Reading Slump Over

This review includes references to sexual assault and human trafficking. It is #NSFW

Medium Used: 100% ebook

Ratings out of 5

Overall Rating:
💜💜💜 (3/5)

Sweetness Level:
🍫🍫 (2/5)

Steam Quality Level:
🔥🔥🔥🔥 (4/5)

Steam Quantity Level:
🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ (5/5)

FMC Likability:
😈😈😈 (3/5)

MMC Likability:
👨‍💼👨‍💼👨‍💼 (3/5)

Plot Engagement:
⛓️🔒 (2/5)

At least 1 bad dad (pass/fail):
💯 (pass)

Spoiler Free Review

Make Me, Sir is a spice heavy suspense romance. The female protagonist, Gabi, is an FBI social worker who volunteers to support an investigation by being a decoy (bait) for a human trafficker targeting bratty submissive at BDSM clubs in Tampa Bay, FL. Undercover, Gabi becomes the latest sub “trainee” at Tampa's premier lifestyle club, The Shadowlands. Unfortunately for Gabi, Trainees at the Shadowlands are instructed by Master Marcus, whose no bullshit tutelage makes being the worst behaved sub in the Shadowlands a bit of a challenge.

I liked this book, but I felt that it suffers from a problem a lot of books in this sub genre¹, the first half+ of the book is practically PWP² despite this the suspense/plot is enjoyable but more or less abandons the spice while the plot runs it course. It would have been a smoother read for me if it had been a bit more of a balance of a plot and spice throughout.

Overall it's a fairly decent read and one I'd recommend for people who particularly like high spice BDSM books with this dynamic. If you need a balance of plot and kink throughout or prefer love stories that aren't almost 100% set inside of a kink club there's probably better books to pick up.

^{1 what I'll call “dim” contemporary romance set in BDSM night clubs i.e. not quite “dark” contemporary romance
Plot? What Plot? https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/PWP}

What I liked about this book
* Spice had a solid variety of scenes. * This was part of a series but it actually did some scenes from the perspective of the MCs of an earlier book. This was done well, I didn't feel like i was missing much not having read the previous books but I also felt like the side character relationships were more meaningful with these other perspective scenes.
* Gabi is a Social Worker at the FBI not an agent/officer. It was cool how Sinclair made her skills as a social worker her strength in the investigation and the general “undercover” premise but with somebody who wasn't in law enforcement I found intriguing.

What I did not like about this book
* Early on Gabi's inner monologue keeps comparing Marcus to her dad. No Thanks!
* Dragged in the middle a bit.

Spoilers Review

Click to show Spoilers

What I liked Spoilers
* Sassy banter between Marcus and Gabi. Gabi learning she actually is sassy and Marcus learning he likes it worked for me. I could see them together and it made sense with their lives outside the club and backstories.
* Couple scenes where Gabi goes into Subspace and is then snuggled and they made me melt. So hot and romantic.
* Gabi is revealed to have been on the streets for a bit as a child and a pick pocket. This comes back around in the climax in a perfect way and I loved it. Kind of made it worse for me though that Sinclair didn't balance plot and smut pacing more. She can clearly weave a story.

What I didn't like Spoilers
* Awkwardly talking about BDSM kink in front of grandma and grandpa at lunch is not cute. No thanks. * Gabi volunteers to decoy because her friend was kidnapped. This book doesn't close that thread. Idk if later books do but wow, that really salts the HEA a bit.

This Book Reminded Me of:

• Natural Law by Joey W. Hill as it has a similar premise and setting.
• Servicing The Target by Cherise Sinclair which is also from this series.
  ^{Both of these have a dominant FMC and submissive MMC}
  

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The Sequels book take what the 1st built and deliver action packed, contemporary fantasies, with Veronica Mars meets X-Men vibes.

Content Warning: These books and this review include references to gun violence and car crashes.
This review is: #SFW

Medium Used:
* 80% paperback 20% audiobook via Hoopla {White Hot by Ilona Andrews}
* 100% paperback {Wildfire by Ilona Andrews}

Ratings out of 5

Overall Rating:
💜💜💜💜💜 (5/5) ¹

Sweetness Level:
🍫🍫🍫🍫 (4/5)

Steam Quality Level:
🔥🔥🔥🔥 (4/5)

Steam Quantity Level:
🌶️🌶️🌶️ (3/5)

FMC Likability:
🕵️🕵️🕵️🕵️🕵️ (5/5)

MMC Likability:
🐉🐉🐉🐉 (4/5)

Plot Engagement:
🔍🔍🔍🔍🔍(5/5)

At least 1 bad dad (pass/fail):
0️⃣ (fail)

BONUS audiobook narration:🔉🔉🔉🔉🔉

^{1 the rating I gave book 1 {Burn for Me by Ilona Andrews} was a 4/5 in 2022. I did not revisit it as part of reading the sequels.}

Spoiler Free Review of the first trilogy in the Hidden Legacy Series

Each book in Ilona Andrews' The Hidden Legacy series is an action/adventure mystery set in an alternative history modern day Houston. The first three books are told from the perspectives of Nevada Baylor, a mid twenties private investigator. In Nevada's world the most important part of the genetic lottery is magical prowess. The resulting society is a caste system based on the magical strengths of each family.

Nevada and her family get by in this society by keeping their heads down and their rare magics hidden. Nevada is the primary bread winner and does her best to follow a strict code in her work as a private investigator. Work that is widely aided by the fact that she is a human lie detector – an incredibly rare and feared form of magic.

In book one Nevada's work drags her into the world of Houston's upper elite. Here she encounters one of the most powerful mages in the world Connor 'Mad' Rogan. A war hero, telekinetic, billionaire who is a crazed paranoid asshole.

The first trilogy in Hidden Legacy is exactly the slow burn I prefer in a serialized romance story. Connor and Nevada's love develops over the three series with time passing on page. They face multiple external conflicts together that forces them to see the good and the bad in each other. It does not deliver the meltiest gush or the sweatiest spice but the raw chemistry (with plenty of sassing) that develops over the series places them among my favorite book couples.

At the end of the day, the number one thing that sets this series apart (particularly book 2 and book 3) is the quality of the plot, action, and humor. I did not want to put White Hot nor Wildfire down. Plenty of time is set aside to establish side characters and Nevada's relationships with them. The individual mysteries/client jobs Nevada works gives each book its own beginning, middle, and end but the trilogy also fits together as an overarching story.

