Nostr notes by

Nostr event nevent1qqsrral2mwnnhrfd2a2gm0n3666cd9w5rp7cj5qcerxh06pgkkav4pgzypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6gvcwluj

2026-10-16T08:46:41Z

In reply to nevent1q…8262
_________________________

GM

Nostr event nevent1qqsxentke7qdmtharddj5v8rmj4jg7zyy0ef40hlcr6aa0xsmfhzuhszypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6gqxq3g5

2026-10-16T08:35:52Z

GM

2026-10-14T10:04:33Z

In reply to nevent1q…hq25
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GM

GM.

2026-10-14T05:13:19Z

In reply to nevent1q…kw9h
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GM.

Well whatever else happens today it's a GM. ...

2026-10-14T05:05:43Z

Well whatever else happens today it's a GM.

Hi sorry for the delay. Android v0.11.2 It's a new phone and ...

2026-10-13T12:34:26Z

In reply to nevent1q…azc2
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Hi sorry for the delay.
Android v0.11.2
It's a new phone and I have turned off lots of the android services.
Do you have a list of which android services it needs?

GM

2026-10-13T10:35:44Z

In reply to nevent1q…la54
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GM

GM

2026-10-13T10:35:27Z

In reply to nevent1q…8870
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GM

Nostr event nevent1qqsq3r0zdgs4ch990j36jlgxupz4tgg7ue8yxjy3ddw9guy0pmh35jgzypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6g6pqe42

2026-10-13T05:36:25Z

GM.

GM

2026-10-12T13:05:45Z

In reply to nevent1q…j3g0
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GM

GM.

2026-10-12T05:27:24Z

In reply to nevent1q…udnp
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GM.

My cat's have been getting through a lot of food lately, I ...

2026-10-12T04:44:40Z

My cat's have been getting through a lot of food lately, I now know why and so do you.

Nostr event nevent1qqsq4czdfcpa4mh40nq0kvrr9mh89447d8lxyg9r0lk6dv6dkuh3suqzypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6gv3zln3

2026-10-12T04:03:51Z

GM.

Nostr event nevent1qqs9g5jgvt4yfm77nj6ws00ygruvtzjmk933sa3r5jtms5jct49vv3czypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6glzvq5d

2026-10-10T11:13:40Z

In reply to nevent1q…8xnr
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GM

Hej BitBlik have you closed down? I can't find any ...

2026-10-08T05:58:06Z

In reply to nevent1q…xg26
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Hej BitBlik have you closed down?
I can't find any coordinator's on your app.
I've updated and let it run for day.

quoting
nevent1q…ya93
Hi npub1k3g092rlzvn7nftz3jte9pkx63zp705nh78r6hjpjm55fjg7r2cqx8stj3

Having problems with your app, it won't find any coordinators. Downloaded the latest apk and still no luck.

What am I doing wrong?

Nostr event nevent1qqsftzwfgcyw4rq7zs2drdyufmsvq4336dp5r7xer0lufgkc4lrdtkczypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6gljrg4n

2026-10-08T04:01:26Z

GM.

Nostr event nevent1qqs0ftvsdzfm0f4qklzpskfgysdx2nxvwdwnpsewmev7tt3203f46ggzypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6gqgl5qu

2026-09-30T04:15:46Z

GM.

Nostr event nevent1qqstdccsdd2erqwpfrgqj0the844hapsnt5saqnnz48p9uq5vukpf3szypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6g5j8ywk

2026-09-29T05:07:45Z

GM.

GM. I late.

2026-09-26T17:01:39Z

In reply to nevent1q…5ae8
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GM.
I late.

Nostr event nevent1qqsghjycsr2587vtdasmnc908e3tgvlr64ukmnfrrnu73hhff22hp5gzypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6g7zfvh0

2026-09-23T06:15:29Z

In reply to nevent1q…zskv
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GM.

GM. Have two pics cos I like them both. ...

2026-09-23T04:42:16Z

GM.
Have two pics cos I like them both.

Ha. #nevent1q…u39l

2026-09-21T08:37:36Z

In reply to nevent1q…46gf
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Ha.

quoting
nevent1q…u39l
How it feels getting your GM in before Gigi.

GM.

2026-09-21T06:46:48Z

In reply to nevent1q…0ghz
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GM.

