On Overcharge #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/9e91d3a2f5149d0e6e9e884d6ca29be70d03e27c889d55e8e573428eb7c0920e.jpg https://image.nostr.build/0dfda94fd81b2e1016f10d12d5ee6ea132ca9ef4f6619cfb81878da7e61cc7d0.jpg


On Zero #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/8b7a5b8779dfb2fcd98dff3bbef626c7174a6b4b78255fd545375fc9179960d6.jpg


On Rejection #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/e416bef225aad4dbe116e590413fc625f9b0456979e284840a8865117a690e6f.jpg


On Race #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/0da1df941ccc2fe78e7da7eda6a9267077291e3d817feebc86e9b940e53250dd.jpg


On Nodding #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/c679402eeeaf9d45c199edaaaf496bf1bac3ef5e29d772a55f9166f5ef8eedc3.jpg


On Fear #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/0da8c1303c135943c7b89ed2cfcb04592b54af2c1f1c90883f9644a06e173bd2.jpg


Wow CK. I take it you are posting this not because of your HRF work with Alex Gladstein, but because I have been making reference to my Sudanese heritage in my social media posts. Right? In this case, please help me stop Maysa. That is, if you care about Sudan.


On Ownership #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/2b87ec1e61ef442ef75abb2088f4af973306dddafc32a3df7d667f6b0056ab4a.jpg


On Girls #It'sOn

Fam/friends,

I am forced to create a whole new category of notes to contain these recurring dreams I am having lately with babies and little girls.

The latest features both. I am in an Uber or taxi maybe. But instead of heading home, I get dropped off at a cafe. All of a sudden it doubles as a creche (or nursery for the Americans).

In comes this woman that is juggling a load of babies so big, it is hard to see how she is not dropping a few to the ground as she walks into the cafe. There's a baby carriage in there somewhere but it is covered by babies.

Then, mothers (presumably) rush to get their children and I realize the woman must be their minder. One of the mothers puts her baby down in the baby carriage next to me, but she puts the baby in the under-carriage! I worry so I check on the baby. It is not a baby, it's a stuffed doll!

Incidentally, I saw something similar here in the lift the first days in this building. This young Southeast Asian woman, young in appearance, had a bunch of kids, one in a baby carriage, occupying most of the lift. She had this intense, urgent look going in her face as if she was determined to do something. What, I don't know.

At this point, I am at the cashier and I am getting food. I think to myself, I should watch my spending because I still have no job (true in real life). There a young girl with two pigtails standing with her mother, smiling at me. She comes over in the manner that kids can be precocious and I tell her she has a beautiful smile. I want to tell her she has nice dimples but I get interrupted.

All of a sudden we are playing a typical childhood girl game that I swear is universal the world over. I played it in Sudan and girls in America play it, too.  You clap your hands and "high-five" each other in a set sequence. I forgot the sequence of the hand movements. So I ask the little girl to show me how the game is played.

Instead, as happens only in dreams, I am painting her nails red. Surprisingly, her mom doesn't object or even come over. I don't know where the nail polish materializes from. In real life, I had an enviable collection of nail polish but that got purged. I finish one hand and start only one nail in the second hand. While the polish is drying we are playing the hand-to-hand clapping  game.

They are about to leave and I insist on finishing the second hand. It won't look good otherwise. Her hands are strangely adult-like with long fingernails. I don't finish the second hand. She's gone.

I start to worry about paying for the return Uber. Maybe I should have gone straight home. I console myself that it is the same price since I "split" the trip when I came to the cafe. It is on the way. I wake up.

I am immediately reminded that my first nail polish as a girl, was a gift on my 10th or 11th or 12th birthday. I don't remember which. My mom's friend, Badreia, gave it to me and Mom was upset because I was too young for beauty products. Badreia told my Mom off (kindly) and I kept the polish.

Baderia passed away years ago in the Eighties, apparently because of a contaminated blood transfusion at the local hospital in Abidjan which gave her AIDS. Or so the story goes. I spared a thought for her daughter, Roshan, this morning, growing up without a mother. She seemed to have done well in life living in Canada. Maybe her mother is her guardian angel.

