Friday, October 31, 2025

On Fog

 This week has had more than its fair share of foggy mornings.

I am not sure why fog appeals to me as it does - I like cloudy overcast days as well, so that may be a reason.  There is something about the muting, both of sight and sound, that the fog brings, the soft edges it gives to items near and the complete concealment of items farther away, dim hints of shapes that acquire mythical appearances.  In the fog, trees and houses become monsters.

Walking in the fog is its own experience:  the muffled sound, the floating edges that streetlights acquire, the constant drips of moisture from surfaces.  Now, as it is Autumn, the leaves I walk over have a muffled "slap" as I step on them, so freshly fallen and damp as they are.  People become dimly seen shapes that resolve from the fog and become human, only to disappear again into passing shadowy shapes.

Fog brings all the meditative atmosphere of a good rainy day without the inconvenience of the falling water.  I can get out and do things, but the fog seeps into my thoughts as I do them.  It adds thought and and element of mystery to the commonest of activities:  given a deep enough fog, even taking the trash out becomes something of a meditative adventure into the unknown as the common landmarks between here and the dumpster are erased except for the brief moments that they hove into view.

Would I like fog all the time?  I suspect not:  too much gloom is bad for anyone's soul. But I surely grateful for it when it appears now, a haunting condition that teases me with mystery and thought and can, at least for a little while, make the world almost an adventure. 

Thursday, October 30, 2025

The Collapse CCX: In The Bleak Midwinter

23 December 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

My wife has informed me that there will be a Christmas in this community this year.

Even in my short time married to her, I hesitate to contradict her unless I am rather certain of the facts. In the case I tried to point out – gently – that given the state of things, this might not be the year, especially given the weather and the fact that as a community we were – perhaps – just healing.

She pointed to the four candles on the Advent wreath and a fifth one in the middle, to be lit on Christmas day. Being a man of wisdom and virtue, I quickly retreated from my position.

I carefully busied myself for the rest of the day while my wife was away “on errands”. By the time she arrived home in the late afternoon – given we are just past the Winter Solstice, effectively almost sundown – she had that sort grim happy determination of someone that was told they could not do something but went ahead and did it anyway.

I have been informed, Lucilius, that I had “best get my jolly on in two days”.

Finding my role models in the Wise Men from the East, I believe I will comply.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

Wednesday, October 29, 2025

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Cambodian Royal Palace II

The Moonlight Pavilion (Preah Tineang Chan Chhaya).  This is a hall for traditional dance.  In the background is the Napoleon III Pavilion. Built in 1875, it is a cast iron prefabricated building that was alleged to have been donated by Napoleon III (who was out of power at that time, so likely never happened).  Also called the Iron Pavilion.


Another view of the Napoleon III Pavilion.


A random pavilion with a pretty cool tree:



The major building immediately visible upon entering the royal grounds is the Throne Hall (Preah Tineang Tevea Vinnichay Mohai Moha Prasat, or "Sacred Hall of Judgement").  This is where formal receptions take place.  Sadly no interior photography is allowed.




Looking back to the Moonlight Pavilion:


The creatures on the left are called Nagas.  Traditionally they are considered to be half human/half snake beings, often considered guardians.  We will see them again.


A view of the Khemarin Palace (Khemarin Moha Prasat, or "Palace of the Khmer King").  This is actual dwelling place of the royal family.  A blue flag flies when the King is in residence.


More views of the Throne Hall:



Tuesday, October 28, 2025

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Cambodian Royal Palace I

 The Cambodian Royal Palace (Preah Barom Reacheaveang Chaktomuk Sereay Mongkol) located in Phnom Penh, is a palace complex consisting of the royal palace and religious sites.  The palace is of "newer vintage", being built between 1866 and 1870 by King Norodom.


The palace itself was rebuilt in 1912 and in 1932. It has been occupied since the 1860's by the royal family of Cambodia with the exception of the time when Cambodia was overcome by civil war and the Khmer Rouge.


Interestingly, security to enter the grounds was surprisingly light compared to what one might expect entering a similar complex in other parts of the world.



A picture of the current king, King Norodom Sihamoni.  The king is a popular figure in Cambodia, and we saw many pictures or representations of him.


