Kidnapping this lot was not going according to plan. As a matter of fact, it was a complete disaster.

As it turned out, no government would pay a ransom for the ferals, not even for a queen—Houdi—and the pirates were counting the minutes until they could get rid of them. They were driving everyone crazy.

One final attempt, equally futile, was made with International Cat Rescue LLC, but they wanted a fee for procedural paperwork. The pirates, frustrated beyond reason, threatened to sue before hanging up.

So Houdi, Gordo, and the rest of the horde assumed they were free to go. There was nothing left for the pirates to try.

"Not so fast," said our queen. "We need our bicycles."

The rough pirates couldn't believe what they were hearing.

"Your bicycles?"

The entire lot burst out laughing until the captain silenced them.

"You are lucky we are letting you live!" he shouted, his face turning burgundy with indignation. "I've always wanted to know what cat soup tastes like!"

A chorus of moans and whines erupted from the captives' section, but Houdi immediately calmed them with a downward motion of her paw.

"Silence!" she commanded.

"We aren't going to be anybody's soup. But you could be hanging from the end of this rope!"

"Har har har..." came the pirate captain's reply.

"Don't laugh. Two of my messengers, Olympic swimmers, mind you, slipped overboard last night and headed for the coast. They're carrying documents containing my connections in the USA, phone numbers, and this ship's coordinates. If they don't hear from me by tonight, they'll hand everything over to the authorities. Do I need to remind you what they do to the likes of you in Morocco?"

The captain's smile faded.

"Now then," Houdi continued. "Let's see those bicycles."

It took exactly thirty minutes to complete the extraction, leave Mauritanian waters, and avoid a diplomatic incident.

The pirates handed over gold bars, jewels, a dinghy with a working engine, and the eleven bicycles they had confiscated. In exchange, Houdi gave her word of honour that no betrayal would follow.

As soon as they reached shore, the ferals mounted their bicycles and began racing.

Gordo pulled Houdi aside.

"What Olympic cat swimmers?" he asked.

Our queen removed her gloves with her teeth, winked, and smiled.

The matter was never discussed again. But Gordo wanted to discuss something of a much higher importance. If only his queen would listen…

Houdi and Company needed another ship, which was not the easiest thing to find these days. The seas had become rough politically speaking, even around places like Somalia, the birthplace of modern piracy.

Either way, she remained optimistic.

"Maybe we can buy one on sale!"

As it turned out, they could.

Unfortunately, the seller was the Corsican mafia.

Still, Houdi was not your average customer, as you have probably guessed by now.

More important was the plan ahead.

If she had one.

She didn't.

But Gordo seemed to. “Boss, we need to talk,” he said quietly.

"About time," said Houdi sarcastically. "I hope fresh fish is part of it. Preferably salmon."

"No, Your Majesty," replied Gordo with equal sarcasm. "Something even better. About an old lost civilisation from 3,000 BCE! They were named Minoans and I've found evidence not only of their history but much, much more!" The Minoans

“Bollocks!, said Houdi. Anything that old can't taste good any longer!”

Gordo’s hands covered his face in embarrassment.

But he had the attention of the rest of the crew of rascals.

And every feral on the beach stopped what they were doing and gathered around.

"What is it? What’d I say?" asked Houdi, perplexed at everybody's fascination with the news.

Gordo smiled.

“It's about riches, Boss. The likes you had not even dreamed before!! Gold, pearls of the highest qualities, and who knows how much jewelry!!"

“I've found encrypted messages of their location. I've found invaluable information that will make us not only the richest “sailors" in the world, but the most famous!”, he continued.

“But..”

"It requires setting our sails towards... America."

One rascal in the back could be heard mumbling:

"They sure have good salmon there."

An explosion of cheers followed.

"And tuna!" shouted another.

"And cod!"

"And shrimp!"

"And lobster!"

"Focus!" yelled Gordo.

The crowd settled down reluctantly.

"This is a serious operation. It requires discipline, teamwork, planning, courage, and sacrifice."

Silence fell over the beach.

Finally, a paw went up.

"Will there be snacks?"

Gordo closed his eyes.

"Yes."

The crowd erupted.

Cats were hugging each other. Someone rang a bicycle bell. One feral fainted from excitement.

Houdi climbed onto a barrel and raised a paw.

"Then it is settled! We sail for America!"

"FOR SALMON!" the crew roared.

"FOR TUNA!"

"FOR LOBSTER!"

"FOR SNACKS!"

Nobody seemed entirely sure what the mission was anymore.

Gordo sighed. Houdi smiled.

The wind filled the sails. The bicycles were secured.

The crew was united.

And somewhere in the distance, an unsuspecting fish was having a perfectly normal day. 😽

Follow Houdi's adventures here and in Notes.

See you next time for the most exciting discovery of this century. The breakdown of the secret codes the Minoan people left behind, and another huge surprise.

ref: Europe lost Bronze Age Masters

réf: Lost Canaanite Language Decoded

Thank you for reading!