I am reminded that Susan recently wrote she's attending a creative writing class when I first started sharing these emails with you. That is quite the coincidence since I am writing almost daily now. But it is not "creative", it is non-fiction and straight from the heart.

Susan and I had another coincidence when we first met. I baked a marble cake bundt for a special occasion and all of a sudden she became a cake baker overnight, as opposed to her day job as a sub-editor for some medical journal. I even went to Graceland's, our next door cafe, which at the time was newly opened, to lobby on her behalf to sell her cakes. She was too timid to do it. Being an American, I had no qualms about marching up to management and asking if they would consider selling Susan's Babycakes.

Like my dream, there were lots of babies at the cafe, and a little corner that was a play pen. Aymen spent a lot of time there. Susan and I were such fixtures, this other woman, Bronwyn, would make fun of us when she walked in. "Oh, you two", she would say as she waltzed in. She also sold cakes at the cafe. Susan looked down on her, calling her a Woman's Institute lackey. Wait, doesn't Woman's Institute double as WI, as in the state of Wisconsin. You can't make this shit up.

I'm sharing all this with you so that you are under no illusion of what Maysa is doing to me. Do not turn a blind eye. Ignore Maysa's "sorrys", she doesn't mean them. Please stop Maysa from invading my dreams and my life now.

x
Noha


On Form #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/c2aeca502b28a9f74d7cf674e6ddfb6d4b3c73c5dc247cfcdd94ff7b19bafec6.jpg


On Loss #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/2b7358f06355c6a644639a103e104b89f96cf98aa50d0f276001a8e5f9568b09.jpg


On Gardens #It'sOn

Last night I had another weird dream but this time Kamal was in it. Funny that, since we are now divorced, without returns, thanks again to Islam. For those that don't know, in Islam you can't remarry if you divorce "in threes." That is to say, you declare before God that you divorce them by saying it out loud three times and presto, it is done! Never again can you "legally" marry that person. Thanks Sharia law.

I was looking after a little girl (again) but thankfully I was not feeding her. Instead, we went to the garden (a highly inappropriate reference if you catch my drift) next to our house through the connecting door at the bottom of our garden, instead of going around the house. The garden was owned by Yugoslavians and I was impressed that my little girl knew that by reading the sign. I don't remember a sign but there must have been a sign somewhere showing that the Yugoslavians own the garden. How else would she know?

Then we are walking through the garden and the first plant to my right when you open the door is mangos. Kamal's favorite fruit, if you must know. Again, very improper and over my dead body. But we are not in Sudan or India. We are in some western country (not Mexico either.) Kamal is walking ahead of us. The little girl gets dirty from all the garden dirt so I take her back to our house and give her a bath. She is not happy to be in the bath. I also need a bath.

I start to take off my clothes but I am wearing multiple layers, like tights or (stockings if you are American) and strangely enough they are white. I am having a hard time taking them off. It is like they are stuck to my body.  I notice that my white pajama bottom is torn and almost looks like underwear. That's strange because the same ones in real life did tear and I cut off the bottom half. At this point ,I notice I am wearing full pajama pants, also white but are not torn.

I wake up. I remember that my tights in real life are black, of high quality hence expensive, had holes and runs, but I could've still worn them under my clothes. Alas, they are all in the trash because of the purge that happened to me, against my will.

I am compelled to ask you this once again. Please stop Maysa from interfering with my life. I hear her and you shouting, crying, screaming and calling for more time again and again. That is theft, immoral, sinful, heinous, torturous and inhumane. Leave me alone and keep Maysa away from me for good. So help me God.


On Humility #It'sOn

Susan,

You are right. Mental illness/mental health is big these days. Just like diabetes, heart disease, cancer and other types of serious mind and body afflictions. I guess you can call these First World disorders or modernization hazards. Not to poke fun at these. My Dad literally "dropped dead (ok, he was sitting in the back of a Nairobian taxi) because of heart failure (or so we were told. You never know in Africa!) and our life has not been the same since. And I don't mean for the better. Speaking for myself here.

So I don't take any of this lightly. If I am "lashing out" or being "hurtful" I invite you all to question yourselves a bit more. I guess what I am saying is, the sure-ed-ness  you all display with regards to the "fix" or the "solution" is in and of itself the problem for me. That is what is driving me bananas. You dismiss what I am trying to communicate without consideration and it shows.

