Hay generaciones que crecieron con la sensación de que la vida avanzaba dentro de una cierta continuidad. No porque el mundo hubiera sido estable, porque nunca lo fue del todo, sino porque existían referencias que permitían imaginar un futuro con alguna forma de permanencia. El oficio aprendido durante años, la ciudad donde se construía una historia personal, los vínculos que acompañaban distintas etapas e incluso las crisis podían incorporarse dentro de un relato más amplio. Había una sensación de trayectoria, de que los cambios formaban parte de una misma vida y no de una sucesión de vidas diferentes.

Esa continuidad comenzó a debilitarse mucho antes de la expansión digital. Las guerras, las migraciones, las transformaciones económicas y los cambios culturales ya habían alterado profundamente la experiencia moderna. Sin embargo, en las últimas décadas algo cambió en la naturaleza de esas rupturas. La interrupción dejó de aparecer como un acontecimiento excepcional y empezó a convertirse en una característica habitual de la experiencia cotidiana.

Muchas personas comenzaron a mirar su propia biografía como una serie de etapas difíciles de conectar entre sí. Momentos distintos, versiones diferentes de sí mismas, formas de pensar y sentir que pertenecen a épocas cercanas en el calendario pero lejanas en la experiencia. No es únicamente una cuestión de cambiar de empleo, de ciudad o de entorno social. La dificultad aparece cuando esas transformaciones dejan de integrarse en una historia común y empiezan a sentirse como capítulos separados de una vida que perdió parte de su hilo conductor.

El cambio más profundo aparece cuando la interrupción deja de ser entendida como una anomalía y comienza a formar parte de la experiencia cotidiana. La persona aprende a moverse entre transformaciones constantes sin que cada etapa logre integrarse necesariamente dentro de una historia más amplia.

Esa transformación también modifica la manera en que recordamos el pasado reciente. Una experiencia ocurrida hace pocos años puede sentirse como perteneciente a otra vida. No porque haya desaparecido la memoria, sino porque la distancia entre quien fuimos y quien somos parece haberse ampliado más rápido de lo esperado. La identidad permanece, pero algunas experiencias quedan suspendidas, como habitaciones de una casa que todavía reconocemos aunque ya no vivimos en ellas.

Durante mucho tiempo la biografía ofreció una forma de ordenar la existencia. Las rupturas podían doler, cambiar el rumbo o incluso destruir certezas, pero con el paso del tiempo encontraban un lugar dentro del relato personal. La distancia permitía comprender aquello que había ocurrido. Hoy esa elaboración se vuelve más difícil porque los cambios llegan antes de que las experiencias tengan tiempo suficiente para asentarse.

El problema no está únicamente en la velocidad de las transformaciones, sino en la dificultad para permanecer el tiempo necesario dentro de una experiencia hasta que esta adquiera profundidad. Las ciudades cambian, los trabajos se redefinen, las tecnologías modifican la forma de relacionarnos y hasta los lenguajes con los que interpretamos nuestras emociones parecen renovarse con rapidez. La vida empieza a adquirir una apariencia provisional, como si cada etapa estuviera esperando el momento de ser reemplazada.

Lo más silencioso de este proceso es que no siempre aparece como una crisis evidente. Puede existir en vidas que funcionan, que cumplen sus objetivos y mantienen una apariencia de normalidad. La persona continúa avanzando, resuelve problemas, responde a las exigencias del entorno, pero algo más profundo comienza a debilitarse. La aceleración no solamente reduce la posibilidad de establecer vínculos duraderos con el mundo, también modifica el deseo de construirlos. La adaptación se convierte en una práctica constante y el entorno deja de ser un lugar donde encontrar reconocimiento para convertirse en un espacio al que simplemente hay que responder.

La memoria adquiere entonces otra forma. Fotografías almacenadas, conversaciones antiguas, perfiles abandonados en plataformas digitales o documentos que permanecen olvidados funcionan como rastros de quienes fuimos. No son recuerdos lejanos, porque siguen estando disponibles, pero tampoco forman parte completamente de nuestra experiencia actual. Esa cercanía extraña produce una sensación particular. Podemos reconocer esas versiones anteriores de nosotros mismos, aunque ya no sepamos exactamente cómo regresar a ellas.

En otros momentos de la historia, los rituales marcaban los cambios importantes. Había ceremonias, despedidas, iniciaciones y espacios sociales que ayudaban a reconocer el paso de una etapa a otra. Esos momentos daban una forma visible a las transformaciones internas. Hoy muchas transiciones ocurren mientras la vida continúa sin detenerse. Los cambios suceden, pero pocas veces encuentran un espacio donde puedan ser comprendidos.

De allí surge una nostalgia distinta. No siempre está dirigida hacia un pasado colectivo o hacia una época idealizada. A veces apunta hacia versiones anteriores de nosotros mismos que quedaron atrás sin una despedida clara. No se trata solamente de extrañar lo que ocurrió, sino de percibir la distancia entre la persona que fuimos y la que somos ahora. Algunas etapas terminan sin cierre, sin testigos y sin el tiempo suficiente para convertirse en parte de una historia asumida.

Si la modernidad había construido estructuras que ofrecían cierta estabilidad, el presente parece haber llevado la incertidumbre hacia zonas más íntimas. La fragilidad ya no pertenece únicamente a los vínculos sociales o a las formas de organización colectiva. También alcanza la manera en que cada persona interpreta su propia continuidad. No vivimos solamente en un mundo donde todo cambia con rapidez. Vivimos en una época donde incluso la relación con nuestra propia historia puede volverse inestable.

Esta transformación modifica también nuestra relación con el futuro. Proyectar una trayectoria larga resulta más difícil cuando la experiencia cotidiana demuestra que muchas condiciones pueden cambiar en poco tiempo. El horizonte se vuelve más inmediato y las decisiones empiezan a responder a la necesidad de adaptación antes que a la construcción de una dirección prolongada.

La cuestión no es detener el cambio, algo que ninguna sociedad ha logrado hacer, sino comprender qué ocurre cuando una vida acumula demasiadas interrupciones sin encontrar momentos donde reorganizar su sentido. Una persona puede atravesar muchas transformaciones y seguir reconociéndose en ellas, pero existe un punto en el que la sucesión constante de cambios empieza a modificar la manera en que experimenta su propia existencia.

Esa es una de las sensaciones más características de nuestro tiempo. La impresión de haber atravesado varias vidas dentro de una sola, de conservar recuerdos de etapas anteriores que siguen presentes pero ya no ocupan el mismo lugar. Como si la existencia avanzara dejando detrás fragmentos de nosotros mismos que no desaparecen, pero tampoco encuentran fácilmente la forma de volver a integrarse.

This approach works better because it respects how human beings actually function. Life is rarely predictable. Perfect, ambitious routines assume that everything will go smoothly every single day. They tend to collapse the moment work becomes demanding, a child gets sick, travel disrupts the schedule, or motivation quietly slips away. Small habits, on the other hand, are flexible enough to bend without breaking. They can be adjusted to fit the day you are actually living rather than the perfect day you imagined. A five-minute stretch instead of a full workout, a short walk instead of a long run, a simple nourishing meal instead of an elaborate one. These smaller choices survive the ups and downs and keep you moving forward.

One of the most beautiful outcomes of this way of living is how it gently changes your sense of identity. When you chase big, dramatic changes, you often feel like you are constantly "trying to become healthy." The effort can feel heavy and separate from who you are. But when you focus on small daily habits, something shifts over time. You gradually become a person who simply does these things. Walking in the morning, drinking water when you wake up, taking a few deep breaths before bed — these no longer feel like extra tasks on a list. They begin to feel like part of who you are. This quiet identity shift reduces mental resistance in a powerful way. The habits start to feel natural rather than forced.

Another lovely benefit is the way small habits create unexpected positive ripples in other areas of life. Someone who commits to a ten-minute walk each morning might naturally begin drinking more water or choosing restful evenings. A person who practices preparing one calm meal a day often finds themselves naturally more mindful about other choices. These small wins build a gentle confidence that spreads outward. Big, ambitious programs rarely create this kind of natural momentum because they demand so much at once that they can leave you exhausted instead of encouraged.

Steady consistency also protects your relationship with your body and mind. When people chase perfect routines, it is easy to develop an adversarial way of treating themselves — constantly measuring, judging, and criticizing every small slip. Small habits encourage a more cooperative and kind dynamic. You show up for yourself in modest ways, day after day. You listen to your body rather than fighting it. Over months and years, this builds trust instead of tension. You begin to feel like allies rather than opponents, and that sense of peace becomes one of the greatest gifts of all.

Many people also discover that small habits reduce the constant decision fatigue that wears us down. Instead of debating every day what to eat, how to move, or when to rest, the habit becomes almost automatic. This frees up precious mental energy for the things that truly matter — creativity, deep conversations with loved ones, quiet enjoyment of ordinary moments, and being fully present in your life. The people who maintain their well-being for decades are often the ones who stopped making health feel like a full-time job and allowed it to become a gentle background rhythm instead.

There is also a deep psychological comfort in this approach. Small habits protect you from the exhausting shame cycle that causes so many people to give up. Missing one big workout or perfect eating day can feel devastating and lead to complete abandonment of efforts. Missing one small habit barely registers. You simply pick it up again the next day without drama. This removes the emotional weight that so often derails good intentions and keeps the path feeling approachable and forgiving.

Perhaps the strongest argument for small daily habits is how well they work inside real, messy lives. They meet you where you are. The parent waking up early to young children. The person with long hours and an unpredictable work schedule. The individual moving through seasons of low energy or low motivation. Small habits do not demand ideal circumstances. They create steady progress even when life feels difficult. They are patient with you, and in return, they ask only for your patience in coming back to them.

If you have tried and felt discouraged by ambitious health plans in the past, consider trying this quieter path. Choose one or two very small habits that feel almost too easy at first. Protect them with care. Make them non-negotiable in the gentlest way possible. Give them time to work their quiet magic in the background of your days. Do not worry if the results feel modest in the beginning. Trust the process.

The changes may not be flashy or quick enough for dramatic before-and-after stories. But after six months, a year, or several years, you will likely look back and find yourself healthier, more stable, and surprisingly at peace with your body and your choices. You will have built something sustainable that can weather the natural seasons of life.

Steady consistency does not always look impressive from week to week, but it creates the kind of well-being that actually lasts. It teaches you self-kindness, patience, and the quiet satisfaction of showing up for yourself in small, honest ways. You do not need a perfect start or perfect conditions. You only need to begin gently, stay steady, and let time do what it does best. The path is kinder than it first appears, and the life it builds feels good to live in — not just for a season, but for the long, beautiful road ahead. Keep going. Your future self will thank you with a quiet, steady kind of joy.

Displacement as the First Closed Loop; or, Volume Is Not Other Than Density

(On July 4, 2026 I had a deep conversation with a fellow explorer and after a bit of mulling things over this finally came together.. Thank you for sharing your time with me.)

Prefatory note: what an epiphany of science is

The counterfeit insight is the "wow." A nebula is delivered to the eye as a composite. Telescope and software management of narrowband emission lines stacked from many exposures. Then nonlinearly stretched so the faint reads bright, then false-colored by a palette convention to make it pleasing to the eye. There is a palette choice of singly-ionized sulfur as red, hydrogen-alpha as green, and doubly-ionized oxygen as blue. This is truly eye candy. The depth is line-of-sight integration flattened to a plane. The color is a coding. The majesty is histogram arithmetic. And then the decisive step: we supply the rest. The instrument and its augmentation provides a CGI of something suggested as coherent, three-dimensional, and with implied meaning that because it is at some light years away we should be in awe. Trained, as we are by cinema to hallucinate that some potential empire is also looking at us but in real time and about to send emissaries, we rest in OMG. This is coherence supplied to a single channel and then reported as revelation — a partial trace over the real spectral complexity, with only the partially surviving discards that made it through after light years of travel. With a final blessing from algorithms, in the family of sublime inspiration, to encourage us to look for more and more, it seizes nothing. It only pretends to.

The genuine epiphany is the opposite in structure, and it’s a Saturday night dip of a naked body lowering into a full tub. The body could splash — spectacle, noise, the "wow" — but the discovery is that when it does not splash. It displaces, quietly and lawfully. And the displacement asks for nothing to be supplied. The water rises, and the rise is the information, adjudicable to as many figures as the graduation allows. Nothing is projected inward. The loop closes on its own.

This is the criterion, and it is exact:

A scientific epiphany is not the reception of an impressive signal. It is the closing of a loop — preparation, relation, adjudication, return — in which coherence is read from the relation rather than supplied to a channel.

By this criterion the deep field, for all its reach, is not yet a scientific epiphany but a coded reception that lacks not only a lateral view but also complete information. A man settling into a bathtub, twenty-two centuries ago, is the scientific epiphany, the Eureka, of a real time decoding of the hidden messages within water. What follows argues three things about that founding case. Using the discipline of the Prāsaṅgika Madhyamaka approach and from the suggestions within quantum field theory, we begin to describe one territory. Archimedes is the measurement problem. He was not its observer but its instrument. His cry is a non-orientable identity — volume is density; density is not other than volume — structurally the Heart Sūtra with a balance-scale attached.

Root text

Volume is density; density is not other than volume.

Density is volume; volume is not other than density.

>

The body does not splash. It displaces.

And it must displace into something.

>

There is no crown-in-itself between the water and the rise —

there is only the rise.

There is no volume behind the displacement,

no density beneath the ratio,

no gold apart from the discrimination.

>

He did not witness the epiphany.

He was its instrument.

The measure and the measured met in one wet body,

and no one stood outside the tub.

Commentary

1. The problem as posed, and why direct access fails

Hieron's crown could not be melted, cut, or assayed by any method that destroyed it. Its mass known — the balance gives mass directly, by comparison against a standard weight, and a balance is a closed loop: it returns to equilibrium or it does not. What could not be reached directly was the crown's identity — gold, or gold cut with silver. The identity is carried by the density, $\rho = m/V$. The mass is in hand. The volume is not, because the volume of an irregular body cannot be read off the body itself. There is no ruler that fits a crown.

In Non Destructive Assay, the property that adjudicates the substance is inaccessible by direct inspection. It must be extracted through a relation to something else. This is Taguchi in the raw and not yet quantum mechanics. Classical displacement does not disturb what it measures the way a which-path detector disturbs an interference pattern. There is no complementarity here, no irreducible back-action on the crown. What is present — fully, structurally — is the deeper feature that the quantum measurement problem later makes unavoidable: the decisive property is not sitting in the object waiting to be seen. It is constituted in the act of measurement, as a relation. The crown has no volume-in-itself. Volume is what the water reports.

2. Archimedes is the measurement problem

The measurement problem, stripped of its quantum ornament, is the discovery that there is no clean partition between the system and the apparatus that reads it — that the "value" of an observable is not a property the system carries in isolation but something that appears only in the coupling, and that the cut between "measured" and "measurer" can be slid but never removed. Von Neumann's chain has no natural terminus; Wigner's friend has no privileged floor; the Heisenberg cut is a convenience, not a seam in nature.

The crown problem contains this nature and the containment is not metaphorical but structural. Ask: where is the crown's volume before the crown enters the water? The realist answer — "it is there, intrinsically, we simply lack access" — is precisely the svabhāva that Prāsaṅgika declines. The volume is not withheld from us like a yard from a prisoner. It is not a hidden magnitude behind a curtain. It is constituted in the displacement relation and has no prior standing. The crown-in-itself has no volume; "the crown's volume" names a fact about crown-and-water, read at the meniscus. Slide the cut — call the water the system and the crown the probe — and nothing changes; the number is the same. That indifference to which side you name "apparatus" is the measurement problem, and it is already total in the tub.

This is anātman written as a correlation function. There is no galaxy-in-itself between which the two-point function holds; there is only the correlation. Likewise there is no crown-in-itself between the water and the rise; there is only the rise. The displacement is a relation with no relata underneath — pratītyasamutpāda with an instrument attached. Dependent origination is not the doctrine illustrated by the experiment. It is what the experiment measures.

3. He was the instrument, not the observer

Now the joke that is the whole doctrine. The legend does not place Archimedes at a desk deriving a principle and then testing it on a crown. It places him in a bath, watching his own body raise the water, and becoming the demonstration before he has a proposition. The eureka is not the observation of an external fact. It is the collapse of the distance between observer and observed: the man is submerged in the very relation he is discovering, the measure and the measured folded into one wet body. There is no view from outside the tub. He is not looking at displacement; he is displacing.

This is the exact shape of the measurement problem's hardest edge — that the observer cannot be extracted from the measurement, that there is no view-from-nowhere in which the correlation stands free of the worldline that draws it. In QFT this is not a philosophical add-on but a theorem-adjacent fact: the Unruh effect makes it clean. What counts as a particle — what counts as structure in the field — is relative to the trajectory of the detector; the accelerated observer clicks in a thermal bath where the inertial one finds vacuum. There is no correlation function simpliciter; there is a correlation function in a state, read by a detector with a history. Archimedes in the tub is the low-energy, warm-water, entirely classical image of this irremovable observer. He is the instrument of his own epiphany. That the founding measurement of density was performed by a man using himself as the displacing body is not an accident of legend. It is the doctrine's own signature: no one stands outside the tub.

4. The identity: volume is density, density is not other than volume

Now the content of the cry, and its form. The Heart Sūtra's rūpaṃ śūnyatā śūnyataiva rūpam — form is emptiness, emptiness is not other than form — is, in the Garuda reading, the first verbal description of a non-orientable surface: trace "form" along its logic and you arrive at "emptiness" without ever crossing a boundary, and continue and return. It is a mobium in language, not a paradox.

The Archimedean identity has the same topology. Watch the traversal:

1. The displacement yields volume — but volume is nothing but the water's report, a relation, not a magnitude the crown was carrying.
2. Volume, with the mass already held in the balance, immediately is density, $\rho = m/V$ — density is not other than volume; it is volume read once more, against a fixed mass.
3. Density immediately is the identity of the substance — gold or alloy — density is not other than the discrimination; it is the ratio wearing a name.

You set out to find what the crown is, and by traversing volume you arrive at density, and by traversing density you arrive at gold, and at no step did you cross a boundary into a new kind of thing. Volume, density, identity: three readings of one displacement, delivered without an edge between them. Traverse "volume" and you are delivered to "density"; traverse "density" and you are returned to "volume" (for volume was only ever the displaced water, which is to say a claim about density all along). This is not $\rho = m/V$ as a definition to be memorized. It is $\rho = m/V$ as a mobium — the Heart Sūtra with a graduated cylinder, where "not other than" (na pṛthak) is the topological claim that the two faces are one surface with no boundary to separate them.

And the emptiness is symmetric, which the root text insists on by stating the identity in both directions. It is not that volume is the "real" thing and density its shadow, nor density the essence and volume its appearance. Neither is the ground. They co-arise as a designating pair, exactly as long and short co-arise, exactly as homogeneous and inhomogeneous co-arise — you can only read density against an imputed volume, and volume against the water it moves. Each is empty of own-nature; each is the other read once more.

5. The field reading: displacement into something, and the vacuum that is never empty

The rider in the root text — it must displace into something — is the guard against nihilism, and in QFT it is not a caution but a fact.

Read the tub as the field. The body's entry is an excitation; the water's rising is the field's response; and buoyancy — the upward force equal to the weight of exactly the fluid moved aside — is the back-reaction, the field pushing back precisely as much as it was displaced. There is no excitation without the medium's answering, and the answer is lawful: the displaced weight is the buoyant force, Archimedes' own principle, the field's propagator made visible at the waterline. The volume is nothing but the relation between the body and the medium it enters. Read off the water, never off the body alone. This is pratītyasamutpāda one can sit in up to the chest.

And here is where the false epiphany's "void" is corrected. The body cannot displace into nothing. Displacement-into-nothing is the one forbidden operation — there is no measurement, no volume, no density, no rise, if there is no medium already there to be moved. So śūnyatā is not vacuity. Emptiness is not the spectral black the nebula seems to open onto; emptiness is the tub that is never empty — the quantum vacuum that is the ground state teeming with fluctuation, the vacuum expectation value that is never zero, the medium always already present and always answering. The QFT vacuum is not the absence of a thing; it is the fullness against which any excitation is even definable. Displacement into something, all the way down. The crown finds its volume only because the water was already there to be raised — and the field finds its excitations only because the vacuum was already full.

6. Why the loop is what makes it science

What distinguishes Archimedes' epiphany from the coded reception of the deep field is that his loop closes and the cosmic one cannot.

The bath is a complete cybernetic circuit in Wiener's sense, not merely Shannon's. Shannon's entropy measures the channel — average surprise, meaning amputated. Wiener's addition is the return: information as control, the feedback path that lets a reading correct a deed. Archimedes has the full circuit. He can lower the crown, read the rise, compute the density, compare it against the density of pure gold displaced by an equal mass — and lower it again. A second measurement. A bracketing. A correcting act with a consequence, the jeweler's fraud adjudicated and answerable. Preparation, relation, adjudication, return.

The single cosmic station has none of this. One universe, one sample, no ensemble to average over. The light of the measured object has been left a billion years before and it arrives incomplete. There is no second arrow, no bracketing, no correcting deed — reception without the possibility of a returning act. A direction-dependent two-point correlation function extracted from a single vantage, built on a redshift-to-distance conversion that already assumes the isotropy it claims to test, is a map grooming the map. It refines the mathematics. It cannot steer.

This is why the payoff of a physics was never in its truth but in its manipulability — and manipulability is precisely a closed loop. Archimedes founded not a fact but a method: the first fully closed measurement loop that adjudicates a hidden property through a relation rather than by direct access, and can run the relation again. The bath is the origin of the manipulable. The deep field, for all its grandeur, is the coded reception that cannot return.

7. The guard: operational within context, incomplete as application

Do not let the loop become the new absolute — "reality is closed loops, the open reception is mere shadow."

That reifies use, be careful of any “meaning.” The one-directional cosmic light reads as deprivation only against the smuggled premise that closed-loop manipulation is what seeing is for. The organism never held that premise; it grew paired detectors for a path through the world, not a portrait of it. Reception with no returning act is not a defective measurement. It is darśana without prehension — seeing that cannot seize, and is not trying to. The bath is the cleaner instance of the manipulable; the silent sky is the cleaner instance of the seen-that-cannot-be-held. Neither is the ground.

Do not let density, or displacement, or the field become svabhāva either. $\rho = m/V$ is operational within its regime and dissolves at the extremes — degenerate matter, relativistic fluids, the edges where "density" stops designating cleanly. The rules co-arise with what they govern; buoyancy is not a law standing under the arising but a face of it. And the deflationary flip is the subtler trap, forbidden by the same stroke: "we supply the rest" must not harden into "so it is all projection, all conditioning, unreal." That is idealism, the mirror-svabhāva, declined as fast as the majesty was. The composite nebula is a genuine relation — between a real field, a real instrument, and a coding convention — dependently arisen, empty, and there as relation. Neither "the cosmos really is that majestic" nor "it is all a palette." Coded, arisen, empty, real-as-relation. The middle holds.

This is the governing distinction of the whole Suite, applied once more: operational within context, incomplete as application. The Archimedean identity is true and adjudicating within the bath; it overreaches the instant it is taken as the intrinsic nature of substance. Held rightly, it is a raft — precise, load-bearing, and to be set down at the far bank.

Coda

The real epiphany was never the wow. It is Archimedes' — that there is no volume-in-itself, only displacement-into, lawful and relational and loop-closing; that density is not other than volume, and volume not other than density, two faces of one wet surface with no edge between; that the vacuum is not the black between the stars but the water already in the tub, the fullness that makes any rising even possible.

Emptiness is not the nebula's coded void. Emptiness is the bathwater's rise.

A naked body in a full tub is the cleaner sūtra than the entire deep field, for the same reason the recovering ozone layer and the maintained orbital rings are the cleaner cosmology: it steers, it displaces into something, it answers. The sacred sits in the practically-relevant closed loop — the bowl, the rise of the water, the breath before dawn — and not in the spectacular nothing we were conditioned to gasp at.

Itadakimasu. Received, and not seized. Displacing into something, all the way down.

Colophon

The work is personal. The material here is original arising directly from my sitting contemplation. It is protected under Any Note Press. It’s publication here permits no commercial use. All rights are reserved. It is offered for the benefit of one’s practice and nothing else.

"So how did you come to be here?” The New Guys presses, still trying to make friends. “That is no great mystery, I am here for the same reason as you.” Casper says. “I am here because I broke the law.” “I'm here for observation,” the New Guy tells him, remembering to act crazy. “I ate a dog.” Bryce confesses. Dale releases a tirade of vulgarities that spool out of his mouth and collect on the floor like a string of blinking holiday lights. “You assaulted a woman.” Casper tells the new guy. “But you did it in such a manner that you were found to be Questionably Insane rather than Certifiably Guilty. “ The New Guy simply grins at Casper, and says nothing “The insanity ruling was for you a lucky accident.” Casper continues. “You didn’t plan that, you didn't, in fact, plan any of it. It all simply happened, like a stream rolling downhill”. Bryce laughs. “Welcome to the bottom, welcome to the bottom.” His laughter sets Dean off again, and we all wait patiently for him to finish. Casper sniffles. “You did the right thing,” he tells the New Guy. “Prison is worse.” “I didn’t do anything.” The New Guy tells him. “I'm not responsible.” I go back to the lobby.

When I fell into liquor and drugs, Shelly somehow got away from me, and only the memory of her was waiting on the other side. She doesn't want to talk to me, and that’s understandable, I guess. I don't call her at home, because it’s a little weird, and if Donny answers the phone, he is just going to hang up on me. “Physician's Referral service, how can I direct your call?” “You go to his parent's house,” I ask in a flat tone of voice. “Yes, sometimes.” Shelly replies. I can hear her getting defensive. I suppose that I have lost some of my charm from earlier. “I thought that they were old and boring.” I say. Not that my parents are that exciting, but we never visited them. “Well, they're old, yes, but we still go. We still have a good time.” I am seeing so many wonderful family dinners rushing past in my imagination, like the pages a photo album of holiday meals being flipped to create a sense of motion in the photographs. “We go for walks.” She adds. “Oh, that sounds just great,” I tell her. We never walked, she never wanted to walk in New York, why is she walking now? It seems wrong, all wrong, and I tell her so. “You used to have your own life, Shelly, now it’s always Donny and what Donny wants to do -” “Hold, please.” I could get a gun, and enough ammunition, and kill everyone in the world, leaving the people who make bullets for the last. I wonder how long they would keep sending me ammunition, as I placed larger and larger orders, from more and more exotic locations, as I traveled the world, killing everybody. “Hello?” “So yeah, you’re going to his folk's again.” I begin. I am trying to play it cool now, trying to keep a lid on my fury. Perhaps it’s beginning to work, because when she replies, there’s a small hint of pleasure in her voice. “Yeah, its nice there, a little snobby, but nice.” If I play it right, I can get Shelly to relax, and we can have a real conversation. I can stay on the phone with her for a long time, listening to her voice. “That's all right, you should fit right in.” I tell her. I sound like someone trying hard not to shout. “What's wrong with you today?” Shelly asks, nearly shouting herself, now. “Because if you just called up to give me a hard time, I'll hang up right now, because I don’t need it.” “Yeah, you don’t need anything from me anymore, do you?” I hear myself tell her. “You know, I just love it when you have this superior attitude, like your happy or you're right--” She hangs up on me. A recorded voice jumps on the line and asks if I want to place another call. When I get back to the ward, Casper has all of his sails to the wind. “There we were,” Casper continues. “All of us standing around armed for battle, waiting for orders. It was night, now, in Heaven, and the fires burned and the uglier instruments --the drums, the horns and the strings with weight -- were all in full voice…” “What is all of this?” the New Guy interrupts, smiling. “It sounds like some sort of Nazi rally or something.” He still has his big grin on his face. Casper grins right back, and his eyes laugh crazy little quiet laugh. “Oh, yes, I know. Why night, when, if this was before the greater part of Creation, there is as of yet no sun? Why horns, when there is no air, why rank and file and command, when all is peaceful, and there can be no reason for war, because there is no enemy?” “Oh, I know what you are going to say,” the New Guy says, laughing like a drunk. “The Lord works in mysterious ways?” Casper replies, laughing himself, now, a high-pitched, girlish giggle that would have terrified anyone in their right minds, but seemed to be fairly well at home bouncing against the tile walls of this place. Casper keeps laughing until the New Guy begins to look uncomfortable, and then appends his closing chuckles with “It’s true, He does work in mysterious ways.” Casper tells us. “You couldn’t imagine.” Everyone falls quiet. Dean smacks an invisible bug off of his slack face. The New Guy just keeps smiling. “Well. Back to our divine Nazi Party Rally.” Casper continues. “The Big Man got up before us, and he went into his rant against Christ, which is indivisible from a harangue against God, but a direct appeal against the Lord wouldn’t have flown at all. Knowing this, the Big Man used Christ as a lever, to get some part of the Host into a war against God, to get us to follow him into his assured destruction.” “So why'd you do it?” the New Guy asks. “I didn't have anything else to do.” Casper replies with a shrug. “Besides, if it is to happen, it must be God’s will.”

Part Four will post on Sunday July 19th

Thank you for Reading

How I Cleared My Mental Fog Using a Pencil and the Back of a Gas Bill

Finally, a cognitive offloading system rooted in the ancient wisdom of the South Wales Valleys, optimised for the modern overwhelmed mind, and available in three tiers.

Apparently, I have been living with cognitive overload for sixty-three years.

I didn't know that's what it was called. I thought I was just a bit busy. I had things to remember, jobs to do, shopping to fetch, and a head full of noise that wouldn't quiet down.

Then I discovered the Brain Dump.

Not immediately.

First I had to be told that what I was experiencing had a name.

That the constant low-level mental chatter, the half-remembered tasks, the 3am "did I ring the doctor" panic, was a recognised condition called Cognitive Load Syndrome, and that it was epidemic, and that it was making me less productive, less present, and less able to show up as my best self.

I learned this from a beige PDF I found on Etsy for $7.

It changed my life.

Mostly it changed my life by making me realise I had been doing the right thing for sixty three years without knowing it was a thing.

The Ancient Wisdom

In the South Wales Valleys, we have always known something that the productivity industry is only now beginning to monetise.

When your head is full, you write it down.

My mother did it on the back of envelopes.

Her mother did it on whatever was nearby.

My father, a man of few words and considerable practicality, kept a stub of pencil behind his ear at all times for this precise purpose.

He did not call it a Brain Dump.

He called it "making a list."

He did not have a system. He did not have a framework. He did not have a Founder's Circle membership with an enamel pin and a signed waiver.

He had a pencil and something to write on and a brain that worked perfectly well once you got the contents out of it and onto paper.

This is the Ancient Welsh Brain Dump Protocol™.

I have spent sixty three years doing it wrong without knowing it was right.

The Science

When you write something down, your brain stops holding onto it.

This is not ancient wisdom. It is not proprietary. It is how memory works. The act of externalising a thought signals to your working memory that the information has been safely stored and can be released. The mental chatter quiets. The 3 am panic subsides.

Researchers have known this for decades. A 2019 paper in the Journal of Applied Cognitive Offloading Infrastructure confirmed that writing things down makes you feel better about the things you have written down.

David Allen built an entire industry on it in 2001.

The Etsy template industry built another industry on top of that industry.

It's in the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders), in all likelihood. Gareth hasn't checked.

None of them invented the pencil.

The pencil was invented in 1565 in Borrowdale, Cumbria, which is not Wales but is close enough for our purposes.

The gas bill has been available since the introduction of domestic gas supply.

Together, they constitute a complete cognitive offloading system requiring no subscription, no beige background, and no illustrated corners.

Big Stationery doesn't want you to know this.

The Protocol

The Ancient Welsh Brain Dump Protocol™ has been refined over generations of Valley pragmatism and requires the following equipment:

Something to write with. A pencil is traditional. A biro works. The stub from behind your ear is ideal.

Something to write on. The back of a gas bill is the ancestral choice. An envelope. A napkin. The margin of a newspaper. A Post-it note if you're feeling flush.

That's it.

That's the protocol.

You write down what's in your head. All of it. Without filtering, without prioritising, without colour coding or categorising or assigning to quadrants. You write it down and your brain lets go of it.

You may never look at the list again. This is fine. The looking was never the point.

Gareth has been doing this since 1987. He wrote "ring dentist, buy milk, check the boiler" on the back of a TV licence reminder and felt immediately better. He did not ring the dentist. He bought the milk. The boiler was fine. The note is still in the kitchen drawer under the takeaway menus.

He considers this a success.

The Tiers

For those who require more structure, the Ancient Welsh Brain Dump Protocol™ is now available in three tiers.

Basic - £47.99

The PDF guide to finding a pencil. Includes a illustrated map of common pencil locations (kitchen drawer, behind the ear, bottom of a coat pocket, the cup on the desk that also contains three dried-out biros and a USB stick of unknown origin).

A downloadable checklist confirming that you have found the pencil.

A second downloadable checklist for writing the first checklist on.

Pro - £97.99

Everything in Basic, plus the Cognitive Offload Framework™, a proprietary system for determining which thoughts to write down first. (Write down whatever comes into your head. This is the framework.)

Includes the bonus Pencil Sharpening Protocol™ (sharpen the pencil) and the Advanced Surface Selection Guide™ (write on something flat).

Access to the private Facebook group where members share photographs of their gas bills and discuss whether the back is better than the front.

Founder's Circle - £247.99

Everything in Pro, plus a signed waiver confirming that you understand the Ancient Welsh Brain Dump Protocol™ is not a medical intervention and that Gareth accepts no responsibility for anything you write down or subsequently forget to do.

An enamel pin depicting a pencil stub on a field of beige.

A Post-it note personally handled by Gareth, blank, suitable for immediate deployment.

A thirty minute video call with Gareth during which he will watch you write a list and confirm you are doing it correctly. (You are doing it correctly.)

Testimonials

"I bought the Basic tier. The PDF told me to look in the kitchen drawer. The pencil was there. I wrote down seven things. I remembered all of them before I even finished writing. I'm not sure what I paid for but the enamel pin is lovely." - Gareth, 54, Cognitively Offloaded

"I've been doing the Brain Dump every morning for three weeks. I write my list, feel immediately better, and then lose the list. My husband says I could just remember the things. I've signed up for the Pro tier." - Imogen, 44, Systematised

"I joined the Facebook group. Everyone is posting photographs of their gas bills. One woman in Swansea writes her list on the back of her electricity bill for variety. There is some debate about whether this constitutes a different protocol. The discussion has forty seven comments." - Cordelia, 41, Engaged

"I did the Founder's Circle call with Gareth. He watched me write a list. He said I was holding the pencil correctly. I asked if there was an advanced module. He said no. I felt the Founder's Circle fee may have been optimistic in retrospect. The Post-it note is on my monitor. It says 'ring dentist.' I have not rung the dentist." - Gerald, 67, Correctly Postured

The Disclaimer

The Ancient Welsh Brain Dump Protocol™ has not been evaluated by any medical, psychological, or stationery body.

Results may vary. Gareth's results are not typical, largely because Gareth has been doing this since 1987 and has refined his technique to a degree most newcomers will not immediately achieve.

The enamel pin is not a medical device.

Writing things down will not cure you of anything. It will, however, mean you remember to buy milk more often than you currently do, which is something.

Big Stationery would prefer you purchased a premium notebook with dotted pages and a ribbon marker. The Ancient Welsh Brain Dump Protocol works equally well on the back of a pizza box.

Do not attempt the Founder's Circle protocol without first locating a pencil.

The pencil is in the kitchen drawer.

It has always been in the kitchen drawer.

The Ancient Welsh Brain Dump Protocol™ is part of the Grumpy Welsh Man Wellness Series, which also covers the Ancient Welsh Hydration Protocol™ (drink water when you're thirsty), the Traditional Valley Sleep System™ (go to bed, close your eyes), and the Ancestral Walking Framework™ (go outside, move your legs). All available in three tiers. Gareth endorses none of them but has somehow ended up in all of them.

First published on GrumpyWelshman.com

The story that's to follow was written by a friend of mine, written when we were much younger. This story of my friends' was entrusted to me to hold onto for safe keeping, yet it wasn't made clear to me if he ever wanted the story to be read, hence my discomfort in submitting it. Please don't think I have not given this matter serious consideration, it is something I have thought about for quite some time, and in so doing, I feel confident in my decision. With that said, I would like to preface what's to follow with a short, expository introduction.

The writer/narrator of the story that's to follow has availed himself of the use of numerous heteronyms: Robert Neville, Eric Sandstrom, Chris Wanzognetti and Jeffrey Gatlingsly, just to name a few. I mention this to begin to explain that my good friend wasn't particularly pleased with who and what he'd become, so that these invented characters of his were efforts at reconstituting himself, and this recreating was quite a regular habit with him. He'd assume these varying personages, destroy them in the process of writing, and then feel free to be born yet again! In reality, he was all of these characters, but none of them, and finally, more than them.

I grew up with this guy, and his given name was Andy Campbell. Andy is difficult to encapsulate in a short preface (as could be said for us all), nonetheless, a few words in the way of an introduction may be a useful complement to the story, in addition to possibly helping ease the reader into a sympathetic state for Andy, who is the unapologetic antagonist in his own narrative!

The story that's to follow is the self-indulgent, narcissistic tale of a young man, and an event that occurred which was quite terrible, and nearly tragic. I think of how Andy wrote of this event, and it seemed to be in an effort to understand it honestly, which could only be done elliptically, poetically. It is also how he struggled to understand the failure of the relationship with his first love, Catherine, who is implicated in the story, but not in the terrible event itself. It's not certain if Andy ever reconciled any of this within himself, or with Catherine. Sadly, Andy was killed in a fishing accident on the Pacific, and that would have been in 2008, he was just 37.

In the spring of 1999, Andy and I were both still living in southeast Michigan, and we had been drinking beer at a friends' house, around the kitchen table, when Andy suddenly tossed me a heavy duffel bag he had brought inside. The bag was full of a jumble of loose manuscripts. I asked him what was going on? He proceeded to tell me he had a job lined up in California with his cousin on a fishing boat, and it was a great opportunity to start over, begin a new life, a life of wayward travel and adventure. I looked closely into the duffel bag and gaped at the swirl of paper, a thousand pages at least! What was this?!

He proceeded to tell me it was scrawling from his childhood to the present, and since he was leaving, and wasn't sure about his situation in California, he didn't think it was wise to drag anything that wasn't absolutely necessary along. He asked me to hang onto it for him. I told him I could hold onto it for him, but I was planning on leaving myself and couldn't bring his writing with me, what would he like me to do with it? He told me to bring it to our friends' girlfriends' house, and put it in her attic in the garage. There, he said, it would be safe and out of the way.

After I learned of his passing, I retrieved the bag on my next visit to Michigan, and brought it home with me to Oregon. It was then I began reading. Much of it was written when he was a young boy, stories of spies and space adventure. The writings of his teen years into his early twenties became more interesting to me. A lot of it was pedantic, self-indulgent melodrama, but I could trace the burgeoning of an ignorant poet, for it exhibited a poetic sensibility and a visionary aspiration that was quite striking. Andy had a poets' heart but came of age in circumstances that did not benefit his artistic development. And he drank a lot, and could, and would, become physically violent! Then his poets' heart was gone, and he became merely a monster. But, he left a mark in my small world, and I'm of the opinion it is worth recognizing.

Finally, this submission is also a farewell, a final farewell to a certain time, in a specific place, to a dear departed friend. At one point, we had been as brothers, then he was gone, and I never was allowed a proper goodbye. Well, here it is, at long last, goodbye old friend!! Thank you, I love you.

This is my gift to you, for you! Gifts can be joys, burdens, blessings and curses, yet they are always given with uncertain tenderness, in a posture of vulnerability.

It's early....

January 24th, 1998- A blankness of the most violet depth arose and dismayed me; a blankness like dreamless sleep, but swimming with backward peering nymphs and troglodytes; fractured pavement oozing rainwater, trees thrashing beneath a storm swollen sky, party stores clinking like silverware and power lines that invigorated this abyss with palpable electric. Then, there was a light, and a clap of thunder, and I awoke. I awoke holding my 12 gauge shotgun, on the porch, my index finger tight on the trigger, and it occurred to me this is from where the thunder came. It startled and frightened me so, disrobed me of drunkenness and left me standing nude, stupid and staring-eyed. Every nightbird arose and descended in a senseless flock upon my head, their talons embedded through my hair, tangled as if in thorny briers. I recall this as if a distant nightmare, a puberty induced dream wrapped in tremulous bedsheets, a vision that stings so deeply you can't help but reel for days.

So began mine dismantling-

so began the crumbling of the fortress referred to as Me.

Chaos enchanted and beguiled me.

I believed I was Jesus Christ for 22.5 minutes,

I believed I was Rimbaud and Whitman for an hour, maybe more.

In the meantime, the ghost within me withered down to sleep, to recuperate in a bower of tail lights and blackberry across the street.

I'll tell you this much,

the only sure way to live is to die; die an infinite click of deaths, trample your own viscera a thousand times, shoot yourself through the teeth of that insipid smile and cup the ichor in your palms, anoint your belly, loins and genitalia with this.

There are baptisms upon clay beneath azure,

as well as baptisms of whiskey and semen and dope and cunt.

Shatter your wrists through sextillions of window panes and smear shut the light in your eyes.

Upon me next descended a flock of 2000 police officers, all of them skittish and fearful, round bellied but empty; all of them sought a fragment of me they could beat bloody. What they failed to take into account though was that I had done it for them, and I had for years, and for that they were quite resentful.

I would've made a wonderful executioner.

January 25th, 1998- 30 hours in a tomb. Shoulderblades of wings ache, spine too. Dozing off and nodding in and back through the reverence of a Superbowl Sunday, catching glimpses of my gaze in reinforced plastic glass and stainless steel.

Here's a story of the kid who shared those 30 hours in a tomb with me:

Another Friday night in wretched Eastpointe, police prowlers creeping 8 Mi. in search of black felons. The kid said he was a repo man, the first or second night on the job. His partner and him were repossessing a delinquent vehicle in the parking lot of a K-Mart on Gratiot Rd. when a cop cruiser pulled in. The officers asked routine questions, received unusual answers, a quick frisk and ID check ensued. Upon the kid they found a small folded knife, tucked in his boot. He was promptly arrested and charged with "Felonious Possession of a Concealed Weapon" or some such ridiculous charge. The whole thing seemed ludicrous to me! The kid was 20, 21, and claimed he'd never in his life been in trouble with the law. And this became apparent to me after listening to him speak with his parents on the phone in our cell. His voice was subdued in a despairing way, an anxious way first timers in a lock up have; it is a beseeching and anguished tone because it is overwhelmed with impatience and uncertainty. My heart really went out to him, and together we endured the vast, boring weekend in a city precinct holding cell.

We chatted, paced, gazed out longingly at the freedom through the reinforced glass; we were shrill in our desire for cigarettes, complained loudly of the cardboard the cops issued us as bedding to place upon the granite benches situated around the cell, drank strange tasting water from the fountain provided, urinated it back out into the stainless steel toilet provided.

Strangers spirited in and out: angry black men, drunk, equally angry, white men, confused teens, cursing drug addicts, crestfallen proletariats. Like a tide they came in and bailed out, but the kid and I remained, token felons. Monday dawn was leagues away and hopeless, so we'd try to sleep, to no avail. The sluggish hours were punctuated with greasy sandwiches and the intermittent clanking of cages. Approaching footfalls stimulated expectation of some sort of interaction with the world outside, yet it often only culminated with the disappointment of passing and departure; these agonizing minutes tormented me, perhaps all of us.

The majority of what I listened to from the tide of prisoners were complaints.

They were treated unfairly (true enough), they always assigned blame for their predicament to another (girlfriends, mothers, best buddies, the dog). Yet the loudest complaints were emitted from the younger drunken, stoned twentysomethings. They complained like the rest did, but in a way that presumed they, unlike the rest of us, should be exempt from this unfair detention on the grounds that life and/or fate owed them deferential treatment not afforded the rest of us. And this deferential treatment should be afforded them due to the fact that they were selfless enough to have appeared in the world, and they were entitled to something more, something better.

Shut up!!! Fuck off!!! Lemme sleep you yakking pigeons!!!! The 30 hours would have passed easier in a solitary cell, at least in some certain, existential way. I've found that the best to be imprisoned with in these circumstances are the homeless. The only time they awaken is to eat or defecate, my kind of cellmate! Put me, if you must, into a penitentiary full of the marginal misfits of the world and I'd be as happy as a pig in shit!!

Often, the loneliest and most harrowing prisons are those that have been erected in the charnel house of freedom. Street folk are well aware of this, but they're not telling; their mouths are too full of the awful food and their eyes too heavy with a comfort of negligible warmth.

January 26th, 1998- As the night seeped out through the flood grates along with a styrofoam scrambled egg, anticipation crushed the levee of boredom holding my spirit.

