There are moments in Scripture that refuse to stay confined to the ancient world, moments so alive with emotion and human truth that they keep reaching into every generation as if they were written with our names still wet on the page. One of those moments unfolds in the early morning light of John chapter eight, when a group of religious leaders interrupts Jesus while He is teaching, dragging a terrified woman into the center of the Temple courts. She is thrust forward as if she is not a person at all, but a case file, a problem, a theological weapon meant to trap Jesus in a debate He never invited. Scripture tells us she was caught in the very act of adultery, yet it withholds every part of her identity. It does not tell us her name, her age, where she lived, or whether she had family. There is no mention of whether she cried out, resisted, or collapsed in silent humiliation. All we are given is her exposure, the loudness of her sin in the eyes of others, and the crushing weight of judgment closing in from every side. And perhaps the most intentional detail of all is her anonymity, because that absence of a name opens a doorway for anyone who has ever carried shame to step into the story and recognize themselves reflected in her place.

As the crowd gathers, it becomes painfully clear that no one sees her humanity. To them she is not someone who woke up that morning with hopes or memories or regrets; she is a scandal, a sinner, a spectacle meant to be used for a public lesson. They do not ask why she did what she did or whether she has been trapped in cycles of pain or abandonment. They do not even bring the man involved, which exposes the hypocrisy of their righteousness. They only want to use her brokenness to build their case against Jesus, and they hold the law in one hand and stones in the other, certain that this will corner Him once and for all. Yet even in the tension of that moment, the story softens around a single act that has confounded theologians for centuries: Jesus bends down and begins writing in the dirt. It is such a simple gesture, so quiet and unassuming, that it nearly goes unnoticed. But it tells us something profound about the heart of God. Before He speaks, before He confronts the accusers, before He lifts this woman from the dust, He joins her in it. The Son of God lowers Himself to the ground with the accused, the ashamed, the exposed, the ones the world is ready to discard. He places Himself at eye level with the sinner, not the stone throwers, and that posture becomes the doorway through which the whole meaning of the story pours.

Countless scholars have offered theories on what Jesus wrote that day. Some suggest He wrote the sins of her accusers, though the text does not say so. Others believe He was referencing the law itself, reminding them that they had twisted its meaning. Still others propose that He wrote her name, restoring to her a dignity the crowd had stripped away. But the truth is that Scripture leaves His writing deliberately unspecified, as if to protect the mystery. And maybe that silence is intentional because the point is not the content but the act itself. Jesus kneels in the very dust humanity was formed from and begins writing as if He is rewriting creation itself. It is an echo of the Genesis moment when God stooped down to mold humanity from the dirt, only now He is stooping down to restore a single life that everyone else believes is beyond redemption. In that humble act, Jesus reminds us that grace does not stand above us, pointing out our mistakes. Grace kneels beside us, entering our mess, touching the ground our shame has pressed us into, and refusing to let the dirt define us.

When Jesus finally speaks, His words slice through the hypocrisy like lightning. Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone. It is not a dismissal of the woman’s actions. It is a revelation of the hearts holding the stones. Suddenly the accusers are forced to see themselves honestly, not through the filter of superiority but through the truth of shared humanity. And one by one, from the oldest to the youngest, the stones fall to the ground. The sound of those stones echoing in the dust is more than a detail in the narrative. It is the sound of self-righteousness collapsing. It is the sound of shame losing its voice. It is the sound of every accusation against the woman weakening under the weight of divine compassion. Each stone that hits the ground testifies that no human being has the moral authority to condemn another. Only one person present that day had the right to throw a stone—and He did not.

When the crowd disperses and silence fills the space where judgment once stood, Jesus finally looks at the woman. This is the first moment she is addressed as a person rather than an object of debate. He asks her where her accusers have gone. Has no one condemned you? Her answer is fragile, trembling, shaped by the shock of survival. No one, Lord. And then Jesus speaks the words that have rescued souls across centuries: Neither do I condemn you. Go now, and leave your life of sin. Those words do not excuse her actions, but they replace condemnation with possibility. They do not erase her past, but they separate her identity from her mistakes. Jesus gives her something the world almost never gives: a future. He offers a new beginning where everyone else saw only an ending, and He restores a level of dignity that shame had tried to bury forever. In the presence of Jesus, condemnation dissolves, and the woman rises into a life grace calls her into.

