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Christoper Nolan famously prefers practical effects over CGI (somehow, “Oppenheimer” has no CGI). He took the approach to the next level in “Interstellar”. Instead of digitally recreating a corn field, Nolan spent $100,000 to plant one and sold it for a profit afterwards. Why practical effects? Nolan digitally enhances... his shots but prefers working on location and with cameras. “It’s more fun for me and the actors,” he said of his approach during an interview with the BBC. “There’s nothing more dispiriting than showing up to a green screen. The magic is not there.” For the “Interstellar” cornfield, the most difficult part was finding a location to plant 500 acres of the crop. The script called for farm land near a mountain (not a ton of those around). Nolan tapped Zack Snyder for advice because the director had filmed a cornfield in “Superman”. The final location: a plot of land outside of Calgary, Alberta. The intention was never to grow the corn for sale, just to get some awesome shots. But Nolan later said “we got a pretty good crop and made some money on it.”show more

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The Man Who Gave Away Patagonia Doug Tompkins sold his stake in The North Face for $50,000. He used the money to co-found Esprit. Then he sold that too, and did something almost no one does with a fortune: he disappeared. He moved to the tip of South America in 1990 with a theory most businessmen would find absurd. He believed the best thing a rich man could do was buy wilderness before someone else destroyed it, then hand it back to the country it belonged to. Together with his wife Kris, a former CEO of Patagonia clothing, they bought and conserved more than 2 million acres across Chile and Argentina. For context: that is roughly the size of Connecticut and Rhode Island combined. Most of it had been degraded farmland. Overgrazed, stripped, exhausted. The Valle Chacabuco ranch alone had been one of South America’s largest sheep operations. They bought it in 2004 for $10 million, then spent another $55 million over 20 years restoring the grasslands. Pumas returned. Guanacos returned. The land remembered what it was. The Chileans were not immediately grateful. Many locals saw it as a land grab. An American buying millions of acres and telling them to change their way of life. Some accused him of planning to split the country in two. Others claimed he was building a nuclear waste site. He kept buying land anyway. The deal his wife finalized in his name after his death became the largest-ever private land donation to a country. Over 1 million acres handed directly to Chile, triggering government protections on another 9 million. Five new national parks. Three expanded. A conservation corridor stretching 1,250 miles. He died on December 8, 2015, in a kayaking accident on a Patagonian lake, surrounded by friends including Yvon Chouinard. He had called what he was doing “paying rent for his time on the planet.” There is a certain kind of person who builds something great and then builds something greater by walking away from it. Tompkins is the rarest version: he walked away from two fortunes, bought a wilderness, and gave it to strangers. The land is still there. The sheep are gone. If this kind of story is what you read on weekends, you might belong here. Gandalv / Gandalv

