from bios

Reactionary Reviews ​| Variasies Op ‘n Tema | Dir: Jason Jacobs & Devon Delmar

Variasies toes a line between elegiac and pretentious, and pulls off this high wire act by not resorting to hand-wringing, moving to a subtle, soul-shifting gestalt.

Does Variasies have flaws? Do the non-professional cast sometimes deliver a clunker? Does the script sometimes lack nuance? None of these so very few moments detract from the slow build toward an inevitable moment. There is no conclusion, merely acceptance. Variasies does not end, you carry it out of the cinema with you.

Revolving around the descendants of a WW2 soldier, paid only with a boots and a bicycle, who returned to tend his goats – the theme is simply the mirage of hope. Never mired in moralizing, it simply lays bare the daily rhythm of a small town in a sparse landscape.

As an ageing goat herd still tending her father’s flock, Hettie has grown accustomed to isolation, her family is coming to visit, the neighbours and town’s folk are expecting a pay out from the government for the sacrifices of their forebears. Nothing happens. Everything happens. A menacing foreboding signalling nothing.

Drawn from narrator and co-director Jason Jacobs’ family history and the current anxieties of the community, and starring members of that community, including his grandmother Hettie (her debut at age 80) as Hettie the daughter of the WW2 soldier – Variasies is a slow burn of naturalism in the most acute sense.

Soft spoken suiwer cadences from the edge of the Kharkams whisper the narrative along in observation. Rendered in a palette synchronic of the dry north, resplendent in slow detail, lyrical in it’s silences. Variasies is a beauty hard to look at, lush with minor heartbreak. Cinema of this delicate magnitude is a grief and a joy.

 
Read more...

from Faucet Repair

16 May 2026

Saw the Duchamp show at MoMA while I was in New York. Master puppeteer, seems like he operated with such an unfathomably wide top-down view of his context that he transcended it entirely. A pretty amazing feeling to walk chronologically through the unmatchably rigorous, curious, and poetic path he charted. I got the sense that his constant iterating on the forms he obsessed over was his way of rotating them around a kind of internalized examination axis to spatially project and then destabilize their measurable characteristics. Which generated a metaphysical language that allowed him to endlessly probe how objects relate to each other and to us as seeing and sensing bodies. In space, in time, in the imagination. And that language, seen in its entirety, felt surprisingly generous. I think because it was always pointed inward. Used to satisfy something that may have manifested as a disruption because of how original it was, but was meant to expand rather than sabotage. That's a long way of saying he was ahead of his time and was graceful in proving/sharing that.

Some personal favorite moments: one of his small Rotoreliefs—cerulean blue/white/a kind of tangerine orange, the central form a hook-shaped line-drawn half light bulb with dashes shooting off of it as implied light rays. Delicate, alive, absent of the thing it represents yet conjuring it all the same. And a 1956 small ink drawing of a jacket on two pieces of what looked like transparent tracing paper, his tiny handwritten name on the topmost piece floating over the space representing where the name tag would be on the bottom piece. The inner lining of the jacket represented by grids drawn on to that same bottom layer—simple suspension, non-duality in one choice. To say nothing of the Swift Nudes (escaping, illuminating, darting, receding). The dynamism exceeded my expectations, and they were lofty.

 
Read more...

from Faucet Repair

14 May 2026

Paul Thek @ Galerie Buchholz (NY): didn't get to make the big Pace show because it wasn't open on the one day I had free to walk around, but I'm guessing it had the lion's share of the good stuff. Even so, it was worth seeing for the new-to-me 1973 series of collaborative collages he made with Ann Wilson. I believe there were five of them, each organized around a central triangle shape. One filled with a cloudy blue sky that bled into a bird form, another filled with gold leaf, another framing a sea horizon. Diaristic in approach and feeling, lyrics (Beatles) and sections of religious texts scrawled along the edges of the triangles or floating around them, line drawings of animals cut out and dropped in here and there (a sheep with the words “kiss me” next to its face). Refreshing in its playfulness, a collaborative game. Felt like two friends trying to out-mantra each other. Perhaps they resonated with me because of the “inscrutable spiritual symbol” stuff I've been trying my hand at (as described by Jonathan). Also enjoyed the two 1975 “Untitled (Grapes)” newspaper paintings. Done seemingly so “correctly” (and directly), but handled with such an abundant and loose hand that they break down in the good way on close inspection. In one of them, a moment where the thick green vine squiggles part like curtains to reveal a shape that looks like a curling cartoon shrub underneath.