What makes this moment even more astonishing is how it refuses to tell us anything else about her life. We do not know whether she moved to another town or whether she returned to her family. We have no record of whether she followed Jesus afterward or blended back into anonymity. Her story ends in Scripture the way it began: unnamed, untracked, unrecorded. But the beauty of that silence is that she becomes a symbol of every person who knows what it feels like to be dragged into the spotlight of their worst moment. She becomes the embodiment of every soul who has ever been caught, confronted, or crushed under the weight of their own decisions. She is the universal figure of humanity standing guilty before a holy God, desperately needing a grace we cannot earn. Her anonymity is her gift to us, because her story becomes a mirror, reflecting our own. In her vulnerability we see the fragility of our own lives. In her shame we recognize the places where we have fallen short. And in her redemption we encounter the stunning possibility that the same mercy extended to her is extended to us.

This story has endured because it reveals something essential about the character of God. He is not the distant judge waiting to punish. He is the God who steps into the dust of our failures and writes new beginnings with His own hand. He is not intimidated by the brokenness we hide or the sins we try to outrun. He moves toward the very places where we expect Him to withdraw. He is the God who bends down rather than turns away, the God who engages the wounded rather than discards them, the God who defends the vulnerable even when they cannot defend themselves. And in a world where shame often becomes the loudest voice in our hearts, this story reminds us that shame is not the voice of God. The only voice that matters is the voice that spoke to the unnamed woman: I do not condemn you. That voice has been speaking over the broken, the exhausted, the afraid, the guilty, and the lost for more than two thousand years. It speaks with the same tenderness today that it did in the temple courts then.

When we sit with this story long enough, something sacred happens. We stop asking who she was and begin asking who we are. Are we the ones holding the stones, treating the failures of others as spectacles to critique rather than wounds to heal? Are we the ones hiding behind religious language to avoid confronting our own fractured hearts? Are we the ones standing quietly in the back of the crowd, relieved that it’s not our sin on display, hoping no one looks too closely at us? Or are we the woman on the ground, overwhelmed by the weight of regret, unsure what God will do with us when our defenses collapse? The deeper you read the passage, the more it reveals that all of us live somewhere inside its tension. All of us have been the accused. All of us have been the accuser. And all of us have been the ones who needed to hear that grace still triumphs over judgment. The unnamed woman becomes the doorway into understanding that the gospel is not about perfect people earning God’s approval. It is about broken people receiving God’s mercy.

The truth is that every person eventually stands in the dust before Jesus. Sometimes it happens after a failure we cannot hide. Sometimes it happens after we have exhausted our strength pretending to be strong. Sometimes it happens after a lifetime of carrying burdens no one else sees. But when the moment comes, Jesus always kneels. He always meets us in the place where our pride breaks and our hearts finally open. And like the woman in the story, we discover that the God we feared would destroy us actually came to rescue us. The only one with the authority to condemn chooses instead to redeem. He cancels the shame that was supposed to define us and calls us into the life we were meant to live. He does not ask us to stay in the dust. He calls us to rise from it.

As we step deeper into the meaning of this story, something tender begins to surface inside us, something that almost feels like memory even if we have never lived anything resembling that woman’s circumstances. It is the memory of being human, the memory of knowing that we have places in our lives we wish no one would ever see, the memory of moments where we feared that if we were ever truly known, we would be rejected. Every person alive carries a silent archive of regrets, unspoken failures, hidden temptations, or decisions made in weakness. And because of that, we can understand the terror that must have flooded her as she was dragged through the streets. We can imagine the whispers behind her, the cold eyes around her, the rush of humiliation when she realized she was being exposed not in a quiet room where repentance can unfold gently, but in a public square filled with condemnation. Yet the beauty of her story is that while the crowd brought her to Jesus to destroy her, Jesus allowed her to come to Him so He could restore her. What others meant for disgrace, He transformed into redemption. Her worst moment became the doorway into her greatest rescue.

