These people — no roof over their heads, a few possessions in plastic bags — would rather avoid the eyes of those around them. Of course it is anything but pleasant, when you happen to be homeless, to be seen as a loser, a has-been, someone pushed to the edge.

In Vancouver, the situation for these people shifted a little during the 2026 World Cup. They now wear official World Cup vests and carry recyclables. Suddenly their daily survival ritual has acquired something like dignity — and a pay stub.

During the World Cup, at least.

Is this not THE great Canadian dream, the dishwasher-to-millionaire story? Financially speaking: no. But looking at it another way, what has changed for these people is this: they and their work are now recognised and valued. Alongside their official World Cup vest, they also wear name badges. And this, even though they are doing exactly what they did yesterday. And will almost certainly do again tomorrow, after the 2026 World Cup ends.

A man in a colourful KIWI costume approached a waste bin, ready to toss his beer can in.

“Don’t throw it in there, sir,” said Daikole Frazier, smiling. “I’m a professional.”

FIFA expects the 2026 World Cup to generate roughly 13 billion dollars in revenue. Every hotdog stand owner who sold a single sausage will be sending a share of the profit to Zurich. The deposit bottles, meanwhile, get tossed aside without a second thought. Picking them up and claiming the deposit is the usual business model of the bottle collectors — those mostly invisible presences who keep the recycling cycle turning. Today, in Vancouver, they are visible. And they might even hear a warm “Thank you for your hard work.” called their way. A sentence that short can hand someone on the margins a membership card back into society.

Tomorrow, probably not.

They are not only collecting bottles. They are collecting social experiences. Some are warm and generous. Some are dismissive or unkind. But what stings the bottle collectors even more is when they are simply invisible to the people around them. That hurts.

Whoever wrote the script for the tragicomedy that is American Government 2025: well done. Every soap opera looks on with envious green eyes at the scenes and plot twists that have left an entire world standing in stunned disbelief. This slimy brew in front of Lincoln’s monument is precisely the image that says more than a thousand words.

First, the maintenance staff for the Reflection Pool were let go. And since the cutting knife was already out — the pool’s budget was removed from the books as well. And with that, responsibility for the disaster dead-ends in a cul-de-sac.

The story of the green reflection reads like a prank pulled by a village of prize fools.

“The pool needs more presidential reflection!” was probably the line that sent the pool sliding into the greenish. And so the current President of the United Painters of America decided the pool needed a fresh coat, to look more American for the country’s 250th birthday. The President announced the renovation in April — he wanted to fix leaks and repaint the pool floor in “American flag blue.” He had previously called the basin “absolutely filthy” and promised to make it “beautiful” in time for the 250th anniversary of independence on July 4th, 2026.

The contract went to the Virginia firm Atlantic Industrial through a no-bid arrangement, with costs reportedly climbing to around $14.7 million, according to unconfirmed sources. The bill is being covered by the Recreation Enhancement Fee Program, which is funded by park entrance fees.

Something about the paint used appears to have been an absolute feast for the algae community. They promptly organised a family reunion — spread out across the full length of the pool.

The new blue paint began peeling away from the floor. Visitors filmed algae and flaking paint. The Department of the Interior had the inspired idea and the less-than-inspired solution: dump hydrogen peroxide into the water to kill off the algae.

The world watched, marvelled, and laughed when the green debacle became visible. Only the currently hard-pressed American citizens probably laughed rather quietly — or ground their teeth at the same time, teeth that would quite like to get proper food between them again.

America, the land of unlimited praiseabilities, once was. When something decides to take on an unwanted colour — green, for instance — it takes an orange head to sort out such a blunder. That much the theory still covers.

But one thing is — as always with the current President — reliable: the finger points at one or several culprits. A sabotage plot? A green act of terror? Algae vandals in sandals? The list stretches the entire length of the former Reflection Pool.

If the Capitol and all its surroundings can no longer reflect in clear blue-white water, perhaps reflecting on one’s own actions and omissions might be an idea?

Just a thought.

^{Photo by G. Edward Johnson}

Hope is, by nature, rather sluggish about the whole thing — spending the entire day doing nothing but waiting for something, hoping it will happen. Is that applied fatalism, or simply laziness, this little arrangement Hope has made for herself?

Right, now Curiosity is wide awake and wants to know more about this phenomenon called Hope. So then, dear Curiosity — kit up. Time to do some digging.

Oh, this is already going well. What the average person and their average mind understands by hoping is that something is expected in the future. Usually something good, at that. And right there begins the disastrous — read: rather negative — business that goes by the name of Hope. He waits.

A portion of Homo Sapiens — “he” again, naturally — waits for the future to serve up exactly those expectations, to satisfy them, to be good. No, my friend, that’s not how this runs smoothly, if that’s how you’re treating Hope. Because Hope wants more than merely to keep you content. Anyone could come along — him or her — and start making demands. On the one hand, Hope puts you in a good mood. Fair enough, that’s a decent design. On the other hand, Hope is, at its core, completely unreliable. It plants itself there and nudges people into a minimal state of happiness, but that’s just a smoke-and-mirrors act. Because Hope fizzles out, vanishes from your life, whenever it hasn’t fulfilled its never-spoken, never-written expectations.

Right, that’s enough tearing Hope down. Bit rich, that. Because Hope is a tool — a piece of equipment, like a hammer, a saw, or a screwdriver. In the figurative sense, yes, of course. But a tool is only as good as the person using it knows how. You follow? Hold the hammer — or the chainsaw — the wrong way round, and you’ll know exactly what’s meant by that. Hope, as an instrument of the mind and its condition, is a tool of an exceptional class. Because it has class. Provided you don’t hold it the wrong way round.