 
Read more...

from Rooted and Growing in the Ozarks

Ozark Heritage Botanicals is located in Ozark County and specializes in native, medicinal, herbal, and heirloom plants that grow in our bioregion. I offer a weekly pick-up in Ava on Wednesdays at Living Lands Collective on the town square, and we can be found at various fairs and markets around the Ozarks. Plants can also be picked up by appointment from our nursery or Flotsam Farm.

Natives ...

Elderberry, Mulberry cuttings, Witch hazel, Sassafras, Gooseberry, Dewberry, Pasture rose, Prickly Pear Cactus, Wild ginger, Sochan, Yarrow, Monarda, Jacob’s ladder, Birds foot violet, Blue violet, Virginia water leaf, Stonecrop, Ozark spiderwort, Green dragon, Passionflower

Herbs ...

Ginger, Chamomile, Culinary sage, Hyssop, Anise hyssop, Zaatar, Oregano, Marjoram, Thyme, Creeping thyme, Calendula, Dagga, Mugwort, Motherwort, Lemon bee balm, Lemon balm, Hops vine, Horseradish, Comfrey, Aloe vera, Walking onions, Catnip, Apple mint, Sunchoke

Other ...

European Elderberry, Red thornless raspberry, Fall gold raspberry, Kiowa blackberry, Triple crown blackberry, Goji, Ozark beauty strawberry, Peony, Hens n chicks, Alyssum, Trifoliate lime tree

 
Read more... Discuss...

from Rooted and Growing in the Ozarks

Corn has long been an essential staple crop grown by tribes, settlers, and people in the Ozarks bioregion providing sustenance, nutrition, and building community. Last year at Flotsam Farm we grew about 1/8 acre of Ozark Gourdseed corn, alongside beans and squash in a 3 sisters patch. The corn and beans came from Richard of East Wind Community in Ozark county where it has been grown and saved for several years, and the squash is a grew variety that Wren Haffner has been working with in her Moschata breeding project.

We had the incredible opportunity to grind our corn at Topaz Mill, a local spring-powered grist mill in Douglas County. This mill is maintained and fully operational thanks to Joe Bob O’Neal and his wife Betsy, Joe Bob’s uncle Joe, and the folks who came before them. It is powered by a spring onsite that gushes out a million gallons of water a day and is channeled through a raceway which runs the mill when the channels are opened. We took almost one bushel, or 52 pounds of corn kernels, and we got about 41 pounds of cornmeal and 11 pounds of grits.

From growing the corn together, to harvesting, to shucking and shelling the corn off the cob s during a Sycamore Salon, and then ultimately grinding our homegrown corn into cornmeal, this was a truly epic community building experience.

Topaz Mill will be hosting a corn grinding event with us this year – , and there is still time to plant your corn and share in the fun and bounty with us!! If you are interested in growing Ozark Gourdseed corn, we can provide you with seeds. You are also welcome to grow another variety of flour corn and bring it to the event to get it ground, too! Email me at dezdino@protonmail.com for more info.

originally published in The Ozarks Agrarian News as Growing Corn in the Ozarks, #60 Winter Solstice 2025, with edits and additions

 
Read more... Discuss...

from bios

9: Life On Life’s Terms

He leaves the rehab fat and full of confidence. He is afraid of disappointing his mother. Glowing complexion, new clothes from the outside, and a shrug, happy to be clean, out the rusty gate, under the wide sky. Three months later he returns unrecognisable. Thin, more teeth gone, and a homeless tan, dark burnt by the sun.