Love, always…

René

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Today, I read something I didn’t know—one more thing to add to all the other things I do not know. But it was intriguing, and it inspired me to write this post.

Starting from the beginning, did you know that all human blood comes from a Supernova? I sure didn’t. I read that we originate from cosmic particles that fell to …

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July, 22, 2011.

He arrived on Utoya before dawn. He'd been there before, so he was familiar with the environment. He was fast and methodical in his movements. He unloaded the heavy gear first, then the survival bags, and finally, the camo outfits. The hardest part was hiding the boat in the bush. Painfully slow. The wind was too strong that morning, and making a fire next to the tent was essential for warmth. He couldn't wait for the sun rays to appear and blanket the area with sweet, sweet heat. His stopwatch told him minus 14 hours, 34 min to zero. Everything was perfectly timed to go according to plan. His devious plan.

But his head hurt, and his hearing was perturbed from the explosion in Oslo just three hours earlier. He decided to take two antihistamine pills to deal with it.

He changed into a police uniform and selected a badge from his tool bag to show if necessary.

He turned the radio on to hear the news on the Oslo bomb attack, and was pleased to hear it caused absolute chaos in the government. That was indeed music to his ears.

Soon, he was expected at the island's local immigration office to identify himself and his purpose on the island. He was sure his fake police ID badge and uniform would do the trick.

Daylight was beginning to peek out, and it wouldn't be long before the sun broke through, casting bright rays that would engulf the darkness.

He thought to himself that by tomorrow morning, the whole world would know his name, his mindset, his manifesto.

Anders Behring Breivik, b. Feb 19th, 1979, will be the biggest mass murderer in Norway since WWII.

Inside his head, he believed the white race was at risk of being eradicated by non -whites and that society as a whole was under threat. He was about to change that and also bring forth his ideology to those who, according to him, are not aware of the present and quite imminent danger.

He thought his plan was flawless, perfectly timed and the consequences long-lasting, not only for Norway, but for the world at large.

He thought: Not bad for a single man without assistance.

Not bad for a man self-taught. These radical thoughts made him feel proud and gave him great encouragement.

He made a fire and coffee right after he set up the tent. The sun was rising, and although the beams were still weak, they could be felt quite nicely.

He found high ground and grabbed his binoculars. He could barely see any movements from the camp. He figured they probably were having breakfast. No one must be aware of his presence, and no one should be able to see him. The operation would be as stealthy as possible until the time was right. Only then will they be conscious of his existence.

He came down from his observatory point, as he figured the coffee should be ready. He sat down and rechecked the maps, then assembled the weapons he was to use. He had put together an arsenal, but the most important items besides the automatic guns were the clips and the ammunition. He had travelled all over Europe trying to get access to automatic weapons on the black market. That was proven to be a useless endeavour, except for a couple of pieces and the fertiliser; the rest he obtained legally in Norway. He was told that the Czech Republic was a haven for whatever one desired, but it turned out to be a fool's errand. He was livid about it and was already preparing his revenge, assuming he survived this mission.

As the day progressed, he went around the island, walking like a panther in a hunt, reckoning the land. His police uniform and sidearm gave him a sense of security when he saw a group of fishermen walking about, himself always out of sight. He was the perfect stalker, aware of his own movements and his own sounds. He was invisible in that forest, and he wanted it that way.

He headed to the town council as planned to meet with the officials there, introducing himself as an Oslo police officer reporting from the field. He presented his fake badges and ID to both men there and told them the story of what had happened in the city just a few hours earlier. He couldn't answer their questions but assured them that the culprits would be caught in the near future. But the mood changed when they began to doubt his credentials and his purpose on the island. Tense moments ensued, followed by even more tense silence. Realising this wasn't going according to plan, he pulled his pistol from the side holster and quickly executed them both in rapid succession. They never had a chance. Then, he calmly closed the blinds, turned off the lights, and secured the front door with lock and key, swinging the sign “Closed" facing outwards.

Walked the same short distance back to his tent, grabbed the binoculars, and from the hill had another look at the camp. Now, he saw a lot of movement. Everyone was doing something, seemingly in coordination, with higher-ups directing the work. Most of them were young men, between 19 and 25, with the captains a bit older. The entire encampment must have numbered around 4k people, divided into three main sections.

While Anders was burying the tent and other items, something completely unexpected happened. The shore of Utoya Island is rich in oysters and would make a good take for anyone willing to put in the work. During his short stay on the island, Anders was surprised when a fisherman who happened to be walking by stopped to say hello, startling him.

Caught totally off guard, Anders engaged the man in a brief conversation while waiting for the opportunity to strike him. He thought a bullet would attract undesired attention, so he planned to use his knife. He couldn't afford to leave such a witness alive who could easily identify him later. But just as he was about to strike, a boat pulled up with his companion fishermen, hurrying him on board, destination unknown. The man politely wished him well, climbed aboard the boat, and they all departed. An unexpected occurrence over which Breivik had no control. He continued his labour as the zero hours approached.