Hope and those who carry it are doers. Not wanderers lugging uncertainty around. When Hope sets out to move something inside human minds, that is activism in practice. Because Hope puts into motion certain thoughts that weren’t visible before — not even faintly, not even through the fog. When Hope laces up its shoes, pay attention. It gets to work laying out the pros and cons, the possible and the impossible, on the table. Then comes what you might call the big spread — often containing more than enough chaos. But now things are on the table that Hope can actually work with. As a preparer, nothing more. It sorts out the things that are guaranteed never to happen. Lovely barbecue weather, world peace, or love with a warranty card, for instance.

Or so Hope suspects, at any rate. But then that same Hope flips the switch to “active.” That’s when things get dicey — and hopeful. Because the human mind has not yet been abandoned by all of them, and is only waiting for a sign. Or several, while we’re at it.

Yes, there’s still hope. And what does it look like?

I am still entirely full of hope, and I will gladly carry it around — actively — for the rest of my life. Nudging it and giving it the odd pat so it stays active. And keeps staying that way. Because Hope knows one thing for certain: if Hope always relies on a single carrier, things get tight when the last carrier dies. It stands — or sits — alone on open ground. And what does it do then? It dies.

So then: can we afford Hope?
Absolutely — and we keep the old girl in active mode at all times.
Hope likes that.
So do I.

A case for Stubb.

But there’s more. A different story altogether, and this one involves Finland. The lead character’s name isn’t Wilfried Stubbe — it’s Alexander Stubb. A real Finn, looking after a much larger crime scene: the EU, the European Union, is the case of all cases. A self-declared EU nerd, as he has explained more than once. The man has many talents. He speaks several languages, is extraordinarily clear in how he expresses himself, always comes across as warm in his appearances, and he knows his way around social media. His biggest case is called Europe, and it is very much alive. Stubb investigates the case of Europe and its members, and he trusts his strategic gut.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely...”

Alexander Stubb has many dreams, and one of them is very large indeed. Stubb wants to expand the EU to 40 member states. My goodness. He has his eye particularly on Canada, making it clear that he’d rather see the number 28 there than 51. The 28th EU member? Well, Prime Minister Mark Carney didn’t exactly jump for joy at the idea and declined a full Canadian membership in the EU. Carney is more of a trade-agreement man, and so far he’s doing that job admirably. But how long can you ignore the fact that 57% of Canadians can perfectly well imagine their country as the 28th member of the EU?

Transferred?

Usually, being transferred isn’t exactly cause for celebration. A transfer feels more like a punishment than a promotion. But there are exceptions. Good old Wilfried Stubbe was transferred from Dresden to Hamburg. I transferred myself from Basel to Newmarket and along the way stumbled over my own quietly fond feelings for Canada. And Alexander Stubb, the Finn, would like to transfer Canada to Europe. Canada does already share a border of sorts with Norway — Hans Island. Even so, the question remains: where does Canada actually belong?

The missing “E”

Nomen est omen may well hold true for Latin scholars. And perhaps for Stubb or Stubbe too. Detective Stubbe set off my little memory bells and in doing so brought the Finn Alexander Stubb — the one without the E — into play. Where did that missing E go, exactly? Could that one E stand for the idea of Europe? Does Stubb the Finn see the idea as a roadmap or as a trial balloon? Well, the man and politician Stubb “suffers” from realistic optimism. People over-rationalise the past, over-dramatise the present, and underestimate the future. Did Stubb say that? No idea, but he’s quite the sort of person who could have come out with a line like that.

Case file: EU — unsolved.

Last year ZDF (Zweites Deutsches Fernsehen) sent Detective Stubbe into retirement. But a Stubbe doesn’t let cases rest. And so Stubb — without his E — has stepped into the glaring light of the political arena in Europe. Alexander Stubb will certainly give us plenty more to talk about. A missing E is no shortcoming. It’s a plus — for Europe.

“Between the 28th and the 51st position lie an ocean and a worldview.”

What’s truly fascinating is that almost no one questions this phrasing. “Come again? Were you not being honest up until now?” would be exactly that kind of pushback. Honestly speaking. Mind you, rhetorical filler phrases are like the side dishes no one really notices or takes literally. They’re simply there to… well, what do these words actually mean in the text? Nothing. They just want to filler about.

Back when I was spending more time — far too much time — wading through social media, I kept noticing sentences and fragments that made me stop short. As someone stopped short, I’d read or hear things like “99% of people don’t know this…” Hold on. 99% of people? Which people, and how many people are we actually talking about in real numbers? And then comes the sledgehammer claim: “They don’t want you to know…” Excuse me — who exactly is “they”?

Even better are the so-called cliffhangers like “You won’t believe what happened next.” They throw the door of curiosity wide open. But more than that, they call into question my previously private beliefs. How would they know whether — or what — I believe? Well then.

Oh, such guesses can be topped. When I read “Number 7 will shock you” I get rather suspicious. Why that particular number, and just how large will the shock be?

Genuinely shocked I was at this one: “Only smart people will get this.” You’re probably wondering whether I kept reading anyway. The risk being, of course, that I might genuinely not understand what it’s all about. Spoiler: No!

“How I made $5,000 while sleeping” made me perk up. Which sleep, exactly, and more to the point — how many different sleeping partners does it take to earn me $5,000?

Yes, these rhetorical tricks make money. Not for you or me, but for the ones making the claims. Some of these examples are true classics, long since exposed for what they are. And yet they still work. Are we Homo Sapienses so incapable of seeing through these tactical sentences?

Yes and no. The modern brain — the informed, educated brain — understands the hooks and catches in these sentences. But sitting inside that same skull is the Stone Age brain, running the same firmware as always, and it is… CURIOUS. The moment a knowledge gap opens up — Number 7 will shock you — something starts to itch in the flint-brain. And a generous helping of dopamine shows up, expecting a solution. No, it’s not the resolution that’s the kick — it’s the anticipation of it. Or so the psychologists tell us. Because back in the Stone Age, a gap in one’s knowledge was usually connected to the sabre-tooth tiger’s meal plan. And that meant danger to life and limb. Especially in the Stone Age. But that’s not the only trick for seducing you into the next click. When “99% of people don’t know this…” appears, we suddenly aren’t members of the exclusive club of those in the know. And the Stone Age brain simply cannot let that stand.

