelt, damit ihr klatscht, damit ihr sagt: „Schaut, wie gut integriert.“

Ihr habt ihn akzeptiert, weil er sich selbst verraten hat.

Mich nicht. Weil ich blieb, wie ich bin.

Ihr habt mich mit Blicken verurteilt, habt Namen zu Messern gemacht, habt aus einem Vornamen eine Schuld gebaut, die ich nie hatte.

Aber wisst ihr was? Mein Name bleibt. Meine Wurzeln bleiben. Mein Stolz bleibt. Egal wie viele Jasons ihr noch umarmt, und wie viele Deryas ihr noch wegstoßen wollt.

„Ihr wolltet mich nicht“

Ihr wolltet mich nicht, nicht in euren Straßen, nicht in euren Klassenzimmern, nicht in euren Gesprächen.

Ihr habt mich ignoriert, habt mich ausgelacht, habt mir zugeschaut, wie ich klein gemacht wurde, von euch, von euren Nachbarn, von euren Ämtern, von euren Regeln, von euren Blicken.

Ihr habt mir gesagt: „Du gehörst nicht hierher.“ „Du bist nicht wie wir.“ „Du bist ein Problem.“ „Du bist fremd.“ „Du bist falsch.“

Aber wisst ihr was?

Ich habe überlebt. Ich habe jeden verdammten Tag geschluckt, Wut runtergedrückt, Tränen versteckt, Stolz leise weitergetragen, tief unter der Haut, wo eure Worte nicht hinkommen.

Jetzt stehe ich hier, mit meiner Geschichte, meiner Wut, meinem Willen, meiner Wahrheit.

Ich gehöre nicht zu euch. Und das ist gut so.

Denn ich will nie so werden wie ihr.

#WorldBuilding #EK

The calling (Why World Build)

I've been thinking a lot about why I, or anyone for that matter, builds fictitious worlds. Often times people seem to world build for particular projects, such as creating a narratively consistent setting for a story or a game. I began that way, with the desire to create a setting for a series of story ideas I had. But over the years the story has fallen second place to the world building itself, and I’ve often wondered what it is about world building that is so compelling to myself, and as it turns out, to a large number of others.

There is definitely an element of a power fantasy to world building. Playing god, and it’s a wonderful form of escape where you focus on the details and do the creation. I lean towards the human cultures, history and geography side of world building, rather than the space or magic side of things. I get a lot of my fun from having some constraints in place. In my case that’s the constraint of geography, and, for a lack of a better word, humanity.

I’d say I’m a combination of a history fan and artist. I’ve spent some time as a linguist/anthropologist, but honestly I feel the greatest satisfaction when deep in visual creation. World building happens to be the perfect creative practice that marries my two loves. I world build because it's a creative output of things I've learnt about our beautiful and terrible world. Learning facts about the rotation of our planet, the amount of heat we get from the sun, the circulation of heat in our oceans and atmosphere, the energy that creates and moves literal mountains by plate tectonic to say nothing about the complexity and diversity of our species history… learning about these things is really incredible, and it still BLOWS MY MIND when I sit and actually contemplate this. World building is, for me, literally awesome. What other creative practice comes even close to exploring and experiencing the epicness of time and place through creation?

Curiosity Engine

I think world building is often an an attempt at answering a question about possible worlds. The Templin Institute talks about the pillars of world building which is close, but for me there's always an explicit “what if” that sparks the creative process, and lies at the centre of a world and drives it's creation and guides the details to be explored. The question leads you to follow up resources to inform your world.

• What kind of civilisation would you find on a desert planet with FutureTech and giant sand worms?
• What kind of world would you have if there is a magic system that combines the four European elements with East Asian martial arts?
• What would a world of British-Celtic mythology be like? -What kind of Alien species might evolve on a planet that is different to earth?
• What might silicon based life forms look like?

It’s like the Feynman question of your world. The open-ended questions that you constantly think about, and that you put your energy towards exploring to try and answer.

For me, there are three questions that have kept me coming back to a particular world building project over and over again. I realised only recently that the questions are actually quite personal, and this is probably why this world building project has stuck with me over the years.