Entering through the gate, one comes into the outer gardens.





A picture of the Throne Hall (we will go closer tomorrow):



Monday, October 27, 2025

October 2025 Grab Bag

 As discussed by Saturday's Haiku, Autumn is well and full underway here in New Home 2.0.  It is actually a bit of shock: approximately 3 weeks ago we had our last "Summer" day of 80 F and the temperature just started dropping after that with accompanying rain and wind.  We are now into full Autumn, with temperatures in the 50's and 40's and rain forecast for some part of the day for next two weeks or so.

I had become used to the quick approach of Summer in New Home.  I was not ready for the same at the other end of the season here.

---

I made my monthly trip back to The Ranch the weekend before this past one.  I took down a couple of signs from the Barn, checked around the house, visited my Aunt and Uncle and The Cowboy and Young Cowboy and Uisdean Ruadh, took a rather long walk, and headed home.  

We have no offers since the rather unserious one in August; I suspect we will not hear of another until Spring unless other circumstances persuade someone that being "Away from it all" might be a grand idea.

---

This month has been largely consumed by work following my arrival back from the Grand Canyon.  I am not sure how it turned out that way, but it did.  Plenty of later departures from work (same start time, of course) which has led to less of the things I want to work on getting done.  Part of that is a failure on my part to prioritize my time at home (my mornings are pretty well scheduled at this point), part of it is simply not enough time in the day.  Things (in theory) slow down in November, which is to be greatly desired at this point.

I am far more tired more often than I care for.

---

During one of the small group meetings this month, someone brought figs from their tree at home.  I have never really enjoyed figs, but seeing as how I now had some and not otherwise knowing what to do with them, I dried them in the food dehydrator (along with apples to fill up the trays).  They are surprisingly good, at least to me.

---

It is shocking to realize it is effectively the end of October.  We have 9.5 weeks left of 2025, but really that is a lot less when holidays are factored in.  The years certainly feel like they are picking up speed.

Sunday, October 26, 2025

A Year Of Humility (XIIL): Compassion

 When traveling to and from The Ranch for my monthly travels, I have taken to using a local private parking lot:  the price is no more than the nearby major airport parking lot and rather than wait endlessly for a bus to come by, I can get a pick up at the lot immediately and a trip back to the parking lot in about 10 minutes after requesting a pickup.  For the slight inconvenience of being farther from the airport, it has worked out well.

Last weekend upon my return from The Ranch, it seemed a different story.

After an initial contact (all done by your phone and texting now), I wait the usual 10 minutes or so.  No bus. To be fair, I think to myself, it is a busy time.  So I wait more, as other shuttles pull in and away and as they do, the crowd waiting for my shuttle became more apparent.

Final, about 20 minutes in, the shuttle pulls in - not at my standing point of course (it never works that way) but about 20 feet beyond me.  The crowd - larger than a single shuttle bus - lurches towards it.  And, sure enough, I was the first one to not make it on.  The driver, looking a little harried, says the next bus would be along shortly.

And so we wait.  And wait about another twenty minutes.  At this point in the program I am tired, cold, and looking at a 30-40 minute drive just to get home.  I watch - we all did - as another round of other shuttle buses come by, load up, and head out.  I begin to question the wisdom of using this parking lot.

The next bus pulls up, a good 45 minutes after I made the request.  The door opens, and out comes a man who is clearly in his 70's, our driver.  Immediately half of my frustration disappears.  He works hard to load everyone's suitcase and everyone up. We manage to get everyone on the second bus.

As he is collecting the parking cards with our spot numbers, he apologizes profusely for the delay.  He just came from a drop off where one of his passengers had a walker, a wheelchair, an electric scooter, and her luggage, all needing to be dropped off at the luggage desk outside the airport. Likely he had to take it all there himself.

And then to boot, apparently she lost her dentures at the desk.

The mood in the bus - and in me - instantly changes. Someone says "Not your fault; it is just life".  

If our tips all were a little more than usual, I would not be surprised.

---

It is quite easy for me to look at how the world is impacting my life and make certain determinations about everything else going on around me.  I can get grumpy about the inconvenience of waiting and a perceived lack of service and make certain assumptions about the situation and the reasons why things are the way they are.