The truly tragic thing about this behaviour of ours in the modern age: our brain prefers the easier path — and happily invites you to click.

Saving energy in the process. The head becomes an energy-saving bulb.

Even though most of us (99% — remember?) know perfectly well about these tricks, we’re still not immune.

Not to worry — this is no new invention from the internet. It lives in our brain, and it will likely winter there for quite some time.

If I’m being honest: we learn from history — perhaps — but not from our behaviour.

“Only smart people will get this.”

I love words.

My life here in Canada is shaped, for the most part, by English words — or, better put, by Canadian words. The upshot: my Canadian life has acquired yet another word-pit to dig around in. Well, it is a daily ritual, fetching new words into my portfolio, my repertoire, and better still, my vocabulary. No, I do not fish every new word out of the lake and shelve it in my archive. That would do precious little for my powers of expression. Each day I fish out one word, memorise it as best I can, and tuck in the little slip of paper with its meaning. That is the one aid for putting the English language to better practical use. With some words, the trouble comes in the applying — the acoustic kind. Those with an interest in languages will know this well enough. I see the word, I know — more or less — how the word is blown out into the world phonetically. But then the tongue-stroke arrives and wants to play. Always to the detriment of the word sounding anything like it should.

One stumbling-word has been following me for decades: literally. Naturally I love this word, because it means — well — literally. And yes: in the title I have falsified the word and written it with two T’s. Why? Because I want to use this word not literally, but with layered meaning, for my morning story.

Litter means “Müll” or “Abfall” in German — and is not a unit of measure for liquids. And yes, there is, as every morning, a trigger for this altered word “litterally.” The culprits are the Japanese football fans.

By the thousands they have travelled to the United States, to Mexico, or to Canada, to watch their football team win. They spend a great deal of money on flights, hotel rooms, restaurants, and the match itself. Yes, millions of other football fans do the same. The Japanese fans tick just a little differently. After the match — after every match — the people from the Land of the Smile take out their blue plastic bags and begin freeing the rows of seats, the floor, from rubbish and grime. A liberation struggle of cultures. I watched video clips of people in their fan gear walking through the rows of seats, collecting every piece of rubbish by hand into the bags. Yes, in ALL the rows of seats in the entire stadium. When these fans leave the stadium, the paid staff of the stadium operation rub their eyes. Everything spotless and clean, as though not thousands of people had ever been there at all.

Such behaviour from Japan’s residents has already drawn attention at earlier championships.

The explanation is pleasingly straightforward: children learn — actually learn — in school what respect and cleanliness mean. And how important that is for a culture and for people living together. The motto of those learning is and remains: “We leave the place as we found it.” Litterally. Word for word.

For the Japanese people this is no special act, no extraordinary behaviour. They have this motto in their blood, or drawn in with their mother’s milk.

Unbelievable, if this idea of respect were to spread everywhere in the world.

Sensible, or sensuous?

If something makes sense — at least at the start of a thought — can that first version tip over into the sensuous? And only because the strength of the original thought begins to fade? In German, the suffix ‘-lich’ is used precisely to preserve a small dose of niceness even within a critique. But then how powerfully do words land when that ‘-lich’ is tacked on? Is “roundish” strong enough for those carrying extra weight? Can “officious” still be taken seriously? Or is the word merely superficial?

Hold on, there are still words in the ‘-ly’ camp that strut their strength quite openly. Apparently language transfers some nouns into adjectives without ceremony, dressing them up with that suffix. Quite literally. So from “martial law” comes — well — “martial.” The user-friend becomes user-friendly. Suffering becomes sufferable, ailments make one ailing, and the poor become impoverished. Oha — so by the same logic, the rich become richly? Or merely richly sensuous? In any case, there are continuously and richly more billionaires than ever before.

Sensible or sensuous still stands in the room. The public one. Does “from sense comes sensuous” follow the same logic? Does that really make sense? In actual language use, the word “sensuous” carries a rather different explanation — one that doesn’t name “sense” as its parent at all. The erotic plays the leading role in the sensuous, which makes considerable sense for a life lived with love and pleasure.

When attractiveness makes itself known visually and is taken in through the senses, then things simply become sensuous. Now the sensuous finally makes sense, and it tingles a little. Sensuous pleasure carries no expiry date. For who doesn’t treat themselves to a little contemplative stillness here and there? Some go one or two steps further and devote themselves more closely to the supersensory. That excursion can easily lead into nonsensical paths — but at least the eroticism of travel remains intact.

Whether sense or sensuous — the pleasure is always mine.

Oh, yes. Yes indeed.

And no, I don’t think a stroll into leisure is the devil’s resting bench, or that sweet idleness encourages any particular vices. The myth of hard, intense, ever-accelerating work still rattles around in people’s heads, stubbornly present. Those who don’t work make themselves suspicious. Or at the very least contemptible — because the idle one damages the economy and dissolves society with the sweetness of doing nothing.

Idleness has a sister, and she sounds sweet and melodious: dolce far niente. The sweet doing-of-nothing, with Latin roots. Of course, for society’s sake, work must be taken on and done. But this isn’t about “what if everyone became idle.” They won’t. People don’t work solely — or not only — out of compulsion, to feed the family or at least themselves, pay rent, take out insurance, and perhaps go on holiday. Work gives Homo sapiens a certain structure to the day, and hopefully the satisfying insight: “What I do makes sense.”

Those who become idle do so voluntarily — they’ve made a conscious choice. These voluntary downshifters know full well that working less, or not at all, comes with consequences. Money flows less freely, or stops altogether. Prosperity is no longer guaranteed. And daily necessities are no longer a given.

The voluntary choosing of the idle life must have nudged someone, lying in thought on a flowery meadow in the shade of a tree, to say something out loud. This specimen of the human species remarked — laconically or enthusiastically — “Less is more.”