** What I love about this trilogy**
* The side characters are all interesting and loveable in unique ways. Each character adds something to the world.
* The sass between Nevada and Connor is excellent through the whole series. They feel right for each other in so many ways.
* Action, mystery, sappy sweet scenes, and steamy tension with an unrushed payoff.

What I do not like about this trilogy
* Book 1 starts off with a bit of some odd vibes (see spoilers).
* The series shifts to other member's of Nevada's family after book 3. I haven't read anything but the transition Novella yet but I kind of love Nevada and am sad to have the story move on.
* There is an excessive amount of car violence / crashes. It does not bother me but I know people who this would be a massive deal breaker for who I'd otherwise like to recommend this series to.

Spoilers Review

Click to Review Spoilers

^{I decided to finish this review that I had started 2.5 months ago when I read White Hot and Wildfire these books so below spoiler section is lighter than my typical reviews.}

Some of my favorite parts of this trilogy.
* Anytime Nevada calls Rogan “Connor” when he is emotionally distraught or distant.
* “Love makes you helpless. You think about the object of your affection all the time. Your happiness or misery depends on another person’s mood. You give up all power over yourself, hand it to the person you love, and trust that they will be gentle with it.”

The Book 1 vibe that is my taste but I forgive because I love this trilogy.
* Connor kidnaps Nevada in the first book. Kidnapping is not endearing. I forgive him but I do not like this.

This Book Reminded Me of:

• Veronica Mars
  
• {Kate Daniels by Ilona Andrews} – same authors w/ similar action packed serial romance vibes.
  
  

Who should read this book?

I think most romance fans who like contemporary sci-fi/fantasy settings with lots of action will love this trilogy.

Get the books

Lord, thank you for giving me time to rest, worship you, and spend time with loved ones. Please give me your strength and wisdom as I continue to be the best husband and father you and St. Joseph want me to be. Amen.

#God #sunday #rest

There is a particular kind of pain that does not announce itself loudly. It does not always come with tears or dramatic breakdowns. It often shows up quietly, subtly, almost politely. You keep functioning. You keep working. You keep showing up. But somewhere along the way, you realize something has changed inside you. Not in a way you can easily explain. Not in a way you can point to with one clear moment or one clear cause. You just notice it one day, almost accidentally, when you catch your reflection or hear laughter around you and feel strangely disconnected from it. And the thought forms, not as a cry, but as a quiet confession: I have forgotten how to smile.

This realization can be more unsettling than obvious grief. When you are crying, at least you know you are hurting. When you are angry, at least you feel alive. But when you stop smiling, when joy feels distant or foreign, when even good moments fail to reach your heart, it can feel like something essential has gone missing. Not broken dramatically. Just… gone quiet. And many people carry this silently, because it feels difficult to explain without sounding ungrateful, dramatic, or spiritually weak. You may still believe in God. You may still pray. You may still show kindness to others. But internally, joy feels muted, like a song you used to know by heart that you can no longer remember the melody to.

One of the most important truths to understand in this place is that forgetting how to smile is not a spiritual failure. It is not proof that your faith is weak or that you have somehow disappointed God. It is often evidence of endurance. It is what happens when a person has been strong for too long without rest. When they have absorbed disappointment after disappointment without fully processing it. When they have kept going because stopping felt impossible. Smiles do not disappear because a person stops believing. They fade because the heart has been carrying weight for longer than it was designed to carry alone.

Scripture is surprisingly honest about this. The Bible does not present joy as a constant emotional state that faithful people maintain at all times. It presents joy as something God gives, something He restores, something that sometimes disappears for a season and then returns. David, a man described as being after God’s own heart, openly wrote about seasons where his soul felt crushed and his strength felt dried up. Jeremiah wept so deeply over the weight of what he carried that his sorrow became part of his identity. Elijah, after extraordinary demonstrations of God’s power, collapsed under despair and asked God to let him die. Even Jesus Himself was described as a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. These are not examples of weak faith. They are examples of honest humanity meeting a faithful God.

When someone says they have forgotten how to smile, what they are often saying is that they have been living in survival mode. Survival mode is not dramatic. It is practical. It focuses on getting through the day, meeting responsibilities, managing crises, protecting others, and keeping life moving forward. Survival mode does not leave much room for joy. It is not designed to. It prioritizes endurance over delight. And while survival mode can carry you through emergencies and seasons of intense pressure, it is not meant to be permanent. Over time, it dulls emotional range. It narrows focus. It quiets the parts of the soul that feel wonder, playfulness, and ease. Smiles are often one of the first casualties.

The danger is not that survival mode exists, but that many people never realize they are still living in it long after the original crisis has passed. The body keeps bracing. The mind stays alert. The heart remains guarded. And joy feels unsafe, unnecessary, or unreachable. In this state, smiling can feel like pretending. Laughter can feel out of place. Even moments that should bring happiness can feel strangely hollow. This can be confusing, especially for people of faith who expect joy to be a natural byproduct of belief. When it does not show up, shame often follows. People begin to ask themselves what is wrong with them instead of asking what they have been through.

God does not respond to this state with disappointment. He responds with nearness. Scripture repeatedly emphasizes that God draws close not to those who appear strong, but to those who are honest about their weakness. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” is not a poetic exaggeration. It is a description of how God positions Himself. Nearness is His first response. Not correction. Not pressure. Not demands to feel differently. Nearness. This matters, because healing does not begin with effort. It begins with safety.

Joy cannot be forced back into a guarded heart. Smiles do not return because someone tells themselves to be more grateful or tries harder to feel positive. Real joy grows in an environment of gentleness and patience. It grows when the nervous system begins to relax. When the soul realizes it is no longer alone. When the heart senses that it no longer has to hold everything together by itself. God understands this process because He designed us. He does not rush it. He does not shame it. He walks it with us.

One of the most misunderstood aspects of healing is the assumption that restoration looks like returning to who you were before the pain. Many people long to feel the way they used to feel, to smile the way they used to smile, to experience joy the way they once did. But God’s pattern of restoration is rarely a rewind. It is almost always a transformation. He does not simply give you back what you had. He gives you something deeper, stronger, and more resilient than before. The joy that returns after sorrow is not naïve joy. It is informed joy. It knows what loss feels like. It knows what endurance costs. And it is anchored not in circumstances, but in presence.

This is why the process often feels slow. God is not rushing you back to happiness. He is rebuilding your capacity to receive it. There is a difference. A heart that has been overwhelmed needs time to expand again. A soul that has been guarding itself needs repeated experiences of safety before it relaxes. God works in these small, quiet ways that are easy to overlook. A moment of calm you did not expect. A breath that feels deeper than the ones before it. A verse that suddenly feels personal instead of distant. A laugh that surprises you because you forgot you were capable of it. These are not random. They are signs of restoration beginning at the edges.