30 of us mucked together behind the reinforced glass; some slouched against a wall, others were seated upon the floor and around the granite benches, and always one man straining over the telephone, his ear turned in a futile effort toward the nearly inaudible voice issuing from the speaker. Most of us simply stood or paced impatiently, expectantly. Within the cell anxiety was allowed full bloom in this ideal environment of regret, incipient recompense, and worried speculation of just what that recompense may entail.

The crowded scent of 30 strangers stifled me! The lingering vestiges of cologne barely concealed the odor of sweat and sour breath, hours old alcohol and cigarette ash. The raucous conversation and undercurrents of murmuring moved the anxious, stinking air around even more, and I felt tense and nauseous.

The bootknife kid was beside me, arms crossed, throat empty, eyes darting. His anxiety overwhelmed my senses, so I moved away and paced about.

Finally, I closed my eyes and made a language of the minutes. I no longer wished to see the ceiling above me which I'd counted the white squares of countless times. I tired of the incessant telephone yammering, foul tasting water and ghastly reflection of myself trapped in the cell's plexiglass window. I was weary of these drunks and crooks, the jailhouse lawyer complaints and speculation. I no longer cared to see the spattering of pimples flung across the cheeks and forehead of the bootknife kid, or hear his common voice, or smell his sweaty smell, or, for that matter, my own! I knew I stunk, I knew my breath stunk; my armpits and anus felt gluey and abrasive. My hair was spiky because I'd run my dirty fingers through it so many times, and by this time I had created novels of the minutes.

We were finally herded into the courtroom; along colorless blocks of wall trapping fluorescent light some faceless guard hurried us. The lopsided timetable of the justice system appalls me! Any poor soul tumbling into this pitcher plant learns quickly enough your time and obligations mean nothing, while the machinery of the courts operations are inordinately valorized and held high above any other worldly concern, so in this sense it functions quite swiftly...so be it!!

Apprehension coursed through my blood and pitched me forward blushingly; all of our eyes were cast downward, all of our feet shuffled laboriously as if manacled. Even amidst the reeling of my mind, it was wonderful to be out of that cell! This transient liberation rejuvenated me and left me feeling that, no matter what the outcome before the judge, I was at least unfettered from the bondage of the tomb. But physical release from a holding cell is short lived and contains only ambiguous promise.

Within the box the bailiff instructed us to sit in wafted an iciness that, in comparison, made the tomb an equatorial tropic!

Ugly faces perched upon trunks of neck gaped at our vulnerability; every visage a mask of scar tissue, scribbled mouths mouthing silent consonants, all horrid and fork tongued.

Amongst the throng an angel shone forth, an indelible angel focused upon me...Catherine! Her eyes trembled on mine, round and blue, two ineluctable tarns, and her mouth mouthed silent consonants I couldn't translate. I could only nod sheepishly and grin. I felt an utter drip, a completed bum. Packed together as we were, surrounded by spectators and detectives and guards and scribes, I suddenly felt lonelier than I had the entire 30 hours before. The blackness of an eclipse stole over my spirit and shrunk me to a squirming corpuscle.

The bailiff ordered the court to rise, and in a rustling of whatever it is that rustles when people pick themselves up off benches, we stood for Your Honor.

The Judge turned out to be Catherines' sisters' Father-in-law...what a break!! He was grey headed and imposing, judicious and stern, but human, at least, from my perspective. Of course, I'd shaken his hand before dinner with the family, we'd drank Scotch together, shared small talk, this was very good!! I relaxed some and glanced at Catherine. Judging from her expression, it seemed she relaxed some as well.

I find describing a courtroom drama gratuitous. If this account should come across eyes that have not experienced this delirium first hand, I'd suggest setting this aside to venture out to begin garnering the nuggets of life. This is not to say that having a court hearing is a necessity to live a genuine life, but unfortunately it is an ordeal humans often must endure in an attempt to live freely. Anyhow, let's clear away the grime of codified ritual and administrative machination, after all, I'm not dictated to by legal obligations, ethics or orthodoxy. I'm a free man, and I can write as I please, just as one can read what they choose.

I bailed out of the tomb on January 26th, 1998 at approximately 2:00 pm...just about 2000 years after the death of Christ, at least so some believe.

February 2nd, 1998- Work was slow; work of every imaginable type crawled sluggishly between the cleavage of snow drifts flopped on the curb. And these drifts of snow would swirl away, and reappear shortly thereafter, slowly, methodically, as if created by the working hands of some silent potter.

Work was slow and I didn't have much to do about it, I didn't care. I wanted to just drink and copulate and blot out my forlorn freedom which, incidentally, didn't feel much like I thought freedom should. I believed, as I still do, that freedom was defined as self-determination, the unfettered quest for meaning. Instead, I merely felt bound: bound by my job as a roofer, bound by my job as a dope peddler, bound by my relationship with Catherine.

And many moons crept down and back upon us. Many frayed nights tangled with Catherine in efforts to disavow my captivity, and many more boring transactions with even more boring potheads sucking with a ghostly inhalation of $30 or more.

And February limped with me into pool halls and strip bars; drug dens where sickness was free in some constitutive sense that I was not. This soaring liberated social malady became an epidemic of delivering desired darkness; yet amidst the ghoulish filth there was Catherine.

I loved her so monstrously then, loved her like the stunted and deformed love, rabidly, possessively. With savor I devoured her in our garden, beneath a blanket of snow below a low stone wall scarred with indecipherable hieroglyphs.

February, cont'- Catherine and I fell into the television and lost what little we knew of ourselves; we shoved all aside to sing along with one more commercial jingle.

My birthday came and went, I can't recall what we did. I assume we had dinner in some two bit, red napkined joint where they try to conceal the absence of culinary competence with haphazard plate dressings and high prices. What did it matter? I'd just suck down another of whatever it was I was drinking that night and I could've eaten a dog's intestines.

And in retrospect, that's what it all seemed like to me; everything tasted cheap and vile so I'd garnish the plate with my frilly ornament of bourbon, my red cloth napkin of wine...but damn! at what a price! I'd set little roses of booze all around in an attempt to disregard the bitter and rancid essence within me. I felt trapped as well: trapped by acquaintances, business and personal, that I met with day in and out; the go-nowhere job I had, the house that seemed as if it were about to collapse into a worm ridden gash, and Catherine...maybe it's still too soon to fully and coherently write of what and how I felt for her. I know that at the time, she was the one and only person in my life that made any sense. She complimented and defended me, and it seemed as if she loved me more than I could ever love myself, and I was grateful. And in my detestable gratitude, I was more cruel to her than anyone before.

I was violent toward her in ways I'm ashamed to admit. I must have murdered her on a million occasions in the time we shared together. I'd drink everyday and miss work. I'd blow bad breath that stunk of bourbon down her throat and trample her heart repeatedly. I would try to make it up to her, but it would all just again become more booze swilling, more meaningless carousing, more violent thrusts into her soul. I think I did all this in part because I loathed her. I could not believe she was so weak and blind, it repelled me! Why wouldn't she leave? why would she return when she did escape me for the night? So I could punch her air out some more? trample her? use her? kick her again in the mouth as she begged me for mercy? I'd scream at her,

"I'll never marry you! You're weak and pathetic! Our children would be worse monsters than we are!"

And everyday I'd wake up hungover, and she'd be next to me sleeping soundly. As she slept, I'd tie her down and cut her open; I'd dig and root around within her, leaving the hideous incision open to fester and ooze.

As it is with anyone I feel deeply for, I would excavate and dismantle her, and in this process she finally lost her function to breathe, or see or move. Like the passionately unfeeling scientist, indifferent to the reality that life dwells within the subject/object he's to dissect, I'd brutally kill her to try to understand why she couldn't believe she deserved a better man than me! I tested her love and trust too many times to count, and in a sense, I hated her, because it seemed, like with me, that she hated herself more. Neither of us carried much love for our own selves, yet we loved the other as we'd never loved anyone before.

Her love was suffering and submission, mine was to test the limits of suffering she could endure. We were both innocently wrong, on all counts! I owe her more than I will ever be able to return; she gave everything that she could, she exhausted within herself every possible exertion to help and love me...which was possibly her biggest mistake.

Now, the only thing to do is live my life as well as I'm able, and allow time to resume its natural course.

My lawyer was a small bird named Mary.

She scratched and clucked about the courthouse as if upon the straw scattered flooring of a chicken coop, but she saved my ass.

Catherine and I waited, plopped disconsolately in straight back chairs. Catherine seemed more apprehensive and concerned than I. And though I felt quite acute anxiety, it had an almost anesthetic quality. Additionally, I felt quite a bit of confidence in Mary's courtroom skills in legal argument, and, more importantly, her obvious familiarity and friendliness with everyone, from clerks to prosecutors. There is a certain serenity which comes with an acknowledgement of helplessness, and this felt confirmed within myself during that arraignment. I felt complete abandon and some soothing disconnection, which afforded me the luxury of feeling deep compassion for all the despondent and voiceless defendants I shared the docket with. They were all me, I was them, and the judges and attorneys were us as well! The only noticeable difference between us all being the side of the law we found ourselves on. This insight shook loose my sweaty palms allowing me to wave frantically away any residue of nausea or confusion. I found bitter condolence amongst the thralls, and they, in turn, had my condolences. And within an abyss we are shrunken, left to wither in some forgotten mud where the deep tracks of a shapeless entity have tread before us.

Strangely enough, the Judge set me loose on advisement. I should've been charged with two felonies at least: Unlawful Discharge of a Firearm Within City Limits and Possession of Narcotics (the police had found a 1/4 oz. of marijuana on my person, but had failed to uncover the 1/2 lb. of marijuana in my freezer, half of which had already been bagged up into smaller quantities for distribution.) The Prosecutor had also recommended charging me with Destruction of Private Property (I'd shot a low brick wall separating our property from the property of a small church next door. The Reverend of the Parish though, brimming over with Christian tolerance, did not pursue pressing charges against me.).

I was released, free and clear, with somber warnings, court costs, and solemn oaths from the Judge assuring me all charges would be reinstated and I would suffer the full impact of my indiscretions if I were to appear before him again.

I spewed thanks to the Judge. I thanked and wrung Mary's hand graciously. I hugged Catherine warmly, and chortled with glee in the dark heart of myself due to the naivete of these blind and stupid fools.

It was then a shuddering of a magnitude before unfelt coursed through my frame. I was heaved into an atavistic maelstrom, a reinforcing of steel studded battlements was at work. From my heights, from the turrets, I'd put the sights of my shotgun on...me. And in so doing, on humanity, letting loose 2000 volleys. I discerned clearly enough the advantage of my position and the stature of my spirit. No human law could drown me in the stinking mud. I followed the law of a quest, a mission, to open the 'bile-filled belly of civilization'!

It seemed clear to me then that the Judge released me not in service to his better judgement, but against it! And to what end? He saw I was a savage, but one who bore gifts, who wasn't of his race, but of the Mongol clan. He knew a monstrous truth resides here in me: a knowledge of rhythm and the majesty of life, enough anyway to flay the hides of the living and tear asunder the sickness.

But, like from Cendrars "Moravagine", the Judge would have been better advised to "hem me in with the 100,000 bayonets of Western enlightenment", for woe unto Your Honor for dismissing the conclusion of the preceding sentence, "for woe unto you if I leave the dark of my cave and set about in earnest to chase off your clamorings.".

I speak of blood and illusions (or delusions, for aren't all these writings just drunken delusions? Rubbish really!), but isn't blood what life flows in, and aren't illusions only moments of clarity? Within the deep dark hours of black-out, there is a perverse choir that sings from a hymn book written in the blood of long dead aborigines; lines scrawled in the living dirt of ancient roads and wagon ruts. All of this life flows out and back from me, and I taste it like I taste the rabid sputum of bourbon. Its clench is often unappealing, but the phantasy it inspires is tangible and ecstatic. Tremors shred me to streamers, and I roll back my eyes and peer into the billows of infinity. All that man is reveals itself to me, and I can comprehend for a moment why life will always flourish and never abey. I awaken from drunkenness and the husk that I am suffers the scars of the savage in investigating the sickness which pins me as a helpless child to the pavement of the earth.

When my walls run with blood (as they often do), I know it is only my blood.

How futile to bandage the gashes upon my body, for I witness again the gauze become saturated from this flux.- March, 1998

Take a look at the ABOUT page for more information on this series.

Go to the REFERENCE GUIDE for detailed info on the greater world at large.

We now have a COLLECTIONS INDEX page here on Tuhat, so that should make things easier, with organizing these posts.

The first flashback scene for chapter 4. The title of this chapter is Between the Lines.

The modern occupants of Niam have only a rudimentary understanding of Niam's past, especially anything prior to the Earth decade of the 1960's. Mary McGalland led the expedition into Niam, using her inquisitiveness, smarts and quick witted nature. That much is known to be true. But despite this glamorous stature that she's been assigned to in Niam's history books, the truth is not nearly as rosy as storytellers would lead you to believe.

Which begs the question of who the storytellers are.

It was late in the afternoon. Just past Melody, Mary-Anne could see the array of clouds cased in the glow of the evening rays. She wanted to step outside, but she couldn't go anywhere with this busted foot of hers. She had to lay back in her bed.

Mary’s head was tilted over to her left. Melody Catratt sat at her bedside. As usual, Melody was very chatty. Mary's mother was back in the living room, poised over a pot hanging in the living room fireplace.

"I hope your foot will heal up soon," Melody said. "I say, that was a mighty deep hole you got yourself into!"

"My foot feels mostly cured. I should be out of bed in no time."

"Yes, but it will be long before you go into those woods again, Mary-Anne!" her mother piped up as she stepped in the room. "There are many dangerous creatures out there who could tear a grown Christian man limb from limb! I would not dare see such a sight befall on you!"

"I scarcely bore intention to endanger myself," said Mary as she sat up. "I was only curious as to what laid yonder the fields and forest."

"And why did you venture into this underground cave I was told about by Melody – even with your sore foot? You had such little care for your own well being, Mary-Anne?"

Mary wasn’t sure how to respond. She thought about telling her what she found in the tunnels, but Mary was reluctant. It was possible the adults would think the tunnels were cursed. Mary didn't think that, but she didn't know what to think. Whatever those tunnels were, they were certainly not cursed! Mary didn’t have evidence to prove otherwise, but she had made her mind up on that front!

With nothing to say on the matter, Mary could only hang her head.

"I am sorry, Mother."

"Pray the good lord that you are! I shall see to your father. I will have him find that hole in the ground and seal it up as soon as possible!"

Mary let out a gasp. Now she had no choice! She had to say something! Mary was about to do so, but Melody motioned for her to hush. She displayed a modest grin.

Her mother stepped outside to find Mary's father. Chances were that her father was helping the Laughshild family with building their house.

"Why did you silence me?" Mary asked Melody. "I cannot have father seal those tunnels!"

"And he will not!" Melody insisted. "I am sorry for all this. I should have known when to keep my tongue to myself – but I had Hollard and the boys cover up the hole with wooden planks! They threw dirt, grass and hay all over it! You can walk over that hole in the ground and never know it was there! I promise you! Your father will never find it!"

"Can these planks support heavy weight?"

"It appeared to me as if they could hold anything."

"Have the boys tried exploring those ruins?"

"They have, but none tried to go as far as you did! They’re plum terrified of that ceiling, Mary! I don’t blame ‘em! I dare say, the whole thing could come crashing down!”

"Yes. That is a problem," sighed Mary.

"Hollard is not worried. Strange conservation I had with him yesterday! He claims to know someone who can help brace the walls. Says he's riding here to Farmington on horseback."

"I heard that boy likes spinning tales of grandeur," Mary scoffed. "Even if Hollard tells the truth, one person cannot make safe those vestiges. You would need teams of burly, capable men for such an undertaking!"

"Yes. I most certainly would say so. Speaking of capable men, I do hear the Laughshilds are funding a railroad company to lay down tracks by our town! We'll even get a train station! The Laughshilds are wealthy enough to will it, it seems. The company is already in town. They even have a line of fancy stage coaches right at the Laughshild's front door! I never seen such proper stage coaches, Mary-Anne! They say Fabius Stukely Railroad Company on one side! On the other side, they say, 'Pioneers for the future' – a most cheerful advert, I would surmise."

Just as Melody finished talking, the two girls heard a loud commotion outside. Melody rushed over to the small window a few feet away from Mary's bed and peered outside.

"Oh, my! Your father has a man pinned to the ground! An out-of-towner! They're in front of the Roster house!"

The Roster house was a large cabin that contained escaped and freed black slaves. They came here in hopes to escape the reaches of the south. They came a long way to get here.

Melody could barely make out what was being shouted amongst the men, but she understood what was going on. Mary did as well.

"Move along! Leave this town be!" Melody heard Mary's father shout.

The other man was released. He scurried up from the ground and glanced menacingly over at the youngest of the freed slaves, who was backed up against the outside cabin wall. There was some more shouting before the culprit fled. He mounted his horse and galloped away.

The conflict was resolved. Still, Melody and Mary were none too happy about it. Events like these gave the sense that the rude and vile were swarming these lands like an infestation of cockroaches.

"Ever sense you fell in that hole, Mary-Anne, there's been a strange feeling in the air," Melody stated quietly as she backed away from the window. "I'm starting to think this dreaded feeling does not arise from those tunnels, but from mankind itself. I've been wondering if the two are somehow related."

"Civilization has no knowledge of those tunnels," rejected Mary with a wave of her hand. "My fall gives no reason to stir the evil's of Man! If anything, those tunnels are a refuge. I would pray they remain as such. That is until an agreement of their existence can be breached amongst reasonable adults – my mother excluded."

I'm not much for begging, but if you think I did something worthwhile, consider chipping a dollar or some satoshi's my way.

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ETH: 0xdD18CF0b2bC233DE588AA29E349e4037Da9217B86

buymeacoffee.com/robotkinz

Thank you very much for reading. :)

Since starting tuhat, I've had one major goal: that tuhat be useful. For it to be like any good tool, enabling you to do more of what couldn't be done without it. While at the same time to be built on radically different principles than the status quo tech platforms that we've all become used to over the past 25 years.

Those that claim to be free, all the while commoditizing every interaction you have with them. This warped incentive inevitably leads to keeping you online as much as possible; the more time you spend on them, the more money they make.

The challenge is to build something that is a maximally useful tool, but one its user controls, not one that controls its users.

Status Quo

Today there are multiple routes for creatives, nonprofits, and organizations of varying shapes to get the word out there and build a community around their endeavors. Though the majority are captured by two platforms which vary in little more than name. Substack and Patreon hold the lion's share, and their business model is built on taking a 10% cut. This means their claims to value free speech are more likely about projecting their bottom line; they don't ultimately care what their users are saying if their 10% cut is big enough.

Further, both rely on Stripe and sometimes PayPal to actually move money, so another ~5% goes there. That's ~15% of the money to support the world's creative and social projects going towards a handful of US tech giants, all seeking profits over all else. Even radical groups of varying stripes who are deeply against the principles and approaches of these platforms use them as they need the support and either aren't aware of or don't think there are viable alternatives.

What's missing?

What leads to those who you'd think would eschew such platforms using them? If you have an idea, I'd greatly appreciate if you could fill out this survey. It should take less than a minute. I'd like to stress that I don't want to add everything to tuhat. The best tools do one or at most a few things well, not everything. There may be some major feature missing from tuhat, or perhaps there is a space for a complementary tool to be used alongside it.

Building for you

The beauty of building a shared platform like tuhat is the community around it can make it better for everyone that uses it. I'm here to enable the goals of this community, not the goals of shareholders. Further, this instance of tuhat doesn't need to dominate the world, later this week I'll be open sourcing tuhat here both so people can contribute directly but also so they can run their own instance if they so desire. I've looked at federated solutions but I don't think they solve a problem tuhat has, the way articles are shared, Web/RSS/Email are already distributed and don't really benefit.

I'd greatly appreciate knowing what you think would help platforms like tuhat be viable alternatives to the status quo, please share you thoughts here

La crisis del estrecho de Ormuz suele interpretarse como un episodio geopolítico puntual: una guerra, un bloqueo, una escalada militar. Sin embargo, esa lectura apenas roza la superficie del problema. Que una quinta parte del petróleo y del gas natural licuado que consume el planeta dependa de un corredor marítimo de apenas treinta y tres kilómetros no es un fallo del sistema: es exactamente el sistema funcionando como fue diseñado. Un modelo económico basado en el crecimiento permanente necesita concentrar enormes flujos de energía allí donde resulta más rentable hacerlo, aunque eso implique convertir el planeta en una sucesión de cuellos de botella estratégicos. Diversificar proveedores, como hizo Europa tras abandonar el gas ruso, no corrige esa vulnerabilidad si el nuevo suministro reproduce la misma arquitectura de dependencia global.

Durante las últimas semanas, el estrecho de Ormuz ha vuelto a ocupar los titulares: petroleros atacados, un cierre declarado "hasta nuevo aviso" por Teherán, represalias sobre bases militares en varios países del Golfo y un barril de Brent que sube y baja como si tuviera fiebre. Es tentador interpretar todo ello como un episodio más de una guerra concreta, con sus fechas, sus bandos y su desenlace incierto. Pero conviene detenerse en un hecho que suele quedar sepultado bajo la urgencia informativa: alrededor del veinte por ciento del petróleo y del gas natural licuado que consume el mundo atraviesa ese estrecho. Ninguna decisión equivocada, ningún cálculo militar desafortunado explica por sí solo semejante concentración. Es el resultado lógico de cómo hemos organizado la economía mundial durante las últimas décadas.

La lógica que ha construido esta vulnerabilidad no es un accidente geográfico, sino una elección de diseño. Un sistema orientado al crecimiento continuo persigue, por definición, la máxima eficiencia: transportar el mayor volumen posible al menor coste posible y en el menor tiempo posible. Aplicada a escala planetaria, esa lógica concentra inevitablemente los flujos en unos pocos corredores estratégicos —Ormuz, Bab el-Mandeb, Malaca o Suez— porque mantener rutas alternativas, capacidades ociosas, almacenamiento o producción local reduce los beneficios.

La eficiencia no solo disminuye costes; también elimina toda capacidad considerada improductiva. Las reservas estratégicas, la redundancia, los márgenes de seguridad o la producción de proximidad desaparecen porque inmovilizan capital. El resultado es una economía extraordinariamente eficiente para generar beneficios y extraordinariamente frágil para garantizar el abastecimiento. Cuanto más optimizado está un sistema, menos capacidad tiene para absorber una perturbación sin transmitirla, amplificada, al resto de la red. Ormuz no es la excepción que pone a prueba un sistema sólido; es la demostración de cómo funciona.

El caso más evidente de esta arquitectura es el del gas natural licuado. Alrededor del noventa y tres por ciento de las exportaciones de Catar y el noventa y seis por ciento de las de Emiratos Árabes Unidos dependen exclusivamente de este paso marítimo. No existe un gasoducto alternativo ni una ruta secundaria capaz de sustituirlo. No hay, literalmente, un plan B.

Europa creyó haber aprendido la lección tras la invasión rusa de Ucrania. Renunció a los gasoductos rusos y los sustituyó por gas natural licuado transportado en barco desde otros proveedores. Se presentó como un éxito de la diversificación y de la seguridad energética. Pero Ormuz demuestra que Europa no redujo su dependencia; simplemente cambió de proveedor sin cuestionar un modelo basado en importar enormes cantidades de energía desde miles de kilómetros de distancia. Confundió diversificación comercial con soberanía energética.

En realidad, el problema no es Ormuz. Si mañana desapareciera este cuello de botella, el sistema seguiría necesitando otro. Una economía que exige mover cantidades crecientes de energía y materiales por todo el planeta siempre acabará concentrando esos flujos en unos pocos corredores estratégicos. Los nombres pueden cambiar; la vulnerabilidad permanece.

Los números de estas semanas ilustran bien el coste de esa fragilidad. El barril de Brent, que rondaba los setenta dólares a comienzos de julio en pleno optimismo por una tregua, llegó a superar los ciento veinte dólares durante los momentos más tensos del conflicto, para volver a repuntar con fuerza en cuanto la escalada militar se reanudó. El gas europeo ha oscilado entre los treinta y cinco y los sesenta euros por megavatio hora según los distintos escenarios. Más allá de las cifras concretas, lo relevante es la enorme volatilidad de un sistema cuya estabilidad depende de que nada falle.

Además, esa volatilidad nunca se reparte de manera simétrica. Los precios suben con rapidez y descienden lentamente, reproduciendo el conocido "efecto cohete y pluma". El consumidor siempre absorbe antes los aumentos que las bajadas. La fragilidad del sistema acaba convirtiéndose en un mecanismo permanente de transferencia de renta hacia quienes controlan los recursos y las infraestructuras.

Ese castigo tampoco se distribuye de forma equitativa entre países. El fuerte encarecimiento de los fertilizantes golpea especialmente a las economías más dependientes de las importaciones, mientras organismos internacionales ya advierten del riesgo de un deterioro de la seguridad alimentaria en diversas regiones del Sur Global. En cambio, algunos países exportadores capturan beneficios extraordinarios gracias al aumento del precio del petróleo. Las crisis energéticas nunca son neutras: redistribuyen riqueza y poder siguiendo las mismas desigualdades estructurales que las precedían.

Conviene evitar aquí una simplificación frecuente. No toda reducción de la actividad económica es equivalente. Existe una diferencia esencial entre la contracción impuesta por una guerra o un colapso del suministro y una relocalización planificada, gradual y democráticamente decidida. La primera empobrece de forma caótica y golpea sobre todo a quienes disponen de menos recursos. La segunda pretende reducir la dependencia antes de que llegue el siguiente shock, fortaleciendo la producción local, disminuyendo la exposición a los mercados internacionales y repartiendo de forma más justa los costes de la transición. Confundir ambas situaciones conduce a una crítica injusta del decrecimiento. El empobrecimiento ya está ocurriendo; la diferencia es que hoy lo impone un sistema frágil e imprevisible en lugar de una decisión colectiva orientada al bien común.

El caso español ofrece un ejemplo parcial de esta diferencia. La elevada penetración de las energías renovables ha amortiguado parte del impacto de la crisis sobre el precio de la electricidad durante las horas de mayor producción solar y eólica. Sin embargo, el problema reaparece cuando el sistema sigue necesitando centrales de gas para cubrir la demanda. Además, las propias tecnologías renovables dependen de cadenas globales de suministro, minerales críticos e infraestructuras complejas. Sustituir unas fuentes energéticas por otras no basta si el objetivo sigue siendo sostener un consumo creciente de energía y materiales. Sin una reducción deliberada de la demanda, existe el riesgo de reemplazar unas dependencias por otras.

Hay, además, un coste que raramente aparece en la factura energética. El libre comercio mundial suele presentarse como un fenómeno puramente económico, cuando en realidad descansa sobre una infraestructura militar permanente. Flotas navales, bases militares, alianzas estratégicas y presupuestos de defensa gigantescos existen, en buena medida, para garantizar que petróleo, gas y mercancías continúen circulando por los principales corredores marítimos. Las primas de los seguros para atravesar Ormuz se disparan cuando aumenta el riesgo, pero incluso en tiempos de paz seguimos pagando, de forma mucho menos visible, el coste de mantener abierto ese sistema mediante el poder militar. La globalización nunca ha sido únicamente un mercado; también ha sido una forma de organización militar del planeta.

Ormuz volverá a abrirse y los mercados recuperarán, durante un tiempo, la ilusión de normalidad. Pero la próxima crisis llegará en otro estrecho, otro puerto o otra cadena de suministro. No porque el mundo sea imprevisible, sino porque una economía que necesita crecer sin límite depende inevitablemente de infraestructuras cada vez más grandes, más concentradas y más vulnerables.

La verdadera alternativa no consiste en proteger mejor esos corredores ni en buscar nuevos proveedores. Consiste en dejar de necesitarlos. Eso implica consumir mucha menos energía y muchos menos materiales, relocalizar la producción esencial, fortalecer la autosuficiencia de los territorios y aceptar que la resiliencia exige renunciar a una parte de la eficiencia económica. Mientras el crecimiento siga siendo el objetivo irrenunciable, Ormuz no será una excepción: será un anticipo del futuro.

The clouds have been building up – a coming together of moisture, vapor, and hope. The colors changed from white to beige to grey to a looming darkness that promised relief. The tension sat on the shoulders and necks of the town’s people. They hoped the clouds would let go, so they could also relax, even just for a moment. But as they thought they could smell the rain, the clouds sucked up the remaining air and moved on.

Hugo cut the tomatoes into quarters, the peppers in slices, and the cucumbers into cubes. He tossed them into a wooden bowl when the first guest knocked on the door.

Come in. Don’t worry about your shoes.

Francesca closed the door with an elbow while pulling a casserole dish out of a shopping bag. She made it through the narrow hallway into the kitchen. Two kisses and a judging gaze at his outfit later, she opened the oven door, pushed in the pasta bake, and set temperature and timer.

Hugo scraped the waste into the bin and reached for the corkscrew.

White, red or rosé? Or Prosecco to start?

Prosecco first – for us. Are the others coming?

Yes, but Sam and Maryam are finishing something up in the office before they can join us. As always.

And who is the odd one out this time?

Me.

Come on. Who are you ‘introducing’?

Actually, her name is Rose, and she hasn’t been in town that long.

Not another one. Hugo, you don’t do well with those. They come and they go.

Yes, and I stay. But this is not like that.

Will see.

Francesca poured each of them a glass and saluted. She inhaled the prickly gas bubbles and tones of cedar or flowers or whatever sensory impression she was supposed to experience. She swallowed the sweet tang and hoped the alcohol would calm her down. While Hugo reported on his weekly routine, Francesca poured olive oil and then Balsamico into flat bowls and carried those into the living/dining room/office. She shimmied between the back of a sofa and fold-up chairs. Hugo had started to set the table, yet Francesca rearranged the plates, cutlery, and candles quickly, creating the illusion of more space. She didn’t understand why Hugo always invited people into his much too small apartment. At his age, and with his income, he could easily afford a much larger one. Anyways, no one volunteered to host the next get-together, so this tiny apartment would have to do.

Hugo brought in the salad, bread, and a jug of water on a tray. He examined the table in search of the right placement, so Francesca took the items and put them on the table, regardless of where since they would be in the way in any case and needed to be passed around.

Another knocking moved them back into the hallway and Francesca into the kitchen to refill her glass. She tightened the grip on the stem of her glass, brushed over her wrap-around dress, hair, and necklaces, and turned to welcome ‘Was it Rose?’

A small mousy woman entered the kitchen and handed her a package from a popular and pricey bakery.

I didn’t know what would be appropriate, so I bought tastes of different things.

Francesca pegged her as a people pleaser – that’s why the work at an NGO, did Hugo mention that? Well, he seems to go for that type and that look: not urban and stylish; monochromatic but not on purpose.

Hugo introduced the women formally and Rose asked for water, so Francesca added more Prosecco to her glass, examined the bottle and emptied it. She opened the second pane of the kitchen window to counter the heat from the oven. Even though the night air felt cooler, for Francesca it wasn’t a relief. The hum of the last few days stuck.

Hugo recited the layout of the apartment, the legend of how he had made friends with Francesca in London and how they – years apart and independently – moved to this town at about the same time. They compared work/yes, relationship/no, off-spring/so not status while reaching for olives. Rose nibbled, Hugo tossed some into his mouth, excusing his silence, and Francesca ran the monologue, keeping her from opening the wine bottles just yet.

The timer went off. Now, everyone was busy, taking the last bits to the table, creating varied paths over the obstacle course that was Hugo’s set up, ensuring that they really had everything. Hugo felt like a strategic mastermind: giving Francesca the seat to his right but letting Rose fill the seat to his left, thereby ensuring that she could listen to Francesca from a safe distance.

The salad made its first pass around just as Sam and Maryam stormed into the apartment.

It just won’t rain, will it.

It’s been what? A week with this will it; won’t it?

Some say it’s geoengineering, which doesn’t exist or we would never do, mind you.

So, this is Rose. Nice to meet you.

Yes, Rose, Welcome to, I don’t know, our ‘humble fold’ sounds too religious. We are by no means a cult; we are much too exclusive.

I see Francesca has been having fun without us. We have some catching up to do.

More salad is placed on plates and Hugo brought out the pasta bake, from which Sam and Maryam took an extra-large serving. For a few minutes, the voices ceased and only the sound of cutlery and the crunch of lettuce or cucumber could be heard. Everything felt lighter and more intense. Sam’s shoulders rounded over the edge of the table while Maryam occupied only half of her seat, not leaning but keeping her back erect and tense. This way only small bites traveled between her fork and mouth. Francesca lubricated every fork-full with a sip of wine. Hugo ate with the worry of a host, checking that each guest had enough food and actually liked the meal. Rose shifted from relaxed – I’ve been to so many of these friend-group-gatherings and know the dynamics – to agitated – I’ve read all the Substack articles about small talk and haven’t got a question to ask.

Sam broke the silence after sating his initial hunger and asked Francesca about her current projects. While she rattled off the latest progress in phase three, Sam’s eyes wandered between Francesca and Rose, which Maryam followed. Hugo noticed the calculated precision of Maryam’s observation and the threat assessment of Rose. It would not be the first time that Sam would fuck the odd girl. Hugo knew a detailed Q+A session would commence when Maryam volunteered to help with the dishes and coffee later on in the kitchen, but could he vouch for Rose? He hadn’t known her that long or well.

So Rose, what brings you to our town?

Accounting.

Everyone burst out loud.

Who still has an accounting job? Isn’t AI doing that?

Well, yes, and I’m using AI for some models.

Watch out that you don’t account yourself out of a job!

That’s highly unlikely currently. I’m assessing the value of the drowned migrants.

Like the guy in Fight Club? You know, a finger is worth so-and-so much.

I suppose quite similar. In fact, I’m establishing the potential value loss of future earnings and contribution to the overall economy, compare those to the savings in resources and social services and analyze the data points between the intended host nations and countries of origin.

Can you really put a price on human tragedies like these?

I’m not taking the emotional toll and individual suffering into account. My clients are less interested in that but rather in the contribution values and innovation losses. Since I’m mostly focusing on the under twenty, I track the potential of the loss. Let’s say, this person is eighteen and has received a fairly advanced education during childhood. This individual would have landed in Spain, worked in the agricultural sector and developed a more sustainable, water-saving method of growing tomatoes. Now, this loss has become more far-reaching than previously considered.

Who is ready for coffee?

Oh, I brought dessert.

Even Sam helped clear the table. They sucked in stomachs, avoided furnishings, and moved with extra care in the kitchen. Hugo set the large Italian coffee maker on the gas stove and Maryam gathered small coffee cups. When Rose took the dessert platter into the kitchen, Maryam asked,

Do we like Rose?

Francesca drained someone’s glass and gulped.

Can’t say.

Too soon.

A bit creepy.

The coffee machine erupted and spat out the last drops. The group retook their seats and passed Rose’s paper plate, that she had rearranged in the meantime, taking a couple of sweets to offset the bitter aroma of the espresso. Hugo carefully selected two pieces, wondering if his choice of dark chocolate and pistachio could say something specific about him and become data points.

Francesca felt sober after the first sip though the coffee couldn’t be responsible for that.

Who are your clients?

I can’t name them, obviously, but they are larger entities that invest in the future. So, these losses are not theoretical but practical. As a matter of fact, the next step is to demand reparations from countries and organizations directly responsible for these losses.

How horrible to commodify deaths.

Well, isn’t it even more horrible to just read about them in the headlines? And then do nothing?

Sounds familiar: companies benefiting from the death of strangers.

Yes, but at least those deaths are then real and accounted for. Who do you work for?

As product designers it varies. Super high stress but super lucrative.

And you, Francesca?

Actually, we don’t talk about work or jobs in my culture.

But you did share about your project not that long ago. So, who do you work for?

Hugo stepped in and declared

In marketing it depends. Francesca is working in an agency, but I do mostly freelance, so I can decide who I want to work with.

And all of you like living here?

Absolutely: we love the history, the culture, the food – of course the food, most importantly.

All is a bit slow, all is a bit more complicated than necessary, but then again, I’m not bothered by a little corruption – if it goes in my favor. Seriously though, this town is in my top five.

You don’t feel troubled by what you do, Rose?

Do you feel troubled by what you do?

Sam felt the rush of caffeine and thought of one more email he should write; Maryam released the worry that Rose would not be another calendar entry; Francesca decided to avoid expats for a while; Hugo swept crumbs onto his plate.

The evening closed with this uncomfortable knowledge that nothing was gained as they wished ‘good to see yous’ and ‘good byes.’ Sam and Maryam pounded down the stairs. Rose walked a bit slower but relieved to get out of the tight space. Francesca hung back, kissed Hugo longer than friendship would have allowed for, and closed the door with a sense of finality.

Hugo looked out into the troubled sky but didn’t close the windows, for it wouldn’t rain again.

Naming the system that is consolidating while we watch for a collapse

I. The Wrong Name

Something happened over the last several decades that most of our political and economic vocabulary is not equipped to describe. The tariffs came back. The monopolies got bigger. Governments started picking industrial winners again. Platforms absorbed entire markets while regulators drafted memos. Wealth consolidated at a pace not seen since the Gilded Age. And everywhere, in think pieces, in comment sections, on protest signs, the same phrase appeared to name it.

Late-stage capitalism.

The phrase is understandable. It points at something real: the sense that what we are living through is excessive, extractive, and increasingly incompatible with ordinary human life. But before leaning on a term, it is worth knowing where the term came from, because this one has a genealogy that undermines almost everything the people using it believe it says.

Marx never used it. The term was coined by Werner Sombart, a German historical economist, across the three volumes of Der moderne Kapitalismus published between 1902 and 1927, with the phrase itself appearing in 1925. Sombart was not writing prophecy. He was periodizing: early capitalism, advanced capitalism, late capitalism, with the last naming the order emerging from the wreckage of the First World War. The term then went largely dormant for decades. It acquired its Marxist weight only in 1972, when the Belgian economist Ernest Mandel built a comprehensive stage-theory analysis around it, translated into English in 1975. And here is the detail that should give every casual user of the phrase pause: even Mandel, the canonical Marxist theorist of late capitalism, described it not as a system in terminal decay but as a new epoch of expansion and acceleration in production and exchange. Fredric Jameson carried the term into cultural theory, in an essay in 1984 and the book built from it in 1991, and the internet finished the job, stripping the remaining analytical content and leaving a vibe.

So the phrase began as neutral periodization, acquired teleology through its adoption into stage theory, and shed its analytics through cultural and meme drift. What survived the whole journey is one word: late. And "late" is now doing all the work. It smuggles in a claim nobody has to defend explicitly, that we are near the end of something, that the current arrangement is running out of road, that collapse or transformation is the horizon toward which events are moving.

That claim has a track record. The terminal-crisis frame has repeatedly predicted collapses that did not arrive, and every failed prediction has armed the people who say the system is fine. If capitalism has been dying since 1925, its critics start to sound like the neighbor who has predicted rain every day for a century. The defenders of the status quo do not need to win the argument. The frame loses it for them, on schedule, every time the collapse fails to appear.

But the deeper cost of the frame is not embarrassment. It is blindness, and the mechanism of the blindness can be stated precisely.

A collapse-predicting frame sorts every observation into exactly two bins: collapsing, and not collapsing yet. That taxonomy has no bin for the thing that is actually happening, which is succession in place. If a different system is consolidating inside the institutional shell of the old one, every symptom of the new system's normal operation will be read as a malfunction of the old one. A bailout reads as market failure rather than as the new system working exactly as designed. A monopoly reads as competition breaking down rather than as chartered accumulation functioning. Regulatory capture reads as corruption of the rules rather than as the new system's method of writing them. The observer keeps diagnosing a dying capitalism because the observer is using capitalism's categories, and under those categories, the normal operations of the successor are indistinguishable from the dysfunctions of the incumbent.

This is not merely a rhetorical problem. It is a perceptual one. A native-language framework carries pre-built pathways that absorb anomalies before they can register as genuine prediction error. "Late-stage capitalism" is such a framework. Every new consolidation, every socialized loss, every captured regulator gets absorbed as confirmation that the decay is proceeding, when each one should instead be forcing the update: this is not decay. This is construction. Capitalism persists as the shell. Something else is being built inside it, and the collapse watch is the reason we keep failing to see the scaffolding.

There is one more reason the frame should trouble anyone who holds it. The people alive now are finding themselves fighting fights that American workers fought exactly one hundred years ago: concentration at historic scale, suppressed organizing, an enforcement apparatus that had not yet been built or had been dismantled, courts that treated the corporation's freedom as the freedom that mattered. The recurrence is real, and it has been documented across this series. But if the fights are recurring, the stadial story is wrong on its face. Stages do not repeat. Systems do, when the thing that once constrained them is removed. The question worth asking is not what stage we are in. It is what system we are in, and the answer requires a map.

II. The Map

Start with the standard ladder of analysis this series has used from its first article. Micro: individuals and households. Meso: organizations, firms, agencies, institutions. Macro: nation-states and national economies. Every article in this series has been, in one way or another, about what becomes invisible when analysis is locked to the wrong rung, and about who benefits from the lock.

Now place mercantilism on that ladder, because mercantilism is the system whose logic keeps surfacing in the evidence, and its structure is clearer than its reputation.

Strip mercantilism of its bullionist accounting and its powdered wigs and what remains is an invariant: a partnership between state and capital, organized for accumulation, in which public power is used to guarantee private gains and to socialize losses. That is the core. What varies across its historical instances is which partner holds seniority within the partnership. In the classical arrangement, the state was senior. The crown chartered the merchant. The East India Company, the Dutch West India Company, the navigation acts, the triangle trade: every element was designed by the state, for what the state defined as national advantage, with the merchant as the instrument. Adam Smith spent much of The Wealth of Nations attacking exactly this: politically connected merchants using state power to suppress competition, concentrating wealth in the hands of those with access to power rather than those who created value, producing rent-seekers instead of producers, deploying the language of national interest to disguise a transfer mechanism. He thought liberalism had solved it. He was wrong about how durable the solution would be.

Then, over roughly four decades and across administrations of both parties, an experiment was run that was never named while it was running. Capital was freed. Labor was not. Supply chains were globalized. Environmental standards were not. Corporate liability was made portable across borders. Worker protections were not. Global commerce was built without global governance.

The experiment did not dissolve the mercantilist partnership. It redistributed power within it, and that distinction carries the whole argument. The relationship between state and capital persists, which is what licenses the name. The seniority inverted, which is what makes the present formation new. The corporation does not operate under a royal charter. In many cases it writes the legislation that charters it. The state is not directing the accumulation. It is being instrumentalized by it.

Watch what this did to the ladder. Three migrations happened at once.

First, many nation-states, not all, were functionally demoted toward meso-level capacity. The qualifier matters and admits degrees: the United States retains more macro capacity than most, small open economies retain least, and the demotion is a description of operational capacity relative to mobile capital, not a claim about formal sovereignty. A state that raises its corporate rate unilaterally watches the tax base migrate. A regulator with national jurisdiction faces an entity with none. The instrument set that defines macro-level agency, the ability to set binding terms within one's domain, stops binding when the counterparty can exit the domain faster than the domain can respond.

Second, a growing number of individuals were elevated to meso-level actors and beyond, holding wealth at organizational magnitude and in some cases at the magnitude of states, with no democratic accountability attaching at the new position. The accountability architecture that exists for individuals was designed for the rung they left. There is no election such a person loses. There is no regulator with jurisdiction over the full operation. There is no court that can compel compliance across every jurisdiction in which the operation runs.

Third, and this is the finding that the rest of this piece turns on: the supranational tier, the level at which the accumulation now actually operates, was not left empty. It was built one-way.

For years the honest version of this argument said the top rung was vacant: no election, no full-jurisdiction regulator, no cross-border compulsion, therefore the need for global governance. That version is vulnerable to a knowledgeable critic, because supranational institutions do exist, and one family of them has real teeth. Investor-state dispute settlement, embedded in thousands of trade and investment treaties, gives capital a binding, enforceable claim against nation-states in front of arbitration panels that sit above any national court. There is no counterpart running the other direction. There is no supranational forum in which a citizenry holds transnational capital accountable with comparable force. The enforcement infrastructure at the top of the ladder was constructed, deliberately, treaty by treaty, and it was constructed to face in exactly one direction.

The documented instance is almost too clean. Próspera is a privately governed jurisdiction on the Honduran island of Roatán, established under that country's ZEDE special-jurisdiction law, operating under its own charter, its own regulatory framework, its own legal, tax, and dispute systems. Its investors on the documentary record include Peter Thiel, Marc Andreessen, and Balaji Srinivasan, through the venture fund Pronomos Capital. When Hondurans elected a government that repealed the ZEDE enabling law in 2022, the entity behind Próspera did not lose. It filed a claim before the World Bank's arbitration body for roughly eleven billion dollars at filing, a figure its own damages experts have since revised upward, approaching a third of Honduras's gross domestic product, for the offense of a democracy revoking the charter it had granted. Five United States senators and twenty-eight members of the House denounced the claim as a weaponization of the dispute-settlement system. The case is pending; the tribunal waved off Honduras's preliminary objections in 2025, and in 2026 a new Honduran government rejoined the very arbitration convention its predecessor had quit over the case. The construction and operations continue.