He leaves the rehab to return to one or two places, his mother’s – but she drinks. People, places, things. Or his brother’s – who smokes. The brother promises not to tempt him.

His brother’s place is Netflix and time, and egg sandwiches. Or scrambled egg on toast. Or fried eggs. He waits for his ID to get his driver’s so he can start to look for work. Sometimes just toast. It’s the boredom that gets him. The inability to imagine any sort of life within his grasp. An endless stream of Netflix and toast, an anomie of aspiration and not-having, the salve of opiates waits in the next room.

One week later they have sold their uncle’s flatscreen and are spinning for food, to trade for nyaope, outside the Spar in Melville. It’s when the Spar closes down that they start to run out of options.

And so they, the brothers, book back in, for another year. Into a place where the only future one is able to imagine rests in doing the right thing... everything will turn out. There is no skills training, no way to reach for actual purpose, no path to concretely doing the right thing.

Once a friend came to me after he had witnessed his first overdose, her slack body in his doorway, sat up still waiting. He had been out looking for her. She had been waiting. “People don't change”, he says, “unless they have to choose between staying the same, or death, and then they realise too late”.

Rat Park, an experiment in the late seventies. Kept In isolation, given a choice between morphine laced water and plain, rats mostly chose the morphine. Rats in a well stimulated social environment with other rats, enough food, space, play things, were given the same choice and by and large preferred the plain water. Rats, addicted, in isolation previously when moved into the socially functioning environment, mostly switched over slowly to plain water.

Nestled close to the train station bridge in Observatory, literal rainbows painted on the exterior of the house, met outside by the woman who ran the place, Rainbow House halfway house seemed a good alternative to the YMCA, where dealers roamed the street opposite the entrance.

There were signs. The meeting was outside on a bench, no tour. She asked for the money as a cash send and immediately dispatched someone with it to “go see Bennie”, she dropped the phrase “a wet house” casually into conversation.

The fading schedules on the common room walls, the occasional still stuck poster promoting the steps, were the only interior signs that Rainbow House had once been a halfway house, funded, with staff, counsellors, a cook, a manager, and a skills development program. Now all ripped wiring, stripped plumbing, and the smell of no laundry.

The funding gone, along with all signs of hope. There were no NA meetings, no-one came to discuss up-skilling or grants or… No-one came. Occasionally a woman claiming to the landlord tries to evict everyone – drug paraphernalia is hidden, everyone on their best behaviour.

It took three weeks after the funding evaporated for the staff to abandon the building. It took less before people started using to fill in the gaps left by meals, therapy sessions, meetings, classes, promise. A society disturbed by some painful crisis. First the stove and the fixtures went. But the addicts maintained a gas stove and meals were at least still served, frugal, desperate, but meals, maize and vegetable donations from the local shops.

The copper wiring started to go, the fridges long gone, the taps, the doors.

Wednesday was the mines, everyone out at 6am to scour the garbage bins left out in the suburban streets for anything of value. Every other day was plan making and petty theft of each other’s made plans.

Across the road there is an open space, some people living there off car guarding and minor dealing, the loss of daily structure and the proximity to access to meth, nyaope… it wasn’t ever going to take long.

There was a pit-bull, there is always a pit-bull, who would escape into the neighbour's garden, the ever complaining neighbour. He tries to keep the pit-bull, is visited by threats.

A family of four camps out in the backyard, in a broken tent.

Sheets and blankets are seldom washed.

Gavin smokes indanda and meth, hates the smell of nyaope, beats me if he catches me smoking in the room.

There is a deep presence of failure somewhere in my chest. I have attempted to move away from a place where I was in danger of relapsing and have moved into a place a relapsing. I do not know if I intentionally ignored the signs.

It is impossible for me to tell the people who are paying for me to be here, my food, my laundry, my medication, my airtime, the laptop stolen by Gavin… impossible to confess this failure for fear of the streets.

Gavin is too lazy for any aspirational sort of theft. He bullies things out of everyone. He rents space on his bed for people to smoke in peace, if they give him some. He gives them no peace.

