Conversations on Science, Culture and Time
The Hawk That Bothered Flamstead
You might’ve read about it—The Guardian ran the piece just yesterday:
“Flamstead man catches hawk that had been attacking villagers for weeks.”
Straightforward enough. Dozens of residents ducking and dodging a rogue bird with an attitude. One fellow ended up in hospital. Another swore the thing took his pie mid-sentence.
But what The Guardian didn’t print is what happened next.
Shadows of the Oracle
“Hmm,” murmured Tobias, frowning as he tucked the spool into a hidden pocket of his cloak. “We both felt that rift, after all. If something’s tampering with the Boundary, it’s not some idle hobby. They must be dabbling in powers they don’t understand.” He flicked his gaze downwards as a blunt-nosed bulldog waddled into the room. Cecil, his jowls quivering with each breath, seemed eternally unimpressed by the concept of cosmic threats.
[…]
Thus prepared, they set out. Horses had been borrowed from a taciturn stablehand who asked no questions—Tumbledown’s sort-of watchers were generally given a wide berth when they came round with that certain gleam in their eyes. The morning was crisp, and the air carried the faint perfume of wild herbs. As they rode over the softly undulating hills, Tobias and Miles occupied themselves with idle observations and the occasional jibe. They travelled in watchful silence for a time, hooves thudding against packed earth. At length, Tobias cast Miles a sidelong glance, jaw set.
On Fog, Fools, and Following the Clues: A Modest Guide to Thinking Like a Detective
There’s a peculiar fog that’s settled over the world lately. Not the kind that rolls in over moors and lingers in valleys, but the sort that creeps in through glowing screens, settles in group chats, and makes its home in comment sections. It smells faintly of outrage, moves at the speed of a Wi-Fi signal, and has one singular mission: to confuse.
In this fog, people don’t speak—they declare. Every conversation feels like a showdown. And the quieter voices, the thoughtful ones, the “hmm-let-me-think-about-that” types? They get drowned out by the noise, often mistaken for weakness when, in fact, they’re the ones doing the hardest thing of all: trying to understand.
Which brings us to the detective.
Severance, Season 2
Let’s begin where the season did: on a high note. The first few episodes reintroduced us to the luminous bleakness of Lumon and its cheerfully traumatised employees. Mark, Helly, Irving, and Dylan all returned to their grey-carpeted purgatory, one by on, their faces a little more worn, their eyes slightly more haunted. And then—just when we were getting comfortable with the eerie fluorescents and perfectly-timed corporate dread—the show said: “Hold my Kier e-candle.”
The Persistence of Time
Time is more than just passing moments—it is measured, shaped, and crafted by the hands of those who dare to capture it. The Persistence of Time, presented by The Hour Glass, explores the evolution of timekeeping, from its earliest milestones to the revolutionary artistry of Abraham-Louis Breguet and the rise of independent watchmaking.
Recovered Monastic Notes on the Wormwood Incident
The Wormwood Incident, Anno Domini 1257
"It is hereby recorded that on the evening of the Wormwood Experiment, Brother Percival did, with good intent but questionable wisdom, infuse his latest brew with the bitter herb of absinthe. This was done under the belief that it would ‘purge sin from the body and ‘enhance theological clarity.’ It instead led to:
Brother Eustace spontaneously composing a Latin hymn of no known origin (translation attempts are ongoing, as half of it appears to be angelic gibberish).
The Brew That Nearly Sparked a Reformation
Brother Percival had long accepted that solitude was both a gift and a hazard. It was a gift, granting him silent communion with the Almighty; a hazard, because the mind, when left alone too long, tended to wander into weird territories. Some monks, in their idle hours, took to copying sacred texts or gardening. Brother Percival, however, had taken to brewing.
In theory, it all started innocently. A small experiment here, a slight refinement there. The other brothers at the monastery appreciated a hearty ale, and if the Church insisted on monopolizing hops, well, one had to get creative. There were other ways—unconventional ways—to craft a drink not just potent, but utterly memorable. Yet as Percival stared at his latest batch, a faintly luminescent brew bubbling away in his candlelit chamber, he found himself muttering, “I may have gone too far this time.”