Only to find out, at least sometimes, that there is a backstory that should evoke not my criticism or anger but my compassion.

We read that Christ looked upon the crowds and had compassion for them as a sheep without a shepherd. How often do I have the same kind of compassion in not leaping to conclusions based on stories that I have concocted in my head, a narrative that has me as the main staring role?

The proud can only, ever, see the world through their own eyes. The humble have learned that, through compassion, they can see it through someone else's.

Saturday, October 25, 2025

October Sunrise

 


October sunrise
speaks of rain and falling leaves:
Autumn has arrived.

Friday, October 24, 2025

Book Review: Letters To Freya

 As you might remember from my Pre-Review of a month ago,  the book Letters to Freya was originally recommended to me via the book The Call by Os Guinness. The reference in Guinness' book was to the writer of the letters in the book, Count Helmuth James von Moltke, a great-grand nephew of the famous Prussian (and German) general  Helmuth von Moltke (The Elder)  and his nephew Helmuth von Moltke (The Younger), a German General of World War I.  Helmuth James was a lawyer by trade, not a military man, and became one of the major figures in the resistance to Hitler during World War II, leading a group called The Kreisau Circle, who discussed policy and prepared a series of papers about the policy Germany should take following its defeat in WW II (which they all seemed to believe would work out about as it did).


Over the time of von Molke's marriage to Freya, they wrote hundreds of letters to each other, letters that were carefully preserved by Freya in beehives to hide them from the Nazis.  The span of the letters in the book cover 22 August 1939 (just prior to the formal declaration of War by Germany on Poland) to 11 January 1945, written the day after his sentencing and just before his execution on 23 January 1945.

Over the scope of the years 1939 to 19 January 1944 (when he was arrested for being present at a party where National Socialism was criticized openly), he writes letters to his wife  (sometimes two a day!). They cover the gamut of his life:  his work at the Abwehr (German Army Intelligence) where he used his background in international and martial law to argue for the lives of prisoners of war and civilian prisoners (including those of Jewish descent), his trips abroad to France and Demark and Belgium and Norway and Poland and Turkey, where he worked to make contacts with both local resistance and the Allies (he was never very successful in this regard), and his living arrangements including the increasing pace of Allied bombing.

He also writes of seemingly very small things as well.  He is very engaged and interested in the agricultural goings on of his ancestral estate of Kreisau, asking Freya details about planting and yields and preparing for rationing and beehives.  He writes to her about their family, including their two sons.  He writes to her specifically to her, anticipating her visits or reflecting on how much he loves and misses her.

He also writes of his "work":  I do not know why, but it took me until mid-1943 to realize that he is writing about this work in the resistance.  He talks about many of the contact he has made, some familiar to us even today - Dohanyi, Canaris, Stauffenberg - and many who likely remain unknown to most of us today, some of whom survived and others who were executed as political prisoners and "traitors" to the regime.  He writes of discussions and arguing and documenting policies for what a post-war Germany might look like.

After 1944 and his arrest, his letters in this volume are much abridged, mostly due to the request of Freya who summarizes his time in prison, noting that there were still letters (although quite censored) but given the personal nature of them, were not included in the time of this volume (1990) and might be released after her death.  

In reading the letters, any number of things come across:  von Moltke's genuine humanity and kindness, his intellectual brilliance and courage (arguing against policies supported by the highest levels of Nazi government), his understated but religious convictions, his honestly in being overwhelmed at times but never truly being hopeless about the ultimate outcome.

In the last letter written to Freya, he ends with the following:

"Dear heart, my life is finished and I can say of myself:  He died in the fullness of years and life's experience.  This doesn't alter the fact that I would gladly go on living and that I would gladly accompany you further on this earth.  But then I would need a new task from God.  The task for which God made me is done.  If he has another task for me, we shall hear of it.  Therefore, by all means continue your efforts to save my life, if I survive this day.  Perhaps there is another task.

I'll stop, for there is nothing more to say.  I mentioned nobody you should greet or embrace for me; you know yourself who is meant.  All the texts we love are in my heart and in your heart.  But I end by saying to you by virtue of the treasure that spoke to me and filled this humble earthen vessel:

'The Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ
and the love of God and the fellowship
of the Holy Spirit be with you all.'

