Morning Stories

There’s something about a Tracht. Something special — both in meaning and in memory. It’s tradition you can wear.

“Don’t play with the mucky pups. Don’t sing their songs. Go to the Upper Town. Be like your brothers.”

In bright, glittering letters, her T-shirt read RESIST. The shirt — and the woman wearing it — celebrated resistance. Ah yes… but resistance against what, exactly?

The first thing that stands out are the first four letters: M U S K. Those four characters of the linguistic universe have gained global weight.

The Ghostbusters film series remains a fascinating example of how a clever mix of humour, horror, and special effects can create a lasting and beloved piece of pop culture.

His face revealed nothing. No sign of tension, no flicker of doubt. The patient — the world — waited in silence for the diagnosis.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” That’s one of those classic questions adults ask children — often right in the middle of a sandcastle project. Most kids freeze when they hear it.

Strictly speaking, the plural would be correct. There isn’t just one house where the mad rewrite the fate and story of humankind.

How empty does something have to be before it becomes good? Or at least seems good? What could possibly be so wonderful about an object full of nothing but warm air and a hint of optimism?

Kids can be uncomfortable. Kids can be annoying. Kids ask too many questions.

For a long time, even Canadians themselves didn’t really know who was living up there at the northernmost edge of the Arctic. This mysterious group had settled long before the first Europeans ever arrived, struggling to survive in the biting cold.

As I’ve mentioned before, my Morning Splinters usually begin with a single word — the first one that drifts across the horizon of thought. But this morning, when the word Greenland appeared, a small red warning light blinked in my head. “Nooo, not that one!”

Some words are so loaded with emotion that they practically hum when you speak them. Barely have the first two letters appeared around the corner, and entire worlds of feelings are already in turmoil. Associations, it seems, have a power of their own — wild, uncontrollable, and often irrational.

Please, separate your words correctly. That’s what modern spelling rules suggest, at least. Because when you split a word the wrong way, you might sprinkle a little confusion into the mix.

Owning one — or even several — doesn’t make you special. Practically all human animals and animal-like humans have them: those lightning-fast flashes of thought — ideas.

Those who dare to feel before they find the words for it are already doing quite well.

The little rodents are Canadians. Among others. They live in the Arctic — in large numbers. As long as there’s enough food, that is.

Anyone who stays at the surface can afford to slow down now and then. Because just beneath that polished layer lies the unknown — the vast, restless sea of everything we don’t know.

When ICE takes control of the roads, the sand in the box suddenly has a lot of work to do. That gritty helper improves traction on slippery streets, and every creature with a vehicle hopes its gears won’t get too close to the ground.

Days and nights used to be long — and rarely entertaining. Life in the northern world, hundreds of years ago, was sparse: a bit of fog, bone-deep cold, a view of the next hill, and endless forests with no exit.

Language doesn’t live on words alone. It thrives on change — and, more than anything, on meaning. Whether written or spoken, language (and rhetoric with it) is a fascinating adventure. And we are the adventurers of linguistics.

When Peter Tosh passionately sang “Legalize It” fifty years ago, smokers everywhere perked up and stood tall. Finally, they thought, the haze of prejudice around the so-called “devil’s weed” might lift.

When attraction grows powerful, when enthusiasm lifts to new heights or curiosity dives deeper—and when excitement keeps intensifying—then fascination is fully at work.

Usually, I write my Morning Splinter story when a first — sometimes a second — word comes to me early in the morning. That word becomes the foundation of the story.

A man gathered his old band, brought two of his favourite musicians into the studio – and the iconic song “Heroes” was born 49 years ago. Back then, none of the musicians working with David Bowie knew they were creating a timeless classic.

This year is at its end — and honestly, it looks exhausted. 2025 is limping across the finish line, battered and breathless. Time itself seems to have been grinding its crooked teeth all year long.

Someone once said, “Time is like a roll of toilet paper — the closer it gets to the end, the faster it spins.” What a wonderfully precise thought for a place designed for letting things go.

Take a compass and place it right in the centre of the Arctic — at the North Pole. That’s the point, or rather the region, that exerts the strongest pull on most compass needles. The North Pole has always been magnetic — in every sense of the word.

