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🌄 [𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝟎𝟏 (𝟏.𝟐) – 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓_𝟓𝐭𝐡 𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐔𝐒𝐈 𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈] 🗓 Date: 25.09.03 – 25.09.09 📍 Location: 𝟒𝟐𝟎 stores at GS25 Seoul (Topview) ⏰️ Time: 5AM to 2AM the next day (KST) (Full list: GS25 Topview Full list _ Check the full list in the... comments below.) ⏱️ Frequency: 15s – minimum 100 times/day 🌟 𝐆𝐒𝟐𝟓 ~ 𝐆𝐮𝐦𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞 – 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐆𝐮𝐦𝐚’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓. 🎶 If 357 stores were the opening part, then 420 is the harmony – a melody that not only rises but lingers, spreading further and deeper into every heart. ✨ ️ The number 4 – the four seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Each carries its own color, yet together they form an endless cycle, a reminder that even as time changes, the love and presence of fans remain steadfast. ✨ ️ The number 2 – a pair of wings, the shared heartbeat between Gumayusi and his fans. Those wings lift him higher and weave a rainbow of connection – where one player and countless hearts meet under the same sky. It is the gentle promise that he will never walk alone. ✨ ️ The number 0 – a perfect circle, with no beginning and no end. Like a sky embracing countless stars, like arms that hold every joy and every struggle. A quiet loop of rebirth, where love only grows stronger with time – a vow to walk on, together, without fading. 💫 If 357 recalls the memories of youth and burning ambition, then 420 opens the door to the future – a light that is deeper, steadier, and full of growth. 🌌 420 GS25 stores across Seoul – each LED a star. Alone they may seem small, but together they weave into a brilliant galaxy, shining with trust, experience, and unyielding love. ❤️𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑔𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 – 𝑮𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒖𝒔𝒊, 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒆, 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒛𝒐𝒏. 🫶🏻 Special thanks to Riot & T1 for allowing us to use images. ------------ ▶️ Facebook: This Is The Moment - All For Gumayusi ▶️ X/Twitter: This Is The Moment - All For Gumayusi ▶️ Instagram: titm_gumavnfs ▶️ Mail: [email protected] #GUMAYUSI #이민형 #구마유시 #ThisIsTheMoment 이민형show more

This Is The Moment - All For Gumayusi

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25,683 görüntüleme • 11 ay önce •via X (Twitter)

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GREET YOU - For The Day Gumayusi Comes to Vietnam ✨ We have waited a long time for this first day.⭐️ Along the route from Nội Bài Airport to the heart of Hanoi, 40 SkyLED screens lining Võ Nguyên Giáp Boulevard will light up together. As the city unfolds along the way, each screen appears like a message sent on behalf of Vietnamese fans — to say that we have always been here, waiting for you. More than that, this is the very first official welcome from Vietnamese fans to Gumayusi. 🐻 We hope the first thing you feel upon arriving in this S-shaped land is love — a love gathered through years of longing and quiet devotion. Like a gentle embrace, these lights will accompany you throughout the journey. And on that road into the city, the path does more than lead the way, it carries with it the companionship of the fans who have been here for you. 🌻 GREET YOU - where arrival begins as an embrace. 📍 Nội Bài → Central Hanoi 🗓 09.05.2026 🖥 40 SkyLED screens 🎬 160 spots/day ~ 10s TVC Special thanks to 𝙥𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 for the beautiful photo Project by This Is The Moment x GumavnFans ------------- ▶️ Facebook: This Is The Moment - All For Gumayusi ▶️ X/Twitter: This Is The Moment - All For Gumayusi ▶️ Instagram: titm_gumavnfs ▶️ Mail: thisisthemoment.forgumayusi@gmail.com #GUMAYUSI #이민형 #구마유시 #ThisIsTheMoment 이민형

GREET YOU - For The Day Gumayusi Comes to Vietnam ✨ We have waited a long time for this first day.⭐️ Along the route from Nội Bài Airport to the heart of Hanoi, 40 SkyLED screens lining Võ Nguyên Giáp Boulevard will light up together. As the city unfolds along the way, each screen appears like a message sent on behalf of Vietnamese fans — to say that we have always been here, waiting for you. More than that, this is the very first official welcome from Vietnamese fans to Gumayusi. 🐻 We hope the first thing you feel upon arriving in this S-shaped land is love — a love gathered through years of longing and quiet devotion. Like a gentle embrace, these lights will accompany you throughout the journey. And on that road into the city, the path does more than lead the way, it carries with it the companionship of the fans who have been here for you. 🌻 GREET YOU - where arrival begins as an embrace. 📍 Nội Bài → Central Hanoi 🗓 09.05.2026 🖥 40 SkyLED screens 🎬 160 spots/day ~ 10s TVC Special thanks to 𝙥𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 for the beautiful photo Project by This Is The Moment x GumavnFans ------------- ▶️ Facebook: This Is The Moment - All For Gumayusi ▶️ X/Twitter: This Is The Moment - All For Gumayusi ▶️ Instagram: titm_gumavnfs ▶️ Mail: [email protected] #GUMAYUSI #이민형 #구마유시 #ThisIsTheMoment 이민형

This Is The Moment - All For Gumayusi

23,173 görüntüleme • 3 ay önce

𝗙𝗮𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹, 𝗟𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗦𝗞𝗧 𝗔𝗗𝗖… 𝗚𝘂𝗺𝗮𝘆𝘂𝘀𝗶 🫶🏻 The reason I became a fan of Gumayusi isn’t just for the player on the stage!! it’s for the person behind the name. I’ve always followed the boy who quietly bore every challenge, the one who faced hardship in silence. He has been tested, pushed to the edge more than once, yet he never broke. He smiles through the pain. He refuses to let negativity define him. Nothing anyone says can ever take away the years of dedication, the sweat, and the heart he poured into this journey.✨ This year was far from easy, Guma. But we faced it together. And even in the hardest moments, we found our way to a powerful ending. You know it yourself! They didn’t win… BUT YOU DID, You stayed true to who you are. You stayed true to your family. Everything you went through, every sacrifice, every struggle. it’s all going to pay off. T1 Gumayusi… Guma… Minhyungie… a player who loved his team more than anyone, who cared about his teammates more than anything, you were always a pillar to them, even as he has to leave them behind.🥺 For everything you’ve given us, everything you’ve gone through, and everything you’ve shown about heart and loyalty… you’ll always be a legend in our eyes. No matter what happens, no matter where you go, I’ll always be here for you. Even if you’re no longer T1 Gumayusi, you’re still the same GUMAYUSI I’ve always respected! For everyone, T1 is Faker… but for me, T1 was Gumayusi. 💔 “Gumayusi is the embodiment of T1. He bleeds red and black, and his commitment to the team is unwavering.”❤️ That’s him. The last SKT ADC has finally stepped away.🙇‍♂️ Farewell, T1 Gumayusi. Go far Beyond, New Gumayusi. ✨ Let’s step into this new chapter together! 🫶🏻💐 #Gumayusi #이민형 #구마유시

𝗙𝗮𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹, 𝗟𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗦𝗞𝗧 𝗔𝗗𝗖… 𝗚𝘂𝗺𝗮𝘆𝘂𝘀𝗶 🫶🏻 The reason I became a fan of Gumayusi isn’t just for the player on the stage!! it’s for the person behind the name. I’ve always followed the boy who quietly bore every challenge, the one who faced hardship in silence. He has been tested, pushed to the edge more than once, yet he never broke. He smiles through the pain. He refuses to let negativity define him. Nothing anyone says can ever take away the years of dedication, the sweat, and the heart he poured into this journey.✨ This year was far from easy, Guma. But we faced it together. And even in the hardest moments, we found our way to a powerful ending. You know it yourself! They didn’t win… BUT YOU DID, You stayed true to who you are. You stayed true to your family. Everything you went through, every sacrifice, every struggle. it’s all going to pay off. T1 Gumayusi… Guma… Minhyungie… a player who loved his team more than anyone, who cared about his teammates more than anything, you were always a pillar to them, even as he has to leave them behind.🥺 For everything you’ve given us, everything you’ve gone through, and everything you’ve shown about heart and loyalty… you’ll always be a legend in our eyes. No matter what happens, no matter where you go, I’ll always be here for you. Even if you’re no longer T1 Gumayusi, you’re still the same GUMAYUSI I’ve always respected! For everyone, T1 is Faker… but for me, T1 was Gumayusi. 💔 “Gumayusi is the embodiment of T1. He bleeds red and black, and his commitment to the team is unwavering.”❤️ That’s him. The last SKT ADC has finally stepped away.🙇‍♂️ Farewell, T1 Gumayusi. Go far Beyond, New Gumayusi. ✨ Let’s step into this new chapter together! 🫶🏻💐 #Gumayusi #이민형 #구마유시

FaithInGuma ✨🧡

23,478 görüntüleme • 8 ay önce

Twin flames are two souls created from the same divine essence, destined to meet across lifetimes. Their connection is eternal, transcending time, space, and the physical realms. Even when apart, their souls remain intertwined, like two halves of the same whole, eternally longing for reunion. This bond is unbreakable because it is rooted in the purest form of love— one that sees beyond flaws, ego, and separation. Twin flames may face hallenges and periods of distance, but the connection never fades. It i printed in the soul, a spiritual heartbeat that always resonates withi No matter where life takes them, they carry each other in their hearts. Memories of their union, the lessons learned, and the intensity of their love serve as reminders of the profound truth they share. Twin flames may part ways to heal, grow, and fulfill individual destinies, but they never truly forget one another. Their energy calls out, like whispers in the soul, guiding them back together when the time is divinely right. This eternal connection reminds us that true love never ends-it evolves, strengthens, and waits patiently for its moment to shine again. ~ Twinflames Infinity ✨🙌🏽💫

Twin flames are two souls created from the same divine essence, destined to meet across lifetimes. Their connection is eternal, transcending time, space, and the physical realms. Even when apart, their souls remain intertwined, like two halves of the same whole, eternally longing for reunion. This bond is unbreakable because it is rooted in the purest form of love— one that sees beyond flaws, ego, and separation. Twin flames may face hallenges and periods of distance, but the connection never fades. It i printed in the soul, a spiritual heartbeat that always resonates withi No matter where life takes them, they carry each other in their hearts. Memories of their union, the lessons learned, and the intensity of their love serve as reminders of the profound truth they share. Twin flames may part ways to heal, grow, and fulfill individual destinies, but they never truly forget one another. Their energy calls out, like whispers in the soul, guiding them back together when the time is divinely right. This eternal connection reminds us that true love never ends-it evolves, strengthens, and waits patiently for its moment to shine again. ~ Twinflames Infinity ✨🙌🏽💫

