Superintelligence, Existential Risk, and the Strange Precipice We Call the Present There are nights when the air feels thin. Almost brittle. As though history itself is bracing for impact. You’ve felt it. That strange intuition that something vast and invisible is shifting beneath everything. Like migration of possibility. A quiet rearranging of the cosmic furniture that no one asked permission for.

Trump Signs a Bill to Release the Very Files He Spent Years Calling Fake, and the Surrealism Is Now Complete Before we jump in, a quick writer’s margin note: I had the original version of this piece finished, polished, proofread, and leaning back in my chair with the satisfied sigh of someone who thinks they’re finally caught up with the news for at least twenty quiet minutes.

The week begins with a quiet cruelty.On November 1st, the United States government will still exist on paper, but the scaffolding that keeps millions of people alive, food assistance, early childhood education and rural air travel will begin to collapse under its own weight. Somewhere, a grocery store clerk will have to tell a mother her WIC card doesn’t work.

“You wonder what I am doing? Well, so do I, in truth. Days seem to dawn, suns to shine, evenings to follow, and then I sleep. What I have done, what I am doing, what I am going to do, puzzle and bewilder me. Have you ever been a leaf and fallen from your tree in autumn and been really puzzled about it?

Narratives, Disinformation, and the Shooter’s Profile The fatal shooting of Charlie Kirk at Utah Valley University on September 10th was not just another act of political violence. It was also a collision of culture, irony, and the collapse of any shared narrative about what violence even means in America today. What should have been a straightforward tragedy (the assassination of a public figure)

Denazification, Memory, and the Lessons of 1945–1952 A Promise in Ash In the spring of 1945, a German mayor and his wife walked through the Ohrdruf concentration camp, led by American soldiers. The air was thick with the stench of rot. Flies swarmed over bodies piled like firewood. They moved slowly, silently, their faces fixed in something between horror and disbelief.

He wakes before the fog rolls in, in that narrow hour when the sky is neither night nor morning but something nameless in between. The world has not yet stirred. It hangs suspended, a breath held, as though even time waits for him to rise. He pulls on his coat. It's stiff with the scent of oil and smoke. He takes up his pole, his flint, his little brass box of matches.

"Hero Saves Orphans From the Orphan Crushing Machine—GoFundMe Raises $200K." That’s the headline. Viral. Heartwarming. A testament to the indomitable American spirit. The kind of story we’re supposed to applaud. But you know what sticks with me? Why the hell is there an orphan crushing machine in the first place? We don’t talk about that. We just clap when someone gets crushed a little slower than expected.

There’s a jackboot toe tap keeping timeWhile the children dance and playHoney, if you think you’ve seen a crimeWon't you look the other way - Thrice Nine years ago, the loudest voices in Southern conservatism wouldn’t shut up about liberty. States’ rights. Small government. Don’t tread on me. It was a whole identity built on the idea that government (

Not every revolutionary dies in prison. Some live long enough to become president. That’s when the real fight begins. There’s something strange about winning.You fight, you bleed, you go to prison, you lose everything and somehow you crawl back out. And if you’re José Mujica, you don’t just crawl out, you walk into the presidency of the very country that tortured you.

Introduction This isn’t a political essay.This isn’t poetry.This isn’t a cry for help. This is a field report from a mental, emotional, and existential pressure system. A condition not of disorder, but of perception. It’s written for those who live with an ache they don’t always have words for. And for those who love people who carry that ache without explanation.

When violence feels senseless, but the causes are anything but. In Minnesota, America’s luck ran out. Again. Early Saturday morning, in a quiet Minneapolis suburb, a man posing as law enforcement shot State Senator John Hoffman and his wife in their home. Hours later, former House Speaker Melissa Hortman and her husband were dead. The alleged attacker left behind a manifesto and a list of names that included other lawmakers, abortion providers and political enemies.

A Birthday Without a King June 14th marks Donald Trump's birthday. An occasion ironically dubbed "No Kings Day" across America. Thousands are taking to the streets, not merely to protest Trump himself but to reject the throne he and others have long tried to occupy. The symbolic timing of this protest underscores the central issue: America’s ongoing struggle against authoritarianism, veiled beneath democratic rhetoric.