The first question is “What happens at cultural crossroads?” How do cultures and civilisations adapt to one another through trade, learning, immigration, resettlement, conquest, and natural disasters? For those of us who have ever felt caught between worlds, you know what I mean by cultural crossroads. Perhaps you moved countries of residence, or you moved between social classes, or your parents immigrated to the country you grew up in and you have a view through a window to the world they left behind. I’m a bilingual and bicultural Japanese Australian, and growing up as the child of immigrants you have so many questions, discussions, opinions and conclusions about this experience throughout your life. The story ideas that prompted my world building to begin with are about characters grappling with various themes related to being at a cultural crossroads.

The second question is “how is a society's environment reflected in their culture?” I'm just endlessly fascinated by how different societies adapt to their environmental niches, and reflect this back out as artifacts, stories, beliefs, and language. The technical innovations that people come up with to live more comfortably in their natural surrounding, the world-views that emerge from experiencing life in certain biomes, the aesthetics and designs that are inspired by nature. It's a window into different experiences and ways of being, and I find it so creative and beautiful.

The last question, relatedly, is “what unique and internally consistent aesthetics could we have in fictive worlds?” I love European based-fantasy as much as any other nerd out there. And I am genuinely fascinated by the details and differences of premodern European visual cultures. But I don't feel like I've got much to contribute here as an artist. I want to see what other kinds of visual worlds can be designed.

But I also don’t want to replicate the visual cultures of our world either. Having a fantasy Japan, China, Persia, Africa is fine, and I’m all for having a range of fantasy world aesthetics. But the aesthetics of a culture are the way they are for a number of reasons. Japanese aesthetics are the way they are in our world because of the adoption of Chinese aesthetics by Japanese people at various points in history. If I’m going to create a fictive world with aesthetics unique to it, I want to create something that would somewhat make sense for that world.

I get really excited when I see works that have a unique identity. This can be visual or conceptual, but I really like it when I can get a glimpse of the creator’s curiosity engine, and maybe even an idea of what question lies at the heart of their world. If you are a world builder, what are the questions at the heart of your world? What are some questions in other well-known fictive worlds?

The Question at the Heart

If I were to combine my two world building questions into one, it would be: “What would a pre-modern fictive world look like culturally and aesthetically on a landmass that is a bit like the Silk Road meets + northern America + Patagonia?” I know, this is a really specific question, but I might give it more thought in a log later. I admit that this question might sound quite dry (reflecting my academic training, perhaps. One of the things I feel that the academy can continue to improve on, especially in the humanities, is to break down why lofty sounding topics are actually really close and familiar to all of us, and not at all distant. But this is a topic for another day.)

It turns out, this is actually a hard question to answer, and my on-going project and this outlet is my continuing attempt to grapple with this question of creating a unique and internally consistent aesthetic for this fictive world. The difficulty is completely self-inflicted, since I’m making it unnecessarily complicated for what I ultimately want to do: design, make art, and tell stories from this world. But I love the process, both of the world building and making art. So I'll keep at it.

I don’t know how far I’ll get before I deem it enough or too hard, but this little artistic and intellectual experiment has been with me over the years, and only recently am I giving it a proper go. Let’s see what happens. I’d like to share some of the nerdy world building process, which is going to be messy and full of questions as the world hopefully emerges through my tinkering. But I’d also like to inspire you with some semi-polished work, putting on the airs and tone of the world as it develops.

Prayers, etc.: * 04:00 – Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel * 06:00 – praying The Angelus * 06:30 – praying the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Traditional Holy Rosary in English, followed by the Memorare * 09:00 – Readings from today's Mass include – Epistle: Hebr 9:11-15 and Gospel: John 19:30-35, followed by an Act of Contrition then making an Act of Spiritual Communion, followed by praying Archbishop Vigano’s prayer for USA & President Trump. Followed by today's Morning Devotion Daniel 3 as found in Benedictus Magazine * 12:00 – praying The Angelus * 17:30 – prayerfully reading the Nicene Creed in English. * 18:00 – praying The Angelus, followed by today's Evening Devotion, (Psalm 147), 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 Monday Prayers of the Association of the Auxilium Christianorum

Health Metrics: * bw= 213.85 lbs. * bp= 135/83 (61)

Diet: * 06:15 – bowl of oatmeal * 08:35 – cottage cheese and applesauce * 10:15 – 1 cheese sandwich * 12:00 – cooked meat and vegetable soup * 16:15 – 1 peanut butter sandwich

Chores, etc.: * 04:00 – listen to local news talk radio * 05:50 – bank accounts activity monitored * 06:00 – follow news reports from various sources * 12:00 to 14:00 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 17:00 – Listening to the Joe Pags Show * 18:50 – Tuned into Prime to watch a WNBA Game, starting in just a few minutes, Fever vs Lynx

Chess: * 10:00 – moved in all pending CC games

#FieldNotes #EthnographerB

“After countless formations and abandonments, the first world emerged. It was vast with inhospitable heat. This did not remain.