Most of the residents of Rainbow House know each other. They were all living on Devil’s Peak, behind the houses in the bush. When Covid hit the department of health came to get them, put them in some sort of camp on a field somewhere. Rainbow House was the post Covid solution. Somewhere they were promised a payout that they never got. Gavin thinks about this payout a lot. What his life would have been. The loss of this hope is at the root of his daily anger. His larger deeper angers are rooted somewhere else.

Must a drowning person explain how they got in the river before they are thrown a rope.

Gavin often lets Mornay smoke meth on his bed. Mornay nurses a powerful paranoia when high, the people in the room he sleeps in, they do not tolerate it, they have their own drugs.

Mornay is sure, in depths of the night, that the neighbour is watching us and he peers out the window, and hears the voices, and the people in the tent below the window what are they doing?

For weeks this goes on, Gavin seldom has his own money, wants to use the laptop to watch TV, there is no peace in the room,, always Mornay at the window, always asking someone taking something, always another story, eventually the laptop goes. And he shares the drugs garnered from it with me, to spread the shame of being in this place.

An NGO is called in to negotiate between the residents and landlords. It is not a negotiation, it is an eviction. The house is stripped down to the bricks, a revenge on displacement. The former residents of Devil’s Peak, of Rainbow House, of Covid tent camps, move on, owning only the realisation of lack. Not even toast.

 
Read more...

from An Open Letter

I watched the movie and it brought me to the verge of tears several times, and at one point I finally shed a tear. One singular tear lol. I was really trying my best to cry but that was the most I was able to get out. I really loved the movie, not necessarily because it was written or anything like that but I think just because of the experience as a whole.

I will say however afterwards I kind of got hit by a combo attack of small little grief waves. Attack on Titan with something I started re-watching finally because I was watching it with E. And I thought about how cool of an experience it would’ve been for her to watch the movie. One of the things we talked about while breaking up was that she didn’t know what episode we were on and that was one of the things I told her over text. The movie theater we were at was also one in the same complex with the Barnes & Noble‘s that we had a date at, where she then had a scare about her vision and so I rushed her to her specialist doctor and waited with her for four hours keeping her spirits up and calming her down. throughout the whole process I kept her mom constantly updated, and wrote down notes that the doctors said. I remember a month or two after our break up in my phone I saw the contact saved for her specialist and I deleted it. While driving out of the complex I saw Pick Up Stix, which became her favorite food place according to her, and we would go there and get a big plate to share together. I remember one time after a fight we went there and she apologized after I had de-escalated everything. We got fortune cookies and the fortune that I got was you will find great success in romance, and I took a picture of her with that cookie. I remember sending that photo to her mom, and at Christmas time I got a custom ornament with that photo. She loved it so much and I loved it even more. I remember thinking about how every year we would be able to have a new ornament together. And finally while driving away I passed our food place, where we would go together get Chinese food and then watch a video together on my phone. That’s where we watched several attack on Titan episodes. And we would cuddle up together in the little booth. And I didn’t really have the heart to go back there since then.

It didn’t help that I was leaving the theater after having cried a little bit and trying to push myself to be in that headspace, but it didn’t actually hurt me that much. I still remember her face but I don’t really remember super well the other parts which does help. I don’t want to really remember either. And it does hurt, but like a dull aching pain that could quickly be ignored. And I hope that it’s been long enough that these grief progress bars have been mostly filled up already.

Honestly the biggest thing that I feel is guilt for thinking so much about wanting to date again, and being open to that – while I’m still getting some of the glitter out of my mind. But I try to be kind to myself and remind myself that little pieces of that glitter are always going to be there, and it’s not like I’m necessarily missing her or that I would want to reach back out or anything like that. But it’s more just acknowledging the lack of what was once good memories. And that’s completely OK that’s part of the process of grief.

 
Read more...

from Pierre-Emmanuel Weck

Il fut un temps où les réseaux sociaux étaient ouverts. Lorsque vous créiez un compte quelque part, il vous était proposé de le synchroniser avec tout un tas d'autres réseaux ailleurs.