The return of a smile often starts long before the smile itself appears. It starts with reduced tension. With slightly better sleep. With moments of peace that last a few seconds longer than they used to. With the realization that the heaviness is not as constant as it once was. God rebuilds joy from the inside out, not the outside in. He does not paste a smile onto a hurting face. He heals the heart beneath it until the smile emerges naturally, without effort or performance.

There is also a profound spiritual truth in the fact that joy is described in Scripture as a fruit, not a command. Fruit grows. It develops over time. It responds to environment. It requires nourishment. You cannot yell at a tree and demand fruit. You cultivate the conditions that allow it to grow. God cultivates joy in us by providing love, presence, truth, and grace. Our role is not to force the outcome, but to remain connected to Him through the process. This connection does not require emotional enthusiasm. It requires honesty. God can work with honesty far more effectively than He can work with pretending.

Another important truth is that joy and sorrow are not opposites in the way we often assume. They can coexist. A person can still carry grief and yet smile again. They can remember pain without being consumed by it. They can feel sadness and hope in the same moment. Mature joy is not the absence of sorrow. It is the presence of God within it. This is why the return of a smile does not mean the past no longer matters. It means the past no longer controls the present.

For many people, the fear is not that they will never smile again, but that smiling again somehow betrays what they have been through. As if joy would minimize the pain, invalidate the struggle, or dishonor what was lost. God does not see it that way. In His eyes, restored joy is not denial. It is redemption. It is evidence that pain did not have the final word. That suffering did not get to define the rest of the story. That life, though wounded, was not destroyed.

When God restores joy, He often does so in ways that also make you more compassionate. People who have walked through seasons of quiet sorrow tend to notice others who are hurting. They recognize the absence of a smile in ways others miss. They become safer people, gentler people, more patient people. Their smiles, when they return, carry depth. They are not loud or performative. They are steady. Real. Grounded. They communicate understanding without words.

This is part of why God allows the process to take time. He is not only restoring you for your sake. He is shaping you into someone whose healing will eventually serve others. Your journey back to joy will become a source of hope for someone else who thinks they are alone in their quiet struggle. Your smile, when it returns, will not just be a personal victory. It will be a testimony that God does His best work in the long middle, not just in dramatic beginnings or sudden endings.

If you are in the place where smiling feels unfamiliar, it is important to know that God is not waiting for you on the other side of healing. He is with you in it. Right now. In the numbness. In the confusion. In the quiet. He is not standing at a finish line expecting you to arrive stronger. He is walking beside you, adjusting His pace to yours, carrying what you cannot. The absence of a smile does not mean His absence. Often, it is the very place where His presence is most active, though less obvious.

Healing rarely announces itself. It unfolds. It layers. It accumulates. One gentle moment at a time. And one day, without planning it, without forcing it, you will realize that something has shifted. You will catch yourself smiling at something small. Not because life is perfect. Not because all questions have been answered. But because hope has quietly returned. And when that happens, it will not feel fake. It will feel earned. It will feel honest. It will feel like grace.

And perhaps most importantly, you will realize that you did not forget how to smile forever. You were simply walking through a season where God was doing deeper work than surface joy. A season where He was strengthening roots, not displaying fruit. A season where survival gave way, slowly, to restoration. That season does not define you. It prepared you.

There is something sacred about the moment when a person realizes they are healing, not because the pain is gone, but because it no longer owns every thought. That realization often comes quietly. It does not arrive with celebration or clarity. It shows up as a subtle noticing. A little more air in the chest. A little less tension in the jaw. A little more patience with yourself than you had before. These are not small things. They are signs that the soul is beginning to trust again.

Trust is the hidden foundation of joy. When trust has been shaken—by loss, betrayal, exhaustion, or disappointment—the heart closes ranks. It becomes cautious. It learns to brace instead of receive. In that state, smiling can feel risky, as though joy might invite another blow. God understands this instinct. He does not criticize it. Instead, He slowly rebuilds trust by proving, over time, that He is gentle with wounded things. That He does not rush healing. That He does not demand emotional output on a schedule. That He stays consistent even when feelings fluctuate.

One of the reasons joy feels distant in seasons of deep weariness is that the soul has learned to equate joy with vulnerability. Smiling means opening. Laughing means relaxing. Enjoying a moment means letting your guard down. And when you have been hurt, guard-down moments can feel unsafe. God does not force those walls down. He waits until love makes them unnecessary. He shows Himself faithful in small, repeated ways until the heart realizes it does not need to protect itself quite so tightly anymore.

This is why so many people are surprised by how joy actually returns. They expect it to feel dramatic, overwhelming, or obvious. Instead, it feels almost ordinary. Natural. Unforced. It slips back in through everyday moments rather than spiritual milestones. It might arrive while making coffee in the morning, noticing the warmth of the mug in your hands. It might come during a quiet walk, when your shoulders drop without you realizing they were tense. It might surface during a conversation where you feel seen instead of managed. These moments matter. They are not distractions from healing. They are the evidence of it.

There is also an important distinction between happiness and joy that becomes clearer in these seasons. Happiness depends heavily on circumstances. Joy, in the biblical sense, is anchored in meaning, presence, and hope. Happiness says, “Things are good.” Joy says, “God is with me.” When someone forgets how to smile, it is often because happiness has been disrupted. Plans did not work out. Relationships changed. Dreams were delayed or lost. But joy, though quieter, remains available because it is not rooted in outcomes. It is rooted in connection. God restores joy by restoring connection—to Himself, to others, and eventually, to yourself.

Many people underestimate how disconnected they have become from their own inner life. Survival mode narrows attention outward. You focus on tasks, obligations, and needs. Over time, you stop checking in with your own emotions because there does not seem to be room for them. God gently reverses this process. He invites reflection. Stillness. Honest prayer that is less about words and more about presence. He allows feelings to surface that were previously suppressed because there was no space for them. This can feel uncomfortable at first. Even frightening. But it is necessary. You cannot heal what you do not allow yourself to feel.

God is patient with this unfolding. He does not rush emotional awareness. He creates safety first. He steadies the ground before inviting deeper exploration. And as you begin to feel again—sadness, relief, gratitude, longing—you also begin to regain access to joy. Smiling becomes possible not because pain disappears, but because emotions begin to flow again instead of remaining frozen.