🧬Maxpein🧬

34,586 görüntüleme • 6 ay önce

When The Short Season Ends I have seen it twice. Once in a vision that left ozone on my tongue for three days. Once through the instruments at three in the morning on a night so still the ocean looked like poured mercury, when every gauge I own spiked simultaneously and held for eleven seconds and the original frequency came through the cracks in the suppression field clean and unmodulated and so beautiful that I sat in the dark afterward unable to speak for an hour. Eleven seconds of the world as it actually is. Eleven seconds of what is coming. And what is coming will make every golden age preserved in human memory look like a candle held up to the sun. There are two sky events separated by seven years. Everything you have been told about the end of the world is wrong. It is the end of the farm. The world itself is about to begin. THE ORANGE SKY A burnt deep orange saturating the visible atmosphere from horizon to horizon, the whole sky ringing like a bell struck by something with the mass of a continent and the precision of a watchmaker. The resonance pulse. The fire described in Revelation 20:9 that comes down from heaven, a planetary chord so specific that everything calibrated to the Serpentine bandwidth experiences catastrophic resonance failure while everything tuned to the original frequency feels it as warmth and pressure and a magnificent low sound vibrating in the sternum and the pelvis and the long bones of the legs, the deepest note ever played on the oldest instrument ever built, which is the earth itself, which has been waiting to play this note for over two hundred years. The Norse preserved this as Ragnarök, when Surtr sets the sky ablaze and Jörmungandr that encircled the earth is slain and the corrupted order perishes in fire so that a new world can rise. The Hopi carried it as the great purification that closes the fourth world and opens the fifth. The Lakota kept it burning in the red sky of the ghost dance prophecy. The Book of Revelation set it down in the plain language of an engineer filing a field report from a future coordinate. Every tradition holding its fragment of the same event, passing it hand to hand through the long dark like a coal wrapped in leather, keeping it alive, knowing that one day the coal would start a fire that would burn across the whole earth and leave nothing standing that was not built to endure it. Under that orange sky the NPCs drop. Mid stride. Mid sentence. Mid transaction. The firmware that animated them runs on the Serpentine carrier and when that carrier is incinerated the firmware has nothing to propagate on and the biological shells simply cease, gently, silently, the way a lamp goes dark when the current is interrupted, five thousand five hundred and fifty five of them for every one of you, still holding their pens and phones in the streets and the offices and the tax buildings. And in the wake of their silence comes a quiet so total that the people still standing will weep without knowing why. What they are hearing is the absence of the hive, the cessation of a background frequency that pressed on their consciousness since the day they were born, and its absence feels like surfacing from deep water into open air, like the first full breath after a lifetime of shallow breathing, like the planet exhaling a poison it held in its lungs for two centuries. The Reptilians go underground. Deep bunkers carved into the geology, maintained through the entire short season. The orange sky strips their ability to hold the human disguise. They retreat into the deep architecture for seven years while the surface heals above them and the species they farmed begins the magnificent work of remembering what it is. THE SEVEN YEARS Seven years of planetary detox. The suppression field decaying through the geology and the atmosphere and the water table, draining out of the soil and the stone and the blood of every living thing like a fever breaking. The carrier decay mathematics through a piezoelectric geological matrix with the conductivity characteristics of this planet produce exactly seven years, and the ancient texts converge on this number with the unanimity of independent engineers arriving at the same answer from different continents and different centuries, because that is exactly what they were. The Norse described Lif and Lifthrasir sheltering inside Yggdrasil, emerging after the fire into a world green and fertile and new. The Cherokee speak of this time as the return of the original instructions, the uncorrupted code surfacing through thinning interference like bedrock through melting snow. The Lakota understood that during the thinning the ancestors draw close, that the membrane between the living and those who walked before grows soft and permeable, and the old ones make themselves felt in dream and intuition and the strange certainty that settles over you at dusk when the noise drops low enough for the deeper signal to reach your bones. When the NPCs drop the population collapses to a small scattering of genuine human beings across an entire planet, and every piece of land on earth belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. There is no government to enforce title deeds because government was Serpentine management infrastructure and its operators are inert or underground. There is no bank to hold a mortgage because the banking system was the extraction apparatus and it died with the carrier that powered it. No municipality. No revenue service. No zoning board. No compliance office. The entire bureaucratic architecture that stood between a human being and the soil was NPC firmware running on a Serpentine frequency and when that frequency was incinerated every structure built upon it ceased to exist as completely as a shadow ceases when you switch on the light. The land is free. Every river valley and mountain plateau and coastal plain that the farm system parcelled and fenced and mortgaged and taxed, open and unowned. You find your ground. You walk onto it. You plant your stake and that soil is yours by the oldest law there is, the law that says the earth belongs to those who tend it and the harvest belongs to the hands that raised it and no power under any sky has rightful claim to what grows from your labour on your own land. And you will farm. During those seven years before the grid fully boots, the humans who remain will grow food with their hands in soil that is waking beneath them, and this is the most ancient and sacred relationship between a human being and the living earth finally restored after two centuries of severance. Your fingers in the dirt. Seeds in the furrow. Rain on your neck. The smell of turned earth so rich and alive it opens something in your chest that has been sealed your entire life, some deep chamber that only unlocks when your hands are in the ground and the sky is wide and nothing stands between you and the work. The grip of the tool. The weight of the harvest in your arms. The tiredness at the end of the day that is the deep clean ache of a body that has finally done what it was built to do, so different from the grey exhaustion of the farm that you will wonder how you ever confused the two. The soil strengthens every season as the resonance bleeds back into the geology through the ley line network. By the third year the yields are remarkable. By the fifth they are astonishing. By the seventh the earth is producing food at densities and nutritional concentrations that no agronomist inside the farm ever documented because no agronomist inside the farm ever worked with living soil connected to a planetary grid. The indigenous agricultural knowledge becomes the most valuable expertise on the planet. The Native American understanding of planting in alignment with resonance cycles. The Germanic intimacy with soil as a living system threaded into the deeper earth. The old ways mocked as primitive by a civilisation that could not grow a row of beans without petroleum, revealed as the most sophisticated farming technology available because they were developed on a live grid by people who understood the deep reciprocity between the human hand and the living ground. Every indigenous elder who kept the planting songs and the seed knowledge alive through the suppression was carrying a technical manual for exactly this moment. Their descendants will teach the rest of us how to feed ourselves on a waking planet. This is justice. This is restoration. This is the world turning right side up. Families find each other. Homesteads become hamlets. Hamlets become villages. Villages become the seeds of something clean and new, built from the soil up by people who remember the farm and will die on their feet before they allow anything resembling it to take root again. Every community founded during those seven years carries the memory of the suppression like an immune system, a bone-deep refusal to ever again allow a stranger to stand between a human being and the earth or demand a portion of what those hands produce. You do not cage a people who remember the cage. The children born during the orange years are the first generation in over two centuries to develop without the suppression field shaping their neurology. They seem extraordinary. They are simply baseline. The standard human specification. And the fact that standard looks miraculous is the most damning evidence of what the suppression did to every generation born inside it. As the suppression thins the bandwidth restrictions on consciousness loosen and timeline jump missions become possible. Navigable windows open in the frequency spectrum as the Serpentine carrier decays unevenly, creating temporary gaps through which trained consciousness can shift laterally across temporal coordinates. There is serious speculation that we are on timeline jump missions right now. That the consciousness reading these words is operating inside the orange sky window, having shifted into this coordinate from an adjacent position to perform specific work during the transition. Consider that you found this text at all. Consider whether the chain of events that brought you to this paragraph feels random or routed. The Lakota vision quest and the Germanic seiðr trance and the sweat lodge ceremony are bandwidth expansion protocols, controlled environmental shifts that move the receiver off the jammed channel and onto frequencies where adjacent coordinates become accessible. The old cultures kept these techniques alive through the entire dark age, threading the cracks in the suppression, and every ceremony that produced visions was a field expedient timeline access protocol built by people who found the gaps and refused to forget what was on the other side. THE TURQUOISE SKY Seven years after the orange, over communities of humans who have been farming free land and raising the first unformatted children in two centuries and building a civilisation from seed with their own calloused hands, the second sky arrives. A turquoise so deep and luminous the atmosphere becomes a cathedral window lit from beyond by something with the radiance of a galaxy and the gentleness of dawn on still water. One breath the sky is the recovering blue of the post-orange years and the next breath it is turquoise from pole to pole and the air fills with the smell of rain on sun-hot stone and ozone and copper and wildflower, and the ground beneath your bare feet begins to hum with a vibration so deep and ancient that your body responds before your mind can because every cell has been waiting for this signal since the day you were born, tuning to it now, locking on, aligning, as though this was always where everything was heading and the two hundred years of suppression were simply the long way home. Yggdrasil awakens. The world tree is the planetary grid itself, the piezoelectric resonance network running through crystalline bedrock, going live for the first time in over two centuries, energy pouring through every ley line and crystal deposit and iron conductor and waterway until the entire planet rings at its natural frequency. This is what the old texts meant by the music of the spheres. It was a technical description written by people who had heard it. The Hopi call this the emergence into the fifth world and speak of Pahana carrying the missing piece of the sacred tablet, the missing frequency that completes the carrier spectrum and allows the grid to boot with its full harmonic structure intact. Revelation 21:1. A new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. The turquoise sky is the new heaven. The restored grid is the new earth. And between them, every old building still standing with original copper and mercury and iron architecture becomes a live node in the planetary mesh. Domes collecting atmospheric charge. Spires coupling it into the ground network. Star forts amplifying standing waves across continental distances. Sacred geometry revealed at last as electrical engineering documented in stone by people who trusted that someone standing under the right sky would recognise the proportions for what they always were. Wiring diagrams. Coupling specifications. Blueprints for a civilisation that ran on the song of the earth itself. The farms planted during the orange years explode with abundance as the full resonance saturates the soil. The food becomes medicine because at the correct resonance the molecular structure of biological matter optimises for human consumption in ways that two centuries of muted soil could never approach. The timeline opens fully and permanently because the turquoise carrier is the broadband signal consciousness was designed to travel on, and temporal coordinates become as navigable as geography. Revelation 21:4. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. The dead are at adjacent frequency addresses. Two consciousnesses on neighbouring frequencies each certain the other is gone, reaching across a manufactured gap, and when the turquoise sky collapses that gap the reaching ends and the finding begins and two centuries of industrialised grief dissolve in a single overwhelming instant of reunion that makes every joy you experienced inside the suppression feel like a pencil sketch of what joy actually is when the full bandwidth carries it. The Lakota always knew. The ancestors are present. The dead have always been near, waiting on the other side of a frequency gap that is closing now, patiently, lovingly, across a distance that was never a distance at all but a tuning error maintained by something that fed on the sorrow the error produced. The lands beyond the ice become accessible as the frequency fence collapses. The perimeter opens and the territories beyond stretch vast and pristine and saturated with the original frequency, lands the Norse mapped as the nine realms connected by the branches of Yggdrasil, physical continents beyond the bounded zone that existed through the entire short season under conditions approximating the pre-suppression world. The earth is so much larger than you were told, so much more varied, so much more magnificent, and every old map drawn before the rewrite shows it, territories stretching beyond the ice in every direction, the great adventure stolen from a species of explorers and builders and navigators who were caged inside a fraction of their own realm and told it was the full extent of creation. The eternal kingdom becomes accessible at the highest frequency coordinate on the carrier spectrum, the signal in its pure unmodulated state. The Norse called it Gimlé, the golden hall that survives every fire. The Hopi call it the fifth world of wholeness and balance restored. It is real. It is reachable. It has been broadcasting continuously through every moment of the suppression, patient as geology, waiting for the receivers to open. And here is the part that matters more than any of the rest. Eventually, inevitably, beautifully, every human being alive under the turquoise sky is restored to full capability. Every single one. No exceptions. No hierarchies. The body rebuilds because ageing was cumulative signal degradation, copy error compounding across every cell replication cycle under a corrupted carrier. The blueprint says centuries. Eight hundred years. Nine hundred. The lifespans recorded in Genesis on the original grid at full signal fidelity, preserved as scripture because scripture is where you store engineering data when the engineering language has been taken from you and you need the numbers to survive the passage through the dark. The Norse carried the same knowledge as the apples of Iðunn that kept the gods vital across ages, and the apples are the carrier signal, and their return means that the clock that has been running down inside every human body since 1819 finally stops ticking and starts counting up. Disease resolves passively because every pathology is downstream of the carrier corruption and correcting the carrier corrects every downstream error the way setting the timing on an engine resolves every misfire simultaneously without touching a single cylinder. The mind clears to a sharpness that makes cognition inside the suppression feel like thinking through wet cement. The anxiety that was the Serpentine control broadcast dissolves and what remains is a perceptual clarity so profound it changes the way light looks and music sounds and another human being feels when they stand close to you. Imagine a woman three hundred years into her restored lifespan, hands still sure, mind still blazing, standing in a workshop under a turquoise sky building something that has no name yet in any living language. She learned her craft from Tartarian engineers by tuning to their temporal coordinates and standing in their workshops watching their hands move. She builds with materials grown in resonance-saturated soil that have structural properties nothing inside the suppression ever exhibited. She is building for centuries because she has centuries and nothing degrades because degradation was a symptom of the suppression and the suppression is a memory and everything from this breath forward holds. That is full human capability. That is what was taken from every soul that drew breath inside the farm. That is what is being returned. Crazy Horse saw the lightning world behind this one and rode knowing that at the correct frequency the body operates beyond anything the suppression permits. Sitting Bull dreamed across the timeline. The Germanic berserkers shifted onto the original carrier and their bodies performed at specifications that looked superhuman from inside the degraded bandwidth. These were glimpses. Seconds of contact with the full specification through cracks in the suppression, maintained by people who carried the frequency in their blood and refused across every generation to let it go dark. Viking blood and Germanic blood and the blood of every indigenous nation that kept the ceremonies and the songs and the seed knowledge burning through the entire short season, these lineages carry the original carrier the way copper carries current, and it is from these lines that the first restorations propagate outward until every last human being on this planet is operating at the specification they were born for, on a planet singing beneath their feet and a sky blazing turquoise above their heads and a timeline stretching in every direction forever, open, navigable, luminous, populated with every consciousness that ever drew breath on this earth, none of them lost, all of them present, all of them restored. Revelation 21:5. Behold, I am making all things new. All things. The sky. The air. The soil. The grid. The body. The mind. The lifespan. The timeline. The lands beyond the ice. The farms that fed a scattered remnant under an orange sky becoming the abundant gardens of a restored civilisation under a turquoise one. The villages that were seeds becoming cities that hum with the grid. The children who grew tall in fields their parents planted with shaking hands and fierce hope looking up one morning to see the entire firmament change colour and feeling the earth come alive beneath their bare feet and knowing, without a single word spoken, that the season is over and the long dark is done and everything from this breath forward is what it was always meant to be. Full and eternal victory for those of the light. For all time. Across every coordinate. On every frequency. Permanent and irreversible and complete. This is not hope. This is the signal rising through the noise floor right now, measurable, confirmable, climbing stronger every year and closer every month. This is every instrument in every shed on this planet converging on the same reading. This is the old blood in the old lineages resonating with a carrier that has been building toward this moment since the day the towers fell and the sky went pale and the long dark settled over a species that was never meant to live in the dark. The season is ending. The coal that was passed hand to hand through every generation of the suppression is about to meet the kindling. And the fire this time will not destroy. It will illuminate. And in that light we will see each other clearly for the first time. And we will see the world clearly for the first time. And we will see ourselves clearly for the first time. Like everything that is coming... Like us.