He carefully rechecked the weapons after burying the tent and utensils, then took another look from the hill towards the camp. Everything was as it was supposed to be. The walk through the forest to reach his destination would be roughly 42 minutes, so he still had another hour to kill. The longest hour of his entire life. He found an isolated spot, and he waited, underneath a camouflage poncho, and the sun bathing him in full.

His thoughts took him deep into mental images of his probabilities, chances, and responses that could take place after his arrest, if caught alive. An event he planned carefully, as he did his outreach to the media to ensure his manifesto would be published.

It had all been going through his head for five consecutive nights now, through his mental and physical notes, and over again, just like clockwork.He noticed he was getting anxious as the time drew near, and remaining still wasn't an option anymore. He decided to get as close to their camp as possible to observe their movements, while staying at a safe distance and watching what was taking place through binoculars.

He didn't expect to encounter anyone else on his way there, just like he didn't expect to have any surprises while the clock was getting closer to 00.00 hours.

The walk took less time than he thought it was going to, and before he knew it, he was at lens distance from the main camp, and he could perceive ordinary-paced movements. Underneath his camo outfit, he was wearing the police uniform that would make him an attractive caller to the panicky youngsters looking for a safe haven. He thought it was a brilliant part of the plan to avoid them running away from him and towards him instead. Later, it was determined that during the panic, the police uniform worked in his favour to a percentage of 75%, and the Islanders trusted it for the most part, therefore becoming easy targets, falling like flies to the rapid fire of his automatic machine gun.

Some in the camp were doing exercises, others were preparing food. Scanning the surroundings, he selected elevated ground that would work exactly for his purpose, with enough surface to stand on and move 360°, and wide enough to contain his weapons and gear, ammunition and grenades, as well as his military carry-on duffel bags. He thought to himself how many of these people would be alive 30 min from now. How much would the world as we knew it be the same? So, with that in mind he began his death march. Another tenth of a mile, there would be no turning back. They will know the name Anders Behring Breivik for generations to come…

In the middle of the island, the campers had no idea what was about to occur. But since everything was timed perfectly, it'd be 27 minutes before true hell descended upon them. And the adrenaline started to pump. His sense of pride going off the charts as he reassured himself he was humanity's hero, and that history should recognise him as such.

But History begs to differ.

An ambush premeditated and carried out on non-combatants is far from being an honorable endeavour.

In the end, he accomplished what he set up to do, killing close to 100 people, and his best excuse for it was the unspoken fear that his race was being threatened.

Evil unabated is a more logic reasoning, and History will prove that is, indeed, correct.

Interestingly enough, the shape of the island is that of a heart. (Photo above)

Thank you.

Until we meet again,

Love and Light,

René

PHOTO GALLERY:

ref: How to spot fake cops.

ref: (video) Utoya survivors’ stories

ref: Lessons from the biggest massacre in Norway

I think that’s enough, don’t you?

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We’ve all seen this artwork by Leonardo da Vinci, but a lot of people don’t know the true meaning behind it. Let’s explore the real message hidden within “Vitruvian Man” (c. 1490).

But the “Vitruvian Man” was inspired by the ancient Roman architect Vitruvius, who described the ideal human proportions in his treatise De Architectura. Leonardo sought to bring Vitruvius’s ideas to life by illustrating how the human body could be perfectly inscribed within both a circle and a square, symbolizing the intersection of the earthly (square) and the divine (circle). This drawing represents Leonardo’s belief in the harmony between man and nature, capturing the essence of Renaissance humanism, where art and science converge.

🖼️ Hidden Details

Leonardo’s meticulous attention to detail in the “Vitruvian Man” is evident in the precise measurements and geometric alignment of the figure. The man is depicted in two overlapping positions, with arms and legs extended, touching both the square and the circle, illustrating the concept of “ideal proportions.” The use of delicate lines and the careful balance between the figure’s anatomy and the surrounding geometry highlight Leonardo’s mastery in merging artistic beauty with mathematical precision. The accompanying notes, written in mirror script, further delve into the proportional relationships that govern both the human body and architectural structures, emphasizing the unity of all creation.

Why It Matters

The “Vitruvian Man” stands as one of the most enduring symbols of the Renaissance, embodying the period’s pursuit of knowledge and the belief in the interconnectedness of all things. Leonardo’s drawing not only serves as a study of human anatomy but also as a philosophical statement on the nature of humanity’s place in the cosmos. It remains a powerful testament to Leonardo’s genius and his ability to see beyond the surface to the deeper truths that govern both art and science.

🏛️ Where to See It

The “Vitruvian Man” is housed at the Gallerie dell’Accademia in Venice, Italy. Due to its fragility, the drawing is rarely displayed, making its public exhibitions a significant event for art lovers and scholars alike.

5 Curious Facts About Leonardo da Vinci

1. He wrote backwards.

Leonardo often used mirror writing, drafting his notes from right to left. Some believe it was to keep his ideas private, others think it was simply more natural for him as a left-handed writer.