There is also a moment, often overlooked, when a person must give themselves permission to smile again. Not permission from others. Permission from themselves. This is especially true for those who have experienced significant loss or long-term struggle. Somewhere inside, there can be an unspoken belief that smiling again means forgetting, minimizing, or betraying what mattered. God does not ask you to forget. He asks you to live. He does not ask you to erase the past. He redeems it. Smiling again is not an act of disrespect toward pain. It is an act of trust in God’s ability to bring life out of what was broken.

Scripture consistently frames restoration as something God does, not something we achieve. “He restores my soul” is not a metaphor for self-improvement. It is a declaration of divine action. Restoration is not a reward for endurance. It is a gift given to those who have been willing to keep walking, even when joy felt absent. God restores the soul gently, thoroughly, and personally. He does not follow formulas. He knows exactly where joy was lost and exactly how to lead you back to it.

One of the most beautiful aspects of restored joy is that it tends to be quieter than before. Less flashy. Less dependent on external validation. It is not the joy of excitement alone, but the joy of peace. The kind that does not need to announce itself. The kind that settles into the body and says, “You are safe now.” This joy does not disappear at the first sign of difficulty. It remains steady because it has already survived absence. It has been tested by silence. It has been rebuilt with intention.

When your smile returns—and it will—it may surprise you how different it feels. It will not be the smile of someone untouched by pain. It will be the smile of someone who has learned endurance, compassion, and patience. It will be the smile of someone who knows that feelings can ebb and flow without threatening identity. It will be the smile of someone who trusts God not because life is easy, but because He has proven Himself faithful in the hard parts.

This is why the season where the smile went quiet matters. It shaped depth. It cultivated empathy. It refined priorities. It stripped away illusions and replaced them with truth. God does not waste seasons like this. He uses them to form people who can carry joy without being crushed by it and carry sorrow without being defined by it.

If you are still in that season, still waiting, still wondering if joy will ever feel natural again, know this: the absence of a smile today does not predict the absence of joy tomorrow. Healing is already in motion, even if it feels invisible. God is already at work, even if progress feels slow. You are not behind. You are not failing. You are not forgotten. You are in process.

And one day, perhaps sooner than you expect, you will notice yourself smiling without effort. Not because you decided to. Not because you forced positivity. But because something inside you has softened, steadied, and opened again. That smile will be honest. It will be grounded. It will be evidence of grace. And when it appears, you will understand that you never truly forgot how to smile. You were simply learning how to survive without it until God could safely restore it.

That is not weakness. That is faith lived in real time.

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Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

#faith #healing #hope #christianencouragement #mentalhealthandfaith #spiritualgrowth #restoration #godisnear

GO HOOSIERS!

Listening now to B97 – The Home for IU Women's Basketball ahead of this afternoon's NCAA women's basketball game between the Western Carolina Catamounts and my Indiana Hoosiers. Yes, of course I'll try to stay here for the radio call of the game.

And the adventure continues.

[21.xii.25.b : dimanche / 27 November] Now (it seems) that V.W. & I are out of sync, this is my fault … what can she do about it? timing is (if not everything) of the essence :: or perhaps I could read her words differently. Oh yes ! reading & writing go on !! apace !!! but that’s not all !!!!

A few days ago, I unearthed from a pile of books next to my reading chair in my study the copy of Mysticism by Simon Critchley that I’d picked up on one of our tours to Beacon … it’s a most fascinating book and not at all what you’d think. Critchley dispenses with (dispels) misconceptions of mysticism, but also provides a hint about the production and dissemination of mystical literature. We moderns worship in the cult of the One Author Text, we believe in the pure authorized version, that authentic text and regard variants with contempt … when I say “we” I don’t mean me or you since we (you & I) are the sort of pirate readers who read with knives clenched between our teeth as we swing across to commandeer and bring back the booty. And here we are, back on Pirate Island with our loot, our treasure and we’re cutting it up, reassembling and like Brother Robin, good Sir Robin, we’re going to give it all to the poor. I couldn’t help but think of my little assembly line with the hot little Nova Letter buns popping off :: those maximally heterogeneous texts where anything goes and stuff the Reality Show rules, I don’t want any of those rules.

It’s true, maybe … or : almost certainly I am not a novelist or I’m a bad novelist in the spirit of Simon Critchley being a bad philosopher : we’re bad boys, yessiree ,,, why do we do it? Haven’t you noticed, we’re inventing a high-power, super-strength de-icing solution & we have to produce enough for mass distribution.

For this day, I wanted to implement swipe gestures to edit or delete a list entry. More complex than initially thought but doable within this day.

There were 3 packages to install: a gesture handle, an animation lib, and expo-haptics. After creating a swipeable row, I needed to implement the actions for edit and delete some hooks and was mostly done. After writing this all down, it sounds less complex than it felt when I implemented it. 😅

While testing the app, I saw a caching bug after switching users. User2 saw the data of User1 after a sign-out and new sign-in because the cache was not cleared on user change.

👋

---

79 of #100DaysToOffload
#log #AdventOfProgress
Thoughts?

I vinters fik jeg et job efter længere tids arbejdsløshed. I perioden op til havde jeg brugt meget energi på bare at holde mig kørende, på bare at komme ud af døren hver dag. På at lave den slags ting der fik mit liv til at minde om et normalt liv, hvad det så end er. Gå ned på biblioteket og kigge opgivende på jobnet.dk, og sådan lade som om jeg lavede noget den dag. Sandheder er at jeg ikke lavede så meget i løbet af dagen, og jeg havde heller ikke nogen penge til at gøre så meget om aftenen. Det var dog vigtig at opretholde sig selv, lære at spille rollen som produktiv og selvdisciplineret, hvis man nu skulle til jobsamtale. 

Det lykkedes efter lang tid, og jeg blev til sidst tilbudt et fast arbejde. Der var dog den detalje at jeg først skulle starte en halvanden måned frem i tiden. På det tidspunkt gav jeg slip. Jeg lod mit liv flyde som det nu ville, og stoppede med at lege at jeg var en initiativrig ung mand med smag på livet. Lige efter at jeg skrev under på kontrakten cyklede jeg ned og hentede en flaske cbd-olie i Klumbens butik på Jægersborggade, købte en kraftfuld computer på afbetaling og installerede computerspillet Baldur’s Gate 3.

1.

