Sent me texts I never responded to.

And now it’s gone.

And there’s a line.

I take a seat.

A Frenchman has been waiting. He wants everyone to know.

He rolls his eyes as loud as he can.

He’s very important.

The woman at the counter counts her stack of cash, getting ready to pay the dealer.

It’s a huge stack. Annual payer.

She counts carefully.

And slowly.

He rolls his eyes. He looks down.

And he prays to a god he never believed in.

He’s next, though, so there’s hope.

The lady stands up. She’s done.

Wrong.

She sits back down. She’s short. She counts again.

100,000.

200,000.

300,000…

The Frenchman dies. He keeps his white flag in his pocket, though. Charles de Gaulle didn’t give up, and neither would he. For honor. For glory. For 5G wireless high-speed internet.

The woman pays. Confirms. She’s done.

Not yet.

She chats with the employee. Standing position. Hand on hip.

He moves to her seat.

They chat some more. She smiles, and leaves.

Finally, his turn. He’s perturbed. And he hasn’t shaved in weeks.

He wasn’t planning to leave his cave today. He’d still be there if it weren’t for these pesky government policies requiring passport verification.

He shows his passport. Indeed French.

“Hi sir, one moment, sir.”

She takes his passport and types on her keyboard.

“Are you going to do it right this time? I already show my passport three times.”

She doesn’t speak English. Neither does he.

She parries and slips.

And types on her keyboard.

He repeats himself. Maybe she’ll understand this time.

“Are you going to do it right this time? I’ve already done this three times.”

The employee doesn’t understand his God-given right to uninterrupted 5G wireless high-speed internet.

She takes a picture of his passport and types on the computer.

He wants her to know how much pain he’s in. He shuffles in his seat.

A couple walks in. They count the waiting bodies, assess the scene, and they walk out.

“Sir, one moment, please, sir.”

She takes a picture of his passport. His face is next.

“This is my third time doing this, will you do it right?”

She looks at her coworker. They speak. And then she translates something on her phone.

He can’t read it. It’s in English. He looks around the room.

A Moroccan boy walks in. He sits next to me.

“Where you from, bro?”

He’s talking to me. His hair is curly and blonde and shaved on the sides.

“USA.”

“My girlfriend is from the USA. She wants me to move there.”

“Nice.”

The Frenchman is struggling. So is his nemesis. They have much in common.

“Bro, how long you been waiting, bro?”

“Just a couple minutes.”

A Russian man walks in. He looks friendly. He walks straight to the counter.

He stops, standing over the sitting Frenchman. “Hello, I’d like to buy a SIM card.”

“Do you have a passport?”

“Yes!”

He smiles. He’s a friendly man.

The Frenchman dies.

“Please, can we finish?”

“Just one moment, sir. Please take a seat, sir.”

The friendly Russian takes a seat.

“Sir, please look into the camera, sir.”

The Frenchman doesn’t move. She holds a phone to his face.

He dies.

“Thank you, sir. One moment, sir.”

“Bro, do you like techno?”

“Not my favorite.”

“Bro, I’m a DJ, bro. I’m playing a show on the beach this Tuesday. You should come, bro.”

He hands me a QR card.

“Nice.”

The Frenchman looks at the Moroccan DJ.

Disgust.

“Sir, I need picture, sir. Please look at the camera, sir.”

The Frenchman looks back. She got him, and he knows it. Insubordinate.

He recovers.

“I’ve already taken pictures. You have my picture!”

“Sir, please sit still, sir.”

“How much longer?”

“One moment, sir.”

The old man ahead of me leaves. He’s had enough.

“Bro, how many people in front of you, bro?”

“I think I’m next.”

“Ok, sir.”

“It’s done?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I still have no internet.”

“30 minutes, sir.”

“30 minutes?”

He’s dead.

“30 minutes, sir.”

The coworker steps in.

“You can leave, sir.”

“And my internet?”

“It will turn on within 30 minutes, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, sir.”

Exits the Frenchman in haste.

The Moroccan follows him. He has a show on Tuesday.

The employee scans the room.

Hope.

Our eyes meet.

I’m up.

It’s a simple order:

One Roots Tea, please. For here.

Relief as soon as it’s ordered.

But it’s a gauntlet.

God forbid anyone is ever first in line.

No.

There are three to four hungry vegans foaming at the mouth. Always and minimum.

And none of them know what they want.

This one hovers his finger over the moringa potato fries. He reads the ingredients.

“It’s poss-ee-ble this can be fried in avocado oil?”

“Let me ask.” She goes into the kitchen.

The line waits.

“No, sir. It’s coconut oil.”

“Hmmmm. Mmmmm. Ok.”

They stare at each other.

He flips the page.

“It’s poss-ee-ble the falafel is fried in avocado oil?”

“Let me ask.”

She goes into the kitchen.

The line waits.

She comes back.

“No, sir. It’s coconut oil.”

“Hmmmm. Mmmmm.”

He flips the page.

“It’s poss-ee-ble to have raw lasagna with eggplant instead zucchini?”

“Let me ask.”

The line waits.

“No.”

“The raw lasagna is watery?”

“Watery, sir?”

“Hmmmm. Mmmmm. What is in the superfood basil pesto?”

“Let me ask.”

The line waits.

“Cashew an—”

“It’s poss-ee-ble to have without nuts?”

“Let me ask.”

The line waits.

“No, sir. It’s—”

“Hmmmm. Mmmmm. I will have the tempeh pasta salad. But can it be poss-ee-ble to have tofu instead of tempeh? And if the olives are black, it’s poss-ee-ble then no olives? And no coconut sauce. Do you have balsamic? Mmmm. Extra nori.”

“Ok.”

“And no broccoli.”

“Ok.”

“Do you have balsamic?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Balsamic instead coconut sauce.”

“Anything else?”

The line prays.

“Mmmm. Broccoli is fine. You can keep the broccoli in.”

“Ok.”

They stare at each other.

“That’s all.”

“Ok.”

His card works on the third attempt.

The line exhales.

He holds up a translation on his phone.

The line holds its breath.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

He smiles and looks at the line.

“Ok.”

He takes his number, and he finds a seat.

The line steps forward.

A woman.

She opens the menu.

The stage is hers.

“Mmmmm. Hmmmm.”

The line waits.

“It’s poss-ee-ble the raw cacao pie has no sugar?”

“It’s coconut sugar.”

“Mmmmm. Hmmmm.”

What is Resistance? It's our own tendency—yours and mine and everyone's—to yield to procrastination, self-doubt, fear, impatience, self-inflation, self-denigration, distraction, laziness, arrogance, complacency, and perfectionism. It's our inability to focus, our incapacity to press on through adversity. It's our terror of finishing and exposing our work to the judgment of the marketplace. It's fear of failure. It's fear of success. Fear of humiliation. Fear of destitution. It's our inability to defer gratification, to acquire and act with self-discipline, self-validation, and self-reinforcement.

Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands Resistance.

Resistance is the inner bitch. It gets in the way every time I try to do something I care about.

Here’s how it works:

I wake up. Ready. I sit with closed eyes toward the sun. I open my eyes. I pack my bag. And I go.

Out the door, down the stairs, out the door. A Vietnamese man looses a violent sneeze. He’ll do it again, but I’ll be gone.

Just kidding, I can’t find the right song. He roars.

Got it. I start the engine. I go. He spits on the ground. See you later.

I follow the green lights. Different each day. Today, it’s the coastline. The sun hits. Life is good.

I arrive. Ommo Coffee works. It’s a lowercase ‘w’ on Google Maps.

It’s early. 7:17. No enemies yet. No one has taken my seat. My throne. My wooden bench in front of my wooden table where I will fight today’s battle in The War of Art. The War of Something I Care About.

Black coffee. No sugar. I don’t have to say it. My drug dealer knows — I like it pure.

Open my computer. It’s a MacBook because I’m a serious person. Though the screen is cracked because a girl from another life closed it on a guitar pick. Zero remorse.

A katana with a kink.

The battle begins.

I open today’s reading to get the juices flowing. A brief history of Noetic Sciences from

Syntergic Theory is a model which proposes that consciousness is not produced by the brain, but rather emerges through an interaction between the brain and a deeper informational structure underlying the universe itself.

I finish the piece. Now I’m ready.

Wait. I must check if there’s anything extremely important on Instagram.

There is.

There always is.

An orca was caught on video ramming a sunfish so hard it exploded.

Some girl with a giant ass is explaining what she eats after glute day to obtain a giant ass.

My cousin is turning fifty-four. He’s posting birthday pics for every year of his life.

When he turned eight, the bakery woman made him a cake with a Porsche on it. A 911 Turbo. Red.

She included his brother’s name on the cake so he wouldn’t feel left out. His brother’s birthday isn’t for another seven months.

He’s still annoyed.

