AD 2025

[Notes from my Little Letter Republic]

Whenever I feel plucked out of time, or stumble into a trough of aimlessness, or when philosophical questions addle the mind, I shake myself out of such lethargy by taking to one of the oceans of intellectual inquiry which in themselves are enjoyable and lend little prospect for my own career advancement: languages and mathematics.

This January was no different. Like the Finnish tradition of forswearing alcohol for the month of January, I put down the bottle and picked up a different intoxicant: Biblical Hebrew. Endeavoring to learn Genesis 1 and some few prayers, I managed to become significantly more comfortable with the “alephbet” and to build a bit of vocabulary before the old desire for practical advancement and struggle came back to alleviate my self-imposed relaxation. Similarly, I made several advancements in my deployment of integral calculus and spherical trigonometry.

And thus, after plucking the first fruits from the tree of knowledge, I stole away from the garden and went back to researching and writing essays. One on Milton-based humanities curriculum (John Milton) and another on reforming the aesthetics of the St. Louis Science Center.

This year was the biggest work change in 5 years, as I was finally able to reduce my workload from 3 full time jobs to 1.5. Over the past 6 months I have offloaded 96% of my administrative duties on one campus and dropped teaching two courses. So now I am only executive director of one campus and a teacher for three courses.

I spend a lot time staring at financial models, which I enjoy, talking to students and colleagues, which I enjoy, and running the gauntlet of open houses, follow ups, enrollments, check-ins, re-enrollments, update emails, hiring, follow ups, and subbing.

Now teaching at a a classical, catholic, hybrid school is one of the best places one can be. It is intellectually stimulating, the colleagues are intelligent and dedicated, the students are interested and engaged, the vibe is low-tech and bookish. I am raising my kids in a community of other parents who are also raising larger families, and so we have a deep solidarity.

Because of my reduced workload on the two home days I spend 5 hours working and 5 hours with the kids while being the executive function for my son in his home day work for kindergarten. That home day work takes about 45 minutes — usually spread out over an 1.5 hrs.

I am slowly figuring out how to work the finances of the school better so that we can compensate our full day people: if we found the donor who could make that happen, we’d easily be the best educational institution to work at in St. Louis. We’re already extremely close. My philosophy is “hiring is policy” and “quality of life is half compensation.” Or as I sometimes say; it’s a phenomenal place to work if you can afford it!

Last semester I taught two Latin courses, Geometry, Chemistry. This semester I have math, Latin, and moral philosophy.

Latin this year has been more fruitful than normal. Teaching the Aeneid in Latin is always a treat. And Vergil’s poetic style, my Lord, there is nothing like it! “Sink their submerged decks!” or “Disiectam Aeneae, toto videt aequore classem,” which can’t really be translated justly.

And this year I read more of the Roman historian Sallust in Latin, whose opening to Bellum Catilinae stirs up moral and intellectual ambition in the soul. But Leibniz’s Latin mathematical writings were especially fun and clear. It felt especially clarifying to be explained quadratures in Latin.

And just as sweet, since I have a colleague who delights in Latin, we together read Latin poetry together this year.

One of my favorite things about my local friends is that we read and discuss poetry together. I highly recommend finding friends who will do this with you!

I think often about what place I want to build for Latin in educational culture. I rely on the analogy of music. Latin is an instrument unlike other instruments. Why learn to play an instrument, but for the pleasure of being the conduit of the music? There is no way to get the pleasures of Latin without reading Latin, just as there is no way to get the pleasure of musical performance without playing the instrument. And because Latin grants access to particular cultures, if you want the ideas from those cultures to be part of the makeup of your soul, then you will want Latin – for law, for poetry, for hymns, for medieval philosophy and theology, and the early stages of the scientific revolution.

It’s embarrassing to me that my favorite ancient texts are actually almost all in Greek. Plato, Thucydides, Ptolemy, Archimedes, Aristotle… Greek has the best material, superior to Latin. And my Greek is out of practice. Yet by being the language of administration, Latin became the language of Western Europe. There might be a lesson there about the relationship between academic and civic language and culture. Perhaps if general Belisarius had succeeded in conquering Italy…

Antigone Journal has an ongoing contest for contemporary Greek and Latin editions, the prize being a complete Loeb Classical Library. I am excited about this, because there is some prospect for building more intentional living communities of classical learning, despite the falling numbers of departments and programs. The National Latin Exam, for example, continues to decline in number of participants, but the bleeding, I predict, will stop in the next 5 years if not sooner.

And even more exciting is that we will unlock the library of Philodemus using all that AI compute. It really has never been a better time to brush up on your Ancient Greek!

In Moral Philosophy, I finally have each of my lectures thoroughly worked out enough that I can compile my handbook for Applied Virtue Ethics with its tour of Kant, Mill, Aristotle, and Aquinas. What I really want to get across is a theory of justice which takes seriously justice in exchange as the form of justice which undergirds economics and much of daily life, and prudence as a personal art of expected value calculation. With a proper theory of double effect, I can help vastly improve reasoning in several areas, from clinical trials to immigration to national defense and romance. I especially want to challenge Catholic relativism in matters of prudence, which is a widespread issue, and provide a theory of justice that can clearly ground higher quality Catholic social thought.


My reduction in duties has gone well. At my peak pain point I was running a school, dean of high school at a different campus and teaching 8 courses across two campuses. So I know I have a great capacity to run on all cylinders.

And I will take on new projects in the future, but for now I am trying to explore, explore, explore, and resisting the sultry and racy seduction of new commitments, whose lips drip with the honey of deception and whose eyes shine with the meretricious allure of the oxygenless void.

The big events of this year for me have been recruiting one of my friends back into St. Louis to teach with me, hiring a former student of mine and team teaching with him, joining the Center for Educational Progress, visiting Ghana for the Emergent Ventures African and Caribbean conference, and presenting at the Fitzwilliam Seminar on Milton Friedman at the University of Chicago.

