Forwarded from Save Alexandria
Kitchen Sink Farming, Volume 3:
Easily & Cheaply Grow Your Own Food for a Healthier Now and a Greener Future
by Jean-Pierre Parent
Easily & Cheaply Grow Your Own Food for a Healthier Now and a Greener Future
by Jean-Pierre Parent
Forwarded from Save Alexandria
Kitchen Sink Farming, Volume 4:
Homegrown Living Recipes for a Healthier Now and a Greener Future
by Jean-Pierre Parent
Homegrown Living Recipes for a Healthier Now and a Greener Future
by Jean-Pierre Parent
Forwarded from Save Alexandria
Preserving Food: Drying Fruits and Vegetables
University of Georgia Cooperative Extension Office
University of Georgia Cooperative Extension Office
Forwarded from Save Alexandria
The Solar Food Dryer
A Mother Earth News Book for Wiser Living
by Eben Fodor
A Mother Earth News Book for Wiser Living
by Eben Fodor
Forwarded from Save Alexandria
The Solar Food Dryer - Fodor, Eben.pdf
26.7 MB
Forwarded from Anarchismemes (Mitchell)
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March 17, 2026 (Tuesday)
Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is dead. At least, that is what the internet decided.
Israel and the United States are at war with Iran. The Israeli military had killed Iran’s Supreme Leader. Iran had vowed to kill Netanyahu. Missiles were hitting buildings. And then reports came in that Netanyahu was missing war cabinet meetings. For days, a man who typically released one to three videos daily, said nothing.
On March 13, a video surfaced of him addressing the nation. In one frame, his right hand appeared to have six fingers. The internet noted it. There was no evidence Netanyahu was dead. There had never been any evidence. Iranian state media had assembled circumstantial fragments, days without a video, tightened security, a postponed meeting, and published them as proof. There was no proof. There was only the need for there to be.
Two days later he responded. Not with a press conference. With a coffee shop. On March 15 he appeared at Sataf in the Jerusalem Hills, ordering coffee, holding the cup to the camera. The liquid does not seem to move. “I am dying,” he said, “for a coffee.” He held up both hands. “Do you want to count my fingers?”
The internet counted them anyway. Thousands analyzed shadows, examined pixels, timed cuts. Thousands more noted that we had not seen him socialize this much when he was alive. Someone observed he had died and become an influencer.
The next day, as bombs were still falling, he posted a Nowruz message. The Iranian New Year. The Festival of Lights. To the brave people of Iran, he said. A year of freedom. A new beginning of hope. A holiday greeting to the people of a country he is bombing.
You are watching a man hold a cup of coffee. The liquid does not seem to move. And you realize you cannot tell, because every source that is supposed to know has a stake in what you believe. The journalists. The governments. The algorithms. The fact-checkers. Even the man holding the cup. And in that moment the ground goes. Quietly, the thing you stood on when you said “I know what is real” is no longer there.
In its place: data centers the size of city blocks, running on more electricity than your neighborhood will ever see, cooled by water your city cannot afford to waste, built where the newsrooms used to be, where the new schools should be, humming in the dark, generating everything you need to believe.
When reality collapses, what fills the gap?
Right now, as you read this, a sandstorm is moving through Gaza. Orange dust. Near-zero visibility. Two million people living in tents that do not protect them from the weather, tents blowing away, belongings buried under sand. Children with respiratory illness told to stay inside shelters that are themselves blowing apart.
Gaza is burning and the world is watching and nothing stops. For years people have carried that weight with nowhere to put it. Some of them hoped Netanyahu was dead. It was born of watching children die with nothing they could do. When grief is that large and that long, it does not stay grief. It becomes certainty. An outlet that asked for confirmation before reporting his death received hateful messages for applying that standard. The confirmation was never the point.
They were merely glad to have, at last, something that felt like an ending.
Eight hundred thousand people follow a Buddhist monk named Ming San on Instagram. Elderly. Shaved head. Deep-set eyes. Saffron and maroon robes. Candles. An ancient text open on his lap. He speaks in the cadence of wisdom. “Did you know this, my friend?” The comments fill with gratitude. “You are so very informative. Love your posts, God bless.” Nobody asked where he trained or who sent him. Nobody asked why a Tibetan monastery aesthetic is being produced from an account based in the United States. Someone built the precise image of Eastern wisdom that Western loneliness has always wanted, the ancient Asian elder, and pointed it at people’s phones.
He does not exist.
Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is dead. At least, that is what the internet decided.
Israel and the United States are at war with Iran. The Israeli military had killed Iran’s Supreme Leader. Iran had vowed to kill Netanyahu. Missiles were hitting buildings. And then reports came in that Netanyahu was missing war cabinet meetings. For days, a man who typically released one to three videos daily, said nothing.
On March 13, a video surfaced of him addressing the nation. In one frame, his right hand appeared to have six fingers. The internet noted it. There was no evidence Netanyahu was dead. There had never been any evidence. Iranian state media had assembled circumstantial fragments, days without a video, tightened security, a postponed meeting, and published them as proof. There was no proof. There was only the need for there to be.
Two days later he responded. Not with a press conference. With a coffee shop. On March 15 he appeared at Sataf in the Jerusalem Hills, ordering coffee, holding the cup to the camera. The liquid does not seem to move. “I am dying,” he said, “for a coffee.” He held up both hands. “Do you want to count my fingers?”
The internet counted them anyway. Thousands analyzed shadows, examined pixels, timed cuts. Thousands more noted that we had not seen him socialize this much when he was alive. Someone observed he had died and become an influencer.
The next day, as bombs were still falling, he posted a Nowruz message. The Iranian New Year. The Festival of Lights. To the brave people of Iran, he said. A year of freedom. A new beginning of hope. A holiday greeting to the people of a country he is bombing.
You are watching a man hold a cup of coffee. The liquid does not seem to move. And you realize you cannot tell, because every source that is supposed to know has a stake in what you believe. The journalists. The governments. The algorithms. The fact-checkers. Even the man holding the cup. And in that moment the ground goes. Quietly, the thing you stood on when you said “I know what is real” is no longer there.
In its place: data centers the size of city blocks, running on more electricity than your neighborhood will ever see, cooled by water your city cannot afford to waste, built where the newsrooms used to be, where the new schools should be, humming in the dark, generating everything you need to believe.
When reality collapses, what fills the gap?
Right now, as you read this, a sandstorm is moving through Gaza. Orange dust. Near-zero visibility. Two million people living in tents that do not protect them from the weather, tents blowing away, belongings buried under sand. Children with respiratory illness told to stay inside shelters that are themselves blowing apart.
Gaza is burning and the world is watching and nothing stops. For years people have carried that weight with nowhere to put it. Some of them hoped Netanyahu was dead. It was born of watching children die with nothing they could do. When grief is that large and that long, it does not stay grief. It becomes certainty. An outlet that asked for confirmation before reporting his death received hateful messages for applying that standard. The confirmation was never the point.
They were merely glad to have, at last, something that felt like an ending.
Eight hundred thousand people follow a Buddhist monk named Ming San on Instagram. Elderly. Shaved head. Deep-set eyes. Saffron and maroon robes. Candles. An ancient text open on his lap. He speaks in the cadence of wisdom. “Did you know this, my friend?” The comments fill with gratitude. “You are so very informative. Love your posts, God bless.” Nobody asked where he trained or who sent him. Nobody asked why a Tibetan monastery aesthetic is being produced from an account based in the United States. Someone built the precise image of Eastern wisdom that Western loneliness has always wanted, the ancient Asian elder, and pointed it at people’s phones.
He does not exist.
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