What happens when a question stops asking for an answer and begins asking to be understood?

Perhaps that is the moment it ceases to be a problem and becomes an essay.

David Marshall Skerries

Is poor education to blame for the fact that so many native English speakers can’t use bring and take correctly? Or have we collectively lost the ability to imagine where we are standing at any given moment?

Last week I read a piece in the Irish Independent in which a prominent journalist wrote something along the lines of: “an injured person was brought to the hospital.”

Really? Brought?

Was the journalist personally accompanying the ambulance? Were they clinging to the back bumper with a notebook and a sense of duty? Of course not. They were at their desk, probably eating a sandwich.

The correct verb is taken. As in: “the injured person was taken to the hospital, while the reporter remained safely at their keyboard.”

Where was the sub‑editor? Possibly also at lunch, – perhaps nibbling on the other half of that sandwich.

But, bring and take aren’t decorative. They contain actual information about location – a concept that, judging by modern usage, is now considered optional – like ironing, or basic geography.

Take these two sentences:

- “I will bring my laptop from home to the office.”

Translation: I am currently at the office, and I am promising to arrive tomorrow with my laptop and, presumably, a sense of purpose.

- “I will take my laptop from home to the office.”

Translation: I am not at the office. I might be at home. I might be in a café. I might be in a field. But I am definitely not at the office.

Now consider:

“I’m going to bring my colleague to the airport” versus

“I’m going to take my colleague to the airport.”

If you say bring, you are speaking from the airport. Perhaps you live there now. Perhaps you’ve set up a small tent beside Departures? Perhaps I need to contact Focus Ireland on your behalf?

If you say take, you are somewhere else – anywhere else – but not at the airport.

This is not advanced linguistics. This is not quantum mechanics. This is kindergarten‑level spatial reasoning. And yet, somehow, it’s evaporating.

Maybe it’s laziness. Maybe it’s the collapse of editorial standards. Maybe we’ve all become so dependent on GPS that we no longer know where we are unless a mobile phone tells us.

But the distinction matters. Language loses something when we stop caring about perspective. And frankly, if we can’t manage bring and take, I fear for the future of lend and borrow.

“Borrow me your blue pencil, will you – the chief already has a lend of mine.”

Santa Monica – Everclear

Watch the world die

Released in 1995, “Santa Monica” was the fourth track on Sparkle and Fade. I was twenty-three.

You'd think twenty-three would feel like standing at the edge of an open sky. Instead, I remember still looking for what I'm looking for now:

Freedom.

That's hard when you're built to believe you're responsible for everyone else's comfort.

Children of trauma, am I right?

Yeah. You know I am.

California represented escape. Freedom. Swim out past the breakers and watch the world die.

Ever since I was a child, I've wanted to slip the surly bonds of earth—not to disappear, but simply to be alone in the universe for a while. Somewhere no one needed anything from me.

Twenty years later, I finally moved to California.

It wasn't the promised Eden I'd imagined.

What I learned instead is that no matter how far you swim, no matter how far you run, you don't escape who you are. You simply meet yourself in a different place.

Maybe that's why “Father of Mine” and “Wonderful” landed so hard. Even now, “Wonderful” still makes me bleed a little.

Then, two years later, “I Will Buy You a New Life” became my anthem.

I'd been married five years by then, long enough to discover that marriage contains both beautiful victories and ordinary disappointments. Somewhere inside me was the quiet fear that my young wife had unknowingly married damaged goods.

So I made that song my promise.

I will buy you a garden where your flowers can bloom...

I wanted to give her a life that would make her happy.

I did the best I could.

I'm still doing the best I can.

It turns out I'm funny, creative, clever, passionate, romantic—a whole passel of good things.

What I'm not is good with money.

There will never be a big house in the West Hills.

And that's okay.

Because I've also learned that the house wouldn't have made either of us happy.

I know what does.

Respect.

Creativity.

Laughter.

Intimacy.

Loyalty.

Even knowing that, there's still a part of me that wants to swim out past the breakers and watch the world disappear behind me. To keep sailing until I reach whatever edge of the map my imagination has always believed was there.

But there's too much life.

Too much living.

Too much laughter.

I am a good man.

I love deeply.

I've been fortunate to walk through this life with many good people. Not all of them—but most.

Some of them I miss more than I know how to say.

As far as they're concerned, I'm already out past the breakers.

