Welcome to my blog.

First published in 2006, this foundational article is essential to understanding how your environment affects your mind—and thoughts…

This edition of The Doctor’s Notes deals with the effects of cosmic energy on mental stability. Could this be the true source of the much of the problems we all face in the world?

While it is a common wives’ tale that the full moon affects the general population’s “sanity” once each month, there is a growing body of scientific evidence that cosmic energy has a direct influence on an individual’s mental stability.

The absolute sum of this dark energy leads all of us to behave much differently than if this energy was not present.

The source of this cosmic energy is generally cosmic rays from the sun and other stars, electromagnetic energy that constantly bombards all of us every day of our lives. On a disturbing note, a growing amount of man-made source of high level electromagnetic energy is also having an influence on our minds as well. The absolute sum of this dark energy leads all of us to behave much differently than if this energy was not present.

Historical Effects of Dark Energy

Throughout history, periodic acts of group insanity can be tied directly to solar flares or other cosmic events that show high radiation levels. Even more important, if it seems that the previous century demonstrated a singularly high level of mental instability and psychosis, one would be more than right—one would be absolutely correct.

With the rise of the Industrial Age and advanced technology, especially during the 20th Century, it can be documented that the frequency of insanity or acts of psychosis has grown dramatically. And this rate of growth is much more than can be explained through simple population growth alone—there has to be an outside influence.

The bottom line is this: this dark energy affects the choices and actions we all make, every day.

The effects of cosmic energy on the human body are both dramatically spectacular and deceptively sublime. They are also cumulative over the life of the individual. The effects can manifest themselves in ways that range from the serial killings of Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer to the otherwise easily explainable belief that your cubical mate—or your husband—is plotting to take something from you. The bottom line is this: this dark energy affects the choices and actions we all make, every day.

Extreme behavior such as a mass or serial killer is obviously explainable as being influenced by cosmic energy, but what is not so obvious is the effect it has on so-called “normal” people. What in the past might be shrugged off as simple irritation or quirky behavior is in fact another manifestation of the dark energy passing through our bodies every second of every day.

The Solution: engenetics^.org

As my semi-enlightened colleagues frequently say, admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to recovery. They are only partially correct. Yes, identifying the problem is critical, even essential. But without an adequate solution, identification is less than meaningless.

During the previous century, there was a good deal of talk about using thin metal helmets (or TMH’s) to block cosmic energy. Usually this was professed in conjunction with extraterrestrials or other sources of mind control. Based on the current body of evidence, TMH’s would have no preventative effect when dealing with aliens, and the effects on preventing mind control are only a part of the problem.

No, the problem is the total SUM of electromagnetic energy that is being directed at all of us. As was demonstrated by Gorki Sunderland at MIT (see the collected case notes at the Center) due to the parabolic shape of the human skull, TMH’s actual focus the resulting energy, causing the effects of the high energy particles to be more harmful than beneficially blocking them.

What You Can Do

Fortunately, engenetics^.org can help. Through learning to pinpoint your Heisenberg centers and the use of personal firewalls, a trained individual can effectively “block out” the dark energy and make more rational, logical decisions.

And because this energy acts as both particles and waves, this blocking method using an individual’s Heisenberg center is most effective. While this technique works extremely well for a trained individual, only a very few can extend their blocking range to include others. So while we at the Center have come so far, there is much more to do.

But rest assured: we are close. This dark energy will continue to be an insidious menace to all of humanity until through dedicated research and development, we find the means to block it for more people. We need your generosity and support to continue this research and find the answers we so obviously need.

As always, we only ask that you donate what you are comfortable giving. Ω

Dr. M. E. Tabyánan Executive Director and Founder The Center for engenetics^.org Studies

“The coming decade will see many changes in our thoughts, and even in our minds.” —International Millenium Technology Conference, June 2000

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Ask The Doctor!

Question: Why does my family hate me? —Harold Cruthers, Dallas TX, USA The Doctor: It is not that your family hates you, per se, but that their quantum levels are in conflict with yours. It’s quite simple, really. I hope this answers your question.

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What Others Are Saying

“I believe in the results of engenetics.org, no matter what anyone says. They are scientifically proven.” —Dieter Merkel, Berlin, Germany

“Dr. M. E. Tabyánan helped me with my marriage and family. He’s the best.” —Thomas Gaither, Atlanta, GA, USA

“I can’t believe that anyone would want to hurt The Doctor. He is our only salvation!” —Peter George, Oklahoma City, OK, USA

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#thedoctorsnotes #cosmicenergy #heisenbergcenter #personalfirewalls

Facebook pretty much banned me.

Not because I threatened somebody.  Not because I was spreading hate.  Not because I was trying to hurt anybody.

I was preaching Jesus.

And I’m not the only one. Someone else in my church—someone who was simply spreading the Gospel—had the same thing happen to them.

Mine started with an Instagram account.

Facebook told me an Instagram account connected to me had violated their rules.

There was just one problem:

IT WASN’T MY INSTAGRAM ACCOUNT.

I had never created it. Never used it. Never even knew it existed.

Somebody had apparently hacked their way into my Facebook world, and somehow I was the one who got punished.

So I tried to explain it.

But you don’t sit down with a human being at Facebook.

You talk to screens.

Forms.

Automated systems.

Digital walls with no face on the other side.

I explained, “That Instagram account isn’t mine.”

I showed them my real account.

I tried to straighten out the mess.

And eventually I was warned that if I kept emailing, my Facebook account could be canceled.

Think about that.

I was trying to tell them:

“SOMEBODY GOT INTO MY ACCOUNT.”

And somehow the man asking for help became the problem.

So today, my Facebook presence is crippled.

I can sometimes use the website, but the app tells me I’m kicked off. Long posts are difficult. Videos are difficult. Sometimes I have to upload a video somewhere else, wait for it, copy the link, and bring it back to Facebook just to share a message.

I used to have around 2,000 followers.

And yes—it bothered me.

Because I wasn’t trying to build some little kingdom for myself.

I WAS TRYING TO REACH PEOPLE FOR JESUS CHRIST.

But then something happened.

Something I never expected.

While one door was being slammed in my face…

God started opening doors Facebook couldn’t control.

Hospital doors.

Nursing-home doors.

Hospice doors.

