operascrypta

Real Numbers

2026-03-24T00:00:00Z

When I think about my childhood, I'm haunted by emptiness. My family never showed much interest in my thoughts, feelings, or dreams. At family gatherings, I would try to talk and instantly be talked over; nobody asked me what I thought about anything, and eventually, I stopped trying to interact with them. I was an inconvenient obligation—an itchy, hand-knitted sweater with uneven sleeves and a misshapen Christmas elf on the front, worn only when the spinster great aunt visits.

In the summer of 1994, I was thirteen years old, and my parents had what would be their last alcohol-fueled argument. This behavior had become routine since arriving at The Farm in 1988. There was shouting, guns were pulled, people were pushed down stairs. My mother decided she would go to my grandparents' house on the coast. My father told me to "go with her." I remember thinking: nobody wants me. I would later learn my parents' behavior was typical of people who refuse to address their problems. It had nothing to do with my value as a person.

My sister, who was at a sailing camp for the summer, was spared the immediate drunken drama. The cruelty of the timing was a different kind of violence. She went from the magic of the water and fun with friends to the news that her home no longer existed.

Because of the abrupt and chaotic way in which we left, I found myself living with my grandparents without my dogs, my friends, or my books. Most of my possessions were left behind, never to be seen again. I wasn't sure what was going to happen, but I knew my life was changing radically, and I felt more alone than ever.

I often suffer from insomnia; back then was no different. My grandparents had a garage den with a television. My electric companion would sit there glowing in the darkness, showing me images of other people and places—providing a measure of comfort no human in my life would. Eating dry cereal, watching TV, distracting myself from the chaos—that's how I passed the time on those sleepless nights.

One night, probably close to midnight, I was watching one of those late-night talk shows. There was a new movie out about a hitman who sort of adopts this young girl after her family is murdered by corrupt cops. The actress who played the girl was on the show. She was telling the host about how her dog had recently had its anal glands removed. The host was visibly shocked by such a young woman speaking so candidly. In that silent, converted garage, I laughed hysterically. Oh, neat, I thought. She’s smart.

I was a nerd in an era that hadn't yet made it cool—preoccupied with science and technology in a way that rendered me an outcast among my peers. But here was a girl who looked about my age and seemed smart. It made me think there were other people like me out there. A few years later, I discovered we were born on the exact same day.

I've been through some strange and difficult times. At various points when I have felt particularly forsaken, I have found myself thinking about that girl. The fact that both our bodies have been here on Earth for, allegedly, the same amount of time makes me feel less like an alien. It makes those bleak times bearable somehow.

To put it mildly, I am a skeptic. I always wondered if she was a real person. I know that probably sounds crazy, but when you've spent a lifetime as an outlier, you start to question everything. Thirty years after that night in the den, I was at a women's soccer game in Los Angeles and looked up to see her face on the jumbotron. Holy shit! She’s real. It shouldn't have been shocking—she helped found the team, after all—but I never expected her to exist in the same physical space as me. Seeing her there, three decades later on a sideline in LA, wasn't just a celebrity sighting. It was a proof of concept. If she was made of skin and bone and breath, then I was, too.

Voice

2026-03-17T00:00:00Z

Voice.

"The author's voice", "finding my voice", "I lost my voice", "the voice of the voiceless", "you're doing the voice again"...

Am I allowed to have a voice?

I look back at my writing from seven months ago and struggle to hear myself. The sentiments are there, the details seem accurate, yet the tone is foreign—a stranger's voice. That doesn't sound like me, I think, staring at the dribble of thought snot on the page. It is a frustrating, ever-present haunting. I fight the temptation to sink into the melancholy of my own critical demons. Some of my recent work offers the delusion of hope, but I wonder: will this, too, turn into the maggot-filled carcass of a once-promising idea in six months' time?