Some are probably relieved.

Others, I know, miss me.

I know because they are my mirror.

And maybe that's what I've been looking for all along.

Not California.

Not escape.

Just a place where I could finally stop swimming.

“Santa Monica”

I am still living with your ghost Lonely and dreaming of the east coast I don't wanna be your downtime I don't wanna be your stupid game

With my big black boots and an old suitcase I do believe I'll find myself a new place I don't wanna be the bad guy I don't want do your sleepwalk dance anymore

I just wanna see some palm trees I will try and shake away this disease

We could live beside the ocean Leave the fire behind Swim out past the breakers Watch the world die

We can live beside the ocean Leave the fire behind Swim out past the breakers Watch the world die

I am still dreaming of your face Hungry and hollow for all the things you took away I don't wanna be your good time I don't wanna be your fallback crutch anymore

Walk right out into a brand-new day Insane and rising in my own weird way I don't wanna be the bad guy I don't wanna do your sleepwalk dance anymore

I just wanna feel some sunshine I just wanna find some place to be alone

We could live beside the ocean Leave the fire behind Swim out past the breakers Watch the world die

We can live beside the ocean Leave the fire behind Swim out past the breakers Watch the world die

We could live beside the ocean Leave the fire behind Swim out past the breakers Watch the world die

We could live beside the ocean Leave the fire behind Swim out past the breakers Watch the world die

Oh, yeah, watch the world die Yeah, yeah, watch the world die Whoa, yeah, watch the world die Yeah, watch the world die

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https://youtu.be/MW6E_TNgCsY?si=nUW0Sfm_fJ07xvVc

Photo by Zosia Szopka on Unsplash

Dear Aunt Martha,

I’ve been trying to keep a daily journal but writing to you is much easier.  I used to tell my students in composition classes that they had to write to an audience, so you are mine now.

Keeping myself clean and fed has proved to be more of a job than I thought it would be.  I didn’t realize how spoiled I am.  Friends once paid big money to spend time at retreats doing what I have to do every day now.

I once had a dishwasher, now I wash everything by hand.  I have to drive an hour and a half to a decent grocery store now and it’s too late in the year to put in a garden.  Fresh vegetables are expensive and I am grateful for the overflow from Caleb and Ann’s garden, but what am I going to do with all of this squash and zucchini? Ann is teaching me to can. There isn’t much room in the freezer to store more than weekly groceries.

Samu practice at retreats was fun and exciting, largely because for many of us it was not things we had to perform every day and there was an “odor of sanctity” about it that made it feel special, as if we were earning spiritual brownie points for doing menial work.  I had a housekeeper and  reliable appliances at home and  am reminded of Marie Antoinette playing at being a shepherdess. I wonder what my former retreat companions would do if they had to evict a 6-foot black snake from a chicken coop.

Speaking of chickens, they are not your original flock.  They were  dispersed by the hurricane.  I stuck my head into Tractor Supply looking for cat food when they had chicks and fell for the cute little balls of peeping fluff.  David, Caleb’s youngest, helped repair the coop and has taught me about caring for them as a 4-H project.

 I never knew domesticated fowl could be so funny. There is no way I could sacrifice one for dinner, even if the preacher came to visit.  I remember watching you do it and how you showed me the eggs inside the butchered hen. These are pets and are more entertainment than a television could ever be. The fresh eggs are a bonus and they lay enough that I can return Caleb and Ann’s generosity.

Caring for the flock and the lack of automation in the kitchen  caused me to realize that I have romanticized rural life based on trialing after you and Uncle Bud as a child. You were always a safe place for a troubled kid and I never knew how much hard work it took for you to keep body and soul intact.  Watching Uncle Bud do the milking twice a day was an adventure for a child, as an adult it would be part of the daily grind of responsibilities with no relief.

I think it’s human nature to romanticize our pasts as we search for parental figures to replace the ones we lost or never had.  There are jokes among professors about student crushes and tales told at cocktail parties after a few drinks.  I was privy to more than one student-teacher affair that went sour.

 I had an embarrassing crush on my first Buddhist teacher and spent hours staring at his crotch during dharma talks.  I will always appreciate his kindness and patience as he gracefully ignored my puppy eyes. Reality hit especially hard many years later when I tracked him down and he did not remember me.  I shed too many tears over him during our association, but healed a great deal from the experience.

