I have been quiet lately. Not because I have nothing to say. Because I have been listening—to myself, to my life, to the direction things are moving.
And the direction is clear.
For years, this blog has been a place for me to share my thoughts, my experiences, and my observations. It has been a meaningful part of my journey. I have connected with people I would never have met otherwise. I have learned from you. I have grown.
But the blog served a purpose. And that purpose is ending.
I have been running a directed and focused affirmation campaign for some time now. Not the kind you see in motivational posters. A real one—a focused, intentional alignment of my actions, thoughts, and intentions toward a new reality. I am not leaving anything behind. I am moving toward something.
My life is shifting.
New responsibilities.
New priorities.
New opportunities.
The old frequency basin is no longer the one I inhabit. I am embracing a new one—one that requires my full presence, my full attention.
So I will be scaling back this blog over the coming months. I will still post from time to time, but not as often. Not as regularly. Eventually, I will stop posting altogether. The blog will remain up for a while, but I will no longer be adding new content.
If there is anything you want to keep—any post, any story, any resource—please save it now. I will leave things up for a while, but I cannot say how long.
The timer is set, and it’s ticking away.
This is not a goodbye. Not yet. It is a change of course. It is a redirection.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for being here. It has meant more to me than I can say.
When I was really young, perhaps from 4 to 7 years old, I would sneak out of my bed, and sneak down to the bottom of the stairs. My mother and siblings would be asleep, but my father would be sitting there alone in front of the television set. the only light being the television screen and a low watt bulb of a corner lamp.
This was in the early 1960’s and he would watch the show of that era. Which included The Man from U.N.C.L.E. and The Prisoner. I really didn’t understand what was going on but I enjoyed the time with him.
He would always be drinking a glass of Matuse red wine, and eating sardines, and cheese. Sometimes olives and crackers. And of course, I would eat some as well.
These moments might not sound like much, but they mattered to me. Most of the time I had to fight for attention from my siblings, but that moment was a treasure because that was the time that my dad and I got any time alone together.
And yeah. Sure it was a flickering black and white television show, and sardines. But it was our time, and today it is a treasured moment.
A moment that I will never forget.
Today…
What would happen if the US Delta Force try to overthrow Chinese President Xi Jingping just like what they’d done to President Maduro of Venezuela?24 more answers
Venezuela is a small country. Caracas, the capital of Venezuela, is only a dozen kilometers from the coastline.
A CH-47 Chinook helicopter, with a speed of approximately 280 kilometers per hour, can take Delta Force troops launched from the USS Ford aircraft carrier to the Venezuelan presidential palace in less than 10 minutes. Because the coastline is very close to the presidential palace, Delta Force was able to quickly kidnap Maduro and then withdraw.
But do you know how big China is?
Many flights from Europe enter China’s airspace via Xinjiang.
Some planes announce: “We’ve entered Chinese airspace…”
At that moment, passengers from certain tiny European countries start preparing to disembark.
LOL, give me a moment to laugh.
Five hours later, the plane finally lands in Beijing…
Beijing is not located by the sea.
Even when flying from the Bohai Bay via Tianjin to Beijing, a CH-47 Chinook helicopter would need at least half an hour to an hour to reach Beijing.
The CH-47 Chinook helicopters carrying Delta Force would have been destroyed long ago during such a long flight, and the Delta Force would have long since gone to hell to meet Satan.
Moreover, the Bohai Sea is China’s inland sea, and US warships simply cannot enter it. 🤣
Regarding special operations forces
U.S. special forces are divided into three levels:
The most elite special forces, such as Delta Force and SEAL Team Six, are T1 level, mostly composed of elites selected from T3 level special forces; they are responsible for carrying out the most challenging special operations missions globally and report directly to the Joint Special Operations Command.
T2 level, such as the U.S. Rangers and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, are elite units primarily responsible for supporting special forces operations or directly confronting enemy regular forces. The helicopters that carried Delta Force troops to capture Maduro belonged to the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.
The U.S. Green Berets and Navy SEALs belong to T3 level, primarily carrying out operational missions within the theaters of command of each service’s special operations command.
China’s special forces are shrouded in mystery. The limited information you have cannot even represent the most elite units of the PLA; you may have never even heard of them.
However, Chinese and American special forces once faced off. The confrontation between Chinese and American special forces during the Erna Raid (Estonian: Erna retk) was unexpected: Chinese special forces defeated the US Navy SEALs with a decisive 3-0 victory in three matches.