Bedroom doors where families are whispering because somebody they love is dying.

I started meeting people face-to-face.

Not followers.

People.

Not likes.

Lives.

Not comments underneath a video.

Tears running down somebody’s face.

I remember one woman.

Cancer.

Her abdomen was swollen and hard.

Death wasn’t an abstract theological subject anymore.

Death was standing in the room.

I asked her one of the questions I sometimes ask:

“Is there anything left unsaid or undone?”

She looked at me and said:

“I want to reconnect.”

Reconnect?

I asked, “Do you mean reconnect with your faith?”

“Yes.”

I asked about her church background.

Baptist.

And suddenly I understood exactly what she was asking me for.

I said, “I know the prayer you want to pray.”

And there, in that room, far away from Facebook algorithms, community standards, account restrictions, follower counts and computer screens…

a dying woman called upon Jesus Christ.

She accepted Him as her personal Lord and Savior.

About a week later…

she went home to see Him.

And Facebook wasn’t there.

There wasn’t a livestream.

There weren’t 2,000 followers watching.

There weren’t hundreds of likes.

There was just a dying woman…

a chaplain…

and Jesus.

That’s when something finally hit me.

For years I thought social media was helping me reach the world.

Maybe it was.

But when that door nearly slammed shut, God reminded me:

THE GOSPEL NEVER NEEDED FACEBOOK.

As a pastor, I might see a few people come to Christ over the course of several months.

But today?

I’m sitting beside people who are staring eternity in the face.

I’m meeting people who want to come home.

I’m meeting people who want to reconnect.

I’m meeting people who need somebody to take their hand and remind them:

Jesus is still here.

So yes, Facebook restricted me.

Yes, they made it harder.

Yes, I believe I was punished for something I didn’t do.

But somewhere along the way, what felt like punishment became a strange kind of blessing.

Because Facebook pushed me away from a screen…

and God pushed me toward a bedside.

Facebook can restrict an account.

Facebook can cripple an app.

Facebook can limit a post.

Facebook can bury a video.

Facebook can take away followers.

BUT FACEBOOK CANNOT BLOCK A HOSPITAL DOOR GOD HAS OPENED.

They cannot stop me from taking somebody’s hand.

They cannot stop me from praying with the dying.

They cannot stop a frightened person from whispering the name of Jesus.

They cannot stop grace from entering a nursing-home room.

They cannot stop the Holy Spirit.

And they certainly cannot stop Jesus Christ from saving somebody who calls upon His name.

So if somebody shuts your door…

LOOK FOR GOD’S DOOR.

If somebody takes away your platform…

LOOK FOR YOUR ASSIGNMENT.

Because sometimes God will let you lose the crowd…

so you can find the one.

And somewhere tonight, behind a closed door, there may be somebody with no followers, no platform and very little time left…

waiting for someone to walk into that room and tell them about Jesus.

And there isn’t a thing Facebook can do about it.

Is it me? Or is this the sickness?

A while back, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. For those of you who have had a diagnosis and have been living with it for a while, I wonder if you get caught up in trying to change the diagnosis like me, instead of accommodating for it, like I should. I can explain:

My life is largely centered around improving. In music, I try to make better songs than I did yesterday. My diet is improving all the time. I am not regular with exercise, but I am open to it. That is an improvement, believe it or not. I want to help improve things for Keri too. She is my closest friend ever. I just want her to have it nice. I try to improve my brain by avoiding social media. I don’t have a cell phone. All this stuff makes my life better. But I can’t say trying to improve emotionally does much. 

The manias, the behavior, the regret

I have wild dysphoric mania and can be a real bear. I also have typical euphoric mania and can be super lovey-dovey. I am sure I am hell for some folks. I have tried improving there. I have been going to doctors for over ten years. I have taken meds that help immensely, but not “all the way.” I have gone to outpatient and inpatient treatment. I still read about CBT and DBT on the regular, and my behavior has improved dramatically. But the feelings, I wouldn’t say so. It’s likely because I have bipolar disorder, just a guess.

A cycle I get caught up in a lot is if I am talking, or the bipolar is talking. If I am excited on an emotional level, it’s probably the bipolar. It’s nearly always traceable to something I wasn’t excited about. That excitement is likely a reaction to something else. It was triggered. I feel good about the decisions I make when my pulse is below 80. If it’s in the 120’s, maybe it isn’t a time for making decisions? But it is hard. I am charged at that point. Good luck telling me anything, telling myself that. And always check your pulse when making decisions. Revelations abound if you haven’t tried this. I have “zones.” No shit. I do.

Hey, Kelly, take it easy on yourself today.

What I need to do is give myself a break. I think I am working towards that. I realize I am just going to be different, perhaps immature, excitable, and the goal isn’t to beat myself up for it. My goal should be to live with it. Accept it. I can sense relief in that direction. But I am early on in that journey.

I have had behavioral episodes that were tough to come back from. It is tough to think about them still. That doesn’t happen anymore. Maybe I can function as it is, if I just go easy on myself. I have 10 years’ worth of treatment under my belt, a ton of creature comforts to show for it. That isn’t bad for a bipolar on meds who gets a little silly occasionally. 

Even when there doesn’t seem to be improvement, perhaps there is.

I hope anyone who struggles with anything finds improvement. I also hope, if the case merits it, they find acceptance. Coping. I will always likely be an emotionally charged individual. I can wear people out. But it is a thousand times better than it’s ever been. Improvement seems to be the way of things. 

Kelly Kintner

The Horses Mouth Magazine

The Kintners

Djembe Funk

The New Yorker’ın kurgu editörü Deborah Treisman’ın derlediği kalınca bir kitap var elimde. 1925-2025 tarihleri arasında dergide yayımlanan öyküleri kapsayan –özel bir derleme– kurgu antolojisi. Bahsettiğim kitaba Portland (Oregon) Powells Books’ta rastladım. Yayıncısının Alfred A. Knopf olduğu kitap, hikâye anlatımı, dili kullanma teknikleri açısından ilham verici. Bildiğimiz veya bilemediğimiz yazarlar, muhtemelen burada daha –genç, korkusuz ve deli cesaretine– sahip.

