A Brief Summary: the editor expresses grievance at Sunday morn gym phenomena.

Most Sundays (in optimal conditions) I take the train into downtown Chicago and attend a mass at St. James Episcopal Cathedral. Now I'll skip out on doing that in circumstances where potential recent public exposures may have occurred or when comms are compromised. I don't need to bring my problems to where good nice people go to worship and pray. Recently, as part of what I can best describe as an attempted multimedia art project (read: protracted multi-forum flame war), I got dressed up in a latex catsuit and a silicone incubus mask and emotionally terrorized every gay in the region, for completely professional and morally justified causes. Scientific even, perchance?

Now like all healthy upright ethical citizens, I wake up at 3:33 in the morning from the horrors and sprint straight to the gym to make good use of all that adrenaline! But this morning, I decided to be kind to myself and sleep in (3:47), took a nice hot shower with pumice and a deep hair conditioning, then took a leisurely morning stroll to the gym. It was 66°, misty and foggy and the red sun hung lazily beneath shredded cotton wisps of mauve clouds, heaving with rainwater in their electrified wombs. Swallowtail butterflies and goldfinches and bumblebees had begun coming back to the area for the nightshade & peach trees, and a den of fox kits have dug a Ranger Grave near the park basketball court. I think it's important to savor the sensory experiences of the living, breathing world around us, rather than absentmindedly relegating it to a subject of academic interest – only ever theory, never practice...

---

I had outlived my proselytizing zealot phase of Christendom around the time I was 16, but I can speak to the mindset and headspace of religious fundamentalism – an important distinction. I was proficient enough in ceremonial magic and Kundalini yogi that it went places too – but that's not the central focus of our article this Sunday. No, I'm a unique witness to the things that come to pass on this world, and there is not much need to expound upon that statement any further because you would not believe me. But for the sake of this article, we're going to discuss the proliferation of the fitness industry as observed through the lens of it's transition from a fringe hobby to an enforced cultural expectation and a cornerstone of commercial retail industry. When I take that train downtown, I see increasingly bizarre advertisements that could not appeal to any consumer let alone I, along with no less than a handful of promotions for GLP-1 injectable fat-loss drugs and peptides and other such chemicals whose properties I have not dedicated the necessary time to study. The author of this article will assume that his readership has done their own homework because I don't have them time or patience to break this down for you Barney style, privates. I was on 4chan when I was 12 and while I have no formal education, that has blessed me with an inferiority complex that lead to semi-competency in physics and chemistry. I'm vaguely aware that Joe Rogan recently lobbied the President to legalize ibogaine, but I haven't gotten around to reading that article yet. Kava and Kratom and tinctures of flowers that I've never even heard of are on offer at the small local smoke shop that I frequent for aromatic tobaccos for my churchwarden. In the timeframe between 16 and 17 I'd gotten over a particularly troubling breakup with a rabbi's daughter (guess why) and taken up smoking marijuana, in the advent of salvia divinorum and K2. For those who aren't tracking, K2 is JWH-018, which is an isolate of the cannabinoid in THC that gets you stoned – the problem being is that when you smoke reefer, you're getting a full bouquet of hundreds of different chemicals that all work in tandem to properly align with neurotransmitters and produce the desired and intended effect of the aforementioned drug in the brain. When a person consumes JWH-018 was delivered via spraying it onto consumer variety grade potpourri using naptha as an evaporative (allegedly) binding agent, but that lack of said other cannabinoids means the end user often experienced severe disruptions in their body's homeostasis which caused overheating, dehydration and subsequent violent hallucinatory psychosis. The two fat girls coming back from the world's lamest “goth” nightclub (which allows preteens in a separate area with predictable results I may add) that agreed to blow me in the park ended up rolling a grape blunt with that stuff and reader, as someone's who's done real legitimate LSD by the tenstrip and most of the TiHKAL/PiHKAL catalog? It's probably not a bad thing they made that shit illegal because I tossed my cookies during the party, and I will never forgive it for that. Ah yes, the halcyon days of Erowid. In a different article, I'll regale you with a story of smalltown Robitussin abuse eipdemic that ended up getting a French emo's throat slashed. Which brings us back to the focus of this article, the gradual cultural proliferation of the fitness industry and enforced beauty standards, and how we can extrapolate general intel about civilian subjects at my gym on a Sunday morning. But funny!Yes, that is definitely how Mike Royko talked.

Actually, I'm not a qualified researcher, I'm definitely not paying for access to research portals, and I'm not under any obligation to do longform journalism for the sake of shitposting about Boomers. Nevertheless reader, this paragraph over here will provide some very superficial data to support my argument, which you may feel free to dispute or point out as logically inconsistent or assumptive. According to data provided by the Health and Fitness Association, the cohort of Americans that attended health clubs at least once a month rose by 45% amongst the aggregate population from the years 2010-2019, and while the fitness industry itself only accounts for about 0.20% of the total GDP, that still accounts for $145 billion annually. Let's step away from the graphs and charts for a moment and get back to this being an op-ed, shall we?

Back in 2012 when I'd allocate my disposable income to supplements at the local vitamin store, I would occasionally buy the beefcake magazines along with my monthly rations of poor tasting overpriced and 80% chalk by volume protein powder, creatine, BCAA's, greens powder, et. allia. The salesman was always too over enthusiastic but he'd been the guy in the neighborhood since my first creatine pills in middle school, so I stayed his customer until he got iced on his motorcycle. Back to the magazines, since this rambling and unfocused narrative hopefully lends to their style, I would read these popular fitness magazines and then compare them against paid articles on coaching websites written by Olympian strength & conditioning professionals, real scientists and endocrinologists. As one would expect, a common complaint that I've observed among science professionals who deign to grace us by becoming science communicators, is that information being transmitted en masse to the public is outright incorrect, often sensationalist in it's claims, and potentially adverse to the end-user. During that era, the public perception of physical fitness outside of athletic or martial prowess or overt sexual appeal was basically relegated to movie stars, popsci misinformers, the earlier iteration of what the common parlance now refers to as “influencers”, and then Presidential Fitness Tests and the American Heart Association's failed war on cholesterol (read: Big Egg). I had been a user of the infamous hacker website known as 4chan since the age of 12, and I'd seen many public figures rise and fall. Long gone are the days of Scooby, Zyzz and Rich Pianna (PBUH). Now while I may not be pointing to analytical proofs at this juncture my dear readers, I do defy you to open your smartphone and scroll on TikTok, or YouTube, and see what advertisements the platforms proffer regardless of color, age or creed. Open up a newspaper website without using a VPN and an adblocker and tell me what ungents, lotions and potions they peddle and what vain promises they offer? Drudge Report has had to run a goddamned line on protein and whatever Robert F. Kennedy's worm addled brain has cobbled together that morning for the past year at least. And now they aren't even able to gamble and speculate on the protein because there's a whey production shortage! Do you imagine that scarcity would under any circumstances ever be de-incentivized under Capitalism? I don't need to do quantitive analysis because your lying eyes should be doing the work for me, guy. All this to say that broscience has grown like a malignant cancer in the absence of most serious professionals, my anecdotal proof being that most of the Zoomer EMT's on the crew I most recently worked with were barely literate and studied for the exam rather than the material itself, like the Chinese or Indian civil service exams. Literally everything they knew was wrong or absent, to the degree of being occupationally hazardous. I cannot begin to speculate whether or not this (20+) size sampling (ages 18-28 approx.) can be extrapolated to other professions or industries, but it does not bode well. Recent articles have been published regarding Three Cueing Education and the decline of literacy and book readership in the American cohorts, and I would strongly advise directing the reader's attention towards those sources for further information about the dire state of things. Suffice to say I am an old salty veteran who is complaining about some normal observances in daily life that may ultimately mean nothing. And yet...

I start my mornings in the gym by greeting the individual at the front desk with a “good morning” on a resonant pitch that establishes the call to formation or the beginning of a vicar's congregational address. I think that retail workers are among the least humanized, in terms of late capitalism's less than subtle tendency to revert to sharecropping systems. So I look them in the eyes and speak to them respectfully, because the newspaper says asswipes like to attack them. Regularly. And I remember what it was to be young and fit and constantly be bothered by antisocial weirdos and cleaning up waste matter in the showers, knowing exactly who'd done it was also levvying complaints against you to management.

The official reasoning I was let go was for sounding the Lunk Alarm too much, but I digress. On a weekday, during the very early morning hours are when people who are sincere about their fitness goals come in, if they are ugly or foreign or fat or trans or some flavor of queer. On a Sunday morning, that is when all the quaint normie denizens wear their brightest and most colorful feathers to do their most elaborate and performative mating dances of masculinity and struggle or female might!