Schampar? What a peculiar word — and what a shining example of Swiss linguistic creativity. It’s an expression used to amplify intensity. In other words: it means very, really, or extremely. But only in Switzerland. Everywhere else, it means absolutely nothing!

What a brilliant invention — and what a monumental gift to humanity — to finally have intelligence available on demand. No more wasting personal brain resources! A golden age of thinking and opinion-outsourcing has begun. If it can’t climb the tree of intelligence on its own, we simply let AI do it for us.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been at war with the word stupidity. Not because of the word itself — a word is just a word — but because of how it’s used.

Sleepy eyes gaze at the table — beautifully set, almost sacred. Salmon, fresh rolls, butter, and right in the middle: the enormous, still-untouched turkey, waiting for its cue. The Chrunch can begin.

Who are the people who keep sending their questions out into the world? Children and journalists, of course.

Oh yes — this phenomenon has quite a large team of perpetrators. And they wield a powerful tool: the ability to make life together fair, kind, and deeply human.

Was that a battle cry back in the flower-power seventies? Make Love, Not War — the slogan that blossomed under the shadow of Vietnam — wasn’t just an invitation to a freer love life, but a bold protest against the madness of war.

Lighting up the dark December days is a brilliant way to chase away a bit of the gloom. How? Oh, that’s not what you meant by “light figures,” right? Hmm.

45 RPM singles have always been a hit with rock’n’rollers. On the tiniest space, with an A-side and a B-side, magic was born.

“Who’s in the mood for a celebration?” Mood? Oh right — that mysterious state of being that can change faster than a Canadian weather forecast. Mood is an emotional lightweight, true, but it lasts longer than any passing feeling. It’s often confused with spirit — and that’s perfectly fine.

When two atoms share an apartment, the landlord is almost certainly called Molecool or Molecule. These living units are highly electrified but mostly neutral. It’s now officially known who inhabits these molecules: on one side, the group of “birds of a feather flock together,” and on the other, those who live by “opposites attract.”

Wishful thinking isn’t just a holiday tradition — it’s a year-round mindset. All year long, there are people who’ve made thinking itself their norm. Why, you ask?

German words are rarely made for Scrabble. Especially those that march onto the board in large, intimidating groups of letters. Take Ausnahmezustand — “state of exception.” That word alone could sink a vocabulary ship.

The long road of evolution is, in truth, a never-ending test track. Some tests pass with flying colours. Others crash and burn. So far, so evolutionary.

Once upon a time, a curtain meant one of two things: a belly proudly spilling over a belt, or a piece of fabric designed to shield the private from the public. The curtain stood – or rather hung – for privacy.

Your average Homo sapiens loves to form groups. It doesn’t take much—three people are enough, and boom, you’ve got a group. How educated that group turns out to be is another question entirely. But once formed, evolution takes over and the show begins.

“I’m counting on you.” A simple phrase — and yet a tricky one, especially if you take it literally. Because to be left or to leave usually comes with tears and trouble.

If the bells are ringing sweeter, how loud, then, must the cookie tin sound? We, the noble tribe of Homo sapiens,are well-equipped and properly wired.

Two hundred and two years ago, the Monroe Doctrine was introduced to the American people. No, this Monroe has nothing to do with the dazzling Marilyn — though both versions had explosive potential.

“I’m not moving forward anymore.” That’s usually the first sentence when stagnation sets in — or is quietly installed. When a nation’s economy stands still, and technology stops surprising anyone, stagnation is in full bloom.

“This will go down in history.” Well, practically everything alive goes down sooner or later. But whoever goes down in history — that person stays there, forever and ever, carved into the chronicles of humankind. Now, if that isn’t an exquisite kind of immortality, what is?

The air is ringing with frost. The lights are glowing with warmth. The shop windows sparkle with glitter and gold. And the people—oh yes—are full of expectation.

It’s practically impossible to avoid them. They’re everywhere. Sometimes coming toward you, sometimes walking away. They move through the days — sometimes loud, sometimes in groups — but always present: people.

“I know that I know nothing.” A line that sparkles with meaning — and, once again, a few old, very old men are involved. Socrates, they say, never actually said those words — certainly not in English — but the spirit of his philosophy is right there.