Der findes to grundlæggende måder at spille rollespil på. Det gælder lige meget om man spiller for sig selv med computeren, over bordet med sine venner eller noget helt tredje. Enten spiller man en anden end sig selv fordi rollespillet tillader en at træde ud af sin egen hverdag og slippe for at være sig selv. Man kan være et andet køn, en anden højde, have magiske kræfter, være et fantasivæsen, have andre holdningen eller være ond, hvor man i hverdagen prøver at være god. Men man kan også gøre det omvendte, nemlig at spille en karakter der er sig selv, eller i hvert fald en version af sig selv, men sat i en anden, fremmed verden. Man kan altså slippe for at forholde sig til sine omgivelser, sin kedelige hverdag og sin krops skavanker eller behov – eller sagt lidt mere positivt: man kan prøve at sætte sig selv i en ny, uvant position. Hvordan ville jeg handle hvis jeg kunne lave ildkugler ud af ingenting? Hvordan ville jeg håndtere at være lang stærkere eller lang svagere end jeg er nu? Hvordan vil jeg reagere hvis jeg skulle slå nogen ihjel i en uretfærdig krig? Og hvad med en retfærdig krig? Rollespil tillader en at opleve situationer man ellers ikke ville have oplevet, og skulle spille en rolle i et drama man ikke har i sit eget liv.

Baldur’s Gate 3 er, hvis man ikke kender det, en af de sidste par års mest prisbelønnede og populære computerspil, og det fremstår derfor i dag som et nyere hovedværk i rollespilsgenren. Spillet gør de fleste ting som andre rollespil gør, og så gør det nogle ting anderledes. Man starter meget hjemmevandt med at skulle lave en karakter. Jeg valgte mulighed nummer to og lavede en karakter der grunlæggende var mig selv. Eller i hvert fald valgte jeg en version af mig selv, da spillet ligesom mange andre spil i rollespilsgenren også har et stort element af kamp – af vold. Det er et helt centralt element at man skal slå nogle monstre – og nogle gang noget, som ikke er et monster – ihjel får at få experience points, så man kan komme videre i spillet. Jeg valgte derfor at spille en Barbarian fordi jeg skulle vælge mellem et udbud af forskellige måder at slå ihjel på. Man kan sætte sit eget præg på enormt meget i spillet, helt ned til størrelsen på ens pik, og i min version var det en barbar med en økse i hvert hånd, en hårdtpumpet brystkasse og den største tissemand, man kunne vælge. Det var ikke rigtig klart for mig på daværende tidspunkt, men i bagklogskabens lys er det tydeligt at jeg begærede det frigørende i at være en  handlekraftig fysisk supermand der ordnede sine problemer med ved at dual-wielde håndøkser. Det var en kontrast til mig eget livs fattige og smådeprimerede tilstand rammet ind af en dansk vinter i et betonhøjhus.

2.

Man kan sige, jeg derfor ikke rigtig spiller mig selv alligevel ved at være barbarian og slås med økser. Men det er lidt for simpel at se det sådan. Jeg lærte selv at den slags er temmelig kompliceret af at læse Søren Kierkegaard. I mange af sine tekster leger Kierkegaard med hvem han er ved at udgive dem under et andet navn, og i det hele taget at lave alle mulige meta-lag om at han slet ikke selv har skrevet teksten, men har fundet den inde i en hemmelig skuffe og den slags. I lang tid tænkte jeg at der var den rigtige Søren, og så var der alle pseudonymerne som var fiktive karakterer. Men i en en hans tekster, Sygdommen til døden, gav han mig nøglen til at se det på en anden måde. Han skriver om hvor svært det i virkeligheden er at være sig selv, og at det i virkeligheden er et grundvilkår ikke rigtig at være sig selv fordi man i stedet prøver at blive en anden. „Fortvivlelse“ over hhv. at være og ikke være sig selv kalder han det, fordi alting selvfølgelig skal være emo med ham. Jeg har altid forstået det sådan at man ikke bare er den man er lige nu, men samtidig er den man prøver at være. Eller i hvert fald er en person lige nu der prøver at blive noget andet. Det forklarer ret glimrende den særlige fortvivlelse der ligger i at være arbejdsløs: man prøver at være en anden – altså en fyr med et job – men det kan man ligesom ikke selv bestemme om man bliver. Man kan kun bestemme at man bliver en fyr uden et job der prøver at få et job, i stedet for en fyr uden et job der ikke rigtig prøver at få et job. For Kierkegaard betyder det at der ikke er nogen rigtig Søren Kierkegaard til forskel for hans falske maske – som eksempelvis karakteren Anti-Climacus, det navn han udgiver bogen under – i stedet er der en mand der er autentisk på sin egen underlige måde ved netop at være en weirdo der udgiver bøger under falske navne. 

Min erfaring med rollespil er at det siger utrolig meget om personer hvad de vælger at spille i den slags spil. Et fantastisk eksempel er Glenn Bech der skriver om sit forhold til to andre drenge fra sin skoleklasse. De både småmobber og er venner med ham på den måde man kan være det i folkeskolen hvor man tit er sammen med dem fra ens klasse bare fordi de går i klassen selvom man ikke nødvendigvis kan lide hinanden. Det bliver ekstremt præcist opsummeret i det faktum at Bech spillede Priest i World of Warcraft og dermed var healer for de to drenge han længtes efter at blive accepteret at. If you know you know. Selv spillede jeg dengang shaman, og jeg var en lidt verdensfjern teenager, mens jeg i dag søger en mere umiddelbart nærvær med verden – eksempelvis gennem den sport og den sanselighed, jeg ikke dyrkede som ung mand – hvilket indenfor en fantasy-verden tager form som det nærvær der er i at være en melee-class, altså en der slås med nærkampsvåben.

Samtidig er jeg typen der er fuldkommen klar over at øksen frem for sværdet er det mest almindelige krigsvåben i både vikingetiden og bronzealderen, og forholdet mellem sværdet og øksen som praktisk og symbolsk våben er noget som jeg tænker over ofte. Jeg synes ligesome mere at øksen er mit våben. Det skyldes at sværdet er aristokratiets våben, og at jeg for nuværende bekender mig til min families klasseidentifikation der af historiske årsager stadig får os til følelsesmæssigt identificere os med pjalteproletariatet. Hvis jeg vælger at have sværdet som mit våben, og at lave et sværd specc eller build, som man siger på jargon, så forræder jeg mit ophav for at rollespille et overklasseløg, og det er trods alt for langt ude. Så ville jeg ikke rollespille mig selv, men prøve at spille en anden. Det er derfor rigtig nok at jeg ikke er en mand der kan slås med økse, men det er til gengæld sandt at jeg er en mand der vælger at spille en mand der kan slås med økse.

3.