The mystery of her anonymity invites us to wonder whether the gospel writer left her unnamed because her identity was never meant to be trapped in the past. If she had been named, we would have reduced her life to the mistake she made, forever tying her to an act that Jesus Himself refused to tie her to. By leaving her unnamed, Scripture refuses to let her shame become her label. It refuses to let her failure become her identity. It refuses to let her story end in the place where others tried to bury her. Her silence is not punishment; it is liberation. It is space. It is an open canvas where any person crushed under the weight of their own sins can insert themselves and discover that the same grace available to her is available to them. Her story becomes yours not because you share her sin, but because you share her need for mercy. In that sense, the unnamed woman becomes one of the most universal figures in Scripture, reminding us that God’s compassion flows strongest in the places we are most afraid to expose.

If you listen closely, there is an unmistakable tenderness in the way Jesus interacts with her. He does not interrogate her. He does not ask for explanations. He does not demand that she justify herself. He sees everything already. He knows her past, her wounds, her patterns, her pain, the internal battles that may have led her into the arms of someone who did not honor her. And yet He chooses mercy over interrogation, healing over humiliation, restoration over ridicule. This is the Jesus people sometimes forget exists—the Jesus who is not merely a teacher or a miracle worker, but the Jesus who understands human frailty so deeply that He meets brokenness with compassion instead of condemnation. He is the Jesus who touched the untouchable, lifted the fallen, defended the accused, and called the forgotten by name. He is the Jesus who refused to let a woman’s shame define her destiny. If Jesus treated her this way, then we can trust that He treats us the same.

The moment Jesus kneels beside her is one of the most profound displays of divine humility in all of Scripture. It is not just a gesture of compassion; it is a revelation of God’s character. He kneels in the very dirt we collapse into. He kneels in the dust of our failures, internal storms, sinful patterns, and human limitations. He kneels in the places where we feel disqualified, and His nearness becomes the starting point of transformation. He does not shout truth from a distance. He comes close enough for us to feel seen, understood, and valued even in our brokenness. When Jesus kneels, He declares that grace is not above us; grace is beside us. He shows us that salvation does not begin with perfection; it begins with presence. It begins with the God who meets us where we are long before He calls us to where we are going.

As the stones fall from the hands of her accusers, something else falls with them. The illusion that some sins are unforgivable. The lie that public opinion determines our worth. The fear that our past will always overshadow our future. The belief that God waits on the other side of our mistakes instead of entering the moment with us. Each stone hitting the ground becomes the heartbeat of a new theology—one where God’s grace does not minimize sin but overwhelms it, one where judgment is not the final word, one where mercy does not excuse wrongdoing but transforms the one who receives it. Every stone that falls announces the truth that God is not in the business of crushing sinners but raising them. Each stone testifies that the only one with the right to condemn has chosen instead to wash us clean.

What is even more remarkable is what Jesus does not say. He does not say, It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. He does not trivialize her choices or wave away the consequences. He acknowledges the seriousness of sin while offering a pathway out of it. Go and sin no more is both a calling and a promise. It is not a command rooted in shame but an invitation rooted in possibility. Jesus is essentially telling her, Your life is not over. Your story is not destroyed. Your failure is not final. You are not stuck. You can leave this place different than you entered it. You can rise from this moment and walk into something better. In that sentence, Jesus reveals the heart of the gospel—He meets us as we are but refuses to leave us there. He offers forgiveness while opening the door to transformation.

If we see ourselves honestly, we realize how often we live in the tension between the crowd and the woman. There are moments when we have held stones—stones of judgment, stones of superiority, stones of resentment—forgetting that we too stand in need of mercy. And there are moments when we have been the one bracing for impact, certain that the stones were meant for us, terrified that our lives would collapse under the weight of our mistakes. Yet Jesus dismantles both positions. To the accuser, He says: you are not God. To the guilty, He says: you are not condemned. To all of us, He says: come to Me. Grace levels the ground so completely that there is no hierarchy left—only a Savior who kneels beside the broken and a people learning to rise because of Him.

