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Alice
from AnOublietteofThought
Sequestered in absentia, notes of wander beckoned notice like the blooded claim of an overtly familiar bite. Too tarnished to maintain an omniscience, her need began The Unraveling. Each tug. Every touch. All sensation became a ripened prayer to yearning's phantom dismemberment, and the obligatory recycling mandated when learning to walk on two broken feet.
© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.
—
I’m working on a book of erotic poetry. I thought I'd pen some pieces to wander along beside it and wet the appetite. Those who know my writing side well know that I loathe creating titles for poetry. Titles for books are quite exciting, on the otherhand. I already know what this one will be.
Philosophy so i almost missed my stop, so deeply were I in my own thought
from 
The happy place
hello guess what? I’m on the train again. This time brightly illuminated pale fields of wheat and pine tree forests are zipping by along with a handful of red houses haphazardly scattered like raisins in a müsli
It’s always nice to come home. I felt disoriented when I woke up this morning in the apartment. A disappointment settling inside as I learned where I was.
I think mornings can be harsh, because there’s always a brief moment when you have a clean slate, and as the state is loaded back into the brain, the disappointments and failures briefly forgotten, are reexperienced.
Of course there are good things loaded with the context too, like waking up for the first time next to someone you love etc
Life itself is indeed like a müsli, but sometimes there’s shit in it.
sous-un-regard-heureux
from DrFox
Il existe des regards sous lesquels nous nous corrigeons avant même d'avoir parlé.
Ils n'ont pas besoin d'être hostiles. Une hésitation suffit, un sourcil qui se lève, une présence qui recule à peine. Alors nous baissons la voix, nous rangeons un désir, nous choisissons une version de nous plus facile à recevoir. Nous apprenons à nous présenter comme on prépare une chambre pour un invité difficile, en retirant tout ce qui pourrait encombrer son regard. À la longue, ce regard n'a même plus besoin d'être là. Nous l'emportons avec nous. Nous rangeons la chambre pour personne.
Et puis il existe le regard heureux. Celui qui ne nous embellit pas. Il se réjouit simplement de nous trouver là, et il ne demande pas que nous soyons achevés pour prendre plaisir à notre présence. C'est ce qui le rend si convaincant. La bienveillance est une décision, et nous le sentons. La joie de nous voir n'en est pas une. On peut choisir d'être patient avec quelqu'un. On ne choisit pas d'être content qu'il existe.
Sous ce regard, quelque chose en nous cesse de rentrer le ventre. La voix que nous avions baissée reprend son volume. Ce qui riait trop fort, hésitait trop longtemps ou rêvait de travers retrouve le droit de circuler dans la pièce. Nous n'avons plus à déposer devant nous, comme une carte de visite, une version commode de ce que nous sommes.
Quelqu'un nous accueille.
Pas avec une grande déclaration. Pas nécessairement avec des promesses. L'accueil véritable fait peu de bruit. Il ressemble à une porte qui reste ouverte alors que nous pensions devoir repartir. À une chaise que personne ne retire au moment où nous nous asseyons. À un regard qui ne se détourne pas lorsque notre belle composition se défait un peu.
Être accueilli, c'est pouvoir apparaître sans passer d'abord par l'atelier des retouches. C'est montrer une joie trop vive, une peur mal coiffée, une idée encore bancale, et découvrir que rien ne s'effondre. L'autre est toujours là. Il ne nous confond pas avec notre maladresse du jour. Nos aveux ne deviendront pas, plus tard, des marteaux. Notre vulnérabilité n'est pas versée au dossier à charge.
Il accueille et il observe.
Observer quelqu'un est une forme rare de générosité. Cela demande de ne pas courir vers une conclusion, de ne pas expliquer à sa place ce qu'il ressent. Expliquer quelqu'un est si souvent une manière polie de le ranger. Celui qui observe regarde ce qui naît, ce qui hésite, ce qui revient. Il laisse la personne se révéler à son rythme, comme une couleur monte dans une toile encore humide.
Et surtout, il peut le faire avec gaieté.
L'accueil n'a pas besoin du visage sévère des salles d'attente. La gravité de celui qui écoute risque même de confirmer la crainte de celui qui parle : si l'autre prend cet air, c'est que la chose devait être grave. On peut recevoir quelqu'un avec un sourire, un verre posé sur la table, une plaisanterie qui rend l'air plus léger. On peut trouver charmant qu'un être humain ne tienne pas tout entier dans la première définition venue.
Cette gaieté n'efface pas la profondeur. Elle lui donne de l'oxygène. Elle dit : ce que tu es n'est pas une catastrophe. Je peux te regarder sans convoquer aussitôt les pompiers, les juges et les architectes. Tu peux être étrange ici. Tu peux être magnifique et parfois franchement pénible. Tu peux te tromper sans être expulsé du paysage.