The second world was modest in breadth, but too dark and cold for nurturing life. This too was forsaken.

The third world was formed upon the lessons of the past. It's expanse and climate erring on tough, but with potential to be fostered.

The name of this land is Sua.”

—

Geghdol told me an interesting story today. It came up spontaneously as we were hanging out after a meal and his brother's sons became rowdy in the lead up to their rest. It was, according to Geghdol, a version of the creation myth of the Northern Itān tribes. Geghdol was insistent that this is an ancient tale, verbatim told to him by his dōroxam, who was told by her dōroxam before that.

The essence of the myth is that there were two previous forms of the world which were abandoned before the third and current form developed. Who created and abandoned the former worlds is left unsaid.

What's striking to me is that this is essentially the same as the creation story we tell back home, though in ours the reasons for the abandonments are multiple, and the form of the tale is more elaborate. Our homelands are relatively distant, and even today have very little direct contact. So I can't imagine this similarity is due to any shared past, recent or ancient.

This tale is also unusual in that, as far as I am aware, the other Itān tribes do not tell this creation myth; they tell the one about Ozel and Zunay. Geghdol corroborated this, stating that this tale is the true story and that the other tribes have forgotten it. Or perhaps they tell it in some other limited forums, or not as a creation myth? Since the Northern Tribes also have a couple of versions of the Ozel and Zunay myth, maybe it's the case that the other tribes have some transformed version of this thrice formed myth.

I could be just chasing sand in the wind here. Stories of “third time is right” are hardly novel.

(Fieldnotes by Ethnographer B, T.O. 93.)

What you’re waiting for is still being built. The delay is love, not punishment.

The trip home from the hospital was uneventful. This time, she felt ready to go. In May, she complained they sent her home too soon—and I think they did. But now, I can already tell: she’s stronger. The infection’s still there, but we’re back on oral antibiotics, and there’s a new determination to get her blood sugar under control.

Friends brought lunch. A modest, thoughtful meal. But they included a box of donuts. The neighbors are enjoying them.

I’m still shocked by how casually people eat—especially when they’re sick. We haven’t always been saints with our food choices either, but since crossing the mid-century mark, we’ve become more conscious of what we put in our mouths.

The friends who brought the donuts are chronically ill; their full-time job is visiting doctors. And here we are, barely hanging on, and even we rarely eat anything that sweet anymore.

Although, I’ll admit—there was a time not long ago. During the pandemic, I’d sneak down to the local QT for a Diet Coke and a cinnamon roll. God, that was a treat. Probably also why my blood pressure refuses to budge, even with the new meds.

Tomorrow I get a CT scan of my heart. Exciting stuff. I’m hoping it comes back clean, like last week’s labs did—nothing out of range. Still, the uncertainty gnaws at me. Instead of making me feel relieved, the clean results make me panic. If nothing’s wrong on paper, what’s causing the hypertension?

Is heart surgery in my future?

My wife says no. I’m active—30 minutes on the treadmill daily at 120 bpm, 20 push-ups, 100 crunches, leg lifts. No chest pain. No shortness of breath. She thinks it’s not a physical defect, maybe just genetics. I don’t know. Between the CT, an echocardiogram, and a consult with a cardiologist, I should know in about a week.

Maybe it’s chronic worry. Maybe all of this—every spike in pressure, every pang of fear—is childhood trauma hardwired into my body chemistry. A constant, invisible drip of stress hormones that no amount of treadmill time can fully flush out.

If I were a comic book character, this would be my origin story: Heartburn Man, forged in cortisol, fueled by unresolved dread. Hero or villain? Depends on the day.

What’s weird is how health stuff has suddenly become the backdrop to everything. We had three and a half decades of living for the experience—full speed ahead. And now? Now, we’re living for balance. Stability. Blood sugar logs and follow-up visits. We’re on the other side of life.

Still, it’s not all grim. I have a lead on a job. Editing and graphics for a local TV station. It probably doesn’t pay well, but it’s something. After the last ten years of high-pressure freelance work, “low stress” sounds like a promotion. I could shoot and edit video in my sleep.