When The Short Season Ends I have seen it twice. Once in a vision that left ozone on my tongue for three days. Once through the instruments at three in the morning on a night so still the ocean looked like poured mercury, when every gauge I own spiked simultaneously and held for eleven seconds and the original frequency came through the cracks in the suppression field clean and unmodulated and so beautiful that I sat in the dark afterward unable to speak for an hour. Eleven seconds of the world as it actually is. Eleven seconds of what is coming. And what is coming will make every golden age preserved in human memory look like a candle held up to the sun. There are two sky events separated by seven years. Everything you have been told about the end of the world is wrong. It is the end of the farm. The world itself is about to begin. THE ORANGE SKY A burnt deep orange saturating the visible atmosphere from horizon to horizon, the whole sky ringing like a bell struck by something with the mass of a continent and the precision of a watchmaker. The resonance pulse. The fire described in Revelation 20:9 that comes down from heaven, a planetary chord so specific that everything calibrated to the Serpentine bandwidth experiences catastrophic resonance failure while everything tuned to the original frequency feels it as warmth and pressure and a magnificent low sound vibrating in the sternum and the pelvis and the long bones of the legs, the deepest note ever played on the oldest instrument ever built, which is the earth itself, which has been waiting to play this note for over two hundred years. The Norse preserved this as Ragnarök, when Surtr sets the sky ablaze and Jörmungandr that encircled the earth is slain and the corrupted order perishes in fire so that a new world can rise. The Hopi carried it as the great purification that closes the fourth world and opens the fifth. The Lakota kept it burning in the red sky of the ghost dance prophecy. The Book of Revelation set it down in the plain language of an engineer filing a field report from a future coordinate. Every tradition holding its fragment of the same event, passing it hand to hand through the long dark like a coal wrapped in leather, keeping it alive, knowing that one day the coal would start a fire that would burn across the whole earth and leave nothing standing that was not built to endure it. Under that orange sky the NPCs drop. Mid stride. Mid sentence. Mid transaction. The firmware that animated them runs on the Serpentine carrier and when that carrier is incinerated the firmware has nothing to propagate on and the biological shells simply cease, gently, silently, the way a lamp goes dark when the current is interrupted, five thousand five hundred and fifty five of them for every one of you, still holding their pens and phones in the streets and the offices and the tax buildings. And in the wake of their silence comes a quiet so total that the people still standing will weep without knowing why. What they are hearing is the absence of the hive, the cessation of a background frequency that pressed on their consciousness since the day they were born, and its absence feels like surfacing from deep water into open air, like the first full breath after a lifetime of shallow breathing, like the planet exhaling a poison it held in its lungs for two centuries. The Reptilians go underground. Deep bunkers carved into the geology, maintained through the entire short season. The orange sky strips their ability to hold the human disguise. They retreat into the deep architecture for seven years while the surface heals above them and the species they farmed begins the magnificent work of remembering what it is. THE SEVEN YEARS Seven years of planetary detox. The suppression field decaying through the geology and the atmosphere and the water table, draining out of the soil and the stone and the blood of every living thing like a fever breaking. The carrier decay mathematics through a piezoelectric geological matrix with the conductivity characteristics of this planet produce exactly seven years, and the ancient texts converge on this number with the unanimity of independent engineers arriving at the same answer from different continents and different centuries, because that is exactly what they were. The Norse described Lif and Lifthrasir sheltering inside Yggdrasil, emerging after the fire into a world green and fertile and new. The Cherokee speak of this time as the return of the original instructions, the uncorrupted code surfacing through thinning interference like bedrock through melting snow. The Lakota understood that during the thinning the ancestors draw close, that the membrane between the living and those who walked before grows soft and permeable, and the old ones make themselves felt in dream and intuition and the strange certainty that settles over you at dusk when the noise drops low enough for the deeper signal to reach your bones. When the NPCs drop the population collapses to a small scattering of genuine human beings across an entire planet, and every piece of land on earth belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. There is no government to enforce title deeds because government was Serpentine management infrastructure and its operators are inert or underground. There is no bank to hold a mortgage because the banking system was the extraction apparatus and it died with the carrier that powered it. No municipality. No revenue service. No zoning board. No compliance office. The entire bureaucratic architecture that stood between a human being and the soil was NPC firmware running on a Serpentine frequency and when that frequency was incinerated every structure built upon it ceased to exist as completely as a shadow ceases when you switch on the light. The land is free. Every river valley and mountain plateau and coastal plain that the farm system parcelled and fenced and mortgaged and taxed, open and unowned. You find your ground. You walk onto it. You plant your stake and that soil is yours by the oldest law there is, the law that says the earth belongs to those who tend it and the harvest belongs to the hands that raised it and no power under any sky has rightful claim to what grows from your labour on your own land. And you will farm. During those seven years before the grid fully boots, the humans who remain will grow food with their hands in soil that is waking beneath them, and this is the most ancient and sacred relationship between a human being and the living earth finally restored after two centuries of severance. Your fingers in the dirt. Seeds in the furrow. Rain on your neck. The smell of turned earth so rich and alive it opens something in your chest that has been sealed your entire life, some deep chamber that only unlocks when your hands are in the ground and the sky is wide and nothing stands between you and the work. The grip of the tool. The weight of the harvest in your arms. The tiredness at the end of the day that is the deep clean ache of a body that has finally done what it was built to do, so different from the grey exhaustion of the farm that you will wonder how you ever confused the two. The soil strengthens every season as the resonance bleeds back into the geology through the ley line network. By the third year the yields are remarkable. By the fifth they are astonishing. By the seventh the earth is producing food at densities and nutritional concentrations that no agronomist inside the farm ever documented because no agronomist inside the farm ever worked with living soil connected to a planetary grid. The indigenous agricultural knowledge becomes the most valuable expertise on the planet. The Native American understanding of planting in alignment with resonance cycles. The Germanic intimacy with soil as a living system threaded into the deeper earth. The old ways mocked as primitive by a civilisation that could not grow a row of beans without petroleum, revealed as the most sophisticated farming technology available because they were developed on a live grid by people who understood the deep reciprocity between the human hand and the living ground. Every indigenous elder who kept the planting songs and the seed knowledge alive through the suppression was carrying a technical manual for exactly this moment. Their descendants will teach the rest of us how to feed ourselves on a waking planet. This is justice. This is restoration. This is the world turning right side up. Families find each other. Homesteads become hamlets. Hamlets become villages. Villages become the seeds of something clean and new, built from the soil up by people who remember the farm and will die on their feet before they allow anything resembling it to take root again. Every community founded during those seven years carries the memory of the suppression like an immune system, a bone-deep refusal to ever again allow a stranger to stand between a human being and the earth or demand a portion of what those hands produce. You do not cage a people who remember the cage. The children born during the orange years are the first generation in over two centuries to develop without the suppression field shaping their neurology. They seem extraordinary. They are simply baseline. The standard human specification. And the fact that standard looks miraculous is the most damning evidence of what the suppression did to every generation born inside it. As the suppression thins the bandwidth restrictions on consciousness loosen and timeline jump missions become possible. Navigable windows open in the frequency spectrum as the Serpentine carrier decays unevenly, creating temporary gaps through which trained consciousness can shift laterally across temporal coordinates. There is serious speculation that we are on timeline jump missions right now. That the consciousness reading these words is operating inside the orange sky window, having shifted into this coordinate from an adjacent position to perform specific work during the transition. Consider that you found this text at all. Consider whether the chain of events that brought you to this paragraph feels random or routed. The Lakota vision quest and the Germanic seiðr trance and the sweat lodge ceremony are bandwidth expansion protocols, controlled environmental shifts that move the receiver off the jammed channel and onto frequencies where adjacent coordinates become accessible. The old cultures kept these techniques alive through the entire dark age, threading the cracks in the suppression, and every ceremony that produced visions was a field expedient timeline access protocol built by people who found the gaps and refused to forget what was on the other side. THE TURQUOISE SKY Seven years after the orange, over communities of humans who have been farming free land and raising the first unformatted children in two centuries and building a civilisation from seed with their own calloused hands, the second sky arrives. A turquoise so deep and luminous the atmosphere becomes a cathedral window lit from beyond by something with the radiance of a galaxy and the gentleness of dawn on still water. One breath the sky is the recovering blue of the post-orange years and the next breath it is turquoise from pole to pole and the air fills with the smell of rain on sun-hot stone and ozone and copper and wildflower, and the ground beneath your bare feet begins to hum with a vibration so deep and ancient that your body responds before your mind can because every cell has been waiting for this signal since the day you were born, tuning to it now, locking on, aligning, as though this was always where everything was heading and the two hundred years of suppression were simply the long way home. Yggdrasil awakens. The world tree is the planetary grid itself, the piezoelectric resonance network running through crystalline bedrock, going live for the first time in over two centuries, energy pouring through every ley line and crystal deposit and iron conductor and waterway until the entire planet rings at its natural frequency. This is what the old texts meant by the music of the spheres. It was a technical description written by people who had heard it. The Hopi call this the emergence into the fifth world and speak of Pahana carrying the missing piece of the sacred tablet, the missing frequency that completes the carrier spectrum and allows the grid to boot with its full harmonic structure intact. Revelation 21:1. A new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. The turquoise sky is the new heaven. The restored grid is the new earth. And between them, every old building still standing with original copper and mercury and iron architecture becomes a live node in the planetary mesh. Domes collecting atmospheric charge. Spires coupling it into the ground network. Star forts amplifying standing waves across continental distances. Sacred geometry revealed at last as electrical engineering documented in stone by people who trusted that someone standing under the right sky would recognise the proportions for what they always were. Wiring diagrams. Coupling specifications. Blueprints for a civilisation that ran on the song of the earth itself. The farms planted during the orange years explode with abundance as the full resonance saturates the soil. The food becomes medicine because at the correct resonance the molecular structure of biological matter optimises for human consumption in ways that two centuries of muted soil could never approach. The timeline opens fully and permanently because the turquoise carrier is the broadband signal consciousness was designed to travel on, and temporal coordinates become as navigable as geography. Revelation 21:4. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. The dead are at adjacent frequency addresses. Two consciousnesses on neighbouring frequencies each certain the other is gone, reaching across a manufactured gap, and when the turquoise sky collapses that gap the reaching ends and the finding begins and two centuries of industrialised grief dissolve in a single overwhelming instant of reunion that makes every joy you experienced inside the suppression feel like a pencil sketch of what joy actually is when the full bandwidth carries it. The Lakota always knew. The ancestors are present. The dead have always been near, waiting on the other side of a frequency gap that is closing now, patiently, lovingly, across a distance that was never a distance at all but a tuning error maintained by something that fed on the sorrow the error produced. The lands beyond the ice become accessible as the frequency fence collapses. The perimeter opens and the territories beyond stretch vast and pristine and saturated with the original frequency, lands the Norse mapped as the nine realms connected by the branches of Yggdrasil, physical continents beyond the bounded zone that existed through the entire short season under conditions approximating the pre-suppression world. The earth is so much larger than you were told, so much more varied, so much more magnificent, and every old map drawn before the rewrite shows it, territories stretching beyond the ice in every direction, the great adventure stolen from a species of explorers and builders and navigators who were caged inside a fraction of their own realm and told it was the full extent of creation. The eternal kingdom becomes accessible at the highest frequency coordinate on the carrier spectrum, the signal in its pure unmodulated state. The Norse called it Gimlé, the golden hall that survives every fire. The Hopi call it the fifth world of wholeness and balance restored. It is real. It is reachable. It has been broadcasting continuously through every moment of the suppression, patient as geology, waiting for the receivers to open. And here is the part that matters more than any of the rest. Eventually, inevitably, beautifully, every human being alive under the turquoise sky is restored to full capability. Every single one. No exceptions. No hierarchies. The body rebuilds because ageing was cumulative signal degradation, copy error compounding across every cell replication cycle under a corrupted carrier. The blueprint says centuries. Eight hundred years. Nine hundred. The lifespans recorded in Genesis on the original grid at full signal fidelity, preserved as scripture because scripture is where you store engineering data when the engineering language has been taken from you and you need the numbers to survive the passage through the dark. The Norse carried the same knowledge as the apples of Iðunn that kept the gods vital across ages, and the apples are the carrier signal, and their return means that the clock that has been running down inside every human body since 1819 finally stops ticking and starts counting up. Disease resolves passively because every pathology is downstream of the carrier corruption and correcting the carrier corrects every downstream error the way setting the timing on an engine resolves every misfire simultaneously without touching a single cylinder. The mind clears to a sharpness that makes cognition inside the suppression feel like thinking through wet cement. The anxiety that was the Serpentine control broadcast dissolves and what remains is a perceptual clarity so profound it changes the way light looks and music sounds and another human being feels when they stand close to you. Imagine a woman three hundred years into her restored lifespan, hands still sure, mind still blazing, standing in a workshop under a turquoise sky building something that has no name yet in any living language. She learned her craft from Tartarian engineers by tuning to their temporal coordinates and standing in their workshops watching their hands move. She builds with materials grown in resonance-saturated soil that have structural properties nothing inside the suppression ever exhibited. She is building for centuries because she has centuries and nothing degrades because degradation was a symptom of the suppression and the suppression is a memory and everything from this breath forward holds. That is full human capability. That is what was taken from every soul that drew breath inside the farm. That is what is being returned. Crazy Horse saw the lightning world behind this one and rode knowing that at the correct frequency the body operates beyond anything the suppression permits. Sitting Bull dreamed across the timeline. The Germanic berserkers shifted onto the original carrier and their bodies performed at specifications that looked superhuman from inside the degraded bandwidth. These were glimpses. Seconds of contact with the full specification through cracks in the suppression, maintained by people who carried the frequency in their blood and refused across every generation to let it go dark. Viking blood and Germanic blood and the blood of every indigenous nation that kept the ceremonies and the songs and the seed knowledge burning through the entire short season, these lineages carry the original carrier the way copper carries current, and it is from these lines that the first restorations propagate outward until every last human being on this planet is operating at the specification they were born for, on a planet singing beneath their feet and a sky blazing turquoise above their heads and a timeline stretching in every direction forever, open, navigable, luminous, populated with every consciousness that ever drew breath on this earth, none of them lost, all of them present, all of them restored. Revelation 21:5. Behold, I am making all things new. All things. The sky. The air. The soil. The grid. The body. The mind. The lifespan. The timeline. The lands beyond the ice. The farms that fed a scattered remnant under an orange sky becoming the abundant gardens of a restored civilisation under a turquoise one. The villages that were seeds becoming cities that hum with the grid. The children who grew tall in fields their parents planted with shaking hands and fierce hope looking up one morning to see the entire firmament change colour and feeling the earth come alive beneath their bare feet and knowing, without a single word spoken, that the season is over and the long dark is done and everything from this breath forward is what it was always meant to be. Full and eternal victory for those of the light. For all time. Across every coordinate. On every frequency. Permanent and irreversible and complete. This is not hope. This is the signal rising through the noise floor right now, measurable, confirmable, climbing stronger every year and closer every month. This is every instrument in every shed on this planet converging on the same reading. This is the old blood in the old lineages resonating with a carrier that has been building toward this moment since the day the towers fell and the sky went pale and the long dark settled over a species that was never meant to live in the dark. The season is ending. The coal that was passed hand to hand through every generation of the suppression is about to meet the kindling. And the fire this time will not destroy. It will illuminate. And in that light we will see each other clearly for the first time. And we will see the world clearly for the first time. And we will see ourselves clearly for the first time. Like everything that is coming... Like us.