Roshi talks about having no preferences. That’s a tough one to swallow, especially as basic survival depends on our atavistic brains picking and choosing. We gravitate towards the pleasurable and reject the uncomfortable while Roshi instructs us to embrace both. We talk about the Sandokai, the Harmony of Sameness and Differences, and try to apply it to our lives.  Meanwhile the Four Noble truths remind us that suffering arises when we want things to be different from what they are.

We put people, places, things, experiences, on pedestals and imbue them the qualities that we want for ourselves or are repelled by them.  The flock of chickens are hilarious entertainment. Each has a name and a distinct personality. Perhaps somewhere in my psyche I see them as the toddlers I was never able to mother or grant them mental processes that they don’t really have as I compare their behavior to people I know.  I wonder if that is what Roshi means when they talk about life as a mirror. Projection.

Maybe my next book will be about the chickens.

 

Love,

Geneva

 

My position as Ambassador Extraordinary for Unfinished Questions would, from time to time, generate social invitations of considerable variety. There were official state functions, garden parties, and “At Home” events attended by mayors, civic dignitaries, and various officials whose chief talent appeared to consist of congratulating one another on the efficiency of their offices.

At one such gathering I found myself trapped within a small circle of mid-level and senior civil servants who were enthusiastically comparing efficiencies. I might have escaped much sooner had it not been for the company of a young woman among them. She neither preened nor pontificated. She possessed a quick wit, an alert intelligence, and a refreshing tendency to laugh before speaking.

At one point I remarked that efficiency was a splendid thing, provided one had sufficient space in which to be efficient. “But,” I added, “I am attempting to conduct the affairs of Unfinished Questions from my home. The questions arrive faster than the rooms.” This observation produced smiles, sympathetic nods, and several anecdotes concerning storage. The young woman listened carefully. Before we parted she informed me that she understood my predicament and would mention it to her superiors. “There may be opportunities,” she said, “to improve your circumstances.” I thanked her sincerely. As the evening drew to a close she repeated her promise.

Only a week later I found myself in possession of an office. It occupied a modest room with a generous window in the building of the Office of Classification. There was a desk. There were shelves. There were cabinets. There was even a brass plaque on the door. It was, in every practical respect, precisely what I needed.

I set about my ambassadorial duties with renewed vigour. The questions still arrived in alarming quantities, but they no longer lurked beneath chairs or balanced precariously upon windowsills. They no longer migrated mysteriously between rooms or nested in teapots. Nor did they take up temporary employment as bookmarks, coasters, or table wedges. They continued, however, to arrive in a bewildering variety of forms, from sheets of paper and sealed envelopes to beer mats and the backs of restaurant menus. Unfinished Questions had never shown much regard for standardisation.

Even with shelves, cabinets, paperweights, and a collection of miscellaneous heavy objects pressed into service, the questions remained difficult to manage. A redundant one-pound weight, a half-used bag of sugar, and an empty tin of Irish fudge all found themselves recruited into the cause. Yet no sooner would a stack appear perfectly ordered than it would lose all commitment to organisation and spill across the floor.

The effect resembled the wind-scattered debris of feather-bed moss on an Irish mountainside. The slightest breeze from the narrowest crack in the window could lift dozens of questions into the air, where they wheeled and fluttered like enthusiastic competitors in a kite festival.

It seemed that more than a day each week was spent repairing the damage caused by these outbreaks of administrative freedom. Indeed, rather than the efficiency of the building improving my methods, my methods appeared to be infecting the efficiency of the building. During the weekly inspections I became, I suspected, less a model tenant than a cautionary example.

Then one morning I arrived to discover that someone had thoughtfully installed a cabinet containing dozens of labelled drawers. It appeared to have been built by someone who regarded right angles as a moral virtue. Its drawers aligned perfectly, its brass fittings matched exactly, and every surface carried the faint sheen associated with regular polishing and infrequent excitement. Merely looking at it gave one the reassuring impression that disorder was a temporary condition and that, with sufficient application, everything might eventually find its proper place. I took it as evidence that my work was valued.