Comme on pouvait publier par email, J'ai ouvert une adresse sur Gmail pour réaliser ces inscriptions, et activé sur tous ces comptes, les notifications.

Chaque réseaux envoyait un email pour dire que le post avait bien été publié, qu'il avait été repris sur une autre plateforme, les plateformes m'envoyaient un mail comme quoi elles avaient publié un nouveau post et tout ça étaient encore repostés par email sur les différents réseaux.

Je ne sais plus pourquoi mais Gmail, je ne pouvais pas republier sur les différents réseaux, j'ai donc ouvert un compte mail sur La Poste. Gmail redirigeait sur La Poste et La Poste publiait sur les plateformes.

Ainsi, par exemple, en publiant sur Facebook, ça pouvait republier les articles directement sur les autres plateformes ainsi que par email.

Il y avait aussi des services qui se chargeaient de centraliser les republications sur encore plus de plateformes.

Et ainsi de suite…

Par email, par post, par republication, par les notifications, par les services de centralisation… tout le monde publiait dans tous les sens.

On arrivait ainsi rapidement, en ne publiant qu'un seul message, à un retour de plus de 200.

Ça formait une espèce de nuage numérique, parfaitement inutile, qui ne cessait de grossir par lui-même.

Au début j'avais essayer de comprendre le cheminement de tout ça. En publiant par exemple sur Tumblr avec un titre identifiable pour voir comment et combien de fois il était repris, mais rapidement cela s'est avéré impossible à suivre.

J'ai pu ainsi faire fonctionner ce système pendant quelques semaines avant qu'être accusé de spam et d'être bloqué.

Déjà à l'époque, on voyait se dessiner une trajectoire négative de tous ces réseaux. Le but n'était plus ce qu'on publiait mais comme le message était diffuser, dupliqué, amplifié…

Une fois que chacun eu ouvert un compte quelque part, tout s'est refermé : fini de jouer, maintenant, il fallait être rentable.

Le brouillard numérique s'est alors abattu sur nous pour parasiter nos vies. Ainsi, nos âmes et nos corps ont été colonisés pour l'extension des profits des milliardaires.

 
Read more...

from DrFox

Une société peut être rassurée par la force d’un homme quand cette force tient debout toute seule.

Elle ne cherche pas forcément un homme lisse, doux partout, incapable de faire face au danger. Elle ne cherche pas non plus un homme instable, plein de feu mal tenu, qui transforme chaque blessure d’orgueil en menace. Ce qui peut toucher quelque chose de très ancien en elle, c’est la sensation qu’un homme peut devenir ferme devant le mal, sans devenir dur avec ce qu’il aime. Qu’il peut aller au front si le front arrive, puis revenir avec des mains capables de douceur.

Cette image me parle.

L’homme qui protège ne vit pas dans la violence. Il ne la cherche pas. Il ne la décore pas. Il ne la transforme pas en identité. Mais il sait qu’une vie réelle finit parfois par demander autre chose que des phrases. Une porte doit être tenue. Une injustice doit être arrêtée. Un enfant doit être défendu. Une vérité doit être protégée. Un mensonge doit être nommé, même quand tout le monde préfère garder le calme de surface.

La violence, dans ce sens là, n’a rien de sacré. Elle reste grave. Elle coûte quelque chose à celui qui l’utilise, même quand elle devient nécessaire. Un homme aligné ne jouit pas de sa capacité à faire mal. Il la garde comme on garde un outil dangereux, rangé, connu, éduqué. Il sait que certaines forces, si elles ne sont pas tenues, finissent par salir celui qui les porte.

Mais condamner toute dureté serait mentir sur le réel.

Le monde contient des moments où la douceur seule ne suffit plus. Des moments où reculer devient une manière de laisser faire. Des moments où la paix demande une colonne, une voix qui ne tremble pas, un corps qui se place devant ce qui menace. Le front n’est pas toujours une guerre lointaine. Le front peut être une table de famille où le mensonge s’assoit tranquillement. Une pièce où quelqu’un humilie un plus faible. Une relation où la peur se déguise en amour. Une maison où l’on demande à la vérité de se taire pour préserver l’ambiance.