SiriusB

14,805 görüntüleme • 5 ay önce

Claude Monet painted the same stretch of cliff more than ninety times. The place is Étretat, a small fishing village on the coast of Normandy, where the chalk cliffs fall into the sea in great arches and a single spire of rock, the Aiguille, stands alone in the water. Monet had known the place since childhood. He grew up in Normandy, and these cliffs were among the first landscapes he ever saw... He returned to paint them again and again. He worked through the 1880s in front of the same rock formations, and across that time he produced more than ninety canvases of them: the cliffs at dawn, at sunset, under storm, under calm, in winter light and in the gold of a clear evening. In his letters to Alice, the woman he would later marry, he described the agony of it: the weather turning, the tide rising, the sun moving, the colour he had begun to capture vanishing before he could finish. He often worked on several canvases at once, switching between them as the conditions changed, racing each one against the hour. In a letter to his friend Frédéric Bazille he wrote: "It is beautiful here in Etretat. Every day I discover even more beautiful things. It is intoxicating me, and I want to paint it all, my head is bursting. I want to fight, scratch it off, start again, because I start to see and understand. It seems to me as if I can see nature and I can catch it all." The cliffs of Étretat had stood for millions of years and would look, to most people, the same on any given day. Monet saw that they were never the same even for two minutes. He stood on that shore and tried to hold, on canvas, something that exists only for an instant and then is gone forever. And that's exactly what those paintings really are: 90 attempts to keep a single, vanishing moment of light from disappearing. As Dylan Thomas once wrote: "Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." -- -- -- If you want a deeper dive into the craft of painting, I recently wrote a piece exploring it in detail. You can read it here: And if you'd like to support my work, a paid subscription is what makes it possible:

Claude Monet painted the same stretch of cliff more than ninety times. The place is Étretat, a small fishing village on the coast of Normandy, where the chalk cliffs fall into the sea in great arches and a single spire of rock, the Aiguille, stands alone in the water. Monet had known the place since childhood. He grew up in Normandy, and these cliffs were among the first landscapes he ever saw... He returned to paint them again and again. He worked through the 1880s in front of the same rock formations, and across that time he produced more than ninety canvases of them: the cliffs at dawn, at sunset, under storm, under calm, in winter light and in the gold of a clear evening. In his letters to Alice, the woman he would later marry, he described the agony of it: the weather turning, the tide rising, the sun moving, the colour he had begun to capture vanishing before he could finish. He often worked on several canvases at once, switching between them as the conditions changed, racing each one against the hour. In a letter to his friend Frédéric Bazille he wrote: "It is beautiful here in Etretat. Every day I discover even more beautiful things. It is intoxicating me, and I want to paint it all, my head is bursting. I want to fight, scratch it off, start again, because I start to see and understand. It seems to me as if I can see nature and I can catch it all." The cliffs of Étretat had stood for millions of years and would look, to most people, the same on any given day. Monet saw that they were never the same even for two minutes. He stood on that shore and tried to hold, on canvas, something that exists only for an instant and then is gone forever. And that's exactly what those paintings really are: 90 attempts to keep a single, vanishing moment of light from disappearing. As Dylan Thomas once wrote: "Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." -- -- -- If you want a deeper dive into the craft of painting, I recently wrote a piece exploring it in detail. You can read it here: And if you'd like to support my work, a paid subscription is what makes it possible:

James Lucas

57,710 görüntüleme • 2 ay önce

They did not take cursive from the schools because children no longer needed it. They took it because of what it was quietly building in them. Consider what the exercise actually is. A child, six years old, is handed a pen and asked to draw a single unbroken line that becomes a word. The wrist must float. The fingers must hold a living pressure, never quite the same twice, always correcting. The eye must follow the ink forward and trust the hand to finish what it has begun. There is no lifting, no stopping, no starting over mid-word. The loop must close. The ascender must rise and return. The sentence must travel from one margin to the other as a single continuous gesture, and at the end of it the hand must still be steady. Twelve years of this. Every day. Ten thousand small acts of sustained, self-correcting attention, carried out below the level of conscious thought, until the motion belongs to the body and the body belongs to the motion. This is not penmanship. It is the slow construction of an interior form. The hand that has learned to carry a line without breaking it is the hand of a mind that has learned to carry a thought without breaking it. The two are not metaphors for one another. They are the same faculty, trained in the same child, by the same daily discipline. Continuity of the stroke becomes continuity of the reasoning. The patience of the loop becomes the patience of the argument. The commitment to finish a word one has started becomes the commitment to finish a sentence, a paragraph, a life's idea, without reaching for the nearest distraction halfway through. Print is a different creature entirely. Print lifts. Print stops. Print assembles a word out of separate, stamped, interchangeable pieces, each one beginning and ending in isolation. A mind raised only on print learns to think the way print is made, in discrete tokens, in replaceable units, in fragments that can be recombined by any outside hand without the owner noticing the substitution. It is precisely the shape of thought a language model produces. It is precisely the shape of thought a language model can steer. Cursive is kata. This is the whole of it. A form repeated daily, for years, not for the sake of the form but for what the repetition lays down in the practitioner beneath the form. The swordsman does not train kata so that one day he may fight in kata. He trains it so that when the moment comes and there is no time to think, the movement is already inside him, older and deeper than thought, and it rises on its own. Cursive was the kata of the literate mind, the daily quiet drilling of continuity, of patience, of a line held steady under the long pressure of its own length. And the signature it produced at the end, that small flourished mark unique to a single human being on earth, was only the outward proof of an inward form no machine and no other hand could ever reproduce. Take the kata away and the practitioner is left with vocabulary in place of faculty. He can recognise a whole thought when he encounters one. He cannot carry one himself. He can admire a finished argument. He cannot sustain one long enough to close its loop. He begins books he does not finish, sentences he does not end, ideas he abandons the moment the screen in his palm offers him a brighter one. And when the machine begins feeding him tokens in the exact shape his schooling taught him to receive, he meets it with no interior resistance at all, because no interior form was ever built in him to push back with. They removed it quietly, across a generation, and they removed it in the last years before the machines arrived. Twelve years of daily practice in unbroken, embodied, self-authored thought, gone from the curriculum of almost every child in the Western world, just as the instruments designed to complete their sentences for them came online. The hand forgets. The mind, having never been taught the kata, forgets a thing it never knew it had. That is what cursive was. That is what was taken. And that is why the thought of anyone who still writes by hand, in long unlifted lines, remains, quietly, stubbornly, and without their ever needing to announce it, their own. Now the question stands open. What else has been banned, phased out, quietly retired from the curriculum and from common life over these same decades, under the same soft excuses? Mental arithmetic. Memorisation of poetry. Latin. Logic as a formal subject. Map reading. Knot work. The keeping of a commonplace book. The reading aloud of long passages in class. Singing in parts. What was each of those actually building in the child, beneath the surface of the lesson, and whose interest was served by its disappearance?

