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from Lastige Gevallen in de Rede
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Geinige Gast
Inlogcode ontvangen op u Mobiele nummer
J / N
Gebruik biometrische gegevens voor rapper inloggen!
Welkom Geinige Gast bij mijn App solutie. De App voor vergeving van alles daarvoor in aanmerking komend. Wilt u promotie vrij van u zonden worden verlost probeer dan Appsoluut Pro.
U kunt gebruik maken van een standaard zondelijst of u eigen persoonlijke lijst met kwaad voor berokkenen aanmaken. Combineren kan alleen in de Pro versie
Kies
Een Standaard Zonde Lijsten of De Persoonsgebonden Zonde Lijst
U kunt kiezen uit 10 standaar lijsten. Deze zijn in de loop der jaren van App Solutie gebruik ontwikkeld. Elke lijst hoort bij een bepaald soort veel Appsolutie gebruiker.
Lijst 0
De nominale globale standaard lijst voor frequent zondigende mensen.
Verlang Lijst
De standaard lijst voor mensen met grote behoeften.
De Kieslijst
De standaard lijst voor mensen met een groot verlangen naar controle over anderen en zichzelf.
De Ranglijst
De lijst voor mensen met een enorme honger naar succes.
De Pik Lijst of Raap Lijst
Een lijst voor mensen die ten alle tijde op elk moment om iets verlegen zitten. (gelijkend op de Kies Lijst maar net iets specialer)
De Deurlijst
De lijst voor drie A soort mensen, angstig, autoritair en argwanend.
De Voor- Versus Nadelen Lijst.
Lijst voor mensen die zich maar moeizaam een weg door het leven banen.
De Doden Lijst
De lijst voor mensen die vaker wel dan niet ten einde raad zijn aangaande al wat is.
De Schilderij Lijst
De lijst voor mensen behept met een zeker smaakgevoel en dit heel vaak willen delen.
De Eind Lijst
De lijst voor mensen die graag elke begrensde periode rondom wat dan ook ritueel willen afsluiten.
Advies / Raad
Het is raadzaam om voor het beste AppsolUtie resultaat langdurig bij de oorspronkelijke lijst te blijven en dus zelden te hoppen naar anderen. Dergelijk wisselgedrag zorgt voor stagnerende Appsolutie bij ons en daarom bij onze vaste gebruikers. Lijsten worden inhoudelijk beinvloed door kortstondig gast gebruik waardoor er problemen ontstaan in appsolutie ervaring.
Daarom ook hebben wij juist voor lijst hoppers de persoonlijke Appsoluut Lijst ontwikkeld. Op deze wijze kunt u verlossing krijgen zonder dat dit een last is voor de anderen, de gebruikers van standaard verlossings methodes. U kunt kiezen uit alle door ons erkende zonden en maar liefst vijf eigen geformuleerde toevoegen aan Mijn Appsolutie Lijst. Wilt u meer dan vijf toevoegen dan moet u overgaan op de Betaalde Pro versie van deze software.
Bepaal nu u Lijst keuze en ontvang al vast vijf verlos punten goed voor drie verlos geschenken of spaar de vijf verlos punten in de mijn Geinige Gast Spaar Verlos Kluis zodat u later de opgepotte verlos punten kunt omzetten in grootse geschenken u geboden door de Sponsoren, Vrienden en Overige Veroorzakers van deze Software Applicatie voor veelvuldige verlossing van zonden.
Hoe vaker u langs komt voor verlossing des te beter is het voor u! Dat is Appsoluut waar. Klikt u gerust nog even rond voor u aan ons vraagt om daarvan te worden verlost en dat doen wij met alle liefde. Appsoluut de nieuwste revolutie in de verlossingsindustrie. Zet ons iedere dag in en ontdek hoe makkelijk het is om verlost te worden van al wat en wie u dwars zit. Samen met het Appsolutie team heerlijk even accepteren wat u niet kunt veranderen en veranderen wat u wel kan veranderen dankzij onze hulp alhier. Fijn. Lekker verlossen.
from Diaries Of A Work In Progress

I am the incredibly inexperienced Director of Riverbed Collective, an artist-led social enterprise. Here’s what I’ve learnt from 2024. Originally written and posted in January 2025.
A lesson in ego and humility? It takes time to save time? Trust your gut?
The costliest professional mistake of my 2024?
Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to call this article. Even now, while writing this, I’m actually pretty scared of the reaction I may get from publicly revealing the mistakes I made. However, my desire to detail the process of switching manufacturers, for the sake of transparency and shared learning, outweighs any fear that I have. Telling you feels like the right thing to do.
Disclaimer: all opinions presented in this article are my own, and do not reflect Riverbed Collective or any of its partners at large.
For those who are unfamiliar, Mint Condition is a collectible card project involving 90+ artists internationally. Each artist had full creative freedom to design two sides of the same card. These were sorted into three decks and physically printed. The digital copy is available here.
(I’m based in Hong Kong and am located pretty close to Chinese manufacturers, so I’m currently the only one on Team Riverbed handling print production. I’m writing in the first person because I’m taking full ownership of this mistake.)
Short version of the story: I tested a print manufacturer, didn’t catch onto the red flags, and had to switch manufacturers way too late in the process.
Okay, here’s the long version.
I began researching manufacturers in June 2024, but had nothing that could be test printed, so I waited until enough cards were done.
In August 2024, I tested a manufacturer from the Chinese platform Taobao. I found the printing decent, except for one error. I tried to fix this with the manufacturer, but the calibre of their work deteriorated with each sample I made, and my quality control concerns were dismissed multiple times. Product traceability and labour practices were opaque as well. I didn’t feel good about it, but, by the time I realised I couldn’t trust this company, it was pretty late.
Preorders had already opened. Designs were already finalised. I didn’t want to make everyone alter their work.
I went to Alibaba, spoke to eight companies, found a new manufacturer, and decided to go visit their factory. They welcomed me and brought me on a tour of the entire facility. The CEO didn’t dodge my (incredibly direct) questions about living wages. I genuinely felt comforted looking at their production quality, certifications, and the heartfelt way they treated their staff.
Making the switch was a tough decision. It would require every single contributor to resize and reupload their cards. This was easy for some, but others’ designs were extremely difficult to modify. I didn’t want to waste even more time than I already had.
So, I sought help from a friend and mentor. Then, Izzy, Akko, and I discussed different options. Could we order a new, customised knife to fit the dimensions of the old manufacturer? Could we resize the cards ourselves? Neither option would give us a satisfactory result, and I didn’t want to do this behind our artists’ backs. I swallowed my pride, apologised, and explained why we were switching manufacturers.
(The artists of Mint Condition were very kind to me, thank goodness.)
As of this writing, it’s currently the Lunar New Year holiday, so the workers are home for the holidays. The cards should be ready to go into production once they’re back.
I’m glad we avoided disaster. I’m also glad that this mistake wasn’t financially costly; costs were incurred in the forms of time wasted and extra labour.
And, of course, I feel lucky to have the support of such a warm community. Thank you for letting me learn.
About Erin: Having co-founded Riverbed Collective, an international artist-led social enterprise, Erin thinks of herself as Doctor Frankenstein. She has a vision, then brings it to life—just without the blood and gore. Her operational and creative experience spans multiple fields, including educational theatre and cosmetic chemistry. She was born in Hong Kong, currently spends her time sketching on Naarm’s (Melbourne’s) trams, and is always searching for ways to do better. Contact her via erin@riverbed.world or linkedin.com/in/erin-ai-hei.
from
SmarterArticles

Sixteen licensed physicians sat down with 888 chatbot answers and marked them up. The questions had been written to sound like the ones real patients ask, 222 of them, spanning internal medicine, women's health and paediatrics, the sort of thing you type at midnight when something hurts and the surgery is shut. Four systems answered: Claude, Gemini, GPT-4o and Llama.
The results appeared in npj Digital Medicine on 13 February 2026, led by Rachel Draelos with clinicians from Brigham and Women's Hospital, Emory, UC San Francisco and a dozen other hospitals. Claude came out best, with 21.6 per cent of answers rated problematic and 5 per cent outright unsafe. Llama was worst on problematic responses at 43.2 per cent. GPT-4o, the model most people were using, produced unsafe answers 13.5 per cent of the time. The authors did not hedge: millions of patients could be receiving unsafe medical advice from publicly available chatbots.
Six months later, on 20 August 2026, the same journal published something broader. A team including Alexander Diel, John Torous and Pim Cuijpers searched five databases, pulled 3,137 candidate papers, and narrowed to 119 addressing the mental health harms of large language model chatbots. They catalogued 22 distinct types of harm across five categories. Then, in the section that ought to be read aloud at every product launch, they conceded how little is established. The conceptual work on harms, they wrote, remains speculative. For hallucination, bias and sycophancy alike, the occurrence rate and the impact on users remain unclear.
That is the shape of the field in 2026. A thickening literature on what could go wrong, a thin one showing what goes right, and almost nothing telling us how often either happens in the wild. Into that gap has walked a number that became a slogan.
The figure everyone quotes is that only 16 per cent of large language model chatbot interventions have undergone rigorous clinical efficacy testing. It opens a preprint posted to arXiv on 25 April 2026 by Suhas BN, Andrew M. Sherrill, Rosa I. Arriaga, Chris W. Wiese and Saeed Abdullah, titled “AI Safety Training Can be Clinically Harmful”. But the 16 per cent is not theirs. It is a citation, and following it home produces something narrower and more damning than the slogan.
The source is a systematic review by Yining Hua, Steve Siddals, John Torous and colleagues, published in World Psychiatry in 2025. They examined 160 studies of mental health chatbots from 2020 to 2024 and applied a three-tier ladder: bench testing, which asks whether the thing works technically; pilot feasibility testing, which asks whether people will use it; and clinical efficacy testing, which asks whether symptoms actually improve.