A CENTURY OF FICTION IN THE NEW YORKER 1925-2025 EDITED BY DEBORAH TREISMAN

Öykü demişim bir önceki satırda ancak karşımızda tasarımsal, her şeyin daha ince hesaplandığı bir öykü modelinden çok, bir şeyleri anlatma çabası, anlatırken de dilin kuvvetli olması ön planda. Saydıklarım hikâyenin özüne daha uygun gibi görünse de ikisinin birlikte olmasına hiçbir itirazımız olmaz hatta harika olur ama bazen yalnızca bir şeyler anlatmak isteriz; çok düşünmeyiz bu bir öykü müdür hikâye midir diye: O ya da şu nedenle, belki de bir ayrım yoktur.

Yazma fikrini yaratıcı kılan soru şuydu: Yetmiş sekiz hikâyenin içinden hangilerini seçerdim, hangilerini çevirirdim ve yayımlardım? Kabul ediyorum fazlasıyla yaratıcı bir yazma fikri olmayabilir ve fikirlerimizi kendimize saklamak, “tavus tüyüne bürünmüş alakargalardan” bizi koruyabilir. Kimdir bu alakargalar? La Fontaine’den ama Orhan Veli çevirmiş:

İnsanlar içinde de çoktur alakargalar,

Ötekinin berikinin eserini çalar,

Yutturmaya çalışırlar herkese.

Hiçbir şey söyleyecek değilim, korkmasınlar:

Varsın görsünler halleri ne ise.

Alakargalardan kitabın önsözüne geldiğimizde –bir film şeridi gibi– dönemlerin, hikâyelere bıraktığı karakteristik özellikleri görüyoruz. Editörler “genellemelerinin” farkındalar ama hikâyelerin müşterek taraflarını, dili kullanma biçimlerini, temalarını ve ortak kaygılarını dile getirmek istiyorlar. Bu çabayı değerli buluyorum, arka planda belirli bir kültürel bağlam olsa da çünkü karşımızda ABD merkezli, ilham veren bir dergi var, seçilen hikâyelerin kaygıları o çerçeveden değerlendirilebilir elbette ancak bir okuyucu olarak edebiyatın fazlasıyla evrensel bir tarafını da görüyorum.

Kurguda Kırılmalar

Burada 45’lik gibi bir tanım yapmak istiyorum dönemleri ayırırken; yani çevireceğim ve şöyle diyeceğim “20’likler” diyor giriş bölümünde, karşımızda can alıcı bir sahne var ve bu sahnede söz konusu olan bir an var. Komik olmak zorunda değil ve genellikle “erkek” kahraman yeni bir gerçeklikle yüzleşiyor.

30’luk dediğimiz dönemde, rota pek belli değil ve zaman, mekân gibi kurgunun temel yapıları kaygan bir zeminde ve belirsiz. Olay örgüsünde bir hinlik göremiyoruz. Kural dışı olan kural olmuş; hatıralarsa pek hatırlanmıyor. (Katherine White, James Thurber)

40’lık, katı bir ahlakçılık, özellikle ana karakter böyle bir özelliğe sahip; orta sınıf hep bir şeylerle karşılaşıyor, küçümsenmek, ezilmek, aşağılanmak ve türlü züppelik formlarıyla karşı karşıyalar. Özetlersek “incelik-sizlikler” yüzünden, tanıdık geliyor. Diyalog ön plana çıkıyor, duygular kendine yer bulabiliyor. (Zadie Smith, Lionel Trilling)

50’lik dediğimiz dönemde; genellikle savaşın travması, evlilik, aile ilişkileri, istifa gibi negatif duyguların yoğunlukta olduğunu görüyoruz. Ancak duygunun ifade edilmesinde zorlanılan bir alan var. Bir duygu var ama o duygu ifade edilecek bir olgunluğa ulaşamamış, yazma halinde de aynı şey söz konusu. Ya da şöyle diyebiliriz –çünkü bir önceki cümlede haksız bir yaftalama yaptığım hissediyorum– bazı duygular gerçekten de ifade edilemeyebilir. (Jonathan Franzen)

60’lar ve 70’ler birlikte ele alınmış, karmaşıklık hâkim; paragraf bizi diğer paragrafa götürmüyor, sonuç değil anlam ve belki anlatım daha önemli, geniş bir alana yayılan bir hikâye ile karşı karşıyayız. Bir yandan da bir fantastik dünyanın içine giriyoruz. Bu dünyada absürtlük, doğru- yanlış karşıtlığını (ahlaki ikilemleri) tiye alıyor. Şöyle ifade ediliyor giriş bölümünde, “A time of toyying narratives.”  “İçini oyuyoruz her şeyin, hadi bakalım,” gibi bir çeviri yapsam tam tamına karşılamaz ama çok daha anlaşılır olabilir.

80’lik ve 90’lık dediğimiz dönemlerde, tam tersine bir değişim gözlemliyoruz; hikâye anlatımında bir coşkunluk, çıkan sesi bastırmaktansa söylemek istediğimizi evirip çevirmeden daha direkt, daha kaba, daha kırıcı, ama daha gerçek bir dille yazmak söz konusu. Kötü sözler ve kırıcılık gırla, “dilinin kemiği yok” dediğimiz birisiyle karşı karşıyayız belki ama çok da alınmıyoruz bu insana. Doğruları söylüyor ama yanlış şekilde söylüyor, iletişim becerileri gelişememiş gibi bir etiketi hemen yapıştırabiliriz, ama karşımızda fazlasıyla gerçek bir insan var ancak sınırlarını zorluyor.

Otantiklikse 90’larla birlikte daha fazla hissediliyor, hikâyeler acayipleşmeye başlıyor; “odness” olarak tanımlanıyor kitabın önsözünde. Acayiplik, negatif bir anlamdan çok şuna benziyor: “Bunu nasıl düşünmüş, nasıl bir zihin?” sorgulaması. 30’lara geri dönüş kokusu alınıyor ama daha yapılandırılmış bir hikâye var karşımızda. Hızlı, çeşitli ve kısa bir roman gibi bir anın farklı açılardan değerlenişi. Zaman akışının değişkenliğiyle birlikte, okuyucu anlayamıyor kitap nerede bitti, nereden başladı. Bilse de unutuyor ve zaman uçuyor: “Time flies!”  5N1K sorsalar bilen yok, okuduğunu anlama diye bir şeyin esamesi okunmuyor, ama kalan tat da unutulmuyor.