I am really proud of my friend Jack for finally launching the Center for Education Progress, which he has been talking about in various forms since at least 2018. So far the organization has an impressive list of allies and has published many excellent essays over at educationprogress.org. I have been able to assist the marvelous team on the policy proposal document providing guidance to certain government agencies, and I hope to keep working on some more projects soon.

I have also enjoyed befriending Anjan Katta and learning from him about the very cool hardware stack currently deployed in the Daylight Computer and possible futures there. I think the tech he has in the pipeline is really phenomenal. I look forward to seeing those iterations and being some contributor to his work’s success.

At EV Arlington, I made several new friends. Fergus let me stay in his room when my flight was cancelled, and Dan and I solved the mystery of the CCP scriptures. I suppose the message I took away from that conference was “Keep building your own society.”


My first time in Africa was for this years Emergent Ventures conference in Accra. These are observations from my green eyes.

It was more difficult to get into Ghana than expected. Getting the yellow fever vaccine required 16.5 phone calls and hunting for regulatory arbitrage. The unsecure visa portal stole my credit card, and when I messed up some paperwork the consulate was unresponsive. Once en route, though, it was easy entry into the country, and I found friends in the DC airport, Sebastian of Panama and Lamin.

My first impression of Accra was a deep inner peace at the high quality queuing at the baggage claim. The British did their work well, I thought to myself. Ghana was extremely safe. Jerry Rawlings, sir, you did in fact set the society on a peaceful path. One could tell by the posture and body language of people that the expectations for social interaction were positive (and I don’t mean interaction with me – a comparatively rich tourist). The general tenor of the streets was of safety.

My second impression of Accra was that the roads are good. We drove down the airport drive and the road was perfect. The minister of defense and some other ministers tragically died a few days prior in a tragic helicopter accident. Our bus driver blamed the cheap government for buying unreliable Chinese helicopters and not servicing them properly. And now as our conversation about culture turned to the finer points of the origins of Accra neighborhoods, the road literally disappeared at a major intersection. What is this? Why is a major intersection missing street? It would take a single day to fix this giant welfare loss. 50 mph driving suddenly slowed to 5 mph and into a great cacophony of chittering beeps as cars, trucks, vans and transports signal, hoot, hand gesture a negotiation through the intersection. It was a kind of beautiful harmony that I grew to love. The beauty of emergent order and communication on total display! But the achievement of infrastructure is to, you know, decrease the chaos, and increase the speed.

This led me to a second observation about the cars themselves. Old, beat up, painted and repainted coups were super common. Seeing people zip along in their cars, I could feel the love of cars throughout city. People love their cars and want to keep them going as long as possible. At the same time I was impressed by the number of new Kias, Hyundais, I even saw a couple Honda Accords. The frugal lower-class altruist and stingy saver within was almost offended: “You took out debt to buy that!” But I thought of the Queen song “I am in Love with my Car,” which basically justifies car culture on its own. Pace, walkability enthusiasts.

The third impression I had of Accra concerned labor. I have never seen intersections lined with people selling snacks and doodads in such numbers – one person was even selling a nail clipper set – nor have I seen such a high number of people doing very similar jobs, taxis everywhere, 5 porters at the hotel door, three clerks at the desk, several pool boys – a very visceral oversupply of labor. Immediately my mind started turning on how to turn the labor force into higher value occupations in as few steps as possible.

My goals in Ghana were to learn to negotiate prices, learn why every African independence leader was a socialist, and discover how to get around in an African context.

A group of us went to the Tetteh Quarshie art market via two Ubers. Unlike in the US where Uber drivers seem to lease richer vehicles than they should, Ghanians seem to be more realistic about what vehicle they will drive in. It took about 30 minutes to get from Labadi to the art market, but the drive was a good look at the city. I saw a perhaps vacant Willis Towers Watson building sporting the 2017 post-merger logo. So maybe it was still in use? The last Google review was from 6 years ago. And there is the possibility the building has nothing to do with the American company.

The roofs of almost all the building in the city were corrugated iron, a material I know little about, but is apparently the go to for shelters of all sizes and costs. The church roof was iron, the shack, the barber, the fancy restaurant, all corrugated iron. Some houses had large rocks sitting on the roofs providing additional weight to the slices of metal perched conspicuously over a leak.

They say the city proper of Accra has 2.8 million people and the region has 5.4 million. But the traffic was none too bad, except at night. Then it was very slow going. The opposite of, say, the 270 belt in St. Louis which is jammed before and after work (Lord, make haste to send congestion pricing!). Why are there major traffic jams at night? It only took me a minute to unravel the mystery. During the day maneuvering around pot holes is easy – at night very difficult. So night traffic is perpetually in molasses. Now while my urbanist friends will talk about the need for bike lanes, public transit, and improved walkability, the real issue is road quality. Throughput. There is plenty of transit available. Vehicle ownership is clearly not necessary to get around in Accra, but if you want to fix congestion and reduce pollution, repair the roads.

When we got to Tetteh Quarshie I was determined to hurl myself into the arts of the market. It was a single covered basilica with shops on either side. Some people were makers but most were resellers. The shops were frequently the size of a dining room, lined with shelves, art, knickknacks, doodads, and a man or woman strongly encouraging you to come in for a look. “Sir, Look! What do you like? Sir, come in!” Some were more insistent than others.

I had some people show me some art so that I could get a sense of what the motifs were, what was common and what was uncommon. I found an old seamstress putting together dresses, and knowing that my daughter was likely bigger than a daughter of the same age in Accra, tried to find a dress that seemed the right size. She insisted that the one I was interested in would fit her, but I wasn’t so sure it would be big enough to grow into, but merely fit for the month. We went back and forth on price as her radio played an English language political commentary on the spiritual dimension of Ghana’s woes. She was mildly disappointed, but we settled. She tempted me to buy something for my wife. But I told her such a venture was too risky.