I beg your pardon? If I have or receive less, then exactly what increases? Well, looking more closely at this strange and physically unverified short sentence, many questions surface. How is that supposed to work?

Off the top of one’s head, the rule — if it is one — holds up logically for some things. Whoever is less annoyed gets more out of life. Whoever eats less is slimmer. But I don’t think that’s what the original sentence had in mind, fully thought through. Or was it?

Naturally the statement points towards a driven society, chased through the day by work. Or perhaps it was a shout of protest aimed at those considerably higher up — the extremely wealthy. Well then, let’s have a look at what this “more” might mean, when there’s less of the material.

The word “idleness” carries within it the word “idle” — which has nothing to do with idle hands making mischief. Installing idleness to experience one’s existence more intensely — that really is something. Downshifting on the highway and taking the exit towards Leisureville — a gentle joy rises up. “I don’t have to anymore. I’ve got time.”

Is this then a life in the hammock — hanging about in parks and coffee shops? The meditative Monday morning being, while all around people rush into offices?

Hmm. If this is supposed to be the devil’s resting bench, I’ll gladly take a seat. And come back to myself, because the pace of life adjusts to a resting pulse. The brain breathes out with relief and allows itself a few loose, boundary-crossing thoughts. The idlers in the stream of thought are the beginning of all — yes — the creative.

Visions and images without a past are shy when hurried. They surface from underground when they can move freely, when no scissors and no barriers block their path.

And this same idleness is supposed to have something to do with laziness? I think, therefore I disagree. The wonderful lightness of moving slowly is tempting.

Conclusion: Rushing through life and against other life has no place here.

The same could apply to him, of course. People concern themselves with elements — scientists, mostly — and many of them find themselves inhabiting one as well.

It doesn’t really matter which element certain people naturally splash about in. That includes those individuals who feel perfectly at home with and around numbers. Numbers, formulae, and the application thereof — that’s their natural habitat. They have a talent for numbers.

Others are eloquent, rhetorically gifted beyond the ordinary. They move through their element of language. They are language talents.

The particularly maddening ones are the multi-instrumentalists. They see an instrument, pick it up, put it to their lips, and master the thing on the spot. Those enormous musical talents.

Are these extraordinary people, simply because they know their way around certain things and happen to be exceptionally good at them? No. Not necessarily. They have simply found their element and feel at home there.

Others may never stumble across an element at all — a talent, that is, that suits them. One that might be living inside them. The discovery of possibilities that run in their blood, that fills them with enthusiasm, that makes time disappear, and that takes them entirely captive. Probably one of the very few genuinely attractive forms of captivity, I’d say.

For those who have claimed their element, I hold a particular admiration. They live their talent, and in all likelihood they have no idea how fulfilling their life has become as a result. For them, being talented is not a conscious realisation — they simply are. Their element is now music, painting, the social, rhetoric, politics, science, or parenthood. There is probably no better environment than the fitting, fulfilling element within one’s own existence.

When I look at the world of elements — setting aside water, air, fire, and earth — I see a vast sea, an ocean of talents I don’t have and never will. Does that sadden me, or make me envious? No, quite the opposite. I am overwhelmed by people — and other animals — who spend day after day doing things that fill them up. Their curiosity is constantly sparked, driving them to push their talent even further. The ambition to reach one’s own limits and then cross them — happiness guaranteed, all-inclusive.

May I briefly bring something personal to the table? My element is writing. Yes, reading comes with it, but the passion lies in the stories I write myself. My wide-eyed boyhood dream was already plainly visible in my first year of school: a Hermes typewriter, thousands of empty white pages, a desk beneath a weeping willow, a view of the lake or the sea, and the sound of hammering away at the keys for hours on end. I wanted to become a writer. I wanted to write books — no, I wanted to write better books than those of my favourite authors. That was my element. Though I didn’t know it then. And I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, so I told my living dream to anyone and everyone who wanted to hear it. Which was practically no one. What came pouring in instead, abundantly, were opinions about the writing life and its utter hopelessness. The people around me knew far more, and knew it with great certainty — they knew exactly what would never work about my deeply held, sacred dream.

Oh shit.

Naturally, I quietly buried the dream — the one where I’d someday experience my own book launch, sign my twenty-fifth novel, and recover from the sweat of my brow.

That was frustrating. To abandon a future vision of one’s own self.

But that was only ever the practical, visionary angle of what my element had to offer. Because I never stopped writing stories. Why would I? Who willingly gives up things that bring joy, that fill you up, that satisfy you, that challenge you.

That holds true today just as it did back in primary school.

I don’t write because I have to.

I write because I live.

And I write in order to think.

Both things I would be reluctant to give up.

My element and I are more than agreed on that.

Surprisingly, conversations are the opposite. I’ve always loved the phrase “We had a fertilising conversation.” How marvellous is that — when something gets fertilised through nothing but talking and listening. A thought, a realisation, or a vision can become a real project.

I’m a declared enthusiast of human brains and their capacities. One or two glances at the rather short history since the invention of the human being sends me into deep wonder. Not every day, but again and again there’s that fizz in stomach and back of the mind when I discover things that have been brought to light — through human ingenuity — in art, science, and the world at large. When seemingly impossible ideas, wild fancies, and visions give rise to new ways of thinking and living, to new forms of human society.

The creativity of Homo Sapiens seems to be immeasurable.

One of these discoveries and real inventions is artificial intelligence, known by its initials AI. The idea has been rattling around in bright minds for nearly a century. So have the horror stories and the waves of enthusiasm about what AI might be equipped to do. Now, today, AI hasn’t just gained traction among the general public — it’s already showing that some of the darker stories about its effects are even darker than they seemed. It always makes me a little uneasy when super-wealthy tech magnates snap up every company that has even a distant whiff of AI in its portfolio. When a concentration of intelligence — above all the artificial kind — ends up in one or a handful of companies, what doors does that open for those entrepreneurs? Will AI’s capacities be used for the good of humanity, or for the good of a few?