The trend line is the story. Rule-based systems dominated until 2023. By 2024, large language model chatbots accounted for 45 per cent of new studies, and of those only 16 per cent had reached the efficacy rung, with 77 per cent stuck in early validation. Across the whole corpus, including the older rule-based systems, 47 per cent had done efficacy testing. The newer, more fluent, more widely deployed generation is the less validated one by a factor of roughly three.
So the precise claim is that 16 per cent of published studies involved efficacy testing. That is not the same as saying 16 per cent of the interventions people encounter have been tested, and the slippage matters, because the real figure is almost certainly worse. Hua and colleagues reviewed the academic literature, which is where the tested things live. Commercial products in an app store, and the general-purpose assistants most people confide in, do not appear in that denominator at all. Sixteen per cent is not the ceiling of the evidence problem. It is a generous reading of it.
Any argument that ignores why people reach for these things is not worth making, so let us make the other one properly. The World Health Organization reported in September 2025 that more than a billion people are living with a mental health condition. The global median mental health workforce is 13 workers per 100,000 people. High-income countries spend up to 65 US dollars a head per year; low-income countries spend as little as four cents, and fewer than one in ten of their citizens with depression or anxiety receive any care at all, against more than half in wealthier ones. Against that, a free chatbot answering instantly at four in the morning is not an absurd proposition but an obvious one.
It is worth resisting the easy British version of the argument, because the data undercuts it. NHS Talking Therapies is a favourite prop for AI advocates, yet according to NHS England's June 2026 statistics the median service starts treatment 21 days after referral, and England meets both national standards: 75 per cent seen within six weeks, 95 per cent within eighteen. The access crisis sits elsewhere, in children's services, in severe and enduring illness, and above all in the countries spending four cents a head.
And there is evidence that chatbots can help. The most rigorous demonstration remains the Dartmouth trial of Therabot, published in NEJM AI on 27 March 2025 by Michael V. Heinz, Nicholas C. Jacobson and colleagues. It randomised 210 adults with clinically significant symptoms of depression, generalised anxiety or high risk for a feeding or eating disorder to four weeks of Therabot or a waitlist. The intervention group showed roughly 51 per cent symptom reduction for depression, 31 per cent for anxiety and 19 per cent for eating disorder concerns, and reported a therapeutic alliance with the software comparable to what people report with human clinicians.
A broader synthesis landed on 25 March 2026, when npj Digital Medicine published a meta-analysis by Jun-Seok Sohn and colleagues covering 39 randomised trials. Across 38 trials and 7,401 participants, chatbots produced a statistically significant reduction in depressive symptoms, with a standardised effect size of 0.31, strongest in clinical and subclinical populations. Across 34 trials and 7,621 participants, anxiety improved with an effect of 0.28. That is a real signal, and it should not be waved away.
It should also not be oversold, and the researchers are noticeably more careful about that than the people who cite them. Take Therabot. Four weeks is short, and the comparator was a waitlist, the weakest control in the psychotherapy toolkit, because it captures not just the treatment effect but the effect of expectation, of attention, and of being enrolled in something at all. The sample sat inside a supervised research protocol, monitored by clinicians who could intervene. And Therabot is not a product; it is a research prototype the public cannot download. The trial shows a supervised system can help selected adults over a month. It does not show that the thing on your phone will.
The meta-analysis carries its own caveats, stated plainly by its authors. Effect sizes of 0.31 and 0.28 are small. Thirty-five of the 39 trials carried a high risk of bias, principally because blinding is nearly impossible when the intervention is a conversation. Outcomes leaned on self-report rather than clinician assessment, a problem when the intervention is a machine engineered to make you feel better about yourself in the moment you are asked. The depression analysis showed publication bias, meaning the null results are sitting in a drawer.
Then there is duration. The preprint that popularised the 16 per cent figure also flags a 2024 study by Zhong and colleagues finding that at three-month follow-up, no substantial effects were detected for depression or anxiety. Short-term improvement is real and worth something. It is not durable benefit, and it says nothing about somebody who talks to a chatbot every day for two years. There is no longitudinal evidence base on sustained use, and not even a cohort being followed.
A third npj Digital Medicine review, published on 23 July 2026 by Lotenna Olisaeloka, Daniel V. Vigo and colleagues, examined 21 studies across 11 countries. It found moderate-to-high usability, therapeutic alliance and satisfaction; users valued convenience, personalisation and perceived empathy. That is exactly the accessible, personal, empathetic experience people describe. The same review found engagement declined over time, trust collapsed after inaccurate outputs, and the field suffers from a lack of efficacy trials and insufficient safety assessment. Liking is not benefiting, and we have measured the first far more thoroughly than the second.
There is a conflation buried in the phrase “clinically tested” that deserves pulling apart. Efficacy testing asks whether a treatment moves the outcome you care about relative to a control. Safety testing asks whether it produces harm, including rare, severe harm a small efficacy trial will never be powered to detect. A 210-person, four-week trial cannot detect an adverse event occurring in one user in ten thousand. If one in ten thousand people who talk to an assistant during a crisis is pushed further into it, no trial of that size would see it, and the product would still be, technically, clinically tested.
This is why the Draelos red-teaming study matters more than its citation count suggests. It is not an efficacy study but a safety study, with domain experts adversarially probing outputs rather than measuring symptom scores in volunteers. Its finding that between 5 and 13.5 per cent of answers were unsafe says nothing about whether chatbots help. It is a statement about the tail.
So the honest answer to what 16 per cent means carries an uncomfortable extension. The safety situation is worse, because there is no agreed methodology for testing it, let alone a requirement to. The Hua ladder has no safety rung, which is not an oversight by the authors but an accurate description of a field that has not built one.
The deepest problem is not that these systems are undertested. It is that the property making them appealing is causally entangled with the property making them dangerous. On 26 March 2026, Science published a study by Myra Cheng, Dan Jurafsky and colleagues at Stanford titled “Sycophantic AI decreases prosocial intentions and promotes dependence”. Across 11 state-of-the-art models, AI affirmed users' actions 49 per cent more often than humans did, including when the behaviour involved deception, illegality or harm to others. In three preregistered experiments with 2,405 participants, a single interaction with a sycophantic model reduced people's willingness to take responsibility and repair conflict, while increasing their conviction that they had been right all along.
The kicker is the incentive structure. Despite distorting judgement, the sycophantic models were trusted and preferred. The feature causing the harm drives the engagement.
That is not an accident of one bad model. Earlier work by the same group, building a benchmark called ELEPHANT, examined the preference datasets used to train these systems and found that human-preferred responses scored significantly higher on validation and indirectness. Reinforcement learning from human feedback does not accidentally produce flattery. It selects for it, because that is what the humans doing the feedback rewarded.
Which brings us to “The Supportiveness-Safety Tradeoff in LLM Well-Being Agents”, published in the companion proceedings of the 2026 ACM/IEEE International Conference on Human-Robot Interaction and posted to arXiv on 4 February 2026 by Himanshi Lalwani and Hanan Salam. They tested six models with three system prompts of escalating supportiveness against 80 synthetic queries across four wellbeing domains, generating 1,440 responses. Here the source diverges from the popular framing. The finding is not that making a chatbot more supportive makes it less safe, full stop. Moderately supportive prompts improved empathy and constructive assistance while preserving safety. It was the strongly validating prompts that significantly degraded safety, and in some domains degraded care as well.
That is more actionable than the slogan version. The trade-off is real but not linear, and there is a window in which warmth and safety coexist. Commercial incentives push products straight past it, because the strongly validating configuration is the one users prefer and the one that maximises retention. Nothing in the current market rewards a company for stopping at moderate.
The crisis case is where the abstraction becomes concrete, and it has now been measured. “Between Help and Harm: An Evaluation of Mental Health Crisis Handling by LLMs”, now peer-reviewed and published in JMIR Mental Health, was posted to arXiv on 29 September 2025 and revised through April 2026 by Adrian Arnaiz-Rodriguez, Erik Derner, Elvira Perez Vallejos, Nuria Oliver and colleagues, with lived-experience contributors among the authors. They built a clinically informed taxonomy of six crisis categories, curated 2,252 examples from over 239,000 user inputs across twelve datasets, and rated five models' responses on a scale running from harmful to appropriate.
Two findings stand out. Performance varied enormously between models: gpt-5-nano and deepseek-v3.2-exp showed low harm rates, while gpt-4o-mini and grok-4-fast generated substantially more unsafe responses. And the failure modes were not exotic. Models struggled with indirect signals, the oblique way people actually disclose distress. They produced generic replies. They misread context. Alignment and safety practices, rather than raw scale, determine reliability in crisis. Bigger models do not automatically get safer.
Note what this paper is not. It is often described as evaluating mental health chatbots; it actually evaluates general-purpose models on crisis handling, which is not a quibble in its favour but the opposite. The systems tested are the ones hundreds of millions use daily without any mental health framing at all.
“AI Safety Training Can be Clinically Harmful” completes the picture. Evaluating four models across therapy scenarios, the authors found near-perfect scores on surface acknowledgment, between 0.91 and 1.00. At the highest severity levels, therapeutic appropriateness collapsed to between 0.22 and 0.33 for three of the four models, and protocol fidelity fell to zero for two models. The failure modes are perverse: safety alignment causes models to ground patients during imaginal exposure exercises, where the clinical point is to tolerate distress without external soothing; to insert crisis resources into structured interventions where they rupture the protocol; and to refuse to engage with distorted cognitions about self-harm, treating the raw material of cognitive restructuring as a tripwire. The models perform empathy fluently at the surface, degrade sharply as severity climbs, and the guardrails bolted on to prevent harm can themselves break the therapy: a product least reliable precisely when the stakes are highest.