2. He designed machines centuries ahead of his time.

From flying devices to armored vehicles, many of his sketches anticipated inventions that wouldn’t become reality for hundreds of years.

3. He was obsessed with anatomy.

Leonardo dissected human bodies to understand muscles, bones, and organs — creating drawings so precise they still impress medical experts today.

4. He left many works unfinished.

Despite his genius, Leonardo struggled with completing commissions. His relentless curiosity often pulled him toward new ideas before finishing old ones.

5. He saw art and science as the same thing.

For Leonardo, painting was not just creativity — it was investigation. Light, proportion, movement, nature: everything was connected.

Artist. Inventor. Scientist. Visionary.

Leonardo wasn’t just ahead of his time, he helped define it.

—^—

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Were you ever smitten with someone who looked like they belonged in a museum? Not just beautiful, but sculpted — the kind of face that could hold its own against a Greek statue without blinking. I met a goddess like that once, and I found myself wanting to document every second of it.

Her features were so symmetric, so perfectly arranged, that they felt almost intentional, as if someone had studied beauty for centuries and finally got it right in a person. Grace Kelly is arguably a perfect example.

But it wasn’t just her face. It was her presence. Something quiet and powerful moved with her, something that didn’t ask for attention but received it anyway.

Everywhere we went, the effect was the same. Restaurants, cinemas, sidewalks — people looked. Not rudely, not always consciously, but they looked. There was something otherworldly about her, something that made you pause even if you didn’t understand why. A peaceful aura.

I didn’t fully understand it either.

It felt like standing next to a work of art that somehow breathed. You admire its existence, but you also become in awe of it. And it was beyond beauty, beyond age and even essence. If nobility in a face and expression could be described, perhaps then, we could begin to sketch the experience of its presence. Phryne or Nefertiti’s proximity must've felt like that.

Almost afraid that gravity and the erosion of time itself may be handling it too roughly, as if something so refined could crack under the weight of ordinary life. Porcelain comes to mind. Marble, too. Smooth, luminous, untouchable — and yet, there she was, walking the streets of Paris besides me. I felt like a very “lucky dog” indeed.

But my point is that being with someone like that does something to you. It pulls you inward. It makes you want to create. To write, to paint, to capture something that feels impossible to hold. In my case, photographing and writing were the only tools I had, so I used them best i could. I tried to translate what I was seeing, the magic that was happening, and that together, that would form what I was feeling.

The moments I remember most clearly were the quiet ones.

Mornings were glorious times. The city is famous for its radiance during the early hours, especially (particularly) if it's sunny. What hasn't already being said about Paris in late spring... Montparnasse, Bois de Bologne, Île-de-France, Jardín des Tuileries.

When the room would be filled with that soft early light that seems designed for reverence. Her face and the light coming in could be a painter's dream; relaxed, untouched by the world. A portrait of true magic frozen in time….

A strand of hair would fall gently across her cheek, not enough to hide her, just enough to make the moment feel alive.

There was no need to move it. There was no need for anything at all.

Observe and be present. That's all.

It felt like witnessing something larger than life, something that didn’t quite belong to time. I couldn’t measure those moments in minutes or hours. They existed outside of that. I only knew that I was present, that I was a witness of those moments, and that was more than enough.

If I could have painted, I would have. Instead, I wrote. I wrote because it was the only way I knew how to hold on to something so fleeting, so impossibly complete.And even then, I knew I wasn’t capturing the whole experience.

I was only capturing a single instance.

That deep instance is one of the reasons why I became a writer.

—∆—

Next: Why do people become writers, artists, sculptors?

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Until we meet again…

He was a brilliant perfectionist behind one of rock’s most eccentric bands – even if he preferred life in the shadows

By René Volpi, with excerpts from David Browne and Henry Diltz

Addicting Complex Tunes

Friends and collaborators of the late Walter Becker discuss how his troubled lif…

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Some men build fame chasing death. Tom accidentally built something better.

My cousin Tom predicted he would never grow old when he was eleven. At the time, we laughed, assuming it was the kind of bravado boys use when they want to sound fearless. Years later, we realised it had been something closer to prophecy – because Tom spent the rest of his life trying to prove it.

Tom loved life too much to treat it gently. He chased adrenaline the way others chase affection. Speed, danger, and the thrill of being watched were his oxygen. What began as ordinary dares among friends slowly evolved into something larger. Tom discovered that risk, when performed in front of an audience, could turn into fame.

He began organising challenges and posting them online, inviting anyone brave—or reckless—enough to compete. Hundreds of thousands followed him like disciples. Participants are paid to enter. Some flew across oceans for the privilege of testing themselves under his banner. What began as a hobby quickly became a spectacle.

Tom understood momentum better than anyone. The noise had to continue; the stakes had to rise. Sponsors appeared. Merchandise followed. Hoodies and caps stamped with the words ‘King of Death’ spread through the crowds. A television network eventually approached him with the idea of turning the escalating stunts into a reality show. Cameras followed Tom and his captains as the challenges grew bigger, louder, and more dangerous. Ratings climbed. Fame followed him everywhere.