I don’t know, let me briefly ask the AI.

I’ve been experimenting with AI myself for a while now. On one hand, I’m chronically curious what this thing called AI actually has going for it. What’s fizzing is the question of what using artificial intelligence does to my natural intelligence. Is my capacity for thought — I’ll assume it’s mostly present — lifted by AI, or does it get paralysed? Do I come up with new ideas when I tickle the AI and share more complex thoughts with it? Or does my intelligence simply drop into a chesterfield and wait to see what the artificial sibling is prepared to deliver.

My mistrust of AI never quite managed to take root. Either I was biased from the start, or I’ve since been lulled. The idea of someone doing my thinking for me was never really to my taste. Except on the occasions when my thinking took itself off to a hammock. I told the AI what I wanted to know and waited like a mouse before a snake for what would happen next.

Line by line, sentences were plastered onto the screen at a furious pace. Without pause. Without a thought between them.

And that one English word made a little room for itself in my mind: Overwhelmed.

That’s not how this works. That’s not what I want. And that’s not what I like.

My brain was not invented by evolution for the comfortable side of life. The brain is electric — and electrifying — because it is one of the most industrious production facilities there is. Human intelligence has a fascinating and extraordinary advantage: it is not linear, it is chaotic, and it connects. Sometimes, when I think very quietly, I can hear the soft click when two previously unknown threads of thought find each other. When I saw words apart into their components and suddenly see further meanings on the dissecting table. Then it’s not only my synapses trembling with joy.

My respect goes to that naturally functioning cauliflower in the heads of all people. What I admire most is the subconscious — the thinking that happens underground. There, in the locked archive of all thoughts, images, impressions, and experiences, things are jumping. Whoever tries in vain to remember a word or a story will probably give up, somewhat frustrated. That frustration is my daily companion. I step into the shower or go for a walk — ping — and there it is in the inbox.

But back to Artificial Intelligence. It’s hardly something you can think away, since it belongs to the daily life of most people with internet access. And that is probably my realisation from using AI: it encourages the thinking-away, because it thinks for me. How paralysing is that for my innate and learned intelligence, when AI takes everything off my hands? Well, I go from being a former producer of thoughts, visions, and above all projects to becoming a consumer, a receiver of AI results.

Well, thanks very much. I didn’t order these sorcerer’s apprentices.

Nowadays I learn less from AI, but I instruct and regulate it, as best I can. Because learning is, after all, the fundamental element of artificial intelligence — it has no natural imagination of its own. My artificial helpers get precise instructions about what they may do and what they may not.

So far this works fairly well. I think, at least. For instance, the holy grail: I write the stories with my artificial intelligence. Full stop. The little helpers take care of the grammar and the Canadian English translation. Full stop. Another rule for the artificial one: don’t supply information that isn’t backed by sources to at least ninety-five percent. Oh yes, and I don’t want to read compliments or flattery from the AI. That, too, it should kindly leave to us humans.

No, I don’t trust AI. I keep expanding the rule book for the artificial way of thinking, and keep training my rules for my natural way of thinking.

That way, we both get along fairly well — so as not to become alternatve idiots, of the artificial variety.

Almost a hundred years ago, the queer community discovered and made its own a stretch of shoreline on Toronto Island called Hanlan’s Point. In the seclusion just beyond Toronto’s doorstep, gay men and lesbians found breathing room from the persecution and bigotry of mainstream society. At the time, homosexuality and queer ways of living were illegal. The short crossing over the water allowed police harassment and institutional prejudice to recede, at least for a while.

It did not take long before the cottages along the shore became the summer homes and seasonal rentals of gay men — much as Fire Island and Provincetown had become elsewhere. Most of Toronto’s population did not fully grasp what the gathering place at Hanlan’s Point meant. But politicians and other decision-makers called it the meeting point of the undesirable and the sinful. For those who belonged there, the island was a vital oasis in an ocean of hatred, and it came to be known with affection as “The Rose Beach.”

In the 1950s, the cottages were torn down, and in the 1960s many of the trees on the grounds were removed — all to make the oasis unwelcoming. The queer community came back to that one safe place, all the same.

Today, the 13th of June 2026, the heart of Newmarket is dressed in rainbow colours. At four o’clock, the Pride Parade will move through Main Street and — as it does every year — spread pure joy in living.

Homo Sapiens is thoroughly glad that the free and open society is so protected and celebrated.

In Switzerland and in Canada

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Hear the name Rush, and Neil Peart comes to mind at once.

Neil was Rush’s drummer and lyricist from 1974 until the band’s end — and for many simply the finest rock drummer of his generation. Three things made him one of the most extraordinary drummers there has ever been. Neil was less a player than an architect, building technical structures into every song. Peart didn’t treat the drum kit as a rhythmic foundation but as a compositional instrument. His parts were fully composed — every tom figure, every bell stroke, every odd time signature — 7/8, 13/8, constant shifts — had its place. “Tom Sawyer,” “YYZ,” and “La Villa Strangiato” are, in essence, drum scores. The enormous kit with its tubular bells, temple blocks, glockenspiel, and later electronic pads was no showoff arrangement but a sound palette — he thought melodically, in tonal colours.

The perfectionist who was never finished.

Neil Peart wrote nearly all of Rush’s lyrics — philosophical, literary, ranging from science fiction to individualism to deeply personal pieces written after the deaths of his daughter and his first wife in the late nineties. A drummer who was simultaneously the intellectual heart of the band: a rare combination. He died in January 2020 at sixty-seven, of a brain tumour.

And now: Anika Nilles, Germany’s drumming talent.