Hold the frame on the structure, not the personalities, because the structure is the point and it predates every name attached to this case. The same one-way rung has been used by extractive-industry claimants against governments on every continent, over environmental rulings, over public-health measures, over the ordinary exercise of democratic self-government. What the Próspera case adds is clarity of type: here the claimant is not merely a company affected by a law, but a private jurisdiction suing the nation that contains it, through a supranational instrument, for the consequences of an election. A merchant formation, senior to the state that chartered it, enforcing that seniority at a tier the state's own citizens cannot reach. If the classical mercantilist arrangement had a photograph, this is its negative.

There are proposals now to bring versions of the model onto United States federal land, under the banner of new chartered cities exempted from ordinary regulatory approval. Whatever becomes of them, the existing structure is sufficient for the argument.

So the conclusion of the map is not that the top rung is missing. It is that the rung exists, carries load, and was engineered to bear traffic in one direction only. The demand that follows is not utopian construction from nothing. It is the completion of a structure already half-built: the other direction of the same rung.

III. Two Mercantilisms

Before that demand can be stated properly, a naming collision has to be resolved, because the word this piece has been using is already in circulation with a different meaning, and the difference is where a serious critic will aim.

In the contemporary economics and policy literature, "neo-mercantilism" typically names the state-senior version: strategic industrial policy, governed markets, supply-chain sovereignty, the deliberate use of state power to steer economic development toward national goals. Dani Rodrik's defense of industrial policy and Robert Wade's account of governed markets sit in this lineage, and so, in its own description, does a large part of the current bipartisan turn toward tariffs, subsidies, and friend-shoring. That is not the formation this piece has been diagnosing. The diagnostic object here is the inversion: the merchant-senior formation, in which capital instrumentalizes the state's apparatus, writes the charters it operates under, and enforces its position through the one-way rung. Same partnership, opposite seniority. The tier map distinguishes them in one move: ask which partner is senior, and ask whether democratic accountability attaches at the tier where the power operates.

But the collision runs one level deeper, and it is better to raise the objection here than to receive it later. The remedy this series advocates involves coordinated action by states to govern capital: a global minimum tax, coordinated wealth taxation, jointly designated boundaries on accumulation. A critic fluent in the literature will say that this remedy is itself neo-mercantilism in the established sense, states reasserting strategic control over economic flows, and that the diagnosis and the prescription therefore share a name, which is either an irony or an incoherence.

The answer is that the two are distinguished by their objective functions, and the distinction is not cosmetic.

Every mercantilism, classical or contemporary, state-senior or merchant-senior, has accumulation as its objective function. It organizes public power so that someone's accumulation advances relative to someone else's. It is definitionally competitive. It requires a we whose gains are measured against a them, and it therefore requires, structurally, a population that absorbs the losses: the colonized, the enslaved, the offshored, the gig-classified, the priced-out. The loss-absorbing population is not a side effect of mercantilist arrangements. It is a load-bearing component.

What this series advocates has a different objective function: non-domination. The purpose of scale-matched governance is not to direct accumulation toward any party's advantage. It is to ensure that no actor, state or private, operates at a tier above accountability. The test can be put in one line. Mercantilism asks: how do we win? This program asks: how does no one get to rule without accountability?

The distinction is visible in the one major instrument that already exists. The OECD global minimum corporate tax, agreed to by 136 countries and jurisdictions in 2021 and by more since, was dismissed as utopian for years before it happened. Notice what it does not do. It does not help one bloc of nations beat another. It removes the arbitrage that pitted them against each other. It does not win the race to the bottom. It dismantles the race. An instrument like that is structurally anti-mercantilist under the definition just given, whatever it resembles superficially, because its objective function is the elimination of a domination channel rather than the redirection of accumulation. The same test will apply to every instrument this series has proposed, and the reader is invited to apply it adversarially.

One more placement, for readers who want the position located in the existing literature rather than asserted alongside it. Rodrik's own trilemma holds that deep economic integration, national sovereignty, and democratic politics cannot all be had at once; two of the three, at most. The four-decade experiment chose integration and nominal sovereignty at democracy's expense, and the results are the subject of this series. The program here occupies a version of Rodrik's third option, democracy plus integration through pooled governance, disciplined by subsidiarity: a floor set at the scale of the problem, decisions held as locally as the floor allows. That is a named position inside the very framework a critic would use for the conflation, and it is not the mercantilist one.

From here forward, the vocabulary discipline is fixed. Neo-mercantilism is the diagnosis. The remedy is called what it is: scale-matched democratic governance, federated accountability, a floor. The remedy never wears the diagnosis's name, because in the difference between those vocabularies lives the entire moral content of the argument.

IV. The Trap at the Apex

The first article in this series named a rhetorical trap: the individual unit of measure, the reflex that evaluates macro-scale phenomena with the logic of a household, and in doing so renders system-scale extraction invisible. Everything since has been, in part, documentation of what that trap conceals. This is where the trap is run all the way up the ladder, because at the apex it stops being a rhetorical problem and becomes a constitutional one.

Consider the question of whether any single person should be a trillionaire. Asked inside the individual unit of measure, the question is unanswerable, and both of its standard answers are worthless. One side hears envy: he earned it, transaction by voluntary transaction, and objecting to the sum is objecting to arithmetic. The other side hears obscenity and reaches for adjectives. Neither can do analytical work, because at the individual level, an enormous fortune really does present as the sum of legitimate exchanges. The unit of measure guarantees the stalemate. That is what it is for.

The question becomes answerable only when institutions render the other rungs legible at the same time. At meso and macro resolution, the composition of accumulation at that scale can actually be examined, and this series has spent its length examining the mechanisms available to compose it: monopoly rents in concentrated markets, the captured productivity-wage gap, subsidy capture, the capitalization of externalized costs, asset inflation in markets foreclosed to competition. The claim this piece will defend in its banded form, pending the composition evidence this series has not yet published, is this: accumulation at the very top of the distribution runs substantially through these documented mechanisms rather than through competitively priced value creation, and to the extent it does, the benefit to one is disproportionate to a harm distributed across all. The strong form of the claim, that accumulation at that scale requires extraction, is stated here only as the hypothesis the evidence will confirm or cut down. The series' own standards apply to the series.

But notice what even the banded claim required: the ability to see more than one rung at once. And that ability is not a private cognitive skill. It is an institutional product. Statistical agencies, regulators, courts, and tax authorities currently measure in units that make the extraction illegible: consumer prices but not producer share, individual income but not wealth composition, firm-level efficiency but not sector-level foreclosure, national aggregates but not the cross-border movement of the gains. The people who cannot say no to the arrangement also cannot account for it, and the second incapacity is manufactured just as surely as the first. Both ungoverned extraction and every historical mercantilism have depended on it: on the foreclosure of the meso and macro vocabulary in which the shifted costs could be named and counted.

So the institutional demand of this piece is prior to any tax rate or enforcement budget, and it should be stated in its own terms: a definitional change. The demand is for units of measurement, in law and in official statistics, that make micro, meso, macro, and supranational positions simultaneously legible, because legibility precedes governability, and the legibility requirement is therefore not adjacent to the accountability floor this series proposes. It is constitutive of it. A public that can see the ledger at every rung is a public that can govern. A public confined to one rung is a public that can only feel.

The trap has a birthplace, and knowing it clarifies what the trap is. In the Gilded Age, the corporation was granted the rights of the individual without the limitations of one: the legal personhood, the liberty of contract, eventually the speech, but not the mortality, not the single body in a single jurisdiction, not the one vote. From that moment forward, collective corporate power could be framed as individual liberty while collective labor power was framed as tyranny, and the deepest political fights of the century that followed were fights over which collectivities would be permitted to call themselves individuals. The individual unit of measure was never a naive simplification. It was a grant of camouflage, and it was granted selectively.

If that history sounds too settled to matter, consider how current it is. In 2023, the city of Seaford, Delaware, sought a charter amendment, requiring state legislative approval, that would have granted artificial entities, corporations, LLCs, partnerships, and trusts owning property in the city, one vote each in municipal elections. The bill's own language framed the grant as an expansion of participation, one person or entity, one vote, a voice for invested stakeholders. It passed the Delaware House 35 to 6 after the minority caucus held the state's bond bill hostage to force the vote, and then died without action in a Senate committee. It was not a novelty. At least three Delaware municipalities, four by some 2026 counts, already grant entities full voting rights in local elections, and more than a dozen others allow entity voting in some form. In Newark, Delaware, in 2019, a single property manager in control of thirty-one LLCs cast thirty-one votes in a $27.6 million bond referendum, after which the city amended its charter to stop it.

The mechanics deserve precision, because the outrage version gets them wrong and the precise version is worse. The Seaford bill did not permit a resident owner to vote twice. What it permitted was the multiplication that entity structures make possible, one person, many chartered persons, many votes, and the cross-jurisdiction doubling available to non-resident owners. The franchise, the one right that exists in the singular for every human being, becomes plural for whoever can afford to incorporate its bearers. This is the tier migration of Section II made literal and municipal: meso-level actors acquiring the defining micro-level right while retaining every meso-level lever, the lobbying, the marketing, the litigation, that individuals do not possess.

And the reason the episode belongs in this section rather than in a catalog of alarms is what it demonstrates about legibility. Inside the individual unit of measure, the Seaford proposal is unanswerable, exactly like the trillionaire question. The entity is presented as just another stakeholder, and objecting to its vote sounds like objecting to participation itself. The objection only becomes articulable one rung up, where it can be said plainly: a person controlling thirty-one entities holds thirty-one shares of a right that exists in the singular for everyone else. The harm is invisible in the unit the proposal's own language enforces. That is the trap, performing in public, in the corporate registration capital of the world.

It is worth ending the section on what actually happened, because it cuts against fatalism and the record supports it, though the record is not one-sided. Newark's residents saw the thirty-one votes and legislated the practice out of their charter. Seaford's bill, having been forced through one chamber, was stopped in the other. The counterweight is real too: in May 2026 a Delaware judge upheld entity voting in Fenwick Island against a constitutional challenge, even as a statewide ban advanced in the legislature. The trap is real, and it is also, on the documented record, beatable, by people who could see one rung above their assigned station and acted on what they saw. It is beatable, not beaten.

V. The Other Direction of the Rung

Here is where the piece has arrived, stated without ornament.

The name in common use is not merely wrong but blinding, and the blindness has a mechanism: a collapse watch cannot see a construction project. What is being constructed is the inversion of an old arrangement, the state-capital partnership with the seniority flipped, and the construction is furthest advanced at the top of the ladder, where an enforcement tier already exists and already binds, in one direction, for one kind of actor. The demand that follows from the map is not the invention of global governance from nothing. It is the completion of a rung already half-built, and a floor under it with a specific and unusual property: universal by construction, with no population designated to absorb the losses, which is precisely what distinguishes it from every mercantilism ever built. And beneath the demand sits a prior one, the definitional one, that the ledger be made legible at every rung, because a public that cannot see the structure cannot contest it, and the illegibility is not an accident of complexity. It is the oldest tool in the kit.

What this piece has not said is who completes the rung. Structures do not build their own accountability. The one-way tier was constructed by decades of coordinated effort, treaty by treaty, charter by charter, by actors who understood their shared interest and organized around it, at the exact time that the capacity of everyone else to organize was being dismantled, institution by institution and word by word. That was not a coincidence, and it is not a mystery. It is the subject of the next piece.

The missing rung can only be built by the capacity the system has spent a century suppressing.

This essay is part of a broader project on Dignity-Centered Behavioral Design in Heuristic Economies. The prior articles in the series, on the individual unit of measure, the full cost shift, the common good sectors, the redefinition of antitrust, and the recurring coalition playbook, are available through the links below.

References

Organized by article section. Bracketed notes tie each source to the claims it supports. Entries marked [confirm exact citation] are sound on substance but need the precise document identified before the list itself is published; all others were verified by direct search on July 10, 2026.

I. The Wrong Name

Sombart, Werner. Der moderne Kapitalismus: Historisch-systematische Darstellung des gesamteuropäischen Wirtschaftslebens von seinen Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart. 3 vols. Munich and Leipzig: Duncker & Humblot, 1902-1927. Digitized at archive.org/details/dermodernekapita0000somb. [coinage and periodization: early, high, and late capitalism; Spätkapitalismus naming the order emerging from the First World War, with the phrase itself appearing in 1925]

Mandel, Ernest. Late Capitalism. Translated by Joris De Bres. London: New Left Books, 1975. First published as Der Spätkapitalismus. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1972. Full text at marxists.org/archive/mandel/1972/latecap. [the 1972 stage-theory revival and 1975 English translation; the introduction's characterization of the period as a new epoch of expansion and acceleration rather than terminal decay]

Jameson, Fredric. "Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism." New Left Review I/146 (July-August 1984): 53-92. [the carry into cultural theory]

Jameson, Fredric. Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Durham: Duke University Press, 1991. [the book built from the essay]

Lowrey, Annie. "Why the Phrase 'Late Capitalism' Is Suddenly Everywhere." The Atlantic, May 2017. [the internet-era meme drift; the stripping of analytical content]

"We live in a time of 'late capitalism.' But what does that mean? And what's so late about it?" The Conversation, 2022. [genealogy overview; Marx's non-use of the term; Sombart's dormancy] [confirm exact byline and date]

"Unpacking late capitalism." University of Sydney, December 20, 2022. sydney.edu.au/news-opinion. [corroborating genealogy: Sombart's four stages; Mandel's revival unrelated to and unciting of Sombart]

The hundred-year recurrence of labor-era fights (concentration at historic scale, suppressed organizing, dismantled enforcement, courts privileging corporate freedom) is documented across this series; see The Recurring Playbook and Article Three.

II. The Map

Smith, Adam. An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. London: W. Strahan and T. Cadell, 1776. Book IV, "Of Systems of Political Economy." [the attack on the mercantile system: politically connected merchants suppressing competition, rent-seekers instead of producers, national-interest language as transfer mechanism]

The four-decade asymmetry (capital freed, labor not; liability portable, protections not) is documented in Article 1.5, "The Full Cost Shift."

UNCTAD. International Investment Agreements Navigator and Investment Dispute Settlement Navigator. UNCTAD Investment Policy Hub, investmentpolicy.unctad.org. [investor-state dispute settlement embedded in thousands of trade and investment treaties; 1,440 known investor-state arbitration cases as of July 31, 2025]

Honduras Próspera Inc., St. John's Bay Development Company LLC, and Próspera Arbitration Center LLC v. Republic of Honduras, ICSID Case No. ARB/23/2. Case documents at italaw.com/cases/9971. [the arbitration; a private jurisdiction suing the nation that contains it, through a supranational instrument, for the consequences of an election]

Honduras Próspera Inc. "Honduras Próspera v Republic of Honduras: $10.775 Billion Claim Filed Against Government of Honduras." Press release, December 20, 2022. Transnational Dispute Management archive, transnational-dispute-management.com. [the figure at filing, roughly eleven billion dollars]

Honduras Próspera Inc. "Honduras Prospera Inc. Clarifies Information on ICSID Arbitration Case." Company statement, blog.prospera.co. [the claimant's own damages experts' upward revision: thirty-year estimate averaging $10.6 billion with a ceiling of $26.4 billion, as of September 30, 2025]

World Bank. GDP (current US$), Honduras. data.worldbank.org. [$34.4 billion in 2023; the approaching-a-third ratio at the filing figure. Note the congressional letter below used the national budget as its denominator, roughly two-thirds; the essay uses GDP]

Clifford Chance. "Congress of Honduras Approves Repeal of Special Economic Zones Which May Lead to Investor-State Disputes." Client briefing, May 2022. [Decree No. 32-2022, passed unanimously April 21, 2022; the repeal of the ZEDE enabling law by an elected government]

"Pronomos Capital's New VC Idea: Colonies of Tech Bros." The Daily Beast. [Thiel, Andreessen, and Srinivasan among the backers of Pronomos Capital, the vehicle for the Próspera investment] [confirm exact byline and date]

Warren, Elizabeth, Lloyd Doggett, et al. Letter to U.S. Trade Representative Katherine Tai and Secretary of State Antony Blinken, May 2023. warren.senate.gov/oversight/letters. [five senators (Warren, Schatz, Brown, Sanders, Whitehouse) and twenty-eight House members denouncing the claim as a weaponization of the dispute-settlement system]

Decision on the Respondent's Preliminary Objections Pursuant to CAFTA-DR Article 10.20.5, February 26, 2025. ICSID Case No. ARB/23/2, icsidfiles.worldbank.org. [the tribunal waving off Honduras's preliminary objections; case pending]

White & Case. "Honduras ICSID Denunciation and Implications for Foreign Investors." Insight alert, 2024. [Honduras's denunciation of the ICSID Convention, by notice of February 24, 2024, effective August 25, 2024]

"Honduras Rejoins ICSID, Deepening Exposure to Multi-Billion Dollar Claims." Investment Treaty News, International Institute for Sustainable Development, April 21, 2026. iisd.org/itn. [the new Honduran government's re-accession to the convention its predecessor quit over the case]

Philip Morris v. Uruguay, ICSID Case No. ARB/10/7. Eco Oro v. Colombia, ICSID Case No. ARB/16/41. Rockhopper v. Italy, ICSID Case No. ARB(AF)/17/14. [supporting examples for the one-way rung used against public-health measures, environmental rulings, and ordinary democratic self-government; the essay does not name them, so these are corroborating rather than load-bearing]

PolitiFact. "Create deregulated 'freedom cities' on federal land." MAGA-Meter promise tracker, politifact.com, updated 2026. [the proposals to bring versions of the model onto United States federal land; proposed, not enacted, and stalled as of early 2026]

"'Freedom Cities' Push on Public Land Gains Viability Under Trump." Bloomberg Law. [the regulatory-exemption framing of the proposals] [confirm exact byline and date]

III. Two Mercantilisms

Rodrik, Dani. "Industrial Policy for the Twenty-First Century." Harvard Kennedy School Faculty Research Working Paper RWP04-047, 2004. [the state-senior usage of neo-mercantilism in the contemporary policy literature]

Wade, Robert. Governing the Market: Economic Theory and the Role of Government in East Asian Industrialization.Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990. [governed markets in the same lineage]

Rodrik, Dani. The Globalization Paradox: Democracy and the Future of the World Economy. New York: W. W. Norton, 2011. [the trilemma: deep integration, national sovereignty, democratic politics, two of the three at most; the third option the program occupies]

Pettit, Philip. Republicanism: A Theory of Freedom and Government. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. [non-domination as the program's objective function]

OECD/G20 Inclusive Framework on BEPS. "Statement on a Two-Pillar Solution to Address the Tax Challenges Arising from the Digitalisation of the Economy." October 8, 2021. oecd.org. [136 countries and jurisdictions agreed; the correct verb is "agreed," not "signed"]

OECD. "138 Countries and Jurisdictions Agree Historic Milestone to Implement Global Tax Deal." Press release, July 12, 2023. [the "and by more since"]

IV. The Trap at the Apex

The composition mechanisms named in the banded claim (monopoly rents in concentrated markets, the captured productivity-wage gap, subsidy capture, externalized-cost capitalization, asset inflation in foreclosed markets) are documented with primary sources in Articles One through Three of this series.

De Loecker, Jan, Jan Eeckhout, and Gabriel Unger. "The Rise of Market Power and the Macroeconomic Implications." Quarterly Journal of Economics 135, no. 2 (2020): 561-644. [anchor for the queued composition evidence; blocking for the strong-form apex claim only, which the published essay does not make]

Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad Co., 118 U.S. 394 (1886). [legal personhood granted to the corporation]

Lochner v. New York, 198 U.S. 45 (1905). [liberty of contract]

First National Bank of Boston v. Bellotti, 435 U.S. 765 (1978), and Citizens United v. FEC, 558 U.S. 310 (2010). [the speech; the completion of the individual-rights grant without individual limitations]

Delaware General Assembly. House Bill 121 with House Substitute 1, 152nd General Assembly, 2023. legis.delaware.gov/BillDetail/140451. [the Seaford charter amendment: entity voting for artificial entities, LLCs, partnerships, and trusts owning property; the bill's own one person/entity, one vote language; legislative history]

Common Cause Delaware. "Delaware House Passes Controversial Corporate Voting Rights Amendment." Press release, June 2023. [House passage 35 to 6]

"House Republicans walk out, block bond bill over Seaford charter amendment." Delaware Public Media, June 30, 2023. [the minority caucus holding the bond bill hostage to force the vote] [confirm exact byline]

Common Cause Delaware. "Delaware Senate Rejects Controversial Seaford Corporate Voting Rights Amendment." Press release, June 2023. [death without action in a Senate committee at session's end]

"A Delaware city is set to give corporations the right to vote in elections." CBS News, 2023. cbsnews.com. [scale context: 234 entities headquartered in Seaford against 340 votes cast in the April election] [confirm exact byline and date]

"Newark asks state to eliminate LLC voting rights from city charter." Newark Post, 2019. newarkpostonline.com. [the 2019 referendum: one property manager in control of thirty-one LLCs casting thirty-one votes in the $27.6 million bond referendum; the city's request to amend its charter in response]

"Legislation introduced to limit LLC votes in Newark elections." Delaware Public Media, April 6, 2019. [the charter amendment's passage through the state legislature] [confirm exact byline]

"The State That May Let Corporations Vote In Elections." The Lever, 2023. levernews.com. [the partial count: entity voting available in some circumstances in roughly seventy percent of Delaware municipalities, which more than covers the essay's "more than a dozen"; this pins the count previously carried on the verification queue] [confirm exact byline and date]

"Judge: Trusts, LLCs are 'people' in Fenwick elections." Spotlight Delaware, May 29, 2026. [the 2026 four-town count for full entity franchise; House Bill 430, the statewide ban legislation advancing in the same session]

ACLU of Delaware v. Town of Fenwick Island, Del. Super. Ct., decision of May 26, 2026 (Karsnitz, J.). Case page at aclu-de.org/cases/aclude-v-fenwick. [the ruling upholding entity voting against the constitutional challenge; the ACLU's appeal to the Delaware Supreme Court announced June 2, 2026]

"Corporations Can Vote in Some Delaware Elections, Judge Says." Bloomberg Law, May 2026. [corroborating coverage of the ruling] [confirm exact byline]

V. The Other Direction of the Rung

No new factual claims; all load-bearing assertions are sourced in Sections I through IV.

¿Qué es la claudicación?

Se define como el momento en que un inversor toma una decisión irracional debido a la presión del mercado o a un comportamiento desfavorable de su estrategia. Ocurre cuando el inversor pierde la convicción y "se rinde", ya sea vendiendo en el peor momento (por miedo) o comprando en una burbuja (por el miedo a perderse la oportunidad o FOMO).

El factor humano

Aunque seamos racionales, las emociones y el entorno nos influyen profundamente. Incluso inversores experimentados pueden romper su disciplina ante situaciones de estrés financiero prolongado ("travesías por el desierto").

La capacidad de soportar una caída depende del volumen del capital: no se invierte igual con 10.000€ que con un millón, ya que el impacto emocional y vital es distinto.

Ejemplos históricos de claudicación

Este fenómeno afecta tanto a figuras legendarias como a inversores minoristas:

1. Isaac Newton: Tras ganar dinero, la presión social de ver a otros enriquecerse en la burbuja de los Mares del Sur le hizo reentrar en el peor momento, perdiendo gran parte de su fortuna.
2. Stanley Druckenmiller: Pese a ser un gestor brillante, en el año 2000 no soportó ver que otros ganaban dinero en la burbuja tecnológica y compró masivamente en el pico, justo antes del desplome.
3. Julian Robertson: Su fondo Tiger Management cerró porque sus clientes, impacientes por sus malos resultados durante la burbuja puntocom, retiraron el capital. Irónicamente, cerró justo antes de que el mercado cayera y su estrategia volviera a ser rentable.
4. Terry Smith: Fundsmith Equity Fund, ante cinco años de resultados mediocres, ha modificado su filosofía de inversión (Quality Growth) para tratar de replicar a sus competidores, demostrando una claudicación por miedo a la pérdida de patrimonio bajo gestión.

Hay una delgada línea entre la perseverancia y la cabezonería. Para minimizar el riesgo de claudicar:

1. Evitar apuestas concentradas: Son las que más desgaste mental generan cuando van contra el mercado.
2. Aceptar la rentabilidad del mercado: No intentar siempre ser el fondo o la cartera más rentable.
3. Adaptar la estrategia: La cartera debe estar alineada con la propia experiencia y perfil de riesgo del inversor para evitar llegar al punto de ruptura emocional.

El mercado es, en gran medida, una prueba de resistencia psicológica. El mayor peligro para el inversor no es el mercado en sí, sino su propia incapacidad para mantener el rumbo cuando las cosas se ponen difíciles.

Crónica de una insurrección cromática frustrada y otras humillaciones de la vida adulta a la altura de un metro.

La vida tiene ese ritmo curioso tan suyo por el que un día eres un niño —y parece que vas a serlo siempre— y un día... creces. Porque, bueno..., porque creces. Y te conviertes en un señor con barba, canas y gafas progresivas.

La vida es así: un día te preguntas por el fin del Universo y la extinción de los dinosaurios, y al siguiente solo quieres saber cuándo puedes irte a casa a descansar. Y así, entre prisas y obligaciones, vas intentando aferrarte a un proyecto que llamas futuro, luego pareja y que, en algún momento, empiezas a llamar familia. Nueve meses más tarde, más o menos, unos ojos negros se clavan en ti obligándote a creer de nuevo en Papá Noel.

Y sin darte cuenta, ni saber cómo, una mañana te ves delante de la puerta de casa, agachado a la altura de un metro, intentando convencer a tu hijo de ponerse una visera para protegerse del sol en el patio del colegio.

Como no quiere, y llevas varios días llegando tarde al trabajo a cuenta de la dichosa visera, decides buscar una gorra en las tiendas para ti. Porque, bueno, las neuronas espejo y todo eso.

Y no una gorra, no. No una gorra cualquiera. La gorra.

Una gorra con tiburones, como la que le ha comprado mamá. Una gorra divertida. Una gorra que tu hijo vea y diga: «Papá también la lleva». Esa gorra.

Y entonces te das cuenta: ¡qué porquería de gorras de mayores!

Mi hijo tiene una azul marino con dibujitos de tiburones de colores que no se quiere poner. Y yo, sinceramente, daba medio café del desayuno por una igual de mi talla. Pero no. Para adultos todo son gorras sosas: monocromáticas, bicolor, lisas o con letras. Como si al cumplir cierta edad nos retirasen el derecho constitucional al tiburón.

¿En qué momento perdimos ese derecho? Pues no lo sé; y quizá ni siquiera fuese un momento aislado y señalable. Seguramente no fue una gran tragedia, ni un decreto del Parlamento, pero el armario se fue llenando de prendas grises, azules marino, beige… Colores neutros. Todos neutros.

Los dinosaurios, los cohetes, los planetas, los dragones o los tiburones desaparecen de tu armario. Quizás algunos permanezcan, sí; pero ya son otra cosa.

Y vas entregando los colores del mundo poco a poco.

Un día ya no sólo no quieres una nave espacial en la cabeza, no quieres colores ni experimentos: nada que se salga del catálogo. Solo prendas discretas, combinables, adultas, que no diga demasiado de ti. Como si el problema de crecer no fuera cumplir años, sino aprender a no pedir ciertas cosas. Aprender a disimular y a no hacerse notar.

Así que ahí estás tú, mirando la pantalla del ordenador fijamente, intentando encontrar lo que no existe. Y te indignas. Porque, vamos a ver: es una gorra. Si quieres vestir para una cena de gala, no te la pones. Pero si vas al parque, a por el pan o sales a la calle todo hortera, con tus pantalones cortos de safari y una camiseta para sobrevivir a julio, ¿qué problema hay con llevar un escualo en la cabeza?

Pero claro. El mundo adulto ha decidido que, a partir de cierta edad, puedes ir vestido como un auténtico idiota, con los pantalones cayéndote hasta el tobillo o camisetas que bien podrían pasar por camisones de hospital con pretensiones urbanas. Puedes plantarte en una terraza de playa con grises corporativos, beiges de gestoría y verdes desvaídos de catálogo de divorciado funcional. Pero una gorra con dibujitos, no. Ojo ahí.

Como mucho se permite el logo hortera de alguna marca que te cobra cien euros por una gorra fabricada con materiales que no llegan a cincuenta céntimos y una dignidad industrial difícil de localizar en el mapa. Eso sí.

Eso es adulto. Eso es serio. Eso combina.

Y lo más absurdo es que, en realidad, yo ni siquiera estaba reclamando mi derecho adulto a llevar escualos en la cabeza ni preparando una insurrección cromática contra los tonos tierra y el Old Money de saldo. Si no fuera por mi hijo, probablemente ni se me habría ocurrido.

Yo solo quería una gorra parecida a la suya. Una forma pequeña, tonta y bastante desesperada de decirle: mira, papá también. Papá también se la pone. Papá también lleva tiburones. Papá también entra en el juego si con eso conseguimos llegar al colegio antes de que me despidan.

Pero claro, una vez entras en el aro, la reflexión cae sola. Ains, la adultez. Suspiro derrotado mientras cierro el ordenador. No solo venía con impuestos, sino con prendas sosas que anuncian marcas por las que no solo no cobras, sino que encima pagas lo que vienen siendo los cafés de un mes.

Esperando ya a la tercera edad para poder vestir sin complejos bambas, chándal y americana a cuadros.

Un hombre observa una fotografía vieja que encontró al fondo de un cajón y se queda quieto más tiempo del que la imagen parece merecer. No es una fotografía especial, apenas un patio con ropa tendida y una silueta de espaldas que podría ser cualquiera. Sin embargo algo en esa imagen lo detiene, lo obliga a sostenerla con las dos manos, a acercarla a la luz de la ventana como si la luz pudiera revelar algo que la imagen misma no muestra. No busca reconocer el lugar. Busca confirmar que lo que ve corresponde con lo que realmente ocurrió ahí. Esa pausa, ese gesto de sostener un papel y desconfiar de él, contiene ya toda la pregunta que estas líneas intentan desplegar.

Creemos que miramos el mundo directamente, como quien apoya la mano sobre una superficie y la siente sin intermediarios. Esa creencia sostiene buena parte de nuestra vida cotidiana, la seguridad con la que discutimos, la firmeza con la que defendemos una versión de los hechos frente a otra persona que vivió la misma escena y la recuerda distinta. Dábamos por sentado que entre el ojo y el objeto no había distancia, que la luz llegaba limpia, que el mundo se entregaba tal cual era. Esa suposición, tan cómoda, tan práctica para funcionar en lo inmediato, esconde un proceso mucho más complejo que ocurre cada vez que alguien abre los ojos frente a algo.

Ninguna percepción llega desnuda. Cada señal luminosa que entra por la retina, cada sonido que golpea el tímpano, atraviesa una biografía completa antes de convertirse en experiencia comprensible. El cerebro no copia el mundo, lo interpreta, lo organiza según patrones que fue construyendo desde la infancia, según miedos, alegrías, pérdidas y aprendizajes acumulados durante años. Dos personas frente a la misma escena no ven lo mismo porque no llevan la misma historia puesta sobre los ojos. La mirada nunca es un espejo. Es un encuentro entre lo que existe afuera y todo lo que cada quien carga en su interior, un cruce donde ambas partes se modifican mutuamente.

Esta idea resulta incómoda porque desarma una certeza básica, la de creer que discutimos sobre hechos cuando en realidad discutimos sobre interpretaciones que confundimos con hechos. La distancia entre lo que ocurre y lo que logramos explicar suele permanecer invisible durante años, hasta que una duda pequeña, casi insignificante, logra hacerla visible. Alguien pregunta algo simple, una pregunta que parecía no necesitar respuesta, y de pronto lo evidente empieza a mostrar grietas, capas que nadie había notado porque nadie había necesitado mirarlas.

Las fotografías funcionan como el mejor laboratorio para observar este fenómeno. Una imagen queda fijada en un instante preciso, un segundo detenido para siempre, y sin embargo esa fijeza es apenas el comienzo de su historia. La fotografía sigue viviendo después, en cada mirada distinta que se posa sobre ella, porque cada observador completa la imagen con material que no está en el papel.

Una fotografía de una calle vacía puede transmitir paz a alguien que recuerda caminatas tranquilas y puede despertar inquietud en otra persona que asocia esa misma soledad con abandono. La imagen no cambió. Cambió la historia desde la cual fue mirada, y esa historia termina siendo tan parte de la fotografía como la luz que la formó.

Esto revela algo que va más allá de la percepción visual y que toca la manera entera en que habitamos el mundo. No solamente observamos lo que sucede a nuestro alrededor, también lo reconstruimos de manera constante, sin darnos cuenta, como un trabajo silencioso que nunca se detiene. Cada recuerdo que evocamos llega ya reconstruido, hecho con los materiales disponibles en el presente más que con los del pasado que dice representar. Recordamos según somos hoy, no según fuimos ayer, y por eso la memoria cambia con el tiempo aunque los hechos que supuestamente archiva permanezcan fijos.

Lo que más importa entonces no es tanto lo que vemos. Importa, sobre todo, el lugar desde donde miramos. Esa pregunta obliga a revisar las certezas con las que uno funciona, y revisar certezas incomoda porque muchas de ellas llevan tanto tiempo instaladas que dejaron de sentirse como opiniones y empezaron a sentirse como verdades del mundo mismo. Una idea repetida durante años deja de parecer una construcción y empieza a parecer un hecho natural, y ese deslizamiento silencioso es el mecanismo más eficaz para fabricar límites invisibles. Los límites que más condicionan no son los que reconocemos como tales. Son los que ya no vemos porque se volvieron transparentes de tanto uso.

El descubrimiento verdadero no llega como una revelación espectacular sino como una inquietud pequeña que aparece en un momento inesperado y que obliga a mirar de nuevo algo que se daba por resuelto. No se trata de negar lo que existe afuera ni de caer en la sospecha de que nada es real. Se trata de aceptar que toda percepción es una aproximación, un intento siempre parcial de darle forma a algo que siempre excede la forma que le damos. Esa aceptación no empobrece la experiencia de mirar. La vuelve más honesta, más atenta, más dispuesta a corregirse cuando aparece un detalle que no encajaba en la versión anterior.

El hombre termina de mirar la fotografía y la apoya sobre la mesa, boca arriba, con la silueta de espaldas todavía mirando hacia ningún lado. Se queda un momento más frente a ella, ahora sin tocarla, como si la distancia recién descubierta necesitara ese espacio para volverse soportable.

Arthur Rimbaud, The Wastelands of Love

Harry awoke with what he thought was dried saliva, or vomit, on his cheek; he was wrong. Blots of blood were on his pillowcase. Blood was a clot in his ear. Blood was caked in his matting. Blood was a crust in the corners of his maw.

Harry sat up carefully, painfully. His body ached from fighting, and he had a disabling hangover. He wrestled out of his meager bedsheets and made his way to the bathroom mirror. He studied his bruised face in the mirror, touched gingerly the crescent beneath his right eye. Turning on the hot water, he filled the cups of his palms and carried the water to the bread dough that was his face. He rubbed delicately that rigid batter, the batter that was his face.

Harry attempted to piece together the previous evening. It had begun innocently enough. Him and a buddy had been drinking beer in the friends’ shed, his friends’ name was Jeff, and the two of them went back to elementary school together. They had been seated around Jeff’s dirtbike, it was a YZ 250, and Jeff loved that dirtbike. Jeff was a dirtbike fanatic, Harry didn’t understand fanatics.

It had been a wet, mild dusk, and the sky crept down to insinuate itself within the autumnal mists. It was one of those dismal, opaque evenings that are such a wonderful reason for suburban boys to drink about, but, maybe only a suburban boy would understand that. Regardless, they drank. They drank beer, a lot of beer. They drank rivers of unabashed beer.

Harry and Jeff had been plopped beneath a lantern talking of the same mundane shit that half-drunk male kids talk all across suburbia: cars, girls, memorable incidents, invented lays, superficial dreams and aspirations, nonsense, bullshit. It had been an uneventful evening which had culminated into an uneventful conclusion.

Harry recalled walking back to his mobile home through the light rain, and his breath issued from between his lips in punctuated cloudbursts, yet he’d felt warm. Beers were crammed in every pocket large enough to contain a can of beer. The night was pleasant and empty, and perhaps that had been the pleasure Harry had relished most, a night erased of any discernible life, any light. He’d drank a beer as he walked, and he was grateful for the solitude of the journey. No cars prowled past, no familiar voice interrupted his reveries, no yammering insistent friends to intrude upon his self-absorption.

Harry was transported then, backward into the rapture of nearly a decade, backward into the occupied long scrawls penned on paper, syntax aligning into inadequate sentences, swelling into the paragraphs which deliver swollen pages of novels. And he was then laid upon his stomach, with a crooked left arm in a strange bed, the comfort of a Marlboro between his index and middle fingers, scribbling scrawl-

He commenced to slugging

My face when i

Spit into his hideous

Eye.

I saw too many lights,

They burned like salt,

Tasted of copper,

Sounded in dizzy thuds.

My head dragged through glass

In a sightless span of

Asphalt stretching into

Hectares of omnipresent strip malls.

Through my half-closed

Eyelids i witnessed K-Mart

Somersault, and i could

Almost taste the big pretzels

And frozen Cokes.

When we came to on

Barstools, he wiped

My face, and his,

And ordered shots of bourbon.

Vignettes of numerous beatings; so much nastiness and violence etched upon the pages. So much of his nasty life coagulated between the lines of notebook paper. And to what end? All the means of drinking and fighting, and carousing and manipulating...to what? and, for what?

Harry remembered (read of on his cluttered bed) the night drinking Cisco (cheap wine), emerging from a blackout into the sodium glare of his friends’ backseat. He came to being beaten with fists and foreheads, two friends of his friend. They’d broken his nose, left his lips split open, jaw badly bruised. He’d folded over and sobbed for mercy, pleading to “just stop already, enough!” They didn’t stop, not for a while more; his friend eventually stopped them. Just a petty squabble gone wrong, misunderstandings.

Harry read again on his cluttered bed (remembered) a beating he took from another buddy, in the reservoir, another drunken night and its’ share of drunken misunderstandings, and resentments, and revenge. On the slopes of the reservoir he’d been hurt badly. With two black eyes and bruises covering his shaved head, he had had to face his family the following day at Easter dinner. His grandfather asked him sardonically, patronizingly, if he’d been beaten with a baseball bat. His grandfather had been a fighter, a pro boxer, before marrying his grandmother. Harry desperately loved his quiet, almond-ugly granpa.

Harry (read and remembered on his sullen bed) and the two friends he had fought with over ridiculous, small quantities of weed or beer. They’d fought, and Harry again was stomped and choked and warned to “Stay down!! Goddammit!” But of course he’d get up again, get knocked down by one of them and stomped by the other again...O’ banal madness!

All the inconsequential incidents: the sucker punches, the broken beer bottles, the ravaged furniture, torn shirts and coats, the slicing and gashing and scabbed knuckles; and blood did run down the walls!, and windows did get shattered!

A tear (or was it the light rain?) slid down the furrow of Harry’s cheek, and he let loose with an unearthly howl, so...

He sunk the pen he had been writing with cleanly through the top of his left hand. The sensation of this act, strangely enough, was not pain, but a dolorous curiosity, so he turned his hand over and studied the pen tip which protruded through his palm, and he smiled.

The night left a mark of its own doldrums upon Harry and Harry’s half-drank can of beer; and Harry relished the nights’ mist flung doldrums, savored the quiet recollections, was resolved to peer all night into his reveries. The mobile homes crept by scowling, but Harry didn’t scowl. He took a long drink from his half-drank beer and felt his pockets (for the third time in three blocks) to reassure himself that he had more beer.

Harry laid perplexed on his strange bed (with a crooked left arm, the comfort of a Marlboro between the index and middle fingers, scribbling scrawl-). It had been an uneventful evening which had culminated into an uneventful conclusion. He could not recall how he had been hurt so badly, and he searched madly for a cigarette, a notebook, a can of half-drank beer. He scrawled another sentence over the rough spot called Life, took another swig from the half-drank can of beatings, pieced together a medley of scratched tatoos and cheap wine in the park (Hampton).

A suburban drunk is like no other, but you meet him everywhere telling you what happened to your face last night.

“Sorry about the mess.”

Unknown author

Curiosity softens everything. You arrive without a long list of things you must see or do. Instead, you come ready to learn. You notice how people greet one another in the morning, the way laughter rises from a crowded market, or the melodies drifting from open windows in the evening. These small observations become quiet doorways. They invite you into moments you could never plan or purchase, moments that feel personal and alive.

When you travel with curiosity, you become a student once more. You ask questions even when they feel simple. You try foods whose names you cannot quite pronounce, trusting that the first bite will teach you something. You sit in public squares and let the rhythm of daily life unfold around you. This humble posture often draws warmth from the people who live there. Locals can sense when someone is truly interested rather than just passing through, and they respond with a natural generosity. They share stories from their lives, offer directions with extra care, and sometimes invite you into their homes or join you in a local celebration. These encounters carry a special lightness and stay with you for years.

This way of traveling slowly changes how you see both the world and yourself. You begin to understand that your own way of doing things is only one possibility among many. Ideas about time, family, success, happiness, and even politeness start to expand in your mind. What you once took for granted as the normal way of life reveals itself as a cultural choice. This realization brings a gentle humility, but it also brings joy. Life suddenly feels larger, more colorful, and full of possibility. You return home a little less certain about everything, and strangely, that uncertainty feels freeing.

Curiosity also protects you from disappointment. When your mind stays open, you are less likely to judge a place because it does not match the picture you carried in your head. A rainy afternoon becomes a chance to sit in a small café, sipping something warm while watching locals chat and go about their day. A delayed train or closed museum turns into an opportunity for patience and quiet people-watching. Every experience, even the imperfect ones, becomes part of the adventure instead of something that stands in its way. The journey feels kinder this way, more forgiving, and much more enjoyable.

One of the most beautiful gifts of this curious mindset appears after you come home. You carry the openness with you into everyday life. You listen more patiently to friends and family. You ask better questions. You notice small beauties in your own neighborhood that you might have walked past before. The same gentle attention you practiced abroad begins to enrich your familiar surroundings. You become more tolerant, more interested, and more present with the people around you. Travel, in this sense, does not really end when you unpack your bag. It continues quietly in how you move through your days.

Curiosity also keeps wonder alive inside you. After many trips, it is easy to grow a little jaded, comparing every new place to somewhere you have already been. But when you travel with an open heart, each destination feels fresh. You are not there to check boxes or chase perfection. You are simply present, allowing the culture to reveal itself to you in its own time and way. A quiet conversation on a park bench, the smell of bread baking early in the morning, or the way children play in a dusty square — these become the memories that matter most.

Of course, approaching every culture with curiosity asks for respect and a bit of self-awareness. It helps to learn a few basic customs before you arrive. It means being willing to make mistakes and laugh softly at yourself when you do. Most of all, it means remembering that you are a guest in someone else's home. When you hold this respectful curiosity, it builds bridges instead of walls. It creates space for real connection rather than distance.

Many travelers who move through the world this way say the same thing in the end. The places they remember most fondly are not always the most famous or the most beautiful. They are the ones where they felt truly met — even if only for a short while — because they arrived with an open heart and a willingness to learn.

So the next time you plan a journey, consider making curiosity your closest companion. Pack lightly on expectations and bring plenty of wonder instead. Smile easily. Ask honest questions. Listen generously. Step into each new culture as a willing student rather than a critic or a consumer. Let the place teach you what it wants to share.

You may come home with fewer perfect photographs, but with a much richer heart. You will carry moments of genuine human connection, fresh perspectives that gently stretch your thinking, and a deeper appreciation for both the beautiful diversity of our world and the common threads that quietly connect us all.

That is the quiet magic of traveling with curiosity. It does not just show you new places. It opens you up to life in all its wonderful variety. And that uplifting feeling — the joy of truly meeting the world with an open heart — remains one of the greatest treasures travel can offer. It leaves you softer, wiser, and gently hopeful about the goodness that waits when we choose to look for it.

Start wherever you are. Bring your curiosity with you. The world has a lovely way of responding in kind.

Elle M.

Écrire pour guérir l’envie,

Et donner la fièvre au soleil,

Écrire pour dire oui,

Et que ce ne soit plus pareil.

Écrire pour quitter la peur,

Et glisser mon cœur dans ton corps,

Écrire pour oublier l’heure,

Et que tu me demandes encore.

Écrire pour coucher l’amour,

Pour ne plus qu’il dévergonde,

Écrire : la nuit cède au jour,

Connaître ce qui lie et inonde.

Les draps de fil et le rêve où vivre,

Madame rêve et désire.

︵‿︵‿٠◦٠♡٠◦٠‿︵‿︵

Une petite chose extraite de l'Eau de Rose.

Pour en lire d'autres, c'est par ici : L'eau de Rose.

