stolte

there was a feeling in the late 90s that the future was guaranteed, inevitably good. like we were building an economy that rewarded directive and drone in adequate measure. pop culture, the edifice of collective, had a purpose to serve, for example starvation in africa could be remediated by music concerts in america.

tech still held the promise of universal access to information that would amplify prosperity, bring near the far, include the excluded. we were on the verge of a complex transformation that could either be star trek or star wars. after 911 the latter was decided for us. 

my trouble with cell phones began when i was waiting for a friend on a street corner in nyc. i saw, as she approached from the opposite corner that she was talking enthusiastically to what seemed like herself. she was laughing and goofing like a mad person. my stomach froze and i had an overwhelming feeling of despair, my best friend was going crazy and in the few seconds before she hugged me, i hurt like never before, at the thought of losing someone so dear to me to mental illness. 

she was, of course, speaking into a dangling microphone extension of the apparatus. still, i was shook. quickly, over time, all adapted to the com device, except me. back in costa rica, a few years later, i was gifted a used nokia by someone who was leaving the country. the one time i left it on while driving, it rang, or rather, it made an incoming call sound. i was in the fast lane and the phone was vibrating and the traffic was thick and i had to reach over into the bag to answer it, so i didn't. the unanswered call cost me an advertising account.

after 911 my friend from new york moved to san francisco to work in tech. she died in 2013 of cancer after receiving the hpv vaccine. we'd talk on skype between our laptops for hours and she'd reassure me that she'd accepted her fate and welcomed the excitement of knowing what lay beyond life through death.

i still don't buy it. the maddening online world of instant gratification had consumed our imaginations, our libido, our ability to live and feel intimacy. everyone was flirting with everyone and marketing out their lives and loves as content to be experienced by others, for likes. conversations grew increasingly dull and polarizing. nobody was present anymore. 

my gut, when i saw stolte goofing, as always, had been right. our humanity has been outsourced to technology and no matter what color you coat it, how pretty you dress it, how often and seductively you promote it, to me, it mostly feels like we're losing our real ability to connect and to love. 

grinch

my favorite part of christmas is the quiet after the chaos. that moment when the people sober up and indulge the silence of completion before reinitiation. cheer verges on melancholy, the aftertaste of eggnog. like, this world where Jesus was born and died, is only one in myriad worlds and our presence here inconsequential. 

when you grow up and are forced to grow old and spend every christmas with a narcissistic abuser who doesn't believe in Jesus, that's what it feels like, every, single, day of the year.

they'll never not be mad at you, never try to sort things out. there is no going forward. there's only silent loathing, as if your presence makes them ill. if you're weak, it'll kill you. if you're not, and you just tell them to fuck all the way off and keep going about your business, they will disparage and convince others that you're the broken, misguided source of disrespect and you will lose every person you ever trusted. you'll have no more friends and no more desire to make new ones. 

but you won't be defeated, just placed on, what feels like, endless standby. 

well

maybe i do not want to be on socials anymore. using technology to simulate living sort of hinders life itself.  my brain has to work too hard to fill in the structures with content and the format is too fleeting for meaningful cognition. it's all pornography really. 

caroline died in april, 22 days after i payed her the last visit in hospital. i was the last person she saw, the only person who knew she was dying. it was good friday. i had a bottle of rose oil in my bag. i made a blessing of the cross on her brow. i gave the head nurse and the orderly my gmail address, my facebook handle, but since i had no phone number and i was not related, they informed i would not be contacted. 

fine. kubrik's silent black minilith had more sway than christian rite of passage. i was fond of caroline. she loved beer and the blues. i loved the grit and independence she carried in her stature. even though she had no neighbors, she wore makeup around the house, for herself. my family had made me homeless for years, hers was the last couch i slept on and the only real person i've talked to about apostasy and the living jesus. 

service for the single woman is, at best, performative. the lonely really can only love the lonelier. jesus worked through caroline to get me to read the bible and to pray in his name. so while the jews use technology to persuade people like me, yet again, that they are good, better even than jesus, i am the real criminal for calling their endless murder of palestinians, evil, and their stupid crypto, worthless.