Aristoteles var – for nu kortvarigt at vende tilbage til filosofien – helt sikker en sværd-mand, det er jeg sikker på. Hans formentlig mest indflydelsesrige idé er at der er forskel på noget som er godt i sig selv, og noget som er godt for at opnår noget andet. Det første kalder man det etiske og det andet for det tekniske. Det er godt at være en god ven, og at have tekniske færdigheder som healer er godt fordi det hjælper en til at være der for sine venner inde i Azeroth. Derfor er der også to spørgsmål som enhver karakter – fiktiv eller virkelig – skal svare på: Hvad vil man opnå? og hvordan vil man opnå det? Det er de to spørgsmål som man svarer på når man først bygger sin rolle i rollespil og siden udspiller den.

Rollespil er i bund og grund et spil. Derfor bliver begge de to spørgsmål også bundet op på nogle spilelementer. Det vil sige nogle regler og nogle muligheder som spilleren vælger mellem. Det sker helt fra starten når man skal „bygge“ sin karakter. Her kan man vælge at have maksimum i styrke, men så skal man måske skrue lidt ned for sin visdom-score osv. Det handler om kompromiser og at satse på en bestemt strategi. Det med økserne er derfor lige så meget et teknisk anliggende, det er en strategi for at give meget skade i spillet. Fordi at jeg er en nogenlunde rutineret spiller ved jeg at jeg til gengæld for min relativt høje skade vil mangle andre aspekter som jeg siden skal prøve at dække ind. Som eksempelvis skade på afstand, healing og det man kalder crowd control, hvilket vil sige måder at kontrollere fjendens bevægelser eller helt uskadeliggøre dem.

Det er relativt nemt at gøre det tekniske spørgsmål til et spil. For du kan bare give point. Det er derfor man taler om en high-score. Hvis man klarer sige godt i et bestemt spil, eller bare en bestemt sekvens i et spil, så får man mange point, og hvis man klarer sig dårligere så får man færre. Det er det samme med alle spil. Hvis man spiller 500, så er det gode at få 500, og det hele handler så om hvem der er bedst til at få de 500. I rollespil er det som regel ret mange flere spilelementer til at gøre det spændende, men grundlæggende har man liv og skade, og så handler det om at give så meget skade at modstanderen mister alt sit liv før man selv mister sit.

Ser man på det moralske spørgsmål i stedet er det lidt mere kompliceret: Hvad er det for et gode jeg vil opnå? I tidligere spil har man lavet forskellige forsøg på også at gøre de moralske valg til et spil-element. Et eksempel er den populære spilserie Mass Effect der også er kendt for sin gode historiefortælling. Her får man får direkte feedback efter hver beslutning i form af forskellige point der repræsenterer ens rolles moralske dyd og karakter. 

Allerede da jeg skulle bygge min karakter – jeg endte med at kalde ham Hrodgar, den engelske måde at stave kong Roars navn – så opdagede jeg noget som jeg synes er meget afgørende. Baldur’s Gate 3 er ligesom 1’eren og 2’eren bygget på reglerne i Dungeons & Dragons, – det spil der egentlig bare er hvad de fleste forbinder med rollespil i dag – og her skal man nødvendigvis vælge om man er god, ond eller den mystiske „neutral“, og det gør man ved at udfylde et skema over sin karakters alignment. Selvom man kan vælge at ignorere det, så er dette bygget ind i spillets regler, og det er mod reglerne at lade skemaet stå tomt. Konsekvensen af ens valg er at nogle magier kun viker på gode mennesker og andre kun på onde. Man kan eksempelvis spille Paladin, og så får man magien Smite Evil der giver ens våben +1 damage pr. level man er. Det virker dog kun på mostre eller andre spillere hvis alignment er evil. Det interessant fordi det er et tydeligt eksempel på hvordan man i rollespil må blande spillets regler og ens karakterudvikling sammen. Men det er også super vigtigt for det helt overordnet betyder at i spillets univers findes det gode og det onde som virkeligt eksisterende størrelser. Dette er ond og god i en fuldstændig klassisk forstand, moral som vi kender det fra eventyr, heltesagn og den kristen kirke. Det er middelalderends metafysiske verdensbillede. Det onde er eksisterer som ting i verden, og man kan møde dem hvis man er uheldig. Det kan virke lidt fjernt for os i dag hvor moralen er blevet moderne, men tidligere fandtes det onde og det gode rent faktisk i verden. Djævlen fandtes og han tog bolig i dig, hvis du gjorde det onde.

4.

I sit værk Moralens Oprindelse giver Nietzsche en historisk forklaring af den kristne moral. Sagt lidt forkortet handler det om at de første kristne har en slavementalitet der siden udvikler sig til den kristne moral med sine påbud og selvbegrænsninger. Det er Nietzsche ked af fordi han er besat af tanken om den store mand, og han bliver holdt tilbage af den kristne slavemorals begrænsninger. Den forklaring giver jeg ikke så meget for, da den ikke er historisk korrekt og ikke forklarer særligt meget. Det spændende – og revolutionerende – ved spørgsmålet om moralens oprindelse er derfor heller ikke Nietzsches forklaring, men selve det at man overhovedet kan give en historisk forklaring af moralens udvikling. Det betyder at man efter Nietzsche kan forstå moral som noget der passer til den verden og de historiske tilfældigheder som nu en gang har er indtruffet, og at moralen derfor kunne have været anderledes. Moralen er et historisk kontingent fænomen. Det er i modsætning til den kristne moral der er uforanderlig fordi den er givet af gud en gang for alle. 

Da rollespil kom frem i 80’erne var mange kristne oprørte og skræmte over at der var dæmoner, djævle og den slags med, og det skræmte dem. Hvis de havde slappet lidt af og prøvet at spille med ville de måske have forstået at spillets moralske univers er et godt gammeldags kristent univers. Der er det gode og det onde, og de to ting kan ikke bytte plads, som nok ville være normalt i en mere moderne fortælling. Det er vitterligt umuligt at være en god dæmon eller heks efter spillets regler. Derfor har spillet i mine øjne også den omvendte effekt af hvad konservative frygter: det er i grunden et ekstremt konservativt spil fordi det gode og det onde er to virkelige og uforanderlige størrelser. Det er selvfølgeligt ekstremt gammeldags og det har altid givet problemer for dem som spiller fordi rollespillere ofte har været mere progressive end gennemsnittet, mens de har spillet et spil som er mere konservativt end vores moderne moral.