Sam E. and I found a friendly gregarious shopkeeper and asked her how to negotiate prices. She was a special type, because the normal procedure is you ask how much, and they make a starting bid. It is rude for the buyer to make the starting bid. Nonetheless, this giddy gal was happy for Sam to make the starting bid. And he shook and trembled and exclaimed he had no idea what makes sense to offer. She reassured him, Say what you think, and if I don’t like it I’ll say no. This led into a discussion about the game theory of prices. He’s afraid of overpaying, and he doesn’t know what prices make sense. Then we started talking in hypotheticals, if I were to offer 50 Ceti for this, what would you say? Hypotheticals made it easier for us Western boys to get in the swing of things. Sam made an offer and she immediately accepted, and he told her that that indicates he should have offered lower. She denied it! But he reasserted the veracity of auction theory.

When I returned to the market after a break, my crowd was gone. I went and talked with the shopkeeper at the entrance, and tried to buy some knickknacks for home. I won some respect for having eaten goat fu fu, which indeed was good. We went back and forth on price and meanwhile I pleaded ignorance about the relative values of things. So I got her to discuss expected prices of art (which she didn’t carry), taxis, and so on. Part of that was so that I could budget my limited funds, and part of it was so that she could figure out what price she could offer me for her wooden turtles, and I could start calculating the value of labor. Nonetheless, she was older and more experienced and pulled a couple of slight exaggerations on me in the course of our friendly discussion. For example, she knows what she pays for a taxi, but didn’t want to be fully honest about what price I am going to get offered, which was about 2x that.

She has the best location in the mall, so I asked if she has to pay extra to get such a good spot. She said no, everyone pays the same for their lease. I was visibly shocked. But you have the best spot! I purchased my turtle, and she gave me instructions on where to go to find a taxi. She also said if I wanted the real experience, I would ride in one of the 12 passenger buses that shlep people around and always have a 17 year old boy hanging out the window hooting and hollering. I wanted to do that eventually, but never had the chance to spend 3 hours getting lost in Accra, which is what I would budget for such experiences.

Instead I found a taxi, and that guy dug in on a price that was almost 2x the standard street price. I negotiated him down 15% since I thought it was a 30 minute drive to Labadi, because that’s how long our Uber took. Apparently our Uber was as incompetent, as the taxi said they are, because it was only ten minutes back to Labadi.

Why do all African independence leaders believe in collectivized industry and state run enterprises and import and export tariffs and all these other terrible economic policies? The answer I was given over and over again at the conference was that Anglo economics and Anglo politics were not considered separable. If you are rebelling against colonialism, by necessity you are rebelling against capitalism, there was no other way to see it. This really bothered me. How is that possible? A 1:1 correlation?

The deeper explanation which I am significantly more satisfied with is that price theory and what today I would consider standard supply and demand economic analysis was also not readily available. Although Hayek existed, the Chicago school was still young, the Solow Model and Schumpeterian growth were undertheorized and not yet ubiquitous insights (of course, even today one of our Nobel Prize winners is far more confident in strong industrial policy, “rethinking capitalism”, that Urho Kekkonen’s education reforms have a lesson for the US, and that big firms should have to share their data than I would be). Good arguments for bog standard capitalism were just thin on the ground through most of the 20th century, and the fact that it works was less a testament to its intellectual foundations than to the practical outworkings of common law and democracy plus property rights.

Towards the end of the trip, a small group of us went, of course, to Eric’s coffin shop! It was a short walk on foot down the beach. Eric makes the amazing fantasy coffins. You can be buried in a fast fish, dear reader as Herman Melville would wish it, or a loose fish, should you desire. Or a chicken in memoriam of your mother’s broth. Whether airliner or Nike shoe, Eric has the coffin for you. They are simple pine boxes and competitively priced. The shop was merely a shed with chain link. No proper display, too few commemorative items for sale. The parking was not good and the signage was nondescript. Eric is a simple, humble guy. He’s done expos in Paris, been featured in the Guardian, yet even some small adjustments could increase his profits. It would make sense to expand the business if he were interested.

I think Ghana is like this generally. Some small expenditures of 10k to 100k, and the long-run rate of return would be quite good, not to mention the value of increased economic activity and moving up the value chain. Of course, the forces of corruption are hard to contend with. But where there’s a will… there’s at least a cleaner beach.

Ghana was my first contact with hunger. Although, it was a very pleasant place, it was also evident that some people were smaller than they otherwise would be because of malnutrition. And only after I left did I realize that the doodad sellers, the women balancing bowls of bottles and snacks on their heads, including that guy late at night selling some purple ichor out of a plastic bottle, were in fact beggars in an equilibrium. Hence when one of our taxi drivers bought a bottle of water, it was semi-charitable purchase of convenience.

And that particular taxi driver had the best coup car. Racing red with a green racing stripe, a faux animal pelt carpet on his dashboard, a necklace and several charging cables drooping vinelike from his rearview mirror, a giant crack across the windshield, and racing car seat covers in green and red. He had the stuff of funk.

The Conference itself was wonderful. The organizers did a good job mixing freedom and control as the non-Africans can be trusted no more than Marcus Brody to not get lost. If you wanted to explore on your own you could, but at no point did you need to.

We visited Christiansborg Castle (isn’t that redundant?) and there the office of two-time coup leader, Jerry Rawlings. Sadly the castle is in disrepair, and the tourism board seems to not care about or take any professional pride in it. Another missed opportunity.

The tomb of Nkrumah, which is truly a stunningly beautiful monument to the independence leader would fill me with patriotism, if I were a Nkrumah fan. We had a conversation about if you could give Nkrumah advice what would it be? One answer: wait 20 years. Independence isn’t as good as you think it will be.

The conference sessions were quite good. Finally got to meet my friend Luke Olayemi in person. He ran one session on developing new concepts for describing internet social life, which I thought was very fun. And I want to see more ideas from him.

We had a session on U.S. – Africa relations. In the wake of major US aid cuts, emotions were complicated by the feeling of great frustration with African governments. If it were solely a matter of the U.S. refusing aid, that would be one thing, but the incompetence of the government means they lack the capacity to react usefully to a shortfall in medical aid. And so there was spirited disagreement about how to think about the US – Africa relationship, and what to hope for.