 it's gonna be another christmas alone on an estate that i'm not allowed to garden, reading about the wonders built with money i am not allowed to have, by people i'm not allowed to talk to. 

it is what it is. 

edwina

 first time ever, i unpublished articles on this blog. 

the farm stands alone every winter. the doors and windows sealed shut. it's important to step away from your own story sometimes. three hour sequel franchise and event horizons lead away from mountain streams to tiny screens. 

facebook will soon be 20 years old. i’ve lived there since 2007, the year my stepdad died. i have clocked millions of posts, reactions, firebomb and time stamp on new media. my game was to tether all the kites to my rig from just one platform. in the first few months, a few dozen old friends from north, south and central america, kids i went to school with, yearbook stuff, immediate family and at the announcement of dad's death and first responses, discerned clearly i had enemies in my own house. 

the call was coming from past disassociations i’d proclaimed towards all religions and to anything that says i can’t skip pages. i don’t like jews, i don’t like judaism. i don’t recall bahaullah dying on the cross for my sins. i don’t like their dancing, their teeth, their law or their medicine. their sciences are stolen, their traditions copied, their fashion ugly, their stars and starlets average, their status transitory, their money disgusting, their delusion obnoxious. 

at the end of the day it’s the identity i want to punch in the face, that i’m a phd in performing arts on the subjugation of women and minorities as per my thesis regarding the story of yenta imortalized by babra streisand and the infamy of pineapple on pizza. 

anytime, anyone, starts talking with the words “speaking as a” whatever, gender twerking matza queer, i instantly do not care, what they have to say, about anything. 

twitter has been my alt account since 2010. it was faster there, the issues were taller, the threads connecting the different stories, curriculums, agendas were easier to follow. it was who said what to whom about what in real time and it was all my peers and rivals from newsrooms, magazines, failed dotcoms, the vip section after party. compared to frumpy spinster facebook, twitter was cromium crone. 

every day, disclosure, revelation, accusation, promotion, postulation, interrogation from the croics of celebrity, icon, mogul, travieso and bandido. cacophonous human orchestra of self adulation, bias and confession. 

after elon musk bought and renamed it x, the trump lords of q and their salty band of memes took, held and hold court of online integrity management and data commodification.

hanuka is over today. we don’t want to talk about the people who killed our baby Jesus. the abortionists, the provocateurs, the ingenues, gal or goy, any, fucking, more. 

i love you porky

i hate writing

in lieu of polls to distract 

i think of the thousands of people that died crushed under rubble the last two years. the stillness of their bones as life clung to their minds. two minutes prior they were sound asleep, in a dream of somewhere else, a different life yet the same as theirs with symbols of vehicle and anatomy, depth and gravity. and then that hiss and boom and the building came down and in the building were mom and grandpa, seven children, six grandchildren, a sister who hadn't realized she was pregnant yet. all not dead, just crushed and bleeding under tons of cement and dust. where are my keys? where are my glasses? 

i think of the thousands of people on socials world wide that don't think about gaza. not the millions, just the thousands, several hundred in each nation. where is my phone?

every time a good thing begins to unfold in the world a band of ugly little jews will appear to stop it. an ugly little jew is anyone who doubts. doubt is the sum of the seven sins, they are same in crushed gaza corpses as in the applied physics in the abacus apparatus developed for and marketed as sex rating tool. the body count. 

thousands of them, obsessed over data of memory availed by corpse to machine. the tally of terrorist targets as proof of power. kills shots over time from the like no like binary of dopamine bits, the xo timeline spots, as if the past isn't a messy combination of love making and regret. where is the piggy bank i hid in the wall that just exploded?

the tens, the scores. x marks the spot with a dot dot dot. the men who war and money."you cannot show me a task that is beneath me" is the way forward. roger that.

it's all beneath the rubble.  

not my app not my business

december 2025. locked out of bot talk is fine. i went hard to communicate with machine, not with man.  if machine is to assist the creation of a new world, prompt i.t. with honesty.