When this story becomes personal, it begins reshaping the way we view not only our own lives but the lives of others. It becomes impossible to stand at the foot of this narrative without recognizing the dignity of every wounded soul. The woman, once thrown into the dust as though she were disposable, becomes the example of how Jesus values the ones society writes off. And if Jesus values them, then we are called to value them too. We are called to become the kind of people who refuse to weaponize someone else’s weakness. We are called to become the kind of people who walk slowly, speak gently, and love deeply, remembering that we all have our own dust moments. We are called to become the kind of people who drop the stones we were never qualified to hold. True discipleship is not found in perfect performance; it is found in extending the same grace we have been given.

The woman’s encounter with Jesus also reveals something powerful about timing. Her life changed in an instant—not through a long spiritual journey or years of religious performance, but through a single encounter with grace. This reminds us that transformation does not require a perfect past; it requires an open heart. It requires the courage to let Jesus speak louder than our shame. Some of the greatest shifts in our lives will happen not because we plan them meticulously but because God intercepts us in the middle of our brokenness. Freedom often begins in moments when we least expect it, when we are at our weakest, when we believe we are disqualified. The woman did not come to Jesus seeking salvation; she was dragged there by others. Yet the encounter she never sought became the rescue she never imagined. This is the nature of grace—it pursues, it interrupts, it surprises, and it restores.

The more we reflect on her story, the clearer it becomes that the woman represents every person who has ever feared being known. She represents the part of us that hides, the part that feels unworthy, the part that worries that failure has permanently marked us. And Jesus speaks into that vulnerable place with a voice that still echoes today: I do not condemn you. He says it to the addict who thinks it’s too late. He says it to the parent who believes they have failed too many times. He says it to the person who cannot forgive themselves. He says it to the one who has run from God for so long they are convinced the door has closed. The power of this story is not limited to its historical moment. It continues to unfold every time a broken heart dares to hope again.

When Jesus releases the woman from condemnation, He does not only free her from judgment; He frees her from the internal prison of shame. Shame does not simply remind us of what we did. It tells us that what we did is who we are. Shame whispers that we are unlovable, irredeemable, and unworthy. Shame chains people to their past and convinces them that they will never rise above it. But Jesus dismantles shame at its core by separating the woman’s identity from her sin. He does not say, Your sin is your name. He says, Your sin is now behind you. Go forward. Walk free. Live differently. Step into a new future. Jesus does not just save her life physically; He saves her soul relationally. He restores to her something no human being could restore—her sense of worth. This is what grace does. It does not just forgive; it rebuilds.

The legacy of the unnamed woman reaches far beyond her single encounter. For two thousand years she has been a witness to the truth that God sees what others do not. She has been a reminder that no one is beyond the reach of mercy. She has been a declaration that the harshest judgment humanity can offer collapses under the weight of divine compassion. And she has become a symbol of hope for anyone who has ever wondered whether God could still love them after all they have done. Her story outlives her because her encounter with Jesus was not just about her. It was about every sinner who would ever approach Him with trembling hands and a fractured heart. Her anonymity is the brilliance of Scripture at work. It makes room for you. It makes room for me. It makes room for every person who has ever stood in the dust and needed a Savior to kneel beside them.

In a world that loves to catalogue failures, God chooses to erase names from shame-filled chapters. In a culture that thrives on exposing the brokenness of others, God shields the vulnerable with His presence. In a society quick to condemn, God interrupts with mercy. This is why the story of the unnamed woman refuses to fade from the memory of the church. It reveals a God who does not hide from the dirt of humanity but enters it with purposeful compassion. It reveals a Savior who does not just rescue people but restores them. It reveals a love so deep, so steady, and so unshakeable that it changes the way we see ourselves and the way we see others. When you truly understand what Jesus did for her, you begin to realize what He can do for you. Nothing disqualifies you from the love of God. Nothing in your past has the authority to cancel your future. Nothing you have done can outweigh the grace that kneels beside you.