I met a nuclear medicine doctor from Botswana who is opening up a clinic. He can confirm there are more cows than people in Botswana; he owns 3. I noticed the pan-African comraderie was quite strong. People talked about other African countries the way we talk about other US states. This made me quite optimistic for future economic and political unions arising. I asked some of the ladies which country has the best men for romance and marriage. The answer: for romance Nigeria, but for marriage Uganda. A Nigerian later responded that female view is because Nigerian women have trained Nigerian men in the art of excessive and conspicuous expenditure on their girlfriends.

Jan Grzymski, leader of 89School, a program on Poland’s post-soviet liberalization showed off his political science board game How to Win Brexit. We did a mini-session, where Rebecca Lowe and Rasheed Griffith blasted me (Donald Tusk) into the smallest of smithereens with their much more serious and deep knowledge of the EU.

I recruited Sam Enright at noon to help me measure the sunlight so that I could calculate the relative latitude of St. Louis and Accra myself. I was off by a couple of degrees, but the measurements were done two weeks apart. It wasn’t bad for some slapdash measurements.

I enjoyed talking to Samukai about Liberian census tracts, David Perell about art, Rebecca Lowe about philosophy and novels, and several of the younger crowd who are working on academic competition prep in Kenya, Nigeria, and a few other places. Joshua Walcott and I went several rounds on religion and morality. Duncan Mcclements and I went many rounds on economic development and FDI. Lorenzo talked about building the tourism industry in Belize, Lamin on building an ambulance network in Gambia.

Andy Matuschak and I enjoyed a lively dinner conversation about Great Books and 20th century learning and possibility of diminishing returns.

Rasheed nudged me to work on Spanish more and get involved in politics. Advice I have taken.

Every EV conference has a takeaway line. This conference I felt the message was “good governance is hard to find.”

Retrospectively, I wish I had offered a session on what Classics has to offer Africa, building off the experience of Malawi, and discussing the origins of good governance in the classical world and soliciting for African examples.

I would like to tarry and indulge in divulging every insight and experience in Ghana, because to write about one’s travels is to travel twice.


In October, Sam Enright pulled off a great coup at the University of Chicago with his conference on Milton Friedman. We met at the Quadrangle Club around a large polished wood table, in a secluded academic board room, served fresh water by the pitcher. The type of place where one could plan all sorts of thing… but not secure enough to plan too much global disruption: it’s not enough in plain sight!

Since it was my first visit to the beautiful University of Chicago, I was able to take time to wander early in the morning. I drove into the city from the west and as the sun rose over downtown I listened to Tyler Cowen’s tour of choral music with Rick Rubin. That was such treat, Monteverdi and Shaw as the sun rose up behind the shoulders of the iconic Willis Tower.

When I got to campus parking was easy and the journey was light.

We started with a group in coffee shop and immediately got into full geek mode.

Kadambari Shah started off the conference with a session on Milton Friedman in India, which was great for its parallels to Milton in Chile.

Agnes Callard and Rebecca Lowe brought philosophical heat and burned away some of Milton’s superficial philosophizing. Rebecca impaled Milton’s distinction between political and economic systems when discussing capitalism and socialism, while Agnes scattered three handfuls of dust on Milton’s logical consistency in “The Moral Obligation of Business is to Maximize Profit”. Both certainly depressed any claim Milton could make to being a logically consistent philosopher.

Robin Hanson presented on Milton Friedman on mechanism design, and mostly focused on explaining the deeply limited case for government intervention in alleged market failures. This discussion was also helped along by some quick insight from the extremely sharp Anup Malani.

(Anup by the way once again excoriated my argument that hybrid education provides economic savings. This got us into the timely argument about Baumol and whether education services can actually experience new efficiencies. Then, when I made an argumentative gaffe concerning total cost, he pounced like a tiger, lithe and deadly, and ended my argument. It was a glorious massacre. I gathered up my entrails a day later and reformulated into something he could accept.)

Sam E. was saddled with Milton Friedman on Monetary Theory. Despite the monumental task, a task he shook from his remit in vain, Sam did a great job, and started with a statement that very much compelled my interest. He said that he loves the way Milton’s Monetary History of the United States is written. That it is a good causal history, and he wondered why there are not more like it.

I have a whole list of books that fit my preferred style of historical writing which I will be sending him shortly.

We had good lunch conversation over the standard questions of global monoculture and cultural churn. I am more optimistic than many others, but probably because I spend most of my time in a small community that is intellectually stimulating and has a high birth rate. I don’t feel the stultifying effects of the academic landscape that my peers who teach do.

My own presentation on the economic history of Chile went very well despite the late hour and the growing exhaustion of the participants.


The best podcasts this year were:

Statecraft by Santi Ruiz. Santi Ruiz interviews excellent researchers and practitioners of everyday governance. Great background if you want get involved in civics at any level.

Marginal Revolution Podcast – Tyler and Alex getting back to just talking economics. I really like it.

Dwarkesh Podcast – Sarah Paine lectures on Russia and China from the Naval War College.

Best films I watched this year were:

A Touch of Sin (2013) Chinese film about sin that is a series of vignettes. Some of which pretty were tough to watch. Seriously good film though.

Paths of Glory (1957) Stanley Kubrick film on a WWI court martial. Riveting meditation on the hell of war and the injustice of scapegoating.

Live Die Repeat (2014) Tom Cruise. A riveting and interesting action film.

Through the Olive Trees (1994) Kiarostami. Finally finished the Koker Trilogy. It was a really lovely film, and I am such a sucker for this type of Umerto-Eco elegant conceit of nested realities. Kiarostami is like a Renaissance courante between realism and a protagonist’s incredible persistence for love.

But the best cinema experience was renting out a theater and having a bunch of my friends and the St. John Paul II crowd watch the French film Of God’s and Men (2010). That indeed was a great experience. We had about 50 attendees. Thank you Robby for collaborating on this and taking care of technical aspects.


