I abandoned this blog last December, but was reminded of it today in therapy when discussing my penchant for intense, directed projects to drag myself out of desolation. I even forgot what this domain was initially (“write.io”? “blog.write”?) but finally remembered it. I’m still paying for it, probably. Year-in-review:

Without diminishing some significant high points and positive memories, I spent most of 2025 afraid that I wouldn’t survive or flailing wildly all over everyone in an attempt to. I did survive, and I daresay stronger and better for it. Still settling into my “AuDHD” identity, exploring and pushing on things but pleased that after a lifetime of almost universally-negative therapy experiences, I’m batting 2/2 just by screening for neurodivergence expertise. (A favorite early therapy memory is, after I described an emotionally triggering experience that dysregulated me, my therapist told me to use hand warmers and earplugs. And I was like, WHAT? But… IT F-ING WORKS!)

On the good days, despite my best efforts to remain alive for my kids and other loved ones that my suicide would traumatize, I fought off impulses to throw myself in front of passing trains. On the bad days I would spend hours wailing, too paralyzed for impulsive self-offing, relegated to pining for some acceptable form of death… aneurysm, freak accident, terminal cancer… that would get me relief while sparing my loved ones the complications of a suicide.

Gratitude was a constant—gratitude for surviving at all, for random circumstances that landed me on my feet when it could have easily gone the other way, for the support and love and grace I have been shown by people in my life despite self-destructive decisions and unilaterally-imposed burdens on them. Gratitude is just a concept though; it can overflow as if a waterfall from my consciousness, but hardly a sizzle up against the horrific, raging dumpster fire threatening to engulf my nervous system in flames at any moment.

I began exploring residential treatment in January, and was even screened and accepted into a program that would have been fully insurance covered. I ultimately decided against it; a big contributor to my mental state was job instability and checking out of the workforce for a month would probably impair my ability to get what I needed to out of the treatment. Additionally, when I asked my therapist about it, he said I’d probably hate it but it could benefit me in the sense that I would get to practice frustration tolerance. The facility wouldn’t let me “defer” regardless and I wasn’t ready to up and check myself in THAT WEEK. So, no residential treatment.

Of course, that therapist had to stop seeing me suddenly in February because the application he submitted for a different kind of license was still processing. I know it was unexpected on his end and he had no choice… but this type of abrupt disruption was… not good. I knew how important it was for me to have mental health supervision; I searched for GA-licensed therapists (apparently there is no such thing as a GA-NY licensed therapist who is expert in neurodivergence… at least not one who takes insurance / has immediate availability) and found the right one on my first try. I also signed up for a “virtual intensive” 10 hours/ week of group therapy + 1 hour / week individual therapy and optional family therapy. They had neurodivergent-specific groups, which intrigued me.

During this time, I also decided to pursue a career opportunity that felt potentially risky—but the risks of staying in place ultimately felt worse. Immediately before starting my new work, I dropped the intensive virtual treatment… I really did try but at the end of the third week it was turning out to be a massive waste of time in which I might get 1-2 helpful nuggets over the course of a 3-hour “frustration tolerance” exercise 3 days a week. My time and my “frustration tolerance” was not well spent in that setting when I had new colleagues to build rapport with and a practice to rebuild.

Mid-March 2025 was a pivot point unlike any other in my life, both from that transition and for other reasons I do not intend to explain in detail, but what happened in March likely saved me, sparing me from what otherwise would have been an excruciating April and May returning to Atlanta and trying to reintegrate into synagogue life. Mid-March gave me angelic reprieve after months of agony and exhaustion from getting through the day.

I plunged back into dysregulation starting in late June, with July being fairly dark. But somehow I managed to stay engaged and productive, with only a handful of nights when various triggers caused me to lose myself and lose my ability to conceive of sustained existence.

Starting in August I was very very very busy in preparation for the high holidays in September / early October, and then for my daughter’s bat mitzvah in early December.

And for the most part, I’ve been doing alright. There have been a few unfortunate meltdowns, and I was highly neurotic leading up to the bat mitzvah… but understanding it all makes these times so much less threatening and so much easier to let go of and learn from. I had an actual good time at the bat mitzvah, which was a massive accomplishment for me, as I tend to melt down at my own events (or at best go into “work” mode and dissociate from social engagement or enjoyment).

The bat mitzvah was the thing hanging over my head at my worst, the thing that I had worked so hard to ensure was a good experience for my daughter (which meant I couldn’t ruin it and other people’s dislike for me couldn’t ruin it). Once it was over, a huge weight was lifted, but after a week or so, the endless plain of “what now?” stretched ominously before me. No structure, no goal, no certainty, nothing imminent to motivate me. I sank into cycles of neurosis and seeking external validation and reassurance.

This morning … I started registering to take the CA bar exam in February. And now I feel a bit more like myself.

Here’s hoping 2026 makes sense, and that I can climb closer to the equilibrium that eludes me in my eternally-warring cravings for novelty and predictability…

Reading Italo Calvino's If On A Winter's Night A Traveler for a second time thirty-two years after the first, I was heartened by how little of it I had remembered. A vague sketch of the concept had stayed with me, along with the name 'Ludmilla', among no more than a handful of other details. I dislike revisiting narrative fiction when my recollection of the story is too clear, and probably would not have finished it again had too many other particulars felt familiar. It is a book with several unrelated, deliberately truncated plot-lines, which would be harder (I imagine) to recall than a single narrative arc. In any event, I reckon three decades is at last a long enough interval after which I could profitably reacquaint myself with some of the other novels I read in my twenties.

In a text concerned with reading in so many of its guises, it's no surprise that re-reading gets a mention, as in the following view voiced by one of the library patrons in Chapter 11:

“I, too, feel the need to reread the books I have already read [...] but at every rereading I seem to be reading a new book, for the first time. Is it I who keep changing and seeing new things of which I was not previously aware? Or is reding a construction that assumes form, assembling a great number of variables, and therefore something that cannot be repeated twice according to the same pattern? Every time I seek to relive the emotion of a previous reading, I experience different and unexpected impressions, and do not find again those of before [...]“

The impressions experienced on this encounter with the novel were just a little less favourable than those from my first. The sense of novelty that's part of its charm was unavoidably diminished, and I suspect I'm a fussier and more impatient reader in general nowadays. I felt some of the later chapters stretched their conceits too thinly, and that a couple of the nested narratives were a little weak. It doesn't speak well of my younger self, moreover, that I was so oblivious to Calvino's sexism back in the '90s. For all that, I've seldom – if ever – met with such buoyant & inventive writing about reading as I enjoyed again here.

---

Catching up with some reading this week I also finished George Saunders' examination of the art & craft of short-story writing – A Swim in a Pond in the Rain – which I much admired even if it did little to lessen my antipathy for the works of Anton Chekhov, one of the four Russian authors examined at length within. And I read Barley Patch, a first and perhaps last encounter with the work of idiosyncratic Australian Gerald Murnane. I'd had my apprehensions that his writing might not be to my taste, and indeed it wasn't: there were undoubtedly striking images and illuminating insights to be gleaned, but, for each such pay-off, there were too many pages of dogged pedantry to slog through for my liking. Beyond that, I simply didn’t much care for Murnane’s authorial company.

---

Wine of the week: Graham's 2020 LBV Port. While my usual taste is for a drier beverage, port has undeniable appeal at this time of year. A couple of glasses were a welcome treat on Saturday. I have to hope the head-cold that has taken hold since then doesn't linger, and I get to savour some more soon.

As another year draws to a close, there is a particular kind of quiet that settles in if we allow it. It is not the quiet of empty rooms or silent streets, but the quieter stillness that comes when the noise pauses just long enough for reflection to slip in. The calendar is preparing to turn. 2026 waits just ahead. And in moments like this, it becomes tempting to rush forward, to treat time like a moving walkway we must stay ahead of, lest we fall behind. We are encouraged to look ahead, plan ahead, fix ahead, improve ahead. We are told that what matters most is what we will do next.

But there is something profoundly grounding, and even necessary, about stopping first.

Before we decide who we want to become in the year ahead, it is worth remembering who helped us become who we are right now. Not in a vague or sentimental way, but with deliberate attention. With honesty. With gratitude that is earned, not assumed.

None of us arrived at this moment independently. No matter how self-made we believe ourselves to be, no matter how strong or capable or resilient we feel today, there were moments when we were not. There were seasons when we were unsure, inexperienced, afraid, or quietly overwhelmed. And during those seasons, someone showed up.

They may not have made headlines. They may not have even realized the impact they were having. But they mattered. And because they mattered, we are here.

Gratitude, when taken seriously, has a way of slowing us down. It interrupts the story that everything we have accomplished is the result of our own effort alone. It reminds us that progress is rarely a solo endeavor. That becoming who we are is usually the result of many small kindnesses layered over time, offered by people who expected little in return.

As we approach a new year, gratitude asks us to do more than say thank you. It asks us to recognize the truth of our own formation. It asks us to acknowledge the hands that steadied us, the voices that encouraged us, the patience that made room for our growth.

This kind of reflection is not backward-looking in a way that traps us. It is backward-looking in a way that roots us. It gives us a clearer sense of where we stand and why. It reminds us that the good we carry forward did not originate with us alone.

There is something humbling about that realization, and humility is not a weakness. It is a corrective. It keeps us from believing we owe nothing to anyone. It helps us see that our lives are connected, shaped by relationships that mattered long before we understood their value.

If you take a moment and think honestly, you can probably identify specific people who played a role in shaping you. They may have been present for a season or for many years. They may have guided you deliberately or simply lived in a way that taught you something essential. They may have offered structure, encouragement, correction, or stability when you needed it most.

Sometimes the people who shape us are not the ones who made life easy, but the ones who made it possible. They helped us endure. They gave us tools. They modeled something we didn’t yet know how to be.

These influences are often quiet. They do not announce themselves. They do not ask for recognition. They simply remain consistent when consistency is rare.

And over time, that consistency becomes formative.

It teaches us how to listen before speaking. How to remain steady when emotions rise. How to offer patience instead of judgment. How to believe in someone else’s potential without needing to control the outcome.

The tragedy is that we often do not realize the significance of these people until years later, when the patterns they helped shape have become part of us. By then, we may have moved on. Circumstances may have changed. Life may have carried us in different directions.

But the influence remains.

As the year turns, this is a moment to notice that influence with intention. Not to dwell in nostalgia, but to give credit where it is due. To name the ways we were helped. To admit that our strength was, at one time, borrowed from someone else’s faith in us.

Gratitude has weight when it is specific. When it remembers moments rather than abstractions. When it acknowledges particular sacrifices, particular words, particular acts of care that shaped our trajectory.

It might have been a person who took time with you when you were difficult to understand. Someone who listened patiently while you tried to figure out what you were feeling. Someone who corrected you firmly but fairly, who did not confuse accountability with rejection.

It might have been someone who offered stability when everything else felt uncertain. Someone who showed you what reliability looked like, simply by being there, day after day, without drama or condition.

It might have been someone who named your potential out loud, even when you doubted it yourself. Someone who saw something in you before you could see it, and who refused to let you shrink from it.

These moments matter more than we often realize. They do not always feel dramatic in the moment, but they accumulate. They shape how we see ourselves and others. They influence the choices we make long after the original interaction has passed.

