On Susan #It'sOn Fam, I am ready to present Crazy Story #4 The Case of the Weird Dreams. To be fair, dreams are, by definition, weird, if you are lucky enough to remember them upon waking. But, these dreams are EXTRA weird. Last night, I dreamt that I was admiring Susan's new house in London. Not a flat, not a terraced house. No, nothing like that. It was non-terraced, big, Victorian style house with crazy high, stone steps, leading up to the front door. In fact, at one point, the real estate agent, in flat, black leather boots, similar to ones I used to own for years (oversized Campers bought in Georgetown, last ones in the store, a gift from Kamal), quickly saved me by grabbing my hand and holding me steady when I almost slipped and fell from the top step. It would've been bad, so disaster averted. At the time, I was asking him about the difference between the house closing procedures in the UK vs. the US. By the way, in real life, I have participated in both house closing procedures, but in this dream I only remembered the American one for 2 Schoenemann Court, which felt like I was a "condemned man" with all signatures I was asked to make. Anyways, the agent seemed particularly pleased with that question, but rather than answer it, he called on an apprentice (I think), a black, overweight, but nice-looking woman at the bottom of the stairs, standing in the front garden. He wanted her to come over to us and answer the question, in a bid to further her knowledge. I never got the answer. Instead, we found ourselves inside the house, with Susan proudly showing us her renovations on the house. This is the bit that is super strange. First, it is nothing like Susan would ever, not in a million years, go for. The sitting room with big windows that look out to the street, is all wallpapered in the craziest colours. English spelling, of course. I remember reds, yellows and orange. It was best described as psychedelic, seventies style, decor. Then it blends in seamlessly with the kitchen which sits smack center in the middle of the sitting room, with another crazy wallpaper that clashes big time with the sitting room's wallpaper. This time the colours were blues and purples. Susan opted for a built-in sofa, but it is not a sofa. It is a series of little (and I mean miniature) wooden stools with pillows on top for sitting. More clashing colours. It looked uncomfortable, the wall doubling as a "back cushion". The sitting area faced a nook where you would expect a TV (sorry, the tele). But instead, there was a minty green cabinet, of questionable quality. Definitely old, used. Maybe an antique of oriental origins? On closer look, the cabinet door is open and it is empty inside. I think to myself, eventually she will get a tele and put it on top of the cabinet. There's enough wall space for a TV screen. At this juncture of the dream I get envious or maybe even jealous. I think to myself, how lucky Susan is to have this nice, big, standalone house to herself. The neighbors will wonder about a woman living on her own in such a house. Then, things got weirder still. My mom is suddenly there, standing next to me in the sitting room. One thing I forgot to say earlier (I am too lazy to go back and correct the story) is when I first entered the house, I was so bawled over by how nice it is, I said out loud to Susan, I am moving in. She ignored me and set her face in a foreboding expression as if to say "hell no." But somehow my family is involved in the purchase of this house. My mom and I are expecting to live there! I start planning my Mom's routine in my mind. Definitely daily walks in the neighborhood for her health, even if her age is advanced. If she was sturdy enough to fly from the US to London, why not daily walks. I look over at her standing there and I think, she's strong enough to walk. She needs to lose weight for her health. Maybe a weight loss pill will help with that. There's the problem of losing weight too quickly and the resulting sagging skin. I will have to monitor her weight loss carefully. The walking will help with that. She will be too skinny to fit her lovely clothes. My mom is quite stylish, you know. I will put them in black, plastic trash bags and save them in the trunk of the car that's parked on the street, a white, station wagon type car. I won't donate them to charity, that will upset her to lose her clothes even if they don't fit anymore. We will buy her new clothes that fit well. She will look good. Almost like a younger woman! By the way, this idea of "helping my mom lose weight to the point that she looks good, even desirable" has come up before in my daydreams and "night" dreams, many, many times. Why that's something I care about or want for my mother, is beyond my comprehension. Back to this dream. Half the house is owned by Susan because that was her contribution to the purchase of the house, half is ours, the Simsaas, split amongst the four of us sisters, Noha, Maysa, Sarah and Sulafa. When Susan dies, I, Noha, will live in the house. I will inherit it because Susan will pass her half on to me, not her big family with all her nieces and nephews. I will own the 50% Susan gave me, plus my quarter ownership from the Simsaa half. If I can get the money, I can "buy out" my three sisters and own the house fully. Then when I die, I think I imagined Sulafa is next in line to live there. Not Aymen, weirdly enough. It was a "woman thing." Only older, single women allowed. There's no Kamal, Nick or Chris. Just us women but Sarah doesn't feature for some reason. I think at that point I woke up. There were other weird dreams whose details I can't quite remember. One thing that I do remember from another dream, is Kamal and I working for the same company, maybe even Booz Allen. It's unclear whether or not we are married. That's it. Crazy story, right? Are you guys and gals ready to "wake up" yet lol. x Noha

