Sol-2-Soul Sunday 81: Abundance Year Episode 1941 (audio: noxsoma.s...

Full Metal Ox Day 1876
Sunday 19, April 2026
Abundance Year Episode 1941
Noxsoma Life Camp:

Sol-2-Soul, my brothers & sisters. Welcome to,

Synesthesia Theater.

Our super hero persona has been retired for many years at this point. We salvaged what we could from the “save the girl” dynamic and constructed a “protector” model. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” We have always thrived on the prevention side.

But shit happens.

Universe provided us with an image. The roof is on fire. It’s my house. My family is inside. I must get them out.

Then, in that cinematic style, the distance between me and the house is widened. The roof is on fire. Not my house. But hey are neighbors. We are not running into this burning building, but we can help in many ways that will not take me away from my primary obligations.

The scene shifts again, I move backwards through a newspaper, (remember those), and I am looking at an image of a house, or maybe an apartment complex. It’s on fire. I turn the page. Nothing I can do. It’s in my city. I pass by this address on my way to work. Small impact. It doesn’t stir emotions. I don’t feel it.

Some accounts across social media seem to, or claim to “feel,” or at least, react to situations they are not involved in, and cannot do anything about, let alone change. That’s fine. A lot of folks do that. This is how charities get you. Sarah McLaughlin, sitting there with her dog, (or a dog), appealing for donations. But here’s where it gets, let’s call it “social.” They feel somehow compelled to share their experience of being deeply and emotionally wounded by some remote activity that they cannot change or do anything about. This used to be called, “Virtue Signalling.” I don’t see the term much anymore, but it doesn’t seem to have stopped happening.

But then there’s that next level. Someone posted something to the effect that, ‘everyone should be outraged that,’ dot-dot-dot. Apparently this has a name too, “Rage-baiting.” (I so enjoy the social media lexicon..) Not only are they pissed off about something they cannot do a damn thing about, they, literally want, “everyone” else to be, “mad as hell about it too!” To what end? What could possibly be the benefit, aside from clicks and likes, to descend into someone else’s outrage? Because, you probably cannot do anything about the situation either.

The only reason, “rage-baiting” exists as a term, is because it works. “Doom-scrolling” is another of my top ten social media words. The implication is, the individual is searching for some “rage-bait” to become outraged by, so they can re-post it, invite their flock to become outraged, like & share so the next doom-scroller will not be left out of the experience to release harmful chemicals in their vessel, get hungry, order food, which will be delivered by a wheeled (spy) robot.

This is why your life sucks. (In the spirit of rage-bait.)

“I’m having a wonderful and abundant day. Everyone else should one too.” Like. Subscribe. Share. (Crickets.)

My beautiful beings of mostly water, We are realizing at this moment, that every day is a 3 in 1, melange a trois, just for you. There’s an episode. The audio we attach that’s supposed to describe the episode, but is usually completely different, and this bit-o-scribbling, that goes with the audio, that goes with the episode, that gets remixed and posted at 4 20 Eastern Daylight Saving Time, just because I’m a smart-ass.

When sheeple like your humble anti-social loner vagabond, become a threat to society, psychology will forge a dangerous-sounding label for us. They will probably dig up a name from one of the lesser Greek myths, a la Echo, Narcissus, Sophia, Money (that’s Roman), and launch a multi-media blitz to defame the “archetype.” We shall cross that bridge when we come to it. However, if you can relate, keep your head down. Don’t let them know we exist and that we are here to protect humanity. Meanwhile.

Stay safe. stay strong, stay savvy, stay sane, stay serene, stay sovereign, stay subscribed.

PEACE

Sol-2-Soul Sunday 81

Prosperity
Crime Pays
We are so deep into the matrix, the only way out is through.

Today's Episode: https://odysee.com/@Noxsoma:2/1876_full_4-19-26_1941_sol81:e?r=47k2ScJsm9Uex9eETqgCCA8q1fukdST9
Channels: go to noxsoma.substack.com and subscribe.
So Deep into the Matrix the only way out is Through. (The Audio is way better.)
Today we have a Trilogy of Trials that revolve around two, (of many) maxims that fuel my energy cells in the simulatrix. First of all, “if you panic, you die.” And secondly, “when you’re in so deep there’s no turning back, the best way out is through. Our snippets are based on true stories. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Kash, 2016. The lighting’s soft, but his eyes are still hard.