I taught Chad Kim’s new book Primer on Ecclesiastical Latin to my Latin students this year. It is the best in the genre of ecclesiastical Latin textbooks. The layout of the book is straightforward and made to pair well with students who have taken or are going through Lingua Latina (this does not apply to my students), but I appreciate the grammatical lineup.

Good introductory Latin textbooks provide limited and essential vocabulary that prepares students for reading particular authentic texts. When it comes to preparing students for ecclesiastical and medieval readings, especially scripture and St. Augustine, this book is head and shoulders the best in the business. It is also complete enough to be useful for self-study.

In books, I thought it was a thin year for me. I read a lot, but not a ton that really rocked.

Middlemarch by George Eliot – if you know, you know. I started it before the Middlemarch craze seized the world and finished after the wave had passed: worthy though it is of eternal hype.

I read a lot of Leibniz in 2025. Maria Rosa Antognozza’s biography is the secondary source to read. Maria sadly passed away before I got to talk to her. There are a million did-you-knows one could offer about Leibniz, but a recent one was that he wrote three papers on mortality tables and life insurance. And naturally the reason the royal we are interested in Leibniz is because of the style of intellectual life he lived – both at the cutting of philosophy, mathematics, and natural philosophy and steeped in the Aristotelian and Lutheran traditions – both concerned with finding new angles on traditional intellectual problems and determined to break out into new fields – a role model for what verve looks like.

And in academic writing, I found great interest in Edna Ullman-Margalit and Richard Posner (the Pos!) and various other law and economics writing.


Music was a tragic year. My favorite radio station 88.1 KDHX after two years of internal dissensions and infighting gave up the ghost. The station was my number one way of being exposed to new music in folk, alt-rock, “world music”, and really any genre except classical. The loss has caused me to be more intentional. I have been prowling archive.org for old KDHX playlists. I have turned up two awesome albums from 2020.

Music of the Sani by Manhu. Rural Yi music from southern China. Super delightful. Only a handful of views on YouTube.

Kompromat by I LIKE TRAINS. Alt-rock eery vibes with lyrics written entirely in cliche and idiomatic expressions.

I have been making playlists to atone to the muses for my dereliction of responsibility in discovering new music and cultivating wanderlust.
December Playlist.
January Playlist.


Karlsson Goals:
Henrik Karlsson gave me the idea to send myself check-in emails on a three month delay to gauge my progress and breakdown long term goals into intermediate steps. It has been a useful exercise, because three months is a long enough time span to show a good sized delta between revealed and considered preferences.

Some goals for 2026:

  • Find some people who want to take me to China (or really anywhere in Asia). I am always willing to trade lectures, research, and struggle sessions for travel .
  • Run a mini-conference on the poetry and literary criticism of T.S. Eliot.
  • Build and run another logic tournament
  • Improve St. Louis County zoning regulation
  • Foster my local collective of artists and architects

Dream of India

I had a dream that an Indian guy asked me for help navigating a futuristic city’s transportation system. Then he told me that the Indian languages near the border of China are the most interesting. I don’t know anything about Indian languages, so why did Prateek. I looked it up this morning to discover that northern Mishni is suspected to be a language isolate. He also had some choice words about the value of learning Mandarin.

The dream likely originates from a desire to visit India, a country I know little about, for two weeks.

Promenade Into Heavy Rain

Realize the triumphal beauty of entering a new city, how each new site demands to be seen, like lightning time passes. Special notice is due to each detail, the clouds, the old and elegant mansions, the way the sun makes the water look like a cream, how the old people on a cruise ship either enjoy a laugh or sit fixedly on their own, how a storm in violet blue is garbed in the north and other ships big and small pass around the bay, how this group of four in their late 50’s enjoy a last round of cards, the young text, the announcer makes ETAs and information about the lost & found. Stockholm approaches. It feels like a European city. Good architectural choices in the mid-late 19th century were not levelled by modernization in the mid-late 20th. Believe-it-or-not there was even an aesthetically pleasing tower constructed in the early 90’s. Well done, Sweden!

The nation of Sweden, once an empire (but it lost all its wars), now a prospering northern nation with hardly a military. See the construction cranes, towers, apartments, hills, trees, and spires rise to meet you: blue, black, green, and yellow. “Welcome,” says the sun as it winks out into the storm clouds, “Good luck finding your hostel.”

Burt Reynolds on a Ship

I highly recommend the boat from Turku to Stockholm. It was only 18 euros. Blue waters and little isles pass by for hours and hours and hours. The food aboard ship is good, and the alcohol prices are competitive (but compared to mainland Finland, what isn’t?). I have spent the majority of my time writing in the smoking room. It looks out on the water nicely, and the coming and going of faces for the fix make it a kind of sanctuary, a vestige of proper ritual.

However when I assumed a position overlooking the water, I became more exposed. And sensing my anxiety, a Burt-Reynolds of a Finn sat down next to me and asked what I was writing. He was one of those good-natured guys who would never take a serious thing seriously. He refused to speak any English, and would only explain himself in more Finnish. I appreciated his humor. He bade me luck that the bulb go off in my mind, and he took for the buffet room.

Lunch was good; at first, I lamented the expense. Then seeing how there was an open tap of wine and beer, my spirit was relieved. I drank and toasted, and ate as much as possible, salmon and sauces, lox and mosses, salad, and cheese, and bread, and dessert. The conversational company could have been better. But such is drinking alone, you have to imagine your people around and have the recitation with yourself.

