Another satirical view of today’s social media culture – 🎃

🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀🎃💀

C’est que je n’ai plus de temps.

J’ai terminé de travailler à 22h30. Alors que je m’étais donné comme règle de m’arrêter à 21h quoi qu’il arrive.

Ce qui me rend triste, c’est de ne plus pouvoir lire. Je priorise le sport. Ma santé. Mais la lecture, c’est mon air frais. C’est ce qui m’ouvre à l’ailleurs, au beau, à ce qui m’inspire profondément.

On va dire que c’est passager. Mes livres m’attendent.

J’ai hâte de lire les correspondances de Camus.

Je lis quelque minutes ses carnets quand j’ai un moment le soir. Et j’adore cette idée de pensées fragmentées. C’est un peu ce que je fais là. Un carnet.

Construire ce carnet m’apporte une certaine joie.

Je me rends compte que je n’écris pas comme je parle. Est-ce un problème ? Je ne sais pas. Mais j’aime apporter un beau rythme, de beaux mots. Je ne suis pas sûr de réussir à le faire mais essayer, déjà, est une forme de réussite et de contentement.

Ghosts in Grey & Flying down the road

Dreams, those slippery nocturnal messengers, have long haunted my sleep with two persistent visitors. Are they revelations from the subconscious, harbingers of unresolved strife, or merely the brain’s fanciful recycling of old neural pathways? In my case, they pull me back to the soil of South Africa, its schools, its roads, its half-remembered heartaches, with a fidelity that startles me awake, heart pounding, fully immersed.

The Grey College Reckoning

The first dream begins with a bureaucratic absurdity: I’m summoned back to Grey College in Bloemfontein, not as the pimply adolescent I was, but as the silver-haired man I am now. There I stand in the quad, absurdly clad in those iconic grey pants and striped blazer, the uniform that once chafed my teenage rebellion. “Redo Standard 6,” the decree comes, “and every year after. Improve those marks.” Principals Heyns & Volsteedt, stern figures from memory, greet me without batting an eye, as if geriatric pupils are commonplace. Classes unfold: I still love algebra, history recycles its dates, Afrikaans conjugations tangle like barbed wire. I pour effort into it, but the report cards arrive unchanged. Good but not brilliant like Jan von Delft.

Heyns fires our Maths teacher Truana & Hansie from Smithfield becomes our Maths teacher. He teaches us all we know including instructing Jan.

Yet here’s the dream’s quiet mercy, its subconscious sleight of hand: I never skid off my Western Flyer bicycle into that gravelly oblivion, the crash that left me bloodied & humbled. No bone-crunching rugby tackle snaps my leg mid-scrum, that agony that sidelined me for months. Those traumas, etched in real-life scar tissue, are mercifully excised.

And the girls, ah, the fleeting sirens of youth, parade through like cameo players in a faded film. Elaine Stewart, with her knowing smile; Stephanie Morgan, elusive and electric; the drama queen from Eunice High, a voluptuous ringer for Sophia Loren whose name dances just beyond recall; and that sweet, homely meisie from Van Oranje, a Van Rooyen girl whose plain virtues shone brighter than any spotlight.

What do the dream-weavers say of this? Recurring school dreams, especially as an adult fumbling through failure, are among the most universal, echoes of anxiety, a nagging fear of inadequacy or unpreparedness in life’s endless “exams.” Psychologists link them to self-doubt, unresolved pressures from youth, or even current stresses masquerading as old report cards. The inability to improve marks? A poignant symbol that the past defies revision, no amount of adult wisdom can rewrite a boy’s transcript. But the avoidance of trauma? That’s wish fulfillment at work, the mind’s gentle therapy: re-entering the arena safely, healing old wounds by omission. These dreams remind me I’ve come far, yet some part of me still seeks an elusive gold star.

The Low-Flying Jet Odyssey

The second dream shifts to the skies, or barely above them. I’m aboard a colossal jetliner, vast as a 747, yet hugging the earth at treetop height, no more than a few meters clearance. We don’t soar; we *skim*, in exquisite slow motion, over roads I could navigate blindfolded. First, the New Hanover Road unspools north from Greytown, that sentinel tree standing eternal vigil at the bend. Then the N1 into Bloemfontein, the wind-bent gums bowing us welcome. The road to Stellenbosch unfurls its first gentle curve, Papegaaiberg’s hulking silhouette rising like a faithful hound. On to Durban’s coastal ribbon, salt air almost tangible. Every pothole, every wild fig tree tree, every sign rendered in photographic perfection, hyper-real, as if my mind’s archived high quality surveillance footage.

Notably absent: the road to Johannesburg. That concrete vein to the City of Gold never appears, as if my psyche draws an invisible no-fly zone.

Dream lore paints flying as liberation, freedom, ambition, transcending earthly tethers. But in a plane, low and road-bound? It’s control with a catch: life’s journey on familiar tracks, ambitions grounded in reality, teetering on the edge of peril yet masterfully steady. The slow-motion clarity screams nostalgia, a meditative revisit to memory’s highways, roads symbolizing personal trajectories, transitions navigated with precision. Avoiding Joburg? Perhaps my inner pilot shuns the chaos of that metropolis, the grind of big-city striving, favoring the intimate contours of heartland and haven.

Echoes & Enigmas

These twin reveries bookend some of my nights, the school dream a backward tug to youth’s judgments, the jet a forward glide over life’s mapped miles. Together, they whisper of a man at peace with imperfection, unable to ace the past, yet soaring low and sure over its remnants. Freud might call them repressed desires; Jung, archetypes of the shadow self. I prefer to see them as grace notes in my story: proof that even in sleep, I’m still pedaling those Bloem roads, still scanning horizons for the next bend. And if they recur? I’ll welcome them, old pilots of the psyche, for in their clarity lies the truest map of me.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Poetry by Roald Bartholomew

Far from the clamor of cities, in rural Natal, our connection to the wider world hinged on a simple metal rectangle: P.O. Box 2, New Hanover 3440. A postal box. Our farm lay 15 kilometers outside that one-donkey town, a speck on the map so modest it couldn’t even afford a horse. New Hanover was the kind of place where time moved at the pace of a lazy pofadder in the sun, & the post office stood as its unassuming magical wormhole to elsewhere.

The box itself was one among a hundred, slotted into a steel grid embedded in the wall on the stoep of the red-brick post office building. You’d find it just across the single-lane bridge over the Sterkspruit, right beside the New Hanover Hotel, where locals might gather for a pint or a yarn on slow afternoons, which were most of them. Stepping inside the post office was like entering a bygone era. The air hung heavy with the musty scent of brown paper parcels & coils of brown hessian string, mingled with the faint, acrid tang of old-fashioned sticky glue. On the worn wooden counter sat a reel of Scotch tape in a hefty metal dispenser, its weight a testament to things built to last.

Back then, correspondence was an art, not a haste. We’d sit at the dining room table on the farm, pulling out a blue or yellow Croxley writing pad, and take up a Parker or Schaeffer pen. For fancy pants letters, the ones carrying heartfelt news or formal invitations—we’d uncap a fountain pen, fill it from a bottle of ink, and let the words flow with deliberate strokes. There was no autocorrect, no instant send; each letter was crafted, pondered over, sealed with care. Licked by your tongue on the envelope. You couldn’t rush the post, it demanded patience, and in return, it wove threads of anticipation into our days. A reply might take weeks, but when it arrived in that humble box, it felt like a small miracle, bridging the isolation of our rural life with the voices of distant friends & family.

At Grey my mom would post me letters from the farm and include R10 notes which would be tuck money. A coke & a doughnut would be weeks in the planning and dependent on a letter coming through the post.

Oh, and Christmas! We would send Christmas cards and hang the ones we received on strings and pegs in our living room. It was a ritual. Poof! No more.

These poems by Roald Bartholew are crafted in that same manner as old fashioned mail. The joy of words, & I licked my computer screen!

🌊Waves of the Veld

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Clan of the Baboons

From a young age, my father would weave tales of evolution into our long road trips, whether we were rumbling along in the bakkie or the lorry, dust kicking up behind us as we headed out on distant journeys. He’d speak of it with such logical enthusiasm, his voice upbeat and steady, painting pictures of ancient creatures adapting over eons. “It all makes sense,” he’d say, his hands gripping the wheel firmly. But he wasn’t one to dismiss the other side entirely. He’d spend quiet hours poring over the Bible, trying to unravel what drew so many to its pages. “It’s Greek, you see,” he’d explain to me. “Their way of writing was poetic, metaphorical—not meant to be taken word for word.” I’d nod along, absorbing it all, feeling like I was part of some grand intellectual adventure.

That foundation set the stage for one particularly memorable afternoon at my grandparents’ house. We were gathered around the lunch table, the air thick with the smell of German sausage and fresh bread, when a Bible puncher joined us. I’m sure it was the infamous Erlo Stegen, a nephew of my grandmother. He was the type who could turn any conversation into a sermon, and that day was no exception. With a mocking chuckle, he declared that some fools out there actually believed in evolution, as if it were the punchline to a bad joke.

I couldn’t let that slide. At less than ten years old, fueled by my dad’s lessons and invoking my inner Mastelek self, I piped up. “Actually, it is true,” I said, my voice probably a bit too earnest for the room. I was ready for a real discussion, maybe even a debate like the ones my dad and I had on those long drives. But before I could elaborate, the pastor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with that smug certainty. “Do you believe your grandfather was a baboon?” he asked, crossing his arms as if he’d just checkmated me.

The table went quiet. I looked him straight in the eye and, without missing a beat, replied, “Yes. And me too. I’m a baboon.” His smirk vanished like smoke in the wind. For good measure, I added, “I scored 100% on my last Maths test. What were your marks?” It was my childish way of saying, “I’m right, you’re wrong—and here’s proof of my knowledge.” He stared at me, utterly lost for words, before mumbling something about praying for my soul. The conversation sputtered out after that, and many years later, well after my grandfather passed away my dad mentioned the awkward conversation with his dad about that baboon chirp. He sided with me on that one.

Looking back, that exchange captures how so many discussions on religion or politics unfold: charged, defensive, and rarely productive. Someone lobs a gotcha question, and it devolves from there. But vegetarianism? Oh, that’s a whole other beast—far worse than religion, in my experience. People get downright militant about meat, as if your plate choices are a personal affront. Those debates have left more dinners ruined than any talk of God or Darwin ever did.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Unmasking the Genesis of the Cult with its Dark Secrets

Nestled in the valleys outside Kranskop, kwaSizabantu (KSB) presents itself to the world as a beacon of Christian missionary work among the Zulus of the Valley of a Thousand Hills. With its sprawling greenhouse facilities, dairy operations, & even a water bottling plant under the aQuellé brand, it exudes an air of self-sustaining sophistication, a model of faith-fueled enterprise that funds its “evangelical” activities. But let’s strip away the veneer. KSB is no mainstream religious institution; it’s a pimping cult, finish & klaar. For decades, whispers of abuse simmered beneath the surface, known to locals but suppressed by the cult’s iron grip. It wasn’t until the pandemic year of 2020 that News24’s investigative series, Exodus, finally tore open the facade, exposing a web of sexual abuse, human rights violations, and financial improprieties that had festered for half a century. Light the fire, pour a stiff Scotch, we’re diving deep into the rot, drawing from the primary threads of my own family’s tangled history, not the sanitized propaganda or cherry-picked fake news peddled by the cult’s defenders. These insights lean heavy on recollections of my dad, Mastelek mkhulu. I am Mastelek ncane.

It all traces back to 1922, a time when the Natal Midlands was always shrouded in darkness after dusk. The Union of South Africa was young, just over a decade old, with Jan Smuts at the helm as prime minister. ESKOM had just flickered to life, promising coal-fired power to banish the darkness, though ironically today we’re back to rolling blackouts that echo those dusty, unlit roads. Cars were rarities, Henry Ford’s mass production was barely a decade old in America, and the rail network snaked through the wattle and sugar cane fields like veins of progress. On one such fateful night, my paternal grandmother and her sister Hulda were in a car owned by Herman Gielink, a prosperous farmer. It collided with a train, killing Herman (Hulda’s husband) and their two children. My grandmother and Hulda survived, battered with broken bones, but the scars ran far deeper. (Reference: The Pocket Watch)

I can only imagine Hulda’s anguish, the raw grief of losing her husband and children. I’ve tasted that bitterness myself: the hollow ache after my wife’s passing, amplified by the loss of my own child. Hulda, as godmother to my father (born nearly a dozen years later), forged a bond with him that endured. She inherited substantially from Herman, but in her vulnerability, she became easy prey. Gielink’s farm, where my grandparents lived and worked, my grandfather even serving as secretary of the local farmers’ association that owned a butchery, set the stage. Hulda squandered much of her fortune funding what would become the KSB cult’s genesis: Bible House, the shadowy precursor. To grasp the poison at KSB’s heart, you must first understand Bible House.

The roots burrow into the German missionary descendants around Dalton, who gathered at Lilienthal Church. Around World War II, Anton Engelbrecht served as the Lutheran pastor there, a rotten apple from the start. Post-war, this notorious scoundrel veered beyond Lutheran bounds, clashing with his congregation until the Synod excommunicated him. Undeterred, he teamed with another dubious figure: Erlo Stegen, my paternal grandmother’s nephew and another bad and rotten apple. Stegen lived on the farm adjoining the church, Paardekraal. Together, they birthed Bible House in Claridge, near Pietermaritzburg. My family had attended and were members of that Lilienthal Church; but my dad, fresh out of high school, resisted the emotional blackmail from relatives to join this emerging sect. He stuck with the Lutherans, a decision that spared him, but fractured bonds.