My friend—the one selling his mulch business—just had his deal fall through. I’m sad for him. I know how badly he wanted out. I won’t lie: I was a little jealous. Funny how human minds work.

I’m also reading a new book—one I never thought I’d pick up. It’s intriguing. Not sure I like it yet, but I’m giving it a chance. If I stick with it, I’ll tell you about it.

For now, I’ll leave you with a poem. Something I wrote last year, recently revised. We’re still in the thick of things, but today—today we came home.

And that’s something.

---

I am waiting for the train.

Many have run today— but none were mine. They race the tracks in the wrong direction.

So I wait, patiently. Watch and wait, and busy myself with mundane things to pass the time.

I make friends who come and go.

I miss them— sometimes with sadness, or frustration, but often with a quiet grin.

I thought it would come at noon. Then again at two.

Now it's six, and all I know is this:

My line is running today.

But the conductor has a wicked sense of humor, and midnight is still hours away.

---

#journal #poetry #memoir

30 June 2025

A song came together this weekend and so did its cover art: a pink dinosaur in a motion-blurred field of green and blue caught between destruction and desperation, its arms reaching toward a shape broken in half. Yena said the song flows like a river, and I think attaching this image to it is related to what I have been feeling from that CAConrad piece I mentioned in my last post here. A simultaneous lament and battle cry emerging from a current. Which could also describe the text I read in the second half of the song: an excerpt from an interview with a Chicago janitor named Eric Hoellen that appears in Working (1974) by Studs Terkel:

I make a pretty good buck. I figure if I do my work and do it honestly I should be entitled to whatever I make. For high-rise buildings, head man makes a thousand dollars a month and his apartment. You never heard of that stuff before. I've turned down high rises by the dozens. I can make more money on the side on walkup buildings.

Most tenants, I get along with 'em. The bad part about a tenant, they have no respect for your hours. Maybe my day starts when their day starts, but they want something done when they come home. My day is ending too. They'll call up and some will be sarcastic about it. “You have to come here when I'm home.” That's not true. They can leave me the key, so I can do it on my own time. Some people don't trust you. If I'm gonna steal something, I'm not gonna steal from somebody I know, especially when they know I'm in there. If they can't trust me, I don't want to be around 'em.

They come home maybe around seven and you're sitting down to supper and they'll call. “I got a stopped up toilet. It was stopped up yesterday.” I'll say, “Why didn't you call me? I could have had it fixed today while you were at work.” “Well, I didn't have my key.” Sometimes you get in a mood and you say, “Suffer then.” (Laughs.) If I'm eating, I finish eating, then I go. But if it's a broken pipe and it's running into somebody else's apartment, you get on your high horse and you're over there right away.

Phone calls always go to your wife, and a lot of people are very rude. They figure your wife works. My wife is not on the payroll. They call her up and chew her out about something, “When will he get here?” She's just there, and she's being nice enough to take my calls for me. A lot of the janitors now are getting machines to take their calls. They'll call you up and the machine says, “Leave your message.” They'll say something silly and hang up. They'll see you on the street and tell you about it. They don't like an answering service. They want to make contact right there.

My wife gets tired of the calls. It's a pain in the neck. My mother lives with us since my dad passed away. She takes my calls for me. She's used to it. She's been doing it so long. She lets 'em talk if they have a complaint. She just lets 'em talk. (Laughs.) Some of 'em will demand. I just tell 'em, “I think you're very unreasonable. I'll see you in the morning.” If they keep arguing, I just politely say, “That's it.” And I hang up on 'em.

You just don't let it get the best of you. We've had janitors hang themselves. Since I've been out here, three hung themselves. They let it get the best of 'em. I asked this one guy, “Eddie, what on earth is wrong?”

He's up there fixing lights in this high rise and he's shaking all over. “These people are driving me crazy,” he says. I read about this guy, Red, he blowed his brains out. People drive 'em batty. They want this, they want that. You let it build up inside—the heck with it. you do the best you can. If they don't like it...

You gotta watch. We have a business agent in the area and, oh man, there's too many guys lookin' for work. These people coming from Europe, Yugoslavs and Croatians. We're talking about young guys, thirty years old, twenty-five. They're nice guys. They talk broken, but you get to know 'em. They bowl with us and learn as quick as they can. A lot less young native-born are in it now. They'll take a job like a helper until they can find something better. A helper makes $640 a month, five-day week.