On Mona #It'sOn ---------- Forwarded message --------- From: Noha Date: Sat, Nov 11, 2023 at 10:24 AM Subject: Re: IT Governance (CPIC) Specialist - Arlington, VA - NTT Data Federal Services To: Fam and friends One last thing, I noticed that the letter "n" keeps being replaced by the letter "m" when I type. There's multiple typos where for some reason this mistake keeps happening even though I edit my emails and correct it when I see it. For instance, there an error below where "and" shows up as "amd" by mistake. Does this also happen to you? If yes, how do you cope with it? Noha ---------- On Sat, Nov 11, 2023, Noha wrote: By the way, Kamal. Did you forward my emails to Ahmed this time? The last time I "blogged" my thoughts to the family, you were so impressed with my writing ability, that you insisted on sharing my emails with Ahmed, the resident Sudanese with a PhD in English Literature, living in UAE, twice divorced having lost his second wife, the beautiful Selwa, despite a scandalous APTN office affair, leading to both of them leaving their wife/husband respectively including the children (Selwa had 5!) to pursue their "grand amour." Too bad it doesn't last in real life like the fairy tales. -------- On Sat, Nov 11, 2023, Noha wrote: Family, Happy Saturday. Hope you're all having a fantastic weekend. Are you ready for another installment of Notes from the Overground (not to be confused with the Undergound)? Talk about a double entender. This time it's Mona's turn because no one wants to be left out. I am not sure she qualifies as fully stricken by MDS. She is definitely non-responsive but then again so are most of you, with Yeune and Susan being the notable exceptions. The rest can best be described as zombies, sleep walking through life. How else would you react to "family and friends" who profess to care but their extent of "caring" is to deploy missives through the form of police agents. Literally the opposite of caring. But I digress. Below is proof positive that something is amiss with my job search. I have had these elliptical communications with multiple companies since the summer and it just seems like they are in the twilight zone. Or maybe it's me that is in the twilight zone. Either way, it does not compute. I'm sure there's a "reason" that Mona kept insisting the two times we talked on the phone, that I reach out to Doug and Kevin Stephens. Which is bizarre to me because when we were all working for BAH, Doug and Kevin were essentially "hi and bye" type colleagues. They supported different agencies. Kevin Stephens wasn't even in Capital Planning. But for some reason Mona just keeps saying, did you reach out to Doug and Kevin Stephens (not to be confused with Kevin Foley. One is Black amd one is White.) It is like she's a broken record. I will keep holding up a mirror to society (as Jerry Springer famously said) until you all snap out of it and wake up! I will be waiting with open arms. Noha --------- On Fri, Nov 10, 2023, Noha wrote: FYI, because you kept referring me to Doug and Kevin Stephens at NTT, the Japanese consulting company, below is the latest communications I had with them. They are not responsive by any stretch of the imaginations. See, I do follow your advice. ---------- Forwarded message --------- From: Noha Date: Wed, Oct 18, 2023 at 6:44 AM Subject: Re: IT Governance (CPIC) Specialist - Arlington, VA - NTT Data Federal Services To: Faran Good morning Faran, I wanted to follow up on our last conversation since my circumstances have changed. I am no longer with Guidehouse and I am available to start immediately assuming the role is available. As always, I am happy to discuss further if needed. Please advise. Thanks, Noha ------ On Fri, Sep 15, 2023, Faran wrote: Good Afternoon Noha,