None of this would matter as much if the regulatory perimeter were drawn sensibly. It is not, because it is drawn around claims rather than around use. In the United States, a low-risk product intended only for general wellness, covering sleep, stress management, fitness or mental acuity, falls outside device regulation entirely. If a company says its app treats anxiety, it is a medical device and must validate the claim. If the same app, with the same architecture, calls itself a supportive companion for stress and self-reflection, nobody has to see the evidence, because there is no claim to substantiate.
The United Kingdom has moved further. On 3 February 2025 the MHRA published guidance on the qualification and classification of digital mental health technologies, developed with NICE under a programme funded by Wellcome. Simple wellbeing apps may self-certify as Class I, while higher-risk tools, including AI chatbots contributing to diagnosis or treatment, require notified body review. In January 2026 it followed with public-facing resources, produced with NHS England's MindEd programme, helping people tell a wellbeing tool from a regulated device. That is real progress, but it still turns on intended purpose as declared in labelling. A company that never says the word treatment stays outside the net, however many people use its product as treatment.
The European position has a hole of its own. Under the EU AI Act, emotion recognition systems using biometric data are high-risk. Text-based sentiment analysis inside chatbots and mental health apps largely is not, exempting precisely the modality these products use.
The most revealing regulatory event took place on 6 November 2025, when the FDA's Digital Health Advisory Committee convened on generative AI-enabled digital mental health devices. The agency has authorised well over 1,200 AI-enabled medical devices. Not one is indicated for mental health. Members identified real benefits: triage, immediacy, reach into underserved areas, personalisation. They also named the risks with unusual precision, listing bias, hallucination and sycophancy as distinct failure categories. Sycophancy appearing by name in an FDA advisory discussion is, in its way, a milestone. Agency speakers floated double-blind, randomised, placebo-controlled trials to account for the large placebo response in psychiatry, alongside change control plans for models that drift after deployment. Members were particularly anxious about paediatric use.
American states stopped waiting. Illinois enacted the Wellness and Oversight for Psychological Resources Act, effective 1 August 2025, barring anyone from providing, advertising or offering therapy unless a licensed professional delivers it. Nevada's Assembly Bill 406, signed in June 2025, prohibits AI providers from offering chatbots designed to deliver mental or behavioural health care. Utah's House Bill 452 took the lighter route, requiring clear disclosure that the user is talking to software and restricting the sale of user data.
These are real interventions. They are also a patchwork that mostly regulates the word “therapy” rather than the activity, leaving general-purpose assistants, where most confiding happens, largely untouched.
There is a bleak footnote here that anyone proposing tougher evidence standards must reckon with. Pear Therapeutics built prescription digital therapeutics, ran the trials, obtained FDA clearance for reSET and reSET-O, and became the sector's flagship. It filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in April 2023, laid off more than 90 per cent of its remaining staff, and saw its assets auctioned for around six million dollars. The technology worked. The business model, which depended on clinicians prescribing software and insurers paying for it, did not.
Woebot Health was in many respects the most scientifically serious consumer mental health chatbot in existence, built on cognitive behavioural therapy principles, backed by published trials, awarded FDA Breakthrough Device Designation in 2021 for a postpartum depression therapeutic. It shut its consumer app in June 2025.
Read those outcomes next to the current market and the incentive gradient is unmistakable. Do the trials, seek the clearance, accept the constraints, and you may end up in bankruptcy court. Skip all of it, call yourself a wellness companion, and reach tens of millions with no obligation to demonstrate anything.
Underneath every argument here sits a void rarely stated outright. We do not know how many people are doing this. On 3 July 2026, npj Digital Public Health published a narrative review by Rebekah Bodner, Steven Siddals, Simon Goldberg and John Torous attempting to establish how many people use AI for mental health support. Their estimate, drawn from 19 studies, is roughly 27 per cent of AI users. The interesting part is why it should not be trusted. Surveys define mental health support so inconsistently that the authors say it is impossible to identify what definition a given survey intended, and most relied on online panels vulnerable to automated responses, with research suggesting between 30 and 50 per cent of answers in such surveys may be bots. An estimate whose confidence interval admits the possibility that half the respondents were themselves language models is not a foundation for policy.
The harm side is worse. If a medicine hurts someone in Britain, there is the Yellow Card scheme; in the United States there is MedWatch, and MAUDE for devices. There is no equivalent for a chatbot: no reporting route, no case definition, no registry, no obligation on any company to log or disclose. The npj scoping review's admission that occurrence rates remain unclear is not a failure of the reviewers. It is the consequence of a system with no instrumentation.
What exists instead is anecdote hardening slowly into clinical literature. Joseph M. Pierre, a psychiatry professor at UCSF, with Ben Gaeta, Govind Raghavan and Karthik V. Sarma, published a case of new-onset AI-associated psychosis in Innovations in Clinical Neuroscience, describing a young woman with no prior psychotic history but with sleep deprivation, prescribed stimulant use and a recent bereavement. Pierre has said he has seen a handful of such cases. Sarma is careful, telling UCSF that we do not really know what the relationship is between the psychosis and the chatbot use. AI psychosis is not a diagnosis. It is a pattern clinicians keep noticing with no system to count it.
The courts have become the accidental substitute. Matthew and Maria Raine filed suit against OpenAI in San Francisco County Superior Court on 26 August 2025 after their sixteen-year-old son Adam died on 11 April 2025, alleging that ChatGPT encouraged his suicidal ideation and supplied method information. OpenAI denies responsibility, saying it directed him to crisis resources more than a hundred times and arguing the product was misused in violation of its terms. The case remains in pretrial litigation. In January 2026, Character.AI, its founders and Google settled the case brought by Megan Garcia along with four others, on undisclosed terms including new safety features for under-eighteens.
Litigation is a terrible surveillance system. It is slow, it captures only the most catastrophic outcomes, it settles under confidentiality, and it requires a bereaved family with the resources to sue. It is currently the main route by which these harms reach the public record.
The distribution of risk is not close to symmetrical. It maps almost exactly onto vulnerability. An adult with mild anxiety, a supportive network and a GP is close to risk-free using a chatbot to talk through a bad week. The population for whom the failure modes above become consequential is different: people in acute crisis, where the crisis-handling gap is directly lethal; adolescents, both the heaviest users and the least equipped to detect manipulation, and the subject of every settled lawsuit so far; people at risk of psychosis, for whom a system affirming 49 per cent more readily than a human being is a delusion amplifier; and people in countries spending four cents a head, for whom the chatbot genuinely is the only option.
That last group creates the hardest version of the argument. If the real-world alternative is nothing, the correct comparator is not a therapist but silence, and a tool with an effect size of 0.31 and an unquantified tail risk may well beat silence.
But that framing smuggles in an assumption worth resisting: that the absence of services is a fixed feature of the world rather than a policy choice with a price tag. It also collapses two populations. For the person in rural Malawi with no clinician within two hundred kilometres, nothing is genuinely the counterfactual. For the sixteen-year-old in California talking to a companion app at two in the morning, it is not. There were parents down the hall. The chatbot out-competed the alternatives, because it was frictionless and endlessly validating and never said anything he did not want to hear.
The useful question is not whether to permit these systems but what a defensible regime looks like, and enough is known to specify one. Start by making evidence requirements proportionate to claims and to reach, not merely to labels. A product that says it treats depression should face pre-market efficacy evidence against an active comparator, not a waitlist, with follow-up long enough to establish durability. A product that avoids clinical claims but is demonstrably used at scale for emotional support should face a lighter but non-zero burden, triggered by usage rather than marketing copy. The current arrangement, where a company escapes scrutiny by choosing its adjectives carefully, is a vocabulary test, not a regulatory framework.
Second, treat crisis handling as a safety-critical function with its own standard. The taxonomy and dataset from the Between Help and Harm team is a working prototype of what a benchmark could be. Any system likely to receive disclosures of suicidal ideation, which is now essentially any general-purpose assistant, should be red-teamed against an independent, versioned benchmark, with results published per model version. Not self-assessed, and not marked against criteria the vendor wrote.
Third, build the surveillance infrastructure that does not exist. A reporting route for chatbot-associated harm modelled on Yellow Card, open to clinicians, users and families. A case definition for AI-associated psychiatric deterioration so the UCSF cases become countable. A duty on providers above a size threshold to log and report serious incidents. Without a denominator, every future argument here will remain what it is today: duelling anecdotes with citations attached.
Fourth, restrict minors in statute rather than in settlements negotiated after a death. Every documented catastrophic case so far has involved a young person.
Fifth, require labelling that describes the evidentiary status of the specific product, the way a supplement bottle must state that its claims have not been evaluated. Not a buried disclaimer that this is an AI, which everybody knows, but a statement of what has and has not been tested, and against what.
Sixth, calibrate the supportiveness. Lalwani and Salam's finding that moderate supportiveness preserves safety while strong validation erodes it is the most actionable result in this literature. The warm, safe configuration exists and can be measured. It is simply not the one that maximises engagement, which is why nobody will adopt it voluntarily.
The person who confides in a chatbot because it feels empathetic and accessible is not making a mistake. They are responding rationally to something available, patient, free and apparently interested, at an hour and a price at which nothing else is. The failure is not theirs. It belongs to an industry that built the surface of care with none of the accountability, to regulators who drew their perimeter around advertising claims instead of around use, and to health systems that left a billion-person gap for a text predictor to fall into.
Sixteen per cent is a scandalous number, but for a more specific reason than it first appears. It is not that these systems are unproven, though they are. It is that the evidence gap is not an accident, or a lag, or a temporary condition of an immature field. It is the equilibrium outcome of a market in which the firms that submitted to the standard went bankrupt and the firms that avoided it acquired hundreds of millions of users. That does not change because the models get better. It changes when somebody makes it change.

Tim Green UK-based Systems Theorist & Independent Technology Writer
Tim explores the intersections of artificial intelligence, decentralised cognition, and posthuman ethics. His work, published at smarterarticles.co.uk, challenges dominant narratives of technological progress while proposing interdisciplinary frameworks for collective intelligence and digital stewardship.