Madame Melan Cholie lived in ancient times — in an age overflowing with philosophers. Especially in Greece … and southern Italy.

The word itself already gives it away — my opinion. In that little word hides a whole universe of individuality.

Old Shakespeare really has very little to do with this sentence. William, in this case, is entirely innocent. So much for the facts.

“Advent-ure? Sorry, I don’t speak Italian.” No worries — it’s not Italian. And it’s not two words either.

The driver drives — and leads — a moving something from a real point A to an imagined point B. Once upon a time, such people were called coachmen, train engineers, or captains.

When the knee was invented — one for the left leg and one for the right — the instruction leaflet read: “Move frequently.” A truly moving recommendation.

If there’s a question, it’s not a trap — it’s a letting go. What pretends to be a quote here isn’t one. Or not yet.

Ah, how soothing melodies can be when they wash through both ears into the sensorium, spreading pure delight. To lift that delight to higher spheres, technology long ago gave birth to a word — and a wonder — called Stereo.

Ouch. That wasn’t my intention. And I truly mean that. But somehow, the headline slipped through my fingers — effortlessly, almost mischievously. I can’t quite explain how. And perhaps it’s better not to try.

The woman looks at the two powerful men without batting an eye. She knows exactly who they are. She also knows what her duty as a journalist is.

The path of least resistance is hardly worth mentioning. It’s forgotten the moment a new object of curiosity comes into view. Or, to put it more bluntly: the path is gone.

Those three little letters — PRO — sound like a declaration of approval. Pro Paganda almost seems like something positive, as if one were for this kind of communication. But that’s an illusion. “Pro” is neither good nor bad; it’s merely directional — for or against something. Nothing more. No judgment, no virtue, no quality seal attached.

Television formats have flooded our screens for decades—some inspiring, others instantly forgettable. Light entertainment has a peculiar talent: it lulls its audience into a gentle, lasting slumber.

Some words are born with heavy baggage. “Decision” is one of them. When a word carries that much emotional mortgage, life is hardly sugarcoated. And to make matters worse, even the word itself can’t hold together.

Does intelligence need a PhD? Or is it enough just to be inventive — to find solutions where others see walls?

“This surgeon really messed up,” someone in the audience said. “And what about that nurse? She’s even worse!”

“Don’t play with the dirty words!” That’s what the German singer-poet Franz-Josef Degenhardt warned sixty years ago. Back then, he wasn’t talking about words, but about the so-called Schmuddelkinder — the “grubby kids” of society.

There are certain words that never sound good to teenage ears. Tradition is one of them.

Once upon a time, there was that one story — the one where a camel was told to pass through the eye of a needle. Clear as mud, right?

I don’t see stumbling as an accident — not when it makes your feet lose rhythm or your routine take a detour.

The word justice carries weight. It’s a heavy one — serious, loaded with consequence, never to be handled lightly. When you fall into its machinery, you’ll either pay the price for what you’ve done — or finally receive the fairness you’ve been waiting for.

Words don’t always like being taken apart. They claim it’s an invasion of privacy — at least, that’s what a few words from the Ministry of Justice have been whispering.

I don’t remember the exact moment, but I do remember the feeling. It happened one morning when I checked the weather. 29 degrees — feels like 34. Excuse me?

“Wanted: a dynamic, focused individual to lead…” Dynamic and individual? What exactly is this company hiring? Dynamism sounds energetic, powerful – something’s clearly moving. But what, exactly, is moving?

Ah, look at that: a two-seater word. “Believable.” It splits neatly into belief and able. That’s what I’d do—believe, I mean. Or at least, I think I would.

“Don’t say that!” “Hey, you can’t say that anymore!” Remember when free speech was still free of panic? When talking came with a hint of manners, maybe even ethics?

The first word that appeared to me this morning, around half past five, lingered only for a few seconds before fading again. The word was “Hunger.” Not the kind that growls before breakfast, but the raw, existential hunger—the kind Palestinians and, lately, Americans are starting to feel in real life. I’ll write about that another day.