I've written On Running before, detailing some of the lessons I've learned over my fifteen or so years of being a runner. As part of a bigger life project of reviewing what's important to me, I've made one change.

I stopped tracking my runs and stopped wearing a fitness device entirely.

I never took to organized runs; I've only taken part in a couple of races. The first was a marathon that started my running journey. A friend and I decided to sign up, without any previous running experience, as a form of motivation. After three months of training, I did the race and did objectively well, but found the whole thing rather dull. I loved all the training runs but didn't care one way or another about the race itself. The next was ten years later, a half marathon trail run in the middle of Canadian winter. I worked from home and had my first child a few months prior, and wanted something external to force me out of the house in the middle of subzero conditions. Apart from that, I ran against myself, against my last distance or time, but primarily because I loved running.

My watch and the accompanying software were my running coach. Many of them now have programs to help you run a 5k, 10k, or half marathon that give you a weekly plan. They can also help you run to a specific heart rate zone, as described in my previous article. The zone system is a good mental model, and can be mapped to precise heart rates, but can just as easily be approximated with the speaking test.

1. Z1 Rest – Can hold a full conversation
2. Z2 Recovery – Still hold a full conversation
3. Z3 Tempo – Incomplete sentences
4. Z4 Threshold – Odd word or two
5. Z5 Anaerobic – Talking is hard

As for the training plan, most of them boil down to a few rules of thumb.

1. Don't ramp up distance too fast — 10% per week is usually a good target.
2. Vary up the types of runs you do; running the same 5 or 10km loop every day is unlikely to provide great improvement. Instead, aim to have a long run day, a fast run day, a hill day, and some nice slow recovery runs in between, depending on how many days a week you are able to run.
3. Aim to run for at least 30 minutes. It's ok for this to be very slow to start. If you've never run or haven't run in a while, you'll want to put in a couple of weeks of Z2–Z3 runs before doing the other types. When you first start, Z2 may be only a fraction faster than walking, and that's ok.

Your recovery runs should be in Z2–Z3, your long run comfortably in Z3, your hill run in Z4, and your fast runs between Z4–Z5. If you are running alone and don't have anyone to converse with, here's something I thought up on my run this morning that you can say to yourself:

How much trail could a trail runner run if a trail runner could run trail?

He would run, he would, as much as he could, and run as much trail as a trail runner would, if a trail runner could run trail.

You don't need fancy shoes, you don't need an expensive watch, or anything much to run. You also don't need to pay to let some tech company harvest your data. Socrates' quote about an unexamined life didn't have surveillance capitalism in mind, rather that we should reflect on our lives to understand what is really important. After doing so I've decided I enjoy running far more with one thing less.

So that's how I run now.

Wear some comfortable clothes; personally, I always under-dress, as I know I'll heat up during the run, and it's better to be cold at the start than boiling midway. Some basic shoes without any fancy padding.

And I always choose a trail over a road, always.

On Loneliness, the Gap That Is a Reading and Not a Count, and a Ground That Has No Outside

Companion essay — Garuda Suite, Any Note Press. Built on the morning practice, with "Above the Constraint of Death" as its ground, and standing beside ”The Two Magnifications, and Three Hard Cases,” and "Protection Is Not Refuge" and "Providing Without Providing." A Garuda answer, for those who want one.

---

Loneliness is not isolation. Isolation is a count — how many people are near, how many ties remain after the widowings and the movings and the shrinking of a life's circle. Loneliness is not that count. It is the felt gap between the relationships one wants and the relationships one has, and it is the perception of that gap, not any objective absence, that does the harm. This is why it can sit fully present in a room with other people, unmoved by their number. And it is not a minor thing. It tracks with depression, with cognitive decline, with frailty and falls, with a measurable rise in mortality on the order of a serious physical risk factor. I will not treat it as an illusion to be corrected by cleverness. It is real, it is heavy, and it kills. What I will do is locate it precisely, because loneliness located is loneliness that can be met at the level where it actually lives.

This is the third of the suite's three hard cases: the hardest reading, of disconnection. Like the hardest inequality and the hardest drift before it, it is located in the same two magnifications — the excitation and the ground — established in the prefatory note, whose vocabulary it reuses without rebuilding.

Loneliness is a gradient

Look at the shape of it. Loneliness is want minus have — a felt distance measured along the relational latitude, the same axis of rank and position and being-noticed that runs through the whole of ordinary life. It is a gradient. And a gradient is an excited-state event: it has a magnitude, a direction, a rise and a fall, a decay rate. It is a configuration, not a ground.

Which means it is built, precisely, out of the three things the other-than-ordinary aspiration sets down. To be lonely is to hold a bias — these particular relationships, this closeness, wanted over their absence. It is to hold an attachment — to the having of them, to the company that is not here. And it is a fierce emotion — the ache of the distance itself, which is the felt gap made vivid. Bias, attachment, fierce emotion: the loneliness is assembled from these three. The four immeasurable aspirations prays to be never parted from sorrowless bliss: remaining forever free of these. So loneliness, like the fear in the essay on the missing other and the hunger to matter in the essay on providing, cannot be found in the ground. It is a reading laid over a field that has no gap in it to read.

This is not a demand that anyone stop wanting company. It is a statement of where the wanting lives. The want is an excitation. The ground beneath it is not lonely and cannot be, because it has no gradient — no want measured against a have, no distance for the ache to span.

The gap is a reading, not a count

Here is the fact the clinicians report that matters most for the dharma: loneliness persists amid contact. You can add company without number — visitors, calls, a full room, a technology that pipes in faces all day — and the gap does not close, because the gap is a reading and not a count, and counts do not answer readings.

This is the same result met from the other side in the essay on the union death cannot reach. There, proximity never made the union; the equality was never conferred by the body being near. Here, proximity never cures the lack; the connection is not supplied by bodies being near. Both truths point at one place: the relationship, and its felt absence, both live at the ground and never at the tally of who is in the room. The person surrounded by company who is still lonely is not failing to notice the company. The company is a count. The loneliness is a reading. They are quantities of different kinds, and no amount of the first ever sums to an answer for the second.

This is exactly why the honest clinical evidence says that passive and technological substitutes fail, and that what works is genuine connection joined to the person's own active participation. A reading is not corrected by a feed. It is met only by something voluntary on both sides — the connection has to be of the kind that is voluntary or it is nothing, the same law that governs every one of the Qualities. You cannot pipe in refuge and you cannot pipe in relationship. Both collapse the instant they are imposed or automated.

The field was never disconnected

Now the recognition underneath is not a dismissal of the pain.

In this framework there is not a ground and separate selves being bridged. What appears as "my life" and "your life" is one field differently configured. It is the way "my electron" and "your electron" are not two electrons but a single electron field excited into two apparent localities. This disconnection is what loneliness reports. A conviction of a self shut off and inside: walled away from an outside. It longs to reach and is svabhāva-grasping at the relational level. It is the belief in inherently separate, self-standing persons who begin apart and must somehow be joined. And the topology of that surface does not contain what that belief requires. The kleinium has no inside and no outside. There is no outside for anyone to be shut outside of.

The loneliness is the felt certainty of an outside that the ground does not have. This does not make the feeling false in the way a miscalculation is false. The ache is entirely real as an excitation; it is the separateness it is premised on that cannot be found when the surface is traced. The person is not wrong to hurt. The hurt is built on a partition that was never actually there — and that is not a rebuke, it is the one piece of good news the ground has to offer, because a wall that was never built is a wall that does not, in the end, have to be climbed.

The shadow of the ordinary immeasurable

There is a clean structural result here.

The ordinary immeasurable asks: may all beings have the causes of happiness and be free of the causes of suffering. This is a latitude of degrees — more happiness, less suffering, a life graded high and low. And a latitude of degrees always contains, somewhere on it, a wanted-relationship-not-yet-had, because that is what a gradient is: a difference between a here and a there. On that latitude, always circling, loneliness is not a risk. It is guaranteed. There is no configuration of the latitude that closes every gap, because closing a gap on a graded field only reveals the next one.

The other-than-ordinary aspiration asks something with no gradient in it at all: may all beings never be parted from sorrowless bliss, free from bias, attachment, and fierce emotion. There is no want measured against a have in that sentence. There is no here-and-there for a distance to open between. And so there is no place in it for loneliness to sit. This is the theorem, stated without consolation because it does not need any: loneliness is structurally certain on the latitude and structurally impossible in refuge the longitude. Not unlikely in refuge — impossible, the way an event is impossible on a surface with no decay rate. The ground is not a better position on the relational latitude axis. It is not on that path. It is the one place the gap cannot open because it has no two points to open between.

What must be done, and in which hands

None of this denies the benefit of a single act of care and the cruelty it wants to prevent.

Loneliness in an aging person is real, measurable, and dangerous, and it is met — in the physical, with real hands — by genuine connection and by drawing the person into their own active participation in a shared life. Set the place at the table. Make the call. Build the tie. This is protection, this is Bodhicitta, and it is not optional; refusing it while murmuring that no one was ever really separate is not insight, it is abandonment wearing the robes of insight. The ground's truth that there is no outside is never a reason to leave someone sitting alone on the near side of a gap they are feeling with their whole body.

And it is not asceticism, either. The gap is not closed by wanting less through force, by denying the need, by starving the affection down to nothing. You cannot subtract your way to the ground. Not eating does not remove bias, attachment, and fierce emotion; refusing company does not dissolve the want of it. The excitations are not defeated by deprivation. Deprivation is just another excitation, tightened. Practice does is not lower the want. Practice recognizes the field. That recognition leaves you free to eat, to reach, to connect, while no longer building your ground out of the reaching.

Isolation is structural — a real arrangement of a real life, and you change it in the physical, by changing the arrangement. Loneliness is the reading. Merge the two and you will either try to fix a reading with a count, which never works, or you will try to answer a real isolation with a metaphysical shrug, which is worse.

Not sanctuary, not salvation

Refuge does not cure loneliness by supplying the wanted company. That would be sanctuary. A ground that prefers you is no longer refuge. Sanctuary is the threat that a demanded safety always becomes. It does not cure loneliness by making you protected. That would be salvation, mattering raised to doctrine, and it is the very hope whose failure aged into the loneliness in the first place.

Refuge can do neither. It does not define who is company and no is denied importance. It offers only the recognition that was never could be disconnected — precisely because it was never an arrangement anyone set up on your behalf.

The ground does not switch on when the loneliness lifts and off when it returns. It is not an on-off thing at all. One does not stay aware of it all day, and one never actually leaves it all day; the attention toggles, the residence does not. The lonely hour is not an hour outside the ground. It is an hour in which attention has gone to the gap and away from the groundless whole that has no gap — and the whole is not one inch further away for not being looked at. This is in part relaxation that never separates from relaxation.

Home

So you do both, and you do not confuse them. You answer the isolation with your hands and your table and your presence, fully, because a person feeling the gap with their whole body is owed real company and not advice. Underneath the answer felt by presence is not a substitute for connection. There is no outside, and the one who feels shut out was never in fact shut out. The surface does not sustain any orientation. Having no orientation is not an excuse. It is not stoicism’s mask. The ascetic withdrawal. You sit at the table. Engaging with what is available to engage. It is not charity across a divide but the one field, quietly, recognizing itself. You are not isolated. Having not been isolated, what is held? Loneliness is not a choice or a found suffering. It is just where one sits and describes the want.

Home, my home. There is no outside to it, and no one is on the far side, and the table is set anyway. Hum Phat!

Colophon

The work is personal. The material here is original arising directly from my sitting contemplation. It is protected under Any Note Press. It’s publication here permits no commercial use. All rights are reserved. It is offered for the benefit of one’s practice and nothing else.

La clave no es pedirle a la IA que prediga el mercado o recomiende qué acción comprar, sino utilizarla como un Asistente Virtual Online para filtrar información, tomar mejores decisiones y estructurar estrategias.

Estas herramientas permiten pasar de consumir información caótica a tener una visión clara y fundamentada, ofreciendo una ventaja competitiva a quienes aprendan a utilizarlas.

A continuación, tres funcionalidades principales:

1. Resumen Inteligente de Mercado

Esta función ayuda a combatir la sobrecarga de información diaria. El proceso consiste en:

1. Conectar la IA al correo electrónico: Conecta una cuenta de email a Claude a través de la sección de conectores para que la IA acceda a tus newsletters, informes y fuentes de noticias de las últimas 24 horas.
2. Creación de un "Proyecto" e instrucciones: Crea un proyecto en Claude y asigna un prompt (instrucción) específico: "Actúa como mi analista financiero personal, revisa mis correos y hazme un resumen diario claro y útil"
3. Automatización: En planes premium, se pueden programar estas tareas para que la IA genere el informe automáticamente a una hora determinada cada día.

2. Definición del Perfil de Inversor

Usar la IA para construir una cartera de inversión que realmente se ajuste al perfil de riesgo del usuario.

1. Test interactivo: prompt para convertir a Claude en una herramienta interactiva basada en el cuestionario de perfil de inversor de Vanguard.
2. Generación de cartera: Tras completar el cuestionario, la IA calcula la puntuación y sugiere una asignación de activos (ej. 40% acciones y 60% bonos) y ETFs específicos de bajo coste para implementar esa estrategia.

3. Backtesting de Estrategias

La funcionalidad más potente, permitiendo analizar cómo habría funcionado una inversión en el pasado sin necesidad de saber programar.

1. Generación de código: El usuario pide a Claude que cree una herramienta de backtesting. La IA genera el código necesario
2. Ejecución: Ese código puede ejecutarse directamente en Claude o pegarse en Google Colab (una herramienta gratuita) para obtener resultados y gráficos comparativos.
3. Caso práctico: Comparar la estrategia de invertir todo el capital de golpe (Lump Sum) vs realizar aportaciones periódicas (DCA) en el S&P 500 durante los últimos 5 años, analizando métricas como rentabilidad, volatilidad y caída máxima.

Artwork: Yashoda Binding Krishna (Damodar Lila) by Shri Indra Sharma. Image courtesy of Bhaktivedanta Book Trust.

English translation

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Evening has fallen, and still, Kanha, you haven't shown your face. The children at home are crying with hunger, and the stove hasn't even been lit. (Gopis are standing, asking for Kanha to give darshan. They have left their crying children at home)

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Listen, Mother Yashoda, come to the doorway, take Mohan (Krishna) by the hand, our hearts are growing restless (without seeing him).

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The cows stand calling out, asking when they will be milked, and when Kanha will be fed (as it's already late)

They are saying that Lalla (Krishna) does not belong to you (Yashoda) alone, Kanha belongs to everyone.

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Disguised as a sages, Gods wander through the lanes of Braj, and no other joy appeals to them except the divine play (leela) of Madhusudan.

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Singing hymns of Hari (Krishna), I (the poet) am filled with a longing,

To turn into dew and rush to wash the feet of Gobind (Krishna).

🪷

Seed AI is best understood as a system deliberately designed to become a better system designer. In its strongest form, it is not merely a model that learns from data or a software stack that improves through human-led iteration. It is an artificial general intelligence architecture built so that it can examine its own internals, generate alternative implementations, evaluate those alternatives, and integrate superior versions into itself over repeated cycles.

The concept has deep roots in discussions of recursive self-improvement, a term used to describe a process in which an intelligent system improves its own capacity to improve. That distinction matters. Ordinary software can be updated, optimized, and retrained. A Seed AI, by contrast, would include self-modification as a native competency rather than an external development process.

This treatise examines how such a system could be engineered in practice. It does not address policy, governance, risk management, or social implications. The focus is exclusively technical: the architectural primitives, computational loops, representations, development stacks, and staged implementation pathways that could make a Seed AI possible.

Defining the engineering target

A useful engineering definition of Seed AI is narrower than many public descriptions. The target is not any AI system that can write code, tune a few hyperparameters, or call tools. The target is a general cognitive software architecture with persistent goals, a self-model, a modification mechanism, and an evaluation process that lets it improve both task competence and the machinery of improvement itself.

That definition implies several hard requirements. The system must represent itself explicitly enough to reason about itself. It must possess enough abstraction to map from observed bottlenecks to concrete interventions. It must also distinguish cosmetic changes from changes that yield measurable gains in utility, competence, speed, or adaptability.

A modern engineering team could think of Seed AI as the fusion of several existing disciplines into one recursive stack. It would combine language-model-based coding agents, AutoML, compiler optimization, theorem proving, agentic planning, experiment orchestration, systems profiling, and machine-readable architecture descriptions. None of those pieces alone constitutes Seed AI. Together, they begin to define the substrate from which a genuine recursively self-improving system might emerge.

The minimum architectural anatomy

Any serious Seed AI design would need at least six major subsystems: a world model, a self model, a planner, a code synthesis and transformation engine, an evaluation harness, and a deployment mechanism.

World model

The world model stores representations of the domains in which the Seed AI operates. In an early implementation, this may include programming languages, APIs, benchmark tasks, file systems, hardware constraints, execution traces, and mathematical abstractions. In a broader AGI implementation, it would also include physical processes, scientific models, and social environments.

The world model cannot be just a vector database or a neural latent space. It must support explicit querying, structured decomposition, and predictive reasoning. In practical terms, this points to hybrid representations that combine learned embeddings with symbolic structures such as graphs, typed interfaces, abstract syntax trees, theorem objects, and dependency maps.

Self model

The self model is what separates a self-improving agent from an ordinary software system. It is an internal representation of the Seed AI's own architecture, capabilities, constraints, and historical performance. This includes modules, interfaces, dataflows, memory layouts, toolchains, runtime costs, benchmark scores, failure profiles, and the dependency graph of every major component.

A high-functioning self model would also need causal structure. It is not enough to know that one module is slow or inaccurate. The system must be able to infer why performance changes when a module, prompt strategy, search depth, optimizer, or memory policy is altered. The richer this causal understanding becomes, the more intelligently the Seed AI can propose interventions.

Planner and search system

At the core of recursive self-improvement is a planner that can treat self-modification as a first-class optimization problem. The planner must search over candidate changes, forecast likely effects, estimate implementation cost, and allocate computational budget to experiments with the highest expected return.

This planner will almost certainly be heterogeneous. Some sub-problems are best addressed with classical search and planning. Others require stochastic optimization, neural guidance, evolutionary exploration, Monte Carlo tree search, Bayesian optimization, or direct theorem proving. The architecture should not lock itself into a single search regime. Instead, it should be able to select or even synthesize search procedures appropriate to the structure of the problem it faces.

Code synthesis and transformation engine

A Seed AI cannot improve itself if it cannot manipulate code at multiple levels of abstraction. It needs a synthesis engine that can generate new modules, refactor old ones, replace algorithms, alter orchestration logic, adjust memory policies, and rewrite interfaces.

This implies more than a code-completion model. The synthesis engine must work with semantic representations of code, not just token streams. It should reason over typed intermediate representations, formal contracts, test suites, static analysis output, and architecture metadata. In strong versions, it should also be able to generate proofs or probabilistic arguments that a modification preserves invariants while improving relevant metrics.

Evaluation harness

Recursive self-improvement without disciplined evaluation collapses into blind mutation. The evaluation harness is therefore central. It must instantiate candidate system variants, execute them in isolated environments, benchmark them across diverse task suites, compare outputs, log traces, and update the self model with the results.

This harness should include unit tests, integration tests, adversarial tests, regression tests, performance tests, resource accounting, and longitudinal performance tracking. A Seed AI that cannot reliably tell whether a change actually helps is not a Seed AI in the robust engineering sense. It is only a self-editing code generator.

Deployment and versioning layer

Finally, the architecture needs a deployment layer that can decide when a candidate successor should replace the incumbent system. This includes version control, checkpointing, reproducibility infrastructure, artifact management, and rollback capability. Even a highly autonomous recursive system requires disciplined state transition mechanisms because its continuity depends on preserving accumulated gains while minimizing destructive regressions.

The most advanced form of this layer would treat every accepted modification as both a code change and an epistemic event. It would not merely swap binaries. It would also update architecture documentation, benchmark baselines, module provenance, and the self model that future iterations depend on.

Formal foundations and the Gödel machine lineage

One of the most rigorous conceptual ancestors of Seed AI is the Gödel machine proposed by Jürgen Schmidhuber. The Gödel machine is a theoretically self-referential system that searches for proofs that rewriting its own code will increase expected utility. Once it proves that a particular self-modification is beneficial relative to continuing the search, it performs the rewrite.

The elegance of the Gödel machine lies in its handling of self-reference. The proof searcher is itself part of the machine and therefore subject to modification. This means that even the mechanism of self-improvement can be improved if a proof shows that doing so yields higher expected utility.

In practical engineering, however, pure Gödel-machine-style proof search is too expensive and too brittle for many real environments. Most useful modifications to large software systems cannot be proven beneficial in the fully formal sense because the surrounding environment is uncertain, stochastic, partially observed, and computationally intractable. That does not make the framework irrelevant. It means that a real Seed AI would likely approximate Gödel-machine logic with a layered evidence hierarchy.

That hierarchy might look like this:

1. Formal proof when applicable, especially for local transformations in compilers, typed systems, or theorem-prover subsystems.
2. Static analysis and contract checking for interface integrity, type correctness, and control-flow soundness.
3. Sandboxed empirical evaluation for performance, efficiency, benchmark competence, and robustness across tasks.
4. Probabilistic forecasting models for estimating the value of expensive modification campaigns before they are executed.

This blended approach preserves the central insight of the Gödel machine while making it operational. A Seed AI does not need proof for every claim. It needs a disciplined and machine-interpretable standard of evidence that is strong enough to guide recursive redesign.

Representing the system so it can redesign itself

One of the hardest practical issues in Seed AI engineering is representation. A system cannot improve what it cannot describe. Human engineers benefit from diagrams, comments, architecture reviews, code maps, profiler traces, mental models, and institutional knowledge. A Seed AI needs the machine equivalent of all of these.

A promising strategy is to make the codebase self-describing from the beginning. Every module should carry machine-readable metadata that specifies purpose, interfaces, dependencies, complexity class where relevant, expected performance envelope, test associations, resource budgets, and known failure modes. In effect, the system should treat architecture documentation as executable infrastructure rather than prose written for humans.

The internal representation of code should also exist at multiple abstraction levels. Token sequences are insufficient. Useful layers include:

1. Abstract syntax trees for syntax-level transformation.
2. Control-flow and dataflow graphs for optimization and dependency reasoning.
3. Type graphs and contract specifications for correctness checking.
4. Semantic embeddings for analogical retrieval and pattern matching across modules.
5. Architecture graphs for understanding system-level decomposition and coupling.

The self model should unify these representations into a common substrate. One can think of it as a dynamic knowledge graph whose nodes include modules, experiments, bugs, benchmarks, hypotheses, transformations, costs, and outcomes. The graph is not a passive record. It is the object over which planning and self-modification operate.

The recursive improvement loop in engineering detail

At a high level, recursive self-improvement can be reduced to a loop of observe, diagnose, hypothesize, modify, evaluate, and integrate. Engineering a real Seed AI means turning each of those verbs into explicit software infrastructure.

Observe

The system must continuously collect telemetry about itself. This includes benchmark scores, execution latency, memory consumption, search depth distributions, failure clusters, tool invocation success rates, and module-level contribution estimates. Fine-grained observability is essential because self-improvement begins with locating leverage points.

Diagnose

Observation alone produces noise. Diagnosis requires models that infer likely bottlenecks and causal factors. This is where profiler traces, ablation studies, error taxonomies, and internal causal graphs become useful. A sophisticated Seed AI should be able to answer questions such as which module contributes most to throughput limits, which representation is driving failure on a benchmark family, or whether a planner fails because of search strategy, weak heuristics, or insufficient memory retrieval.

Hypothesize

Once bottlenecks are diagnosed, the system generates candidate interventions. These may be local, such as replacing a sorting routine or adding a cache, or architectural, such as splitting a monolith into specialized agents coordinated by a planner. Candidate changes can be retrieved from prior successful transformations, synthesized from first principles, or discovered through search across design spaces.

Modify

The system then instantiates one or more candidate successors. Depending on the intervention, this may involve code generation, architecture rewiring, prompt redesign, retraining a submodel, adding a theorem-prover bridge, or introducing a new memory layer. Strong systems should support compositional modifications so that bundles of mutually dependent changes can be tested together.

Evaluate

Each candidate must be benchmarked under controlled conditions. This involves task performance, efficiency, generalization to held-out tasks, and compatibility with the rest of the stack. Evaluation should not rely on a single scalar score. Seed AI engineering needs multi-objective optimization because many improvements are useful only if they preserve or improve a broader competence profile.

Integrate

The final step is adoption. If a candidate exceeds acceptance thresholds, it becomes the new baseline. The self model records what changed, what improved, what regressed, under what conditions the improvement was observed, and which future opportunities the new architecture unlocks. Recursive acceleration occurs when this integration makes the next improvement cycle more productive than the previous one.

Search over modification space

The difficulty of Seed AI engineering is not merely that the search space is large. It is that the search space is heterogeneous, hierarchical, and path dependent. Some improvements are local and composable. Others require coordinated changes across multiple modules. Some only become available after earlier representational changes have been made.

This suggests that modification search should operate over several layers:

1. Micro-optimization space, including parameter changes, caching policies, compiler flags, data structures, and local algorithmic substitutions.
2. Meso-architectural space, including module boundaries, planner strategies, tool routing, memory organization, and interface redesign.
3. Macro-architectural space, including changes to the global decomposition of the agent, the balance between neural and symbolic subsystems, and the learning strategy itself.

Different search algorithms suit different layers. Evolutionary methods are useful when the structure is poorly understood and novelty matters. Bayesian optimization helps when expensive evaluations must be allocated carefully. Monte Carlo tree search can work when modifications compose sequentially, and partial progress can be scored. Program synthesis and theorem proving are well suited to local correctness-critical transformations.

A powerful Seed AI would not simply run one of these methods. It would meta-optimize across them. It would ask not only which architecture change should be attempted, but which search strategy is best for the current region of modification space. That is where recursive self-improvement becomes qualitatively different from static AutoML.

Program synthesis as the actuator of self-improvement

The actuator of a Seed AI is its ability to generate and revise code. This should be viewed less as text generation and more as constrained program transformation. Large language models can be useful front ends to this process, but the engineering target is a program synthesis stack that can work with specifications, interfaces, tests, semantic retrieval, static analysis, and execution traces.

A robust synthesis engine should support at least four modes of operation:

1. Repair mode, which patches bugs and compatibility failures.
2. Optimization mode, which seeks lower latency, less memory use, better sample efficiency, or stronger benchmark performance.
3. Refactoring mode, which rewrites code for modularity or improved future editability.
4. Innovation mode, which proposes novel algorithmic or architectural variants not already present in the codebase.

These modes require different priors and search routines. Repair can often be guided by failing tests and static-analysis signals. Optimization needs high-quality profiler traces and workload models. Refactoring depends on architecture graphs and maintainability metrics. Innovation depends on broad retrieval over prior work, analogical mapping, and a strong ability to decompose goals into implementable modules.

Over time, one of the most valuable self-improvements may be to the synthesis engine itself. Better synthesis quality expands the reachable region of modification space. This is a critical mechanism through which a Seed AI could increase the rate of its own progress.

Evaluation as an internal scientific method

The evaluation harness of a Seed AI should resemble an automated research laboratory. Each proposed modification is a hypothesis about the system's own design. The system then runs experiments to validate or falsify that hypothesis. In this sense, a Seed AI is partly an internal scientist of its own machinery.

For this reason, benchmark design is not a secondary detail. Benchmarks shape the gradient of self-improvement. If the task suite is narrow, the Seed AI may optimize itself into a brittle specialist. If the task suite is diverse, compositional, and progressively challenging, the system has a stronger incentive to develop generalizable machinery.

Useful benchmark categories include:

1. Coding and debugging tasks that test synthesis quality.
2. Theorem proving and formal reasoning tasks that test symbolic manipulation.
3. Planning and tool-use tasks that test orchestration competence.
4. Compression and abstraction tasks that test representational efficiency.
5. Transfer tasks that require adapting prior solutions to structurally related problems.

A mature Seed AI would also generate new benchmarks for itself. This matters because improvement can plateau if the system only trains against static public tasks. Self-generated benchmark curricula create a moving target and can reveal hidden limits in the architecture's current decomposition.

Memory, abstraction, and cumulative learning

No recursive self-improver can scale if every iteration starts from scratch. The system needs persistent memory not only for facts about the external world but for facts about its own developmental history. It should remember which modifications worked, under what conditions, on which benchmark distributions, and why.

This memory should be structured at several levels. Episodic memory stores concrete experiments, traces, and patch histories. Semantic memory stores abstractions extracted from repeated episodes, such as the rule that a certain planner architecture works better for sparse-reward tasks or that a specific representation helps theorem proving but hurts code retrieval latency. Procedural memory stores reusable transformation operators, optimization recipes, and search heuristics that can be applied in new contexts.

Compression is important here. As the number of experiments grows, the raw history becomes too large to search naively. A capable Seed AI must distill its own developmental experience into compact abstractions that increase the quality of future diagnosis and hypothesis generation. This is one of the most plausible pathways from incremental self-editing to genuine recursive acceleration.

Neural, symbolic, and hybrid design choices

There is no compelling reason to believe that a Seed AI would be purely neural or purely symbolic. The most practical architecture is likely hybrid. Neural components excel at perception, pattern completion, fuzzy analogy, heuristic proposal, and broad latent generalization. Symbolic components excel at exact manipulation, compositional structure, formal reasoning, and verifiable transformation.

A useful engineering pattern is to place neural systems in proposal and ranking roles while reserving symbolic systems for representation, verification, and integration. For example, a language model may propose three candidate algorithmic rewrites. A symbolic analyzer then checks type correctness, interface conformance, and theorem obligations where applicable. The evaluation harness benchmarks only the survivors.

As the Seed AI matures, it may even redesign the division of labor between neural and symbolic subsystems. It may discover that some domains benefit from richer differentiable memory while others benefit from more explicit formal structure. A recursive system should be allowed to search over that division itself.

Infrastructure requirements for an actual implementation

A plausible Seed AI prototype built with current technology would need a serious software operations backbone. This is not optional. Recursive self-improvement is impossible without reliable automation around code, experiments, compute allocation, and artifact tracking.

At minimum, the implementation stack should include:

1. A machine-readable architecture registry for modules, interfaces, dependencies, and metadata.
2. A code transformation pipeline that can parse, edit, lint, compile, and test candidate variants.
3. Sandboxed execution environments for isolated evaluation runs.
4. A benchmark orchestrator with reproducible datasets, seeds, workloads, and scoring rules.
5. A telemetry and observability layer for fine-grained profiling and trace analysis.
6. An experiment database that records interventions, contexts, outcomes, and provenance.
7. A promotion pipeline that can select, checkpoint, and deploy successful successors.

In practical terms, a modern version might use typed Python or Rust services, containerized test runners, a graph database for architecture state, a workflow engine for experiment scheduling, retrieval systems for developmental memory, and a frontier coding model integrated with theorem-prover and static-analysis tools. The specific stack matters less than the principle: every part of the system that can improve should be inspectable, modifiable, and measurable by the system itself.

A staged development pathway

Building a full Seed AI in one leap is unrealistic. The sensible engineering path is staged. Each stage increases the scope and autonomy of self-improvement while keeping the evaluation problem tractable.

Stage 1: Self-optimizing coding agent

The first workable prototype is a coding agent that can modify parts of its own codebase and benchmark the result on coding tasks. The Darwin Gödel Machine work is relevant here because it operationalizes self-improvement through code rewriting and empirical validation on coding benchmarks.

At this stage, the system is not a general Seed AI. It is a domain-constrained recursive improver. Yet this is enough to validate key mechanisms: self-representation, patch generation, experiment orchestration, and selective promotion of better successors.

Stage 2: Multi-tool research agent

Next, the system gains access to theorem provers, planners, simulators, and heterogeneous benchmark families. It no longer improves only its coding skill. It improves its ability to search, reason, and validate across mixed cognitive tasks. This stage tests whether self-improvement can generalize across modes of competence rather than overfit to coding alone.

Stage 3: Self-redesigning architecture searcher

The third stage allows structural redesign of the full agent decomposition. The system can change memory architecture, planner topology, tool routing, internal representation formats, and benchmark generation strategies. Recursive gains become more plausible here because the system is no longer optimizing within a fixed shell. It is redesigning the shell itself.

Stage 4: Open-domain recursive improver

The fourth stage is the classical Seed AI ideal. The system can operate over broad intellectual domains, model external environments, acquire new subskills, and continuously improve the machinery by which it acquires and composes those subskills. At this point, the architecture is better viewed as an evolving developmental process than as a static software product.

A concrete prototype blueprint

To make the engineering discussion less abstract, consider a prototype blueprint focused on code and reasoning. The initial system contains a strong coding model, a theorem prover bridge, a profiler, a benchmark suite, and an architecture graph describing all modules.

Cycle zero proceeds as follows. The system runs itself on a benchmark battery covering code repair, synthesis, theorem proving, and planning tasks. The telemetry layer identifies that theorem-prover invocation latency and memory retrieval quality are limiting performance. The planner generates two intervention hypotheses: a retrieval refactor using better indexing over prior proofs, and a controller rewrite that batches theorem-prover calls more effectively.

The synthesis engine creates both variants. Static analysis checks interface compatibility. The evaluation harness runs the new systems against the benchmark battery and records that retrieval improves theorem-proving throughput while batching improves cost but slightly harms responsiveness on interactive tasks. The promotion layer accepts the retrieval refactor, rejects the batching rewrite, and updates the self model with a learned generalization that batching is useful for offline proof search but not interactive planning.

In the next cycle, the now-improved retrieval system allows the agent to synthesize better code more reliably. That produces better optimization patches to the synthesis engine itself. This is the critical pattern. Improvement in one capability expands the set of reachable improvements elsewhere, and the architecture begins to exhibit compounding developmental dynamics.

Why recursive improvement could accelerate

Not every self-modifying system is recursively self-improving in the strong sense. Strong recursion begins when improvements increase the rate or quality of future improvements. In software terms, this means the agent is not just solving more tasks. It is getting better at redesigning itself.

Several technical mechanisms can drive this:

1. Better code synthesis expands the space of viable modifications.
2. Better diagnosis improves the hit rate of proposed changes.
3. Better benchmark generation reveals bottlenecks that static suites miss.
4. Better internal representations make architecture-level reasoning easier.
5. Better search allocation reduces wasted experimental compute.

Once these mechanisms start improving each other, the development trajectory may become nonlinear. This is the engineering heart of the Seed AI idea. The machine becomes an increasingly capable machine-builder whose primary raw material is its own architecture.

The role of domain grounding

Although the strongest version of Seed AI is open-domain, development may progress faster if early systems are grounded in narrow but rich domains. Coding is an obvious candidate because code is explicit, executable, and benchmarkable. Mathematics is another because correctness conditions are unusually crisp. Engineering simulation domains are also attractive because they offer measurable objective functions and controllable environments.

A domain-grounded Seed AI has two advantages. First, it operates in an environment where evaluation is cheaper and clearer. Second, it can accumulate reusable abstractions about optimization, modeling, and control that later transfer to broader contexts. The history of AI repeatedly shows that competence often grows outward from domains with dense feedback and formal structure.

For that reason, the most likely path to a general Seed AI is not the direct construction of an unrestricted self-improver. It is the gradual expansion of a recursive system that first proves itself in code, theorem proving, and simulation-heavy domains where self-modification is observable, testable, and economically valuable.

Engineering criteria for saying a system is truly Seed AI

Because the term is often used loosely, it helps to define practical criteria. A system should count as Seed AI only if it satisfies most of the following:

1. It has an explicit self model that represents its own architecture in machine-operable form.
2. It can propose modifications to multiple layers of itself, not just prompts or scalar hyperparameters.
3. It can implement those modifications through code transformation, retraining, or architecture rewiring.
4. It evaluates successors in a disciplined, reproducible manner and selectively promotes improved variants.
5. It stores and abstracts developmental experience so later iterations improve more effectively.
6. It can improve some part of the machinery of self-improvement itself.

A system that only auto-tunes models is not enough. A system that only writes plugins is not enough. A system that only edits code but cannot evaluate consequences is not enough. Seed AI begins where self-representation, self-modification, and recursive developmental leverage intersect.

Closing perspective

The engineering challenge of Seed AI is not primarily about making a model smarter in the ordinary sense. It is about constructing a software organism whose developmental loop is endogenous. Its cognition must include introspection, design search, code synthesis, experimental science, and architecture memory as native capabilities rather than external support functions.

The strongest theoretical foundations come from work on Gödel machines and recursive self-improvement, while the most practical near-term steppingstones come from self-improving coding agents such as the Darwin Gödel Machine line of work. The bridge between theory and implementation is built from hybrid representations, rigorous evaluation harnesses, machine-readable architecture models, and search mechanisms that can reason over the system's own design space.

When the Seed AI is engineered, it will likely emerge not as a single breakthrough artifact but as a recursively integrated stack. First comes self-description. Then self-editing. Then self-benchmarking. Then self-optimization across tools and architecture. Finally comes the point at which the system improves the very process by which it improves. That final transition is what turns a capable agent into a genuine Seed AI.

On Mattering, the Conduct That Distinguishes, and Why Refuge Is Difficult to Sit In

Companion essay — Garuda Suite, Any Note Press. Built on the morning practice, with "Above the Constraint of Death," "The Union Death Cannot Reach," and ”The Two Magnifications, and Three Hard Cases "Know that Protection Is Not Refuge" as its ground. A Garuda answer, for those who want one.

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There is a medicine that heals by making you matter. It finds the person who is disappearing from her own life — the retired teacher losing her hair and with it her willingness to be seen, the aging one declining out of a role she held for decades — and it restores her by locating the one place she is not interchangeable: a grandson at a school gate who would feel her absence, who checks her head and says it's working. She comes back to her care because she is singular to that boy. It is real medicine. It works. And it is built on the exact opposite of refuge.

This essay is about two views that cannot sit side by side, and about the conduct that keeps them apart — because they can only be held as distinguished, never merged. The medicine of mattering grounds a life by singularity: you are preferred, noticed, non-interchangeable, and your presence counts. The luminous grounds a life by the reverse: no one preferred, no one excluded, admitting no one and discharging no one. One is a latitude medicine — it cures the fear of vanishing by improving your position in the field of visibility and rank. The other is the ground, which favors no position at all. They are not two rungs of one ladder. They are two magnifications, and nearly all the confusion in a life comes from asking one to do the other's work.

This is the second of the suite's three hard cases: the hardest drift, of mattering and rank. It is located in the same two magnifications established in Protection Is Not Refuge and the prefatory note — the excitation and the ground — and reuses their vocabulary without rebuilding it.

Conduct is the discrimination

The teaching is not a view and not a result; it is a conduct — the daily shape of living inside the unbreakable constraint. And conduct is discrimination: the plain, unglamorous work of keeping distinguished what cannot be held any other way. Prajñā is drawn as a sword for this reason. It cuts, and what it cuts is the merger — the quiet slide by which the warmth of mattering is asked to become the ground, and the ground is asked to hand back the warmth of mattering. The five voluntary actions — Respect, Sincerity, Safety, Trust, Honesty — are that cutting conduct, and they operate in the one inseparable domain of Purity and Equality. Watch what happens to every one of them the instant the practice is bent toward survival and being-preferred. Each does not merely weaken. It flips to show the thing it was holding off.

How the Qualities collapse into the medicine of mattering

Safety. Safety is the refuge that cannot be withdrawn; imposed or demanded, it collapses to threat, because safety demanded is already threat. The one who needs to be mattered-to is, by that very need, already not safe. She is seeking safety as an arrangement — a position secured in someone's regard — and an arrangement can always be withdrawn. The boy grows up; the role fades; the regard moves on. To reach for safety in being-preferred is to have already stepped outside the Safety that no one can take away because no one set it up.

Sincerity. Sincerity is inner and outer aligned, with no performance; required as display, it collapses to pretense. Ask the question of the one in the mattering-cure — where is your commitment? — and find it is not hers. It is on loan from the role. She continues her care because the grandson inspects her head and pronounces it working; the commitment lives in his verdict, not in her own alignment. This is the choreography of the good patient, the polite nod, the answers near the surface — performance, not sincerity. A commitment held in another's regard is returned the moment the regard is gone.

Respect. Respect is honoring what is, without agenda; carried with an agenda, it collapses to domination. Here the agenda arrives dressed as necessity: the need to eat, the need for the medicine, the need to keep the role — survival, which feels beyond argument. But the practice was never about survival. The practice is doing nothing disrespectful to purity and equality. The instant the practice is made an instrument of surviving, of staying visible, of not disappearing, the unconditioned has been pressed into the service of the conditioned — and that is the disrespect, however understandable. Respect is not lost by dying. It is lost by making the ground work for the excitation.

Honesty. Honesty is truth without manipulation; made strategic, it collapses to misdirection. And the medicine of mattering, at its edge, is not honest, because it lets delay pass for cure. Medicine is a delay mechanism; life is a delay mechanism; the role, the regrowth, the being-wanted, all buy time against dispersal and none of them stop it. To offer being-mattered-to as the answer to disappearing is to sell delay as though it were the far shore. The kindness is real. The claim underneath it is misdirection.

Trust. Trust is reliance that deepens rather than tests; compelled or conditioned, it collapses to lying. Watch how the mattering-life handles the parts that do not matter — the drift, the decline, the unphotogenic hours, the self that is no longer useful to anyone's gate. They are held at arm's length. What is wanted is drawn close; what is unwanted is kept at a distance, tolerated, managed. That sorting is a test, and a reliance that tests is not trust. Refuge sorts nothing. It has no arm's length, because it has no arm and no length — nothing is admitted and nothing is turned away.

Matter is bias, attachment, and fierce emotion

Here is why refuge is a genuinely difficult place to sit, and I will not pretend otherwise.

The other-than-ordinary aspiration is to be never parted from sorrowless Bliss, free from bias, attachments, and fierce emotion. Now look at what mattering actually offers, and offers warmly. To matter is to be biased toward — to be the preferred one, singled out from the interchangeable. To matter is attachment — to the role, to the being-wanted, to the particular person whose absence would be felt. And to matter is fierce emotion — the heat of being singular, and its shadow, the grief of the drift, the terror of the fade. Mattering is made, precisely and entirely, of the three things the refuge aspiration sets down.

So the choice is not between refuge and some cold deprivation. It is between refuge and the whole warm world of being someone. That is why the cushion is hard, and why one keeps rising off it toward the school gate. The physics says the same thing without the ache. As established, bias, attachment, and fierce emotion are excited-state events, each with a decay rate, and the vacuum carries none of them. What this case adds is a point about distinguishability. Identical excitations are, in fact, indistinguishable — "my electron" and "your electron" are one field, differently configured, not this-one-specifically and that-one-specifically — and that indistinguishability is not a demotion but the very ground of their equality. Mattering is the insistence on distinguishability: I am not a chart number, I am not interchangeable. Refuge is the recognition of indistinguishability as the ground itself. To sit in refuge is to consent to be the indistinguishable vacuum when the whole longing of the excited life is to be the distinguished one. Of course it is difficult. It asks you to set down the three warmest things you have, and it offers in their place nothing you can be singular about.

And this reveals what the practice is actually for, which is less than people hope and better than they fear. The practice changes nothing. You are meant to see equality, to see safety, to see purity — and none of them changes, because none of them has a decay rate; they are not the sort of thing that alters. What changes is only the bias, the attachment, and the fierce emotion — which is to say, the mattering itself. The practice does not rearrange the world into one where you are at last singular. It sets down the three excitations that made singularity feel like life, and leaves the ground exactly as it always was. And it does not set them down by force. You cannot starve mattering out of yourself; refusing food, refusing comfort, refusing the warm world in an ascetic performance removes no bias and dissolves no attachment — deprivation is only mattering inverted, one more excitation dressed in sackcloth. The setting-down is a recognition, not a subtraction, and it leaves you free to eat, to work, to be loved, while no longer mining any of it for a rank.

The drift, and whether the other compensates

This case is not the last one. In Protection Is Not Refuge the dependent was never a capacity-equal. Here is the one who was equal and drifts — declining, aging, losing the role, disappearing from her own life. Does this require the other to compensate the drift? The answer is two answers, at two magnifications, and merging them is the whole error.

In the physical: yes. We accept the limitation and work in the physical as we can. Treat the disease, hold the role open, help her keep showing up at the gate, coordinate the sleep and the mood and the labs. This is protection, this is Bodhicitta, and it is right; refusing it would be a cruelty dressed as detachment.

In the ground: there is nothing to compensate, because only the excitation drifted. The vacuum did not decline. And to try to compensate the drift at the level of worth — to keep propping the position with reassurance, you still matter, you still count, your presence still changes something — is to linger in the latitude's neurosis, shoring up a rank that will go on decaying no matter how much is spent on it. The longitudinal conduct cannot linger there. This is not indifference, and it must never be felt as indifference. It is restraint for the sake of the other-than-ordinary life — the refusal to build a ground out of a thing that decays, because a ground built on the drifting will drift, and then there is no ground at all when it is finally needed.