Ok. I’ve read the news. Time to do it.

I read another piece to get the juices re-flowing. A passage from The Prophet. Chapter 10 — Clothes:

Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment.

Ok, good to go.

It’s 8:14. Yesterday and the day before I ate sliced mango around 9:00. That’s in 46 minutes. Perhaps I should get sliced mango now. I’m not hungry, but I will be around 9:00. Like yesterday. And the day before. I should get sliced mango now.

Good idea!

The mango girl sees me coming. She smiles. I pick one and give it to her.

"Mango Girl, I feel really good today. I got the best mango on the planet.”

“You say that every day!”

I sit outside and eat the mango. No phone though. I can’t have any distractions. I’m working.

It’s a delicious mango. Slightly sour, slightly sweet. And it’s gone too soon.

But that’s good, because now I’m ready.

Back to Ommo. It’s a lowercase ‘w’ on Google Maps.

There’s a group of whiny Australians.

“HOWZA BADDA GONNA GEECHA.” One says.

“GITCHA GONNA HOWZA DUNNA,” Another replies.

Noise-canceling.

Time to work. Good luck, Resistance. YA GONNA NADE ET!

Just then.

A woman walks in. Gigantic, heavy butt cheeks hang above and below her jorts. She’s carrying a tripod.

I’m fascinated. The confidence. I admire.

Head down. MacBook. Serious person.

I mean it.

My coffee.

It’s beautiful. Black. Like soil. Like terra preta. Once home only to seeds. Now to the blossoming of the greatest beauty of all. All colors. All life itself. From where our mother, our sweet Earth, meditates. The most beautiful breath work in the universe.

Trees, wildflowers, song birds and hawks. Sloths and jaguars and the great black panther. Squalling monkeys using frogs to jerk off, and untouched tribes a thousand years old. All colors of the spectrum, and all forms of life. Once just seed and dirt.

You should take a picture and post it!

YEAH! I should. Everyone will love it! I’ll become famous! I can show people what coffee I drink after glute day! And they’ll all follow me! For my wisdom!

HERE’S EVERYTHING I DRANK AT MY FAVORITE COFFEE SHOP IN SOUTHEAST ASIA.

BEHOLD MY BEANS!

FOLLOW FOR MORE!

I take a picture. It’s perfect.

Open Instagram. The Strait of Hormuz blew up.

Don't care.

Usher kicks a fan off stage for her awkward response to his lap dance.

WOW!

Fuck the coffee. Nobody cares.

Check my phone. 9:14.

MacBook. Serious.

Another voice.

You should write about Resistance! The ‘R’ is capitalized!

Good idea!

Procrasductivity (Pro-crass-duck-tiv-itty)

Definition: Procrastination masked as productivity.

Open Substack.

Flow state.

I’ve lost the battle.

But the war continues.

-JT

Faaawking food poisoned. Been about three or four days now of shit stomach and shit attitude. Shit. Shit. Shit. Everywhere shit. It’s never from the cow brains or pig nuts at the street markets. My treats. No. This time it was the ice cream from CocoMart. Salted Shit Caramel. 0/10. Shit ice cream.

I’m slightly more energetic today. Yesterday was all shit. Despite that, and despite my fever, I took Iren to meet a friend. Agamemnon is a born-and-bred Balinese father of three and a native healer. He comes from a family of healers. A family spawned from the tallest volcano on the island.

The kind of man who meets you in silence, collecting metadata from your energy. Not to judge, but to understand.

He lives on a small plot of temple ruins with his extended family. Over fifty blood relatives living together in their own small commune. Kids of all ages running around and playing everywhere. I can see the family hierarchy by strides. Some walk straight; some walk around those who walk straight.

His wife brought us coffee and bananas, and Agamemnon gave me an oil he made from the jungle for my stomach.

“What’s in it?”

He laughed.

“Everything.”

I rubbed some on my belly. Equatorial Icy Hot.

Agamemnon tells Iren about his family history. He doesn’t know she doesn’t speak English, but we can’t hear him anyway because there’s a young boy sitting behind us playing the stomach drums with his palms.

After an hour or so catching up on his dais—opposite a MASSIVE, two-story-tall, demonic-faced, naked, unnamed barbarian man—Agamemnon took us to a temple hidden deep in the jungle for a dead moon ceremony.

Iren suggested this would be a ceremony involving the dead. Her witch radar sensed it. And she was right. We later learned it’s a spiritual reset. A monthly ritual to wipe the slate, soak in the darkness, and prepare for the return of light.

The ghost priests were proof. Boney men wearing sarongs and old, worn t-shirts. Googly eyes, looking in all directions at once. Always smoking and always cackling. They were happy to see us.

We arrived at dusk as the sky was pinkening, and the dead moon looked all around and nowhere. A long, steep stairway led down to the temple next to a river. Trees and mountains filled the entire view, save for the stars.

Small bells jingled at the foot of the temple in front of the waterfalls. Nothing was explained, just motioned by hands: do this, do that, drink this, drink that, close your eyes, open your eyes, hold out your palms, put your head under that, lie face down in the river underneath that rock like a corpse until I let you up.

Cackling and jingling bells.

I never saw who jingled the bells.

There were more than fifteen different waterfalls surrounding us, some big, some small, and I drank from all of them. Three times from each. Good for the stomach. Begone, wicked salted caramel spirit that hath poisoned my gut with your immoral shit demons!

This was a sharp contrast to the life-giving purification ceremony we attended on day two. A celebration under blue skies and puffy popcorn clouds. Bright colors all around—blues, reds, greens, and golds from flowers and sarongs. Set in a scenic hole in the jungle with giant waterfalls, streams, and glowing caves. And tons and tons of white people.

The dead moon was different. Quiet, dark, empty, and raw. It was desolate.

The ceremony ended well into the night with bows and prayers. And cackling. We gave thanks to the ghost priests, said goodbye, and went back up the stairs. The priests stayed behind.

Speaking of all around and nowhere, I finished reading The Tao of Pooh today. A book about Winnie the Pooh, and letting be what is.

Cleverness and knowledge don’t lead to any answers, just more questions. “To attain knowledge, add things every day. To attain wisdom, remove things every day.”

Perhaps my bowels are attaining wisdom.

I’m trying to let be what is, and I must accept that the island’s energy hasn’t ‘touched’ me as the Eaters, Prayers, and Lovers of TikTok claim. Is there energy on the island? Yes. Is it real? Yes. Do the 20-something ‘ancestral healers’ in festy gear from Australia make it stinky and unbearable? Yes.

Perhaps my mind isn’t open. Perhaps I haven’t sat in enough Bali traffic. Perhaps I need to attend more awakened leadership retreats. Perhaps I need more $14 raw cacao soups. Perhaps I need to swear off pork. Perhaps I need to wear pajamas and grow a nest on my head.

Perhaps I’m a cynical asshole!

TAKE ME, BALI! I AM YOURS. HEAL MY WOUNDS. WASH ME OF MY SINS WHICH POISONED MY STOMACH! AND SERVE TO ME ONE FRESH MILK LATTE WITH THE DARK ROAST SINGLE-ORIGIN BEANS THAT YOU KNOW I LOVE. THE ONES FROM ETHIOPIA THAT SMELL OF CHICORY AND DIRT.

No, no flavor syrups. Just a pinch of cinnamon for big daddy.

Oh, you’re out of those? Shit! Ok. I’ll have the medium-roast undigested civet shit beans, then. Here’s everything in my wallet, and some for the minaret renovations in Jakarta, too. Give them my regards.

The Island of the Gods, they call it. Less mentioned is that it’s also the island of demons. Of light and dark. Sun and moon. Black and white. Up and down. Mountain and ocean. Heaven and hell. Agamemnon and Jessica.

Perhaps the dark energies of the present-day island are no longer huge naked barbarian demons, but service fees, charlatans, and Becky from Brisbane.

Spiritual Disney World for first-time meditators-turned-unbeknownst colonizers.

The world’s foremost pajama symposium that goes on day and night.

Is this a bad thing? I don’t know. It’s not for me to say. I am Becky from Brisbane, before the enlightened kiss on the forehead from the lady-shaman leader of the Women’s Holistic Cycle Harmony retreat at Sansara Healing Food Vegan Cafe.

If the balance is kept, Bali breathes.

I love you,
JmT <3

Black, sugarless coffee, please. He knows.

Thirty-five, please. I know.

I give him thirty. I’m short of caffeine.

He looks at me. I realize my sin.

I give him a ten. We stare at the stack of ones in the register.

Is he going to do it?

His eyes move to the tip jar. There’s a five.

He swaps it for ones and hands it to me.

He knows.

Ménage à Sept
We lay the towel down. She takes one end, I the other. Sea breeze makes a ménage à trois.

It’s quiet, and the white sand is endless.

