🗓️ 25-09-23-Tu | 10:05 PST | 🌤️ 😎 | 🌡️93° – 68° | Northridge, CA 🌒 Waxing crescent moon is in ♎ | 🌿 Season (Late Summer) 📍 Week 39 | Day 266/365 | 99 Days Remaining 🌇 Sunset: 18:48 National Day 🥧 National Great Pot Pie Day
Last evening I drew a pair of socks upon my feet, not out of habit but out of curiosity. A small article in the Washington Post had suggested their quiet power to deepen rest. I remembered faintly how, some four years ago, I had worn them in the night, though never with much reflection nor with the eye of measurement. But now, as my Samsung Health scores rose and fell like a capricious tide—sixties one night, seventies the next, sometimes the low eighties, and only rarely the nineties—I resolved to give the matter its due test.
That night was not free of burden. Thoughts of Amazon KDP, their unfinished promises, their inelegant handling of my website, pressed upon me as I lay down. Ordinarily such restlessness would have kept my numbers low, my pillow unsettled. Yet the socks did not hinder; rather, they steadied. They warmed my calves, spread comfort through my legs, and gave me, as it seemed, permission to sink into rest.
For three nights now the pattern has held: scores in the nineties, each one higher than the last—91, 92, 93. Numbers are not the gold standard, and I remind myself that true measurement of sleep is polysomnography, the clinical tracing of brain waves, eye movements, breath, and pulse. Still, the watch recorded improvement, and more importantly, I awoke renewed.
When I rose in the dark for a brief walk to the bathroom, my back, which so often stiffens, felt supple. Warmth had kept it pliant. And in the morning, when I entered my daily ritual of stretching—twenty-five, sometimes thirty minutes devoted to the length of the body, and especially to the posture muscles of the lower back—I was already prepared. The body gave easily, tall and upright, as though the night itself had readied me.
It is a modest discovery, almost laughably simple: socks at night. And yet in their humbleness lies their strength. They turned restless nights into steady ones, transformed mornings into supple beginnings. Such is the lesson—discipline often hides in the plainest of cloth.
👨🏾🔬 The Science Behind It
Vasodilation: Socks warm the feet, widening blood vessels and allowing heat to leave the skin. This drop in core temperature signals the body that it is time to sleep.
Core temperature drop: Cooling of the body eases drowsiness and invites deeper rest.
Improved sleep stages: Easier onset, fewer awakenings, longer deep and REM sleep.
Insomnia relief: Warming the feet has been shown to lessen fatigue and restlessness in some cases.
⌚ What My Watch Registers
Sleep duration: Longer stretches without interruption.
Sleep onset latency: Faster time to fall asleep.
Sleep stages: More extended, restorative cycles of deep and REM sleep.
The outcome is not only in the scores but in the feeling: waking warm, supple, and ready.
✍🏾 Note
I rise without stiffness, ready to stretch, to stand tall, to greet the day with steadiness. What seemed a small change has become a quiet revelation. Socks—humble, unremarkable, inexpensive—brought with them the very wealth of rest.
🙏🏾 Affirmation
Warmth at night, strength at dawn. The feet covered, the body freed. Clarity rests where comfort begins.
At night I slide the cotton on, A simple shield against the chill. Feet grow warm, the day is gone, Sleep bends gently to its will.
My calves hum softly, posture set, The back unbends without a fight. In morning stretch, no ache, no debt— Discipline warmed by quiet night.
🏛️ Wisdom’s Lens
Charlotte Brontë: “A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.” 🔎 With warmth about the feet, the mind is smoothed, and rest flows like a river untroubled.
25-09-14-S | 12:52 PST | 🌥️ ☀️ | 🌡️90° – 63° | Northridge, CA 🌗 Last quarter moon is in ♊➝♋ 🌿 Season (Late Summer) 📍 Week 38 | Day 257/365 | 108 Days Remaining 🌇 Sunset: 19:01 National Day 🙅🏽♀️ Parents Day Off!
Today unfolded less in motion and more in quiet reckoning. After submitting to the flu shot and yesterday’s blood draw at Kaiser, I felt unmistakably enervated—not shattered, but subtly drained, as if the body had paid its dues to medicine and now demanded a day of recompense. A caffeine pill at 10:35 lifted the curtain briefly, enough to power through my abdominal routine with the ab-carver, but the energy never settled into permanence. My left knee, healing but not yet trustworthy, urged me to listen. Rest was no indulgence; it was instruction.
The morning found me in conversation. A call to Bank of America became a conversation of depth when DeMarcus, a young man on the other end, turned a routine transaction into a forty-two–minute exploration of The Fasting Life. He pulled up my web pages, lingered on the vision behind the book, and pledged to buy it. I felt the familiar satisfaction of seeing words take root in unexpected soil.
Later came my exchange with Mark, which stretched to two hours and thirty-eight minutes, a length that revealed both kinship and concern. We spoke of many things, but his Subaru became the central emblem of the dialogue. He had finally let go of his father’s Lincoln Continental, unwilling to risk questionable smog tests, and traded it for a Subaru Outback Touring XT—an investment of $42,000 that he now calls one of his wisest decisions. For his niece Azra, preparing for the California Bar in November, he purchased a separate Subaru, a new model valued at $32,000. To him, Subaru represents not only reliability but loyalty: a company that stands by its product with a generous five-year warranty, covering service and mileage with assurance he finds rare.
Mark now uses his own Subaru as a work vehicle, fitting for the new chapter he is entering. Together with his siblings Marsha and Mike, he manages the Henry properties, and the car has become his companion for electrical jobs and maintenance tasks. He praises its power, its comfort, and the sense that it will serve him faithfully for years. In a way, the Subaru is both a workhorse and a symbol: a bridge from the relics of his father’s past to the practical needs of his present.