Back in the forties a janitor was a sort of low-class job. Nobody wanted it. But during the Depression, janitors were working. They had a place to live and they had food on the table. It was steady work. They had a few clothes on their back. Other people didn't.

This was as hilarious as it was educational.

#PersonalFinance #RamitSethi

“We're not spring chickens anymore,” she told me. “Neither one of us.”

I had just shown my wife the little note book I use to track my daily health metrics: body weight, and blood pressure. And I'd pointed out how both my body weight and my blood pressure have been so much better over the past week or so, especially over the last few days, than they have been even a few months ago. Then I added, “But I feel like crap. So weak. And it takes me so darned long to recover from even the smallest amount of work.”

“As long as we have our health,” she said, “that's the main thing.”

Yeah, ... after thinking about our little talk a few minutes ago. She's right.

„Der Yamnaya-Alemanne und der Yamnaya-Ungar“

Der Yamnaya-Alemanne, der denkt, er sei rein, Doch in seinen Genen: Steppe, billig und gemein. Der Yamnaya-Ungar, kaum anders gebaut, Glaubt, er wär edel – doch ist genauso versaut.

Hand in Hand, wie Brüder im Geiste, Mit leerem Stolz und billiger Leiste. Sie schleimen nach Osten, sie schleimen nach Süd, Vergessen, wer sie sind – verkauft für ein Lied.

Sie küssen den levantinisch-anatolischen Türken den Arsch, Mit gebücktem Rücken und ohne Charme, harsch. Vergessen Geschichte, verleugnen das Blut, Doch tief drin: Nur Komplexe und Wut.

Und während sie knien in devoter Pracht, Lacht Anatolien leise – hat's wieder geschafft. Denn wer sich selbst hasst und anderen dient, Bleibt ewig verloren… und nie wirklich gewinnt.

Wenn du levantinische Dreckstürkin mir meine eigene Tür noch einmal zumachen solltest, dann ficke ich dich mit einem Messer. Ich wohne in dieser Wohnung und ich mache diese Tür selber zu. Sollte ich noch einmal erleben, dass du stattdessen die Tür zumachst, ficke ich dich vor der Nase deines Mannes, du Hure. Dein Besuch ist wieder da, ihr seid laut und stolz auf dem Balkon, soll ich dich ficken kommen? Mich kann niemand kontrollieren, aber dein kleiner Pimmelmann kann das. Hat dein Mann überhaupt einen Pimmel? Ich kann halt einfach nicht nachvollziehen, warum ein so widerwärtiges anatolisches Etwas so viel Aufmerksamkeit bekommt. Du Hure, wer denkst du eigentlich, wer du bist? Junge, hast du noch nie eine auf die Fresse bekommen? Hoffentlich hat dir dein eigener Vater ein paar Mal auf die Fresse gegeben. Leute die Gewalt erfahren, lachen nicht, du schon, DU DRECKSNUTTE. Mach das nochmal. Bei Gott. Deutschland wird kein sicherer Hafen mehr für dich sein. GENETISCHER ABSCHAUM.

Ich werde die Libanesen/Syrer/germanischen Anatolier zusammen mit den Türken in eine Kammer stecken und ihnen die Luft entziehen. Mal schauen, wie lange sie leben werden. Ich werde einfach mitzählen. Ein toter Deutscher und ein toter Türke ist ein guter Türke. Das Leben eines anatolischen Kurmanji Kurden und das eines anatolischen Judens ist mehr wert als das eines anatolischen Türken. Mal schauen, was ich mit den Italienern tun sollte, vielleicht verschone ich sie. Biji Kurdistan. Expect us.

Ik was jouw aanbidder, maar wat was ik voor jou? Een sukkel in de liefde met een gedicht Een man die elke keer voor jouw aandacht zwicht De tiende die zei: “Ik beloof eeuwige trouw”

Voor mij ben jij een kosmische zielsverwant Een zeemeermin die plots in mijn leven strandt De echo van de leegte in mijn spiegelbeeld

In die spiegel stond een man die ik niet was Creativiteit als vriend van zijn jeugdtrauma Jij blies lucht in de ballon van zijn charisma Maakte van jouw aanbidder weer een vechtjas

In stilte wens ik dat ik jou weer ontmoet Jij mompelt dan heel zacht als ik jou begroet “Met deze man had ik graag het leven gedeeld”