A visceral short story about stillness, surrender, and survival. Content Warning: This story includes themes of suicidal ideation. If you're struggling, you're not alone. Please take care of yourself while reading. The ledge beneath his feet is coarse, fractured with age, small grains of dust and debris shifting under his weight. His toes hover over the edge, a fraction of an inch from nothing.

“The mechanisms of authoritarianism are always there, waiting beneath the surface. All they require is an excuse... A moment to reveal themselves openly.” Praxis Point, April 28, 2025 When I first heard that people were standing up in Los Angeles, refusing to be passive in the face of ICE raids and state violence, my initial reaction was simple and visceral: …

Part Five – Praxis Point There’s a quiet that comes after the chant fades, after the tear gas clears, after the crowd disperses and the streets go still. The media leaves. The moment passes. And you're left wondering if it meant anything at all. That’s where we begin. Because this was never just about a single summit or a flash of resistance.

About This Series:Globalization wasn’t supposed to look like this. Neoliberalism dressed up as progress has left a trail of debt, displacement, and broken promises across the world. But not everyone went quietly. This series explores the alter-globalization movement: a decentralized, people-powered resistance that rose up in the '90s and early 2000s to demand a different future. One built on solidarity, not exploitation.

Another World Was Possible: The Alter-Globalization Movement About This Series:Globalization wasn’t supposed to look like this. Neoliberalism dressed up as progress has left a trail of debt, displacement, and broken promises across the world. But not everyone went quietly. This series explores the alter-globalization movement: a decentralized, people-powered resistance that rose up in the '90s and early 2000s to demand a different future.

“For everyone, everything. For us, nothing.” Another World Was Possible: The Alter-Globalization Movement About This Series:Globalization wasn’t supposed to look like this. Neoliberalism dressed up as progress has left a trail of debt, displacement, and broken promises across the world. But not everyone went quietly. This series explores the alter-globalization movement: a decentralized, people-powered resistance that rose up in the '90s and early 2000s to demand a different future.

About This Series:Globalization wasn’t supposed to look like this. Neoliberalism dressed up as progress has left a trail of debt, displacement, and broken promises across the world. But not everyone went quietly. This series explores the alter-globalization movement: a decentralized, people-powered resistance that rose up in the '90s and early 2000s to demand a different future. One built on solidarity, not exploitation.

I hated London, Kentucky. Not in the way people casually complain about their hometowns. I hated it like it was stitched into my ribs and pulling tight. London was where I learned how to vanish. Where I learned that being myself came with consequences. By the time I was a teenager, I knew to become invisible by 5 p.m. That's when my dad got off work.

When people debate the horrors of history, communism’s death toll is often front and center. And yes, authoritarian regimes under that banner have killed millions. But here’s what rarely enters the conversation: capitalism has too. Not as collateral damage. As a business model. No entity proves that more brutally than the British East India Company. This wasn’t just a corporation. It was an empire with a boardroom.

There’s a familiar smell in the air. Smoke, steel, dust and silence from the people who should be screaming. India and Pakistan are fighting again. Not with words, but with Rafale jets, cruise missiles, and radar-guided Chinese anti-air systems. It’s the first real peer-on-peer military conflict of the 21st century, we’re told. A war between equals. Both nations have industrial arms production, advanced air forces, and nuclear capabilities.

Proximity does something that distance can’t. It disarms. When you're close enough to see someone’s shaking hands or the tired weight in their eyes, judgment starts to crack. Labels start to peel off. The narratives we build about who people are lazy, loud, dangerous, and strange. Those start to erode the moment you sit with them long enough to listen.

Proximity does something that distance can’t. It disarms. When you're close enough to see someone’s shaking hands or the tired weight in their eyes, judgment starts to crack. Labels start to peel off. The narratives we build about who people are lazy, loud, dangerous, and strange. Those start to erode the moment you sit with them long enough to listen.