16 August 2026

Saw some more John Smith today at Whitechapel:

Record (2021) The Black Tower (1985-87) Blight (1994-96) Dad’s Stick (2012) Twice (2020) Lost Sound (1998-2001)

The Black Tower is the one still lingering. A simple, intuitive construction from elements that I couldn't help but see as painterly while I watched. I'm first thinking of drawn-out close-up shots of bare blue sky that are then revealed to be a kitchen counter surface or a piece of paper—as the narration and the plot devolve from something linear and trustworthy into a kind of relaxed mania, so do the film's formal elements. I remember one part where the tower's silhouette segments the sky, creating an arrangement of triangles in black and blue, then rhythmically expands and contracts with the sound of footsteps until the blue is compressed into one small triangle in the top left corner, which then also appears to expand and contract as the eye loses track of which shape is the agent of movement. And so I was thinking about painting ground the whole time, of toggling containing edges on and off, how extreme close-up can manipulate perceived distance, and ways to convey proximity. Another way it is particularly successful is that it circles around something that has come up in conversation a lot recently, which I can maybe describe as an acknowledgement of the blind spots inherent to phenomenal perception. Our limits. There are also shots of the same tree viewed from a high residential window: bare in winter, green and full in spring, and having its leaves shorn. Hidden things having happened despite the witness.

It's the back half of August, I've thrown the snow gear in the washing hamper, my back & knees are still aching, and I'm starting to shift my attention to spring activities instead – I'm mentally putting the 2026 snow season to bed.

In the last few seasons I managed to get 10+ days on the snow (in 2025 I was fortunate to get 5 days in Japan, and another 11 days in Australia) but this year I felt that I needed to take things a bit easier, and I only planned for two trips into the alps. One trip was with our group of close friends who go to Mount Hotham every year, and another was a trip I organise at my workplace which was at Falls Creek. Both trips were three nights, so I got three days of snowboarding on each trip.

No sugarcoating

As far as snow coverage is concerned, the 2026 season in Australia was terrible. Major resorts had very little terrain open in June, a barely serviceable amount throughout July, and a tolerable amount in August when you'd typically expect all lifts to be spinning. It'll be hard to see what will still be open come early September.

Mother Nature was particularly cruel. There was a healthy string of snowstorms that came through from the West early in the season, but the snowfalls were pushed just south of the Australian alpine regions due to high pressure systems hanging around. This trend turned solid snowfall opportunities into light dustings at best, or rain at worst which destroyed the cover. Full credit to the ski resorts though; they took every opportunity they could to create man-made snow and build up the base to keep the main runs healthy, but without natural falls helping out it's a tough job.

Specifically with the Victorian resorts that I visit, Mt Hotham was unable to open the Orchard area at all, and at Falls Creek the Summit/International lifts never opened either, requiring at least another 30cm of cover to open up the main runs at the Summit.

Trip 1: Mount Hotham

Our Hotham trip with friends was characterised by a wide range of weather – day 1 was clear, day 2 was raining (and very windy), and day 3 was snowing (and still very windy). Waterproof clothing was the MVP (huge thanks to my new Yuki Threads jacket I picked up in the off season!), closely followed by determination and perseverance in the face of wild weather conditions.

We had a few friends that arrived drove up one day earlier (spending the night in Bright) and enjoyed the clear weather that we got at the start of the trip. A very smart choice in hindsight. Here's a picture looking down from the top of the 'Village run' on our clearest day of the trip.

Apart from the on-piste action, I was able to take another instance of my “That Hotham Photo” – a specific section of the mountain ascent where the Great Alpine Road has this gorgeous & aesthetic bend to it:

We had a group of 10 people attend all up which I'm still super grateful for. We've been doing a Hotham trip annually for over a decade, and it's my most favourite weekend of the year. The apartment we got had a lovely south-facing view of the surrounding valleys, which is excellent to enjoy your morning coffee and avocado on toast while you work up the energy to attack another day on the ski lifts.

Stats:

• 46 runs over 3 days
• 51.8km distance
• 10,198m vertical

Trip 2: Falls Creek

My trip to Falls with colleagues & friends had a different vibe. Some of the group were people I spend my 9-5 with so I was still slightly in 'work mode', but we fortunately didn't talk too much shop during the trip. The average experience level of the group was also more novice, meaning that I often had to give advice or guidance to people who were learning their way around the mountain.

I was pleased to hear that several people wanted to try the Saturday night skiing down Wombat's Ramble. Even though I have outgrown the beginner run a long time ago, going for a few casual runs after eating some dinner was a good way to warm up the muscles and ensure my gear was set up correctly. Turns out I set up my bindings the wrong way around, so I was going down the mountain with my board pointing the wrong way! A good reminder as to why I bring a mini-screwdriver with me on the mountain...

Wombat's Ramble has this shipping container halfway down the lift that is painted differently every season, and at night they have UV lights shining on it. This year's glow-in-the-dark artwork looked epic – after I took a photo of another group of skiers in front of it, they kindly offered to return the favour for me:

In comparison to Hotham, Falls is definitely weighted more towards intermediate terrain and I didn't feel like I was massively challenged on any of the available runs. Sadly all of the black runs weren't open due to the poor snow cover, but moving around the mountain every hour or so kept things interesting throughout the day. Falls also has some excellent on-mountain food & beverage options, so you're never far from a hot chocolate or a dim sim to keep your energy levels up or just enjoy the view.