The comparison has become timely: Rush opened their “Fifty Something” reunion tour on June 7th, 2026, at the Kia Forum in Los Angeles — the first complete concert in nearly eleven years, and the first with Nilles behind the kit. But first, an important note: Anika Nilles is no Peart copy. She is a singular force in her own right. The German drummer and composer launched her career in the early 2010s on YouTube and has released two albums with her band Nevell. Her music is fusion-rooted — complex polyrhythms, linear drumming, ghost notes. Technically, she plays in a league where the comparison with Peart becomes meaningful at all. Geddy Lee had come to know her from Jeff Beck’s final tour in 2022 and was already calling her “terrific” in 2023.

Anika Nilles comes from a groove- and fusion-oriented world. Her first real excursion into rock and pop was simply Toto. In one interview, she herself highlighted Peart’s energetic playing and his melodic approach — his vast range of tonal colours — as things she recognises in herself. That is exactly where the kinship lies: both think in tones, not merely in beats.

It was, all the same, an enormously brave step for Anika to take Neil Peart’s place behind the kit in the real test of June 7th, 2026.

Fan recordings of the complete opening concert show that she hits virtually every idiosyncrasy of Peart’s highly individual playing. Fans and critics agreed after the premiere: “She killed it!”

Anika plays with a joy and passion that keeps drawing a wide grin from Geddy Lee.

Peart remains irreplaceable — as a lyricist certainly, and as someone who co-composed the band’s sound across forty years. Anika Nilles doesn’t replace Neil; she interprets him — with her own authority and, clearly, with the respect the task demands.

Anika trusted herself to carry Neil Peart’s legacy forward with care. And she did far more than simply pass the test

.https://www.instagram.com/reel/DZavs8lSiHm/?igsh=MWZsdGVjemlxZ2RoMQ==

Because it’s a game. And I like to play.

On Friday evening, Amir Hadžić will be sitting in his living room in Mississauga wearing two jerseys, one on top of the other — the red one with the maple leaf and the blue one with the lilies. And two brothers will hang a Bosnian flag next to the Canadian one outside their produce shop in Etobicoke. Asked who should win, both say: a draw would be perfect.

A Swiss fellow in Newmarket will be heading to the local stadium tomorrow afternoon for a public viewing of the Switzerland–Qatar match.

Fans in Canada tick a little differently at sporting events. The joy of the game dominates over the fear of losing. After all, immigrants like me carry a hefty portion of history from two countries in their bags. Whether Bosnia or Switzerland or Canada — the mix adds spice.

For this World Cup of kicking, I keep having to remind myself that the unsavoury circumstances surrounding this tournament shouldn’t be allowed to dominate. But no, not ignored either. There is still something fundamentally good in the idea of teams from across the world meeting on a pitch, fighting over a single ball for ninety minutes or more. Mostly peaceful. Mostly fair. As a spectator, I’m either trembling with suspense or suffering through boredom.

Yes, I’m looking forward to the matches.

Ninety minutes without toxic political aftertaste — that’s worth an awful lot.

I won’t let anyone take that away from me, not the pre-match punditry, not the stadium.

Go, Canada, Go!

Hopp, Schwyyz!

The rest of Canada, of course, does exactly the same thing

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This week, the receiving of foreign guests begins in three countries across the American continent. Mexico, Canada, and the United Magnates of America. Football and its players celebrate a championship meant to bring people from around the world together. That usually works — at least before the match. Millions of people will attend one or more games in person, as spectators. Guests will sleep in hotels, eat in restaurants, buy souvenirs. The economy gets hoisted into rather profitable territory.

At least, that’s how it’s gone before, when a country — or as here, several countries — puts itself forward as host. After having competed for the privilege, hard-nosed and in hard currency.

The receiver-nations Mexico, Canada, and the USA are switched on and awaiting their guests. Hurrah.

Hold on — my receiver is stuttering. Apparently something isn’t running quite as smoothly as hoped at the border to the United States of America. The Somali FIFA referee Omar Artan is declared unwelcome and sent back home. Entry denied. Football teams at the Football World Cup are received at airports like criminals. And Canada practises its dignified silence.

As a Swiss-Canadian, I was looking forward to the excitement, the nerves, and the anticipation of my favourite teams doing their cheerful football-kicking. But that joy is running into reception problems. No, no — the joy in the kicking teams and in the reactions of the crowds in the stadiums is still there.

But the bitter taste of practised fascism makes itself known a little more strongly each day. And that taste I have never liked.

Holy smokes.

I’ll adjust my receiver at once. Reset it a little. The joy of football fans at these world-championship matches will hopefully be peaceful, fantastic, and above all welcoming.

In all three countries.

That’s what my hope-receiver says — and it lets me follow the matches.

From a distance. At a screen.

GOAAAAAL

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As early as 1985, a shipment of lesbian magazines ended its journey at the Canadian Border Services Agency instead of at Little Sister’s address. In December 1986, customs officers seized no fewer than 600 books and periodicals destined for Little Sister’s. The customs authority cited alleged obscenity as the reason for holding the literature back. Which naturally raises the question of whether this was carried out in the service of the law. Because the very same book and magazine titles bound for mainstream bookshops crossed the border without a hitch. Roughly three-quarters of all shipments to Little Sister’s were systematically intercepted at the Canadian border, while pornographic literature for a heterosexual audience had no trouble at the border whatsoever. And if it did, the contents were, at most, a little borderline.

But Little Sister’s turbulent path was paved with further trouble and drama. In December 1987 and early 1988, bombs found their way into the stairwell of the bookshop. The second bomb delivery exploded barely three metres from Jim Deva and his new co-owner while they were dining in the restaurant on the ground floor. The police found it remarkable that both men survived.

Bad things in queer bookselling apparently come in threes. A third bomb exploded in January 1992. Remarkable, how lived-out homophobia feels the need to make itself heard with bombs.

Remarkably, both owners of Little Sister’s held firm and carried on undeterred.