I wish you would all show some humility, some introspection, some heart (and brain) searching. Maybe Noha is right, maybe she has a point, maybe we missed something, is this situation really about what's wrong with her or what's wrong with me.

One of my favorite authors, Nassim Nicholas Taleb, an American, but French, but Lebanese, said something to the effect of "when someone tells you something you fundamentally disagree with, almost to the point of having an involuntary physical reaction upon hearing, as in it cuts so deep to the core of who you are that your body "hears" it and reacts before your ears, you should ask yourself the following." How could that be true?" To me that is the mark of a "civilized man."

By the way, he's a nutter. A brilliant nutter, but a nutter nonetheless. And he drives people who love him insane. He even alienates his fans. It's uncanny. Apparently his Dad told him if he is not pissing people off, he doesn't matter. If I had to guess, his motto must be something like...I piss people off therefore I matter.

Also, do you have my Florence Lonely Planet guide? I swear you did not return it when I lent it to you in Florence. If yes, it's my book and I want it back. I hate it when people take my things and "forget" to return them. It's a pet peeve of mine.

x
Noha


On Censorship #It'sOn

For the last couple of weeks, I have been posting incessantly. This, after being literally scared to post anything on social media for years now. I even created a family-only feed called Sistagram using text messages, rather posting on Instagram. I thought being on NOSTR is freedom to say whatever I had to say and the flood gates opened. But my posts went missing. They did not show up in the global feed. I was invisible again! I asked Will Damus (like Tim Apple, wink, wink) but no response. No worries, his DMs must be off the charts. I asked Pablo Developer next. He replied double quick. Good man. In the end, The Daniel helped me. He doesn't know that though. I swear his profile used to say Maybe Daniel. Anywho.  I used his profile to scrape some data, namely more relays. I was only connected to 4, now I have 13. That worked! There is nothing more satisfying in life than solving a problem that's been vexing you for some time. Nothing. Now, how do I solve a problem like MyFamily? IYKYK. Actually tell me. Because I don't know.


On Math #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/5e629276db166dc3d1f0db2ed9b93e24606ee34a88827c403118df5b4739709f.jpg


On NOSTR #It'sOn

I nostr, therefore I am https://image.nostr.build/773418e390cb0c4585a0ff83eaa96fb71dd547dd1dade4691dd6b5d5ee41a09e.jpg


Hello Nostr


On Iran #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/c6c8be15f7805a245b811f67b24903c23a96f9d3f1c0f3fa2b4ad93ef83556f2.jpg


True


On Suicide #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/3f755c4bc5ed0bb1e037b4bfb5bd8e4158ce146a4d1e43c665a8e6a769e5e5ea.jpg https://image.nostr.build/031144a9772c67e876afff6389f015c8965e1bb75c74adac48288f1f8bdc1684.jpg


Jupiter


On Disgrace #It'sOn

Of course. Is he still held down by the woman who was  "into him" but he was "not that into her" until his "disgrace a la Coetzee-like" moment as a professor, complete with a young chica of Indian descent (if not an outright citizen of India), then lost his family, job, moved to London and finally succumbed to said woman and let her have him because she wanted him soooooo bad? You mean, that guy? Is he still taking atmospheric black and white pictures at cafes drinking coffee and posting them on Instagram? I am still waiting for him to take my pictures like he promised. Most importantly, does he still support Arsenal? Otherwise, I don't know him from Adam!
----------------

On Thu, Nov 23, 2023 Susan wrote:
Do you remember Fraser?


On Depression #It'sOn

Good morning, good afternoon, and good night,

Both Susan and Yeune reached out today. I will "hit two birds with one stone." Thanksgiving Day joke 😂😂🤣🤣

First, we agree Susan. I am not well. No irony, just truth.

Second, I disagree with the solution, antidepressants. Also, just because millions upon millions of people take them (you included?) doesn't make them the right course of action.

As I said to Sulafa during our phone conversation several nights ago, I would like to fix the problem at the core, fundamental level, as opposed take a "feel good" drug that "dulls the pain" but cures nothing.