Derfor har det med alignment altid været et problem for Dungeons & Dragons fordi der ikke er nogen forklaring på det gode og det onde inde i selve spillet. Der er en forklaring på nærmest alt andet: hvorfor man kan lave fireballs bliver forklaret, hvor goblins kommer fra bliver forklaret og så videre og så videre, men ikke det gode og det onde. Man skal altså gøre det gode eller gøre det onde i en verden hvor moralen ikke passer til denne verden fordi den i virkeligheden kommer fra vores egen verden, hvor der ikke er fireballs og goblins. Det gode og det onde er noget som bryder den fjerde væg fordi det refererer ud af selve universet og tilbage til vores egen verden – og det er et problem i vores egen verden fordi det låser os spillere i en fast opdeling mellem det gode og onde som vi normalt afviser, da det er de færreste som i dag mener at der rent faktisk findes rent gode og onde mennesker. Det er derfor nyskabende at man Baldur’s Gate ikke skal vælge alignment når man bygger sin karakter, man skal ikke udfylde et skema over om man er god eller ond.

Lidt mere overordnet kan man sige at det er et af flere elementer som gør spillet til et kulturkritisk kunstværk. Meget det samme sker med kønsspørgsmålet da man ikke specifikt skal vælge om man er mand eller kvinde hvilket skriver det ind i en tradition for normkritisk kunst. Det er en form for dekonstruktion af dualismen god-ond der tvinger spilleren til ikke at tænke „hvad er det gode at gøre her?“ eller „hvad er det onde at gøre her?“, men i stedet at tænkte „hvad ville min rolle vælge her?“. Man er tvunget til at stå på egne ben og ikke tage sine valg ud fra sikre moralske foreskrifter. Det er på sin vis frisættende for rollespilleren, for man er mindre begrænset i sin fantasi, men samtidig bliver det en udfordring fordi regler er med til at give tingene mening og struktur.

Giver det hele mening? Dette er første af to dele af en tekst om Baldur’s Gate 3. Den næste del kommer snart her på bloggen. Du kan finde den i oversigten på forsiden, som du finder ved at trykke på “intueor”-logoet. Du kan også modtage den ved at skrive dig op med email.

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Cuatro herederos, el albacea, una mujer traicionada, un fantasma desesperado y la voz dentro de un cristal maldito. Todos ellos se juntan para pasar una noche tan horrorosa como entretenida.

Apta para ser jugada en una mesa de juego o como rol en vivo, en Círculo íntimo vuelan los cuchillos, el veneno y los esqueletos.

Desde un comienzo misterioso hasta un final apocalíptico, esta aventura incluye historia previa del señor La Croix, hojas de personaje con la opinión que tienen unos de otros, ayudas de juego, mapas de planta y transversal, y consejos para anfitriones.

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

• Father Mother Sister Brother
• The Plague
• ☆ Anaconda
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• Out of the Shadows
• Made in Korea
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Returing Favorites

• ☆ Shoresy — Season 5

Trending Shows Status Changes

• The Last Frontier — Returning Series → Canceled
• Ranma1/2 — Returning Series → Ended

Most Watched Movies this Week

• +1 Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery
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• new Now You See Me: Now You Don't
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• new Avatar: Fire and Ash
• -1 One Battle After Another
• -6 TRON: Ares
• -4 Hunting Season

Most Watched Shows this Week

• = Pluribus
• +2 IT: Welcome to Derry
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• new Fallout
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• = Tracker
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• -4 South Park
• -2 FBI

Popular Trailers

• he's got a point. — Ella McCay
• Season Two – This Season On — Fallout
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I just keep hearing the music in my head. I know that I’m going to smoke the fuck out of her on this christmas present. I just want to make her happy.

pensó que la carne era dulce / dulce y fresca como gotas de miel y rocío pero cuando la telaraña del sufrimiento lo atrapó aunque quiso seguir volando no pudo

We don't open for visitors until two, they said.

So I wait.

Counting the minutes in the long corridor framed by windows like a cloistered passage, dappled light falling onto the old Linoleum floor through tinted glass in uniform increments.

Others wait too; checking their watches, their phones, swallowing hard against the immensity of what's to come. For the man stood beside me, his eyes so heavy and tired, it triggered an anxious dance. Rhythmically shifting his weight from one foot to the other; a silent shuffle soundtracked by the clatter of porters and the mundanity of passing visitors.

For us, waiting to enter the solemnity of the ward, there is no chat, no small talk, no smiles. Just the impatient beat of our hearts

The future does not exist beyond these walls.

There is only now, only the corridor, only the waiting.

At two, we file in silently.

Our anxious chorus removed our coats, hanging them on worn metal pegs, shedding our outside skins. We take our turn to wash our hands in the tiny sink, scrubbing away the germs in a miniature font of cleanliness; the ritual to allow us to cross the threshold. We dry our hands on blue paper towels. Each of us, in turn, realising our hands are shaking. A faint tremor of uncertainty and expectation, our bodies betraying us.

Your surgery took ten hours.

They removed so much.

They hollowed you out. Taking the core of you, the private geography of your body, repositioning what remained. But they also took the tumour and lymph nodes. The silent malignancy that survived the sustained attack from prescribed chemical and radioactive warfare. Weakened by it, but stubbornly refusing surrender, despite the onslaught.

The surgery went on far longer than they expected.

They needed four, separate surgical teams.

You lost so much blood.

Your body giving way under the knives and sutures, as if you were being unmade and remade all at once.

I kept ringing the hospital for an update, listening to that endless dial tone.

“Call again in an hour,” they said.

And when I did, “call again in an hour,” came their response. Time slowed to a crawl, it became thick and viscous, something to wade through. Each minute stretched thin as gauze.

When we were finally able to speak on the phone, as you came around in recovery, it sounded like we were talking between universes. The delay on the line insurmountable, our words traveling through deep space. Your mind, warped and distorted from the drugs, attempted to make sense of what I was asking, what I needed to tell you. That I love you with every fibre of my being. But few words came back, bent by morphine and trauma into something unrecognisable.

I pull the elastic straps over my head and lift the blue and white mask to cover my nose and mouth. My hot breath steaming my glasses, fogging the world.

A nurse buzzes me in.

The critical care ward is a square room, beds against the walls like watchmen standing vigil. In the centre, a nursing station that looks like a manager's desk in that call centre we used to work in years ago; the mundane machinery for the management of miracles. The nurses hum around the room, busy as worker bees tending to their helpless hive, moving with such practiced grace between the monitors, the computers and the resting bodies.

The lighting is dim here. The world outside has been softened to a barely a hush and brightness would be an unwelcome intrusion.

And there you are.

In the corner of the room, covered in wires and tubes, surrounded by monitoring equipment that beeps, chimes and buzzes. A drip feeds you with water, a drain carries it away; the ins and outs of staying alive, laid bare.