It's odd developing a manuscript around the quest to learn the art and craft of writing. There were birds this morning at The Spot—a frantic flurry of life, climbing, pecking, and flapping. Their calls were a symphonic orgasm with a raw and rhythmic pulse. The sound consumed my attention and touched something primal. It was an honest, undeniable representation of existence. Good writing should be that: birdsong.

I have a process; perhaps an artifact of a technical life ruled by algorithms and logic. Regardless, I have a method. A feeling or an idea becomes an obsession—a message demanding communication. I strive to uncover, refine, and decode that message, then translate it into words that are honest and clear. This task demands vulnerability, hyper self-criticism, and contemplation—a mystical zen state. I must skin the fleshy artifice, trim the meat, and crack the bone open to let the marrow drip. Drip.

The struggle is painful. There are days when I view my work with instantaneous disgust and contempt. To survive the metaphorical pen, I approach the page like a child. I remind myself that self-kindness is a superpower. Skill can be engineered. As long as I maintain the proper mindset to sustain the practice, the breathing bones of the words will release the rich marrow. I will find my voice.

The Architecture of Persuasion: Part II (Suggestibility)

2026-02-25T00:00:00Z

Introduction

In the inaugural installment of this series, we examined foundational techniques of propaganda. In this second piece, we pivot to the neurological and psychological terrain of human suggestibility. By dissecting the types of suggestibility, the factors that amplify it, and methods to mitigate nonconsensual influence, we aim to secure the autonomy of our own cognitive processes.

What is Suggestibility

Human suggestibility is not a simple binary switch between mindless zombie and free-willed rebel, but a spectrum of predisposition. It is the psychological phenomenon that denotes the extent an individual’s cognitive architecture accepts external information—often bypassing critical analysis—and the magnitude by which an individual's thoughts, feelings, or behaviors are reshaped by that information.

Communicators, from marketers to demagogues, treat this predisposition as a technical variable to be manipulated in order to increase the efficacy of their messaging. Awareness is the first line of defense; by identifying these vectors of persuasion, we move from a passive recipient of suggestion to an active, objective participant in the exchange of information.

Types of Suggestibility

While we can broadly define human suggestibility as an individual's susceptibility to external cognitive influences, its precise nature remains elusive. Scholars postulate nuanced variants with no clear consensus on terminology. There also exists considerable overlap and complex interaction between variants and factors affecting suggestibility. Therefore, I have curated an illustrative categorization of several suggestibility variants in the following section. My intent is not to provide a definitive academic list, but rather to stimulate the readers' thought process with regard to the subject.

Hypnotic Suggestibility

Often associated with stage magic or mentalist entertainment, hypnotic suggestibility is an individual’s tendency to accept and respond to suggestions or commands given during altered states of consciousness—such states as those induced by: hypnosis, meditation, chemicals (psychoactive compounds), or electromagnetic fields (as in transcranial magnetic stimulation).

Memory Suggestibility

Memory suggestibility is the phenomenon of incorporating suggested information into one’s memories. This is often the result of pressured and leading questioning during a communication. For that reason, this area of suggestibility has often been researched in a legal context with respect to eye-witness testimony and confessions of criminality.

This variant concerns the ease with which an individual is influenced by the opinions and behaviors of others. Humans often desire social acceptance and feel an obligation to conform to perceived social norms. This is why peer pressure and “social proof” (the phenomenon where individuals look to others to guide their own behavior) are such powerful and effective tools of persuasion.

Table 1: Suggestibility Variants

Variant	Psychological Mechanism	Prototypical Context
Hypnotic	Altered Consciousness	Hypnosis, meditation, psychoactive compounds, or neuro-stimulation.
Memory	Retroactive Distortive	Legal testimony and pressurized interrogations.
Social	Normative Conformity	Social proof, peer pressure, and authority bias.

Factors Affecting Suggestibility

While “types” categorize modes of suggestibility, “factors” describe the vulnerabilities that permit entry of external suggestions. Research shows cognitive, emotional, and social factors can affect suggestibility. By manipulating variables within these domains it is possible to increase influence.