As we move closer to 2026, gratitude invites us to slow down long enough to recognize these patterns. To see the throughline between who we were, who helped us, and who we are becoming.

This kind of reflection is not comfortable for everyone. It requires us to admit dependence. To acknowledge that we were not always capable or clear or confident on our own. But there is strength in that honesty. It reminds us that needing help is not a failure. It is part of being human.

In a culture that often celebrates independence to the point of isolation, gratitude offers a different narrative. It says that interdependence is not a flaw. That growth is relational. That becoming whole often involves receiving care before we can give it.

When we take gratitude seriously, it reshapes how we approach the future. It softens our expectations. It grounds our ambition. It reminds us that success is not only about achievement, but about character.

It also raises an important question: what will we do with what we have received?

Gratitude, when it is more than a feeling, naturally leads to responsibility. If we were shaped by patience, we are called to be patient. If we were encouraged, we are called to encourage. If someone made space for our growth, we are called to make space for others.

This is where gratitude becomes active rather than passive. It stops being something we feel privately and starts becoming something we live out publicly.

As the new year approaches, it is worth asking ourselves not only what we want to accomplish, but how we want to show up. Who might need from us what we once needed from someone else. Who is watching how we respond, how we listen, how we treat people when it would be easier not to care.

We may not always recognize these moments as significant while we are in them. The person who needs our steadiness may not articulate it clearly. The impact we have may not be immediately visible. But that does not diminish its importance.

Someone once showed up for us without knowing exactly how it would matter. They acted out of care, not certainty. They offered consistency without guarantees.

And now, whether we realize it or not, we have the opportunity to do the same.

The transition into a new year is not just a chronological shift. It is a chance to decide what kind of presence we want to be in the lives of others. It is an invitation to carry forward what was given to us, rather than letting it end with our own benefit.

Gratitude helps us see that the most meaningful legacies are rarely loud. They are built through attention, patience, and care, extended over time. They are not measured by recognition, but by influence.

As we prepare to step into 2026, it may be worth resisting the urge to rush past this moment. To let the reflection linger a little longer. To consider the people who shaped us and the ways their influence still shows up in our lives.

This kind of reflection does not slow progress. It deepens it. It ensures that what we build next is rooted in something solid rather than driven by impulse.

In the end, gratitude is not about dwelling in the past. It is about understanding the present more clearly and approaching the future with greater intention. It is about recognizing that the good we have received carries with it an obligation to be good in return.

Before the calendar turns, before the lists are written and the plans are made, it is worth taking this moment seriously. To remember who carried us. To honor them not just with words, but with the way we choose to live going forward.

This pause is not a detour. It is a foundation.

And what we choose to build on it in the year ahead will say a great deal about who we have become.

When we talk about gratitude, we often reduce it to a feeling—something warm, fleeting, and internal. But real gratitude is far more demanding than that. It asks us to take responsibility for what we have received. It insists that recognition must eventually become action. Otherwise, gratitude risks becoming nostalgia with no consequence.

As the calendar prepares to turn, this distinction matters. Because the transition into a new year is not just about time passing; it is about meaning being carried forward. And meaning does not survive on feelings alone. It survives through choices.

There is a subtle temptation at this time of year to imagine that progress means leaving everything behind. New year, new self. Fresh start. Clean slate. But this mindset can quietly erase the truth of how growth actually works. We do not become new by discarding what came before. We become new by integrating it wisely.

The people who shaped us are not chapters we close. They are threads that continue to run through us, influencing how we see the world, how we respond to difficulty, how we define what matters. Gratitude helps us see those threads clearly, rather than pretending we wove the fabric alone.

There is also something deeply stabilizing about remembering that our best traits were often cultivated in relationship. The patience you now show may have been modeled for you. The resilience you rely on may have been strengthened by someone who refused to give up on you. The clarity you carry may have come from conversations that helped you name what you could not yet articulate.

When we forget this, we risk becoming disconnected from our own humanity. We start to believe that strength means never needing anyone. That wisdom means self-sufficiency. That maturity means emotional distance. Gratitude challenges those assumptions.

It reminds us that needing help was never the problem. Refusing to acknowledge it is.

As we step toward 2026, this reminder feels especially important. The world continues to move faster, louder, and more fragmented. We are surrounded by pressure to optimize, perform, and prove. In that environment, it becomes easy to treat people as obstacles, resources, or background noise rather than as fellow human beings carrying their own stories.

Gratitude cuts through that distortion. It brings people back into focus.

It asks us to remember what it felt like to be unseen, uncertain, or unfinished. And then it asks us to notice who might be feeling that way now.

Because at some point, each of us becomes the “older voice” in the room. The steadier presence. The one with a little more perspective, a little more experience, a little more capacity to offer calm when someone else feels overwhelmed.

This does not require a title or a platform. It requires attentiveness. It requires the willingness to take someone seriously, even when they cannot yet take themselves seriously. It requires the courage to stay engaged when withdrawal would be easier.

The people who shaped us did not always know what they were doing. They did not have perfect answers. They were not flawless guides. But they were present. They were willing. They were consistent enough to matter.

And consistency, more than brilliance, is what changes lives.

As we consider the year ahead, it is worth asking not just what we want to build, but how we want to build it. Do we want to move quickly at the expense of connection? Or do we want to move meaningfully, even if it requires patience?

Gratitude has a way of recalibrating our priorities. It reminds us that the most important investments we make are often relational rather than transactional. That time spent listening is not wasted time. That encouragement given freely has a longer shelf life than criticism delivered cleverly.

This perspective does not make us passive. It makes us intentional.

It helps us recognize that influence is always being exercised, whether we acknowledge it or not. The question is not whether we are shaping others, but how. And whether we are doing so with the same care that once shaped us.

The people who helped us become who we are rarely demanded perfection. They allowed room for learning. They understood that growth is uneven. They did not confuse mistakes with identity. They corrected without condemning. They guided without controlling.

Those qualities are increasingly rare, and increasingly needed.

As we move into 2026, we have the opportunity to preserve them—not by talking about them abstractly, but by practicing them daily. In conversations. In conflicts. In moments when patience is tested and empathy feels inconvenient.

Gratitude becomes visible in those moments. Not in what we say about appreciation, but in how we treat people when the situation is complex, unresolved, or uncomfortable.

There is also a quiet courage required to live gratefully. Gratitude makes us more open, not more guarded. It softens us in a world that often rewards hardness. It invites us to remain human in systems that encourage detachment.

This is not weakness. It is a form of strength that refuses to disappear.

The person who once made a difference in your life likely did not do so by dominating the space. They did it by creating safety. By offering steadiness. By being someone whose presence lowered anxiety rather than amplified it.

As we enter a new year, we can choose to cultivate that same effect. To become the kind of presence that makes others feel less alone, more capable, more grounded.

We do not need to change everyone’s life. We do not need to fix every problem. We only need to be faithful with what is placed in front of us.

Gratitude helps us see what that is.

It shows us that the most meaningful impact often happens quietly, over time, without immediate recognition. It teaches us that significance is not always visible in metrics or milestones, but in the steady accumulation of trust.

When we honor those who shaped us, we are not just acknowledging the past. We are choosing a direction for the future. We are deciding that the care we received will not end with us. That it will continue, in altered form, through the way we live and relate.

As the year turns, this may be the most important decision we make.

Not what we will accomplish. Not what we will acquire. But what kind of people we will be.

The calendar will turn whether we are ready or not. Time will move forward regardless of our reflection. But meaning requires participation. It requires intention. It requires us to decide that what mattered before will still matter going forward.

Before 2026 arrives, it is worth taking one last moment to pause. To remember the names, the faces, the moments that shaped you. To acknowledge the care that carried you through seasons you could not have navigated alone.

And then, with that awareness, to step forward differently.

To carry that care into the year ahead. To offer that patience where it is needed. To extend that belief to someone still finding their way.

This is how gratitude becomes legacy. This is how the past informs the future without controlling it. This is how one life shapes another, quietly, faithfully, over time.

And if we do this—if we allow gratitude to guide not just our thoughts but our actions—then 2026 will not simply be another year added to the count.

It will be a year lived with intention. A year rooted in remembrance. A year that honors those who helped us become who we are by becoming that same gift for someone else.

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Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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Larry's Faves: 2025 Movies

See all #Larrys2025Faves

Bad year for movies. Or a bad year for me seeing movies. Award season rules push studios to cram releases at year’s end, and it's hard to keep up. I will catch up with films I missed in Jan-March.

My list, ranked, with microreviews:

1. One Battle After Another: Brilliant, has a tragic flaw 2. Sinners: Juke Joint Cinema 3. Pavements: Larry’s100 Review 4. Weapons: Campy, creepy, freaky 5. Baltimorons: Larry’s100 Review 6. The Ballad of Wallis Island: Tim Key is brilliant 7. KPop Demon Hunters: Trust the phenom 8. John Candy: I Like Me: Sadder than you’d think 9. Fantastic Four: Didn’t suck 10. Nonnas: More sweet than savory

#movies #film #2025BestOf #FilmReviews #BestOfFilm #Larrys2025Faves #Larrys2025FavesFilm #Cinema #MovieReviews #100WordReview #Larrys100 #100DaysToOffload

#002279 – 25 de Agosto de 2025

A tarde de fim de Dezembro está gelada, o pôr-do-sol é bonito, as ondas óptimas. Os surfistas na água não conseguem escutar este tipo na mesa em frente à minha que destila teorias de conspiração sobre os Estados Unidos, o Musk, o Trump e os nazis e experiências secretas numa ilha perto de Nova Iorque. A mulher em silêncio é interlocutora silenciosa, apenas rindo de vez em quando incentivando o monólogo.

Larry's Faves: 2025 Television

See all #Larrys2025Faves

Putting this list together, I was knocked out by how good television was in 2025. This list includes stone-cold classics like Andor, Black Mirror, and Hacks, while making room for the mind-bending genre work of Pluribus, The Eternaut, and Severance. Comedies came laughing back and were welcome against the darkness of both reality and fiction.

In 2025, television was balanced between shows that took me by surprise (The Studio) and high-quality comfort food (Abbott Elementary). We don’t know what awaits us, with more corporate consolidation and the storm clouds of AI, so I am savoring (most of) the shows below.