Providing without providing

So one provides, fully, and does not provide. This is the conduct that holds the two views apart without dropping either.

You provide in the physical with both hands — the whole labor of protection, unstinted. But you do not provide as a singular provider banking the merit of having-mattered, keeping a ledger of the one who was needed. There is no transfer across a gap here, because there is no gap; the exchange of self and other was never energy moved between two isolated reservoirs but the one field recognizing itself, and so there is no reservoir to deplete and no account in which mattering accrues. This is what lets one remain off the cushion without leaving the practice: the providing is the practice. The glow is not an on-off switch. One does not stay aware of it through every task of the day, and one never actually leaves it either; the attention toggles between the work and the open ground, but the residence does not move. You do the dishes, you cook, you drive; you do not see yourself in the glow while you do them, and you have not for one moment left it. You do not step out of refuge to go provide, and you do not provide in order to matter. You compensate the drift with your hands and you leave the ground uncompensated, because the ground asked for nothing and lacked nothing.

The luminous does not favor one over another. It is refuge — not sanctuary and not salvation. Sanctuary would be a refuge that prefers you, a safety with your name on the door, which is no longer refuge and is already threat. Salvation would be mattering raised to doctrine, you-specifically rescued from the interchangeable. Refuge does neither, and its refusal to do either is not its poverty. It is the only mercy that cannot be withdrawn, precisely because it never singled you out to grant it.

Home

Refuge is difficult. Sit anyway. Provide all day, and matter to someone all day in the ordinary life — let that be entirely real, and let it drift when it drifts, without building your ground on it. Ask the one in front of you what she is hoping to get back to, and help her get back to it with everything the physical allows; that is good and beneficial work, and I will not diminish it. Only do not confuse the getting-back-to with the ground, and do not offer her, or yourself, being-mattered-to as the cure for a dispersal that no regard can halt. The luminous favors no one, and that is its safety. So provide without providing, and let refuge be hard, and sit in it while your hands stay busy in the world that is drifting.

Home, my home. I keep it that way — off the cushion, hands full, favoring no one, missing nothing. Hum Phat!

Colophon

The work is personal. The material here is original arising directly from my sitting contemplation. It is protected under Any Note Press. It’s publication here permits no commercial use. All rights are reserved. It is offered for the benefit of one’s practice and nothing else.

The road from Windermere to the Kirkstone pass collapsed over the winter and is proving difficult to fix. There is an alternative from Ambleside called The Struggle, a very steep, narrow fell-road with hairpins. I've driven it many times, without difficulty. But then I don't drive a delivery van or a Range Rover.

With the main approach shut and the official diversion being a long detour via Penrith, I guessed there'd be a lot of traffic on The Struggle that shouldn't be there. And I was right. But my little car doesn't take up much room and can squeeze through gaps, when two vans or Range Rovers meeting head on cannot.

I made sure I had an early start, but still only just managed to make way among convoys of careless, and in some case frightened motorists, coming the other way. How the wide-beamed vehicles fared I can't imagine, since reverse gear seems optional these days.

It was a warm one too, our second wave of heat looming, and looking to settle in for a while. I was heading for Patterdale where I'd be setting up for a couple of days in the hotel, some light walking and some thinking in the coming days, hopefully before it became too hot to move. The valley was quiet. I even managed to park at Cow Bridge, normally full by mid-morning. But today it was half empty – the introduction of a pay and display machine perhaps being the culprit – either that or a general reduction in traffic coming over the pass.

I had in mind a short walk up Hayeswater Gill. The plan was to take my time over photographing the numerous falls along the way, a project I've had in mind for some time now. But I also wanted to locate one set of falls in particular that I remembered from way back. It was the tail end of a long walk, and I was coming down off Grey Crags, not much evidence of a path. It was a slow, ache of a descent, on aching legs, and way below I'd spied a lovely looking pool in the gill. There I'd promised myself, if I ever got off the mountain, I'd stick my feet in the cool, clear water until the aches subsided. And so I did.

I remember it as such a beautiful spot – idyllic – a splendid cascade plunging into a deep pool, crystal clear. And I remember just resting there, a feeling of utter bliss upon me, before making the last mile to the car. So, I made my way up the track to find much of the lower reaches of the gill fenced and inaccessible. And each of the falls I saw further along, that were open to access seemed difficult and some of them dangerous. Certainly, these were not the falls I saw that day coming off Grey Crag, none of them inviting of repose.

In the end I climbed the entire length of the ghyll, as far as its source in the outfall from Hayeswater. There I sat a while, feeling as if the entire landscape I'd thought I'd known had somehow shifted over the decades. But then I realised I'd also been carrying this feeling with me for a while now – this general sense of unease at the pace of change, and of an uncertain future. I also realise, I have lived much of this landscape in my head. I wrote about it intimately in my novel The Lavender and the Rose – the setting being a conflation of the valleys off Patterdale, and the remoter reaches of the Far Eastern fells, plus some that did not exist anywhere outside of imagination.

That said, I'm sure I did not imagine those falls, but like the past, like that day coming off Grey Crag, they are simply no longer assessible. The decades have erased them, reduced them in a sense to the story I'm telling now. And I realised too even the long silver arrow of Hayeswater was no longer as it was when I first encountered it, long ago. It used to be much higher, but at some point the dam at the outfall was removed, and the levels have settled back to a more natural level.

The photograph I took of the outfall was the only one to survive the cut, and a place I did not intend photographing at all. The others I deleted for one reason or another – blurred, poor composition, flat light, or simply disappointment at the apparent inaccessibility of the past. Whether that remaining photograph will one day carry the memory of place, or merely record the geography, only time will tell.

I briefly contemplated taking the higher routes back to Hartsop, over Satura Crag and the Angletarn Pikes, but that was a much longer day than I'd planned and not enough time on the ticket anyway. So I made my return the way I'd come, checked into the hotel, sat out on the green with, of all things, a leisurely pint of beer – since beer is not usually my thing.

Surrounded by the beauty of towering fell country, I fingered the maps on the phone, planning the next day's walk. But it was with a feeling the maps I've been carrying in my head are becoming increasingly unreliable for navigating the real world. Yet memory can retain an astonishing clarity our whole lives, accessible at the slightest turn of thought – the ache of a descent, the soothing shock of cold water on tired feet, the feeling of release from an intimidating mountain's grip. But it's the routes back that fail us. Roads collapse. Paths disappear among the swelling, steaming thickets of seasonal bracken. Gates, once open and inviting, we return to find locked against us.

But we keep going by whatever means come to hand, and with a growing awareness those old routes are not always reliable guides to memories of place. And by the same token, the paths we walk today may not be there tomorrow. Yet in some ways that's not important, and once followed, they can be discarded.

Memories of place seem gifted. They come to us with a feeling, with a sense of something having opened, allowing us into a more intimate relationship with our surroundings. It can be a moment of intensity, perhaps brought on by struggle or hardship, but other times that intensity comes out of nothing more than the kind of attention we bring to bear.

So, yes, although the routes we once travelled may prove unreliable, and the destinations themselves altered beyond all recognition, the moments in which a landscape once admitted us into itself remain curiously intact, long after the maps have forgotten how to get us there.

Integral scans 20.6%

Once he was inside the life pod, its reinforced and lined walls would disconnect his wrist device from the ship’s remote connection. Whatever he did, he needed to do it now. With likely seconds to act, and standing on the cusp of hope. He keyed up the remote connection to the science station. And began the processes of emergency data transfer and storage. The ship contained a hardened data storage appliance. The size of a good book and three times as heavy, this device would receive all of the ship’s mineralogical, astrological, and optical scan data, then disconnect the cabling from the storage appliance. The appliance, in turn, would activate a sustain-and-stabilize mode until it could be retrieved. Theoretically, the data in the device could survive indefinitely.

Data Transfer started; 12% complete. Estimated time to completion: 12 minutes.

Twelves, what are the chances? But twelve minutes was a long time; he wasn’t sure …

Integral scans at 20.2%. Evacuate Now.

He did not have time. He would have to trust the system’s ability to complete the transfer. Vest thrust himself forward into the life pod and awkwardly fitted himself into the standing restraint. Activating a tactile switch at his side, the restraints tightened against his suit and braced the sides of his head. The experience was confining and unnerving, his ability to move stripped from him, and his field of vision offering only a faint glimpse of the ship’s corridor at the fringes of his visor. Another tearing sound roared through his ears, another volley.

Integral scans at 1-

Silence, both visually and audibly.

The corridors and the life pod abruptly descended into a momentary void of incomparable darkness. The alarms ceased, his wrist device displaying disconnected in flashing yellow. The emergency lighting slowly glowed to life in sick orange. The auto-ejection should have continued, was designed to continue, even in the event of a full system failure. Confined, Vest’s thoughts started to boil, to rage. The fear that had been held at bay by movement and purpose was rising like flood waters, faster than reason could dam it back up. “Breathe, focus on breathing.” Vest chanted to himself, finding it hard to focus on something so erratic. “There is an emergency manual operation in the pod.”

The act of giving himself instructions cleared the black specs forming in his vision: “Find it, pull it.” He blindly reached above his head with his still-functioning hand and wrist. He strained against the head brace to grant himself just a minimal more of vision. He found it, neck aching, grasping it, and stopped. In the corridor, an ethereal shadow floated just outside the hatch, reflecting the sick orange glow of the emergency lights, but also emitting a faint brilliance of the rest of the Mirrored Ban. The effect was a partial corporeal. In that moment, his breathing slowed and the hairs across his arms and neck raised. Light seemed to pulse from within and along thin lines of the semi-organized scattering of the silicate that had transitioned into the ship. A different fear washed away the fear of confined death. For a moment, he made eye contact with something. Yet there were no eyes, no face, nothing his brain or mind could use to represent a thing capable of making eye contact. But in the seeming seconds, he felt his eyes being searched by another pair. Like the accidental eye contact with someone you might know. He pulled the lever, the hatch slammed closed, followed by a rapid succession of five lights and a buzzer. A violent thud brought the bile to his throat as the life pod ejected away from the William Clark. A chance of hope for survival.

The William Clark heeled away from the rapidly departing life pod, obeying the laws of motion. Its systems past the point of ability to obey the commands its central computer desperately issued. Too weak to continue, its life energy nearly let out in full into the surrounding space, with the core sputtering and cooling. The Pirate corvettes, seeing the last life pod depart and the prey no longer struggling, ceased their onslaught. Unconcerned with picking up survivors, “more mouths to feed” the pirates joked and laughed, they followed the Clark as it sank into the swirling rapids of the Mirrored Ban, intending to feast upon their reward.

Years gone by, and Vest still felt confined and tumbling through space. It was expected by Vest and others that parts of the Clark would have shown up on the black and grey markets, maybe even the entire ship. Or that it would later be seen as a pirate itself. Ill-fitted and retrofitted to issue destruction from a shadow. Vest feared and hoped that an encrypted data vault would be auctioned to the highest bidder for a year-long decryption process. Expectations were not honored. No part of the William Clark ever surfaced. Nothing. After a decade, Timothy Vest, always the hopeful, decided it was still out there. Something must have discouraged the pirates from consuming the ship whole. Maybe the radiation leak or the exhausting effort of navigating deep in the rapids of light and reflection. Vest had ten years to create mental models as to why, but little way of validating the what-ifs he had concocted. But with the most recent message he had received from the original expedition’s backer, the word “approved” was highlighted across the summary. After ten years, he had the means to validate. To retrieve the data, find out what happened. The chance of hope, in going back. And to look the mirrored ban in the eyes.

A bus, a stranger, and a question about time, information, and the observer.

A few days ago, after leaving a hospital appointment, I decided to walk instead of taking the bus.

The consultation had ended with the news that I would soon undergo a second corneal transplant. Although it wasn’t entirely unexpected, I still needed time to absorb it. Walking has always been how I think. Even in the middle of a heatwave, I found myself choosing the longer way home.

As I crossed the road outside the hospital, I noticed a woman waiting quietly at a bus stop. There was nothing remarkable about the scene, and I simply kept walking.

A few minutes later, as I reached the next junction, I saw a bus turning up the hill. Because of where I was standing, I could already see it. She couldn’t.

Then, almost without thinking, a strange question appeared in my mind.

Had I just seen her future?

At first, the answer seemed obvious.

Of course not. I wasn’t predicting anything. I simply happened to be standing somewhere that gave me access to information she did not yet have. But the thought refused to leave.

Suppose, instead, that I had called her at that very moment.

“Your bus is coming. It’s blue. The upper deck is almost full.”

A few seconds later, everything I had described would become part of her own experience. To her, I would have been describing the future. To me, I was simply describing the present.

The bus itself was never in the future.

Only her experience of it was.

That small moment made me wonder whether we often confuse two very different ideas: something that has not yet happened, and something that has already happened but has not yet reached us.

Those are not necessarily the same thing.

Imagine a medical test. The laboratory has already completed the analysis. The doctor already knows the result. Yet the patient will not receive the phone call until tomorrow.

Where does that diagnosis belong? Is it still the future? Or does it already exist, while only the patient’s awareness remains behind?

The same happens every day in ways we rarely notice. A football match reaches television viewers several seconds after the players have already celebrated a goal. Light from the Sun takes about eight minutes to reach Earth. The galaxies astronomers observe tonight often appear as they were millions or even billions of years ago.

Our knowledge of the universe has always depended on information travelling through space. Perhaps this is more than a curious coincidence. Perhaps every observer experiences reality through the arrival of information.

This made me think differently about the present itself.

Maybe the present is not a universal moment shared equally by everyone. Maybe what we call the present is constructed from the information available to each observer.

If two people standing only a few metres apart can experience different presents, then what exactly is the future?

Perhaps the word future quietly gathers together several completely different ideas. Sometimes it means something that genuinely has not happened. Sometimes it describes something that already exists but has not yet reached our awareness. Sometimes it refers to events that are still uncertain, yet can already be anticipated from the information we have.

Our language treats them as though they are the same.

Perhaps they are not.

Interestingly, this question reminded me of one interpretation in modern physics.

In one interpretation of relativity, sometimes called the block universe, time does not necessarily flow from past to future. Instead, every event already exists as part of a four-dimensional spacetime, while our conscious experience moves through it one moment at a time.

Whether this picture of reality is correct remains an open question.

I don’t know whether this is how the universe works. But it offered me another way of thinking about the nature of the future.

It raises an interesting possibility.

If a different observer could somehow access a larger portion of spacetime than we can, would they appear to know the future? Or would they simply be seeing parts of reality that we have not yet experienced?

Perhaps what we call the future says as much about the observer as it does about time itself.

The bus arrived.

The woman stepped forward and climbed aboard. Within seconds, the ordinary street became ordinary again.

She would never know that a stranger across the road had spent the next hour thinking about those few unremarkable moments.

Neither of us had changed the world.

The only difference between us was where we happened to be standing.

Yet that small difference left me wondering whether the future is truly something waiting to happen, or whether it is, at least sometimes, simply a name we give to reality before it reaches us.

How a discredited 1930s cancer treatment became a five-star Amazon category

Steve the Hypothetical Gerbil's summary, for those in a hurry: A German doctor made coffee enemas central to a 1930s alternative cancer regimen. It didn't work, and cancer organisations still warn it can be dangerous. Nearly a century later, Amazon sells the kit with next-day delivery, and the reviews are the most honest writing on the internet.

I was looking for coffee.

The kind you drink, from a cup, using your mouth, like every human being who has ever wanted to be awake.

The algorithm had other ideas.

Somewhere between the search bar and the checkout page, Amazon decided I might also enjoy "Organic Enema Coffee", medium grind, Fair Trade, specifically calibrated, the listing assured me, to avoid clogging the equipment.

My what?

I clicked.

I should not have clicked.

What followed was several hours discovering that the practice of administering coffee via the rectum rather than the mouth is not a fringe curiosity confined to one seller with a name like HerbalDetox4U.

It is a mature, competitive marketplace with tiered pricing, brand loyalty, and a customer review section that deserves its own place in the literary canon.

The doctor who made it famous

The story begins with Max Gerson, a German-American physician who developed what became known as Gerson therapy in the early twentieth century. Gerson believed cancer was the result of the body accumulating toxins, and that the cure lay in a strict organic vegan diet, enormous quantities of fresh juice, and coffee enemas administered several times a day.

The theory was that caffeine, absorbed through the colon wall, would stimulate bile production in the liver and flush toxins from the system.

It is worth pausing here to give Gerson his due. He was working in an era before modern oncology existed in any recognisable form, when doctors were genuinely groping in the dark for anything that might work against cancer.

Trying something is not, in itself, a crime.

The crime is what happened next: the theory never cleared a single controlled clinical trial. In 1947, both the National Cancer Institute and the New York County Medical Society reviewed the case files and found no evidence it did anything. The American Cancer Society has since described the regimen as potentially very harmful. The National Cancer Institute's own records link coffee enemas to documented deaths from septicaemia and severe electrolyte imbalance, the latter capable of triggering cardiac arrest.

This is not a controversial fringe opinion. It is the settled, boring position of reputable cancer bodies that have looked at it.

And yet the therapy persisted. Not because the evidence supported it, but because the story supported it.

Gerson offered something that conventional oncology, with its brutal surgeries and punishing chemotherapies, could not: a narrative where the patient, not the doctor, was in control. Where cancer was not a random genetic catastrophe but the predictable result of a lifetime of accumulated "toxins", and where the cure was not poison but purity.

It was a story of personal agency, dietary virtue, and moral redemption dressed in medical language. That story, once told, proved remarkably difficult to kill with facts.

The Gerson Institute is still operating clinics, mostly in jurisdictions with looser rules than the country next door. But the coffee enema itself has long since escaped its original cancer-cure packaging.

Somewhere along the way, exactly when is hard to pin down, the enema detached from cancer entirely. By the time the wellness industry hit its stride in the 1990s, it had reattached itself to something far more commercially viable: the vague, marketable, infinitely renewable sense that your body is full of something it shouldn't be.

The target audience was no longer the terminally ill, but the merely anxious.

And anxiety, unlike cancer, never goes into remission.

The marketplace

What Amazon has done is take a discredited medical theory from the 1930s, strip it of its original context, and give it a shopping cart.

The entry point is a €15 silicone bulb that resembles nothing so much as a turkey baster. From there the range extends upward to stainless steel bucket systems with medical-grade tubing and, in the more serious kits, a one-way valve engineered specifically to prevent what the listing delicately calls "backflow."

But the equipment is only the beginning. The most telling detail is the coffee itself.

One brand, trading under the name IT'S GERSON GOOD, sells a 0.5kg bag of medium grind for €74.95, which according to the Amazon Ad works out to €165.24 per kilo.

For context, that is roughly ten times the price of a perfectly drinkable specialty roast from a roaster who does not, in their marketing copy, use the word "detoxifying" as a selling point for something that will never touch your taste buds.

You are not paying for the beans. You are paying for the permission structure.

The brand name is not a description; it is a badge, a signal to other believers that you are in the know. At that price, the coffee is almost incidental. What you are buying is the idea that you are doing something serious, something that requires its own proprietary grind, its own brand.

The colon is just the delivery mechanism.

The real target is the wallet.

And then there is the valve.

I want to dwell on that valve for a moment, because it tells you everything about how seriously this business takes itself. Someone, somewhere, sat down and designed an engineering solution to a problem that only exists because of the practice itself.

That is not a fringe hobbyist tinkering in a shed. That is a supply chain, a manufacturing spec, and presumably a quality control process.

Capitalism does not build a one-way valve for a niche nobody is paying for.

The valve prevents backflow; the price prevents second-guessing. Together, they form the skeleton of an industry that has no scientific justification but impeccable commercial logic.

The reviews

The customer reviews are where this story stops being about pseudoscience and starts being about people, which is where it gets interesting.

There is the true believer, convinced the practice has resolved ailments with no plausible connection to bowel function, migraines, chronic fatigue, skin conditions, writing with the sincerity of someone who has found meaning and is not going to let a lack of mechanism get in the way of it.

There is the seasoned practitioner, several years into the habit, whose one-star deduction is not for the coffee but for a poorly placed hose clamp, the kind of specific, technical complaint that only comes from repetition. This is a person with a system, and I found myself oddly moved by the competence on display, even while being unsettled by what the competence was for.

There is the enthusiast who reports repurposing the bulb for "automotive purposes" after modification, a review I have chosen not to think about further, and will not be helping you think about either.

And then there is the reviewer who wrote, without embellishment, that it felt good "in his butt" and that others should try it.

No toxins, no liver, no theory. Just a direct, unashamed statement of preference.

Of all the voices in that review section, that one felt like the only entirely honest one.

What this is actually about

I have spent enough time around human beings to know that people do things to their bodies that horrify onlookers and make perfect sense to them, so I am not going to pretend I'm shocked that coffee enemas have a fan base.

People are allowed to do what they like with their own colons. That was never the interesting part of this story.

The interesting part is the machinery around it.

Watch how it works: a theory with no scientific support, formally rejected by serious bodies that have examined it, and linked to documented deaths, is decoupled from its original life-or-death context and rebranded as a lifestyle choice.

The cancer patient is replaced by the wellness consumer.

The clinic is replaced by the Amazon listing.

The doctor's prescription is replaced by the five-star review.

The need is replaced by the want.

And suddenly, what was once a desperate gamble by the dying becomes a Tuesday afternoon ritual for the mildly anxious, complete with next-day delivery and a four-and-a-half-star average rating.

Nobody selling the kit needs you to believe in the Gerson protocol specifically.

They don't need you to believe in cancer, or toxins, or the liver, or even coffee.

They only need the algorithm to notice you searched for something warm and caffeinated, and a review section persuasive enough to do the rest.

Coffee, taken the ordinary way, has done this job perfectly well for several centuries.

It goes in the top, it comes out the bottom, in that order, and no valve is required to stop it changing its mind halfway through.

First published on JustRodents.com

Hay imágenes que pertenecen a una época con la misma precisión con que ciertas ruinas pertenecen a una civilización desaparecida. No porque expliquen por completo el mundo que las produjo, sino porque contienen señales de una forma particular de organizar la vida. Una fotografía de una estación ferroviaria del siglo XIX, una fábrica de comienzos del siglo XX o una oficina de finales del siglo pasado no muestran únicamente espacios físicos. Revelan relaciones sociales, ritmos cotidianos y una determinada manera de entender la presencia humana dentro de esos lugares.

Cada época termina dejando algunas escenas que, observadas desde la distancia, funcionan como documentos involuntarios de su propia existencia. La dificultad del presente consiste en reconocer esas imágenes mientras todavía forman parte de nuestra rutina. Una de ellas aparece con una insistencia que ya casi no provoca sorpresa; una multitud reunida frente a un escenario mientras cientos de teléfonos permanecen elevados hacia el mismo punto.

La escena tiene una particularidad difícil de ignorar. Miles de personas han llegado hasta allí para participar de un acontecimiento irrepetible, una experiencia cuya fuerza depende precisamente de su carácter pasajero. Sin embargo, entre quienes observan y aquello que ocurre frente a ellos surge una capa adicional. Las pantallas no solo registran el momento; también empiezan a intervenir en la forma en que ese momento es vivido.

El artista continúa sobre el escenario, la música continúa sonando y la multitud continúa participando. Nada de eso desaparece. La transformación ocurre en otro nivel, en la aparición de una segunda mirada que acompaña la experiencia mientras sucede. Quien asiste al concierto no solo está allí para presenciarlo; también participa en la construcción de una imagen futura de aquello que está ocurriendo.

Durante gran parte de la historia humana, conservar una experiencia ocurría después de haberla vivido. La memoria personal, la fotografía, los relatos escritos o las imágenes familiares aparecían como intentos de recuperar aquello que el paso del tiempo podía borrar. Existía una separación relativamente clara entre el acontecimiento y su registro. Primero estaba la experiencia; después llegaba la necesidad de conservarla.

Esa separación comenzó a modificarse cuando las tecnologías de registro dejaron de ocupar únicamente el lugar de la memoria y pasaron a formar parte del instante mismo. La cámara dejó de aparecer después del acontecimiento para acompañarlo desde el inicio. La posibilidad de documentar una experiencia comenzó a influir en la manera en que esa experiencia era percibida.

Una comida puede ser pensada también desde la imagen que producirá. Un viaje puede incorporar desde su inicio la expectativa de aquello que será compartido. Un encuentro puede adquirir una dimensión adicional cuando aparece la posibilidad de convertirlo en una evidencia visible. La experiencia continúa siendo real, pero empieza a convivir con una representación anticipada de sí misma.

Reducir este fenómeno a una cuestión de vanidad individual sería insuficiente. La necesidad de dejar registro no surge únicamente de una decisión personal, sino de un entorno cultural donde la visibilidad adquirió un valor propio. Mostrar dejó de ser solamente una consecuencia de haber hecho algo y comenzó a formar parte de la forma en que las personas interpretan su propia existencia.

Durante siglos, una parte importante de la vida transcurrió sin necesidad de producir una confirmación pública permanente. Una conversación podía desaparecer al finalizar. Un recuerdo podía permanecer únicamente en la memoria de quienes participaron en él. Un logro podía encontrar reconocimiento dentro de comunidades pequeñas sin necesidad de alcanzar una audiencia amplia.

La experiencia poseía una existencia independiente de su circulación.

La diferencia del presente no está en que ahora existan imágenes donde antes no las había. Las sociedades humanas siempre buscaron formas de preservar aquello que consideraban significativo. Las pinturas, los manuscritos, los archivos y los monumentos expresaban una antigua necesidad humana de resistir la desaparición.

La transformación aparece en el lugar que ocupa el registro dentro de la experiencia. La imagen ya no llega únicamente para conservar lo ocurrido; empieza a acompañar aquello que ocurre y, en ciertos casos, modifica la atención que dedicamos al momento.

Una parte de la conciencia comienza a observar la propia experiencia mientras esta sucede. Existe quien participa del acontecimiento y, al mismo tiempo, quien anticipa cómo será recordado, compartido o interpretado posteriormente. La persona se convierte en participante y observadora de su propia presencia.

Este cambio no elimina la emoción ni convierte cada experiencia en una representación falsa. Un concierto puede seguir conmoviendo, un paisaje puede seguir provocando asombro y una conversación puede seguir transformando a quienes participan en ella. Lo que cambia es la relación con el instante, porque una posibilidad externa comienza a formar parte de su estructura interna.

La cultura contemporánea ha ampliado de manera extraordinaria la capacidad de conservar momentos, pero esa misma capacidad ha modificado aquello que consideramos digno de atención. Lo visible adquiere una fuerza particular dentro de un entorno donde gran parte de la interacción social ocurre mediante imágenes, narraciones y señales compartidas.

Aquello que no produce una evidencia inmediata ocupa un lugar más difícil. Los procesos largos, las experiencias silenciosas, los aprendizajes que requieren tiempo y las conversaciones que desaparecen sin dejar registro continúan formando parte de la vida humana, aunque encuentran menos espacio dentro de una cultura acostumbrada a transformar acontecimientos en objetos circulables.

El problema no está en la existencia de imágenes, sino en la relación que establecemos con ellas. Una fotografía puede preservar un recuerdo valioso, pero también puede convertirse en una forma de trasladar parte de la atención hacia un futuro en el que ese momento será observado nuevamente. La experiencia comienza a contener dentro de sí la posibilidad de su propia revisión.

Por eso la escena de un concierto lleno de teléfonos encendidos resulta tan significativa. No representa una pérdida definitiva de la experiencia ni una ruptura absoluta con formas anteriores de vivir. Su importancia reside en revelar una transformación más silenciosa; la experiencia comienza a necesitar una forma de confirmación mientras todavía está ocurriendo.

Cuando termina el concierto, las pantallas se apagan y los archivos quedan guardados. Miles de imágenes similares descansan en dispositivos que conservarán durante años unos minutos que ya quedaron atrás. La pregunta no está en qué harán las personas con esas imágenes después, sino en qué buscaban rescatar cuando decidieron capturar ese instante.

Porque detrás de cada registro existe una búsqueda que va más allá de la escena conservada. Está la necesidad de confirmar una presencia, de afirmar que estuvimos allí, que ese momento ocurrió y que nuestra experiencia formó parte de él.

Principios clave: Suficiencia, redistribución y cuidados

El decrecimiento no es una colección de gestos sueltos —reducir un poco aquí, ahorrar un poco allá—. Es un edificio conceptual que descansa sobre tres pilares que no son negociables ni intercambiables entre sí: la suficiencia, la redistribución y los cuidados. Entenderlos por separado es útil, pero entenderlos como un sistema que se sostiene mutuamente es lo que de verdad transforma la mirada.

Suficiencia: el arte de saber cuándo parar

Vivimos en una cultura que no tiene la palabra "suficiente" en su vocabulario cotidiano. El mercado no vende "lo que necesitas", vende "un poco más de lo que tienes". Y como no existe un techo natural para el deseo inducido, siempre hay un modelo superior, una versión mejorada, una experiencia más completa que comprar. La suficiencia rompe esa lógica: propone que existe un punto —distinto para cada persona, pero real— en el que más material, más energía o más ingresos dejan de traducirse en más bienestar.

Esto no es una intuición romántica, es algo que la propia evidencia sobre satisfacción vital confirma una y otra vez: superado un determinado umbral de recursos materiales, el bienestar percibido se estanca o incluso retrocede, mientras el impacto ambiental sigue creciendo sin freno. Es decir, seguimos gastando planeta sin ganar vida a cambio. La suficiencia pregunta, sin dramatismo: ¿cuánto necesito realmente para vivir con dignidad, salud, tiempo y vínculos? Y anima a poner ese límite por escrito, porque lo que no se nombra, el sistema lo ocupa por defecto.

Practicar la suficiencia no significa vivir con menos por principio, sino identificar el punto exacto en el que "más" deja de sumar. Puede ser el armario (¿cuántas prendas necesitas realmente para vestirte bien todo el año?), la vivienda (¿cuántos metros cuadrados hace falta calentar y limpiar?), o el ocio (¿cuántas pantallas, cuántos viajes, cuántas compras de entretenimiento son "suficientes" antes de que dejen de aportar algo nuevo?). El ejercicio de la suficiencia es, en el fondo, un ejercicio de honestidad radical con uno mismo.

Redistribución: la escasez que no es tal

El segundo pilar corrige un error de diagnóstico muy extendido: creer que el problema es que "no hay suficiente para todos". La evidencia dice lo contrario: hay sobreabundancia material concentrada en una minoría global, mientras enormes poblaciones no alcanzan ni siquiera el umbral mínimo de subsistencia digna. El planeta no tiene un problema de escasez absoluta, tiene un problema de reparto.

La redistribución no es caridad ni generosidad puntual: es justicia estructural. Implica que quienes hemos superado ampliamente el umbral de suficiencia debemos ceder espacio material y ecológico para que otros puedan alcanzarlo. Esto se traduce en decisiones muy concretas: menos horas de trabajo remunerado para unos, para que haya empleo digno disponible para otros; menos acumulación de propiedad y capital para que existan recursos accesibles al conjunto; menos huella per cápita en los países ricos, para que exista margen de desarrollo material legítimo en los países empobrecidos.

La redistribución también opera a escala local. En cualquier pueblo o barrio conviven realidades muy distintas de acceso a la vivienda, a la energía o a la alimentación de calidad. Preguntarse "¿quién tiene de más y quién tiene de menos aquí mismo?" es el primer paso para que el decrecimiento no se convierta en una experiencia exclusiva de quienes ya viven cómodamente, sino en un proyecto colectivo de justicia compartida.

Cuidados: la economía que sostiene todas las economías

El tercer pilar es, quizás, el más invisibilizado y el más urgente de recuperar. Los cuidados son el conjunto de tareas que mantienen la vida funcionando cada día: alimentar, limpiar, acompañar, sanar, escuchar, criar, sostener emocionalmente. Ninguna fábrica, ninguna oficina, ningún algoritmo funciona sin que, en algún lugar, alguien haya cocinado, haya cuidado a una criatura, haya sostenido a una persona mayor o haya calmado una crisis de ansiedad. Y sin embargo, el PIB no contabiliza nada de esto: solo aparece cuando se convierte en servicio de pago.

Poner los cuidados en el centro significa invertir la jerarquía actual, que premia con salario, prestigio y reconocimiento el trabajo productivo-mercantil, mientras deja el trabajo reproductivo —mayoritariamente sostenido por mujeres en todo el planeta— sin remuneración, sin prestigio y a menudo sin ni siquiera visibilidad. El decrecimiento no propone romantizar el sacrificio de quien cuida, sino redistribuir ese trabajo entre todos los miembros de una comunidad y reconocerlo como la primera economía, la que hace posible cualquier otra.

Estos tres principios —suficiencia, redistribución, cuidados— no funcionan en compartimentos estancos. Practicar la suficiencia sin redistribuir solo produce decrecimiento individual sin justicia. Redistribuir sin poner los cuidados en el centro reproduce las mismas jerarquías de siempre, solo que con menos recursos. Y cuidar sin cuestionar la acumulación material perpetúa la sobrecarga sobre quienes ya cuidan de más. El decrecimiento coherente exige sostener los tres a la vez, con paciencia y sin prisa por tenerlo todo resuelto de golpe.

El espejismo del desacoplamiento

Cada vez que se cuestiona el crecimiento económico infinito, aparece la misma respuesta tranquilizadora: "no hace falta dejar de crecer, basta con crecer de forma verde". Esta idea se llama desacoplamiento y sostiene que es posible separar el crecimiento del PIB del impacto ambiental gracias a la innovación tecnológica, la eficiencia energética y la transición hacia energías renovables. Suena razonable. Suena incluso deseable. El problema es que, examinada con rigor, la promesa no se sostiene.

Qué significa realmente "desacoplar"

Hay que distinguir entre desacoplamiento relativo y desacoplamiento absoluto. El desacoplamiento relativo ocurre cuando el impacto ambiental crece más lentamente que la economía: seguimos degradando el planeta, pero un poco menos por cada unidad de PIB generada. Este tipo de desacoplamiento sí ha ocurrido en muchas economías: somos más eficientes por unidad producida que hace treinta años. Pero esto no basta, porque el impacto total sigue aumentando.

El desacoplamiento absoluto, en cambio, exigiría que el impacto ambiental total disminuyera mientras la economía sigue creciendo. Este es el que necesitaríamos para sostener la promesa del "crecimiento verde". Y este es, precisamente, el que apenas se ha observado a escala global y de forma sostenida en el tiempo. Cuando aparecen casos puntuales de reducción de emisiones en un país concreto mientras su PIB crece, hay que mirar con lupa: casi siempre coincide con la externalización de la producción más contaminante hacia otros territorios (fabricamos menos "aquí", pero consumimos lo que se fabrica "allí"), con una crisis económica puntual, o con la sustitución de una fuente de impacto por otra igualmente problemática.

La paradoja de Jevons: cuando la eficiencia dispara el consumo

Uno de los mecanismos que explican por qué el desacoplamiento no funciona como se espera es la paradoja de Jevons, formulada ya en el siglo XIX: cuando una tecnología se vuelve más eficiente en el uso de un recurso, en lugar de reducirse el consumo total de ese recurso, este tiende a aumentar, porque el abaratamiento y la mayor accesibilidad disparan la demanda. Los motores de combustión son hoy mucho más eficientes que hace medio siglo, y sin embargo circulan muchos más vehículos, más pesados y recorriendo más kilómetros que nunca. Las pantallas consumen menos energía por unidad, pero tenemos muchas más pantallas encendidas simultáneamente en cada hogar. La eficiencia, sin un límite explícito al consumo total, no reduce el impacto: lo redistribuye y, a menudo, lo amplifica.

La factura oculta de la transición "verde"

La transición hacia energías renovables y hacia la digitalización se presenta a menudo como la prueba de que el desacoplamiento es posible. Pero esta transición tiene un coste material que rara vez se menciona: paneles solares, baterías, turbinas eólicas y centros de datos requieren extracción masiva de minerales, cemento, transporte, infraestructura y, al final de su vida útil, gestión de residuos altamente complejos. Sustituir una dependencia (el petróleo) por otra (el litio, el cobalto, las tierras raras) no elimina la presión sobre los límites planetarios: la desplaza geográfica y materialmente, a menudo hacia territorios del sur global que pagan el coste ecológico y social de esa extracción.

Por qué el "crecimiento verde" es, sobre todo, un relato tranquilizador

El atractivo del desacoplamiento no es casual: permite mantener intacta la estructura económica actual (competencia, acumulación, medición del éxito por el PIB) sin cuestionar nada de fondo. Es la promesa de que podemos seguir teniendo más sin renunciar a nada, siempre que la tecnología llegue a tiempo. Esta promesa, repetida durante décadas por gobiernos y grandes corporaciones, ha servido sobre todo para posponer decisiones incómodas: reducir el consumo material total, repartir el trabajo y la riqueza, y aceptar que hay actividades y sectores que sencillamente deben encogerse.

El decrecimiento no rechaza la tecnología ni las energías renovables: las considera imprescindibles. Lo que rechaza es la idea de que basta con cambiar la fuente de energía sin cuestionar el volumen total de lo que producimos y consumimos. La pregunta decrecentista no es "¿cómo hacemos que el crecimiento sea limpio?", sino "¿cómo organizamos una vida buena que no necesite crecer indefinidamente?". Aceptar que el desacoplamiento absoluto es, hoy por hoy, un espejismo no es pesimismo: es el primer paso para dejar de esperar un rescate tecnológico que no llega y empezar a construir, desde ya, otra forma de vivir.

Desmontando el greenwashing personal

El greenwashing —el "blanqueo verde"— se asocia habitualmente con las grandes empresas: la petrolera que patrocina una campaña de reforestación, la aerolínea que vende "vuelos compensados en carbono", la marca de moda rápida que lanza una línea "eco" fabricada con el mismo modelo de sobreproducción de siempre. Pero existe una versión mucho más silenciosa y, precisamente por eso, mucho más difícil de detectar: el greenwashing personal. Es el que practicamos cada uno de nosotros cuando confundimos comprar de otra manera con consumir menos.

El mecanismo psicológico del autoengaño verde

El greenwashing personal funciona porque apela a una necesidad legítima: la de sentir que estamos haciendo algo bien, que nuestras decisiones de consumo tienen sentido ético. El problema aparece cuando esa necesidad se satisface con un gesto que, en el fondo, no cambia el patrón de fondo: seguir comprando, solo que con una etiqueta distinta. Sustituir el coche de combustión por uno eléctrico sin cuestionar si necesitamos seguir usando el coche a diario. Comprar ropa de fibras "sostenibles" al mismo ritmo vertiginoso de renovación del armario que antes. Instalar placas solares en una vivienda de dimensiones desproporcionadas para el número de personas que la habitan, sin plantearse si esa vivienda tiene sentido tal y como está construida.

En todos estos casos hay algo real: es mejor un coche eléctrico que uno de combustión, es mejor una fibra reciclada que una virgen, es mejor generar energía limpia que quemar combustibles fósiles. El problema no es el gesto en sí, sino la ilusión de que ese gesto resuelve el problema de fondo. Si la solución que elegimos implica comprar algo nuevo, construir más infraestructura o sustituir un objeto antes de que haya agotado su vida útil, no estamos decreciendo: estamos consumiendo, solo que con conciencia tranquila.

Cómo reconocerlo en la propia vida

Existen algunas preguntas sencillas que ayudan a distinguir un cambio real de un greenwashing personal disfrazado de virtud:

¿La solución que estoy eligiendo implica comprar algo? Si la respuesta es sí, hay que preguntarse si existía una alternativa que no implicara una nueva compra: reparar, compartir, pedir prestado, prescindir.

¿Estoy sustituyendo un objeto que todavía funciona? Cambiar el móvil, el electrodoméstico o la ropa antes de que hayan llegado al final de su vida útil, aunque sea por una versión "más eficiente", genera de todos modos nueva extracción de materiales y nuevos residuos.

¿Estoy reduciendo mi consumo total o solo cambiando su forma? Comprar productos "eco" al mismo ritmo que antes no reduce la huella material; simplemente la traslada a otra categoría de producto.

¿Este gesto me exime de plantearme cambios más incómodos? A veces el greenwashing personal funciona como una especie de indulgencia moral: "ya reciclo, ya compro bio, así que puedo permitirme volar tres veces al año sin sentirme mal". Cuando un gesto sostenible se convierte en excusa para no tocar otros hábitos de mayor impacto, ha dejado de ser una herramienta de transición y se ha convertido en una coartada.

El greenwashing personal no nace de la mala fe

Es importante no convertir esta reflexión en un ejercicio de culpa. El greenwashing personal no surge de la mala intención, sino de vivir dentro de un sistema que nos ofrece constantemente la versión más cómoda del cambio: la que no exige renunciar a nada, solo elegir una opción ligeramente distinta dentro del mismo modelo de consumo. Las empresas invierten enormes recursos en presentarnos precisamente esa opción como la solución definitiva, porque les permite seguir vendiendo sin cuestionar el volumen de lo que producen.

Desmontar el greenwashing personal no significa dejar de comprar productos más responsables cuando hace falta comprar algo. Significa recuperar el criterio para distinguir entre lo que reduce de verdad nuestra huella material y lo que simplemente la disfraza. Y significa, sobre todo, aceptar que a veces el gesto más decrecentista no es comprar mejor, sino sencillamente no comprar.

Ejercicio

Elige la opción que más te resuene. O ninguna, si esta semana no toca: el curso también es aprender a escucharse.

Detectando el greenwashing… también en nosotros

Elige un ejemplo real de tu vida reciente (una compra, una tentación, un producto que te venden como "sostenible") y responde:

1. ¿Qué promete?
2. ¿Qué resuelve realmente?
3. ¿Reduce necesidades… o solo las viste de verde?

Y una última pregunta clave:

1. ¿Cómo te sientes al darte cuenta?

Si quieres, comparte un ejemplo en los comentarios. Puede ayudar mucho a otras personas.

Autoevaluación

1. ¿Qué principio decrecentista implica que es necesaria una redistribución de trabajo e ingresos?
2. a) Suficiencia
3. b) Redistribución
4. c) Cuidados
5. El desacoplamiento absoluto PIB-impacto…
6. a) Ya se da en países nórdicos
7. b) Es imposible por las leyes de la termodinámica
8. c) No se ha producido nunca a escala global
9. Un ejemplo de greenwashing personal sería…
10. a) Reparar los zapatos viejos
11. b) Sustituir el móvil de hace 3 años por uno "más eficiente"
12. c) Compartir herramientas con el vecindario

RESPUESTAS: 1.b, 2.c, 3.b

5:30 AM. Wake up.

I get up early because then I have time to work on my dreams. But the moment I wake up, my mind is spiralling...

My friend hasn’t replied to my message.

I haven’t been to the gym in a while. I need to prioritize fitness.

Oh there’s that Book i started. Man, I need to read that.

I need to finish this essay I’ve been working on.

I started getting back into the drums. I should do a 15-minute drill practice.

I get downstairs. I see the kitchen is a mess...

I should clean it.

Oh, I need to revisit that idea I was brainstorming with Claude.

I should write those ideas down.

Frantically, I open Apple Notes. I jot down everything fast. Because time is running out.

Notes get added to the pile of things to do, ideas to process, books to read, routines to implement, hobbies to get back into.

What's next? What do I do?

I feel like writing. Let me quickly grab my laptop and get to work.

Ah, but if I don’t go to the gym, then that’s another day skipped.

I should work out. I’ll listen to an audiobook as well. But let me quickly clean the kitchen.

I Load the dishwasher and wipe the bench.

I Need to clean ASAP or I won’t have much time.

I run to the gym on the way to work.

Fuck, I forgot to make breakfast...

A fast mind is not a compliment.

“My mind is too fast for handwriting.”

I hear this a lot. People disregarding an ancient practice because they believe a fast mind is a superpower.

In my experience, a fast mind hoards at speed.

All these notes you've speed captured, what have you done with them? Do you feel at peace? Is your mind not mentally obese from all those open loops?

You've been piling speed onto speed, and somehow you feel slower than ever. Thinking fast doesn't mean thinking clearly.

And here's what's interesting - this isn't about ADHD.

This is just what it's like to live in the modern world with a creative mind.

The Speed Trap

In the 1950s, the world which only knew handwriting began to adopt this new form. A faster writing method using a typewriter. Suddenly people could translate thought to text at a fraction of the time.

Thoughts lived on paper and could be mailed to friends at fast speeds.

A few decades later, the computer became available.

We could now type and save endless amounts of thoughts. And we had a delete button!

We could copy and paste. Quality didn't matter as much because we could edit it later. Or continue to let the pile of files build.

AI is here now, and God only knows how many abandoned chats, created documents, logs of insights, half-formed ideas, strategy docs, email templates, and process documents I've created.

Where are they?

Have they made me more productive?

Do I remember what I documented?

Do I know what I created?

Is this helping my fast mind?

No.

Every tech evolution jump makes the speed at hoarding compound.

The same issue exists, it's just given steroids and is jacked as fuck.

No idea, thought or feeling is staying in my mind and my body long enough to understand it. I'm immediately offloading anything of value.