In manipulative contexts—ranging from subtle seduction to overt coercion—suggestibility increases in a manner analogous to that of hypnotic induction. The target’s confidence and trust in their own judgements is systematically eroded, forcing a reliance on external suggestions during decision-making. This mechanism underpins the utility of gaslighting: by destabilizing an individual’s sense of reality and confidence, the manipulator becomes the only “reliable” source of truth.

Evidence suggests that individuals with lower levels of self-esteem, assertiveness, and confidence are disproportionately susceptible. Consequently, those seeking to gain dominance and elicit compliance will often begin by attacking these psychological pillars of autonomy to ensure the target is sufficiently “malleable.”

Cognitive Factors

While one could make the argument that suggestibility itself is entirely a cognitive process, in this section I am specifically referring to cognitive activity related to attention, memory, reasoning, and perception (excluding social perceptions).

Attention

Researchers have linked attentional functioning (the ability to filter irrelevant information and inhibit reflexive responses) to suggestibility. This is exemplified in the case of hypnotic/trance states where heightened focus makes individuals more open to suggestions.

Memory

Individuals with actual or perceived recollection difficulties may be more willing to fill in gaps with suggested information provided from external sources. This can lead to distorted or false memories. Another memory-related factor, often used to great effect, is repetition. The more an individual is told a piece of information is true, the more likely they are to recall that information as true.

Reasoning

Those with poor or impaired critical thinking skills are less able to evaluate the credibility of sources, analyze evidence, and make reasoned judgements about information being presented to them. Furthermore, a reliance on heuristic thinking (using generalized shortcuts to make quick decisions) rather than critical analysis renders the individual a functional hostage to external cues.

Emotional Factors

During strong emotional states the amygdala (the emotional processing region of the brain) becomes triggered and can seize control, effectively overwhelming the prefrontal cortex (the brain region responsible for critical thinking and logical analysis). This cognitive bypass impairs executive function, increases reliance on heuristics, and enhances the desire for social support or validation. In this hijacked state an individual is more likely to accept external suggestions to help make decisions.

Humans are social creatures, so it is unsurprising that social factors affect suggestibility. Individuals are more likely to be influenced by someone they perceive as an expert or an authority figure, even though they may not be.

Most of us are aware of the power of peer pressure. Individuals frequently recount succumbing to uncharacteristic impulses under the justification that “everyone else was doing it”—the quintessential abdication of individual free will to groupthink. This type of “mob mind” can often be seen in periods of civil unrest, where otherwise law-abiding citizens are subsumed into group volatility and engage in violent rioting, their individual morality overridden by the gravity of the mob.

Cognitive Fortifications

While complete immunity to influence remains an idealistic impossibility, individuals can develop robust cognitive defenses. The following represents a select compendium of scientifically validated countermeasures which act as “structural reinforcements” of the mind:

Active Analysis: Strengthening critical thinking skills can help an individual process and evaluate external information as an auditor rather than a passive recipient.
Rational Skepticism: Cultivating skepticism and an inquisitive attitude establishes a “firewall” against information that lacks verifiable merit.
Emotional Regulation: Learning to manage visceral responses prevents cognitive bypass, ensuring that the prefrontal cortex remains the locus of executive function during high-stress situations.
Pillars of Autonomy: Participating in activities that build self-esteem, confidence, and assertiveness reduces the psychological load of social pressure and the desire for external validation.

Conclusion

Humans are biologically wired for suggestibility, therefore it may be impossible to completely eliminate external cognitive pressure. However, we can strengthen our critical thinking skills, improve our confidence, and regulate our emotions so we do not become vulnerable to nonconsensual influence. By becoming more aware of the various aspects of the phenomenon of suggestibility we can fortify our ability to remain autonomous agents of our own cognitive sovereignty.