All the scripted shows I watched ranked, with microreviews, or links to Larrys100 reviews

1. Pluribus (Apple TV): Larry's 100 Reviews 2. Andor (Disney+): Two-season masterpiece 3. The Rehearsal (HBO): Rube Goldberg of social experiments 4. The Eternaut (Netflix): Larry's 100 Review 5. The Studio: (Apple TV) Fast-paced & meta AF 6. Shoresy (Hulu): I challenge you to find a show this sweet and filthy 7. Righteous Gemstones (HBO): Goodbye, sweet prince 8. Task (HBO): Existential dread with a water ice sidecar 9. The Lowdown (FX/Hulu):Pulp noir Gen X style 10. Slow Horses (Apple TV): Larry's 100 Review 11. Severance (Apple TV): Goat room for the win 12. Abbott Elementary (ABC): Ava is one of my favorite characters on TV 13. Hacks (HBO): Loved the Larry Sanders call backs 14. Mythic Quest (Apple TV): Poppy is one of my favorite characters on TV 15. Agatha All Along (Disney+): Witchy kitsch and great cast 16. Death By Lightning (Netflix): Who knew? 17. White Lotus (HBO): Ground Zero for the Year of Goggins 18. Gilded Age (HBO): No show has actors having fun like Gilded Age 19 Black Mirror (Netflix): Strong season for this institution 20. Fallout (Amazon): Cheating a bit, will straddle into 2026 21. Silo (Apple TV): Apple is the real SciFi channel 22. The Paper (Peacock): Better than I expected, strong ensemble 23. American Primeval (Netflix): Gritty westerns are always appreciated 24. The Bear (FX/Hulu): Overhyped mess, Carmy is annoying 25. Stranger Things (Netflix): Larry's 100 Review 26. Last of Us (HBO): The last episode was a horrible hour of TV 27. Murderbot (Apple TV): Stuff to like, but got tedious. 28. The Four Seasons (Netflix): Catnip for almost old people 29. The Witcher (Netflix): I miss Henry Cavill 30. King & Conquer (Amazon): This was conceived in a lab just for me, but it sucked

#tv #television #Larrys2025Faves #2025BestOf #TVReviews #BestOfTV #Larrys2025FavesTV #Streaming #100WordReview #Larrys100 #100DaysToOffload

JOURNAL 30 décembre 2025 #auberge

Alors comme on est pas habituées à ces pratiques, on a demandé à mon frère de mettre ses experts sur le coup de notre rêve de reprendre l'auberge. Lui il a toujours pensé que c'était une folie, mais il a joué le jeu comme si c'était pour lui. Alors il y a plusieurs points essentiels. Bien sûr on peut acheter les bâtiments du vivant de m et p, mais on peut pas avoir la licence de restauration parce que c’est une licence de 1947 qui a été donnée aux établissements familiaux qui existaient depuis x années avant. Elle est transmissibles aux descendants, enfants, neveux et nièces cousins etc. à condition qu'ils aient un lien de parenté mais elle peut pas être vendue car elle a été donnée c’est un régime spécial destiné uniquement aux établissements traditionnels anciens. Donc il nous faudrait obtenir une nouvelle licence. Et voilà le point merdique : si un quelconque héritier se pointe un jour et dit moi je prends la licence familiale, au revoir neko et A il sera prioritaire. La loi japonaise est très protectrice des droits familiaux et professionnels. Pour la même raison si un héritier en ligne directe, donc enfants, petits-enfants, arrière etc. décide d'attaquer la vente il a de fortes chances de gagner, il y a plein d’angles d'attaque possible : le montant, l'influence sur des gens très âgés, le fait qu'une des acheteuses est une étrangère etc. 80 % de chances que le tribunal nous donne tort. Pour assurer notre coup il faudrait l'accord de la fille de m et p mais aussi des petites-filles qui signeraient une renonciation au droit de licence et à toute réclamation sur la vente. En plus comme le Japon ne reconnaît pas le mariage entre femmes, tout contrat devra être établi à nos deux noms pour qu'on ait les mêmes droits sur les bâtiments et la nouvelle licence et badaboum A n'a pas encore le statut de résidente donc si son visa était annulé (avec la dingue au pouvoir c'est pas du tout impossible) alors au revoir princesse. Même si M et P nous adoptaient, solution extrême ça poserait encore un problème pour A. : deviendrait-elle Japonaise du même coup ? malheureusement la question ne semble pas tranchée. Tout cumulé la possibilité de réussite à moyen terme du projet est proche de 0% sans parler des pertes financières dont je vous ferai pas un exposé c’est pas passionnant. Il y a en plus pour tout arranger des lois locales régionales qui sont ce qu'elles sont mais qui vont pas dans notre sens et qui me considèrent moi même comme étrangère, étant originaire du kanto. Et la loi non écrite la plus importante du japon et qui chapeaute toutes les autres et qui dit Ça Ne Se Fait Pas ça vous fait rire mais c’est ça mon pays C’est comme ça par exemple que des milliers de postes dans les grandes entreprises je dis bien des milliers sont occupés par des gens qui arrivent le matin et repartent le soir sans avoir strictement rien fait ou presque : on peut pas les virer parce que “ça ne se fait pas”, aucune considération économique ne peut avoir raison là-dessus. C’est dingo, hein ? C'est le Japon.

Alors soit on trouve l'adresse de la fille de m et p et celles des deux petites filles soit on abandonne définitivement. Elles sont vivantes car elles sont toujours mentionnées sur le livret familial mais personne ne sait ce qu'elles sont devenues. La fille a dans les 70 ans et les deux petites-filles un peu plus âgées que nous 38 et 40 c’est tout ce qu'on sait. Environ 100 000 Japonais disparaissent chaque année, inutile de dire que c’est pas la peine de s'adresser à la police pour les trouver.

Alors pfffff notre rêve est parti emporté par le vent 🌬️ On est allées faire une grande marche sous la neige en silence pour digérer ça ❄️❄️❄️ merci à vous de vous être fait du souci pour nous, ça ira mieux demain Si le chasse-neige dégage la route on devra accueillir 6 pensionnaires, il faudra être souriantes comme des vraies Japonaises bien dressées.

Umberto Eco said that the Internet has given idiots the right to speak to a legion of idiots. But long before the Internet, we already had fireworks to prove that this legion was not only there: it was organized and capable of causing very real harm.

No algorithms are needed to amplify hate or stupidity. This legion of idiots terrorizes animals, starts fires and injures thousands of people, sometimes killing them, while overloading hospitals, police forces and fire services.

In places like Berlin, entire neighborhoods have turned into war zones where it is no longer safe to walk down the street. An idiot holding a firework enjoys the same rights as someone who just wants to take a peaceful walk and celebrate New Year’s Eve with their family.

That isn’t freedom. It's collective irresponsibility masquerading as tradition.

#Eco #Fireworks #Berlin #Germany #Idiocy #SocialMedia

The crayfish wire cages were empty. They lay scattered here and there, on surprisingly different places on the lawn; blown in all directions.

So then — like I wrote earlier — there weren’t any crabs in them, and no crayfish.

Crayfish are murk dwellers, who during winter go into a type of stand-by mode in the lakebed, hidden by the dark depths of mud. I think primarily that’s why those cages were empty, being as they were: on land.

But in my imagination, it could’ve been something in there.

A tall pine tree has blown over at mother’s, uprooted by the giant forces of nature.

And the neighbours car port did blow away, denting their car before taking off.

And the roof of a nearby hotel. Like it was just some hat…

But now only icy winds are blowing over the frosted ground, which glitters in the sunlight.

But soon there will fall lots of snow.

They say.

And it’s also soon spring

This weather, in a freakish coincidence, mirrors how I feel.

#NSFW

This post is NSFW 19+ Adult content. Viewer discretion is advised.

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https://soundcloud.com/hustin_art/sets/minori_hatsune/s-GajK6rIzmhy?si=42c9705c7eac4b09bc2244f3327647b5&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

In Connection With This Post: Minori Hatsune https://hustin.art/minori-hatsune

Minori Hatsune, at the time of her debut, emerged as a performer with a distinctly Japanese look—rounded, cheerful facial features paired with large breasts, a classic combination. The AV industry in the late 2000s had not yet been saturated with celebrity-level visuals as it is now, and slightly awkward appearances were still common. ….

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2025 was the year I told myself I would become a movie guy. I wasn't a big movie watcher before this year and as a result I have significant gaps in movie history and knowledge. I haven't seen a lot of the classics and quintessential 21st century movies. So, I buckled down and started watching as many movies as I could.

As of writing this I've watched 108 movies this year. Most of them are not movies I've watched already, and they range from new releases to movies from the 50's. There was no real rhyme or reason to which movies I chose to watch. Some were from recommendations from friends, family, and the internet (specifically the movie podcasts The Big Picture and The Rewatchables), and other choices were from randomly flipping through Tubi when I had some time to kill.

There are still so many movies I have to watch, ones that most people can't believe I still haven't seen, but I'll get through 100 more in 2026, and so on and so on.

But in this post I just want to talk about my favourite movies released in 2025.

2025 Movie Lists

My top 5 movies of 2025, in no particular order:

• One Battle After Another
• Weapons
• Sinners
• 28 Years Later
• Marty Supreme

I enjoyed all these movies immensely. With every single movie on this list I left the theatre thinking about the movie for days and weeks after, enthusiastically discussing them with friends and family and recommending them to anyone I met. I saw Sinners twice this year, once in IMAX and again in 70mm at the Revue Cinema. That movie took my breath away every time I watched it. One Battle After Another, Weapons, and 28 Years Later, were the movies that stuck in my brain the most this year. I would remember scenes or lines from them and that would lead me down a rabbit hole thinking about the grander themes of the movies or how beautifully they were shot. Weapons and Marty Supreme were two movies that had me on the edge of my seat the entire movie, with loads of laugh-out-loud moments immediately followed by tension, or in the case of Weapons, a scare. I watched all these movies in theatres and I'm so glad I did. KEEP THEATRES ALIVE!

Other movies I thoroughly enjoyed:

• Eddington
• Black Bag
• The Shrouds
• Wake Up Dead Man
• The Phoenician Scheme
• F1
• Superman
• Companion
• Materialists

Of the superhero movies released this year that I saw, Superman was my favourite. It was fun and funny, and the action set-pieces were great. Companion is a low-key movie that I feel more people need to watch. It's very well-written and a fun thriller with good acting mixed in. The Shrouds I watched in a theatre that had two other people in it and, as with a lot of Cronenberg movies, I left the movie trying to parse what I had just watched. I watched Eddington when I got home a little drunk and that was one of the most stressful experiences I've ever had watching a movie, but man was that movie incredible.

I could write more about each movie in particular but I think I'll just leave it at that. If you're reading this and you haven't seen some of the movies on this list, I definitely recommend renting them, or if you get the chance watch them in a theatre. I really enjoyed a lot of movies that came out this year, and I only saw a fraction of them. I'll probably have more favourites from this year that I'll catch-up on in 2026.

Here's to 100 more movies in 2026!

Acts 3 is often remembered for a miracle, but it is more accurately remembered for a refusal. It is the moment when faith stops walking past suffering as if it were background noise. It is the moment when the early church demonstrates that belief in Jesus is not merely something spoken, sung, or defended, but something that interrupts schedules, rearranges priorities, and dares to look directly at pain without explaining it away. This chapter is not about spectacle. It is about attention. It is about what happens when faith slows down enough to see the human being everyone else has learned to overlook.

Peter and John are on their way to the temple at the hour of prayer. That detail matters more than it seems. They are not wandering aimlessly. They are not on a healing tour. They are doing what faithful people do. They are moving within a rhythm they already know, a pattern shaped by prayer and obedience. There is no sense of anticipation that something extraordinary is about to occur. There is no buildup. No music. No crowd gathered for a moment of divine interruption. They are simply walking, faithful to the ordinary disciplines of their spiritual life.

And then there is the man at the gate called Beautiful. The text does not name him, which is its own quiet indictment. He is known by his condition and his location, not by his identity. He has been lame from birth, which means his entire life has been shaped by limitation, dependence, and routine disappointment. He has never known a body that cooperates with his will. He has never known what it feels like to stand, much less walk into the temple himself. He is placed at the gate every day, close enough to holiness to smell it, but barred from full participation by a body that will not obey him.