Erna Raid – Wikipedia
International military exercise and competition in Estonia This article needs to be updated . Please help update this article to reflect recent events or newly available information. ( September 2016 ) Competitors conducting a beach landing exercise Erna Raid ( Estonian : Erna retk ) was an annual international military exercise and competition, one of the longest and most difficult in the world, held every August from 1995 to 2011 in Estonia . It was organized by the Erna Society and commemorates the actions of the long-range reconnaissance group ‘Erna’ in the summer of 1941. [ 1 ] The competition is named after the Erna long-range reconnaissance group ( Estonian : Erna luuregrupp ) and themed after its activities in the summer of 1941. In 1993, a group of enthusiasts followed the historical route of the Erna group of 1941 and came up with the idea of organizing a commemorative competition. A first try with only Estonian participants was held in 1994. In the autumn of 1994, the Erna society was founded, and in 1995, the first annual international competition was held. The traditional parts of the competition were: landing, in rubber boats , onto a “hostile” shore; cross-country tactical movement and navigation, without night camp down, over a distance of around 150 kilometers while avoiding and escaping from “hostile” security forces; various (and varying over the years) minigames during the competition. These may involve grenade throwing, combat first aid, and other military skills. Foreign teams were always welcome to partake in the competition. In 2007, 28 teams from nine countries participated: Estonia (18 teams), the Czech Republic (one), Denmark (one), Finland (two), Germany (one), Norway (two), Portugal (one), Sweden (one), and the United States (one), of which Portugal and the Czech Republic are newcomers. Teams from the United Kingdom participated in earlier years (most recently, a British Territorial Army team in 2006), but only observed in 2007. A team from Cyprus also observed. Teams from the People’s Republic of China were traditionally successful in the competition and took 1st and 2nd place in 2002. Other successful teams came from Finland and Norway. Due to the home advantage attributed to the intimate knowledge of the terrain by the local teams, changes to the competition were discussed in 2011. [ 2 ] In 2013, the competition was renamed the Admiral Pitka Recon Challenge after the Estonian War of Independence hero Johan Pitka and is now held in different locations throughout Estonia each year. [ 3 ] The table below records the final results for the year’s competition. It does not include retired and disqualified teams. DL is the acronym for the Defense League. Position 2011 2010 2009 2008 2007 2006 2005 2004 2003 2002 2001 2000 1999 1st Scouts Battalion DL Põlva DL Tartu 1 DL Tartu 2 Reserve Officers Reserve Officers Scouts Bat. 1 Scouts Bat. 2 Finland 2 China 2 DL Järva Border Guard Border Guard 2nd Kirde KRK Scouts Battalion D
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erna_Raid
Of course, the Erna raid was just an annual international military exercise and competition and does not reflect actual combat capabilities.
It is normal for the outside world to be unable to determine the true combat capabilities of Chinese special forces, and even we cannot learn about them from domestic Chinese media. They are secret units and will not appear in any news reports.
Everyone Warned Us About This Cat — Except With My Husband
https://youtu.be/RhYWQm2pTY8
10-Minute Parmesan Zucchini Pasta Salad
Do me a favor and pretend zucchini is actually pasta in this salad recipe. I know it sounds pathetic, but it’s not sad at all. You’ll get used to it and will have some extra nutrients and stable blood sugar after lunch or dinner, whenever you decide to make the “pasta salad”. That’s great. Besides, the “sauce” is made with Parmesan, olive oil, dill and garlic. So, how bad can this raw zucchini pasta salad with Parmesan dressing really be? Not bad at all, I’m telling you.
I know I said raw. Last year I learned you can eat zucchini raw, like a cucumber pretty much.
And after a few panic attacks that I’m poisoned, now I almost believe it.
Okay, I’ve eaten raw zucchini over 20-30 times already. It’s good. It tastes like nothing. I’m telling you, it’s pasta.
I’m so invested, that I even bought a small hand spiralizer to make more zucchini salads. However, I’m still using the peeler, because I find it easier to do and prettier to look at.
So here’s how you make dinner tonight:
Add Parmesan, olive oil, lemon juice, fresh herbs, garlic, some salt and pepper to a small blender and blend until creamy.
If needed add a tbsp or so of water.
I used the nut grinder attachment of my food processor. The quantities aren’t enough for more than one person and also for a big blender. So use a small one. Or double, triple the recipe, do some math in your head, don’t use a calculator or AI.
Wash the zucchini and using a peeler, peel it into ribbons. Don’t stop till you get enough. Or until you get to the seeds. Use the seeds in other recipes if you want to. Not this one.
Then put the pasta onto a plate, pour the sauce over it and top with cherry tomatoes and cucumbers.
You can also put some extra Parmesan, salt and black pepper, dill or even capers for extra flavor.
We only grow the light green zucchini, so that’s what you’re seeing. Ignore the green color if it’s going to make you a better actor, imagining this is pasta.
Yield: 1
10-Minute Parmesan Zucchini Pasta Salad
5.0 Stars (1 Review)
Keep your blood sugar stable and your taste buds happy after lunch or dinner with this easy Parmesan zucchini pasta salad!