Each drawer bore a large printed label written in the clear, unopinionated script favoured by the Office of Classification. The labels read like signposts through the landscape of inquiry: “Questions Concerning Location”, “Questions Concerning Identity”, “...Duration”, “...Ownership”, “...Origin”, and “...Purpose”, and many others besides. Several drawers remained unlabelled, standing ready for some species of unfinished question, not yet known. Across the top of the cabinet, worked neatly into the wood in a manner suggesting official doctrine, ran the words:

A Question Sorted Is A Question Managed

The sentiment seemed reasonable enough. And in all, the cabinet had the appearance of an object that knew precisely what everything was and where it ought to be kept. After moving the cabinet to a position where it might benefit from the morning light of the window, I began.

For several days I learned to work with growing satisfaction. Questions were read and sorted, and quickly disappeared into their allotted drawers. Space emerged upon the desk. Shelves became visible. Entire territories of floor were rediscovered. The improvised paperweights were retired from public service. The half-empty bag of sugar returned to the kitchen, and the tin of Irish fudge resumed its intended role of containing very little fudge. The goal of a tidy office seemed closer and closer

Better still, decisions became quicker. Questions which seemed at first to belong in several drawers usually settled into one if looked at firmly enough. Before long I could often identify a destination before reaching the end of the page. The cabinet approved of this sort of efficiency.

Even my home began to recover. A question still arrived there from time to time, but the great migrations had ceased. Evenings were no longer spent excavating dining tables or rescuing enquiries from beneath armchairs. The house gradually remembered that it was a home and not a branch office of unfinished thought.

Whilst my office progressively acquired the appearance and habit of industry and efficiency, I myself basked in the congratulatory compliments of my office neighbours, who clearly regarded themselves as my colleagues.

Occasionally a general office memo would arrive on my desk, from the young woman who had been so gracious as to assist me. And I noted that as time passed, her automated signature gave way to her own personal squiggle, which I read as “Daisy” and always with a prominent tittle over the lower case “i”. So it was with a little regret when the automated signature returned and I heard she had apparently transferred away. But still home was home, work was work and perhaps for the first time I inhabited a kind of contentment.

Still, I continued my work with vigour, humming to myself as I lifted each envelope and slit it open with my standard Office of Classification letter opener. I had come to enjoy the satisfying sound of the contents being released and the envelope at last being free to speak. “Efficiency is purpose, efficiency is sorting, a question sorted is a question managed...” I would improvise further verses as I worked. By now I had the whole operation perfected. Lift the next envelope with the left hand. Scan the face. Turn it over. Begin opening the flap with the letter opener held in the right hand whilst simultaneously scanning the reverse. Check the contents for any additional information. Clip envelope and question together. Reach for the appropriate drawer. More often than not the classification had already taken place in my mind before the envelope was fully opened.

I think I was doing precisely that when I picked up the next envelope. It was much like all the others. Reused. A little sparse on gum. Looking tired around the edges. Entirely ordinary, carrying its ordinary unfinished question inside. I slipped my fingers within and began to draw out the paper. But there, on the envelope reverse side, printed neatly across the bottom, were the words: What exactly is missing when something is absent?

I stopped. Everything about me stopped. No movement of the hands. No reaching for a drawer. No quiet decision already forming in the mind about where the question belonged. Nothing. What exactly is missing when something is absent? I read it again. And again. I placed it carefully upon the desk and walked away. Then I walked back. I read it aloud. “What exactly is missing when something is absent?” I crossed to the window and opened it. A few papers lifted from the desk. I opened another window, then another. Soon a breeze was wandering freely through the room. Questions stirred. Several departed from their piles entirely. I returned to my chair and sat down rather more heavily than intended.

What exactly is missing when something is absent? I was being judged. I looked towards the cabinet. How many questions had I understood merely well enough to know where to put them? How many had belonged partly in one drawer and partly in another, only to find themselves assigned permanently to whichever category happened to be largest? How many decisions had I mistaken for understanding?

What exactly is missing when something is absent? Anxious to have this letter classified and despatched, I looked at the drawers for inspiration: “Location.” “Identity.” “Duration.” None of them would do. So I created a new drawer. Later I created another. Then another. By the end of the week there were almost as many categories as questions. And still no solution. No tidly labelled drawer for the question.

The rapid proliferation of labelled drawers drew the attention of one particular ambitious Sorter. “You are having difficulty?” Telling me, rather than asking me. “Only with this one.” He studied the envelope. “It belongs somewhere.” “Yes.” “Then place it there.” I looked from the question to the cabinet and back again. “There is something odd,” I said. “What?” “The more precisely I classify it, the less I seem to understand it.” He frowned. “The purpose of classification is understanding. Only after classification can we assign meaning.” “I thought so too.” The Sorter pointed at the envelope. “What does the question mean?” I started to answer and then stopped. For I had realized that the question meant different things depending upon who read it. To a librarian it meant one thing. To a widow another. To a child searching for a lost toy something else entirely. Its category remained unchanged. Its meaning did not.