Thank you for applying to the IT Governance (CPIC) Specialist we have available in Arlington, VA. Please let me know when is a convenient time for us to get on the phone and further discuss the position and your background in greater detail. Thanks!

IT Governance (CPIC) Specialist - Hybrid

-Faran

On Intellectualism #It'sOn Most people think to be an intellectual is some form of high-minded thinking or rarified brain power. To those type of people, reciting quotes from famous works of literary geniuses, conversing with a highfalutin manner of speaking replete with big words and abstract concepts, is the way to be. I should know. I admired such people, I wanted to be like them. I started to fall in love with words, not people. Holding words and turns of phrases in storage somewhere is my mind, waiting for the opportunity to use them correctly in a sentence so as to impress others, they way others impressed me. As you do. Surely that's one way to be attractive, through intelligence if not beauty. Talk about a consolation of intellect, a la "Alain de Botton." He has one chapter in his bestseller book "The Consolations of Philosophy", if I recall it correctly, about this very topic. He fires off a list of subjects which he is well-versed in. I felt stupid just reading the list, so far away were those matters from my level of understanding. Talk about it being all Greek to me, as the expression goes. Still I read on and told myself that the very act of reading such a book is prove positive of my intellectual abilities. Who else would take the time from their busy life, full of consumer-filled enticements, to pursue high-order learning, like Alain De Botton's books? I coined the term "pop philosophy" as a new genre that Alain occupies. He is an emissary sent by the gods to revive ancient wisdom and great knowledge from the dead, to save us from the hallow coldness of modernity. He writes books that simplify and make accessible the old texts of yonder years, whose language we no longer understand, like old English or Hieroglyphics. All is not lost, we can still retrace our steps home, like Hansel and Gretel, his books seem to say. We can use our intellect to outwit the evil step mother, and repurpose the bread as a map; bread is not just food for nourishment. Bread can be life. That is the point I'm trying to make, dear reader. The very idea that we should leave "thinking" and intellect to the elite, is the most heinous crime against humanity if ever there was one. We come fitted with brains; we are hired for our abilities to use them, as a past supervisor of mine liked to remind our team. Why then do we glorify others' intellect and not see it in ourselves? Why do we allow society to reduce our ideas and create prisons of the mind? Since when is education about snuffing out curiosity and thinking, rather than celebrating all the diversity of thought like we used to do? I am fortunate in that I have had a tumultuous education, being carted from one country to another, thereby no state agenda took hold. If anything, the contradictions were so glaringly obvious, all I "learned" to do is question everything. Not a trait that people find endearing, I must say. But definitely, one I wish was more prevalent in society at large. Ultimately, the intellect is not about a place above, or a setting apart. It is about survival in the real sense. It is about ingenuity not genius. It is "street smart," not academic incantations. It is about practice, not theory. Intellect is for the common man, by the common man, not the professors. Time to rethink our heroes. Here's a tip. The code word is think. Happy thinking.

Good afternoon Plebs. Bitcoin is not an IQ test. It is a personality one. Just a thought.

