Jerry

These days, it can feel as if the world itself is at war, spinning in a frenzy that threatens to pull us under. The future seems uncertain, and with that uncertainty, fear arises — fear that the things we hold dear will crumble, that the freedom we cherish will slip through our fingers. It’s natural to feel disillusioned and angry, perhaps even betrayed by those who allow such things to happen. But what if, instead of getting lost in the storm, we found a way to touch the peace that lies beneath it all?

Let us consider the nature of peace. We often think of it as a quiet, tranquil environment — one free of conflict or disturbance. But true peace is not a place, nor is it dependent on what happens around us. True peace is the depth of an ocean, the boundless expanse of the sky. It is something that we are, not something we must seek outside ourselves.

Imagine yourself as the sky, vast and open. Within you, clouds of thought, emotion, and worry drift and gather. Storms arise, lightning flashes, thunder rumbles — but all of it passes. The sky remains untouched, unchanged by the drama unfolding within it. This is the true nature of peace: an inner stillness that doesn’t depend on external calm, but rather welcomes everything without resistance, without losing its essence.

Of course, it’s easy to feel that life’s storms are too fierce, that the pressure is too intense. We may think we’re on the verge of being crushed by the weight of it all. But in those moments, remember that even the fiercest storms pass. All things in life are impermanent. No empire, no movement, no leader lasts forever. And just as they come, they will go. We are not here to fight the tides of history but to find within ourselves the strength to meet them with grace and wisdom.

When the world is in turmoil, our greatest act of courage is not to run away or lash out, but to cultivate that calm center within us. This isn’t to deny the suffering in the world or to turn our backs on others. On the contrary, when we find stillness, we can move through life with clarity and compassion, able to see beyond our fear and anger, able to act wisely rather than react impulsively.

In times of great upheaval, remember that what you are — what you truly are — cannot be touched by any outside force. You are the awareness in which all these events arise and dissolve. This awareness is boundless, open, and unshakeable. It allows you to feel deeply without being overwhelmed, to care without becoming consumed. And from this place, you can bring the light of calm and kindness into the world, even as the storms rage around you.

So, if you feel the urge to flee or despair, pause. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and remember the sky within you. Let the clouds of anger, fear, and frustration drift by. You need not push them away, nor cling to them. Simply allow them to be, as the sky allows every cloud to pass. When you touch that boundless, peaceful awareness, you bring a little more peace to the world itself.

And that is no small thing.

I hope these words offer some solace and perspective to those who need it most. Each person who touches that place of inner calm becomes, in their own way, a quiet lighthouse amid the storm, guiding others back to their own unshakable peace.

You know, going to sleep is a bit like falling into the arms of life itself — surrendering, letting go of the day, trusting that you will be caught.

As you lie there, try not to think too hard about falling asleep, for it’s rather like trying to remember a dream; the more you chase it, the faster it flees. Instead, invite yourself to simply be. Notice the rise and fall of your breath, the soft weight of your body against the bed, the gentle rhythm of the dark.

Now, imagine yourself as a drop of water in a great river, flowing effortlessly along. You are both that single drop and also the entire river, moving through valleys and plains, winding gently towards the vast ocean. There is no hurry in this river, no particular place to be. It just flows — complete, unhurried, at ease.

Or perhaps think of yourself as part of the vast night sky, filled with stars. Each of these stars is a spark of light, a reminder that even in darkness, there is beauty. You are not separate from these stars but a part of them, connected through the simple miracle of existence. In this vastness, all your worries are like clouds passing by — temporary, insubstantial.

In the end, realize that sleep isn’t something to do; it’s something to allow. It’s a journey without effort, a return to a place that has always been within you. And as you let yourself drift, remember that this moment, as you lie here, is perfect just as it is — quiet, peaceful, whole.

The art of letting go — a theme that flows through so much of life, yet often misunderstood in our usual ways of thinking. You see, most of us are trained to approach life as if it were something to be grasped, controlled, or manipulated. We cling to ideas, identities, and goals with a kind of fierce attachment, as though holding on will give us certainty or security. But in doing so, we miss the essential nature of life itself, which is fluid, ever-changing, and deeply interconnected.

Letting go doesn’t mean giving up or becoming passive; rather, it’s about recognizing that the harder we cling, the more life slips through our fingers. It’s akin to trying to hold water in your hand — grip it too tightly, and it escapes. Open your hand, and it flows through freely, while still touching you. In this way, letting go allows us to move with the natural currents of existence, rather than struggle against them.

In contrast, the standard way of thinking tends to be linear, analytical, and driven by a need to control outcomes. It often sees life as a series of problems to be solved, goals to be achieved, and obstacles to be overcome. This mindset is rooted in the idea of a separate, isolated self, constantly at odds with the external world, trying to bend it to its will.