Amen, J."

---

I have to confess that the German resistance to Hitler during World War II remains a fairly unknown subject to me.  I know elements of it - The White Rose Movement, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the 20 July 1944 plot - but probably like a great many in the West and of my generation and later, the assumption is often such movements were minimal at best.

Letters to Freya helped change that for me.

From the very early letters of this book, von Moltke is opposed to Hitler and the War.  Over the course of his non-arrest life - almost four years August 1939 to January 1944 - he works tirelessly and at great personal risk to push back where he can push back and begins to build a movement - a non-violent one, although it involved military officers - to oppose Hitler.

The names of those he meets with are many.  The editors of the letters do the kindness of identifying them, as well as giving their histories and fates.  A small number survived the war; most were imprisoned, tried before so-called People's Courts, and executed, sometimes up to the ending weeks of the war.

What comes through in his letters is a man of many interests and talents who is thrust into a situation that he did not expect, but does his duty as he sees fit under tremendously difficult circumstances (imagine the modern equivalent of convincing others to push back on a so-called Fuhrer Order from the very top in the modern world merely by force of personality), risking the disapproval of his superiors (and disapproval then meant much more than a sharply worded e-mail) in defense of captured enemy combatants, resistors, ordinary citizens.  He clearly wishes he were back on his beloved estate, thinking on agricultural matters and enjoying his wife and children, but understands that his calling in that time was to be somewhere else, pushing back against the darkness in the position that God had placed him.

Von Moltke was a man of non-violence, at one point in his final letters he notes "Just think how wonderfully God prepared this, his unworthy vessel.  At the very moment when there was danger that I might be drawn into active preparation of a putsch (Ed. note, the 20 July 1944 plot) - it was the evening of the 19th that Stauffenberg came to Peter - that I was taken away, so that I should be and remain free from all connection with the use of violence". 

He then goes on to relate everything else God did to prepare him for his hour in the courtroom:  giving him socialist leanings to remove him from suspicion as a Land owner of interests; humbling him "...as I have never been humbled before, so that I had to lose all pride, so that at last I understand my sinfulness after 38 years, so that I learn to beg for his forgiveness and trust to his mercy; putting him in prison with enough time so that his family can arrange their interests and his earthly thoughts; that he experienced the pain of parting and terror of death and then filling him with love and hope; that he talked with friends to resolve issues and friends escaped; that his case was arranged such that he bore the brunt of the court and not his friends, and that "...your husband is chosen, as a Protestant, to be above all attacked and condemned for his friendship with Catholics, and therefore he stands before Freisler (the presiding jurist of the trial) not as a Protestant, not as a Prussian, not as a German - all this was explicitly excluded in the trial... - But as a Christian and nothing else."

"For what a mighty task your husband was chosen:  all the trouble the Lord took with him, the infinite detours, the intricate zigzag curves, all suddenly find their explanation in one hour on the 10th of January 1945.  Everything acquires its meaning in retrospect, which was hidden. Mami and Papi, the brothers and sister, the little sons, Kreisau and its troubles, the work camps and the refusal to put out flags or belong to the Party or its organizations.  Curtis and the English trips, Adam and Peter and Carlo, it has all at last become comprehensible in a single hour. For this one hour the Lord took all that trouble (emphasis mine)."

---

Letters to Freya is a number works rolled up into one. It is a love story between a man and his wife. It is a history about World War II as seen from the inside of both Germany and government apparatus.  It is a moral work about the art and practice of non-violent protest and building consensus. It is a book about what one tries to build knowing the bottom is falling out of the current paradigm.  It is a religious work about a man and his God and how he served Him.  It is an underground work about living through a sort of occupation.

It is a painfully honest story of a man and his failings and his moral courage.

Would I recommend this book? Without question.  Clocking in at 412 pages, it is perhaps a little long for those that do not enjoy long non-fictional works - but being broken as it is into individuals years and letters, it makes it much easier to read in short chunks.  Even with the helpful footnotes, one can become lost in the names and places.