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲: 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 Prince Harry, once the shining light of the royal family, has now become a figure of contempt in Britain, a man who has not only turned his back on his family but, more egregiously, sold out his country. His actions over the past few years have burned every last bridge, leaving the British public with nothing but scorn for the man who once stood shoulder to shoulder with the people. The Oprah interview was the tipping point. It was here that Harry, complicit in silence, allowed Meghan Markle to imply that a member of the royal family had concerns about the skin colour of their son, Archie. The accusation was seismic, sending shockwaves through the UK. But what made this worse—what made it utterly unforgivable—was Harry’s inaction. His failure to stand up for his family while his ailing grandfather, Prince Philip, was in his final days showed a callous disregard for the pain it would cause. No matter the issues he may have had behind closed doors, to go on international television and sully the name of the institution that raised him was seen by many as nothing short of treachery. And as if the Oprah debacle wasn’t bad enough, we were later subjected to 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 & 𝘔𝘦𝘨𝘩𝘢𝘯, the Netflix mockumentary thinly veiled as a love letter to themselves but in truth, a very public airing of grievances. It was here that Meghan’s mocking of the royal tradition of curtsying to Queen Elizabeth shocked us Brits. With a poorly executed theatrical bow and a laughable comparison to medieval times, she belittled a gesture that symbolises respect and duty—values the British monarchy stands for. And Harry? He smirked. His silence, again, was deafening. How could any grandson, raised in the folds of such tradition, allow his wife to mock the woman who represented so much to so many? The British people watched, aghast. That smirk—that quiet complicity—was a betrayal not just of his family, but of us, the British public who had once held him in such high regard. Queen Elizabeth, beloved and respected, was the embodiment of duty and grace, and for Harry to stand idly by as she was mocked before her passing will never be forgiven. The wound is deep, and it’s raw. Then came the memoir 𝘚𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦. If the Netflix series was a veiled attack, 𝘚𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦 was an all-out assault. Page after page of grievances, personal attacks on his father and brother, intimate family moments laid bare for the world to see. The British public has always respected the monarchy’s ability to keep private matters within the palace walls. Harry tore that tradition apart. And for what? A quick buck, a bit of global attention. The title of ‘spare’ may have haunted him his whole life, but now it’s clear: the role he once resented is one he’s embraced—no longer a prince, but a spare to the very values that once defined him. For us Brits, it isn’t just the content of his attacks that hurts—it’s the fact that he’s chosen to air them so publicly, so vindictively. The monarchy is not just his family; it is the backbone of British history, culture, and identity. To see it so easily discarded and vilified by one of its own is a wound that may never heal. No, Britain will not forgive Harry. The man who was once the cheeky prince with a ready smile and a heart for service has become a symbol of betrayal. He has betrayed his family, his country, and his role in history. And for that, there is no going back.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲: 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 Prince Harry, once the shining light of the royal family, has now become a figure of contempt in Britain, a man who has not only turned his back on his family but, more egregiously, sold out his country. His actions over the past few years have burned every last bridge, leaving the British public with nothing but scorn for the man who once stood shoulder to shoulder with the people. The Oprah interview was the tipping point. It was here that Harry, complicit in silence, allowed Meghan Markle to imply that a member of the royal family had concerns about the skin colour of their son, Archie. The accusation was seismic, sending shockwaves through the UK. But what made this worse—what made it utterly unforgivable—was Harry’s inaction. His failure to stand up for his family while his ailing grandfather, Prince Philip, was in his final days showed a callous disregard for the pain it would cause. No matter the issues he may have had behind closed doors, to go on international television and sully the name of the institution that raised him was seen by many as nothing short of treachery. And as if the Oprah debacle wasn’t bad enough, we were later subjected to 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 & 𝘔𝘦𝘨𝘩𝘢𝘯, the Netflix mockumentary thinly veiled as a love letter to themselves but in truth, a very public airing of grievances. It was here that Meghan’s mocking of the royal tradition of curtsying to Queen Elizabeth shocked us Brits. With a poorly executed theatrical bow and a laughable comparison to medieval times, she belittled a gesture that symbolises respect and duty—values the British monarchy stands for. And Harry? He smirked. His silence, again, was deafening. How could any grandson, raised in the folds of such tradition, allow his wife to mock the woman who represented so much to so many? The British people watched, aghast. That smirk—that quiet complicity—was a betrayal not just of his family, but of us, the British public who had once held him in such high regard. Queen Elizabeth, beloved and respected, was the embodiment of duty and grace, and for Harry to stand idly by as she was mocked before her passing will never be forgiven. The wound is deep, and it’s raw. Then came the memoir 𝘚𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦. If the Netflix series was a veiled attack, 𝘚𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦 was an all-out assault. Page after page of grievances, personal attacks on his father and brother, intimate family moments laid bare for the world to see. The British public has always respected the monarchy’s ability to keep private matters within the palace walls. Harry tore that tradition apart. And for what? A quick buck, a bit of global attention. The title of ‘spare’ may have haunted him his whole life, but now it’s clear: the role he once resented is one he’s embraced—no longer a prince, but a spare to the very values that once defined him. For us Brits, it isn’t just the content of his attacks that hurts—it’s the fact that he’s chosen to air them so publicly, so vindictively. The monarchy is not just his family; it is the backbone of British history, culture, and identity. To see it so easily discarded and vilified by one of its own is a wound that may never heal. No, Britain will not forgive Harry. The man who was once the cheeky prince with a ready smile and a heart for service has become a symbol of betrayal. He has betrayed his family, his country, and his role in history. And for that, there is no going back.