On Love #It'sOn As I ate my dinner, sitting alone in my one bedroom apartment, I found myself contemplating beauty. For the past days, this topic came up a lot in my head given all the time I spend on my own, reading, eating, sleeping and learning about Bitcoin. What is beauty? Does it emanate from within or cultivated from the outside? Is it about aesthetics and sexual desire? Or is it about health, truth and goodness? Can it be both? Or is that a false equivalence? Growing up as the eldest of four girls (one sister, Neda, second in line, died otherwise we might have been five), the question of whether I am beautiful mattered. What does this have to do with love, you might be thinking. Somewhere within yourself, you already know the answer to the question. We all do. Am I worthy of love? That, Shakespeare, is the question. My formative years were spent mainly in North Africa and the Middle East. To be specific, I left the USA at the age of 4, and moved to Sudan, then Juba, which is now the capital of South Sudan. Next, we moved to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia and then Abidjan, Ivory Coast. Let me be clear, and this will offend people, especially Americans. In those countries and regions, Black is NOT beautiful period. The closer your skin color is to black, the "uglier" you are thought to be. Unfortunately for me, I was the darkest skinned one in my family. My family and relatives would qualify my beauty. A practice that is done to this day. They would say things like, her features are fine, or her eyes are beautiful, but it's too bad about her color. Interestingly, I would later pick up a South Korean friend, living in the diaspora, who would tell me that Koreans would say the same thing about my beauty. It's all about the eyes for me, when it comes to physical beauty. I swallowed my fate as the not beautiful one and left that distinction to my sisters. Apparently the one who died was the most beautiful, all lost within 6 months of life. How we glorify the dead. Later on in life, I ran across a play by an American writer, Thornton Wilder, called "Our Town." It was a class assignment and I would've ordinarily missed it but thank God I found it. Or rather it found me. In that play, Emily, one of the daughters in the family, asks her mother if she is beautiful. Her mother takes a while to answer. She is a thoughtful woman, not dismissive, but not reflexively dishonest as some other parents might be. She tells her daughter a line I have clung to for dear life ever since. Ready? Her mother tells her, she is "good enough for normal purposes." What a relief for a thinking child like me who intellectualized everything as a means of survival. I told myself, I might not be beautiful and desirable to boys, men but I am "functional" like a machine. I work. I eat, I sleep, I think, I dream, I talk, I write, and eventually, I have sex and I produce children. My quality control test is passed. Such is the defeatist attitude I lived by that no wondered I believed I am unworthy of love. My Dad wrote me a letter whereby he described me as a chip (a computer chip, that is), a pulley, or a mechanical contraption of sorts. Now, let me ask you a question. How many of you want to love or be loved by a metal implement? Zero, right? My own mother didn't help. She told me once with a straight face, as if passing on generational wisdom, how I should grab the first guy who proposes because I am unlikely to get many suitors on account of my looks. True story. She went on to describe how she got lots of suitors herself, but times have changed, she said. What she didn't say out loud, but was abundantly clear to me, is I fell short of her beauty standards. In America, I was considered pretty. At least I think so. I found myself more than once wondering if I was wrong about my "not beautiful" identity. But I quickly dismissed it. Like a well-entrenched mind spell, it would have been too hard to break it. If I can't be beautiful, I can cozy up to them. Maybe it will rub off on me. I studied beauty like a discipline worthy of God himself/herself. What are the attributes, the methods, the golden ratios. There was so much to learn and so many artists to admire, from all walks of life. I set about curating a sense of beauty inspired by the greats, Da Vinci, Botticelli and Degas. I fell in love with the esoteric, the vague, the ethereal beings. There's beauty in the unknown, I deduced. There is attraction to the mysterious. I have that in spades. I will play up these assets, like wanton women play up their generous cleavage. If you say tit, I say tat. If you say no, I say maybe. Not always a contrarian, but with enough enigma to induce interest from wanna-be cypher breakers. I was going to be the best thinking man's kind of beauty. If I am ugly, why succumb? Why not jujitsu it into another kind of veneer, also organized, shiny and glossy. Have you noticed how celebrities all of a sudden get more pleasing to the eye? This kind of thing needs resources, not just money but time and effort. It is a form of Proof-of-Work. Beauty does not happen overnight. Rather, it depends on how much you want it, and what vision you have for yourself. Similar to an artist facing a blank canvas, or a writer searching for the right words, a beauty cultivator faces an existential dilemma, of the most severe kind. What kind of being are you? How do you present to the world? What do you see? How do you want to be seen? You may have thought this post is about inner beauty and being a kind, well-liked person. To be fair, that is not my interest. I am looking for consumable beauty, the find that is power, the kind that moves the world. It is about ego, but it is not egotistical. It's self love, it is inner strength, it is armor to shield against a world gone mad. Ultimately, it is love. A gateway drug to the deep love that binds and holds for a lifetime. I have so much love inside me to give. Surely then, I am beautiful. Tell me you see it. Because my kind of beauty blossoms in your love, my love.