How it feels getting your GM in before Gigi. ...

2026-09-21T05:36:52Z

How it feels getting your GM in before Gigi.

Nostr event nevent1qqsdyykegd5sc4r3w37uq8fegc72yqdcmkh3damf0lvje74ueky26hqzypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6g6wc2zr

2026-09-21T04:23:04Z

GM.

Huh I chuckled.

2026-09-18T16:06:24Z

In reply to nevent1q…segr
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Huh I chuckled.

Nostr event nevent1qqs0gs35f6wnkyh07r0uwy0jxgwne8e77enwvpmqf0q0qrcee96uqlszypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6ggwgznd

2026-09-18T06:13:15Z

In reply to nevent1q…xpgw
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GM.

I like him, he's right. I am 25 and have been for more than ...

2026-09-18T05:16:51Z

In reply to nevent1q…a8qg
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I like him, he's right.
I am 25 and have been for more than 25 years. All my male chums are 25 and females are 21.

This is clearly a you problem, get with the game 🤣

How did you get my private key?

2026-09-15T12:32:06Z

In reply to nevent1q…9dcv
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How did you get my private key?

GM.

2026-09-15T10:33:26Z

In reply to nevent1q…fk9v
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GM.

Nostr event nevent1qqsp62v9ypu5x9yeqex3ah3nkz6sqjssdmwvs6dkqfw6e7ps78fe52szypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6g2hpxv6

2026-09-15T04:43:47Z

GM.

I'm going to check that out tomorrow. I think I need to dip a ...

2026-09-12T15:40:11Z

In reply to nevent1q…flcn
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I'm going to check that out tomorrow.
I think I need to dip a toe into this stuff before I'm too old to give a fuck.

I don't like this at all. Human neurons used in computers! ...

2026-09-12T09:44:32Z

I don't like this at all.
Human neurons used in computers!

quoting
nevent1q…f3n6
And so it begins… https://interestingengineering.com/innovation/world-first-biological-data-center

GM.

2026-09-09T05:30:57Z

In reply to nevent1q…sast
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GM.

You are just a man. ...

2026-09-08T11:35:38Z

In reply to nevent1q…5rus
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You are just a man.

As a 21 year old woman living in the USA I agree with this.

2026-08-27T16:53:03Z

In reply to nevent1q…52vp
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As a 21 year old woman living in the USA I agree with this.

GM. Slovania is not a real place. ...

2026-08-04T05:12:14Z

GM.
Slovania is not a real place.

Nostr event nevent1qqspj5zrpfpays72xcwrtdpp2cjw8e9p442tts8rsmlxj7zfutguamszypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6g8r0uk9

2026-08-01T04:44:09Z

GM.

Summer time and the weather is fine. ...

2026-07-30T10:44:06Z

Summer time and the weather is fine.

It's true. ...

2026-07-30T10:42:33Z

In reply to nevent1q…wygx
_________________________

It's true.

A book for you, Table Talk 'Essays On Men And Manners ' ...

2026-07-27T06:52:27Z

In reply to nevent1q…8vdq
_________________________

A book for you, Table Talk 'Essays On Men And Manners ' by William Hazlitt. 1778-1830

Essay 19 On Going On A Journey.

I think you'll like it.

You can find the book here...

https://annas-archive.pk/md5/7eb3d45ebb4aff9c6b2f5b24d4d74064

Or because Nostr....

On Going a Journey

One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey; but I like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors, nature is company enough for me. I am then never less alone than when alone.

“The fields his study, nature was his book.”

I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. When I am in the country I wish to vegetate like the country. I am not for criticising hedgerows and black cattle. I go out of town in order to forget the town and all that is in it. There are those who for this purpose go to watering-places, and carry the metropolis with them. I like more elbow-room and fewer encumbrances. I like solitude, when I give myself up to it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for

“A friend in my retreat, Whom I may whisper—solitude is sweet.”

The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do, just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind much more to get rid of others. It is because I want a little breathing-space to muse on indifferent matters, where Contemplation

“May plume her feathers and let grow her wings, That in the various bustle of resort Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair’d,”

that I absent myself from the town for a while, without feeling at a loss the moment I am left by myself. Instead of a friend in a post-chaise or in a Tilbury, to exchange good things with, and vary the same stale topics over again, for once let me have a truce with impertinence. Give me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours’ march to dinner—and then to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. From the point of yonder rolling cloud I plunge into my past being, and revel there, as the sunburnt Indian plunges headlong into the wave that wafts him to his native shore. Then long-forgotten things, like “sunken wrack and sumless treasuries,” burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, think, and be myself again. Instead of an awkward silence, broken by attempts at wit or dull commonplaces, mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart which alone is perfect eloquence. No one likes puns, alliterations, antitheses, argument, and analysis better than I do; but I sometimes had rather be without them. “Leave, oh, leave me to my repose!” I have just now other business in hand, which would seem idle to you, but is with me “very stuff o’ the conscience.” Is not this wild rose sweet without a comment? Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat of emerald? Yet if I wore to explain to you the circumstance that has so endeared it to me, you would only smile. Had I not better then keep it to myself, and let it serve me to brood over, from here to yonder craggy point, and from thence onward to the far-distant horizon? I should be but bad company all that way, and therefore prefer being alone. I have heard it said that you may, when the moody fit comes on, walk or ride on by yourself, and indulge your reveries. But this looks like a breach of manners, a neglect of others, and you are thinking all the time that you ought to rejoin your party. “Out upon such half-faced fellowship,” say I. I like to be either entirely to myself, or entirely at the disposal of others; to talk or be silent, to walk or sit still, to be sociable or solitary. I was pleased with an observation of Mr. Cobbett’s, that “he thought it a bad French custom to drink our wine with our meals, and that an Englishman ought to do only one thing at a time.” So I cannot talk and think, or indulge in melancholy musing and lively conversation by fits and starts. “Let me have a companion of my way,” says Sterne, “were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines.” It is beautifully said; but, in my opinion, this continual comparing of notes interferes with the involuntary impression of things upon the mind, and hurts the sentiment. If you only hint what you feel in a kind of dumb show, it is insipid: if you have to explain it, it is making a toil of a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature without being perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the benefit of others. I am for this synthetical method on a journey in preference to the analytical. I am content to lay in a stock of ideas then, and to examine and anatomise them afterwards. I want to see my vague notions float like the down of the thistle before the breeze, and not to have them entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy. For once, I like to have it all my own way; and this is impossible unless you are alone, or in such company as I do not covet. I have no objection to argue a point with anyone for twenty miles of measured road, but not for pleasure. If you remark the scent of a bean-field crossing the road, perhaps your fellow-traveller has no smell. If you point to a distant object, perhaps he is shortsighted, and has to take out his glass to look at it. There is a feeling in the air, a tone in the colour of a cloud, which hits your fancy, but the effect of which you are unable to account for. There is then no sympathy, but an uneasy craving after it, and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way, and in the end probably produces ill-humour. Now I never quarrel with myself, and take all my own conclusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend them against objections. It is not merely that you may not be of accord on the objects and circumstances that present themselves before you—these may recall a number of objects, and lead to associations too delicate and refined to be possibly communicated to others. Yet these I love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly clutch them, when I can escape from the throng to do so. To give way to our feelings before company seems extravagance or affectation; and, on the other hand, to have to unravel this mystery of our being at every turn, and to make others take an equal interest in it (otherwise the end is not answered), is a task to which few are competent. We must “give it an understanding, but no tongue.” My old friend Coleridge, however, could do both. He could go on in the most delightful explanatory way over hill and dale a summer’s day, and convert a landscape into a didactic poem or a Pindaric ode. “He talked far above singing.” If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing words, I might perhaps wish to have someone with me to admire the swelling theme; or I could be more content, were it possible for me still to hear his echoing voice in the woods of All-Foxden.58 They had “that fine madness in them which our first poets had”; and if they could have been caught by some rare instrument, would have breathed such strains as the following:—

“Here be woods as green As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet Face of the curled streams, with flow’rs as many As the young spring gives, and as choice as any; Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, Arbours o’ergrown with woodbines, caves and dells; Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing, Or gather rushes to make many a ring For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love, How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes She took eternal fire that never dies; How she convey’d him softly in a sleep, His temples bound with poppy, to the steep Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night, Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light, To kiss her sweetest.”59

Had I words and images at command like these, I would attempt to wake the thoughts that lie slumbering on golden ridges in the evening clouds: but at the sight of nature my fancy, poor as it is, droops and closes up its leaves, like flowers at sunset. I can make nothing out on the spot: I must have time to collect myself.

In general, a good thing spoils out-of-door prospects: it should be reserved for table-talk. Lamb is for this reason, I take it, the worst company in the world out of doors; because he is the best within. I grant there is one subject on which it is pleasant to talk on a journey, and that is, what one shall have for supper when we get to our inn at night. The open air improves this sort of conversation or friendly altercation, by setting a keener edge on appetite. Every mile of the road heightens the flavour of the viands we expect at the end of it. How fine it is to enter some old town, walled and turreted, just at approach of nightfall, or to come to some straggling village, with the lights streaming through the surrounding gloom; and then, after inquiring for the best entertainment that the place affords, to “take one’s ease at one’s inn”! These eventful moments in our lives’ history are too precious, too full of solid, heartfelt happiness to be frittered and dribbled away in imperfect sympathy. I would have them all to myself, and drain them to the last drop: they will do to talk of or to write about afterwards. What a delicate speculation it is, after drinking whole goblets of tea—

“The cups that cheer, but not inebriate—”

and letting the fumes ascend into the brain, to sit considering what we shall have for supper—eggs and a rasher, a rabbit smothered in onions, or an excellent veal cutlet! Sancho in such a situation once fixed on cow-heel; and his choice, though he could not help it, is not to be disparaged. Then, in the intervals of pictured scenery and Shandean contemplation, to catch the preparation and the stir in the kitchen (getting ready for the gentleman in the parlour). Procul, O procul este profani! These hours are sacred to silence and to musing, to be treasured up in the memory, and to feed the source of smiling thoughts hereafter. I would not waste them in idle talk; or if I must have the integrity of fancy broken in upon, I would rather it were by a stranger than a friend. A stranger takes his hue and character from the time and place; he is a part of the furniture and costume of an inn. If he is a Quaker, or from the West Riding of Yorkshire, so much the better. I do not even try to sympathise with him, and he breaks no squares. (How I love to see the camps of the gypsies, and to sigh my soul into that sort of life. If I express this feeling to another, he may qualify and spoil it with some objection.) I associate nothing with my travelling companion but present objects and passing events. In his ignorance of me and my affairs, I in a manner forget myself. But a friend reminds one of other things, rips up old grievances, and destroys the abstraction of the scene. He comes in ungraciously between us and our imaginary character. Something is dropped in the course of conversation that gives a hint of your profession and pursuits; or from having someone with you that knows the less sublime portions of your history, it seems that other people do. You are no longer a citizen of the world; but your “unhoused free condition is put into circumspection and confine.” The incognito of an inn is one of its striking privileges—“lord of one’s self, uncumbered with a name.” Oh! it is great to shake off the trammels of the world and of public opinion—to lose our importunate, tormenting, everlasting personal identity in the elements of nature, and become the creature of the moment, clear of all ties—to hold to the universe only by a dish of sweetbreads, and to owe nothing but the score of the evening—and no longer seeking for applause and meeting with contempt, to be known by no other title than “the Gentleman in the parlour!” One may take one’s choice of all characters in this romantic state of uncertainty as to one’s real pretensions, and become indefinitely respectable and negatively right-worshipful. We baffle prejudice and disappoint conjecture; and from being so to others, begin to be objects of curiosity and wonder even to ourselves. We are no more those hackneyed commonplaces that we appear in the world; an inn restores us to the level of nature, and quits scores with society! I have certainly spent some enviable hours at inns—sometimes when I have been left entirely to myself, and have tried to solve some metaphysical problem, as once at Witham Common, where I found out the proof that likeness is not a case of the association of ideas—at other times, when there have been pictures in the room, as at St. Neot’s (I think it was), where I first met with Gribelin’s engravings of the Cartoons, into which I entered at once, and at a little inn on the borders of Wales, where there happened to be hanging some of Westall’s drawings, which I compared triumphantly (for a theory that I had, not for the admired artist) with the figure of a girl who had ferried me over the Severn, standing up in a boat between me and the twilight—at other times I might mention luxuriating in books, with a peculiar interest in this way, as I remember sitting up half the night to read Paul and Virginia, which I picked up at an inn at Bridgewater, after being drenched in the rain all day; and at the same place I got through two volumes of Madame D’Arblay’s Camilla. It was on the 10th of April 1798 that I sat down to a volume of the New Eloise, at the inn at Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken. The letter I chose was that in which St. Preux describes his feelings as he first caught a glimpse from the heights of the Jura of the Pays de Vaud, which I had brought with me as a bon bouche to crown the evening with. It was my birthday, and I had for the first time come from a place in the neighbourhood to visit this delightful spot. The road to Llangollen turns off between Chirk and Wrexham; and on passing a certain point you come all at once upon the valley, which opens like an amphitheatre, broad, barren hills rising in majestic state on either side, with “green upland swells that echo to the bleat of flocks” below, and the river Dee babbling over its stony bed in the midst of them. The valley at this time “glittered green with sunny showers,” and a budding ash-tree dipped its tender branches in the chiding stream. How proud, how glad I was to walk along the high road that overlooks the delicious prospect, repeating the lines which I have just quoted from Mr. Coleridge’s poems! But besides the prospect which opened beneath my feet, another also opened to my inward sight, a heavenly vision, on which were written, in letters large as Hope could make them, these four words, liberty, genius, love, virtue; which have since faded into the light of common day, or mock my idle gaze.

The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.

Still I would return some time or other to this enchanted spot; but I would return to it alone. What other self could I find to share that influx of thoughts, of regret, and delight, the fragments of which I could hardly conjure up to myself, so much have they been broken and defaced. I could stand on some tall rock, and overlook the precipice of years that separates me from what I then was. I was at that time going shortly to visit the poet whom I have above named. Where is he now? Not only I myself have changed; the world, which was then new to me, has become old and incorrigible. Yet will I turn to thee in thought, O sylvan Dee, in joy, in youth and gladness as thou then wert; and thou shalt always be to me the river of Paradise, where I will drink of the waters of life freely!

There is hardly anything that shows the shortsightedness or capriciousness of the imagination more than travelling does. With change of place we change our ideas; nay, our opinions and feelings. We can by an effort indeed transport ourselves to old and long-forgotten scenes, and then the picture of the mind revives again; but we forget those that we have just left. It seems that we can think but of one place at a time. The canvas of the fancy is but of a certain extent, and if we paint one set of objects upon it, they immediately efface every other. We cannot enlarge our conceptions, we only shift our point of view. The landscape bares its bosom to the enraptured eye, we take our fill of it, and seem as if we could form no other image of beauty or grandeur. We pass on, and think no more of it: the horizon that shuts it from our sight also blots it from our memory like a dream. In travelling through a wild barren country I can form no idea of a woody and cultivated one. It appears to me that all the world must be barren, like what I see of it. In the country we forget the town, and in town we despise the country. “Beyond Hyde Park,” says Sir Topling Flutter, “all is a desert.” All that part of the map that we do not see before us is blank. The world in our conceit of it is not much bigger than a nutshell. It is not one prospect expanded into another, county joined to county, kingdom to kingdom, land to seas, making an image voluminous and vast; the mind can form no larger idea of space than the eye can take in at a single glance. The rest is a name written in a map, a calculation of arithmetic. For instance, what is the true signification of that immense mass of territory and population known by the name of China to us? An inch of pasteboard on a wooden globe, of no more account than a China orange! Things near us are seen of the size of life: things at a distance are diminished to the size of the understanding. We measure the universe by ourselves, and even comprehend the texture of our being only piecemeal. In this way, however, we remember an infinity of things and places. The mind is like a mechanical instrument that plays a great variety of tunes, but it must play them in succession. One idea recalls another, but it at the same time excludes all others. In trying to renew old recollections, we cannot as it were unfold the whole web of our existence; we must pick out the single threads. So in coming to a place where we have formerly lived, and with which we have intimate associations, everyone must have found that the feeling grows more vivid the nearer we approach the spot, from the mere anticipation of the actual impression: we remember circumstances, feelings, persons, faces, names that we had not thought of for years; but for the time all the rest of the world is forgotten!—To return to the question I have quitted above:

I have no objection to go to see ruins, aqueducts, pictures, in company with a friend or a party, but rather the contrary, for the former reason reversed. They are intelligible matters, and will bear talking about. The sentiment here is not tacit, but communicable and overt. Salisbury Plain is barren of criticism, but Stonehenge will bear a discussion antiquarian, picturesque, and philosophical. In setting out on a party of pleasure, the first consideration always is where we shall go to: in taking a solitary ramble, the question is what we shall meet with by the way. “The mind is its own place”; nor are we anxious to arrive at the end of our journey. I can myself do the honours indifferently well to works of art and curiosity. I once took a party to Oxford with no mean éclat—showed them that seat of the Muses at a distance,

“With glistering spires and pinnacles adorn’d—”

descanted on the learned air that breathes from the grassy quadrangles and stone walls of halls and colleges—was at home in the Bodleian; and at Blenheim quite superseded the powdered Cicerone that attended us, and that pointed in vain with his wand to commonplace beauties in matchless pictures. As another exception to the above reasoning, I should not feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country without a companion. I should want at intervals to hear the sound of my own language. There is an involuntary antipathy in the mind of an Englishman to foreign manners and notions that requires the assistance of social sympathy to carry it off. As the distance from home increases, this relief, which was at first a luxury, becomes a passion and an appetite. A person would almost feel stifled to find himself in the deserts of Arabia without friends and countrymen: there must be allowed to be something in the view of Athens or old Rome that claims the utterance of speech; and I own that the Pyramids are too mighty for any single contemplation. In such situations, so opposite to all one’s ordinary train of ideas, one seems a species by one’s-self, a limb torn off from society, unless one can meet with instant fellowship and support. Yet I did not feel this want or craving very pressing once, when I first set my foot on the laughing shores of France. Calais was peopled with novelty and delight. The confused, busy murmur of the place was like oil and wine poured into my ears; nor did the mariners’ hymn, which was sung from the top of an old crazy vessel in the harbour, as the sun went down, send an alien sound into my soul. I only breathed the air of general humanity. I walked over “the vine-covered hills and gay regions of France,” erect and satisfied; for the image of man was not cast down and chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones: I was at no loss for language, for that of all the great schools of painting was open to me. The whole is vanished like a shade. Pictures, heroes, glory, freedom, all are fled: nothing remains but the Bourbons and the French people!—There is undoubtedly a sensation in travelling into foreign parts that is to be had nowhere else; but it is more pleasing at the time than lasting. It is too remote from our habitual associations to be a common topic of discourse or reference, and, like a dream or another state of existence, does not piece into our daily modes of life. It is an animated but a momentary hallucination. It demands an effort to exchange our actual for our ideal identity; and to feel the pulse of our old transports revive very keenly, we must “jump” all our present comforts and connections. Our romantic and itinerant character is not to be domesticated. Dr. Johnson remarked how little foreign travel added to the facilities of conversation in those who had been abroad. In fact, the time we have spent there is both delightful, and in one sense instructive; but it appears to be cut out of our substantial, downright existence, and never to join kindly on to it. We are not the same, but another, and perhaps more enviable individual, all the time we are out of our own country. We are lost to ourselves, as well as our friends. So the poet somewhat quaintly sings:

“Out of my country and myself I go.”

Those who wish to forget painful thoughts, do well to absent themselves for a while from the ties and objects that recall them; but we can be said only to fulfil our destiny in the place that gave us birth. I should on this account like well enough to spend the whole of my life in travelling abroad, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home!

Nostr event nevent1qqsxrg59kve8mml0dyjpy7d6cxasa9v3sfrw5rtmss622vp0yzk35jszypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6guycvef

2026-07-22T07:26:18Z

In reply to nevent1q…n3vr
_________________________

GM.

Well I've had the pleasure of visiting a big city today., ...

2026-07-21T12:46:30Z

Well I've had the pleasure of visiting a big city today., first time in a couple of years.

All I can say is those places are for the young people.

My normal town for shopping/cafe has one completely unnecessary set of traffic lights and that's more than enough for me.

Didn't hang around longing enough to find out. I don't ...

2026-07-21T12:29:43Z

In reply to nevent1q…27mh
_________________________

Didn't hang around longing enough to find out.
I don't need the trouble that someone 40 years younger than me can cause 🤣

A pretty girl has just sat next to me, must be a FED.

2026-07-21T11:38:00Z

A pretty girl has just sat next to me, must be a FED.

Nostr event nevent1qqsxe07amzzk44ssvnyyczd3t9f07wlx55l7epduggz328k9cmzznjqzypla4rss6yvupjcmatx5djqm0y5shqldj5c6msd4wjcat65kmpk6gpwsfts

2026-07-21T03:27:58Z

GM.

Late again. GM. ...

2026-07-20T12:33:13Z

Late again.
GM.

I be taking a little road trip soon. Might as well call it From ...

2026-06-26T07:13:34Z

I be taking a little road trip soon.
Might as well call it From the mountains to the sea.

Anyone want to meet for a coffee or have ideas of must see places comment below.

Also nice campsites.

Ser I hear self hosted wallets are bad now. I am currently ...

2026-06-13T12:36:08Z

In reply to nevent1q…vshx
_________________________

Ser I hear self hosted wallets are bad now.
I am currently applying to the state for my new approved address and will forward it to you in due course.

It may take some time.

I had to visit a family member in hospital inside that ...

2026-05-22T10:52:59Z

In reply to nevent1q…5ha6
_________________________

I had to visit a family member in hospital inside that surveillance hell hole last year.
I was on a foreign plated motorbike, supposed to register my details and the bikes 24hr before.

I stopped I a layby just before the cameras started and removed the plate.

I wasn't alone, two other cars stopped and taped over theirs.

The fine for not having the number displayed correctly is less than you can rack up inside the zone, especially if you're not local.
There is no way you can keep up with all the zones, bus lane times, speed changes and cameras and whatever else goes on in there.

I have that on my wall but yellow. Now it brings me less joy 😉

2026-05-19T10:33:16Z

In reply to nevent1q…4z08
_________________________

I have that on my wall but yellow.
Now it brings me less joy 😉

Good morning all you lovely people. You ARE early to bitcoin. The ...

2026-04-27T12:55:32Z

Good morning all you lovely people.
You ARE early to bitcoin.

The normies, your friends and family are not coming.

I've been retired on bitcoin for the past 12 years and whatever I try I cannot orange pill my friends or family.

I've tried talking, I've tried videos, I've given them bitcoin (they lose it) I've given them bitcoin on paper and told them to move it to a wallet they control or I'll take it back in a year.
I took all of them back.

I sent my most tech savy chum a bitcoin when it was just under $100, he sold it when it doubled.

I set up all my nephews and niece's and my cousins and second cousins and all their kids with offline wallets (I kept a copy of keys) and told them to call me once a month and prove they have the keys and I'll send them a hundred quid, every month until I die.
Only two nephews and one second cousin managed to do it, and they all gave up after 5 or 6 months.

My only successes have been few and far between.

Two female friends, both drunk at the time.
I set them up with wallets (again I kept a copy) and TOOK £200 off of each and gave them bitcoin.
A few years later I sold the Bcash fork and told them about it.
They had forgotten all about owning bitcoin, they have both gone on to buy more now and then. Not oranged pilled but forced holdlers.

My tech savy chum finally last year decided to put as much as he dare into bitcoin, 11 years after he sold at $200.
He will never go all in because he fumbled it years ago and it hurts.
Not oranged pilled in the true sense.

And finally my most successful try...
My new neighbour 11 years ago I gave his young child an amount of bitcoin for Christmas, timelocked until they are 18ish.
Yes I kept a copy.
Every BBQ or beer on the terrace I would mention how much it was worth, very soon it had exceeded the money he was putting aside in a bank for them, and paying the bank monthly for the privilege.

He has since gone on to buy almost every month , still I wouldn't call him orange pilled but he is doing alright.

Why was he my most successful?
Can't say for sure but he was already a saver.
Running his own business for more than 20 years.
Already had 3 or 4 different state currencies in his life.
Hates the tax man and state bureaucracy he's dealing with.
And was trying to plan for his kid's future.

quoting
nevent1q…ge5t
On this day, exactly 6 years ago, I decided to stop orange pilling. https://dergigi.com/2020/04/27/dear-family-dear-friends/

It's an old one, proper B movie type of thing, bad acting and ...

2025-12-03T21:24:15Z

In reply to nevent1q…4ckt
_________________________

It's an old one, proper B movie type of thing, bad acting and cheap sets but the story is great. If you're religious or an atheist it'll give you something to think about and it's old enough you can find it on YouTube now.

The Man from Earth

Enjoy.