“The classification tells me where it belongs,” I said at last. “Exactly.” “Yes. But not why it matters.” The Sorter regarded me with the polite concern usually reserved for damaged furniture. After he departed I removed the question from the drawer and began to carry it in my pocket.

Unsorted.

✒️ Sigi

i dont have a fucking topic today, you can leave by now. i wouldnt give a single fuck about it. ive got a head full of noise and no patience left today, everything is irritating me. the sound of humans talking, the sound of humans breating too fucking loud. i cant stand it anymore. their fake laughs and smiles and pointless conversations. the same recycled bullshit every goddamn day like everyones reading from the exact same script. “how are youu! “ fuck off, you dont care, nor do i want to answer. Why are we wasting oxygen? lets stop pretending this little performance means anything. some people will spend twenty fucking minutes explaining something they could’ve said it in six words. they just keep talking and talking and talking. and oh my fucking god, they keep talking, just shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up. for god sake. not everything needs your opinion. not every silence needs to be fucking filled. sometimes the smartest thing you can contribute is fucking nothing, i swear half the world survives purely on confidence. Common sense packed its fucking bags years ago. Maybe I’m just in a shitty mood. or maybe you’re the problem. yeah, you. the one reading this, already thinking “damn, who pissed him off?” my fucking bad. i forgot humans need everything to be personal. you people cant read three sentences without assuming the universe revolves around you. Relax princess, this isnt about you. its about that wonderfully irritating habit humans have of turning every conversation into a performance, every opinion into a fucking whole damn lecture. you lot are exhausting, for gods sake. and before someone inevitably says, “not all humans.” No shit, congratulations you’ve discovered exceptions exist. would you like a fuck ass certificate? hang it in your little room, “Yay, im human.” nice. you wake up, complain, scroll for hours, chase things you dont even want, and somehow call it a life.

Oh, i cant wait for humanity to finally shut the fuck up. i cant even decide if humans are a masterpiece or a cosmic joke. so intelligent they say, yet somehow still this damn exhausting.

Sincerely, An angry witness

Lydia's Weekly Lifestyle blog is for today's African girl, so no subject is taboo. My purpose is to share things that may interest today's African girl.

This week's contributors: Lydia, Pépé Pépinière, Titi. This week's subjects: Latex in the Accra Rain? Radiance Fair and Summit Showcased Bridal Elegance and Luxury at Mövenpick Ambassador Hotel, Burn out and skincare, HoneySuckle Airport, and Full Moon

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Latex in the Accra Rain? Yes, Sis—Here's How to Make It Work! Accra's rainy season has officially entered the group chat. One minute you're serving CEO chic, the next you're dodging puddles on Oxford Street. But does that mean your fashion game has to hibernate? Absolutely not. Enter latex—the bold, glossy fabric that's surprisingly perfect for making a statement, even in gloomy weather. Shine Brighter Than the Clouds Rainy days can make every outfit look a little dull. Latex naturally reflects light, giving you that “main character” glow, even under grey skies. Think of it as your built-in spotlight. Keep It Smart Instead of wearing head-to-toe latex (unless you're heading to a fashion editorial), choose one statement piece: – A latex blazer over a fitted dress. – Latex trousers paired with a soft knit top. Balance is the secret to looking polished instead of overdone. Rain-Friendly Accessories: The Accra rain loves surprises, so pair your latex look with: – Waterproof ankle boots or stylish loafers. – A structured umbrella (because your umbrella is part of the outfit too!). – A sleek tote that can handle unexpected showers. Let Your Outfit Breathe: Latex already makes a statement, so keep your makeup fresh and your accessories minimal. Gold jewelry, a neat hairstyle, and confidence will do the rest. Rain and latex may seem like an unusual pairing, but confidence is what truly completes the look. Own it, walk carefully on those slippery pavements, and remember—fashion doesn't stop because the skies opened up. This rainy season, don't just survive the weather. Shine through it—one glossy latex look at a time. Radiance Fair and Summit Showcased Bridal Elegance and Luxury at Mövenpick Ambassador Hotel. I was invited to The Radiance Fair and Summit, held on 25 and 26 July 2026 at the Mövenpick Ambassador Hotel in Accra, organized by Events Debonair Afrik. It brought together fashion designers, exhibitors, entrepreneurs, media representatives, and fashion enthusiasts to celebrate creativity, craftsmanship, and innovation in Ghana's fashion industry. An exhibition in the ballrooms of the hotel had 12 vendors displaying elegant wedding dresses and accessories and luxury table settings for wedding receptions, offering visitors plenty of inspiration for celebrating weddings in grand style. The highlight of the event was the open-air Radiance Runway Show, staged beside the hotel's swimming pool. There was a slight delay due to a brief drizzle, (I really wonder how people dare organize open air fashion shows during the rainy season) but then the runway featured extravagant bridal wear with many garments showcasing elaborate embroidery, luxurious silk fabrics, and delicate lace detailing. The collections reflected both exceptional craftsmanship and contemporary bridal fashion trends. It was a continuous extravaganza of impressive wedding dresses and accessories, highlighting the creativity and quality of Ghanaian designers. The event also provided valuable networking opportunities for industry professionals and fashion enthusiasts. While the overall organization and atmosphere were commendable, the sound system during the runway presentations could have been better. This Radiance Fair and Summit successfully celebrated bridal fashion, luxury, and local creativity while reinforcing Accra's growing reputation as a hub for fashion and creative industries in West Africa. Ayeeko Debonair.