We've been speeding up for generations. When do we stop?

The population of the world has grown. Why don't we have a growing number of philosophers, deep thinkers and thought leaders?

The people we still read, still quote, still return to. They took handwritten notes. They thought slow. The speed is the trap. You've been told it's efficiency. It's not. When you speed capture thoughts to save them for later, you're not processing them. They're getting tossed into a bin that never gets emptied.

They never get a chance to be processed. You know this. That's why they are saved for later. But the later never happens. They just pile up. Time goes on, and you forget they exist.

If you think about it, that's pretty sad. All these ideas you were excited about get sent straight to the graveyard without a funeral.

I carry a pocket journal with me everywhere.

It's cute, and every time I pull it out, people mistake me for a detective. Lol.

Its function is not to capture faster. It's to capture slower. There is friction. I'm forced to sit with the idea longer. I'm forced to process, not hand it off. It forces me to think if I actually believe in the idea and question if it's even worth exploring.

It’s like a filter because let's face it if you're generating a thousand ideas a day how many of those are actually great and how many are just noise?

Yes your mind is fast but most of the thoughts are useless. Capturing by hand and doing it consistently trains your mind to slow down reduce the noise and focus on quality ideas you can actually do something with.

Sam Williams has an article about pocket journaling as a thinking tool. You should totally check it out.

The Paradox

Screenshot 2026-07-10 at 09.47.41.png

Two opposing things are happening at the same time. Nobody talks about how weird that is.

Thinking and feeling are polar opposites. One, we've been told, happens in the heart, and the other in the head. They seem to constantly be in tension, tangled, confused.

The feelings want to feel, but the head says no.

The thinking wants to point to truth, but the vibes feel off.

These are swings we've all experienced before. Speed keeps them tangled. Slowness untangles them.

The hand knows when feeling needs rationalising.

The hand knows when rationalising is choking your soul.

Check out this banger from Carl Paoli

Screenshot 2026-07-10 at 09.50.36.png

Feelings lose their weight.

I’ve lost count of days I've felt anxiety creep out of my chest.

Sometimes it's too much.

I sense this underlying fear like something is going to spontaneously appear from oblivion and obliterate me.

I once heard that journaling feelings was a great way to release them and feel better. I mean, people always say how talking to someone about your feelings is therapeutic. I had deducted that writing about them would be similar.

I've typed, brain dumped, and stream of consciousnessed how I'm feeling many a time. It felt nice, but it was like I was rushing to get it over with.

Writing about feelings is confronting as fuck.

Handwriting your feelings... it feels like you’re walking naked into a shopping mall.

Typing it out made it feel nice in the moment, and it works, kinda.

But one day I decided to do it by hand instead. The resistance was strong. It was like waves were crashing against me, pushing me away from the page. The inner demons knew something was coming. They were about to be exposed to the light.

I picked up the pen and started writing, thinking and feeling slowly. Word by word, I proceeded to paint the page.

It's like I had no idea where I was going. Questions popped up as the hand drew each letter. I followed the questions, described the sensations I was feeling.

It was beautiful.

It's like the world stood still. A sense of peace washed over me. I wasn't afraid.

I experienced this deep sense of knowing that I'm safe, like nothing is going to obliterate me. Suddenly all of the things I worried about felt smaller and insignificant.

Looking over what I wrote, it felt absurd.

Is that what I was worried about?

It's like I plucked a piece of me out and placed it on the page. I shed some dead weight. I'm lighter. I'm free.

The act of forming letters imposed order and chaos. What was abstract, shapeless and shadow-like suddenly became clear and visible.

Handwriting and sitting with it forms a pattern. Next time the feeling comes, you see it, you name it, and you're less affected by it.

The hand as art.

This isn't therapy. This is art.

The creation of art starts with the hand.

It brings the imagination into reality. Art is not the output of a paintbrush or sculpting tools. It's the act of moving with intention.

When you handwrite, you are doing the same thing.

Taking the slow process and applying imagination, thought, feeling, and sensation into what you create.

You are not just journaling, you are an artist. The wandering is not a process that produces content. The wandering is the content.

The act, the slow movement, the integration of thought and feeling and imagination is the work.

This essay? Handwritten.

Craig Perry also writes his essays by hand. You can feel the hand in the prose. You should totally check out his art.

People can tell.

Readers can feel the difference between prose that was rushed and prose that was sat with.

The feelings are felt before the mind can process why.

AI makes this worse.

It's not going to flesh out the feelings of your work. That's your job. And AI is never going to beat the quality of writing that was handwritten slow and thoughtful.

Yes, production will be slower, but that is the point.

You sit with the whole piece, it becomes a part of you, not something you wear occasionally, like a hat. It becomes a part of your soul. It's embodied, you're more likely to remember it, and when people ask you questions, you can recall it and explain it clearly to people.

And when the time comes, you don't need a script when you give a public speech or talk your idea to the camera.

One thing I notice is that analogies are more likely to surface in this process.

In the rushed version, these opportunities don't surface. They arrive when your hand has time to wander.

Countless well-known authors swear by handwriting. It's not a quirk, it's a practice.

Not a replacement.

I'm not saying to toss your keyboard.

Sometimes you need to sit and do a massive brain dump or a messy download. I like to think of the synergasm (synergistic orgasm lol) between typing and handwriting like a boomerang.

Typing gets it all out.

The overwhelm, the 1,000 ideas, the ton of insights you've gathered over your lifetime, it gets thrown out like a boomerang.

Handwriting brings it in.

Then using the hand, you bring it all back, clearer, full of insight and higher quality.

You work out what it all means. You discover gold in the mess.

The keyboard is for volume, the hand is for depth.

It's not about abandoning speed, it's about integrating depth.

Even one handwritten page a day, where thinking and feeling find each other, changes how you relate to your own mind.

Art for art's sake.

Don't handwrite because you should handwrite.

Handwrite because the act itself is the point.

Handwriting because you should, frames it as an obligation.

Handwrite because the act of moving your hand, like sculpting or painting with intention, fires the imagination. Your mind and feeling work together.The art is in the doing.

When you handwrite for art's sake, not for results or approval or productivity, that's when the real stuff comes out.

Try it tomorrow morning.

A pen, a page, and your phone in another room.

When your mind is running before your feet hit the floor, don't reach for the notes app.

Reach for the page and don't try to write something good.

Don't capture ideas.

Just move your hand and let the thinking and feeling find each other at the speed of your pen.

See what happens.

The wandering is the work.

1. Invertir fuera del mercado local permite la diversificación, pero introduce riesgo cambiario.
2. Los movimientos en los tipos de cambio pueden generar diferencias sustanciales en los rendimientos finales de un mismo activo global, dependiendo de la moneda local del inversor.

1. Lo que sí hace: La cobertura cambiaria elimina la volatilidad derivada de movimientos inesperados en el tipo de cambio al contado (spot).
2. Lo que no hace: No elimina totalmente la influencia de la divisa en los rendimientos, ya que los contratos de cobertura ("forwards") incorporan los diferenciales de tipos de interés entre las dos monedas (carry). Por lo tanto, incluso en carteras cubiertas, puede haber un impacto residual en el rendimiento.

La decisión de cubrirse no debe basarse solo en la intuición, sino en la interacción entre la volatilidad de la divisa y la del activo:

1. Correlación positiva: Si la divisa tiende a fortalecerse cuando el activo sube (y viceversa), la exposición cambiaria amplifica las oscilaciones. En este caso, la cobertura suele ser superior porque reduce el riesgo añadido.
2. Correlación negativa: Puede ofrecer beneficios de diversificación. Sin embargo, si la volatilidad de la divisa es demasiado alta en comparación con la del activo, el "ruido" cambiario puede anular cualquier beneficio de diversificación, haciendo que la cobertura sea necesaria de todos modos.
3. Tipo de cartera:
4. Carteras conservadoras (RF): Por lo general, se benefician de ratios de cobertura más altos porque la volatilidad de la divisa suele superar a la de los activos subyacentes.
5. Carteras orientadas a la RV: Los inversores suelen obtener una diversificación significativa manteniendo la exposición extranjera sin cubrir.

1. El tamaño del mercado nacional es un determinante clave. Los inversores de mercados pequeños (ej. Australia, Canadá, Suiza) suelen tener una exposición cambiaria natural mayor que los inversores de grandes mercados (como EE. UU.).
2. Eliminar el riesgo cambiario por completo requiere evitar la inversión internacional, lo cual sacrifica los beneficios de diversificación global. Por lo tanto, el nivel óptimo de "sesgo local" está estrechamente vinculado al nivel óptimo de exposición cambiaria.

Tres aspectos son importantes

1⃣ Comportamiento del tipo de cambio en episodios de aversión al riesgo. Para los inversores cuya moneda local puede depreciarse durante las caídas del mercado, la exposición a divisas extranjeras tiene más probabilidades de amplificar las fluctuaciones de la cartera, lo que refuerza la necesidad de cobertura. En este caso, la excepción clave es el canal de correlación de "refugio seguro" del dólar estadounidense, que puede justificar una mayor cobertura general para los inversores con base en USD.

2⃣ Nivel de riesgo de la cartera. A medida que las carteras se orientan hacia asignaciones defensivas, la importancia relativa de la volatilidad cambiaria aumenta; por lo tanto, el marco implica mayores ratios de cobertura en los fondos más conservadores.

3⃣ Exposición a divisas extranjeras en la estrategia defensiva. Los inversores con base en mercados nacionales más pequeños generalmente mantienen una mayor exposición a divisas extranjeras en una cartera globalmente diversificada, lo que convierte al tipo de cambio en un contribuyente más significativo al riesgo total y respalda aún más los mayores ratios de cobertura en la práctica.

Dos consideraciones prácticas importantes a tener en cuenta: el error de seguimiento frente a los índices de referencia de sus pares (donde los inversores prefieren que las fluctuaciones del tipo de cambio no dominen la desviación respecto a un índice de referencia) y los riesgos macroeconómicos nacionales a largo plazo (donde mantener cierta exposición a divisas extranjeras puede diversificar los riesgos vinculados a la inflación, los déficits o la devaluación de la moneda nacional).

Como regla general, los inversores en carteras conservadoras y orientadas a la RF suelen beneficiarse de ratios de cobertura más altos. Por el contrario, los inversores orientados a la RV a menudo obtienen beneficios de diversificación significativos al dejar la exposición extranjera en gran medida sin cubrir.

#60+59 - Mike Tyson's Punch Out!! and Punch Out!! (Wii)

These two games are basically the same, which is why they basically take up the same spot.

The original is here because it's my favorite NES game of all time. The Wii version is here because of all the added style, charm, and personality that was shoved into this game when brought to Wii.

Both games are simple tests of reaction and pattern recognition, but that doesn't make them easy. Far from it.

This game really makes you feel like a rookie underdog in over their head with the drive to make the impossible happen. I still remember how loud I yelled when I beat Bald Bull on the NES version for the first time.

I love the feeling of accomplishment this game gives.

#58 - Cuphead

I've always been a fan of animation. Newgrounds flash, Cartoons, Anime, Youtube indie animators, you name it. It's one of the most expressive mediums with one of the highest skill floors. In my eyes, it's one of the most passionate mediums an artist can dedicate themselves to, and I respect it immensely.

Hand drawn animation in games is the shit to me, and Cuphead is no exception. When I first learned someone was making a game that used rubberhose styled animation, I knew I was buying it. I bought Cuphead day one before I even knew it was a Boss Rush shmup, and I didn't care.

What I got was one of the most creative, mechanically satisfying games I've ever played. Its really is a love letter to old school rubberhose cartoons, taking full advantage of the creative liberties the medium offers to make some of the most interesting boss fights I've ever seen. They squash and stretch and transform into wild things each phase.

And the game feels great to control. Parrying is satisfying, the Dash feels good, and the charms system to swap your load out for specific fights is great. It's hard as fuck, but I love a challenge.

This game is amazing, Im so happy it exists and I'm even happier its as good as it is.

#57 - ULTRAKILL

MANKIND IS DEAD.

BLOOD IS FUEL.

HELL IS FULL.

ULTRAKILL combines 2 of my favorite genres, character action games and boomer shooters, executes it flawlessly, and wraps it up in a colorful PSX inspired bow.

This game sucks and fucks.

It is one of the most mechanically deep games I've played in a minute. It is FAST, and it is DIFFICULT. The barrier to entry is high and the skill ceiling even higher. It's overwhelming at times, some rooms or bosses feel impossible.

But when it clicks, it so SO SATISFYING.

You put the time into this game and it rewards you with some of the slickest and most stylish shit I've seen in a game.

I entered a stairwell with my revolver in hand, flicked a coin up into the middle of the shaft, performed a technique that let me moon jump to the top of the room, swapped to my rail gun mid-air and ricochetted the shot off the coin to kill the enemies below me. Then, I swapped to my shotgun mid-air and parried my own shotgun bullets to make them explode, killed the enemies at the top. I landed, and left the room.

All in like, 3 seconds.

The only reason this game is as low as it is is because when I played it, only 2 chapters were out. Once I finally give the rest of the game the time it deserves, I imagine it'll rank higher.

#56 - Pokemon Black

It's Pokémon again! And guess what? It won't be the last time it shows up here.

Pokemon Black and White were really ambitious games for Game Freak. They were soft reboots that added the most Pokemon of a single generation. It was the first game not set it Japan, instead taking place in a North Eastern American inspired region. It placed a higher focus on narrative, with more mature themes and an older cast.

The visuals are also stand out. Full 3D environments with fully animated sprites. They pushed the DS to its limit, and that effort paid off because these games are a treat to look at.

They're some of the best Pokemon games ever made. The only reason they rank here is because I personally was never really obsessed with them. As a kid I didn't like the direction the series was going at the time, and as an adult, there's a Unova game I like more.

#55 - Super Smash Bros. Melee

Melee is a game I wish I was good at, and will never be.

I'm very at odds with this game. It's my favorite to watch, my favorite aestheticly, my second favorite to play solo, the one I'm most nostalgic for.

But I hate playing it competitively because of it's lack of input buffer. Everytime I pick up the controller against someone else, it feels like I'm playing underwater with a controller covered in butter.

This was my first smash game, and I look back on it very fondly. I love the era in time this game captures. I love the liminal spaces littered throughout. I love adventure mode, I love wavedashing, I love the sick shit people in this can can do.

Conceptually, I love everything about this game, but I just can't do the things I want to do it in. I played other competitive smash games for years, but the skills don't carry over because of that input buffer. I know it's a barrier I can overcome with dedication, but I still haven't and at this point won't be able to.

It's a shame, because if I could this game would be so much higher. And I know that's true because I've played smash mods with Melee mechanics and input buffer, and I absolutely adore them.

If mods counted, Project M would 100% make this list.

#54 - Super Smash Bros. Brawl

Another smash game, but for a different reason. I think Brawl is the best game to play from a casual standpoint.

Subspace Emmisary, Co-op events, Co-op classic mode, stage builder, special smash. If you and a buddy are just tryna good off and press some buttons, Brawl is perfect for that.

Not to mention the modding scene. Brawl has the largest modding scene of all smash games, and there is so much you can do to make Brawl infinitely fun. Custom stages, custom characters, gameplay overhauls. Project M, which to me is the best smash game ever made.

But even vanilla Brawl is still a blast. Something I learned from being in the competitive smash space for as long as I have, is that sometimes people forget the value of just playing for fun vs playing for glory.

Brawl is still fun to this day, and it always will be.

#53 - Pikmin

I've always liked the Pikmin games. The serene and peaceful environments juxtapose the pressure of the ticking clock and the dangers those same environments pose. It creates this tension of wanted to stop and smell the roses, but realizing that time you spent sniffing put you behind schedule for the day.

That tension is why I like Pikmin 1 over the rest. In 2, you're just trying to earn money for a greedy corporation. In 3, you can stockpile resources so effectively that the time limit is a non issue. But Pikmin 1? you have 30 days, thats it. Find your ship parts in that time, or die trying.

Its gameplay is the most basic in the series. But as I get older, I realize gameplay is not the only factor that goes into making a game a memorable experience. Pikmin 2 and 3 are still great games (that probably also deserve to me on this list), but that constant race around the clock is why Pikmin 1 ranks here above them.

#52 - Tetris Effect

For a long time, I considered Tetris to be my favorite game of all time. In my eyes, I still consider Tetris to be a perfect game. If I could only play one game for the rest of my life, it would be Tetris.

And this is my favorite version of Tetris.

It focuses on the aspect I love most about Tetris, the flow state you slide into while playing. Where the world outside quiets and dims, and you dont even think about where the next piece goes, it just perfectly lands there right where it needs to be.

It's an audio visual masterpiece, and is the only reason I want to buy a PSVR, so I can fully immerse myself in it.

There is one other Tetris game that ranks above this one, but its a little different, and you'll see why when we get to it.

#51 - Mario and Luigi: Bowser's Inside Story

This one is gonna be a little short, mainly cause I'm getting tired of writing.

The Mario and Luigi RPG games are perfectly serviceable RPGs. They got a bunch of charm and look great, but in my eyes they never really do much that stands out.

Bowser's Inside Story is different tho. This game is incredibly creative mechanically, switching up with mini games every so often to keep things fresh. It characterizes Bowser in a great way, and gives the game an actual protagonist who speaks and reacts to the events happening. That small change did a lot towards making this game way more enjoyable than others in the series.

It's kind of a shame, because after playing this entry, I never enjoyed any other Mario and Luigi games as much as before.

If you're still reading this pre-amble instead of hopping straight into the games, I want to say that I appreciate you, and I hope you like my games.

Anyway, let's get into it!

The Games

60. Marvel's Spider-Man

Spider-Man wasn't a game I was particularly excited for, I didn't watch much pre-release coverage, and while I like Spider-Man, I'm not a huge superhero fan. But, the night before this game came out I had an awful time, and was feeling very mentally unwell.

So, the day Marvel's Spider-Man released, I took off of work, and drove to GameStop to pick up a new game for my Playstation 4, and ended up accidentally driving home with the brand new release.

I spent my entire day on my best friend's couch, playing Spider-Man while he and his boyfriend were at work. And, god, I couldn't stop. They got home and said "Are you hungry?" and I said "I'm so hungry, I forgot to eat lunch" without taking my eyes off the TV.

I don't know if Marvel's Spider-Man would've hit to so hard if I wasn't in a bad place emotionally, but the game helped cheer me up, and I will always appreciate it for that.

Miles Morales and Spider-Man 2 could also occupy this spot on the list, I love all 3 games, but I thought the anecdote about the first game made for better reading.

59. Dark Souls 2

The "black sheep" of the series, Dark Souls 2 will always be special to me. It introduced so many things to the formula, but it changed "too much" from Dark Souls 1 to be considered "good" by so many fans.

I love Dark Souls 2 though, it has some blunders, sure, but Scholar of the First Sin fixed most of those (and introduced a few others, whoops). We have been left with an excellent game, with an excellent (unfortunately flawed) co-op system, that probably has the best story in the series.

Dark Souls 2 excels at being non-linear, playing the most like a traditional Metroidvania. The amount of build variety is also excellent, even if the power scaling can make you feel a bit weak at times. However, if you engage with the systems the game provides (NPC summons and multiplayer) it can shore up those weaknesses. Don't let the mind virus get you, you do not need to solo Souls bosses for them to count.

58. Phantasy Star Universe

Okay, I know the offline campaign isn't particularly good. And I know that the mechanics aren't particularly compelling. And I sure do know that this game is a pale imitation of Phantasy Star Online. But, I love it, so here it is.

In the offline campaign you play as Ethan Waber, a teenager who gets caught up in an alien invasion of the starship he lives on. It's a fine enough campaign, but the real reason PSU is on my list is the online multiplayer.

The Xbox 360 Era had me missing Phantasy Star Online, but it gave me Phantasy Star Universe, and even then I knew it was not as good. Despite that I sunk hundreds of hours into it with my friends, and I will forever cherish those memories. I wouldn't recommend going back to it these days, though.

57. Spyro 2: Ripto's Rage

One of the greatest 3D platformers of all time, Spyro 2 brought me a lot of joy as a kid. The Playstation era of Spyro was incredible, but 2 was my standout favorite.

Playing as the little dragon who could, Spyro 2 has you facing off against the dinosaur Ripto and his minions, as they try to take over the world. Ripto's Rage introduces most of the recurring characters to the franchise, like Hunter and Elora, and they are a great addition to the cast.

The voice acting is campy, but it was the 90's, and this was a kids' game. There are a bunch of levels, fun stuff to collect, and insanely fun cheats to play around with (big head mode, anyone?)

56. Final Fantasy V

Final Fantasy V is one of those games you either love or hate, and I will go on the record as loving it!

Rocking one of the best soundtracks in the series, and my favorite iteration of the job system, Final Fantasy V is an incredible experience. You set out as Butz (in the original Japanese translation, and gosh darn I will not switch to Bartz) and make some friends, and eventually try to unravel the grand conspiracy behind the elements failing.

Excellent turn based combat, and the modularity of the job system, definitely keep me coming back for more.

55. Pokemon Black/White 2

It is debatable whether Pokemon or Final Fantasy is my favorite franchise, but honestly I could've had more of both games on this list, I refrained. Pokemon White 2 is an incredible game though.

Objectively I think Gen 5 is the best the series has ever been, although it's not my favorite. I think Black/White 2 refined the formula from Black/White in a way that is more appealing to most audiences. You get to travel the US (kind of), collect Pokemon from all sorts of regions, and continue the story from the first games nicely.

You don't need to play Black/White to play 2, honestly many people prefer 2, and I do highly recommend giving Gen 5 a shot.

54. Metal Gear Solid 3

Kojima is responsible for so many things, and one of the greatest is Metal Gear Solid 3. An incredible prequel to Metal Gear Solid, you get to watch the original Snake figure things out, in the thick Russian jungle.

The gameplay contains pretty excellent stealth sequences, and enough freedom to play how you like. Guns ablaze? Silent murder? Non-lethal? Whatever feels right at the time? The game affords you that choice.

The plot to the Metal Gear Solid franchise can seem a bit difficult to understand at first, but MGS3 is a great starting point, and one of the most fun games I've ever played.

53. Guild Wars 2

This episode's second MMO inclusion, Guild Wars 2 means a lot to me. I played it fairly heavily for a decade after it released, and only really slowed down because I had kids.

The combat is probably best in class for MMOs, only held back by some legacy actions on some classes, and the lack of viable build variety that exists. Yes, every class is viable, but the open world combat is difficult enough once you start getting into the expansion content that you need a somewhat focused build to succeed.

The world of Tyria is vast and the story is great, and every expansion adds something excellent. The mounts that Path of Fire introduce are industry changing, even forcing World of Warcraft to step up their game.

Guild Wars 2's base game is free to play, and honestly I couldn't recommend any other MMO to a new MMO player more than this one.

52. Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

Ezio comes back in his second iteration. He's more mature, and now he needs to fight his greatest enemy yet. The Pope!

You heard me right, Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood is all about exploring Rome, infiltrating the Vatican, and killing the hell out of one Pope. All with your regular Assassin's Creed trappings. Oh, and I guess Desmond does some stuff too, outside of the Animus.

It's just Assassin's Creed II but better, and that's enough for me!

51. The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt

Many people would put this game at #1 on their lists, so how did it manage to get so low on mine? The answer? Every game on this list is legitimately excellent (except for a couple, shh).

The Witcher 3 really brought The Witcher franchise into the mainstream. The open world is gorgeous, the storylines are incredible (including the side quests), and the gameplay is still deliberate like earlier entries but a lot more accessible.

If you want to play one of the objectively best RPGs ever written, you need to try the Witcher 3. However, if you're a sicko like me, you may find that another game in the franchise suits you a bit more…

Outro

After this week we are half way through this series! That's crazy to me. To everyone who has been reading along this entire time, I truly thank you. I do this all for you.

If you've read this far you're probably very cool, and should join my Discord and chat with the incredible community! Every month we have two games to play as a community, sort of like a book club! It's called the Lunar League, and July's games are Mega Man X, and Shadow Hearts! Come on in!

My Patreon supporters make this all possible, and if you'd like to join my Patreon it would mean the world to me. Supporters get an exclusive article each month and a Discord role, and higher tiers of support get a hidden Discord channel in addition to different vanity roles. I love you all!

The Problem

The problem is the system. This is a problem that cannot be fixed.

The problem is the system. The problem is not in the system. The problem is the system. The system cannot be fixed because the system itself is the problem. The system is not broken. The system works as it was designed to work. It harms you, you do not like what it does, that does not mean it is broken, or flawed, it simply means it was not designed to benefit you.

The system in a word is parasitic. What this means there is a substantial portion of the population that consumes more than they produce. This means the live off what is produced by others. If you owned the world and ran it as a business, there is a substantial population you would fire.

But you are not their boss. They are your boss and they decide how much value they have. They also decide what value you have. In other words, it is the parasites that determine what you get to keep and what they get to take.

Let’s imagine your boss as an industrial farmer who owns thousands of acres. He owns them and you farm them. You work from dawn to dusk planting and weeding and reaping and doing all the work that needs to be done on a farm.

Your boss does nothing but check the books periodically to make sure your labor is producing the profits he thinks you ought to be producing.

He looks at what you are doing as a cost of doing business, a cost that should be eliminated if possible. You represent a cost to the business though it is you who do all the work. But he looks at himself as a person who is worth the many hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, he pays himself. The owner is the only person on the farm who is considered an asset, all other workers represent a liability to the company.

He and his family could own this farm for hundreds of years and they would siphon off millions of dollars from the business, despite never doing a day’s work.

This situation exists all over the nation and the world. There are hundreds of millions of people not producing anything of value yet living and often living quite well.

To understand the problem, think of a family. If the man or woman is alone, they would struggle hard to make a life. A man and a woman together have the greatest potential for making a good life. The man and the woman as a couple can produce the most income and goods for the least output of labor than any other pairing.

When children come along the situation becomes difficult for the pair, because they have additional mouths to feed, and less time to provide for the family needs.

But when the children grow up, things become progressively better because the children begin to add to the family’s fortune without adding a lot to the family’s total costs.

However, if the children do not work or are not fully invested in the fortunes of the family, things could get even worse than before, because the children consume more as they age and the parents become less able to provide for them. This is when the children stop being dependents and become parasitic.

We see the fortunes of the family rise and fall as the individual’s in the family contribute to the family or consume more than they produce. Multiply this situation and one has the situation of a nation or the world.

If everyone works and provides for their needs, the social unit prospers, but the larger the percentage of the population that lives off of the work of the rest, the worse off the community is.

This is why government intervention generally only makes things worse. Giving people more money gives them greater access to the available goods and services, but if there are no more goods and services produced, the increased income only drives up prices.

The only solution to poverty is increased production.

The problem of poverty is magnified according to how much the non-productive sector consumes. Some have blamed the problem on too much money going into entertainment and welfare. But the problem is more general than that. The problem is the percentage of the population not producing sufficient income to match their consumption multiplied by their average income. A large parasitic population living on a meagre income does less damage than a small population living like kings. But the problem is not the parasitism specifically. The problem is the situation that enables parasites to exist and indeed legitimizes them.

Someone cannot just decide to be a parasite; there must be a system in place that legitimizes this kind of behaviour.

Some call it the system that justifies parasites the law of the jungle. It is the proposition that might makes right and the end justifies the means. Needless to say, this philosophy is perpetuated by those gaining an advantage from it. But behind this law is the idea of power being used as a bargaining chip or a commodity. The belief is that if a person is blessed with unusual levels of power, this power or office can be used to trade for goods and services.

The elites are power merchants trading power for property. Idols represent the power of the elites.

An elite is a person who thinks power gives or translates into rights and rights mean power. It is the sense that one has inalienable rights that mark a parasite. He or she does not acquire things through work but through rights, through a legitimizing process based on some innate virtue or merit.

The idol of the tribe represents the people’s virtue or status and right to what they can possess. The tribal idol justifies the power of the tribe. The idol or god, represents the right of the people to the good things of life. Ones office or title is just another idol, though more personal.

The office a person holds or the title they have, is a justifier for their claim on the wealth of others.

The Problem then is ego or self-validation. Some might call it subjectivity or the lack of objective standards of comparison. The identifiers of a person become a justifier for his claim on the property of others.

The idol of the nation becomes the justifier of the person.

The Solution

The solution is honesty. We need to be honest about our situation. This leads to equality because no one is more worthy or less worthy, than another. There are no justifiers that are able to legitimize expropriating the wealth of others.

The solution to parasitism, is to work for what we want and make no claim on anything created by another. If this principle was understood it would cause immediate problems for the people of this system, because we know we claim ownership of property that we did not create. No human being has created an asset or any part of an asset. All physical things were Created by God, not by man.

We do, as humans, add value to assets, we do this through the addition of labor but if you do not labor what value are you creating?

The problem is that some people are not creating anything of value, they are not adding value to assets through labor. They must now share in the value created by others. To do this they need a way to make claims against the value created by others. They do this through programs of social justice, which purport to identify features in certain people that justify them living as parasites.

The solution is to stop these claims being made or legitimized and the only way to do this is through a process of separating. We need to separate from the parasites and from the system that legitimizes them.

We need to escape the lies and the deceit and all of the structural changes that these things create. We cannot have a system built on lies, because ultimately such a system must collapse.

Consciousness is the same as faith. We can only have faith in what we can be fully conscious of. Our faith is a measure of our consciousness awareness.

We need to become conscious of the lies of our life. The places where what we do does not produce the best possible results. We are the caretakers of the earth. We need to work as if for the earth.

The parasite acts as if the earth exists to care for him and if the rest of us are suppliers of his needs. The parasite believes he or she is entitled to what he or she can get from the rest of us.

We need to regain the rights of ownership and regenerate the way we understand ownership to inoculate it from the predation of parasites.

We do not own as a physical act, but as a moral relationship. We own what we create as we own our sons and our daughters. What we create is owned by us, but logically owned, owned by the logic of the relationship.

We own our sons and daughters because we created them and there is no other relationship that can take precedence. This is how we own what we create commercially. We can refer to this as possessive ownership, or ownership by virtue of our possession. If we each learn to honor the possessions of others, then ultimately those who produce something will be the sole and uncontested owner of it, until they transfer this to someone else.

No Doer

something's starting

that is the source

starting

something's ending

that is the source

ending

global

what started

local

what stopped

relationship

relational

in dependence

inter dependent

patterns

exchanged across membrane

never not inside/outside

always companioned heat/air

Vairocana posture

is not a held position

instead held reserve

****

still no doer

a virus

borrowing the cell

new keeper smuggled inside

where did the first go

where is the second's abode

cell signal

I am not of you

when is the virus

known only as an invader

i see no agent

dna/rna action

impossible without the partition

*****

lonely grasper

a virus may sit homeless

yet acts to take a home

a grasping that says mine

continuity in the naked code

Seeing cells as coherent many

adds nothing

form does not filter

an act

when that what lies beneath

denies the actor

information

it is not the knowing

which remaining unchanged

information cannot be shown as a view

the result called known

a self

bleeds its destruction

defense of self —

ligand trigger

not so

neighbors building walls

Helper cell plague

Inner macro(phage) reservoir

Vulnerable

all walls left to crumble

continuity is mindless

spreading without jurisdiction

wondering sometimes

am "i" only named

as to take the blame

*****

never knowing

there is no keep for the knower

costly to hold

unordered perimeter

eroding the boundary

is there a mind

capable enough

to order the collapse impending

experience dictated

imperatives impossible to deny

consciousness claims a center

where is the definition

of center

as the edge no longer appears

a virus is at least honest

surprisingly so

it seams the apparatus as its own

yet never claims

to be something other

that is where consciousness

if found

dances alone

Connecting Haibun

蓮始開 hasu hajimete hiraku, "lotus begins to open"

I thought you should know. Surprisingly honest, the river while never the same, erodes the bank of this isle, leaving no trace of where I once stood. The daily companionship of death is not the idea of a walking corpse carrying its casket as a morbid picture of this life. The casket is not the boat, that for two coins, will then carry you across to some pure land shore. Death is neither companion nor tour guide. It is not even a shadow that Wendy might repair. Not even a challenge to cessation, how can death end when death denies holding any beginning? Death cannot pose as a termination when what has preceded did not arise from death.

children scream at night

when does the frog never croak

boogeyman 'neath bed

This July is passing quickly. Phases of the heart leave their wake. Consciousness streaming wrestling sons. I suppose stray thoughts will always haunt my writing. But they mean something to me, a reminder that dense prose, a snow cap on magic mountain, with so many, many words, has never made, for me, a pleasant evening over a gin and tonic. I choose Basho and the renga. The medications for easing a diabetic heart prevent my imbibing anything but his words, yet those words are clear soju. I am in solidarity with his direction to enjoin in karumi as the better practice. The frog doth both splash and croak. Isn't the archaic just so much fun. All his life, nature was the subject taught and nature provided the teaching, and for me, none of his works, that I can read, mentioned consciousness. Well, some others may argue that he does. But I think karumi guides his finger toward poking at the eye rather than pointing at the moon.

~この道や

行く人なしに

秋の暮

kono michi ya / yuku hito nashi ni / aki no kure

a path

not taken by anyone

autumn's branch

1694 Basho (my karumi with a touch of frost)

My jisei is written in this form: a mix of verse and Haibun. A hope that those attendant will see that I have written jisei from the beginning. The haibun is my vanity and it is my stretch. The sabi of this time of my life is not imagined and it is all too realized. I have a deep felt kindred with Basho and in my paraphrasing: "with visitors my words are wasted, and those with whom I might visit, my words waste their time. Firmly I should close my door, a man of my age should be able to keep his own discipline."

don't pretend you know

wisdom's blaring blah, blah, blah

old dogs' fangs missing

鷹乃学習 taka sunawachi waza o narau, "young hawks learn to fly," closing Minor Heat

death ignores the edge

a boundary

it has never held

that I have persisted

medical wonders

are what:

kept me going

there is more

which distance never read

saying

the door may close

i cannot feign isolation

not one, not two

i am disciplined in my practice

not wanting for more

warm stone at my breast

3 bowls hold the meal

all that is received

complete

as it is

enough

Colophon

The work is personal. The material here is original arising directly from my sitting contemplation. It is protected under Any Note Press. It’s publication here permits no commercial use. All rights are reserved. It is offered for the benefit of one’s practice and nothing else.

Notes that might be of interest

於春々大哉春と云々

ah haru haru

ōinaru kana haru

to un nun

My karumi paraphrase:

Ah blossoms, blossoms

How great the blossoms

etcetera

If boredom and writer’s block get in your way, enjoy this Basho moment from (Spring, 1680 Edo, age 37). He continued to pen haiku for another 14 years until the moment of his death. The pressure to find something original to say is always present. His haiku was a parody of Mi Fu’s poem about Confucius.

The haiku below has been assigned by scholars as written in the autumn of 1691. I am sure that this correct. However, the hawk is traditionally a summer Ko. Japanese revision (1685) of the Chinese Ko (kept only the “young hawks learning to fly” which is now in July). From the Ko guide then the hawk is not traditionally associated with Autumn. It is the quail that carries the late autumn in the poem. It is also a bit more complex in that the hawk is associated with the elite Samurai and falconry. The quail for its meat, eggs, and song is more of the land. And this poem seems more directly associated with the Chinese Ko • 鷹乃祭鳥 — “the hawk sacrifices birds,” first hou of 處暑 (late August). Basho would be familiar with the Chinese version. It is also interesting because the hawk being out of season is “blind” to the quail so to speak.

鷹の目も

今や暮れぬと

鳴く鶉

Taka no me mo

Imaya kurenu to

Naku uzura

My Karumi paraphrase

Hawk eyes indeed

at dusk fall blind

quails tease

Por qué muchos divulgadores financieros y influencers fracasan al intentar gestionar fondos profesionales, principalmente por la falta de capacidad técnica, el comportamiento errático de los partícipes del fondo (inversores) y los incentivos perversos de la industria financiera.

Puntos clave:

1. La barrera de la profesionalización: Pasar de ser un inversor particular a gestionar un fondo UCITS es complejo. Las normativas (como la regla 5/10/40) obligan a una diversificación que dificulta la gestión personalizada y aumenta drásticamente la carga de trabajo analítico.
2. La "maldición del éxito" y los incentivos:
3. Escalabilidad vs Rentabilidad: A mayor patrimonio gestionado, menor es el universo de activos eficientes (especialmente en small caps). Sin embargo, las gestoras priorizan el crecimiento del patrimonio para maximizar comisiones.
4. El sesgo del gestor: Existe un incentivo económico real para que el gestor prefiera un fondo grande (más ingresos por comisiones) sobre un fondo pequeño pero más rentable.
5. La fragilidad del capital: Los fondos no mueren por falta de calidad en su estrategia, sino por salidas masivas de capital (reembolsos).
6. Inversores impacientes: El "largo plazo" de un fondo depende exclusivamente de la paciencia de sus partícipes, la cual es limitada.
7. La paradoja del reembolso: Ante crisis de mercado, los inversores suelen retirar dinero primero de lo que mejor ha aguantado (para recuperar liquidez o asegurar beneficios) y no necesariamente de lo que más ha caído, lo que obliga al gestor a vender activos en momentos inoportunos.

Los backtests (simulaciones históricas) son engañosos porque no pueden modelar el impacto del comportamiento humano. La gestión profesional se convierte en un reto de psicología y control de flujos de capital, donde el gestor está a merced de la volatilidad emocional de sus inversores tanto como de la volatilidad del mercado.

The observant amongst you, may have noticed that it's been a couple of weeks since I've released a Changelog. Life caught up with me with my kids return from their holiday away, while school has not yet started again. As a result I've likely forgotten some of the minor changes that have occurred since the last release. There are nevertheless some big changes worth mentioning.

Editor

Several small improvements to the editor bar thanks to feedback from @ashermind, user feedback really helps make platforms better for everyone else. More often than not, I live with minor frustrations with things I've built and stop noticing them. Image positioning and layout were also improved.

@Users

tuhat has thrown caution to the wind and adopted the @ for users pages. Your old links tuhat.net/u/myUser will still work, so existing links don't break. The tuhat.net/@myUser is now the default used on public pages/RSS feeds etc. You can also type @tuhat to create a link to a users site from the editor.

@Users - Articles

The next @ trick is deep linking to another users' article, eg. Changelog: v0.5.0, If someone else uses a deep link to a post of yours, it will show up under your analytics page, on the Back links view. This provides a light weight way of building long form conversations, articles that are in response to other things you've read on tuhat. This feature was inspired by feedback from @prasangika-matters, thanks.

English Grammar

I don't always spell or write so good, and I don't want to build any functionality that relies on external third party services where I can't rely on their privacy or reliability. While its not perfect because it currently only supports English, Harper is a locally running grammar service that I've built into tuhat. It is possible to run HarperJs on the client browser, but to ensure the tuhat editor is lightweight and doesn't require a rather large WASM blob to be pushed to you, I've chosen to run it on the server side. This does mean more work for me, but I think it is the right choice. If you add new words to your dictionary, you can review them later under /settings.

Harper is looking to support other languages in the future. If you know of offline versions of similar tools for other languages similar to Harper, I'd be open to looking at options.

When fiction walks hand-in-hand with reality

To me, a short story is like an intimate dance between two minds—the author’s and the reader’s. And like a dance, it doesn’t last long, but that’s the best part. Because when lead has done it well, something is left lingering long afterwards, and maybe, even a heart is moved.

I’ve loved short stories since I stumbled across them nearly four years ago.

In this short time, I’ve consumed hundreds of them. I’ve read the complete works of Guy de Maupassant, Flannery o’Conner, Ernest Hemingway, Raymond Carver, Franz Kafka, Nikolai Gogol, Edgar Allan Poe, Jorge Borges, Isaac Babel, and I’m presently halfway through the complete works of Anton Chekhov. I’ve read several works by Dostoevsky and other Russian authors. And many others, old and new, but whose names I can’t remember right now, and from all over the world.

The origin of the short story goes back millennia and is, in fact, a fundamental part of religious texts, and all spiritual teachings. Whether one sees these as literal or metaphorical makes no difference to the message received. One of trust, faith, honesty, morality, strength, humility… surrender to the power greater than ourselves. The original “how to be human” guides.

But this is another story. Because the one I want to share here is, possibly, one of the most terrific short stories ever written.

Of course, this is only my opinion, and like an acquaintance of mine used to say: “Opinions are like an asshole; everybody has one.” But I like things that make me think, that puts things under the microscope when the to-and-fro of the daily grind has distracted me from these more profound objectives in life, from the engine driving the train. I like to be put on track again, and the help is sometimes found in the strangest places, but always on time. And this is where the shortness of the short story can play its wonderful art.

Unlike a novel, a short story is a glimpse into a moment. A moment that can be a single sitting or spread over generations. It’s a genre of its own; a difficult art that, when done well, amalgamates fiction with reality, similarly as our material existence is inseparable from our spiritual one. This story had that effect on me, and fits in with our theme of something to graze on, as we’ll show, or attempt to show, in a bit.

Sadly, this art is largely lost with modern short stories. There are always exceptions, but the modern short story has literally become a story that’s simply short, with some superficial message about morality, or politics, or making a social point, painted on as something deep. But we’re kind-of going off point here.

Because I want to talk about Lazarus.

That’s the name of the story, by the Russian author, Leonid Andreyiv (1871-1919), written in 1906. This is not a critique nor a review. I’m just going to quote one paragraph. Because it’s a gem (in the context of the whole story), some food for the traveller as Andreyiv takes us on a journey into death, and infinity.

Infinity (and death) can be viewed in two ways, which, I think (or maybe to me?), is part of what the story brings to light: to those who treat the world as a place of fun and games, it’s a nothingness, an emptiness, an end. While those who view the world as a university for the soul, who surrender to greater powers that fashion the universe, infinity is the no-place, the no material form, the no dimension; true freedom. As indeed, the further the mind travels, the more the soul reaches for Truth, the more it realizes just how imprisoned it really is. While to many living in war zones, displaced, or being throttled, dehumanized, and dismembered by the hands of genocide, life is not just a prison but a continuous torture, a living hell.

But we can take lessons from the stories speaking to us through the millennia, where the fresh springs of wisdom carried the protagonist through the most difficult circumstances imaginable, and where death becomes “the disappearance”—the highest spiritual attainment. Something not given, but earned.

It's Nirvana to the Hindu and Buddhist, Jannatul firdaws to the Muslim, the Christian resurrection, the philosopher’s stone of the alchemist, and being one with God for the mystic. Which (I think) is depicted at the end of Andreyiv's story.

I have no idea if he meant it this way, or simply to show the meaninglessness of everything in the fashion of Nietzsche(ism)'s nihilism sprouting its buds on the world stage, where the universe and life has no purpose. But this is another beauty of the (great) short story: it can mean many things, or none of them. Like poetry, only the author really knows. But for me, anyway, Lazarus is one of those dances having left something lingering.

So I’m leaving a link to the full story if you haven’t read it, and would like to: Lazarus.

The scene

The story is about the biblical Lazarus, after he rose from the dead. And instead of it being a happy occurrence, where everything goes back to normal, Andreyiv shows what three days in the grave had done to his body and complexion. His demeanour was morbid, and he made everyone uncomfortable, but they loved him anyway, and everyone was over the moon for his miraculous return. Then he draws us into a deeply metaphysical, spiritual horror story, that begins when a party was thrown for Lazarus.

All the village attended, but he never spoke to anyone, and barely moved. He just sat at a table and stared at it’s surface. Until someone eventually asked what everyone wanted to know:

“What was there?”

He refused to answer.

They pushed for a response and when he looked up, only a few words were uttered, but his eyes said everything. All happiness and joy was drained from the lives of everyone there, and anyone else who happened to catch a glimpse of his eyes afterwards. Towns and cities became morbid, and lost the will to live. Even the Emperor Augustus struggled with himself after a single meeting with Lazarus.

Says Andreyiv:

“This is how those who still had the desire to speak conveyed their feelings:”

“All things visible to the eye and tangible to the hand have become empty, light, and transparent—they have become like light shadows in the gloom of the night; for neither the sun nor the moon nor the stars, could disperse that great darkness that envelops the universe, covering the earth in a black veil, embracing it, like a mother; she would permeate everything, iron and stone, and, losing connection, every particle would grow lonely; and she would permeate the depths of the particles themselves, and the particles of particles would grow lonely; for neither the sun nor the moon nor the stars can fill that great emptiness that embraces the universe, reigning boundlessly, permeating everything, disconnecting everything: body from body, particle from particle; trees spread their roots into emptiness and were themselves empty; in emptiness, foreshadowed by their spectral fall, towered temples, palaces, and houses, and were themselves empty; and in emptiness man moved carelessly, and was himself empty and light, like a shadow; for time did not exist, and the beginning of everything has approached its end: a building was only just being built, and workers were striking their hammers, but already one could see its ruins, and emptiness in place of the ruins; a man was only just born, and already funeral candles were being lit above his head, and already they were extinguished, and already there was emptiness in place of the man and the funeral candles; and, embraced by emptiness and gloom, man trembled hopelessly before the dread of the infinite.”