The Weeds- Mary McCarthy

Kitaptan ilk seçimim, Mary McCarthy’nin, “The Weeds” (1944) adlı hikâyesi, başlık tesadüf değil keskin bir zihnin kelime oyunlarıyla bezenmiş bir kancayla karşı karşıyayız. Kısaca, (yabani) bir çiçeksek ve yanlış bir yerde boy veriyorsak ayıklanmamız kaçınılmazdır.

Bir bahçe üzerinden anlatılan yürümeyen bir evliliğin hikâyesi, başrolde petunyalar ve bir çiçek bahçesi var. Kadın için fazlasıyla değerli, eşi içinse yalnızca “boş” bir uğraş. Hikâyenin başlarında erkek kahraman, kibriyle bahçeye girer ve iki insan arasındaki yakın uzaklık okuyucuya çok gerçekçi bir yerden temas eder.

Belki de ayrılığın başlangıcı olan o bahçedir, “jetonun düştüğü yer” kadının bağımsızlık girişimiyle taçlanır ve başarısızlıkla sonuçlanır. Kısa bir ayrılık ardından zafer, kapının kilidini açık bırakan adamın ellerinde palazlanır. Yazar, karakterlerin durumunu anlatırken “kalbin orada olmadığını” söyler. İki insan arasındaki ses mekaniktir, öğrenilmiştir ve duygulardan azat edilmiştir.

Ayrılığın ardından kadın, sığınağının (bahçesinin) yerle bir olduğunu görür. Karşısında bir bahçe yoktur ve ilk defa gerçek yenilgiyi ve umutsuzluğu derinden hisseder. Kadının sözleriyle, “artık o evde tutunacak” hiçbir şeyi kalmamıştır. Adam, olanlardan haberi yokmuşçasına şaşırır; iki karakter ilk defa ortak bir duyguyu paylaşır gibi olur, aylar geçer ve yanılgı bir süreliğine devam eder.

Adam bir buketle oturma odasından içeri girer, buket tanıdıktır. Yerle bir olan bahçesindeki çiçeklerdir adamın getirdikleri. Eşini, vazoya çiçekleri (sıkıştırırken) izler. Bir şekilde adamın herhangi bir canlıyla bağ kurabileceğine dair inancını kaybetmiştir. “Buketin çirkinliği” kadına ilginç bir şekilde zevk verir, hissizleşir, müdahalede bulunmaz. O sırada evlilikteki rolünü düşünür, “görevlerinin” ona vermiş olduğu haz için “kölenin gizli” hazzı yakıştırmasını yaparken bulur kendini. Oysa çiçekler, kadınların en sevdikleri değil midir?

Kadının vücudundan bir uzuv sanki kopmuş gibidir, ortada bir yas vardır. Yas, pişmanlıkla karışmıştır. Kadın, içinde bulunduğu durumu göremez haldedir, aşinalık daha tanıdıktır ve bir zamanlar denendiyse (cesaret) zorlaşır.

Ardından adamın ağzından, “Senin çiçeklerini her zaman sevdim, bunu biliyorsun,” cümlesi dökülür. Duygu yüklüdür adamın sesi titrer ve kadının kulakları bu yalanı kabul eder. Kulaklar kabul etse de kadının içindeki fırtına, yani (kalp) aynı şeyleri söyleyemez. Artık ortada ne bir çiçek bahçesi vardır ne de iki aynı insan. Yaşanan bir deneyim gibi bir yerlerde kalır ancak başlanılan yere geri dönüldüğünde zihinde canlanır. Kadının karanlık dünyası, mutsuzluğu belki de adamın bilmeden istediğidir ve bu nedenle muhtemelen bilinçsizdir. Adamın sesindeki hüzün belki de bize bunu gösterir.

Kadın kendi yıkıcılığıyla yüzleşir ve yazar, kadının hislerini anlatırken şu cümlelere yer verir: “She herself was no more to him now than an oak leaf pressed in a schoolbook, a tendril of blond hair; a garter kept in drawer. But this was for him, everything it was love and idolatry.” (50) Kurutulmuş bir meşe yaprağı benzetmesi bir o kadar çarpıcıdır ve hikâyenin sonu, kadının şu cümlesiyle sonlanır: “Evet biliyorum,” Neyi biliyordur? Hiç inanmadığı o gerçeği: Eşinin, onun çiçeklerini, bahçesini her zaman sevdiğini…

Bahsi geçen eserler:

A CENTURY OF FICTION IN THE NEW YORKER 1925-2025 EDITED BY DEBORAH TREISMAN. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2025.

La Fontaine, Jean de. La Fontaine’in Masalları. Çeviren Orhan Veli Kanık, İstanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 2020.

Il y a quelque chose d’obscène dans une médaille qui arrive lorsque le cœur s’est arrêté.

On approche le velours, on ajuste le ruban, on prononce le nom avec une gravité impeccable. Tout est enfin prêt pour recevoir cet homme. Sauf cet homme.

Lui avait peut-être envie de rentrer. De manger quelque chose debout dans sa cuisine. D’entendre son enfant raconter une histoire interminable. Il avait une dent à faire soigner, un message auquel il n’avait pas répondu, une femme avec qui terminer une dispute. Toute cette vie inachevée tient désormais sous un drapeau. Et quelqu’un parle d’honneur.

La Légion d’honneur à titre posthume. Je regarde ces mots et je bute sur le dernier. Posthume. Nous avons même trouvé un adjectif convenable pour dire que le destinataire ne pourra rien recevoir.

Quelle merde, parfois, derrière les mots les plus propres.

Je comprends qu’une famille garde cette médaille. Qu’elle la serre dans sa main, qu’elle y cherche une reconnaissance, une trace publique de celui dont l’absence envahit chaque pièce. Personne n’a le droit de lui arracher ce peu de lumière. Mais je voudrais regarder longtemps la main qui remet l’écrin. Lui demander ce qu’elle faisait lorsque cet homme était encore vivant.