But the work rewards the reader who sticks with it (or like me, is likely going to need to read it one more time).  Its ending -von Molke's ending - is both tragic and triumphant.  In the end, he wins the ultimate victory after having to pay the ultimate earthly price.  In 38 years, he arguably accomplished more than many do in twice that many years.

A great many people would believe they have moral courage and are resisting evil.  Von Moltke actual did it.  And for that alone, the book is worth your consideration.

Thursday, October 23, 2025

The Collapse CCIX: The Fourth Advent Candle

 21 December 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

Although it seems all too quick to me, we have reached the fourth Sunday of Advent.

Our advent wreath sat in the morning light, its two purple candles and pink candle partial burned with one remaining full purple candle present.

“The Angel candle” said Pompeia Paulina as she lit each one, starting with the earliest candle we had used and working her way around the wreath. It symbolizes love”.

Love, Lucilius.

I have to be honest with you that love, especially under the current circumstances, seems like a very strange word. Yes, of course in one way it matters more – one holds the ones that one loves closer in such circumstances (or in my own, finds them in the midst of such circumstances in order to hold them) – but it seems out of place.

If I think back to when post-apocalyptic was a fiction construct circa the 1950’s to 20XX (when it suddenly was no longer fiction), it was something that almost never appeared. Sure, inevitably (it being fiction and all) there was undoubtedly some sort of underlying love story or unrequited love interest (the hero dying just as they reached The Promised Land), but more often than not there was a great deal of fighting and surviving and traveling across ruined country.

Love – especially love for something or someone that was not specifically within your reach – was a pretty foreign fictional concept.

And yet, I look at a candle reminding me of Love, of a message of love brought by an angel, first to Mary, and then to shepherds in a field (joined by thousands of other angels). And am reminded that such an unconditional love does not change, no matter what our outwards circumstances.

God so loved the world, says the Apostle John, that He sent His only Son, that whoever shall believe in Him should not perish but have eternal life. He loved the world through the Western Collapse of Empire, He love the world through the Religious Wars, He loved the world through calamitous 20th Century that led us to here.

We all remain sinners in need of a Saviour, Lucilius, not matter what our outward circumstances.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

Wednesday, October 22, 2025

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: View From Above

 During our Street Art Tour, our guide took us up in one of the skyscrapers of Phnom Penh - partially to look at an art exhibit, but also partially to get a view of the city.


Phnom Penh, as you might recall, became the capitol of the Khmer Empire in A.D. 1432 following the fall of Angkor Wat.  It served as the capitol until A.D. 1497, when the capitol moved due to ongoing disputes. It was re-established as the capitol in A.D. 1866.


It sits at the confluence of the Tonle Sap and Mekong Rivers.




One of the art displays in the building.  That large picture...


...is made of individual sections of coloured pencil shavings.

Tuesday, October 21, 2025

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Food Tour III

 After the night market, we headed out again in our Tuk-Tuk.


Num Pang, the Cambodian equivalent of Banh Mi.  Delicious.


A variety of meat related dishes:






For dessert, we drove to what was essentially an older couple at the side of a rather busy road.  The old man was scraping out coconut meat from husks.  His wife would stuff them in a roll and pour sweetened coconut milk over them.  This may have been the best thing I had while I was there.


After our meal (we were quite full), one more after dinner drink.


Monday, October 20, 2025

Of Stuff And Three Questions

This past weekend I made my monthly trek back to The Ranch for a house check in and stopping in to various people. My Aunt continues to do well for someone who is undergoing chemo and almost died last year, which is encouraging (and honestly, a major reason for me to continue to go back).  I pulled down a couple of hanging signs The Ravishing Mrs. TB had indicated we should keep.  And stopped by to see Uisdean Ruadh.

Over an Angry Orchard Cider (pretty good stuff!), we chatted about this and that - one of the "this and that" things being, of course, the eventual sale of The Ranch and the high likelihood that the Cabin may no longer be for rent.  He has been working on alternatives and as we discussed those alternatives, he mentioned that he was in the process of organizing and in some cases getting rid of things like books which, although he enjoyed (and has a large collection of paperbacks dating to the 1960's from his father), he simply is not likely to get back to look at again.