Prep Time10 minutes
Total Time10 minutes
Ingredients
1 zucchini, ribboned, no seeds
2 tbsp olive oil
Handful of fresh herbs – I used dill, basil would be lovely
2 garlic cloves
3 tbsp Parmesan cheese
Crushed black pepper and salt
2 tbsp lemon juice (add to taste – I juiced a ⅓ of a lemon)
1 tbsp water, or as needed to blend
handful of cherry tomatoes
cucumbers
Optional: capers or olives
Instructions
Add Parmesan, olive oil, lemon juice, fresh herbs, garlic, some salt and pepper to a small blender an blend until creamy. If needed add a tbsp or so of water.
I used the nut grinder attachment of my food processor. The quantities aren’t enough for more than one person and also for a big blender. So use a small one. Or adjust the recipe to however many servings you want to make. You can make more and save it in the fridge too.
Wash the zucchini and using a peeler, peel it into ribbons. Don’t stop till you get enough. Or until you get to the seeds. Use the seeds in other recipes if you want to. Not this one.
Then put the pasta onto a plate, pour the sauce over it and top with cherry tomatoes and cucumbers. You can also put some extra Parmesan, salt and black pepper, basil or even capers for extra flavor.
Sakura whirled round at the sound of familiar footsteps, to see her closest friend, Yuto, running towards her – chased by the Restriction, which were only a few metres behind him. She opened her mouth to say something before realising that what she wanted to ask, What’s happening? – or more accurately, Why are they trying to get you? – wasn’t one of her speech options. She made do with a surprised open of her eyes accompanied by a questioning raise of her eyebrows.Thankfully, Yuto understood what she was trying to say. He pointed to his mouth and made a cross with his hands as he ran past her, the Restriction drones still chasing him with their antennae flashing red.Sakura turned and began running beside him, unsure of what else she should do.No. Yuto couldn’t mean… he couldn’t have said a non-option word. Sakura shook her head and mimed the gesture for Try again. He must have forgotten or misused a gesture – but he couldn’t have. They’d practised non-verbal communication together for hours in case they wanted to tell each other something that wasn’t a speech option. He had learnt the signs faster than she had. He couldn’t have made a mistake.Sure enough, Yuto repeated the communication with the same gestures. There was no doubt about it – he had said a non-option word. Why had he been so stupid, when he was normally so careful?Sakura mimed Thinking before outwardly shutting herself off. Her legs kept running beside him as if on auto mode as she considered what to do about the situation.After a moment of hard thinking, she snapped out of it and winced. She’d made her decision. It would be painful for both of them, but it was best. With shaky movements, she told him to stop running.
An expression of panic took over Yuto’s face. Not you too? he gestured.
You know I’d never do that, she mimed, hurt. I meant, they’re going to get you eventually. She pointed to the still-following Restriction, who were visibly catching up. They’ll force less time on you if you stop running now and try to look sorry for the word.
Yuto laughed bitterly. Sakura winced again – had he forgotten their mind-chips monitored any noise out of their voice-box, not just words?
It was more than a word, Yuto gestured.
Oddly enough, this didn’t surprise Sakura. She knew Yuto well enough to know that if he lost his caution, he lost it completely.
What was it, then? she asked. A sentence?
I’ll tell you when I get out. And Yuto stopped running.
It only took a small wave from her friend to make Sakura run on. She looked back with apprehension as the Restriction gathered around Yuto and separated his atoms to prepare him for the travel to his cell. She shook the word cell out of her head – it was safest not to use dangerous terms, in case they came out. They weren’t taking him to a cell. They were taking him to… a holding centre, so they could talk to him, make sure he didn’t want to start a rebellion. They might tie him up. Test him, hurt him, warp his senses and thoughts to muddle him, make him go almost insane, to force him to give them the answers they wanted, even though he couldn’t even give them since he didn’t know anything.
She paused. Took a deep breath. Worrying wouldn’t help her. It wouldn’t help either of them.
Before reaching home, she came across her older brother. She started, and ran towards him with a smile on her face. She hadn’t seen Kazuya for days, and she’d began to be scared in case her brother had been taken. It was an irrational fear, she knew, given Kazuya’s perfect conformance record, but it didn’t stop her worrying.
She waved, mentally selecting the second ‘informal’ speech option. “Hi Kazuya!”
Kazuya smiled back at her. “Hi.”
Sakura searched her options for something that would get her message across, finally settling on the eighth. “How have you been?”
“I left on a business trip,” her brother replied almost instantly. Sakura envied his swiftness at choosing options – but then again, she would rather be herself, a slower-speaking individual, than him, a conformist who lived entirely on the Restriction’s rules. She pushed the thoughts away; she loved him, despite what the Restriction had turned him into. She did.
There was an awkward silence as Sakura searched the options for something appropriate for the occasion. “I’ve missed you,” she said awkwardly, at last.
“I’ve missed you too.” It was said automatically, as if it was the only speech option. As if it was a necessity, not a choice.