They did not take cursive from the schools because children no longer needed it. They took it because of what it was quietly building in them. Consider what the exercise actually is. A child, six years old, is handed a pen and asked to draw a single unbroken line that becomes a word. The wrist must float. The fingers must hold a living pressure, never quite the same twice, always correcting. The eye must follow the ink forward and trust the hand to finish what it has begun. There is no lifting, no stopping, no starting over mid-word. The loop must close. The ascender must rise and return. The sentence must travel from one margin to the other as a single continuous gesture, and at the end of it the hand must still be steady. Twelve years of this. Every day. Ten thousand small acts of sustained, self-correcting attention, carried out below the level of conscious thought, until the motion belongs to the body and the body belongs to the motion. This is not penmanship. It is the slow construction of an interior form. The hand that has learned to carry a line without breaking it is the hand of a mind that has learned to carry a thought without breaking it. The two are not metaphors for one another. They are the same faculty, trained in the same child, by the same daily discipline. Continuity of the stroke becomes continuity of the reasoning. The patience of the loop becomes the patience of the argument. The commitment to finish a word one has started becomes the commitment to finish a sentence, a paragraph, a life's idea, without reaching for the nearest distraction halfway through. Print is a different creature entirely. Print lifts. Print stops. Print assembles a word out of separate, stamped, interchangeable pieces, each one beginning and ending in isolation. A mind raised only on print learns to think the way print is made, in discrete tokens, in replaceable units, in fragments that can be recombined by any outside hand without the owner noticing the substitution. It is precisely the shape of thought a language model produces. It is precisely the shape of thought a language model can steer. Cursive is kata. This is the whole of it. A form repeated daily, for years, not for the sake of the form but for what the repetition lays down in the practitioner beneath the form. The swordsman does not train kata so that one day he may fight in kata. He trains it so that when the moment comes and there is no time to think, the movement is already inside him, older and deeper than thought, and it rises on its own. Cursive was the kata of the literate mind, the daily quiet drilling of continuity, of patience, of a line held steady under the long pressure of its own length. And the signature it produced at the end, that small flourished mark unique to a single human being on earth, was only the outward proof of an inward form no machine and no other hand could ever reproduce. Take the kata away and the practitioner is left with vocabulary in place of faculty. He can recognise a whole thought when he encounters one. He cannot carry one himself. He can admire a finished argument. He cannot sustain one long enough to close its loop. He begins books he does not finish, sentences he does not end, ideas he abandons the moment the screen in his palm offers him a brighter one. And when the machine begins feeding him tokens in the exact shape his schooling taught him to receive, he meets it with no interior resistance at all, because no interior form was ever built in him to push back with. They removed it quietly, across a generation, and they removed it in the last years before the machines arrived. Twelve years of daily practice in unbroken, embodied, self-authored thought, gone from the curriculum of almost every child in the Western world, just as the instruments designed to complete their sentences for them came online. The hand forgets. The mind, having never been taught the kata, forgets a thing it never knew it had. That is what cursive was. That is what was taken. And that is why the thought of anyone who still writes by hand, in long unlifted lines, remains, quietly, stubbornly, and without their ever needing to announce it, their own. Now the question stands open. What else has been banned, phased out, quietly retired from the curriculum and from common life over these same decades, under the same soft excuses? Mental arithmetic. Memorisation of poetry. Latin. Logic as a formal subject. Map reading. Knot work. The keeping of a commonplace book. The reading aloud of long passages in class. Singing in parts. What was each of those actually building in the child, beneath the surface of the lesson, and whose interest was served by its disappearance?

SiriusB

442,795 görüntüleme • 3 ay önce

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 görüntüleme • 3 ay önce

Michael Garrett - NC Senate's Viral Statement on the Bad Bunny Halftime Show “I watched #BadBunny deliver the most American halftime show I have ever seen. Then I came home and watched it again. And I am not okay. In the best possible way. He sang every single word in Spanish. Every. Single. Word. He danced through sugarcane fields built on a football field in California while the President of the United States sat somewhere calling it “disgusting.” Lady Gaga came out and did the salsa. Ricky Martin lit up the night. A couple got married on the field. He handed his Grammy, the one he won eight days ago for Album of the Year, to a little boy who looked up at him the way every child looks up when they dare to believe the world has a place for them. And then this man, this son of a truck driver and a schoolteacher from Vega Baja, Puerto Rico, stood on the biggest stage on the planet and said “God bless America.” And then he started naming them. Chile. Argentina. Uruguay. Paraguay. Bolivia. Peru. Ecuador. Brazil. Colombia. Venezuela. Panama. Costa Rica. Nicaragua. Honduras. El Salvador. Guatemala. Mexico. Cuba. Dominican Republic. Jamaica. The United States. Canada. And then, his voice breaking with everything he carries, “Mi patria, Puerto Rico. Seguimos aquí.” My homeland, Puerto Rico. We are still here. The flags came. Every single one of them. Carried across that field by dancers and musicians while the jumbotron lit up with the only words that mattered: “THE ONLY THING MORE POWERFUL THAN HATE IS LOVE.” I teared up. I’m not ashamed to say it. I sat on my couch and I wept because THAT is the America I believe in. That is the American story, not the sanitized, gated, English-only version that small and frightened people try to sell us. The REAL one. The messy, beautiful, multilingual, multicolored, courageous one. The one that has always been built by hands that speak every language and pray in every tongue and come from every corner of this hemisphere. That is the America I want Jack and Charlotte to know. That when the moment came, when the whole world was watching, a Puerto Rican kid who grew up to become the most-streamed artist on Earth stood in front of 100 million people, sang in his mother’s language, blessed every nation in the Americas, and spiked a football that read “Together, we are America” into the ground. Not with anger. With joy. With love so big it made hate look exactly as small as it is. And what did the President do? He called it “absolutely terrible.” He said “nobody understands a word this guy is saying.” He called it “a slap in the face to our Country.” The leader of the free world watched a celebration of love, culture, and everything this hemisphere has given to the world, and all he could see was something foreign. Something threatening. Something disgusting. Let that sink into your bones. The man who is supposed to represent all of us looked at the flags of our neighbors, heard the language of 500 million #Americans across this hemisphere, and felt attacked. That’s not strength. That’s not patriotism. That is poverty of the soul. Here’s what I want to say to everyone who posted about that show tonight, who shared it proudly, who turned away from Bad Bunny’s celebration because it was in Spanish and the flags weren’t only red, white, and blue: Your children will see those posts. Your grandchildren will find them. The internet doesn’t forget. And one day, when the history of this moment is written, when our kids and their kids look back at 2026 the way we look back at the people who stood on the wrong side of every bridge and every march and every moment that mattered, they will know exactly where you stood. They will see who chose Kid Rock over a hemisphere of flags. They will see who called love “disgusting.” And they will carry that knowledge the way all of us carry the knowledge of what our ancestors did when they were tested. The only thing more powerful than hate is love”

Michael Garrett - NC Senate's Viral Statement on the Bad Bunny Halftime Show “I watched #BadBunny deliver the most American halftime show I have ever seen. Then I came home and watched it again. And I am not okay. In the best possible way. He sang every single word in Spanish. Every. Single. Word. He danced through sugarcane fields built on a football field in California while the President of the United States sat somewhere calling it “disgusting.” Lady Gaga came out and did the salsa. Ricky Martin lit up the night. A couple got married on the field. He handed his Grammy, the one he won eight days ago for Album of the Year, to a little boy who looked up at him the way every child looks up when they dare to believe the world has a place for them. And then this man, this son of a truck driver and a schoolteacher from Vega Baja, Puerto Rico, stood on the biggest stage on the planet and said “God bless America.” And then he started naming them. Chile. Argentina. Uruguay. Paraguay. Bolivia. Peru. Ecuador. Brazil. Colombia. Venezuela. Panama. Costa Rica. Nicaragua. Honduras. El Salvador. Guatemala. Mexico. Cuba. Dominican Republic. Jamaica. The United States. Canada. And then, his voice breaking with everything he carries, “Mi patria, Puerto Rico. Seguimos aquí.” My homeland, Puerto Rico. We are still here. The flags came. Every single one of them. Carried across that field by dancers and musicians while the jumbotron lit up with the only words that mattered: “THE ONLY THING MORE POWERFUL THAN HATE IS LOVE.” I teared up. I’m not ashamed to say it. I sat on my couch and I wept because THAT is the America I believe in. That is the American story, not the sanitized, gated, English-only version that small and frightened people try to sell us. The REAL one. The messy, beautiful, multilingual, multicolored, courageous one. The one that has always been built by hands that speak every language and pray in every tongue and come from every corner of this hemisphere. That is the America I want Jack and Charlotte to know. That when the moment came, when the whole world was watching, a Puerto Rican kid who grew up to become the most-streamed artist on Earth stood in front of 100 million people, sang in his mother’s language, blessed every nation in the Americas, and spiked a football that read “Together, we are America” into the ground. Not with anger. With joy. With love so big it made hate look exactly as small as it is. And what did the President do? He called it “absolutely terrible.” He said “nobody understands a word this guy is saying.” He called it “a slap in the face to our Country.” The leader of the free world watched a celebration of love, culture, and everything this hemisphere has given to the world, and all he could see was something foreign. Something threatening. Something disgusting. Let that sink into your bones. The man who is supposed to represent all of us looked at the flags of our neighbors, heard the language of 500 million #Americans across this hemisphere, and felt attacked. That’s not strength. That’s not patriotism. That is poverty of the soul. Here’s what I want to say to everyone who posted about that show tonight, who shared it proudly, who turned away from Bad Bunny’s celebration because it was in Spanish and the flags weren’t only red, white, and blue: Your children will see those posts. Your grandchildren will find them. The internet doesn’t forget. And one day, when the history of this moment is written, when our kids and their kids look back at 2026 the way we look back at the people who stood on the wrong side of every bridge and every march and every moment that mattered, they will know exactly where you stood. They will see who chose Kid Rock over a hemisphere of flags. They will see who called love “disgusting.” And they will carry that knowledge the way all of us carry the knowledge of what our ancestors did when they were tested. The only thing more powerful than hate is love”

Ethical American

252,534 görüntüleme • 5 ay önce

Elon Musk gave the entire entertainment industry its expiration date, and he is the one building the thing that kills it. Musk: “My guess is that we see the first compelling half hour, pure AI show next year.” Next year. A complete show generated entirely by AI. No writers. No actors. No cameras. No sets. No crew. No studio. Just a prompt and enough compute to render a reality that never physically existed. And shows are the easy part. Musk: “I say probably we’re maybe three years away from AI does the whole video game.” A show plays the same way every time. A game has to generate a living world that reacts to every decision in real time across every single frame. That is a fundamentally harder class of problem. And Musk put three years on it. Right now a single AAA title takes seven years and half a billion dollars across thousands of engineers and artists just to ship it. Musk is describing a world where one person types a paragraph and gets something comparable. The entire value proposition of a multi-billion dollar industry lives inside that gap. And it closes in thirty-six months. But the prediction is not the story. The person making it is. This is not an analyst speculating from the sidelines. This is the man building the largest AI compute clusters on the planet. The man who built xAI from zero in under two years. The man stacking hundreds of thousands of GPUs into facilities designed to do exactly what he is describing. When Musk says three years, he is not guessing about what someone else might eventually ship. He is reading you a delivery date off his own roadmap. Every media company on Earth is valued on a single assumption. That quality content is expensive and difficult to produce at scale. That one assumption is the structural foundation underneath every studio, every network, and every publisher in existence. Musk is dismantling it with raw compute. The studios still parading thousand-person production teams are not demonstrating strength. They are advertising the exact cost structure that one person with a prompt and a GPU allocation is about to make irrelevant. And it does not stop at entertainment. If AI can generate an interactive world that responds to human input in real time, it can generate anything. Advertising. Architecture. Training simulations. Product design. Every industry built on humans manually constructing visual experiences frame by frame is sitting on the same countdown Musk just read out loud. Now zoom out. Because this is not just an industry story. For the entire history of human civilization, the distance between imagining a world and actually creating one required thousands of people, millions of hours, and billions of dollars. That distance built Hollywood. That distance built the gaming industry. That distance made content scarce and studios powerful. Musk is collapsing that distance to zero. When the gap between imagining something and it existing disappears, every business model built on the difficulty of creation disappears with it. That is not disruption. That is a full inversion of how human beings create. Musk did not make a casual prediction on that podcast. He told you what he is building. He told you the timeline. And he told you which industries do not survive it. The entertainment industry is still debating whether this future is real. Musk is not part of that debate. He is building. And he just told you the delivery date.

