Interesting chat with Jimmy Kostro about his charity work with the hill tribes in northern Thailand, and how BTC mining plays into their future. Cheers Jimmy! Thailand BTC community 🔥

https://youtu.be/jqe3JR35JD0

'They keep the faith, and we keep the money'

Some say 'everything is good for Bitcoin.' Do you think an institution like Blackrock, headed by ESG shill like Larry Fink, getting into the space is a net positive in the long run?

If you had to define what you are seeing in the world in a succinct sentence, what would it be?

Can you elaborate on this?

“Politics: the art of using euphemisms, lies, emotionalism and fear-mongering to dupe average people into accepting--or even demanding--their own enslavement.” Larkin Rose

Happy Saturday!

A wise man once said, "A better future is a BTC standard."

Fluff Kins

Keep stacking and all will be well

Focused building Bitcoin Powerhouse and pushing Bitcoin adoption here in Southern Thailand. First in person meet up will be in two weeks time!

'It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere.'

Voltaire

Let's keep building people. A better future for our kids is possible

James Joyce’s “Eveline” (1904), collected in Dubliners (1914)

She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned

against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She

was tired.

Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard

his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the

cinder path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which

they used to play every evening with other people’s children. Then a man from Belfast

bought the field and built houses in it—not like their little brown houses but bright brick

houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that

field—the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers

and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often

to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used

to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed to have been

rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive.

That was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up; her mother

was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to England.

Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others, to leave her home.

Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had

dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came

from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had

never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out

the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken

harmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary

Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the

photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word:

“He is in Melbourne now.”

She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh

each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those

whom she had known all her life about her. Of course she had to work hard, both in the

house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out

that she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would

be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge

on her, especially whenever there were people listening.

“Miss Hill, don’t you see these ladies are waiting?”

“Look lively, Miss Hill, please.”

She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.

But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then

she would be married—she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She

would not be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen,

she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father’s violence. She knew it was that that

had given her the palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her

like he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl; but latterly he had begun

to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for her dead mother’s sake. And

now she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church

decorating business, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the

invariable squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably.

She always gave her entire wages—seven shillings—and Harry always sent up what he

could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to squander

the money, that she had no head, that he wasn’t going to give her his hard-earned money

to throw about the streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad of a Saturday

night. In the end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intention of

buying Sunday’s dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as she could and do her

marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way

through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions. She had hard

work to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had been

left to her charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard

work—a hard life—but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly

undesirable life.

She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, openhearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she

used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap

pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they

had come to know each other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and

see her home. He took her to see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an

unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a

little. People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves

a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun.

First of all it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to

like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a pound a

month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of the

ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had sailed through the

Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on

his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a

holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to have

anything to say to him.

“I know these sailor chaps,” he said.

One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover secretly.

The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew

indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite

but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss

her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for

a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day,

when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She

remembered her father putting on her mother’s bonnet to make the children laugh.

Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head

against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the

avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air. Strange that it should

come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep

the home together as long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother’s

illness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she

heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to go away and

given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back into the sickroom saying:

“Damned Italians! coming over here!”

As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother’s life laid its spell on the very quick of

her being—that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled

as she heard again her mother’s voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:

“Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!”

She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would

save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should

she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold

her in his arms. He would save her.

She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her

hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage

over and over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the

wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in

beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her

cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to

show her what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If

she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos

Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done

for her? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent

fervent prayer.

A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:

“Come!”

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he

would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.

“Come!”

No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas

she sent a cry of anguish!

“Eveline! Evvy!”

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on

but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal.

Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

Anyone else here into classic short stories? Let's start a share thread and throw out a few comments. I'll go first...

Really good chat. Nostr gets more interesting every day. Vive la revolution!

Excited to talk to @rev.hodl tonight on the pod about homesteading, freedom, BTC , Nostr and lots more. Onward!

https://rb.gy/bhebt

I'm sure their motives are pure 🙃

Wow! This looks wonderful, Piriya. Good for you. Let's do this in Phuket. Future generations deserve better than FIAT and its statist machinations.

Iris = headspace, time to think, ponder; Twitter = Balls in a G-Clamp. Glad to be here!

Bitcoin Adventure: Riding in Search of Sovereignty | Captain Sidd

https://youtu.be/RqqQ49sbXWo

Episode 4 of the Bitcoin Powerhouse podcast. Great to talk to Rune about all things inflation and BTC.

https://youtu.be/9pESoEk_Img