Epistle: A Cold Blur of Shame and Hope (January 30-February 4)

2026-02-04T00:00:00Z

2026.01.30

The last few weeks have been a cold blur of routine and inclement winter weather. I found myself rereading my last epistle and journal entries just to anchor myself in time, catching up with the version of me that existed before the frost set in. Since my last letter, Virginia inaugurated its first female Governor. It was a historic moment for the Commonwealth; from my frame of reference, I simply hope her leadership translates into a vision of a kinder future for all people living here, and perhaps, by extension, across the country.

I've been reading/studying a book: Write. Publish. Repeat. There is a section which challenges authors to define their "ideal reader." It seems like a quixotic exercise for an author living in his car who has yet to make a penny from his words, but I have found it clarifying and helpful. I’ve realized I am writing for the moral and the thoughtful; I'm searching for the kind and the curious. I want to speak to those who look at the world, and the people in it, with a sense of wonder and compassion rather than judgment. I hope that doesn't sound preachy; I try to nurture these qualities in myself and often fall short. It is, after all, about the journey.

I had a taste of the "normal" world recently. A neighbor at The Spot needed a ride home from the auto shop; in exchange, she got me some gas and bought me breakfast at Dunkin' Donuts. It was a rare pleasure—sipping coffee, discussing mundane things such as the electrical grid and home repairs. I felt like a normal citizen again instead of a specter on the perimeter of society.

That sense of normalcy and connection invigorated my work. I've finally published The Savannah Story: I, as well as the first part in my series on persuasion. They feel like significant milestones, and I hope you enjoy them.

2026.02.04

Another winter storm shuttered the library this past Saturday, forcing a temporary hiatus. I spent several days cocooned in the depths of my sleeping bag, waiting out the weather. Rather than draining me, I found the isolated boredom refreshing.

This morning felt like a delightful reward. A kind stranger at a local shop hooked me up with a free coffee. Small, random acts of grace like that—witnessed or received—replenish my faith in humanity. As I drove to Wal-Mart for more propane, sipping the coffee and listening to Zach Bryan, I felt a sting of shame for the times when I become cynical and misanthropic.

This week was a productive win for the technical side of things, too. The new version of the website is live, featuring better SEO. It feels good to build something stable while my world is tumbling through limbo.

Now dear readers, it’s time to edit, publish, and move on to the next chapter.

The Savannah Story: I

2026-01-21T00:00:00Z

It was November 1st, 2022, and my stomach dropped into a slow, sick roll. I gazed in horrified disbelief at the flight confirmation: November 5th. My phone's screen blurred as the room began to tilt. I was traveling from Phoenix to Savannah and the flight was booked for, of all the damn days, a date shackled to the symbolic imagery of The Collective.

This felt less like an uncomfortable coincidence and more like a dare. Remember, remember. I began calculating the likelihood of being shoved into a black van by government agents, assassinated by cult operatives in the terminal, or publicly butchered by the Baker Boys the moment I deplaned in Georgia. But after a month in the White Mountains enduring BabaYaga's violent diatribes and threats, even a firing squad felt like a reprieve. If this was the end of the line, at least it was a ticket out of that cabin and away from the old woman's malevolence.

I spent the next four days drenched in a suffocating anxiety, navigating the minefield of BabaYaga's unpredictable outbursts. When the fifth finally arrived, I descended the mountain towards Phoenix, my mind spiraling through the possible outcomes of this quest.

Unsure if I would ever return, I arranged to leave my truck at Wingnut's apartment and summoned a car. On the drive to Sky Harbor, I was so mired in morbid thoughts I didn't realize the driver was speaking.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Looking up, I blinked and the terminal signs snapped into focus. He was asking for my airline.

"Oh, umm…" I quickly double-checked my itinerary. "United."