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Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

SiriusB

15,437 Aufrufe • vor 3 Monaten

A very good morning. Welcome to The Council Benji This marks the third Skull in a little run. The first went to a fund I've never met. The second: through Eli Scheinman to a new collector/foundation who has been quietly entering the space in a very significant way across a number of collections whom I’ve never spoken to. Their new entrance enabled a wedding and start of a new married life for Conviction. In my very first conversation with him, we spoke about curses and commitments to the people we love. Since meeting got to talk through each step on that path, from letting go, what is imbued in the ring and ceremony of it all, a proposal, and on the way to the most important of the steps in pursuit of a blessed life. It is easy to get a little cynical on the over-leveraged exit stories that spring up from time to time, so it is a treat to watch one go towards a celebration that’s been building up in his life since the Skull was first acquired. And now: this. The third Skull and the first I can really write about as a shared story across both source and destination. An exit and an entrance. The exit: The Skulls of Luci were awarded as gifts 4 years ago. But before I'd minted Birth of Luci or painted the other 49, the first person in this space I showed the sketch of The Blueprint Skull to was actually Casey💎, when he was working at SuperRare . Casey was the very first person who onboarded me to NFTs, helping me navigate the early days of whatever it meant to even mint something. I explained the idea of gifting one to each person who bid in my first auctions. Though most of the Skulls went to the bidders, Casey's didn't. He didn't ask for one. I didn't tell him I'd give him one. But he helped me take my first steps here, and it's hard to imagine any of this making sense, or unfolding the way it has, without him. Since then, we've broken bread across continents, seen quite a lot of chortling margarita consumption, watched the rise and fall of a lot around us, weathered inter-Council dramas. He brought Laura El into The Monument Game, played as a Player, wore a Mask. Most of the vibe that started all of this, the wild west of it, feels faded in the broader space at times. But every Skull has a story and a person who helped us get here. Casey will always be the one who was there before any metric muddled the reason to care. The entrance: Last fall, Benji came over for a studio visit. We walked through Luci, the works, structure, and dream, as anyone who visits does. But we mostly talked about being a father and having a father. We discussed the very idea of "collection" stripped of accumulation, value, or signal, located more in the act or ceremony of it. What it was to grow up with a curious father who studied the edges of each thing he saw to know the next layer beneath why anyone might look or ignore it. That to pass this on is to pass on questioning, more than it is to pass on any kind of answer. The process of collecting can be perceived as an individual act of hoarding. For some it is maybe. But at its best, it's a way to bind through shared questioning, to bond in cooperation and competition with friends and family, it is the swapped story and meme of it all, and each object gathered along the way carries some shared memory that can, often does, and with intent: should; drift out of the object entirely. All in the psalm, always has been. The studio visit came and went. Soon after, a package arrived in the mail with two of the softest stuffed animals added to my daughter's own collection, now among her favorites. The Skull is a bonus to that, in the scheme of shared memory. For Rachel and I, while we are heads down making a body of work that unsettles us and excites us but demands unknown time to accomplish, it means a great deal to have this kind of support from long term people in the quiet process of making work we want to leave behind ourselves. Enormously grateful to Casey for the many years of support and friendship, to Benny for being a true patron, and to Benji for entering the arena for what I'm working on next. Welcome.