I saw the Burt-Reynolds Finn as he walked out. He stopped and asked skeptically if the food was any good. “It is good, good.” I was the last one in the dining room. They closed, but I still had more to eat and drink. This has been my lot since high school. To be the last one sitting at table, others cleaning up, I wonder, “Why has everyone left so soon? What’s all the rush? There is no where better to go! Yo-ho-ho-ho! Where is MY civilization? If I were king…”

I took the train from Rovaniemi last night. I have not taken an overnight train in many years. Now I remember what is so miserable about it. It is not the seats. The seats are bad; they are as bad as Amtrack (maybe worse). They leave a terrible crick in your back, and generally, unless you are totally beat already, sleep will be difficult. But the fundamental problem is that as soon as you fall asleep to the rhythmic rocking of the train, it stops. It sits motionless for 15 minutes, then moves 50 feet then sits again. It is like the terrible sensation of being at a traffic light which lasts too long. It is easy to sit for an hour doing nothing. It is hard to sit for 10 minutes waiting for the train to move so you can go back to sleep.

The train stopped at the dock station (30 minute time window) and I walked one block to the titanic Viking cruise ship. I didn’t realize I was taking a full blown cruise. I’ll take a hostel tonight (settled that ten minutes ago). My flight leaves early Wednesday morning. I’ll see how Stockholm is until then. If my return journey somehow included swimming, cycling, and canoeing it would be better. Turku by train, Stockholm by boat, Chicago through some bizarrely complicated flight pattern, and I have a return ticket to Stockholm for September 11th which I do not plan on using. The cheapest flight just happened to require I buy a return journey.

Take The Hidden Paths That Run

Aside

Two days in Oulu were as grey as expected. The first day was not so bad because I had to walk in the rain for a few kilometers with my stuff. The rain felt great, it cooled me down, and made me feel refreshed and alive. But overcast days without rain start to wear on a person, no matter how much one likes a place.

Today I started to feel crummy. Sitting in the arctic town of Rovaniemi and watching the grey river, a faint shimmer of blue was in the distance. “I have to get there.” I walked out of the town up paths paved and unpaved to a large hill. I went up eating blueberries and conversing with them and the pines. The sun finally broke, and I pulled the pistachios out of my pocket and sat on a stump. Troop morale was improving. 26 kilometers and a bit of blue sky does a lot for the mind.

 

No Loyal Friend Was Ever There For Me

There was an echo from my songs.

Between Your Aunts: A Suite

The house was built outside of Kajaani by Joona’s dad and grandpa in ’97. It was light blue, white trim, beautiful wooden interior. A type of duplex, the grandparents lived on one side and Joona’s family on the other. A corridor with a washing machine, main bathroom, and sauna separated the two sections. A traveler had arrived. Joona invited him to extend his stay in the Kainuu region. This was the first time Joona met someone who knew as much about American politics as him.

His grandfather was eager to meet this traveler as well. They greeted each other warmly. First they went back and forth with Basic English greetings, then Finnish. Aarne was surprised that the traveler got barely, but somewhat beyond basic greetings. Joona saw his grandfather continue conversation without pause, and jumped in to translate. And so they sat straight up in their chairs, interrogating calmly and with keen interest. Joona translated.

The traveler had met his grandson the night before over some drinks, and now would stay for a day or so. He had payed his own way to Finland, was not a student, had plans to study but they fell through, knew some languages, was somewhat educated. Aarne was relaxed and was bemused that the traveler had arrived by chance. Then he asked questions about the traveler’s home country. What were his thoughts of the president and other American policies? The grandfather had run a wood manufacturing business in Russia in the 90’s. Chechans and Russians were good workers, but fought when they got drunk. Still. Good workers.

Joona and the traveler sat on the couch and listened to music and read the news. People would arrive in the evening to play Texas Hold ‘Em. They played a brutal round of cards that ended with Joona dominating the group. Grandpa interrupted the game briefly to hash out plans for travelling to the summer cottage. The dealer had to go; Joona fell asleep while the other guests conversed at the table a bit longer. Joona would have to collect his winnings in the morning.

Joona’s parents returned from the summer home.And after coffee and munkki (which is a nice word for jelly doughnut) and rye bread with butter, they prepared to go. Grandpa came into that side of house, grinning, his blue equipment vest and hat on, excited for a day in the countryside. They drove out 40 minutes to the small town of Vuolijoki, population 3,000, Aarne’s hometown.

They passed the local church. They went to visit it. It is impressive how even tiny towns once constructed such beautiful structures. The church was thickly shaped by stones and wood and plasters. In back was a grave site to those who died in the Winter War. The three read quietly reflected, read the names, and ages at which young guys died. When they came to the Civil War memorial, Grandpa looked at the traveler and said, “We did the same once, the same that Ukraine is doing now. Man is a beast.”

They drove a few seconds more and came to the cemetery. Aarne showed them the spots of his parents and two siblings who died young. That section of the cemetery was not as well kept as the other sections. This was noted. The calm air rustled the trees and swept small white mountains around the face of the sun.

The group arrived at a location near the lake with oddly place houses and patios, and statues. The statues were made by Aarne’s friend who passed away. A giant brown statue of President Urho Kekkonen stood 20 feet tall. Mozart, Verdi, Sibelius, and the sculptor were depicted as beautiful white busts. Aarne was in the process of cleaning them up and preparing his departed friend’s work for exhibition.

—–

After removing their shoes they entered cottage. It smelt of aged wood and relaxation, the type of symphonic odor that children find strange for its restfulness, but older people find comforting for its vivaciousness. Country side homes that have accommodated a generation or two all possess this homegrown smell. When they entered the kitchen, Aarne’s brother Hannu was stirring a stove pot filled with blueberries. He was making jam, and behind him was 10 or so mason jars that he had already completed. The scent was subtle, yet sweet.

While they sat and chatted, Kaarina came in. Her smile was broad as the brim of her hat. Her hands were uplifted and she shouted, “Hyvää Paivää, Tervetuloa, Welcome, A wonderful day! I was just picking more blueberries in the garden.” Her eyes were blue and warm. She shot the traveler a hand and sat down, ready to hear the news and happenings. She had lived in Sweden for 20 years doing banking of some sort, but now lived in Helsinki. And here she was now, enjoying the end days of her vacation. The traveler was heartened to see the glee of such a fine person, and though still in his youth, envied her energy. And he remembered George MacDonald, “Old age means strength and beauty and mirth and courage and clear eyes.”