This is not a dramatic moment for the crowd. It is ordinary. Pain has become predictable. Suffering has been organized into the architecture of daily life. People know where he will be. They know what he will ask for. They know how to step around him without breaking stride. This is what normalized brokenness looks like. It becomes invisible not because it disappears, but because people grow accustomed to it. The man’s presence is expected, tolerated, and ignored in equal measure.

Peter and John could have done the same. They had a legitimate reason to keep walking. Prayer awaited them. Ministry awaited them. Important spiritual work awaited them. The temptation to prioritize religious activity over human need is not new, and Acts 3 quietly exposes how often we use devotion as an excuse for distance. But Peter does something that changes the entire narrative. He stops. He looks directly at the man. And he asks for the man’s attention in return.

This moment is critical. The miracle does not begin with power. It begins with mutual recognition. Peter does not shout. He does not perform. He says, “Look at us.” In a world where the man has been trained to keep his eyes down, to avoid the gaze of those who pass him by, this request alone is disruptive. It restores dignity before it restores mobility. It says, in effect, you are not a problem to be managed or a nuisance to be avoided. You are a person worthy of eye contact.

The man expects money, which is not greed but survival. Alms are how he lives. Coins are how he eats. There is no reason for him to expect anything else. And then Peter speaks words that have been misunderstood, misused, and romanticized for centuries. “Silver and gold I do not have, but what I have I give you.” This is not a sermon against material provision. It is not a spiritualized dismissal of physical need. Peter is not saying money does not matter. He is saying that what he carries is not reducible to currency.

Peter does not offer theory. He offers authority rooted in relationship. “In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk.” The name matters because it locates the source. This is not Peter’s power. This is not John’s holiness. This is not a technique or formula. It is the continuing work of the risen Jesus flowing through ordinary people who are willing to stop, see, and act.

The healing is immediate, but it is not shallow. Strength enters bones that have never carried weight. Ankles that have never borne pressure suddenly respond. Muscles that have never learned coordination obey without hesitation. This is not rehabilitation. This is restoration. The man does not wobble. He leaps. He stands. He walks. He praises God. And for the first time in his life, he enters the temple not as an object of pity, but as a participant in worship.

The physical miracle is astonishing, but the social miracle may be even greater. The man is no longer positioned outside the sacred space. He is no longer stationed at the margins of spiritual life. He is inside, moving freely, praising openly, and drawing attention not to himself, but to God. The architecture that once symbolized exclusion is now crossed with ease. This is what the gospel does when it moves beyond words. It does not simply comfort the broken. It repositions them.

Predictably, the crowd is amazed. But their amazement is unfocused. They stare at Peter and John as if the power originated with them. This is always the risk when visible change occurs. People look for a human explanation. They want a hero. They want a personality to elevate. Peter refuses this misdirection immediately. He does not allow admiration to settle on the wrong object. He redirects attention to Jesus, not as an abstract idea, but as the same Jesus the crowd rejected.

Peter’s sermon in Acts 3 is not gentle. It is honest. He names their complicity without cruelty. He reminds them that the Jesus who healed this man is the same Jesus they handed over, denied, and chose to replace with a murderer. This is not done to shame them, but to awaken them. Peter is not interested in emotional manipulation. He is interested in repentance, which means a changed mind that leads to a changed direction.

What makes Peter’s words so powerful is that they are spoken in the presence of undeniable transformation. This is not theoretical theology. This is theology with a pulse. The healed man is standing right there, a living argument that God is not finished with Israel, not finished with humanity, and not finished with the story they thought they had concluded at the cross.

Peter reframes the crucifixion not as the end of hope, but as the pivot point of God’s redemptive plan. He speaks of ignorance, not malice, as the lens through which their actions must be understood. This is not an excuse. It is an invitation. If ignorance played a role, then understanding can lead to repentance. If blindness shaped their decision, then sight can change their future.

Acts 3 quietly dismantles the idea that repentance is about groveling. Repentance, in Peter’s language, is about alignment. It is about turning toward what is true now that truth has been made visible. And the promise attached to repentance is not punishment, but refreshment. Peter speaks of times of refreshing coming from the presence of the Lord, language that suggests restoration, relief, and renewal rather than condemnation.

This chapter also confronts a modern misunderstanding of faith. Too often, belief is treated as an internal posture disconnected from tangible impact. Acts 3 does not allow that separation. Faith here is kinetic. It moves hands, stops feet, lifts bodies, and disrupts systems that have grown comfortable with suffering. It refuses to spiritualize pain away or explain it into silence.

The lame man’s healing also exposes the danger of proximity without participation. He was near the temple every day, but nearness did not equal transformation. It was only when someone carried the presence of Jesus to him, not in theory but in action, that change occurred. This challenges the assumption that religious environments automatically produce healing. They do not. People do, when they carry what they have received and are willing to give it away.

Peter and John did not plan this moment, but they were prepared for it. Preparation did not come from strategy, but from intimacy with Jesus. They recognized the opportunity because they had learned to listen. They had learned that obedience often interrupts routine rather than fitting neatly inside it. They had learned that prayer does not remove responsibility, but sharpens awareness.

Acts 3 is also a warning against selective compassion. It would have been easy to offer a coin and keep moving. It would have been socially acceptable. It would have required far less engagement. But Peter offers what cannot be contained in a handout. He offers a command that risks disappointment if nothing happens. He offers hope that could have ended in humiliation. Faith here is not safe. It is exposed.

This exposure reveals something essential about the early church. They did not operate from abundance in the material sense, but they operated from confidence in the authority of Jesus. They did not wait until they felt qualified. They did not wait until they had resources they deemed sufficient. They acted from obedience, trusting that what they carried was enough for the moment in front of them.

The man’s response is unrestrained joy. He does not modulate his praise to fit decorum. He does not worry about appearances. He moves, shouts, and celebrates because his entire understanding of possibility has just been rewritten. This is not just gratitude. It is astonishment. It is the shock of discovering that the story you were told about your life was not final.

That reaction unsettles the crowd. Miracles always do. They disturb the quiet agreement people make with brokenness. They raise uncomfortable questions about why some pain is addressed while other pain remains. Acts 3 does not answer every question, but it refuses to deny what has occurred. It insists that God is active, present, and willing to work through people who are attentive and available.

Peter’s sermon continues by situating Jesus within the larger story of Israel. He is not introducing a foreign concept. He is revealing fulfillment. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is the same God who raised Jesus. The covenant has not been abandoned. It has been completed. This matters because it reframes faith not as rebellion against tradition, but as its truest expression.

The promise Peter offers extends beyond individual healing. He speaks of restoration of all things, language that points toward a future where brokenness is not merely managed, but undone. Acts 3 is not content with partial hope. It stretches toward a horizon where justice, healing, and reconciliation converge.

This chapter leaves the reader with an unavoidable question. What do you do when faith refuses to walk past suffering? What happens when belief demands attention, engagement, and risk rather than distance and explanation? Acts 3 does not provide a comfortable answer. It provides a faithful one.

The story ends not with closure, but with momentum. The crowd is stirred. The leaders are unsettled. The healed man is walking. The apostles are preaching. And the presence of Jesus continues to ripple outward, carried by people who understand that what they have is meant to be given.

Acts 3 reminds us that the most transformative moments often occur on the way to something else. They are interruptions disguised as inconveniences. They are invitations hidden inside routine. They are opportunities that require us to stop, look, and speak with courage rather than pass by with justification.

This chapter does not call the reader to manufacture miracles. It calls the reader to faithfulness that is attentive, courageous, and willing to act. It calls for a kind of belief that refuses to let suffering remain anonymous. It calls for eyes that see, hands that lift, and voices that speak the name of Jesus not as a slogan, but as a source of life.

Acts 3 is not a story about what happened once. It is a revelation of what happens whenever faith chooses presence over convenience and obedience over comfort. It is the day faith refused to walk past suffering, and in doing so, rewrote what was possible for everyone watching.

Acts 3 does not end with applause, resolution, or comfort. It ends with tension. And that is important, because real faith does not tidy up the world in a single moment. It introduces truth into systems that would rather remain undisturbed. The miracle at the Beautiful Gate was not disruptive because it healed a man; it was disruptive because it exposed how long suffering had been allowed to exist without challenge. It revealed that the power of God had been present all along, waiting not for permission, but for participation.

One of the most uncomfortable truths in Acts 3 is that the man was healed in full view of religious life, not in opposition to it. The temple was not hostile to God. The prayers being offered inside were not invalid. And yet healing happened outside the normal flow of religious expectation. This forces a hard realization: sacred spaces can coexist with unmet suffering when faith becomes compartmentalized. When prayer becomes routine instead of relational, it can continue uninterrupted even as brokenness sits at the door.

Peter and John did not abandon the temple. They redefined what faithfulness within it looked like. They demonstrated that reverence for God cannot be separated from responsiveness to human need. The miracle did not compete with worship; it completed it. The healed man enters the temple praising God not because ritual finally worked, but because mercy intervened.

Acts 3 also challenges the idea that transformation must always be gradual. The man’s healing is instantaneous, not incremental. That does not mean all change happens that way, but it does mean that hopelessness should never be treated as wisdom. There is a subtle arrogance in assuming that certain situations are beyond redemption. The man had been lame from birth. Everyone around him had adapted to that reality. Only Peter and John acted as if the past did not get to dictate the future.

This is not denial. It is discernment. Faith here does not ignore facts; it refuses to worship them. The apostles acknowledge the man’s condition, but they do not let it define what God can do. That posture is deeply needed in a culture that often mistakes realism for resignation.

Peter’s sermon continues to echo beyond the moment, because it reframes repentance as opportunity rather than threat. Repentance is not portrayed as God waiting to punish wrongdoing. It is God waiting to restore alignment. The language of refreshing is particularly striking. It suggests that repentance leads not to depletion, but to renewal. Not to shame, but to relief. Not to erasure, but to reorientation.

This matters deeply for modern faith, because many people have rejected Christianity not because of Jesus, but because of how repentance has been presented. Acts 3 offers a different picture. Repentance is the doorway to wholeness, not humiliation. It is the response to grace already revealed, not the price of admission.

The chapter also redefines power. The miracle does not elevate Peter and John as spiritual elites. It exposes how ordinary obedience becomes extraordinary when it is aligned with God’s purpose. They do not claim credit. They actively deflect it. This is leadership without ego, authority without self-promotion. The power that flows through them does not originate in them, and they know it.

This is where Acts 3 speaks sharply to modern platforms, ministries, and movements. The temptation to brand miracles, monetize testimonies, or center personalities is not new, but it is dangerous. Peter’s refusal to accept praise is not humility theater; it is theological clarity. To misdirect glory is to distort the message. To claim ownership of what God does is to weaken its impact.

The healed man, interestingly, does not become a spokesperson. He does not preach. He does not explain theology. He simply lives changed. His presence becomes evidence. Sometimes the most powerful testimony is not articulation, but transformation that cannot be denied. His walking body is a living contradiction to every assumption people have made about him and about God.