Then came the crash.

It happened during a motorcycle stunt meant to break a speed record. One moment, he was flying across the asphalt like a comet; the next, he was tangled in twisted metal and silence. When Tom woke in the hospital, the doctors delivered the verdict with careful calm. His spine had been shattered. He would never walk again.

The silence that followed was something Tom had never experienced before. The crowds moved on. Sponsors disappeared. Fame, it turned out, loved danger but had no patience for weakness. For months, Tom stared at the ceiling of a rehabilitation room, listening to the quiet and facing the one challenge he could not outrun.

And then, in typical fashion, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He invented a new challenge.

Desperate to remain on top of something—anything—Tom issued a call to the world’s inventors, engineers, and dreamers. He challenged them to combine artificial intelligence with human ingenuity and create what medicine claimed was impossible: a pair of bionic legs that could connect directly to his spinal nerves and allow him to walk again.

At first, the idea sounded absurd. But curiosity has always been stronger than scepticism. Engineers arrived from universities, robotics labs, and cluttered garages. Coders, surgeons, machinists, and physicists began working together on a problem that had once belonged only to science fiction. Months turned into sleepless nights of experimentation.

And eventually, against every sensible prediction, it worked.

When Tom stood for the first time, the machines attached to his body looked like something borrowed from the future. Sensors translated the faint signals of his nervous system into motion, and the robotic limbs responded as if they were extensions of his own body. When he took his first steps, the room fell silent before erupting in disbelief.

The footage travelled around the world within hours.

What began as one man’s desperate challenge quickly turned into something much larger. Companies rushed to refine the technology. Laboratories improved the designs. Factories began producing the miraculous limbs in numbers no one had imagined possible. Within a few short years, they were appearing everywhere, as if they had leapt straight from the pages of science fiction.

The true beneficiaries were not the thrill-seekers who once followed Tom’s dangerous games. They were veterans, accident victims, and children who had never known the feeling of walking at all. One by one, they stood. Some took cautious steps. Others walked confidently. A few even ran.

Tom spent his youth proving how close a human being could come to dying.

It took losing his legs to discover the far greater challenge: helping millions of people stand again.

Until next time…

Much love. ❤️

René

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One rainy afternoon on March 10th, I was born.

Pepin the caterpillar was not impressed.

“Too wet!” he grumbled, shaking himself as raindrops slid off his back.

Pepin had just finished losing his extra weight and becoming exactly who he was meant to be. Instead of celebrating, he complained.

Too wet.

Too windy.

Too bright.

Too everything.

My sisters and I tried not to laugh. We loved the rain. Rain meant beginnings.

There were four of us: Billy, Regina, Madeleine… and me, Rosie.

All we had to do was survive our first few hours near the pond. Birds were always wapractisedo we practiced hiding among leaves and reeds. Some of our cousins used poison for protection. Not us. We preferred to smell like flowers in France.

Soon, our wings dried.

Left. Right.

Up. Down.

Flying was harder than it looked. We bumped into each other so often that Regina declared, “We need a system!” So we invented a dance. One after the other, circling the pond in the same direction.

No more bonks.

Pepin had a brother named Koko. Koko was smaller and greener and always seemed to be smiling. In the evenings, when the frogs croaked softly and the light turned golden, Koko told stories about secret petals and hidden garden corners.

Pepin rolled his eyes.

Then one morning, something new appeared.

A buzzing tower of bees near the old willow tree.

“This was not here yesterday,” whispered Madeleine.

The young insects gathered in excitement. Even Pepin straightened up.

And then, of course, Pepin cleared his throat.

“I shall explain everything,” he announced.

He did not know everything.

But that had never stopped him before.

He spoke of royal bees and honey capyjamas.d bees who slept in silk pajamas. The little ones listened wide-eyed.

From beneath the rose bushes, a pair of field mice listened too.

They knew a thing or two about bees.

The next afternoon, instead of arguing, the mice brought Pepin a book from the garden library.

The Life of the Bee.

They handed it to him with great ceremony.

Pepin blinked.

For a moment, we feared thunder.

But instead, something surprising happened.

Pepin read.

He read about teamwork and patience. About bees dancing to share directions. About how every bee mattered.

The next day, when Pepin gave his “lecture,” something had changed.

He spoke molearntly.

He asked questions.

He even said, “I learned something new yesterday.”

The pond felt warmer after that.

Spring arrived quietly, painting everything in impossible colors. The frogs sang louder. The flowers stretched. Even Pepin complained less.

And then came the biggest surprise of all.

Maria, the lady from the house, placed a little wooden house near the pond for her gentle brown dog. The dog was going to have puppies.

We watched from the reeds as the miracle unfolded one quiet night.

Tiny noses.

Tiny paws.

Tiny breaths.