A very good morning. Welcome to The Council Benji This marks the third Skull in a little run. The first went to a fund I've never met. The second: through Eli Scheinman to a new collector/foundation who has been quietly entering the space in a very significant way across a number of collections whom I’ve never spoken to. Their new entrance enabled a wedding and start of a new married life for Conviction. In my very first conversation with him, we spoke about curses and commitments to the people we love. Since meeting got to talk through each step on that path, from letting go, what is imbued in the ring and ceremony of it all, a proposal, and on the way to the most important of the steps in pursuit of a blessed life. It is easy to get a little cynical on the over-leveraged exit stories that spring up from time to time, so it is a treat to watch one go towards a celebration that’s been building up in his life since the Skull was first acquired. And now: this. The third Skull and the first I can really write about as a shared story across both source and destination. An exit and an entrance. The exit: The Skulls of Luci were awarded as gifts 4 years ago. But before I'd minted Birth of Luci or painted the other 49, the first person in this space I showed the sketch of The Blueprint Skull to was actually Casey💎, when he was working at SuperRare . Casey was the very first person who onboarded me to NFTs, helping me navigate the early days of whatever it meant to even mint something. I explained the idea of gifting one to each person who bid in my first auctions. Though most of the Skulls went to the bidders, Casey's didn't. He didn't ask for one. I didn't tell him I'd give him one. But he helped me take my first steps here, and it's hard to imagine any of this making sense, or unfolding the way it has, without him. Since then, we've broken bread across continents, seen quite a lot of chortling margarita consumption, watched the rise and fall of a lot around us, weathered inter-Council dramas. He brought Laura El into The Monument Game, played as a Player, wore a Mask. Most of the vibe that started all of this, the wild west of it, feels faded in the broader space at times. But every Skull has a story and a person who helped us get here. Casey will always be the one who was there before any metric muddled the reason to care. The entrance: Last fall, Benji came over for a studio visit. We walked through Luci, the works, structure, and dream, as anyone who visits does. But we mostly talked about being a father and having a father. We discussed the very idea of "collection" stripped of accumulation, value, or signal, located more in the act or ceremony of it. What it was to grow up with a curious father who studied the edges of each thing he saw to know the next layer beneath why anyone might look or ignore it. That to pass this on is to pass on questioning, more than it is to pass on any kind of answer. The process of collecting can be perceived as an individual act of hoarding. For some it is maybe. But at its best, it's a way to bind through shared questioning, to bond in cooperation and competition with friends and family, it is the swapped story and meme of it all, and each object gathered along the way carries some shared memory that can, often does, and with intent: should; drift out of the object entirely. All in the psalm, always has been. The studio visit came and went. Soon after, a package arrived in the mail with two of the softest stuffed animals added to my daughter's own collection, now among her favorites. The Skull is a bonus to that, in the scheme of shared memory. For Rachel and I, while we are heads down making a body of work that unsettles us and excites us but demands unknown time to accomplish, it means a great deal to have this kind of support from long term people in the quiet process of making work we want to leave behind ourselves. Enormously grateful to Casey for the many years of support and friendship, to Benny for being a true patron, and to Benji for entering the arena for what I'm working on next. Welcome.

Sam Spratt

20,786 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

Some people are upset that I said “Raising kanan” in the final season Is just as great as the others Is imo better than “the wire” It’s my opinion we don’t have to agree But romanticism plagues people The wire was great but it did have flaws 50 would never mess a scene up On raising kanan With bad song placement that does not even match the setting of the scene.. And also the actors in the car are terrible And they don’t even have lines lol Yes it was amazing and it’s legendary But I will not allow your romanticism with the past make you believe that the show from your childhood was flawless It was not!! It’s okay for new albums to be better than Illmatic It’s okay for new crime series to be better the wire It’s okay for a new teacher to take it to a level Malcolm X never got too It’s okay!

Some people are upset that I said “Raising kanan” in the final season Is just as great as the others Is imo better than “the wire” It’s my opinion we don’t have to agree But romanticism plagues people The wire was great but it did have flaws 50 would never mess a scene up On raising kanan With bad song placement that does not even match the setting of the scene.. And also the actors in the car are terrible And they don’t even have lines lol Yes it was amazing and it’s legendary But I will not allow your romanticism with the past make you believe that the show from your childhood was flawless It was not!! It’s okay for new albums to be better than Illmatic It’s okay for new crime series to be better the wire It’s okay for a new teacher to take it to a level Malcolm X never got too It’s okay!

MASTER STUDENT🤲🏾

203,489 Aufrufe • vor 7 Monaten

Gavin Newsom blames the State of California — of which he is the Governor — for his housing crisis: NEWSOM: “We designed a system, a machine, over the last half century to make it more difficult to build. It was intentionally designed...not to build."