Our conversation, of course, roamed wider. ScreenPappy, the service I helped name, continues to demand his energy. He spoke of a Filipino woman whose intended marriage has unraveled, of clients unsure whether to return devices, of the daily uncertainty in work and human dealings. I, in turn, spoke of my own purchase: a Seagate four-terabyte hard drive for $130 with tax. Mark steered me away from the glamour of SSDs, better left to gamers, toward the practical solidity of HDDs—more space for less cost, a machine made for capacity rather than speed. Memory, whether human or mechanical, benefits from breadth as much as brilliance.
By evening, I was aware that the flu shot had left its subtle but undeniable mark. Though caffeine masked the weakness for a time, the truth was inescapable: energy had ebbed, and the only wisdom was stillness. Fasting, too, had carried me far: 24 hours, then 25, then 19 today, before breaking the fast with pasta and meatballs, corn, cake, cookie, pie. Not indulgence, but balance. Not waste, but reward.
The day closed as it began—with a quiet reminder that life’s machinery must be serviced, its strength rebuilt. Energy wanes, but it is in the ebb that renewal begins.
🏛️ Wisdom’s Lens
Hippocrates: “If you are not your own doctor, you are a fool.”
🔎 Hippocrates reminds us that wisdom lies in heeding the body’s counsel before illness forces its command.
🏛️ Wisdom’s Lens
Heraclitus: “Even sleepers are workers and collaborators in what goes on in the universe.”
🔎 Heraclitus shows us that rest is not idleness; even in stillness, we remain part of the world’s unfolding.
🌅 Closing Meditation
Rest is not retreat; it is the art of replenishment, the pause between notes that makes the music whole.
🔎 By giving the body its interval of quiet, strength is tuned again to harmony.
🎨 Painterly Caption
In late sunlight: a Subaru gleams at the curb, its hood lifted like a beast ready for labor. Beside it, a hard drive hums on a desk, while a half-finished plate of food hints at the discipline of fasting interrupted by necessary reward.
Reflections of Gratitude
I am grateful for DeMarcus, whose curiosity affirmed the power of words to spark connection. For Mark, whose loyalty to Subaru mirrors his own sense of duty. For Azra, whose preparation for the Bar reminds me that every generation must prove itself. For the flu shot, subtle though its toll, that nudged me toward rest. For fasting, which continues to refine both discipline and body. These, woven together, remind me that life is not simply endured but cultivated—one day, one decision, one conversation at a time.
🗓️ 25-08-29-F | 11:13 PST | 😎 | 🌡️95° – 69° | Northridge, CA 🌒 Waxing crescent moon is in ♍ | 🌿 Season (Late Summer) 📍 Week 35 | Day 241/365 | 124 Days Remaining 🌇 Sunset: 19:23 National Day 🏈⚾🏀 Sports Sampling Day
The day’s exchanges remind me of how language functions not only as a tool of commerce but as a vessel of persuasion, meditation, and subtle art. What began as a letter for a team became, in truth, a mirror for myself: a reminder that every line I write bears a dual purpose. One purpose is outward—speaking to a reader, a partner, or an audience. The other purpose is inward—refining my own clarity of thought.
When I strip away the dialogue, I see the shape of my conviction: that language can sell without selling, can persuade without pressure. It is not merely a doorway into a book or an idea; it is a doorway into recognition, into the unspeakably perfect miracle of attention itself. What I sought in these words was not decoration but architecture, not ornament but structure.
There is always the temptation to let prose drift into abstraction, to decorate with “are” and “is.” But strength rests in verbs that act. Verbs move; they reach, they open, they punctuate, they echo. They are the scaffolding that turns a message into a structure able to hold weight.
When I write, I remind myself: a reader does not remember the construction but the current it carries. If my words flow with rhythm and clarity, they can transform a website into a meditation, and a transaction into a journey. In this way, writing becomes less about selling and more about initiating—an invitation to begin again, with clarity and with renewal.
🙏🏿 Reflections of Gratitude
I am grateful today for the reminder that clarity is not accidental; it is crafted. Every word chosen with care is a gesture of respect for the reader, and every trimmed excess is an offering of attention.
Wisdom’s Lens
Walt Whitman: To me, every hour of the day and night is an unspeakably perfect miracle.
🔎 Whitman teaches that language, when it leans into wonder, has the power to transform the most ordinary act into revelation.
🗓️ 25-08-23-Sa | 11:55 PST | 🥵 | 🌡️100° – 72° | Northridge, CA 🌒 Waxing crescent moon is in ♍ | 🌿 Season (Late Summer) 📍 Week 34 | Day 235/365 | 130 Days Remaining 🌇 Sunset: 19:30 National Day 🥖 Cuban Sandwich
Time does not tick—it flows. I’ve come to see it less as a clock and more as a current. You may try to measure it with your watch, but that is only the surface. Beneath, the water carries us all the same.
When I fast, I notice this more clearly. The night feels like a deep tide, pulling me downstream while the body repairs itself in silence. And then the day arrives, not with the weight of hours, but with a brightness to each moment. Hunger doesn’t feel like deprivation—it sharpens the senses, pulls me into the present. Breath becomes the tether, the one rhythm I can hold as the river runs on.
I want you to consider this: time is not yours to command, but breath is. You can’t stop the current, but you can choose how to ride it. Every inhale, every exhale, becomes an anchor. And if you let fasting and breath work together, you’ll find yourself steadier even when life rushes hard against you.