Engelbrecht’s cult hinged on “prayer sessions”, thinly veiled excuses for sexual deviance behind closed doors, all cloaked in religious piety. It thrived for about two decades before crumbling in disgrace. But Stegen, Engelbrecht’s protégé, carried the torch, founding KSB on the same twisted principles. Stegen’s own “prayer sessions” with women known as the “Mamas”, mirroring the perversion: deviant sexual acts under a holy guise, while rank-and-file members were herded into celibate exploitation, sex taboo except for those perceived as most holy. These cults, Engelbrecht’s and Stegen’s—shattered lives, including those of some of my family. My aunt Enid was a beauty, trailblazing as one of Natal’s first female accountants at Volkskas (now ABSA). Engaged to a man who adored her, her world shattered when Engelbrecht raped her. Instead of justice, the cult “prayed” and decreed suppression, blaming the victim as always. My father, tasked with returning the engagement ring to her fiancé “because that’s what the Lord wanted,” wept recounting it years later, his body trembling from Parkinson’s. The young man begged to marry her regardless, but the cult’s brick wall prevailed. Among Dalton’s older German community post-WWII, it was whispered that Engelbrecht’s assault on Enid resulted in a child. Abandoned by those preaching an allegedly kind God but not conforming to the mantra, she died a spinster, hooked on sleeping pills and Castle Stout. I discovered cases of Castle Stout under her bed when visiting her in Cathcart Street in Greytown. Enough to keep a shebeen rocking for a whole night! She would travel the province seeing different doctors to supply her sleeping pills, as invariable each doctor eventually called timeout on her addiction. When my sons were born and we visited, she called them her grandchildren, I stepped outside to cry for the life stolen from her, echoing my father’s tears over false divine decrees. Even after all these years, I become angry and agitated.

Stegen as the second in command at Bible House was informed and participated in the decision to suppress Enid’s rape. This is probably the reason that all those years ago, she wanted to go speak to him.

The mamas were classified by Stegen as his conduit to God in the same manner as that of Engelbrecht. They would answer his prayers to him after having sex. It was a perverse and pornographic interaction, a fabricated act that mirrored similar pagan rituals. He preferred it to be unknown, behind closed doors and would himself represent piety on the other side.

My dad often quipped that the cult treated prayer like a phone call to God, but you never knew if Satan picked up. In their case, he implied, it was the latter. How true was his insight. Bible House imploded when Lorentz Freese (who would become my dad’s farm manager) caught Engelbrecht in an extramarital affair with a woman—my uncle’s mother-in-law, no less—exposing the “prayer sessions” for what they were. My father’s family fled the wreckage, and reconciled with my dad, Mastelek. Yet echoes lingered: my brother-in-law married the daughter of Dr. Justin Mitchell, a Bible House devotee who penned the preface to God Among the Zulus, a nauseating hagiography of Stegen. That union, tainted by likely abuse in her past, crumbled. At my wedding, Mitchell praised my grandparents and their Christian values; gobsmacked, I realized their status stemmed from Hulda’s cash infusions. Without her grief-fueled generosity, Bible House, & thus KSB, might never have risen. If that car crash in 1922 had not happened, KSB would not have existed.

This is the foul genesis of Stegen’s KSB, spawned from Bible House’s ashes in the seventies. Stegen, second-in-command under Engelbrecht, knew every dark secret yet replicated the model: a self-sustaining empire masking exploitation. The 2020 exposures, allegations of rape cover-ups, beatings, and money laundering, confirmed what my family endured generations ago. The CRL Commission’s 2023 findings of rape and abuse only underscored the pattern. KSB’s defenders spin tales of revival and piety, but from my bloodline’s scars, I know the truth: it’s a cult that pimps souls under God’s name, destroying the vulnerable while enriching the predators. And the woman? Second class citizens.

The Mark of the Beast moving from Bible House to KwaSizabantu

The downfall of Bible House wasn’t just a collapse, it was a calculated coup, orchestrated by Erlo Stegen with the ruthlessness of a ninja assassin. Armed with damning knowledge of Engelbrecht’s rape of my aunt Enid and the so-called “prayer sessions” that were nothing more than sanctioned sexual orgies, Stegen wielded leverage like a blade. Shortly after my own birth in the sixties, he seized the moment, establishing KSB and assimilating Bible House’s assets and a section of the followers into his new domain. This wasn’t a clean break; it was a heist, facilitated by a key conspirator: my uncle, Hogart Joosten, Bible House’s treasurer. Hogart ensured the funds flowed seamlessly from one entity’s bank account to the other’s, a maneuver that cemented the Joosten family’s status as KSB royalty, the only part of our clan to fully defect and thrive in the new KSB regime. The Bible House property including the halls, church, buildings and farms had its title deed transferred to the control of KSB. The location is here. It exists, and knowledge about it and the deeds there cannot be deleted. Except, Stegen did, and his followers bought it hook, line and sinker.

To erase the stains of Bible House’s scandals, Stegen fabricated a pristine origin story: a divine revival in a humble cowshed, where God’s spirit supposedly descended amid Zulu congregants. But this tale was a plagiarized myth, regurgitated from an event chronicled by J.C. de Vries near Worcester, just before Christof Bartels arrived at Port Natal on the Kandaze, a slice of the broader Christian revival sweeping South Africa in the 19th century, with Andrew Murray at its helm. Stegen, fluent in Afrikaans, simply translated and twisted it into Zulu folklore, peddling it as his own Damascus road epiphany to whitewash the cult’s sordid roots. Meanwhile, Engelbrecht slunk into obscurity, marrying one of his affair partners, the mother of my dad’s brother Heinz’s wife, entangling our family further in this web of abnormal, incestuous relationships.

The stolen revival story was no fluke or co-incidence. The bookstore at Bible House (ironically managed by one of Engelbrecht’s side pieces) was full of revival literature and some of the most prominent ones were ironically the works of the Calvinist Andrew Murray of who I’m a descendant on my maternal side. He published nearly 200 books and papers and for the dozen years that Erlo Stegen was second in command at Bible House, he would have been very familiar with those books and would have lifted and plagiarized many stories from its pages, not only the revival.

The abuses didn’t end with the name change; they metastasized at KSB. Enid’s sister, Inge, and her husband Hogart formed the mission’s initial leadership spine, a role later inherited by their son Dietmar, who rose to prominence in sermons and governance. As Stegen’s dementia deepened in his later years, deposing him from daily control, power shifted to his daughters and Lidia Dube, the daughter of one of the infamous “Mamas” from the prayer session era. The Joostens’ other son, my cousin André, allegedly perpetrated his own horrors, rapes and assaults that echoed the founder’s sins, contributing to the mission’s litany of violations. It was during the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020 that the dam finally burst: News24’s explosive Exodus series laid bare the cult’s underbelly, sexual crimes, physical beatings, financial sleight-of-hand, sparking criminal probes & the CRL Commission’s damning inquiry into human rights abuses.

The Joostens’ royal status stemmed directly from Hogart’s financial funneling, a blatant theft masked by Stegen’s invented cowshed narrative. Several of my cousins were ensnared in this machinery, living lives reminiscent of Mennonites: women in drab, colorless clothing, devoid of makeup or adornment, their existence a monotonous grind of piety and repression. They’d pen letters to us, begging forgiveness for trivial childhood pranks, like the time my brother and I, with a cousin holding the ladder, tried peeping through a frosted bathroom window where my sister and her friend bathed. We saw nothing, zilch, but years later, those letters arrived, portraying the innocent mischief as grave sin. The cult twisted harmless fun into eternal guilt, intimidating members into endless repentance while glossing over grotesque human rights violations.

At its core, the cults of Engelbrecht and Stegen sanctified sexual and physical violence through perverse doctrine: confess, repent, and the slate wipes clean, no consequences, no justice. This bred a toxic cycle, embedding abuse into the fabric of KSB, from its Kranskop outpost to the souls it ensnared. To outsiders, these monsters appeared calm, meek, humble, wolves in sheep’s clothing. But the cult was weird, oppressively so: no alcohol to dull the edges, no Christmas trees or festive decorations to spark joy, no television to connect with the world, no reading classics like Homer or James A. Michener that might broaden minds beyond the narrow gospel they preached. It was a prison of the spirit, built on stolen funds and shattered lives, & my family’s blood runs through its foundations.

The Enigma of Stegen’s Foothold Amongst the Zulus Through Iron & Faith

How did Erlo Stegen, a disgraced offshoot from Bible House’s scandals, manage to embed himself so deeply among the Zulus? It’s deceptively simple, rooted in the warrior ethos that defines their heritage. To unpack this, let me recount a tale from my own lineage, about my German missionary ancestor, Christof Bartels, a man whose path illuminates the Zulu spirit.

Before his ordination as a Lutheran pastor, Christof had served as a cavalry officer in the Hanoverian army of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. This military rigor proved invaluable when he ventured into Zulu lands to establish congregations. His first one sprang from an unlikely confrontation: ambushed by two Zulu men while riding horseback, he wielded not a lance from his cavalry days, but a sturdy stick. A highly trained soldier and expert horseman, he subdued them with a thorough thrashing, then admonished them sternly. “I’ll return in a month,” he declared, “and by then, you’d better have begun building a church.” True to his word, he came back to find the pair had rallied their families—the nucleus of his inaugural congregation. Christof had arrived at Port Natal aboard the Kandaze, part of the Hermannsburg Mission’s wave in the mid-19th century, intent on spreading the Gospel amid the rolling hills of Natal.

Why dredge up this old yarn? It peels back layers on the Zulus themselves, a people forged in abrasion, where respect isn’t won with soft words but through unyielding resolve. They’re a breed apart, historically drawn to leaders who impose harsh regimes of abuse and trials, much like King Shaka molded his impis into a fearsome force. Shaka’s warriors endured grueling training: barefoot marches over thorns, ironclad discipline where failure in battle spelled death, and a regimental system that turned clans into a centralized war machine. It wasn’t pampering that built the Zulu empire; it was brutality honed into strength. They craved that edge, that unforgiving structure, and Stegen delivered it, cloaked in Christian missionary garb.

In Stegen, the Zulus saw echoes of Shaka’s relentlessness: strict rules, severe discipline, a no-nonsense suppression that mirrored their ancestral warrior code. He baited them perfectly, promising spiritual revival through a regime of pious hardship at KSB, endless labour on the farms, enforced celibacy for the masses, & “confessions” that often masked deeper exploitations. But unlike Christof’s righteous zeal, grounded in genuine faith and military honour, Stegen’s intentions were perverted, a cult leader pimping vulnerability under God’s banner. He turned their cultural hunger for discipline into a tool for control, building an empire on the backs of the very people he claimed to save. My ancestor’s stick built churches; Stegen’s rod forged chains.

umThakathi

In reflecting on KSB, it’s impossible to overlook the intricate web of cultural assimilation that Erlo Stegen wove around the Zulus. While much has been said about the mission’s emphasis on revival and spiritual purity, the true undercurrent was a calculated blend of Zulu traditions with Stegen’s authoritarian Christianity, a fusion that preyed on deeply ingrained beliefs to ensure compliance and loyalty. Central to this was the role of the “mamas,” the elder women who became unwitting instruments and sex slaves in Stegen’s hands, facilitating the integration of thousands of Zulus into his isolated world. But to understand their impact, one must first grasp the Zulu foundations of discipline and superstition that made such manipulation possible.

The Zulus have long been renowned for their unwavering adherence to discipline, a trait rooted in their historical warrior ethos and communal structures. From the era of King Shaka’s regiments to modern-day family hierarchies, obedience and order are not just valued but embraced as essential to survival and harmony. This cultural predisposition made the Zulus particularly receptive to Stegen’s rigid regime at KSB as mentioned above, where rules governed every aspect of life, from daily chores to spiritual confessions. Yet, intertwined with this discipline is a profound layer of superstition, where the seen and unseen worlds collide in daily existence. At the heart of these beliefs lies umthakathi, the Zulu concept of witchcraft or sorcery, embodied by the umthakathi (witch or sorcerer). Far from a peripheral myth, umthakathi is core to Zulu cosmology, representing the ever-present threat of malevolent forces that can curse, poison, or spiritually harm individuals and communities.

In Zulu culture, umthakathi is not merely a fairy tale but a lived reality that shapes social interactions, health practices, and even justice systems. Beliefs hold that an umthakathi can cast spells driven by envy, over another’s success, possessions, or family—using potions, curses, or familiars like the tokoloshe (a mischievous evil spirit). This fear permeates everything: unexplained illnesses, crop failures, or misfortunes are often attributed to witchcraft, prompting consultations with sangomas (traditional diviners and healers) to detect and counteract it. Sangomas, revered for their ability to commune with ancestors and uncover hidden evils, serve as protectors against umthakathi. These superstitions result in lived experiences where spiritual vigilance is paramount, and communal rituals, like ancestor veneration or protective muti (medicine), reinforce group identity. It’s this deep-seated fear of the supernatural that Stegen astutely recognized and exploited, transforming it into a tool for control rather than liberation.

Stegen, a discredited white missionary from a Lutheran background, didn’t arrive among the Zulus as a blank slate. By the 1960s, after years of successful evangelizing under the tutelage of Engelbrecht, he pivoted to elevate his status to a notorious flock leader during the 1966 fabricated revival at Maphumulo, incorporating elements of Zulu spirituality into his message to make it resonate. He understood that to assimilate the Zulus, he couldn’t outright dismantle their beliefs; instead, he had to reframe them through a Christian lens, positioning himself as the ultimate authority against spiritual threats. This is where the mamas come into sharp focus. Often portrayed by kwaSizabantu defenders as the villains, autonomous perpetrators of abuse and control—the mamas were, in truth, Stegen’s manipulated proxies. These women, many of them Zulu elders or long-time converts, were elevated to positions of spiritual oversight, but their power was illusory, always tethered to Stegen’s approval. This elevation and status was from a position of polygamy.

In essence, the mamas became Stegen’s Christianized sangomas, toned down & rebranded as benevolent “mothers” to soften the optics for outsiders. Where a traditional sangoma might divine hidden sins or curses through bones or trances, the mamas facilitated intense confession sessions, probing for “unconfessed sins” that mirrored the Zulu dread of umthakathi-induced afflictions. If someone fell ill or faced hardship, it wasn’t witchcraft but unrepented sin, yet the fear response was the same: public humiliation, isolation, or even physical discipline to “cleanse” the soul. Stegen preyed on this by insinuating that only through absolute submission to the mission (and by extension, to him) could one be shielded from spiritual harm. The mamas, groomed under his influence, enforced this, conducting practices like virginity inspections (ukuhlolwa), a Zulu custom adopted by the mission until 2002 to enforce purity. What outsiders saw as cultural sensitivity was assimilation in disguise: Zulu superstitions repackaged as biblical mandates, binding the community tighter to Stegen’s vision.