Rumbles in Tumbledown
[…] Rifts were rare—accidents in the natural order of things. Most inhabitants of Tumbledown wouldn’t recognise one if it glowed pink and started yodelling, but Tobias was no ordinary inhabitant. He set down a scroll he’d been perusing (something about an obscure centuries-old wormwood ale recipe) and pressed his palm to the damp cobblestone. A faint whisper of energy played across his fingertips […] that hum in the air felt more like what he’d first suspected. He exhaled slowly, torn between apprehension and a strange flicker of excitement. Rumours of a rogue artisan had reached him in hushed tones—someone dabbling in intangible bargains, weaving regrets and memories like a tapestry waiting to unravel. Could this fledgling rift be tied to that meddling?
Language, Pints, and the Eternal "Why?"
Now, given that yours truly has started spending a considerable amount of time writing - or at least contemplating ideas, spinning narratives, crafting dialogue, and occasionally questioning their own life choices - it was only fitting that the question of how language itself formed would pique my interest. It’s not a new obsession, mind you. Ever since childhood, I’ve found myself drawn to the idea that words don’t just describe the world - they shape it, build it, define it.
Sverker Johansson understands this well. He opens The Dawn of Language with a scene that is both painfully familiar and strangely profound: a conversation with his five-year-old son. It follows a pattern any parent, teacher, or unsuspecting adult in the vicinity of a curious child will recognise:
"Why?"
"Because X."
"But why?"
"Because Y."
"But why?"
…long pause, shoulders raised in existential surrender.
At this point, most parents wave a vague hand at “science” or “because that’s how it is,” but Johansson, being made of sterner stuff (and by ‘stern’ we mean former particle physicist at CERN turned linguist, because apparently some people need two intimidatingly complex careers), took a different route. He wrote a book. And what a book it is.
The Snowflake Mystery
We’ve all heard it a million times: “No two snowflakes are alike.” It’s the kind of claim we accept without question - like goldfish forgetting things in three seconds or fortune cookies offering life advice. But in The Snowflake Mystery, Veritasium (my favourite science YouTube channel, btw) dares to prod this frosty axiom with a scientific stick. The results? A lot more nuanced than your average holiday greeting card would have you believe.
A Brief Respite (An Ambrose Short)
[…]Ambrose stood behind his old wooden counter, a ledger open before him. He wasn’t writing much, merely tapping his quill and eyeing the empty lines. […] A subdued jingle from the bell announced Father Quinn’s arrival. Tall and composed under his worn cloak, he shut the door gently, shaking off a few stray droplets from the persistent drizzle outside. Ambrose glanced over, one eyebrow arching in mild curiosity.
“Well, if it isn’t the town’s moral compass,” Ambrose said, tapping his quill against the ledger. “You’re either here to exorcise me or to poke through my inventory, Father Quinn. Which is it today?”
The Lost Slopes of Super St. Bernard
There’s something hauntingly beautiful about abandoned places. The way nature reclaims them, how silence settles into their empty halls, the stories they leave behind.
One such place is Super St. Bernard, a ghostly ski resort straddling the Swiss-Italian border. Back in the ‘60s and ‘70s, it wasn’t just a winter getaway—it was a hub of smuggling and adventure. Cigarettes, chocolate, coffee—all the forbidden luxuries of the time found their way through these snow-covered peaks, ferried by those willing to take the risk.
But beyond the contraband, St. Bernard held another secret: it was a freerider’s paradise. Long before the sport gained mainstream recognition, local youth carved their way down untouched slopes, chasing the thrill of the descent. No lifts, no crowds, just pure, unfiltered skiing.
The Enigmatic Inspirations Behind Ambrose and His Universe
[…] Athanasius Kircher was, to put it bluntly, a man who never met a subject he didn’t want to master. Born in 1602, at a time when science and mysticism still held hands in polite society, he became one of the most prolific, eccentric, and insatiably curious scholars of his era. He wasn’t just dabbling in a field or two—he was attempting to connect all human knowledge into a single, coherent system. The sheer audacity of it is almost endearing.