Acts 3 also confronts the fear of disappointment. Peter’s command to rise and walk carries risk. What if nothing happened? What if the man stayed on the ground? Faith here is not certainty of outcome; it is obedience in the face of uncertainty. This distinction matters. Many people claim they are waiting on God when they are actually waiting for guarantees. Acts 3 offers none.

Yet the obedience is not reckless. It is rooted in relationship. Peter does not speak in hope that God might act. He speaks with confidence that God is present. This confidence does not come from technique or training. It comes from having walked with Jesus, having failed with Jesus, having been restored by Jesus, and having been filled with the Spirit. Authority flows from intimacy, not ambition.

The story also reframes time. The man had waited his entire life. Healing arrives not when the system is ready, not when the crowd expects it, not when theology has been fully sorted out, but when attention meets obedience. This does not mean suffering exists because people failed to notice it. But it does mean that moments of breakthrough often hinge on human willingness to participate in God’s movement.

Acts 3 does not promise universal healing on demand. It does promise that God is active, aware, and willing to work through those who are available. It rejects the passive faith that prays for change while avoiding responsibility. It also rejects the cynical faith that assumes nothing will ever change. In its place, it offers a faith that is present, responsive, and courageous.

The chapter also forces a confrontation with spiritual blindness. The religious leaders will later oppose the apostles not because the miracle is false, but because it is inconvenient. Transformation threatens control. It destabilizes hierarchies. It raises questions that cannot be easily managed. Acts 3 quietly exposes how resistance to God often disguises itself as concern for order.

Peter’s reference to Moses and the prophets grounds the moment in continuity rather than rebellion. This is not a new God doing a new thing disconnected from history. This is the same God fulfilling promises in ways that demand humility rather than control. Acts 3 insists that faithfulness sometimes looks like letting go of certainty in order to receive fulfillment.

For the reader, the question becomes personal. Who is sitting at the gate you pass every day? What suffering has become so familiar that it no longer registers? What routines have you baptized as faithfulness that may actually function as avoidance? Acts 3 does not accuse; it invites examination.

The chapter also offers hope for those who feel overlooked. The man was unnamed, unnoticed, and underestimated. His story matters not because he was exceptional, but because God intervened. Acts 3 declares that invisibility does not equal insignificance. Being ignored by people does not mean being unseen by God.

Perhaps the most enduring message of Acts 3 is that faith is not proven by proximity to holiness, but by responsiveness to need. The apostles were on their way to pray, yet the true act of worship happened before they reached the temple. Worship spilled out into the street, into the dust, into the place where suffering had been waiting all along.

Acts 3 leaves no room for a faith that is content with explanation instead of engagement. It does not allow belief to remain theoretical. It demands embodiment. It calls for a kind of Christianity that stops, looks, speaks, and risks misunderstanding for the sake of restoration.

This chapter does not ask readers to repeat the miracle. It asks them to repeat the posture. To be attentive rather than hurried. Courageous rather than cautious. Available rather than insulated. It asks whether faith will continue walking past suffering or whether it will finally stop and say, “Look at us,” not to draw attention to itself, but to redirect attention to Jesus.

Acts 3 is not about spectacle. It is about interruption. It is about the day faith refused to walk past suffering and, in doing so, revealed that God was already present, waiting for someone willing to notice.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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In Summary: * Ready to wrap up a good Monday, time spent putting things back in order after the wedding weekend of a best friend of the daughter-in-law. It is indeed good to be back home.

Prayers, etc.: * My daily prayers

Health Metrics: * bw= 218.48 lbs. * bp= 142/88 (75)

Exercise: * kegel pelvic floor exercise, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups

Diet: * 06:30 – 1 banana * 08:00 – small apple pastries * 11:30 – plate of sweet rice * 16:50 – plate of pancit * 19:00 – pork, pancit, steak burger patties with mushroom sauce, Mexican wedding cookies

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 05:00 – listen to local news talk radio * 06:30 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * 08:50 – bank accounts activity monitored * 13:00 – listening to the JLab Birmingham Bowl: Georgia Southern Eagles vs Appalachian State Mountaineers, An NCAA college football game broadcast live by the Appalachian State Sports Network. * 14:20 – start my weekly laundry * 16:10 – And the Georgia Southern Eagles have just won the JLab Birmingham Bowl, 29 to 10. * 16:15 – Listening now to B97 – The Home for IU Women's Basketball ahead of tonight's early NCAA women's basketball game between the Minnesota Golden Gophers and my Indiana Hoosiers. Yes, of course I'll try to stay here for the radio call of the game. * 18:45 – Minnesota gets the win over the Hoosiers, score is 71 to 48. * 19:00 – dinner guests arrived, then ... * 20:15 – ... left early because they had to catch an early flight tomorrow. * 20:30 – time now to wrap up the night prayers, and shut things down in this joint.

Chess: * 13:30 – moved in all pending CC games

The energy of passion drips out in viscous dreams.

I feel urgent A pressure to explore The tro-tros are all full Black boys wave me off Saying, “sorry, abruni”

A big thick horn Vibrated the ground, “COOOOMMMMMAAAAHHH BOOOOOOAAAAAATAAAAHH!” It says.

The black tro-tro doorman Gives me a thumbs up “Boats are better. For the motion.”

I walk through city forever The stone path starts to wear Thin from the pressure of So many steps.

The ‘boats’ are massive faces bobbing in The water, people sprawled Languidly over cheeks On foreheads, in the hollow Where tears gather Before spilling

I can't get through the door though. It is big and red and has brass knobs But turn as I might, The monoliths don't budge.

A woman appears. Deep, dark eyes. High cheekbones flushed with rose. Lips curved like a Stradivarius— tuned for mischief. Beautiful without asking permission.

“They are locked,” She says “You must be hungry. You need soup.”

We go from restaurant to Restaurant all glowing Golden in the night like gems. Each one we enter says the same thing: 'No Soup!'

The last door enters a living room. Ultramodern and angled, everything in white. Wherever I step, I leave mud stains. I am extremely embarrassed, But she just laughs and rolls piercing eyes. She lays me down on the couch.

A bowl materializes and she says, 'Eat.' And tips the bowl to my lips. I sip it down, but the bowl never empties. It pours and pours but I never get full. She laces her fingers through my hair And Massages my scalp, it's very very pleasant. I feel incredibly relaxed and soothed.

The room turns from cold white stone To soft yellow and pink woods. Something pulses and vibrates slow and steady. Suddenly a bell rings, it is the same bell They used to ring when I was in high school. “Oh, I'm sorry you have to leave.” She says And invites me to the door. When I approach, it is a giant steak. Pressing it, my hands sink into the surface And then I fall through.

The loss of my balance wakes me and I find I'm grasping for someone who isn't there.

Drifting back to slumber after rousing, I discover myself in a city of lights and rivers. I am a giant climbing the Eiffel Tower. The police come and explain that it isn't permitted and that I must come down. Rather than acquiesce, I call for a ride and a giant purple bear comes running in to snatch me up. They yell stop! But my attention is already in the cotton candy clouds. No time for distraction.

The bear takes flight into the clouds and lowers me on a spiders strand into a thick pool. I fall in slowly, like the water is welcoming with a hug. Under the surface everything is sensual and the liquid seeps into me until I become part of the world. I hear a voice calling me, but i cannot see the speaker.

The lights go down and I am lost in her forever.

I wake thick and warm, the hum of feeling still in my skin. The dream time was slow—devotional. The kind of passion that takes its time because there is no need to rush a good thing—It left me with the afterimage of being wanted without apology.

It was a hunger and restraint—not reckless—with intentional consideration. Want and ache that anticipated her discovery, her smile when she finds the evidence and asks, quietly, did you mean for me to see this?

Everything moved at the pace of breath. Of listening. Of hands learning through without asking. It wasn’t urgency that drove it, but confidence—the certainty that nothing needed to be rushed because nothing was in danger of disappearing.

Acts 2 does not begin politely. It does not ease into history with soft music or a gentle sunrise. It begins with disruption. Noise. Shock. A moment so unexpected that it instantly fractures every safe category the human mind prefers to keep God in. What happens in Acts 2 is not a sermon series, not a committee decision, not a carefully rolled-out movement. It is an invasion. Heaven does not knock. Heaven arrives.

For many people, Acts 2 is summarized too quickly. Pentecost. Tongues of fire. Languages. Peter’s sermon. Three thousand saved. End of story. But when you slow the chapter down and refuse to rush past its texture, something startling emerges. Acts 2 is not merely the birth of the Church. It is the end of one religious world and the beginning of something terrifyingly alive. It is the moment God stops being contained primarily in sacred buildings and begins living inside ordinary, flawed, previously frightened people.

Before Acts 2, the followers of Jesus believe in resurrection. They have seen Him alive. They have heard Him teach. But belief and boldness are not the same thing. Conviction and courage are not interchangeable. In Acts 1, they are still waiting. Obedient, yes. Faithful, yes. But still uncertain. Still gathered behind closed doors. Still praying instead of proclaiming.

Acts 2 is the moment prayer turns into proclamation.

The text opens with a phrase that sounds calm but hides explosive potential: “When the day of Pentecost had fully come.” That word “fully” matters. This was not random timing. Pentecost was already a feast day. Jerusalem was packed with people from everywhere. Languages filled the streets. Cultures overlapped. Pilgrims came expecting ritual. What they encountered instead was revelation.

Suddenly, there is a sound like a violent rushing wind. Not wind itself, but the sound of it. That distinction matters. God is not limited to physical mechanisms. The room shakes not because air moves but because heaven announces itself. Then fire appears. Not one flame. Divided flames. Resting on each of them. Fire had always symbolized God’s presence in Israel’s story — burning bush, pillar of fire, consuming glory. But now the fire does not hover at a distance. It rests on people.

This is not God showing up again in a new way. This is God moving in.

And that detail alone should unsettle anyone who wants a manageable faith.

The Spirit fills them, and they begin to speak. Not ecstatic babble for private experience, but real languages understood by real people. God does not override communication; He redeems it. The miracle is not that the disciples speak strangely. The miracle is that the crowd hears clearly. The gospel enters the world already multilingual. Already global. Already refusing to belong to a single culture.

And immediately, division appears. Some are amazed. Others are confused. Some mock. That pattern will never stop. Whenever God genuinely moves, reactions split. Unity around Jesus does not mean uniform reaction to Him. Acts 2 shows us something modern Christianity often forgets: the presence of God does not guarantee public approval.

The accusation comes quickly: “They are full of new wine.” It is early in the morning, and already the work of God is being dismissed as intoxication. That has always been the easiest explanation for spiritual disruption. If something cannot be controlled, it must be discredited.

This is where Peter steps forward.

The same Peter who denied Jesus. The same Peter who folded under pressure. The same Peter who warmed himself by a fire while Jesus was interrogated. Acts 2 does not introduce a new Peter. It reveals what happens when the Spirit fills a previously broken man. The gospel is not powered by flawless personalities. It is powered by transformed ones.

Peter raises his voice and explains what is happening, but notice how he explains it. He does not say, “This is a new idea.” He says, “This is what was spoken by the prophet Joel.” The Spirit does not discard Scripture. He illuminates it. Pentecost is not a break from the past; it is the fulfillment of it.