Alors quelque chose se détend.
La personne cesse de consacrer toute son énergie à protéger son droit de rester. Elle n'a plus à séduire à chaque phrase ni à préparer sa défense avant même d'avoir ouvert la bouche. Ce qui se tenait caché peut enfin sortir, s'étirer, respirer, regarder autour de soi.
Et c'est seulement là que le changement commence.
Car on ne fait pas grandir quelqu'un en lui répétant qu'il devrait déjà être différent. On obtient parfois une obéissance, une imitation convaincante, une amélioration de façade. Mais la transformation profonde ne pousse pas sous la menace de perdre l'amour. Elle pousse lorsque l'être comprend qu'il peut se transformer sans devoir d'abord se renier.
Ce qui est accueilli n'est pas condamné à rester identique. C'est même l'inverse : on n'est libre de devenir autre que lorsqu'on a le droit de rester tel qu'on est. Ce qui est accueilli n'a plus besoin de s'agripper à sa forme actuelle pour survivre. Il peut bouger. Il peut lâcher une vieille défense sans craindre de disparaître avec elle, essayer, rater, recommencer.
Ce regard ne devient pas pour autant celui d'un sculpteur. Il ne corrige pas chaque angle, il ne polit pas chaque rugosité, et il ne signe pas ce qui pousse. Il offre une présence assez vaste pour que nous puissions nous y rencontrer, et assez libre pour que nous n'en devenions pas la propriété.
Accueillir ne signifie pas tout accepter. On peut poser une limite sans retirer son regard, refuser un geste sans effacer la personne, dire non sans faire de ce non un exil. Un non prononcé sans retrait suppose même que l'autre peut l'entendre sans s'effondrer. C'est encore une forme de confiance. L'accueil véritable ne consiste pas à applaudir tout ce qui apparaît. Il consiste à ne pas confondre l'amour avec une récompense distribuée aux versions bien élevées.
Peu à peu, ce regard reçu devient le nôtre. Nous l'emportons avec nous, comme nous avions emporté l'autre. Nous apprenons à nous offrir cette même hospitalité, nous cessons de nous jeter dehors à la première faute. Nous devenons pour nous ce lieu où rien n'est forcé de mentir pour avoir le droit de rester.
C'est sans doute cela, aimer quelqu'un.
Lui préparer un espace assez doux pour qu'il ose y être vrai, une chambre où il n'ait rien à ranger avant d'entrer. L'observer avec curiosité, parfois avec amusement, toujours avec respect. Ne pas lui demander de devenir meilleur avant de mériter notre présence.
from 
Roscoe's Quick Notes
A more typical win.
I won this game yesterday evening when my opponent playing White resigned the game after my 33rd move (33...Rxc3), giving me the win by default. Checkmate was clearly only two moves away at this point and there was nothing he could do to avoid it.
This game began on 27 July and ended yesterday, so he and I moved at a pretty good pace. Even though we were playing with a 2 days per move time control, we kept at it; sometimes taking the full 2 days, other times moving several times in a day.
The position of pieces at game's end is shown above, and our full move record below:
- e4 a6 2. Nf3 Nc6 3. Be2 e5 4. a3 Nf6 5. Nc3 d5 6. h3 Be7 7. O-O O-O 8. d4 Nxd4 9. Nxd4 exd4 10. Qxd4 c6 11. e5 Ne4 12. Nxe4 dxe4 13. Qxd8 Rxd8 14. b4 b5 15. Be3 h6 16. f3 exf3 17. Bxf3 Bb7 18. c3 Rd3 19. Bd4 a5 20. Rfe1 Rc8 21. Bg4 Rd8 22. Re4 c5 23. bxc5 Bxe4 24. e6 fxe6 25. Bxe6+ Kh8 26. Bg4 Bg5 27. Be2 Be3+ 28. Kh2 Bf4+ 29. Kg1 Rd2 30. Kf1 Rd8xd4 31. Kf2 Rd4d3 32. Rg1 Bg3+ 33. Kf1 Rxc3
And the adventure continues.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: BECOMING
“Becoming isn’t about who you were or who you lost. It’s the quiet decision to keep moving, even when you don’t know where you’re going.”
My story doesn’t have a happy ending just yet.
I’m still trying to figure it out.
I don’t know when healing begins. Maybe it doesn’t happen all at once. Maybe it isn’t a lightning bolt, but a thousand tiny sparks that flicker and fade and flicker again.
Some days I feel nothing. Other days I feel everything at once.
But in the quiet in-between, I feel something else: possibility.
I used to think survival was about holding everything together.
Smiling when I didn’t want to. Pretending when I felt hollow.