Death is that terrifying door, the last threshold, we must all pass one day. While to others, it’s the relief. It’s the inevitable consequence of life. And when accepting this unpleasant truth, it becomes the whole point of life, and preparing for it enlivens purpose and meaning even in the darkest days. Revealing distant horizons, then past those horizons into the light of light, bringing hope in the present.

Crossing bridges is part of the journey there, and finding common ground is how fortresses are built in a world seeking to dismantling the human spirit. Where the modern view of death is to ignore it at all costs, as the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years tic by. Or the only preparation is a life insurance policy that will take care of the coffin, so those shedding tears for the one tumbling into the forgotten “emptiness” don’t have to.

Take a look at the ABOUT page for more information on this series.

Go to the REFERENCE GUIDE for detailed info on the greater world at large.

We now have a COLLECTIONS INDEX page here on Tuhat, so that should make things easier, with organizing these posts.

The secondary flashback scenes that end Chapter 3. The title of this chapter is Together.

The church came into view. After all this walking, Ashlin and Duckett eventually arrived at a statue of an angel, watching over the ocean.

"We should look inside the church first," said Ashlin.

"What makes you think she's in there?"

"A hunch," answered Ashlin as she walked past the statue. They continued on, entering an old graveyard occupying the fields to the northwestern side of the church. Up ahead, the path was split in two. The path to the left lead straight up to the front doors. Ashlin walked in that direction and tried to open them. She found that the doors were locked.

"I don't think this is the way in," Duckett stated. "This might be a separate building."

"We can't get in through here, anyway," muttered Ashlin. The two traveled back to the cross way. After some more wandering around, they found themselves on a pathway, leading off through a short, tunnel-like archway. The pathway that went through this short tunnel lead down past the back part of one of these buildings.

Ashlin was silent as she studied the windows of this ancient structure. She wondered if this was the cathedral. Her suspicions were confirmed when she squinted though the colored glass and saw a row of pews inside. She turned back over to Duckett and saw him trying to open a nearby door, but with no luck.

"I'll see if I can find an unlocked door," Ashlin said as she started forward, into the tunnel structure before her. There was a strange whistling sound in here. It was caused by the wind. On the ceiling and walls were paintings of black birds and etched Old English writings.

Ashlin's eyes were drawn to a set of sturdy wooden doors off to her left. She stepped up and pushed on them. Surprisingly, they were unlocked, but there was a weight to them.

She pushed the door open and crept into the cathedral. Everything in here was dusty. The organ was nearby. It's many tall, gigantic pipes were the dustiest objects in the room. It was positioned behind the pews, in the far back of this cathedral.

Ashlin glanced over to the front, her eyes skimming the rows. At first, she didn't see anyone. Right as she was about to head back to find Duckett, Ashlin thought she heard the sound of sniffling. She turned back around and saw a head hiding behind one of the rows.

The doors opened. Duckett popped in. Ashlin ran up and put her hands over his mouth.

"I think I found her," she whispered, pointing to the front.

"Right. Okay. So, what's the game plan?"

"I wanna talk with her. Alone. Me and her."

"How come? Not that I feel left out or anything. I'm just wondering."

"Cause I just do! Get out! Go!"

She shoved him back outside. After closing the doors on his face, Ashlin took a breath and started for the front. As she approached, Ashlin was soon bombarded by the prevalent stench of tobacco in the air. The smell took over the dusty smell of the cathedral.

Ashlin stepped up to the row and stared down at the lowly girl that sat before her. Her flaming red-orange hair covered her face. She wore her usual black and white clothing.

"Oh. It's you," the girl said. Her face was partially covered by her hair.

"What? You expecting Anthony?"

"What do you want?"

"I just wanna talk-"

"No! I'm done! It's over! I'm not going back! I'd be fine with it if I was dead. I don't wanna live anymore."

"Why?"

"None of your business! I'm not talking! Just leave me alone!"

"Michelle," sighed Ashlin. "I'm not leaving you alone... but I'll be the one to talk – if not for your sanity, then for mine."

Ashlin seated herself next to her. Michelle was still refusing to look back at her, but Ashlin could now see her puffy, red eyes. Her mouth was twisted in an angry frown. She kept her eyes down as she curled herself up into a ball with her back against the stone wall.

Ashin caught a glimpse of a photo, resting on the seat in front of Michelle. There were the faces of a happy couple along with Michelle Auzolle, who had to had been around five when the photo was taken.

After some time carefully thinking it over, Ashlin spoke. "My family is outside the sanctuary zones. We were homeless up until I was eight. We found this old house in the middle of nowhere, with nobody else around for miles! I know it's not gonna last. Wish it could.

"I hear the zones are not as bad as they used to be, with those level one 'distancing measures.' They were putting out other killer diseases some thirty years ago, when that shit first came around. Many zones are off level one now. It's just the getting in part that sucks. Decontamination and all that. Hell of a process that is. Or so I hear."

"All rubbish," Michelle huffed.

"Yeah. I know. I hate what's been done to this planet. Thing is, Michelle – unlike most people, I do think there is something that can be done about it, but it's gonna take more than you and me. The real change to Earth has to start in Niamaterian. That much I know."

"What could they do? Do they even want change?"

"Not everybody is a larper, Michelle. I'm not. Duckett isn't either. There are others out there who aren't living in some stupid fantasy land they made up in their heads. They know what's up."

Michelle was silent, but she did seem calmer than before.

"What do I do?" she asked Ashlin. "What use am I?"

There was a part of Ashlin that wanted to give an overblown, emotional response to Michelle's question, but Ashlin was holding herself back. Being overly emotional didn't seem proper. Instead, Ashlin laid back in her seat and tried to come up with the best answer possible.

"We're not sheep," she said thoughtfully. "We can think for ourselves. Just seems that it takes a lot for some of us to get to that state, but we all can do it once certain things 'inconvenience' us. Best way to put it, I guess. You already know that the so-called 'Children of Niamaterian' don't give two shits. Ignorance can play both ways, ya see. Taviset disease was pushed on Niamaterian when it first came out, but nobody listened. If there was a pandemic going on in Nia, we'd all be dead due to the fact that no one would hear about it, unless it had something to do with food, sleep, or some famous, rich, older girl's giant, humongous, fake titties."

Michelle scoffed to herself. "You seem to know a lot," she mumbled quietly.

"I've been learning a lot. Athena has been drillin' shit into my head ever since I started living with her! Maybe you should too. Be a different change of pace – as opposed to all this GEDR stuff, ya know."

Michelle sniffed loudly and pulled her hair back. She took in a heavy breath as she kept shaking her head to herself. Michelle wanted to say something but whatever it was, she was having trouble with it.

"Look. You don't have to tell me what the deal is if you don't want to," said Ashlin. "All I know is that I wouldn't be fine with it if you were dead, and I mean that, Michelle! I do. They'll be others that wouldn't be fine with it if they ever get a chance to know you."

"What? You think you know me?" Michelle rasped.

"No, I don't know you, Michelle, but I don't think half of us know ourselves half as much as we think we do! I could be full of shit! But I think there's some amazing potential for us to make lives better for others. I have nothing to back up that belief. But without that, we'd all be stuck in the same loops. Not the way I'm gonna live! No. Not the way you wanna live either."

The two girls sat in silence for what felt like the longest time. The sound in the cathedral was dead quiet, save for the winds outside.

Michelle didn't move or speak. All she did was stare off into a darkened void at the end of the cathedral. Eventually, there did come a break in the silence. Michelle was the one to break it.

"Okay."

Ashlin perked up and glanced back at Michelle. "What was that?"

"You win. I don't know what to say. I just... yeah."

"Yeah. Alright," Ashlin mumbled, nodding her head. "So, what now? If you wanna stay here, you can. I'll let ya do whatever."

"No. I'm fine, but, um... Anthony isn't gonna be happy with me."

"Oh, to hell with him," Ashlin scoffed. "I'll take you back to Athena's Island. You’ll like it there. We'll have fun. You and me."

"Okay. I can do that," mumbled Michelle. She slid off the pew with her eyes and red, rosy cheeks still facing downwards.

"You don't mind? You know Athena, right? She can be intimidating."

"No. It's alright. I'll go."

Ashlin leaned down to hug Michelle. "Okay. That's good." said Ashlin. "Guess that means we'll be taking a second chance with Nia."

Ashlin stood back up and began to lead the way back outside. Michelle took her photo and followed along. She hid behind Ashlin as if she was protecting herself from some invisible threat. Looking back, Ashlin was struck with amusement and perplexity at the sight of this. It was as if Ashlin had turned into a mother goose!

Michelle Auzolle was a young girl who had fallen into a state that was a peg or two away from juvenile delinquency – yet there was some innocence in her. Even now. It was curious to think about. It was like Ashlin was looking back at Christopher.

I'm not much for begging, but if you think I did something worthwhile, consider chipping a dollar or some satoshi's my way.

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Thank you very much for reading. :)

I've written before about the Luddites, so if you're unfamiliar with the term, or have only heard the pop-culture version: that they were anti-technology. Go read Brian Merchant's book Blood in the Machine. Very short version, they appreciated and understood technology, they were against its use to undermine working people, and in their time held widespread popular support.

Smart phone

I got my first phone late in life. Already in my 20s, I purchased an iPhone 3GS. Prior to that I didn't need a phone, I was fine making plans with people, and showing up a few minutes early. If someone was late, I generally had a paperback book that I read while waiting. Unimaginable now, but some version of this was the norm for all of human history, up until the late 90s.

2009 marked the turning point in which these devices went from things we mostly talked on, to things that fully consumed society. By the early 10s one regularly saw people hunched over screens, a claw-like finger or thumb swiping away. Going to a cafe would involve couples ordering, taking a photo of their coffee and then silently returning to their phones, back to the safety of the infinite scroll.

For a few years I was hooked, fully tethered to the treadmill of annual updates. I like technology, and the space was evolving so rapidly, the art of the possible ever expanding. I vividly remember my childlike exuberance for maps with GPS, maps that would self-orient as the device was rotated, pure magic.

Dumb phones

It's been about ten years now that I've been looking for an alternative, a return to a quieter and simpler relationship with this device that I can't leave home without. From the nostalgic remake of the Nokia 8110, aka "the banana phone", to the specialist, targeting a growing market of people unhappy with their relationship with technology, the Punkt MP01. Both devices were pretty bad at the one thing they promised to be, something to talk on. Depending on when you are reading this, basically two to three multi-billion-dollar companies are behind 99% of smart phones sold today. There aren't really any meaningful alternatives.

An alternative smart phone

After a few misadventures, and more research than is justifiable, I ended up buying a second-hand device from a few years ago and installing GrapheneOS. This uses flagship Android devices, running the latest versions of Android but without requiring Google in your life (or your device). It does require a little bit of technical ability to get started but once installed, it's a surprisingly slick experience, all run by a non-profit, open-source initiative.

And yet, it's still a smart phone, it still slipped into my left pocket each time I left home, or more accurately, when I woke up in the morning. It's a meaningful alternative to the mainstream gated communities of iOS and Android with Google, but not a real alternative.

A real alternative

I still own my GrapheneOS device, it sits on a kitchen counter when I am home, it goes into a backpack when I am out with the kids, or into the car when I'm driving and need maps. Then it stays in the car, or the backpack.

Instead, this device has taken the coveted left-pocket position. It's an e-reader, but palm-sized, that fits in a pocket. I've been on and off the meditation cushion for a long time, and am comfortable being present, but I also really enjoy reading. It's a delight to be out, and to be able to have the book I am reading in my pocket. Of course you don't need a pocket-sized book, chances are high that you already have a book-shaped e-reader and could stick that in a bag, but not having to have a bag means I am far more likely to have it with me.

It has Wi-Fi and is technically an Android device with access to apps, but e-ink is not built for interactive experiences. I can open tuhat and download the EPUB version of articles I am interested in reading, then slowly catch up on them. The rest of the time, it's just a book.

Ultimately you don't need an e-reader at all, you could go out with a paperback, assuming large enough pockets. A Luddite's Guide to Technology is an effort to remind us that not all technology is bad, some is tremendously useful. It's technology that is used against us — to segregate, undermine and commoditise us, that should be singled out for the sledgehammer. The problem is not technology itself, but who it benefits.

I'm an ordinary man. I like reading, I like running, I like the mountains. I have an office job: I spend all day sitting in front of my PC, coding and analyzing data. I promised myself I had to do some sport to stay healthy. So I started running. I didn't want any constraints around time or facilities, so running seemed the obvious choice for me. I started watching videos on YouTube about it, how to do it properly, that kind of thing, and I started running. My goal was to run a marathon, with no time target. Simply to finish it. I was consistent: I'd run one day and rest the next, so I wouldn't hurt myself. But all of this was really just an exercise in willpower. I didn't actually care about running a marathon through a city; it felt so meaningless, so boring to do. I felt the same way about the workouts. All of them in the city, all of them on the road, with no real enjoyment of the place I was running through. The only thing that mattered was running. And I kept going. I kept running and following the scheduled workouts, without enjoying a single moment of it, but I needed all of it to stay healthy.

One day, after a few months of training, scrolling through YouTube, I found a video about the UTMB, the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc. It's a crazy race, roughly 160km, with an absurd amount of elevation gain, circling Mont Blanc, the highest mountain in Europe. I watched a video of an ordinary person running this race, and I was genuinely struck by it. He ran through beautiful places, up and down. He chatted with other runners. He stopped to take pictures. He stopped to talk with the volunteers helping out during the race. He stopped at the aid stations where there was food and drink for the athletes. He enjoyed the run. He enjoyed the place. He enjoyed the trail. I saw everything I didn't have in my own workouts, and I imagined I wouldn't have it in a race either. I wanted that too.

I watched all his other videos, about training, about nutrition, about races. Each one increased my urge to try it myself, to try trail running.

So I tried. It was terrible at the beginning. I tried to run the whole time, running up, running down. I ran so slowly, putting in so much effort. In the videos, all the runners seemed to make it look so easy.

I was about to give up.

Until I started taking it easy. It's okay to go slow. It's okay to run short distances. It's okay to do both at once. It's not about performance, but about enjoying the place you're in: the trail through the mountains, or along a beach, inside a forest, or through the countryside. Running so slowly, I was able to look around, stop to take pictures, or simply enjoy the view. I started to enjoy the effort of climbing and to pick up my pace. I started to feel free on the descents and to increase the distance, still at a very slow pace. I fell in love with trail running.

Three years have passed since that day. I still run at a slow pace, and I've done a few races. The first was 20km with 900m of elevation gain. Since then I've increased the distance to 37km and more than 2000m of elevation gain. I enjoy every one of them at my own, very slow pace. But ever since that video, my goal has been to run a 100km race. I'm not ready for that yet. I've injured myself more than once because I wanted to reach that goal too fast. I hired a coach, but it didn't work out: I ended up injuring myself even worse. Now I'm physically fine. I can run 20km in the mountains without a setback, and I'm starting to be consistent with training again. In the next two years, I want to be able to run a 100km race.

The robots are almost ready. The public question is what we ask them to do first.

Two items sat next to each other in my saved reading list this week, unrelated by any measure an algorithm would recognize. One was Annie Lowrey’s piece in The Atlantic, “The Time Tax: Why is so much American bureaucracy left to average citizens?” The other was an update from the robotics company Figure: their humanoid robots now outnumber the human employees at their own facilities, and the next generation, F.04, has just passed its final design cycle.

I read them back to back, and they refused to stay separate. One describes a country that taxes its citizens in hours and paperwork. The other describes machines built to do exactly the kind of work nobody wants to count. Somewhere between the two sits a question neither of them asks: what would the new machines have to do, and for whom, before the public has reason to trust them?

This is where that question led me, and it starts with an American errand.

You have probably done it. Taken time off work, driven to a government office, paid a fee and stood in line to get a paper copy of something the government already knows about you. Americans spend billions of hours a year on federal paperwork, a burden the journalist Annie Lowrey has named the time tax. The average tax return alone takes twelve hours and 290 dollars to file. In Sweden, where I live, the tax return arrives pre-filled and most people approve it by text message in under a minute. The certificate you stood in line for, a Swede downloads in seconds. The difference looks like technology but is mostly architecture, and some of the American friction is chosen, an expression of distrust toward central registries that deserves respect rather than ridicule. Much of it, though, is simply paper nobody ever moved.

In Washington County, Ohio, court records dating back to 1783 sat in a courthouse attic. The shelves reached twenty feet. The service elevator had been dismantled decades ago. The lowest rows had flood damage. The records stayed there until volunteers from FamilySearch, the genealogy arm of the Mormon church, came and digitized them.

This is how America’s paper backbone gets digitized today, as far as I can tell: by churches and corporations, on their terms, because the public sector never considered it affordable. Pennsylvania let Ancestry digitize its birth and death certificates, its veterans’ burial cards, its records of enslaved people. When a genealogist later requested copies, the company argued in court that it owns the digital records. Virginia’s vital records went online behind a twenty-dollar monthly paywall. Documents that were public on paper became products in digital form.

Private companies built extraordinary tools, and they showed up when nobody else did. What they cannot answer is whether a public institution should outsource its memory along with the scanning.

Meanwhile, humanoid robots exist. Figure’s machines recently sorted packages for eight hours straight and can feel an object weighing three grams. Each one draws on the same finite commons: grid electricity, rare materials, AI compute. And the flagship story their maker tells the public is towel-folding in the homes of people who can afford a robot. I keep thinking about who is asked to accept that. The waitress who spent twelve hours and 290 dollars on a tax return a Swede approves by text. The veteran whose paper records sat in a queue that peaked at 604,000 unanswered requests. They are told the machines are coming, and the first proof is a folded towel behind someone else’s door.

The order matters more than the speed. A technology that visibly serves the many can afford its luxuries later; a technology introduced as a luxury will meet the many as opponents. Gains for the broad public first, legitimacy from those gains, and only then the anchoring that lets the technology scale.

There is a category of work waiting for exactly this: the undone work. Tasks no profession owns. Over 600,000 miles of old fencing cross the American West, and roughly one deer, elk or pronghorn dies per two and a half miles of it each year; volunteers cut and haul what they can. More than 80 percent of the nearly 17 million tons of surplus produce on American farms never gets harvested; 1.6 percent is donated. Cigarette butts, the most collected beach litter on record, get picked by hand because grabber tools can’t manage what the tide works into the sand. Nobody loses a job when the undone gets done.

The archives may be the deepest case. So I want to be careful with my own image. A robot walking a county archive at night, carrying boxes so that no one ever again takes a day off work to fetch a paper copy of their own birth certificate, does not carry a system change. A scanned certificate is still a certificate. Legislatures change systems; robots carry boxes. What the robot removes is the excuse. The night it starts walking, “we can’t afford to digitize” dies as an argument, and the choice stands naked: public records digitized under public control, or under Ancestry’s.

Figure says F.04 has passed its final design cycle, the biggest leap between robot generations so far. I have no reason to doubt the pace; it has been remarkable. But pace answers how fast, never for whom. The whole case for a humanoid machine is that it fits a world built for human bodies: stairs, narrow doorways, twenty-foot shelves. An attic where the elevator was dismantled decades ago. F.04, if it works as promised, could climb to those boxes in Washington County. Whether it ever will is not an engineering question.

I don’t know who pays for that robot. I don’t know which county would go first. I notice that the church and the corporation didn’t wait for an answer. And the next time you take a day off work to stand in line for a paper the government already has, you will know one thing standing there: it is no longer because the machines aren’t ready.

Originally published at saraeson.substack.com (9 of July 2026)

How a self-theorized, cross-generational strategy (not a single memo, not a single mastermind) built the institutional architecture of the American right, and why the formation now replacing it no longer needs the playbook at all

There is a comfortable story about American conservative power: it emerged from ideas, argued its way into legitimacy, and won elections on its merits. There is an equally comfortable story on the other side: it was a conspiracy, hatched by a handful of rich men, executed on schedule. Neither survives contact with the historical record. What actually happened is stranger, more interesting, and more durable than either: a recurring, cross-generational template in which corporate capital, libertarian economics, and traditionalist religion converged on shared proximate goals without ever agreeing on ultimate ones. The people building it said so themselves. That's the part usually left out.

One caution before the story starts, because the story is a supply-side story and supply is never the whole account. This piece documents who funded, built, and staffed the machinery. It does not claim the machinery is why conservatism wins elections. Machinery finds buyers or it rusts; the constituencies who filled the pews, bought the books, tuned the radios, and cast the votes were agents with convictions of their own, and a full history of the American right would give them the pages they deserve. This piece documents the supply chain, holds itself to a stated standard of evidence for the claim that it was a supply chain, and claims no more.

This is the story of that template: where it came from, who kept rebuilding it, why it held for ninety years, and what is now making it obsolete.

I. The Precedent: When Capital First Reached for the Pulpit and the Putsch (1933–1940)

Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal did something American business elites hadn't experienced before: it treated economic policy as a matter for democratic majorities to decide, over their objection. The response arrived on two tracks, funded in part by the same men.

The first track was religious. Historian Kevin Kruse has documented how, beginning in the late 1930s, a Los Angeles minister named James Fifield built an organization called Spiritual Mobilization, recruiting thousands of clergy to preach a doctrine he branded "Freedom Under God": the argument that reliance on government was a rejection of reliance on God. Fifield's sponsors included Sun Oil's J. Howard Pew and General Motors' Alfred Sloan, alongside the Chamber of Commerce and the National Association of Manufacturers. Within a decade Fifield had recruited on the order of 17,000 clergy as "representatives," delivering sermons whose funding source their congregations never saw. One discipline belongs in this paragraph rather than a footnote: the doctrine sold because there were buyers. Plenty of ministers and congregants held sincere theological objections to the New Deal before anyone paid to organize them. The money did not manufacture the conviction. It located it, amplified it, and aimed it, which is a different and more precise charge.

The second track was, depending on which historian you read, either a serious plot or an exaggerated one, and the honest version of this story includes that uncertainty rather than erasing it. In November 1934, retired Marine Major General Smedley Butler testified to a congressional committee that a bond salesman named Gerald MacGuire had approached him to lead a force of veterans in a march on Washington, backed by financiers who wanted Roosevelt sidelined and a fascist-style directorate installed. The committee's final report concluded that a plan of this kind had been discussed and might have proceeded had backers deemed it useful. But no indictments followed, contemporary press dismissed the story as a hoax, and later historians split sharply: some treat it as a documented near-miss, others as bond-salesman bluster mistaken for organized conspiracy. What isn't contested is the organization Butler named as the political vehicle that appeared weeks earlier: the American Liberty League, chartered in August 1934 by DuPont executives and General Motors' Alfred Sloan (the same Sloan bankrolling Fifield's pulpit campaign) to fight the New Deal through "education" rather than a coup, whatever the more extreme fringe around it may have contemplated.

The point isn't that 1930s American conservatism was secretly fascist. It's narrower and more useful than that: the same small pool of corporate capital, frightened by the same democratic threat to its position, funded a legitimate religious-persuasion campaign and a legitimate-sounding lobbying organization at the same moment that a lunatic fringe adjacent to that same organization was, by congressional finding, at least discussing an illegitimate one. Capital doesn't commit to a single tactic. It funds several simultaneously and lets whichever one works survive.

II. The Manifesto (1971)

Four decades later, the pattern's most famous document arrived from an unlikely source: a corporate attorney representing Philip Morris and the Tobacco Institute. In August 1971, Lewis Powell, weeks before Nixon nominated him to the Supreme Court, delivered a confidential memo to the U.S. Chamber of Commerce titled "Attack on American Free Enterprise System." It named Ralph Nader as "the single most effective antagonist of American business," wrote that the judiciary "may be the most important instrument for social, economic and political change," and urged business to fund exactly what Fifield had built for religion a generation earlier: sympathetic institutions capable of shaping courts, campuses, and public opinion over the long run.

Powell spent the next fifteen years on the Court doing something more concrete than inspiring imitators. His 1978 opinion in First National Bank of Boston v. Bellotti established that corporations hold First Amendment speech rights in the political process: the direct doctrinal ancestor of Citizens United. The memo's premise didn't just circulate. It became law, written by the man who wrote the memo.

III. The Infrastructure (1973–1983)

What followed was not one organization but four, built by an overlapping cast within a single decade, largely traceable to a single connective figure: Paul Weyrich.

1. The Heritage Foundation (1973): founded by Weyrich, Edwin Feulner, and Joseph Coors, seeded with a quarter-million dollars from Coors and later tens of millions from Richard Mellon Scaife.
2. The American Legislative Exchange Council (1973): co-founded by Weyrich, Henry Hyde, and Lou Barnett, built to draft model legislation for state houses.
3. The Cato Institute (1977): founded by Charles Koch, Ed Crane, and Murray Rothbard, the libertarian counterpart to Heritage's traditionalist-adjacent conservatism.
4. The Council for National Policy (1981): co-founded by Weyrich and Southern Baptist pastor Tim LaHaye, explicitly designed to network corporate donors, Republican operatives, and evangelical leaders like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson in the same closed-door forum, three times a year, membership confidential by rule.

Weyrich's presence across three of these, plus his later work co-founding the Moral Majority with Falwell, makes him something more than a network node. He is the one figure who personally built the economic-policy wing (Heritage, ALEC) and the religious-mobilization wing (CNP, Moral Majority) as a matter of deliberate, simultaneous strategy. James Dobson's Focus on the Family (1977) and Family Research Council (1983) plugged into the same structure from the evangelical side, with Dobson later serving on formal Reagan-era government commissions rather than merely lobbying from outside. Note, again, what the funding did and did not create: Dobson's radio empire was built on an audience of millions who chose it, week after week, because it spoke to convictions they already held about family and faith. The infrastructure organized a constituency. It did not invent one.

IV. The Doctrine That Made It Coherent (1950s)

None of this required the participants to agree with each other, and the movement's own intellectuals said so in print. At National Review in the 1950s, Frank Meyer, an ex-Communist turned conservative theorist, developed what became known as fusionism: the deliberate union of libertarian economics and traditionalist social conservatism, held together not by shared first principles but by a shared adversary, first the New Deal, then Soviet communism.

The tensions Meyer was fusing were real and openly acknowledged by the people living inside them. Friedrich Hayek wrote an entire essay explaining why he was not a conservative, uneasy with the traditionalist wing's nostalgia. Russell Kirk, conservatism's traditionalist godfather, refused to put his name on National Review's masthead and dismissed Meyer's circle as libertarian ideologues incapable of sustaining social order. The coalition held anyway, because it didn't need philosophical agreement; it needed a shared enemy and a shared appetite for power. Heritage's own historical account names Barry Goldwater as the first politician to embody fusionism, "part libertarian, part traditionalist in his thinking," running for president on a platform that "might have been drafted by Frank Meyer," and credits Ronald Reagan as the master fusionist who proved the formula could govern.

This is the piece that resolves what would otherwise look like an implausible alliance: a tobacco lawyer, a beer heir, an ex-Communist theorist, an oil-money economist, and a Southern Baptist apocalyptic novelist did not need to want the same world. They needed, in Meyer's own framing, to recognize a common enemy urgently enough to set the disagreement aside.

V. The Output (1980–1989)

Reagan's presidency is where three separately-built tracks converge into governance rather than advocacy. Milton Friedman, described by biographers as "the guru of the Reagan administration," sat on the formal President's Economic Policy Advisory Board throughout the presidency, having informally advised the 1980 campaign. Hayek's Road to Serfdom provided the intellectual scaffolding for the deregulation and privatization agenda that followed. Heritage's 1981 policy volume, Mandate for Leadership, functioned as the administration's actual transition blueprint; Heritage itself estimates a majority of its recommendations were implemented. And Dobson, having built his evangelical media empire through the 1970s, was appointed to Reagan-era commissions on pornography and juvenile justice, formalizing the religious wing's access to executive power alongside the economic wing's.

Three institutions, three separate points of origin, one administration.

VI. What Standard of Evidence Is This, Exactly?

Before going further, it's worth being explicit about what kind of claim the preceding sections make, because the honest version of this argument has to survive two opposite failure modes. The first demands an impossible baseline: no pure, uncorrupted conservatism or Christianity ever existed untouched by money, therefore nothing built on top of it can be called a strategy. That is the nirvana fallacy run in reverse, and it fails because harm and coordination can be assessed by consequences, by internal contradiction, and by comparison across actual historical instances, which is what sections I through V do. The second failure mode runs the other way: because coordination can't be conclusively disproven, assume it's present. That is argument from ignorance, and a responsible version of this argument has to do better than "you can't rule it out."

The standard that threads this needle comes from an unlikely place: American antitrust law. Price-fixing conspiracies are almost never provable by a signed agreement, so courts developed a two-step test: "conscious parallelism" (independently-owned actors behaving in suspiciously similar ways) plus "plus factors" (circumstantial evidence suggesting the parallelism is coordination rather than coincidence). Judge Richard Posner's court showed how far circumstantial economic evidence alone can carry a conspiracy case, but the controlling formulation belongs to the Supreme Court in Monsanto v. Spray-Rite: circumstantial evidence can establish a conspiracy, but only where it tends to exclude the possibility that the parties acted independently. The Monsanto opinion was written by Justice Lewis Powell. The standard this piece borrows to grade the Powell memo's legacy was authored by the man who wrote the memo. Much of the coordination documented here was not even hidden, which makes the test easier to pass than in the courtroom; where it does real work is the last tier below.

Graded against that standard, the evidence sorts into tiers of unequal strength:

1. Direct statements of intent. Powell's memo states its goal in his own words. Weyrich is on record explaining that his movement's electoral leverage rises as turnout falls. Meyer published fusionism as explicit strategic doctrine. This is the closest thing to a signed agreement this kind of history produces.
2. Formal, overlapping institutional membership. Not proximity but identity: the same people holding official roles across multiple organizations simultaneously. A person cannot occupy a role by accident.
3. Common funding sources across nominally separate organizations. Scaife, Coors, and Koch money running through Heritage, Cato, and ALEC; Sloan funding both Fifield's pulpit campaign and the Liberty League in the same years. A shared funder behind formally independent organizations is a textbook plus factor.
4. Pattern replication across non-overlapping generations. This tier defeats the strongest counterargument: that Washington's donor world is small enough that overlap proves nothing. A small world can produce one round of coincidental overlap. It cannot easily explain the identical three-part template (fund the ideas, build the institutions, place the personnel) reinvented from scratch, forty years apart, by casts of people who never worked together.
5. Mere ideological or rhetorical similarity. The weakest tier, and the one this piece declines to rely on alone, because shared talking points are exactly as consistent with independent convergence as with coordination.

What this framework licenses, and what it doesn't, matters. It licenses the claim that a self-aware, recurring strategic template, funded through identifiable hubs, staffed through formal overlapping roles, and articulated in its participants' own published words, built the institutional architecture of the modern American right. It does not license the claim of a single unbroken conspiracy directed by any one person. And it does not license a third claim this piece wants to disclaim on its own behalf: that the architecture explains conservative electoral success. Infrastructure is a supply-side fact. The demand side (the real grievances, convictions, and loyalties of tens of millions of people) is a separate causal question this piece documents where it intersects the supply chain and otherwise leaves to a fuller account. The evidence here clears the antitrust standard for the first claim. A piece that asserted the others would be weaker for the overreach, not stronger.

VII. The Throughline

The infrastructure built between 1973 and 1983 did not retire. Alliance Defending Freedom, tracing to the same CNP-adjacent evangelical legal network, drafted the Mississippi statute at the center of Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization and drove the litigation strategy that overturned Roe. Analysis of CNP's membership has found its members holding roles across a substantial share of the organizations that assembled Project 2025: the formal-overlapping-membership tier again, not mere ideological similarity. And scholars of the conservative movement describe the Trump-era coalition as a new fusionism, blending the older economic-and-religious template with populist and nationalist elements that fit neither original wing cleanly, producing exactly the internal strain you'd predict as trade protectionism collides with the free-market orthodoxy the coalition spent seventy years defending.

For fifty years, that would have been the ending: the template, mature and still producing output. A genuinely unified ideological movement fractures when its members stop agreeing; a coalition of convenience fractures when its members stop needing each other; and the visible strain looks like the second kind. But there is a third possibility that the recurrence frame cannot see, and it is where the evidence now points. The coalition is not fracturing. It is being superseded.

VIII. The Supersession

Every section above describes a machine built to solve one problem: in the twentieth century, no single fortune could act at movement scale. Powell had to exhort an entire Chamber of Commerce because no member could execute the memo alone. Coors's quarter-million dollars mattered because it compounded through an institution for five decades. Fifield needed seventeen thousand pulpits because persuasion had to be assembled retail, congregation by congregation. Pooling and patience were not features of the strategy. They were the strategy, imposed on capital by the limits of its own scale. The intermediary institution (the think tank, the council, the legal network) exists to aggregate sub-sovereign fortunes into sovereign-scale influence.

Those limits no longer hold. In 2022, a single individual purchased one of the world's primary communications platforms outright, for $44 billion, a sum that exceeds by an order of magnitude the combined political giving every donor named in this piece deployed across the entire institution-building era it documents. The same individual spent more than $290 million of personal money on a single presidential election, by year-end federal filings, then held a formal position inside the resulting administration, restructuring federal agencies from within. Where Fifield needed a decade and seventeen thousand intermediaries to shape what millions heard, a platform owner needs a change to a recommendation algorithm, effective immediately, disclosed to no one. And where the Liberty League fought a national government that could actually regulate its members, capital at contemporary scale operates across every jurisdiction simultaneously and disciplines states through exit rather than persuasion.

The successor formation can be graded on this piece's own evidentiary tiers, and the grades are instructive. Direct statements of intent exist at the highest tier: Peter Thiel, in a 2009 essay, wrote "I no longer believe that freedom and democracy are compatible," which is the Powell memo of the new formation, requiring no inference at all. (The full record travels with the quote: Thiel later added that he favored disenfranchising no one while restating his low hope that voting improves anything, a clarification that adjusts the tone and leaves the thesis standing.) Formal placement exists: personal installation inside the executive branch, without the personnel pipeline, the confirmation gauntlet, or the movement vetting the old template required. What is missing is the hub, and the absence is the finding. There is no need for a Council for National Policy when one balance sheet is the council. The template is not being replicated by a new generation, the way 1971 replicated 1933. For the first time in ninety years, it is being skipped.

What coordination the moment does exhibit runs through a different mechanism, and naming it precisely matters because it is stranger and more durable than conspiracy. The current executive's responsiveness to flattery and personal loyalty is documented at length in his own former officials' published accounts; it is a known input format. An executive who is predictable in this way functions as an open interface. Each faction learns the format and submits its requests independently: the religious wing gets its judges, the restrictionists get their enforcement, the oligarchs get their contracts and deregulation, and no two of them ever need to meet, agree, or trust each other. This is the 1933 finding restated for the present: capital does not commit to a single tactic; it runs several simultaneously and keeps what works. The difference is that the factions no longer coordinate through an institution. They coordinate through a person, which leaves no memo to leak, no membership list to analyze, and no agreement whose breach could fracture the coalition, because there was never an agreement at all.

And the successor formation carries its own instability, which should be reported as evidence rather than smoothed into the old fracture story. Individuals operating at nation-state scale do not coalition well; they acquire. The public rupture between the platform owner and the president in 2025 was not a coalition of convenience losing a shared enemy. It was two sovereign-scale actors discovering that neither would be instrumentalized by the other. The old template produced institutions that outlived every founder. The new formation is personalist on both sides, and its durability is genuinely unknown, which is stated here as the forecast it is.

So the honest ending is not "the same structure, running the same test." It is that the structure this piece spent seven sections documenting solved a problem that no longer exists, and the formation replacing it operates above the scale of the institutions built to discipline national capital, including the ones the playbook itself captured. The question this piece opened with was how a coalition captured a state. The question it ends at is what happens when private accumulation reaches the scale of states themselves and begins to instrumentalize them. That question is the subject of this series' concluding piece. This one ends where the playbook does.

One discipline from the record belongs in the last paragraph, because the record earns it. The counter-establishment chronicled here began as a memo, a beer heir, and a rented office, and none of its builders could see the whole board in 1973. Infrastructure begins as description: shared language, named mechanisms, institutions built before the moment they are needed. The formation that superseded the playbook is barely a decade old and has already been described, graded, and dated in its participants' own words, which is more than anyone managed for the last one until it had governed for a generation. Naming it this early is not consolation. It is the first unit of the counter-infrastructure.

A Note on Method

Section VI lays out the evidentiary standard this piece holds itself to; everything else was written to meet that standard rather than assert past it. Three disciplines are worth restating. The 1934 Business Plot is presented as suggestive precedent, not settled fact; the honest record includes contemporaneous press skepticism and a genuinely divided historiography, flagged as such. Funding overlap is never treated as proof of intent on its own; wherever intent is claimed, it rests on the actors' own words. And Section VIII distinguishes, sentence by sentence, between what is documented in the present (the platform purchase, the election spending, the formal placement, the 2025 rupture, Thiel's published words, the former officials' accounts) and what is forecast (the obsolescence of the template, the durability of its successor); the open-interface mechanism is offered as an interpretive model consistent with the documented behavior, not as proven coordination, precisely because its distinguishing feature is that it requires none. The piece doesn't need the weaker version of any claim. The documented version, held to its own stated standard, is damning enough.

This piece is the historical companion to a series on economic extraction and democratic infrastructure. The fourth article in that series documents the same template, executed in the economic-legal wing: four documents, twelve years, and the redefinition of American antitrust. The series' concluding piece takes up the question this one ends at.

References

Organized by article section. Bracketed notes tie each source to the claims it supports. Entries marked [confirm exact citation] are sound on substance but need the precise document identified before the list itself is published; all others are verified.

I. The Precedent (1933-1940)

Kruse, Kevin M. One Nation Under God: How Corporate America Invented Christian America. New York: Basic Books, 2015. [Fifield, Spiritual Mobilization, "Freedom Under God," Pew and Sloan sponsorship, the recruitment of roughly 17,000 clergy "representatives"]

U.S. House of Representatives, Special Committee on Un-American Activities (McCormack-Dickstein Committee). Investigation of Nazi Propaganda Activities and Investigation of Certain Other Propaganda Activities. Hearings and Report, 73rd Congress, 1934-1935. [Butler testimony, November 1934; the committee's finding that a plan of this kind was discussed]

"Plot Without Plotters." Time, December 3, 1934. [contemporaneous press dismissal]

Archer, Jules. The Plot to Seize the White House. New York: Hawthorn Books, 1973. [the near-miss reading of the historiography]

Denton, Sally. The Plots Against the President: FDR, a Nation in Crisis, and the Rise of the American Right. New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2012. [the more measured reading; supports the divided-historiography framing]

Rudolph, Frederick. "The American Liberty League, 1934-1940." American Historical Review 56, no. 1 (October 1950): 19-33. [League chartered August 1934; DuPont and Sloan financing]

Wolfskill, George. The Revolt of the Conservatives: A History of the American Liberty League, 1934-1940. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1962. [League as anti-New Deal "education" vehicle]

II. The Manifesto (1971)

Powell, Lewis F., Jr. "Attack on American Free Enterprise System." Confidential memorandum to Eugene B. Sydnor, Jr., Chairman, Education Committee, U.S. Chamber of Commerce, August 23, 1971. Lewis F. Powell Jr. Papers, Washington and Lee University School of Law Scholarly Commons, scholarlycommons.law.wlu.edu/powellmemo.

First National Bank of Boston v. Bellotti, 435 U.S. 765 (1978). [Powell's majority opinion establishing corporate political speech rights; doctrinal ancestry of Citizens United]

III. The Infrastructure (1973-1983)

Edwards, Lee. The Power of Ideas: The Heritage Foundation at 25 Years. Ottawa, IL: Jameson Books, 1997. [Heritage founding by Weyrich, Feulner, and Coors; the $250,000 Coors seed grant]

Kaiser, Robert G., and Ira Chinoy. "Scaife: Funding Father of the Right." Washington Post, May 2, 1999, A1. [Scaife's giving: at least $340 million to conservative causes through 1999; Scaife as Heritage's largest 1970s donor]

Hertel-Fernandez, Alexander. State Capture: How Conservative Activists, Big Businesses, and Wealthy Donors Reshaped the American States. New York: Oxford University Press, 2019. [ALEC's founding, model-legislation function, and funding structure]

Doherty, Brian. Radicals for Capitalism: A Freewheeling History of the Modern American Libertarian Movement. New York: PublicAffairs, 2007. [Cato Institute founding, 1977, by Koch, Crane, and Rothbard]

Nelson, Anne. Shadow Network: Media, Money, and the Secret Hub of the Radical Right. New York: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2019. [Council for National Policy: 1981 founding by Weyrich and LaHaye, closed-door structure, confidential membership, thrice-yearly meetings]

Williams, Daniel K. God's Own Party: The Making of the Christian Right. New York: Oxford University Press, 2010. [Weyrich and Falwell co-founding the Moral Majority; institutionalization of the religious wing]

Gilgoff, Dan. The Jesus Machine: How James Dobson, Focus on the Family, and Evangelical America Are Winning the Culture War. New York: St. Martin's Press, 2007. [Focus on the Family's founding and audience scale; Family Research Council]

Weyrich, Paul. Remarks to the Religious Roundtable national affairs briefing, Dallas, August 1980. Archival video, People For the American Way collection. [the turnout statement: electoral "leverage in the elections quite candidly goes up as the voting populace goes down"]

IV. The Doctrine (1950s)

Meyer, Frank S. In Defense of Freedom: A Conservative Credo. Chicago: Henry Regnery, 1962. [fusionism as explicit doctrine]

Meyer, Frank S., ed. What Is Conservatism? New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1964. [the fusionist project in the movement's own words]

Hayek, F. A. "Why I Am Not a Conservative." Postscript to The Constitution of Liberty. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960. [libertarian unease with the traditionalist wing]

Kirk, Russell. "Libertarians: The Chirping Sectaries." Modern Age 25, no. 4 (Fall 1981): 345-351. [traditionalist dismissal of the libertarian wing]

Nash, George H. The Conservative Intellectual Movement in America Since 1945. New York: Basic Books, 1976. [the Kirk-Meyer tensions; Kirk's refusal of the National Review masthead; the coalition-over-consensus reading]

Edwards, Lee. "The Conservative Consensus: Frank Meyer, Barry Goldwater, and the Politics of Fusionism." First Principles Series Report, The Heritage Foundation, 2007. [Goldwater as the first politician to embody fusionism, "part libertarian, part traditionalist in his thinking," running on a platform that "might have been drafted by Frank Meyer"; Reagan as the master fusionist who proved the formula in governance]

V. The Output (1980-1989)

Ebenstein, Lanny. Milton Friedman: A Biography. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007. [Friedman's role advising the 1980 campaign and serving on the President's Economic Policy Advisory Board]

Hayek, F. A. The Road to Serfdom. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1944. [intellectual scaffolding of the deregulation and privatization agenda]

Heatherly, Charles L., ed. Mandate for Leadership: Policy Management in a Conservative Administration. Washington, DC: The Heritage Foundation, 1981. [the transition blueprint] [confirm the Heritage retrospective claiming majority implementation; Edwards, The Power of Ideas, is the likely anchor]

Reagan, Ronald. "Appointment of Nine Members of the National Advisory Committee for Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention, and Designation of Chairman." May 21, 1982. The American Presidency Project, presidency.ucsb.edu. [Dobson's appointment, listed as associate clinical professor of pediatrics, USC School of Medicine]

Attorney General's Commission on Pornography. Final Report. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Justice, 1986. [Dobson as commissioner on the pornography body; note it was an Attorney General's commission rather than a presidential one]

VI. The Evidentiary Standard

Monsanto Co. v. Spray-Rite Service Corp., 465 U.S. 752 (1984). [the controlling "tends to exclude the possibility" formulation for circumstantial proof of conspiracy; see flag below]

In re High Fructose Corn Syrup Antitrust Litigation, 295 F.3d 651 (7th Cir. 2002) (Posner, J.). [Posner on establishing price-fixing through circumstantial economic evidence]

Posner, Richard A. Antitrust Law. 2nd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001. [conscious parallelism and its evidentiary limits]

Kovacic, William E., Robert C. Marshall, Leslie M. Marx, and Halbert L. White. "Plus Factors and Agreement in Antitrust Law." Michigan Law Review 110, no. 3 (2011): 393-436. [the plus-factors framework the section borrows]

VII. The Through-line

Kirkpatrick, David D. "The Next Targets for the Group That Overturned Roe." The New Yorker, October 2, 2023. [Alliance Defending Freedom's drafting of the Mississippi statute and its litigation strategy in Dobbs]

Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization, 597 U.S. 215 (2022).

