I remember coming upon Martin Geddes back when I first joined twitter. What was that, six years ago? Eight? Ten? In any case, I was thrilled to discover someone with such an articulated and detailed perception of the whole on that decidedly uneven platform. Then, of course, he was gone. Suddenly! Blew me away! Huh? Now of course I realize this was the dawning of my own comprehension of just how censored excellence of any kind was becoming on twitter. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
Meanwhile, other platforms opened up, including Telegram and Truth Social. I presently rely on Telegram (partly for reposts of “truths” on Truth Social), plus Twitter again, thanks to Elon Musk. Twitter now feels like a young, eager, just-out-of-the-gate, even runaway stallion. Whew! Of course it’s impossible to keep up with the revelations now being allowed expression there. And during these intervening years I’ve honed my discernment, so that I’m not constantly overwhelmed by events — or, I should say, by narratives — to the point of just giving up.
And then there’s Substack — I now subscribe to about 30 worthies there — which encourages longer essays, the kind where Martin Geddes, with his multifaceted experience in the world and his growing wisdom, positively shines. Think of this piece, as complementary to the one I just posted, especially as it shines the light on personal investigations into the trauma, pain and yearning for love of our own inner child.