I am insane and also cheap, and I enjoy consistent looks. Whenever I go to the gym, my ensemble consists of a black pair of shorts/wifebeater/hoodie and hi socks, and I have a strong degree of preference for Under Armour's running shoes because they're sexy and prevent plantar fascitis and bouts of tendonitis or sciatica. Most people don't account for the foot striking the ground with 3 times the force of it's body when running, not that the Department of Defense cares to acknowledge that. I'm missing a lot of my knees from rappelling out of helicopters in full ruck & kit with a weapons systems. And I'm not getting any younger, either. I've made peace with that, my wardrobe and my demeanor reflect that state of peace (typically). However, I think it's worth noting that the fitness industry exists predominately for implicit aesthetic & social crèche rather than strength or health. Women's representation in media has moved beyond the paltry neologisms of amphetamine commercials and kept domesticity lately, and the updated beauty standards mean that they can either enjoin themselves to the Sisyphean task of obeisance to internal guilt mechanisms, or enjoy the sport for the sake of it! But it's usually the former rather than the latter. Sunday Mornings are vibrant and colorful, like an Ecumenical Easter Sunday at a black church – everyone is in their best finery and pastel plumage. Now normally this would not bother me, self-expression, it's just that somehow, someway, it became normalized at this gym for women in their spandex workout outfits to put on huge headphones and dance around to Zumba music with 2-7lb weights. No, it's not just one lady. No, not the same clique. They're literally doing dances in a line in front of the mirror where everyone is bicep curling. I can't imagine I'm the only one irritated by the weird brazenness of this public display, its uncanny.

I begin in the stretching area, because the most important thing to me in all reality is preserving and maintaining my mobility and flexibility as I get older; I'm not as acrobatic as I once was. I always start with basic leg and joint stretches then move on to a modified Army PRT program before I get started on kettlebell core routines (5 sets of 5 exercises with 10 repetition iteration dependent, sometimes 100), which is around the time every guy with a beard and a baseball cap takes the other 3 corners of the stretching area to sneak glances at me. I think it's because of the platinum blonde hair that these bitchmade civilians in Halloween costumes assume I'm gay and therefore a bottom and transitively an option, since these losers slide on the Kinsey Scale when they cannot get any pussy. I stretch with my shaved bleached bussy and my fun underpants facing the wall, thank you very much! I take off my sneakers to do kettlebell squats so I get the full range of motion on the fulcrum – if you're not engaging hip drive then you may as well not being doing the exercise, and squats cause your body to regulate it's free testostertone-enathanate levels in the bloodstream, so they're cheating themselves out of activating free natural performance enhancing drugs on top of every other sin. This is when the patrons in the stretching area attempt to do more convincing jobs of averting their eyes from me. Ultimately it's kind of my fault for being there on a Sunday and thus allowing them to perceive me.

Once I'm done with my set or too annoyed at the common rabble, I saunter over to the leg press where a quartet of strapping young lads with the broccoli haircut are now misusing a leg press. The gym franchise has decreed that an effective marketing stratagem would be to allow minors to work out for free during the summer months when school is out, in the hopes of capturing a permanent audience. Unlike my generation, these kids tend to be either too meek or respectful enough to approach women working out. People online complain about them but they're usually pretty civil and clean – they're really only a problem at the other gym's location across town where they converge by the hundreds. Once I'm finished up on the other leg press, I'll try the calf extending machine. You have to use it early in the morning, because a Gujurati husband and wife come to the gym and take turns using it for hours at a time on the lightest weight setting. Maybe they think it's for cardio?

I walk past the treadmills and look out onto a sea of white hair and sweaty jiggling flesh in very expensive designer clothing. They're all looking back at me like dim barnyard animals. I'm really more of a weighted jump rope kinda guy, good VO2 max is important for fighting and fucking. I mostly don't even acknowledge the existence of the people doing cardio because I would consider that disruptive and rude, but there have in fact been some very curvaceous butts that I have seen (not intentionally). There's one fatty that uses the treadmills that wears full Grindr merch for all his clothing accouterments. Subtle is not the word I would use, and I've only seen him there twice. They were 5lb dumbbells, he does not need fingerless gloves for that. Any serious runner goes to MeetUp and signs for groups to meet hundreds of other runners at a time, but I despise those motherfuckers.

The hamstring and quadricep machines are typically taken by the only other 2 serious gym goers during that time bloc – the fat red cop that's gay for me, and the most jacked guy in the entire gym, clearly on steroids and doing the maximum weight on a single leg. y'know I'm no big city lawyer, but I have a theory that building sarcoplasmic muscle tissue faster than your body can build new CNS skeletal fibers or strengthen accessory stability recruitment tissues will end up causing catastrophic problems later in life, but what do I know? And why are you on gear but still at Planet Fitness, like bro what?

The hip and glute machines are in the ab area, that's where you'll find the most jacked ladies in the gym, they're invariably former marines or law enforcement, all Latin and all giving themselves traction baldness with tight braids – or maybe I'm just being salty because there is no avenue of approach to speak with them. Any other day of the week it's mostly timid young women working their hardest to complete sets, even if it's at lower weights and repetitions. I think most women fail to make proper gains and become discouraged as a result of the aforementioned broscience epidemic, because their primary vectors of information do not have objective unbiased interests. Like most problems this could be resolved with education reform, but I wouldn't hold my breath on that.

And LAST, OF COURSE, is the nice gentlemanly ER physician that I recognized from the V.A.! I think he may recognized me too, because I was using a free V.A. Umbrella, rather than my nice fancy fashionable umbrella that shoots a .22 caliber bullet. He was waiting in the entrance foyer to the gym with his age appropriate and handsomely dressed wife, and they were both clearly very fit and healthy so it stands to reason they would not need an expensive gym membership – they probably have nicer equipment at home and want enrichment in their Saturnian Ivory Tower lives by indulging with the hoipolloi. Unfortunately, Doctor Col. Chaz Spiffinton IV neglected to bring an umbrella to the gym this morning, and his wife was apprehensive because she'd just gotten her hair colored. He looked me in my eyes as I EXTENDED UMBRELLA!!! I walked away bathed in glory, like the Morton Salt girl! And as I sit in the porch in my Birkenstocks getting splashed by harsh rains with my beloved feral cat, it is not the sickening PR's that I hit on leg press that I am most proud of, dear reader, but rather how fucking badly I mogged that nice respectable elderly couple that didn't have an umbrella!

I know that this has been a rambling and unfocused piece so I will provide you thus with my thesis: Calvinism (secular) is the foundational ideology of the protestant work ethic and through the transitive property = capitalism, inequality, and death. Under late stage capitalism, the workplace self and the public persona under axiomatic individualist maximalist materialist dialectical philosophy as their default operating system will result naturally in body dysmorphic disorders, looksmaxxers, individuals developing athleticism based paraphilias and implicit aesthetic fascism. Because Babylon (America) is godless and ruthless, this is encouraged. In the absence of a conceptual Original Sin, your new fault is whatever you’re persuaded into believing that you are unfuckable or ugly or unpopular for, and the gym is only one small slice of the pie in the variety of ways to assuage one’s physical guilt – I’d refer the reader to a saliently prophetic book “Bowling Alone”, regarding the atomization and isolation of American society as a result of Globalization, for further insights on how we arrived here societally. Fin ~

What you do < how you do it < Who you are while doing it

A thousand butterflies swarm the blooming lavender. The swish of wings little more than a hush of silence. Flitting to and fro supping from the waning nectar and Gleefully bounding away in to the sunset to Find a perch whereupon to spend the coming night.

---

The Beginning

The day began brilliant, as most days do here in Dust Meridian. Fall and winter are fine times of the year with cool, dry weather most days that is inspired and close to perfect. I launched into the day by trundling around in the ankle deep dried mulberry leaves the two trees in the hard so lovingly dropped. Ankle deep, and still is seems the trees are full. There will be good crunching for long, long days to come.

As we do traditionally, my wife and I set out in to the ministry to find those who might wish to hear the word of God. Though most were out, and the doors barred. We would go on to discover that the whole town, it seemed, was occupied with the Christmas tchotchkes festival at the city's events center. A fact we discovered when stopping for coffee at the hotel next door.

On our rounds, we made a point to check on my parents who were doing much of nothing, as folk In their seventies are sometimes known to do. I encouraged my father to get out into the day in spite of his feeling tired. To walk in the leaves at least. And maybe brighten someone else's day in addition to his own.

Funeral Rites

About 11:30, we moved into funerary mode, and attended a memorial program for a longtime friend who passed way after falling in the bathtub and breaking his neck. It's never easy to experience that, but hardly survivable in our eighties. The function was well-supported and the program, while a tad wordy, was kind and honorable. No doubt, the family was greatly comforted by the showing and the words.

While the condition of the dead is as sleep, I am confident my friend would be proud of us all. We will not get over it, but as the speaker said, with God's help, we can get through it.

To the Theater

Heading out at 12:35, we drove to Seymour, a small town in West Texas. Our goal, a local theater production of Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott. We are both fans of the tale, and though must admit having only read portions of the book can at least claim valid fandom in the fact that I have visited Miss Alcott's home where the story was written. It was a cold, wet winter day when we experienced the author's abode, once adjacent to an orchard of some kind and filled with items of her storied life.