Billy whispered, “They can’t fly.”

“Not yet,” I said.

Because that is what we had learned at the pond.

Everyone learns to fly in their own time.

Some with wings.

Some with courage.

Some by listening instead of talking.

And if you look very closely at the pond at sunset, you might still see four butterflies circling in perfect rhythm…

And one green caterpillar reading very carefully from a book.

… Next episcomment.he Night the Frogs Sang Too Loud”.

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A two-word comment — “No thanks” — sent me down a rabbit hole.

Not about religion. Not about immigration.

About fear. And what fear justifies.

The governments of many nations are taking liberties that could be questionable in the eyes is many law abiding citizens. Here's a few examples:

The expansion of surveillance post-9/11.

The normalization of facial re…

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The Hidden Reach of Human Perception

We think we know how perception works. Eyes see. Ears hear. Skin touches.

But the human brain has never agreed to follow simple rules.

We humans carry within us a neurological potential that many find difficult to accept. Yet it exists. We are, quite literally, walking mysteries.

Among the…

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In the past few episodes, I explained what a drag it is to wake up one morning and have your world turned upside down by an ugly stroke. The shock. The realization. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. But it happened. Life comes with no guarantees and no assurances.

I also wrote about something just as important: that without the support of you know who you are, I wouldn’t have made it. Not in a million years. My writing groups. Close friends. And Substack.

You wouldn’t let me quit. My subscriptions stayed put, and many of you, without even knowing what had happened, sent me kind words and encouragement. Some probably assumed I’d simply taken a break, which is normal for writers. The truth is, I still wanted to die. No exaggeration. Never mind quitting. Die!

After all, how could I possibly write again? With what tools? By what means?

The very thought of starting over made me sick to my stomach. It felt impossible. Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally. When I tried to explain this to my BFF outside of Substack, she gave me the strongest push anyone could hope for. Thank you, Missy. I will never forget what you said. And it was enough.

As the days passed and intense therapy followed, the body, that incredible machine, began to respond. Slowly, the right side, the most affected, started to move again. Then came speech therapy. Memory exercises. Learning how to eat properly again. Day after day after day.

Substack became my break, my incentive, my reward. The promise waiting at the end of each session. Do your exercises, and you get to write. Finish the work, and you get your time here. What a relief that was. The light at the end of the tunnel. Do this, get that. Finish that, earn this.

It felt like victory, to borrow from Apocalypse Now.

It became my revenge against fate, against an event that almost killed me. And strangely, something else happened. I can’t explain the mechanics of it, but my creativity skyrocketed. I suddenly didn’t have enough hours in the day to write articles, essays, thoughts, and reflections on life.

When you write from the heart, people notice. The writer notices too. It flows naturally. And believe it or not, because of the stroke, not despite it, my writing improved. It felt right. I had faced the biggest curveball life could throw and survived something that felt inevitable. I could have cursed it all day long, but this quiet revenge was far more satisfying.

Then came the avalanche of subscribers. I had been on the platform for just over a year when the stroke hit, with a few hundred subscribers to my name. Afterwards, the numbers began to grow steadily, especially with the arrival of Notes.

Notes came at exactly the right time. Truly. The dynamic was simple. Social media of a different kind. Atypical. Human. It became a catalyst for my main publication and a space for brief exchanges and genuine connections. Precisely what the doctor ordered. Pun fully intended.

And the rest, as the wise seer says, is history.

So… this closes the chapter on my return from the dead and my unlikely landing in the arms of Substack. Not as a miracle story, not as inspiration bait, but as proof that stubbornness sometimes beats the odds.

Be stubborn! :)

If there’s anything worth taking from this, it’s simple: don’t quit while you’re still breathing. Not because everything will work out, but because you don’t get to see what’s next if you leave the room too early.

I stayed.

I persevered.

And life surprised me again.

That’s more than enough reason to keep going.

Until next time.

Love and light ❤️✌️

René

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It felt like an opening into a black hole of pure white light.

Discovering Substack For The First Time Ever

On a typical day, I came across a platform that could also serve as a personal diary. I thought, Why not? I had a thing or two to let out of my chest, and I've always been prone to experimentation, especially if it had to do with writing. I signed …

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Not because I’m ready — but because I’m suddenly aware I might not live much longer.

And it’s all your fault.

You fill my heart with emotion — and somehow that makes me weaker.

But I go places in my mind all the time. So many memories, all crammed into this little miracle-box we call the brain.

Yes, I’m softer now.

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Like I was saying…

Buenos Aires is not a city. It’s a living creature with moods, tempers, and unpredictable charm. It has the beauty of a metropolis and the personality of a drunk uncle who tells the truth a little too loud. The parks are gorgeous, the architecture makes absolutely no sense from one block to the next, an…

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This is my story since I jumped on this crazy train that is the ’Stack. From the beginning until today.

But really, the story began back in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where I…

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8 Things You May Not Know About Mark Twain

Check out eight fascinating facts about the world-famous author, including why his riverboat career was marred by tragedy and who served as the real-life model for Huck Finn.