Un homme doit parfois être dur pour rester vrai.

Dur avec le mensonge. Dur avec la lâcheté. Dur avec l’injustice. Dur avec cette petite voix intérieure qui propose d’arranger les faits pour avoir l’air innocent. Dur avec sa propre mauvaise foi. Dur avec sa jalousie, son besoin de contrôle, son envie de gagner, son orgueil blessé. S’il doit combattre le mal, il doit aussi le combattre quand ce mal passe par lui. Dehors et dedans. À l’étranger et dans la maison. Dans l’autre, et dans la part de soi qui préférerait dominer plutôt que se tenir droit.

Cette dureté là ne s’exerce pas contre la femme. Elle s’exerce pour garder intact en lui le lieu depuis lequel il aime.

Elle protège le socle avant de protéger la relation. Elle garde propre la parole, le regard, la maison intérieure. Elle empêche l’homme de déposer sur l’amour ce qu’il n’a pas encore réglé avec lui même. Elle l’oblige à ne pas faire payer à la femme et les enfants sa fatigue, sa peur, son humiliation, ses anciennes défaites. Elle lui rappelle qu’aimer demande aussi une discipline. Une façon de rentrer en soi avant de parler. Une façon de retenir la main, de retenir la phrase.

C’est là que l’orgueil retrouve une noblesse.

On parle souvent de l’orgueil comme d’un défaut. Il peut l’être. Il peut rendre sourd, fermé, arrogant, incapable de demander pardon. Mais un homme sans aucun orgueil finit parfois par accepter trop. Il avale trop. Il appelle paix ce qui ressemble surtout à un renoncement. Il laisse les autres déplacer la vérité, puis s’étonne de ne plus reconnaître sa propre maison.

Un orgueil sain protège le socle. Il dit : je ne vais pas faire semblant de ne pas voir. Je ne vais pas laisser le faux prendre la place du réel. Je peux perdre une discussion, une réputation, une place, une relation même, mais je ne veux pas perdre l’endroit en moi qui sait encore distinguer une parole droite d’un arrangement.

Cet orgueil là n’écrase pas. Il ne réclame pas la soumission. Il ne demande pas que l’amour s’agenouille devant lui. Il garde au contraire l’espace propre, respirable, vrai. Une femme peut sentir la différence entre un homme qui tient sa vérité et un homme qui utilise la vérité comme une arme. Elle peut sentir la différence entre une force qui protège et une force qui réclame le pouvoir. Entre un homme qui garde le seuil et un homme qui prend toute la maison.

Je crois que la société peut être profondément apaisée par cette force là. Une force qui ne s’excuse pas d’exister, mais qui ne se sert jamais de l’amour comme d’un territoire. Une force qui dit : je peux faire face, je peux tenir, je peux protéger, je peux combattre si la vie me le demande. Et je peux aussi revenir doux. Je peux revenir humain. Je peux revenir avec assez de silence dans les mains pour ne pas abîmer ce que je viens de défendre.

Alors je me demande :

Quelle force protège vraiment sans prendre la place de l’autre ?

Quel orgueil garde la vérité debout sans devenir aveugle ?

À quel moment la douceur devient elle une fuite devant ce qui doit être affronté ?

À quel moment la dureté devient elle une manière de ne plus sentir ?

Quel homme sait aller au front sans faire de sa maison un champ de bataille ?

 
Read more... Discuss...

from sugarrush-77

Yena had her head clasped between her hands. Sighed, looked up at Janice.

“Janice.”

“What.”

“I’m so lucky to be chasing my dreams. So few people get to do this. But it’s also risky, y’know?”

Yena took another shot.

“Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. Why I even try anymore. I know chasing your dreams is supposed to be hard, but I didn’t know it was this hard.”

Janice nodded.