Since this was a tiny town, and the cast mostly very young, I wasn't sure what to expect when the curtain rose. However what we experienced for just over two hours was a delightful and earnest effort by the director and the actors. I was dismayed at Jo's appearance, simply because I have long been enamored with Winona Ryder as Jo March in the 1994 film adaptation. But the young woman playing Jo, Savannah Sturgeon, did a lovely job of embodying the wild personality brimming with joy, imagination, and love. She was bright and big and had the range to give us an enjoyable, convincing character.

The whole cast was, in fact thoroughly enjoyable and the script was clearly based on the book (which I have not read in it's entirety) and so BRAVO for memorizing so much material written in a voice rarely seen in modern works. They had worked very hard to meet a standard that was far beyond the small-town theater we visited.

Reese Warren's Amy March was another highlight. She has the natural rhythm and grace to truly engage the audience. I found her moments on stage to be particularly captivating.

Nathaniel Rogers' Professor Bhaer was hilarious with a big, and assuming, fake German accent. But he completely owned the role and played it straight which only made him more endearing. It was quite the opposite of what I love of Louis Garrel's performance in the earlier adaptation. But still VERY entertaining. Just different than I expected. I will assume Rogers' performance is closer to as written by Alcott.

While I won't go on to list the entire cast, I will say outstanding was Jeb Stacey's Laurie. Jeb is very clearly a cowboy. A good ol' boy and while his performance was strong and entertaining, his mannerisms tended to overwhelm what is to me, a refined, but inexperienced personality. Having said that, I LOVED Jeb. He is the spitting image/personality of a lifelong friend. Terse, loud and a bit stiff. Ray, I you're out there and you happen to read this, your doppelgänger lives in Seymour. Any love-children I do not know of?

I found several parts of the play quite moving: 1. Reading father's first letter/telegram to the girls. 2. Father's outpouring of love for the girls after coming home 3. Laurie's expression of love for Jo 4. Amy's burning of Jo's manuscript (this one always shocks me, but today, it drew tears)

It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon and I recommend you go see some local community theater. The smaller, the better. It promotes goodwill and it is a joy to see the production value of big budget stuff stripped away and just enjoy acting. Some good, some needing improving. But ALL entertainment!

The day was all lavender and each of us from the smallest to the star of the show were the flitting creatures, sucking up the nectar of life. Proving that even places like Dust Meridian can provide the sweet joy that we need to thrive.

Seymour Community Theater's Production of Little Women

Epilogue

Since one of my more heart-rending moments was the father's dotting on his daughters, I decided to re-read Chapter 22, and found that in fact this production is almost a 1:1.

As someone who struggles with self-esteem and self-worth, I found his attention to be just overwhelming. Parent's, your children 'know' you love them. But, take the time to tell them regularly, in detail. Not a throwaway I love you, but look for moments like Jo March's Father and genuinely tell them what you love about them. The goodwill you build in them will pay dividends throughout their life.

---

Little Women by Loiusa May Alcott – excerpt:

Chapter 22 – Pleasant Meadows

Like sunshine after a storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats at first, and in time with doll’s sewing, which had fallen sadly behind-hand. Her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her for a daily airing about the house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burned her white hands cooking delicate messes for ‘the dear’, while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept.

As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry Christmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had bonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way. After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered effectually quenched and went about with forlorn faces, which were rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.

Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid Christmas Day. Hannah ‘felt in her bones’ that it was going to be an unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them, then Beth felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother’s gift, a soft crimson merino wrapper, was borne in high triumph to the window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables had done their best to be worthy of the name, for like elves they had worked by night and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden stood a stately snow maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of music in the other, a perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas carol issuing from her lips on a pink paper streamer.

THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH

God bless you, dear Queen Bess! May nothing you dismay, But health and peace and happiness Be yours, this Christmas day.

Here’s fruit to feed our busy bee, And flowers for her nose. Here’s music for her pianee, An afghan for her toes,

A portrait of Joanna, see, By Raphael No. 2, Who laboured with great industry To make it fair and true.

Accept a ribbon red, I beg, For Madam Purrer’s tail, And ice cream made by lovely Peg, A Mont Blanc in a pail.

Their dearest love my makers laid Within my breast of snow. Accept it, and the Alpine maid, From Laurie and from Jo.

How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented them.

“I’m so full of happiness, that if Father was only here, I couldn’t hold one drop more,” said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the ‘Jungfrau’ had sent her.

“So am I,” added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired Undine and Sintram.

“I’m sure I am,” echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her in a pretty frame.

“Of course I am!” cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first silk dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it. “How can I be otherwise?” said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her husband’s letter to Beth’s smiling face, and her hand caressed the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fastened on her breast.

Now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is. Half an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door and popped his head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and uttered an Indian war whoop, for his face was so full of suppressed excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, “Here’s another Christmas present for the March family.”

Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes, leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and couldn’t. Of course there was a general stampede, and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a word.

Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms. Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china closet. Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently explained. And Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father’s boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, “Hush! Remember Beth.”

But it was too late. The study door flew open, the little red wrapper appeared on the threshold, joy put strength into the feeble limbs, and Beth ran straight into her father’s arms. Never mind what happened just after that, for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness of the past and leaving only the sweetness of the present.

It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and seizing Laurie, he precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose, which they did, by both sitting in one big chair and talking hard. Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage of it, how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just there, and after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you to imagine. Also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn’t like to have something to eat. Jo saw and understood the look, and she stalked grimly away to get wine and beef tea, muttering to herself as she slammed the door, “I hate estimable young men with brown eyes!”

There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed, browned, and decorated. So was the plum pudding, which melted in one’s mouth, likewise the jellies, in which Amy reveled like a fly in a honeypot. Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said, “For my mind was that flustered, Mum, that it’s a merrycle I didn’t roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin’ of it in a cloth.”

Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, at whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie’s infinite amusement. Two easy chairs stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank healths, told stories, sang songs, ‘reminisced’, as the old folks say, and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh ride had been planned, but the girls would not leave their father, so the guests departed early, and as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.

“Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected to have. Do you remember?” asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation about many things.

“Rather a pleasant year on the whole!” said Meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity. “I think it’s been a pretty hard one,” observed Amy, watching the light shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes.

“I’m glad it’s over, because we’ve got you back,” whispered Beth, who sat on her father’s knee.

“Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely, and I think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon,” said Mr. March, looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him.

“How do you know? Did Mother tell you?” asked Jo.

“Not much. Straws show which way the wind blows, and I’ve made several discoveries today.”

“Oh, tell us what they are!” cried Meg, who sat beside him.

“Here is one.” And taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or three little hard spots on the palm. “I remember a time when this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so. It was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now, for in this seeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt offering has been made to vanity, this hardened palm has earned something better than blisters, and I’m sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long time, so much good will went into the stitches. Meg, my dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments. I’m proud to shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it away.”

If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it in the hearty pressure of her father’s hand and the approving smile he gave her. “What about Jo? Please say something nice, for she has tried so hard and been so very, very good to me,” said Beth in her father’s ear.

He laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an unusually mild expression in her face.

“In spite of the curly crop, I don’t see the ‘son Jo’ whom I left a year ago,” said Mr. March. “I see a young lady who pins her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale just now, with watching and anxiety, but I like to look at it, for it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower. She doesn’t bounce, but moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly way which delights me. I rather miss my wild girl, but if I get a strong, helpful, tenderhearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite satisfied. I don’t know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, but I do know that in all Washington I couldn’t find anything beautiful enough to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars my good girl sent me.”

Jo’s keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy in the firelight as she received her father’s praise, feeling that she did deserve a portion of it.

“Now, Beth,” said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.

“There’s so little of her, I’m afraid to say much, for fear she will slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be,” began their father cheerfully. But recollecting how nearly he had lost her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his own, “I’ve got you safe, my Beth, and I’ll keep you so, please God.”

After a minute’s silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair...

“I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place tonight, and has waited on every one with patience and good humor. I also observe that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears, so I conclude that she has learned to think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try and mold her character as carefully as she molds her little clay figures. I am glad of this, for though I should be very proud of a graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others.”

“What are you thinking of, Beth?” asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her father and told about her ring.

“I read in Pilgrim’s Progress today how, after many troubles, Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies bloomed all year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now, before they went on to their journey’s end,” answered Beth, adding, as she slipped out of her father’s arms and went to the instrument, “It’s singing time now, and I want to be in my old place. I’ll try to sing the song of the shepherd boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the music for Father, because he likes the verses.”

So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sang to her own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for her.

He that is down need fear no fall, He that is low no pride. He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide.

I am content with what I have, Little be it, or much. And, Lord! Contentment still I crave, Because Thou savest such.