On 7 June 1990, enough was enough with the reprisals. Deva, Smyth, and the BC Civil Liberties Association filed a constitutional challenge against the customs authority. This launched a lengthy court process that wound its way through every level of the justice system and ultimately landed before the Supreme Court of Canada. The ruling? Customs had deliberately discriminated against Little Sister’s and had violated its right to freedom of expression.

Resistance had, once again, paid off.

But for the time being, that rightful and satisfying ruling was that. Little Sister’s and its owners had no idea what would happen on 6 June of this year. Canada Post — a government organisation, just like the customs authority — honoured Little Sister’s Book and Art Emporium with a postage stamp.

The remarkable adventure of a small bookshop in Vancouver has made history. The ruling in their favour brought about a change: customs authorities must now first prove the obscenity of material before a shipment may be seized.

In April 2026, Little Sister’s bookshop was taken over by a new owner.

If that isn’t a legacy worth protecting, what is

Daniel Collins, The ArQuives: Canada’s LGBTQ2+ Archives; Images courtesy of The Pink Triangle Press; CBC Archive Sales; FOOTAGE COURTESY OF ROGERS SPORTS & MEDIA; Footage from Little Sister’s vs Big Brother courtesy of Moving Images Distribution; Richard Banner, City of Vancouver Archives

And right at the heart of it all: my most cherished project, The Fairy Trail Walk for Esther.

Sunday afternoon at Fairy Trail Park. The sun does its sunny thing, the wind blows agreeably gentle across the meadow, and the amphitheatre fills with guests. Because for the third time, the Fairy Trail Walk for Esther is taking place in Newmarket.

In this third year, quite a bit has changed about this wonderful, colourful event. The author of *Biidnigen Says Welcome*, Nancy Cooper, guides the Fairy Trail Walk guests warmly and lovingly through the story — post by post. Nishiime is a shy beaver lady who expects a visit from her cousins but hides from them. Because she is shy, after all. When I read the story with such enthusiasm, I couldn’t overlook the connection to my late sister Esther. Esther, too, was shy and reserved. Yet she transformed her life when she quietly and secretly trained to become a storyteller. Shy? Reserved? That was yesterday.

Speaking of yesterday. The Fairy Trail Walk for Esther grew into a joyful, bubble-filled event of a very special kind. The team at the Newmarket Public Library, together with the TD Summer Reading Club, made the experience even more inviting and even more joyful for the children — and for me too. With the slogan “Dive In,” they hit upon my greatest passion exactly: the plunge into a story that blots out the entire rest of life. The story seizes all the senses and refuses to let go. That is Dive In — not only in summer.

Of course, it warmed my heart to see so many of my neighbours and friends from Specialty Lofts sitting in the audience. Debbie was even wearing the very first T-shirt, back when the motto was still “Fairy Trail Run for Esther.” After the storywalk, the bubble team let the children — and those who never quite grew up — reach for those glittering, fragile, ever-bursting little works of art. When joy becomes something you can almost grasp, and it makes your heart leap — that’s when fairy tales are called for.

An event like this can only work and grow when generous people like Jackie Playter and others come forward, people who have supported the Fairy Trail Walk for Esther financially from the very beginning. And when the team from the Newmarket Public Library and my friends simply pitch in, without question and without hesitation.

Comm Unity has always been one of my favourite words and favourite sports.

The community in Newmarket lives intensely, excessively, and with staying power. It is no soap bubble — but it does delight in them.

Thank you to everyone who supports the Fairy Trail Walk for Esther and the TD Summer Reading Club at the Newmarket Public Library.

All four storywalks are open from May to October.

https://www.newmarketpl.ca/en/kids-and-teens/td-summer-reading-club-.asp

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And the Newmarket Public Library was helpfully along for the ride.

That very first Storywalk, in June 2024, was a wet and merry affair. The clouds hung low and somewhat crooked. And they dripped as though rain would be made illegal the next day.

Early in the morning, just before six, I put up the colourful signs along the Tom Taylor Trail so that at least one or two rain-hardened souls might find their way to Fairy Trail Park. By noon the mood was still damp, but the merriment seemed a little overcast. Paul, Melissa, Theresa, and I struggled, with much effort and marginal grace, to put up the tent.

Just before half past one, three young students stood on the wet grass, ready to read the story aloud to any Fairy Trail Walk guests who might come along the fairy-tale march. I already felt for them, because they were probably going to have nothing to do.

The rain let up. The stream of visitors did not. A respectable crowd of thirty guests — children and adults — milled about, waiting eagerly for the start. But first, Tracy from the Newmarket Public Library, Theresa, and I subjected the people to short speeches. Short and painless speeches, naturally. The balloon artist twisted air-filled poodles and other animals to spare the children any boredom brought on by the torrent of words.

Then that wondrous dynamic of opening-night excitement set in. Gears clicked into place, people seemed genuinely happy, and the rain was suddenly forgotten.

As soon as I put a full stop to this morning’s splinter-story, I’ll bring the Fairy Trail Walk for Esther signs up from the basement and mark the route for the third time. And again I feel a little sentimental, because even after five years I miss her: my fairy-tale sister Esther.

That, too, is tradition.

Sunday, June 7, 2026, 1:30 PM — Fairy Trail Park Amphitheatre

This fly of horrors — above all for cattle — eats its way through their innards. Until recently, America believed the fly had been definitively eradicated 44 years ago and would never again screw its way through beef. No sooner was the worm identified as a “hang on, wasn’t this thing here before?” than Agriculture Secretary Rollins knew exactly who was responsible for its return. She named one Joseph, or Joe, Biden as the culprit, who through his border policy had welcomed the screwworm with open arms.

The screwing worm cares little about this, for it is interested solely in living cattle and their innards. From its perspective, there is therefore no conflict of interest with the previous president of the United States of Armerica.

Those of an inquiring mind are right to ask: where on earth has the screwworm been hiding all these decades? And how did it survive without helping itself to cattle? Were they perhaps brought back to life in a laboratory, Jurassic Park-style? The QAnon faithful are going around in circles — and some are going right through them. There’s genuinely a worm in the system, and nobody noticed.