What if he’s been fully turned? Sakura thought as her brother walked away. She stiffened. What had she just thought? What if…
It was a beautiful pair of words, when she thought about it. But she’d never thought about it before, because she’d never thought it before. What if… It was an exciting sentence fragment. Could I… There was another one. Something in the back of her brain told her these were questions, but they weren’t like any questions she’d ever asked before.
Now she knew.
Her mind whirred as she made her way home. On recognising her mind-chip, her front door slid open. She walked through it, barely noticing the slight delay in its closing time.
Up in her room, she forced her mind onto her chip. She’d practised it so many times with Yuto. It had to work.
Focus. Focus on the chip. On its functions, on its existence. She repeated it like a mantra for an agonising minute before, finally, she felt something snap.
It hurt. It hurt as if part of her brain had been set on fire, but she remained steadfast, not allowing her thoughts to sway from the chip. When the fire died, she opened her eyes. She hadn’t even realised they were closed.
She knew the best way to test if the split from her chip had worked. There were no speech options when she was alone, so all she needed to do was say something. Anything would prove her chip had been successfully disconnected.
She opened her mouth. “Sakura.”
The code-word activated her bedroom’s hidden room – a safe place to hide anything she didn’t want the Restriction to find. The wall slid aside and slid back once she had entered.
Inside the room, lay a simple wooden desk, with a crude wooden chair in front of it. Sakura dropped into it thankfully. She rummaged through the vintage drawers and finally drew out a battered, crumpled piece of paper. She paused for a moment to enjoy the memory of her father that always came with the sight of that paper. He’d spent his last year teaching her to write so she could eventually use it, but he’d never told her what she would do with it. The most he’d said was that she would have to learn for herself if she wanted it to be useful.
With What if… readily in her mind, she knew what to do. She knew why the Restriction executed those who knew how to write. Knew why they gave everyone speech options instead of letting them talk how they wanted to. And best of all, she knew how to free herself from their bonds.
Gently, she placed the ragged paper on the desk and smoothed it out with one hand, using her other to search the drawer for a pencil – another of her father’s forbidden items. She placed it on the desk beside the paper, and took a deep breath. This was it. She could – she would – write, and she knew what to write.
She picked up the pen. Positioned it between her fingers the way her father had instructed. Bent down to the paper, and began.
The man with the black tattoo lettering on each side of his neck reading 24731-JAM, known to his small circle of friends simply as “Jam”, awoke at the same time that he did every day. The clock on the wall read 06:00 but that was a purely arbitrary number that simply signified when the strobing fluorescent overhead lighting and the piercing audible alarm would simultaneously activate, ending his all-too-brief daily respite from the sweat and the toil and the tedium of his waking hours.He sat up, cleared his throat slightly, took a sip of bottled water and then rolled off the padded sleep platform onto his feet and took the two short steps necessary to smack the red button on the wall directly below the clock to deactivate the morning alarm and set the overhead lighting into the solid and slightly dimmed mode that didn’t hurt his head quite so much.After a minute or two he began to change into his dark blue coveralls and readied himself for First Meal before the start of the new workday. He stood with the tips of his boots right on the yellow line painted on the floor directly before the door to his narrow sleeping quarters, hands at his hips, and stared into the optical scanner until the double-beep sounded and the door opened.Once it did he joined the crowds of others dressed exactly like himself and quickly made his way down to the Cafeteria to consume First Meal before reporting for duty at Work Bay 73-J14 no later than 06:40, another purely arbitrary number as far as Jam was concerned. He only knew that if he did not report for duty by then his Second Meal portion size would be halved. Further acts of “intentional dereliction of duty” would only result in greater levels of protein deprivation. Starvation, or rather the avoidance thereof, was the central motivating factor that kept this facility running day in and day out it seemed.After consuming First Meal, Jam reported for duty at Work Bay 73-J14 and was handed the small white paper chit containing his work instructions for the day, the details of which varied only slightly from the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that, and so on. There were occasional breaks from this routine, such as Revolution Day and Heavenly Grace Day, celebratory occasions which came around once a year, but that was about it. Occasionally there were also power outages that brought work efforts at the facility to a temporary halt but they were always accompanied by a halt in meal services as well. Not particularly enjoyable. Last year one had lasted several days and things started to become highly volatile towards the end.Jam put on his mask and gloves and then took up the welding tools and began his work and soon the daily routine overtook his thoughts of other matters and the hours began to pass by as they always did. After a time he felt the need to discharge his bladder so he signaled to his Unit Supervisor that he wanted to use one of his three daily-allowed work relief breaks to visit the nearest latrine and was granted permission to do so.Exiting the double doorways from the floor of Work Bay 73-J14 to the outer hallway leading to the latrine Jam found himself surrounded by a flock of visiting dignitaries from Corporate, all dressed similarly in dark suits and ties with their temporary security badges clipped onto lanyards or lapels. These groups came through the facility every so often, taking notes, making observations and passing judgements on the facility’s work efficiency and production output and other such matters. He fell in line with the group, kept his head down, and made his way along the hall and around the corner before entering the nearest latrine.