Fulness to them a burden is, That go on pilgrimage. Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age!

---

---

#story # journal #poetry #wyst #poetry #100daystooffset #writing #story #osxs #travel

Read on ign.com · View original Mastodon post

I don't watch this series, though it has interested me. Still, its general theme fits what I want to talk about here.

People wonder why TV viewing and TV series are dying. Well, when you have to wait a couple of years for 8 to 10 episodes, maybe 12 if you are really lucky, that is ridiculous. From an outsider's point of view, something is clearly wrong with the TV industry.

I have said this a hundred times, and I will keep saying it: when I was growing up, TV had an actual season. You knew roughly when it would start and end, within plus or minus a week or two. There were holiday specials, and every “TV season” usually had anywhere from 18 to 30 episodes. Of course, there were exceptions, like first seasons with fewer episodes to test interest and ratings.

Now, there is no set schedule. You get 8 to 10 episodes every couple of years, and by the time a new season finally comes out, you have already lost interest. You have forgotten what happened, stopped caring, and moved on.

Then, on top of everything else, they do not even drop all the episodes at once. Come on! That is frustrating.

So I would rather wait until every episode is available, even if I have to wait a couple of years before watching something new. In the meantime, I have been watching more old TV shows. I barely get invested in new ones anymore because of these shenanigans.

#opinion #streaming #tv

Trouble comes—and we must simply live above it.

When a day feels hard, remember this:

We are more than our bodies.

We are beings of light —

thoughtful, radiant, alive.

We are creators and dreamers. Music makers. Book lovers. Keepers of stories. Raisers of hearts. Carriers of grace.

Dancers. Writers. Artists. Lovers.

Minds full of wonder. Works in progress. Potential—our worth unmeasurable by what we provide, what we perform, or what they see on the surface.

All this world is a stage, and we each have only our hour upon it. Let us spend that hour celebrating who we are.

Not things to be owned. Embers glowing, waiting for breath to become flame.

Not vessels to be emptied. Rather, vineyards — rooted, growing, and alive.

Every word spoken in truth, every song offered into the night, every kindness given in another’s storm — these things remain.

May we be seen beyond our bodies. Smiles bearing spirits from one heart to another.

Let our giving come from the hearth of our soul, Where we are learning to be like God.

And when the lights grow dim, may His voice in the silence say:

'I see you. You are whole. You are beloved.'

---

#poetry #prayer

Most nights I don’t even notice night come down, it just

closes around me as if I'm in a large, dark cloak, and before I know it

I’m longing for sleep.

Yet one night, I stared for hours out my back window,

watching

water boil in the sky, but it would not get dark. The elm behind

Kathleen’s house kept reflecting the different times of nightfall;

a passing cloud darkened the leaves, a silver lining brightened them, 

and when the sun finally went down, all that was left hanging were

long arms tangled in the dark

#poetry

I wrote about My Housemate last night. i usually dont write twice in the same day. some thoughts are better left unsaid, or at least kept somewhere they cant bother anyone else. But lets make an exception for today, congrats on seeing me twice. and if it not then Hello. i suppose. I think im not as cold as i used to be. and that bothers me. there was a time when i could convince myself that i didnt care about anything, and i didnt need someone to care either. i was good at it, believe it or not. if something happened, i get annoyed, sure. but i moved on easily. if someone needed me, i helped if i felt like it, and if i didnt, well… unfortunate. But lately, im realizing that maybe i wasnt as heartless as i thought i was or maybe i simply stopped being good at pretending. and this morning proved that much. i was already crasing out over that nightmare i had. i woke up terrified and had to deal with the aftermath of it twice before i could even properly settle down again. for a while, i felt like something was wrong with me. like i was possessed, or something had followed me out of the dream. ill never know for sure, im disappointly ill in the head, thats a much more boring explanation to put out. anyways, i needed to talk to someone, i needed to talk to her. while, maybe i sounded idiotic. i was scared. worried. overthinking everything. probably asking for reassurance in the least dignified way possible. but i wasnt really looking for some grand solution. i just wanted someone there while i calmed down. she was gentle at first, soft and sweet. then she told me she was reading. and i dont know why that bothered me as much as it did. its not like she did anything horrible. she wasnt obligated to drop everything for me. she wasnt required to sit there and fix whatever was happening in my head. but i was trying so hard to keep a conversation going because i needed something to hold onto. and there i go, asking my stupid question if she was busy, and she was reading. somehow, that made the whole thing feel incredibly unimportant. maybe thats unfair, or it was just terrible timing. but when she needed ressurance, i try my best to do so, while i cant always be the perfect human being, i dont sit there doing something else while she tries to keep herself together. so when i needed that same thing and it felt like i was interrupting something more important, it hurt. i could do the same thing to her, i suppose. i could act so sweet and careless. and tell myself that if she can do it, then i can as well. except i probably wont. and while you can call me pathetic im still painfully soft when it comes to her, i hate it sometimes. i told her it was fine, that we could talk later. and that was basically it. she said okay, i dont know what i expected. maybe i expected her to notice that it wasnt fine, or that i wanted her to ask me to stay, or maybe I just wanted to feel like i wasnt completely useless in that moment. intead, i went quiet and sat with it. and then i started thinking about the dream again. her being distant. careless. almost disgusted with me. i dont know, maybe my brain is finding new ways to be unpleasant. either way, i think ive learned something rather irritating about myself. im not as careless as i thought i was, im not as soulless as i used to be. and i guess i still have enough feelings left to be bothered when someone makes me feel unimportant. great. wonderful. almost preferred myself when i didnt care. i think i should stop talking to her about things like this. probably wont, but perhaps when something happens, I’ll keep it to myself. when something stresses me out, ill deal with it until i cant anymore. That sounds healthier, probably isnt. but at least i wont have to sit here wondering whether i mattered enough to interrupt someones reading. so there. problem solved. anyways, enough of that. im not going to sit here dissecting a conversation that probably meant nothing to the other person while somehow managing to turn it into a two hour investigation in my own head. ill just pretend im still the same miserable person i was supposed to be and carry on with my life. much easier. much less embarrassing. anyways, back to whatever i was doing. i need tea. i think i left the kettle sitting there for far too long again, which means its probably cold by now. i dont understand how something i make every day continues to defeat me. you’d think after all these years i have mastered the complicated process of putting water in a kettle and remembering that i put it there. maybe not. maybe ill make coffee instead. No, tea. Definitely tea. ill probably put on something stupid on the television, sit somewhere comfortable, or maybe play games and spend the rest of the night pretending none of this happend. and if i thought of it again. ill simply think about something else.

I’ll just sit, and wonder about other normal things to distract me. just tea, and an increasingly impressive ability to avoid my own problems. I think I’m getting better at this again.

Sincerely, A man who surely has nothing to be upset about.

Votre maison donne l'impression d'être à l'étroit, même si la surface au sol ne manque pas ? Vous passez votre temps à chercher des objets perdus dans un chaos ambiant ?

Le mal, c'est l'encombrement, et il est possible de s'en libérer pour retrouver un espace de vie plus agréable et fonctionnel.

Ce guide pratique va vous donner les clés pour désencombrer efficacement votre domicile, en abordant les causes profondes du désordre, les méthodes de tri éprouvées, les étapes concrètes pour un débarras réussi, et comment éviter de retomber dans les mêmes travers.

Les Racines du Désordre : Pourquoi S'encombre-t-on ?

Il est facile de se sentir dépassé par le désordre, mais comprendre d'où il vient est la première étape pour le combattre. Souvent, l'encombrement n'est pas le fruit d'une seule mauvaise habitude, mais d'une accumulation de plusieurs facteurs.

L'Accumulation par Habitude

On achète, on garde, on n'ose pas jeter. C'est un cercle vicieux bien connu. Un objet peut avoir une valeur sentimentale, être considéré comme “utile un jour”, ou simplement être une prise de conscience tardive d'un achat impulsif. Ces petits “au cas où” finissent par prendre une place considérable.

Le Manque de Place Réelle (ou Perçue)

Parfois, le problème n'est pas tant le nombre d'objets que leur organisation. Sans un système de rangement adapté, même une maison spacieuse peut vite sembler exiguë. Des objets qui devraient être rangés finissent par traîner, créant cette sensation d'étouffement.

Les Changements de Vie

Un déménagement, l'arrivée d'un enfant, le départ d'un proche, ou même un changement professionnel peuvent apporter de nouveaux objets ou obliger à se séparer d'anciens. Si ces transitions ne sont pas accompagnées d'un tri conscient, elles peuvent rapidement mener à un désordre croissant.

La Difficulté à Prendre des Décisions

“Est-ce que j'en ai encore besoin ?” “Est-ce que ça vaut la peine d'être vendu ?” Ces questions peuvent paralyser. La peur de regretter un choix ou le manque de temps pour évaluer la valeur de chaque objet poussent souvent à tout garder, par défaut.