Alongside cattle as victims of the worm, it is the consumers of beef who must now pay an already high price for their barbecue party. Tragic and costly, as far as it goes.

The question, however, hangs in the air — and in the bovine stomach — of how the worm makes its reappearance after so long. On closer inspection, a few inconsistencies emerge that already stop rhyming long before you get close enough to look. Veterinarians were the pioneers who successfully scrubbed that wretched worm from the face of the planet, together with veterinary medicine, naturally. And it is precisely those veterinarians who were rationalised away in great numbers by those four letters: DOGE. What’s more, the proven surveillance system for viruses, bacteria, and parasites was thinned out so severely that these very creatures were quietly rubbing their non-existent little hands together in glee.

Oh dear. The land of boundless opportunity is living up to its label. Those responsible in the US government are enabling a parasite everyone thought long dead to find its way back into beef paradise.

Perhaps some of the original pioneers in the battle against parasites are still reachable — to deal with the worm in the system and in the cow.

Fingers crossed

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How much does dignity cost, to get through life reasonably well? A few people inside the Government of Canada landed on these amounts. I can already hear the relieved sighs, because with this cheque a whole three weeks of the month the weekly shop for daily needs is a little less of a burden. Eating and drinking are, after all, the basic necessities of life and should be affordable for people.

In New York City, the new mayor has taken a somewhat different approach to making life easier for New Yorkers. Last week he opened the city’s first municipally owned grocery store. The prices there are affordable.

I think back to my youth in Muttenz near Basel. My mother was well aware that some families in the neighbourhood were struggling with similar problems around food. Since we had a huge garden and Mama was a fierce champion of organic growing, she would quietly give away lettuce, tomatoes, beans, and potatoes to families nearby. That was her non-governmental contribution to making a burdened life a little lighter.

For those who need it, the basket of vegetables or the dollar amount is immediate help. And that in itself is a caring and welcome gesture of humanity. Still, a small background noise lingers, with a question attached. Why do people need such financial or material support from the state and from neighbours? Why is food — basic nourishment, that is — no longer affordable for so many? Could food corporations like Loblaws and Sobeys here in Canada, and COOP, Globus, and Migros in Switzerland, set their prices a little more moderately? We are still waiting for an answer to that one.

As an aside: the Christoph Merian Foundation was established because in Basel, in 1854, the price of bread went up. Christoph Merian donated 100,000 francs to bring the price of bread back down.

It seems we always need interventions — from the state, from institutions, from neighbours — just so people can afford to live. Because the much put-upon food conglomerates simply cannot afford lower prices. Why? Because the so-called stakeholders — the shareholders, that is — would never be satisfied with single-digit dividends.

Free market economics has its price. For the population.

Perhaps the truly tragic element today is not inflation itself, but that caring has become automated

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The brand of “peace nation” for a vast, open, and diverse Canada has fascinated me for nearly fifty years. And as a Canadian citizen, I live under precisely this peaceable spirit of my adopted country. So far, so wonderful.

Well, that brand is no longer as bright, as crystal-clear, as it once was. There’s a creaking in the rafters, as two events make plain. In Tel Aviv, Canadian citizens are being beaten after their boat — part of the Sumud Flotilla — was seized and the activists abducted to Israel. The Canadian consulate was informed. Prime Minister Carney was contacted. The result? Nothing. Zero.

That is sobering.

Meanwhile, Canada is purchasing an American missile system for 2.6 billion dollars — a system being used in real and lethal ways in the Iran war. Delivery is set for 2029. The decision to buy was made in January, quietly, while the US President was once again juggling threats about a 51st state.

What is so peculiar about these events is remarkable in itself. And the silence around them in the media feels threatening. Polls on the Iran war show clearly that a majority of Canadians oppose it. Well then — at least among ordinary citizens, one or two sparks of a peace nation are still flickering.

Back to the Canadian activists, who have since been released.

Luiza Ravalli, a nurse, was on her way to Gaza carrying food, baby formula, diapers, medication. In the night, her sailboat was boarded by heavily armed Israeli soldiers. Three shots fired over the heads of the crew. Then another shot — landing between her and her colleague, centimetres from their bodies. Afterwards, the soldiers systematically destroyed all communication equipment on board and programmed the autopilot to a course heading directly into an approaching storm. Final words to the activists: “These are your new coordinates. If you change course, we’ll come back.” After twelve hours, the boat and crew were found by the NGO Open Arms — by Spain, that is, not by Canada.

Ehab Lotayef, a founding member of Canadian Boat to Gaza, describes the arrest and transfer to an Israeli prison ship: strip searches, beatings, stress positions. Water and bread were thrown at them — “like dogs.” Fifty people in a twelve-metre freight container. Layers of clothing were taken from them and thrown into the sea. Lotayef himself was stabbed in the hand when he tried to help a fellow prisoner. He was coughing during the press conference in Ottawa. His ribs and chest still hurt from the blows.

And while all of this was happening: Israeli National Security Minister Ben-Gvir posted videos of the abuse before the deportees had even arrived in Israel. The whole world saw it. Canada said nothing.

No, the Canadian government was not entirely inactive, to be fair.

Foreign Affairs Minister Anand summoned the Israeli ambassador. She tweeted. Prime Minister Carney spoke with the Israeli president and called the treatment of the civilians “unacceptable.”

Letters from families — delivered in person, by post, by email — went unanswered or were acknowledged with boilerplate.

A meeting between the activists and the government would have been a positive and humane gesture. Had it happened.

Ehab Lotayef: “We felt abandoned by Canada — before anyone else.”

These harrowing accounts are well documented and were presented at the press conference mentioned above. Looking away no longer helps.

One thing is indifference towards one’s own citizens. The other is active participation in war.

Yes, I am disappointed, and more than a little frustrated, that the peaceful part of my home country, Canada, is melting away.