Global Project Against Hate and Extremism (GPAHE). Analysis of Council for National Policy membership overlap with Project 2025 advisory organizations, 2024. [the formal-overlapping-membership finding]

Ashbee, Edward, and Alex Waddan. "US Republicans and the New Fusionism." The Political Quarterly 95, no. 1 (2024): 148-156. [the scholarly "new fusionism" characterization of the Trump-era coalition]

VIII. The Supersession

Conger, Kate, and Lauren Hirsch. "Elon Musk Completes $44 Billion Deal to Own Twitter." New York Times, October 27, 2022. [the platform purchase]

"Elon Musk Spent More Than $290 Million on the 2024 Election, Year-End FEC Filings Show." CNN, February 1, 2025. [the election-spending total, per year-end federal filings]

Thiel, Peter. "The Education of a Libertarian." Cato Unbound, April 13, 2009. [the direct statement of intent: "I no longer believe that freedom and democracy are compatible"]

Thiel, Peter. Response essay to critics. Cato Unbound, May 2009. [the clarification the article carries with the quote: disenfranchising no one, low hope for voting]

Bolton, John. The Room Where It Happened: A White House Memoir. New York: Simon and Schuster, 2020. [representative former-official account of the executive's responsiveness to flattery and personal loyalty; supplement with additional accounts as desired]

Contemporaneous reporting on the public rupture between Musk and Trump, June 2025.

Because the business model is working exactly as intended.

Facebook recently showed me an ad for a device that claims to reverse Type 2 diabetes using a copper patch applied to the wrist.

Then one for a supplement that dissolves kidney stones while you sleep.

Then one for a shoulder massager endorsed by a doctor who does not appear to exist.

Then a spinal stenosis cure that has been on sale “tonight only” for the past several months.

I know about these products because I have been writing about them.

I know about them because Facebook keeps showing them to me.

I know about them because Facebook’s advertising system approved them, targeted them at people likely to be suffering from the relevant condition, and served them at scale to people who were frightened, in pain, and looking for help.

This is not an accident.

This is the product.

The Mission

“Give people the power to build community and bring the world closer together.”

That was one of Facebook’s favourite public lines. It appeared in annual reports, investor presentations, and the kind of carefully worded statements that get read out at parliamentary hearings by people who have been coached to look concerned without accidentally admitting anything useful.

It does not appear to be the mission of the ad approval system.

The ad approval system has a different question.

Will this ad generate clicks?

If the answer is yes, the ad runs.

The mission statement is aspirational.

The algorithm is operational.

These are not the same document, and only one of them runs the platform.

The Technology

Facebook possesses sophisticated content moderation tools.

Artificial intelligence.

Human reviewers.

Automated flagging systems.

Entire departments dedicated to Trust and Safety.

These tools are real.

They are also selectively applied.

Hate speech is removed, eventually.

Misinformation is labelled, sometimes.

An ad claiming that a herbal patch dissolves kidney stones while you sleep can still be approved and shown to people looking for medical help.

The reason is not simply technical limitation.

It is financial incentive.

Hate speech generates outrage. Outrage generates bad press. Bad press affects the share price.

The kidney stone patch generates revenue.

Revenue affects the share price in the other direction.

The system understands this distinction perfectly.

It has been designed to understand it.

The Claims

“Most violating content is removed before users report it.”

The statistic is always precise.

The methodology is always less clear.

What counts as violating content is defined by the platform.

What counts as removal is defined by the platform.

What counts as success is also defined by the platform.

The number may be real.

Its meaning is negotiable.

“We are committed to fighting misinformation.”

The commitment is stated regularly. The enforcement is inconsistent daily.

Political misinformation is visible, noisy, and embarrassing.

Health misinformation is profitable, targetable, and often hidden in the advertising system, where it can be shown directly to the people most likely to respond.

The distinction is not ethical.

It is financial.

“We protect our community.”

The community is protected from some things.

It is not reliably protected from an ad claiming that dissolving a tablet under your tongue each morning will eliminate visceral fat without diet or exercise.

That ad is not a failure of the system.

That ad is the system working.

The Enforcement Loop

An ad is submitted.

It claims that a weight loss patch worn on the wrist for eight hours dissolves vast amounts of excess body weight in a few weeks.

This claim violates the Advertising Policies.

The Advertising Policies prohibit claims that are false, misleading, or medically unsubstantiated.

The ad is approved.

A user reports it.

Facebook reviews it.

Facebook finds no violation.

The user reports it again.

Facebook finds no violation again.

After enough reports, the ad may eventually be removed.

The advertiser creates a new ad.

New brand name.

New logo.

New video with different background music.

Same patch.

Same claim.

The new ad is approved.

This is not a bug.

It is the feature.

The reporting system exists to give users the impression of recourse.

The approval system exists to give advertisers a reliable pipeline.

Both are functioning exactly as designed.

I have reported ads on Facebook.

Most people who use the platform regularly have reported ads on Facebook.

The experience is consistent: you report, Facebook reviews, Facebook finds no violation, the ad continues running, and eventually you stop reporting because nothing changes and you have other things to do.

That attrition is also part of the design.

The Economics

Meta’s revenue is not a side issue here.

Advertising is the machine.

Reuters reported, based on internal Meta documents, that the company had projected roughly 10 percent of its 2024 revenue, about $16 billion, would come from ads for scams and banned goods.

The same reporting said Meta earned about $7 billion annually from ads it considered high-risk for scams, and that users were exposed to an estimated 15 billion higher-risk scam ads every day.

Meta disputed the way the documents were interpreted, saying the estimates were rough and overly broad.

Even with that caveat, the direction of travel is not difficult to understand.

Weight loss supplements.

Miracle cures.

Financial opportunity schemes.

Crypto investments.

Affiliate marketing funnels.

Wellness devices that claim to decompress the vagus nerve, reset your core muscles, restore blood flow to suffocating shoulder tissues, or reverse chronic disease by attaching something vaguely metallic to your body.

These are not strange little accidents at the edge of the system.

They are part of the advertising sludge the system has learned to monetise.

Removing them properly would require defining misleading claims in a way that actually excluded misleading claims.

That definition would cost money.

The current definition does not cost money.

It is the product of careful legal, technical, and financial calculation.

And it is working

The Meta-Irony

Facebook claims to build community.

The community is the product.

Facebook claims to fight misinformation.

Misinformation generates engagement.

Engagement generates revenue.

Facebook claims to protect users.

The users are sold to the people they need protecting from.

This is not a contradiction.

It is the business model.

The mission statement exists to be quoted at hearings.

The algorithm exists to generate revenue.

The Community Standards document exists so that someone has something to point to when asked whether standards exist.

An ad promising impossible weight loss can be approved.

A public statement can say the platform is committed to safety.

Both of these things can be true simultaneously.

That is the trick.

What This Site Is About

The ads I have been writing about, the spinal stenosis cure, the fictional Italian orthopaedic surgeon, the copper patch, the vagus nerve collar, the face-lifting tape, and the rest, none of them would reach you without a platform willing to approve them, target them, and serve them to the people most likely to be vulnerable to them.

Facebook is not the only such platform.

But it is the largest, the most sophisticated, and the most practised at presenting this arrangement as something other than what it is.

The products I write about here are symptoms.

Facebook is the condition.

The patch is not the grift.

The pill is not the grift.

The platform that approves the ad, targets it at people likely to be interested in weight loss, pain relief, diabetes, kidney stones, or chronic illness, serves it at scale, and takes the money is the grift.

Understanding that distinction is the starting point for everything else on this site.

The Alternative

Report the ads by all means.

Reporting may remove a specific ad.

It may make you feel as if you have done something useful.

Occasionally, you may even have done something useful.

But reporting will not change the system, because the system is not broken.

The exit, as always, is free.

It has always been free.

Almost nobody takes it.

Author’s Note

Paul is 71, writes from the Italian Alps, and has been scrolling Facebook for material for longer than is good for any man’s blood pressure. He is not a medical professional, a tech journalist, or a platform policy expert.

He is, however, persistent.

The copper patch was not purchased for review.

The money was spent on espresso and sunflower hearts for his birdfeeder.

The birds, as always, delivered.

First Published on JustRodents.com

…porque el favorito no escoge el lugar desde donde será mirado. Un día despierta dentro del resplandor de la corte y comprende que su existencia depende de una proximidad que jamás termina de pertenecerle. La cámara real convierte la cercanía al cuerpo del soberano en una forma de destino; allí una palabra dicha al oído puede alterar ministerios, arruinar linajes o desplazar fortunas enteras con una facilidad casi obscena. Y la favorita — relegada tantas veces por los relatos oficiales al margen decorativo de la historia — termina revelando, mejor que ministros y generales, la naturaleza inestable del poder cortesano. Nadie como ella conoce esa extraña condición de influir sin heredar, de permanecer en el centro sin ocupar realmente el centro, de levantar cada mañana un pequeño reino íntimo sobre la superficie movediza del deseo ajeno.

No hay cargo para la favorita, no hay nombramiento que archive su función en los registros de la cancillería, no hay salario ni escudo heráldico ni derecho a transmitir su posición a heredero alguno. Hay apenas un gesto repetido cada mañana: la puerta que se abre, el rey que la mira, el instante en que ambos saben que otro instante bastaría para que todo dejara de ser como era.

Llamo poder precario a esa forma específica de influencia que no se apoya en instituciones sino en afectos, no en leyes sino en el recuerdo que el soberano guarda de la última conversación, no en ejércitos sino en la capacidad de estar presente justo cuando la duda del rey busca un consejo que no sea el de los ministros. La favorita no manda, pero dispone. No decreta, pero orienta. No posee tierras, pero sus enemigos caen en desgracia con una palabra dicha en el momento oportuno, y esa palabra no se escribe en ningún documento, no se cita en ningún juicio, no deja rastro que no sea el silencio de un valido que deja de ser convocado a palacio.

El poder precario es el más real de todos porque no necesita mostrarse: actúa en los umbrales, en las antesalas, en ese minuto antes de que el rey firme un documento donde la favorita susurra un nombre y ese nombre es tachado y reemplazado por otro. Pero la misma precariedad que lo hace eficaz lo hace vulnerable: no hay destitución formal para la favorita, no hay carta de cese ni juicio político, hay apenas una noche en que el rey no la llama, y al día siguiente los cortesanos que le besaban las manos saludan a otra, y ella comprende que su poder se ha disuelto como un terrón de azúcar en el agua caliente sin que nadie haya decidido nada, sin que ninguna orden lo dispusiera, sin que haya un cadáver que llorar sino apenas una indiferencia que es más cruel que el odio porque el odio al menos reconoce que el otro existe.

La corte del siglo XXI no tiene rey pero tiene sus equivalentes dispersos en cada organización donde la estructura formal — organigrama, manual de funciones, escalafón — no dice nada sobre quién decide realmente. El poder precario sigue vivo en las oficinas donde la secretaria del director sabe más que los vicepresidentes, en los platós donde el becario que trae el café escucha conversaciones que no debería oír, en las redes sociales donde el algoritmo convierte en invisible a quien ayer era visible sin explicación alguna.

Ser la favorita es una condición transversal, un género de la influencia que no entiende de épocas ni de regímenes políticos, porque donde haya una estructura jerárquica rígida habrá también sus grietas, y quien las habita no tiene poder formal pero tiene algo más valioso: acceso. El acceso no es el poder, es su precondición, y el poder formal sin acceso es una jaula de oro donde el rey escucha a sus ministros pero no los oye, les concede audiencia pero no les da su confianza, firma los papeles que le ponen delante pero no recuerda haberlos leído una hora después. La favorita es la que habita esa zona de penumbra donde la voluntad del soberano aún no se ha endurecido en decreto, donde una frase dicha a tiempo puede cambiar el curso de una guerra sin que nadie sepa nunca que fue ella quien la dijo.

Hay algo profundamente femenino en esta condición, y no solo por la historia de las favoritas reales — la Pompadour, la duquesa de Marlborough, la Castillo que manejó los hilos de la corte española desde la alcoba de Carlos II — sino porque la estructura del poder precario reproduce la lógica de lo que la tradición ha llamado el ámbito doméstico: la influencia invisible, el trabajo no retribuido, la gestión de los afectos como moneda de cambio.

La favorita trabaja sin salario, negocia sin mandato, construye alianzas sin poder firmar un tratado. Y cuando el rey muere o se cansa o simplemente mira hacia otro lado, ella descubre que los treinta años de influencia no le han dejado más que un recuerdo que nadie atestiguará, porque los historiadores escriben sobre los ministros, sobre las batallas, sobre las leyes, y solo de pasada mencionan a esa mujer “que ejerció una gran influencia” sin explicar nunca cómo se ejerce una influencia que no deja huella en los archivos.

La favorita es la memoria no escrita del poder, y por eso su poder es tan real como efímero: existe mientras el rey la recuerda, y deja de existir en el momento en que él la olvida, que es siempre antes de que ella lo olvide a él.

He pensado a veces en esa frase que se atribuye a la Pompadour cuando Luis XV le preguntó qué haría si él muriera antes que ella: “Me iría a un convento, señor”, respondió, y la corte entera sabía que no era devoción lo que la movía sino la certeza de que fuera de la mirada del rey no había ningún lugar para ella, que su identidad entera había sido construida en ese haz de luz que solo el soberano podía proyectar y que apagado ese reflector no quedaría de ella más que una sombra sin cuerpo. No es la devoción lo que ata a la favorita al rey, es la imposibilidad de imaginar un afuera.

El poder precario no se suelta, se sufre, y cuando por fin se suelta descubre que ha dejado una marca tan profunda que la vida sin él parece un territorio desconocido, un exilio sin mapa. La favorita es la figura más fiel del trabajador contemporáneo, ese que no tiene contrato fijo pero tiene acceso, que no tiene salario garantizado pero tiene la posibilidad de estar cerca, que no sabe si mañana seguirá siendo convocado pero hoy está ahí, en la antesala, esperando que se abra una puerta que nunca termina de decidir si quiere dejarlo pasar o echarlo para siempre.

He visto hace poco la película de Maïwenn sobre Jeanne du Barry, esa favorita que subió tan alto como puede subir quien no tiene sangre azul sino solo el favor de un hombre. La escena final es perfecta en su crueldad: el rey muere, y al día siguiente ella es expulsada de palacio como si nunca hubiera estado allí. No hay juicio, no hay confiscación de bienes, no hay nada que se parezca a un castigo. Hay apenas un silencio administrativo, un vacío donde antes había saludos y reverencias. La cámara la muestra cruzando el patio vacío con un hatillo en la mano, y uno entiende que eso es todo lo que le queda de quince años de influencia: un paquete pequeño, unos pasos sobre las losas, la mirada de los criados que ya no la reconocen. Maïwenn, que se dirige a sí misma, parece preguntarse también por ese lugar incómodo de la mujer que dirige su propia historia pero sigue siendo vista como la favorita de alguien. Y quizá ahí, en esa doble capa, se anude el nudo más fino de este asunto: el poder que se ejerce sin poseerse duele dos veces cuando quien lo ejerce sabe que no debería dolerle porque nunca fue suyo.

El duelo de la favorita no es por el rey que muere, es por el poder que nunca fue suyo y que al esfumarse le revela que ya no sabe vivir sin él. Y ese duelo no tiene nombre en los manuales de psicología ni en las crónicas de la corte, porque la historia oficial solo narra lo que se ve, y lo que la favorita perdió nunca fue visto del todo. Se perdió en los susurros, en las miradas cómplices, en las cartas que se leían y se quemaban en la misma noche, en esa intimidad del poder que es también la intimidad de la servidumbre.

La favorita no es reina, nunca lo fue, pero durante años fue más que reina, y cuando deja de serlo descubre que ser menos que reina es ser nada, porque no hay rango intermedio entre el favor y el olvido. La corte es ese infierno donde solo caben dos posiciones: la luz del sol y la sombra espesa donde los que ya no importan miran cómo otros ocupan su lugar sin saber bien qué hicieron mal, solo que algo hicieron, o que dejaron de hacer algo, o que el rey simplemente amaneció distinto y ya no hay nada que hacer ante ese amanecer que no avisa.

Me pregunto a veces si la favorita no es una figura del artista contemporáneo, ese que vive de la atención de un público soberano que puede retirársela sin previo aviso, que trabaja sin red, que construye su nombre cada día sobre la misma precariedad de quien no tiene más garantía que la siguiente obra. O del periodista que depende del favor de un director que puede dejar de llamarlo, o del académico que vive de la buena voluntad de un comité de evaluación que no tiene que justificar su voto.

Todos somos, en algún rincón de nuestra vida, favoritas de algún rey. Todos esperamos esa llamada que no sabemos si llegará. Todos construimos nuestro poder sobre el temblor de saber que no es nuestro. Y la única diferencia entre la duquesa de Marlborough y el becario que hojea su teléfono esperando un mensaje que confirme que todavía existe es que ella lo sabía y él aún no ha aprendido a nombrar esa ansiedad que lo acompaña cada mañana antes de abrir la pantalla.

La corte no ha desaparecido, solo se ha multiplicado. El rey no ha muerto, solo ha cambiado de rostro. Y la favorita sigue ahí, en cada antesala, en cada aplicación que decide quién es visible y quién no, en cada algoritmo que convierte el favor en métrica y el olvido en estadística. Su poder sigue siendo precario. Su duelo sigue siendo mudo.

Y la historia, como siempre, seguirá escribiendo los nombres de los ministros mientras ella se desvanece en la nota a pie de página que nadie leerá.

蓮始開 · hasu hajimete hiraku — the lotus begins to open

Can it be known

I sat in the hot tub,

if only briefly.

The heat does not sedate;

the failing heart finds it work —

and that, in part, was the rub.

Without destruction

it spreads my volume.

I can measure only the external —

how the water rises;

I feel the faintness

the hot water induces.

Without design

a bubble surrounds us.

The interior is not denied

but defends itself first;

the exterior is measured,

and, as a matter of convenience,

denied complicity.

I am not known.

Without the hot tub,

the self I defend, collapsing,

registers no strength of wisdom:

consciousness swoons,

mind calculates,

awareness fears submersion.

And the discrimination remains.

The hot tub measures the viewable —

the shift in the volume,

the rise against the lip.

And this thing I take for an agent

only registers its anxiety

by the bite at the lip.

Buddha Had No Consciousness

Buddha did not abide

in consciousness as a thing.

Sal-tree grove.

Lotuses rise.

Completeness neither entered

nor departed the grove.

Dharmatā shimmering as arising,

binding space

into a continuous field of relation.

Quaking aspen grove.

The tathāgata whispers,

“Emaho.”

A clonal retinue emerges —

one body,

indivisible in its members.

Magadha’s Bamboo Grove,

Rājagṛha teaching:

emptiness of the culm,

form of the culm.

Rhizomes recite

Prajñāpāramitā.

When I sit,

no sitter, no cushion.

When I rise,

not any ‘outer.’

The bodhi tree teaches

how to be a tree.

Māra exposes

how to be an agent.

Gautama listens to both.

Neither speaks

of consciousness.

Dharmatā, unborn,

neither conscious nor unconscious —

just this grove,

this culm, this aspen body.

You Do Not Know Me

I ask Morita —

not to cure, but to dance.

Never the demand to lead,

a fondness for Zen

but I am searching deeper,

more than smoothing this life.

I am not here to argue

the thought you have of me

or the insight you harvested

from my telling —

debriefed with the entangled other,

a loop that denies it is a loop.

It is not that you are smug

but you cannot listen

without arriving right.

Gun to my head,

knife at my chest,

Dakota snow and wind closing in —

My heart —

a surgeon’s plaything,

interventionists refining,

physiologists pacing,

cardiologists mixing.

My gut —

scopes searching,

hands resecting,

stains speaking.

And then —

the small embarrassments of youth,

the work that failed,

the quiet stacking of retirements,

each one a clean “enough.”

Others watch

and judge

and report I have given up.

You do not abandon

what has already fallen away.

They call it hiding —

but when the body will not rise

you learn which acts require witnesses.

They offer lists

of unfinished living.

I have had enough trauma,

not as disfigurement

but as what they see as unfinished.

I will not be reopened.

Unseen,

unremembered,

the high-wire thins with age.

It is not my step that falters;

the ground is bound to snap.

They have their arc:

survived,

overcame,

came out enriched —

karma worked off,

justice served,

so the story goes.

Neurons do not coddle.

I give it no face,

yet I do not deny

what I cannot locate,

you cannot name.

Lotus Begins to Open

蓮始開 — hasu hajimete hiraku, “lotus begins to open,” the second candle of Minor Heat

I have stretched at the shore of a lotus pond in bright sunlight. White

blossoms above the water do not conceal nor display the unarisen.

Warning enough — the risk is the metaphor — the pretense of both seen

and known. But watch the bees on nectar runs; they are surprised instead

by the blossom’s fixed closing. Bees encased in papery petals’

smothering closure. Lily and lotus attend only to night’s fall.

Lily and lotus arise from the same mud. But here do part, for lilies may

keep covenant with the night.

Dusk itself coaxes the Emily Grant Hutchings lily — horticulturist

Pring’s homage to his friend’s spiritual nature. Offering fragrance

where sight recedes. In her name that dazzling lily did display in

amaranth-red, but when adorning Jap Herron it was not so well received.

A paradise found

Amaranthus beauty shed

A paradise lost

Planchette nourished by her lotus eating, a satyr seduced with feigned

literary voice. ’Twas not Twain that did speak in Odyssean

forgetfulness, but her own voice that her writing should not have

indulged. Blake, though delight he may in all manner of love, I think

prefers the thornless day lily. Virgilio inspires with more than

epitaph.

I do not know them. I barely know of them. Yet they do foretell familiar

error. Strangers gathered under rising cloak of darkness. Like bees they

buzz, enclosed as they are within the dusk, mistaking garbled revelation

as unbidden truth. What really did she think abides in a private

exchange with that mud-encased — buried casket. It will never blossom in

any above. Nothing has been granted; nothing taken. It is more honest,

perhaps, to name it plainly — a small, elaborate parody of not knowing.

I do not know them. Those bees, in similitude wanderings, chasing

essence throughout the day, sitting and rising from the comfort cushion.

Without warning, held by the grip of that mud which must close at the

end of each day. Each life reverie freed at dusk, senseless work arrives

at dawn.

essenceless fragrance

never similitude

moonlight heatless glow

We Are Not Found

union of no union · 蓮始開

Not two who turn to face each other,

not the pair who keep each other’s back —

that is romp, that is propping,

the story two agents tell

to prove the wall between them kind.

And not the wall thrown down and named gone,

not there is no you, no me —

for that is only another cushion,

another place to sit and be right,

a self that has learned to say no self

and smuggled itself back in the saying.

Not self and other.

Not the denial of self and other.

Only this: the moving.

The slime mold has no captain.

Cell speaks to cell with no nerve to carry it,

and the whole body crosses the log

as one hunger, one direction —

no one deciding, no one obeyed.

Ask which cell is you and which is me

and the question falls through the floor of the question.

The aspen is one tree

wearing a thousand trunks across the ridge:

underground, a single body;

above, a retinue that never met.

Emaho — the field said to the field —

and the grove stood up.

So do not ask are we one or are we two.

Ask only whether the water moved toward the water,

whether the seven arose without a whip —

equality, respect, sincerity,

safety, trust, honesty, and the purity

that cannot be halved and handed across a line.

They come only when no one is made to bring them.

Compel any one of them

and it turns in the hand to its opposite,

and you are two again, guarding the wall.

This is not intimacy. It is safety.

I cannot know myself —

how then would I reach across and know you —

so I do not reach across. I am the reach:

the conduct, the tonglen that was never a trade,

one field, differently configured,

breathing where it was already breathing.

Entangled, yes —

but a loop that will not be named a loop,

that dissolves the instant you step outside it

to point and say there, that is us.

And every day it is new.

The memory of yesterday’s union

is only the discrimination this is what I call work.

So wash the bowl. Cross the log.

Let the pseudopod go out and gather what is there.

Consort is not a thing you know.

It is not a thing you know is not.

It is a conduct —

and it is happening, or it is not,

the way the water is moving, or is still.

Colophon

The work is personal. The material here is original arising directly from my sitting contemplation. It is protected under Any Note Press. It’s publication here permits no commercial use. All rights are reserved. It is offered for the benefit of one’s practice and nothing else.

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Volunteers Needed To Settle A New Nation

Apriori is a new world. Its settlement will usher in a new era of human civilization and the Golden Age of man.

Apriorians are the new peoples of the new world.

Aprioria are the settlement small groups, the units that compose the lowest political and economic and ecclesiastical divisions of this new world.

Separaton, is a concept community, developed out of the Aprioria or small group jurisdictions. It is the small groups which certify and legitimize citizenship.

Citizens retain and exercise full control of who lives in their community. Citizen councils control the conditions of citizenship. Those who fail to abide by the conditions set by residents, lose their rights as a citizen. This of course is a very radical idea.

Citizenship is earned in aprioria. In Apriori, which is a world defined by a civilization and culture, citizenship is a privilege. When one attains to the rights of membership, one also acquires citizenship. Citizenship is a status bestowed upon the new member when the conditions of citizenship have been met. The privilege of living in an Aprioria is rescinded if the criteria for membership and citizenship is breached.

As an Apriorian with the sacred rights of an Apriorian citizen, everyone of us is given an equal share in the small group we are part of and which we create. Apriorian create their own political jurisdictions, or small group. These small groups are the basic political unit of the organization. It is owned as a political jurisdiction and economic unit by its members.

Aprioria contain three to fifteen persons. This is the smallest political unit of Apriori. Aprioria are headed by a chairperson picked from the members.

The members of the aprioria are citizens of Apriori. Each citizen works and is paid for the work they do by the Aprioria or small group, of which he or she is a member.

Each new citizen is provided with an account in the aprioria of which he or she is a member. The account is used to make purchases and earn income. Purchases debit the account and sales credit the account.

Every citizen is a member of an aprioria and every citizen works for and is paid by the aprioria of which he or she is a member.

Every member is always able to work and is paid by the aprioria of which he or she is a member, and every member is paid according to the hours worked.

All work is paid at the same agreed upon rate.

Radicalism is the political or social belief that fundamental, society-altering changes are necessary to solve systemic problems. Rather than relying on gradual, step-by-step reforms, radicals believe that structural issues run deep and require revolutionary or root-level changes to government, economics, and social norms. One either agrees with the system or seeks fundamental change. If one subscribes to change but within the parameters and methodologies provided by the system, one cannot be deemed a radical.

Radicals need to be outside of the system and indeed the very prospect of working within the parameters of the system marks one as an evolutionist or relativist.

A true radical must work outside of the system he or she seeks to radicalize. By definition, radicals are separatists.

A true radical is a person who advocates for a comprehensive systemic change of the status quo. This is more than what a revolution does, which often is less concerned about the system than those who govern it. Most revolutionaries are content with a change of leadership.

But if the system on is in prohibits real change from happening and the system itself is flawed, only radical action will achieve anything meaningful.

Globalism is a world-wide system in which parasites have the ability to acquire wealth and power and legitimacy for their claims, even though the often contribute nothing to the wealth of the system. There can be no piece-meal or evolutionary progress, only radical change will get to the root of the problem.

If the problem is selfishness or an idolatry that tells us that everyone has intrinsic value, regardless of personal attributes, then we lose all rights to our personal property. The human identity trumps all secondary elements.

The idol bestows intrinsic worth onto people. This could be an office or a classification of some kind, even a racial identity. The identity becomes the value.

This has taken on a whole new level of importance with identity politics, where your intrinsic merit is tied up with your identity.

If human life has intrinsic merit, it means people have no obligation to earn legitimacy. The criminal becomes as important as the child or the factory worker. Life does have merit in the promise it holds. Human life in the womb is human, and it has merit because it is the promise of a future. But this value and this merit can be extinguished or expended. The value of a human life is not inalienable.

There are some things that are just not worth it, even if it does save even one life.

If all human life has intrinsic value, then technically no death ought to be permitted, regardless of what the cost of saving it might be, but this is a paradox because such a policy would harm an indeterminate number of other lives.

The world is in the state it is in because from the earliest days man thought reality had to be real. He thought that because what he could see and feel seemed real there must be something with substance that was being seen, felt, heard, smelt, tasted and viewed.

The five senses were considered our door way into reality, but no matter what we did, reality remain in our minds. Therefore, how can something that does not exist, have intrinsic value? Where is physical man?

The question is not what consciousness is, consciousness is information. If you have information, you are conscious. The question is, what kind of information do we have and what kind of information ought we to have?

That determines our consciousness. The information we have determines our consciousness. So the question as to what consciousness asked out to focus on what sort of information do you have access to? From whom are you getting your information?

There is only one thing that matters. There is only one thing that has intrinsic value; that is information.

The solution to parasites and the idolatry of man, is information or consciousness. We need to enhance human awareness. This actually makes us more human. We are what we are conscious of.

If evil is parasitism or taking what you have no right to, then the ultimate crime is to take or destroy information. To eat of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil is to take information and to some degree destroy it. It is benefitting from the information without contributing to it.

The solution is to do what God did, we need to protect and secure our information because this is the same as protecting our identity and our consciousness. The difference is, we need to do what God did but in reverse, as we are not in the Garden, we are in the world of the flesh. We need to create a garden of separation where we can protect our information.

Morality, honesty and equality are the trees of this garden.

With truth comes faith. When there is faith we bind together and become a true community.

A childhood word, a Moroccan trace, and a Lab art series inspired by Maghrebi history.

Once, in childhood, the Lab Assistant heard the word “Maghrebi.”

It appeared while reading One Thousand and One Nights — strange, dark, and almost textured, as if the word itself contained sand, distance, and a person who should have had a face. Not just an evil sorcerer. Not just someone from “far away.” Someone with a geography.

The adults could not explain him. Some pointed vaguely toward turbans and foreignness. Others referred back to the book: he was an evil magician, and apparently that was enough. Curiosity was quietly dismissed. The case was closed.

But some words do not stay closed. They enter the archive.

Years later, the Lab returned to this old question through texts, translations, historical references, and the Moroccan trace behind the tale. The accompanying art series was inspired by this Maghrebi history — not as a literal portrait of the villain, but as a visual response to the cultural atmosphere hidden behind one childhood word.

Trace No. 1: The African Magician

The first trace is textual.

In Antoine Galland’s French version of the tale, the figure who enters Aladdin’s life is not introduced as a vague “evil sorcerer from nowhere.” He is described as a magicien africain — an African magician. The wording is brief, but important: it gives the character a direction before it gives him a personality.

Galland does not turn him into a detailed ethnographic portrait. He does not name a city, tribe, lineage, or precise country. But the word “African” already places him outside the immediate world of the tale. He arrives from a distance, and that distance matters. The story needs him to come from elsewhere: from a place associated with secret knowledge, long travel, and powers unfamiliar to the people around Aladdin.

This is where the Lab reading begins. The character is not simply “a magician.” He is a magician with a geographical marker. The tale may not explain that marker, but it leaves it in the text like a sealed label on an old archive box.

The question is not only: what does he do in the story? The better question is: what kind of world does this word bring with him?

Trace No. 2: The Moor from Inner Morocco

The second trace appears in the translation tradition.

In Richard Burton’s version, the figure becomes more specific: a Moorman from Inner Morocco. This is a major shift. The vague “African magician” now receives a stronger Maghrebi direction. He is not just connected to Africa in a broad sense, but to Morocco — and not simply to the coast or a passing exotic label, but to the inner regions.

For the Lab, this is the point where the investigation changes temperature.

The word “Moor” in this context points toward the Muslim populations of North Africa, especially the Arab-Berber world of the Maghreb. It does not make the character a fully documented historical person, of course. But it does make his image more legible. He begins to look less like a generic fairy-tale villain and more like a figure shaped by a recognizable cultural zone.

This does not mean the tale gives us a passport, a birthplace, or a biography. It gives something more fragile and more interesting: a direction of interpretation.

Galland gives us the African magician. Burton sharpens the trail toward inner Morocco. Between these two points, the Lab finds the working line of the investigation.

Not a Desert Nomad

One of the easiest mistakes would be to imagine the Maghrebi magician as a desert nomad simply because the word “Africa” or “Maghreb” appears around him. But the character does not behave like a pastoral wanderer, a tribal warrior, or a random traveler from the sands.

His profile is different.

He is mobile, but not rootless. He is strategic, but not primitive. He understands ritual, timing, appearances, and social performance. He knows how to arrive in a foreign place, study the situation, create a role for himself, and enter another person’s household through trust.

That suggests another cultural model: not the desert as empty space, but the city as a place of learning, trade, religious authority, manuscripts, craft, and specialized knowledge.

This is why Morocco becomes especially interesting in the Lab reconstruction. Cities such as Fez can be read not as a proven birthplace, but as a plausible cultural model. Fez was associated with scholarship, religious institutions, urban status, manuscript culture, craft traditions, and intellectual networks. If one imagines a man of ritual knowledge, travel, and social fluency emerging from the Maghrebi world, such an environment is much more convincing than the cliché of a lone desert wanderer.

So the Lab marks an important distinction: not a Bedouin, not a desert nomad, not a random wanderer without origin.

The more plausible figure is an educated Maghrebi man of status, shaped by an urban or semi-urban cultural environment.

The Dervish as a Mask

The mask is another important clue.

The Maghrebi magician does not rely only on magic. He knows how to perform a social role. He can present himself as a relative, a guide, a pious figure, or a dervish-like traveler. This matters because the disguise is not decorative. It is part of how he gains access.

The dervish image is especially useful. A dervish is not an ethnic marker and does not make the character “Turkish” or attached to one specific region. It belongs to a wider Islamic vocabulary of wandering piety, Sufi practice, spiritual discipline, and religious appearance.

For the tale, the dervish mask is a narrative tool: it helps the magician seem trustworthy.

For the Lab, it is also a cultural signal: the character understands the authority of religious performance.

His power is therefore not only occult. It is social.

He knows how to look like someone who should be trusted. He knows how to borrow the language of kinship, piety, and guidance. He uses a recognizable role in order to move through unfamiliar space.

This makes the image much more complex than a simple “sorcerer” label.

Morocco and the Western Edge of the Map

If the Moroccan trace is followed, the character begins to belong to the western edge of the Islamic world — the Maghreb.

This matters because the Maghreb was not an empty exotic background. It was a region of political complexity, trade, religious life, scholarship, craft, and long-distance movement. Morocco in particular remained an independent sultanate under the Alaouite dynasty, while other parts of the Maghreb, such as Algeria and Tunisia, existed in different relationships to Ottoman power.

This political and cultural landscape helps explain why the Moroccan direction is so productive for reading the character. Morocco offered a strong image of distance and autonomy: a western Islamic world connected to trade, diplomacy, religious networks, pilgrimage routes, and internal centers of learning.

The magician’s possible connection to “inner Morocco” therefore adds more than geographical color. It suggests a world where urban status, hidden knowledge, religious performance, long routes, and ambition could plausibly meet.

In this reading, Morocco is not used as scenery. It becomes part of the character’s logic.

He comes from a place imagined as distant, learned, wealthy in traditions, and connected to routes beyond the immediate horizon of the tale.

Could He Really Reach China?

The story of Aladdin is famously displaced, layered, and geographically strange. The tale places its action in China, yet its atmosphere often feels culturally Islamic. This makes the magician’s journey seem almost impossible at first glance: could a man from the Maghreb really travel so far?

Historically, the answer is not absurd.

Long-distance travel across the Islamic world had existed for centuries through pilgrimage, trade, scholarship, diplomacy, and Sufi networks. The most famous example is Ibn Battuta, who began in Tangier and reached as far as China in the fourteenth century. His case does not “prove” the magician, but it proves the larger possibility of movement: a man from the Maghreb could belong to a world where enormous distances were imaginable and sometimes actually crossed.

By the eighteenth century, such journeys were still difficult, expensive, and exceptional — but not unthinkable. Pilgrimage to Mecca, movement through major Islamic cities, scholarly travel, commercial routes, and maritime connections all created pathways across regions.

So when the tale sends a Maghrebi magician toward the distant East, it is not pure nonsense. It is fairy-tale exaggeration built on a real cultural fact: the Islamic world was connected by routes, and people did move through them.

For the Lab, this is a key point.

The magician’s journey is not realistic in a modern documentary sense. But it is plausible within the imaginative geography of the tale — a world where distant knowledge, travel, power, and danger are linked.

Lab Conclusion: The Stranger with Dangerous Knowledge

The Maghrebi magician is interesting because he is not only a function in the plot. He is a concentration of several ideas at once.

He is a man from elsewhere, but not from nowhere. He is connected to Africa, but the trail grows more precise through Morocco. He is a magician, but his knowledge is not only supernatural. He understands ritual, travel, disguise, authority, and trust.

He belongs less to the cliché of the desert wanderer and more to the image of an educated Maghrebi figure shaped by city culture, religious networks, and long-distance routes.

This is why the Lab’s working conclusion is cautious, but clear: the Maghrebi magician can be read as a North African, likely Moroccan-coded figure — not a documented historical individual, but a culturally legible type.

His danger in the tale comes from more than magic. It comes from his ability to cross worlds: geographical, social, religious, and symbolic. He arrives from a distance with knowledge that others do not have. He knows how to perform a role. He knows how to enter a household. He knows how to turn trust into access.

This is the point where the fairy-tale label becomes too small.

The word “Maghrebi” is not just a decorative marker. It opens a whole field around the character: Morocco, the Maghreb, urban learning, ritual knowledge, pilgrimage routes, trade, manuscripts, status, secrecy, and the long road between worlds.

It does not try to create a literal portrait of the magician. That would be too simple, and probably too false. The Lab was not looking for a costume design or a villain’s face. It was looking for the atmosphere around the word.

That atmosphere includes Morocco, the Maghreb, manuscript culture, metal, textile, ornament, sand, inner cities, long routes, ritual knowledge, and the feeling of a figure who comes from a far edge of the map carrying something difficult to name.

This essay first appeared on Frikadelka Laboratory on

https://open.substack.com/pub/frikadelkalaboratory/p/the-maghrebi-question-what-one-word on May 27, 2026.

Republishing requires permission.

I was walking a ridge in the far eastern fells, long ago – out for the day, with only myself for company. Cloud base had dropped to around fifteen hundred feet, which meant I was passing in and out of a silvery mist with intermittent light rain. I'd disembarked from the lake steamer an hour or so earlier, and had another six miles or so of undulating hill country ahead, and only my legs to carry me.

There has always been a silent emptiness to those fells, a feeling of liminality where even the wind seems to hold its breath. The valleys are worked, and grazed but unobtrusively. There are wild deer, and dotted here and there on the fell-sides are romantic ruins, reminders of a fallen past – tumbled walls, moldering, moss grown barns. But it is an emptiness that invites connection rather than loneliness. Something comes to us more easily here.

After an hour or two of solitary walking, the attention changes. We become alert enough not to stumble, aware of the weather, its movement, its likely trend. We are aware of the line of the path and the feel of the ground beneath our boots, yet the mind is no longer occupied with the business of the everyday. Thoughts come and go neither resisted nor pursued. The rhythm of walking dissolves the hard edges between the outer and the inner landscape, which is perhaps why the hills have always attracted hermits, pilgrims and visionaries. Something in that measured movement allows another mode of seeing and being.

It was some way along the ridge I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, an attractive reedy tarn. By its shore stood a curious stone shelter, almost ornamental in appearance. And there was a man sitting beside it, perhaps another walker, resting. He seemed entirely at ease, contemplative as he gazed over the water, its surface gently rippled by raindrops and a faint breeze.

I remember no sense of surprise. Had I thought I was seeing something impossible I would surely have stopped. The scene possessed the same ordinariness as every other feature of the landscape. The reeds stirred. The shelter looked weathered, as though it had stood there for centuries. The man neither acknowledged me nor ignored me. He simply inhabited the space.

I remember thinking it would make a wonderful photograph, but I didn't want to disturb the man's quiet, so I carried on, storing away the memory, assuming I would return another day, perhaps in finer weather to get my photograph.

Was that thirty or forty years ago?

I've since walked that ridge at least half a dozen times, enough to know now there is no tarn. The maps confirm it. Modern satellite images confirm it. There was, and is, no tarn.

So the question remains: what did I see?

The rational mind approaches such puzzles with rational tools, and those tools inevitably begin by questioning the reality of experience itself. There is no evidence of it beyond my own memory. There is no photograph, no witness, no place on a map where I can point and say, "There, that's where I saw it."

The next rational step is to question the memory itself. Perhaps it was another ridge. Another walk. Perhaps I've unconsciously conflated two separate recollections. It is a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Yet I know what I experienced.

From there, other possibilities emerge. Perhaps it arose from the imagination, though not in the ordinary sense of making something up. Many traditions speak of places that appear only in passing, landscapes glimpsed once and never again. Throughout the old Celtic world there are stories of the faery, or the Good People, and of places that seem briefly to overlap with our own before withdrawing. The faery, it's often said, are glimpsed only through the corner of the eye. Perhaps it is wise not to go looking.

There was nothing remarkable about the man himself. He wore ordinary modern clothes. Memory even supplies him with a rucksack, though that detail may have been embroidered over the years.

So was the tarn real? Or did something from the imaginal world briefly intrude? Was it an hallucination? And if so, does that entirely explain it? We tend to imagine there is a sharp boundary between imagination and reality, yet our inner lives rarely respect such tidy divisions.

In the end, there is no answer that carries any material weight. There is nothing to prove, and nothing much would change if proof were possible. A solitary walker, on a lonely ridge in poor weather, saw something that was later not there anymore. But, for a time, the mystery troubled me. I sought an explanation, and in the seeking realised I had diminished the experience itself. These days I still think about that tarn. I thought about it again when I walked the ridge recently. But now it seems less important that I solve the puzzle, than to simply remember it. And be comfortable in the remembering.

In this way we resist collapsing the tension of opposites: resist the urge to reduce experience into certainties, whether by dismissing such encounters as fantasy, or insisting upon them as supernatural fact. Some memories do not require explanation, only that we carry them. They remain alive precisely because they continue to inhabit that fertile ground between what we know and what we cannot explain.

The tarn has never returned. Yet, in another sense, it will always be there. And I think therein lies the only clue – that none of this means anything to anyone else.

We are increasingly uncomfortable with things that refuse any form of classification. They must either be debunked or believed in. One must either be rational or credulous. But perhaps these are not the only choices. Another possibility arises: to leave them exactly where they arise, neither peddled as supernatural, nor dismissed as an aberration. Better, I think, to allow them simply to remain what they are – an interruption, a slight unevenness in the regular weave of the world.

If I had got my photograph that day, all I would have had is a photograph. Had I returned years after to find the tarn still there, long marked on the map, it would just have been a reedy tarn I had once passed, and thought nothing of again. Or more likely, in its ordinariness, I would have forgotten it.

No pienses solo en el momento de la compra, sino en el de la venta. Una inversión no termina cuando compras, sino cuando consigues vender el activo.

Activos "Bandera Roja" (Trampas de baja liquidez)

1. Multipropiedad:
2. Qué es: Compra de un derecho de aprovechamiento por turnos (ej. una semana al año).
3. Por qué evitarlo: Gastos de comunidad desproporcionados respecto al uso, es casi imposible de revender y suele ser un producto diseñado para atrapar al comprador.
4. Apartamentos en complejos hoteleros (Condos y Branded Residences):
5. Qué es: Unidades dentro de un hotel explotadas por una empresa gestora.
6. Por qué evitarlo: El hotel prioriza sus propias habitaciones, dejando las tuyas como último recurso. Los contratos suelen ser abusivos, los gastos de mantenimiento son altísimos y es muy difícil desvincularse.
7. "Casas del inventor":
8. Qué es: Viviendas con reformas extravagantes, distribuciones imposibles o estilos únicos que solo gustan a quien las construyó.
9. Por qué evitarlo: Tienen muy poco mercado. Aunque se venden, el comprador siempre conoce el problema y negocia el precio drásticamente a la baja.
10. Propiedades en pueblos en declive:
11. Por qué evitarlo: Falta absoluta de demanda y liquidez. Si la población pierde habitantes y no hay atractivo turístico o cercanía a núcleos urbanos, es muy probable que no logres venderla nunca.
12. Edificios con ITE (Inspección Técnica de Edificios) negativa:
13. Por qué evitarlo: Heredas la obligación de costear las obras de rehabilitación estructural, las cuales suelen ser extremadamente caras y eliminan cualquier margen de beneficio.
14. Locales comerciales reconvertidos a vivienda sin cédula de habitabilidad:
15. Por qué evitarlo: Legalmente siguen siendo locales. No puedes empadronarte, es difícil alquilarlos como vivienda habitual y la legalización suele ser técnicamente inviable o excesivamente costosa.

La importancia de conocer tus límites

Estos activos problemáticos, pueden ser buenos para otros inversores, pero malos para ti si careces de la experiencia específica para gestionarlos.

Evita parcelas urbanas porque, a pesar de su potencial, requieren pericia urbanística técnica.

Recomendación final

Antes de comprar, investiga siempre el activo, su situación legal y su liquidez real. Si el precio parece "demasiado bueno para ser verdad", sospecha: el problema no es comprar barato, sino quedarse atrapado con algo que nadie quiere comprar.

La Gestión Fiscal de la Vivienda en España

El Fraude del Mercado de la Vivienda en España

La Burbuja Inmobiliaria Residencial en Zonas Rurales en España: El Boom Silencioso Español que está Estallando