And as this story settles in your spirit, you begin to feel an invitation rising. An invitation to let go of the stones you have held against others and against yourself. An invitation to release the narratives of unworthiness that have shaped your identity. An invitation to approach Jesus honestly, without performance or pretense. An invitation to trust that He sees the full truth of your life and still chooses you. The unnamed woman teaches us not only who Jesus is but who we can become when His mercy reshapes our story. Her encounter is not meant to be admired from a distance. It is meant to be lived, embraced, embodied. It is meant to become your story too, in whatever ways your heart needs grace the most.

This is the legacy of her moment. This is why her silence speaks louder than words. This is why her name remains unwritten—so yours can be. Because the story of a woman thrown into the dust becomes the story of every person lifted from it. And the story of a Savior kneeling beside her becomes the story of a Savior who kneels beside us still.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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Work was chill so far. The evening was more notable — did a chill run, had a long call with my partner, and tried out the local Mexican stand.

Our Father Who art in heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil

Amen

Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!

Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!

Artemis II (pt. III)

The lucky way out For this fortune of air Exploring the symphony- of noise In thoughts to care in time Special about In six shiny windows The Mercury of days As the messenger Rod to reunion If preterm but at speed High-altitude poem For crews to enjoy- And at most- remembering her Our ship of plans Linking our phone To the day of ideas More than mercy The victory sings Of payloads of fortune And just enough energy- to return And researched to the skies A thing about wear To spot on the payout In electrical force And everything works- just enough Staying the course Of rockets the same And this- Our day beyond In a course of will And three repeats of the tour Sincerely that star That victory eye For thoughts of made whole In stunningly deep For the Moon- and back.

#002291 – 06 de Setembro de 2025

O Zizek a colocar uma balaclava, no final da conversa com a Nadya Tolokonnikova. O gato que me veio cumprimentar a meio da minha caminhada. Os dias às vezes só precisam destes pequenos prazeres, para resgatar alguma luz. .

Indiana at Rutgers

My basketball game before bedtime tonight will find me following the Indiana University Women's Basketball Team as they travel to their final road game of the regular season. They'll be playing the Rutgers Scarlet Knights in New Brunswick, New Jersey at Jersey Mike's Arena. The game has a scheduled start time of 6:00 PM CST and fits nicely into my routine.

I'll be listening to the pregame show then the radio call of the game streaming from B97 – The Home for IU Women's Basketball.

And the adventure continues.

Cory Doctorow recently caused a stir on the nerdy corners of the internet where I hang out by writing an essay saying he uses AI to proofread his blog and, what’s more, you are a chump if you decide not to buy literally anything. I mean, that’s my interpretation, but he gives multiple examples of how every form of tech is tainted by its association with someone horrible, and his conclusion seems to be that one therefore should be indiscriminate in what one uses and purchases.

Now, I do not worship Cory Doctorow as many folks do—I think he’s a gifted nonfiction writer who, like most of these guys who run their own platform, desperately needs an editor. I used to find him annoying about 20 years ago when he wrote clumsy, didactic YA novels and asserted that everybody should give their books away like he did. (At the time, he was writing for one of the most-read blogs on the internet and didn’t seem to recognize that this was contributing to his success.)

So yeah, a smart, insightful guy who, like most internet celebrities, is a little high on his own supply and therefore annoying, but I read him semi-regularly for his smarts and insights.

And I get where he’s coming from here—he’s repeatedly asserted that you can’t shop your way to social change, and that, furthermore, that placing all the onus on social change on individual consumers is a strategy to prevent mass movements that might actually cause real change.

So far so good. And, yes, there is, famously, no ethical consumption under capitalism, but people seem to see this and respond with “so, therefore, you shouldn’t even try,” which is how I’m reading Doctorow’s protest-too-much defense of his AI use.

I disagree with this on both a moral and political basis. We cannot, after all, perfect ourselves as human beings—we will always slip up and harm people we care about and/or do things that don’t align with our values. But I think most of us agree that we have a responsibility to keep trying, while knowing that we will never reach the goal.