Car les pouvoirs connaissent depuis longtemps notre faim de compter pour quelque chose. Ils savent l’endroit fragile où chacun espère que sa vie aura pesé. C’est là qu’ils viennent déposer leurs grands mots. Devoir. Gloire. Sacrifice. Ils les déposent si tôt que l’enfant grandit parfois sans distinguer sa propre conscience de la voix qui lui demande d’obéir.

Un jour, on lui présente sa disparition comme l’accomplissement de son existence.

Et lui, qui voulait être digne d’amour, se demande s’il aura assez de courage pour mourir.

Voilà ce qui me révolte. Cette servitude qui apprend à se désirer. Cette manière de faire entrer le maître dans la poitrine de l’homme, jusqu’à ce qu’il surveille lui-même ses hésitations et rougisse de vouloir vivre.

Il existe des courages immenses. Des êtres qui se mettent entre une balle et un inconnu, qui restent auprès d’un blessé, qui risquent tout pour permettre à d’autres de rentrer. Leur geste mérite que nous en parlions avec des mots justes. Et avec assez de respect pour examiner les décisions qui l’ont rendu nécessaire. L’admiration ne devrait jamais nous dispenser de demander des comptes.

Dans la cérémonie parfaite, pourtant, chaque chose semble avoir trouvé sa place. La musique enveloppe la douleur. Les discours donnent une forme au chaos. Le mort devient exemplaire. Il devient plus facile à raconter qu’il ne l’était à écouter.

Un vivant demande du temps, des soins, des moyens. Il peut douter, refuser, contredire. Il peut dire que la mission est absurde ou que son chef se trompe. Un mort laisse parler les autres. Quelle terrible commodité pour ceux qui lui survivent avec du pouvoir.

J’imagine parfois un enfant à qui l’on remet la décoration de son père. Il regarde l’objet. Les adultes attendent qu’il comprenne la grandeur de l’instant. Lui essaie seulement de comprendre comment une chose aussi petite pourra remplacer quelqu’un d’aussi grand.

Il emportera l’écrin. Le soir, il faudra quand même le coucher.

C’est à cette heure que je voudrais convoquer les orateurs. Lorsque les voitures officielles sont parties et que la maison retrouve son bruit de réfrigérateur. Qu’ils viennent expliquer l’honneur devant la brosse à dents restée dans le verre. Qu’ils tiennent compagnie à ceux qui devront traverser demain, puis les milliers de jours suivants.

Peut-être apprendrions-nous alors à prononcer ce mot autrement. Avec davantage de retenue. Avec des obligations envers ceux qui respirent encore.

Je voudrais un honneur assez exigeant pour embarrasser les puissants. Un honneur qui les oblige à protéger, à écouter, à répondre. Qui reconnaisse aussi le courage de refuser une mort inutile. Et qui laisse à l’homme le droit de trouver sa grandeur dans une vie ordinaire, longue, imparfaite, entourée des siens.

Gardez vos médailles si elles aident les familles à porter leur chagrin.

Mais qu’aucune ne serve à refermer la question que le mort nous laisse.

Avons-nous fait tout ce qu’il fallait pour qu’il rentre ?

TBD

Ecxited at meeting opening my big fat mouth looking for robert seedy night lurkers post worship tentions (what's that all about)? journaling Bob's Burgers Late bed Fitful sleep condeming dreams

7a Early up – Alex not ready Cleaning the garage the unsettling concern of my hubris maybe that's why?

---

#deardiary

Gone – Sierra Veins All Comes Crashing – Metric Dangerous – Big Data,  Joywave F K W R K – Clip'd Beaks (Take These) Chains – Judas Priest Rough Boy  – ZZ Top In Dreams – Roy Orbison

p.s. please don't listen to this on a phone speaker p.p.s. you should never be doing that anyway

There’s a line of this song I recently found, life is not fair – kill yourself or get over it. I had a board game today with friends, and it wasn’t mine! I got invited for it. I was driving over to it, and I was feeling depressed. I knew that I would feel better once I started interacting with people, but it still was rough. After the hangout session, I was still depressed at least a little bit. Well, actually, honestly, not nearly as as much as I was before which is a good sign. During the event, however, I met some new people, and I was making everyone laugh consistently throughout the night. I don’t know why, but while I was leaving, I have a thought about what I could even say if someone asked me for advice about how to be funny or the life of the party, and my immediate thought even before any conscious thoughts was that it’s an incredibly huge task that realistically not everyone is heavily capable of. Essentially, just be funny, brutal. And I don’t like how incredibly egotistical or self-absorbed it sounds, and so I’m promising that this isn’t something that I consciously think or agree with, but just rather the thoughts that popped into my head while driving. But I also thought about how when I went on a cruise and made friends with the other single passengers, one of the guys was telling me how he submits and I win, and I should get all the girls. It was weird and it honestly made me feel kind of uncomfortable because I don’t want him to feel that way, and it feels like I am kind of being made responsible to reassure his insecurity or fix it. But I think he felt that way because he was a little bit awkward and seemed like a nice guy, but that in combination with being a bit overweight just made made him kind of a side character to the other people. I think for better for worse, I make my presence known and am involved in most conversations, or plans, and people tend to gravitate around me. And I’ve thought about it and I think some of the reasons why I am the way I am are the same reasons why that person I think would likely end up in a happy relationship and a happy life sooner and for a much more stable arrangement. I think about how on Instagram I sometimes see people from high school that felt like background characters, socially, that end up getting married and look like they have wonderful lives, and I’m happy for them, but at the same time, it is one of the things where it feels like I am on a different timeline than a lot of other people. I think a lot of the blessings that I have come with their cost, and this is one of those cases.

One night a friend of mine and I were driving down a somewhat secluded tree lined highway. There were not too many cars on the road. We rounded a bend and emerged from the trees. Up ahead we could see the red flashing lights of a train crossing. No other cars between us and the crossing. We could not see the train from the distance we were at, but when we got close enough the headlights lit it up.

We sat there somewhat mesmerized by it hurtling, rattling, and screeching by. When the end of it passed by, the lights stopped flashing, and the barrier started to go up. The sudden darkness and silence was oddly unsettling. I started to drive forward. Just as we were about to cross the tracks, I said, “wouldn't that be fucked if the very last car had become detached from the train, and it was hurtling towards us in the dark?” We both looked into the darkness where it would have been, as though my saying so was a premonition. Then kind of laughed about it. Life went on.