Gavin Newsom blames the State of California — of which he is the Governor — for his housing crisis: NEWSOM: “We designed a system, a machine, over the last half century to make it more difficult to build. It was intentionally designed...not to build."

RNC Research

93,946 Aufrufe • vor 6 Tagen

It was shots like those that made many of us fall in love with cricket! He was not just a player, he was a golden dream that the game of cricket saw and it lasted for 24 long years. He conquered just about everything and gave all the cricket fans so many moments to cherish, to feel proud of, to rejoice. He was the hope for an ordinary Indian man in the 90s and that line "when Sachin walked out to bat, people switched on their TV sets and switched off their lives" sums up the amount of impact he had. He was, he is and he will always be an emotion!! ❤️🙏

It was shots like those that made many of us fall in love with cricket! He was not just a player, he was a golden dream that the game of cricket saw and it lasted for 24 long years. He conquered just about everything and gave all the cricket fans so many moments to cherish, to feel proud of, to rejoice. He was the hope for an ordinary Indian man in the 90s and that line "when Sachin walked out to bat, people switched on their TV sets and switched off their lives" sums up the amount of impact he had. He was, he is and he will always be an emotion!! ❤️🙏

Amit T

43,069 Aufrufe • vor 7 Monaten

Seeing Michael Jackson in a Men in Black movie was a GOATED childhood experience Fact: the director wanted him to play a alien in the movie and he declined. He refused to be a alien. He said he wanted to wear a black suit and be part of the man in black and they made it happen only for a little while, but it was great to see.

Seeing Michael Jackson in a Men in Black movie was a GOATED childhood experience Fact: the director wanted him to play a alien in the movie and he declined. He refused to be a alien. He said he wanted to wear a black suit and be part of the man in black and they made it happen only for a little while, but it was great to see.

PEAK

1,317,046 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

On Saturday evening a CAT Deputy who also happens be a Motor Deputy stopped this moped with no plates driving through the snow. The driver works in West Omaha and lives in near Carter Lake. Deputies warned him of the dangers driving his moped on snow packed roads and he agreed but added the moped is his only mode of transportation to work. The driver was given a warning for no proof of ownership and sent on his way home. We all want to make it to work and provide for our families, and it’s hard not to feel for someone who has no other way to get there. While it's not illegal, a two wheeled vehicle on snow-packed roads is very dangerous.

On Saturday evening a CAT Deputy who also happens be a Motor Deputy stopped this moped with no plates driving through the snow. The driver works in West Omaha and lives in near Carter Lake. Deputies warned him of the dangers driving his moped on snow packed roads and he agreed but added the moped is his only mode of transportation to work. The driver was given a warning for no proof of ownership and sent on his way home. We all want to make it to work and provide for our families, and it’s hard not to feel for someone who has no other way to get there. While it's not illegal, a two wheeled vehicle on snow-packed roads is very dangerous.

DCSO - Omaha, NE

355,315 Aufrufe • vor 7 Monaten

In 1896, seven-year-old Charlie Chaplin was sent to a London workhouse for pauper children. His father was gone. His mother would soon be committed to a mental asylum. By 14, he was alone, surviving on the streets of Kennington with nothing but a gift for making people laugh. He joined a touring comedy troupe at 19 and crossed the Atlantic with no money and no connections. In 1914, he walked onto a film set for the first time, earning $150 a week. Two years later, he was the most famous person on Earth, commanding $670,000 a year, the largest salary ever given to a film star. From a workhouse floor to the top of the world in under a decade.

In 1896, seven-year-old Charlie Chaplin was sent to a London workhouse for pauper children. His father was gone. His mother would soon be committed to a mental asylum. By 14, he was alone, surviving on the streets of Kennington with nothing but a gift for making people laugh. He joined a touring comedy troupe at 19 and crossed the Atlantic with no money and no connections. In 1914, he walked onto a film set for the first time, earning $150 a week. Two years later, he was the most famous person on Earth, commanding $670,000 a year, the largest salary ever given to a film star. From a workhouse floor to the top of the world in under a decade.