I believe many refuse to acknowledge how easily they were deceived, not out of naivety, but because Stegen masterfully weaponized beliefs against them. The mamas weren’t the masterminds; they were victims too, indoctrinated to believe their roles were divine, while Stegen pulled the strings. Defenders point fingers at them to deflect from his orchestration, but the truth is, without exploiting umthakathi-like fears, the assimilation wouldn’t have taken root so deeply. Thousands flocked to kwaSizabantu seeking protection from life’s uncertainties, only to find themselves in a sect where Stegen was the unchallenged intermediary between them and God, questioning him equated to spiritual suicide.

In the early years, KSB was isolated, amplifying this dynamic. No outside newspapers penetrated the mission, no television or radio broadcasts disrupted the narrative, and no music echoed except for approved hymns. It was a world driven by discipline, morning assemblies, labour rotations, enforced separations between sexes, and superstition, where every deviation invited accusations of demonic influence. This echo chamber allowed Stegen’s hybrid theology to flourish, blending Zulu ancestral fears with fire-and-brimstone sermons. The impact was profound: families torn apart, with leavers labeled apostates; cultural identities eroded under the guise of salvation; and a generation of adherents molded into unquestioning sheep. Looking back, it’s clear that the mamas’ role wasn’t one of independent agency but of tragic complicity in a system that turned superstition into subjugation. True revival uplifts based on deeds like that of Albert Schweitzer; manipulation like that of Erlo Stegen, no matter how disguised and cloaked in piety, only enslaves.

Lobola

Erlo Stegen’s relationships with the “mamas”, the cult’s revered Zulu women who formed the backbone of the communities spiritual and daily life, were a point of profound cultural divergence. To understand this, one must first grasp the essence of Zulu culture, which is inherently polygamous. In Zulu tradition, a man may take multiple wives, and the concept of extramarital affairs as a moral transgression simply doesn’t exist in the same way it does in Western societies. Girlfriends, casual liaisons, and laissez-faire sexual encounters are accepted as part of the social fabric, provided they align with communal norms. The true marker of commitment, however, comes through the ancient practice of lobola, a bride price negotiation that seals a marriage alliance between families.

Lobola isn’t merely a transaction; it’s a ritual of respect and reciprocity. The groom’s family offers cattle, money, or other valuables to the bride’s family, symbolizing gratitude for raising her and compensating for the loss of her labour and presence in her natal home. It’s a process steeped in negotiation, often involving elders from both sides, and it cements the union in the eyes of the community. Once lobola is paid, the woman is considered a wife, with all the rights & responsibilities that entails, even if a Western-style wedding ceremony never occurs.

My father, known in Zulu circles as Mastelek, shared with me a revelation that cut through the rumors swirling around Stegen. As a fluent Zulu speaker, Dad occasionally served as a court interpreter at the New Hanover Magistrate’s Court, stepping in when the regular interpreter was unavailable. The magistrate, Arnold Freese, a classmate from his school days, trusted him implicitly for his linguistic prowess and cultural insight. It was during these court sessions that Dad conversed with the families of the mamas. They confided in him that Stegen had indeed paid lobola for each of them, formalizing their bonds in the Zulu tradition. In their eyes, these women were not mistresses or illicit partners but legitimate wives, bound by custom and community approval.

Dad made it crystal clear to me: in the Zulu context, Stegen’s intimate relationships with the mamas were unremarkable, even honorable. The Zulus, with their deep-rooted acceptance of polygamy, would not frown upon such arrangements; they were simply part of life. But the Europeans affiliated with the such as those from Bible House & others, the rigid, missionary-minded ones who predated KSB, were far less forgiving. Their puritanical lens viewed these dynamics as scandalous, leading to tensions that simmered beneath the surface, particularly in their dealings with figures like Engelbrecht, whose own entanglements drew their ire. It was a clash of worlds: one fluid and ancestral, the other bound by imported doctrines of monogamy and morality. In retrospect, this cultural rift exposed the hypocrisies at KSB’s core, where Stegen’s authority straddled two incompatible realms, leaving fractures that time could never fully mend.

The Excursion to kwaSizabantu

Those childhood holidays at my grandparents’ place in Greytown were a welcome escape from the dusty isolation of the farm. I’d pack my bicycle and pedal around town, reveling in the smooth tar roads that stretched out like invitations to adventure, far superior to the rutted dirt tracks back home. And the shops! They were a treasure trove of sweets and curios, a stark contrast to the sparse supplies we had on the farm. It was during one such holiday that my Aunt Enid, who was staying with my grandparents, became the catalyst for my one and only visit to KSB.

Enid was unusually agitated that day, pacing the veranda with a furrowed brow. She announced she needed to speak with Erlo Stegen, the founder of the mission, about something pressing. My grandparents, ever cautious and perhaps a bit skeptical of the place, flat-out refused to go. KSB had a reputation that divided opinions in our circles, a sprawling mission known for its revivals, but also whispered about in ways that made adults exchange knowing glances. Seeing Enid’s distress, I volunteered to accompany her. At thirteen or so, I fancied myself quite the intrepid companion.

I phoned my dad to ask permission, & after a brief pause, he agreed, but with a twist. “Go with her,” he said, “but keep your eyes open. Spy on the activities there and give me a full report when you get back.” His tone was half-joking, half-serious, as if he were entrusting me with some covert family mission. Thrilled by the intrigue, I hopped into the car with Enid, and off we drove to the mission, nestled in the rolling hills near Kranskop.

Upon arrival, Enid disappeared to meet with Erlo, leaving me in the care of one of the younger Stegens, who offered a tour. It was the school holidays, so the place felt eerily quiet, the classrooms empty, the kitchens dormant, with only a skeleton crew tending to daily chores. What struck me most was the sheer scale of their operations. Vast farmlands stretched out, dotted with crops and livestock that could rival any commercial farm. And then there was the airfield, a proper runway right on the property! An officer from the South African Air Force was there that day, busily installing landing lights, which added a strange air to the visit.

We sat down for lunch: me, the younger Stegen, and the Air Force chap. The meal was simple but hearty, fresh produce from their own fields, no doubt. As we were wrapping up, Enid entered the room, accompanied by Erlo Stegen himself. He was a towering figure, with a presence that commanded attention. His eyes locked onto me, and he turned to Enid. “Is this Ernfriend’s son?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with something unspoken. Enid nodded confirmation. Erlo stared at me for a long moment, perhaps recalling that infamous baboon incident from years earlier, a family tale that still makes me chuckle, though it clearly hadn’t amused him back then. Without another word, he pivoted on his heel and strode out, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. The legend of Mastelek was my cloak.

The drive back to Greytown was tense. Enid was visibly upset, her agitation from earlier now deepened into a quiet sorrow. I prodded gently, asking what had transpired, but she brushed me off, saying it was nothing for me to worry about. The whole visit left me confused and uncomfortable, a mix of awe at the mission’s self-sufficiency and unease at the unspoken tensions simmering beneath the surface.

When my dad picked me up at the end of the holiday, I dutifully delivered my “report”, detailing the farms, the airfield, the sparse holiday crowd, and that peculiar encounter with Stegen. Dad listened intently, nodding along, but his only response was a wistful one: “I would have liked to see the place for myself.” Looking back, that trip to KSB was a fleeting glimpse into a world apart, one that blended faith, industry, and family secrets in ways I was too young to fully grasp. It remains my sole foray there, a curious footnote to my life.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

The tribe of the Greybrakke

In the heart of the Free State, where the veld stretches wide and the spirit of camaraderie runs deep, stands Grey College, a legendary boys’ school in Bloemfontein, founded in 1855. This isn’t just a school; it’s a crucible for South African heroes, a sporting dynasty, and a brotherhood that binds its scholars for life. From the hallowed halls of Grey emerge the Greybrakke, men who carry the school’s fierce pride and unbreakable bond wherever they go. And at the heart of this lifelong connection lies a tradition as timeless as the school itself: the Noggins.

The Grey Reunie & the Noggin Tradition

Since 1884, the Grey Reunie, the school’s alumni association, has kept the flame of Grey’s brotherhood burning bright. The Noggins are its beating heart, informal, spirited gatherings held on the last Thursday of every month, kicking off around 17:15. These meetups happen not just in Bloemfontein but across South Africa and even in major cities worldwide, wherever Old Greys roam. Picture a local pub or venue, the clink of glasses, and a small pour of ale or whiskey—a noggin, in the old British sense of a quarter-pint measure. It’s a nod to tradition, a chance to share stories of school days, cheer for the current Grey teams, and revel in the unpretentious, gritty vibe that defines the Greybrak.

There’s no stuffy agenda here. Noggins are about laughter, nostalgia, and the kind of tales only Grey boys can tell, rugby triumphs, karreskud adventures, and maybe a cheeky recounting of a schoolboy prank or two. It’s the Grey spirit distilled: raw, real, and rooted in loyalty. Want to join? A quick email to oldboys@greycollege.com will get you the details, times, venues, and who’s hosting in your area. Whether you’re in Bloemfontein or halfway across the globe, there’s a Noggin waiting to welcome you home.

Grey vs. Roos | A Rivalry Steeped in Grit

No tale of Grey College is complete without a nod to its fiercest rival, Paul Roos. Their taunt—“Roos is a legend, Grey is a colour”, is a classic jab, but let’s set the record straight. Paul Roos may be named after a singular “legend” (or a flower, some might say, a bit of a pansy), but Grey? Grey is the colour of bullets, forged in the fire of true grit. Named after Sir George Grey, a hero of South Africa, the British Empire, and New Zealand, the school embodies a legacy of resilience and courage.

Grey College has produced heroes who’ve shaped nations: MT Steyn, Denys Reitz, Sir Laurens van der Post, and a legion of Springboks like Morné du Plessis. And then there’s Ronald Bartels, class of ’84, a legend in his own right, as his good mate Eion “Klaas” du Toit postulated. He may not yet have a statue like Roos, but give it time, Bartels’ story is still being written, and it’s one of grit that outshines any myth or fantasy. And he is just one of thousands of other Greybrakke, who have forged their own story and legacy. The above is an example of being windgat, which is par for the course for any Greybrak.

The Last Noggin with Klaas

The final time I saw Klaas was at a lively Noggin in Parkview, a night that still lingers vividly in my memory. He’d come up to Joburg from the Cape, where he’d made his home, for some business. We met at the Golf Course, and it was like no time had passed. Klaas, with his larger-than-life presence, filled the room with his booming voice and infectious energy. We dove into a marathon catch-up, trading stories and laughing over all the Grey skinder—those tales of old schoolmates and their antics that never failed to spark a chuckle. The man could talk the hind legs off a donkey, and I loved every second of it.

As the evening wound down, I drove him to his Bed and Breakfast, both of us still chuckling over some half-remembered prank from our school days. We said our goodbyes, casual and warm, with no hint of finality. That was the last anyone would see him alive. Klaas passed away in his sleep that night, taken by an apnea that stole him far too soon.

I made the trip down to Paarl for his funeral. The service was held in the kerk, a solemn affair that somehow felt too small to contain the spirit of such a big man. He was a big man. We stood outside the kerk, gauging who was the strongest and youngest to carry in the coffin, which would have been on the really heavy side. However, the undertaker had that covered as Klaas was pushed into the kerk on a set of wheels with no heavy lifting required. We all sighed in relief. Afterward, we gathered for an impromptu Noggin at the Slug and Lettuce, raising glasses to Klaas, sharing stories, and laughing through the ache. Dammit, I miss the big guy. His absence left a hole that no amount of skinder or Castle Lager can fill, but I’ll always carry that last evening in Parkview, his voice echoing through the memories.

There was also a memorable trip I took with him from Jozi to Bloem for the school birthday. It was 5 hours of talking the hind legs off of a donkey. Klaas owned a wine shop in Paarl named the Thirsty Cyclist. We discussed that when my ship comes in I’ll have a side hussle with him of a boutique sparking wine brand with catchy names. In the shops there was one named Gorgeous and I had to buy it. The only better name for it would have been Bodacious. Then there are names like Fat Bottomed, Blonde Bombshell, Black Irish, Cowgirl, Fourty One, Oakvilla, Babbling Brook, and Mastelek. It sounded like so much fun as long as we broke even

The Grey Vibe | Kuifs, Handshakes, & Heroes

What makes Grey special isn’t just its history or its heroes, it’s the vibe. It’s the secret handshake you learn as a boy and carry into manhood. It’s the passion for the school that pulses through every Old Grey, whether you rocked a kuif back in the day or not. It’s the way a Noggin feels like coming home, no matter how many years have passed or where life has taken you.

Grey College isn’t just a school; it’s a way of life. The Noggins are proof of that, a chance to raise a glass, share a laugh, and honor the brotherhood that started it all. So, if you’re an Old Grey, find your nearest Noggin. If you’re not, well, you can only wish you knew what it’s like to be part of this legendary crew. Here’s to Grey, to grit, and to the Noggins that keep the fire burning.

Noggins & Scrums | A Maties Memoir

Back in my student days at Maties, life was a blur of lectures, late nights, and the kind of reckless fun that only youth can justify. One memory that stands out is a Noggins at the Wine Route Hotel, a raucous gathering that’s still legendary in my mind. The guest list was a mix of us rowdy students and, to our surprise, none other than Morné du Plessis, the Springbok legend himself.

The evening started innocently enough, with drinks flowing and stories bouncing around the room. Somehow, the conversation turned to Morné’s infamous tackle on Naas Botha, a moment etched in rugby history. One of the lads, probably fueled by a few too many, suggested we reenact it. Before I knew it, we were clearing space in the hotel lounge for an impromptu scrum. I found myself in the front row, shoulders squared, ready for what I thought would be a bit of a laugh.

But as soon as we locked in, the joke turned deadly serious. It was as if the spirit of the game took over. The scrum surged forward, a chaotic tangle of grunts and shoving. I don’t know what happened behind me, probably a mess of flailing limbs and questionable technique, but the whole thing collapsed into a massive pile of bodies, laughter echoing through the hotel. We were a heap of sweaty, grinning idiots, and Morné, standing off to the side, just shook his head with a chuckle. That night, we learned that even a playful scrum could carry the weight of real passion.

Years later, up in Joburg, I had another brush with rugby royalty. I bumped into the famous Du Plessis brothers, Jannie and Bismarck, both Springbok heroes. It was a somber moment, as Jannie had just lost his son in a tragic accident. I offered my condolences, feeling the weight of his grief in the quiet way he nodded. Despite the heavy moment, they both called me “Oom,” a term of respect that hit me like a ton of bricks. Bliksem, I felt old.