I & i op excursie bij het Kennisravijn in het Cultuurlandschap.

Ik kan het niet helpen I, ik ben zomaar op de hoogte gebracht, acht, acht... / _ i _ | _ _ | | | \ | \ _ | / __ - | | i,i! Wat doe je daar, aar? | Kom terug naar benee, nee... | / I

I’m Falling behind in a bunch of writing.

I had a terrific conversation with a homeless man named Robert.

I unexpectedly had a ball watching dancing with the stars.

There’s the doo-goosing that’s getting me in over my head

All Kinds of stuff!!

For now must scribbles.

Notes:

Dancing with teh stars JUlia Styles

RObert teh homeless

Moonlight poet

Alex's starter

Stuck brakes

stayin gup too late.

Screening Perks Liberty

Music... all teh songs Never wanna dance again

cartoons

confusion

Apple Seeds

A man can count the number of seeds in an apple. But only god can count the number of apples in a seed.

Huge crescent moon setting tonight in the western sky. Sitting on a bench at the university with a a plaque indicating an event of some sort in 2010.

Lining the ten foot wide walkway are elm trees. The little gold leaves rustle in the warm night breeze. The trees have taken a note from the grasses and slipped into preservation mode against the hear t and the absolute dry at the end of summer.

Perhaps they pray, as do we all, that next week will bring relief from this furnace of existence.

At my feet I can see motion in the cracks of the sidewalk. A closer inspection reveals the little black ants are hard at work in spite of the late hour. I wonder if the grasshopper is nearby in a tiny hammock between two branches of a small shrubbery.

I knew exactly what I had to do.

Get through today.

Then tomorrow.

Then whatever came after that.

There was always something in front of me that needed to be handled. Something to worry about. Something to fix. Something I had to prepare myself for.

I became really good at surviving.

I learned how to function when I was exhausted.

How to show up when I wanted to disappear.

How to answer I'm okay when I wasn't.

How to keep moving when I had absolutely no idea where I was going.

For so long, strength meant one thing:

Don't stop.

And I didn't.

That part of my story is already written.

I fought.

I fell apart.

I got back up.

I kept knocking on doors.

Eventually, some of them opened.

I found a job.

I found a home.

I started building a life again.

Those things once felt so far away that I couldn't even picture them. In the Afterword of my story, I wrote about finally having a job and a place where my children and I could walk through the door and say, We're home.

I thought getting there would be the end of the hard part.

I didn't realize there would be another question waiting for me.

Now what?

---

Survival gives you instructions.

Living doesn't.

When you're surviving, the goal is obvious.

Make it through the day.

Pay the bill.

Go to work.

Show up.

Handle the next thing.

Don't fall apart.

But when the emergency starts to quiet down, there isn't someone standing there handing you directions for what comes next.

Suddenly, you're supposed to have a life.

And I'm realizing I don't completely know what I want mine to look like.

That's strange to admit.

After everything I've fought for, shouldn't I know?

I know what I don't want.

I know what chaos feels like.

I know what uncertainty feels like.

I know what it feels like to make decisions based on someone else's mood, someone else's choices, someone else's presence or absence.

But ask me what I want simply because it makes me happy?

That question is harder.

---

What do I like now?

Not what did I like twenty years ago.

Not what did we like.

Not what do my children like.

Not what should a woman my age be doing with her life.

What do I like?

What kind of music do I turn on when nobody else is listening?

What do I want to do on a Saturday when there is nowhere I have to be?

What makes my home feel like mine?

What do I want to learn?

Where do I want to go?

What makes me laugh?

What makes me feel peaceful?

What makes me feel alive?

They're such ordinary questions.

And somehow they feel enormous.

Maybe because for the first time, the answers belong entirely to me.

---

I used to think becoming would be dramatic.

That after everything I had been through, there would be this moment where I would finally meet the strong, healed woman waiting on the other side.

I'm starting to think I had that wrong.

Maybe becoming looks ridiculously ordinary.

Buying something for my home simply because I like it.

Changing my mind.

Trying something and deciding it isn't for me.

Sitting alone without believing that being alone means I've been abandoned.

Laughing without immediately remembering everything I have to be sad about.

Making plans that have nothing to do with fixing my life.

Wanting things again.

Dreaming again.

Maybe even being a little selfish about what I want the rest of my life to feel like.

Not cruel.

Not careless.

Just finally willing to include myself in the life I'm building.

---

There is a version of strength I know very well.

She clenches her teeth.

She gets through it.

She finds a way.

She keeps going.

I needed her.

There were times she carried me when I couldn't imagine carrying myself.

But maybe I don't need to ask her to run my entire life.

Maybe strength can look different now.

Maybe I don't always need to be preparing for the next thing to go wrong.

Maybe peace doesn't have to make me suspicious.

Maybe an ordinary day doesn't need to be filled with something productive to be worth having.

Maybe I am allowed to enjoy the life I fought so hard to stay in.

That last one is difficult for me.

Because survival became familiar.

And familiar can feel safe even when it isn't where you want to live forever.

---

I don't have some beautiful answer to the question yet.

Who am I when I'm not surviving?

I don't know.

And for once, I don't think I don't know is something I need to fix.

Maybe I get to find out slowly.

Maybe that's what this next part is.

Not rebuilding the woman I used to be.

Not proving that everything I went through made me stronger.

Not turning every painful thing into a lesson.

Just living long enough to discover who I am when my life isn't organized around what hurt me.

I want to know that woman.

The one who chooses things because she loves them.

The one who makes plans because she's excited about tomorrow.

The one who can have a quiet day without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The one who doesn't need a crisis to prove how strong she is.

For most of this story, I have written about the woman who survived.

Maybe it's finally time to write about the woman who gets to live.

Crazy day. Busy. No update.

I ran an errand.

I got lunch with a friend.

I had a doctors appointment.

I scheduled a surgery.

I volunteered.

I had dinner with family.

I had kickball.

I took a shower.

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.

⚠️ SPOILER WARNING: FULL SPOILERS

In “Silo” (2023), a gripping psychological thriller, a woman unravels deep secrets within a mysterious government facility, spiraling into a maze of power and truth.

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐½ (4.5/5 stars)**

Episodes: 10 | Aired: 07-02-2026

The whole season was fantastic. I was worried about the series after Season 2. Season 2 was necessary, but it was a little slow. Again, Season 3 was fantastic.

There are full spoilers below, so if you don't want to know more, please stop reading.

You were forewarned.

I don't understand why they keep killing people who leave the Silo, unless there is a purpose we don't know about yet. That will likely be revealed later on.

I can tell Julia and Troy are related, and Troy will realize it. That will change the whole dynamic.I am glad Troy's wife, Helen, is dead, as she would not approve. Julia is always questioning, just like Helen. Troy didn't recognize his sister and I want to know where the founder has gone. Also, you would think Colin Hanks (the actor that plays the money and founder) would be the Director, not the Senator.

Anyway, it was a great season. Apple TV has a hit with this series.

#review #streaming #tv

Inbetweeners 21- The Torment Questline, Part III- The Jailer

At this point the players had been beset my images of the Jailer taunting them, and were ready to end him. The observation room gave them a good idea of what they were in store for, and the path from the observation room to the Jailer's chamber only reinforced that. Known as the “Path of the Damned”, each character had a unique vision as they heard the tormented whispers of the damned, meant to demoralize them. These were lies crafted by the Jailer, feeding on the characters own insecurities.

Thogg, the goblin ranger and best friend of Cervi, heard Cervi's voice begging for help. He said that the forces of the Torment had kidnapped him in heaven and brought him down here. He could not see anything because they had removed his eyes. He begged Thogg to find him and save him. (none of this was true, Cervi was still happily in heaven, but Thogg didn't know this for sure)

Domilia, the elven cleric and most ardent supporter of the Beeple Queen and the hive, since they were born out of the village that she protected and saved, hears the Queen's voice. She tells Domilia that the Torment has consumed the hive, everyone from the hive is down here now. The guards are devouring each of the innocent members of the fledling hive, and if Domilia didn't hurry none of them would remain. (of course, also a pure fiction... though this is actually foreshadowing a future event when Beeple are kidnapped and taken to the Torment, but that will be for a future update)

Rotlog, the half orc druid, was probably the most timid member of the group least likely to throw himself into danger and most focused on self preservation. He heard his own voice, like it was him in the future, begging for the pain and suffering to end. He encouraged him to take his life now to avoid the suffering that awaits.

Bruce, the Arakora Barbarian, lost her (later became his, Bruce was gender fluid as birds tend to be) lover as part of their backstory. Their lover drowned and Bruce was unable to save them before she herself died. Bruce hears the voice of her lover, gargling as he slowly drowned begging for help.

Xivora (who I realized I totally forgot about in the previous post, she was present the entire time and that makes more sense how I expected the characters to survive the cell block fight) grits her teeth and walks through it. She doesn't tell them what she sees, but warns them what they are about to face is truly horrific and to prepare themselves and find their courage. Xivora is a veteran of many battles across the lower planes, so for her to give such a warning really emphasied the gravity of the situation.

Had Lurian been with the group at this point, either by being rescued from the Cell Block or summoned using the console in the Observation Room, he would warn the party that he had never met a creature of such malice and depravity. And that, no matter what happened, the Jailer had to be put down. Sacrificing themselves would be worth it to purge this evil from existence.

And lastly, we have Uzo. For the players, they would recognize Uzo's eyes turning completely black. In his own mind, he hears the message he first heard arriving in the Torment but much louder: YOU ARE HOME. Unlike the other players whose hearts are filled with fear, Uzo is quickened. The cursed bow is taking over at this point, his mission is almost complete. He feels more certainty than he ever has about anything in his life. This is where he is supposed to be. And he must fight.

After the visions and walking the Path of the Damned, the group reaches The Blood Door. I pictured a door like the Gates of Hell from the Inferno. Written across it is a massive inscription, in both Abyssal and Infernal, since Hades is halfway between Hell and the Abyss and the battleground of the Blood War, a war that feeds the Torment the majority of its prisoners. The inscription reads “THE BLOOD OF THE WILLING MAKES WAY FOR THE DAMNED.” There is a large basin with 9 large holes full of blades. The characters must put their arms in the hole and bleed, taking 1 hp damage per turn as the basin fills with blood. Only once 100 hitpoints worth of blood has been let can the players go through. Had Lurian been with them he would not be able to use his blood since it doesn't work with angelic blood. Xivora still hadn't revealed her true form, that she was an Erinyes, but would have come up with an excuse why she couldn't participate. Probably that they want her at full strength for the fight ahead. So it was up to the players to decide how much blood to give. I liked this additional resource management, because how do you do it? Evenly amongst the players? Have the tankiest players give the most blood? With that strategy, your fighters will enter in a diminished state. If I recall correctly, Uzo stuck his arm in first, and the other players followed suit reluctantly. Since they had skipped many of the hazards of the dungeon, they were at full health so this wasn't much of an issue. I also disallowed any short rests on the Path of the Damned, they were compelled forward and could not stop. So, they entered the fight with the Jailer, 100 hitpoints lighter.

So, the Jailer himself is not a fiend in the traditional sense. He is more a fiendish construct, grafted together from both biological and mechanical parts. A really fucking sadistic Frankenstein's monster, so to speak. He was a CR 18, a full 9-10 ahead of the players but they did have an Erinyes and potentially a Planetar (though the players didn't in this case), so they had the action economy to handle this far tougher opponent. Ultimately, I think avoiding being depleted from the cell block fight was worth not having Lurian for this battle. I'm going to repost the Jailer's Statblock here so I can reference some points:

The Jailer (CR 18- 20000 exp) AC: 19 (+5 dex, +4 apron (acts at magic leather armor) HP: 242 HD: 23d10 + 115 Speed: 40 ft Initiative: +5

STR: 18 DEX: 20 CON: 20 INT: 18 WIS: 16 CHA: 18

Saving throws: ability modifier +5 Damage Resistances: Immune to Necrotic and Poison

Can take 2 actions per turn from the following:

Hold: Casts hold monster (WIS DC 18) on a single creature Chain: DEX 18: 1d4 + 2 chains appear and attach into a player. Failed dex save and each chain requires a strength check (DC 13) to rip out and deals 1d6 +1 damage. Failed save ends turn. Player is considered grappled until this is done. Held creatures automatically fail save. Imprison: WIS 18- Player appears in a cell deep in the torment prison (cool down 6) Banish: Player is sent back to the grey room (WIS 18), Xiv or Lurian will go to Hell/Heaven respectively- use this to balance if fight is going wrong way Go To Work: Paralyzed Character is subjected to gruesome mutilation. Takes 6d6 damage and gets -2 cha until restored, regenerated, etc. Can only be used once per turn. Siphon: Paralyzed creature takes 4d6 necrotic damage and jailer heals that much Help: Abomination drops from the ceiling to aid. Statblock is flesh golem. Saw: Produces a hellish, spinning blade that does a melee attack: +9 to hit, 4d8 + 5 (23 dmg) Move: Teleports to another place in the arena.