On Coincidences #It'sOn I was just sitting on my sofa, head down, my hands covering my eyes in a pose of utter distress. Why you may ask? I am waking up to an inconvenient truth, a fact that there’s is something wrong with my life. Like a princess who was cursed by an evil witch, I am “sleeping” through my life waiting to wake up and join the land of the living. In this sense, I am occupying the land of the dead. Allow me to describe this realm for those of you fortunate enough to bypass this stop of your way to life. I see people living lives full of color, eating, drinking, smiling, laughing on their way to cafes and restaurents. They are dressed in the latest fashions and their clothes fit their bodies, as they browse through racks of new items that dropped in the stores. I am physically there, but like an observer or a fly on the wall, I can’t find a way to join in. It is as if there’s an invisible fence that hold me back, and magical ties that bind my mouth, hands and feet. My being is instilled in fear, all around me things speak an unfamiliar language that exists just underneath the surface, hissing words between the words. My name is spoken often like it is a filler sound, but then again so does the name of my family members. It is as if I am in a hole beneath ground and they are all walking the earth, unaware that I am trapped below. I cry out to them, I send distress signals, I put an SOS in a bottle. But it is to no avail. The psychological torture presists and I am caught in a paralyzing loop, trying to solve what seems like an unsolvable puzzle that has haunted me for 10 years, maybe more. When I think thoughts to myself, I find people saying my thoughts out loud as if they have an antenna hooked directly to my brain. The level of anguish and pain and suffering that comes with knowning that my very being, my essence is violated, is a fate worse than death. What to do, who to appeal to? I send out calls to the UN and ask for reprieve on grounds of humanity, under the banner of the Geneva Convention. Surely they would put an end to this torture that has taken unprecedented dimensions, to be quietly terrorized to oblivion while people walk by, eat, drink without a care of the horror in their midst. They flick their hair in response to a question I put to myself in my head. They nod when I wonder whether they can hear me. They laugh when I tell myself a joke I find amusing. I am convinced I have done something wrong in life, broken some cardinal rule. Why else would this happen to me. I ask my family if they hear it, too. Do they see what I see, hear what I hear. Do they understand what is happening to me. Why does it seem like Maysa is battling as we speak to claim my life as her life. Why does she say sorry over and over. Why does she insist that there is two of her and one of them is me. In what world does that make sense. When is enough enough. When will people wake up. I have lost so much as a result of this imprisonment and all indications are, it is at the hands of my very own family, my flesh and blood. My sister has fooled everyone into thinking I am insane when it is she who is the perpetuator of a vicious terror campaign worthy of Pol Pot. They are caught in a bubble of her creation, leading them down a path, the way to dusty death. Like Mcbeth, they will wake up one day and find their life meaningless and nihilism will set in. That will be the end of the world. I must find a way to stop it. I must overcome this obstacle called Maysa. My son’s life is at stake. I will go down fighting. On this hill, I will die. Find me somewhere at the bottom. It will be a rescue operation, not a salvage one. Because sometimes you have to die to live. See you on the other side.