I am in search of the "engineering solution" not the "science fad". Think about that the next time you operate heavy machinery. With camouflages, the problem is not addressed, rather it is hidden from view. Like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand, out of sight, out of mind. That plane won't fly. That car won't drive. If engineers practiced problem-solving like doctors nowadays practice medicine, we would be extinct already. Darwin prizes galore!

If you actually do love me and not virtue signaling, then you can start by being honest and truthful, not gaslighting into a corner for the purposes of doing your bidding. That's not love, last I checked. It's hate.

x
Noha
---------------
If kindness is not a British value…

shall I be (brutally) honest then, instead?

You are not well. That much is obvious. And you need meds.
No, I’m not there, but I don’t need to see you to come to that conclusion.

Mental illness is something we are all now encouraged to be more open about so I’m pointing at the elephant in the room.

Do you think I think I’m entirely sane? Or happy? Few of us are. Practically half the people I know are on antidepressants.

So, I’m sending you love and the above IS one way of reaching out to you..   now, THAT is an American phrase I really can’t bear but everyone here is saying it now.. and in this instance it sounds like the right thing

Xxxx


On Language #It'sOn

Yeune,

You will forgive me for replying and including the "group." It matters greatly that they see and hopefully read my email as a primary source and not as here-say.

First, thank you for actually responding to my email and breaking the silence. Second, thank you for complimenting my writing ability. I can try to be self-deprecating and say it's nothing but I would be disingenuous and therefore a hypocrite. Third, let me address the content of your reply, the fact that "them/they/their" is the new gender neutral, hence diplomatic way of "speaking."

My view is that it is a question of language, not identity. Identity is complicated. Most of us, if we are honest, don't understand our own identity with all the complexities of inner human lives, let alone the environment we are immersed in. But language is a tool that is very much needed and useful for communication with others. Like a measuring stick, it needs to hold steady and true otherwise it will take us on a wrong direction or get us lost in outer space. Like a map that is no longer an accurate representation of the territory it purports to mirror, language cannot work if the veracity of its vocabulary is in question.

With this in mind, the use of the words "them", "they", and "their" is reserved for the use of multiple individuals, not singular. As someone who suffered through grade school grammar classes (and I mean suffered since English was my second language), trying to "monkey with" the definition and hence usage of words is the INSANITY. That is how you hijack the minds of sane individuals and render them brain dead, unable to synthesize for themselves any original thought, let alone meaning, in their lives. It is the weaponization of language as the last vestige of a free society commiserate with western values and ideals.

Now, I want to point out the fact that most of us in this group hail from "non-western" backgrounds, you included Yeune of South (and North) Korea. Such is the draw of the western way of living that our ancestors left their homeland in search for freedom and peace of mind. To stand idle while supposedly good people whittle away at our core existence through the weaponization of everything we hold dear and abandon ship in the name of "equality, diversity, inclusion, humanity" is the penultimate evil and heinous act.

Who in his/her right mind would argue with wanting to be a good person? And that's how they "imprison" you. That is the heart of the matter. They, the people doing these evils, are counting on your ego and desire for goodness to provide them with clear passage, as they trample all over our freedom and humanity. Apparently, the devil's favorite sin is vanity. That's how they win and good people lose. Through your vanity, not humility.

You have children, girls no less. This matters. It matters so much if you want to leave them a sane world, better than the one we had. Turning a blind eye to those who seek to "divide and conquer" through language is downright wrong. Fight back. The  proper usage for a singular individual is she/he not "they." Hold people accountable for the way they speak because it is a slippery slope. I seem to recall a good friend of mine who corrected her French lecturer at UW-Madison because he/she kept using the word "excite" incorrectly and she experienced some backlash from said lecturer for embarrassing him/her in front of the class. What a brave chick! I wonder what happened to her. We need more people like her. Because once we are lost, we will never be found again. That, my friend, is the true tragedy.

I am not "them/they/their" because I am one person,
Noha


On Integrity #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/c1ab208547ddea83c96330f5bfc2479a1e29da7a53b0b4c9b9aa3c6603619d38.jpg


On Feminism It'sOn

Fam,

I am ready to present Crazy Story #4 The Case of the Weird Dreams.

To be fair, dreams are, by definition, weird, if you are lucky enough to remember them upon waking. But, these dreams are EXTRA weird.