The weather during the entire trip was clear & intensely sunny, with the clouds only rolling in as we headed back to Melbourne. If I had the ability to put sunglasses on under my goggles visor, I would have!

On the final morning I enjoyed a short walk up to the village bowl before we needed to pack up the apartment and get in the van:

Stats:

• 52 runs over 2 days (+ 3 runs on the night skiing session)
• 54.0km distance
• 8,132m vertical

My personal snowboarding goals for 2026

As my skills have stabilised and I'm comfortable boarding down most runs at any ski resort I go to, I've started to give myself a little goal or objective for each season – otherwise I feel that the novelty wears off a bit and I'm not able to enjoy the activity that much.

In 2026 I wanted to start learning how to safely use the terrain park features and start doing some jumps & basic tricks, and Hotham started a beginners lesson to get the fundamentals right, especially regarding body position & technique. I had my lesson on that first clear day we had at Hotham. I really enjoyed it and it allowed me to be completely comfortable with smaller jumps and boxes. I didn't have any major falls during my jump attempts this season, but maybe that means I didn't commit enough. Something to build on for 2027...

Overall stats for 2026

I use Slopes for the tracking of my runs and I love supporting a small & dedicated team of developers, and I find the GPS tracking to be far better than any of the resort apps.

Slopes has a great feature where you can calculate whether your season pass actually saved you money or not, and a good baseline indicator is the “cost per run”. Last year I did about twice as many days on the snow and got my cost per run down to $4.50, and this year I only got it down to $7.74.

There's obviously flaws in the maths & logic – your lift pass isn't the only thing you need to pay for to enjoy snow activities, especially considering on-mountain accommodation & food – but having a calculation that's fairly consistent year-on-year is good, and rewards the people who make the most of their time on the slopes and keep pushing for another couple of runs.

2026 Stats:

• 101 runs (over 6 days)
• 105.9km distance
• 18,329m vertical
• average speed – 22.3km/h

What's interesting is the amount of downtime (the light grey part in the above image) that occurs throughout a typical day. Waiting in lift queues, meal or drink breaks, or just waiting around to meet up with people – it all adds up. I looked into my last few snow seasons and the downtime is always around 45-50%.

Looking ahead

This Aussie season will obviously have most ski bums thinking about going overseas in the years to come, and my friends & I are no different. Japan & New Zealand are the obvious contenders for us, depending on which time of year you want to visit. But over the last 5-6 years we've had 3-4 excellent seasons with all lifts opening at Australian resorts, so we can't let recency bias sway us too much.

We'll still do our annual Hotham trip next year, but doing anything more than that might be a stretch. All I know is that my body is holding up well so I'll be strapping into those bindings as long as it's capable.

#snowboarding #sports #snow

“I thought freedom would feel like coming home. Instead, I came home to a life I no longer recognized.”

The doors opened.

After three months of locked rooms, counted movements, and waiting for someone else to decide where I could go, I stepped outside.

I thought I would feel relief.

I thought the air would fill my lungs differently. That the sky would look brighter. That freedom would rush through me the moment there was no longer a locked door between me and the rest of the world.

But when I stepped outside, I felt nothing.

No joy.

No relief.

No sense of beginning again.

Just a strange, hollow distance between me and everything around me.

The world had kept moving while I was gone.

Cars passed.

Phones rang.

People hurried through their ordinary lives as if nothing had happened.

But everything had happened.

At least to me.

Three months had changed the way I moved through the world. In jail, every part of my day had been controlled.

When I woke. When I ate. When I showered. When I slept. Even silence belonged to someone else.

Then suddenly, I was expected to know how to live again.

No one told me what to do with that kind of freedom.

No one explained how to return to a life that no longer felt like mine.

When I came home, the house looked familiar.

The same walls.

The same furniture.

The same rooms waiting where I had left them.

But something was different.

Maybe it was the house.

Maybe it was me.

I stood in the doorway and looked around like a stranger who had been given someone else's key.

This was supposed to be home.

So why did I feel like I didn't belong there?

The house swallowed me whole.

I moved from room to room, but it didn't matter. Each corner felt the same.

Heavy.

Stale.

Unfamiliar.

The air hummed with stillness, but not the comforting kind. This silence scratched. It pressed against my skin like static.

The walls seemed to lean inward, shrinking the space around me. Even the light looked duller, as if it were tired too.

I thought I had wanted to come home.

But once I was there, I couldn't stand being inside it.

Every room held a memory of the life I had lost. Every quiet corner reminded me of who was missing.

The couch, the kitchen, the hallway, all of it belonged to a version of my life that was gone.

So I wanted to leave.

But whenever I imagined going out, panic rose inside me.

In public, I felt exposed.

I imagined people staring at me.

Judging me.

Knowing where I had been.

Knowing what had happened.

I couldn't tell whether anyone was actually looking or whether I had simply forgotten how it felt to exist without being watched.

Home felt unbearable.

The outside world felt impossible.

I didn't want to be anywhere.

That was the worst part.

There was no place where I felt safe. No room where I felt like myself. No direction I could move that didn't lead back to the same pain.

So I stayed on the couch.

Hours passed without me noticing.

The clock ticked, but I didn't feel time anymore. Morning bled into afternoon, afternoon into night, and night into another morning.

The days blurred together until I couldn't tell one from the next.

I had imagined freedom as movement.

Instead, I became still.