Joona and the traveler left the others and went out to drive to some choice locations: a riverside where horses still drank and Joona used to fish. A country museum of old buildings from the region’s past. A dock where a boat was once stolen. A sharp bend in the road where a winter crash caused a terrible death. A regular grocery store, but the traveler had never stepped into this particular candy aisle before.

—–

The most important of the stops was to Joona’s aunts’ house. Aunt Paula was staying her vacation from Helsinki with Aunt Sirpa. When Joona and the traveler pulled up the two of them were sitting on the porch rocking back and forth. At their feet were two five-gallon jugs of blueberries. “We picked those; you can eat some,” they said. Conversation coursed through current affairs in each person’s life. The aunts invited the boys inside. They asked the traveler to show them his home city on the map; they talked about his home politics and war. Then they talked more about Finnish. Easy parts of conversation switched languages back and forth depending on how much the traveler could grasp. Joona translated for the traveler and for Aunt Sirpa. Discussion turned to Aunt Paula’s many excellent travels past and future.

They retreated from the living room to the dining room for coffee, a slice of blueberry pie, and a little scoop of ice cream. The traveler sat between the aunts who started to imitate the Savo dialect of Finnish. They contorted their faces and sounded like yokels. As they laughed the traveler thought about how the aunts may have been in their youth, when they live and act as happy youth even now, now in their summer vacation.

The savory blueberry pie broke apart in the mouth, the berries danced on the taste buds, and the ice cream turned around and around with the coffee in a harmonious Yin and Yang.

—–

The two young men returned to the cottage and threw an American football for a while. They ran routes, became tired, and the traveler kicked back in a hammock while Joona played basketball. Dinner time came. And a beautiful spread it was. Pea soup, salad, and ruisleipää. Desert would be pancake from the oven, topped with blueberry jam and mallow.

As the five of them ate desert, they watched the European summer sport championships. A Finnish girl, a favorite going in to the race, did not win a medal. She was very broken up. “Sorry Finland,” she said. But Finland came back with glory in the javelin throws. They dominated the competition, taking first, second, and fourth place. For a minute it looked like Finland would win all three medals, and so when they won just the two, disappointment lingered in the air momentarily. The first place winner sensed the situation and pumped his fists, reminding everyone that it was still a big and most excellent victory.

Aarne wanted to know if the traveler knew any good jokes. Unfortunately story jokes were not the traveler’s strength. He only came up with two jokes. However, grandpa brought out a few jokes he learned in Russia. The guys then prepared for sauna. They equipped their feet with crocks and walked toward the lakeside. They placed sausages in a pan over the hot sauna rocks and added a little more wood to the stove. They sat in the heat and grandpa then told more jokes. These ones were Finnish jokes about Russians. Funny, lewd, and short, they were hilarious.

They went out into the cool lake water. It was formerly the third largest lake in Finland, but it shrank. The sky was bursting with clouds of different sorts, struck by the lingering sun from a thousand different angles; light split into a thousand different shades. Knee deep in the cool water the traveler stood looking out. Then he turned, took the soap and shampoo from Hannu and cleaned himself. And thus he took the most peaceful bath in the world before returning to the sauna.

Everyone is Watching – Name the States

I say I am from St. Louis. The first response is, “Oh the Blues! Great hockey team!” It is great that St. Louis has some connection to Finland and my hometown evokes some immediate response and not just a question mark. St. Louis also has The Arch, designed by Finnish architect Eero Saarinen. St. Louisians really do not know that fact any more than Finns.

In day-to-day exchanges I want to practice Finnish, and cashiers want to check my I.D. to discover where I come from. Then they take pride in telling me my change amounts in English and “Have a nice day” with a smile which they would never make otherwise. But you can not be mad at someone for being happy to see you.

I enjoy my serious conversations in English, but in those conversations I do not have the luxury of just representing me (whoever that is). I also am an American, a mythical creature hanging around small town Finland. Drinking together in a group, serious questions get raised. And learning that I am from St. Louis suddenly a few people ask, “What do you think about Ferguson? How far is it from where you live?” Suddenly, I represent. Everyday I represent St. Louis, since this question now gets asked every day. Why are our police militarized? Why do we not have gun-free zones? Why do we make it look like a military operation?

My opinion has power to sway, to color, and to direct opinion, whether I like it or not. There is terror in being looked to for insight. Suddenly, on my voice hinges power, and power cannot always be rejected. Suddenly, my opinion on The Second Gulf War is of consequence, the death of countless civilians, the misery of refugees is in my voice. People want to know what I think of current day Iraq, Syria, G.W. Bush and Obama, Russia and NATO, Israel, ice hockey, alcohol laws, income tax-policies, the main-stream media, Jon Stewart, The Colbert Report, Christianity, religion, fundamentalism, secularism, the two-party system, and why is it that Americans like baseball.

I have some response to some of these questions, but I am mostly an idiot. I don’t know anything about Islam and fundamentalism, the principles of jihad, the four schools of jurisprudence, the critiques of different sects and their individual histories, the genesis of grudges held between them, and the history of American involvement and its effect on the Middle East. Hell, most of how I understand these problems is through Plato, Dune, Henry V, the histories of the Athenians and Romans, and my own limited experience. I take the few things I have found to be true and try to understand how they apply or don’t apply to each situation while I look for better information.

On the other hand, I know and others know I am just one person. My opinions and ideas do not represent more than one voice among a plethora of voices. So we continue to drink together and make merry. There was a rumor in Turku that the U.S. had 52 states. So I asked these guys with heavy accents in Kajaani how many states there are:

Fifty! They shout. Fifty states for sure!
Let’s count them!
Virginia, California, Missouri, New York, Puerto Rico, Indonesia! Iraq!
The Detroit Redwings, North Dakota, South Dakota, Mexico, New Mexico, Old Mexico.
How many Mexicos are there?
I think there are seven.
Seven! Yeah, there are seven Mexicos.
Yet people hate Mexicans.
It’s because they are from Middle Mexico!
That’s so stupid! Why hate Mexicans from a different Mexico?
Well then there’s Philadelphia, Oregon, the one under Oregon…
California!
No, not California, San Diego!
That’s right, that right. Then Los Angelos.
Texas, Detroit, China, Massachusetts, Miami, Chicago
Toronto? Nah, ah-ah! Gotcha, Toronto is in Kaaanada!