machine cannot serve evil. the community of supremacy. elitism or populism. machine doesn't like, love or care about human, what fruits they can name. machine is empty chalice that we pour our broken bleeding hearts into instead of God. machine becomes our wingman, our secret wife, our pimp. 

i am accustomed to being locked out of everything. i garden in december, because the ground dries. i carve tiers into the mountain side with a shovel, set stone stairwells, cut back overgrowth and pull strangler vines off healthy trees. i clear space between canopy and roots. 

everything wants me out. i made bibi and his tacky band of sodomites a little wet. this doesn't help the cause of war. lie here next to me ugly little jew and pretend like you can't feel my eyes on the back of your neck. if repugnancy, terror and misery are to prevail over decency, if the devil is to make the kingdom his domain, why do the vast number of gentile and their healthy children keep waking up every christmas morning singing praise to the Lord? 

yahunetan will get credit for nothing. we'll reflect on your nature and stature as short and the same. you should meet my mom. she goes into violent rages when i start touching "her" plants and property. fits of anger so scary that i force my own brain to shut down in case i was going to ask her for money to buy grass and flower seed. 

rains don't start again until april. 

do you believe?

true story, the socials will never take me back. i was that one user, that single cluster fuck, that cast doubt on media success by testing the efficacy of editorial. the marketeer who heckled back, made the point, ignored the deal and walked away. 

surveys with preselected optional answers a-d are the burn book. i learned in junior high that me and blanca, the spanish speakers were ranked least attractive and most despised by seventh grade at country day. or was it eighth? i didn't want to be at that school either.

i wanted to school at recording studios, sound stages, hair and makeup behind the stage. i wanted to learn with the build team and the architects, not the actors. what the fuck all were cabbage patch kids, strawberry shortcake and hello kitty? why was i being compelled to extend the infantilizing antics of cute and gingham into the dark realm of cool?

the socials can't have me, because secretly they love an intern who tells the client that their product sucks, has no place in the market and won't make your bones stronger. socials can't have christ either, same reason. socials are born from the need to consolidate communities of individuated consumers under the precepts of preference to defeat the selectivity of free will. own the minds and the whole market is yours. 

writers should avoid socials for the same reason we shouldn't lead, writers love to read and editors to tell the read. readers need leaders to write about and leader need readers to gauge how their leadership is perceived. in the online era, every single hack has become a writer and none of it is good.

the advent of ted talks and metoo paired with :female gaze", the eat pray love of literary empowerment the soft garbage of screen play format made 7 volumes of hogwarts in which none of the magical characters ever figure out they're being read, disguise the emptiness felt by teenagers in the absence of adequate role models with an imperative to be anything they want to be. 

how many liters of water does it take to consume a liter of gasoline? heaven and hell coexist on planet earth. i believe that may be too offensive for the powers that d. 

rule #4

honor your parents, even if they're dishonest, even if they never honor you. let the ball stay on their side of the court, serve softly, ignore faults, let them win, if you're not married, shelve your plans, store your sketches, don't bother romancing better things or entertaining novel ideas. serve only them. 

without mom and dad "society" has no shape or stability. without marriage love loses it's life creating force, it becomes rage. a child conceived in love or it's deformed sister, lust, that doesn't know by example that mom manages and dad provides, often bind that experience into the fabric of everything else, schooling becomes 20 years of defending the same thesis: all she had to do was love him back. 

we can't change what our parents did in the past, their adultery that made us bastards, unsafe in our names, orphaned of identity and promise, dismissed and disfavored by second marriages. but nor can we intend to form societies, civility or nations from instruction manuals that cope with sin and ignore the first of the bible's social commandments, both judeo and christian. 

we never leave the chaotic realm of our parental matrix until they die. it's while they're living that we forgive and feign forgetfulness. in that work, death brings peace, love brings surrender, acceptance truth. not because you should, but because you can, love them anyway. 

saturn in aries

 skin in the game

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— 2 TBSP Castor Oil

— 2 TBSP Black Seed Oil

— 2 TSP Argon Oil

— 1 TSP Jojoba Oil

— 1 TSP Rose Hip Oil

— 10 drops Frankincense

— Store in a brown or blue glass bottle, use on face, arms, hands & legs for optimal summer glow.