We got to talking, and the conversation turned to Bismarck’s iconic tackle on Dan Carter. It was one of the biggest injustices in Rugby history where a perfectly legit tackle was ruled as “No hands and high”. Absolutely rubbish. The memory sparked a grin, but when someone half-joked about reenacting it, I waved them off. “No ways,” I said, “I’m too old and too much of an Oom for that nonsense now.” We laughed, but I couldn’t help feeling a pang of nostalgia for the days when I’d have been the first to dive into the chaos. Life moves on, but those Maties nights and chance encounters with legends? They’re the stories I’ll carry forever.

Noggins in the Big Smoke

Fresh out of the Navy, with salt still crusting my boots and the sound of the sea echoing in my ears, I landed in Johannesburg, the Big Smoke, they called it, a glittering beast of a city that swallowed wide-eyed country boys like me whole. The air was thick with possibility and exhaust, and I was itching to make a difference as a computer programmer.

My first Noggin was a baptism by fire, courtesy of Gordon. Ah, Gordon, that wiry friend who was always gunning for trouble, like a lit fuse in a powder keg. We were at some sports club in the suburbs, the kind with sticky floors and fluorescent lights buzzing like angry hornets. It started over nothing, as these things do: a spilled drink, a sideways glance, who the hell remembers? The other guy was a fancy pants builder. I later heard whispers about him, turns out he threw these wild client parties where the entertainment ran hot, strippers slinking in like forbidden fruit. Nudge, nudge; you know the drill, wink-wink. The sort of thing that made the wives clutch their pearls and the husbands clear their throats.

Anyway, the argument escalated in that predictable, testosterone-fueled way, voices rising like steam from a kettle. Fists flew, chairs scraped, and before I knew it, I was in the thick of it. I sighed, that deep, world-weary exhale of knowing what was coming, and went all in. Should’ve known my aim was wonky. I lined up what I thought was a guy’s jaw, wound up like a spring, and unleashed a haymaker with every ounce of sailor strength I’d built hauling ropes and dodging swells. But fate, that sly joker, had other plans. My fist veered just a hair, plowing straight into a goddamn brick wall like it had a personal grudge.

The pain hit like a depth charge, white-hot, blooming from my knuckles outward, exploding into my arm and dropping me to my knees. Blood welled up in fat, accusing rivulets, knuckles split open like overripe fruit. I collapsed in a heap, the world blurring at the edges, the roar of the fight fading to a distant hum. Don’t remember much after that... just fragments: mostly Gordon’s laugh cutting through the chaos.

But if my debut was a comedy of errors, the true legends of Noggin lore belonged to the old geezers from the ‘50s, the silver-haired warhorses who wore Safari suits but never lost their appetite for mayhem. They were the architects of the tradition, back when Noggins were less about settling scores and more about thumbing your nose at the crusty high society. And one of their crown jewels? The night they arranged for Glenda Kemp and her python to make an appearance.

Glenda Kemp, what a force she was, a platinum-haired hurricane in fishnets and defiance, born in ‘49 to a buttoned-up Afrikaans family in Bloemfontein that would’ve fainted at the sight of a bare ankle. By the ‘70s, she’d shattered every stained-glass window of apartheid-era propriety, stripping onstage with a three-meter Burmese python named Oupa coiled around her like a living tattoo. Oupa, ”Grandpa” in Afrikaans, slithered across her skin as she danced, a mesmerizing tangle of scales and seduction that had audiences gasping and the police vice squad frothing at the mouth. Picture it: dim lights, tribal drums thumping like a heartbeat, and this lithe rebel shedding layers while the snake’s unblinking eyes dared the crowd to look away. She wasn’t just dancing; she was rebelling, a white Afrikaner girl flipping the bird to the tannies, the politicians, and the whole unwieldy and restrictive environment that choked South Africa back then.

The cops raided her shows like clockwork, Joburg clubs, Cape Town dens, you name it—hauling her off for “public indecency” while fans cheered and dominees preached fire and brimstone. But Glenda? She just laughed it off, quipping once that the police didn’t know whether to arrest her or the snake. It made her a star, a scandal sheet staple, even landed her in a gritty ‘76 flick called Snake Dancer, where she played a version of herself, all sass and serpent. The old geezers, bless their leathery hides, must’ve pulled every string in their Rolodex to get her to a Noggin, imagine the backstage haggling, the winks over brannas: “Bring the python, skattie; it’ll liven up the manne.”

We weren’t around for it, of course, those of us from the national conscription intakes came later, chasing echoes of the glory days. But it’s etched into Noggin legend now, passed down like a sacred scar: the night the air hummed with whispers and wide-eyed awe, arguments forgotten as every eye locked on that slithering spectacle. We chuckle about it still, over warm Castle lagers, slapping knees and shaking heads. “Wish I’d been there,” we say, half-joking, half-envious, toasting to the geezers who lived it loud. In a city that chews up dreams and spits out dust, stories like Glenda’s, wild, unapologetic, wrapped in scales, reminding us what we keep together.

A Noggin with Grant in Dunkeld

Grant, my mate from Kroonstad, and I go way back, nearly half a century of friendship, starting from our school days. The kind of bond where you’ve seen each other through bad haircuts, worse decisions, and the occasional stroke of genius. Grant always seem to suffer bad haircuts! Grant was a Lebanese Catholic and I was a German Lutheran. One particular memory stands out, a night that’s become legend between us, sealed with a laugh that still echoes.

It was a lively evening at a noggin in Dunkeld, one of those spots where the vibe is just right, buzzing but not chaotic. We grabbed a table, and right next to us were two stunning women, all charm and confidence. Grant, never one to miss an opportunity, flashed his classic grin and ordered them drinks, smooth as you like. I could see him gearing up for one of his bold moves, the kind that usually ended with either a phone number or a story to tell.

Now, I’m not sure what it was, maybe the way they leaned into each other or the knowing glances they shared, but something about the scene felt off to me. Call it instinct. Grant, though, was in full charm mode, laying it on thick. Then, out of nowhere, one of the women leaned forward, all politeness, and dropped the bomb: “Thanks for the drinks, but we’re lesbians.”

The look on Grant’s face, priceless. Shock, a flicker of disbelief, then the slow dawn of realization. I couldn’t hold it in. I hit the floor, literally rolling with laughter, tears streaming as Grant tried to salvage his dignity. The women were good sports, chuckling along, but I was done for.

From that night, a running joke was born. I’d deadpan, “Lebanese are from a country, but lesbians are not from Lebanon” and we’d both lose it all over again. It’s the kind of story that defines a friendship, a moment of pure, unscripted hilarity. Here’s to you, Grant, and to many more noggins, and laughs, in the years to come.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

I have always disliked when people use the term hallucination to describe the confident mistakes LLMs print when they reach the limits of their knowledge. I think “confabulation” would be a much more accurate term.

Merriam-Webster, my preferred dictionary, doesn't define confabulation per se, so let's use Dictionary.com instead.

Dictionary.com defines hallucination as:

a sensory experience of something that does not exist outside the mind, caused by various physical and mental disorders, or by reaction to certain toxic substances, and usually manifested as visual or auditory images.

It defines confabulation as:

the replacement of a gap in a person's memory by a falsification that they believe to be true.

We don't know if LLMs experience anything, although I don't rule it out entirely, but they certainly do replace gaps in their memory with obvious falsehoods that they seem to believe.

The next time Claude or ChatGPT tells you about a business that doesn't exist, then, or describes a feature your phone doesn't have, consider that it might not be hallucinating, but rather confabulating.

#Tech

I'm hoping to follow two different college football games today: one from the Big 12 Conference and one from the Big 10 Conference.

First up from the Big 12 Conference we find the (6-1) Texas Tech Red Raiders hosting the (6-1) Arizona Wildcats in a game scheduled to start at 11:00 AM CT.

Next from the Big 10 Conference we'll have the (7-1) Indiana Hoosiers hosting the (5-2) Minnesota Golden Gophers in a game scheduled to start at 2:30 PM CT.

And the adventure continues.

The end of another month. Two months left in this year. I think that the pills I'm taking are effecting my desire to do this, or is changing it at least. At the same time I don't really care. No great loss. That attitude towards it is likely also coming from the pills. It has only been two weeks and one day. I feel something, but not much. I wouldn't say that I feel good, or even better. Maybe weird. Like my senses are slightly more tuned in. They say the full effects won't be felt for 4 to 6 weeks, possibly up to 8. Maybe it will get better. Maybe it will get worse. I feel like Frank in Hellraiser when he acquired the box. I don't care which way it goes. Maybe it will tear my soul apart.

It would be funny if someone robbed a pharmacy and accidentally stole a bunch of these pills to sell on the street. Hey man, do you wanna buy some pills? One a day will make you tired, dizzy, and nauseous for a few of days, then give you a headache and make you gassy and constipated for two weeks straight. Then you'll feel kind of weird for another few weeks. At 4 to 6 weeks, or maybe 8, things might get better. Alternatively, your life could turn into a horror story because of them. Only 2 cents a pill. Ah whatever, just have them for free. Good luck. Have fun.

I'm supposed to come up with something to focus on in my next therapy session. A reason to be there. The first visit was sort of a general outline of my life. What do I hope to get out of it? What would I like to focus on first? I knew the questions were coming. Hilariously, they stressed me out. I guess anxiety, I said. The therapist said it has to be something more focused, narrowed down. I agreed, and said, yes, I suppose anxiety is a pretty broad stroke. Then it was time for me to leave. I said I would think about it. And I have been thinking about it.

I'm a dog running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Leash dragging and bouncing along the ground beside me. Life keeps grabbing the leash and jerking me around by the neck. Wanting the main course. Getting table scraps. It is fucking irritating. Is that also too general?

If I start typing things about it I might resolve it, and then I won't need to go. Not really. I don't know what I want. I don't know what I hope to gain from therapy. I don't know anything at all. Maybe that is a good starting point. I'm fifty five and I haven't figured out what I want to do with my life. I've just been taking it as it comes, as is. What's that they say, if life gives you lemons? Make lemonade? lol, more like, what am I supposed to do with this fucking lemon? I'm as is. Like an old car crumbling in the weeds and tall grass beside the driveway, or in the back row on the lot of a crooked dealership. Uncertified. Broken. Needs some work. Leaky gaskets. Rusty around the edges. Rotting frame. Don't look under the hood. Vision going. Tinnitus. 2 prescriptions. Tired.

By Tooth and Claw

A few years back, I woke in a morgue with burns on my body and no memories of who I was or how I got there. No one has been able to tell me who I am or who I was before the fire. The name they apply to unknown victims stuck to me so I'm called John Doe.

I may be strange but, so far, it seems I'm only as strange as the world I've found myself in. I have ten toes and ten fingers in the usual configuration. This world has villages, towns, cities, suburbs, rivers, trees, and animals. That doesn't mean the world or I are normal. There are things in these woods you can't find in a text book. If the man in the morgue had managed to open my chest, he would have found pieces of me that were not inside any other human. I've seen some of those parts myself but, like the woods and brambles I wander through, I haven't seen them all.

Would you like me to read the story to you instead? I have a recording of me reading it on YouTube?

Like the proverbial magpie, I spend a lot of my time learning about whatever new mystery happens to catch my notice. Maybe some of those things are in books. Maybe they're not. It's hard to get good books here. Today, I'm following some mysterious moths. Mrs. Welkie, whose house is maybe a mile away, lent me a book about moths in the region. These look like Ornate Tiger Moths but have blue coloration instead of orange.

I sat on a log and watched a group of the moths slowly opening their wings. The book said the Ornate Tiger Moths had a 1.7in wingspan. These seemed closer to 2 inches but I wasn't bothered by the discrepancy.

A pair of people approached, bothering the birds, bugs, and who knew what else. It was unlikely they were here for the bugs or at least not the same bugs I was watching.

The two stumbled around the biggest tree closest behind me.

“John?” a woman's voice said.

“Yes.” I didn't turn from my study subject.

“Mrs. Welkie said we'd find you out here,” a man's voice said. Mrs. Welkie was an older woman who made friends easily as I well knew.

“Does she need something?”

“No. She said you'd know where we might find three-banded ladybugs. They have yellow around their black spots —”

“I know what they look like. Try up that way,” I raised my left index finger and pointed up ahead. Strange enough to have someone else out here looking for a specific bug. Three-banded ladybugs might be about as rare as whatever I was looking at. I hadn't seen the bugs myself on this outing but I had a sense about it.

“Thanks!” the man said. The two started to march further into the forest. Both were dressed in tee shirts, shorts, and worn tennis shoes. Each carried a thin bag on their back.

“If you don't want to scare them off, walk more softly,” I said.

“Sure thing, dude,” the woman said.

I wasn't surprised when they continued to clomp and bluster through the wood. At least they were moving away from me and only a few of the moths had moved on.

---

I finished the lunch I'd packed and cleaned up the mess an hour or so after the sun had reached its highest level in the sky. There was a lot of light left in the day but the sky had started to turn a little. I'd been so engrossed in the moths that I hadn't been paying close enough attention.

The people after the ladybugs surely didn't have the gear they needed to deal with the coming storm. I sighed and retraced their route through the trampled plants they'd left in their wake.

Following them on foot would become harder once the sky darkened completely but I wasn't ready to pull out my flashlight yet.

Someone screamed a pretty good distance away. I ran toward the sound. I found the bugs they had been looking for but not the woman or man.

Their bags were up against a tree.

I kept my eyes on the ground in front of my feet, moving slowly and only occasionally looking above. The plants between the trees had been pressed down. The ladybugs they'd been looking for might have a lost a few of their number to whatever had pressed down on the plants but there were still plenty of them on the trunks of the trees.

“Hello?” I called out. I waited to hear a response.

The only thing I heard was the chirp of bugs and the rustling of the wind in the branches of trees. A group of birds cleared up from their roosting spots and flew to new, nearby branches on the same trees.

They distracted me for a moment. I nearly fell into the hole.

The hole was roughly round and about four feet in diameter. The interior wall was built of dirt. Shocks of roots from grasses and trees stuck out of the tunnel. The hole didn't go straight down like a well. It curved down and into the dark. I moved around to the side facing furthest away from Mrs. Welkie's house since that was the direction the hole headed.

I turned around and checked I could still get out before I was any further into it than waist deep. Before I lost sight of the light, I shouted. “Hello?!”