And, also, while shopping (or, more accurately, refusing to shop) alone cannot bring about social change, it remains an important tool in our arsenal. For many of us our purchasing power is the most meaningful power we have. If you live in a gerrymandered “red” state, you can’t vote your way out of fascism. If you, like me, live in a “blue” state controlled by the Democratic party, you effectively get a choice in every election between people who believe we should be grateful serfs of the Epstein Class, and the collection of religious fanatics, grifters, and pedophiles that calls itself the Republican Party. Voting alone will not bring about the change I want, but I still do it. Trying to make my purchases align with my values also won’t bring about the change I want, but I’m damn sure not going to renounce the only power I have that the ruling class cares about.

Here’s what I have found about trying to reach the impossible goal of having my economic life reflect my values—every time I do it, usually by NOT buying something rather than by buying something—it makes me feel good. I’m not saying you, like me, should renounce corporate social media (though for God’s sake get off of X, what the hell are you doing on a literal Nazi site), or eating meat, or any of the things I’ve done to try to feel like somewhat less of a hypocrite. But I am suggesting that you’d be foolish to not even try to align your economic life with your ostensible values.

I don’t care if Cory Doctorow uses AI to proofread his blog. Proofreading is one of the rare tasks that AI actually excels at, which makes sense since it was trained on the purloined output of hundreds of millions of writers. And look, nobody likes a scold. The fact is that people who are trying very hard to live their values will still fall short (I have an Amazon Prime subscription and shop at Whole Foods all the freakin’ time) because we all fall short, and the fact that other people aren’t doing the same things as you doesn’t mean they’re bad people or that they’re doing nothing at all.

You’ve got a lot of tools available to make the world a better place. I urge you not to throw any of them away.

The same God who guides the stars in their courses, who directs the earth in its orbit, who feeds the burning furnace of the sun, and keeps the stars perpetually burning with their fires—the same God has promised to supply thy strength. While he is able to do all these things, think not that he shall be unable to fulfill his own promise!”

— Charles Spurgeon

#life #quotes #theology

since the sun began to shine again, I am longing for the next days and I can feel my heart has been slowly opening. all I long for is the promise of these beautiful simple days, when I can lie in an open field and fall asleep under its warmth, perhaps close to a cute tree, but exposed enough to feel the sunlight settle on my skin while the earth gathers around me like a soft blanket. I want to be able to close my eyes and surrender to it the way a child surrenders to a mother’s chest: safe enough to sleep, free enough to silent, held enough to cry, because everything is allowed there and everything is natural. And then I want to throw myself into a small river or a lake and get the water wrap itself around me in a hug, while the plants brush against my legs like gentle hands, and in there I know I will laugh again, before I rise to the surface, wrap myself in a towel, and sit at the margins to dry, feeling every pore of my skin open, as if my whole soul is finally able to breathe again. that’s all I want.

/feb26

9 February 2026

Stuck star (or possibly Third man): returned to the star image in the studio today after the last go at it didn’t work. That’s something I’ve found myself doing for the first time—returning to elements/motifs from failed paintings and re-deploying them. Used to treat references that led to inert paintings as dead weight, but it’s nice to now see that unsuccessful work really can be bent into more interesting shapes. In this case it was by paring down; this one even more than Plane. It’s a small pink star floating near the middle of a panel and sort of spiderwebbing out over a sky blue blotch of watercolor. Now that I think about it, the spiderwebbing feels related to a Lois Dodd painting (Spider Web with Clover and Grass, 2004) I've looked at a lot this week after Louis Block wrote about it in the Brooklyn Rail (it's included in the retrospective he covered). Anyway, I think I like the questions it is asking. Which seem to circle around stability, projection (I see a facade), order, and control.

Recentemente, o INSPER proibiu o uso de celulares em seus campi, e a FGV seguiu o mesmo caminho. Na realidade, não é uma proibição propriamente dita, já que são adultos — e não há lei que dite essa regra, nem federal, nem estadual — é uma forte recomendação que pode beneficiar os alunos em projetos internos das próprias universidades.

