operascrypta

Epistle: Brumating in the Empire of Lies (December 2-3, 2025)

I managed to survive the Peanut Assassin debacle. I've been working on The Savannah Story: Part One attempting to juggle not only the drafting process but the mental fortitude required to sustain it. I find that a substantial amount of my process is often coaxing my mind into the appropriate state to write—whether producing words, editing, or simply organizing notions. Sometimes I'm on fire and ideas flow like an unstoppable molten current; other times, it is a Sisyphian task of endlessly rolling uphill the same heavy, coarse thoughts.

The struggle, at least in my personal experience, demands self-care and a kind of inner vigilance to constantly cultivate a positive mindset. In the six months I've been living this precarious lifestyle, I've observed a stark pattern: those who manage to nourish hope and tame their stress are the ones who endure.

Since last week, Thanksgiving came and went with the barely perceptible passage of time that plagues you in exile. I managed to secure a Thanksgiving portion on Friday. It was a feast in my current context: turkey (with gravy), stuffing, mashed potatoes, and green beans. The most interesting morsel was a mashed yam or sweet potato dish, spiced with hints of cinnamon and a texture that suggested a dash of apple sauce. Whatever the recipe, it was a moment of true, uncomplicated deliciousness.

I ventured out to NRP (Northwest River Park) a few times. It's a delightful park with lots of space to hike around and think. The coming winter has decreased the activity level of the wildlife and most of the leaves have fallen but it seems there is always something new to observe. This last visit I took a short walk around Lake Lesa, the use of the term "lake" might be a bit of an exaggeration in this case. It's more of a pond that connects to small waterways that make their way south towards the park's eponymous river. The most interesting thing going on there was the workers dutifully working on the new Park Office and Ranger Station.

I strolled around the turtle pond adjacent to the disc golf course. I saw no turtles this time. True to their ectothermic sensibilities, I suppose they were brumating somewhere deep in the muddy bottom. In the colder seasons, it has always felt to me that nature recedes and quiets down to take a gentle nap. The stark contrast—the natural world's repose versus human activity steadily hammering and sawing its way into the future—struck a chord I am still working to articulate.

My food supply has grown critically lean, and I am very much looking forward to my trip to the food pantry later today with intense anticipation. I find myself hoping for the small luxury of lunch meat or hummus in the prepared food box. There are weeks when I approach the pantry with the simple, driving excitement of a hungry animal. In those times, the first "meal" after procuring the food is always somehow special, like the first profoundly satisfying meal after a fast.

It is 4 PM on Wednesday, which means I need to finish writing this and post it before my loosely self-imposed weekly deadline of 7 PM. Admittedly, some of that requirement is related to the hours of operation of the library, but whatever. I find that having this weekly deadline is helpful for a sense of routine and purpose.

I was able to restock my food provisions yesterday and was happy to find some lunch meat in my food box. Deeply in need of a walk and the soothing therapy of being in nature, I spent much of today at NRP casually strolling about. When I finished my meditative wandering I made a sandwich and ate it while patrolling the turtle pond—still no turtles.

I continue to work on my writing while trying to survive in this Empire of Lies. Perhaps my life is like the turtles, suspended in a state of mud-covered brumation; waiting for the warmth of the world to return.