I counted beats and listened. I only heard what might have been a scratching. I pulled a flashlight out of my pocket and pointed it at the looming dark ahead of me. Four foot of vertical space isn't much to work with. I had to crouch to move. I steadied myself on the sides of the tunnel and stopped every few steps to shine the light ahead.

“Hello?” I called into the dark. I weighed options. Whatever had made this hole was huge. So far, the things I had found in the dark were creatures that weren't able to deal a deadly blow to someone who could recover from burning to death. My memory was limited. The fire that sent me to the morgue hadn't killed me but I'd forgotten everything I'd known before then. I don't know what I am or what my limits are. I seemed to need to breathe, eat, and sleep. I might survive a fire — at great personal cost. I didn't know whether I could survive a fall, drowning, or some other thing.

Some stories I'd read suggested that strange entities like me might be killed by silver knives or salt. I'd never had a chance to test the silver theory but salted fried potatoes hadn't harmed me yet.

Assuming the woman and man were even in the tunnel, I might not be able to rescue them unassisted. I didn't have more on me than the clothes on my back, the flashlight in my hand, truck keys, wallet, notebook, pencil, and folding knife in my pockets. These weren't ideal tools for a rescue.

I shouted down the hole again. My voice echoed off the walls of the tunnel. I heard a drip and some rustling in the distance but no voices answered mine.

A few steps later, the tunnel under me crumbled and sent me down through another passage.

---

I woke in a pile of debris, looking up at faint light from a hole in the uneven roof of the place where I found myself. There were roots a few fingers thick leading up. I felt for my flashlight and found it by my right hand in the dirt and stones. I shined it up. The plastic lens in my flashlight had been cracked but it didn't do much to hurt the light. I'd still have to replace the lens sooner or later. Before I could deal with that, I would have to get out. Even with the light, I couldn't be sure I could climb back up that way. The roots might snap under my weight and, even if they didn't, there were too few of them to be certain about making my way out the same way I'd come in.

If the woman and man fell like I had, they would probably be injured. I always wore denim, long-sleeve shirt, and thick leather boots when I went in the woods. My outer layers were dirtied but the fall hadn't cut through them.

The casual clothes they had been wearing wouldn't cover much of their vulnerable skin let alone hold up to a fall like that.

I didn't know that was what had happened with them but the math was starting to go sideways. I got to my feet and dusted myself off.

“Hello?! Can you hear me?” I bellowed. My voice didn't echo as much here. I listened and shined my light around the makeshift room I found myself in. Water dripped from somewhere. Where I'd fallen was near the high spot of the space so I hadn't woken up in a puddle.

I pushed my way through a gap and into the next space. It was larger than the place I'd first found myself in but it still wasn't really a place in the way the tunnel had been. Something was using this empty area and had made changes to it but the space itself may have been there for decades or more.

I don't know whether it was rational or not but I felt a shiver of fear. This was not a place for shouting. I moved quietly and turned the light in a circle around the room.

Something big had flattened out some of the space in the room but I didn't see it anywhere. Things were moving, though.

I spotted a human arm and made my way to it. It was still attached to the person. The woman.

She was covered in a thick, gooey mucus. Otherwise, she looked very much like she had when she and her friend had asked me about the bugs. Maybe she'd had an easier trip here than I had.

I wiped my hand across her face, making sure her mouth and nose were clear.

She squirmed and moaned.

“Are you ok?” I whispered.

She whined and squeezed her eyes closed.

“Sorry,” I muttered and moved the light away from her face.

“Where is he?”

“Your boyfriend?”

“He's not my boyfriend.”

I didn't have an answer to my question and my hand was starting to numb from the stuff I'd cleared off of her. I pulled her to one of the low spots in the space and used the water from the puddle to clear the goo from her exposed skin.

This wasn't a good place to be in but I was never going to get her topside without her cooperation.

She shrieked.

“Hush!” I said.

“Where the hell are we?”

“Underground in a den or something. Probably made by whatever brought you here. Where is the man you were with?”

“Who?”

I moved her to one of the walls and sat her down.

“Stay here,” I said. “And stay quiet.”

She nodded at me. She looked sleepy.

“What's your name?”

“Steph.”

“And the name of the guy you were with?” I rinsed my hands in the puddle closest to her.

Some presence of mind shook loose.

“Nathan. His name is Nathan.” Steph crawled close to the puddle as I walked into the dark.

A loud thud came from the direction I was heading.

Steph startled behind me, splashing the water she was now rinsing her shorts in.

I crouched lower and pointed the light at the ground. I had to climb through a gap into the next space. I stood to full height again.

I heard voices. Or something that sounded very much like voices. Chanting. Not words, I don't think. The voices were around me, talking to each other. At least that's the way it seemed to me. Maybe like birds or bugs calling to each other.

Something whizzed by my head. I ducked and flashed the light around. I didn't see what had flown by me but I did spot Steph's friend. I scanned around the room as I stumbled through the uneven ground. Stones and roots threatened to make me stumble.

Nathan was completely out of it. His legs were splayed and his upper body was hunched over them. He looked a little rougher than Steph did. He had cuts on his arms and legs but nothing life threatening.

I shook his shoulders.

He wasn't as covered in whatever slime had gotten on Steph. Maybe that was the reason for the cuts but I didn't have evidence of that yet. Nathan thrashed, almost like he'd been stirred from a slumber.

“Where am I?” he muttered.

I pulled him to his feet.

“Come on, Nathan,” I said. “Let's get out of here.”

“Ok,” he mumbled. “I lost my shoes.”

“I'm not surprised,” I said. I led him by the hand.

He squirmed in my grasp but didn't pull his hand back.

---

“Nathan?” Steph said as we made it back to the same chamber I'd found her in.

Nathan pulled away. He rushed around me and hugged Steph.

“You've still got goo on you,” Steph complained. She squeezed out of his grip and shoved him into the puddle.

“Make it quick,” I said. “We need to get out of here.”

The voices returned. They surrounded us. I flashed the light around. I could only catch the edges of them. They might have been bats or very large insects. I wasn't ready to rule anything out yet.

Steph and Nathan splashed around in the puddle, making a quiet racket the voices and flutterings couldn't quite drown out.

The splashing stopped suddenly.

“We're ready,” Steph whispered. “Are we going out the same way you came in?” (15:23 issue) “No,” I shook my head, heedless of whether they would see me do it. “I doubt I could get myself up that way. Without a rope, the three of us definitely wouldn't make it.”

“Sorry,” Nathan said.

I didn't respond. I went left since behind and front of me were blocked off and the right is where I'd found Nathan. Someone grabbed the back of my shirt but the hand didn't pull on me.

The makeshift tunnel we went through was uneven. It winded up, down, left, and right at random intervals and had the ends of tree roots crossing through the paths. I'm not so good with time when I'm deprived of the sun, moon, and stars.} I've never seen the point of wearing a watch. It makes sense for others. Just not for me. I rarely have appointments and what little money I need I get from donations or trades.

I wished a little for a watch now, though. It would be good to know if I should bother looking for a trace of sunlight through the drizzle that was surely happening above by now.

We came to a wider spot with the path diverging in two directions.

“Which way do we go?” Nathan said.

“Stay here,” I said. “I'll check one and come back for you.”

Steph looked like she was going to panic.

Irritation rose in me. I didn't want to deal with this but I couldn't risk them screaming.

“I won't be gone long. Please stay calm. I'm sure you don't want to draw them here.” I didn't even know who 'them' might be in this case. I hoped they knew more about what had brought them here than I did. I wanted to ask them if they remembered anything now that their skin wasn't covered in the mucus. I might try again later. I just had to hope whatever memories they might have would be enough to motivate them.

Steph nodded, biting her lower lip like it would keep her from making any noise. One of those strange human things. It wasn't that the lips made the noise but rather some strange shared symbolism I didn't have access to.

Had I known that kind of thing before the fire that took my memory and my past? I considered it often.

I rounded the corner. The trail narrowed and went up before going down again. I followed it a little further.

Something startled me. Some ... being. A creature of some sort. I wasn't close enough to see it clearly. Its proportions were inhuman. It had short hind legs, long forelimbs and giant gold eyes. Its body was more like the size and shape of a large dog than a human. It didn't have skin or solid pieces of an exoskeleton like an insect. It could have been made of rags. Some of its patches were brown and others green, black, or cream colored. I wasn't close enough to see for sure whether the colored spots were really made of cloth.

I had never seen its like. At least not in the memories I still had. I waited there for a moment to see what it would do.

It stood still but not so steady that I could mistake it for a statue or a dead thing. Its chest expanded and then contracted like breath.

If I could have been sure it was safe to draw near, I still wouldn't. The creature didn't seem inclined to let me move past it.

I turned around and kept an ear out for movement behind me. If the thing did follow me, it was utterly silent and didn't change the pressure of the air that surrounded us.

Had something like the creature taken Steph and Nathan into the tunnels? Had beings like it made the tunnels near the surface? If so, the things might have no interest in whatever I was. That didn't mean I was in the clear from danger. Anything after the others was a threat to me and there were other things in these tunnels too. Not just creatures but probably holes and cliffs.

When I got back, Steph looked like she was ready to chase after me.

“Well?”

I shook my head and led them the other way.

The path started out narrower and went down deeper and faster than the other had.

Steph and Nathan whispered behind me.

I had a rule I'd developed since losing my memory. I didn't involve myself in others' conversations where I'm clearly not wanted even if the conversation is about me.

“Mister,” Nathan said.

“Yeah,” I said without looking back. The darkness still enveloped us on every side, tempered only in front of us by my flashlight. I didn't have spare batteries on me. I wouldn't lose my head if I didn't have the light but Steph and Nathan were barely holding on.

“We didn't get your name.”

“John Doe,” I said.

Nathan laughed.

“Really. What's your name?”

“It's a long story but that is my name,” I said. It wasn't really that long but I didn't feel like telling it.

“John?” Steph said.

“Yes?”

“What was on the other path?”

“Dead end,” I said. If they found this unconvincing, they didn't say anything about it.

The path widened into another space. This one didn't have offshoots to worry about so we moved through it and into the next tunnel. I flicked the flashlight off and felt my way through the winding passage.

Maybe I was listening closer since I couldn't see or maybe my companions were more scared because it was dark. They made so much noise behind me that I wasn't confident I could clearly hear the things ahead of us. I guessed asking them for quiet would have made them angry and noisier. I tried to live with it.

The path opened up after a long while. I turned the flashlight back on.

Steph shrieked and Nathan startled. Nathan fell back onto his butt. At least the dirt here was dry.

I spotted what they were concerned about. Four creatures. The same kind that had turned me back from the other tunnel.

The creatures jumped back when they heard the noise from the other two but they didn't move off the paths they had staked off.

“I don't think they're trying to hurt us,” I said. I moved toward the one path that wasn't blocked.

The creatures didn't move from their spots. Their eyes seemed to glow in the dim frame made by my flashlight. It was just a reflection of light in a slightly golden hue.

“Come on,” I said.

Steph and Nathan didn't hurry to join me. I had to walk back to them and push them by the shoulders.

“If they wanted to hurt us, they would have done it already.”

Steph let out a cry of relief once we were in the next tunnel.

I squeezed in front of both of them and led them down the new path.

“Were those like the things that brought you here?”

“What? No. I don't think so at least. I couldn't see.”

“It might be the goo talking but I thought the things that got us were snakes.”

“Big ones. Like nothing you've ever seen.”

It was presumptuous to guess what I had and hadn't seen. In this case, they happened to be right. I hadn't seen a gigantic snake. I had seen things that frightened even me, though. I didn't need to fill their minds with terror as I was trying to get them to the forest above us.

I didn't think we could outrun a snake large enough to make the tunnel I'd first jumped into. I didn't know if a gigantic snake could move faster than a smaller one but they'd probably move fast enough especially in their own tunnels.

The passages were so quiet the sounds of Steph and Nathan breathing behind me were almost deafening. Much of this segment was pretty skinny but nearly tall enough for me to stand at full height if I needed to. Every step was uncertain and I was held up as much by my elbows pressing against the sides as I was by the ground under my boots.

“Can't we look ahead?” Nathan said. “I think this is starting to get to Steph.” The sound of something hitting a human back punctuated the silence.

“I'm fine. Just keep moving,” Steph said.

I slipped my hand inside my pocket and pulled out the cracked flashlight. I pressed the little rubberized switch to click the light on. Because of the bends and twists of the tunnel, I couldn't see much further ahead with the light than I could feel. I pressed the button again and dropped the flashlight in the breast pocket of my flannel shirt.

Several long and tense minutes later, we found ourselves in an empty space.

I turned the light on again and shined it around the room.

Steph shrieked as the light passed over some bats.

“They don't have any interest in us,” I said. “They eat bugs and small rodents.”

“No! You don't understand! Nate!”

I turned around.

Nate was down low with his ass on the ground, crawling backward. He looked up with his mouth wide open.

I spun around and searched for what they were reacting to. All I saw at first were the same flying shapes I'd identified as bats just a moment earlier. They still looked like bats but a large group of them melded together.

At first, the shape they made was like nothing I have seen on Earth or beneath it. It could have been like the shapes that swarming birds make sometimes but it morphed and shifted until they made five bipedal forms. The forms stood at about shoulder height. They weren't shaped much like humans. They had round bodies and spindly legs and arms. Their heads were roughly melon-shaped with big, gaping jaws and no sockets for the eyes they didn't have.

Even I felt a cold shiver in my bones. I didn't recognize them. Maybe I would have if I hadn't lost my memories. Something about them spoke of hunger and something else. Despite the similarities of our present forms, they didn't recognize us as anything more than prey.

Something fluttered around us. More of the little flittering, flying things that had merged to form the figures in front of us.

Nathan shrieked this time.

The form closest to us took a swipe at me. Its gleaming claws looked sharp enough to rend flesh from bones.

Instinct pulled me back in time to avoid a serious injury.

“Don't let them join up,” Steph shouted.

I scowled at that. I didn't have any reasonable options to keep them apart. I stepped between two of them, leaving three to my left and two to my right. I protected my front with my left arm and my back with my right.

The creatures formed of little flying animals shrieked and hissed at me. One of them held a clawed hand up for a moment and took a swipe at me.

I didn't have enough room to dodge this time.

It hit my left arm and left three deep gashes in it. The pain was sharp and bitter. It stung.