But survival is different than I imagined. Survival is admitting the truth:
I am not okay. Not yet.
And maybe that’s not failure.
Maybe that’s the first crack of light.
I think of my children.
Finn with the quiet weight of a man too young to carry it. Harlow with the fierce fire of a girl learning how to protect her heart. They are not broken, even if I it feels like I am.
They remind me that love doesn’t disappear when someone leaves.
It shifts. It reshapes. It grows into new forms.
I am not the mother I wanted to be. But I am still their mother.
And that is reason enough to try again tomorrow.
At night, when I can’t sleep, I whisper the things I want to believe:
That I am worthy. That I am enough.
That broken doesn’t mean unlovable.
I don’t always believe it.
But I say it anyway.
And maybe, with time, my heart will catch up to my words.
I don’t know what love will look like for me again. I don’t know if someone will ever hold my scars with gentleness instead of judgment. I don’t know if I will ever look in a mirror and see a woman I recognize.
But I want to. And that wanting that ache to live, to feel, to hope, is where becoming begins.
This isn’t my end. Not even the beginning. It is the middle, the messy, the undone.
But it is also proof.
Proof that I am still here. Proof that pain has not silenced me. Proof that even shattered things can be written into meaning.
I don’t have the answers yet.
But I have a pen.
I have a story.
I have a will to keep breathing.
And for now, that is enough.
(NEXT – BOOK 2: THE ROAD TO BECOMING FREE)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: FRAGMENTS
“Trauma doesn’t announce itself. It arrives quietly, rearranging the way you move through the world.”
I didn’t understand trauma before all of this.
Not really.
I thought trauma was the moment something broke, the event, the impact, the sharp edge of pain.
I didn’t know it could be the aftermath.
The way your mind starts slipping in and out of focus.
The way your body reacts to things that aren’t happening anymore.
The way ordinary moments suddenly feel too loud, too bright, too close.
I didn’t know trauma could feel like forgetting.
Some days I’d walk into a room and freeze, unable to remember why I was there. I’d stand in the hallway holding a stack of towels, staring at the wall as if the answer might appear in the paint.
I’d lose minutes, sometimes hours, replaying memories that didn’t matter.
A dinner from years ago, a conversation that had no significance. My mind kept searching for clues in places that had never held them.
I wasn’t falling apart dramatically. I was coming undone in small, quiet ways.
A misplaced thought. A skipped heartbeat. A moment of panic over nothing. A sudden wave of sadness that felt too heavy for its size.
Trauma didn’t break me. It scattered me.
I became a collection of fragments. Pieces of the woman I used to be, pieces of the woman I was trying to become.
I tried to gather myself, but every time I reached for one part, another slipped away.
I wasn’t whole. I wasn’t broken.
I was learning myself all over again.
Some days, I found myself reorganizing the same drawer three times, forgetting each time that I had already done it.
Other days, I sat in the car with the keys in my hand, unable to remember where I was supposed to go.
I’d reread the same sentence until the words blurred into shapes.
I didn’t know trauma could feel like that, like living inside a fog that moves with you.
But healing came in fragments too.
A moment of calm. A breath that didn’t hurt. A laugh I didn’t expect. A morning where I didn’t dread being awake.
Tiny pieces. Barely noticeable. But mine.
One night, I sat on the floor with my notebook open, pages scattered around me like fallen leaves.
I picked up a page filled with questions I had written weeks earlier, questions about him, about her, about the silence, about the choices that had broken my life open.
I read them, and for the first time, I didn’t feel the urge to answer them.
I felt tired of asking.
Tired of chasing meaning in a story that had already ended.
Tired of trying to understand a man who had rewritten me without permission.
Tired of trying to stitch myself back together using pieces that didn’t fit anymore.
So, I tore the page out.
Not angrily. Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
A small, soft rebellion. A fragment of strength.
I don’t know what the whole version of me will look like yet.
But I’m learning this:
Wholeness isn’t a destination. It’s a process. A slow gathering. A gentle sorting. A willingness to pick up the pieces even when your hands are shaking.
And tonight, as I close my notebook, I realize something small and quiet and important:
I may not be whole.
But I am not lost.
Not anymore.
I am becoming.
Piece by piece.
(NEXT – CHAPTER 17: BECOMING)
NFL, Music - give up the lotteries, already.
from 
Kelly Kintner - Blog
Thanks Brits!
Thanks to the British, we now have data that should shut down American Football, but it won’t.
When you are poor and athletic, nothing brings the promise of a better life like two-a-day football practice in high school. Like musicians, athletes are dangled in front of wealth, but rarely ever experience it. We’ve known for a while about CTE. Now we have numbers. (Again, thanks to the British.) We put kids in meat grinders here in the USA, tell them they’ll be rich. I have met kids wanting to play football to buy their parents a house. What do you think the odds are of that?
(Google says…)
“How likely is a highschooler in Texas in football to make enough in football to buy parents a house with football money?”
To buy a house, a player generally needs to secure a massive Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL) deal or reach the NFL.
The High School Population:There are roughly170,000 high school football playersin Texas at any given time.The College Jump:Only about7% to 9.5%of high school players make it to any college roster, and only about3%make it to a Division I FBS school, where the major money resides.The NFL Jump:Nationwide, out of more than 1 million high school players, only about250–300 get drafted into the NFL each year. That is a0.025% chance(roughly 1 in 4,000) of going from high school to the NFL.
Because Texas produces a disproportionate amount of elite talent, a Texas player's individual odds might be slightly higher than the national average, but they still face a fraction of a percent chance.
What’s the deal with brain damage in America?
In the USA, we do not think much about brain damage, even if you are rich! If you start out poor, we bless you with wealth for taking on such brain damage. Not that you can enjoy it.
I am reminded of Romans and gladiators. I know this news this morning from Britain will fall on deaf ears because folks like football. They like music too! But that doesn’t mean they like the players involved. So athletes and musicians get taken advantage of with lottery-type career systems and concussions.
Are “earning” and “winning” the same thing? What about the losers? Didn’t they earn a living too, doing the same thing? Okay, who out there does not deserve to live?
A musician or athlete does not “earn” a living. They “win” it, often taking it from someone else. Folks do not “work” their way up, no matter how hard they work. It’s a lie. I am not saying they do not work. Many work circles around me. But to get the good life, luck is involved. .5 percent make it to NFL who start out in high school. Now we know 1 in 4 in the NFL get CTE. All that work and luck just to wind up brain damaged. CTE is the second form of brain damage these kids incur too. The first was joining football to begin with, those kind of odds. But they sure do! Also, they’re in high school. Not impressionable or anything ..
Let’s talk about lottery for a moment…
“What are popular thoughts against lottery systems, Google?”
(Google says..)
Popular thoughts against state-run financial lottery systems focus on their mathematical design, economic impact on low-income groups, and targeting of vulnerable communities.
Mathematical Odds
Extremely low chances:Winning a major jackpot like Powerball has odds of roughly 1 in 292 million.Negative expected return:Payouts average only about 60% of total revenue, meaning habitual players lose a vast majority of their spent money over time.
Economic and Regressive Impact
Regressive structure:Lower-income households spend a significantly higher percentage of their disposable income on tickets compared to wealthier individuals.Opportunity cost:Money spent on lottery tickets diverts funds from practical savings, investments, or basic household needs.
Social and Demographic Concerns
Targeted marketing:Critics note that ticket retailers and advertisements are often concentrated in lower-income and minority neighborhoods.Exploitation of hope:Advocacy groups argue that state-sponsored gambling preys on people looking for financial escape from systemic poverty.
Government Reliance
Flawed revenue source:Critics argue that using lotteries to fund public services like education allows governments to avoid raising standard, progressive taxes or providing consistent budgetary support.
Who fixes this?
“Targeting vulnerable communities..” I see it says that. The flawed revenue source is good too. Instead of taxing millionaires and billionaires for civic upgrades and fair policy, we’ll just have a lottery. The plebs can do it themselves. At least they’re right about us doing it ourselves. But we have to get rid of team owners.
I want nice things too. But I also don’t want your kids to be brain damaged so I can watch a damn game.
One thing you get when folks think you’re rich is suck ups. Sycophants. Many people daydream about having folks concerned about their life, achievements, aspirations. Many folks want a team to work on. Many folks like money. Me! I am folks!
I don’t feel I am “owed” any of that stuff. I don’t even really like the sycophant thing since I quit social media and realized how fake everything is outside of it, (inside too, wooboy). I don’t feel like I have “earned” it, either. I am kinda’ lazy, do whatever art projects I want. I love my life, don’t get me wrong, but it isn’t because I am making bank. I am making decisions. For me, that’s just as good.
What do you want money for?
I create mainly because it gives me things to do, think about. That’s what a lot of folks want money for. Guess I found a softer way on accident. (It totally was not on accident, fyi. My reason for music is simply getting to do it. Happy place.)
Music and NFL fans, your sign.
Seriously NFL fans, the burden is on your shoulder pads . Music fans too. Do not reward slimy team owners with more money for 1 in 4 cases of CTE. That’s gladiator numbers. Do not reward greedy entertainment companies and managers using micro-targeting for pop-stars practically vacuuming the money and attention from your very life. That’s brain damaged too. So, I know you won’t do it. I just don’t see it getting better for these kids in high school until you do.
Kelly Kintner