I open my book and begin to read.

She footsies me. She doesn’t know I was regional champ my junior year of high school (if the public school board had enough money, I’d have gone to Nationals and won it all).

The book goes down and I order the deployment. Not my best, Mr. Right, but my left, El Señor. I strike. Gently; one must be easy with a familiar adversary. A champion must win, but not destroy. Her feet are no barbarians to be slain as crab fodder.

As feet fly, a well-bellied man in gold chains and budgie smugglers enters the realm. Beer in hand, he instructs his well-busted wife where the towel goes. Too close. His grown sons wonder where they fit in.

And I wondered, too.

An Interrupted Dream
The first breath of fresh air stepping off the plane in Crete.

An orange juice on the side of the road, watching the woman smile in loose clothes. She picks an orange off the tree behind her, and drops it in the juice press.

She picks another. Then another. Until my cup is full.

God, earth, roots, bloom.
Orange, orange, orange. Juice.

Darkness.

It crawls. Moving in the night.

I am a hunter-gatherer. The anxiety god bestowed upon me works. Am I asleep? Is this real life?

Terror.

I kick not once but thrice, gripping hold the sheet’s edge tight. And I taught him how to fly.

Panic. Frantic. Squirming. Yearning.

Prayers the roach has earned its learning.

Pleas for life, love, joy, and juice.

A magnum. A tank. The power of Zeus.

A pan.

I turn on the lights. He’s gone. The fucker.

In 2010, I began carrying a pocket-sized notebook to record ideas, thoughts, and quotes.

These days, the notebook is my phone—but the habit is unchanged.

As is said:

“If you can’t read and write, you can’t think. Your thoughts are dispersed if you don’t know how to read and write. You’ve got to be able to look at your thoughts on paper and discover what a fool you were.” - Ray Bradbury

I have sixteen years of proof.

Sometimes they’re observations, and sometimes they’re thoughts that turn night to day.

Once in a while, I play Thought-Quote Roulette—a spin of the wheel of notes. I open the notes app, scroll hard and fast, and press my finger to see where it stops.

Here are ten spins of the wheel:

How does one person use this much fucking silverware in less than a week?
J Tully

BONUS:

Have a weekend.

Subscribe now

Five minutes at the end. Absorb the benefits.

Soft music, soft lyrics. You are the light.

The instructor speaks. We sit up, hands in prayer, eyes closed.

Not mine. The girl with zodiac and cherry tattoos is dismantling her tripod. She’s a Scorpio.

1:05. I stand up, wipe my mat, and leave the room.

Eli is outside. He’s chatting with Sebastian. They’re eating coagulated soy milk patties between buns.

I sit.

There’s a pole dancing expedition tomorrow. It’s for a cause.

A classmate is performing. We’re all invited.

Come and support.

Tomorrow.

8:00. We meet at Cheers.

I order a Negroni. The peanuts are salty and delicious. There’s a pool table. Sebastian wants to play.

He chalks his cue, eyes on the rack. Pacing before the break.

I win. There was a bad slope. It’s time to go.

We walk to the expedition. It’s in a shopping mall. Or maybe a hotel.

Up the elevator, 3rd floor. It’s a banquet hall.

Eli gives us our tickets.

We must keep them safe. There’s a raffle.

We take them out of the garbage. I’m #1087.

We order drinks. I take a red wine in a paper cup and a sausage. It’s on a stick and comes with chili salt. We take our position in the back, behind the banquet chairs.

Someone’s talking on stage. The speakers come on as she finishes. The audience claps.

The music starts, and a performer walks on. White boots with heels.

She finishes. A golf clap erupts.

The music stops. One conversation doesn’t. It’s about skin. Everyone hears.

The host comes back, it’s raffle time. She calls a number, and everyone checks their ticket.

A skinny man in flip-flops stands up. He takes the stage, poses with the host, and holds his prize.

Congratulations, you’ve won a 3-pack of premium menstrual underwear.

I finish my sausage and ask Sebastian to hold the stick. He doesn’t fall for it, and I throw it away.

9:05. The next performance begins. Three this time. It’s evocative.

We wait for the next raffle.

9:12. It’s time. Or no.

The dancers exit left, the host comes from the right. She introduces a guest speaker. The audience claps. She’s the owner of a new skin treatment salon. Everyone’s invited to her welcome event.

Now it’s raffle time. The host invites the last winner to pick a number. He stands from the audience and takes the stage. Proud.

Everyone waits.

He reaches into the hat and draws a number. It’s #1187. Everyone looks down, then up. A man raises his fists.

He jogs on stage, arms pumping. The audience claps.

He poses with the host and holds his prize.

Special Offer 10% off any skin treatment at the guest speaker’s salon. Valid at the welcome event.

We order more wine. They’re out of red. White it is.

The nice barboy smiles and asks if I want a sausage. He knows me well. I decline.

9:30. Our classmate’s turn. We cheer. She climbs up the pole, and the music begins.

Dabadabadop daybop baday

It’s Amber — “This Is Your Night.”

She nails it. We cheer. And it’s raffle time.

The host enters from the right, hat in hand. Everyone’s ready.

She reaches in. Suspense.

Eli yells his own number. The host speaks.

#1267. We look down, then up. Then around, then behind. Nobody. She draws another.

Eli yells his own number again.

She speaks into the mic. #1064. We look down. A man shouts, and we look up. The winner.

Another man yells.

FUCK!

Sebastian.

The winner steps to the stage, poses, and holds his prize. Menstrual underwear.

9:50. We’ve had enough. The performances continue.

We go to a Mexican bar filled with angry Australians. It’s run by a Chilean.

There’s a pool table. Sebastian wants to check the slope.

A warm cosmetologist from a cold country.

We matched online. I messaged. She replied instantly.

Soul mates.

Tuesday or Thursday?

Tuesday. She works Thursday.

Black Wolf Speakeasy, 8:00.

Tuesday, 7:10. See you at 8. Looking forward to it.

See you there. You’ll easily recognize me. I look like a goddess.

I do pushups and take a shower. Cold water. It’s 100 degrees.

Still sweating. I put on my good shirt. But not before my pants. I leave.

I waddle slowly. It doesn’t matter. Cotton sticks to sweat.

7:50. A convenience store with AC. They have a refrigerator, too. I stand by it and grab a water from the back.

5,000 dong, please. Thank you.

I walk, holding the water against my stomach.

8:03. I arrive. She hasn’t. Good, I cool off inside.

She messages. She’ll be 10 minutes, maybe.

I walk left, two high chairs in the corner. I sit.

I stop sweating. Thank God.

The barman glides. His name is a sound. He has supple skin and K-pop hair. He invites me to a drink.

I tell him I’m waiting for a goddess. He understands.

There’s a man in cargo shorts having a bright red drink. His name is John. He’s from Washington.

He asks if it’s our first date. It is. She’s a goddess.

He congratulates me.

A woman approaches. She says hi. I don’t recognize her.

John looks the other way.

It’s her. She’s newer than her photos.

I stand up and offer her the chair. She sets her luggage down and climbs onto it. She’s very nice.

I ask what she’ll have. The barman awaits.

One martini, please. Extra dry. Stirred. And one of what John’s having.

The drinks are served with sweet, Asian Cheetos. They’re dusty.

I raise my glass. She finishes chewing and taps hers to mine.

She tells me her interests. She likes anything beautiful.

The barman glides. He refills the Cheetos.

Another martini, please. Dry. She wants something beautiful to match her eye shadow and faux loc extensions.

He understands.

The drinks are served. Hers is bright pink with a flower. She loves it.

She chews, we cheers. The barman refills the Cheetos.

She tells me about Moroccanoil® Luminous Hairspray. It’s a medium hold that doesn’t leave flakes.

A Cheeto falls down the middle of her shirt. She digs it out.

John stands up. He’s seen enough. Have a good night.

You too, John.

9:20. Our drinks are empty. So are the Cheetos. No glide, no refill.

It’s time to leave. I pay the bill.

We walk outside. We hug.

Send me a text.

She didn’t.

7:42, Phi’s café opened on time.

The neighbor is in my chair at the square table. He snorts, coughs, and hacks when I walk in.

Good morning.

I sit at the circular table and remind myself he is not my enemy.

Uncle says hi. He’s a dog. I can’t pronounce his real name.

Phi brings me a black coffee mixed with ice and fresh coconut water. I like how the coffee floats atop the coconut water.

The first time I tried it, I was on the fence. The next day, I ordered another. Like mustard.

The neighbor snorts, coughs, and hacks. He drinks black coffee with condensed milk and watches videos on his phone. Full volume.

Phi plays elegant string music as a backdrop.

He is not my enemy.

8:03, Timur strolls in. His legs are longer than his pants. He’s tall.

He sits down, holds up three fingers, and smiles at me. Timur is silent.