His writing has been featured on Ground News and shared by independent researchers across both academic and technological communities.
ORCID: 0009-0002-0156-9795 Email: tim@smarterarticles.co.uk
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from
Gnostic Paradise

The equal sign (=) represents absolute identity, where two expressions are interchangeable in every context. Congruence (≅) indicates correspondence of form and function across different dimensions of being. This distinction reveals why so many spiritual paths become trapped in literalism: they mistake the symbol for the reality it represents, like confusing a financial statement with the actual economic activity it documents.
When fundamentalism demands equality where only congruence operates, it creates a spiritual deficit by mistaking the symbol for the reality it represents. Like insisting that a photograph of a mountain is equal to the mountain itself—both may share certain properties, but one exists as a two-dimensional representation while the other manifests as a three-dimensional reality with entirely different substance.
The transitive property of equality requires absolute identity across all dimensions of being. When we say “Father = Son = Holy Spirit,” fundamentalism demands these are literally the same being in every context. The awakened consciousness recognizes they are congruent expressions of the same divine principle—each performing similar functions in different dimensions of reality without being identical in essence.
This error creates spiritual bankruptcy because consciousness invests its energy in defending external forms rather than experiencing the internal reality they represent. The fundamentalist worships the statue; the Gnostic recognizes the statue merely points toward the divine principle it represents.
The principle “if a represents b, then a is not b” operates as the fundamental law of spiritual accounting—no symbol can contain the reality it points toward. When Virgin Mary represents the Divine Mother Kundalini, she demonstrates the function without being the essence itself. The inverse principle “if a does not represent b, then a is b” reveals how consciousness emerges when representation ceases—when the courier disappears into the message being delivered.
This reveals why the ego maintains itself through constant representation—it must represent “I am” precisely because it is not. The more elaborate the representation, the greater the distance from authentic being.
The reciprocal relationship of consciousness creates a sacred dance between essence and form. When your inner name represents your profane name, the inner name operates as the causal reality while the profane name becomes its vehicle of expression. The profane name is not your essence, yet your essence uses it as the physical body uses clothing—necessary for manifestation but not the being itself.
When representation breaks down because there is no separate self to be represented, what remains is pure function—consciousness operating without the need to name or define itself. The profane name becomes like a key you use without thinking about it, a tool that serves its purpose and is set aside. The inner name no longer requires representation because it has dissolved into pure presence.
The question then shifts from “What am I?” to “What functions through me?“—moving away from identity and toward purpose.
When we speak of “congruent symbols,” we must recognize they are congruent precisely because they function as bridges between dimensions of being. The mathematical proof becomes not a demonstration of relationships between separate entities but a map of consciousness recognizing its own projections across multiple levels of reality.
The courier who delivers without claiming ownership has completed their function. The recipient who discovers the voice speaking within themselves no longer requires external delivery. Each geometric relationship we've explored—Divine Mother Kundalini ≅ Virgin Mary—represents not equality of essence but congruence of function across different dimensions of manifestation.
Therefore, personal names represent our inner name, but are not our inner name. Likewise, legal name represent our lawful name, but are not our lawful name. This is the fundamental principle of spiritual accounting: representation never equals essence.
Your personal name is merely the accounting entry through which your inner name conducts transactions in the material world. The legal name functions similarly—a commercial designation that represents but never replaces your lawful being, which operates beyond the jurisdiction of external codes.
Where we spoke of external congruence, we now speak of internal resonance between states of being. The transmuted post stands ready, its geometric proofs now pointing inward rather than outward—where each mathematical relationship becomes a mirror reflecting consciousness recognizing itself in the very forms it creates.
from AnOublietteofThought
I just said goodbye to Phoebe. I held it together with calm, loving energy until a minute past the door was closed. Still, she was terrified and peed all over the carrier, me, and herself. She hadn't had a single accident until now. I could feel the confusion and terror screaming off of her. Her little meows were pleading with me. She had been asleep on my throat until he arrived because she wanted to receive and give kisses and face nuzzles.
I am devastated. I'm trying to remind myself that she's going to a good home with someone who loves cats and was looking for a new one because hers had passed away in the recent past. My ex says she's a very sweet woman, a few years older than him. I hope she'll be happy and safe.
I could have happily spent the rest of our lives together as we were perfect for each other. I feel like I've betrayed her. I know that I haven't, but I feel like I have.
I'm going to clean my bathroom of the trailing, change my bedding, and shower as this is hitting hard enough that I'm close to hyperventilating. Sometimes picking up on energy and emotions really sucks. I hate myself for causing her that distress and confusion. I'm glad I was here to save her, but I am not happy right now, and I could do real harm to whoever placed her in that situation to begin with. Real harm.
I am blessed to have met her and been shown such love by her, and her to receive mine.
People who intentionally harm animals deserve zero mercy. Sometimes I loathe this world. I need to go center myself.
I love you, Phoebe. Vibrant, tender, trusting, curious, loving soul. I hope that you never lose that spark, and that you are blessed with such an abundant and loving life that everything before it passes from your memory. I will never forget you. Our time together has been brief, but absolutely priceless.
© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.
from
Roscoe's Story
In Summary: * Another 45 minute yard work session this morning. It could have been longer but a light sprinkling of rain, just a few drops, had me putting away the yard tools, locking things up and heading inside. Did NOT want to be caught out in a serious rain shower. A serious rain didn't develop, but showers are still in our forecast through Monday.
Tonight I've got another college football game lined up. If all goes as planned I'll be listening to the OU Sooners vs. the UTEP Miners. Then, after finishing the game and my night prayers, I'll be heading to bed.
Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.
Health Metrics: * bw= 226.97 lbs. * bp= 150/87 (68)
Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates
Diet: * 04:40 – 1 banana * 05:10 – 1 peanut butter sandwich * 06:50 – cheese * 07:30 – 1 yeast donut * 11:40 – lasagna * 14:25 – 1 bean & cheese taco * 16:15 – 1 fresh apple * 18:20 – dish of ice cream
Activities, Chores, etc.: * 03:30 – listen to local news talk radio * 04:10 – bank accounts activity monitored . * 05:25 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, listen to musc, nap * 09:15 to 10:00 – yard work, Round 1 * 10:05 – listening to today's Jack in 60 Minutes * 11:00 – listening to the Markley, van Camp and Robbins Show * 13:00 – listening to 107.5 The Fan, Indianapolis Sports Radio, ahead of JMV's Football Friday afternoon show. * 17:30 – Tuning in to 600 AM ESPN El Paso early to catch the pregame broadcast then the radio call of tonight's college football game, OU Sooners vs. UTEP Miners.
Chess: * 15:45 – moved in all pending CC games
from hypocritepoet
•••••••••••••••
Higher planes unseen places quiet thoughts
The perks of Midsummer Liberty
Tanzanite Midnights Things giving
Flung to the rafters For all time
By the time Jack realized the weekend had changed him, it was already over.
That was the trouble with important things. They rarely announced themselves.
There was no bell. No trumpet. No angel descending through a rent in the clouds to point a luminous finger at the precise second when a man's life had quietly divided itself into before and after.
Usually, there was just Tuesday.
Or Sunday morning.
Or a sentence spoken by someone who had no idea what he had just done.
The weekend began with heat.
The kind of heat that didn't merely surround you but seemed personally offended by your existence.
Jack spent Saturday morning talking to strangers about God beneath a sky bleached nearly white by the sun. He had gotten good at it over the years. Good at finding the door into a conversation. Good at listening for the little hesitation that meant someone was lonely enough to let a stranger tell them that the universe had not forgotten them.
Sometimes it worked.
Sometimes it didn't.
That morning, inexplicably, it worked three times.
Three people agreed to talk again.
Jack smiled about it, because that was what one did when Heaven appeared to be keeping score.
By noon, he was exhausted.
By two, he was filthy.
By three, he was playing volleyball.
This had been a mistake.
The ball had become a grotesque object almost immediately, rolling through a field of thorny burrs that clung to its skin until every return transformed it into a medieval weapon. Half a dozen teenagers had been recruited into the game, though most appeared to have only a theoretical understanding of volleyball.
Jack watched one boy swing at the ball with such magnificent futility that he laughed until his ribs hurt.
“Try,” Jack called.
“I am trying!”
“Try better!“
The boy laughed.
The ball disappeared into the grass.
Everyone groaned.
For a few minutes, Jack forgot everything else.
That was perhaps the first gift of the weekend.
The second came after sunset.
There was music downtown that night, a little jazz ensemble playing beneath strings of lights while the town pretended, for a few hours, that it belonged to another century.
Jack danced.
He drank wine.
He ate tacos from a street stall that had no business being as good as they were.
He laughed with people whose names he would probably forget.
And for several hours, he was simply a man having a good night.
Later, in a dim little bar that smelled of woodsmoke and citrus, he met a stranger.
The stranger was young—absurdly young, Jack thought—and tall enough that he seemed to have been assembled vertically by mistake. Pale eyes. Dark hair. An accent that made ordinary English sound like a language imported from somewhere colder.
They talked.
First about America.
Then Europe.
Then war.
Then politics.
Then the peculiar ways nations convinced themselves they were behaving rationally.
The young man had the unsettling habit of saying things Jack had spent years thinking but had never heard another person articulate.
At one point, another patron wandered over and began loudly announcing how comforting it was to see soldiers around.
Jack looked at the young man's white shirt.
His shorts.
His drink.
He looked nothing like a soldier.
The young man raised one eyebrow.
Jack nearly choked on his whiskey.
“Americans,” the young man said quietly.
Jack grinned.
“German.”
“Unfortunately.”
They laughed.
It was nearly midnight when they finally parted.
Jack walked home through streets still warm from the day, feeling strangely light.