Last night, I dreamt that I was admiring Susan's new house in London. Not a flat, not a terraced house. No, nothing like that. It was non-terraced, big, Victorian style house with crazy high, stone steps, leading up to the front door. In fact, at one point, the real estate agent, in flat, black leather boots, similar to ones I used to own for years (oversized Campers bought in Georgetown, last ones in the store, a gift from Kamal), quickly saved me by grabbing my hand and holding me steady when I almost slipped and fell from the top step. It would've been bad, so disaster averted.

At the time, I was asking him about the difference between the house closing procedures in the UK vs. the US. By the way, in real life, I have participated in both house closing procedures, but in this dream I only remembered the American one for 2 Schoenemann Court, which felt like I was a "condemned man" with all the signatures I was asked to make.  Anyways, the agent seemed particularly pleased with that question, but rather than answer it, he called on an apprentice (I think), a black, overweight, but nice-looking woman at the bottom of the stairs, standing in the front garden. He wanted her to come over to us and answer the question, in a bid to further her knowledge. I never got the answer. Instead, we found ourselves inside the house, with Susan proudly showing us her renovations on the house.

This is the bit that is super strange. First, it is nothing like Susan would ever, not in a million years, go for. The sitting room with big windows that look out to the street, is all wallpapered in the craziest colours. English spelling, of course. I remember reds, yellows and orange. It was best described as psychedelic, seventies style, decor. Then it blends in seamlessly with the kitchen which sits smack center in the middle of the sitting room, with another crazy wallpaper that clashes big time with the sitting room's wallpaper. This time the colours were blues and purples. Susan opted for a built-in sofa, but it is not a sofa. It is a series of little (and I mean miniature) wooden stools with pillows on top for sitting. More clashing colours. It looked
uncomfortable, the wall doubling as a "back cushion". The sitting area faced a nook where you would expect a TV (sorry, the tele). But instead, there was a minty green cabinet, of questionable quality. Definitely old, used. Maybe an antique of oriental origins?  On closer look, the cabinet door is open and it is empty inside. I think to myself, eventually she will get a tele and put it on top of the cabinet. There's enough wall space for a TV screen.

At this juncture of the dream I get envious or maybe even jealous. I think to myself, how lucky Susan is to have this nice, big, standalone house to herself. The neighbors will wonder about a woman living on her own in such a house. Then, things got weirder still. My mom is suddenly there, standing next to me in the sitting room. One thing I forgot to say earlier (I am too lazy to go back and correct the story) is when I first entered the house, I was so bawled over by how nice it is, I said out loud to Susan, I am moving in. She ignored me and set her face in a foreboding expression as if to say "hell no."

But somehow my family is involved in the purchase of this house. My mom and I are expecting to live there! I start planning my Mom's routine in my mind. Definitely daily walks in the neighborhood for her health, even if her age is advanced. If she was sturdy enough to fly from the US to London, why not daily walks. I look over at her standing there and I think, she's strong enough to walk. She needs to lose weight for her health. Maybe a weight loss pill will help with that. There's the problem of losing weight too quickly and the resulting sagging skin. I will have to monitor her weight loss carefully. The walking will help with that. She will be too skinny to fit her lovely clothes. My mom is quite stylish, you know. I will put them in black, plastic trash bags and save them in the trunk of the car that's parked on the street, a white, station wagon type car. I won't donate them to charity, that will upset her to lose her clothes even if they don't fit anymore. We will buy her new clothes that fit well. She will look good. Almost like a younger woman!

By the way, this idea of "helping my mom lose weight to the point that she looks good, even desirable" has come up before in my daydreams and "night" dreams, many, many times. Why that's something I care about or want for my mother, is beyond my comprehension.

Back to this dream. Half the house is owned by Susan because that was her contribution to the purchase of the house, half is ours, the Simsaas, split amongst the four of us sisters, Noha, Maysa, Sarah and Sulafa. When Susan dies, I, Noha, will live in the house. I will inherit it because Susan will pass her half on to me, not her big family with all her nieces and nephews. I will own the 50% Susan gave me, plus my quarter ownership from the Simsaa half. If I can get the money, I can "buy out" my three sisters and own the house fully.

Then when I die, I think I imagined Sulafa is next in line to live there.  Not Aymen, weirdly enough. It was a "woman thing." Only older, single women allowed. There's no Kamal, Nick or Chris. Just us women but Sarah doesn't feature for some reason. I think at that point I woke up.

There were other weird dreams whose details I can't quite remember. One thing that I do remember from another dream, is Kamal and I working for the same company, maybe even Booz Allen. It's unclear whether or not we are married. That's it.

Crazy story, right? Are you guys and gals ready to "wake up" yet lol.


On Stalking #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/564651e9717e836636729a70c337f8dedec00ade57a1dfcd7c89f4e5a6b70ff8.jpg https://image.nostr.build/6a8c903a8d23fb074982a509f2363b76c4c06d20eeda82ee81dbc0dea6fa0862.jpg


On AI #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/1d8e7a89ca5934f595c50662beba6d834de28b43dd68664042e37979f4f11d95.jpg https://image.nostr.build/965b0678479ee77ab8b697c1017314d3dee133e89667d5d457e2e26652715124.jpg


On Honesty #It'sOn

Happy Sunday. I thought it might interest you to know that I was "reunited" with a college friend whom I haven't talked to for decades. She called me on Friday and we talked for a long time. It was remarkable because our conversation was easy and full of asides. I told her that was the hallmark of true friendship, that we are able to "pick up where we left off" given the sheer number of years since we last connected. At some point we talked about family and she had an uncanny insight into what I was going through. It was as if she knew exactly why it is you all are behaving so strangely. Which is why I decided to write this. She said something to the effect of my sisters can't help me. She said that my sisters are no longer part of my community, but she is. My sisters are unable to help me because they are trying to be like me, because they put me on a pedestal and they want to reach the pedestal also. She made it seem like you guys are ruthless about being able to get to the top. But I countered that I'm not that special, that my sisters are wrong about me, if they put me on a pedestal. I also told her that getting to the top requires bravery, as in true bravery, not "faking it." Which is to say, it requires authenticity. But she was insistent that at least for a while, my sisters cannot be there for me no matter how sad that is. This reminds me of something Mona said when Sulafa and I took her out for a birthday dinner at RPM in DC. I was asking them why it is I am unable to buy a house even though I have secured mortgages a few times but for some reason I couldn't get to the closing. What was the trick since both Sulafa and Mona bought houses. They seemed uninterested in my question, and at some point, Mona turned to me and said plainly, "they can't help you." To this day I don't know what she meant by that. Did she mean my family, did she mean the table next to us, because all of a sudden a girl from that table got up to stand between our tables, eerily close to me, kicked her leg out to pose dramatically for a photograph. She was impossibly tall but I dared not look at her face. Anyways, I thought it was important to "share" this finding with you. I keep being accused of "lashing out" because I am sending the group these emails. The truth is, these emails are the opposite of lashing out; I am providing you with visibility and disclosure with regards to the "behavior" of others. That is not lashing out but full honesty. Do with it as you deem fit.


On Geneva #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/b3dea58759cddae666e43110607962b682c30eee7633c8d4808cc2e5d75fc859.jpg


On Journalism #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/4edb3ada3e1122dc3202be1b2031cec68d1e8cf1b01d2bcf4edb1497e25795cd.jpg


On Seeing #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/c063df5b36ce63b39efab958214afb99402e83cb84ec1aa5d2f7f462e45d7c24.jpg


On Phishing #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/c1d01b80b06bb07c92852d2a39c9f861080433ed6fc9e3bc1419294f14e135ff.jpg


On Immorality #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/2b463373761ac8c1215b0a6622198ccc6acdc3b670caf4abc3b6a6dfd49653a1.jpg


On Fake News #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/d00af4ca27eb821627508853b26683c8bfc2207f2c408f20e464e78f1e093613.jpg


Message to the Unwise https://image.nostr.build/f0058c90b987c916ae892546c71eeef28370dc8439388797db0926ec3998a7f5.jpg


On Dreams #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/5463ef5f201cdeffda95c2d390fef259ebc87fa4dfcb2744a4c2ee8095201d2d.jpg


Calling Kenya and Botswana #MaysaSpotting https://image.nostr.build/1b7a4cffa1178803312f5c4b878b3e3d07bcab53c1a37e635afbf7dd8211b828.jpg


Phoenix Wallet is a Shitcoin https://image.nostr.build/5b0f07f58b4fe528025a231ee27473fbf342d98f82873980c889baef1cb87203.jpg


Where's my sats?