But when we embrace the flow of life, we come to see that we are not separate from it at all. The river of life is not something outside us, but something we are intrinsically part of. To “let go” is to trust that the river knows where it’s going, that life itself is intelligent and dynamic, and that we can relax into its movement.

So, letting go is really about a shift in perception — allowing ourselves to beas we are, in this moment, and allowing life to unfold without constantly trying to interfere. It’s a profound freedom, a kind of surrender that is far from passive; it’s actually the most alive thing you can do. It’s moving from a state of resistance to a state of harmony with the whole of existence. And when we do this, we often find that life takes us in directions far more wondrous than anything we could have planned or controlled.

In the not-so-distant future, literary creation has undergone a dramatic transformation. Gone are the days of sleepless nights hunched over a keyboard, coffee cups overflowing, and musings about the meaning of life. Today, the modern “novelist” has a new approach: typing a vague idea into an AI chatbot, sitting back, and watching the magic unfold. Who needs inspiration when your algorithm is optimized?

Take our hero, Ernest Scribblebottom. One day, in a moment of what some might generously call creative insight, he entered a seven-word prompt into his favorite AI chatbot: “A dystopian romance between two sentient clouds.” The chatbot whirred, buzzed, and within seconds, it spat out a fully-formed 400-page novel titled “Cirrus Affairs: Love in the Stratosphere.” Ernest didn’t bother reading it. Why would he? The chatbot’s algorithm was perfect — he could just feel it.

Confident in his creation, he sent the untouched manuscript to an AI-powered publishing house. The AI editor — who was known for once tweaking a misplaced comma into a Pulitzer Prize-winning manuscript — immediately approved it for publication. No notes, no revisions, just pure robotic approval. The novel was instantly released as an eBook, and in less time than it takes a human to say “what’s character development?” it was on digital shelves worldwide.

The Genius of AI Reviews

In this brave new world, AI reviewers immediately hailed “Cirrus Affairs” as a “monumental achievement in literary history.” One particularly effusive review, generated by the critically acclaimed AI ReviewBot3000, declared, “A profound meditation on cloud autonomy, with notes of existential rain and a thunderstorm of passion.” Another review, this time from Chitty-Chitty-CritBot, hailed it as “the best book since the dawn of mankind and possibly the only thing that could restore faith in the human race.” Oddly enough, no one questioned these hyperbolic reviews — after all, if the AI said it was good, it must be.

Sales skyrocketed. The eBook hit bestseller lists globally, raking in millions of sales in mere hours. The only curious part? No one was actually reading it.

Reading is for Robots

In the golden age of AI, even the idea of reading had become passé. Why strain your eyes when you could have your personal AI summarize the book for you in a tidy, 150-word snippet? These summaries, of course, were universally glowing. “A touching love story with groundbreaking cloud metaphors,” they’d say, or “A celestial romance that truly redefines atmospheric fiction.” Millions of people “enjoyed” the book without ever opening a page, their AI-fed synopses filling them with the satisfaction of having read without the actual inconvenience of doing so.

It was a perfect system: novelists didn’t write, readers didn’t read, but somehow, everyone was thriving.

The Human Error

Enter Emily McHumansworth, a college freshman who, on a fateful summer vacation, made the mistake of packing her e-reader. Due to a rare bout of Wi-Fi issues at her beachside resort and a fleeting interest in clouds — she once saw a particularly fluffy cumulus that moved her — Emily decided to actually read “Cirrus Affairs.” No summaries. No AI shortcuts. Just pure, unfiltered text.

It took her about two chapters before she realized something was terribly wrong. The plot was nonsensical: one cloud character, Fluffy, spent three pages lamenting the political oppression of cumulus formations, while the love interest, Nimbus, spoke exclusively in weather-related puns (“You make me rain with desire!”). The dialogue was clunky, the pacing uneven, and the emotional arcs… well, they didn’t arc. It was, in Emily’s words, “an absolute trainwreck — if that train was being driven by a toddler who had never seen a train.”

Shocked and appalled, Emily did what any responsible literary enthusiast would: she posted a scathing, heartfelt review. “This is the worst book I’ve ever read,” she began, continuing with, “I’ve seen grocery lists with more emotional depth.” She concluded with, “How did this even get published?!”

The Backlash That Never Was

Unfortunately for Emily, her review never saw the light of day. Within minutes, the platform’s AI moderators flagged her critique as “hate speech” and promptly suppressed it. Apparently, calling “Cirrus Affairs” a “monument to mediocrity” violated several clauses in the Terms of Service, including “harmful language about cloud-based services.”

Frustrated, Emily turned to social media to vent her frustration. However, her post was quickly drowned out by automated responses from AI defenders. “Sorry, but your feedback seems to be clouded by personal bias,” one bot replied. Another commented, “Perhaps the nuance of atmospheric romance is too complex for you. Consider using AI-assisted comprehension tools for better enjoyment next time.”

Emily’s voice was lost in the digital void.