---

I have written before on the challenge that I have found and am finding with my relationship with "stuff" in my life, especially after relocating to a small current living arrangement.  1.5 years into that arrangement, I do not know how much "better" I have gotten with it.

Arguably I have managed to "slow down" the incoming amount of things, handy in an era where the cost of things continues to increase, and driven mostly by a combination of time (I really do not have the time of pick up more than I have going on now) and the space to put or do them in.  

But "not bringing more in" does not change the fact of "the amount of things I still currently have".

Part of this as a driving factor is simply the experience with my parents' house, where in the end we essentially had to outsource the getting rid of stuff (after we took what we wanted), partially due to the sheer overwhelming nature of the amount of stuff.  That is not something I would like my heirs to have to deal with.  The other thing - frustrating to me who likes a level of order in things - is simply that I do not like piles and stacks (almost as much as I loathe the idea of too many drawers or closets:  they are just places to put things out of the way to forget them).

---

At some point, assuming all things remain equal and things do not completely fall apart economically, the apartment is a temporary place and we will have a more permanent home somewhere.  And hopefully that home will effectively be "the home" until such a time as I do not need one at all. I would dearly like that relocation to not be a "dumping all the things from here into there" without some kind of forethought as to what stays and what goes.

If the example of my elders is any indication, there is less and less need for "things" beyond the basics of living as one goes.  Things tend to remain because they either have nostalgia value or they are simply not thought of anymore.  My goal is to try to do something a little more than ridding myself of things via inertia.

---

It occurs to me that it might be worth making a goal out of seeing how much I can unburden myself of in a year.  That is not a strong commitment, but it is something worth considering: what if I made a solid commitment to a combination of "Buy Nothing January" for the whole year (or as near as I could) and "Get Rid of as much as I can" over the same period of time?

There are only three questions needed:  Do I use it now?  Will I ever use it?

And the most challenging of all, Am I strong enough to let it go?

Sunday, October 19, 2025

A Year Of Humility (XIL): Depression

 This past week I have been severely out of sorts, with a depression that I have not experienced in some years.

It came on me as I left work for no reason that I could discern. It followed me through at the gym, which was a miserable affair of me doing the "work" I had committed to doing when I showed up, and then completely overcame me when I got home.  Dinner was a lazy affair of comfort food; I was in bed by 2000.

It might seem like an odd topic, humility and depression.  But I think there is value in admitting all of our emotions in the practice of humility. One of them is simply sometimes I get depressed.

Depression has certainly entered the mainstream a great deal more than when I first had to deal with it as a teenager. That is good in that it is both acceptable and okay to say "I am depressed".  I do wonder if it is also bad in the sense that, being something that is commonly batted about, we lose some of the urgency and poignancy that should come along with addressing it. It can become something that we simply go get a prescription for or sign on once a week for our virtual counseling appointment - not there is anything wrong with either of those; what I am concerned about is a familiarity that ultimately ignores the actual condition.

---

One of the things that I have found comforting in my Monday night Men's group (my regular group, not the short-term one I am leading) is the fact that we are incredibly honest about our feelings.  That strikes me as a very unusual thing in the modern world: I am never likely to mention to coworkers that I am in a depression and quite possibly not to family or friends that I speak with occasionally (although my family undoubtedly knows).  It is only in this group that I somehow feel that I can discuss such things.

Why is that? I am not sure, really - in this case these are men that I have known for a little over a year and seen once a week only.  And yet there is a robustness in our conversations, an honesty, that makes such communications possible.

And humility, of course.  It takes a lot of humility in a modern culture that only pushes that things are always okay to be able to admit that they are not.

---

The depression will pass - it always does of course, I have lived long enough to know that "now" is not "forever".  But the humility to admit that I have depression is something I have to remind myself to practice every day. 

After all, I have to remind myself that I am not the only one that does so and that some other person may need the example of someone humble enough to admit their depression to be able to admit their own.

Saturday, October 18, 2025

Life With A And J

One of the things I find myself very grateful for are A the Cat and J the Rabbit.


We have a daily routine now.  After I get up at 0500, I open the door where A the Cat it sitting outside, waiting for me.  We go to the alternative bedroom - really The Rabbit's Room, who am I kidding - and open the cage for J the Rabbit, who will hop out and head to the living room, where she hop around for the better part of an hour until breakfast time.