Joel promised a day when God would pour out His Spirit on all flesh — sons and daughters, young and old, servants and free. Acts 2 declares that day has arrived. The barriers are coming down. Access to God is no longer limited by age, gender, class, or status. The Spirit does not ask for permission from religious hierarchies.

This is where Acts 2 becomes deeply uncomfortable for institutional religion. Because once the Spirit is poured out on all flesh, control becomes impossible. Authority must shift from gatekeeping to shepherding. Leadership must move from dominance to service. And not everyone welcomes that change.

Peter’s sermon does not soften the message. He proclaims Jesus as Lord and Christ and directly tells the crowd that they crucified Him. This is not seeker-sensitive language. This is truth spoken without malice but without dilution. And remarkably, it works.

The text says the people are “cut to the heart.” Not entertained. Not impressed. Convicted. There is a pain that leads to healing, and this is it. Conviction is not shame. Shame pushes you away from God. Conviction draws you toward Him. The crowd asks the most important question anyone can ask: “What shall we do?”

Peter’s answer is clear, direct, and often misunderstood. Repent. Be baptized. Receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. This is not a formula for religious performance. It is an invitation into a new life. Repentance is not self-hatred; it is a change of direction. Baptism is not a badge; it is a burial. The Spirit is not a reward; He is a gift.

And then the numbers appear. About three thousand souls. But do not miss the forest for the statistics. Acts 2 is not about church growth techniques. It is about spiritual birth. Something alive has entered the world that cannot be contained by walls, schedules, or systems.

The final section of Acts 2 is often romanticized, but it is far more radical than it sounds. The believers devote themselves to teaching, fellowship, breaking of bread, and prayer. They share possessions. They eat together. They worship together. This is not forced communism. It is voluntary generosity. When God moves into people, their relationship to ownership changes. Fear loosens its grip. Scarcity thinking gives way to trust.

And here is the quiet miracle beneath all the noise: they had favor with the people. Not because they tried to be liked, but because love is difficult to ignore. The same crowd that mocked them earlier now watches something beautiful unfold. Authentic faith, lived out publicly, eventually becomes visible even to skeptics.

Acts 2 ends with a simple but staggering statement: the Lord added to their number daily. Not occasionally. Daily. This was not a revival weekend. It was a new way of existing.

Acts 2 is not a relic of early Christianity. It is a blueprint that has been feared, resisted, diluted, and sometimes forgotten. Because Acts 2 leaves no room for passive faith. It leaves no space for spectators. It insists that if God truly lives within people, everything changes — speech, priorities, courage, generosity, community.

And perhaps the most uncomfortable truth of all is this: the Spirit did not come because the disciples were powerful. He came because they were willing. Waiting. Praying. Open. Acts 2 does not belong to the spiritually elite. It belongs to the surrendered.

What was born that day was not merely the Church. It was a movement fueled not by fear, but by fire that still refuses to go out.

What makes Acts 2 enduring is not the spectacle. Fire and wind grab attention, but they are not the engine. The true force unleashed in Acts 2 is internal. God does not merely act upon people; He indwells them. That shift changes everything about how faith functions in the world. From this point forward, the story of Christianity is no longer primarily about sacred spaces, sacred days, or sacred leaders. It becomes the story of transformed people carrying sacred presence into ordinary life.

That is why Acts 2 cannot be safely admired from a distance. It confronts every attempt to reduce faith to routine, tradition, or cultural inheritance. Acts 2 insists that Christianity is not something you attend; it is something that happens to you. And once it happens, you are no longer neutral ground.

One of the most overlooked aspects of Acts 2 is its emotional honesty. These early believers are not portrayed as spiritual superheroes. They are newly alive people learning how to live with God inside them. Devotion, fellowship, prayer, generosity — these were not institutional requirements; they were natural responses. When the Spirit fills a person, certain hungers awaken. Teaching matters because truth matters. Fellowship matters because isolation no longer fits. Prayer matters because dependence becomes obvious. Worship matters because gratitude overflows.

Acts 2 dismantles the myth that spiritual depth is achieved through complexity. The practices described are simple, but they are not shallow. They are consistent. That consistency is what made them powerful. Modern faith often searches for novelty when what it lacks is continuity. The believers in Acts 2 did not chase experiences; they stewarded presence.

Another detail worth lingering on is how public their faith became. They did not retreat inward after Pentecost. They did not form a hidden subculture. They lived visibly. They ate together openly. They prayed together publicly. They shared resources in a way that could be observed. This was not performative righteousness. It was unavoidably noticeable life.

And this is where Acts 2 quietly challenges modern fear. Many believers today worry about visibility — about saying too much, standing out too clearly, being misunderstood. Acts 2 shows us that misunderstanding is inevitable, but hiding is not the solution. The Spirit did not arrive to make the disciples safer. He arrived to make them faithful.

The accusation of drunkenness earlier in the chapter reveals something important about human perception. When people cannot categorize spiritual reality, they mislabel it. That has never stopped. Throughout history, genuine movements of God have been called extreme, emotional, irrational, or dangerous. Acts 2 teaches us not to be surprised by this. The question is not whether faith will be misunderstood, but whether believers will retreat because of it.

Peter did not retreat. He clarified. He stood in the tension between divine power and human skepticism and spoke truth without hostility. This balance matters. Acts 2 is bold, but it is not arrogant. It is confident, but not cruel. The Spirit does not produce aggression; He produces authority rooted in love.

Peter’s sermon itself reveals another vital truth. The gospel is not disconnected from history. It is anchored in it. Peter connects Jesus to David, to prophecy, to God’s unfolding plan. Faith is not an emotional leap into darkness; it is a response to a revealed story. Acts 2 reminds us that Christianity is intellectually grounded even as it is spiritually alive.

When the crowd responds with repentance, it is not because they were manipulated. It is because truth landed. Repentance in Acts 2 is not humiliation; it is liberation. It is the moment people realize they no longer have to defend their brokenness. They can release it.

Baptism follows immediately, and that immediacy matters. Delayed obedience often signals internal resistance. In Acts 2, faith is embodied quickly. Belief moves into action. The inner change seeks outer expression. This is not about earning salvation; it is about aligning with it.

The promise Peter declares is astonishingly expansive. “The promise is for you, your children, and all who are far off.” Acts 2 refuses to be a closed chapter. It announces continuity. What happened then was not meant to end then. It was meant to ripple outward across generations and geography.

That truth alone should reshape how believers read Acts. This is not merely descriptive history; it is theological declaration. The Spirit poured out in Acts 2 is not exhausted. The fire did not burn out. The wind did not fade. The same Spirit continues to work wherever people yield.

Yet Acts 2 also warns us that growth without depth is unsustainable. The reason the early believers thrived was not merely because many joined them, but because they were formed together. Community was not optional. Faith was shared life. Modern Christianity often struggles here. Individual belief without communal grounding leads to fragility. Acts 2 offers an alternative vision — faith lived together, carried together, sustained together.

The generosity described at the end of the chapter is particularly confronting in a culture built on accumulation. The believers sold possessions not because ownership was evil, but because love was stronger. Need mattered more than comfort. This was not coerced sacrifice; it was voluntary response. When fear loosens its grip, generosity flows naturally.

It is important to say this clearly: Acts 2 does not mandate identical economic behavior for every era. But it does reveal a principle that transcends time — Spirit-filled people hold things loosely. When God becomes your security, possessions lose their power.

Another subtle but powerful detail is joy. Acts 2 speaks of gladness and sincere hearts. This was not grim devotion. It was vibrant life. Too often, seriousness is mistaken for holiness. Acts 2 reminds us that joy is not frivolous; it is evidence of resurrection life at work.

The favor they experienced with the people was not universal approval, but it was real respect. Authentic faith, lived with integrity, eventually earns credibility even among skeptics. Not everyone will agree, but many will notice. Acts 2 shows us that when belief and behavior align, witness becomes compelling.

And then there is the final line: the Lord added to their number daily. Growth was not engineered. It was organic. God added. People responded. Life multiplied.

This is perhaps the most humbling aspect of Acts 2. The disciples did not control outcomes. They participated faithfully and trusted God with results. That posture is desperately needed today. When faith becomes obsessed with metrics, it loses its soul. Acts 2 reminds us that faithfulness precedes fruitfulness.

What Acts 2 ultimately reveals is this: Christianity is not sustained by memory of past miracles but by participation in present reality. Pentecost was not a one-time spectacle; it was a redefinition of how God relates to humanity. From this moment on, God is not merely above His people. He is within them.

That reality changes how believers speak, serve, endure suffering, face opposition, and love enemies. It reshapes identity. It reorders priorities. It ignites courage.

Acts 2 does not ask whether we admire the early Church. It asks whether we are willing to be shaped by the same Spirit. Whether we are open enough, surrendered enough, patient enough to wait for God to move in ways that disrupt our comfort.

The fire of Acts 2 still burns. The question is not whether God is willing to pour out His Spirit. The question is whether people are willing to receive Him fully.

Because once heaven breaks the sound barrier of human expectation, nothing remains the same.

And that is the quiet, terrifying, beautiful truth of Acts 2.

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When Sarah Andersen, Kelly McKernan, and Karla Ortiz filed their copyright infringement lawsuit against Stability AI and Midjourney in January 2023, they raised a question that now defines one of the most contentious debates in technology: can AI image generation's creative potential be reconciled with artists' rights and market sustainability? More than two years later, that question remains largely unanswered, but the outlines of potential solutions are beginning to emerge through experimental licensing frameworks, technical standards, and a rapidly shifting platform landscape.

The scale of what's at stake is difficult to overstate. Stability AI's models were trained on LAION-5B, a dataset containing 5.85 billion images scraped from the internet. Most of those images were created by human artists who never consented to their work being used as training data, never received attribution, and certainly never saw compensation. At a U.S. Senate hearing, Karla Ortiz testified with stark clarity: “I have never been asked. I have never been credited. I have never been compensated one penny, and that's for the use of almost the entirety of my work, both personal and commercial, senator.”

This isn't merely a legal question about copyright infringement. It's a governance crisis that demands we design new institutional frameworks capable of balancing competing interests: the technological potential of generative AI, the economic livelihoods of millions of creative workers, and the sustainability of markets that depend on human creativity. Three distinct threads have emerged in response. First, experimental licensing and compensation models that attempt to establish consent-based frameworks for AI training. Second, technical standards for attribution and provenance that make the origins of digital content visible. Third, a dramatic migration of creator communities away from platforms that embraced AI without meaningful consent mechanisms.

Experiments in Consent and Compensation

The most direct approach to reconciling AI development with artists' rights is to establish licensing frameworks that require consent and provide compensation for the use of copyrighted works in training datasets.

Getty Images' partnership with Nvidia represents the most comprehensive attempt to build such a model. Rather than training on publicly scraped data, Getty developed its generative AI tool exclusively on its licensed creative library of approximately 200 million images. Contributors are compensated through a revenue-sharing model that pays them “for the life of the product”, not as a one-time fee, but as a percentage of revenue “into eternity”. On an annual recurring basis, the company shares revenues generated from the tool with contributors whose content was used to train the AI generator.