You look small, like a sleeping child, your body diminished by the violence it has endured.

The relief of seeing you, so fragile yet so resilient, expands in my chest like the first vital breath after resurfacing from deep water.

I rub your hand, your fingers dry as old paper. You stir and look at me, smiling through the fentanyl-laced fog. We barely speak, our eyes deciphering the code, reading each other in the language we've spoken for years.

It really is you.

The man in the next bed is a talker. He fills the silence with words, because silence is where his fear lives. A nurse fills a chipped and scratched beaker with water. “I hope it's gin and tonic,” he says. Again. The nurse musters a smile, kind but tired. She tells him to drink, that he's been through a lot.

He talks to avoid the caller on his internal other line. It is the caller that brought him here, the caller that waits in the pauses between his sentences.

Your physio arrives.

She wants to get you moving, less than a day after they took away so much. They help you to your feet, another nurse carrying a heavy shoulder bag of fabric covered equipment, its wires coming from your chest like the strings on a marionette. I carry bags of urine, bags of blood and liquids draining from your wounds; the very viscera of your survival.

You shuffle slowly around the quad of beds, like a slow motion Great Court Run at Trinity College, each step a Pyrrhic victory against the pain. It's an ultramarathon done in five minutes.

Exhausted by your efforts, they help you back into bed, sending chills through me as your face contorts with every turn and twitch.

I want to take this pain from you.

I want to carry it myself.

A woman comes in with a dog, leading him to a bedside already surrounded by weeping relatives, a gathering of witnesses.

“They allow pets?” you ask, your voice filled with wonder. “You could bring Sid to see me!”

I think they're saying goodbye, I reply, my voice breaking as I absorb the magnitude of the conclave. Love made truly visible only in the presence of the whole family. A curtain is closed.

This is not a moment for us. But for them.

The next day, everyone in and around the bay is gone, replaced by a elderly woman lost in a dreamless sleep; the players reset, the drama continuing.

I offer you water but you struggle to swallow, your lips chapped from hours without so much as a sip. Even drinking now requires negotiation with your body.

You're so tired, you tell me, in a voice barely above a whisper.

I hold your hand, and softly stroke your hair as you drift back to sleep.

I bring our arms together, skin to skin, the contact we both crave. The words that were pushed into our skin just the week before, small black letters, speaking the wor

ds we are both unable to say: this too shall pass.

And I believe it.

I have to believe it.

JOURNAL 21 décembre 2025

Ça y est, on va monter dans la camionnette du konbini ! Elle est prête avec les chaînes. Il y a beaucoup de neige, peut-être qu’on devra finir à pied en raquettes. Ha ha c’est l'aventure ! On va essayer d'arriver avant la nuit, il y a pas de lune, de toute façon trop de nuages, peut-être pas de réseau partout à cause de la neige. On est super heureuses, ici on respire pureté et liberté. On y va ! . . .

Il neige. On s'arrête là, le chauffeur craint de pas pouvoir redescendre. Il va faire nuit. On connaît le chemin. On a une heure de marche environ. On est bien équipées, on arrivera pour dîner. Tadaaaa c’est l'aventure… . . .

On est dans notre chambre on a déballé nos sacs avant le bain, je vous raconte un peu. On s'est levées à 6 h ce matin on avait mis le réveil, une bonne douche et petit dèj plus préparer les bento et en route. métro train changement train jouet On roule dans la neige, c'est tellement beau. On monte au milieu des forêts blanches. On arrive finalement au village vers 15 h. La camionnette ne pouvait pas partir tout de suite, il fallait mettre les chaînes pour monter. Finalement la neige s'est mise à tomber à peu près au milieu du trajet, on a fini à pied en raquettes sous la neige et la nuit est arrivée. C’est pas vraiment la nuit tout de suite dans la neige, il y a comme une clarté au sol. On connaît le chemin même si la route est couverte de neige, on suit bien le tracé. On a des lampes frontales de toutes façons, mais on les a à peine allumées. La lumière des voyageurs était visible de loin ça nous a guidées. On est arrivées pour la soupe !

Olala les effusions ! Mamie et papi ne nous attendaient plus, ils pensaient que vu le temps on resterait dormir en bas. Il y a trois clients venus pour le ski de fond. Alors c'était la fête trop d'affection ici On a offert les petits cadeaux. On était couvertes de neige, comme des ours ! On s’est fait gentiment gronder, forcément, puis honshu¹ bien chaud avant de passer à table.

¹ honshu ou nihon shu : le nom du sake… quand on le boit

On est super heureuses, ici c’est la vraie vie. On a dormi dans le premier train alors pas trop fatiguées. On va maintenant se faire ce dont on rêvait depuis des mois : onsen privé sous la neige comme les singes du hokkaidô !

J'ai pas pu me revoir cette nuit du hokkaidô où je voulais me coucher pour toujours dans la neige. Cette fois j’ai pas eu les pieds gelés mais c’est redoutable ces souvenirs. J’ai failli y croire puis j'ai senti la main de A dans la mienne et je suis revenue. Faut que je fasse gaffe. La marche comme ça dans la neige, la nuit, c’est hypnotique vous savez ?

On a passé les yukata et les haori doublés on va au bain…

. . .

On a regardé la neige tomber dans la vapeur du onsen en rêvant d’une autre vie ici, c'est génial. Juste la lumière de la petite lampe au pétrole pour percer la nuit, on s'est presque endormies. On n’a même pas froid quand on sort de l'eau, c’est dingue. On s'est frottées de neige pour faire une jolie peau. On riait comme des enfants, heureusement le bain est un peu à l'écart, pas la peine de réveiller tout le monde.

On est les dernières couchées, maintenant dodo. Demain on déneige les toits.

WE are alone in the hotel lobby, drinking coffee with the dogs, although they are not drinking coffee, only my wife and I.

Outside, the black sky is full of stars, because this is the darkest day.

We’d just been out with the dogs in this quaint little town with its wooden houses and cobbled streets, even in the darkness this is an ideal place to shoot some children’s show, like you would expect to see Pippi Longstocking out there, except the streets were empty. Not even a car could be heard.

The hotel is mostly vacant, like in a dream or something, but there are other people here, because the tiered stand, which yesterday was full of homemade candy now stands empty; in fact I ate the last one yesterday on my way back from my yearly meeting with my father in an Indian themed restaurant which played classical music.

He said he had the best day in decades and that was a fine thing to hear.

To my left is a big Christmas tree.

I am really feeling it.

The darkest day of the darkest year in a long time of my life, my family’s too.

It felt like this is the turning point.

I am pretty sure it is.