Phi brings him three mango smoothies.

Brain freeze.

He orders a fourth.

The neighbor stands up, snorts, coughs, hacks, and nods goodbye.

I take what’s mine. See you tomorrow.

I pull out my computer. Do not disturb.

I read an article about liverwurst.

“There in the corner lies a greyish, rather suspicious package of the cheapest liverwurst. It looks like it’s been sitting there for a while and is approaching its expiration date.”
-

A cement truck drives by. Its ladder catches on low-hanging telephone wires. Everyone yells.

Timur laughs.

The massage boss enters. He directs traffic. Everything is fine.

8:42, James walks in. He has a new tattoo. It says “This is my new tattoo.”

He sits down at the sewing table and orders salted coffee and eggs.

Sergio appears. He’s in haste.

He removes his riding gloves. He drove 100 km/h from the airport to see me.

He always tells me his speed.

He’s returned from India. He was to meet a girl, but she didn’t board her plane. Now she’s unresponsive.

She’s old news. He’s flying to Ho Chi Minh City tomorrow to see a girl he met online while flying from India. She’s the one. He will invite her to Argentina. He’s leading an expedition to the top of Aconcagua next week.

9:38, Sergio leaves. He needs to pack. He will return in one hour to give me the rest of his creatine.

Back to the article.

10:00, Matteo walks in. Uncle hugs him. He greets Phi and orders the usual.

We talk music. He thinks Queen sucks.

Sergio returns. He gives me a shopping bag filled with creatine and USB-C cables. He leaves again.

Godspeed.

11:00, Matteo exits. He’s going to dance. I’ll see him for dinner.

11:12, Timur speaks. It’s been 103 days.

“Brother, I want to share something with you.”

I close my computer.

“Tonight, Mercury will go into retrograde.”

He returns to silence.

I sit up, untangle myself from bed, and cross my legs. I look out—balcony, rooftops, mountains, moon. I close my eyes again.

I open my eyes again. It’s time to go.

I brush my teeth, I say hello. I spit. I put on my pants, and then my shirt. Men shouldn’t put shirts on before their pants.

I pick up my bag, and I leave my apartment.

I sit on the step, put on my shoes, and I move. Four flights later, I am outside. Hello.

I’m mostly alone. Except for the massage boss. He always beats me. Once, he filled a pothole with concrete and laughed when I stepped in it.

Today, he said hello.

I turn left, and I hope Phi’s Café is open. It isn’t. It will open in 10-100 minutes; Google Maps doesn’t decide. Phi does.

I reach the end of the street, and I go right. The South China Sea. It’s four blocks away, but I turn right one street before. There’s a Russian sleeping on an outdoor massage chair. I know he’s Russian. Or maybe British.

I make the right, and I see the fruit lady organizing her fruit. She’s always organizing her fruit. Sometimes she stops to sell it, but then she starts organizing it again.

I can count on Ommo. 7:12, I walk inside. Soft hip hop, and the unforced smile of the coffee man.

He knows my name. I’m important. I know his, too. It’s Tony—though, you’d never guess it.

I claim my space—placing my bag on the best seat in the house. The long wooden table closest to the window. It’s near the wall of sticky-note self-portraits.

There’s one that looks like me.

I go to the counter, stare at the menu, and initiate the day’s first battle. Me vs. the variety of creamy, sweet coffees. The battle lasts 47 seconds.

First, I tell myself I deserve one. Then I tell myself I’ll exercise harder. And finally, I tell myself my brain needs the glucose for better cognitive function.

“Black, please. No sugar. Iced.”

Those bastards can wait.

I won.

(I lost).

Tony’s unmoved.

I pay the man, and I sit on my throne—a wooden bench. I take out my laptop and the herbal roll-on from Master Y.

I shake it, then roll it on my left palm. I rub my hands together, and my coffee arrives.

I take the first sip.

Universal glory in its beautiful light. Mother Earth’s wild divinity and the touch of the gods — What do I owe for this sacred elixir? For my mortal frame deserves it not.

The gods are coffee drinkers.

I stand up. I walk into the bathroom. I test the plumbing.

It works.

I sit back on my throne. I check my phone. There’s a message from Irina Valentina. She sends her regards, “I’m Linda. Wonder if we’ve talked or met somewhere before.”

Block and report as spam.

I open my computer. I pray to the muse.

I write a story about mornings, starting every line with “I.”

I realize I failed.

I publish it anyway.

Life is good.

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An American businessman vacations in Mexico and joins a local fisherman for a day at sea. The businessman asks the fisherman how he spends his time.

The fisherman answers, “I fish a little in the morning, I catch enough for my family, I go back, cook, take a siesta with my wife, drink wine around the fire, and play with my children.”

The businessman says, “That’s stupid. Here’s a better idea: you should spend most of your day fishing, and then, with the extra fish, you can sell them at the market.”

“Why would I do that?” the fisherman asks.

“Well, once you’ve got more money, you can start to employ some of your friends, and they could come out fishing with you. Then, you could catch more fish, which you could sell at the market for more money.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, once you do that, you would be able to incorporate in America, and you would be able to start a canning factory, so you could own the entire production process, and then you could sell the company for a lot of money.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because once you’ve done that, you’d be able to fish a little in the morning, drink wine around the fire, and spend time with your family.”

Each day has something to give, and each week is a collection. Some days are shit, and their week’s still gold. No matter the case, we wake up and push the rock up its hill.

Here is my weekly collection:

1. Lunar New Year (17 February): The Year of the Fire Horse

   1. In the Chinese Zodiac, the Fire Horse is raw momentum. While 2025—The Wood Snake—was a year of transformation and shedding old skins, 2026 is the year to run.

      1. Do: Trust your gut

      2. Don’t: Mistake speed for direction

   2. Grip it and rip it, friends.

1. What do we do now that will make future generations cringe?

   KK

   Cringeworthy in the Future

   The New York Times asked me (and others) to suggest some things our descendents might be embarrassed about in the future. Things we do now, that might make future generations cringe. Good question! My reply is this short list, which I may add to later as I think of them. There is no limit to the year, so some of these are destined for the very far futur…

   Read more

   7 months ago · 53 likes · 34 comments · Kevin Kelly

2. Research:

   1. The higher a man’s internal preoccupation with being muscular, the more likely he is to experience relationship dissatisfaction and instability. Distinction: Drive for health is different from drive for a “look.”

   2. The Association of Relationship Status and Sex-Life Satisfaction With Body Dissatisfaction and Drive for Muscularity in Male Weight-Lifters

3. Question:

   1. What does your dream week look like hour by hour? What does your nightmare week look like hour by hour? What’s the gap between your current week and the dream/nightmare week?
      -

4. Quote:

   1. When you go against your own element, breaking your nature, the result is always predictable. You can’t make water burn or fire flow—no matter how hard you try. A mandarin will never become an apple.

      Every soul comes with its own form, rhythm, and task. Pain begins where we try to be “convenient” instead of being real.

      Live the way it’s written in your nature. Then, energy stops leaking away, and it begins to serve you.
      -Irenichka
      

Thanks for reading, and have an extraordinary day!

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I’ve never had a bad date.1

But I’ve seen plenty.

I’m no expert. But I know this: a first date is about enjoying the moment.

It’s about the possibility that this person could change your life, become a friend, or share a fun night.

Scene 1:

Guy sits down at a restaurant and waits for his date.

She arrives, he stands, gives a first-date hug, and sits down. So far so good.

A dog walks up, and girl swoons. She pets the dog and comments on how cute it is.

“I don’t touch random dogs anymore,” he says.
“Oh,” she responds.
"Yeah. In Thailand, I touched one that had rabies, and I had to get seven rounds of shots.”

*Silence*

Nice.

The date continues. The server arrives to take food orders. First, the girl orders an entree, then the guy.

“I’m not eating, I ate an hour ago.”

Result:

First dates are weirder than bird mating rituals.

But it’s the same dance.

You want to put your best self forward, and you want to create attraction. Lost in that is the simple goal: have a good time.

Scene 2:
Guy and girl show up together for dessert. They order at the counter, find a table, and sit down.

They sit in silence. Guy pulls out his phone and begins to scroll, leaving girl to wonder what in the fuck she’s doing there.

Guy’s dessert comes first. They still haven’t spoken. It’s a fancy Snickers bar on a small tray with a pastry fork.

He looks at it, then at her. He ignores the fork, picks it up with his ape hand, and shoves half in his mouth—scrolling his phone with the other.

He looks off to the side while he chews. Then remembers there’s a beautiful girl across from him. He points at her—a fine gesture—offering her a taste (there’s too much chocolate guck in his mouth to speak).

She declines.

Her order arrives as he swallows his last bite, and now it’s his turn to watch her eat. She’s lost her appetite for him and for dessert.