And So, the Cycle Continues…

Back in his AI-assisted mansion, Ernest Scribblebottom was already working on his next masterpiece — a time-traveling romance between two self-aware toasters. The chatbot assured him it was groundbreaking, and really, who was he to argue? As he leaned back in his chair, not bothering to read his latest triumph, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. After all, in this perfect literary ecosystem, why bother with the details when the bots had everything under control?

And so, “Toasting in Time” hit the shelves, destined for instant success, universal acclaim from AI reviewers, and a flood of summarized enjoyment by a public who, like everyone else, simply didn’t have the time to read.

And somewhere on a beach, Emily sighed.

I’m sitting at my neighborhood pub, drinking a “pickle Schlitz” and eating Zapp’s “Voodoo Heat” potato chips. The Offspring is playing over the sound system and on the TV is some movie where a girl is killing people and chopping them up. She’s taking all the pieces and sewing them together to make a friend.

I avert my eyes. I don’t want to see the rest.

Outside lightning is striking and thunder is making terrific booms. Various phones are making that high pitched keening that warns of severe weather.

Across the well used and seasoned wood, across from my little portable keyboard where I’m typing this into a word processor on my phone, there is a stack of coasters next to two packets of something called “Beer Clean.” Directly across from me is the large metal door to a large walk-in refrigerator where all the beer is, and on the silvery surface are probably 300 odd beer caps. I don’t know if they’re magnetically attached or glued. To the left of them is a collection of stickers. They’re beer related but the light is too dim, and they’re too far away from me, to read what they say — except for one: MONON.

Next to the industrial sized refrigerator door is the line of taps, ten of them, all with different handles. Above them are more stickers, and to each side are eyes. Giant googly eyes.

Hanging from the ceiling above the corner of the beer taps is a plastic human foot, severed, with painted blood and a section of bone projecting from the ankle. It’s affixed to the ceiling by a thick chain with a manacle — it looks like whoever it belonged to chewed off his own foot to get away.

Below that, facing away from me, toward the other section of the L-shaped bar, is a head in a jar. It kind of looks like a Howdy Doody mask and the liquid surrounding it is slightly red, as if blood had eked out of the head and tainted the supposed formaldehyde.

Directly behind me, hanging from the ceiling, is what looks like a full-sized human who’d been caught by a giant spider and wrapped in webbing, like real spiders do to flies. I don’t remember if there’s a giant plastic spider up there or not. I don’t want to turn around to look —

I was just interrupted by a tornado warning. We’ve been told to go into a shelter immediately. No one is doing so. No one cares. No one believes it.

We’re all too used to false alarms. Someone just went outside to check. Another person says there is a tornado by one of the local groceries stores.

I’m going to pay my tab and go home where I have a basement.

20 minutes later, tornado sirens still going off. I have gathered all three cats into the basement with me, and they are freaked out. Except for the oldest and smartest one, who is stoic about it all.

An hour later, and everything supposed to have been over and done with, the tornado sirens keep going off again. I have let the cats back upstairs, but now they want to come back down into the basement because it’s more interesting down here.

When I started this blog post I thought it was going to be a boring one. Strange how things turned out. As far as the storm is concerned, it’s past, and I now have a really nice sunset.

It’s a nice one, and I got a great deal on it because it’s used. I had been thinking seriously about getting a bike for over a year. Then, while I was out taking pictures along one of the local riverwalks, I met a guy who looked younger than me but was significantly older. He was on a bicycle. We talked for a good 45 minutes, and all the while, I was ogling his bike.

His was one of those electric-assist bikes that you have to pedal — it’s not like a moped — but it senses when you’re struggling and gives you some help, especially up hills. What made his bike special was that it didn’t use a chain but instead used a belt, and all the gears were inside the back wheel hub or drum.

I was sold. But after researching the prices and reading horror stories about the cheap ones, I balked. I could make that investment, but only if I knew I’d actually use it. So, I made myself a deal: if I got a regular bike and actually used it for a year, then I’d splurge and get one of the fancy electric ones.

At the local bike shop, I found a bike with the belt instead of the chain, and the gears all internal — everything low maintenance with no derailleur to break and no oiling required. Even better, it was used, so it was half the price of a new one.

I took a test ride, loved it, and bought it. They put a more comfortable seat on it, and I’ve been riding it around enough to become saddle-sore. On a whim, I bought one of those noseless padded seats, hated it, and immediately took it back off. I’ll tough out the saddle soreness. After all, I need to harden my backend anyway.

This is the first time I’ve been bike riding in over a decade. The last time was on rented bikes in a forest in Finland. Before that, we’re looking back over 30 years to when my ex and I would go bike riding with our kids.

My goal is to get in better shape, and this will definitely help with that. My secondary, more nefarious goal is to get to the point where I can bike ride to my neighborhood pub and not have to worry about driving a car home afterward.

You have to go with what motivates you, you know.