This Spotify-style compensation model addresses several concerns simultaneously. It establishes consent by only using content from photographers who have already agreed to licence their work to Getty. It provides ongoing compensation that scales with the commercial success of the AI tool. And it offers legal protection, with Getty providing up to £50,000 in legal coverage per image and uncapped indemnification as part of enterprise solutions.

The limitations are equally clear. It only works within a closed ecosystem where Getty controls both the training data and the commercial distribution. Most artists don't licence their work through Getty, and the model provides no mechanism for compensating creators whose work appears in open datasets like LAION-5B.

A different approach has emerged in the music industry. In Sweden, STIM (the Swedish music rights society) launched what it describes as the world's first collective AI licence for music. The framework allows AI companies to train their systems on copyrighted music lawfully, with royalties flowing back to the original songwriters both through model training and through downstream consumption of AI outputs.

STIM's Acting CEO Lina Heyman described this as “establishing a scalable, democratic model for the industry”, one that “embraces disruption without undermining human creativity”. GEMA, a German performing rights collection society, has proposed a similar model that explicitly rejects one-off lump sum payments for training data, arguing that “such one-off payments may not sufficiently compensate authors given the potential revenues from AI-generated content”.

These collective licensing approaches draw on decades of experience from the music industry, where performance rights organisations have successfully managed complex licensing across millions of works. The advantage is scalability: rather than requiring individual negotiations between AI companies and millions of artists, a collective licensing organisation can offer blanket permissions covering large repertoires.

Yet collective licensing faces obstacles. Unlike music, where performance rights organisations have legal standing and well-established royalty collection mechanisms, visual arts have no equivalent infrastructure. And critically, these systems only work if AI companies choose to participate. Without legal requirements forcing licensing, companies can simply continue training on publicly scraped data.

The consent problem runs deeper than licensing alone. In 2017, Monica Boța-Moisin coined the phrase “the 3 Cs” in the context of protecting Indigenous People's cultural property: consent, credit, and compensation. This framework has more recently emerged as a rallying cry for creative workers responding to generative AI. But as researchers have noted, the 3 Cs “are not yet a concrete framework in the sense of an objectively implementable technical standard”. They represent aspirational principles rather than functioning governance mechanisms.

Regional Governance Divergence

The lack of global consensus has produced three distinct regional approaches to AI training data governance, each reflecting different assumptions about the balance between innovation and rights protection.

The United States has taken what researchers describe as a “market-driven” approach, where private companies through their practices and internal frameworks set de facto standards. No specific law regulates the use of copyrighted material for training AI models. Instead, the issue is being litigated in lawsuits that pit content creators against the creators of generative AI tools.

In August 2024, U.S. District Judge William Orrick of California issued a significant ruling in the Andersen v. Stability AI case. He found that the artists had reasonably argued that the companies violate their rights by illegally storing work and that Stable Diffusion may have been built “to a significant extent on copyrighted works” and was “created to facilitate that infringement by design”. The judge denied Stability AI and Midjourney's motion to dismiss the artists' copyright infringement claims, allowing the case to move towards discovery.

This ruling suggests that American courts may not accept blanket fair use claims for AI training, but the legal landscape remains unsettled. Yet without legislation, the governance framework will emerge piecemeal through court decisions, creating uncertainty for both AI companies and artists.

The European Union has taken a “rights-focused” approach, creating opt-out mechanisms for copyright owners to remove their works from text and data mining purposes. The EU AI Act explicitly declares text and data mining exceptions to be applicable to general-purpose AI models, but with critical limitations. If rights have been explicitly reserved through an appropriate opt-out mechanism (by machine-readable means for online content), developers of AI models must obtain authorisation from rights holders.

Under Article 53(1)© of the AI Act, providers must establish a copyright policy including state-of-the-art technologies to identify and comply with possible opt-out reservations. Additionally, providers must “draw up and make publicly available a sufficiently detailed summary about the content used for training of the general-purpose AI model”.

However, the practical implementation has proven problematic. As legal scholars note, “you have to have some way to know that your image was or will be actually used in training”. The ECSA's secretary general told Euronews that “the work of our members should not be used without transparency, consent, and remuneration, and we see that the implementation of the AI Act does not give us” these protections.

Japan has pursued perhaps the most permissive approach. Article 30-4 of Japan's revised Copyright Act, which came into effect on 1 January 2019, allows broad rights to ingest and use copyrighted works for any type of information analysis, including training AI models, even for commercial use. Collection of copyrighted works as AI training data is permitted without permission of the copyright holder, provided the use doesn't cause unreasonable harm.

The rationale reflects national priorities: AI is seen as a potential solution to a swiftly ageing population, and with no major local Japanese AI providers, the government implemented a flexible AI approach to quickly develop capabilities. However, this has generated increasing pushback from Japan-based content creators, particularly developers of manga and anime.

The United Kingdom is currently navigating between these approaches. On 17 December 2024, the UK Government announced its public consultation on “Copyright and Artificial Intelligence”, proposing an EU-style broad text and data mining exception for any purpose, including commercial, but only where the party has “lawful access” and the rightholder hasn't opted out. A petition signed by more than 37,500 people, including actors and celebrities, condemned the proposals as a “major and unfair threat” to creators' livelihoods.

What emerges from this regional divergence is not a unified governance framework but a fragmented landscape where “the world is splintering”, as one legal analysis put it. AI companies operating globally must navigate different rules in different jurisdictions, and artists have vastly different levels of protection depending on where they and the AI companies are located.

The C2PA and Content Credentials

Whilst licensing frameworks and legal regulations attempt to govern the input side of AI image generation (what goes into training datasets), technical standards are emerging to address the output side: making the origins and history of digital content visible and verifiable.

The Coalition for Content Provenance and Authenticity (C2PA) is a formal coalition dedicated to addressing the prevalence of misleading information online through the development of technical standards for certifying the source and history of media content. Formed through an alliance between Adobe, Arm, Intel, Microsoft, and Truepic, collaborators include the Associated Press, BBC, The New York Times, Reuters, Leica, Nikon, Canon, and Qualcomm.

Content Credentials provide cryptographically secure metadata that captures content provenance from the moment it is created through all subsequent modifications. They function as “a nutrition label for digital content”, containing information about who produced a piece of content, when they produced it, and which tools and editing processes they used. When an action was performed by an AI or machine learning system, it is clearly identified as such.

OpenAI now includes C2PA metadata in images generated with ChatGPT and DALL-E 3. Google collaborated on version 2.1 of the technical standard, which is more secure against tampering attacks. Microsoft Azure OpenAI includes Content Credentials in all AI-generated images.

The security model is robust: faking Content Credentials would require breaking current cryptographic standards, an infeasible task with today's technology. However, metadata can be easily removed either accidentally or intentionally. To address this, C2PA supports durable credentials via soft bindings such as invisible watermarking that can help rediscover the associated Content Credential even if it's removed from the file.

Critically, the core C2PA specification does not support attribution of content to individuals or organisations, so that it can remain maximally privacy-preserving. However, creators can choose to attach attribution information directly to their assets.

For artists concerned about AI training, C2PA offers partial solutions. It can make AI-generated images identifiable, potentially reducing confusion about whether a work was created by a human artist or an AI system. It cannot, however, prevent AI companies from training on human-created images, nor does it provide any mechanism for consent or compensation. It's a transparency tool, not a rights management tool.

Glaze, Nightshade, and the Resistance

Frustrated by the lack of effective governance frameworks, some artists have turned to defensive technologies that attempt to protect their work at the technical level.

Glaze and Nightshade, developed by researchers at the University of Chicago, represent two complementary approaches. Glaze is a defensive tool that individual artists can use to protect themselves against style mimicry attacks. It works by making subtle changes to images invisible to the human eye but which cause AI models to misinterpret the artistic style.

Nightshade takes a more aggressive approach: it's a data poisoning tool that artists can use as a group to disrupt models that scrape their images without consent. By introducing carefully crafted perturbations into images, Nightshade causes AI models trained on those images to learn incorrect associations.

The adoption statistics are striking. Glaze has been downloaded more than 8.5 million times since its launch in March 2023. Nightshade has been downloaded more than 2.5 million times since January 2024. Glaze has been integrated into Cara, a popular art platform, allowing artists to embed protection in their work when they upload images.

Shawn Shan, the lead developer, was named MIT Technology Review Innovator of the Year for 2024, reflecting the significance the artistic community places on tools that offer some degree of protection in the absence of effective legal frameworks.

Yet defensive technologies face inherent limitations. They require artists to proactively protect their work before posting it online, placing the burden of protection on individual creators rather than on AI companies. They're engaged in an arms race: as defensive techniques evolve, AI companies can develop countermeasures. And they do nothing to address the billions of images already scraped and incorporated into existing training datasets. Glaze and Nightshade are symptoms of a governance failure, tactical responses to a strategic problem that requires institutional solutions.

Spawning and Have I Been Trained

Between defensive technologies and legal frameworks sits another approach: opt-out infrastructure that attempts to create a consent layer for AI training.

Spawning AI created Have I Been Trained, a website that allows creators to opt out of the training dataset for art-generating AI models like Stable Diffusion. The website searches the LAION-5B training dataset, a library of 5.85 billion images used to feed Stable Diffusion and Google's Imagen.

Since launching opt-outs in December 2022, Spawning has helped thousands of individual artists and organisations remove 78 million artworks from AI training. By late April, that figure had exceeded 1 billion. Spawning partnered with ArtStation to ensure opt-out requests made on their site are honoured, and partnered with Shutterstock to opt out all images posted to their platforms by default.

Critically, Stability AI promised to respect opt-outs in Spawning's Do Not Train Registry for training of Stable Diffusion 3. This represents a voluntary commitment rather than a legal requirement, but it demonstrates that opt-out infrastructure can work when AI companies choose to participate.

However, the opt-out model faces fundamental problems: it places the burden on artists to discover their work is being used and to actively request removal. It works retrospectively rather than prospectively. And it only functions if AI companies voluntarily respect opt-out requests.

The infrastructure challenge is enormous. An artist must somehow discover that their work appears in a training dataset, navigate to the opt-out system, verify their ownership, submit the request, and hope that AI companies honour it. For the millions of artists whose work appears in LAION-5B, this represents an impossible administrative burden. The default should arguably be opt-in rather than opt-out: work should only be included in training datasets with explicit artist permission.

The Platform Migration Crisis

Whilst lawyers debate frameworks and technologists build tools, a more immediate crisis has been unfolding: artist communities are fracturing across platform boundaries in response to AI policies.

The most dramatic migration occurred in early June 2024, when Meta announced that starting 26 June 2024, photos, art, posts, and even post captions on Facebook and Instagram would be used to train Meta's AI chatbots. The company offered no opt-out mechanism for users in the United States. The reaction was immediate and severe.

Cara, an explicitly anti-AI art platform founded by Singaporean photographer Jingna Zhang, became the primary destination for the exodus. In around seven days, Cara went from having 40,000 users to 700,000, eventually reaching close to 800,000 users at its peak. In the first days of June 2024, the Cara app recorded approximately 314,000 downloads across the Apple App Store and Google Play Store, compared to 49,410 downloads in May 2024. The surge landed Cara in the Top 5 of Apple's US App Store.