She powers through, taking a few bites of her fruit bowl before setting her spoon down. He looks at her barely-eaten bowl—she senses his curiosity.

She pushes the bowl slightly toward him. He grabs her spoon, leans over the halfway point of the table, and goes to work—shoveling her food into his mouth over the width of the table.

She watches with the quiet face of terror.

There’s a lot of noise online about how terrible men are. But nature runs on polarity—responsibility does not fall to one side.

That said, the worst among us tend to amplify that noise (see: the gorillas mentioned above).

The following isn’t about chivalry or advanced seduction strategy. It’s basic self-respect for knuckle draggers.

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First Date Do’s and Don’t’s for Men.

Predate: Take the lead, make a plan, and show some enthusiasm—don’t text up a storm; keep it simple.

Don’ts:

• Don’t order before she arrives.

  • Supplement: If your food comes first, wait. It doesn’t matter if your food gets cold (see: the ogre in Scene #2).

  • Supplement #2: Don’t finish her plate, even if you’re hungry and she offers. It’s just not sexy.

• Don’t take yourself too seriously or monologue about yourself or your job. Listen and relate.

• Don’t shovel food in your mouth like a raccoon—have some couth. And, good god, don’t chew with your mouth open.

  • Supplement: don’t hold your silverware like a four-year-old.

• Don’t wear body spray. It stinks, and so do you.

• Don’t fill space with sound because you can’t handle silence. You will say something stupid2 (see: seven rounds of rabies shots from Scene 1).

• Don’t disrupt the drink pacing by ordering another drink before she’s made a dent in hers. In other words, don’t get drunker than her.

• Rapid fire: Don’t complain, don’t order messy food, and don’t take the booth chair.3

Do’s:

• Be positive. Negativity is a repellent.

  • I recently heard someone talking about an exciting concert he saw (good!), and all he talked about was stepping in gum in his new shoes (bad!).

• Stand up when she arrives. Decide beforehand if you will hug. Whatever you do, take the lead. It’s okay if it’s awkward. First dates often are.

• Smile. Leave your resting bitch face at home.

• Put your phone on Do Not Disturb. Be present. Even if she takes her phone out, be better.

• Order something, and offer a taste. You’re sharing the evening.

• Assume you’re paying. Then pay. It isn’t about money, it’s about generosity. Parsimony is a repellent.

• Rapid fire: Treat staff well, ask questions, and probably wear sleeves.4

These do’s and don’ts apply even if: A) she sucks, B) you know you won’t see her again, or C) you don’t agree with her opinions. You’re still allowed to enjoy the evening.

No “what if’s.”

Thanks for reading, and have a not-terrible first date!

Cafes are a sacred place to think, create, and watch the world turn.

For centuries, they’ve served as gathering grounds for artists, literary minds, and philosophical debate.

They’re also a nice place to grab coffee or go for a date.

So powerful are cafes that the Russian Revolution was plotted in one, and King Charles II banned them, fearing revolts against the crown (and many thanks to his wife, those poor bastards are stuck with tea).

Among the great works born in cafés are:

• J.K. Rowling — Harry Potter, The Elephant House, Edinburgh

• Ernest Hemingway — The Sun Also Rises, A Moveable Feast, Café de Flore, Les Deux Magots, Paris

• Bob Dylan — Too many songs to count, Café Wha?, Greenwich Village

• Sigmund Freud — Psychoanalysis, Café Landtmann, Vienna

• Leon Trotsky — The Russian Revolution, Café Central, Vienna

• Pablo Picasso — Napkin sketches that became Cubism, various cafés in Paris

• James Joyce — Ulysses, various cafés in Trieste & Zurich.

• Me, This Substack Post, The 11 Commandments: Proper Café Etiquette, Ut Phi Café, Da Nang

As incubators of some of the world’s great works, those works are elevated further once we account for the endless distractions and poor manners their creators endured. Caffeine, after all, attracts not only great thinkers, but heathens and warlocks too.

Which is why Waaqa, the Oromo Coffee God of Ethiopia, dragged me atop the highest hill and delivered The Eleven Commandments, A Guide to Proper Café Etiquette (with footnotes!) — distilled and simplified so even the most ‘distracted’ among us may understand.

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1. Be kinder than necessary to the staff.1 — The Rule of the Gods

2. Don’t impose your ruckus on everyone else — The Golden Rule

   1. Read the room. If it’s quiet, don’t talk loudly. If you must scream, take it outside.

   2. For the love of god, use headphones.2

   3. If you have to stand up and pace like a nervous maniac to receive a phone call, go outside. Keep your unhinged energy away from the peace.

   4. If you need to move a chair or a table, don’t drag it across the floor. Lift to the best of your abilities.

   5. If you have a runny nose, clear it out with one big blow. Not a million little sniffles, over, and over, and over, and over again.3

3. Don’t take your shoes off. They stink.4

4. On shared tables, don’t leave your shit scattered everywhere. You hyena.

5. Don’t park your bike or car directly in front of the outdoor seating area. It’s not your driveway or personal parking lot. You’re an idiot.

6. Put a shirt on.5

7. Don’t be the first person to smoke unless you’re the first person.

8. If the only thing separating two chairs is a thin pane of glass, don’t sit directly opposite someone when other seats are available.6

9. If there are dogs, don’t rile them up.7

10. One purchase earns 2-hours at a busy café. Don’t take up space while living off the free tea. You scoundrel.

11. If there are tables available ALL OVER the cafe, don’t sit right next to someone at the SAME TABLE, sniffing, snorting, and chewing your fucking croissant with your mouth open, you SLOB.8

Beckoned from the coffee heavens, these are the commandments—to be hung in every café in every corner of the world. Now, we need to teach these apostates how to read.

If I have missed one, speak now. I will amend the list as new offenders work their black magic.9

Update, 9:09 AM: As I’m finishing this scripture, a Russian coffee terrorist is live-streaming on TikTok within close enough distance I could tie her shoelaces together. Fully extended tripod and microphone—No headphones. No Couth. Alas, the battle between good and evil continues. But even the darkest sky eventually fills with stars—and by their light, we find our way.

Each day has something to give, and each week is a collection. Some days are shit, and their week’s still gold. No matter the case, we wake up, drink coffee, and push the rock up its hill.

Here is my weekly collection: Coffee History Addition.

1. We have widespread, cheap coffee in the West thanks to the Smuggling Dutchmen

   1. Arabs held a monopoly on coffee cultivation until 1616, when Dutchman Pieter van den Broecke smuggled a live plant out of Mocha, Yemen, back to Europe.

2. Caribbean and Latin American Cultivation

   1. The Smuggling Dutchman’s larcenous plant paved the way for the Frenchman, Gabriel de Clieu, spreading coffee further. He brought a seedling to Martinique in the 1720s, which became the progenitor for Caribbean and Latin American coffee cultivation.

3. Once a coffee culture, London pioneered the ‘Overnight Shift,’ thanks to the stimulative powers of caffeine. Thanks, ass-holes!

4. Kaldi, and the Great Goat Pioneers

   1. Kaldi, a 9th-century Ethiopian goat herder, discovered coffee after noticing his goats became restless from eating cherries off a wild shrub. Naturally, he tried one himself.

5. Quote on Coffee: An Ode

   1. Measured and weathered, you’re always a-tethered
      To earning the world’s veneration
      They rip you, they bathe you, they burn you, they save you,
      And boil you down to elation — An Ode to our Father, Me

Thanks for reading, and have a caffeinated day!

My monkey brain has accumulated a lot of mish-mash over the years. It stirs, stews, and sometimes stays. Thoughts that never got air.

They’re the first things that come to mind when I think of a person or place. Some are years old. Some happened today. Some I should’ve said. And some I’d never say.

And some I wanted to, but didn’t.

In any case, let ‘em breathe.

Things I never said, but wanted to:

To my 11th-grade cooking teacher: I wish I could have seen your face when you pulled the massive dick-shaped bread loaf out of the fridge.

To the girl who turns dogs into cows: Next time, stay a while.

To the toddler running around the beach: You won’t remember this moment. Never stop.

To the Frenchman and the German: You were the unexpected flames to my fuse.

To the mom who keeps giving her baby the wooden block after he throws it against the concrete: STOP!

To my 10th-grade geometry teacher: You showed me that I can do anything, but that I will have to work harder than everyone just to be at baseline.

To the ghost of the Romeo and Juliet Guesthouse: What happened?

To the wife of the big Russian man near the burger restaurant: God made jean shorts and heels for you.

To the big Russian man married to the woman who wears jean shorts and heels: you lucky bastard.

To the perfect girl: You hold the world to a standard you don't meet, which keeps you angry.

To the Lady in Red: I love you.

To Isaac, Erik, and Jonathan: 31 years later, you continue to fuel my fear of rejection. Still, I persist.