I write this because I know how easy it is to feel carried away, as though life is nothing but deadlines and obligations. But it need not be so. The river is vast, yes—but you are not helpless within it. Your breath is enough to steady you.
Reflections of Gratitude
I am grateful that fasting allows me to feel the texture of time—not as a burden to be managed, but as a flow to be trusted. And I am grateful for breath, that quiet anchor, always near, always faithful.
Wisdom’s Lens
Heraclitus: “You cannot step into the same river twice, for other waters are ever flowing onto you.”
🔎 Heraclitus reminds us that change is inevitable, yet not unmanageable. The waters never stop moving, but our breath allows us to meet each new current with steadiness.
🗓️ 25-08-16-Sa | 14:00 PST | 🌤️ | 🌡️85° – 63° | Northridge, CA 🌘 Waning crescent moon is in ♉➝♊ | 🌿 Season (Late Summer) 📍 Week 33 | Day 228/365 | 137 Days Remaining 🌇 Sunset: 19:39 National Day 🧘🏾♂️ Relaxation Day
💭 RMS MEDITATIONS
Cracks in the Shield — On Arbitration and Inner Justice
The exchange with Dan lingers in my thoughts. Arbitration, that polished word, has so often been less a bridge to justice than a wall built to shield the powerful. I find myself asking: how many of our human arrangements are like this—polished on the outside, biased within?
Brian Flores stands as the reformer, unwilling to be bought; Jon Gruden, the pragmatist, eager to restore what was lost. Each reveals a different face of struggle—one for principle, the other for return.
And yet beneath it all lies a deeper current. We live in a world where institutions tilt the scales and individuals must decide whether to endure, resist, or retreat. Arbitration becomes a metaphor for life: some of us accept the closed rooms, others demand open courts. The choice, always, is between silence and voice.
What I learn from rumination is not about Flores or Gruden alone, but about myself: where do I accept arrangements too easily, where do I mistake convenience for fairness? Justice in sport may echo justice in the soul. To refuse bias is to insist on truth, even when it comes at a cost.
Reflections of Gratitude
I am grateful for the clarity that comes through texting with a friend of forty years. His words press me to think harder, to strip away illusion.
Gratitude also for the stubborn ones—Flores among them—who remind us that some battles cannot be settled with money, because they are about something larger than the self.
Wisdom’s Lens
“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” — James Baldwin
🔎 Baldwin reminds me that the first act of courage is confrontation itself. To face what is unjust, even when change feels beyond reach, is to open the only door through which transformation may pass.
🪶 Poem
Cracks in the Shield
Cracks in the shield, light seeping through stone, the quiet voice rising where silence once reigned.
One man resists, another restores, yet both remind me: truth is the only home worth fighting for.
— R.M. Sydnor
Cracks in the Shield
Literal frame: A shield is an object meant to protect — solid, unyielding, impervious. A crack signals weakness, exposure, the beginning of failure.
Symbolic weight: The “shield” here stands for entrenched systems of power and silence — institutions, habits, or inner defenses built to conceal truth. The cracks represent vulnerability in these structures, small breaks where honesty, light, or resistance may enter.
Philosophical gesture: The title tells us that even the mightiest barriers of injustice cannot remain whole forever. Cracks are not endings but beginnings — they allow the intrusion of light, the emergence of voice, the possibility of transformation.
🔎 Title explanation
The title suggests that the strongest defenses of falsehood eventually collapse under pressure. Truth enters through cracks, and those fissures are the first signs of justice breaking through.
📖 Part I: Line-by-Line Analysis
Line 1: “Cracks in the shield,”
Literal meaning: A shield has been fractured, no longer whole.
Implied meaning: The protective barriers of power or injustice begin to fail. Cracks are entry points for light, truth, or resistance.
Tone/voice shift: Defiant — the poem begins by naming weakness in what once seemed impenetrable.
Philosophical gesture: Even the strongest structures of oppression eventually erode; justice always finds a way in.
Line 2: “light seeping through stone,”
Literal meaning: Light enters through breaks in stone, soft but persistent.
Implied meaning: Truth and clarity cannot be fully contained; they infiltrate slowly, quietly, inevitably.
Philosophical gesture: Truth is subtle but unstoppable, seeping through barriers once thought permanent.
Line 3: “the quiet voice rising”
Literal meaning: A voice once hushed begins to speak.
Implied meaning: Those silenced by injustice are gaining strength, rising with courage.
Tone/voice shift: Intimate and courageous — a whisper that grows into a declaration.
Philosophical gesture: Change begins not in thunder but in whispers; resistance often starts in silence breaking.
Line 4: “where silence once reigned.”
Literal meaning: A place once dominated by silence is now broken.
Implied meaning: Oppression thrived on silence; its rule has been ended by voices daring to rise.
Tone/voice shift: Reflective, almost elegiac.
Philosophical gesture: Silence can govern only until truth finds its tongue.
Line 5: “One man resists,”
Literal meaning: A single figure stands against force.
Implied meaning: Resistance often begins with one courageous individual — Flores in this context, or anyone who chooses principle over comfort.
Tone/voice shift: Admirative, heroic.
Philosophical gesture: Change requires individuals willing to say “no.”
Line 6: “another restores,”
Literal meaning: Another figure repairs or rebuilds what was lost.
Implied meaning: Some fight for reform, others for return — different but equally human aims.
Tone/voice shift: Balanced, inclusive.
Philosophical gesture: Justice wears many faces: one of defiance, one of restoration.
Line 7–9: “yet both remind me: / truth is the only home / worth fighting for.”
Literal meaning: Whether resisting or restoring, both paths point to truth as the ultimate cause.