I was going to need a new shirt. I reached my right hand behind me.

“Get close and follow me. You can hold your fists up together to protect your midsection and most of your arteries,” I said with a quiet hiss.

There was a little scuffle behind me and then I felt someone press up against my back.

I reached and grabbed a shirt and pulled them forward with me.

“Don't stop for anything,” I muttered.

A few more of the bat creatures took swipes at me. A few claws landed, tearing the shoulder open on my shirt. I pulled through anyway.

Steph and Nathan both made noises of surprise. I would be able to rescue them if I could get them out but I didn't see a way to do it without further injury. It was no time to stop.

We pulled past the beings and made it to a tunnel.

“We got everyone?” I shouted without looking back.

“Yes,” Nathan and Steph both said.

“Alright. Keep going.”

I pulled the flashlight out and flicked it on, lighting up a little of the winding path in front of me.

We did the closest thing to a run that we could do in a tunnel that was a little wider and much shorter than me.

We came to another open area. This one was pretty small. The others wouldn't be able to pass me unless I pressed myself up against a wall.

“How are we doing?”

“You're bleeding,” Nathan looked like he might pass out at the sight of the blood running down my left arm.

“It's not as bad as it looks,” I said. I didn't know how bad it was but I had recovered from fatal burns. I figured a few cuts on the topside of my arm were probably not going to do the job. I squeezed past them and shoved the flashlight into my mouth. I dug into the low roof of the tunnel we'd just come through, partially collapsing it. I turned around and squeezed past them again. “Let's get going.”

---

The next stretch of tunnel started heading up a little. It was a relief. We'd been pretty steady in depth for a while. I'd already considered trying to dig up whenever we found a good place to try it.

Before I could give it any more thought, I realized I'd missed something.

“Back up,” I told the others.

“What's wrong?” Steph's voice came from behind Nathan.

“Nothing. We might have found a way out.”

They backed down the tunnel.

I turned back and found the hole I'd missed. It was a little small for me to fit in. I used both hands to dig it out.

Nathan watched me with something like fear mixed with excitement.

I was sure he was watching the wound on my left arm. I held the only light in my mouth. It was just strong enough now to help us make out the path ahead. It wouldn't give him much of a hint about how deep the cuts were.

I got the hole big enough to lift myself up into it. I shined the light and found one of the bigger, rounder tunnels.

I let myself back down.

“Go on. I'll help you up. Head left when you're up there,” I pulled Nathan toward me and lined him up with the hole.

I helped push him up. He disappeared into the dark.

“Are we getting close?” Steph said.

“It's heading in the right direction and it looks like the hole I came down to find you. I hope so.”

She nodded, looking more like she was thinking on what I'd said than anything else.

I pulled myself up into the tunnel after them.

“Careful where you step. On the way down, I fell into a hole that led me to you two.”

That seemed to give Nathan an idea. He got into a crawl and spread himself across as much of the width of the tunnel as he could.

“Do what Nathan's doing,” I told Steph.

The three of us crawled up the steep incline. The tunnel curved gently this way and that, occasionally leveling for twenty feet. It was almost a surprise when we crossed the hole I'd fallen in to begin with.

Nathan was able to easily avoid the hole. Steph and I followed after him.

Soon, the three of us were in mud from the rain that had come down into the tunnel.

“We're almost there,” I said. “Keep going but be careful. We don't want to slip down the tunnel.” I let the mud that we were crawling in cover my forearm. The mud couldn't hide the shreds that had been made of my shirt but the cuts would be less obvious. There was still water dripping but it might have been the leftovers of the rain working its way off the leaves and needles of the trees.

Steph managed to get herself out of the hole on her own but Nathan needed help.

As I was pushing Nathan out, small shapes chattered around us, moving past us and into the night sky.

“God. Not again!” Nathan said.

I pushed him out of the hole and climbed out of it myself.

The flying creatures formed up. This time, not in the shapes of the bipedal creatures that had found us underground. They formed into a gigantic, curving snake.

Steph wept silently and shook.

“Oh shit,” Nathan said when he saw what Steph was reacting to.

“Don't panic,” I said through gritted teeth. I pulled the flashlight out and turned it on. I shone it at the snake and walked steadily and calmly toward it.

It hissed and moved past me.

I spun around and saw it go down into the tunnel. It seemed to give us a final flick of the tail as it disappeared down the hole.

“What are we going to do now?” Steph said.

“I'll lead you back to Mrs. Welkie's place. You can find your way to your car from there.”

---

We walked through the damp of the night. I hoped they would calm down before we made it back to their car. I hoped the memories would fade into a dream-like thing with fuzzy edges.

They bickered about what to do. Nathan wanted to go to a nearby bar and try to tell others about what they experienced.

Steph looked skeptical.

“Will you go with us?” she asked me.

“We fell in a hole and dealt with some bats and badgers. I've already had my vaccines. You should get yourselves taken care of.”

“Bats?!” Nathan seemed offended. “You saw what we saw.”

“I don't think I did.” I flashed the light up ahead of us. “There's your car.”

“Where are you going?” Steph said.

“Back to my own truck.”

“Thanks for everything,” she said.

“Yeah. Thanks, man.” Nathan sounded a lot less grateful than Steph did but I hadn't just insinuated that she'd been imagining everything they went through.

We parted ways. I did stop at my truck. I pulled my torn shirt off and tossed it into a waste bag I keep under the shell. I pulled out a spade. I usually used it for latrine duty but it would have to do for my purpose.

The walk back to the tunnel was faster since I didn't have to worry about the others keeping up.

I hopped down the tunnel and scratched at the roof with my spade, aiming for the spots I thought might be weakest. It may have been my paranoia but I felt eyes staring at me in the dark. I didn't know how long I had before the others showed up.

Minutes of work left a nice pile of dirt and stones blocking the tunnel entrance. It would take more time and effort to block out the dim light from the moon and stars.

I dug faster, aiming to bring down big chunks. I was a little too successful and got myself caught in a crumbling pile of dirt and roots. I backed myself out of it and shook out my undershirt. I walked down the tunnel a good ways.

The eyes I'd felt on my back shone lightly in the dark. It might have been a trick of the mind or eyes.

What I saw had dim, red eyes. They made small movements. A group of them worked on another hole in the top curve of the tunnel. Each figure was a little taller than half the height of the tunnel itself. I couldn't make out much more about them than that.

I drew near. This part of the tunnel still required me to hunch down to move through it. I couldn't have been silent even if I'd tried. Every foot step and move involved a subtle crunch.

The red eyed beings didn't run or flinch. They did look at me from time to time as I moved closer to them. That didn't mean there was no danger. There wasn't enough light in the tunnel to see if they were the same kinds of creatures as the ones that had tried to keep us on the right paths before.

My heart pounded. After the help the others had given us, I wasn't ready to assume these were interested in harming me but I was still cautious.

The red eyed beings backed away from the hole they'd been digging. One of the closer red eyes nodded at the hole.

I looked up through the hole. It had a steep slope but it led to a dim sky blocked by the tops of waving trees.

“Thanks,” I said. I tucked the spade in my back pocket and started making the climb out of the hole.

I got out in time to find men wandering around the woods with flashlights in hand. Closing the hole I'd climbed through would have made too much noise. I slipped behind a row of trees.

They didn't see me.

I went off to the left, parallel to the line I figured they were making from Mrs. Welkie's house. I hopped Mrs. Welkie's chain link fence and slunk through the back yard to the house.

The yard was covered in leaves but the damp from earlier made the surface soft if not quiet to walk through. Someone who stood perfectly still might hear me from a pretty close distance. It was a risk but a smaller risk than standing still in woods that were being scoured by men with flashlights.

I scratched at the back door.

Mrs. Welkie opened it. She spotted me and came back out with a broom. She brushed me off and then let me into her house. She locked the back door behind us.

“Shower's in that way. I'll come in for your clothes and leave you a pile of my late husband's so don't mind the door.”

I nodded.

---

A knock came on the front door. I rushed through pulling on the clothes Mrs. Welkie had left me. The cuts on my arm and shoulders had stopped bleeding though they looked pretty severe still. The shirt would cover the wounds long enough to keep prying eyes away from them. I gave my hair another pass with the towel before walking out.

“John,” Mrs. Welkie said. She was near the front door and looked a little nervous.

“Coming,” I said. I took a steady pace to the front door, towel still around my neck.

A group of men stood outside Mrs. Welkie's house.

“Take us to the tunnels,” a man at the front said. He directed this to me.

I stepped out onto the porch. I felt a cold shiver. There were about thirty people gathered there.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“All my life. Forty years.”

“In all that time, how many have gone missing from these woods?”

His face twitched. He looked around at the crowd that surrounded him.

“Before today, none.”

“Counting today, none,” I said. “There's no one missing unless there are other hapless tourists no one has told me about.”

Some muttering broke out between the others in the crowd.

“They said there were monsters in the tunnels. It's not safe to have them so close to our houses.”

“I found them disoriented and distraught. They got out safely with my help. I climbed through dirt and muck to get them out. I didn't see anything scarier than a bug or a bat. I've already had my shower. I'm not showing you a hole I'll have to rescue you from in forty-five minutes.”

“Come on, James,” one of the other men pulled James's shoulder. “Let's go back to the bar. First round's on me.”

James scowled and pulled his shoulder back. He walked away from the woods.

I went back inside Mrs. Welkie's house. The smell of grilling sandwiches hit my nose. I sat down in a chair at the kitchen table and rested my head on my hands on top of the table.

“You know how long I've lived in these woods?” Mrs. Welkie said as she stirred the soup that was bubbling beside the sandwiches.

“No,” I said. Exhaustion filled my voice.

“All seventy some odd years of my life. I've seen things in the darkness. Things I wouldn't dare tell anyone but you. I think of them as friends. Or at least well-behaved neighbors. They never borrow my sugar or shout at each other after the sun goes down.”

There are things in the forest worth worrying about and I did see some of them that night. Most of those were humans, though.

“I feel like thanking you but I wonder if you're not something more than you appear to be,” Mrs. Welkie said as she placed a pair of grilled sandwiches on a plate and set them in front of me.

I raised my head and gave her a slight smile.

---

I cleaned up the plate, bowl, pan, and pot after the sandwiches and soup.

Mrs. Welkie came back out. She had on a night gown that went from her neck to her socked feet.

“I put a blanket and pillow on the couch. You can sleep there while you wait for the dryer to finish or stick around until morning and get breakfast out of the deal. I'm up past my bedtime.”

I nodded.

She left and I bedded down on the couch.

The night sounds of a strange house are hard to sleep through. I wondered if some of the noises would have been more familiar before I lost my memories. I nodded off and slept until nearly three in the morning.

It was almost dead silent in and outside of the house. It might have been the quiet that woke me. I looked out the window beside the front door.

Some of the gold-eyed rag creatures were outside, rambling in the dim light of the moon on a night that had become clear since I had fallen asleep.

I stepped out into the chilly wet with my bare feet.

The creatures froze when they heard me but relaxed when they saw me.

I walked to them, crouching down to make myself less tall. I tried to see the world as they must have. A human might have seen the dark but even they could have made out the shapes of the trees and the dips and climbs of the uneven ground around us.

The creatures' ramble was almost like a dance. Their frames were built more for a four limbed stride than bipedalism but I still saw the artistry in it.

One of them rambled up to me. It turned its left hand up and raised it twice.

I held my hand up as it had but didn't repeat the raising motion.

It made a sound that might have been a squeak or a chortle and dropped something in my hand. It was a smooth but pliable round ball. In the dim light, I couldn't tell the color but it might have been a smooth ball of dirt. A little less heavy and maybe wrapped in smooth leaves.

The being showed me another ball in its own hand and touched its tongue to the ball.

I licked the ball it had given me. It tasted a little savory and slightly sweet. It was nothing like human food but it stirred something familiar in me. I was sure I wasn't one of these beings. It wasn't just the fact that I looked like a human to the casual observer. There were other, more fundamental differences between us but that didn't mean we were too unalike to share a moment.

“Thanks,” I said. I slipped the ball in the pocket of the shirt Mrs. Welkie had loaned me. I snapped the pocket button closed.

The creature made a repeated noise that sounded a bit like “squork.”

“It's a little late in the night for me to eat.”

The being rolled over its shoulder like it was a ball. It scampered to catch up with its friends.

I slipped back into the house and went back to sleep.

In the morning, a movement in the shirt pocket woke me up. I slipped out the front door and unsnapped the pocket. A bug flew out of it. Big enough to be the thing I'd licked before.

I lifted the left cuff on the shirt and peeked at the wounds on my arm. They'd started an inch deep and each was now the depth of a fingernail's thickness.

I may be strange but, so far, it seems I'm only as strange as the world I've found myself in.

#AudioFiction #Horror #Halloween #Fiction #JohnDoeIsNotAlone

“The practical world, the business world, has created the 'credentials society,’ and beginning in the 40s and 50s it became a mania to qualify for a particular line, to have a certificate or a diploma in this, that, or the other thing — in many things that are not really subjects at all — activities in the so-called real world which should be carried on by intelligent people but not necessarily by people who have taken a course. What is too bad is that people have very little faith in the value of intelligence, of general principles.”

Auf dieses Zitat bin ich vor ein paar Tagen über Hacker News gestossen. Hätte dort nicht gestanden, von wem es stammt, hätte ich es ohne Weiteres einer aktuellen Diskussion über Microcredentials, Weiterbildungszertifikate oder KI-Kurse zugeordnet. Gesagt hat es der amerikanische Kulturhistoriker Jacques Barzun. Und zwar 1980.

In einem Interview mit dem Christian Science Monitor wurde Barzun gefragt, wie sich die Universität seiner Zeit vom älteren Ideal der Universität unterscheide. Seine Antwort beginnt mit der „credentials society“. Seit den 1940er- und 1950er-Jahren, so Barzun, sei ein regelrechter Drang entstanden, Menschen für immer mehr Tätigkeiten durch Kurse, Diplome und Zertifikate zu qualifizieren. Seine eigentliche Kritik gilt aber dem Misstrauen gegenüber etwas, das sich schwieriger dokumentieren lässt: allgemeine #Bildung, Urteilskraft und die Fähigkeit, sich auch dann zurechtzufinden, wenn niemand die passende Lösung vorbereitet hat. [1]

Auch 46 Jahre später wirkt die Diagnose weiterhin aktuell. Der eigentliche Streitpunkt lässt sich in drei Begriffe fassen: #Lernen, Können und Nachweisen. Lernen bedeutet, sich Wissen und Fähigkeiten anzueignen. Können zeigt sich darin, sie in unterschiedlichen Situationen einzusetzen. Ein Nachweis wiederum macht bestimmte Leistungen für Dritte sichtbar. Die drei Ebenen hängen zusammen, sind aber nicht austauschbar.