I stopped answering messages.

I stopped returning calls.

Some days, getting dressed felt impossible. Other days, I put on clothes and stood by the door, unable to make myself open it.

I didn't know what was happening to me.

I only knew that I hated being awake.

I hated the silence.

I hated the memories.

I hated the way everyone else's life seemed to continue while mine remained trapped in the same moment.

Some mornings, I opened my eyes and felt disappointed that another day had begun.

I didn't know how to help myself.

I didn't know how to explain what was happening inside me. I had survived jail. I had survived the courtroom. I had survived hearing myself described as someone I did not recognize.

But I didn't know how to survive being free.

My daughter barely talked to me.

I heard her voice through a closed door, laughter spilling out for friends, soft confessions whispered into a phone. She still knew how to laugh.

Just not with me.

When she looked at me, her eyes were guarded. Her words were short, clipped, careful.

I wondered if I had become someone she no longer wanted to claim.

The thought cut deep, but I couldn't blame her.

Most days, I didn't want to claim myself either.

My children carried a weight I never meant to hand them. They didn't say they blamed me, but shame filled in everything they left unspoken.

Maybe they were angry.

Maybe they were afraid.

Maybe I was only hearing my own guilt in their silence.

Either way, I felt as though I had failed them.

I wanted to tell them I was proud of them. I wanted to tell them I saw how strong they had become.

But the words stuck in my throat.

Part of that strength had come from necessity. They had grown up faster because I had fallen apart.

That was a truth I didn't know how to carry.

Even my dog seemed to feel the difference.

He used to greet me at the door, tail wagging, spinning in circles as though I were his whole world.

Now he lay with his head on his paws, watching me with eyes that seemed too knowing.

At night, he curled against me as if he were trying to anchor me.

I felt his heartbeat pressed against mine.

Steady.

Loyal.

Alive.

Sometimes, he was the only reason I moved at all.

I existed in those rooms, but I wasn't living in them.

I didn't laugh.

I didn't smile.

I couldn't remember what either one felt like.

I used to love music. Now every song hurt.

I used to love cooking. Now the smell of food made me sick.

I used to disappear into books. Now the words blurred before I could turn the page.

Everything I once loved seemed to belong to another woman.

A stranger.

Someone who had lived in this body before it became numb.

And while I sat inside a life I no longer recognized, he seemed to be building a new one.

The jealousy ate at me.

He was laughing while I was sinking.

Why did he get to be happy?

Why did he get to walk away from the pain while I drowned in it?

How could he give someone else the laughter, the tenderness, and the promises I had spent years begging him to give me?

I hated myself for caring.

But I cared.

You should let him go.

But I couldn't.

You shouldn't want him anymore.

But some part of me still wanted the man I had believed he was.

I became both the jailer and the prisoner, locking myself inside the memory of him.

Sometimes I thought about meeting someone new.

The thought appeared like a match flickering in the dark.

Small.

Fragile.

Almost hopeful.

Then fear came and blew it out.

I didn't know who I was anymore. I couldn't imagine showing this version of myself to another person.

What if they saw what I saw?

Tired.

Used up.

Empty.

What if I wasn't enough?

What if I was too much?

Dating felt like another world, one I no longer belonged in. I didn't know what I would wear, what I would say, or how I would explain the pieces of my life.

I couldn't even look in the mirror without flinching.

So I told myself I didn't want anyone.

But that wasn't the truth.

I wanted to be loved again.

I wanted to feel safe inside another person's arms.

More than that, I wanted to feel safe inside myself.

And wanting any of it terrified me.

I opened my notebook and wrote down the questions I couldn't say aloud:

When is it the right time to begin again?

How do you know when you're ready?

What if no one ever wants me?

What if this emptiness is permanent?

What if this is all that's left of me?

The words stretched across the page, shaky and uneven.

At night, sleep wouldn't come.

Whenever I closed my eyes, the images were waiting.

Him.

Her.

His mother's laughter echoing through the courthouse.

The cell.

The judge.

The locked doors.

Over and over.

I turned on the light.

I scrolled through my phone.

I tossed.

I turned.

The night stretched on forever.

When sleep finally came, the dreams weren't kinder. I woke gasping, the sheets twisted around me, my dog nudging me with worried eyes.

Then another day began.

The same heaviness.

The same silence.

The same ache.

This was the deepest depression I had ever known.

It wasn't only sadness.

It was disconnection.

From my family.

From the world.

From the woman I had once been.

I didn't know how to find her.

I didn't know whether she was still there.

But somewhere beneath the numbness, one small desire remained.

I wanted to be happy again.

I wanted to feel loved again.

I wanted to feel whole.

I didn't know how.

I didn't know when.

I didn't know if it was possible.

But I wanted it.

And maybe wanting was the first step.

That night, I opened my notebook and wrote one sentence:

I want to be whole again.

The letters were shaky.

Almost unreadable.

But they were mine.

I closed the notebook and pressed my hand over the cover as if I were protecting a fragile seed.

It didn't feel like enough.

But it felt like something.

(NEXT – CHAPTER 16: FRAGMENTS)

#In Summary: * Two things: firstly, spent an hour this morning at yard work, did some light trimming on the front lawn, looks much better out there now and the work didn't wipe me out; and secondly, I've cancelled my NFL subscription. Their broadcast product no longer interests me. They're Much More oriented toward gambling than the game of football. All I want is good play-by-play game coverage, and I can usually find that for free for most games after doing a little scouting around on the Internet.

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= 225.53 lbs. * bp= 139/81 (70)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates

Diet: * 06:30 – 1 peanut butter sandwich * 11:30 – chicken lasagna * 12:45 – 1 fresh orange * 16:30 – sponge cake

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 03:30 – listen to local news talk radio * 04:15 – bank accounts activity monitored * 04:45 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * 09:00 to 10:00 – yard work, lightly trim front yard * 10:20 – watching Good Morning Football * 12:30 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 15:00 – listening to the Countdown to Kickoff Show on Steelers Nation Radio ahead of tonight's preseason NFL game, Steelers vs Jets

Chess: * 11:00 – moved in all pending CC games

By the time sentencing came, I had already spent three months in jail.

Three months with nothing but time to think about how my life had ended up here.

Three months replaying every message, every moment, every decision that somehow led to this courtroom.

But nothing prepared me for hearing him speak.

When the judge asked if he wanted to say anything, he stood up and began describing someone who he had created in his mind.

He said he was afraid of me.

He said he didn’t feel safe if I was released.

He talked about me like I was violent, unstable, someone who had ruined his life.

At one point he started to cry.

I sat there stunned, listening to the man I had spent twenty years loving paint a picture of me that simply wasn’t true.

The woman he was describing wasn’t the person who had built a life with him.

She wasn’t the mother of his child.

She wasn’t the woman who had spent months trying to understand why he had disappeared without a word.

She was someone else entirely.

A character in a story he needed the judge to believe.

And as I listened, something inside me shifted.

For months I had been trying to understand him.

Trying to explain his behavior. Trying to find a reason that made sense of the silence, the accusations, the way everything had turned against me.

But sitting in that courtroom, hearing him speak, I realized something I had been avoiding.

This wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t misunderstanding. It was intentional.

The story he was telling protected him.

If I was the unstable, dangerous ex, then he didn’t have to explain anything else.

Not the affair. Not the silence. Not the manipulation. Not the choices he had made.

In that moment, I wasn’t seeing the man I thought I loved.

I was seeing the man he actually was.

And that realization hurt more than anything that had happened before.

Because the person I had spent years defending didn’t exist in that courtroom.

The man standing there had already decided who I would be in his story.

And no matter how many lies he said that day, one truth finally became clear to me.

The woman he described in that courtroom wasn’t me.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t need him to see the difference.

REFLECTION

THAT DAY TAUGHT ME THE TRUTH, IS NOT ALWAYS FOUND IN WHAT PEOPLE SAY.

SOMETIMES IT REVEALS ITSELF THROUGH WHAT THEY ARE WILLING TO DO.

I COULDN’T CONTROL THE VERSION OF ME. HE PRESENTED IN THE COURTROOM.

I COULDN’T FORCE HIM TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE YEARS WE HAD SHARED OR THE WOMAN I KNEW MYSELF TO BE.

BUT I COULD STOP LOOKING TO HIM FOR CONFIRMATION OF MY OWN REALITY.

THE JUDGE HELD MY IMMEDIATE FUTURE IN HIS HANDS, BUT MY IDENTITY WAS STILL MINE.

I DIDN’T LEAVE THE COURTROOM HEALED OR FREE FROM FEAR.

I LEFT WITH SOMETHING SMALLER QUIETER, AND PERHAPS MORE IMPORTANT.

THE UNDERSTANDING THAT HIS STORY ABOUT ME DID NOT HAVE TO BECOME THE STORY I TOLD ABOUT MYSELF.

THAT DAY MARKED THE END OF ONE CHAPTER.

NOT BECAUSE THE PAIN WAS OVER, BUT BECAUSE I HAD FINALLY STOPPED, ASKING THE PERSON WHO WOUNDED ME TO EXPLAIN WHO I WAS.

(NEXT – CHAPTER 15: HOLLOW)

A Benediction in Christ

Sound out the early years Be humbled by God This is His Grand Season Fear not any judge, but in hand keep session- The care of others truly Be supplicants of joy Raise tidings to Heaven Reap the later harvest- And sow in yearly time At attire, be in grace These are tenets of the EU- Your days and the world Rolling up maps of your neighbour- Let him in.

The kindness and longsuffering of Women- In war and peace, recognize and relieve

Peace to all animals, shepherds, and life in the seas.

Forgive others- And be just in your decisions Lend Heaven to all.

Pray against war, and serve victims as if royalty. Be well and steadfast, humble, and true,

We pray in Christ Jesus,

Amen

OpenBSD

How I’ve grown Layers of travel to each quantum bit In parity,- a desk drawer Lighting chances to be fate,- I love what I have found Nothing to censor and I believe- The surest bet is OpenBSD Waves of cool choices like time Nothing to expend- Taking the reins that we will be together Horses drawn and the wheel ready I want on that USB The Romans were here and stole our code Ready-made stuff Thoroughly imbued what’s important Home for the living- Having bettered our world- to join.

Thank you for singing for me. Thank you for taking me to the rocks so I remember where I am from. Thank you for making me jewelry. Thank you for seeing the light in me and for seeing beyond what I saw in myself. Thank you for telling me that. Thank you for trusting me despite how little we know about each other in earthly ways. Thank you for sharing your wisdom with me. Now go home to the rocks where there’s nothing but peace, love, and music. I hope you get to relax. I hope they see you for who you are. I hope you sing again.