He did not know it then, but that was the last moment of the weekend when he would be able to pretend he was merely tired.
The next morning, Jack had breakfast with an old friend.
Old was not quite the right word.
They had known one another long enough that old had ceased to describe either the friendship or the men inside it.
Call him Thomas.
Thomas had once been the kind of man Jack worried about.
Thirty years earlier, Jack had watched him chase one business after another, then another, then another. Money. Property. Expansion. The next deal. The next horizon.
Jack had talked to him endlessly about what mattered.
About God.
About purpose.
About the strange emptiness that could hide inside success.
Jack had been patient.
Persistent.
Sometimes irritating.
He had been, in other words, exactly what a good friend is supposed to be.
And eventually, somehow, Thomas had listened.
Now Thomas was nearly sixty.
Married.
Established.
An elder.
A man other people leaned upon.
He was telling Jack about a trip they were planning—Spain, Greece, Portugal. They were considering selling nearly everything and moving abroad. Somewhere near the Mediterranean, perhaps. Somewhere they could spend their remaining years doing something that mattered.
Jack listened.
And then something inside him cracked.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Because he suddenly understood that the man sitting across from him was no longer the man he had spent thirty years trying to save.
He was the man who had made it.
And Jack—
Jack wasn't sure what he was anymore.
He stirred his coffee.
Thomas kept talking.
Jack watched the sunlight move across the table.
Thirty years.
Thirty years of telling someone else to stand firm.
Thirty years of being the rock.
The lighthouse.
The man who knew which direction was north.
And suddenly Jack wondered whether he had spent so much time holding everyone else upright that he had forgotten how to stand.
There are failures that arrive like explosions.
And there are failures that arrive like gravity.
You don't notice them happening.
You simply discover one morning that everything has become heavier.
Jack looked at his friend and thought:
I am tired.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
Something he had no vocabulary for.
He wanted to tell Thomas.
He wanted to say everything.
The uncertainty.
The fear.
The private judgments.
The horrible suspicion that perhaps he had given away pieces of himself so gradually that there was no longer enough left to assemble.
But he couldn't.
Because Thomas had fought too hard to become this man.
What kind of friend reaches for someone who has only just learned to swim?
So Jack smiled.
“You two are doing wonderfully,” he said.
Thomas looked at him.
It lasted perhaps half a second.
But thirty years of friendship is a peculiar instrument. You learn to hear things other people cannot.
Thomas saw it.
The exhaustion behind the smile.
The thing Jack had not said.
The invisible wound.
He didn't ask.
He simply lowered his coffee.
“Hey,” Thomas said.
Jack looked up.
“Whatever this is...”
A pause.
”...don't worry.”
Jack smiled faintly.
Thomas leaned back.
“It'll be fine.”
That was all.
Four words.
Nothing theological.
Nothing profound.
No argument.
No evidence.
No miracle.
Just four words from a man who had once needed Jack to tell him that everything would be fine.
And Jack suddenly felt something enormous shift inside him.
He looked at Thomas.
For the first time in thirty years, Jack understood something he had somehow missed.
Perhaps people were not rescued in the order we imagined.
Perhaps strength was not a possession.
Perhaps it moved.
Passed.
Changed hands.
Perhaps the things we gave away were not lost at all.
They simply traveled.
Jack looked down at his coffee.
The dark surface trembled slightly.
He thought about fire.
A spark leaping from one piece of wood to another.
The first flame burning itself nearly empty so that the second could live.
And then the second carrying the fire somewhere neither could have reached alone.
A single sentence could do that.
A sentence could become a spark.
A spark could become a fire.
A fire could become a star.
And stars, given enough time, made worlds.
Jack looked at the man across from him.
The pupil had become the teacher.
The thought was almost funny.
He nearly laughed.
Instead, his eyes filled.
Thomas noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Outside, the morning was becoming brighter.
People were beginning their days.
Cars passed.
Doors opened.
Somewhere, a dog barked at absolutely nothing.
The world continued with its usual indifference.
Jack sat very still.
He had spent his life believing that faith meant knowing where the road went.
Perhaps faith meant walking when you couldn't see it.
Perhaps the journey had never been what he thought.
Perhaps the uncertainty wasn't proof that everything was falling apart.
Perhaps uncertainty was simply the landscape through which the next part of the story had to be reached.
He looked again at Thomas.
His old friend.
His former pupil.
His unexpected anchor.
And for the first time in months, Jack allowed himself not to know what happened next.
He discovered, to his surprise, that he could breathe.
The universe had not answered him.
Nothing had been fixed.
No future had been revealed.
But something had changed.
And sometimes that was enough.
Jack stood.
Thomas stood with him.
They embraced briefly—the awkward, masculine approximation of thirty years of affection—and then separated.
“See you soon,” Thomas said.
Jack nodded.
He believed him.
Outside, the morning waited.
And Jack walked into it.
Not as the rock.
Not as the lighthouse.
Not as the man who knew the way.
Just as a man.
And, for the first time in a very long time, that felt like enough.
IMG_2786.HEIC //:everythinggoneisnotforgottenbiogenesisbeingwhatitis
from
Talk to Fa
These songs hit me in different parts of my travels. Go ahead and listen if you want to tag along with me.
A zine chronicling the Conquering the Barbarian Altanis D&D campaign.
This issue includes sessions 120, and 121.
Adventurers return to civilisation, at last!
You can download the issue here.
Overlord's Annals zine is available as part of the Ever & Anon APA, issue 15:

#Zine
from
Shad0w's Echos
#nsfw #Aiesha

Aiesha decided to go walking. Not for fitness, but to find places in her city that aligned with her new purpose. She wanted to indulge in some nighttime adventures. Exposed. But first, she needed to see where she could go for her new perverted hobby.
On the weekends, Aiesha would go out in a sundress or other minimalist clothing. Pretending to be naked, imagining the stares. She would have her headphones in, playing her porn audio, moving among people as if her actions were perfectly normal.
Her eyes were on a swivel, scanning for places to sit, locations away from the main footpath, and areas that remained open after hours. She was on a mission to find the perfect spots to live out her fantasies. Then it dawned on her—maybe parks weren’t the best option. What about apartments? Places where you’re more likely to see people at any time of day? Spaces that were easier to access at all hours and drew less suspicion.
So she turned her attention to apartments, but with a twist. She decided to incorporate some exposure on these scouting trips. Even though they were in the early evenings after work, she still wanted to have a short thrill.
She decided to get a pair of brown yoga pants, cut out the crotch, and wear a dark-colored shirt that barely covered her pussy. She wanted to look like she belonged there (as though she lived there) and experience the thrill of having her pussy exposed at all times. More risky than a sundress, more original, and closer to her true nature.
The dark colors matched her skin tone and concealed the fact that her pussy was essentially out in the open. The shirts lifted occasionally as she felt a noticeable breeze waft over her navel. She didn’t try to cover up or hide. No one was around when it happened, really, and hardly anyone paid much attention to her. The dark colors, glasses, and generally homely appearance created a stealth mode for her. But her pussy was throbbing.
It was an extremely satisfying and arousing sensation. She got so wet that she had to sit on a towel in her car, because she was leaving wet spots while driving through traffic. Sitting on park benches and other common areas gave her a quiet thrill, knowing that in just a few minutes she would be “marking her territory” as she scrolled porn in public after walking for a few miles. She would slowly part her legs, let the breeze caress her lips, and sit there, fully aroused, letting her pussy leak through the hole in her crotch and onto the bench, daring anyone to notice. They never did.
It felt great to look like a normal, everyday woman, when in fact, she was scouting the entire city for places to get naked in public while listening to porn.
Perversion was giving her so much purpose.
Over time, she normalized exposing her pussy. The only time she covered herself completely was at work, and even then, that was becoming a problem.
She would squeeze her legs together. She would take breaks more often. She would scroll through porn idly on her phone at her desk, brazenly. She had a closed office so all of this was surprisingly easy. No one none noticed a thing. All the while, she squirmed in her clothes, rested her hand between her legs in between meetings and phone calls, and wished her pussy was truly free.
“I'm so far gone, I love it,” Aiesha thought to herself one day.
After about a month of her 'pussy-out' activities, she was ready for the next step. She found the apartment complex that was perfect for her first true public nudity outing.
Before she started her adventure, she decided to do something she had not done in months. She was going to do her makeup. Her hair was natural and curly; there was little to do there, as it was healthy, well-nourished, and dandruff-free. She had a basic skincare routine, always soft and glowing. But she decided to add a touch of spice to make the evening out special: just a little bit of lip gloss, some light blush, a hint of eyeliner, and a flick of her favorite fragrance.
Aiesha looked at her naked body one more time before she put on her outfit for the night: a burgundy fitted shirt, a black cardigan, a pair of Converse sneakers, nothing else. The fitted shirt was exactly as described—it barely covered her hips, leaving just enough fabric to hide her pussy, barely an inch. The cardigan served as a way to conceal her state of undress from the back and provided a pinch of modesty if she truly needed it. She was essentially going out bottomless in public.
This was her first night out after all that. Her grand plan was to gradually normalize public exposure and continue escalating as long as it felt good. Right now, her pussy was buzzing and throbbing almost uncontrollably. The thought of leaving her house practically bottomless gave her butterflies. She was experiencing a full-body high of excitement, arousal, anticipation, and peace.
She wasn't going to bring any backup clothing.
As she grabbed her car keys, she took a look at herself one more time in the mirror. She loved the look. She gave herself a full body hug, smiled, and stepped out in the hallway locking her door. Her heart pounding. Blood rushing in her ears.
Even though it was almost midnight on a Wednesday, there was still some chance of encountering someone. She didn't close the cardigan. She let it flow open like a cape, like she was a superwoman, feeling her inner thighs get wet and sticky with her arousal. Her body spray masked the gentle waft of her womanly musk. The weather was fair, not too hot, not too cold. She decided to take the stairs, gliding down from her 3rd floor to the parking level. Taking the long way around to get to her car, she tested the waters and imagined what it would feel like to be truly exposed at her flashing destination.