Burn out and skincare. What is skin care for? More than you think. During your daily movements you may actually encounter lots of dirt, so to protect your skin from these before you set out is not a bad thing. But be careful what you put, the more natural the better. Like organic unprocessed shea butter or organic unprocessed coconut oil. Skin care products often also contain chemicals which do not care for your skin at all, rather damage it and create reactions like allergies, cancers or even sexual and reproductive problems (hormonal disruption). So washing it all off once you get back home is a good thing as well. But here’s the next snag. Apart from what you put on as a protector, your own body also produces a protective layer. So if you now wash everything off with soap, you touch that protective layer as well. Better just use water and a bit of scrubbing, and use soap only for underarms and things like that. Your skin may be dry, so again you want to put something, like a moisturizer. Same story, the more natural the better for the above mentioned reasons. Take your time and read what’s written on that bottle of moisturizer and you’ll realize you need a PhD in chemicals to understand it all. Same goes for deodorants, often used, seldom really needed. And now the stressy part. If you are stressed, your skin may start to show it, and if your skin shows it you get stressed. So it goes both ways, and scratching or creams mostly makes it worse. Some scrub so much that they damage the skin. So what to do? Relax. A nice long hot shower with some music on and a big towel and some perfume can do as much as a Spa at GHC 500-GHC 1000. Learn to unstress. Or try yoga and things like that. A few minutes a day can already make a big change to your skin.

HoneySuckle Airport (Shell Station (Opposite Alliance Française), Airport Residential Area, Accra). Packed full on a Friday evening with Gen Z and millenniums, complete with karaoke, which I think should be forbidden in public places, some people really should only hum hum hum, not try to sing. Their 4 pieces of samosa at 70 GHC were over fried and oily and had an Indian taste, no wonder, I am told all the honeysuckles in Accra (Labone, Fourth Dade Street and Osu, opposite the Fire Service Headquarters, Ring Road East, Accra) are owned by Indians. A club draft is GHC44.99, an ordinary beefburger goes for 170 and was ok. We also had honey glazed chicken wings, spicy bbq chicken wings, yam chips and potato chips which were also good. Prices are all tax inclusive but they add a 5% non compulsory service tax (so you can tell them to take it off, even without complaining about the service). But the service was ok, I even had an apology for the late samosas, but I had to wait too long for my change which somehow spoilt the party.

Full Moon was last Wednesday, and today it will still be quite a full moon. Beach walk time, with the moon playing hide and seek with the clouds. Hold me tight.

Lydia...

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I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one, that has been writing itself over and over again—one story. The story of good and evil.

Originally published 2025-04-08 13:24:24

There’s a farm road I take when I need to cross town and I’m not in a hurry. It skirts the city, wrapping around it gently, and deposits me where I need to be. There are many things on this farm road.