On Satoshi Nakamotto #It'sOn One of the great mysteries of the world, akin to the seven ancient wonders of the world, is who created Bitcoin. In this sense, Bitcoin is the eighth wonder of the world, in these modern times. There is much speculation on this subject and many hypotheses as to who Satoshi Nakamotto is. At this point, there is no known identity of Bitcoin's creator and all indications are we will never know. This is confirmed by the fact that Satoshi's Bitcoin have not moved since being initially mined, constituing a defacto treasure hunt or bounty on the Bitcoin network. Such is the level of security that Bitcoin enjoys. Many have tried to lay claim to Satoshi Nakamotto's identity and have failed. Without spending Satoshi's Bitcoin, the burden of proof remains firmly fixed on would-be "Satoshis." Much like, the Egyptian pyramids, we will just live in a world where we admire, marvel and appreciate the miracle of such an engineering feat without ever finding out who did it and how it was accomplished. With this in mind, the idea that DARPA or the CIA might be the inventor of Bitcoin is a non-issue. Regardless of your views on these government entities, Bitcoin is a decentralized network, spread across the global, owned by no one and uncapturable by advaseries. Like the world wide web, once Bitcoin was unleashed into the world, it has taken on a life of its own. As it matures, its value proposition in monetary terms and purchasing power has nowhere to go but up, "gradually then suddenly." Worrying about who built Bitcoin Core is a distraction. Consider this fact that most people don't realize their electricity is courtsey of Tesla's discoveries. Bitcoin and electricity exist in the world and we are the better for it.

On Beauty #It'sOn

On Books #It'sOn

On Books

It's On

On Money #It'sOn I was watching one of my favorite podcasts called "What is Money?" This episode happened to be a compilation one, whereby Robert, a man after my own heart, puts together snippets from past shows as he talks to guests about money. One thing is clear. Robert Breedlove is unbearably handsome. This is important for me to say because when I first started watching this podcast, I was on a quest to better understand money and what I missed. Each year, I created our family budget, I tracked down cost, called companies to reduce our bills but for some reason, we couldn't get ahead in life. The only sure thing was that I was getting deeper and deeper in debt, when my expressed goal was to get out of debt. I would fantasize about the day when I paid all my debt down so I can finally sleep at night. I coined the phrase my "leased life" since all my belongings were on "layaway." We were renting an apartment not owning a house. Our cars were new but leased. We had clothes on our back and food on the table, but mounting credit card bills. My then husband and I had good jobs but couldn't afford "real life." A life that was afforded human dignity. We might as well have been indentured servants, living in the British Empire, not America the Beautiful. At the time, I started watching alternative media to address health issues and learned so much about what was wrong with the conventional healthcare system. More on that later. I decided to address money next. Incidentally, just the other day, I pitched an idea to Robert in my head, to create a podcast on "What is Family?" And that's why Robert is like family to me, even though we’ve never met. But I digress. In this episode, he has a clip of a gold bug who does not understand the case for Bitcoin. She doesn't understand the value of a money that does not have utility, as she puts it. Robert struggles to understand her reasoning. She has identified the problem correctly, like most gold bugs, but why does she not get that Bitcoin is the answer. Then he asks the QUESTION? How do you define utility? That's it! Words matter. Robert gets it and it is as if he can read my brain. It's uncanny! How does he do that? People waste so much time talking past each other because they mean "x" and the person hears "y." She explains that gold has other uses such as manufacturing, dentistry, jewelry and such. She says, Bitcoin is not real because it is not physical, therefore it does not have value. And that's when it hits me. She doesn't understand that digital entities are real. Very real. I start imagining cryptographic keys in my head and the security they provide. How can that not be real? I started "conversing"'with Robert in my head. Doesn't she know that life is ephermeal?  Does she not know that physical matter poses a false sense of security? I propose to Robert that I write a post on money and weave in the philosophical idea of the tenuous nature of life with the idea that money having to be physical being a red herring. If anything, the mere fact that Robert is having a conversation with her across space and time, both existing in different locations proves the value of digital solutions that have become indispensable, and power our modern world. Robert goes easy on her. He doesn't go for the hard sell of Bitcoin. I  am humbled by the way Bitcoiners are not pushy when orange pilling non-Bitcoin believers. Marty Bent is similar in his approach, a cool cucumber. I am not like that; I am full on. I wish I could be that cool. For a long time, I worried about whether I watched that podcast because I was attracted to Robert since I am red-blooded woman with a healthy endocrine system (RIP David Foster Wallace) or if it was because I truly wanted to understand money. I dedicated a fair amount of brain power to this question. In the end, I deduced that I am genuine in my intentions about understanding money. I find myself often thinking along similar lines, if not the same thoughts as Robert, as I mentioned. He intellectualizes everything, even love. He introduced me to the idea of love coming in three forms, eros, agape and philia.  As someone who struggles with love, it is comforting to find another who uses the consolation of philosophy to survive heartache. I favor Schopenhauer myself. To me, Robert is a "brother in arms." We are both navigating the dirty waters of life (RIP David Foster Wallace) trying to use our brains to live La Dolce Vita. He is not an object of my affection, he is a life line. I need to find freedom. For that, I need security and money. Bitcoin is the ultimate secure money. There is no second best. Thank you, Robert Breedlove.