“I feel like I’ve hit a wall. An insurmountable wall. And it feels… so hopeless, y’know?”

A tear dribbled down Yena’s cheek.

Janice sighed.

“Yena, no matter how much you bitch and cry, you’ll never be able to marry Kasane Teto. She doesn’t fucking exist.”

Yena screamed in lowercase.

“NO! YoU can’t sAY THAT! NONONONO”

Janice rolled her eyes. Yena was saying crazy shit again. But it was fine. It’s what made her so entertaining.

“Yena, even if Teto existed, she wouldn’t like anyone like you. You’re stinky, 3 foot 10, insecure, and clingy. When’s the last time you had a shower? I can smell your pits from HERE. I had to take a smoke break earlier just to escape the waft coming off of your jacket.”

Yena took heaving breaths, and braced herself.

“TETO. IS. MY. WIFEEEE!!!!!”

Everyone in the restaurant stared. Janice left for another smoke break. Yena took another shot and kept eating the raw tofu in her plate. Yena was fucking autistic. They were at a Korean tofu stew joint, and she had insisted to the waiter, despite being told no multiple times, that she deserved. Absolutely deserved. Being served the tofu stew deconstructed in its entirety. She was a regular here. The waiter ended up shrugging, and ferrying the request back to the restaurant. Five minutes later, he came back with a raw egg, tofu, hot water, kimchi, and tofu stew base. He whispered an expletive under his breath, and swore that if she didn’t tip, he would kick her through the window.

Janice came back. Nobody knew why Janice hung out with Yena. When asked, Janice never gave a straight answer. Sometimes, she said it was because she needed help with homework, but they were in completely different majors. Sometimes, she said it was because she was really poor, and Yena had helped out with money once. But Janice was loaded from various side hustles she’d spun up “for fun.” Sometimes, Janice just shrugged and looked up at the sky. Nobody really knew except her. Janice sat down in front of Yena and leaned in.

“Yena, what if I dressed up as Teto? How do you think that would make you feel?”

Yena frowned.

“I don’t know if you have the look for it.”

Janice, mildly annoyed, turned away.

“Actually? I think maybe you could pull it off.”

Looked back, with a faint smile.

“Give me a second.”

Janice left for the bathroom with her backpack in hand. Yena took the moment to slurp the raw egg directly from the shell. She had nearly finished her tofu when Janice returned in monochrome red, from head to toe.

“Tada!”

A blob of tofu dropped from Yena’s mouth.

“Fuck. Fuhhhhckkk.”

“You like what you see?”

“Yeth.”

 
더 읽어보기...

from Roscoe's Story

In Summary: * Midway through the 3rd Quarter, my Spurs are holding onto a small lead as they have through most of the game so far. Close game.

Glad I've worked through the night prayers already. I suspect that as soon as I turn off the game I'll put head to pillow and admit that I've already drifted off to sleep.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night. Details of that regimen are linked to my link tree, which is linked to my profile page here.

Starting Ash Wednesday, 2026, I've added this daily prayer as part of the Prayer Crusade Preceding the 2026 SSPX Episcopal Consecrations.

Health Metrics: * bw= 233.80 lbs. * bp= 151/91 (70)

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

Diet: * 06:25 – 1 banana * 07:00 – 1 seafood salad sandwich * 12:00 – lasagna, fried bananas, mashed potatoes, fried chicken * 18:45 – large chocolate milkshake

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:30 – listening to local news talk radio * 05:30 – bank accounts activity monitored. * 06:05 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap, * 08:00 – start my weekly laundry * 10:00 – listening to Jack in 60 Minutes * 11:00 – listening to The Markley, van Camp and Robbins Show * 12:00 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 14:30 – folding laundry while listening to news-talk radio * 16:30 – follow news reports from various sources * 17:00 – listening to relaxing music as I prep paperwork for drs. apt. on Thurs. * 19:00 – listening to the Spurs pregame show ahead of tonight's game

Chess: * 15:55 – moved in all pending CC games

 
Read more...

Join the writers on Write.as.

Start writing or create a blog