L'Art de Trier : Comment Faire le Bon Choix

Le tri est le cœur d'un débarras efficace. Il ne s'agit pas de jeter à tout-va, mais de faire des choix éclairés sur ce qui mérite de rester dans votre espace de vie. Une approche méthodique vous aidera à surmonter l'hésitation.

La Règle d'Or : Le Tri par Catégories

Oubliez le tri pièce par pièce au début. Prenez une catégorie d'objets (par exemple, tous les livres, tous les vêtements, tous les papiers) et rassemblez-les au même endroit. Cela vous donnera une vision claire de l'ampleur de ce que vous possédez dans chaque domaine.

Le Test des Questions Clés

Pour chaque objet, posez-vous des questions simples et honnêtes.

Ai-je utilisé cet objet dans les 6 derniers mois (ou un an pour les objets saisonniers) ?

Si la réponse est non, c'est un bon indicateur qu'il n'est peut-être plus essentiel à votre quotidien.

Est-ce que j'en ai deux (ou plus) exemplaires identiques ?

Si oui, demandez-vous si vous avez réellement besoin de plusieurs. Le double peut souvent être donné, vendu ou jeté.

Cet objet est-il cassé, endommagé ou obsolète ?

Si oui, et qu'il n'y a pas de projet de réparation réaliste et immédiat, il est probablement temps de s'en séparer.

Est-ce que cet objet me procure de la joie ou une utilité réelle ?

Cette question, popularisée par le concept de minimalisme, est puissante. Si un objet n'apporte ni joie ni fonction, quelle est sa place ?

Les Différents Sorts : Jeter, Donner, Vendre, Garder

Une fois que vous avez évalué vos affaires, il faut leur trouver une destination.

Jeter : L'Option Évidente pour ce Qui Est Hors d'Usage

Les objets cassés, périmés, ou trop abîmés pour être réutilisés iront à la poubelle ou au recyclage, selon leur nature. Ne culpabilisez pas, c'est une étape nécessaire.

Donner : Le Geste Généreux qui Fait Plaisir

Les vêtements en bon état, les livres que vous ne lirez plus, les meubles encore utilisables peuvent faire le bonheur d'autres personnes. Pensez aux associations, aux ressourceries, ou à vos proches.

Vendre : Monétiser ce Dont Vous N'avez Plus Besoin

Les objets de valeur ou en bon état peuvent être vendus en ligne, en vide-grenier, ou à des brocanteurs. Cela peut vous rapporter un peu d'argent et vous motiver davantage.

Garder : Les Essentiels et les Trésors

Ce qui reste, ce sont les objets qui vous sont vraiment utiles, qui vous apportent de la joie, ou qui ont une valeur sentimentale incontestable et justifiée. Ces objets méritent une place de choix.

Les Étapes d'un Débarras Réussi : De l'Ampleur au Soulagement

Un débarras n'est pas une action ponctuelle, mais un processus qui demande organisation et persévérance. Aborder cela par étapes rend la tâche moins intimidante et plus gérable.

Préparer le Terrain : Le Matériel Indispensable

Avant de commencer, munissez-vous de quelques éléments clés : des sacs poubelles résistants, des cartons de tailles variées, des marqueurs pour étiqueter, des gants pour vous protéger, et éventuellement des chariots ou diables pour les objets lourds.

Le Débarras Zone par Zone (ou Catégorie par Catégorie)

Une fois que vous avez choisi votre méthode de tri (par pièce ou par catégorie), attaquez-vous à une section à la fois. Commencez par les zones qui vous pèsent le plus, ou par celles où le désordre est le plus évident.

La Stratégie du “Une chose à la fois”

Lorsque vous êtes dans une zone, concentrez-vous sur une seule pile ou un seul tiroir. Ne sautez pas d'un endroit à l'autre, cela crée de la confusion et vous donne l'impression de ne jamais rien finir.

Le Cycle du Tri : Action Immédiate

Dès que vous avez décidé de la destination d'un objet, agissez.

Les Sacs Prêts à Partir

Ayez des sacs ou des cartons dédiés pour le “jeter”, le “donner”, le “vendre” et le “garder” à portée de main. Dès qu'un objet est trié, placez-le immédiatement dans le bon contenant.

Le Nettoyage Post-Tri

Une fois qu'une zone est triée, profitez-en pour nettoyer l'espace libéré. Cela rend le résultat encore plus gratifiant et prévient la réapparition rapide du désordre.

L'Étape Finale : Sortir ce Qui Doit Sortir

Ne laissez pas les cartons de “donner” ou de “vendre” s'installer dans votre salon pendant des semaines. Planifiez leur évacuation rapidement pour concrétiser votre démarche.

Au-delà du Désencombrement : Des Solutions de Stockage Intelligentes

Un débarras maison réussi ne sert à rien si de nouveaux objets s'accumulent sans ordre. L'adoption de bonnes pratiques de rangement est essentielle pour maintenir un espace ordonné.

Le Rangement par Zones Fonctionnelles

Attribuez à chaque objet une “maison”. Les choses que vous utilisez souvent doivent être accessibles, celles que vous utilisez rarement peuvent être rangées plus loin.

Les Solutions de Rangement Verticales

Utilisez la hauteur de vos murs ! Des étagères, des bibliothèques, des meubles hauts permettent de libérer de l'espace au sol et d'organiser efficacement vos affaires.

Les Boîtes et Paniers : Vos Alliés Discrets

Les boîtes transparentes ou étiquetées sont parfaites pour regrouper les petits objets (câbles, fournitures, jouets). Les paniers peuvent dissimuler le désordre tout en apportant une touche décorative.

Le Minimalisme Appliqué : Moins C'est Plus

Essayez d'adopter une approche où chaque objet que vous faites entrer dans votre maison a une raison d'être. Posez-vous la question de l'utilité avant l'achat.

Quand Faire Appel à un Professionnel du Débarras ?

Parfois, la tâche est trop colossale, trop émotionnellement chargée, ou simplement trop chronophage. Dans ces cas, faire appel à des professionnels peut être la solution.

Les Situations où l'Aide Extérieure Est Préférable

Il peut s'agir de débarrasser une maison après un décès, de vider une cave ou un grenier particulièrement envahis, ou simplement si vous manquez de temps et d'énergie pour le faire vous-même.

Les Services Proposés par les Sociétés de Débarras

Ces entreprises peuvent s'occuper de tout, du tri initial à l'évacuation des déchets, en passant par le nettoyage. Elles ont l'expérience et le matériel nécessaires pour gérer toutes sortes de situations.

L'Importance de Choisir le Bon Prestataire

Assurez-vous de choisir une entreprise réputée, qui propose des devis clairs et transparents, et qui respecte les normes environnementales pour l'évacuation des déchets.

Les Vertus Insoupçonnées d'un Intérieur Désencombré

Le bénéfice d'un espace ordonné va bien au-delà de l'esthétique. Cela a un impact concret sur votre bien-être et votre quotidien.

Moins de Stress, Plus de Sérénité

Un environnement ordonné réduit le sentiment de chaos et de surcharge mentale. On se sent plus calme, plus maître de son espace, et donc moins stressé.

Gain de Temps Précieux

Fini le temps perdu à chercher vos clés, vos papiers importants, ou ce pull que vous vouliez porter. Tout est à sa place, vous gagnez un temps précieux chaque jour.

Amélioration de la Concentration et de la Productivité

Un espace dégagé favorise la concentration. Que ce soit pour le travail à domicile, la lecture, ou les loisirs créatifs, il est plus facile de se focaliser quand l'environnement est clair.

Un Sentiment de Liberté et de Légèreté

Se séparer d'objets inutiles, c'est aussi se libérer d'un poids. Cela peut être une expérience très cathartique, donnant une sensation de renouveau et de légèreté.

Maintenir l'Ordre : Les Habitudes Qui Font la Différence

Le débarras n'est pas une destination, mais un voyage. Mettre en place quelques habitudes simples vous aidera à conserver votre intérieur ordonné sur le long terme.

La Règle du “Un Entrant, Un Sortant”

Pour chaque nouvel objet qui entre dans votre maison (un vêtement, un livre, un gadget), essayez d'en faire sortir un similaire ou un autre objet dont vous n'avez plus besoin.

Le Rangement Immédiat

Appliquez la règle de ranger un objet dès que vous avez fini de l'utiliser. Ne le laissez pas traîner “juste pour l'instant”.

Les Petits Rituels de Rangement

Prenez quelques minutes chaque jour, par exemple avant de vous coucher, pour faire un petit tour dans les pièces et remettre en place ce qui traîne. Un rapide rangement peut éviter l'accumulation du désordre.

Les “Points de Contrôle” Réguliers

Une fois par saison, ou à chaque changement d'année, faites un petit point sur votre intérieur. Revoyez une armoire, un tiroir, ou un placard et désencombrez à nouveau si nécessaire. Le désencombrement n'est pas une action unique, c'est un mode de vie.