To the girl who wears bucket hats: I wonder if you’ll ever take accountability and apologize.

To the Queen of Ecuador: I was dealing with heartbreak and trying to love you at the same time. It was genuine, but the timing was miserable. A high-wire I couldn’t balance. I’m sorry.

To 21-year old me: Do what you want, even if you have to go backwards first.
Also: DON’T DRIVE!

To my 1st-grade teacher: I warned you I was gonna puke. You didn’t listen. Not sorry.

To readers: What are yours? Do share, and I’ll include them next time.

Each day has something to give, and each week is a collection. Some days are shit, and their week’s still gold. No matter the case, we wake up and push the rock up its hill.

Here is my weekly collection:

1. Auto-Exploitation Trap (Byung-Chul Han):

   1. We are ‘free’, but we treat ourselves like machines that must always produce to be worthy. It feels like discipline or ambition, but it’s fear of insignificance dressed up as responsibility.

2. Quote:

   1. Thinking is difficult. That’s why most people judge.

      —Carl Jung

3. Question:

   1. What childhood memory comes to mind right now?

4. Meme:

   

5. Good read

   Useful Fictions

   Are you stuck in movie logic?

   Have you ever noticed just how much of the drama in movies is generated by an unspoken rule that the characters aren’t allowed to communicate well? Instead of naming the problem, they’re forced to skirt around it until the plot makes it impossible to ignore. It’s the cheapest way to build effective drama, but if you don…

   Read more

   a year ago · 1036 likes · 79 comments · Cate Hall

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Thanks for reading, and have an extraordinary fucking day!

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I know an artist who does what he wants, when he wants, because he wants to. You can’t count the fucks he gives because he has none to offer.

He’s a stylish man who got to where he is by moving boulders and taking what’s his, regardless of obstacles.

And he has the scars to prove it, though proving it would imply he keeps score. He doesn’t.

He rides motorcycles, writes songs of love and loss, and knows the balance between kicking back and strapping up.

And — among my favorites — he doesn’t read text messages longer than a sentence — because “I ain’t readin’ all that shit.”

He wakes with a spirit of refusal toward anything outside his interest, giving energy only to what — or who — gives it back.

He refuses to let the day happen to him, and he doesn’t think in terms of “half-full” or “half-empty.” He is the tap.

He is a Zaddy.

A Zaddy is defined by how a man carries himself — lived experience grounded in self-acceptance and confidence. An internal energy that radiates.

Zaddies should not be confused with gentlemen. While the two may overlap, there are key differences. A gentleman is defined as a chivalrous, courteous, or honorable man. Rooted in historical codes and often class-based, he is taught, learned, and socially performed.

The Zaddy is rooted in energy. He is charged. He is earned. He is en route.

Any man can choose to be a gentleman. Zaddies are forged.

Like signatures, no two Zaddies are alike. But each shares the following four pillars.

1. Agency

   1. How a man moves through the world.

   2. Zaddies architect their own reality. They solve problems through resourceful action, clear thinking, and a refusal to be constrained by circumstance, society, or conventional wisdom. And they carry the consequences.

2. Self-Mastery

   1. How a man moves within himself.

   2. Congruence — the fire dance on the high wire of heart, body, and mind.

   3. “Mastery is the best goal because the rich can’t buy it, the impatient can’t rush it, the privileged can’t inherit it, and nobody can steal it. You can only earn it through hard work.” — Derek Sivers

3. Grace and Style

   1. How a man shines.

   2. This is the fire’s flair. Fire doesn’t perform; it captivates — presence without theater. A Zaddy doesn’t command respect; he inspires it.

4. Anchored Masculinity

   1. How a man inhabits.

   2. Strength, duty, and calculated restraint. Zaddies don’t chest thump or dominate, nor do they shadow box in the gym. Their masculinity is contained, not weaponized — their strength stands on its own.

Lastly, underneath these pillars lies the foundation — awareness. A Zaddy isn’t perfect, nor is he concerned with perfection; he’s concerned with his values and owning his failures. Only from this awareness can these pillars stand.

Each day has something to give, and each week is a collection. Some days are shit, and their week’s still gold. No matter the case, we wake up and push the rock up its hill.

Here is my weekly collection: Zaddy Edition. These are five defining zaddies throughout history who embody the four pillars.

1. Mufasa (d. 1994), King of everything the light touched.

   1. Family man. Strength, duty, honor. Power without vanity, Authority without fear.

   2. “Everything you see exists together in a delicate balance. As king, you need to understand that balance, and respect all the creatures, from the crawling ant to the leaping antelope.”

2. James Bond 007 (1962-present), Bond. James Bond.

   1. Deadly when required. Unbothered by chaos. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs — count on him.

   2. "Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel."

3. Miyamoto Musashi (1584 - 1645), Ronin Samurai, artist, poet, strategist, carpenter, gardener, etc. Combat record: 60-0

   1. Refused allegiance, undefeated, codified balance and strategy in The Book of Five Rings, defeated swordsmen with wooden oars he built himself.

   2. “Once you see the way broadly, you will see it in all things.”

4. Andre 3000 (1975 - present) Rapper, producer, actor, flutist, painter, sculptor, etc.

   1. Radical self-author. Trend setter. Style as intelligence. Refuses to be boxed. Doesn’t need permission. One of one.

   2. “My mind warps and bends, floats the wind count to ten. Meet the twin Andre Ben', welcome to the lion's den.”

5. Marcus Aurelius (121 AD-180 AD), Philosopher king.

   1. Built an inner empire stronger than Rome. Disproved that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Lived virtue. His private thoughts still shape men today.

   2. “Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.”

Thanks for reading, and have a great fucking day!

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Today I started a new pre-writing ritual.

My close friend, The Uzbek Brother Tim, booked me a mind/body massage for my birthday with Master Y—a true mensch. I won’t describe his practice, but it brought me to a rare place.

Before I left the chamber, Master Y gave me a vial—a roll-on elixir of wild Vietnamese jungle oils. He rolled it on my palms, and I rubbed them together.

“Happy Birzday, my brozuh,” he said. A happy ending.

Fast forward to this morning—I did the same with the jungle oils, and prayed to the muse.

A minute later, I rubbed my eye, and it won’t stop burning. Now, I’m writing this through one eye.

I’ll rethink this ritual.

Thanks, Tim!

Peace from Mind.

We don’t seek peace of mind, we seek peace from mind.

Peace from the mind that crowns our ego, and all its messy ideas.

Peace of the heart is peace from the mind.

It’s why we take drugs and drink our minds into numbness—to feel a semblance of peace.

We describe being drunk as “fucked up,” “smashed,” “hammered,” “obliterated,” “annihilated,” “wrecked,” etc.

At the heart of those words, we're describing what we’re doing to our mind so we don’t have to interact with it. We fuck it up, we smash it, we hammer it, we obliterate it, we annihilate it, we wreck it.

But the substance fades, and we end up further in the mind’s grip.

When we’re done getting fucked up, we’ll rationalize an enemy to avoid accountability: “western society,” “capitalism/socialism,” “the government,” “my boss,” “toxicity,” etc., etc., etc.

We do anything to avoid confronting it because that would be uncomfortable, and our minds prefer comfort.

When getting hammered and creating enemies doesn’t work, we imagine the fundamental delusion: the Holy Grail, the Fountain of Youth, the Philosopher’s Stone—the belief that there is something we can pick up and hold. Something external that will solve our problems—something we can wait for.

Peace from mind doesn’t work that way.

It’s ownership. The cost of peace from mind requires discomfort and accountability—surrendering to the knowledge that I, and I alone, am responsible for what’s in my mind.

Yes, my eye is still on fire (but my hands smell good).

Each day has something to give, and each week is a collection. Some days are shit, and their week’s still gold. No matter the case, we wake up and push the rock up its hill.

Here is my weekly collection:

1. Question(s):

   1. How am I complicit in creating the conditions I say I don’t want?

      1. What benefit do I get from the conditions I say I don’t want?

2. The Answer is ‘Maybe.’

   1. Agrippa’s Trilemma states that any attempt to justify a belief ends in one of three ways:

      1. Infinite Regress — An endless chain of ‘why’ that never arrives at certainty.

         1. God created the universe: Why? Because everything has a cause. Why? Because nothing comes from nothing. Why? Because that’s impossible. Why?

      2. Circular Reasoning — using the belief to justify itself.

         1. The news reports the truth. How do you know? Because it reports things I know are true. How do you know it’s true? Because I heard it from the news.

      3. Dogma — Living with the results of someone else’s thinking.

         1. You accept a belief and stop examining.

            1. “That’s just the way it is.”

3. This week, an old guy died whom I loved and never met. He played the guitar, and sang for a band. Here he is talking about death: “I tend to think of death as the last and best reward for a life well-lived.”