The driver whipped into the loading zone in front of the terminal with a practiced, aggressive grace. With a fluid, terrifying efficiency, he put the car in park, was out of the vehicle, and at the trunk before I could unfasten my seatbelt. I collected my luggage and offered a quick, firm handshake—his calloused hand providing a brief moment of human contact that felt jarringly normal. He was back behind the wheel and pulling away before my brain registered the thud of his door. That's a man on a mission. I stood on the curb, clutching my bag, and watched him disappear into the airport traffic.

I inhaled deeply; the sharp tang of jet fuel and exhaust seared my nostrils. The concrete thrummed beneath me, a low-frequency shudder from unseen jet engines that I felt in my marrow rather than heard. Around me, the airport radiated; a stochastic squelch of voices swirled, anonymizing me.

There is a specific energy at airports, a gravitational potential generated by thousands of people suspended between their pasts and futures. It's a rare place where life feels surreal, composed of nothing but raw possibility. Despite the target on my back, a spark of genuine excitement flashed. I leaned into the moment and stepped through the sliding doors, letting the climate-controlled air wash over me.

In November 2022, the world was trying to move past the pandemic, yet the social fabric remained frayed, a lingering irritability charging every public space. This palpable tension, the corralled nature of the terminal, and the ever-present surveillance of the security cameras were constant reminders that this could be a trap. I weaved through the crowd toward the security checkpoint, my eyes darting, looking for a tail or the glint of a weapon in the hands of a would-be assassin. Everything seemed normal, just another day at the…

"Fuck you!"

The shout ripped through the white noise like an explosion. My heart hammered against my ribs. This is it. My body tightened as I desperately scanned for a shooter or a blade-wielding attacker. They found some nutjob to take me out before I even leave Arizona. But the threat was localized elsewhere. A woman stood at a check-in counter, her body writhing in rage as she screamed at a motionless agent.

"Call the police! Call TSA! Fuck you, bitch! I will beat your fucking ass!"

She was still projecting profanities when two airport police officers materialized, flanking her and steering her toward the exit. The airline worker didn't even blink. She simply tilted forward slightly and spoke into the sudden vacuum: "Next in line, please."

I exhaled, the adrenaline still surging in my blood. I pushed forward past the check-in counters and towards the security checkpoint, my hypervigilance now dialed to a deafening level.

As I approached the gauntlet of metal detectors and X-ray scanners, my mind locked onto The Item tucked inside my carry-on. Approximately six inches long, three inches wide, and one inch thick—wrapped in thick matte-black packaging designed, I was told, to protect and obscure its contents. If it was discovered, it would surely provoke an awkward interaction with the Department of Homeland Security. Sweat coated my palms; a flash of heat climbed my neck, prickly and persistent. I had been reassured there was nothing to fear, but in my experience, reassurances were often polite fairy tales used to comfort children. I rehearsed my cover story—short, boring, and plausible—ready to deploy the moment things got complicated.

Within ten feet of the conveyor, a TSA agent materialized, unhooking a stanchion to open a new lane. She looked directly at me and motioned with her hand: Come here.

Kicking off my shoes and whipping off my belt, I moved with mechanical intent. I carefully placed my bag onto the conveyor and watched the black rubber flaps swallow it whole. Silently I pleaded with the universe for it to emerge on the other side without questions.

I stepped through the archway. On the other side, the agent waited with the wand, gesturing for me to "assume the position" and crucify myself. A secular crucifixion of vigilance: arms out and feet apart. She began a slow, methodical sweep. My heart skipped a beat when the wand emitted a sharp, metallic chirp near the base of my spine. I froze, the air turning to lead in my lungs. Shit. The "tumor" next to my spine. She frowned, swiped the device over the area again, and this time—silence.

"You're good," she said flatly.

Time didn't just slow down; it congealed. I stood at the end of the conveyor, my lungs locked, waiting for my bag to reappear. The static roar of the terminal muffled into a dull, underwater echo until my entire world narrowed to another TSA agent who was staring dead-eyed at the glowing monitor.