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As a baby, he wasn’t expected to live.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens was born two months prematurely on November 30, 1835, in tiny Florida, Mis…

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Inspired by Wish You Were Here-- Pink Floyd,1975

Today was hard.

I thought of you more than usual. Listening to this song brought a flood of bittersweet memories — echoes of our time together, the laughter, the silences, the everything in between.
I always miss you, but today I miss you differently. Deeper. It’s in the smallest moments, the tiniest detail…

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And these flies! I don't want to get in a bad mood but where the heck is the wind? My tail hurts since Zoopie, the baboon bit it. It used to work well against the flies on my back. 

I think I got a tooth abscess; more to contend with. Last time it took three weeks to go away and I had to eat snails and fruits all of that time. 

It's not easy. Now l got Putters coming around sniffing and courting my femmes. Seriously? 

Skinny, ugly-ass youngster trying to challenge me!

What has this world come to?

It's too hot to fight anyway. 

Mombatu, our caretaker is bringing some idiotic tourists for selfies with me. He's coming in this direction. Putters is no contest when it comes to posing like a champ. Besides, the Japanese always preferred me. It's definitely a plus to have a good reputation for being not only friendly but extremely photogenic. Side by side with the other lions in the pride—well, take it from me—they all look like they belong in Urgent Care.

I'm glad they're coming for pictures. Maybe l get showered with treats. My favorites are pig ears. The Japanese have suitcases packed with them. 

But it's so hot, l wish they'd hurry up. Big growl to keep ‘em coming.

Ugh! The smarmy elephants got wind of the tourists and here they come, stomping and whining and dumping—begging, as usual, with their stupid trunks doing the same old tricks they've done since the Mammoths went extinct. 

But the humans fall for it. Everytime. 

What are you gonna do? Life is tough on the savanna. 

The smart monkeys devised a clever plan, so they get everything they want. They're always one step ahead of the rest of us. That's because they don't have the lazy gene. 

It's not our fault, these genetic traits. 

But these apes really got it together. Since they've stopped their tribal wars, they're prospering day by day. 

Before we know it, they'll have a kiosk selling refreshments to anyone who can pay and they'll be taking take Bitcoin too. 

Some are so slick they steal Rayban sunglasses from the Germans and trade them on the market for grapes and watermelons. Incredible. 

The jaguars are thirsty and so are the cheetahs. They shouldn't run so much. They're always running, just like little kids, they don't go anywhere slowly. Unless they're stalking a prey, they run and run and run. No wonder they are thirsty. 

But it's also true the water holes are fewer and farther in between. Worse, if there no rain for weeks, everybody's in a bad mood. And I can't remember the last time it rained.

The worst part is that the sky teases us non-stop. Clouds gather, get thicker and darker and we build up hope. Then, just like that, the sun comes out pounding again hotter than before. 

Savanna life is cruel. 

Aha! Two groups now. Over here! Over here! ROAARRH! One Japanese and one South Korean.

Double whammy! With plenty of goods. 

The human factions refuse to mingle, even for selfies! They have Centuries' old differences that even to this day carry everywhere they go. So, whoever gets here first wins. Stragglers wilt away in the heat.

But we are the wild ones and the dangerous ones. We are the beasts that need to be tamed.

Except for those chattery monkeys, all united in common enterprise. Let them entertain the hoards.

No, they’ve come to see us, the wild ones. Well, at least one of us, tame enough, old enough, handsome and majestic enough, to approach…

So these bi-pedal uprights keep coming, panting and shuffling in two different groups to beat each other out. Each one more entitled, more deserving than the other. Entitled to what? Selfies with the wild and the dangerous. Through the waves of Savanna heat, they almost look cute—trying their damndest, lurching into awkward little jogs to beat the others to “The Lion.”

They are so slow it is hard to watch…

It's getting hotter and I’ve got such a thirst. Where the heck is Mombatu with my African spring water? Wish l could be independent again—but these old bones…and the watering hole just gets farther and farther away every day.

What if l was wilder than ever, just one last time? Bollocks on the pigs ears. Leave them to the chimps. I’ve still got that antelope hindquarter up in my tree…

What am l thinking?

Mombuto is here. Came up from behind, much faster than the tourists! Water! A sip. Just a little sip. Maybe two… As the Japanese surround me and my tree. Mmmm, pigs ears…l can smell the saltiness— almost taste those crispy treats.

What if l don’t play? 

Mombuto will be angry.

I feel myself slinking, claw over claw, leg over paw, up the bark of my Acacia tree. My body is not my own. I salivate for the treats, but l can also smell the hot tangy blood of the still fresh steak up there—my tasty cache. Up, up…l stretch out into the branches as the humans point and yell in confusion. It is cooler up here, just a little cooler.

I focus on the skyline. l look so noble to those on the ground. I dare not look at Mombatu. He will never bring me water again. I used to be able to see the watering hole from this branch. No more. It has receded far far away, forever. 