4. Misophonia is a condition where specific sounds trigger an intense emotional and physical reaction that feels automatic and uncontrollable. The reaction isn’t mild annoyance — it’s often immediate anger or disgust.

   1. Close your fucking mouth when you chew! What would your mother think…

5. Quote:

   1. There’s a war going on—the battlefield’s in the mind, and the prize is the soul — Prince

Thanks for reading, and have a great fucking day!

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A magnificent Friday is upon us. The innocent infancy of the morning will give way to the adolescence of the afternoon, and soon the immature adult of the evening will cry. Transience.

People come, people go. Transience is to live.

Farewell, old friend, and thank you for coming.

ode

/ōd/

noun

a lyric poem in the form of an address to a particular subject, often elevated in style or manner and written in varied or irregular meter.
—a poem meant to be sung.

An Ode to Our Father

O Coffee,

Come as you are, and I shall surrender
Surrender to your deep, dark black
Black like the bottomless pits of my eyes
Before you domesticate me and carry me back

When the west winds are howlin’
When the rains crash down
There’s only you and me
And then only me

Together we’re grounded, only one feels the pain
It’s you who was ripped from your tribe
Loudly you suffer, I can’t hear my brothers
’Cause the grinding of yours keeps me sane

Your black beauty eternal—beads on my brim
Stirring the oil of your youth
I want you to wash me, to bathe me anew
And carry me home to the fountains of truth.

Please, father, hear me, for it’s not a goodbye
It’s only a matter of when
I know you are out there, watching me die
For one more cup of your sin

Measured and weathered, you’re always a-tethered
To earning the world’s veneration
They rip you, they bathe you, they burn you, they save you,
And boil you down to elation

And pour one more
into my cup

—Me

Each day has something to give, and each week is a collection. Some days are shit, and their week’s still gold. No matter the case, we wake up and push the rock up its hill.

Here is my weekly collection:

1. Article I’m reading: Masters of Love

   1. “But what does physiology have to do with anything? The problem was that the disasters showed all the signs of arousal—of being in fight-or-flight mode—in their relationships.

   2. …The masters, by contrast, showed low physiological arousal. They felt calm and connected, which translated into warm and affectionate behavior, even when they fought.

   3. …By observing these types of interactions, Gottman can predict with up to 94 percent certainty whether couples—straight or gay, rich or poor, childless or not—will be broken up, together and unhappy, or together and happy several years later.

2. Paranoia vs Pronoia

   1. Pronoia is the conviction that the universe is conspiring in your favor, regardless of how difficult or uncertain events unfold.

3. The best $20 I’ve ever spent, gone but not forgotten

   1. If you see him, please bring him home. Or at least tell him I miss him.

4. Question:

   1. How old were you when you realized you were different? What happened?

5. Quote:

   1. Do you believe in bravery? I like to see it anywhere, in animals, birds, reptiles, humans.
      Why?
      Why? It makes me feel good. It’s a matter of style in the face of no chance at all.
      —Charles Bukowski

Thanks for reading, and have a great fucking day!

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2026: The wind is at our back.

In 2010, I began carrying a pocket-sized notebook to record ideas, thoughts, or quotes that found their way into my big dumb monkey brain.

These days, the notes live on my phone—but the habit hasn’t changed.

Those who have spent any time with me know they’re one pause of silence away from me spouting a Mark Twain quote about the majority, or quoting some philosopher who’s been dead for 2,000 years.

As Ray Bradbury said:

“If you can’t read and write, you can’t think. Your thoughts are dispersed if you don’t know how to read and write. You’ve got to be able to look at your thoughts on paper and discover what a fool you were.”

Now I have fifteen years of proof.

Sometimes they’re musings about trees I’ve walked by, and sometimes they’re thoughts that changed my outlook on existence.

Every once in a while, I play Thought-Quote Roulette—a spin of the wheel of my notes. I open the notes app, scroll as hard and fast as the OS allows, and press my finger down to see where it stops.

Today I’m playing the game, and here are a few that came up:

Each day has something to give, and each week is a collection. Some days are shit, and their week’s still gold. No matter the case, we wake up and push that rock up its hill.

Here is my weekly collection:

1. A Note on Friends:

   1. This past week, I celebrated my birthday. I’m blown the fuck away by how big my friends showed up. When I am reincarnated as a tree, I only hope we may share roots.

2. What I’m Reading:

   1. The Prism

      26 Useful Concepts for 2026

      We’ve entered the Age of Slop, and are adrift in an ocean of thoughtless content that’s diluted all truth and meaning. And yet, hidden in that ocean are more pearls of wisdom than ever…

      Read more

      8 months ago · 1012 likes · 89 comments · Gurwinder

   2. Context Collapse: On social media, we’re simultaneously talking to our boss, our ex, our grandma, and a jihadist in Michigan. The result is that many people lobotomize their personalities into an inoffensive PR sludge, trying to please everyone and therefore pleasing no one.

3. Happiness vs Fulfillment

   1. You can drink gin all night and be happy, but will you be fulfilled?

4. A Thought on Condiments:

   1. Ketchup sucks. If you need ketchup, your food probably does too. I’ll die on this hill.

5. Quote:

   1. “The First Draft of Anything Is Shit.” — Ernest Hemingway

Thanks for reading, and have a great fucking day!

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Thirty-six years ago, I was born.
Today, I have borne.

I spoke with the Prime Minister yesterday, and he insisted that December 28th will be declared holiday, effective immediately. He wrote the speech himself, and it will be orated live any minute:

‘Tis with bright eyes and strong quadriceps that I stand before you today. I speak not only to the great people assembled in this illustrious gallery, but to all grateful dead—every man, woman, and child who ever left their footprints in the blood and soil of our mother earth.

One score and sixteen years ago, on the twenty-eighth day of December, the earth brought forth a ruckus. A ruckus so raucous its vibrations bucked our planet like a wild bronco storming its badlands—introducing yaw to our great sphere and unseating everything we once knew.

Saint Cindy—may God bless her in her glory—required three days: the first for reckoning, the second for resolve, and the third for all the brave souls who came before.

And on this third day, as peace, love, and wisdom finally drew breath, he was delivered.

Not merely for us. No. That would be infantile in this great search for transcendence. But for all the stars in the sky whose light illumes our path—a fount of power to keep them lit.

From the heights of our heavens, centuries and millennia now look down upon you. We will not ask what this light can do for us, but what we can do to keep it lit.

—break for applause—

Our path, once tangled with brush, is now paved.
Our thoughts, once muddled in distraction, are now clear.
Our sights, once dark, are now charged with a light so brilliant, so fierce, and so unmistakable … we may now see.

He is delivered—and so are we. On this fateful day, we gather to make a declaration: Not of a holiday, not a day of remembrance, but a day of vibration. A day of energy. A day of Deliverance.

We will march forward with intention. With malice toward none; with charity for all. This is not a matter of choice, but a matter of fact. December 28th shall forever be known—to mortals and men—as the Day of the Snake.

—arms wide, palms open—

Let us begin.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION TO THIS MATTER!

Thank you, Prime.

The purpose of our meeting was actually to propose adding more foot-faucet shower stations along the beach. I love the beach, but too often I’m walking around uncomfortably in my sandy sandals seeking out the scant faucets to get the sand out from between my toes.

It wasn’t until the conclusion of this proposal, to which he agreed in principle, that he asked if I had any plans for the rest of the year. That’s when I mentioned I had a birthday coming up.

I had already stood up from my seat, but he insisted I sit back down to tell him about my year. I was supposed to be at a seafood dinner date with a lady, and I couldn’t be late.

Checking my watch, I reluctantly obliged and explained to him that it’s the Year of the Snake, and the year is nearing its final stage of skin shedding.

“But every finish line is a masked beginning,” I said.

I continued, “For snakes, 2025 is the year of return—a year of coiling our tail around what was and constricting its oxygen until only memory remains."

“Once the skin is gone and the breath is out, our systems upgrade. Bullshit becomes a terminal allergy, and short-sightedness serves us naught.”

Birthdays, I told him, have a unique way of offering perspective; each one is a rite of passage. You can’t plan for these rites, and you can’t expect anything. The home rock warbles through its revolution and takes us on the ride, teaching us what matters.

“It’s up to us to listen,” I added.

“Once our seasonal skins have shed, we don’t carry them forward. We tan them into boots—memory-worn distillations that alchemize who we are.”

“In these boots,” I continued. “We march—romping through a path not yet paved.”

The time was ticking, but Prime was interested in more. What could I do? This man controls my visa.

“Say more, my friend!” he said.

fuck-sigh

I pressed on, “Distillation is the act of purifying—of separating what endures from what poisons. This happens every day, and fighting it preserves the toxins.”