Implied meaning: Beyond personal battles lies the universal pursuit of truth, which gives every struggle meaning.
Tone/voice shift: Resolute, moral, universal.
Philosophical gesture: Truth transcends roles, motives, and divisions; it is the dwelling place of justice and the worthiest cause for which to struggle.
✒️ Part II: Literary Devices — Defined and Illustrated
1. Metaphor
Definition: An implied comparison between two unlike things.
Example: “Cracks in the shield.”
Function: The shield symbolizes entrenched systems of power; cracks symbolize their vulnerability.
2. Symbolism
Definition: The use of symbols to represent larger ideas.
Example: “light seeping through stone.”
Function: Light symbolizes truth, stone symbolizes oppression.
3. Imagery
Definition: Descriptive language that appeals to the senses.
Example: “the quiet voice rising where silence once reigned.”
Function: Creates a vivid picture of courage growing from silence, engaging the ear and heart.
4. Juxtaposition
Definition: Placing two contrasting ideas side by side.
Example: “One man resists, / another restores.”
Function: Highlights the duality of human response — resistance and restoration — both contributing to justice.
5. Alliteration
Definition: Repetition of consonant sounds at the beginning of nearby words.
Example: “resists… restores.”
Function: Reinforces contrast while binding the two roles rhythmically.
6. Personification
Definition: Giving human qualities to non-human elements.
Example: “silence once reigned.”
Function: Depicts silence as a ruler, dramatizing its oppressive power.
7. Enjambment
Definition: The continuation of a sentence beyond a line break.
Example: “yet both remind me: / truth is the only home / worth fighting for.”
Function: Carries the reader forward, creating momentum toward the moral climax.
8. Isocolon (Bicolon)
Definition: Use of parallel structures of equal length.
Example: “One man resists, / another restores.”
Function: Balances the two opposing yet complementary actions, giving symmetry.
9. Irony (Subtle)
Definition: Expression of meaning by suggesting its opposite or by contrast.
Example: “silence once reigned.”
Function: Irony lies in the fact that silence — the absence of sound — is described as ruling, exposing the absurdity of oppression.
🪞 Part III: Final Reflection
The poem’s heart beats in its tension: cracks in shields, light in stone, silence replaced by voice. It reminds us that justice does not roar fully formed but emerges through fractures, whispers, and courage.
The figures of the reformer and the restorer embody the dual nature of human striving: some tear down, others build up. Both serve truth, and truth alone endures as the only worthy home.
For the reader, the lesson is intimate: where do we accept shields too easily, where do we let silence reign? Baldwin’s reminder that change requires facing what is difficult hovers over this meditation. The poem insists that cracks are not flaws but beginnings, and that our voices, however quiet, may be the first beams of light through the stone.
Perhaps the lingering question is this: What shield in your own life waits to be cracked so that light may enter?
Cracks in the Shield
Cracks in the Shield (2025)
Medium: Digital Art
Reflecting Randy Sydnor’s application of his unique technique, Mnephonics, this medium blends visual storytelling with symbolic language to evoke memory, learning, and reflection.
Style of Art: Symbolic Realism with Surrealist Undertones
Dimensions: 1024 x 1024
Copyright: Randy Sydnor, The Mnephonist
Description
Opening Statement — The Central Theme
Every shield, no matter how polished or fortified, eventually bears the testimony of time. Cracks in the Shield reminds us that no structure of silence, no edifice of power, remains impermeable forever. The fissures that emerge are not failures, but invitations—portals where light, truth, and courage enter.
Medium and Technique — The Artist’s Craft
Through digital rendering, the image achieves both sharpness and radiance: fractured metal juxtaposed with streams of luminous gold. This union of breakage and brilliance is amplified by Sydnor’s Mnephonics technique, which turns symbolism into a mnemonic key—an image that teaches as it lingers in memory.
The digital medium sharpens edges, magnifies cracks, and heightens the play of shadow and light, embodying the collision between power’s collapse and truth’s emergence.
Central Figure — The Shield
The shield dominates the composition: ancient, circular, scarred by fractures. It leans forward not as a weapon of defense but as a confession of vulnerability. Light gushes through its wounds, like dawn breaking through a fortress of night. The shield’s surface is etched with faint patterns, suggesting both history and fragility—a palimpsest of battles fought, and of the silence it once enforced.
Supporting Elements — Symbolic Imagery
Around the shield lies stone and shadow, symbols of the walls institutions erect to preserve themselves. Yet the shadows retreat where light escapes, signifying the inevitability of illumination. Each ray is a metaphorical voice, once hushed, now insistent. The imagery suggests the poem’s duality: one figure resisting, another restoring, yet both in service to truth.
Philosophical Reflection — The Soul of the Piece
This work resonates with James Baldwin’s enduring insight: “Nothing can be changed until it is faced.” The shield is the system, the cracks are the act of facing. History reminds us—whether in the fall of empires, the collapse of ideologies, or the persistence of reformers—that cracks are beginnings, not endings. Like Marcus Aurelius observing the cracks in marble or Du Bois tracing fissures in society, Sydnor’s art positions fracture not as ruin, but as revelation.
Color and Composition — The Visual Language
The interplay of dark metallic tones with radiant beams creates chiaroscuro: oppression against revelation, silence against voice. The composition guides the viewer’s eye from fracture to light, insisting that meaning lies in the intersection. The balance of solidity and dissolution gives the piece its meditative weight, a paradox made visual.
Closing Thought — Invitation to Reflect
The shield asks the viewer a personal question: Where in your life are the cracks forming, and will you fear them—or welcome the light they allow to enter?