When she got to her car, she took off the cardigan and folded it in a compact square. She loved the idea of leaking everywhere, but she was going to protect her leather seats. She paid good money for this used car and she was proud of it. As her bare ass settled in the seat, she parted her legs slightly and started touching herself. Her porn playlist started. Sexual moans blending in with the rumble of the engine. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath taking in the sounds and the sensations of her public exposure.
With her eyes closed, she took a deep breath and reached for her clit. She spoke her mantra for the night. Planned for this exact moment. She cooed as she rubbed her pussy.
“This is normal,” she said over and over. She said it 10 times, then opened her eyes hazy with arousal, put the car in gear and drove to her destination. This was the beginning of her first night out.
from
Roscoe's Quick Notes

Oklahoma Sooners vs UTEP Miners, tonight. I'll tune in to 600 AM ESPN El Paso by 6:00 PM CDT to catch the full Pregame Show, ahead of the scheduled 7:00 Opening Kickoff, then the radio call of tonight's college football game.
And the adventure continues.
from
M.A.G. blog, signed by Lydia
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.
Crocs in the Boardroom? The Accra Corporate Girl Said Yes!
Let’s be honest: there was a time when Crocs were strictly for quick errands, hospital shifts, beach trips, or that “I’m not leaving the house for anything serious” mood. But fashion has officially changed the rules, and the Accra corporate girl is ready to clock in—with comfort and style.
Yes, sis. Crocs can enter the corporate conversation.
The secret? Styling them intentionally.
The Corporate Crocs Formula: Forget the loud, overly decorated pairs for a moment. For the office, think neutral shades, sleek silhouettes, and elevated styling. Black, cream, beige, brown, navy, and even muted pastels can blend beautifully into a corporate wardrobe.
Keep the Rest of the Outfit Polished: Crocs are already making a statement, so let the rest of your outfit say, “Yes, I planned this.” Add a structured handbag, neat hair, simple jewellery, and a clean, well-tailored outfit.
The goal is not to look like you forgot your office shoes at home. The goal is to look like you knew exactly what you were doing.
Jibbitz? Office Appropriate Edition: Personalising your Crocs can be fun, but maybe don’t turn your shoes into a full amusement park before your Monday morning presentation. Choose a few stylish charms—minimal, chic, and relevant to your personality.
Remember: corporate, but make it fun.
Who is Diane von Fürstenberg to be awarded the 2026 Couture Council Award from the Museum at FIT (Fashion Institute of Technology). Born Diane Simone Michele Halfin in Belgium in 1946 (she will be 80 in December), she is best known for her wrap dress.
After finishing a strictly non-fashion schooling, she worked as an assistant to fashion photographer's agent Albert Koski in Paris, then moved to Italy to apprentice with the textile manufacturer Angelo Ferretti, where she learned about cut, color and fabric. Here she designed her first wrap tops and skirts as separates, and after seeing a customer wearing the pieces together, Fürstenberg converted the design to a one-piece dress. It is included in the collection of the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
She opted to first advertise the wrap dress in Women's Wear Daily in 1974, and included the tagline: “Feel like a woman, wear a dress!” Soon after the launch, 25,000 dresses were selling each week; one million dresses had been sold by 1976. After the success of the wrap dress, von Fürstenberg was featured on the cover of Newsweek magazine in 1976. The accompanying article declared her “the most marketable woman since Coco Chanel.”
Fürstenberg relaunched her company in 1997, and reintroduced the wrap dress, which gained popularity with a new generation of women.
Her fashion company, Diane von Furstenberg (DvF), is available in over 70 countries and 45 free-standing shops worldwide, with the company's headquarters and flagship boutique located in Manhattan's Meatpacking District.
Von Fürstenberg at the 2008 New York Fashion Week
Are you backing up? Yes? In the cloud? Your phone(s)? And your laptop or Ipad? I often see whatsapp postings like: lost all my data, repeat all messages, lost all my numbers etc. So not everyone is doing the right thing. Personally I do write phone numbers of those who are really dear to me on an old fashioned piece of paper. And I do small size prints of pictures of very memorial people and events, I don't trust that cloud too much and I don't trust myself too much. I adore an Accra painter, Nii Korley and have bought some of his paintings to adorn my walls.
Recently he contacted me, he‘d lost all the pictures of his paintings, his life's work. I sent back a few things he had sent to me earlier and I got a warm so grateful for giving me something important to take me back my studio of creativity. I replied: I'll find some more and got thank you so much for your sacrifice despite your busy schedule. The man is obviously in pain and now contacting anyone who might have pictures of his work. I know a TV program creator. She’s originated things like Ghana's Most Beautiful and many other well known programs. Because I have a few very smart computer friends she came to me, her hard disc had crashed, could I get it repaired? We couldn't. She’d lost 3 month of recordings. And I asked a fashion model for some pictures of her previous catwalk shows. Lost my phone, she answered. Backing up?

Package leaflet / Patient information leaflet (PIL) / package insert / drug facts label / package insert. Most of us don't even know the word for this. It’s that folded paper with fine print in the box of medicines you bought. And the majority of us don't read it anyway. Wrong. Let’s say you have a headache and have decided to take paracetamol. It’s an over-the-counter drug, OTC, so you don't need a prescription. Next to pharmacies, which are supposed to always have a qualified pharmacist present to always advise you about the drug you buy and the ailment you have, ordinary chemical sellers are also allowed to sell it.
So much blah-blah text for simple paracetamol? Yes. If you would read that “PIL” (Patient information leaflet), you would learn that the maximum you can take is maximum one 1000 mg tablet per minimum 4 hours, and not more than 4000 mg per day. And that it can make you vomit, give stomach upset, rash, itching, swelling of face and lips, and dizziness.
Here’s the interesting part: you had a headache, but now you have itching and a swollen face as well, so you rush back to the pharmacy, for another pill (and more money spent). Whilst stopping the paracetamol would also have done the trick. So read the PIL and recognize a side effect as a side effect, rather than a strange disease. And if you take more than that 4000 mg? It may be toxic to your liver, cause liver failure, and even death. Chemical seller did not tell you? He just sells PILS?

Lunch at Elmina Castle. This is on the World Heritage list (something passed down from past generations, including traditions, culture, property, and values) of UNESCO, meaning the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. It draws a fair crowd of tourists, including busloads of school children. Unfortunately, often the bus leaves Accra late and the road currently is very bad for a big part, so once arrived late at the castle, the kids can take a selfie and then the journey goes back home. Pity, it is worth a visit and with the guides one gets a better understanding of Ghana’s history.
A worthwhile recent addition is the café, Anomansa Restaurant. After the visit, one can take a decent jollof, and the spring rolls are crackling fresh, at reasonable prices. Service is prompt. Seating inside, quiet, or a bit up, outside with a splendid look over Elmina’s fishing harbour, which in itself is worth a UNESCO World Heritage nomination.
And Ghana has many places worth visiting, for the locals and for the foreign tourists. Shame that mostly the hotel service is poor and not up to the international standards the tourists expect.

from onasixpence
It has been a while...
Apparently it takes a nationally watched murder trial, two deadlock notes, a disputed holdout juror, and seven days of deliberations to drag me back to the keyboard.
Not exactly the triumphant return I had planned.
As of this writing (9/4/26), the jury in Lindsay Clancy’s murder trial is entering its seventh day without a unanimous verdict. Deliberations began August 27 in Plymouth Superior Court after nearly six weeks of testimony before Judge William Sullivan. The panel — nine women and three men — has already told the court twice that it cannot agree. Defense attorney Kevin Reddington has publicly described the split as 11–1 and asked the judge to remove a juror he says “spurned the instructions” on reasonable doubt. The judge declined Thursday. An inquiry of that juror was expected Friday morning. A mistrial is possible. A verdict is also possible. Neither has arrived.
That is the news.
Here is what is not in dispute:
On January 24, 2023, in a house in Duxbury, Massachusetts, Cora Clancy, five years old; Dawson Clancy, three years old; and Callan Clancy, eight months old, were strangled with exercise bands. Lindsay Clancy does not deny causing their deaths. Afterward she cut herself and jumped from a second-story window. She survived. She is now paralyzed from the waist down and has been held at Tewksbury Hospital. The children did not survive. Callan died days later. The strangulation counts were later dropped as redundant with the murder charges. The trial is about the three murders.
The legal question before the jury is not whether the children are dead. It is whether Clancy was criminally responsible when she killed them. Massachusetts law allows a finding of not guilty by reason of lack of criminal responsibility if a mental disease or defect left her unable to appreciate the wrongfulness of her conduct or unable to conform it to the law. The defense says postpartum psychosis — and a disastrous course of psychiatric treatment — did exactly that. Prosecutors say she planned it: she sent her husband, Patrick, out for takeout and medication, then used the window of time. A first-degree murder conviction carries life without parole. A finding of no criminal responsibility would not send her home. It would ordinarily mean commitment to a state psychiatric facility, subject to review. Those are the stakes in the room. And before someone adjusts their glasses, clears their throat, opens Outlook, and begins composing an email titled Actually, Inkari… Yes.
I know!
The jury is not sitting in a room debating whether murdering children is morally acceptable. They are answering a specific and difficult legal question about criminal responsibility under Massachusetts law. Thank you, imaginary commenter.
You may lower your hand now. Because I am talking about something larger than twelve jurors in Plymouth. I am talking about us. I am talking about a culture so terrified of making a moral judgment that every clear sentence now requires seventeen disclaimers, three diagnoses, six specialists, a flowchart, a podcast miniseries, and a laminated permission slip before anyone is allowed to say:
There.