Inside the large bathroom he was surprised to find himself completely alone as he made his way to the nearest urinal and relieved himself. Just as he finished he heard the sound of a toilet flushing in one of the stalls behind him and realized that he was not alone after all. As he walked to the sink to wash up, another Corporate Man wearing a dark suit and tie with a security badge clipped to his lapel exited the stall and walked up to the sink next to him and began washing his hands.
Their eyes met in the mirror and they both stopped what they were doing at the same time, staring at one another in a state of disbelief or awe or whatever one might like to call it. They were identical. They seemed perfectly identical right down to the smallest details, like two twins separated at birth. Even their haircuts were almost the same.
They broke off their mutual stare through the mirror and turned to look at one another directly. Their eyes scanned the landscape of each other’s faces for a few moments and then the man from Corporate broke out into a broad, fraternal smile. Jam smiled back at him a moment later, and then pulled a claw hammer from his work belt and buried it in the man’s left temple with all his might. The man dropped to the floor and Jam quickly hit him twice more in the same spot with the hammer and then dragged him by his waist belt and one knee into the large bathroom stall at the end of the row – the one marked “Handicapped Only” – carefully ensuring that none of the blood flowing from the man’s forehead reached his clothing.
Once inside the large bathroom stall, Jam quickly stripped out of his work coveralls and boots and donned all the clothing of the man from Corporate, listening intently for the sound of others entering the latrine and not knowing what to do if that occurred. His mind raced to come up with potential explanations – “I just came in and found him like this…” – but he was fortunate and no one else arrived during that time.
The man from Corporate’s name was Andre Hawthorne according to the security badge pinned to his jacket. That was Jam’s name now. He was now Andre Hawthorne, and he carefully lifted up his doppelganger’s nearly naked body and draped it atop the toilet in such a way that it couldn’t be easily seen by anyone looking under the bottom of the stall. Then he locked the door, squirmed out from under the bottom of the stall and cleaned up the bloodstain on the bathroom floor. With this done, he stuffed his work boots and coveralls into one of the trash receptacles and then washed his hands, looked at himself in the mirror and confirmed that the starched white collar of his new shirt was blocking the identification tattoos on his neck. Then he exited the restroom and walked briskly down the hall. Soon he caught up with the tail-end of a smaller group of visitors from Corporate and followed them out towards one of the exits from the work facility, his heart pounding in his ears the whole time.
And that was how it went. It was as easy as that, mostly thanks to the security badge dangling from his lapel. The man who was now named Andre Hawthorne, previously known as 24731-JAM (or simply “Jam” by his small circle of friends), and who had never taken a single breath of fresh air or seen the open sky or smelled the fragrance of newly cut grass simply walked out of the work facility where he had lived all 29 years of his life and then blended in with another group of Corporate overseers of various types and designations where he fortuitously received an offer of a ride back to “The Hotel” from a passerby with a smile. (Jam had no idea what a Hotel was or what might be expected of him once he got there but he happily accepted the opportunity to make his escape from the grounds of the work facility.) He kept taking short, brief breaths of air at first while watching the behavior of the others around him to monitor their preventative breathing measures or usage of ventilation equipment – there were none – as he waited for the toxicity of the open air to overwhelm him, but it never did.
The sky was mostly blue with a few scattered clouds, not red-gray with a thick cover of dark smog, and the air outside of the massive facility seemed no different from the toxin-filtered air inside. The woman seated next to Jam in the backseat of “the rental car” talked into a small electronic device held to her ear the whole time but at one point she pressed a button on the door next to her and the window dropped. After a minute or so Jam did the same and felt the cool air rushing through his hair.
He breathed in deeply for the first time and it felt so, so good. He didn’t know what would happen next or where he might find Second Meal or Third Meal that day, but he didn’t care very much either. If he could just breathe the free air and gaze at the open blue sky and the clouds above until they arrived at their destination he could live with anything that might happen next. It was already worth it.
Andre Hawthorne closed his eyes, felt the rush of fresh air running over his face, and smiled the first true smile of his new life.
Chicken Alfredo Zucchini Salad
By now, I’ve eaten plenty of raw zucchini and have so far, survived. At this point, I’m turning courgettes into ribbons with a peeler in my sleep. You wake me up in the middle of the night, I’m holding a peeler and a zucchini in each hand. Ready to go. The last recipe I made was this chicken alfredo zucchini salad with Parmesan dressing and it’s pretty amazing. It’s perfect for summer or whenever you want a lighter meal that doesn’t require cooking.
It’s a delicious low-carb high-protein dinner that you can prepare in 15 minutes. But who’s counting.
As Mrs. Robinson said: I’m not trying to seduce you. And if you don’t know who Mrs. Robinson is, Google can help you.
You can use some rotisserie chicken or whatever kind of cooked chicken you have, I’m pretty sure any type of cooked protein will do in the salad; we’re not doing science here.