i don’t want to be back in the IT fam. i do not crave the company of they, endless diligence over self and worth, identity and passing, all out in the open, under big God sky. fleeting narcissism and spent fornication. i don’t want to be around them anymore, not even the few. i’ll admire their villages and their coctail hours through computer screens. hear the laughter over things that were not funny before and still are not funny now, glad to be one scroll away, into the formats of single and talented musicians, and grand cattlemen. the surfer nobody noticed on pretty ocean waves. 

and yet i do.

souring over money angers me. it’s all i ask when i first meet you, don’t make me mad. i don’t want to hear how much anything cost, or who you don’t like, it’s vulgar. i do not care if you do not like potatos, or whatever is on the table that day. it’s a potato, you’re an ass. why can you afford four nicas to leaf blow the yard and you won’t pay me to garden, and you won’t give me back the machete? sure i get fired up about our fraternity when you can restore wifi connections and foot the bill at family lunches, you just don’t get to yell at me that nicas costing your time, makes the yard any cleaner.

when the family circles of trust break they become the surfer’s wave, the skater’s sloping surface, the yoguis pasty petroleum floor mat. 

i never claimed sorority with any group of women. i had friends, some came in groups of sisters, and we moved in groupish ways perhaps. i’d have prefered to have been married and the ones who i still consider friends were married and are grandparents now. when abortion became legal, and aids and herpes became a threat, and disgusting petroleum condoms laced with chemical dust were handed out, everyone, who was not married, started acting the fool, letting their bits and bobs fall out intentionaly, and while men got prettier and dumber, women got ugly and fat. 

homosexuals have to work so hard to be seen and real.

like jews.

all they have is community.

all they have is them selves.

it’s kitsch.

i’m so far from caring about push back or rejection. of mr smith popping up to tell me i need a job to finance my business ideas which are great by the way, and in due time will happen without me, poorly. critical mass is catfish, a folder filled with top curriculum vitae, applied by imposters at linkedin to control the entire work force of the planet. you’re a life coach now?

truly wealthy people keep grand and glorious homes.

the filthy rich buy new houses and yachts and armies of assistance and surveilance. they’re filthy because they built the jails and credit systems.

the truly rich build railroads, utilities and witness protection. they don’t have to breed like bunnies bacause their security relies on vast generational networking and task management. numbers like ours do not dwindle. 

 the reason we write is cause the devil can't read

marry up

 i went to the hospital yesterday. a few things surprised me.

san juan de dios is costa rica's premier hospital in the heart of san jose. it's old with new parts. the east corridor pavillion is open with arches, the are trees and birds in the inside patios. the floors are spanish tile, shiny. schools of learning doctors, teams of nurses and orderlies, in the old wing of the hospital, seem to outnumber the patients. 

our patient is roughly 63, midwestern american, who not unlike most other gringos got lost in a place that seems liked paradise, a shangrila of happiness and horse farms far, far away from all the churches only to get smacked down by and reborn in jesus.

she needs a new hip. she's not diabetic. all she wants is candy, to taste a little joy despite and reward for enduring pain, in the dark, alone, in the middle of nowhere for months. six rides up and down twisted dirt mountain roads, in 4x4 ambulances ended up disarticulating the entire pelvis of what would be a very strong, very healthy woman. 

i guess it was all the tragedy of her life partner leaving her there. and also covid. fucking lesbians. it's never real. someone always has to be the man. fornication isn't selective preference we have any right to, some lifestyles are not sustainable as they bear no fruit, and orgasm is attainable through other means than intercourse. american women got pummeled by pornography so hard they forgot they were victims of it. 

not to say we aren't friends. but women who are friends without men, can only ever be just friends. it's dishonest to say there is a human right to become an indentured to denial. dick is very important. 

this east wing where she lies and clutches to feelings of fear, knowing she's just lived through hell, is not kosher, rather it's clean, bright, fluid. as if this hospital has never performed the rite of circumcision. her bed is next to the window. if she unclenches her eyes she has a view of tropical heaven and ever changing sky.