FAQs #debarras

Quelles sont les causes de l'encombrement dans une maison?

Les causes de l'encombrement dans une maison peuvent être diverses, notamment l'accumulation d'objets au fil du temps, le manque d'organisation, les changements de mode de vie, les achats impulsifs, ou encore des événements tels que des déménagements, des héritages ou des transitions de vie.

Comment trier efficacement ses affaires lors d'un débarras?

Pour trier efficacement ses affaires lors d'un débarras, il est recommandé de procéder pièce par pièce, de se poser des questions sur l'utilité et la valeur sentimentale des objets, de catégoriser les objets en fonction de leur destination (garde, don, vente, recyclage, mise au rebut), et de se fixer des objectifs réalistes pour éviter de s'éparpiller.

Quelles sont les étapes d'un débarras réussi?

Les étapes d'un débarras réussi comprennent la planification et l'organisation préalable, le tri méthodique des objets, la mise en place de solutions de stockage adaptées, la gestion des déchets, et éventuellement le recours à un professionnel du débarras pour faciliter le processus.

Quelles sont les solutions de stockage pour éviter l'encombrement dans une maison?

Pour éviter l'encombrement dans une maison, il est possible de recourir à des solutions de stockage telles que les étagères, les boîtes de rangement, les meubles multifonctionnels, les systèmes de rangement modulables, ou encore l'optimisation des espaces sous-utilisés.

Quels sont les bienfaits d'un intérieur débarrassé et des conseils pour maintenir un espace ordonné?

Un intérieur débarrassé permet de créer un environnement plus sain, agréable et fonctionnel, de réduire le stress lié au désordre, de faciliter l'entretien de la maison, et de favoriser un meilleur bien-être au quotidien. Pour maintenir un espace ordonné, il est conseillé de désencombrer régulièrement, d'adopter des habitudes de rangement, de limiter les achats superflus, et de privilégier la qualité à la quantité.

To know or not to know. That is the question.

But we have misunderstood the nature of knowing. We accumulate information like spiritual currency, building libraries of concepts while the prison of ego remains intact. The mind becomes sophisticated, the ego refined—yet consciousness sleeps beneath layers of acquired wisdom.

The paradox is this: consciousness already knows. It has always known. Your work is not to add knowledge but to subtract conditioning.

Each egoic aggregate you eliminate reveals what was always there. Pride dissolved reveals humility that was never absent. Fear comprehended reveals courage that was your birthright. Desire transmuted reveals contentment that requires no external validation.

The question becomes not “what should I learn?” but “what might I unlearn?” Not “which truth must I acquire?” but “which lie am I willing to release?”

Knowledge that strengthens the ego is spiritual poison. Knowledge that dissolves it is liberation itself.

When you catch yourself accumulating another concept, another teaching, another insight—ask: Does this feed the “I” that wants to know, or does it starve it? Does this decorate my prison or provide tools to dismantle it?

The path of awakening is subtraction. Every insight that reveals another egoic pattern to eliminate is true knowledge. Every concept that merely adds to your intellectual library is another chain.

What we have learned through direct observation is this: the ego's greatest deception is spiritualizing itself. It adopts the language of liberation while maintaining its fundamental structure. It becomes the “spiritual seeker” who collects experiences rather than the awakened being who comprehends that experience itself is the prison.

We have discovered that mechanical repetition—the tendency to cycle through the same patterns despite intellectual understanding—is not overcome through more knowledge but through moment-to-moment awareness. The ego loves to study liberation; it resists actual liberation because liberation means its own dissolution.

We have witnessed how consciousness, when freed from the student identity, naturally recognizes truth without external validation. It doesn't need scriptures, teachers, or techniques because it has eliminated the very structures that created the experience of ignorance in the first place.

Consciousness needs no education. It needs liberation from the student.

The question of potential reveals another crucial distinction: denying the ego versus denying Essence.

When we say “I cannot do it,” we deny our divine nature—the very consciousness that makes transformation possible. This is not humility; it is spiritual error, the ego's final strategy to maintain its prison by convincing consciousness of its own inadequacy. The ego loves false humility because it reinforces the illusion of limitation.

When we say “I already have this potential, yet I have buried it under layers of conditioning,” we deny the ego's authority while affirming Essence. This is not arrogance; it is recognition of what consciousness already knows—that our divine nature remains intact despite the ego's temporary obscuration.

The ego's greatest deception is presenting false humility as spiritual virtue. It convinces us that acknowledging our divine nature is prideful when it's actually the prerequisite for liberation. True humility recognizes both the magnificence of Essence and the work required to eliminate what obscures it.

Observe how the ego responds to these statements. When you say “I cannot,” it feels validated—its authority reinforced. When you say “I have potential buried under conditioning,” it feels threatened—because this statement acknowledges its temporary nature as a cloud passing through the sky of consciousness.

The difference between these statements reveals the psychological foundation of awakening: we don't become divine through effort; we eliminate what prevents us from recognizing we are already divine. The potential isn't something to acquire but something to uncover.

Man cannot live on bread alone; sometimes, he needs a malt.

There is something nearly universal in our adoration of ice cream. Even people who can't eat dairy acknowledge how terrific it is and long for its enjoyment.

Even people who are at war with refined sugar know ice cream's appeal. How wonderful it makes you feel to scoop it out and watch that unique tearing texture the scoop leaves behind as it scrapes out that frozen treasure.

Ice cream is on my mind today, I have promised my muse I will taste the dream and speak of it in prose. And here I am cruising around on my death machine watching the sun set on a perfect day. The kind of day that demands a reward of the sweetest kind.

My partner and teammate in this thing called life squeezes me tightly in what is easily the best part of a motorcycle ride. Warm thighs wrapped around you, two lithe arms alternating between resting on my back, wrapping around my belly or squeezing my chest.

That last one is my favorite. It comes with the soft presence on my back of her breasts. A tender hug not for intimacy but because she doesn't want to be flung off. I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride. And tonight, I rodeo not for 8 seconds, but for 15 minutes with a cold delight.

We cruise slow and easy on back streets. This isn't a race. It's a savoring pleasure. The chug chug chug of the machine rolls through the neighborhood when I get a tap on the shoulder.

“You know, Braum's is close by. We should stop and get a drink.” She speaks loudly. Not a shout but with enough volume that I can hear through my space-helmet.

I smile to myself. Braum's is my mission tonight. Like Indiana in that cave, I plan to swap my bag of sand for the sweet golden nectar of a chocolate malt.

A lot fewer spiders though. And only one death trap: my rumbling steed.

The parking lot is hectic here as the sun drifts to the horizon in the west. Dodging traffic on a motorcycle is one of the first skills you learn. I'm pretty good at it. The author reserves the right to mask his incompetence with braggadocio... though 20y accident free on a motorcycle does deserve some praise.

Exiting vehicles whose operators are concerned with melting cones mean extra caution is required. We don't need a front-row parking spot, so I pick one out on the periphery. Drifting to a stop, I click the shifter into neutral with my left foot (always a satisfying 'clunk') and walk the silver and steel backing carefully, like a child learning to balance.

With that same foot, I push the kickstand down and rest the two-wheeler on its third leg. The angle is always disturbingly low. The lean puts the machine's center of gravity just were it needs to be. Tipping this over out of accident or malice while parked would take some pretty determined effort.

I step off to my right, but insist my wife get off on the low side (left). It's not only easier for short riders, it gets her bare legs away from the glowing exhaust. I know from experience that the last place you want your bare legs is leaned up against a motorcycle muffler after riding even a modest few minutes.

Helmets stowed we walk toward the newly remodeled southern institution. I am surprised there are places without Braums. For the uninitiated, they are a burger-place who specializes in ice cream but also have a pretty decent grocery store.

It's nice because they are usually in or near neighborhoods. This gives residents a place to grab an easy meal, enjoy sweet treats or pick up necessities. Maybe it is their intention to defy the food deserts most areas have become... maybe they just want to be first in line when you leave your house to get something food-related.

This location was closed for months while they remodeled. I note that it looks exactly the same, but everything is new. Gone are the scratches and dings from decades of wear. The floor is bright and polished and the backstage equipment is modern and clever-looking. I appreciate that the overhead menus are printed sheets, not the ubiquitous screens every place else in the world now uses. No surge pricing here, thank you.

Probably didn't have the ice cream kiosk thought.

Braum's tonight is a madhouse! It seems the good weather has driven everyone out for ice cream. The line at the ice cream counter is 30 deep. The burger counter is ghost-town. I count 20 employees back stage about half of whom are just loitering about chattering.

A logical brain (even a damaged one) knows where to order if it doesn't need to lust over that rainbow of cold colors.

I read our clerk's name badge, 'Faust'. I'm DYING to make some clever comment about the erudite scholar who makes a deal with the devil (were your parents fans of German literature? Or were YOU why they made the deal? Auspicious name, my friend). BUT Faust has the word 'trained' under his name. And Gladis is hawking him.