Hope you enjoy the recipe:
Yield: 2
Chicken Alfredo Zucchini Salad
5.0 Stars (1 Review)
This chicken alfredo zucchini salad is an easy light high-protein low-carb dinner that you can make in 15 minutes without much cooking! And it’s super tasty!
Prep Time15 minutes
Total Time15 minutes
Ingredients
1 zucchini, scliced into ribbons
1 1/2 cup cooked chicken, chopped (or as needed)
a handful basil leaves
2 garlic cloves
1/4 lemon, juice of
1/3 cup Parmesan cheese, grated + extra for topping
2 tbsp olive oil
1-2 tbsp water
2 tbsp scallion greens
handful arugula, chopped
salt and pepper (as needed)
Instructions
In a small blender, blend grated Parmesan cheese, garlic, lemon juice, basil, olive oil, water (start with 1 tbsp – add more only if too thick), a pinch of salt and pepper to make a creamy dressing.
Use a peeler to slice the zucchini into ribbons, avoiding the seeds. You can also use a spiralizer if you like a different shape of zucchini pasta. I prefer this because there’s only a peeler to clean up after.
Add the zucchini pasta to a bowl.
Top with chicken, scallions, arugula and the dressing.
Serve with extra Parmesan cheese, scallions and arugula on top. Then mix and add salt and pepper if needed (we didn’t need any).
SUPER Trained Cats SURPRISE Everyone! | America’s Got Talent
Col 29 – Book 546 – Li Hua and the Unanswered Question
A Tale of Sound, Silence, and the Song Between
For months now, the letters had come.
They arrived in the Farm’s rusted mailbox like clockwork, every other Tuesday, nestled between seed catalogs and flyers for tractor parts. The envelope was always the same—thin, blue airmail paper, covered in stamps featuring plum blossoms and distant mountains. The handwriting was careful, earnest, the letters of someone painting each word with the tip of his pen.
They were from Li Hua.
A student in a bustling city somewhere across the ocean, practicing his English. His chosen correspondent: The Farmer. The first letter had been a simple introduction, found by Martha who recognized a reaching-out heart when she saw one. “Dear Sir Farmer, My name is Li Hua. I am learning your language. May I write to you about my life?”
The Farmer, a man of few words spoken and even fewer written, had simply nodded. Martha had written back a short, warm reply. And so, a quiet bridge was built across the world.
Li Hua wrote of crowded bicycles and the scent of street food, of exam stress and his grandmother’s stories. He wrote of flying kites on rooftops and the longing for quiet. He always ended with a gentle, curious question.
“What does your sky look like at night?” “Do your animals have dreams?” “What does the earth smell like after rain?”
The farm, of course, never wrote back. Not officially. The Farmer would read the letters aloud on the porch at dusk, his rough voice softening around the foreign words. The animals would listen, gathered in a silent circle. They felt the answers, lived the answers, in every rustle and hum and sigh. But putting them into words? Putting them into an envelope? It felt impossible. How could you capture the soul of a place in a sentence?
So, the questions hung in the air, beautiful, unanswered ornaments. They became part of the farm’s own soundtrack—a silent melody of curiosity that blended with the creak of the rocking chair.
Then, the newest letter came.
It spoke of Li Hua’s own home, of the noise of construction and the constant hum of neon. It spoke of missing the village of his childhood. And it ended, as always, with a question. But this one was different. It didn’t ask for a sight, or a smell.
It asked for a sound.
“Dear Farmer,” the letter ended, “My city is very loud, but sometimes it feels silent inside. What does home sound like where you are?”
The Farmer read it out, his voice trailing off on the last word. He folded the letter, placed it on the porch railing, and went back to mending a harness. But the question didn’t fade. It lingered, delicate and profound, like a single, sustained note from a lost instrument.
It hung in the air, and the farm, without a single discussion or plan, began to listen for the answer.
It started at dawn.
The Clang of the Feed Bucket.
The Farmer lifted the metal pail, its side dented from a thousand mornings. As he walked toward the coop, it swung against his leg. Clang… clang… clang. Not a harsh sound, but a solid, reliable one. A promise. Food is coming. The day is beginning. You are cared for. Doris, hearing it, didn’t just think of breakfast. For the first time, she heard it as a note in the symphony. She tilted her head, storing the metallic ring in her heart.
The Rustle of the Great Oak.
A breeze wandered through the farm, not a wind but a sigh. It found the ancient oak by the farmhouse and played its leaves like a library of soft, parchment whispers. Shush-shusha-shush. Sir Whiskerton, napping on a low branch, felt the vibration travel through the wood into his bones. It wasn’t just noise. It was the sound of time passing gently, of stories held in grain and leaf, of deep, rooted peace. He opened one eye, listening anew.
The Distant Hum of the Tractor.