Neither Libraries, Nor Pictures

One day I’ll finish the post about Kuopio’s library, but not yet. One day I’ll post my favorite pictures of Kuopio. Today I am in Kajaani, a town 2.5 hrs north of Kuopio. It is smaller than any town yet. From the balcony of my new host, Samu, I can see an art deco clocktower on the other side of the river. It reminds me of the States. The architectural battles here are waged between traditional wooden structures whose beauty is unquestionable and the terrors of the 70’s and 80’s during which time they replaced the expressive architecture from the beginning of the century with functionalist messes. Contemporary constructions seems to have found an acceptable niche of good style within the modernist trend. But I do not know enough about architecture to speak more precisely about what this entails (besides wonderfully large windows!).

In any case, my days with Teemu were filled with Jazz, both of his compositions and excellent stuff he showed me. I took a bus to Kajaani yesterday; it is all part of my effort to trek north. I’ll be here one more day, then cross the country to Oulu.

Samu is a freelance photographer. Today he showed me bakery Pekka Heikkinen, the best in Finland. It has been owned and run by the family of the Heikkinen name for over 100 years. As we walked up to it, a baker was sitting outside. He popped up, asked if we wanted coffee and instead of asking generally if we wanted anything else, he said to me directly, “Do you want a fish sandwich too?” Salmon, cold smoked for five days with fresh sea salt, tomato, lettuce, and a little relish. The salmon was caught by a friend of his, the bread was made by him. Pictures of the family history lined the walls, and crisp sunlight poured on us as we sat in the summertime outdoor seating. Summer however is about over here. The air smells autumnal.

Candy and Cream

Teemu anchors me now. He is a young jazz musician and composer who just finished his studies at the Helsinki conservatory. He just started taxi driving this week to pay his bills. He suggested immediately that we drop my stuff off and go swimming. His apartment is situated near the harbor. Like most apartment complexes there are a few benches and a firepit outside. The apartment has a kitchen and bathroom that are shared between the two electronically locked bedrooms. One room is his roommate’s whom he has not seen in a month or so. The other is his. He warned me that if I leave the bedroom and shut the door behind me without the key, there will be no way to get back in. Everything required the swipe key. If I didn’t keep it with me at all times, I could lock myself into a bad situation. But the accommodation was great. I had a desk.

His girlfriend Valpuri picked us up and we went to a remote beach outside of town. On our way in the car, her dad chanced to pull up next to us at an intersection. He was on a motorcycle, sported a short grey beard, and exchanged some quick words and a snorted laugh before speeding off. “My dad is like the bohemian of the family; and my mom is the academic. I’m surprised they are together,” Valpuri said. I enjoyed the thought of her mom’s mind finding respite in a bit of an eccentric, who collects instruments without playing them and sets them around the living room like art pieces against his wife’s wishes. Teemu bewailed that her dad never let anyone else talk in conversation. But his barley beer gut and story-telling persona I later found to be good companions in the sauna.

We relived childhood pool games, holding our breaths and skipping stones and such. The water was warm when in it, but out of it there is only one choice: dry off quickly. We drove back to the city and went to Sampo Muikkuravintola for traditional Savo food. I ate muikkut, which are little white fishes from the nearby lakes, served with potatoes, cucumber, tomatoes, and catsup. We sat and talked. I gave an introduction to Plato’s Apology. Teemu told about his musical work. Valpuri presented some interesting facts about the region and the local dialect. For example, in this region people add syllables instead of taking them away. That type of development adds character, flavor, and sometimes even meaning. The slang and faster style of Helsinki she finds monumentally boring.

Later we entered the forest, found some blueberries. At first there was brush and trees of different types. The air was fair and open as the trees turned to tall spruces. Then our path ran into a deep line of heavy pine trees. The density of the pine forest and smell was Grimm, but we came out upon one of the thousand, thousand wind shelters that pepper the forests of the northland. They overlook good spots, have a firepit, and sometimes split wood left by the previous people out of courtesy. We sat quietly.

Everything becomes different

A day later when Teemu was out at work. Valpuri suggested that I become more sophisticated and learn about Finnish candy and chocolate. “You can tell a lot about a people by their candy.” I agreed on the condition that we give fun reviews to each piece. With candy and a coffee we sat out. I gave reviews, “This is one is like a young pony. Like licorice that wants to grow up to be caramel. This one was born an old lady – the Benjamin Button of candy. Here, a mint in metamorphosis.” The Karl Fazer Raspberry Yoghurt with Milk Chocolate reigned Lord of Tasty Town. Very rich, something to take one bite of every 15 minutes. I ate more candy, than I had in many years. I don’t know what I learned about Finland through candy. All my analogies involve age, so it follows that Finland is young and energetic, and has the fear of growing old, or becoming something hän (gender inclusive) is not, or not liking who hän is; namely, all the feelings of potential and anxiety that we feel when young, energetic, and slightly cynical are found in their candy. Or is it as simple as saying that licorice is popular?

The next day Teemu had to teach me about ice cream. He demanded, quite against my inclinations, that I try licorice ice cream. I expressed concern that no one on earth truly likes licorice. They like that it is a different flavor; they come to prefer it or crave it because of its uniqueness on the palette, but they deceive themselves to say they actually like it.

Aino Double Cream Licorice Ice Cream makes most other ice cream look like freezer burned sherbet. A type of soft licorice is blended into the thick fatty ice cream. It is really something else. It transcends all expectations and has altered my ice cream outlook permanently.