When a German word meets an English one, they usually start with a polite little “Hallo” or “Hello.” Then, naturally, they study each other: What do we have in common? And where exactly do we part ways?

Signs of the times? Yes, that too. But signs were probably the first messengers of language itself. Just ask the ancient Egyptians — they told their entire history in symbols and painted walls.

Politics? No, Thank You. Few professions today suffer from a reputation as battered as politics. Once upon a time, it was used-car dealers, insurance agents, and investment brokers who carried the public’s mistrust. Now it’s politicians — too often seen as the self-serving representatives of a few citizens, rather than the responsible stewards of all.

The call “Women to Power!” sounds brave, catchy, even romantic — but let’s be honest: it’s not the full story. Using gender as a battle cry may feel righteous, yet it’s only half the truth.

Nobody really knows when focus was invented. Thousands of legends pass the torch, whispering that it was born somewhere between curiosity and caffeine.

An inkling is, by definition, the state of not knowing — a suspicion at best, supported only by faint traces of evidence. Last night, I was haunted by inklings. Two of them, actually: “I don’t really understand baseball,” and, “I have a feeling the Blue Jays will win.” Both stood in my living room like slices of Swiss cheese — full of holes and hope.

Oops — November is here. The most unloved month of the year, dressed in fifty shades of grey and minor chords. Even its name — No Vember — sounds like a refusal of joy, a month that says no to sunshine, no to cheer, no to colour.

Can you believe it? The barrel — that humble, round invention — is ancient. Its makers were Celtic craftsmen, back in the days when “recycling” meant using the same goat twice. Unfassable, as the Germans would say — unfathomable.

Disputes are the daily seasoning of human existence. Empathy, respect, and humour — those are the better side effects of being Homo sapiens.

The third season of the year has, since the dawn of humankind — and probably a bit before that — been the dull cup among the four outdoor states of being. What, I ask, is not dreary about this ghastly, cold-creeping, fog-drenched time of year?

For four quiet years, the house next door was perfectly peaceful. The elderly couple who lived there were hardly noticeable — except for the occasional chat over the garden fence. No loud parties, no drama, just classical calm. It was bliss.

The old Greek sits on a rock, staring into the waves of the Mediterranean Sea, lost in thought. At least, that’s what his posture suggests — deep reflection, the kind that shouldn’t be interrupted, because once you disturb reflection, it loses its very meaning. As he sits there in his meditative trance, his face suddenly lights up.

Oh yes, they are. People make mistakes. And people are often mad. Those with unusual behaviour or strange ways of thinking are one kind of the mad ones. The other kind are those with a medical condition — people who could, if they wanted to, pick their diagnosis from a vast catalogue of brain malfunctions.

In earlier times, the troll was one of those fascinating figures of Scandinavian folklore. They were often described as large, strong, and not particularly clever, living in remote places such as mountains or forests, and avoiding daylight, which could turn them to stone. Very troll-like creatures indeed.

Storytelling — the art of shaping experience into narrative — has an extraordinarily long lifespan. Before writing and printing existed, storytelling was the only way humans could share knowledge. It’s also one of humanity’s greatest inventions — a gym for the imagination and the mind. Reading or listening to a story remains one of the purest forms of entertainment.

Dystopian narratives about the future of climate change are depressing. Scientists’ scenarios depict a world in chaos, under fire and water, in heat and cold, offering little chance of survival. However, a closer look at the past, i.e., history, reveals that while the scenario is undoubtedly accurate, the chances of survival are greater and more diverse than models suggest.

One of those smoke-filled, gloomy people sitting on barstools in the shadows has always been a magnet for me. People travelling alone or in pairs enjoy themselves at a bar. That’s because there are few barriers to contact with the person next to you on the right or left. Many a conversation would never have taken place without a bar.

Moreover, this is not a single play, but a constant repetition of a bizarre performance. Act One: The parties ( They only have two parties) refuse to compromise. Act Two: All government services are shut down. Act Three: Everyone tries to get the wagon rolling again. The script of this play never changes.

I have never regretted my time as a psychological wastebasket. On the one hand, I got closer to these beauties than many other male contenders, and on the other hand, I learned a lot about the innermost thoughts of people afflicted with beauty.