My sleep did not arrive as a banquet but as crumbs — a trail of drifting interludes never leading to rest. Around half past seven, I fell into a dream. A man and a woman of Asian descent approached my door with curious purpose. The woman, arms folded around a dog of no distinction, moved to remove the door itself. She threatened release — not of fury, but of form. The dog barked its claim with theatrical confidence, though its frame suggested no true menace.
Before conflict could blossom, the scene bent. Management arrived, abrupt as lightning in a pastoral novel, announcing that the room was no longer hers. It belonged to me.
What then was the dog, if not a toothless emblem — a mascot of false threat? And the woman? She stood not as adversary, but as trespass incarnate: a disturbance not of property but of peace. The dream ended not with fear, but with reclamation — a quiet reminder that this body, this room, this page — remain mine.
💡 Epictetus: No man is free who is not master of himself. 🙏🏾 In that spirit, this morning I reclaim not only space but speech.
There is a discipline to clarity — an interior exactness that refuses the laziness of fragments. I confess: I have not always honored that discipline. Too often, I’ve mistaken dictation for delivery. But a thought, like a seed, requires a vessel. Even breath deserves grammar.
From this day forward, I resolve to treat every spoken phrase as a potential cathedral. My diary is not a compost heap for passing whims — it is an altar of record. And to speak slowly is to think richly. Each pause gives birth to precision. Every sentence, sculpted with intention, carries its own resonance.
💡 Simone Weil: Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity. 🙏🏾 I must be generous with my own thoughts, not rush past their meaning.
❓ Have I become impatient with the weight of reflection?
❓ Do I interrupt my own interiority with noise disguised as urgency?
💡 Søren Kierkegaard: Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards. 🙏🏾 The past offers its meanings only when we hold still long enough to hear them whisper.
Before I move deeper into today’s meditations, I must admit this: I have not been consistent in uploading these entries to the blog. A ritual abandoned is a flame extinguished. And yet, I have lit candles this week — seven entries glowing in silent formation behind me. They deserve air.
❓ What is sacred if not shared?
I must also remain vigilant with the very machinery through which I channel these insights. My Android — ever rebellious — allows its programs to clamor like children in a cathedral. Their presence, if unchecked, siphons energy and muddles focus. Apps war over memory. Clarity is the casualty. What clutters the machine, clutters the mind.
Today, I celebrate a number: 5.8. That is my A1C — a testament not only to biology but to will. Behind it lies fasting, restraint, and a renewed sacrament of care. Why does fasting so dramatically reduce glucose? Because it empties the bloodstream of excuses. It forces the body to speak its native tongue: metabolize, restore, repeat.
💡 Seneca: A hungry stomach listens to reason. 🙏🏾 Fasting is not absence but dialogue. It sharpens the body’s ear toward ancient instruction — and whispers to the spirit in its most lucid voice.
💡 Coach: The soul cannot rise if weighed down by excuses. Discipline is not denial — it is the architecture of flight. 🙏🏾 I write not to report the day but to lift it. Each sentence is scaffolding.
There is, too, joy in creation. This morning, I proposed a new word to Maestro: E-STORY — the thread between digital record and inner narrative. A term both modern and eternal. The moment delighted me, not for its cleverness, but for its fidelity to my current pilgrimage.
💡 Anne Brontë: A light wind swept over the corn, and all nature laughed in the sunshine. 🙏🏾 May I learn again to laugh in the sunlight of discipline. May I give my words air, not for the world’s applause, but for my own release.
Gratitude
This morning I find myself thankful not for triumph, but for the return of order. There is grace in routine — when the body obeys the mind, when the mind listens to conscience, and when conscience bows to something stiller than itself.
I give thanks for the fasting that steadied my blood and tempered my hunger. I give thanks for the dream, odd and unwelcome as it was, for it reminded me that possession of one’s space is a quiet form of liberty. I give thanks that I have words — not just to speak, but to shape. I give thanks for the work — that it waits for me, and not the other way around.
The world spins madly, and yet this morning I was able to sit, write, and mean it.
The velvet serpent
Title: The Velvet Serpent Cabaret
Medium: Digital Art Reflecting Randy Sydnor’s application of his unique technique, Mnephonics, this medium blends visual storytelling with symbolic language to evoke memory, learning, and reflection.
Style of Art: Surrealism
Dimensions: 1024 x 1536 px
Copyright: Randy Sydnor, The Mnephonist
Description:
In every whisper, there is a wager. The Velvet Serpent Cabaret invites the viewer into a space where language itself performs—slipping between truth and illusion with each syllable. Here, seduction is not just a gesture; it is strategy.
Rendered in digital elegance, the piece evokes the opulence of oil while capitalizing on the precision and luminosity of the digital medium. With Mnephonics at its core, each visual element becomes a symbolic glyph—designed to slip into memory like a song you didn’t know you knew. The serpent’s gloved coils, the vintage mic, and the velvet drapery become mnemonic triggers—linking sound to sensation, impression to intention.
At center stage coils the golden serpent, dignified and dangerous. Draped in black opera gloves, it performs not merely for applause but for sway. Its pose is confident, almost human in its bearing, suggesting both performance and plot. Its eyes do not search the crowd—they scan it, as if already tallying the cost of every gaze.
The audience—an anthropomorphic confessional of archetypes—leans in: a martini-holding rabbit in a tux, a bishop locked in silent prayer, a pearl-draped debutante, and a world-weary detective. Each reflects a fragment of society’s masks. But their trance betrays the twist: they’re not watching a concert. They’re accessories to a heist of attention, innocence, and certainty.