Entretanto, definir uma “política de forte recomendação do não uso” é proibir sem usar uma lei, segundo relatos de alunos ao podcast “O ASSUNTO”, do G1. (edição de 18/02/2026).

Mas essa proibição traz algum benefício real ou apenas tenta controlar o incontrolável?Essa proibição já está em vigor no INSPER há pelo menos um ano, e os professores relatam que as notas e a qualidade do ensino já tem sido melhor.

Podemos usar o exemplo de uma faculdade do Texas: uma política de incentivo ao uso direcionado apenas ao aprendizado. Quanto “melhor” for o uso — nos momentos corretos — os alunos ganham moedas (coins) para trocar por descontos em lojas no campus e outros benefícios. A diferença é que a política do incentivo não é mandatória — é voluntária.

No Brasil, uma recente pesquisa divulgada pelo G1, demonstrou que os brasileiros usam o celular, em média, por 05h e 30min por dia. (com uma média de 4h apenas usando redes sociais!). Quando olhamos mais a fundo e separamos por faixa etária, vemos a disparidade entre os jovens: 70% destes passam entre 10h e 19h por dia usando o telefone. Deste tempo, em média 9h por dia é dedicado somente para redes sociais.

Devem ser realizadas políticas de incentivo ao uso correto do celular, especialmente pelo temido efeito contágio em sala: esse efeito é literal – quando um aluno começa a jogar, os outros têm vontade de jogar também, e quando percebe-se, a sala inteira está olhando para as telas.

Quando pensamos que os alunos já são adultos quando estão nas universidades, esse pensamento deve ser feito com ressalvas — lembre-se que os alunos oriundos das escolas, geralmente são adolescentes (com 17/18 anos), que entram na faculdade, geralmente, no ano seguinte (com 18/19 anos), ou seja, raramente ocorre grande evolução em tão pouco tempo.

Porque não faz sentido restringir?

Os profissionais, especialmente aqueles do time dos cálculos (calculadoras de diferentes tipos) e da área da medicina (consultas de condutas médicas) e farmácia (consulta de interações medicamentosas) — usam o celular rotineiramente no mercado de trabalho.

Não faz sentido restringir, afinal também se faz o mesmo uso nas universidades.

Faz-se necessário desenvolver mecanismos de controle do uso dos celulares, voltados ao uso do brasileiro jovem, sem usar a “restrição mandatória”. Um exemplo já mencionado, é a política de incentivo (Universidade do Texas).

O celular não é o vilão.

O vilão é a incapacidade institucional de lidar com a complexidade dele.

Rio de Janeiro, 19 de fevereiro de 2026.

Aunque muchas personas piensan que la vida de un robot es afortunada, o por lo menos satisfactoria, este tipo de afirmaciones parten de opiniones sesgadas.

Quien así piensa no observa lo fundamental: no es lógico comparar. Quiero decir, no examina por sí misma la vida robótica, sino que la compara, sin más, con la vida humana, que en estos momentos parece un desastre.

Un robot es un robot, por útil o inútil que sea. Hemos visto robots que dan tres pasos y se caen, y otros que corren, saltan y hasta hacen muecas. En cualquiera de los casos, son robots. La identidad robótica está garantizada, al menos en este momento de la historia.

Pero el ser humano es diferente. Primero somos bebés, luego vamos pasando por las diferentes etapas, hasta trascender el en paz descanse. Somos de esta o aquella nacionalidad, ricos, pobres o no se sabe, nuestros antepasados fueron nobles, habrá que ver o facinerosos, carnívoros o veganos, sanos, enfermos o ahí vamos. En todo esto y más, es lógico que nos encontremos con un problema de identidad del tamaño de diez burros, y a la espera de que una circunstancia desencadenante nos encamine al brote de angustia existencial.

Los robots no poseen características similares. Haríamos bien en no comparar; en no proyectar en ellos nuestros fantasmas. Lo que sí es cierto -todo sea dicho-, es que tienen cara de pasarla bien en nuestro mundo.