Elon Musk gave the entire entertainment industry its expiration date, and he is the one building the thing that kills it. Musk: “My guess is that we see the first compelling half hour, pure AI show next year.” Next year. A complete show generated entirely by AI. No writers. No actors. No cameras. No sets. No crew. No studio. Just a prompt and enough compute to render a reality that never physically existed. And shows are the easy part. Musk: “I say probably we’re maybe three years away from AI does the whole video game.” A show plays the same way every time. A game has to generate a living world that reacts to every decision in real time across every single frame. That is a fundamentally harder class of problem. And Musk put three years on it. Right now a single AAA title takes seven years and half a billion dollars across thousands of engineers and artists just to ship it. Musk is describing a world where one person types a paragraph and gets something comparable. The entire value proposition of a multi-billion dollar industry lives inside that gap. And it closes in thirty-six months. But the prediction is not the story. The person making it is. This is not an analyst speculating from the sidelines. This is the man building the largest AI compute clusters on the planet. The man who built xAI from zero in under two years. The man stacking hundreds of thousands of GPUs into facilities designed to do exactly what he is describing. When Musk says three years, he is not guessing about what someone else might eventually ship. He is reading you a delivery date off his own roadmap. Every media company on Earth is valued on a single assumption. That quality content is expensive and difficult to produce at scale. That one assumption is the structural foundation underneath every studio, every network, and every publisher in existence. Musk is dismantling it with raw compute. The studios still parading thousand-person production teams are not demonstrating strength. They are advertising the exact cost structure that one person with a prompt and a GPU allocation is about to make irrelevant. And it does not stop at entertainment. If AI can generate an interactive world that responds to human input in real time, it can generate anything. Advertising. Architecture. Training simulations. Product design. Every industry built on humans manually constructing visual experiences frame by frame is sitting on the same countdown Musk just read out loud. Now zoom out. Because this is not just an industry story. For the entire history of human civilization, the distance between imagining a world and actually creating one required thousands of people, millions of hours, and billions of dollars. That distance built Hollywood. That distance built the gaming industry. That distance made content scarce and studios powerful. Musk is collapsing that distance to zero. When the gap between imagining something and it existing disappears, every business model built on the difficulty of creation disappears with it. That is not disruption. That is a full inversion of how human beings create. Musk did not make a casual prediction on that podcast. He told you what he is building. He told you the timeline. And he told you which industries do not survive it. The entertainment industry is still debating whether this future is real. Musk is not part of that debate. He is building. And he just told you the delivery date.

Dustin

21,842 görüntüleme • 19 gün önce

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 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce

America is witnessing history at Super Bowl LIX as President Donald Trump and his daughter Ivanka Trump stand proudly, applauding the U.S. flag and the players on the field, embraced by a roaring crowd. It’s a moment of pure patriotism, a striking contrast to the division that has plagued the nation for years. This is more than just a sports event; it’s a reminder of what a united America looks like—something that has felt out of reach for far too long. As Trump works tirelessly to clean up Washington, where establishment forces are desperate to cling to power, the energy in the South tells a different story. Here, the people are standing together, celebrating the values that truly matter. The stadium is electric, the atmosphere charged with a sense of renewal and national pride. This is not about left or right, but about an America that refuses to be torn apart by those who profit from division. While the political elite bicker and scheme behind closed doors, real Americans are here, standing shoulder to shoulder in a moment of unfiltered unity. The contrast could not be more obvious. Washington may still be tangled in its own corruption, but the heart of the country beats strong and undivided. Trump’s presence at this historic event is more than symbolic—it’s a testament to his unbreakable bond with the American people. While his enemies try to destroy him with endless lawfare and media attacks, the people show where they truly stand. His reception tonight is proof that the connection between Trump and the nation he fights for has never been stronger. The cheers, the flags, the roaring applause—it’s a reminder that despite all the attempts to silence and control, the spirit of America cannot be extinguished. This moment is a glimpse into what the country can and should be—unapologetic in its patriotism, fearless in its unity, and unwavering in its belief in American greatness. The establishment may try to dictate the narrative, but the people have already spoken. Tonight, under the bright stadium lights, America is reminded of its true strength: its people, standing together, honoring their flag, and refusing to back down. It’s a sight to behold, and one that will not be forgotten.

America is witnessing history at Super Bowl LIX as President Donald Trump and his daughter Ivanka Trump stand proudly, applauding the U.S. flag and the players on the field, embraced by a roaring crowd. It’s a moment of pure patriotism, a striking contrast to the division that has plagued the nation for years. This is more than just a sports event; it’s a reminder of what a united America looks like—something that has felt out of reach for far too long. As Trump works tirelessly to clean up Washington, where establishment forces are desperate to cling to power, the energy in the South tells a different story. Here, the people are standing together, celebrating the values that truly matter. The stadium is electric, the atmosphere charged with a sense of renewal and national pride. This is not about left or right, but about an America that refuses to be torn apart by those who profit from division. While the political elite bicker and scheme behind closed doors, real Americans are here, standing shoulder to shoulder in a moment of unfiltered unity. The contrast could not be more obvious. Washington may still be tangled in its own corruption, but the heart of the country beats strong and undivided. Trump’s presence at this historic event is more than symbolic—it’s a testament to his unbreakable bond with the American people. While his enemies try to destroy him with endless lawfare and media attacks, the people show where they truly stand. His reception tonight is proof that the connection between Trump and the nation he fights for has never been stronger. The cheers, the flags, the roaring applause—it’s a reminder that despite all the attempts to silence and control, the spirit of America cannot be extinguished. This moment is a glimpse into what the country can and should be—unapologetic in its patriotism, fearless in its unity, and unwavering in its belief in American greatness. The establishment may try to dictate the narrative, but the people have already spoken. Tonight, under the bright stadium lights, America is reminded of its true strength: its people, standing together, honoring their flag, and refusing to back down. It’s a sight to behold, and one that will not be forgotten.

Torsten Prochnow

33,608 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce

The great bronze doors of St John Lateran (San Giovanni in Laterano), the cathedral of Rome, once belonged to the ancient Curia Julia (Senate House), which still stands in the Forum. The doors, which date back to the reign of the emperor Domitian (r. 81-96), were moved to the cathedral in 1660, at the bequest of Pope Alexander VII (r. 1655-67), who had them adorned with the heraldic eight-pointed stars of his own coat of arms. From a symbolic viewpoint, the Holy Door takes on a special significance: it is the most powerful sign of the Jubilee, since the ultimate aim of the pilgrim is to pass through it. The opening of the door by the Pope constitutes the official beginning of the Holy Year. Originally, there was only one door, at the Basilica of St. John Lateran, which is the cathedral of the Bishop of Rome. Later, to allow as many pilgrims as possible to take part in the Jubilee experience, the other Roman Basilicas also opened their own holy doors. In crossing the threshold of the Holy Door, the pilgrim is reminded of the passage from chapter 10 of St John’s gospel: “I am the door. If anyone enters by me, he will be saved and will go in and out and find pasture.” Passing through the Holy Door expresses the decision to follow and be guided by Jesus, who is the Good Shepherd. The door is a passageway that ushers the pilgrim into the interior of a church. For the Christian community, a church is not only a sacred space, to be approached with respect, with appropriate behavior and dress code, but it is a symbol of the communion that binds every believer to Christ: it is a place of encounter and dialogue, of reconciliation and peace which awaits every pilgrim, the Church is essentially the place of the community of the faithful. In Rome, this experience takes on a special significance because of the special links between the Eternal City and Saints Peter and Paul, the apostles who founded the Christian community in Rome and whose teachings and example are models for the universal Church. The tombs of Saints Peter and Paul are located in Rome, they were martyred here; and together with the catacombs, these sacred sites are places of continuous spiritual inspiration. 🎥© thecatholictraveler (IG) #archaeohistories

The great bronze doors of St John Lateran (San Giovanni in Laterano), the cathedral of Rome, once belonged to the ancient Curia Julia (Senate House), which still stands in the Forum. The doors, which date back to the reign of the emperor Domitian (r. 81-96), were moved to the cathedral in 1660, at the bequest of Pope Alexander VII (r. 1655-67), who had them adorned with the heraldic eight-pointed stars of his own coat of arms. From a symbolic viewpoint, the Holy Door takes on a special significance: it is the most powerful sign of the Jubilee, since the ultimate aim of the pilgrim is to pass through it. The opening of the door by the Pope constitutes the official beginning of the Holy Year. Originally, there was only one door, at the Basilica of St. John Lateran, which is the cathedral of the Bishop of Rome. Later, to allow as many pilgrims as possible to take part in the Jubilee experience, the other Roman Basilicas also opened their own holy doors. In crossing the threshold of the Holy Door, the pilgrim is reminded of the passage from chapter 10 of St John’s gospel: “I am the door. If anyone enters by me, he will be saved and will go in and out and find pasture.” Passing through the Holy Door expresses the decision to follow and be guided by Jesus, who is the Good Shepherd. The door is a passageway that ushers the pilgrim into the interior of a church. For the Christian community, a church is not only a sacred space, to be approached with respect, with appropriate behavior and dress code, but it is a symbol of the communion that binds every believer to Christ: it is a place of encounter and dialogue, of reconciliation and peace which awaits every pilgrim, the Church is essentially the place of the community of the faithful. In Rome, this experience takes on a special significance because of the special links between the Eternal City and Saints Peter and Paul, the apostles who founded the Christian community in Rome and whose teachings and example are models for the universal Church. The tombs of Saints Peter and Paul are located in Rome, they were martyred here; and together with the catacombs, these sacred sites are places of continuous spiritual inspiration. 🎥© thecatholictraveler (IG) #archaeohistories

Archaeo - Histories

39,642 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce

A gym asked to repost their workout video. Eight months later, that same gym pays them $10,400 a month. Two friends run one Instagram account together, split down the middle. It started as a joke — a place to dump their workout clips so they'd stop flooding their personal pages. Then the gym they train at reposted one video. Then asked for more. Then offered to pay. That was the whole beginning. One local gym, a small monthly fee to keep their feed looking alive. Here's what they figured out fast: gyms are desperate for content and terrible at making it. Beautiful equipment, dead Instagram. The two of them already film every session anyway — so they started pointing the camera at what the gym needed and handing it over as a finished feed. Now they run it like a tiny agency. Three gyms and two activewear brands pay them to produce a month of content each — reels, captions, the posting calendar, the whole thing. The part that makes it possible with two people and full-time jobs: AI does the 90% that used to need a team. They film. Claude does the rest — cuts one session into 20 clips, writes captions in each client's voice, builds the 30-day calendar, drafts the monthly report that keeps every contract renewed. What used to take an editor, a copywriter, and an SMM manager now runs while they're getting coffee after the workout. 5 clients. Around $2,000 each. $10,400 a month. Their cost to run all of it: under $60. That number doesn't move whether they have 5 clients or 15 — that's the entire model. The wild part is how ordinary they are. No huge following. No personal brand. Two normal girls who train together and realized the footage they were already making was worth money to someone else. Every friend group at every gym is filming the same content for fun and letting it die in their camera roll. These two just asked one gym if it wanted to buy it. The full breakdown — how two people turn shared workouts into a real content business — is in the thread above. Read it before another duo in your city signs those gyms first.