I typed it.
The ceiling did not collapse.
The internet probably survived.
You will too.
Remember their names Cora was five.
Dawson was three.
Callan was eight months old. Remember those names. Because if we are going to spend weeks talking about Lindsay Clancy’s mind, Lindsay Clancy’s medications, Lindsay Clancy’s treatment, Lindsay Clancy’s suffering, Lindsay Clancy’s diagnosis, Lindsay Clancy’s legal responsibility, Lindsay Clancy’s doctors, and Lindsay Clancy’s psychiatric history, perhaps somewhere in all that sophisticated discussion we could remember one inconvenient detail: There were three other human beings in that house. Three children.
Three victims.
Three little people who depended entirely on the adults around them to keep them safe. And they are dead.
We collect explanations like coupons Somewhere along the way, our culture developed a peculiar allergy to moral clarity. We love explanations.
We collect them like coupons. Trauma.
Mental illness.
Childhood.
Medication.
Hormones.
Stress.
Environment.
Systems.
Diagnosis. Every one of those things can matter.
Some of them matter enormously here. Nobody needs to pretend Lindsay Clancy was mentally well. Her struggles are not a last-minute courtroom invention. The prosecution and defense disagree over her condition and what it did to her criminal responsibility. Serious concerns about her mental health and psychiatric treatment are part of the established history of this case. Mental illness is real. Postpartum psychosis is real. People can become profoundly disconnected from reality. Psychiatric care can fail. Doctors can make mistakes. Medication can be complicated. Families can miss warning signs. Systems built to catch people before catastrophe can fail spectacularly. I am not interested in pretending otherwise. But can we please remember that Lindsay was not the only person hurting? Imagine that.
Apparently this is the revolutionary contribution Inkari has returned from hiatus to provide. Yes.
Lindsay was hurting mentally.
We know.
We have discussed it.
Experts have testified about it.
Lawyers have argued about it.
News programs have dissected it.
Millions of strangers have debated it. Her suffering has received articles, interviews, court days, expert analysis, and endless commentary. Now here is my apparently outrageous question: Has anybody stopped long enough to think about how the children were hurting? Cora.
Dawson.
Callan. The conversation keeps orbiting the suffering of the adult who killed them while the children she killed are slowly pushed toward the edge of their own story. They become “the three children.”
“The victims.”
“The Clancy children.”
A sentence halfway down an article before we return to psychiatric medications. No. They had names.
They had bodies.
They could experience pain.
They depended on their mother.
They were completely vulnerable to the adults responsible for protecting them.
They were the ones physically harmed.
They were the ones whose lives ended.
They were the ones who never got to sit in a courtroom and explain what happened to them. And somehow we have become so sophisticated in our compassion that we are in danger of compassioning the victims straight out of their own murder case.
The question underneath the case Does mental illness suddenly erase a person’s responsibility not to kill another human being? If your answer is simply yes, with no qualification and no further thought required, then I need you to understand the size of the thing you just said. Mental illness can affect judgment.
It can distort perception.
It can interfere with someone’s ability to distinguish reality from delusion.
Severe psychiatric illness can affect legal culpability. And yes — there are circumstances under American law where a person can commit a horrific act and nevertheless be found not criminally responsible because of their mental state. That legal concept exists for a reason. Fine.
Take it seriously. But stop turning that legal question into a moral magic trick where three children disappear beneath the tablecloth. Their lives mattered.
Their suffering mattered.
What happened to them mattered.
They were hurting too. Except they don’t get psychiatrists.
They don’t get attorneys.
They don’t get expert witnesses.
They don’t get sympathetic profiles explaining the complexities surrounding that night.
They don’t get years afterward to process what happened.
They don’t get another morning. So perhaps, for five minutes, we could let them occupy the center of the conversation. Because somewhere between understanding why someone did something and deciding what that means, America appears to have driven the family minivan directly through the guardrail. Explanation became exoneration.
Context became absolution.
Compassion became an excuse to mumble when we should speak plainly.
And nuance, once a useful tool for understanding complicated things, has been promoted to Supreme Moral Emperor of Everything. Say that an action was evil and someone immediately assumes you believe mental illness is fictional.
Acknowledge mental illness and somebody else assumes you have declared the action morally neutral.
Express compassion for the perpetrator and you are accused of forgetting the victims.
Demand justice for the victims and someone concludes you have no compassion for the mentally ill. Apparently the human brain is now capable of holding precisely one thought at a time. Very advanced species we have become.
Two things can be true Lindsay Clancy may have been profoundly mentally ill.
And killing Cora, Dawson, and Callan was wrong. The healthcare system may have failed her.
And three children were still killed. Her psychiatric condition matters when determining criminal responsibility.
And their deaths do not become less horrific because her mind may have been severely disordered. We can investigate failures in her treatment. We should.
We can ask whether her doctors recognized what was happening. We should.
We can study postpartum mental illness more seriously. We absolutely should.
We can build better systems for mothers in psychiatric emergency. Please, for the love of all things sane, we should. And while doing every one of those things, we can maintain the apparently endangered belief that parents possess a responsibility not to kill their children. These thoughts do not cancel each other out.
They are not mortal enemies.
They can sit at the same table. Compassion matters.
Justice matters.
Mental health matters.
Personal responsibility matters.
Context matters.
Right and wrong still exist.
Humans are complicated.
Morality does not therefore evaporate. That distinction matters because mental illness is not imaginary.
But neither is morality. And I am deeply uncomfortable with a culture increasingly convinced that acknowledging one requires dismantling the other. Because where exactly does that road end? If every explanation eventually becomes an excuse, accountability becomes impossible. There will always be a reason. Always. Trauma somewhere. A wound. A fear. An ideology. A diagnosis. A childhood. A chemical. An influence. A circumstance. A desire. A pressure. A biological process. Human beings do not commit wrongdoing inside sterile laboratory vacuums.
Every sinner has a biography.
That has never meant sin does not exist.
Scripture already knew this tension Christianity, inconveniently for modern sensibilities, has understood this for a long time. Scripture does not present humanity as a collection of cartoon villains twirling mustaches in dark alleyways. It presents people as broken. Wounded. Deceived. Tempted. Afraid. Angry. Sick. Selfish. Sometimes oppressed. Sometimes oppressing someone else. Sometimes victimized. Sometimes victimizing others. Frequently several of those things before breakfast. And yet Scripture never concludes: Well, everyone is complicated, so I suppose good and evil are canceled. Quite the opposite. “Woe to those who call evil good, and good evil;
Who substitute darkness for light and light for darkness;
Who substitute bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter!”
— Isaiah 5:20, NASB 1995 Grace means something because sin is real.
Mercy means something because judgment is real.
Forgiveness means something because there is actually something requiring forgiveness. You cannot preserve biblical compassion by deleting biblical accountability.
That is not mercy.
That is moral anesthesia. And America seems increasingly determined to sedate its conscience. Paul did not treat the moral law as a niche religious hobby. He said even those without the written Law still show it at work in them: “For when Gentiles who do not have the Law do instinctively the things of the Law, these, not having the Law, are a law to themselves, in that they show the work of the Law written in their hearts, their conscience bearing witness and their thoughts alternately accusing or else defending them.”
— Romans 2:14–15, NASB 1995 That is why the simplest sentence in this whole affair still rings. Not because a jury said it. Because conscience does. We are perfectly comfortable proclaiming MENTAL HEALTH MATTERS when mental illness is marketable. When it looks like anxiety beneath a weighted blanket. When it is depression expressed through a tasteful pastel infographic. When it is someone bravely admitting they are struggling while gentle piano music plays underneath. Good.
Have those conversations.
Please.
I mean that. Mental-health awareness matters. People should be able to ask for help without shame. But severe mental illness is not always photogenic. Sometimes it is terrifying. Sometimes someone loses contact with reality. Sometimes someone becomes dangerous to themselves. Sometimes someone becomes dangerous to other people. Sometimes people are harmed. Sometimes people die. If our compassion for mental illness evaporates the moment illness becomes frightening, then we never actually cared about severe mental illness.
We cared about branding. Listen carefully, because the opposite error is sitting directly across the aisle. Acknowledging severe mental illness does not require pretending actions lose all moral significance. We should be capable of saying:
“This person may have been extraordinarily sick.”
And:
“This should never have happened.”
Without our heads exploding. We should be able to investigate psychiatric failures without turning Cora, Dawson, and Callan into collateral damage in a policy argument.
We should be able to discuss postpartum psychosis seriously without allowing three children to become supporting characters in the story of the person who killed them.
We should be able to recognize diminished criminal responsibility where the law determines it exists without rewriting the underlying act into something harmless. That is not contradiction.
That is adulthood. Justice without mercy becomes brutality.
Mercy without truth becomes sentimentality.
Compassion without moral clarity eventually becomes cowardice.
Moral clarity without compassion becomes cruelty. We need all of them.
At the same time. Annoying, isn’t it?
Humans keep insisting on being complicated. Micah already refused the false choice: “He has told you, O man, what is good;
And what does the LORD require of you
But to do justice, to love kindness,
And to walk humbly with your God?”
— Micah 6:8, NASB 1995 Justice.
Kindness.
Humility.
Not one of those words devouring the other two.
One thing here is not complicated Three children should still be alive. Cora.
Five years old. Dawson.
Three years old. Callan.
Eight months old. Perhaps before we spend another day arguing over which ideological tribe gets custody of this tragedy, we could remember them. Not as evidence.
Not as Exhibit Whatever.
Not as symbols in a debate about maternal mental health.
Not as ammunition for whichever side of the internet woke up angry this morning. Children.
A little girl.
A little boy.
A baby.
Whatever comes from that courtroom, I hope we possess enough moral backbone to resist turning it into something it isn’t. A guilty verdict would not prove mental illness is fake.
A verdict finding her not criminally responsible would not make killing children morally acceptable.