Cara explicitly bans AI-generated images and uses detection technology from AI company Hive to identify and remove rule-breakers. Each uploaded image is tagged with a “NoAI” label to discourage scraping. The platform integrates Glaze, allowing artists to automatically protect their work when uploading. This combination of policy (banning AI art), technical protection (Glaze integration), and community values (explicitly supporting human artists) created a platform aligned with artist concerns in ways Instagram was not.

The infrastructure challenges were severe. Server costs jumped from £2,000 to £13,500 in a week. The platform is run entirely by volunteers who pay for the platform to keep running out of their own pockets. This highlights a critical tension in platform migration: the platforms most aligned with artist values often lack the resources and infrastructure of the corporate platforms artists are fleeing.

DeviantArt faced a similar exodus following its launch of DreamUp, an artificial intelligence image-generation tool based on Stable Diffusion, in November 2022. The release led to DeviantArt's inclusion in the copyright infringement lawsuit alongside Stability AI and Midjourney. Artist frustrations include “AI art everywhere, low activity unless you're amongst the lucky few with thousands of followers, and paid memberships required just to properly protect your work”.

ArtStation, owned by Epic Games, took a different approach. The platform allows users to tag their projects with “NoAI” if they would like their content to be prohibited from use in datasets utilised by generative AI programs. This tag is not applied by default; users must actively designate their projects. This opt-out approach has been more acceptable to many artists than platforms that offer no protection mechanisms at all, though it still places the burden on individual creators.

Traffic data from November 2024 shows DeviantArt.com had more total visits compared to ArtStation.com, with DeviantArt holding a global rank of #258 whilst ArtStation ranks #2,902. Most professional artists maintain accounts on multiple platforms, with the general recommendation being to focus on ArtStation for professional work whilst staying on DeviantArt for discussions and relationships.

This platform fragmentation reveals how AI policies are fundamentally reshaping the geography of creative communities. Rather than a unified ecosystem, artists now navigate a fractured landscape where different platforms offer different levels of protection, serve different community norms, and align with different values around AI. The migration isn't simply about features or user experience; it's about alignment on fundamental questions of consent, compensation, and the role of human creativity in an age of generative AI.

The broader creator economy shows similar tensions. In December 2024, more than 500 people in the entertainment industry signed a letter launching the Creators Coalition on AI, an organisation addressing AI concerns across creative fields. Signatories included Natalie Portman, Cate Blanchett, Ben Affleck, Guillermo del Toro, Aaron Sorkin, Ava DuVernay, and Taika Waititi, along with members of the Directors Guild of America, SAG-AFTRA, the Writers Guild of America, the Producers Guild of America, and IATSE. The coalition's work is guided by four core pillars: transparency, consent and compensation for content and data; job protection and transition plans; guardrails against misuse and deep fakes; and safeguarding humanity in the creative process.

This coalition represents an attempt to organise creator power across platforms and industries, recognising that individual artists have limited leverage whilst platform-level organisation can shift policy. The Make it Fair Campaign, launched by the UK's creative industries on 25 February, similarly calls on the UK government to support artists and enforce copyright laws through a responsible AI approach.

Can Creative Economies Survive?

The platform migration crisis connects directly to the broader question of market sustainability. If AI-generated images can be produced at near-zero marginal cost, what happens to the market for human-created art?

CISAC projections suggest that by 2028, generative AI outputs in music could approach £17 billion annually, a sizeable share of a global music market Goldman Sachs valued at £105 billion in 2024. With up to 24 per cent of music creators' revenues at risk of being diluted due to AI developments by 2028, the music industry faces a pivotal moment. Visual arts markets face similar pressures.

Creative workers around the world have spoken up about the harms of generative AI on their work, mentioning issues such as damage to their professional reputation, economic losses, plagiarism, copyright issues, and an overall decrease in creative jobs. The economic argument from AI proponents is that generative AI will expand the total market for visual content, creating opportunities even as it disrupts existing business models. The counter-argument from artists is that AI fundamentally devalues human creativity by flooding markets with low-cost alternatives, making it impossible for human artists to compete on price.

Getty Images has compensated hundreds of thousands of artists with “anticipated payments to millions more for the role their content IP has played in training generative technology”. This suggests one path towards market sustainability: embedding artist compensation directly into AI business models. But this only works if AI companies choose to adopt such models or are legally required to do so.

Market sustainability also depends on maintaining the quality and diversity of human-created art. If the most talented artists abandon creative careers because they can't compete economically with AI, the cultural ecosystem degrades. This creates a potential feedback loop: AI models trained predominantly on AI-generated content rather than human-created works may produce increasingly homogenised outputs, reducing the diversity and innovation that makes creative markets valuable.

Some suggest this concern is overblown, pointing to the continued market for artisanal goods in an age of mass manufacturing, or the survival of live music in an age of recorded sound. Human-created art, this argument goes, will retain value precisely because of its human origin, becoming a premium product in a market flooded with AI-generated content. But this presumes consumers can distinguish human from AI art (which C2PA aims to enable) and that enough consumers value that distinction enough to pay premium prices.

What Would Functional Governance Look Like?

More than two years into the generative AI crisis, no comprehensive governance framework has emerged that successfully reconciles AI's creative potential with artists' rights and market sustainability. What exists instead is a patchwork of partial solutions, experimental models, and fragmented regional approaches. But the outlines of what functional governance might look like are becoming clearer.

First, consent mechanisms must shift from opt-out to opt-in as the default. The burden should be on AI companies to obtain permission to use works in training data, not on artists to discover and prevent such use. This reverses the current presumption where anything accessible online is treated as fair game for AI training.

Second, compensation frameworks need to move beyond one-time payments towards revenue-sharing models that scale with the commercial success of AI tools. Getty Images' model demonstrates this is possible within a closed ecosystem. STIM's collective licensing framework shows how it might scale across an industry. But extending these models to cover the full scope of AI training requires either voluntary industry adoption or regulatory mandates that make licensing compulsory.

Third, transparency about training data must become a baseline requirement, not a voluntary disclosure. The EU AI Act's requirement that providers “draw up and make publicly available a sufficiently detailed summary about the content used for training” points in this direction. Artists cannot exercise rights they don't know they have, and markets cannot function when the inputs to AI systems are opaque.

Fourth, attribution and provenance standards like C2PA need widespread adoption to maintain the distinction between human-created and AI-generated content. This serves both consumer protection goals (knowing what you're looking at) and market sustainability goals (allowing human creators to differentiate their work). But adoption must extend beyond a few tech companies to become an industry-wide standard, ideally enforced through regulation.

Fifth, collective rights management infrastructure needs to be built for visual arts, analogous to performance rights organisations in music. Individual artists cannot negotiate effectively with AI companies, and the transaction costs of millions of individual licensing agreements are prohibitive. Collective licensing scales, but it requires institutional infrastructure that currently doesn't exist for most visual arts.

Sixth, platform governance needs to evolve beyond individual platform policies towards industry-wide standards. The current fragmentation, where artists must navigate different policies on different platforms, imposes enormous costs and drives community fracturing. Industry standards or regulatory frameworks that establish baseline protections across platforms would reduce this friction.

Finally, enforcement mechanisms are critical. Voluntary frameworks only work if AI companies choose to participate. The history of internet governance suggests that without enforcement, economic incentives will drive companies towards the least restrictive jurisdictions and practices. This argues for regulatory approaches with meaningful penalties for violations, combined with technical enforcement tools like C2PA that make violations detectable.

None of these elements alone is sufficient. Consent without compensation leaves artists with rights but no income. Compensation without transparency makes verification impossible. Transparency without collective management creates unmanageable transaction costs. But together, they sketch a governance framework that could reconcile competing interests: enabling AI development whilst protecting artist rights and maintaining market sustainability.

The evidence so far suggests that market forces alone will not produce adequate protections. AI companies have strong incentives to train on the largest possible datasets with minimal restrictions, whilst individual artists have limited leverage to enforce their rights. Platform migration shows that artists will vote with their feet when platforms ignore their concerns, but migration to smaller platforms with limited resources isn't a sustainable solution.

The regional divergence between the U.S., EU, and Japan reflects different political economies and different assumptions about the appropriate balance between innovation and rights protection. In a globalised technology market, this divergence creates regulatory arbitrage opportunities that undermine any single jurisdiction's governance attempts.

The litigation underway in the U.S., particularly the Andersen v. Stability AI case, may force legal clarity that voluntary frameworks have failed to provide. If courts find that training AI models on copyrighted works without permission constitutes infringement, licensing becomes legally necessary rather than optional. This could catalyse the development of collective licensing infrastructure and compensation frameworks. But if courts find that such use constitutes fair use, the legal foundation for artist rights collapses, leaving only voluntary industry commitments and platform-level policies.

The governance question posed at the beginning remains open: can AI image generation's creative potential be reconciled with artists' rights and market sustainability? The answer emerging from two years of crisis is provisional: yes, but only if we build institutional frameworks that don't currently exist, establish legal clarity that courts have not yet provided, and demonstrate political will that governments have been reluctant to show. The experimental models, technical standards, and platform migrations documented here are early moves in a governance game whose rules are still being written. What they reveal is that reconciliation is possible, but far from inevitable. The question is whether we'll build the frameworks necessary to achieve it before the damage to creative communities and markets becomes irreversible.

References & Sources

• CIO Playbook: Adobe Generative AI (Firefly) Licensing Models
• Governance of Generative AI in Creative Work: Consent, Credit, Compensation, and Beyond
• Artists' Rights in the Age of Generative AI
• Protecting artists' rights: what responsible AI means for the creative industries
• Meta's New AI Policy Sparks Exodus of Artists
• Creators Coalition on AI
• Hollywood Insiders Unite to Fight for Future of Industry With Launch of Creators Coalition on AI
• C2PA in ChatGPT Images
• How Google and the C2PA are increasing transparency for gen AI content
• The AI lab waging a guerrilla war over exploitative AI
• Nightshade: Protecting Copyright
• Glaze – Protecting Artists from Generative AI
• Spawning lays out plans for letting creators opt out of generative AI training
• Have I Been Trained?
• Spawning opts out 78 million artworks from AI training
• Moving Pictures: NVIDIA, Getty Images Collaborate on Generative AI
• Getty Images promises its new AI doesn't contain copyrighted art
• STIM launches world's first collective AI music licence
• Sweden's STIM has launched the 'world's first AI licence for music'
• GEMA proposes licensing model for AI-generated music
• EU AI Act's Opt-Out Trend May Limit Data Use for Training AI Models
• How to 'opt-out' your images from use in AI training
• Training AI models: UK Government proposes EU style “opt out” copyright exception
• Japan's New Draft Guidelines on AI and Copyright
• Artists Land a Win in Class Action Lawsuit Against A.I. Companies
• What is Cara, the Instagram alternative that gained 600k users in a week?
• Why Artists are Fleeing Instagram for AI-Skeptical App Cara

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Tim Green UK-based Systems Theorist & Independent Technology Writer

Tim explores the intersections of artificial intelligence, decentralised cognition, and posthuman ethics. His work, published at smarterarticles.co.uk, challenges dominant narratives of technological progress while proposing interdisciplinary frameworks for collective intelligence and digital stewardship.

His writing has been featured on Ground News and shared by independent researchers across both academic and technological communities.

ORCID: 0009-0002-0156-9795 Email: tim@smarterarticles.co.uk