“But how do you decide what to listen to and what to ignore? Especially with the banh bao scooter guy rampaging through the city,” he asked.

I checked the time and asked for a pen and paper. I didn’t expect papyrus with a bottle of ink and a feather, but that’s what I got. If I kept yapping, he would never relent. So I wrote down 36 distillations from my life and told him to read them in 12 days, on December 28th.

Here is what I penned: 36 distillations of 36 years from the skins I’ve shed:

1. Monkey brain, Buddha brain

   1. The earth isn’t flat, and right-brain/left-brain is old science. Researchers have discovered that inside your head is a monkey—simultaneously looking for bananas and jerking off—and a zen master trying to negotiate with it.

2. The colors in your mind make up the filter through which you see the world.

   1. Choose good colors—there’s a lot of shit-brown out there.

3. Let it be: Don’t fight with emotions—they’ll persist.

   1. They’ll grow like weeds, starving the beauty inside you of natural resources for growth.

4. When you grow up in the snow, you buy snow boots and a coat.

   1. For living on the beach, can anyone tell me what you buy to keep sand out of your ass?

5. Different is better than perfect—there are no straight lines in nature.

6. In tough moments, escape is the easy way out. But escaping is the hardest way to live—always on the run from invisible demons that can’t actually harm you.

7. “What the telescope did for astronomy, what the microscope did for biology, psychedelics will do for the mind.” — Stanislav Grof. Czech Psychiatrist

8. “The problem is, we look for someone to grow old together, while the secret is to find someone to stay a child with.” —Charles Bukowski

9. On your shoulders sit two perches—one on each—for the angel and the devil. The angel is the heart, and the devil is the ego.

   1. That said, sometimes you gotta’ shake the devil’s hand and say, “Fuck it.”

10. Swedish Fish are the Mature Man’s Candy.

    1. Supplement: If there is salty chocolate, Hi-Chews, or Saint Cindy’s chocolate chip cookies in the freezer, there won’t be in an hour. I’m a fucking savage.

    2. Supplement: If coming home drunk at 2 AM, don’t confuse dog cookies with human treats. And if you do, definitely don’t eat all of them (I’m a fucking savage).

11. Property is poverty in fear.

    1. “Some people are so poor all they have is money” —Bob Marley

12. Book: The Lion Tracker’s Guide to Life by Boyd Varty

    1. “I don’t know where I’m going, but I know exactly how to get there.”

13. Pay attention to old shit, or at least don’t dismiss it. This includes ancient philosophy, religion, old books, poems, art, or music.

    1. It doesn’t matter if you believe. If it’s even in your peripherals, it means the ideas have been tested by time and survived.

14. Some come to laugh their past away
    Some come to make it just one more day
    Whichever way your pleasure tends
    If you plant ice, you’re gonna harvest wind
    —Grateful Dead

15. A Poem that never ends:

    1. Run, run, run.
       Chase, chase, chase.

16. Preachy truth: Everyone knows this, few participate: put the fucking phone down.

    1. Read old shit instead of scrolling through hot girls making sandwiches, fake gym influencers, and Spiderman memes.

       1. Universal scrolling exceptions that should be required in schools globally: Ancient Rome content, burger rankings, The Wreck of the Edmunton Fitzgerald content, Guys being dudes, grilling tips, cool knives and swords, guitar solos, Italian sub reviews, and this:
          

17. “If you diet, invest, and think according to what the ‘news’ advocates, you’ll end up nutritionally, financially, and morally bankrupt.” — Naval

    1. “The goal of media is to make every problem, your problem.”

18. Resistance Compass

    1. Resistance points you in the wrong direction. Read it, and go the other way.

19. Book: The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield

    1. Resistance is the destructive internal force that sabotages creativity and growth.

20. “There is only one god, and his name is ‘Death.’ And there is only one thing we say to Death: ‘Not today.’ — The Water Dancer

21. Life is a laboratory and you are the scientist. Without experimentation, you never discover better questions to ask.

22. For the love of god, quit shadow boxing in the gym.

23. Leave every interaction better than when you found it. If you can’t, just leave.

    1. Don’t be caught complaining. It’s gross and nobody cares.

24. When love is centered, everything else falls into place.

25. People-pleasing is self-rejection.

    1. “Don’t set yourself on fire to keep others warm.”—Penny Reid

26. 

27. Every high has a low; every low, a high. Acknowledge one while in the other. Yin Yang. Nothing is permanent.

28. High Agency by George Mack:

29. “The peace which most of us know is merely a cessation of hostilities … which is negative. The peace of the heart is positive and invincible, demanding no conditions, requiring no protection. It just is. If it is a victory it is a peculiar one because it is based entirely on surrender.” —The Colossus of Maroussi, Henry Miller

30. Sauna Etiquette:

    1. Under no circumstances should you assume anyone in the sauna wants you to hold the door open to let heat out. What in the fuck is wrong with you?

31. Wisemen once boiled all the world’s wisdom down to one word:

    1. “Maybe”

32. This:

33. Growth and identity require limitation—the courage to close most doors so you can fully walk through one.

34. You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.

    1. Some people suck—literally and figuratively. They suck energy. Others give it.

35. A lot of pretty words arranged in the right order on this list but that doesn’t make them any easier to adhere to. At a certain point, too much “self-help” becomes mental masturbation—faked insight instead of action.

    1. Awareness is a big key, but it’s fucking tough to turn it. Sometimes the best I can do is try to be better than yesterday, and sometimes that fails too.

36. That said, “Today is the best day of your life. Much better than yesterday, not nearly as good as tomorrow.”—The Drunkest Man I Ever Met.

I scribbled these down in a matter of minutes, rolled up the papyrus and handed it to Prime. He tied it with red yarn and gently placed it in an old wooden sutra box.

“Thank you, my friend!” He said.

Hands in prayer, I subtly bowed, thanked him for his time, and reminded him of the foot-faucet showers along the beach.

“Don’t forget!"

Smiling, he acknowledged, "Yes, my friend!”

I hurried out of the Presidential Palace, shower be damned, and drove straight to The Lady’s building to pick her up for dinner.

Right on time.

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Family, friends, and people I’ve known too long to abandon: The day is Friday, and although it’s wet, it’s come after three consecutive beach days.

That means I’ve earned my first Christmas sunburn. A sun kiss, rather, with a little bite upon my beautiful bronze skin.

I know a few witches these days. They somehow keep finding me.

I don’t mean “witch” in any negative sense. On the contrary, spiritual ladies of perception and power. The types that listen to the quiet intelligence of the universe and act in rhythm with it. Keepers of thresholds: between intuition and action, nature and spirit, and fear and courage.

I texted one from Bulgaria today in search of topics for this post. Boy, did she deliver.

I thought about the sand still in my ass from the beach and then watched her shuffle some cards. One fell out abruptly. She can read the Universe’s wisdom, but she can’t shuffle the deck.

We both saw it—it was a “transformation” card.

She acknowledged that it should be the card for this exercise, but it came out “too soon,” so she stuffed it back in and kept shuffling—I think she wanted to prove she could shuffle.

Once a thorough shuffle was complete, she chose one.

Or, one chose me:

By god…

The same one. This is fun. Especially fun because other loving witches have given me similar readings.

She opened her old leathery book and read aloud:

You are not who you were a year ago or who you will soon be. You will look back at this time with awe. It’s time to release old ways of being that have kept you in fight-flight-freeze mode. Supported by deep spiritual energies of destruction and renewal, you are being "rethreaded;" therefore, release the pressure to perform and instead focus on self-soothing, physical care, and seeking support as you emerge anew. You are deeply loved.

Then some stuff about Saturn, Black Madonna, and some African Goddess chick named Oshun.

“Ok, yeah—but what am I supposed to write about?”

Each day has something to give, and each week is a collection. Some days are shit, and their week’s still gold. No matter the case, we wake up and push that rock up its hill.

Here is my weekly collection:

1. Birthday post preview:

   1. I spoke with the Prime Minister yesterday, and he insisted: December 28th will be declared holiday, effective immediately. He wrote the speech himself, and it will be orated live any minute…

   2. He tied it with red yarn and gently placed it in an old wooden sutra box.

      “Thank you, my friend,” he said.

2. Day Dreaming:

   1. What is beauty without a beholder? What is art without an audience? What’s in the space between? Does anything exist in isolation?

   2. Beauty is the seed. The space is the soil. The beholder is the water.

3. One of my favorite Christmas presents ever (currently $39.99 on ebay):

   1. What a simple but unmistakable joy it is as a child to receive a new toy. My wishlist this year: I wish that all children are happy, free of suffering, and receive a new toy.

      

4. Question:

   1. When was the last time you did something scary?

5. Quote:

   1. “Labels lessen our capacity for empathy and free thought.”

      —Lex Fridman

Thanks for reading, and have a great fucking day!

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