The belt jerked to a halt. Oh my God, I thought, my heart stopping. Is that my bag? The agent leaned in and squinted at the screen that was displaying the tangled, chaotic contents of my carry-on. He hovered there for an eternity, seemingly contemplating a manual search. Finally, he tapped the controls. The belt groaned back to life. The world snapped back into existence, the fluorescent airport lights suddenly too bright as I finally permitted air back into my lungs.

My hands were shaking slightly as I shoved my feet back into my shoes and fumbled with my belt; my skin crawled with the sensation of a thousand watching eyes. I snatched my bag from the rollers and didn't look back, heading deeper into the belly of the terminal towards my gate.

I reached the gate just as the queue began to coil into a massive human serpent. I stood at the back of the line for a moment before the recollection hit: I'd been upgraded. The thought of business class offered a flicker of relief; at the very least, it meant more distance between me and any prying eyes.

The cabin was a hollow haven. The flight wasn't fully booked, leaving me with the entire row and a precious pocket of silence. I slipped into the oversized seat and let it devour my weary bones, the steady hum of the engines finally drowning out the frantic looping of my thoughts. For one solid hour, I would be entombed in this calming mortuary of solitude. I shut my eyes, drifting into a thin, nervous sleep to the rhythmic clinking of ice from the galley as the flight attendants began their service.

The Architecture of Persuasion: Part I (The Mechanics of Propaganda)

2026-01-14T00:00:00Z

Introduction

In an era of unprecedented access to unimaginable volumes of information, the war for reality is fought not just with facts, but through the premeditated manipulation of cognitive processes. Originally drafted in 2020 as a response to the surge of online misinformation, this primer deconstructs common mechanics of influence. By becoming aware of these techniques, we can move from passive consumption to active, critical analysis of the media attempting to shape our reality.

The Nature of Propaganda

Propaganda is the systematic effort to shape psychological perceptions and influence behavior to achieve specific goals. Whether promoting a political agenda, religious belief, or a commercial product, the propagandist seeks to influence cognition by manipulating symbols, facts, and emotions. Crucially, propaganda can also be used to discredit or demonize an opposing group or idea, effectively narrowing the scope of public discourse.

Foundational Techniques

While influence operations vary in complexity, the following techniques remain foundational pillars of modern persuasion.

Name-Calling (Labeling)

This technique involves using harmful or discriminatory "devil words" to arouse suspicion and prejudice. By attaching a pejorative label—such as traitor, terrorist, or radical—to an individual or movement without evidence or context, the communicator seeks to trigger an "us vs. them" response, discrediting the subject without addressing the merits of their argument.

Glittering Generalities

The inverse of name-calling, this method utilizes high-intensity slogans or simple catchphrases that stir strong emotional resonance but lack specific definitions. These "virtue words" (e.g., justice, heritage, peace) serve as empty vessels, allowing the audience to project their own values onto a cause, creating a sense of agreement where none may actually exist.

Transfer

Transfer involves the strategic association of a revered symbol with a specific message. Whether placing a political candidate in front of a national monument or using a religious icon to sell a social movement, the goal is to have the audience's existing respect for the symbol transfer to the new idea or product.

Testimonial

This relies on the Halo Effect, where the expertise or likability of a person in one field is used to validate a claim in an unrelated area. When a movie star endorses economic policy or an athlete promotes health supplements, the goal is to exploit trust rather than objective evidence.

Plain Folks

To bridge the gulf between the elite and the public, this device presents the propagandist or their idea as ordinary or relatable. Through curated "candid" social media content, informal language, and a calculated casual setting, the actor fosters a false sense of intimacy and "shared struggle" to lower the audience's skepticism.

The Bandwagon

Rooted in the evolutionary fear of social isolation, the Bandwagon technique creates an illusion of inevitability. By citing skewed polls or emphasizing that "millions are joining the movement," the propagandist pressures the individual to follow the crowd rather than evaluate the facts independently.