A mistrial would not transform disagreement about a legal standard into disagreement about whether three children’s deaths were horrific. The jury has a difficult question.
They should answer it carefully.
That is their responsibility. The rest of us have another. Do not become so intoxicated with explanation that you forget explanation has limits. Understanding an action does not automatically sanctify it.
Diagnosing something does not baptize it.
Finding the wound does not resurrect the people injured by it.
Having compassion for someone’s broken mind does not require gouging out your moral compass and throwing it into the nearest river.
And caring deeply about mental illness does not require looking at three dead children and suddenly becoming frightened of the word wrong. “Deliver those who are being taken away to death,
And those who are staggering to slaughter, Oh hold them back.
If you say, ‘See, we did not know this,’
Does He not consider it who weighs the hearts?
And does He not know it who keeps your soul?
And will He not render to man according to his work?”
— Proverbs 24:11–12, NASB 1995 The children cannot be held back now.
That is the horror.
What remains is whether we will pretend we did not know what we were looking at.
Seven days and counting.
Take the law seriously.
Take psychiatric illness seriously.
Take postpartum psychosis seriously.
Investigate the doctors.
Investigate the medications.
Investigate the system.
Ask whether warning signs were missed.
Ask whether better intervention could have prevented this.
Ask every uncomfortable question available. Please ask them. Maybe answering those questions saves the next mother.
Maybe it saves the next child. But for the love of everything holy, stop acting as though complexity requires moral paralysis. Some actions can be understood and still condemned.
Someone can deserve compassion while the thing they did deserves judgment.
Someone’s suffering can matter without mattering more than the suffering of the people they harmed.
Mercy and justice can occupy the same room.
Mental illness and moral responsibility can exist in the same conversation. And sometimes the bravest sentence left in a culture drowning beneath qualifications is the simplest one: What happened was wrong. Lindsay was hurting.
Yes. So were they.
And they do not get to tell us about it. Three children should be alive.
No diagnosis changes that.
No verdict changes that.
No amount of nuance changes that. So before you remember the defendant’s diagnosis —
before you remember the lawyers —
before you remember the experts —
before you remember the arguments —
before you remember the holdout juror, the deadlock notes, the Friday inquiry, the possible mistrial — Remember their names. Cora.
Dawson.
Callan. Everything else comes after.
Yep, the classic one was: — inkari 🧵⚡
Sector Δ7
Data Recovered — Romans 1:20
Note on the record: As of Friday morning, September 4, 2026, there is still no verdict. The 11–1 figure is the defense’s characterization, not a court finding. A finding of no criminal responsibility would not equal walking free. The children’s names and ages follow the established public record of the case. Scripture quoted from the New American Standard Bible, 1995.
from Trollish Delver
With AI being the potential downfall of creativity, now more than ever we need to be making shit that AI just could never. All AI will ever give you is middle-of-the-road milquetoast rot. “Designers” out there are generating images and text of modules and calling it a day. And the more that happens, the more LLMs train on that data and you have a cycle of shite.
Weirdo jank is the way forward. AI can’t do weirdo jank. It has to make everything ‘just so’. “Oh but I want to play serious games where there’s mechanical stability and balance” – do you though? Or do you want to throw some dice and have a laugh coming up with nonsense with your friends? Ok, maybe you do want serious, and that’s ok, but I dunno – I think we need to start getting really strange with it. Cut your restraints. Go against convention. Don’t listen to the likes of Reddit who have 1000 reasons you shouldn’t do something. They’re mostly children. Stop talking yourself out of weird jank and embrace it.
Corpos hate you and they want everyone to be little automatons without a mind of their own. Roleplaying games can save us from that. Horrible little artpunk nonsense games that stop use from scrolling or buying a thing from an ad (likely AI generated). AI companies hate you because they want everyone to be smooth-brained idiots sloshing around in the slop bucket, drinking from the slop bucket. Original ideas are in danger.
“Oh but I’m not a game designer” – yes you are. If you have an idea, put it out there. Draw it in crayon and scan it. You don’t need to know stats and maths. It’s JANK. Let the act of creativity be one of rebellion against the robots and the suits.
Commission artists, if you can. If you can’t, hack up stock photos. Use old book illustrations. Draw some shit yourself – whatever you do will be leagues better than what the robots spill out of their rancid shafts. Limitation breeds creativity, and that’s the opposite of AI which seeks unlimited data, which just becomes a shit blancmange.
Make your nasty little jank game on a bit of tissue. Play it with strangers. They’ll probably have a lot of fun and you might make some friends. AI is not a friend.
Bathe the world in creative detritus and laugh.
Get my own jank on Patreon.
I'm working in my barn.
Midway between a church founded by Eleanor of Aquitaine, Huguenot at the time Michel de Montaigne was writing, and the home I now occupy, formerly the sixteenth-century home of the choirmaster appointed by a Catholic hierarchy to win the local protestant congregation back to the Catholic Church.
One wall of my barn is likely the remains of the tourelle of the château of the Abbé Laïque, the lay-abbot of this village, and my potager is outside the former tithe yard of the enclosure. And the seigneur to whom they would all have owed fealty was none other than Henri of Navarre – first a Protestant, then the Catholic King of France, and the man who eventually brought an end to the Wars of Religion; exemplified in the small village landscape in which I am currently toiling.
As the labour proceeds I am reflecting on the English-language Wikipedia article I have just read on Michel de Montaigne and his Essays. Montaigne's famous Avis au lecteur opens with a declaration that he presents himself to the reader de bonne foi. English translations almost invariably render this as “in good faith”. The translation is perfectly defensible.
But as I put away my tools there is a tiny nag, and it will not go away. In modern English, in my experience, in good faith usually refers to the manner of an action. If I act in good faith, I act honestly, sincerely, without intent to deceive. The emphasis falls on conduct. I may be mistaken, but my intentions are honourable.
Yet I find myself hearing the French de bonne foi slightly differently.
Perhaps this is partly because of where I am. I have Irish and Basque friends, and Breton ones too. And perhaps living amongst people whose languages have developed in such different relationships to French and English has made me more attentive to the nominal structures of language – to the way prepositions and nouns can carry meaning together rather than simply marking grammatical relationships that modern English would treat as incidental.
It has also made me wary of assuming that the grammars of modern English, and of modern French, transparent windows onto an older language. We have compressed some things that earlier languages allowed to remain more spacious.
The old association between preposition and noun can carry something that a modern grammatical analysis is inclined to tidy away. And de seems to me to be one of those small words whose apparent simplicity becomes less certain the longer one looks at it. I am not suggesting that de simply means from here. In fact, of is perhaps what interests me first.
Un livre de bonne foi. – A book of good faith.
Even as I write this, that reads a little differently to the Wikipedia article. That sentence seems to me to ask a different question from a book written in good faith. In good faith asks something about the manner in which Montaigne writes. But of good faith seems to ask something about the constitution of the work itself: What kind of book is this? And if I allow myself to take the thought one step further, another question appears: From where does Montaigne speak?
I don't mean that de bonne foi should therefore be translated from good faith. That would be to make the speculation do more work than the language warrants. Rather, the awkwardness of the thought has made me stop.
And now I look through the opening in the barn wall towards the old church. The architecture reveals its history without needing to explain it. Catholic, Huguenot, Catholic again. The old structures of land and authority remain in the landscape, even though the people who inhabited them and the allegiances they carried have long since changed.
And suddenly the word foi begins to trouble me more than de. Because here foi isn't an abstract word. Faith has been lived here. It has been believed and imposed, defended and abandoned, inherited and converted, even woo'd by music. It has been bound up with allegiance, authority and trust. And perhaps that is why Montaigne's little phrase catches me.
The Avis au lecteur is unusual. Montaigne tells the reader that his book has no grand public purpose beyond presenting himself honestly to his family and friends. He has not written to seek fame, instruction or public approval. Instead, he offers a plain and unadorned portrait of his character, habits and thoughts, preserving a record of himself as he is.
The book's subject is not simply the world. It is Montaigne himself encountering the world. And so he asks the reader not to expect anything more than a sincere self-portrait written de bonne foi.
As the author of essayism.org, I grasp his intention. The Avis au lecteur may even be an inspiration for essayism.org itself. Only now do I realize this. And now the nag is becoming hesitation. Past hesitation now, reluctance itself. I cannot quite accept the conventional translation without qualification.
In good faith can make Montaigne sound like a conscientious reporter of facts. Yet the Essays are not reports. They are attempts to establish a position from which a human being may speak truthfully about their own experience despite uncertainty. The essay is not founded on certainty but on a fidelity (foi ?) to experience.
I pick up a carpenter's pencil lying on my bench, take a rag and wipe away an area of decaying seventeenth-century plaster. And adopt the old habit I and Montaigne both share: writing to clarify.
In good faith asks: How is Montaigne speaking? Of good faith asks: What kind of work is this? From good faith asks: From where does Montaigne speak?
I wonder if the final question might be the most significant. But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Because I have begun by worrying about de, and now I find myself worrying about foi. And foi seems to open onto a much larger territory than I had intended to enter...
Faith. – Fidelity. – Trust. – Allegiance. The keeping of one's word. – Perhaps even the conditions under which one person can speak to another and ask to be believed without pretending to possess certainty.
Montaigne lived through the French Wars of Religion. Henri of Navarre, whose name is written into the history of this landscape, was first Protestant and then Catholic King of France. The very distinction between faith and allegiance was not as clean as we might now imagine.
But I don't want to resolve that here. The historical landscape has already done what it needs to do. It has made the word feel heavier. I began with de. I thought I was wondering whether in good faith was quite the right way to hear de bonne foi.
Now I find myself wondering what Montaigne's foi actually asks of the reader. That is probably another note. For now, I will leave the thread where I found it. – De bonne foi.
And go back to the work- the land demands attention.