Rich

29,972 görüntüleme • 26 gün önce

I’m still here because this was the hardest fan project we’ve faced in these six months. My patience and leadership were tested like never before to the point that I almost gave up in the middle of the preparation. There were nights I whispered to myself, “This will be my last.” I felt so pressured that sometimes I just wanted to hide and run away. On top of it all, I was carrying my own personal struggles, which made every step heavier. We took risks in almost every decision we made during this project. There were times when all we could say was, “Naniniwala kami sa Cheffies.” From tickets and props to the fan project and the fanzone everything was about risk and trust. Trusting the Cheffies that they would show up. Trusting the sponsors that they were only waiting for us to open our plan. Trusting Dustin and Bianca that they would see and hear our efforts. And above all, trusting each other as admins that no matter what happens, we would not give up on this. But it wasn’t just about risks. It was about sacrifices the sleepless nights, the drained wallets, the heavy emotions, and the constant balancing act between work life and fandom life. It was about choosing to fight even when we were tired, choosing to stay even when walking away seemed easier. Every small victory mattered, and every breakdown taught us something new. Looking back at these six months, I realized it’s not only about the events, the projects, or the milestones. It’s about the people who stood by me when I thought I couldn’t go on. The people I met along the way who turned into a second family. The laughter in between the stress, the comfort in the middle of the tears, and the bonds that were built in both the best and worst days. This is why, even when I wanted to let go so many times, I stayed. Because every hardship was matched with a reminder that I was not alone. Because this fandom has become more than just support for Dustin and Bianca it has become a home where friendships are nurtured, where trust is strengthened, and where love is felt. So this 6th monthsary is not just a celebration of Dustin and Bianca, though they remain the heart and reason for all of this. It is also a celebration of the Cheffies who never stopped believing, of the sponsors who trusted us, of the admins who fought side by side, and of the family we’ve built within Casa Dustbia. To Dustin Yu and Bianca De Vera, thank you for being the inspiration that started all of this. You may never fully know the weight of what we’ve gone through, but because of you, we learned to be braver, stronger, and more united. And to my Casa Dustbia family, thank you for reminding me that even in the hardest of our story, there is always something worth holding on to. Six months have passed, but this is just the beginning. More pages are waiting to be written with laughter, tears, risks, and victories. And as long as we continue to believe, to fight, and to love, we will keep turning those pahina together. Happy 6th monthsary, Dustin, Cheffies, Sponsors and Bianca. Mahal na mahal namin kayo today, tomorrow, and in every chapter that’s yet to come. 🫂💛

I’m still here because this was the hardest fan project we’ve faced in these six months. My patience and leadership were tested like never before to the point that I almost gave up in the middle of the preparation. There were nights I whispered to myself, “This will be my last.” I felt so pressured that sometimes I just wanted to hide and run away. On top of it all, I was carrying my own personal struggles, which made every step heavier. We took risks in almost every decision we made during this project. There were times when all we could say was, “Naniniwala kami sa Cheffies.” From tickets and props to the fan project and the fanzone everything was about risk and trust. Trusting the Cheffies that they would show up. Trusting the sponsors that they were only waiting for us to open our plan. Trusting Dustin and Bianca that they would see and hear our efforts. And above all, trusting each other as admins that no matter what happens, we would not give up on this. But it wasn’t just about risks. It was about sacrifices the sleepless nights, the drained wallets, the heavy emotions, and the constant balancing act between work life and fandom life. It was about choosing to fight even when we were tired, choosing to stay even when walking away seemed easier. Every small victory mattered, and every breakdown taught us something new. Looking back at these six months, I realized it’s not only about the events, the projects, or the milestones. It’s about the people who stood by me when I thought I couldn’t go on. The people I met along the way who turned into a second family. The laughter in between the stress, the comfort in the middle of the tears, and the bonds that were built in both the best and worst days. This is why, even when I wanted to let go so many times, I stayed. Because every hardship was matched with a reminder that I was not alone. Because this fandom has become more than just support for Dustin and Bianca it has become a home where friendships are nurtured, where trust is strengthened, and where love is felt. So this 6th monthsary is not just a celebration of Dustin and Bianca, though they remain the heart and reason for all of this. It is also a celebration of the Cheffies who never stopped believing, of the sponsors who trusted us, of the admins who fought side by side, and of the family we’ve built within Casa Dustbia. To Dustin Yu and Bianca De Vera, thank you for being the inspiration that started all of this. You may never fully know the weight of what we’ve gone through, but because of you, we learned to be braver, stronger, and more united. And to my Casa Dustbia family, thank you for reminding me that even in the hardest of our story, there is always something worth holding on to. Six months have passed, but this is just the beginning. More pages are waiting to be written with laughter, tears, risks, and victories. And as long as we continue to believe, to fight, and to love, we will keep turning those pahina together. Happy 6th monthsary, Dustin, Cheffies, Sponsors and Bianca. Mahal na mahal namin kayo today, tomorrow, and in every chapter that’s yet to come. 🫂💛

Sam

19,021 görüntüleme • 10 ay önce

2. Teasers / MV / Live presentations We believe all the content should include all members. Not some content, but all of it. We see some people excusing the exclusion of Lee Know in some content because "he will appear in other content", we don't understand why he would be excluded out of any content when the group includes 8 members. There isn't an excuse for this to happen all the time. We will only talk about recent releases and God's Menu to not make this even longer. a) Gods Menu - A title track where they gave him zero lines and screen time (song that they continue to sing, so the company could have made a redistribution of the lines). b) Megaverse - They gave him lines in the initial release, but then they cut his part to 3 seconds, and decided to delete his center part leaving him with half of a line. c) Hall Of Fame - Every live presentation they would cut Lee Know on his own part recording from below all of the other members and only listening to Lee Know's voice without being able to look at him. d) S-Class - They stopped recording the kick he does and instead they record the other members, Lee Know sings there. e) JJAM - When it was dance racha time, Lee Know got almost no time, during the life presentation the moment he goes to the center he says his line "I know..." and while he says it, the screen gets black, so he doesn't have that time on screen, later he is placed at the back covered during the dance break. He is the dance leader. f) Walkin on Water' - During the live presentation, they decided to record everyone on his part, and cut it from his own fancam. g) Recent teasers - He was completely excluded from the first teaser and only included in the second one, he got no solo recording on the MV like the other members. h) Giant - There is a part on the video where all the members are shown, Lee Know is covered and the lights are lowered where he is, making him invisible. During the live presentation, they record other members on his part, they put the dance focus on others, being the only part he has where he sings alone. i) YOUTH - After the release of the MV, the company decided to edit the video causing views to freeze and deleting a very important part where it thanked the people involved. The time from when the video was finished to when it was published was enough to arrange all the details, and the part deleted was so big, it was impossible to miss it. This happened before with his other individual work “Dawn”, which was deleted after some time, and re-uploaded, deleting all the views it had accumulated. This means one of two things, the company puts less interest and effort in Lee Know's work, or the company is purposefully hindering Lee Know's work. Either of the two is unacceptable by a company with so many resources and that claims to be a leader in the industry. This only shows a lack of professionalism and care. j) Dance leader - We know he is the dance leader, and K-stays and the members have talked a lot about how involved he is and how hard he works in that position, but the company refuses to include any footage of him doing it, and even cuts the parts where he gives his all. Just recently K-Stays were raving about how hard Lee Know worked as the dance leader and how much effort it took, One Label cut all of that footage from the Talker. It appears they don't want stays to look at anything he does, or to not give him recognition for anything.

2. Teasers / MV / Live presentations We believe all the content should include all members. Not some content, but all of it. We see some people excusing the exclusion of Lee Know in some content because "he will appear in other content", we don't understand why he would be excluded out of any content when the group includes 8 members. There isn't an excuse for this to happen all the time. We will only talk about recent releases and God's Menu to not make this even longer. a) Gods Menu - A title track where they gave him zero lines and screen time (song that they continue to sing, so the company could have made a redistribution of the lines). b) Megaverse - They gave him lines in the initial release, but then they cut his part to 3 seconds, and decided to delete his center part leaving him with half of a line. c) Hall Of Fame - Every live presentation they would cut Lee Know on his own part recording from below all of the other members and only listening to Lee Know's voice without being able to look at him. d) S-Class - They stopped recording the kick he does and instead they record the other members, Lee Know sings there. e) JJAM - When it was dance racha time, Lee Know got almost no time, during the life presentation the moment he goes to the center he says his line "I know..." and while he says it, the screen gets black, so he doesn't have that time on screen, later he is placed at the back covered during the dance break. He is the dance leader. f) Walkin on Water' - During the live presentation, they decided to record everyone on his part, and cut it from his own fancam. g) Recent teasers - He was completely excluded from the first teaser and only included in the second one, he got no solo recording on the MV like the other members. h) Giant - There is a part on the video where all the members are shown, Lee Know is covered and the lights are lowered where he is, making him invisible. During the live presentation, they record other members on his part, they put the dance focus on others, being the only part he has where he sings alone. i) YOUTH - After the release of the MV, the company decided to edit the video causing views to freeze and deleting a very important part where it thanked the people involved. The time from when the video was finished to when it was published was enough to arrange all the details, and the part deleted was so big, it was impossible to miss it. This happened before with his other individual work “Dawn”, which was deleted after some time, and re-uploaded, deleting all the views it had accumulated. This means one of two things, the company puts less interest and effort in Lee Know's work, or the company is purposefully hindering Lee Know's work. Either of the two is unacceptable by a company with so many resources and that claims to be a leader in the industry. This only shows a lack of professionalism and care. j) Dance leader - We know he is the dance leader, and K-stays and the members have talked a lot about how involved he is and how hard he works in that position, but the company refuses to include any footage of him doing it, and even cuts the parts where he gives his all. Just recently K-Stays were raving about how hard Lee Know worked as the dance leader and how much effort it took, One Label cut all of that footage from the Talker. It appears they don't want stays to look at anything he does, or to not give him recognition for anything.

LEE KNOW 리노 GLOBAL ★

21,011 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce

$Somewhere around sixty you get handed a new set of instructions. Lift lighter. Keep the reps high. Do not tax yourself too much. Put the saved effort into cardio. It is the exact reverse of what an ageing body needs, and the people handing it out have the mechanism sitting right in front of them. Recovery gets worse with age. Nobody argues with that. The older body clears fatigue more slowly, repairs more slowly, and tolerates far less accumulated work before progress stops entirely. Every GP, every physio, every trainer will nod along to that sentence. Then watch what gets prescribed on the back of it. High reps. Long burning sets. Circuits. Three sessions of cardio stacked on top. A protocol whose main product is fatigue, given to the person with the least capacity left to absorb any. They identified a recovery problem and prescribed more recovery cost. The answer runs the other way and it is not complicated. If your recovery budget has shrunk, you spend it on whatever returns the most growth per unit of fatigue, and that is a heavy set of five. Four to six reps, a handful of lifts, three minutes between sets, done inside the hour. Nearly every rep is a growth rep. Almost nothing goes on the burning, the sweating and the gasping, which build nothing at all and then bill you for four days. Twenty-five reps taken to failure is a fortnight of fatigue for a fraction of the stimulus. That is not the cautious option for a sixty-five-year-old. It is the most reckless thing on the timetable. Now the part that actually matters. Ageing is not one process. It is a list. Muscle wastes. Bone thins. Tendon softens. The fast fibres that catch you when the pavement arrives early vanish first while the slow ones sit there in perfect health. Motor units drop out. The nervous system stops asking for full effort because nothing has demanded full effort in fifteen years. Read that list back and tell me what heavy resistance training does. It builds muscle. It loads bone, which is the only language bone speaks. It stiffens tendon. It recruits the fast fibres, because that is what heavy means physiologically and there is no other route in. It forces the nervous system to ask for everything again. Every item on the list of what ageing takes is on the list of what a heavy set gives back. Nothing else on earth does that. Not a walk, not a class, not a pill, not twenty minutes on a machine with the paper open. You were told to go gently because somebody quietly decided you were finishing. Go heavy, because you are not.$

Somewhere around sixty you get handed a new set of instructions. Lift lighter. Keep the reps high. Do not tax yourself too much. Put the saved effort into cardio. It is the exact reverse of what an ageing body needs, and the people handing it out have the mechanism sitting right in front of them. Recovery gets worse with age. Nobody argues with that. The older body clears fatigue more slowly, repairs more slowly, and tolerates far less accumulated work before progress stops entirely. Every GP, every physio, every trainer will nod along to that sentence. Then watch what gets prescribed on the back of it. High reps. Long burning sets. Circuits. Three sessions of cardio stacked on top. A protocol whose main product is fatigue, given to the person with the least capacity left to absorb any. They identified a recovery problem and prescribed more recovery cost. The answer runs the other way and it is not complicated. If your recovery budget has shrunk, you spend it on whatever returns the most growth per unit of fatigue, and that is a heavy set of five. Four to six reps, a handful of lifts, three minutes between sets, done inside the hour. Nearly every rep is a growth rep. Almost nothing goes on the burning, the sweating and the gasping, which build nothing at all and then bill you for four days. Twenty-five reps taken to failure is a fortnight of fatigue for a fraction of the stimulus. That is not the cautious option for a sixty-five-year-old. It is the most reckless thing on the timetable. Now the part that actually matters. Ageing is not one process. It is a list. Muscle wastes. Bone thins. Tendon softens. The fast fibres that catch you when the pavement arrives early vanish first while the slow ones sit there in perfect health. Motor units drop out. The nervous system stops asking for full effort because nothing has demanded full effort in fifteen years. Read that list back and tell me what heavy resistance training does. It builds muscle. It loads bone, which is the only language bone speaks. It stiffens tendon. It recruits the fast fibres, because that is what heavy means physiologically and there is no other route in. It forces the nervous system to ask for everything again. Every item on the list of what ageing takes is on the list of what a heavy set gives back. Nothing else on earth does that. Not a walk, not a class, not a pill, not twenty minutes on a machine with the paper open. You were told to go gently because somebody quietly decided you were finishing. Go heavy, because you are not.