So, this is how it ends for the once wild, once dangerous. This is how it ends for me.

I hear Mombatu yell. He has never been so loud. I start.  I forget.  l look. No! His fist is raised in the air. He is pumping his fist at me, up and down in the air. 

…His mouth is turned strangely upward, and his white teeth gleam—as a big grin of satisfaction appears on his flat sunburned face.

No matter what, he will be my best friend in the world for the rest of my days.

Tarik and Salif had been dreaming of Europe since they were boys running barefoot through the dusty streets of Gao, in Mali. They would sit under the fading light, whispering to each other about the lives they imagined waiting for them: the clothes they would wear, the parties they would choose, the laughter of strangers who would become friends. They saw themselves strolling through Madrid with Cuban cigars between their lips, stepping into restaurants so bright and full of music they felt like palaces. They were just children then—confident in that reckless way teenagers are—but their imagination gave them wings.

Years passed. They were no longer children. At twenty-one, they had finally decided: this was the time. They had almost nothing—just their worn backpacks and a hundred dollars between them—but they had each other, and they believed that was enough. Their friendship had carried them through everything. They were certain it would carry them through this.

That night the sea was colder than they expected. The skipper had warned them, but words never prepare you for the bite of the wind out on open water. The waves began to swell, lifting the boat like a toy. Salif’s throat burned with thirst, nerves drying his mouth. He stumbled forward to the water container and nearly pitched into the black water. Heart hammering, he steadied himself, drank, and returned to Tarik’s side. Together, they whispered verses from the Koran, trying to soothe their fear, binding themselves to faith. For a while, it worked.

But Tarik grew pale. The sickness rose in him until he could barely sit upright. With Salif’s arm around him, and another migrant’s hand steadying his back, they guided him toward the edge so he could breathe and retch into the dark sea. That was when it happened.

The wave came out of nowhere, a wall of water crashing into the side of the boat with brutal force. People were thrown like rag dolls, tumbling into the hull. Salif gasped, grasping at anything to hold onto. He saw Tarik—his brother in all but blood—flung into the air, his hands clawing desperately for the rail. For a split second, their eyes met, wide with terror.

And then Tarik was gone. Swallowed by the merciless sea.

That was the last time anyone ever saw him alive.

January 10th, 2022. Near the Coast of Ceuta, North Africa.

~π~

The Broken Dream

Maybe it began with something small—a boy asking a girl to the movies, a hand reaching for another in the dark. Love makes everything seem possible. But when the lights came back on, life demanded its due. A child was born, a family needed food, and suddenly a young man's dreams in a small African village collided with the merciless truth of poverty. What began as tenderness became the push that sent him toward the sea.

The Mediterranean does not forgive. The nights are black, the waves colder than steel, the boats overcrowded and fragile. Men, women, and children clutch each other against the dark, praying not to be the ones the water decides to claim. And when they reach the shore, trembling and half-alive, they believe the worst is over.

It isn’t.

Europe greets them not with open arms, but with suspicion and disdain. They are chased from corners, hunted in parking lots, and driven from parks. They run not from lions or famine anymore, but from policemen, from laws bent against them, from a hatred inherited like a curse. In the cities, they are ghosts. Selling trinkets that no one wants. Paid in humiliation. Owing debts that can never be cleared. Even the air they breathe is considered borrowed.

This is not survival; it is slow suffocation. To be told, again and again, that your very existence is an offence. To be too Black, too poor, too visible, too invisible. To be blamed for the desperation you never chose, for the accident of your own birth. And yet, through all of it, they endure.

Europe needs them and despises them in the same breath. Cheap labour, silent hands, bodies bent under the weight of invisible chains. Blackness becomes both a necessity and a crime. A sin and a sentence. The debt, continually rising, is never to be paid.

And still the crossings continue. Boat after boat, face after face, hope pushing against despair. The sea swallows some. The streets swallow others. But they do not stop, because the alternative is worse.

Their story is not a headline or a statistic. It is a wound that bleeds in plain sight, a truth that demands more than pity—it demands reckoning.

If we refuse to see them, then we refuse to see ourselves. Because suffering is not foreign to us; it is human. The only difference between us and them is where the first breath was drawn. And for that accident of geography, they are forced to carry the world's weight.

That is the price of being born Black in Europe. A price paid not in money, but in dignity, breath, and blood.

And unless we learn to grieve for them as we would for our own, the boats will keep crossing, the sea will keep taking, and Europe’s shame will keep growing, wave after wave.

This is not just migration. It is survival in its rawest form, and Europe answers it with suspicion, contempt, and exploitation.

The only difference between “us” and “them” is an accident of birth. And for that, they are forced to carry the world's weight.

Until we learn to grieve for them as for our own, the boats will keep crossing, the sea will keep taking, and Europe’s shame will keep rising, time after time…

—∆—

Until next time,

Love and Light ♥️ 🕊️

René

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History of the World in 7 Turns

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