Philosophically, the piece reverberates with the paradoxical poise of Marcus Aurelius: “The nearer a man comes to a calm mind, the closer he is to strength.” The serpent’s serenity is its cunning. The performance becomes an allegory of persuasion—how we lean toward beauty and away from caution. The visual narrative aligns with Dadaist subversion and echoes the theatricality of fin-de-siècle cabaret art.
Visually, the burgundy velvet curtains press in like theatre wings of the unconscious, while a single golden spotlight falls not just on the serpent—but on the viewer’s complicity. The warm, chiaroscuro lighting draws out texture and temptation, while subtle shadows suggest what’s unsaid. Each compositional choice steers the eye toward revelation and then immediately toward misdirection.
In the end, The Velvet Serpent Cabaret asks: when we surrender to beauty, are we choosing clarity—or illusion?
The afternoon began with an unexpected detour—a reminder that even disciplined routines can unravel with surprising ease. After a particularly satisfying visit to the restroom—a triumph best described as a “type three extra-large” event—I realized I’d forgotten to shave. Marsha’s text regarding my blog had interrupted my usual morning rhythm, and by 12:35, I stood before the mirror, Braun electric shaver in hand.
The Braun—ever-reliable, steady as a heartbeat—hummed against my face. There’s a peculiar satisfaction in the precision of a well-designed tool, the kind that feels like an extension of yourself. As I carved away the shadowed stubble, Miles Davis’ Greatest Hits played in the background. His music—moody, defiant, yet undeniably controlled—seemed to sharpen my thoughts. Davis had a way of making tension feel intentional, as if he were taming chaos with each note.
Outside, the rain offered its own improvisation—drumming sporadically against the window, pausing just long enough to tempt me into believing the storm had passed. I seized the lull and headed to the Zone for a workout.
The Workout
The session proved productive—fifty minutes well spent. I targeted my calves, quadriceps, and biceps femoris, feeling the satisfying strain that signals muscles pushed to their limit. The discomfort wasn’t just expected—it was welcome.
Simone Weil once observed that “Every effort adds to our strength when we refuse to abandon the struggle.” Her words rang true with every dumbbell fly and press—five sets of fifteen repetitions each. Each strained motion seemed to affirm Weil’s belief that strength is less about brute force than the quiet refusal to surrender.
I also reintroduced the serratus crunch using the cable machine—an exercise I hadn’t attempted in eight months. Kneeling on a hard floor had previously discouraged me, but the presence of foldable mats eliminated that obstacle. It was a small convenience, yet one that underscored something profound: what deters us isn’t always the effort itself, but the discomfort that surrounds it.
Max Stirner’s assertion came to mind: “The strong man masters himself.” My avoidance of the serratus crunch hadn’t been about effort—it had been about resistance to discomfort. Mastery, as Stirner suggested, isn’t always about power; it’s about overcoming the small excuses that chip away at discipline. Inspired by that thought, I resolved to include the serratus crunch in my routine at least four times a week.
The workout ended with incline bench presses on a Hoist incline machine, followed by dumbbell shrugs. For most of the session, I had the room to myself—a quiet space for focus.
But towards the end, a towering figure entered the room—easily 6’8” or 6’9”—with a ponytail tied in a bun, a Ronaldo jersey, and dirty white ankle socks that practically cried out for a wash. The socks clung limply to his ankles like tired flags, neglected yet somehow stubbornly present. His attire seemed oddly deliberate, as if he’d balanced self-importance with indifference.
He hovered near the black, 20-pound dumbbells I was using—new dumbbells with a sleek finish, still sharp at the edges. When he realized I had them, he wordlessly shifted to another station. That quiet concession felt significant—less about gym etiquette than about restraint. In a world where ego flares easily, there’s something admirable about choosing silence over confrontation.
I thought of Baltasar Gracián’s words: “Let the wise man conquer by appearing to yield.” There’s power in walking away, in resisting the urge to assert dominance. That man, socks and all, had unwittingly reminded me of it.
Call from Gatsby
Upon returning to my room around 4:00 PM, I noticed a missed call from LA Fitness. The name: Gatsby Paredes. The call stemmed from an altercation on Saturday—an encounter with a man I’ll simply describe as regrettable.
Our 20-minute conversation revealed that the individual’s account mirrored mine. Three times this man had disrupted my workout—three deliberate intrusions that reeked of provocation. On the third occasion, my patience wore thin. Gatsby understood. His voice, steady and assured, carried the quiet conviction of someone who knows how to manage conflict.
“Coach is not to be disturbed,” he said. “I’ll make that clear.”
His words weren’t just protective—they were restorative. There’s a unique comfort in being defended, especially when your actions have been justified yet still weigh on your mind. As the call ended, I felt not just relieved but unexpectedly grateful.
I recalled the words of Hannah Arendt: “Power and violence are opposites; where the one rules absolutely, the other is absent.” Gatsby’s calm, assertive approach had neutralized tension without hostility. His strength lay in clarity, not aggression—a quiet but unmistakable form of power.
Conflict Resolution: The Hidden Strength
As I reflected on the day, it struck me that this wasn’t merely a lesson in strength—it was a lesson in conflict resolution. Both Gatsby and the tall man in the Ronaldo jersey had, in their own way, resolved conflict without hostility.
Gatsby’s handling of the situation demonstrated three key principles of effective conflict resolution:
1. Emotional Control: Gatsby’s calm tone set the tone for resolution. Instead of reacting emotionally, he responded with intention. As Epictetus taught, “It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.”
2. Clear Boundaries: By stating firmly that “Coach is not to be disturbed,” Gatsby set a clear, non-negotiable boundary. He didn’t threaten or antagonize—he simply removed uncertainty, which often fuels conflict.