“We were the only three left breathing after the ambush. Deep in Indian Country (hostile territory). Even deeper than that. I was a corporal. Two peckerwood privates, both green, both full of the kind of generational hate that basic training don’t bleach out. They wanted to shoot our way through every village, every trail. ‘Kill Charlie,’ ‘body count,’ they kept sayin’.

I told ‘em, ‘We play it cool, man. We move at night. We hide in the swamps. We don’t look at the villagers. We become ghosts. I’ll getcha thru this.’

They didn’t listen. One of ‘em pulled a rifle on an old woman collecting water. The VC came out of the elephant grass like they were born from it. Took the two of ‘em. I heard the shots. I heard the groans. I knew they were finished.’

I kept moving. Through the rot. Through the leeches. Through the difficult decision of leaving them, but they brought that shit on themselves.

High school taught me something different, Mr. Callahan, my history teacher, white man, Irish Southerner, told me, ‘Son, the only way out of a trap is to stop fighting the trap.’ In ‘Nam, that meant stop fighting Charlie like a cowboy. Start moving like water.

I came out the other side. Not because I was tougher. Because I was smarter. And I had nothing to prove.”

Vivian, 2011. Her voice is calm, almost warm.

“I was twenty-six then. NewYorican to da bone, ya’know? Poppi told me once, in Spanish: “Mija, los hombres buenos respetan. Los otros, los reconoces por como te miran cuando creen que no estás mirando.” (My daughter, good men respect. The others, you recognize them by how they look at you when they think you are not looking.”)

That night, ‘John-boy’, that’s what I called him in my head, like the Walton kid, we connected on a dating app. I thought he was kinda fly, for a white guy. It was cool. We were chillin’. Then he put his hand where it shuddint be. I moved it. He laughed. I got up and left out.

He followed me outside, he grabbed my wrist. Said, ‘You chicas like it a little rough, right?’

I told him, ‘You don’t know me. Or mi gente.’ He squeezed harder. Tried to pull me toward his car. That’s when the switch flipped. The flashback. Memory. I was fourteen, practicing for my black belt test. Sensei taught me the hip throw. “Use his weight, not yours.”

He reached for my chest. I dropped my center, pivoted, and threw him over my hip. His body thumped on the sidewalk. He groaned. But it sounded more like a whine. The fall knocked the wind of him.

I didn’t wait. Ran four blocks to the F train. Didn’t look back. Didn’t exhale until the doors closed.

Men like that? They think machismo is muscle and money. Real machismo is, well, you just know it, right?

Becky, 2011. Sun-weathered hands, easy laugh.

“Twenty years on the job. First female on my squad. They gave me hell, burned my lunch, called me ‘Princess’ till I proved I could drag a two-hundred-pound dummy up six flights. But when that ceiling came down in that warehouse fire? They showed me who they were. Real pros. They had my back, especially the chief.

He grabbed my facemask. Looked me in the eyes and Said, ‘Take a breath. If you panic, you die. You’re this far in. The only way out is through.’ And he got us out too.

Fast forward. Hawaii. Vacation. Me and a rented longboard. I’d taken three lessons, thought I was hot stuff. Paddled out past the break. Caught a few two-footers. Then one wave grabbed me like a bad structure fire, rolled me so hard I lost which way was up.

When I broke surface, the shore looked like a postage stamp. My lungs were screaming. My legs were jelly. And that old panic started to crawl up my throat.

Then I heard Chief. “If you panic, you die.”

I looked at that beach. Looked at my board, still strapped to my ankle. And I thought, “You’ve crawled through black smoke with zero visibility. You can paddle a thousand yards.”

So I did. One stroke at a time. I locked on to a lifeguard tower. Took me for ever. I lost track of time. My shoulders were on fire. But I made it.

When the lifeguard ran up, I just pointed at the ocean and said, ‘That sucker almost had me.’

He said, ‘Ma’am, you should not be alive.’

I said, ‘Honey, I’ve been not supposed to be alive for twenty years.’”

Being genuinely interested in humans, even if I cannot take, “the public,” has its advantages. I’ve learned that people in bars love to talk. About themselves. Their pasts. They have one story they tell over and over again, and I’m that guy who hasn’t heard it yet. The trade-off for my genuine attention, is whatever I’m drinking. Dark & Stormies, in a Park Slope bar with Vivian. Karaoke night and fruity rum drinks at a Waikiki Beach Club with Becky, or City Winery in Philly listening to war stories with Kash, while sipping watered down Long Island Iced Teas and listening to Incognito perform live. This is something your curious vagabond doesn’t have to fake.
Epilogue – I haven’t heard stories like these since I quit drinking.

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