Conversations on Science, Culture and Time
The Final Lantern
The Watchman moved through the town at a pace that didn’t disturb the mist. The hour was late, but not entirely still — distant shutters clicked in the wind, and somewhere a bell had lost count of the hour and was tolling vaguely in protest. He passed beneath it without looking up. Lantern by lantern, he paused, reached for the wick, and gently extinguished it with a practiced motion that felt older than his hands.
The dog walked beside him — a border collie, black and white, eyes bright with a memory the man no longer had. He carried no lead, needed no instruction. He simply walked where he walked, stopped where he stopped. Once, he barked at a familiar alley, but the Watchman only frowned and moved on.
He didn’t know the town’s name. He didn’t know his own. But he knew which lanterns to put out.
The Unweaving
The frost deepened with every step. Trees wore it like lace, and the very air began to hum — not with life, but with memory. This was Oracle ground now, and the world knew better than to misbehave under her gaze. Ambrose had met her once before. Not officially. Not under Guild sanction. It was decades ago, during the Warden Schism, when entire villages vanished and no one could decide whether to classify it as sabotage or an atmospheric phenomenon. He’d found his way into the Oracle’s threshold by accident — or perhaps by invitation poorly disguised as coincidence. They'd argued, naturally. Not with shouting, but with precision. She questioned a choice he had made involving a tethered soul and a corrupted clocktower. He, in turn, accused her of confusing detachment with wisdom.
She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t needed to. Every word she spoke seemed to arrive already proven. Ambrose had walked out of that meeting with a headache, an unsettled ego, and the distinct impression that she hadn’t disliked him — merely catalogued him. Like a particularly verbose contradiction in a dusty footnote. He hadn’t planned on ever seeing her again. But somewhere, in a quiet and professionally inconvenient corner of his mind, he’d always wondered how the next conversation might go.
Splinters of Regret
The vial fell — a crystalline sigh rather than a crash — and for the space of a heartbeat nothing moved. But then a lavender mist boiled outward, curling across the floorboards like seawater meeting sand. The hanging lamps dimmed to guttering embers; every glass surface in the shop reflected a different, earlier moment, as though time itself were trying on alternate histories. Miles felt the Warden‑sigil on his palm ignite. The scent of marshfire and peat overwhelmed him — Tarnwood, again, with its chorus of half‑born shadows. He braced against the shelf, muttering a grounding charm through clenched teeth.
Tobias stumbled back, thread‑sense reeling under a storm of unmoored memories. Crimson strands winked in and out of being overhead, ready to snag on anything solid. He flicked his fingers and silver filaments leapt from his spool, weaving themselves into a hurried lattice that tried — vainly — to coax order from the chaos.
De la parazit la ciumă – o meditație caustică
În 1980, Michel Serres scria despre parazit – nu cel de pe cîmpul cu oi, căpușa, păduchele, purecele, ci acela care strică liniștea, încurcă ordinea, dar care, paradoxal, dă naștere la viață. În teoria lui, parazitul e zgomotul care obligă la reconfigurare, bătaia în țeavă care face sistemul să repare caloriferul. O figură mică, enervantă, dar esențială. Un intrus care tulbură apele, forțînd sistemele să se adapteze. Practic, un zgomot care creează muzică nouă.
[…]
În viziunea lui Serres, parazitul e un agent de transformare. El se bagă în seamă, întrerupe, mănîncă gratis fără să dea nimic înapoi, dar tocmai prin prezența lui forțează sistemele să se regîndească. Asta nu-l face simpatic, dar îl face util. Fără zgomot, nu ne-am mai reajusta; fără deranj, nu ne-am mai trezi. Parazitul lui Serres nu e neapărat distructiv. El nu demolează casa, ci mai degrabă sună interfonul la 3 dimineața pînă cobori să vezi ce naiba se întîmplă. (noi jucam Ghost Recon în rețea și suduiam, trezind vecinii – dar asta e altă poveste.) E un semnal de alarmă. Un element care aduce complexitate într-un sistem prea liniștit cu sine.
Notes from the Orchard
Not long ago, over one of those conversations that happen when neither party is truly sober enough to stop themselves, a friend asked me: "Why the apple? Why buy a book about apples?" Fair question, I suppose. There I was, proudly brandishing The Apple: A Delicious Story by Sally Coulthard — a book which, at first glance, sounds like something your retired uncle might write after one too many pints and an unfortunate fall from a ladder during apple-picking season.
But here’s the thing: imagine you're sitting in a pub, slightly tipsy, perhaps nursing a cider that's just dry enough to make your gums reconsider their existence. And all of a sudden, you start thinking about apples. Not metaphorical apples, nor the ones with half-eaten logos. Just apples — real, crisp, slightly tart, countryside-grown, juice-down-your-wrist apples.
Conversation starter? Perhaps not. Conversation ender? Almost certainly. But I thrive in such absurdities. It's a calling.
The Yarrow Brew of 1263 – Found Parchment
Translated from a parchment found behind the apothecary wall, sealed with wax and inexplicably covered in honey.
Inventory Entry – Brew Log
Date: Feast of Saint Gall, 1263
Brewer: Brother Percival (unsupervised)
Purpose: "To invigorate the brethren ahead of winter. Also, curiosity."
Ingredients:
Yarrow (generous handful) – "stimulates the mind, allegedly"
Wild nettle – "for body and penance"
Heather flowers – "smells nice, Sister Magdalen approves"
Barley malt – "basic decency"
Small amount of wormwood – "just a whisper"
Fermentation via spontaneous prayer (see note)
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.