A rebel without a clue.

(with Shakespeare’s ghost looking on) Greatness is not goodness. This ought to be obvious, and once stated plainly it usually is — yet modern politics repeatedly collapses the two, either moralising power or shrinking it into harmlessness. Tragedy never made this mistake. Shakespeare, in particular, understood that greatness is a matter of scale and consequence, not virtue, and that the body — frail, foolish, mortal — always waits beneath the robes. Tragedy asks a simple, brutal question: What happens when a human flaw is given enormous reach? In King Lear, Lear begins convinced that authority entitles him to love. He stages a performance of affection and mistakes words for truth. Power, here, destroys perception before it destroys anything else. The Fool — the only figure permitted to speak honestly — tells him bluntly: > “See better, Lear.” It is the play’s moral command. Lear cannot see while power cushions him. Only when stripped of crown, shelter, and dignity does knowledge arr...

I am returning happy.  I negotiated the airport in Alicante well. I didn't allow the change of pace, place, space, lack of solace challenge the final walk away of 2025. A chico had a jumper with a slogan writ large  *this is the best day ever* which I liked, but I'd change it slightly *these are the best moments ever* The Quiet Sufficiency of *all these* Moments. But the big *flog* of Ryanair is a different sort of *cabin pressure*. They say sit back and relax, but it's immensely difficult to turn off when the continue to force alcohol, perfume, food and scratch card purchases as soon as the cabin is climbing up to it's celling. 

I am tired.  I am in the air above France  And I have no idea Why I am above the clouds  And looking at a liminal  Edge retreating west When all I want is a hug. Embrace Spain for the duration Get into Alicante, Valencia! Cease the day in England  And arrive alongside the Mediterranean. I am tired. Coming down in the air above Iberia.

On a cold December Monday, Daniel stepped out into Leeds before dawn, carrying the weight of heavy Haix safety boots and the gentle intention of keepin’ his mind in wave-form rather than particle. The city was already showin’ signs of its Christmas irritability — influencers in the pubs, hipsters with their “sure” and “on trend” chatter, the usual ultraviolet glare of Um. He drifted through it all like a man refusing to be pulled down into noise. He had a bland Greggs croissant, he judged the hipsters, he escaped Whitelocks and the Victoria, and eventually he settled enough to board the X98 — the bus that’s as unpredictable as Leeds itself. As Red Hall slid past, he began easing into the day, remembering Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind: waves are simply waves. He repeated the ACIM lesson for the day, letting forgiveness soften the edges. When he reached Wetherby, the air changed. Passing St Oswald’s and then the roundabout, he felt himself re-entering Hmm — his home frequency. At his mum’s, ...

6th December 2025 (Bugs Bunny well past Mel Blanc’s bedtime) It began, as it always does on days that matter, in that liminal hour — your cusp, before Leeds wakes, before Wetherby yawns, before the world puts its mask back on. You sat with your two books — Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind and 101 Experiments in the Philosophy of Everyday Life — open on the warm table like two old monks waitin’ for you to breathe. A glass of water. Specs folded. Silence like a cathedral. You weren’t in Um. You weren’t even near it. You were in Hmm, that Wetherby-minded clarity where you can actually see the spine of things. And what comes to a mind in Hmm? Truth. Truth about men. Truth about fear. Truth about masks and the faces behind ’em. You saw Glenn — your daft, loyal mate — crawlin’ off cliffs in Ronda, snappin’ selfies with wolves in Carlsbad, thinkin’ Guinness is brewed in Mayo, thinkin’ Bond is spirit rather than fiction, thinkin’ “essence” means glamour instead of rot. Bless him. Soft lad in a hard w...