A l'entrada del temps clar

My foster dog, Max, is too scared to let me touch him but makes sure I’m taken care of. 

Prior to this point, when Odysseus tries to exercise Xenia (ancient Greek guest rites/hospitality code), he did what he was supposed to do. (Well, we think so anyway — notably, the most famous books of the Odyssey are told by Odysseus, who isn’t exactly a reliable narrator.)

But when Polyphemus kills and eats some of the men, the game changes. The Cyclops makes it clear he has no intention of abiding by Zeus’s laws, and will cannibalize the lot of the men. So, Odysseus responds in kind — he breaks Xenia and lies. He introduces himself under a false name as part of a trick. Polyphemus then breaks Xenia again — he tells Nobody he’ll be eaten last, and that is the Cyclops’ guest gift to him.

Odysseus’ transgression is clearly the lesser one. The Nobody trick works. It gets Odysseus and most of his crew out of the cave alive.

But, crucially, before leaving Odysseus sheds his disguise. He admits his true identity, in detail, so he can boast of his achievements and add vanquishing a Cyclops to the list. And it bites him in the ass spectacularly.

The only reason why Polyphemus can curse Odysseus, can bid his father Poseidon to curse the man who blinded him, is because he now knows who did it. If Odysseus had kept his mouth shut, he might have safely made it home from there. But while a big part of why the Nobody disguise vs. real name reveal is showing Odysseus’s hubris, it’s not just about that. It’s also about the start of a pattern that hurts him more than it helps him.

From this point in the Odyssey on, Odysseus lies about his identity constantly. And sometimes it protects him, but more often it’s a detriment or at least unnecessary. He’s lying about his identity primarily to people who are on his side — a kindly loyal swineherd, his son, his faithful wife, his ailing father.

The last one is especially damning, because happens when Odysseus has already killed the suitors and returned home and reunited with the rest of his family sans disguises. He knows from everyone else that Laertes never betrayed him or his legacy, but was mourning his son and heartbroken for almost a decade. Odysseus has publicly declared his return to everyone else — his father doesn’t know because he’s living in squalor remotely. But Odysseus doesn’t tell his father who he is. He makes up a fake identity and tells a story implying Laertes’ son is dead. And when Laertes bursts out crying, then Odysseus drops the charade and finally admits who he really was.

There was no utility to that lie. No loyalty to test. No hidden threats to worry about. But Odysseus still instinctively lies to his beloved father about who he is, only dropping the charade when he sees the damage it’s doing to his relationships.

Because at this point, lying is pathological for Odysseus. He can’t seem to stop doing it. Because with Polyphemus, a lie protected him and the truth hurt him. That is the point of the “ Nobody” disguise.

Hudsonian Whimbrel Numenius hudsonicus

12/13/2025 Ensenada, Mexico

“Baifang” by Hanggai (杭盖乐队). 2014.

Hanggai is an Inner Mongolian folk rock band based in Beijing. Their name “Hanggai” is the Mongolian word for natural landscape, and they incorporate traditional throat singing, morin khuur (horse-hair fiddle), and tobshuur (a two-stringed Mongolian banjo) in their music. They aim to preserve native forms of music by mixing them with modern music elements such as electric guitar, bass, and electronic programming. Amidst both Sinofication of culture and westernization of music, Hanggai promotes “Mongolian spiritual strength.” They amassed popularity after appearing on Chinese reality singing show Sing My Song (中国好歌曲) and have gone on to work with artists such as Khalil Fong.

my storytelling final! or, that week i almost went blind cross-hatching!

it’s a couple weeks old at this point, but i’m still proud of it (all that cross-hatching…) even though looking back at it now i can see a ton of flaws or things i just could’ve done better. maybe i’ll redo it one day.

the page colors are kind of wonky because they’re photographs; i didn’t have a scanner big enough for the pages.

My dude, my brethren, my fellow comrade

This is just literally what being Jewish feels like

My grandparents were holocaust survivors that could barely talk about their birth country when they were alive. My great grandmother lost her entire family when nazis gunned down Jewish Latvian villages and left no survivors. My great great great grandfather lived in a desert with barely any water resources because that was safer than staying in Poland next to his christian neighbors. And then there’s also my ancestral grandmother that lost everything when her family barely escaped the spanish inquisition.

My family has more lost history than the library of Alexandria

And you know what’s the worst part is?

You learn it in bits and pieces, scattered across your lifetime.

The first time you hear about places we can no longer visit or ceremonies we can no longer perform, you’re too young to remember. It is always part of you. It feels more like a fantasy world then a piece of history you’ve lost.

One day, you are researching family history. So many of the branches of your family tree get suddenly cut off. You start to understand what that means.

One day, you are reading your great-great-grandmother’s story’s. You read about her sister who moved east when your great-great-grandmother moved west, and the day that the letters stopped coming. You know what it means, even before you look up the name of the city she moved to, and what happened to it.

(You are one of the lucky ones. The trauma is far enough back that you weren’t raised in its immediate shadow.)

One day, you learn about the Yizkor book, the collected memories about the inhabitants of a village that no longer exists, which talks about your family.

(You are one of the lucky ones. So many villages don’t have Yizkor books, because there was no one left alive who remembered them.)

One day, you visit what used to be one of the cultural centers of your people. Now, it’s a museum to what was destroyed.

(It’s one of the lucky places. So many of the memories have been paved over and erased.)

One day, “the last Jew alive in [country where hundreds of thousands of Jews once lived]” stops being a shocking statement, and becomes a genre.

(You are one of the lucky ones. You’ve never been the last.)

There is no one time your culture was violently destroyed. It happened over and over again, across continents and millenia. The survivors flee, and hope they will have a few generations before the place they flee to is also destroyed.

(You are one of the lucky ones. You’ve never had to flee.)

Your culture is still here, because you are still here. What you have is the fragments of a thousand burned texts and demolished buildings and extinct dialects, but it is real. It is alive. Multiple militaries and paramilitary organizations are actively trying to kill it.

(You are one of the lucky ones. You don’t live in their direct line of fire.)

You grow up being told it’s better now. People don’t hate you for being different; not like they used to. One day, you realize their acceptance is dependent on them not having to think about how different you are.

(You are one of the lucky ones. It is possible for you to pretend.)

You speak your language, and you are speaking for everyone who was murdered for speaking it. You study your texts, and your are studying for everyone who was murdered for studying them. You celebrate your holidays, and you are celebrating for everyone who was murdered for celebrating them. You live your life, and you are living for everyone who was murdered.

(You are one of the lucky ones. You are able to speak, and study, and celebrate, and live.)

Nothing you do will ever be fully for yourself. You are a memorial to everything that was lost. You are everything that has been salvaged. You are the hope that something can be rebuilt.

Vincent Price as Cardinal Richelieu //