The same sort of thing happens when I get home from work:  A is standing at the door yowling for all he is worth when I come in.  He gets fed, then J gets her dinner and open cage door where she can run around more or less until it is time for bed.


As I have been more own my own of late than usual, I am grateful that they are here.  They certainly give me something to look forward to coming home to.


(J at her veterinary appointment yesterday for a check up and vaccination. She is in great health and the vet was very happy.)

 

Pets.  We do not really deserve them.

Friday, October 17, 2025

The Pumpkin Spice Season

 It would not be the season of Autumn with the Pumpkin Spice Guinea Pigs:


This is the sort of random silliness we are so desperately in need of.

Thursday, October 16, 2025

The Collapse CCVIII: Full Faith And Credit

 19 December 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

One of the practices Pompeia Paulina and I have been doing on a regular basis is a rotating cycle review of things. We go room by room, storage place by storage place. On the one hand it may seem a bit morbid – after all, we are counting down things like food and other supplies. On the other, it is fairly interesting what memories get randomly triggered by an item.

In this case, it was a silver dollar.

Not just any silver dollar: an 1879 Morgan Silver dollar, likely one of the first silver coins I came into. Its acquisition is burned into my brain.

It happened before the turn of the century, when I was a lowly college student working in my cousin’s convenience store. A kid came in – maybe 18, maybe not, who could tell – with a fistful of coins to buy a pack of cigarettes.

I was used to this: my cousin’s store was on the edge of the “appropriate” part of town, and we had more than our share of experience dealing with ragged bills, piles of pennies and nickels, and grubby food stamps (the first time in my rather innocent middle class life I had seen them). He asked for the cigarettes – likely Camels or Marlboros, that was what everyone smoked – and I started counting out the change.

And there it was: a big, fat, Morgan Silver dollar.

I had the wisdom not to raise a fuss about it, but definitely made sure that it was included in the pile of coins that went into the till. I gave him the cigarettes and shoved back the change. He pocketed it and left; I carefully removed the Silver dollar and replaced it with a paper one from my wallet.

It was in fine condition, a little discolored but not worn, quite likely from a relative’s coin stash that may or may not have known their collectible went up in smoke (as it were). And though I waited, no-one came back looking for it.

This was the first of many silver coins that I acquired over the years of working there and beyond, the results of careful attention paid to change. Over time I acquired a very small hoard, dollars from years past of women with torches walking and quarters and dimes and half dollars with mythical or historical figures on them. Some were worn, some were as good as the day they were coined.

That eventually ran out of course, as I got older and dealt with coins on a less frequent basis and silver coins became a commodity that were sought after; I do not believe I have seen a random silver coin in the last 25 years or more.

I held it there in my hand, feeling the solidity and the weight, watching the light catch the bas relief of the woman’s face. This coin was easily over 100 years old. It was minted, I found out once upon a time, in Philadelphia and was the least valuable of such coins, perhaps fetching 100 times its face value once upon a time. And now it sits here, in a pouch where it is easy to get to if we should need it. As if there was any need for it now.

I cannot eat this coin, Lucilius. I cannot plant it and grow something from it. The bees can make no use of it and the quail cannot nest in it. I could, I suppose, melt it down and make something else out of it. What though? A bullet? We have few werewolves in this part of the world. A piece of art? It is already a piece of art, something far more beautiful in its current form than I could craft myself.

I keep it, as I keep all of my coins, as a hedge against a day where things that are not of direct survival use will have value. If such a day will ever come.

They could be coins from the times of Vikings for all that it matters. Even then they would have no more true “value” than they do now, paperweights and historical markers of an era and economy long gone.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

Wednesday, October 15, 2025

2025 Cambodia And Vietnam: Food Tour II

 What is a tour without the exotic?  In this case, fried insects?





For the record, fried crickets taste like nuts.  Friend grasshoppers, not nearly as good - bitter aftertaste.



We also went to a Night Market.  All kinds of things were offered here.  It was the first time I had seen a wet market.



The fruit selection in Cambodia and Vietnam is a tropical fruit lovers dream.  Jack fruit, in this case.