Desperation: Upon dropping below 100 hitpoints, the Jailer goes up to 3 actions per turn.

This was a completely custom statblock. 242 hitpoints meant he'd stay in the fight for a while, roughly equivalent to fighting a Balor. His resistances were strong across the board and the immunity to necrotic and poison was based on his preferred methods of torture, it wouldn't make sense that he'd be vulnerable to either of those. I didn't give him resistance to other damage types because I wanted the players to have freedom to use their various offensive abilities. I based the abilities of the Jailer around domination, control and torture rather than outright killing his opponents. In lieu of normal action economy, I gave him 2 actions per turn which went up to 3 when he went under 100 hitpoints, sorta giving him phases. I didn't end up employing his Banish ability, I think I'd prefer Imprison since the players would still be somewhere in the Torment. I'd probably delete the Banish action entirely if I was doing this over again. Imprison was a way for him to get a particularly dangerous opponent who was finding too much success out of the way. He may have imprisoned Xivora during the fight, I don't remember for sure. Hold Monster and Chains both served to immobilize the players so that the “Go to Work” and Siphon abilities can be used. The Saw attack was mainly if the other abilities weren't working and he needed to do damage, but the Jailer preferred to try to immobilize and torture characters whenever possible. The Imprison works particularly well because it lets the Jailer put a character on ice to work on later.

I don't remember exactly how the fight went down, but the players were far more successful than I anticipated. I let the Jailer go first, and he summoned two flesh golems, that dropped from the ceiling—essentially his “works” made from the parts of prisoners he dissected. These served both as additional damage sources and tanks to avoid the Jailer taking all the groups damage. Uzo went all out with his bow, having it fuse with his arm and start shooting out his own bones at his opponents. I think Xivora may have been imprisoned, but I can't remember for sure. At one point Thogg was subjected to hold person, and the Jailer “went to work on him”, disfiguring his face. His player did a comical slack jawed look, while holding something up to his face to make it look like it was falling off for the remainder of the session. Ultimately, while terrifying, the Jailer simply couldn't put out offensive and crowd control effects fast enough to negate the players offensive ability. They threw everything they had at him and he fell. Xivora was then returned in her prison cell, and two more cells appeared.

I should mention, I designed a custom map for this battle. It was the Jailer's personal “lab” which was more like a torturers dungeon/insane surgeon's workshop compared to the sterile Observation Room. There were dozens of tables with failed “experiments” and various torture implements. Meat hooks had dead prisoners as well as the flesh golems suspended on the ceiling. There were also a number of places for prison cells to “dock” as the Jailer summoned up the prisoners he next wanted to work on. The cell with the impaled crusader was already docked here, and unlocks when the Jailer is slain. Additionally, since the players hadn't rescued him, Lurian's cell appears after.

Uzo destroyed the spike that the crusader was impaled on, ending his endless cycle of regeneration and suffering. The bow crumbled and the curse faded. Uzo earned a magic amulet that gave plus 1 to damage and attack and resistance to curses, but more importantly, he could finally sleep without being plagued by perpetual nightmares. Interestingly, the Torment delivered Lurian to the players, and the voice of the entity running the show, The Warden, came through the sound system of the prison. He referred to the players as “Interlopers” and demanded the players take their angel and leave.

This was interesting because why wouldn't the Torment just dispatch guards to kill them? Guards were on the way, but Xivora had sealed the door behind them buying time. The Jailer's chamber was located near the Warden's, meaning he was vulnerable. He didn't want to risk the players reaching him before the guards reached them, so giving up Lurian and cutting and running was his best option. So the players were faced with two options at this point- proceed on and kill the warden, or leave while they were ahead. Let's examine each option:

Leave now-

The group had achieved all of their stated objectives. Uzo's curse was lifted and Lurian had been freed. Thogg was mangled but otherwise the group was okay. They could loot the chamber and leave, returning for their reward. A portal appeared that would take them back to the Grey Room. This was the plan Xivora pushed. Why risk more? They got what they came for... leave the Torment to rot in Pluton.

Take out the Warden and put an end to the Torment-

This was the plan Lurian pushed. Despite his decades of torture, Lurian didn't want to leave here until this place was destroyed. He knew the Warden ran the show, and could sense fear in the Warden's voice. This was their chance, if they could kill him they could seize control of the facility and destroy it. This would do more good... or destroy more evil, than any other action any of them would realistically take in their lives. To him it was worth the risk. For the players, the motivation was to be the good guys but also the thrill of killing something powerful and potential for greater loot.

I left the decision up to the players, and I was a little surprised when they chose to press on. They had acted fairly mercenary up until this point, and going on was an extensive risk to them. I designed the next fight to be much more difficult than the Jailer... pushing the limits of what was possible. Since it was completely optional, I couldn't be held to blame if the players died trying to do it. Xivora was unhappy, she wanted to leave, and threatened to, but what the players didn't realize was that she had strict orders. See the players through this to the end, Zariel wanted to see them return safely to preserve her trade with the Interloper. He was single handedly helping her turn the tide of the Blood War, and his servants who brokered their meeting must be maintained. If the players failed and were trapped in the Torment, I probably would have had Zariel come directly to rescue them... but it didn't play out that way.

The group sent the body of the Jailer through to the Interloper as a gift, along with some of the loot they found... and proceeded ahead.

I think I'll save the Warden fight for yet another post, there is a lot of content there and I want to do it justice. Probably one of my favorite fights of the entire campaign.

So, The Jailer was the boss, but there was the boss of the boss to face... and it would be a doozy.