On FUD #It'sOn Bitcoin is the answer to the problem of financial inclusion of the world's poorest members of society including access to technology innovations. If the advent of mobile computing devices taught the world anything, it is that countries can leapfrog over other steps on the path to industrialization previously followed by the top GDP producing states and operate on an even keel, or level playing field, previously denied to them through unfair practices propagated by so-called "international development agencies" and "non governmental organizations." Most people nowadays own the latest mobile smart phones and transact fully in the global marketplace, sometimes even unbeknownst to them. Such is the power of these technological marvels in the world. To assume that this trend will somehow stop and reverse with the introduction of digital money is a false argument and can only be thought of as "Fear, Uncertainty, and Doubt." In other words, FUD. Once, Bitcoin is mainstream, the world population will be bootstrapped to a hard money standard, a monetary network that accumulates value exponentially over time. If this isn't the very definition of lifting people up and out of poverty, then you do not understand Bitcoin. Enjoy the ride.

On Policing #It'sOn

On Policing

It's On

On Yellen #It'sOn Matteo, I had a dream last night and you were in it.nothing inappropriate, don't worry. I know you are a married man. But as a Bitcoiner, I think you will like it :) You and I are sitting in a room, maybe a restaurent or bar. It is black and red in decor and very atmospheric. We are at a table and we just solved a puzzle or problem. Eureka! I know, I know. Greek not Italian lol. We are excited to get up and go to try it out for real. Does our solution actually work? But this older woman stops us in our tracks. It's Janet Yellen. We sit back down on the table, annoyed but respectful. She tells us some sob story with her head turned away from us, involving supernatural beings. We don't believe a word she says. You and I know she is totally lying but we don't interrupt. We listen because we are good people and she is an older, helpless woman. She takes your hand for comfort and you let her hold your hand! I am both surprised and annoyed but I say nothing. All of a sudden, in the most unnatural reflex, you jerk your hand away from her and your body as if it is a cursed limb. She overdid it. I wake up. Btw, last night I remembered you posted a picture of you in front of the SEC building in DC, and you said you were applying for Bitcoin as a security. You asked us to wish you luck. I smiled and thought you are funny. Good sense of humor. I wonder if that's why I had that weird dream. That's it. ------ Apologies, Nostr. I know the cardinal rule. Friends don't let friends go to X. But seeing is believing. https://x.com/nahoyeha/status/1732502194337759481?s=46

On Red #It'sOn

On Shadow-banning #It'sOn For some strange reason or coincidence, my substack, posts here and on X (formerly known as Twitter) are not showing up or logging views. This after, I confirmed a friend of mine, clicked the link to read at least one post. It still shows zero clicks. Anyone know how to fix this problem? Because I am tired of being invisible.