On Sanity #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/eec8b63161f146597b678de9d4053fdb29be5212b90a063632b865f182b5a21c.jpg


White


On Madness #It'sOn https://image.nostr.build/aa778c6eee9afefbbefc76b16ab735be2476416bb2be30ab33e02b59343e3211.jpg


The Wire, hands down.


On Divorce #It'sOn

On Divorce

One of my favorite stories that I like to reference is when Prince Charles, at that time, was bethrothed to Diana Spencer. There's a famous news clip of the young couple, probably the BBC, with a reporter asking Diana about being in love. Diana shyly answers "of course" but Charles in a moment worthy of an impending Shakespearean tragedy, says, "whatever that means." I remember his answer so well because it resonated so much for me. I, too, am skeptical of love. What does love mean? Is it a wish upon the stars? Does it come with sexual urges? Is is content with mere presence or proximity to the object in question? Or does it want to narrow the gap and press so close to one's heart's desire so as to create a vacum so air tight that one is joined together with the other like a freak of nature? And if that is love, why does it end, sometimes so abruptly like a bad French movie. Maybe I should say, a typical French movie. No disrespect intended, I love French cinema. Maybe this piece should be titled, "On Love." But that's for another day. Anyways, my point is, if ever there was a man who knew for sure what love is, it's Prince Charles. His patient wait to be reunited with his love Camilla is worthy of a Jane Austen novel, an English writer I have never been compelled to read. First comes love, then comes marriage, we are told. I told myself, I loved Kamal. I comforted myself by using my intellect to conclude that it must be love. Like a mathematical proof. I want therefore I love. He was perfect on paper. He was made just so, like a bespoke men's suit straight out of Saville Row. Smugly, I congratulated myself for not falling hopelessly in love, but being awake and alert. Unlike those silly girls, I will maintain who I am within the sanctity of my marriage. I will guard my integrity and defend it to the end. It was less marriage and more akin to war. Not the civil kind, but a revolution. I mustn't be colonized, bullzoed over, I told myself. That's what my husband loved about me. My identity, my personhood. With our domains established and our levels set, we communicated on an even plane. I told him the best thing about us is how well we argued. It was coherent. We had logical flow. While fighting, I was also out-of-body, observing the fight and judging it. Call it quantum fighting with me as the observer of our double split entangled waves. Will the fighting couple harmonize into one with me as the observer? Will the experiment hold?  To be fair, our arguements were heated. We were, and still are, both proud, stubborn and strong-willed characters. Often times, I was brought to tears. My husband coined the phrase "using all your intelligence" for when I stretched myself to prove like a lawyer fighting a hopeless case all the while knowing her client is innocent, that I was right and he was wrong. Because of all our regular battles (I blame Britain), he knew me so well and I knew him like the back of my hand. Now that we are divorced, I realize there's so much they don't tell you. Whomever, the proverbial "they" are. Even when you are divorced for the right reasons, and it was the best course of action, there's so much pain. Having invested all this time and effort, fighting, loving, hurting, comforting, it is like a well-honed muscle that has withered, atrophied. I miss having someone who knows me so well. Someone who knows what I am not saying but thinking, feeling. I miss telling him my weird but wonderful stories without expounding into the context, the premise to set it up. I am not some exotic bird whose life story defies logic. To him, I made sense and he just understood. And he appreciated me like I wanted to be seen. Who has the energy to build up another life from scratch? To tell the same stories, share the same quirks? Learn his likes, dislikes, his being, his essence all over again? And most importantly, fall in love. Well and truly in love. Whatever that means.


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Hey Nostr. I am unable to send funds out of my Phoenix wallet. It keeps crashing when I try to prepare the transaction and type in the miner fee. Anyone know how to fix it? Already reached out to the Phoenix team to no avail.


Today I topped up my Vitamin D reserves thanks to a bright and warm sun in the sky. That's a good day in my book.


Good morning Plebs. Happy Zapping!


Hello Nostr