There’s an old sign shop with “JUNK” splashed across the yard. There’s a big red barn—metal and modern, but designed to look like something out of a North Carolina postcard. There’s a row of country homes, spaced so widely apart you couldn’t walk door-to-door without turning it into a day trip. You have to drive to visit all your neighbors out here.

One of those houses catches my eye every time. The yard is cluttered with used cars and trailers. The owner clearly sells trailers, maybe even builds them. I can see the large metal building way in the back of the property—his workshop. It reminds me of my father. He built trailers in his garage, too. He built railings, worked on cars, created things from scratch. His hands were never still.

But I think about this man now, the trailer-seller, and his neighbors. The homes flanking his are neat and manicured, with green lawns and white fences made of old oilfield pipe—a crude material turned elegant by effort and paint. The trailer man’s fence is rusted and brown, like the rest of his property. I wonder how his neighbors feel.

We can't choose our neighbors. We can only be patient with them. I try to be a good neighbor. I suppose that matters. After all, we wouldn’t want everyone to be exactly like us. The differences test our patience. They shape our character. No man is an island.

We need our culture. We need our people. We need our worker bees and queen bees. We need our ditch diggers and maybe even our politicians. More than anything, we need the Kingdom.

Under the Kingdom, people will learn to be kind. If someone builds trailers in their yard, they'll do it with care. And if they don’t, neighbors will speak with grace instead of letting resentment brew.

I’m passing a house now that’s under construction. The roof deck is up, felt paper waiting for shingles. I can see the toe boards nailed across the steep pitch—the same kind I used when I was a roofer.

I remember those days. It feels like yesterday. I knew the work so well. Even now, I could get out of the car, pick up a bundle of shingles and a hammer, and by afternoon I’d have a good-sized portion of roof done. And yet, I’m not a roofer anymore. We aren’t always what we once were, even if the knowledge never leaves us.

Some of us were once lost, and now try to do good. But we still hold the capacity for bad. We may still desire it. Sometimes it slips out in moments of passion. When does that make us wicked? Only if we willingly choose the wrong we know to be wrong. Perhaps that was Lot’s wife’s failure.

Maybe she didn’t look back out of weakness. Maybe she was simply honest. She didn’t want to leave. Her life was there. Her home. Her identity. Was it so wrong to mourn what she was being pulled from? The Bible says she became a pillar of salt. We think of that as punishment. But maybe it was mercy.

Maybe God knew she wouldn’t survive the wilderness. Maybe turning her to salt spared her a different kind of death. Maybe it was the kindest thing. The hand of flaming fire and hailstone never touched her. Maybe that was the best ending she could have. As a bonus, we get a lesson on faithfulness.

I think about that as I drive. I think about myself. I ask a question I wrote the other day: If I am becoming her. I keep looking back. I can’t seem to stop. I keep desiring, wanting. I’ve lost things—goals, faith, the hope of being someone respected. A man of standing. A man of God.

Can I reclaim those things?

No doubt—no doubt.

But the real question is:

do I want to?

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Luke 19:29-44

29 And when he got near to Bethʹpha·ge and Bethʹa·ny at the mountain called Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, 30 saying: “Go into the village that is within sight, and after you enter it, you will find a colt tied, on which no man has ever sat. Untie it and bring it here. 31 But if anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ you must say, ‘The Lord needs it.’” 32 So those who were sent went away and found it just as he had said to them. 33 But as they were untying the colt, its owners said to them: “Why are you untying the colt?” 34 They said: “The Lord needs it.” 35 And they led it to Jesus, and they threw their outer garments on the colt and seated Jesus on it.36 As he moved along, they were spreading their outer garments on the road. 37 As soon as he got near the road down the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to rejoice and to praise God with a loud voice because of all the powerful works they had seen, 38 saying: “Blessed is the one coming as the King in Jehovah’s name! Peace in heaven, and glory in the heights above!” 39 However, some of the Pharisees from the crowd said to him: “Teacher, rebuke your disciples.” 40 But in reply he said: “I tell you, if these remained silent, the stones would cry out.” 41 And when he got nearby, he viewed the city and wept over it, 42 saying: “If you, even you, had discerned on this day the things having to do with peace—but now they have been hidden from your eyes. 43 Because the days will come upon you when your enemies will build around you a fortification of pointed stakes and will encircle you and besiege you from every side. 44 They will dash you and your children within you to the ground, and they will not leave a stone upon a stone in you, because you did not discern the time of your being inspected.” 45 Then he entered the temple and started to throw out those who were selling, 46 saying to them: “It is written, ‘My house will be a house of prayer,’ but you have made it a cave of robbers.” 47 He continued teaching daily in the temple. But the chief priests and the scribes and the principal ones of the people were seeking to kill him; 48 but they did not find any way to do this, for the people one and all kept hanging on to him to hear him.