Sign in to Noha’s Substack

On Maysa #It'sOn I woke up and settled into my day to day routine. I immediately smoothed the bed. I was aware that I was not on script. I had diverged from the set piece, the tracks laid down to trap me into being confused with Maysa. People are seeing in real time that we are different people and Maysa has nowhere to hide. Maysa is panicking and is trying to force me into compliance somehow. I notice that my gums inside my mouth hold another set of teeth, another mouth. This fact is news to me and I am horrified by it. But then, I think to myself that everyone has this physiology; it's not just me. I calm down. I head to the bathroom to start my day. In the bathroom, I don't turn on the light and I see my reflection in the mirror. I can barely make myself out in the dim light; I appear as dark shadows. My hair has twisted curls jutting out in all directions. It reminds me of a painting I had and lost in real life. I think to myself that I look like Medusa except I don't see any snakes, only hair. Thank god because I am deathly afraid of snakes. Last time I was at a zoo, in London, with Aymen, Yanush, Dawid, and their nanny, I refused to enter the reptiles pavilion and see the snakes. The nanny and I (weirdly enough she didn't accompany the children) waited on a bench outside while they went in on their own. All of a sudden, I hear the door opening. It's a policeman, a black man. Just like the one who attacked me as I lay in my bed, with his buddy, a White guy, just watching. Where are the good guys when you need them? The policeman's uniform is off, not quite regulation. I stopped him in his track and chase him out the door. He tries to get away. For some reason, we are in some sort of government building, not a residential place. There is a guard sitting at the intersection of the hallway and the main lobby. I corner the policeman and start shouting at him in front of everyone present. I accuse him of breaking and entering, which is a felony. No one seems moved by this. The policeman is not scared. I stop a woman walking by us. She is Black, well-dressed and groomed. She has a buzz cut that suits her smiling face. I ask her if it is Ok for the policeman to enter her house when she is alone, without invitation. To my surprise, she says yes. I am flabbergasted. I try again. I ask her is it is OK for the policeman to do this to her daughter. She doesn't answer. I wake up, this time in real life. I am instantly scared. My "dream" mirrors my real life to such an extent that I feel violated. How did my dreaming self know about my real life? I start thinking about the details of the dream. I remember Mona once complaining to me about being Cruella, from the Disney movie, which was released fairly recently at the time. I countered reflex-ably that I was Medusa. I knew the power of Medusa as a mythological figure from a childhood movie I watched as a kid titled, "The Medusa's Touch" with Richard Burton. That movie is no movie for kids, I tell you. But our parents were really liberal with us when it came to cinema. I grew up watching the most inappropriate stuff a kid could watch, short of porn. I almost don't want to get out of bed, the dream is such a horror. I notice a hole that's growing bigger in the glass door that separates my bedroom from the sitting room. How did that happen? Is there a ghost roaming my apartment wreaking havoc, destroying my belongings? I want answers. Who will give me answers? Erik? Erik Stubblefield? There is something in the air. Maybe my mom is finally waking up to the truth of what Maysa has done. Maysa is trying to push Sulafa on me, as I lay in bed. Just like before. I listen for the noise as it works out truth from fiction. I chime in, yes, I am Noha, not Maysa. Yes, we are different people. Yes, Maysa has ruined my life and marriage. Yes, ignore Maysa's sorrys and stop her now. Yes, Maysa is not British, so sorrys don't apply. Yes, I want to be up there with you. Yes, I am sane. Yes, I am in perfect health. Ouch, something just hurt my stomach, like a foreign object trying to lodge itself inside me. No, I am not pregnant. Who is the little girl in the elevator, staring me down, as her mom, a woman of Asian (not Southeast Asian) persuasion with Instagram worthy eyebrows, types furiously into her mobile phone? Should I be scared of the people in my building? Yes, I am suffering. Yes, I am scared. Yes, please stop Maysa now. Now!

On Crypto #It'sOn

On Riots #It'sOn

On OrangePilling #It'sOn

On Closure #It'sOn