Gerade heute, wo wir immer mehr Kompetenzen zertifizieren und gleichzeitig immer mehr Wissen durch #KI verfügbar wird, lohnt es sich, diese Unterschiede ernst zu nehmen.

Die Welt der Nachweise

Barzun war mit seiner Beobachtung nicht allein. Bereits 1979 hatte der Soziologe Randall Collins sein Buch The Credential Society veröffentlicht. Sein Ausgangspunkt lässt sich einfach formulieren: Wenn ein Abschluss zum Normalfall wird, braucht es den nächsten, um sich noch unterscheiden zu können. Bildungsabschlüsse vermitteln Wissen und öffnen Möglichkeiten, sie regulieren aber zugleich den Zugang zu Berufen und gesellschaftlichen Positionen. [2]

Diese Dynamik setzt sich bis heute fort, inzwischen in neuen Formen. Neben Berufs- und Hochschulabschlüssen gibt es Herstellerzertifikate, Onlinekurse, digitale Badges, Bootcamps und Microcredentials, also kurze, in sich abgeschlossene Lerneinheiten, für die ein formaler Nachweis vergeben wird. Weiterbildung lässt sich damit immer feiner portionieren, prüfen und sichtbar machen.

Gerade für Erwachsene kann das sinnvoll sein. Nicht jede neue berufliche Aufgabe verlangt einen weiteren mehrjährigen Studiengang. Wer sich gezielt neues Wissen aneignet, sollte diese Leistung auch dokumentieren können. Allerdings entsteht dabei eine Schieflage: Was sich einfach zertifizieren lässt, wird sichtbar, während anderes im Hintergrund bleibt. Ein absolvierter Dreistundenkurs erscheint mit Datum und Logo im LinkedIn-Profil. Jahrelange Erfahrung, sorgfältige Lektüre, informelles Lernen oder die Fähigkeit, in einer unübersichtlichen Situation einen vernünftigen Entscheid zu treffen, passen in kein ebenso handliches Feld.

Der Nachweis ist einfacher zu zeigen, als das Können nachzuweisen.

Warum wir Zertifikate benötigen

Es wäre zu einfach, daraus eine Klage über die Zertifikatsgesellschaft zu machen. Abschlüsse und Zertifikate erfüllen reale Funktionen. Wer jemanden einstellt, kann dessen Wissen und Fähigkeiten kaum vollständig überprüfen. Ein anerkannter Abschluss bietet eine praktische Orientierung und signalisiert, dass bestimmte Anforderungen erfüllt wurden.

Bei Ärztinnen, Elektrikern, Pilotinnen oder anderen Tätigkeiten, bei denen Fehler erhebliche Folgen haben können, geht es um mehr als Bequemlichkeit. Formale Qualifikationen helfen, Mindeststandards zu sichern. Auch in weniger regulierten Berufen reduzieren sie Unsicherheit.

Das Problem beginnt dort, wo aus einem nützlichen Hinweis ein Ersatzurteil wird. Wer eine Prüfung bestanden hat, verfügt noch lange nicht über die Fähigkeit, sein Wissen in jeder unbekannten Situation angemessen einzusetzen. Umgekehrt kann jemand eine Tätigkeit ausgezeichnet beherrschen, ohne den dafür erwarteten Abschluss vorweisen zu können.

Wie schwer es ist, auf vertraute Qualifikationsnachweise zu verzichten, zeigt die Bewegung hin zum sogenannten „skills-based hiring“. Unternehmen erklären, bei Einstellungen stärker auf Fähigkeiten statt auf Hochschulabschlüsse zu achten. Eine gemeinsame Untersuchung des Burning Glass Institute und der Harvard Business School aus dem Jahr 2024 zeigt allerdings, wie begrenzt die tatsächlichen Veränderungen bislang geblieben sind.

Der Effekt war verschwindend klein: Nach Berechnungen der Forscher eröffneten die neuen Einstellungspraktiken bei weniger als einer von 700 Einstellungen im Jahr 2023 in den USA zusätzliche Beschäftigungsmöglichkeiten für Menschen ohne Hochschulabschluss. Bei den untersuchten Stellen, deren formale Abschlussanforderungen gestrichen worden waren, stieg der Anteil neu eingestellter Personen ohne Bachelorabschluss zwar um durchschnittlich 3,5 Prozentpunkte. Der Gesamteffekt blieb jedoch gering, weil solche Änderungen nur 3,6 Prozent der betrachteten Stellen betrafen. Bei rund 45 Prozent der untersuchten Unternehmen veränderte sich das tatsächliche Einstellungsverhalten praktisch gar nicht. [3]

Das ist mehr als eine interessante Arbeitsmarktstatistik. Unternehmen können in ihren Leitbildern Fähigkeiten über Abschlüsse stellen und dennoch auf das vertraute Signal des Diploms zurückgreifen, sobald sie tatsächlich entscheiden müssen. Einen Abschluss im Bewerbungsformular abzufragen ist einfach. Herauszufinden, ob jemand ein unbekanntes Problem erkennen, einordnen und vernünftig bearbeiten kann, verlangt erheblich mehr Aufwand.

Was sich schlecht zertifizieren lässt

An diesem Punkt wird Barzuns Argument zugleich interessant und problematisch. Er stellt der Welt der Zertifikate „intelligence“ und „general principles“ gegenüber. Das kann so klingen, als gäbe es intelligente Menschen, die sich auch ohne Ausbildung zurechtfinden, und andere, die eben einen Kurs brauchen.

Barzun sprach allerdings keineswegs aus institutioneller Distanz. Er hatte jahrzehntelang an der Columbia University gelehrt, deren allgemeinbildendes Curriculum mitgeprägt und leitende akademische Ämter bekleidet. [4] Man kann deshalb fragen, ob sein Vertrauen in „intelligence“ und allgemeine Prinzipien auf einer Bildung beruht, deren Voraussetzungen er im Zitat unterschätzt. Auch allgemeine Prinzipien müssen erst erworben und verstanden werden. Zudem sind die Gelegenheiten, sich eine umfassende Bildung anzueignen, gesellschaftlich ungleich verteilt. Intelligenz allein ist deshalb ein unzureichender Gegenentwurf zur Zertifikatsgesellschaft. Urteilskraft entsteht aus Wissen, Erfahrung und Übung, und gute Bildung kann genau das vermitteln.

Dennoch berührt Barzun einen entscheidenden Punkt: Nicht alles, was für kompetentes Handeln wichtig ist, lässt sich sauber in einzelne Lernziele zerlegen und zertifizieren.

Nehmen wir eine Lehrperson, die eine Unterrichtsstunde sorgfältig vorbereitet hat. Die Lernziele sind klar, die Beispiele gewählt, die Aufgaben passen zum Stoff. Nach zwanzig Minuten merkt sie trotzdem, dass etwas nicht stimmt. Die Teilnehmenden nicken, können aber eine einfache Frage zur Anwendung des eben Besprochenen nicht beantworten. Die Lehrperson könnte nun den vorbereiteten Ablauf fortsetzen. Stattdessen unterbricht sie ihn, greift eine Bemerkung aus der Gruppe auf, entwickelt daraus spontan ein anderes Beispiel und lässt die Teilnehmenden das Problem noch einmal aus einer neuen Perspektive bearbeiten.

Was genau war hier die entscheidende Kompetenz? Fachwissen war nötig, ebenso methodisches Wissen und Erfahrung. Ausschlaggebend war die Fähigkeit, eine unerwartete Situation überhaupt als solche wahrzunehmen, verschiedene Möglichkeiten gegeneinander abzuwägen und im richtigen Moment vom Plan abzuweichen. Ein Kompetenzraster kann einzelne Bestandteile davon beschreiben. Es kann kaum vorwegnehmen, wann sie in welcher Kombination gebraucht werden.

Prüfungen können solchen Situationen näherkommen. Fallstudien, Simulationen und reale Arbeitsaufträge erfassen mehr als ein einfacher Wissenstest. Dennoch bleiben sie gestaltete Situationen mit bekannten Rahmenbedingungen. Berufliches Können zeigt sich auch darin, zu erkennen, dass der vorliegende Fall gerade nicht dem bekannten Muster entspricht. Bildungsinstitutionen benötigen vergleichbare Kriterien, um Leistungen beurteilen zu können. Ein Teil professioneller Kompetenz wird allerdings erst unter Bedingungen sichtbar, die sich nur begrenzt standardisieren lassen.

Was KI verändert

Generative KI führt diese Frage noch einen Schritt weiter. Wer heute ein Sprachmodell benutzt, kann sich Wissen erklären, Texte zusammenfassen und erste Lösungsvorschläge erstellen lassen. Die Antworten sind oft in Sekunden verfügbar und sprachlich überzeugend. Ihre Qualität lässt sich jedoch nur mit entsprechenden Kenntnissen zuverlässig beurteilen.

Das lässt sich an einem einfachen Fall zeigen. Jemand lässt einen längeren Vertrag durch ein Sprachmodell zusammenfassen. Die Zusammenfassung ist verständlich und weitgehend korrekt, lässt aber eine unscheinbare Klausel aus. Ausgerechnet diese Klausel regelt die Kündigungsfrist, die für den konkreten Fall entscheidend ist. Wer den Vertrag nur über die Zusammenfassung kennenlernt, bemerkt die Lücke möglicherweise gar nicht. Wer hingegen weiss, dass Kündigungsfristen oder Haftungsfragen für die eigene Entscheidung zentral sind, wird gezielt nachfragen und die entsprechenden Passagen im Original prüfen.

Hier zeigt sich, wie eng Fachwissen und Urteilskraft miteinander verbunden sind. Erst entsprechende Kenntnisse ermöglichen es, die eigene Situation richtig einzuschätzen, relevante Fragen zu stellen und die Grenzen des eigenen Verständnisses zu erkennen.

Der Zugang zu einer plausiblen ersten Antwort wird durch KI immer einfacher. Die anspruchsvolle Aufgabe bleibt, ihre Brauchbarkeit für den konkreten Zweck einzuschätzen. Was fehlt? Welche Annahmen wurden gemacht? Welche Informationen sind nebensächlich, welche entscheidend? Wann reicht das eigene Wissen zur Prüfung aus, und wann braucht es jemanden mit mehr Fachkenntnis?

KI macht besonders sichtbar, wo Wissen in Urteil übergehen muss.

Unsere Reaktion auf diesen neuen Kompetenzbedarf ist bezeichnend. Es entsteht eine weitere Schicht von Kursen, Badges und Zertifikaten. Angeboten werden AI-Literacy-Schulungen, Prompting-Zertifikate und Nachweise für den Umgang mit einzelnen Werkzeugen. Die neuen Systeme erfordern zweifellos neue Kenntnisse. Ihre Möglichkeiten, Grenzen und Risiken muss man kennenlernen und verstehen.

Doch ausgerechnet das, worauf es beim Umgang mit KI besonders ankommt, lässt sich durch einen standardisierten Kurs nur begrenzt belegen. Ein Zertifikat kann dokumentieren, dass jemand etwas über KI gelernt hat. Ob diese Person Monate später in einer neuen Situation eine fehlerhafte Antwort erkennt, ihre Bedeutung richtig einschätzt oder bewusst auf den Einsatz eines KI-Systems verzichtet, bleibt weitgehend offen. Das Lernen ist dokumentiert, das Können muss sich erst noch zeigen.

Selbst die KI-Verordnung der Europäischen Union ist hier zurückhaltender, als manche Weiterbildungsangebote vermuten lassen. Sie regelt die Entwicklung und Nutzung von KI-Systemen und verpflichtet Anbieter und Betreiber dazu, Massnahmen zur Förderung der KI-Kompetenz der beteiligten Personen zu ergreifen. Dabei sollen technisches Wissen, Erfahrung, Aus- und Fortbildung sowie der konkrete Einsatzkontext berücksichtigt werden.

Artikel 4 wurde im Juli 2026 im Rahmen einer Überarbeitung der Verordnung präzisiert. Die neue Fassung stellt ausdrücklich klar, dass Anbieter und Betreiber kein bestimmtes individuelles Kompetenzniveau garantieren müssen. Die Europäische Kommission hält ausserdem fest, dass zur Erfüllung der Verpflichtung kein bestimmtes Zertifikat erforderlich ist. [5, 6]

Ein neuer Bildungsbedarf erzeugt also keineswegs automatisch einen neuen Zertifikatsbedarf.

Der Nachweis und die Wirklichkeit

Hier liegt wohl auch die einfachste Antwort auf Barzuns „credentials society“: gute Bildung bleibt wichtig, anspruchsvolle Abschlüsse ebenso. Die Frage ist vielmehr, welche Aussagen wir aus einem Nachweis ableiten und wo wir ihm mehr zutrauen, als er tatsächlich leisten kann.

Ein Zertifikat dokumentiert bestimmte Leistungen zu einem bestimmten Zeitpunkt und unter bestimmten Bedingungen. Schon deshalb bildet es nur einen Ausschnitt ab. Wer einen Kurs absolviert hat, hat wahrscheinlich etwas gelernt. Ob dieses Wissen auch in unerwarteten Situationen verfügbar ist und sinnvoll angewendet werden kann, zeigt sich oft erst später. Ebenso kann jemand über beträchtliche Fähigkeiten verfügen, für die ihm schlicht der formale Nachweis fehlt.

Barzun hatte dafür 1980 eine polemische Formel. Seine Alternative, das Vertrauen in „intelligence“ und allgemeine Prinzipien, ist zu einfach. Seine Diagnose ist es nicht. Wir haben ausgefeilte Verfahren entwickelt, um Qualifikationen nachzuweisen. Wie gut Menschen mit ihrem Wissen umgehen, müssen wir weiterhin an ihrem Handeln erkennen.

Die „credentials society“ ist nicht verschwunden. Wir haben sie nur besser zertifiziert.