'It's his first day,' Gladis says, 'YOU are his first customers!'

They both beam. My clever commentary shifts away from that magnetic name and instead I say,

'Oh, that's great Faust! Welcome to the team. I'll be sure to keep it simple and straight forward. I'll have a double-double, easy on the spread, be sure you cook it exactly to temp, extra fruit, only ONE pickle, I'm aalergic but love them and have to have the savoriness, and be sure, uh Gladis, you still get those imported onions? Be sure you use ONLY those Faust, no white onions. NONE. And I would prefer if you can use the unsalted European butter to toast those buns.'

Said with a single monotone delivery with absolute seriousness and I can see the panic in his eyes. If this is simple, he thinks, Im dead. Gladis smiles behind him. She knows the score. I let it hang juuuust long enough for the relief to be comical and toss over my shoulder, 'dear, what will you have?' To which she responds in expected fashion with a question. Now Fausts brain is melting.

'Oh, that's a good question... Faust.' I insert this with urgency as thought I've remembered something. 'That makes me think, I changed my mind... I'll just have a small chocolate malt instead!'

Faust, a big guy in his late teens, visible relaxes. A small malt he can handle.

While we wait, my lady eviscerates the ice-cream team. She points out every flaw and mistake. Missing gloves, an uncovered cough, TONGS people, use the tongs. She should be a team manager here. They wouldn't like her directness, but they would love her easy-going side.

I smile. I don't like her negative side, but sometimes it's QUITE entertaining.

Our drinks arrive.

I am at war with sugar after a lifetime of addiction. Its power is still there though and I feel drawn to the little white cup. Unwrapping two straws, one for me and one for the muse, slip them into the viscous, rich substance. Not quite liquid, not quite solid... all shine.

The color mesmerizes me. My missus prefers strawberry, so I haven't had a chocolate malt in several years. But tonight, this is for me. She can enjoy her lime drink while I am enraptured in mine.

My first sip is a flood of flavor and emotion. It is smooth and cold. First is the sweetness smashes into my palette and my eyebrows go up to the top of my head, followed by my eyeballs. As the sweet subsides, a savory/nutty flavor settles in the back of my tongue. It tastes like wealth. This is ecstasy. No WONDER I loved these for 20 years!

As the flavor from the first sip starts to fade, the memory washes in. Unregistered in my conscious self, I hear the grind and whirring of the blenders and other shake-making paraphernalia. Ice cream Mission Control is at full bore. Somewhere in the ether, there is a scratchy radio voice counting down until the moment the treat is launched to the customer and the team of non-rocket scientists cheer enthusiastically.

More mundanely, the spinning blades bring in a vision of sheetrock and routers cutting and punching for construction. I am carried back decades to when I made my living in construction and spent countless hours volunteering to restore storm damage and build houses of worship. But these power tools are not for a new building but for frozen dairy.

The wet-sloppy sound of the whipped cream squirting from an inverted canister. It just keeps going and keeps going. How much whipped did that customer order?

I hear a 13 year old boy or girl, hard to define with this one, tell mom, 'Watch how many pull-ups I can do.' And the child proceeds to do inverted pull-ups from a waist high bar. 12-13-14. The young person is tired now. Energy burned and in need of that incoming sugar fix. She/he is probably who all that whipped cream was for.

The door bell dings, ring-a-ding-dingle. Followed by a tepid 'welcome to braum's'.

Gladis, the manager isn't having it though.

'WHERE YA'LL AT?!' She says forcefully. Not yell, but determined authority.

Then all twenty employees in unison say with force, 'WELCOME TO BRAUM'S!'

This makes Gladis smile. She knows her new crew needs training but they'll get there.

My chocolate malt continues to thrill. But toward the end, I've had my fill. My golden god has been snatched from the pedestal, my silver I exchanged was the perfect balance. No death-stones descent to chase me from this fluorescent-lit cave and I do not have to utilize my whip to swing across a chasm of doom.

The sun is setting and though neither werewolves nor vampires will hunt us after dusk, a motorcycle isn't exactly a great place to be as the diminishing light confuses already distracted drivers. We decide it's time to call it a day and cruise home.

My wife notes the 2nd straw. 'Why two?' She says absentmindedly.

I shrug and throw away the line, 'Eh, you never know when you'll need to share.'

But tonight, it was two straws, one drinker. Farewell, Braum’s, and your irresistible malts — golden gods in paper cups.

---

#essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing #WYST #MEMR

---

2025-09-09 12:20:00

This afternoon I'll have game 3 of the 3-game series between the Baltimore Orioles and my Texas Rangers. The opening pitch for this game is set for 1:35 PM CDT. The Rangers have won the first 2 games of this series, let's hope for another win today. As I usually do, I'll follow the game's scores and stats in real time via MLB's Gameday Service where we can also find links to the radio-call of the game provided by announcers of either team we choose.

And the adventure continues.

Morning lacerates glib instincts with the reckless hollow of a vacant corridor. We walk in step with the silent syllables stranding us as survivors from a strangely productive and uncomplicated design.

Too thrilled to have neglected the intolerance of a gluttonous till, we remain blindsided of every course-corrected negligence. In fact, we have a peculiar pattern of peddling headfirst towards the worst-case expenditure with an infallible persistence.

I'd be petty if I demonstrated care. The dare has always been how we'll wear awareness when the inhibited inflate their preferred indignation and disgrace fealty with a platform staged to be stunning.

My feet drag against a well-timed send-off while you eagerly race towards an ill-groomed subjugation. The state of our nation brays, nonetheless.

Written August 9, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

Image

epigraph

Jump to: Link 01 | Link 02 | Link 03 | Link 04 | link 05 | Link0 6

sec01

Body

Link 01

---

Body

---

LInk 02

Body

---

Link 03

Body

---

Val's Brother

---

Link 04

---

Link 0 — Day 60

---

---

---

#deardiary

---

I’ve got the tasteof raspberries in my facial cavities still like a phantom scent or taste, like what happened last year with the smoked ham.

Sometimes I can sense one smell vividly and that’s what happened to the pie

The taste was intense and I have never tasted anything like it, it’s like the best taste I can remember ever having tasted, red

So I think what is happening is in the general absence of smell, to get one isolated like that is like lightning a candle in the blackened darkness.

the taste of course of red.

Notes towards an essay

All of my recently published essays have been identified by AI scanners as between 67% and 98% AI-generated.

I wrote my first published essay in 1965 and made my first documented contribution to public policy in 1969, in the United Kingdom, on the subject of arbitrary dismissal.

Since that time, my professional life has required that I write continually; essays, policy papers, reports, breifings, teaching materials & text books, letters, magazine features & jouralism, manuals and books

The suggestion that this work, or work emerging from the same habits and disciplines, is now classified as AI-generated is both curious and instructive. And even as I write this, I notice I can't help myself, but open this note with a tension. It's hard-wired. An immediate construction that emerges when my fingers connect with keys.

What's happening

I am told that as a practised writer, I may be triggering some of the same patterns that AI systems were trained to produce:

Clear, grammatical sentences with few mistakes. Consistent tone and structure throughout a piece. Balanced paragraph lengths. Predictable word choices rather than unusual or idiosyncratic phrasing. Explanatory writing that moves logically from point to point.

Apparently, and somewhat ironically, these are features that I strive for, I am after all addressing audiences that, for the most part, appreciate these things. These are features of good professional writing. And these are the very features that trigger the AI conclusion that I, or that my writing, is AI generated.

Thought: If I, and other writers, have been writing in roughly this manner for fifty, sixty years or more, and AI now writes in a similar manner, what is imitating whom?

Interim test.

So I took the seven paragraphs above, which I have written in the last five minutes or so, and ran them through the first free AI text detector that came up on bing; undetectable.ai . I did well and scored only 71% as AI drafted. Just Done gave me around 75% AI

The test assignment

Write an essay with three objectives:

1: Explain why my notebooks (like this one) are public. 2: Explain why I choose to use Write.as as my writing and publishing surface 3: Record the blogs and notebooks I maintain on Write.as and show how they link together, and how they link-in to my wider publication architecture.

Below I'm listing my structured notes that I will use to write the essay. Essentially I'll start with everything that occurs to me that I think is relevant. I will use the facility that Write.as affords me to edit and organize my notes as my thinking proceeds.

Structured Notes

I already have a notional structure in my head about the flow of the essay – the “publication architecture” as I call it.

I seem to be carrying an explanation of why the process of public thinking matters to me as an essayist. Write.as happens to be the tool.

I'm tempted to structure it around these questions: why I make my notes public / the open notebook concept why I want the foundations visible how my essays are the pursuit of understanding why write.as revision as navigation The notebooks/blogs as a defined appendix

Why I Write in Public

The discipline : People sometimes ask why so much of my writing appears in public notebooks rather than only in finished essays. The question assumes that the notebooks exist in order to reveal the process behind the essays. That is partly true. But disclosure is not the principal reason. Publishing notes is not an act of disclosure. It is an act of discipline.

Obligation : One of the most important lessons I learned from teaching is that public speech creates responsibility. The moment a statement enters the public domain, the person making that statement becomes accountable for it. That responsibility exists even when one is simply reporting the views of others...

If I write that the Environmental Party chooses to prioritise a particular issue, I remain accountable for whether I have represented that position fairly, accurately and honestly. Public communication imposes obligations.

It requires care not only in what is said but also in how it is said. A private note can remain vague. A public note demands greater precision. The audience may be large or small. There may be no audience at all. That is beside the point. Publication itself creates a standard to which the author must answer. The public note becomes a challenge: “Are you prepared to stand over this?”

Why the Foundations Matter

Many of my essays, reviews and policy pieces contain observations, interpretations and conclusions. Those observations emerge from somewhere. They arise from notebooks, fragments, field observations, discarded ideas, references, questions, conversations and research. Increasingly, I have felt that if the conclusions are visible, then at least some of their foundations should also be visible.

There is something almost contradictory about that. Foundations are usually hidden. Yet I find myself wanting to expose parts of the structure rather than conceal it. Not because I believe it to be beyond criticism. Almost the opposite. I want it to remain open to criticism. In a sense I am inviting the reader to become an editor and sub-editor peering over my shoulder. The notebooks are not merely supporting documents. They are part of the conversation. The reader is able to examine not only the finished essay but some of the path by which the essay emerged.

Essays and Understanding

I describe my essays as attempts at understanding rather than acts of advocacy. Advocacy begins with a destination. The essay begins with a question. Or a tension. Or a contradiction. Or an observation that refuses to go away.

My task is not primarily to persuade. My task is to understand. And to share that understaning. The closest I come to advocay is the pursuit of a shared understanding. If I claim that my essays pursue understanding rather than advocacy, then I should be accountable to that claim.

The notebooks help provide that accountability. They reveal whether I have genuinely followed the evidence. They reveal whether I have acknowledged ambiguity. They reveal whether reality persuaded me before I attempted to persuade the reader. If I claim merely to illuminate a tension, then I must be prepared to show how I arrived there. The notebooks become part of the discipline of intellectual honesty.

My View of Essay Writing

The essay is not journalism. Neither is it academic writing nor opinion. It is a mode of inquiry. The essay begins with a tension and follows that tension wherever it leads. The essayist starts not with a conclusion but with a problem. Through reflection, observation, research and writing, relationships previously hidden become visible.

The purpose of the essay is not necessarily resolution. Sometimes the deepest achievement of an essay is simply to reveal what is actually being argued about. Or what relationship has remained unseen. The essay is therefore a journey towards perception. Not toward persuasion.

Why Write.as?

The reasons are partly philosophical and partly practical. Write.as allows me to work almost anywhere. I can work from a phone while travelling. I can capture a thought before it disappears. I can draft a paragraph while waiting for a train or sitting in a harbour. Good sentences rarely arrive according to schedule. The platform accommodates that reality.

More importantly, Write.as has altered my relationship with composition. Years ago I would often compose large sections of text in my head before writing them down. The arrival of increasingly sophisticated software encouraged a different habit. Revision became too easy. Drafting became fragmented. Composition increasingly moved from the mind to the screen. Write.as on my phone, nudges me back towards mental composition. I find myself crafting paragraphs internally before typing them. It encourages me to think first and edit later.

The Freedom of Not Knowing

Perhaps the most important characteristic of Write.as is that a piece does not need to know what it is when it begins. I can sketch a structure anonymously. I can create an outline. I can develop an idea. I can begin writing without deciding where it belongs. Indeed, I can finish a piece before making any decision about what sort of piece it is.

Only afterwards do I decide whether it belongs in: • a notebook, • a field note, • a review, • a briefing, • a policy essay, • an essay collection, • or somewhere else entirely. There is enormous freedom in that. The classification follows the writing. The work discovers what it is before being assigned a home.

Publication Architecture

Part of this arises from the way I work. I sometimes think of myself not only as an essayist but as a publication architect. I am often interested in structures before I am interested in destinations. I want to understand the shape of an argument. The relationships between ideas. The route through a landscape.

Only later do I determine where a piece belongs. Write.as makes that possible. A piece can exist before its final form is known.

Revision

Revision occupies a different role in my work than it does for many writers. The important epistemological work often happens in the first draft. The writing itself generates understanding. Relationships emerge. Connections become visible. Assumptions reveal themselves. The first draft is frequently where discovery occurs.

Subsequent revision is something different. Less an act of knowing. More an act of navigation. Like choosing the best line through a bend on a favourite motorcycle. Or selecting the ideal moment to tack in a sailing race. The destination remains unchanged. The craft lies in finding the cleanest route.

The Open Notebook

The various notebooks and publications form something like an open notebook. Most websites display conclusions. These sites document parts of the process that precedes conclusions. Ideas begin as observations. Observations become notes. Notes become briefings. Briefings become essays. Essays become reviews, policy pieces or larger works. Not all observations become essays. Not all notes deserve publication beyond the notebook. Some remain exactly as they began. Yet together they document an attempt to understand rather than to persuade. Persuasion is left to the set of relationships between the revealed in the elements of the source material, and the reader

Appendix: The Write.as Publications

The Marshall Review (rvw.ie) The most polished publication in the network. Essays and reviews concerning culture, ideas, books, music and public life.

An Essayist's Notebook (esy.ie) Questions, fragments, observations and developing ideas. The closest thing to a public working notebook.

Field Notes (notes.marshall.ie) Research notes, sources, references and supporting material. An attempt to make visible some of the foundations from which essays emerge.

Radar Signals (signals.marshall.ie) Observations, anomalies, developments and emerging patterns whose significance may not yet be fully understood.

Briefing Insights (insights.marshall.ie) Short analytical briefings and concise explorations arising from ongoing inquiry.

The Marginalia of Sigi (sigi.ie) Annotations, side notes, reflections and intellectual wanderings that do not naturally belong elsewhere.

Wordpress & Substack

Marshall on Policy (plcy.ie) Essays and reflections dealing with governance, public policy and civic questions.

Ontology (ontology.marshall.ie) Explorations of meaning, relationships, categories and the structures through which ideas acquire significance.

The Writing Network Taken together, these sites function less as separate blogs than as different views of a single intellectual process. Some contain signals. Some contain research. Some contain questions. Some contain essays. All form part of the same endeavour: the attempt to understand the world through inquiry, and to conduct that inquiry in public

Stay entertained thanks to our Weekly Tracker giving you next week's Anticipated Movies & Shows, Most Watched & Returning Favorites, and Shows Changes & Popular Trailers.

Anticipated Movies

• Camp Rock 3
• The Brink of War
• ☆ The End of Oak Street
• The Rivals of Amziah King
• PAW Patrol: The Dino Movie

Anticipated Shows

• Moonshadow
• My Brilliant Career
• ☆ Lanterns

Returing Favorites

• ☆ Reacher — Season 4
• Tires — Season 3
• LINK CLICK — Season 4

Trending Shows Status Changes

• Life, Larry and the Pursuit of Unhappiness: An Almost History of America — Returning Series → Ended
• The Shards — Ended → Returning Series
• Our Sticky Love — Returning Series → Ended
• Muertos S.L. — Returning Series → Ended
• Star Wars: Visions Presents – The Ninth Jedi — In Production → Ended

Most Watched Movies this Week

• +1 Spider-Man: Brand New Day
• +1 Supergirl
• -2 Disclosure Day
• = The Odyssey
• +1 Obsession
• new Evil Dead Burn
• -2 Masters of the Universe
• new Spider-Man: No Way Home
• new The Devil Wears Prada 2
• -2 Backrooms

Most Watched Shows this Week

• = House of the Dragon
• = Silo
• new Ted Lasso
• new Lioness
• -1 Lucky
• -1 Star Trek: Strange New Worlds
• +1 Stuart Fails to Save the Universe
• -5 Rick and Morty
• -2 X-Men '97
• new Furious

Popular Trailers

• Watch at Home — Soulm8te
• Don't say we didn't warn you. — Ice Cream Man
• Dog Vision Trailer — PAW Patrol: The Dino Movie
• Forecast: 100% chance of falling. — Fall 2: Deadpoint
• Kiss your inhibitions goodbye. — Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma
• Tag who you are bringing to Oak Street. — The End of Oak Street
• Official Trailer — Primetime
• UK Official Trailer [ENG DUB] — Ramayana
• Final Trailer — Insidious: Out of the Further
• Caught in a web of love and appreciation — Spider-Man: Brand New Day

---

Hi, I’m Kevin 👋. Product Manager at Trakt and creator of Rippple. If you’d like to support what I'm building, you can download Rippple for Trakt, explore the open source project, or go Trakt VIP.

---