Card Stacking

Perhaps the most sophisticated technique, Card Stacking involves deliberately selecting and presenting only the facts and arguments that support one's position while omitting necessary context. By "stacking" the deck with favorable data and suppressing dissenting evidence, the influence operator creates a logical-seeming argument that is fundamentally a distortion of the truth.

Conclusion: Education vs Indoctorination

Propaganda is not always an organized targeted conspiracy; it can be unorganized, organically emerging from shared social biases. However, the defining characteristic is a lack of transparency and an incomplete view of the world.

Unlike education—which seeks to provide a multi-faceted view and encourage independent inquiry—propaganda is a closed system that produces a singular conclusion without critical thinking. By refining our media literacy and recognizing these patterns of deception, we can reclaim our cognitive autonomy in an increasingly manipulated world.

Epistle: Forgotten Holidays and Silent Victories (January 5-7, 2026)

2026-01-07T00:00:00Z

Happy New Year. I have survived the "Homeless Holiday Season," a period where time feels both stagnant and relentless. Christmas arrived and departed without much flair or celebration, marked only by a "Goodie Bag" I received from the food pantry.

Inside the bag, I found a large bottle of antacid and toothpaste for sensitive teeth—small necessities that felt like a divine nod to my struggles. I do not know if they knew these things would be helpful to me specifically, but the coincidence felt like a gift of hope from the universe.

On New Year's Day, I sought the sanctuary of nature at Back Bay in Sandbridge. In the marsh, I watched three Mute Swans waltz on the surface of the water. Their elegance and grace are a stark contrast to the cold grind of survival, a reminder that beauty persists even when it isn't seen.

My writing remains my primary anchor and purpose. I've been immersed in The Savannah Story: Part One (TSS1), which has now reached 2,078 words. In the publishing world, this could represent a solid foundational chapter. While I have yet to monetize these efforts, and the specter of privation remains a constant cloud hanging over my head, I haven't given up. I am only six months in, and the slight chance of escaping exile and death feels worth the effort.

To that end, you may have noticed I have archived my 2025 writings on this site. While the site's current lack of SEO friendliness is a deliberate choice for this stage of the journey, I look forward to the day when "being found" is the goal.

My mind also keeps drifting back to Vantacashmere; I find myself increasingly curious about Charlotte's fate and the lives of Sheriff Vidoc and Deputy Child. I'm thinking their story, and that world, may have more to reveal.

I hope your coming year is defined by excitement, joy, and the quiet fulfillment of your own dreams.

Vantacashmere

2025-12-17T00:00:00Z

A lone hiker stood petrified on the dirt trail. Moonless, overcast night birthed a suffocating pitch-black that devoured the shape of the world. The vast forest vanished beyond a sinister curtain of dense pines pressing in on either side. A low, guttural growl seeped out of the darkness, penetrating deep inside and shaking her bones—her limbs began to tremble. A surge of adrenaline prickled the hair on her neck; her stomach cramped as her heart pounded in her ears like a caged animal violently throwing itself against the walls of its confinement.

Calm down, Charlotte. It's probably just the wind, she desperately told herself. She forced a breath, holding it as she strained to penetrate the abyss of night, intently listening. It was deathly silent. Then, the sound came again: a grotesque, gurgling roar that tore the silence and slammed into her chest. That's not the wind. Run! Courage abandoned her. She scrambled to turn around, pushed off the dirt, and ran blindly toward the trailhead. Her red cashmere scarf trailed behind, a useless, fluttering crimson banner against the consuming black.

Trees snapped with thunderous reports; the foliage shredded violently behind Charlotte as something massive rushed from the forest in pursuit. She felt a menacing malevolence behind her, driving her. It can't be that far to the trailhead and the road. Her lungs burned, she could taste iron, and each stride felt like muscles ripping. An aberrational chill clawed at the back of her neck, raising gooseflesh. With every frantic exhale, she could see her breath crystalizing in the consuming black.