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#essay #existentialcrisis #travel #thoughts #bible

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English has rules, but English also has music. Most of the time the rules win, because they’re easier to print, easier to teach, and easier for software to enforce. But every so often the music insists on being heard.

Take the small matter of an hotel.

I was taught, in a school founded in 1180, by Oxford and Cambridge dons who cared about the shape of a sentence, that the indefinite article follows sound, not spelling. If a word begins with a weak or elided h, you avoid the hiatus and use an. That’s how I learned an historical, an heroic, an humble, and yes, an hotel.

Irish English makes this even more natural. We’re comfortable with a softened h, with liaison, with smoothing the vowel transitions. And we’re comfortable with prosody doing the work. When the stress of the sentence falls on the verb, the noun relaxes:

I am staying in an hotel.

The h weakens, the article shifts, and the phrase flows as one unit: in an‑hotel.

But when the emphasis moves, when the point is the location rather than the action, the aspiration returns:

I am staying, in a hotel.

The noun stands up straight, the h is sounded, and the article changes with it.

This is not archaism. It is not affectation. It is simply English behaving like a spoken language rather than a printed one. Modern editors and AI models flatten this distinction because they assume a fixed, fully aspirated h in all contexts. They enforce the majority usage, not the minority music.

But the minority music is still mine.

And in An Essayist’s Notebook, a place for noticing how language actually works in the mouth, not just on the page, it deserves to be written down. David Marshall Skerries

After years of persecution by governmental and corporate organizations, the writings of Dr. M. E. Tabyánan are being published again. This information is critical for our current times, and must be made available for everyone.

Because various governments and corporations—including that of the United States—are searching for the Doctor, he must remain in hiding. However, with the aid of courageous supporters, his voice can be heard again.

The writings of Dr. M. E. Tabyánan will be published at this Internet location as they are made available. Check back here regularly for articles that have previously been published—and will be again—as well as new information from this great man!

The Resistance

Atop. Beneath. So grinds these teeth on morals written lacking. I chew. I spit. I choke in fits releasing while attracting. Accrued. In debt. Division kept with treatise sanctioned fiction. Diseased. Too clean. Prayed purely obscene I bleed in drowned remission.

Written July 31, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

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We hebben echt diepe waardevolle meningvolle langdurige hoogwaardige relaties met informatie technologie aldus de promotie afdeling woordvoerder tijdens de lancering van een nieuwe mobiele telefoon applicatie gemaakt door een toonaangevend bedrijf actief in de informatie technologie industrie we brengen meer tijd binnen, en zelfs buiten, met media vehikels door dan buiten in min of meer natuurlijke omstandigheden als we klaar zijn met opdrachten uitvoeren, parkoersen doorlopen, werkprocessen reguleren, rolpatronen aannaaien, hokjes aanvinken hebben we aan het einde van deze levensarbeid nog een half uurtje om in vrijheid te leven als je tenminste tijdens werktijd nog niet bent overleden van voor de geboorte tot ruim voorbij de dood is ons bestaan inmiddels één lange door woekerwinsten aangespoorde opgejaagde pharmacologisch chemo kuur volgens door armen rijk gemaakte rijken is het onderhouden van zelf geproduceerde en voor uitbuiting in stand gehouden armoe veels te duur malversatie, consternatie, miscommunicatie, manipulatie zijn allemaal vaste onderdelen van elke eenzijdige conversatie weerstand is een winst opwekkende marketing strategie en vooruitgang een militaire operatie ten bate van een handelsmissie op rekening en ten koste van een in staat van opwinding verkerende natie mensen die in theorie zijn genezen worden in de praktijk onder controle gehouden het fundament van nieuwbouw is het afval van afgebroken oude gebouwen meerdere ongelukken per etmaal met zwaar letsel als gevolg gebeuren op iedere grootstedelijke verkeersring iedere leefgemeenschap overal leeft met water, grond en luchtvervuiling Dit lijkt potjandorie wel wat op een ongezonde werkomgeving