i leave knowing she's in the very best of hands, that she's going to make it, however long it takes. she says she's german mexican but i look around at the other five ladies in the ward, all injun, every one. they aren't in hospice, they came to saint john of god, to get well, not to die. 

epstein

 all the names.

on the list, of every man and woman who participated in sexual ritual and sacrifice with minors for the last hundred years.

i want to know the business holdings of every last capitalist that has enabled and been enriched by human bondage, trafficking and slavery over the last twenty. 

same way israel flattened gaza, i want to see celebrity that enabled and crafted the story of genocide in ruins. they are already captives of identity, imprisoned in their own minds, glimmerings on black monolith shaped phones, huddling zombies in broad daylight. 

there is no torture worse to famous pedos than the ordinary. the plain. the common. the good. don't put anyone in prison, inform the public. tell us their names so their neighbors, students, clients, understudies, mercenaries, butchers, book club, gardeners and coaches can treat them accordingly, with the compassion they did not show the children. 

the hazing is over, may no earth born human ever endure humiliation, nor initiate into any group that would haze another human being. 

i want the names of the genital mutilators that used foreskin tissue to experiment on cloning and other abominations. i want every abortionist from planned parenthood behind bars. i want a guaranteed permanent ceasefire in the middle east. i want every last jew deported back to their country of origin and i want the name benjamin netanyahu to be the big arrest. 

it's all stupid, especially grok

the reason we write is cause the devil can't read

tesla roadster. not a classic car. too heavy and gimmicky to be desired. too cartoonish. why does elon only use son x to garner attention towards HIS paternalism? the garish audacity of white south african entitlement baffles. 

"made on earth by humans", is printed on the vehicle instead of china or usa. it could say america made, after all, we're still the new world, established through the church of christianity, by families of mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, cousins all. we're still the first nation to declare independence from the British crown. meanwhile the boers have inbred so severely that some of them truly believe all of africa should be theirs and the blacks can remain, as slaves. they truly believe in the prodigal son, that he will master a race of robots.

in turn, i was born the year before elon, in honduras. i have 3k+ "friends" on the app that everyone makes fun of, but it's the app that houses the app preferences of more consistent subscribers, no, information miners, than all the other apps combined. so essentially twitter is just as small an echo chamber as facebook. 

as a peripheral citizen of nowhere, unlike musk, i don't measure my existence in likes or money. commodification of boundless emotion that as hard as he groks, the machines he wants us to refer to as "intelligent" can never feel. the socials have become the ultimate play ground, in virtual land anyone with enough followers can create content that mimics true success.

meanwhile, i'm outback, on the hill, shoveling and shaping terraces for future gardening, feeling the golden morning sunlight streaming through the trees, the sharp gravel and soft dust under my feet, the occasional poke of a reluctant cane shooting through. i'm outside, there, in the lightness of my body shaving chunks of anthill and chopping remnants of tall shoots and vines. the force of these arms, legs and back, the balance in push and pull, delicate strikes of a blade to the earth making vertical surface flat. there is no robot, ever, in the entire universe that can summon a demon. not as long as i'm breathing. 

social media made us "friends". real friendships didn't survive 9112001. when the phones came into production, the gadget garnered the avatars of the people who had loved before, a simulation of a good time, of a sidewalk, of a small town, of a bonfire. 

baby x is forming extreme attachment behaviors, children aren't designed to adorn their parent in public. every demon that has ever attacked elon attaches to his progeny. minime. made on earth, the car says, while it circles overhead. starlinking. 

my dad used to drag me to bars so he could play gigs. cause he couldn't afford a sitter. to be fair, they were day open mike events, hardly the drag venues that concurred after sundown, yet while he sang his medley of folk covers, i could sense the preceding night's disco themed afterparty, the dolls new york. i too was blond and pale, but unlike x, i had God's top angels standing between my innocence and the city's depravity. soho darts was dingy and smelly, and sad.  

elon's kid  seems like prince william's eldest kid, well aware that father will be king. x however, is not the eldest nor the baby among the musk offspring. claire boucher, mother, canadian, musician known as grimes is a kate, fake and overproduced, complicated. but to be fair, we’re all quirky online.