3. Choosing ResolutionOver Retaliation:
I had played my part as well by allowing Gatsby to handle the situation. In doing so, I chose resolution over retribution—a choice that requires discipline and patience. As Sun Tzu advised, “The greatest victory is that which requires no battle.”
These moments reminded me that conflict doesn’t always demand force; it demands focus. By mastering our emotions, defining clear boundaries, and knowing when to walk away, we create space for resolution to emerge.
Reflections of Gratitude
Michel de Montaigne
Today reminded me that strength wears many faces. It’s found in the quiet resistance of muscles pushed to failure, in the silent wisdom of choosing to walk away, and in the calm assurance of someone willing to stand in your corner.
The towering man in the gym—his jersey declaring confidence, his socks revealing neglect—wasn’t just a curious figure. He was a reminder that composure is rarely tidy. Sometimes it shows up in quiet gestures, in averted conflict, in the decision to let tension dissolve rather than ignite.
And Gatsby’s response underscored something equally important: strength is most meaningful when paired with restraint. The person who shouts may seem powerful, but true power is the ability to stay silent—because silence speaks when words cannot.
Michel de Montaigne’s words lingered in my mind: “Valor is stability, not of legs and arms, but of courage and the soul.”
Montaigne’s insight speaks to something vital—that valor isn’t forged in moments of visible strength, but in those quiet moments where we resist being swept away by impulse. The man in the Ronaldo jersey demonstrated this by walking away from a potential conflict. Gatsby displayed it by turning tension into resolution through calm words rather than force.
And in my own small way, I saw it when I resisted the urge to dwell on irritation or frustration. Choosing patience with the gym encounter, embracing the discomfort of the serratus crunch, and accepting Gatsby’s steady resolve—each moment reflected what Montaigne described.
True strength isn’t the absence of struggle; it’s the ability to meet discomfort with steadiness, to let self-mastery prevail over impulse. Valor isn’t forged in the heat of battle—it’s nurtured in the quiet refusal to let chaos dictate your path.
Today, I chose stability. And in that choice, I found something far greater than strength.
I spent the night battling sleep, my mind ensnared by financial concerns and a laptop’s untimely demise. Thoughts eddied like leaves in a stiff breeze — scattered, chaotic, and unrelenting. Miles Davis played the role of uninvited guest, his haunting tracks It’s Never Entered My Mind and Weirdo floating through the night like vaporous whispers — delicate yet intrusive.
Marsha Henry’s text arrived as a pleasant surprise — thoughtful yet tinged with concern. She praised my blog’s elegance but doubted that modern readers, conditioned by tweets and sound bites, would linger long enough to digest thoughtful prose.
Her concern was fair. In a world obsessed with immediacy, long-form writing often feels like a forgotten language. Yet I believe depth demands patience.
Albert Camus once wrote:
“A man’s work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.”
That quote spoke directly to my blog’s purpose — a deliberate space where reflection and nuance take center stage. I responded with two thoughtful texts explaining my motives — not to court popularity, but to offer a platform where ideas breathe deeply, unhurried by trends.
Marsha’s reply brought relief. She agreed that meaningful content — however unfashionable — still resonates with readers willing to invest their time. Her words reminded me that thoughtful writing isn’t about attracting the masses but rather reaching those seeking substance.
The morning rain sketched streaks across my window, drawing patterns that danced and dissolved on the glass. The sky, a quilt of heavy clouds, brooded over the day. Yet strangely, my mood remained calm — grounded.
Despite my lingering shoulder irritation, I committed to 30 minutes of focused exercise. Each push-up felt like defiance — a conscious decision to assert strength despite discomfort. Perseverance isn’t merely about enduring pain; it’s about transcending it.
Reflections of Gratitude
The day — though cluttered with frustration — revealed quiet moments of grace.
Marsha’s kind words reminded me that meaningful work doesn’t require a crowd to feel worthwhile. AD’s perseverance underscored the quiet fortitude required to press on in difficult times. Even the broken laptop — frustrating as it was — became a lesson in adaptation, a reminder that when one path falters, another often presents itself.
As Søren Kierkegaard once observed:
“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”
Today’s burdens — financial concerns, technical failures, and lingering doubts — seemed less formidable in light of that truth. Life’s meaning often reveals itself in hindsight, and patience becomes the quiet companion that leads us there.
Life reveals its meaning only in the rearview mirror, yet demands to be driven forward with no clear map in hand. The past illuminates the path behind you, but the road ahead unfolds only as you press on — step by step, choice by choice, moment by moment.
The wisdom gained from what was cannot spare you from the uncertainty of what will be, but it can steady your hand as you reach for tomorrow.
R.M. Sydnor
(Inspired by Søren Kierkegaard)
The Unavoidable Question
You may find yourself caught between reflection and resolve — staring back at roads you once traveled, wondering if you’ve veered too far from your intended path. The past whispers its truths with perfect clarity — a ruthless storyteller who reveals each misstep, each moment of hesitation, and each regret with sharp precision. It’s easy to linger there, revisiting memories with the mistaken belief that reflection alone will show you the way forward.
But life doesn’t unfold in rewind. It refuses to repeat itself, no matter how tightly you cling to what’s familiar. The answers you seek will never be found in the comfort of hindsight alone — they emerge when you dare to move forward in spite of your doubts.
Here lies the tension that defines human existence: you must act without certainty, risk without guarantee, and live without a promise that your choices will lead where you hope they will. The compass of wisdom may point you backward, but the courage to take your next step — that belongs to you alone.