The book written by John Glassie dives deep into Kircher’s astonishingly broad range of studies. He was a… […]
Strategic Beer Endurance Plan
Beer enthusiasts, casual drinkers, and those who simply appreciate a well-executed pint—welcome. It’s Friday, and that means one thing: the delicate art of strategic beer endurance. This isn’t about mindless excess (we’ve all learned that lesson the hard way). This is about enjoying the ride—one hoppy, citrusy masterpiece at a time—without completely obliterating your weekend.
So, before you embark on tonight’s hazy adventure, let’s lay out a plan. A well-structured, tactically sound, and absolutely necessary plan.
Please Enjoy Each Episode Equally
I’m a bit late to the party, almost two weeks, but anyway… I’m happy that Severance is finally back for its second season, after what feels like an eternity in the innies’ break room! Two episodes in, it’s safe to say: the weirdness has returned in full swing. The same unsettling blend of corporate dystopia (perhaps even amped up!), eerie humour, and slow-burning mystery is as sharp as ever. And the cinematography really shines.
A Curious Trade: Epilogue
Long after the swirling snow had settled into a gentle hush outside, Ambrose found himself alone at the counter, poring over a large, leather-bound ledger. The lantern light flickered against the old pages, revealing names, dates, and cryptic notations scribbled in Ambrose’s spidery handwriting. Each line represented a deal—some trifling, some monumental—sealed within the walls of his shop.
He ran a fingertip down one column, skimming the entries of the day:
Irrational Public-Speaking Anxiety – Traded for a pocket watch.
Temptation to Erase Guilt – Declined; no sale.
Persistent Self-Doubt in a ‘Chosen One’ – Claimed as partial payment for… well, let’s call it “services rendered.”
A Curious Trade
Winter had laid its icy grip upon the town, painting the cobblestones with frost and casting halos of pale light around the few lanterns still burning. The air was crisp and sharp, the kind that bit at your nose and turned each breath into a fleeting cloud. The town itself, nestled against the bend of a slow-moving river, seemed to have been frozen in time as much as by the season. Crooked buildings leaned toward each other like old conspirators sharing secrets, their roofs bowed with the weight of centuries.
It was a quiet morning, the kind where sound seemed to carry farther, where the crunch of boots on snow echoed in the stillness. The river ran sluggishly under a crust of thin ice, its surface rippling faintly in the weak morning light, like an elderly man grumbling his way through another cold day.
The Threads We Leave Behind
The Watchman tossed and turned in his narrow bed, the chill of the morning doing little to quiet his restless mind. The child’s question echoed in the corners of his thoughts, gnawing at him with an insistence that no amount of pulling the blanket over his head could muffle. "What if the memories weren’t mine to forget?" The words struck like a splinter he couldn’t pry loose, sharp and nagging.
At his feet, Moss, his ever-faithful border collie, let out a low, impatient whine. The dog had been watching him with an intensity that suggested he shared the Watchman’s unease. Finally, Moss stood, padded over to the bedside, and pawed at his master’s arm. The Watchman groaned, sitting up and rubbing his face. "All right, Moss. I’ll bite. You win. No one gets any rest, apparently."
The Watchman
The town lay quiet beneath a velvet blanket of winter, its snow-covered rooftops glistening under the pale light of a crescent moon. The hour was late, and though a few sounds of merriment escaped from the alehouse near the square—a clatter of mugs, a burst of laughter—even these seemed to be softening, like the sleepy yips of puppies settling down for the night. The cobbled streets wound through the town like frozen veins, silent and unbroken save for the occasional echo of footsteps. Night was creeping in, the kind of deep, impenetrable night that left no room for the lingering warmth of day. The cold had long since bullied the townsfolk into their homes, and chimneys puffed small clouds into the brittle air. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, its notes carried on the icy wind.
A Winter Tale
The snowstorm roared like a wild beast, lashing at the young traveller with icy fangs. Athanasius, bundled in a cloak that did little to shield him, hunched over the neck of his weary horse. The beast snorted, steam rising from its nostrils as it plodded forward, each step a laborious battle against the snowdrifts.
"Easy there, old friend," Athanasius muttered, his voice nearly lost to the howling wind. His fingers, numbed despite his gloves, clutched the reins as he squinted into the white chaos. The road—if it could still be called that—had long disappeared beneath a thick blanket of snow, leaving him to trust in the horse’s instincts more than his own sense of direction.