Throttle was in a good mood. The Farmer had changed his oil. From across the south field, his engine emitted a contented, grumbling purr—a warbling C-sharp that rolled over the hills like a friendly thunder. It was the sound of work and purpose, not frantic, but rhythmic. The sound of a heart beating in time with the land. Bessie, in her field, stopped chewing her cud to let the sound wash over her. Her mood ring shifted to a serene, humming blue.
The Jingle-Jangle.
Sir Whiskerton jumped down from the oak, landing softly. As he walked toward the porch, the small bell on his collar—the one from Martha, the “Jingle-Jangle Collar”—emitted its tiny, bright song. Jingle-jangle… jingle. It was the sound of movement without fear, of a small pride carried lightly, of a beloved creature announcing his presence in a world where he belonged. Ditto, chasing a butterfly, froze at the sound. He didn’t echo it. He just absorbed its perfect, tinkling truth.
The Squeak of the Porch Rocker.
The Farmer sat down in the late afternoon. The old rocking chair accepted his weight with a familiar, wooden complaint. Creak… groan… creak. It was the sound of rest earned, of a day measured not in hours but in tasks completed. The sound of stillness in motion, of a mind unwinding. Martha, shelling peas on the steps, matched her rhythm to its song.
The Collective Evening Breath.
As twilight bled into indigo, the farm settled. It wasn’t silent. It was full. The soft cluck of hens in their coop. The contented grunt of Porkchop in his straw. The rustle of Catnip curling into his nook under the porch. The distant, lonely, beautiful call of Sedgwick the Barn Owl from the woods. Who.
It was not one sound, but a tapestry—a living, breathing chord made of safety, fatigue, and gentle companionship.
They didn’t write it down. Not a single word was put to paper. No one said, “This is the sound of our home.”
But as the moon rose, painting the farm in silver, each creature heard the world around them with Li Hua’s ears. They heard not just noise, but meaning. Not just sounds, but the notes of their shared, silent letter.
The Farmer picked up the blue envelope from the railing. He didn’t go for a pen. He simply held it, looked out at his dark, singing farm, and gave a slow, deep nod.
An answer had been composed. Not in ink, but in attention. It was written in the careful listening of a community that had been asked to define its soul, and in doing so, had heard its own music for the very first time.
Somewhere across the ocean, Li Hua would not receive a reply. But perhaps, that night, as the cacophony of his city buzzed outside his window, he would feel a sudden, inexplicable sense of quiet. The sound of a distant, jingling, creaking, humming, clanging, rustling peace—a wordless letter sent back on the wind, from one searching heart to another.
The question was not unanswered. It was answered in every conscious breath, in every heard and cherished sound.
Home, the farm whispered in a thousand silent voices, sounds like this.
Jingle on. (Or, in the farm’s quiet language: Listen… hear… belong… peace.)
The End.
What are the simple moments with loved ones that turned out to be unforgettable for you, even years later?5 more answers
my mother playing with me when she was a younger woman and I was a child. She would tickle me, she would give me light kisses, and we’d laugh and play.
Watching TV with my dad in the living room, he would sit between his two sons who had small couches we laid on. One on each side. I think about it all the time. It was at a townhome, I lived in when I was in high school.
Going down to visit my grandmother by the Tijuana border. She was always warm and affectionate with us.
I was with this one girlfriend for 10 years. When she would sleep next to me, and I would pull her hand on me for comfort. Sometimes she wanted me to lightly rub her tummy before she went to sleep. This helped her sleep and stay asleep. Away from anxiety, etc. We used to meet at bed-and-breakfasts in Santa Barbara for date nights over the weekend. We would enjoy a night on the town, go back to the bed-and-breakfast, and always crack, a hard cider or a Moscow mule in the Uber over to the restaurant for dinner. It was warm and comforting. It felt good. I think about that all the time.
The US Nightmare: South Korea Just Pivoted To China
My hosting domain, Bluehost, and WordPress want me to cough up a sizable amount of money to keep MM up for another three years. I could do that, you all must know, but all things must end, and we need to grow.
Growth is getting rid of the old, and exploring the new.
It’s part of the process.
Important Note.
I have pre-stacked MM content into the middle of next year (up to July 2027) . Whether or not Bluehost will permit it to be viewed is unknown.
If so, then great. You've got some things to look forward to.
If not, well, then...
This is not really an ACTUAL end, but simply the visible part of what is fundamentally a large series of changes in my personal life.
Big changes. Changes that are substantial and expansive. All is good here, guys. My affirmations, including my wildest and most “far out” wishes, have all come true.
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I have been writing here for years. I have shared my thoughts, my experiences, my theories, and my life. I’ve shared my SORM with you all, I’ve written about Sir Whiskerton and the farm. I’ve plucked out real truth from the fire-hose of lies, and I have connected with people I never would have met otherwise. I have been challenged, supported, and understood in ways that have shaped who I am.
Thank you. All of you.
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This blog has always been a reflection of my journey. And that journey has now taken me somewhere new. My life has shifted—not in small ways, but in deep and structural ways. I am living in a fresh new reality, one that I chose and built through intention, action, and alignment.
And it is glorious.
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Guys. Listen to me.
Do your affirmations.
Trust in your vocalizations.
Do it.
Your life will become this…
I do not say that to boast. I say it because I want you to know that the same is possible for you. For EXACTLY you. The tools I have written about—intention, frequency, alignment—are not theories. They are practices. They work. I have seen it. I have lived it.
If you have not already, I encourage you to save the content that matters most to you. Use HTTrack, or wget, to copy the entire webpage. (I used wget on Linux and it was blazingly fast, while HTTrack was slow and full of errors due to the Windows naming limitations of the files.)
In particular:
SORM (Ψ-ORM) — my unified model of reality.
All writings on the nature of reality and dimensional travel.
Intention and prayer campaign content.
OOPART content.
Sir Whiskerton
These are the pieces I believe hold the most value. The blog will remain up for a while, but it will be unmanaged and unattended. I may visit from time to time, but there will be little in the way of new postings.
Arts. Poetry. Stories.
I am not disappearing. I am just moving on.
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SORM on GitHub is everything. EVERYTHING. Nicely organized and detailed out. I urge you all to use it.
I wish for all of you—every single reader—to experience the same daily joys that I now embrace. Not as a distant hope, but as a lived reality. You are capable of more than you know. You deserve more than you have settled for.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for being here.
Thank you for sharing this journey with me.
Thank you. -MM
A Final Farewell from the Farm
The farm is quiet this evening. The sun is setting over the pasture, and the air is soft with the scent of hay and earth. Sir Whiskerton sits on the porch railing, his black-and-white coat catching the last golden light. His top hat is perched just so, and his monocle gleams.
A moment of stillness settles over the place. The chaos of the day—the mysteries, the misunderstandings, the joyful noise—has faded into a gentle hum. This is the time for reflection.
Ditto sits off to the side, taking notes. Pen in hand and a little kitten sized notebook in his paw.
Sir Whiskerton clears his throat, and his voice carries across the farm, low and steady:
“Dear readers. You who have followed our adventures, who have laughed at our follies and nodded at our quiet truths.
“We have told you stories of missing wheelbarrows and glowing pickles, of philosophical pinatas and radioactive dogs. We have spoken of cats in kilts and cows in tie-dye. And through all of it, we have tried to tell you something simple, something you may have heard a thousand times in a thousand different ways.”
He pauses, adjusting his monocle with a practiced paw.
“The universe is not a fixed place. It is not a closed room. It is a field. A pasture. A garden. And you are the gardeners. What you plant, you will grow. What you water, you will harvest. What you neglect will wither. That is not a punishment. That is a law, as reliable as the sun rising over the barn every morning.”
From the porch swing, Martha smiles. Her hand rests on the head of Catnip, who, for once, is not scheming. He is simply present, his eyes half-closed, his purr a low, steady hum.
Martha speaks softly, her voice carrying the warmth of someone who has seen many seasons:
“You have been given a great gift, you know. Not the gift of answers, but the gift of questions.”
A cool breeze appears.
She smiles.
“Do not waste it.”
She tidies her apron, and Catnip nuzzles his head deeper into it.
“Do not stop asking. Do not stop wondering. Do not stop tending to the things that matter—your health, your people, your heart. Those are the only crops that truly last.”
The Farmer, leaning on the fence, looks up from his contemplation of a particularly interesting cloud. He says:
“The scarecrow told me once—well, not in so many words—that everything you need to know is already inside you. You just have to be quiet enough to hear it. “
Rufus walks up to him and lays down at his feet.
“The answers don’t come in a shout. They come in a whisper.”
The sound of crickets gets louder.
“So listen. Really listen.”
“Listen to your own breath. Listen to the wind. Listen to the silence between the noise. That is where the truth lives.”
Sir Whiskerton flicks his tail and speaks one last time:
“Go, then. Go and be curious. Go and be kind. Go and be brave—not in the grand, dramatic way, but in the small, persistent way. “
He turns his head to you; the reader, and looks at you.
“Do so in the way that gets you out of bed when you are tired. In the way that says ‘yes’ to life when it would be easier to say ‘no.’ In the way that keeps you growing, keeps you learning, keeps you loving.”
He turns, looking back at the farm, and his voice softens to a near whisper:
“Everything you need is already yours. Not the things. Not the status. Not the approval. The things that matter are already inside you. They have always been there. You just had to remember.”
He lifts his monocle, catches a glint of the setting sun, and then bows his head in farewell.
“Now go and live it.”
The farm falls silent. The animals rest. The Farmer and Martha share a quiet smile. And the story continues—in your heart, in your hands, in your life.
I believe in you all.
And the stars in the sky, those heavenly pin-pricks of light, go dark one…