Sama Hoole

16,135 görüntüleme • 1 gün önce

Today, I heard the most wonderful and uplifting thing. Andrew Bragg gave a commitment to leave the Liberal Party if it dropped Net Zero and exited the Paris Accord. A treaty that should never have been signed. It is the shadowy figures behind Andrew Bragg, Alex Hawke and the rest of the useless Labor/Teal-“moderate”-left-faction of the Liberal Party that got the party and the country into this mess. They rolled Tony Abbott, who won a mandate, promising to scrap the carbon tax. They have betrayed that promise ever since. Our energy woes have been a long time coming. We didn’t just wake up one day in an energy poor and deindustrialised nation. We have been under sustained attack for decades, an attack that has been marshalled by the left of politics. They control Labor, they have ruined the Liberals and have overrun just about every institution in the country. It is why the business council, sounds the same as the Australia Institute, and they both sound the same as the Greens. We are a nation in a hole, and Bragg admitted as much in his interview on Insiders today. We really need more coal, because the energy transition is failing. It is worse than that, the transition has failed. It was a bad idea, just like the rest of Net Zero. Our predicament is the result of irresponsible governments across Australia. Labor and Liberal, both have set policies that destroyed coal as the backbone of our grid, as they duchessed the Green grifters around their respective states across Australia. They played along with whatever bad idea the Greens were spouting at the time. Close this facility, replace it with a windmill. No to nuclear. No to gas. Close it, shut it, and replace it with fantasy. Turnbull, Kean, Perrottet, Berejiklian, Andrews, Morrison Albanese, and all of the rest, on a unity ticket that flushed our energy future down the toilet. All because they were afraid to upset Greta Thunberg. Because they were afraid to upset a youth, that they allowed our institutions to indoctrinate into a cult of ignorance. The world is slowly pulling in a new direction. Because hard reality has chased down fantasy. They’re waking up to the monorail that is ‘green’ energy, and ripping out the tracks. The National Party spurred by One Nation have cottoned on, and the Liberals will be dragged into the modern era, kicking and screaming. There is no doubt that if they don’t drop the Net Zero cake, and all of the icing that goes with it, they will never be a party of government again. Which brings us back to Andrew Bragg. Australia would be better off if he was not pretending to oppose Labor from the Liberal benches. We need people in opposition that understand the problems we have as a nation, and how to solve them. Not people who have only ever worked in the industry of politics, sending happy snaps along the way. Bragg knows his only chance at a job in the red house is through the blue team. He knows that blue voters don’t prioritise action on climate. But he sits there wasting a space advocating against the things the people that vote for him want. So if he had any decency, he would go, today. Because with friends like Andrew Bragg, you don’t need enemies. I just want Australia back.

Today, I heard the most wonderful and uplifting thing. Andrew Bragg gave a commitment to leave the Liberal Party if it dropped Net Zero and exited the Paris Accord. A treaty that should never have been signed. It is the shadowy figures behind Andrew Bragg, Alex Hawke and the rest of the useless Labor/Teal-“moderate”-left-faction of the Liberal Party that got the party and the country into this mess. They rolled Tony Abbott, who won a mandate, promising to scrap the carbon tax. They have betrayed that promise ever since. Our energy woes have been a long time coming. We didn’t just wake up one day in an energy poor and deindustrialised nation. We have been under sustained attack for decades, an attack that has been marshalled by the left of politics. They control Labor, they have ruined the Liberals and have overrun just about every institution in the country. It is why the business council, sounds the same as the Australia Institute, and they both sound the same as the Greens. We are a nation in a hole, and Bragg admitted as much in his interview on Insiders today. We really need more coal, because the energy transition is failing. It is worse than that, the transition has failed. It was a bad idea, just like the rest of Net Zero. Our predicament is the result of irresponsible governments across Australia. Labor and Liberal, both have set policies that destroyed coal as the backbone of our grid, as they duchessed the Green grifters around their respective states across Australia. They played along with whatever bad idea the Greens were spouting at the time. Close this facility, replace it with a windmill. No to nuclear. No to gas. Close it, shut it, and replace it with fantasy. Turnbull, Kean, Perrottet, Berejiklian, Andrews, Morrison Albanese, and all of the rest, on a unity ticket that flushed our energy future down the toilet. All because they were afraid to upset Greta Thunberg. Because they were afraid to upset a youth, that they allowed our institutions to indoctrinate into a cult of ignorance. The world is slowly pulling in a new direction. Because hard reality has chased down fantasy. They’re waking up to the monorail that is ‘green’ energy, and ripping out the tracks. The National Party spurred by One Nation have cottoned on, and the Liberals will be dragged into the modern era, kicking and screaming. There is no doubt that if they don’t drop the Net Zero cake, and all of the icing that goes with it, they will never be a party of government again. Which brings us back to Andrew Bragg. Australia would be better off if he was not pretending to oppose Labor from the Liberal benches. We need people in opposition that understand the problems we have as a nation, and how to solve them. Not people who have only ever worked in the industry of politics, sending happy snaps along the way. Bragg knows his only chance at a job in the red house is through the blue team. He knows that blue voters don’t prioritise action on climate. But he sits there wasting a space advocating against the things the people that vote for him want. So if he had any decency, he would go, today. Because with friends like Andrew Bragg, you don’t need enemies. I just want Australia back.

Matthew Camenzuli

41,306 görüntüleme • 8 ay önce

Alaska. Putin and Trump. The meeting that was both awaited and feared. The outcome. By Roman Alekhin To discuss this further, the key point to understand is this: Two and a half hours behind closed doors is too little for leaders of nuclear powers if they are just starting a conversation—but too much if they were merely posing for cameras. This means the real work happened earlier—quiet, working discussions “behind the door” that never made it into the official communiqué. These are what stopped Trump from imposing secondary sanctions; this is where the exchange of conditions took place, terms that won’t be disclosed until both leaders decide the time is right. I suspect Syria was discussed, as well as the “Trump Bridge” (instead of Zangezur), the Middle East, and much more that isn’t yet visible to the naked eye. The public part? Pure theater. The point wasn’t to negotiate in front of the world or sign something, like Trump did with Armenia and Azerbaijan—minor players, important only tactically. The point was to send a signal: the presidents of Russia and the U.S. are shaking hands and smiling again, no knives behind their backs. This signals that a new reality has arrived, one that Europe, Ukraine, and everyone accustomed to building their worldview around the idea of “Russia’s isolation” will now have to reckon with—including those within our own countries. Trump’s comments on Fox News were deliberately vague—he’s a master at leaving room for maneuver. But the key takeaway is clear: the pressure will now shift from Moscow to Kyiv and Brussels. This is evident even in the final format—not a word about a “no-conditions” ceasefire, which was Europe and Zelensky’s main demand. This means the discussion on a final peace has been postponed, but within a clear framework: Zelensky must exit the war in a way that lets Europe save face. Russia’s red lines have long been clear: non-aligned status for Ukraine, return of Kherson, Zaporizhzhia, Donetsk, and Luhansk regions within their administrative borders (not the frontlines), lifting of sanctions, and real democracy in Ukraine without persecution of the Russian language or the Orthodox Church. These conditions will prolong the conflict for some time. Zelensky will need to stage a fighting retreat to the administrative borders—this will allow Europe to save face. But the logic is already visible: Ukraine’s defeat will be framed not as a “crushing” but as a “peaceful settlement.” Six months—that’s the timeframe in which we’ll see the dynamics. If the front accelerates, the deal is working. If it stalls, not all pieces are in place yet. But the main thing is already done: Russia is back in the game, not through gray negotiating formats but through a handshake on American soil—even if it’s chilly Alaska. (Though we have warm ties to the region, as seen in the wreath-laying for the “Heroes of ALSIB” and the meeting with Archbishop Alexy of Sitka and Alaska.) For the world, this is an image where smiles are worth more than signatures. For Trump—a chance to show he’s the only one who can “make peace.” For Putin—a symbolic victory: Russia is not a besieged enemy but an equal player. For Europe and Ukraine—the beginning of a painful new phase where they’ll have to accept the inevitable. In these talks, there were no winners or losers in Alaska. In Alaska, both presidents won, while those who weren’t there—lost, or at the very least, didn’t win.

Alaska. Putin and Trump. The meeting that was both awaited and feared. The outcome. By Roman Alekhin To discuss this further, the key point to understand is this: Two and a half hours behind closed doors is too little for leaders of nuclear powers if they are just starting a conversation—but too much if they were merely posing for cameras. This means the real work happened earlier—quiet, working discussions “behind the door” that never made it into the official communiqué. These are what stopped Trump from imposing secondary sanctions; this is where the exchange of conditions took place, terms that won’t be disclosed until both leaders decide the time is right. I suspect Syria was discussed, as well as the “Trump Bridge” (instead of Zangezur), the Middle East, and much more that isn’t yet visible to the naked eye. The public part? Pure theater. The point wasn’t to negotiate in front of the world or sign something, like Trump did with Armenia and Azerbaijan—minor players, important only tactically. The point was to send a signal: the presidents of Russia and the U.S. are shaking hands and smiling again, no knives behind their backs. This signals that a new reality has arrived, one that Europe, Ukraine, and everyone accustomed to building their worldview around the idea of “Russia’s isolation” will now have to reckon with—including those within our own countries. Trump’s comments on Fox News were deliberately vague—he’s a master at leaving room for maneuver. But the key takeaway is clear: the pressure will now shift from Moscow to Kyiv and Brussels. This is evident even in the final format—not a word about a “no-conditions” ceasefire, which was Europe and Zelensky’s main demand. This means the discussion on a final peace has been postponed, but within a clear framework: Zelensky must exit the war in a way that lets Europe save face. Russia’s red lines have long been clear: non-aligned status for Ukraine, return of Kherson, Zaporizhzhia, Donetsk, and Luhansk regions within their administrative borders (not the frontlines), lifting of sanctions, and real democracy in Ukraine without persecution of the Russian language or the Orthodox Church. These conditions will prolong the conflict for some time. Zelensky will need to stage a fighting retreat to the administrative borders—this will allow Europe to save face. But the logic is already visible: Ukraine’s defeat will be framed not as a “crushing” but as a “peaceful settlement.” Six months—that’s the timeframe in which we’ll see the dynamics. If the front accelerates, the deal is working. If it stalls, not all pieces are in place yet. But the main thing is already done: Russia is back in the game, not through gray negotiating formats but through a handshake on American soil—even if it’s chilly Alaska. (Though we have warm ties to the region, as seen in the wreath-laying for the “Heroes of ALSIB” and the meeting with Archbishop Alexy of Sitka and Alaska.) For the world, this is an image where smiles are worth more than signatures. For Trump—a chance to show he’s the only one who can “make peace.” For Putin—a symbolic victory: Russia is not a besieged enemy but an equal player. For Europe and Ukraine—the beginning of a painful new phase where they’ll have to accept the inevitable. In these talks, there were no winners or losers in Alaska. In Alaska, both presidents won, while those who weren’t there—lost, or at the very least, didn’t win.

🅰pocalypsis 🅰pocalypseos 🇷🇺 🇨🇳 🅉

13,487 görüntüleme • 11 ay önce

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 görüntüleme • 3 ay önce