Stop me if you’ve seen this one before. A big old house, Victorian, ideally, with too many rooms on too many floors, and loads of dark wood paneling. Faint eerie sounds and brief glimpses of vague unsettling shapes. Lights and electrical devices that flash or fail at the most inconvenient times. Objects that move or morph without visible causality. Poorly lit spaces that suddenly and randomly require dozens of lit candles. Artifacts or personal items that go missing only to reappear later in other spaces inexplicably. A priest, psychic, or some other spiritual medium as witness or guide. A jump scare every 8 minutes or so.

These are just some elements of the often formulaic production of a typical horror movie these days, filled with pastiche and tropes. Taken together, they can be entertaining in the same way a haunted house at a local carnival can. But some will likely confuse their entertainment with reality and mistakenly believe or imagine that what they see on their screen accurately portrays real experiences with the liminal, uncanny, or anomalous.

Now, granted, what people consume as entertainment should never be confused for reality, even when ambiguous claims are sometimes made stating a work is based on “actual” or “true events.” Horror films are not documentaries, and they don’t purport to be, although some documentaries can be horrific and terrifying. Yet, I’ve come to feel that confusing or conflating such things with someone’s actual lived experience doesn’t do anyone any good. If anything, it harms.

And that leaves me with a sense of grief mixed with frustration.

---

There’s a kind of desecration at work when the entertainment industry, or any industry, actively works to exploit the experiences of others’ inner lives where phenomenological encounters are reduced to quick audience shrieks, graphic spectacle, and the all-too-consumable “creepy” aesthetics in the way that something sacred and profound is cheapened when it becomes a commodified product. Pimping spirituality should feel icky because it is not a victimless crime. The harm is that those who have experienced the uncanny and anomalous become invisible—even irrelevant. And the lifeless derivative shell becomes accepted knowledge and mindset for the masses to devour and inhabit. A poor artifice of lived inner experience. An illusion of truth.

The non-material deserves just as much serious attention as the material. Subjective experience deserves rigorous, multidimensional engagement rather than the petty scoff that accompanies easy dismissal. Modern society’s reflex to pathologize, religionize, trivialize, or force such experiences into reductive binaries such as “either it’s scientifically validated, or it’s nonsense” is a failure of the imagination and a failure of a basic understanding of the human condition. It forecloses the possibility that reality might be stranger, more complex, layered, and nuanced than what consensus allows. The result is isolation for people with unusual experiences.

But I’m not someone who demands everyone share my ontology, cosmology, and point of view. My objections against the entertainment industry and pop culture regarding the uncanny aren’t that either one gets the metaphysics wrong, though they generally do. Rather, it’s that these are the dominant modes of representation, whether it’s horror, parody, New Age commodification, mega church evangelism, clinical reductivism, etc. They all share a refusal to simply sit with and listen to anomalous experiences on their own terms without defensiveness, diagnoses, or dismissiveness. By avoiding, deflecting, or outright denying the unusual experiences of others, we cater to the popular consumption of ideas that misrepresent what may be a key, critical facet of our reality and existence. Such reframes do a disservice to individual experiences and humanity as a whole.

---

We need, then, some kind of middle ground between these competing extremes, especially in this age of willful ignorance and systemic mass media manipulation and deception. I’m not suggesting compromise. I’m suggesting active listening and openness to what we may not agree with or can't easily categorize, without rushing to judgment, reflexive explanation, or mining for entertainment fodder.

There’s no way pop culture will do this kind of work. It has evolved for a different purpose entirely and cannot be commandeered to do otherwise. But for those of us who have slipped into, or even past, liminality and remember what we’ve seen, heard, touched, and felt, we can at least refuse to participate in the further flattening of our reality. We can unapologetically hold our truth in the face of those who would rob us of our dignity. And we do that by keeping our hands, minds, and hearts open.

So by all means, let’s enjoy the next horror flick. But when we do, maybe ask ourselves if our own lived experience might have just become someone else’s entertainment.

— Dalton d'Arcadia

Winter in August. A turtle dove sings alone

#haiku

Parlar de política és parlar de poder. Això pot semblar una perogrullada per a alguns, però la polisèmia de la paraula “política”, que a més està plena de matisos, pot portar a greus malentesos.

En primer lloc, de quina política estem parlant? En este cas, entenem per política l'activitat destinada a la presa de decisions col·lectives, és a dir, la gestió de conflictes. Sabem que el conflicte és inherent a les societats humanes, per la qual cosa ha de ser considerat com un fenomen natural dins d'estes.

Un esbós de marc conceptual

En este context, atès que el sorgiment de conflictes sembla inevitable, sorgeix una incertesa respecte al futur. Dit d'una altra manera, si en qualsevol moment poden aparèixer problemes de convivència social, l'statu quo no pot romandre immòbil ni invariable. El conflicte, o l'amenaça d'este, genera canvis en les circumstàncies, la qual cosa fa necessari bregar amb noves condicions.

Per a establir la relació entre esta definició de política i el poder, cal aclarir també què entenem per poder. Dins del context polític, el poder té dos elements clau: l'autoritat, és a dir, la capacitat de garantir l'obediència, i la legitimitat, que és l'acceptació d'este poder per part de la comunitat. En el context actual, la política es fa des de o a través de l'Estat(1) i este és el que exercix el poder; per a això fa ús del monopoli de violència per a exercir la seua autoritat i de l'estructura democràtica, en les seues distintes formes, per a omplir-se de legitimitat.

Un exemple típic de la relació entre poder i política es troba en l'educació primària. Hi ha un consens social, ja siga implícit o explícit, que l'educació primària és tant un dret com una obligació. Per tant, els xiquets fins a certa edat han d'assistir obligatòriament a un centre educatiu per a ser instruïts. Fins i tot si això va en contra de la voluntat del menor o dels seus pares. A l'Estat espanyol és el Ministeri d'Educació i Formació Professional el responsable de dissenyar el currículum que dicta els continguts d'eixe aprenentatge forçós.

El cas valencià

Moltes regions del món, com és el cas de França, busquen eliminar qualsevol llengua distinta de l'oficial per a així crear una identitat homogènia a l'Estat que legitime el seu territori com a unitat política inalterable. Per sort, a Espanya estes llengües gaudixen de l'estatus de cooficials, és a dir, són llengües que han de tindre el mateix rang d'oficialitat que el castellà dins del territori regional. Reprenent el currículum educatiu, això introduïx un component lingüístic en la gestió educativa. No tot el currículum escolar està redactat per l'Estat central, sinó que se cedix certa competència als organismes regionals de les diferents comunitats autònomes. La decisió de quina llengua i en quina proporció s'ensenya durant l'etapa primària de l'educació en cada regió és un reflex directe de la intervenció del poder polític en la gestió d'este conflicte.

Un cas especialment interessant és el del País Valencià, on en l'educació primària s'ensenyen dos llengües: el castellà i el català. En esta regió, hi ha una legitimitat tradicional perquè els xiquets aprenguen català, ja que és una llengua d'arrelament històric i ús habitual en gran part del territori. Al mateix temps, en estar esta comunitat dins de l'Estat espanyol, també hi ha una justificació legal-racional perquè tots els xiquets aprenguen castellà. S'ha generat una situació de bilingüisme territorial que ha sigut i continua sent font de fortes tensions socials i un camp de batalla polític. La qual cosa el convertix en un exemple rellevant per a esta anàlisi.

Extensió del Valencià a la Comunitat Valenciana. font: Joan M. Borràs (ebrenc), CC BY-SA 2.5, via Wikimedia Commons.

No només això, sinó que hi ha una peculiaritat més dins de València: no tot el seu territori és de tradició catalanoparlant. En algunes zones, històricament, mai no s'ha parlat esta llengua. A pesar d'això, la Llei 4/2018 aprovada per la Generalitat Valenciana, establix un mínim d'hores d'ensenyament en valencià. Això implica que en àrees on mai no s'ha utilitzat esta llengua de forma habitual els estudiants han d'aprendre-la indefugiblement.

La legitimitat en este cas és més difusa, no es pot justificar en la tradició. El que sí que hi ha és l'autoritat de la Generalitat, pels poders conferits per part de l'Estat, per a dur-ho a terme i imposar este currículum a les escoles. Este procés reflectix l'exercici de poder polític a través de la regulació educativa i l'autoritat per a imposar decisions que afecten la població.

La imposició en este cas sembla un projecte a llarg termini: un intent de crear eixa homogeneïtat lingüística —d'inspiració francesa— en tot el territori, que dote de cohesió identitària i que, amb el temps, genere acceptació i, amb ella, legitimitat.

El canvi de govern i la consulta a les famílies

Tanmateix, amb el canvi de govern hi va haver un canvi en la política lingüística. Ara ja no hi ha “mínims”. No obstant això, si amb la llei anterior podíem vore la capacitat d'imposició del regulador, ara podem vore l'ús de la democràcia com a legitimador per a, una vegada atorgada eixa legitimitat, exercir el seu projecte polític amb independència del desig de cada centre i família.

Em referisc a la famosa consulta a les famílies, que va ser una votació en la qual es demanava als tutors dels alumnes votar quina llengua serà aquella en la qual s'impartiran les classes, si castellà o valencià. Com avançava, això tan sols és un legitimador perquè, en la pràctica, instituts amb majoria de vots a favor d'usar el valencià com a llengua vehicular van continuar fent les classes en castellà.

I altres assignatures?

Per a contextualitzar millor la naturalesa del poder polític en l'àmbit educatiu, resulta il·lustratiu comparar esta situació amb la regulació de l'assignatura de religió. D'acord amb el Reial Decret 243/2022 (encara que açò es manté de lleis anteriors), al principi del curs s'ha de donar l'opció a les famílies de cursar o no l'assignatura de religió. En el cas que una sola família en tot el centre trie cursar religió, es fixa l'obligació de l'institut de garantir que l'alumne podrà assistir a la dita assignatura.

Esta comparació revela una asimetria significativa en l'exercici del poder polític: mentre que la demanda lingüística expressada democràticament per una majoria de famílies pot ser ignorada en la pràctica, la demanda religiosa d'una sola família genera una obligació indefugible per al centre. Així mateix, la fixació del currículum de religió no corre a càrrec de l'institut, ni de la Generalitat, ni tan sols de l'Estat central: és la pròpia confessió catòlica qui decidix els continguts d'esta. El contingut de l'assignatura Valencià no el decidix una autoritat lingüística o filològica, sinó que és marcat per la Generalitat Valenciana, la qual cosa ha propiciat l'aparició de nous conflictes.

Conclusions

L'anàlisi del cas valencià ens permet observar com el poder polític es manifesta en la regulació educativa a través de distints mecanismes: la imposició normativa, la consulta democràtica com a font de legitimitat i l'aplicació selectiva dels resultats de la dita consulta. La comparació amb l'assignatura de religió revela, a més, que l'autoritat i la legitimitat no operen de manera homogènia, sinó que es despleguen de forma diferenciada segons els interessos en joc.

El conflicte lingüístic valencià, lluny de ser una simple disputa educativa, constituïx un exemple paradigmàtic de com el poder polític gestiona —o deixa de gestionar— les tensions inherents a tota societat plural.

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1 – Use ací la concepció weberiana de l'Estat com a conjunt de persones que exercix la dominació sobre altres persones mitjançant la violència legítima. Es troba desenvolupada en diversos dels seus llibres. Molt explícit al respecte és El polític i el científic.

#Articles

Lydia's Weekly Lifestyle blog is for today's African girl, so no subject is taboo. My purpose is to share things that may interest today's African girl.

This week's contributors: Lydia, Pépé Pépinière, Titi. This week's subjects: Mini skirts 1, Miss world and emancipation, Kumasi by night, Extraditing scammers and other criminals, and Tomato Italian Restaurant

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Mini skirts 1. Who said corporate fashion has to stop above the knee? Definitely not us! The mini skirt can have a place in the Accra office wardrobe—yes, even when the weather is doing the absolute most. The secret is balance. Because there’s a fine line between “young boss lady on her way to a board meeting” and “I thought this was a Saturday night outing.” Here’s how to make the mini corporate skirt work without compromising your polish. Let the skirt be the “fun” piece: If your skirt is short, keep everything else relatively sophisticated. Think a structured blazer, crisp button-down shirt or elegant knit top. The shorter the hemline, the more refined the rest of the outfit should feel. Translation is If the legs are making a statement, let the neckline take a seat. Go for structured minis: Not every mini skirt belongs in the boardroom. Choose styles with structure—think tailored A-lines, pencil skirts, pleated skirts or clean, straight silhouettes. Avoid anything excessively tight, sheer, distressed or designed primarily for the club. A structured mini immediately says “corporate girlie” rather than “Friday night plans.” The blazer is your best friend: Nothing rescues a mini skirt from looking too casual quite like a good blazer. Try a matching skirt-and-blazer set for maximum sophistication, or pair a neutral mini with an oversized tailored blazer. The blazer adds coverage and creates that effortless “I have a meeting at 10 and a cocktail at 7” energy. Keep the top classy: A mini skirt and a plunging neckline at the same time? Your office might not be ready for that level of confidence. Instead, opt for button-down shirts, high-neck blouses, polo shirts, elegant camisoles layered under blazers or modest fitted tops. Remember: Corporate sexy is about suggestion, not exhibition. Consider your office environment: Let’s be realistic: not every workplace has the same dress code. If your office is conservative, keep your mini closer to the knee and add tights or a longer blazer. If your workplace is fashion-forward and relaxed, you can experiment with slightly shorter lengths while keeping the overall look polished. And if you're heading into a serious client meeting? Maybe save the micro-mini for brunch. Miss world and emancipation. In a test 60 students were randomly placed in a classroom. All those who were seated on the left were told that they were good students and would likely pass the exam, all those seated on the right were told that they’d likely fail. Result? Of the “good” students 70% passed, of the ‘bad” students 70 % failed. In other words, to achieve you need to believe in yourself, if your opinion about yourself is that you can’t achieve you most likely will not achieve. And Miss World? All African contestants think their African hair is not good enough so they have put western style. What’s wrong with our hair? We spend millions every year straightening and attaching, the chemicals used are poisonous and cause cancer, but we insist, we want to look like what we are not. We don't accept the way God made us. And what happens if you think you are not good enough? 70 % failed. But finally a different wind is starting to blow. Ivory Coast only allows natural hair for the Miss Ivory Coast competition. Nana Tamakloe, founder of Ghana Fashion Week is complaining. We just need a few role models showing the right direction and we’d follow. AI Generated Any candidates?

Kumasi by night. Going to Kumasi? Coming back it took my friend 9 hours with STC VIP. No breakdown, just a bit of traffic here and there.

Extraditing scammers and other criminals. Not long ago becoming a cyber scammer was a serious option for earning money in Ghana, and sometimes a lot of money, and quick. The romance scammer is a favourite, fleeing thousands of lonely people off their savings in return for a never arriving lover. Though one wonders how stupid some people are, really. This put Ghana on the world map as a money laundering scamming narco-state, and the good ones are suffering it, the bad ones often not. The recent good news is that one of Ghana’s scam kingpins got extradited to the USA, Ghana has an exrtradition agreeement with them. Finish the bottles of poor quality champagne at 10,000 GHC in some of the night clubs. And I read that nr 2 will soon join his comrade to visit to the USA, courtesy Mr. Trump, long term visa approved. The USA claims that the scammers damaged USA citizens, thus must be punished. I think we can agree. But do monkeys play by sizes? Our very much wanted top scammer Mr. Ken Ofori Atta, our beloved former Minster of Finance who almost managed to collapse the entire economy including a sovereign default, the deepest you can go, is still arguing things out in the USA. He did not commit any crime against any American citizen, only against 37 million African blacks, and I do not see the USA being in a hurry to extradite him back to Ghana for crimes he committed against all of us. Let’s hope the USA does the right thing, or in my eyes they sink even deeper than the sovereign debt Atta caused.

Tomato Italian Restaurant 6 Dodi Link, Airport Residential Area, Accra. I am sure there are other worthwhile Italian restaurants in Accra but if I want a decent spaghetti or thin crunchy pizza this is the place for me. We had a classic Bolognaise which was very nice and a spaghetti Carbonara which could have been better, don't deep fry the bacon! The pizza was perfect. The owner really likes local painters, the place almost looks like a gallery. Maybe not a bad idea, sell spaghetti and in addition artworks for thousands of dollars.

Lydia...

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“Cut them down, rip them all down..”

A while back, I took our music down from streamers. It wasn’t hard, didn’t feel ever like a sacrifice once I finally did it, and it didn’t hurt at all. But at the time I felt like Joan of Arc. I actually made it harder for others to do. Who wants to be Joan of Arc?

Well, that wasn’t so bad.

The fact is not having music on streamers has been nice. Maybe numbers go down somewhere that doesn’t pay me for them, but the positive interactions about my music have skyrocketed. I am no longer a musician in the crowd. There’s no crowd.

What am I in this for?

I value things like warm conversation and exchanging favorite works. I don’t need to monetize that or incentivize it. I already enjoy it. In fact, if I made enough money, I would probably figure out how to buy it. But I have to resort to writing and music, the old-fashioned way. It’s a damn good perk of being a writer and musician that I enjoy those things too. Otherwise this gig would suck. But fortunately I enjoy writing, music, and talking about them. That’s what I aim for, that’s what I get. When I realized that leaving the streamers actually helped me with my goals, I felt vindicated. It wasn’t the annual distribution fee that chapped my ass, it wasn’t so many links to store and copy/paste (although..), it wasn’t even the scammy playlists and folks paying for spots. It was having to partner with such loser companies to “keep up.” Software has always had that pitch. I don’t know why it took me so long to recognize it with music. But I am glad it is recognized.

Want to look at my music? It won’t cost a penny.

So I decided to make a free folder of all the music I have released, (and even not released). It is clearly labeled, what band, what album, what song. Not a mess like a record store. A neat folder. You might appreciate a rundown of what you will find there. This is that.

3 bands to rule them all.

Boots on the Ground – This is a band with BK Birge, (who also writes for the mag). Keri and I drove to his place when he was in Houston not long ago. He had an amazing all analog studio set up there. The board was owned by The Cars! Stuff I had read about, but never heard in real life before. He got me started, The Doc’s fault. We made protest music for a few days, ate delicious food. We will do it again soon.

The Kintners – Keri and I like to sing, write lyrics, record, play small shows with acoustic guitar, and he even help when we can on others’ stuff. The Kintners is the sing-songy band I have always wanted. There's usually harmony, there’s typically lyrics. There’s often big arrangements so far. The next album coming this Christmas 2026, is a double-album of smaller arrangements. Keri writes lyrics like in “Picking Flowers” and it gives me chills for years.

Djembe Funk – This band is me. If anyone is helping their name is part of the title. This is my one-man can do anything band. Djembe Funk’s self-titled record came out June 4, 2026. It is a zany record. Spoken word to protest to punk to acoustic firesides. Before that record, I made a ton of solo stuff, all in the folder.

Shout out to The Horse’s Mouth.

The Treasure is simply the Treasure Chest on The Horse’s Mouth Linktree below my signature at bottom. There, you will find all the free bonuses to the magazine. Art from Chris Triggs, Writers reading audio versions of pieces they wrote, even folks who pitched in the magazine hung around to make music and that is there too.

I need nothing. Just take.

This is a good amount of stuff, it’s all free. I hope you take me up on it. I am done with it, but it really helped me out to make. I’ve learned those kinds of things can help other folks when they’re in the mood for listening. I don’t want numbers going up, I don’t need money, I am counting nothing, except maybe warm conversations where we swap favorite novels.

Thanks.

Kelly Kintner, Editor

The Horse’s Mouth Magazine

There are moments when I look at the absolute weight and caliber of who he is, and it commands my total respect.

It is impossible not to admire him.

He lives life with this quiet, grounded mastery: building things with his own two hands, navigating the rivers and the mountains with such ease, training his dogs, and showing up for his community when people need help. He doesn’t just move through the world; he builds a life in it, piece by piece, with intention and strength. He has done so much, seen so much, and holds this effortless capability that I’ve always found so

deeply attractive.

That strength was magnetic. To be seen by him, to share that sharp, undeniable spark and the fierce alignment we had, it was electric. It was strong, real, and undeniable. I’m sitting here holding all these big, tender feelings while the silence stretches out between us, and I’d be lying if I said a part of me didn’t still wonder: What if? What if the timing was just wrong? What if the distance closes one day? What if, somewhere down the road, when the air clears and the pieces fall into place, we actually end up together?

The truth is, I really don't know.

It is hard to hold on to a hope like that, but it’s also hard to just turn off the light on something that felt so real to me. Maybe I don't have to figure out the final chapter today. Maybe I can just honor how much I admired him, appreciate the connection we shared, and leave the rest sitting gently in the unknown while I keep moving forward.

Tonight we turn to the NFL. We hope to follow a preseason game between the Pittsburgh Steelers and the New York Jets with a scheduled start of 6:00 PM CDT. And we hope to follow game coverage provided by NFL Plus.

And the adventure continues.