So what will you choose? Will you circle the same memories, hoping the past will somehow rescue you from the burden of decision? Or will you embrace the unknown — trusting that whatever meaning life holds will be revealed only when you walk into the fog?
Hindsight may sharpen your understanding, but only forward motion can fulfill your purpose. Reflection refines you; action defines you.
The choice — your choice — is now.
Summons to Purpose
The past may hold your memories, but the future demands your courage. You cannot rewrite what has been, yet you can choose how you respond to what comes next. Hindsight may bring clarity, but your purpose lies not in revisiting old regrets — it waits for you in the forward march of your steps.
Do not hesitate. Move forward with purpose — not recklessly, but resolutely — for meaning emerges only when you take the next step.
Last night, I surrendered to sleep at 2300 and did not emerge from slumber until 0905—a rare indulgence, yet one my body demanded. The data confirmed what intuition whispered: a stellar sleep score of 94, paired with an energy rating of 90. Despite my initial doubts, my restless moments failed to sabotage the quality of my repose. My body, fatigued from the previous day’s grueling workout, had silently brokered a deal with itself—recovery in exchange for resilience.
Physical Fortitude: A Testament to Discipline
This morning’s exercise session proved gentler than anticipated. Surpassing my usual 20 minutes, I pressed on for 25, burning an unexpected 145 calories. My body, recalibrated from its slumber, moved with greater ease than yesterday. After a satisfactory bowel movement—an extra-large Type 3, in case medical science takes an interest—I proceeded with my habitual wardrobe test. The blue pants of my youth, once defiant, now conceded more room, a testament to my regimen. The silent mechanisms of ketosis and autophagy had begun to pay dividends. Fourteen hours of fasting seamlessly stretched into fifteen, my hunger negligible, my energy stable. I might have discovered something here.
A session in the jacuzzi awaited, a perfect companion to my ritualistic listening of Masters of Greek Thought. Knowledge, like the body, thrives on discipline. Learning is the perpetual feast—one that never requires fasting.
Zettelkasten: A Solution in Search of a Problem?
The term Zettelkasten—from Zettel (note) and Kasten (box)—carries the weight of centuries, yet what truly differentiates it from the modern mind map? The allure of a rebranded idea, wrapped in the sophistication of German etymology, does little to disguise its redundancy. I remain skeptical.
The migration toward every novel system, drawn by the siren song of enhanced productivity, often leads to the same destination: complexity disguised as utility. Samsung Notes, Obsidian, or any number of platforms offer nearly identical functions. Click a node, retrieve a note—no magic in that. Tagging achieves the same interconnectivity. Cesar’s introduction of Obsidian piqued my curiosity, but a 4.2 rating coupled with reports of server instability signals a hustle wrapped in a user interface. Ninety-six dollars for a system that mirrors existing tools? Unwise.
Nonetheless, I reserve judgment. Inquiry precedes dismissal. If there is hidden value, I will unearth it. Until then, the time investment remains unjustified. Simplicity remains the truest sophistication.
♨️ Rescue, Reflection & Renewal
A Moment of Unexpected Rescue
The anticipation of a tranquil soak in the jacuzzi, accompanied by Masters of Greek Thought, set the stage for a moment of restoration. Yet, as I approached the water’s edge, I noticed an unanticipated visitor—a bee, floundering in the turbulent surface, its fragile existence teetering on the brink. Instinct cautioned against a direct rescue; the sting of gratitude need not be literal. Instead, I took a measured approach, crossing the pool deck to retrieve the net designed for clearing leaves. With a careful hand, I lifted the beleaguered creature from the abyss, restoring its chance at flight.
I had set out to rejuvenate myself, yet my first act of the morning became one of preservation. A simple rescue, but one laden with meaning.
Disruptions & Adaptations
With the bee safely deposited beyond harm’s reach, I turned my attention back to the jacuzzi, ready to surrender to its warm embrace. Yet, as I dipped a toe into the water, a sharp chill met my skin. The heat had been extinguished! A quick survey of the pool’s mechanisms revealed the culprit—someone, likely one of the children playing nearby, had triggered the master shut-off, silencing the warmth.
Disappointment flickered. A morning ritual interrupted, a simple pleasure denied. Yet, rather than linger in frustration, I redirected my course. If the water could not offer solace, then my home would. I made my way back to the apartment, where breakfast awaited, along with the continuation of my audiobook. Knowledge, unlike water, never loses its warmth.
Lessons in Adaptability & Appreciation
Though my original plan had been foiled, the day still unfolded with quiet richness. The audible selection proved enlightening, a reminder that even small fragments of wisdom accumulate into something greater. The disappointment of a lukewarm morning was overshadowed by the deeper satisfaction of learning. And lunch—ah, lunch—delicious beyond expectation, a small indulgence that reaffirmed the importance of savoring life’s simplest joys.
Voltaire
“Doubt is an uncomfortable condition, but certainty is a ridiculous one.”
This morning, I am grateful for the paradox of energy—how proper rest fuels action, and action demands rest. I am grateful for the quiet discipline of fasting, the ability to sustain hunger without suffering. I am grateful for the mind’s resilience, its capacity to reassess, adapt, and decide: to forgive Aubrey’s debt or to press upon it, to embrace new systems or discard them. Every decision, no matter how small, defines the architect of my life.
I am grateful for the small acts that shape the day—the unexpected rescues, the lessons disguised as inconveniences, the quiet moments where knowledge finds its way in. I am grateful for the presence of mind to shift course when necessary, to find fulfillment beyond rigid expectations. Even in disruption, there is grace.
RMS INSIGHTS ✍🏾 