Soy consejero legal de Markus Skhalagrinsen desde hace cincuenta años. No tengo la menor duda de su honorabilidad; sé que va con la verdad por delante.

Él está dolido. Destila rencor cuando se acuerda del asunto, pero no sabe si callar, porque las consecuencias de armar un escándalo podrían ser perjudiciales para él y su familia, y cree que hasta para nuestro Estado, que no está para muchos brincos.

Realmente, es un auténtico pionero en materia de inteligencia artificial. No me cabe duda. Quizás antes no se llamaba así, claro. Ahora bautizan las cosas de otro modo, según las modas en Silicon Valley.

En su trabajo, Markus ha tenido un éxito moderado. Ya está mayor, cumple ochenta y nueve en julio.

Escribe libros de relatos. Ninguno se escapó de recibir elogios de la crítica y su obra en conjunto fue premiada con la medalla del mérito literario, aunque no hizo el dinero que esperaba.

Su método es único. Reúne sobre el escritorio las obras de Ray Bradbury, abre una página, señala un renglón con los ojos cerrados, lo digiere, y viento: desarrolla una historia. Otras veces arranca con una paráfrasis y luego empuja lo que viene, horno, papel y tinta.

-Dígame si no soy pionero. Merezco un reconocimiento público, por lo menos -me dice.

-Sí, Markus, ya sabes, las cosas son según se miren. Se llama inteligencia artificial si lo hacen en Silicon Valley. Pero aquí, entre nosotros, no faltará un desgraciado que lo llame plagio.

In today’s global economy, a resume is only as strong as the real-world experience behind it. While many look to study in China to learn the language, the most successful global leaders are those who have actually stepped into the professional landscape.

The China International Leadership Programme is designed for those who want more than just a certificate. This is a blended, high-impact programme where a core component allows you to actually work in China, applying your leadership skills in real-time through meaningful professional placements.

By combining online modules with immersive, on-the-ground experience, you won't just learn about leadership—you will practice it.

Your Professional Journey in China

The programme is strategically built around three core objectives to maximize your professional and personal ROI:

• Mandarin in Action: Develop fluency through structured learning and immediate real-world practice.
• Intercultural Competence: Move beyond being a tourist. Build genuine professional empathy through deep immersion and guided educational tours across the country.
• Professional Work Experience: The cornerstone of the programme is the opportunity to work in China. Through a hands-on China internship in rural communities, you will gain teaching and leadership experience that makes a tangible difference.

A Modern, Blended Curriculum

The programme consists of eight modules delivered in a flexible, hybrid format. You begin with online modules that establish your knowledge base, which then transition into experiential, on-the-ground components. This ensures that when you arrive to begin your work placement, you are prepared, culturally aware, and ready to lead.

Select Your Professional Track

We offer three distinct pathways, each building on the last to offer deeper levels of immersion and professional responsibility:

Europe–China Delegate Track (3 Months)

A focused, high-intensity immersion perfect for those looking to kickstart their Mandarin skills and cultural understanding.

• Focus: China Mandarin Immersion.
• Enroll in the 3-Month Track

Ambassador for Cultural Relations Track (6 Months)

Deepen your expertise by combining language mastery with a broader understanding of China’s diverse landscape.

• Focus: Mandarin Immersion + Cultural Discovery and China Study Tour.
• Enroll in the 6-Month Track

Ambassador for Europe–China Relations Track (12 Months)

Our flagship 12-month programme for those ready to fully commit to their professional development. This track provides the most comprehensive experience, allowing you to live and work in China for a full year.

• Focus: Mandarin Immersion + China Study Tour + Professional Teaching Internship.
• Enroll in the 12-Month Track

Coalescence

When I think of you I see it— a soft red glow in the dark of the world,

I am the wind And you, a coal...

One ember glowing hot but patient. Hidden beneath the ash.

I ache to see what light we make.

I lean close— slowly—

and feel our ignition— your heat answers mine.

Breath deepens, you brighten.

Tell me not to.