---

💬 Kommentieren (nur für write.as-Accounts)

---

Quellen

[1] D. Owens, „Looking at man and his arts; Jacques Barzun, Cultural historian and critic“, The Christian Science Monitor, 17. Juli 1980. https://www.csmonitor.com/1980/0717/071710.html

[2] R. Collins, The Credential Society: An Historical Sociology of Education and Stratification. New York: Academic Press, 1979. https://search.worldcat.org/title/802816243

[3] M. Sigelman, J. B. Fuller und A. Martin, Skills-Based Hiring: The Long Road from Pronouncements to Practice. Burning Glass Institute und Harvard Business School, Februar 2024. https://www.hbs.edu/ris/Publication%20Files/Skills-Based%20Hiring_80b90afa-f6b5-4de9-b7f8-5d8232ce20e2.pdf

[4] Columbia University, „Jacques Barzun“, Columbia 250. https://www.c250.columbia.edu/c250_celebrates/remarkable_columbians/jacques_barzun.html

[5] Europäische Union, Verordnung (EU) 2024/1689, Art. 4, „KI-Kompetenz“, konsolidierte Fassung vom 27. Juli 2026. https://ai-act-service-desk.ec.europa.eu/en/ai-act/article-4

[6] Europäische Kommission, „AI Literacy – Questions & Answers“, Shaping Europe's Digital Future, 2026. https://digital-strategy.ec.europa.eu/en/faqs/ai-literacy-questions-answers

Bildquelle Constantin Meunier (1831–1905): Arbeidsters in glasblazerij (Women Working in a Glass Factory), Musées royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, Brüssel, Public Domain (Wikimedia Commons).

Disclaimer Teile dieses Texts wurden mit Deepl Write (Korrektorat und Lektorat) überarbeitet. Für die Recherche in den erwähnten Werken/Quellen und in meinen Notizen wurde Gemini Notebook (ehem. NotebookLM) von Google verwendet.

Topic #Maschinenwelten | #Erwachsenenbildung

Must come down. I feel like after sexual experiences, especially the more intense they are, I end up having strong crashes proportionally. I will say, however, I don’t actually have that adverse of a reaction this time I feel like which is good. But I also feel like a big thing stems from this pattern of over promising, and then the immediate regret and the feeling of having to overcorrect. I think, especially with how cheap talk is and how easy it is to get high off of a fantasy, it leads to this constant writing of checks that I cannot realistically cash. And I need this mostly in the pragmatic sense of it being something I actually feel comfortable with when not under the influence of hormones. I can’t help but feel like there have to be some amount of parallels between this weird consumerism culture of sex. Maybe parallels is the wrong word. But it feels like with the cycle of accelerating, getting high off of a fantasy, and when it comes time to actually consider the costs of that you can simply just move on. In a weird analogy it feels like how you can get into some new hobby or have some new goal or resolution and think about a daydream about reaching that goal, like you could think about how you could lock in on diet and everything and become a bodybuilder, and you already start thinking about how insane you might look in your head or how people might treat you or some of the second order effects and you can really start to reap some of the reward early – especially even more if you tell other people about it. I think about that study about how telling people that your New Year’s resolution releases dopamine in a similar way to actually working towards it, but actually ends up completely unproductive towards the actual goal meaning you are expending your dopamine without gaining any benefit from it. And think about how easy it is to tell people how you are training to run a marathon or that is your plan, but you don’t even sign up for a marathon and you don’t actually figure out a concrete plan of getting to that point. Instead you just. Maybe do a half assed jog or something like that until you say screw this I’ll start next week or whatever other excuse. And you can just continue to delay this while building up this fantasy in your head about what it would look like after you actually do it. And that is so incredibly dangerous I think. But I digress, in this analogy, you do this, milk out all of this loan of dopamine, and then move on to another goal and repeat. You stagnate in life and waste dopamine hacking it like this, but in the case of sex, I think you actively atrophy your emotional pathways and damage. The things required to have a happy relationship instead of doing this to some abstract promise, you were doing this to another human person and I think this should at least come with guilt or shame with those actions, as this is what serves you too do this less I think it becomes very dangerous when you were able to turn off this part of your brain and stop listening to this voice. I think that is what my main underlying fear is. I really do not want to fall victim to this arguable addiction.

The virtues of boredom.

My father and I were talking yesterday about boredom, and I wanted to share some thoughts on the subject I have accumulated over the years. We even have a song coming on this big record we’re making that sings the virtues of boredom. I don’t shy away from it. I am somewhat of an expert on being bored.

“I don’t have time.”

I have talked to many folks, musicians, and other professionals, who say, “I don’t have time to be bored.” I find that mindset troubling. I write all my best stuff when I am bored. If I am never bored, no best stuff. I make ample boredom time for that reason. It’s actually work. As a songwriter, I don’t have the time to not be bored.

What gives you “permission” to do?

Boredom is permission for me to “go there.” I have the time and open mind to experiment, think on one thing forever, practice. I have the time for tuning weird, or playing bass through a fuzzy preamp, or brushes on a djembe, or singing in Spanish! If I am in a hurry-up work mode all the time, the kooky shit stays in the closet. I have to be bored to run the bases of creation in music. The link is real. I simply create better when bored.

“Bored people are boring people.”

Our society discourages this thinking, making sure we are never bored. We even say, “Bored people are boring people.” This is not true if you are the ones boring them. It makes you the boring person, in this instance. It is right there in the phrase, it just needs a comma. The truth is the mind is better conditioned to create while bored. It isn’t just me, it’s science.

In Psychology Today, for example, Jeffrey Davis talks back in 2022 about boredom not only facilitating creativity, he said it contributes to well-being. His key points are: 

“With so many forms of entertainment at our fingertips, we never need to let ourselves be bored.”

“When we don't allow our minds to wander, we miss opportunities to become more creative, reboot mental health, and reconnect.”

“Instead of shunning boredom, we should embrace our mind's need to wander.”

Even Einstein.. Albert Einstein even said of being bored, “the monotony and solitude of a quiet life stimulate the creative mind.”

It is a luxury, but often attainable, just not sought after.

I realize I have the luxury to be bored today, more than any time of my life. I am trying to make the most of it. I know folks can’t just be bored like I can. But maybe they could if they did what I did. I do not know, purely speculation. I got rid of social media, I limit time online, I really try to be bored. I want to write good songs more than anything else I want to do in this life. Being bored is crucial to that. My mind is not free if it is always stimulated. It is reacting. Reacting is a different vibe than creation. It has to do with what others create. That’s really not creating, if you think about it. It might be necessary to react. We have to live. But we shouldn’t call it creating. I understand folks may not have this luxury or privilege in their mind, but many could. We’re just addicted to anti-creativity devices. 

When god was bored, he created, according to the lore, which means we are talking about humans. It’s only natural, right? 

This is not new. This boredom thing goes back. Clearing the head, resetting the creative juices is as old as the hills. Our memories have gotten short because we don’t use them. When you get good and bored, you get memories. 

And then there’s safety.

Boredom also requires an element of safety. You don’t let your guard down on the battlefield. I realize I am very fortunate to feel safe these days. It is new. It helps immensely with writing and improving. Safety alone facilitates my kind of boredom more than any other factor. Not comfort, not spare time, not gadgets, not a cozy shirt. Safety is the number one thing. Numero uno. Being safe at the moment is permission to be bored. Being bored is permission to create. How I operate. 

Here’s what’s shitty

Everyone who puts things in your brain that pass through a data scientist knows this about human nature. They know the best ways to keep you busy, occupied, and distracted. They push your buttons, making you react. I have been off social media for a good while now, and let me tell you, they are puppeteers on social media and everywhere else. They very much use this kind of knowledge to manipulate thoughts and behavior in billions, not creating, no memories, just junk. They sell candidates, they sell Pop-Tarts, they sell philosophies, they sell health products, on and on. If they can afford a micro-targeting campaign, they manipulate you into not being bored because they need to sell stuff. Don’t give them what little of yourself you may have left. Most folks do not care if you feel safe or not. This includes data scientists. They do not like it when you are bored. Resist, be bored.

Kelly Kintner (Youtube)

Editor, Producer

Chapter 1: The Congratulations That Took Me Too Long

It was almost midnight when I saw the announcement. Someone I know had received an opportunity I had quietly hoped might come my way. I read the kind messages beneath it, watched the little hearts gather, and felt something I did not want to admit. I was glad for this person, but I was also disappointed for myself. I set my phone facedown on the bed, as though hiding the screen might hide the comparison that had already started in my mind.

I thought of a line associated with Jimmy Stewart, spoken by the character portraying him in a film about his life. He says he does not want fame to make him like a god; he wants to see a good man when he looks in the mirror. I explore that thought in Jimmy Stewart’s reflection on fame and being a good man, but what unsettles me is how easily I can want to be seen as good without wanting to face everything happening inside me. Nobody else knew I felt jealous. I could have typed a lovely congratulations and still carried bitterness into tomorrow.

That is why learning to follow Jesus when comparison steals your peace is not only about finding confidence. It is about letting God speak to parts of us we normally keep private. It is possible to behave politely while secretly resenting another person's happiness. I know because I have caught myself doing exactly that. The uncomfortable question is not whether I can appear gracious. It is whether I am willing to become gracious when there is no audience to reward me.

After His resurrection, Jesus spoke with Peter about the life ahead of him. Peter noticed another disciple and asked, in effect, what would happen to that man. Jesus answered with a question of His own: “What is that to thee? follow thou me” (John 21:22, KJV). I do not hear those words as Jesus scolding a person for being curious. I hear a loving invitation to stop measuring my calling against someone else's. Peter had his own work to do. So do I.

The next morning, I could have made another cup of coffee and searched for reasons that person's success was less impressive than it looked. That would have been an easy way to protect my pride. Instead, I could pray honestly: Lord, I am disappointed. I wanted that door to open for me. Please help me be glad that it opened for someone else. Then I could write the congratulations I had been avoiding and mean it, even if my feelings needed a little time to catch up.

I am learning that goodness is not always a warm feeling that arrives before we act. Sometimes it begins when we notice a small, ungenerous thought and refuse to build a home for it. We bring it to Jesus without pretending, and we ask Him to enlarge our hearts. The person on the other side of the screen never needs to know how long that prayer took. What matters is that I did not let a private disappointment decide what kind of friend I would be.

Chapter 2: The Words I Wish I Had Interrupted

The kitchen is crowded, and everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. Someone makes a joke about a person who is not there. A few people laugh, and the conversation continues. Nothing about the moment appears especially serious. Yet something inside me becomes uncomfortable. I know the person being discussed, and I know they have been going through a difficult time. I also know that speaking up might make everyone look at me as though I have forgotten how to enjoy a harmless conversation.

I think many of us have experienced that quiet conflict. We recognize something unkind, but we hesitate because we want to belong. We tell ourselves that remaining silent is not the same as agreeing. Sometimes that is true. Other times, our silence becomes a way of protecting our comfort while somebody else's dignity is being diminished.

What bothers me about these moments is how ordinary they are. I might spend the morning thinking about the importance of treating people with compassion, then spend the evening struggling to practice it. I can understand the teachings of Jesus and still become surprisingly timid when following them might make a conversation uncomfortable.

In John chapter 4, Jesus meets a Samaritan woman beside a well. The encounter crosses social and religious boundaries that mattered deeply in His time. Jesus knows uncomfortable truths about her life, yet He does not treat her as someone unworthy of conversation. He speaks with her about living water and reveals something extraordinary about Himself. Where others might have seen reasons to keep their distance, Jesus saw a person worth reaching.

I return to that encounter when I am tempted to reduce someone to a story I have heard about them. People are always more complicated than the worst thing someone knows about their lives. The neighbor who appears unfriendly may be caring for a sick spouse. The coworker who seems distracted may be struggling to keep a family together. I do not need to invent explanations for their behavior, but I can remember that I rarely know everything another person is carrying.

If the conversation in that kitchen turned unkind, I could say something simple. Perhaps I could remind everyone that the person being discussed has had a difficult year. I would not need to embarrass the speaker or deliver a lecture. A little courage, offered gently, might be enough to change the direction of the conversation.

I am beginning to understand that following Jesus requires me to care less about appearing agreeable and more about being loving. Those are not always the same thing. Sometimes goodness asks us to risk a little awkwardness so another person does not have to stand alone.

Later, when the kitchen is empty and the conversation is over, I want to remember that I treated an absent person with the same respect I would have offered if they had been standing beside me.

Chapter 3: The Honest Answer I Almost Didn't Give

The church parking lot was almost empty when a friend caught up with me beside my car. He asked how I was doing, and I already knew the answer I usually gave. I could smile, mention how busy the week had been, and ask about his family. It would be pleasant, and neither of us would have to linger. But I had spent much of that week feeling discouraged, and for some reason I was tired of pretending that being dependable meant never admitting it.

I told him I was having a hard time. I did not give him a dramatic story or ask him to solve anything. I simply said that some things I had hoped for were not working out, and I had begun questioning myself more than I wanted to. He listened without hurrying me. Then he asked whether we could pray together before we left. I had come outside expecting to offer someone an encouraging word, not to be the person receiving one.

For years, I have been tempted to think that goodness is something I should be able to display without showing any weakness. I want to be patient, useful, and steady. Those are worthwhile hopes, but I can turn them into another performance if I am not careful. Even the wish to see a good man in the mirror can become a demand that I never let anybody witness my unfinished places.

Jesus gives me another way to live. In Matthew 11:28, He invites those who labor and carry heavy burdens to come to Him for rest. He does not tell them to make themselves admirable first. He knows what they are carrying. He offers rest before they have learned to carry everything gracefully.

I think that invitation changes the way I understand character. I still need to choose kindness when I feel overlooked, and I still need to defend the dignity of someone who is absent. But I also need enough honesty to say when I am struggling. Otherwise, I may spend my whole life protecting the appearance of strength while refusing the love that could actually strengthen me.

My friend and I prayed beside the car, with the evening air growing colder around us. Nothing about my circumstances changed in those few minutes. The things that disappointed me were still there. But I drove home less alone, and I understood something I had missed before.

I do not need to look into the mirror tomorrow and find a man who has finally made himself good. I want to find a man who is still willing to be taught by Jesus, still willing to tell the truth, and still willing to love without needing to be admired for it.

Your friend,

Douglas Vandergraph

Explore the complete Douglas Vandergraph Master Index: https://douglasvandergraph.com/douglas-vandergraph-master-index/

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph