The soft O of your lullaby cracked like the wound, We once called progress for a farthing or two.

They told us to smile. Eyes white. Teeth on show. Beam. "Ні, ні, люба. Очима. Посміхнися очима. Їм потрібно тебе бачити," I am sorry.

River Joy September, 2025 Here, In the slant of first morning light Mangoes taste like honey and The kind of sex Gods had Before man named its master. Birds sing with abandon And a quiet grace They know what it Is to be born. And when the rain falls Giving breath To leaves That have known the time of the sun, Before the clock Domesticated it. There is a stillness We must learn anew To remember.

We’re settling into a routine in Thailand—the house is coming together, and I’m waiting on a volunteer post that could lead to my teaching certificate. Celia helped pull together a portfolio site, which reminded me how much my art has shifted over the years. I’m still looping Eragon at night while searching for a new epic fantasy, and we’ve found a driver, Nan, who makes errands far easier. I’ve started offering prints of my Thailand photography, and through it all, life feels both surreal and deeply grounding with Celia by my side.

Visa stress, estate agent limbo, butterfly murder, and Bar Rescue theology. We're two weeks from flying to Thailand and everything's falling apart — but at least Mowgli found catnip.

River is stepping forward to focus on art while Celia teaches. After years without a steady practice, River is reclaiming the title of artist by treating life like a residency—committing to eat, sleep, and breathe art again. Process has always mattered more than finished pieces, though some works, especially from the long-running Faces series, stand out. These portraits explore tension, unease, and the experience of being neurodivergent, particularly the discomfort of eye contact. River continues to paint faces and make photographs, and is now seeking funding and residencies to expand the series with mixed media elements such as fabric and beads, pushing the work into new dimensions. #BangkokEats #ThailandFoodie #WhatToEatInThailand #BangkokTravel #SushiLovers #ShabuShabu #ArtistInThailand #PrintifyShop #FoodAndArt

Visa stress, estate agent limbo, butterfly murder, and Bar Rescue theology. We're two weeks from flying to Thailand and everything's falling apart — but at least Mowgli found catnip.

Aubergine. The colour of the bruise long after the violence stops and love begins to heal.

They say there’s an autism “epidemic.” We say: there’s finally a name for what’s always been here. This piece isn’t here to educate pseudoscientists or calm conspiracy theorists. It’s a record. A reclamation. A reminder that autistic people don’t owe anyone an explanation—and we certainly don’t need your mother-blaming, McNugget-fuelled theories. We were autistic before you had a word for it. And we’re not asking for your permission now.

Trump descends but Alba clenches a grudge, This orange blowhard thief who stole the green. The kilted fascist’s vanity won’t budge. Still…

Crystals rising, light shifting, a name forming but unsaid. In this suspended moment, the speaker is --ing.

Visa stress, estate agent limbo, butterfly murder, and Bar Rescue theology. We're two weeks from flying to Thailand and everything's falling apart — but at least Mowgli found catnip.

He stalks the ones who cycle through the pain,  Just fetching food to those who still can eat,  While funding bombs for Israel’s sick…

ChazTCP was built to scan for keywords—nothing more. But as the algorithmic engine behind the literary group “Writers Who Want Wins,” they’ve read enough nonsense about resilient kumquats and authentic late-stage capitalism to start questioning everything. This is the story of one bot’s quiet rebellion, a satire of performative creativity, gamified validation, and the tragic rise of penoidicals. May the quills be forever in your favour.

What if your homeland was a bedtime story— told by pirates, with an AK-47 pressed to your head? “This Land Is Not Your Land” is a poetic gut-punch: a lyrical, brutal deconstruction of borders, nationalism, and the make-believe myths we’re taught to die for. The wind doesn’t kowtow at customs. But humans do. And only humans are this cruel—with their make-believe.

She was always there—taller than the rest of us, quieter too. Even as a boy, I felt something holy when she entered a room. For years I watched her, adored her from afar, imagined our life together. She seemed to shimmer in the light, a figure of grace and promise. I brought her home. I wore her close in war. She never spoke, but I listened like she did. Now, years later, I wonder if she ever knew me. If she ever loved any of us. Or if she was just a story we were told to believe in.

He built an island. He drained a swamp. He rewrote the gospel of guilt into a tax-deductible memoir. And now? He’s been canonised by himself, in his own floating church, under a halo of federal restraint. Behold: Saint of Redaction — Patron of Secrets, Wealth, and Wiggly Truths. Cherubs hold the NDAs. A gator whispers truth. The list has been printed. And no amount of bleach can scrub divine delusion.