The trailhead lights glowed ahead, a sharp, defiant beacon of hope barely one hundred yards away. Charlotte risked a glance over her shoulder. There was no forest, no trail, and no monstrous predator pursuing her—only absolute emptiness. It wasn't the darkness of the woods; it was the black of a pure vacuum that devoured light and matter alike. It was the nothingness itself running her down. She tried to pump her arms faster, but it was too late; the void was upon her. Sensation vanished: she couldn't feel her body, the air against her skin, or the earth beneath her feet. She tore her throat open in a pitiful attempt at a scream, but the world was silent, and only a terrifying absence of sound escaped.

Sheriff Alan Warne Vidoc pulled his Interceptor next to Deputy Ian Child's cruiser in the trailhead parking area. Child rushed over to greet the Sheriff. "What we got, Child," Vidoc asked, climbing out of the SUV.

"Her car's here, locked. No sign of Charlotte, no struggle. Her mother said she hasn't answered her phone since last night."

Vidoc nodded. "Dogs?"

"On their way. I waited for you before checking the trail."

"Let's have a look."

The two men proceeded down the path carefully searching for anything out of the ordinary. About one hundred and fifty yards down the trail they stopped dead. Ahead, the forest was scarred by a path of destruction leading out onto the trail. Trees were snapped at the base, and the earth was churned up, as if a localized, violent tornado had torn a swath ten yards wide out of the woods. "What the hell you reckon did that?" Child muttered, staring.

"Get the CSTs back here and tape this off."

Child unspooled the barricade tape. Vidoc, scanning the woods, froze, his eyes locked on a spot closer to the trailhead. He deliberately trekked back up the trail and crouched, slipping on a pair of evidence collection gloves. "You got something, Sheriff?" Child called. Vidoc didn't reply, just snapped a quick series of photos with his phone before carefully lifting the object. Child walked up beside him and blinked. In the Sheriff's gloved hand was a piece of fabric so profoundly black it looked like a tear in reality. "I think it's a scarf," Vidoc replied quietly.

"Her mother said she was wearing a red cashmere one. That thing is blacker than midnight. And that smell…" Child wrinkled his nose, leaning closer.

"Burnt hair," Vidoc stated, cutting him off, his gaze fixed on the item. "And sulfur." The two men looked up, staring at each other, silent in their horrific bewilderment.

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

2025-12-03T00:00:00Z

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.

Aught Cleaver

2025-11-25T00:00:00Z

Suspended manifest banality,
dyadic acquitted maestros,
estranged
per lilliputians of allotted lacuna.

Surreptitious impetus,
allocated vicissitudes,
begets demented dynamistic concretions
amalgamating twain.

operascrypta

Real Numbers

Voice

The Architecture of Persuasion: Part II (Suggestibility)

Introduction

What is Suggestibility

Types of Suggestibility

Hypnotic Suggestibility

Memory Suggestibility

Social Suggestibility

Table 1: Suggestibility Variants

Factors Affecting Suggestibility

Cognitive Factors

Attention

Memory

Reasoning

Emotional Factors

Social Factors

Cognitive Fortifications

Conclusion

Epistle: A Cold Blur of Shame and Hope (January 30-February 4)

2026.01.30

2026.02.04

The Savannah Story: I

The Architecture of Persuasion: Part I (The Mechanics of Propaganda)

Introduction

The Nature of Propaganda

Foundational Techniques

Name-Calling (Labeling)

Glittering Generalities

Transfer

Testimonial

Plain Folks

The Bandwagon

Card Stacking

Conclusion: Education vs Indoctorination

Epistle: Forgotten Holidays and Silent Victories (January 5-7, 2026)

Vantacashmere

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

Aught Cleaver