Today In History

56,612 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

Happy 5th Anniversary to Everyone ❤️ Since the birth of our NFSC, we’ve walked a powerful path through storms and sunshine and Mr. Miles Guo didn’t just help us - He awakened us and he taught us Truth, Love, Courage through the movement and this is more than a fight - This is Family, this is Faith, this is History in the making. I don’t have the right to speak for others and I never will but based on what I’ve seen - The Alliance and our Great Fellow Fighters didn’t just fight but they protected, they bled, they sacrificed, they stood tall when it hurt the most and their bravery has become the heartbeat of our movement and this is the reality, not a story or a rumor and from my point of view, it’s only going to get better and stronger. With all due respect to Brothers and Sisters, let’s take a moment to show more appreciation towards the great people around us, those in the Alliance, your Farm, your Fellow Fighters who are showing up with intelligence and courage, both online and offline activities and I truly mean this to everyone from every part of the world - One of the greatest way to stay United is by sharing Love, Respect, Support, Advice, Experiences with one another, all under the one and only important goal is to grow stronger together and fight against CCP, a journey that has been incredibly tough and long but deeply meaningful. For a very long time - I kept hearing the same question over and over again: People asked with worry, when will Mr. Miles Guo come out ? But ever since 3.15, my mind has been holding onto just one question that I keep asking myself every single day: Why would he choose to stay inside when he had the option to be free outside ? IN MY PERSONAL OPINION, it's because he wants to make it clear to everyone that he prioritizes his mission to TAKE DOWN THE CCP over his own freedom - That’s why I’ve never spent even a second believing he couldn’t get out because the people behind him is massive and there’s no such thing as 99% - It’s a 100% chance he could be released if he chose to make the call... Most importantly, please don’t misunderstand: the FACT is that he is a PURE, CLEAN, INNOCENT PERSON who has done absolutely nothing wrong and everyone knows it - CCP, the West, the Families knows it pretty well and they know far more than all of us combined and whether people agree or not, it doesn’t change the fact that he was a good person, a man of his word, a man who never backed down from doing what’s right and good for the Chinese people.

Happy 5th Anniversary to Everyone ❤️ Since the birth of our NFSC, we’ve walked a powerful path through storms and sunshine and Mr. Miles Guo didn’t just help us - He awakened us and he taught us Truth, Love, Courage through the movement and this is more than a fight - This is Family, this is Faith, this is History in the making. I don’t have the right to speak for others and I never will but based on what I’ve seen - The Alliance and our Great Fellow Fighters didn’t just fight but they protected, they bled, they sacrificed, they stood tall when it hurt the most and their bravery has become the heartbeat of our movement and this is the reality, not a story or a rumor and from my point of view, it’s only going to get better and stronger. With all due respect to Brothers and Sisters, let’s take a moment to show more appreciation towards the great people around us, those in the Alliance, your Farm, your Fellow Fighters who are showing up with intelligence and courage, both online and offline activities and I truly mean this to everyone from every part of the world - One of the greatest way to stay United is by sharing Love, Respect, Support, Advice, Experiences with one another, all under the one and only important goal is to grow stronger together and fight against CCP, a journey that has been incredibly tough and long but deeply meaningful. For a very long time - I kept hearing the same question over and over again: People asked with worry, when will Mr. Miles Guo come out ? But ever since 3.15, my mind has been holding onto just one question that I keep asking myself every single day: Why would he choose to stay inside when he had the option to be free outside ? IN MY PERSONAL OPINION, it's because he wants to make it clear to everyone that he prioritizes his mission to TAKE DOWN THE CCP over his own freedom - That’s why I’ve never spent even a second believing he couldn’t get out because the people behind him is massive and there’s no such thing as 99% - It’s a 100% chance he could be released if he chose to make the call... Most importantly, please don’t misunderstand: the FACT is that he is a PURE, CLEAN, INNOCENT PERSON who has done absolutely nothing wrong and everyone knows it - CCP, the West, the Families knows it pretty well and they know far more than all of us combined and whether people agree or not, it doesn’t change the fact that he was a good person, a man of his word, a man who never backed down from doing what’s right and good for the Chinese people.

Wild Ox

33,220 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr