We wake up to news of wars, fall asleep to reports of crises, and in between, we scroll through a screen that rarely gives us a reason to smile. In this scenario, talking about gratitude might seem like a luxury, or even naive. But is it really?

For psychotherapist Angela Masuzzo, the answer is clear: looking for reasons to hope is not naive; it is necessary. “Without hope, we often cannot move forward,” she states. In this conversation ahead of Thanksgiving, the psychotherapist helps us understand what happens within us when we choose to give thanks and why that choice is far from being just a pleasant feeling.

The specialist explains that our brains have a natural tendency to give more weight to what goes wrong than to what goes well. This is the so-called negativity bias, which social media and constant news consumption make even more intense. To counter this effect, she proposes something she calls “self-preservation”: knowing one’s own limits and knowing when to disconnect, without ceasing to care about the world.

Throughout the interview, Angela Masuzzo also distinguishes healthy optimism from so-called “toxic positivity”—the kind that forces us to say everything is fine when, inside, we are exhausted, anxious, or sad. For the psychotherapist, being optimistic requires courage: the courage to be honest about how we feel and, even so, to believe that there are viable paths forward.

Her simplest advice is also the hardest to follow nowadays: pause. Pause to see, hear, and notice the small things—like a conversation, a gesture of affection, or a shared meal—that we so often take for granted.

As the daughter of immigrants who left for Brazil after World War II, Angela Masuzzo knows firsthand the value of fresh starts. Because of this, she looks with special fondness upon the experience of immigrant communities, such as the Portuguese in Canada, who have learned to value every achievement because they know all too well the price paid for it.

This is a conversation that reminds us that, even on the hardest days, there is still so much to be thankful for.

Milénio Stadium: From a psychological standpoint, what happens within us when we practice gratitude? Is it merely a pleasant feeling, or does it have tangible effects on our well-being and mental health?

Angela Masuzzo: Gratitude is something that we should all cultivate in our daily lives. Practicing gratitude is often simply shifting the focus away from what we think we lack and learning to value and appreciate what we have in the present, as well as what we have already experienced in the past.

Being grateful is being able to look at life from a more positive perspective, recognizing the good things even when we are going through difficult times. Maintaining this focus can contribute to a more balanced mental health and help us live in a more optimistic, humble, and conscious way.

Gratitude also helps us accept that we won’t always have everything we desire at the exact moment we want it. Sometimes, what didn’t happen, what we don’t yet have, or even something we lost might be part of a larger process that we cannot yet comprehend.

Cultivating gratitude does not mean ignoring life’s hardships, pain, or challenges. It means learning to recognize that, even in the midst of them, there are still reasons to give thanks. It is a simple practice, but one that can transform the way we see ourselves, the people around us, and our own lives.

MS: Wars, economic crises, polarization, non-stop bad news… With so much negativity around us, is it naive to look for reasons to hope? What can help us find reasons to keep the light of hope in humanity burning?

AM: It is by no means naive to look for reasons to hope. Without hope, we often cannot move forward.

There is a lot happening in the world today. For people who are more sensitive to all these news items and events, practicing “self-preservation” can be very important.

And what does that mean? It doesn’t mean becoming indifferent individuals who don’t care about the world or what is happening. It means having the ability to assess our own limits and recognize how much we can absorb emotionally before that information begins to affect us negatively.

Limiting our constant exposure to news—whether on television, social media, artificial intelligence, or any other media outlet—can help relieve that emotional overload. We don’t need to be plugged in all the time to everything that is happening to remain conscious and engaged with the world.

Sometimes, preserving our emotional health means knowing when to stop. It means stepping away for a few hours or a few days and directing our attention toward the positive things that also exist around us.

Caring for ourselves in this way is neither selfishness nor a lack of awareness. It is a way to protect our ability to continue feeling empathy, to keep the light of hope burning, and to believe that, despite so many difficulties, there are still many good things happening in the world.

MS: We seem to have a natural tendency to focus more on what goes wrong than on what goes well. Why does this happen? And in what ways do social media and constant news consumption fuel this pessimistic view of the world?

AM: Yes, that tendency is real, and the reason why it happens is a good question. It is due to the so-called negativity bias. What does that mean? Simply that our brain has a natural inclination to give more importance to negative things than to positive ones. Our attention ends up being more directed toward a potential danger, a threat, a loss, or a conflict.

Social media and constant news consumption cause this effect to become even more intense. We are surrounded by news about the world, our country, and people that isn’t always positive, and that can reinforce a more pessimistic view of the world and even of humanity.

Often, it is human beings themselves who are involved in conflicts, wars, violence, crises, and other problems that end up being precisely the news we hear, read, and consume daily. When we are repeatedly exposed to this type of content, we can begin to get the impression that everything is worse than it actually is.

Therefore, it is important to remember that what receives the most attention in the news does not always represent reality as a whole. There are also many good things happening, people helping other people, and positive changes, but those don’t always receive the same spotlight.

MS: Can a more positive outlook truly help us live better? What is the distinction between healthy optimism and “toxic positivity,” which forces us to pretend that everything is fine?

AM: Yes, but that is a conscious and intentional decision we have to make to protect ourselves, including protecting our physical and mental health.

Practicing healthy optimism requires courage: the courage to be truthful and honest with ourselves and with what we are experiencing. When we enter the cycle of “pretending” that everything is fine, we often don’t get to experience optimism in a light and genuine way. On the contrary, we can end up in a constant state of alert, in that well-known “fight or flight response.” We are always trying to run, avoid, or protect ourselves from what we feel might hit us.

Being present and practicing honesty in a careful manner is not easy in today’s world. Many people aren’t truly interested in a real answer. The question “How are you doing?” is often already accompanied by an almost automatic response: “I’m good, thanks.” And it stops there.

But how many people are screaming inside, hidden behind that “everything’s fine”? How many are merely functioning, smiling, fulfilling their obligations, while inside they are exhausted, anxious, sad, or overwhelmed?

Perhaps that is precisely where courage comes in: the courage to be a little more honest. That doesn’t mean exposing everything to everyone, nor living life only talking about hardships. It means acknowledging what we are truly feeling, respecting our own boundaries, and allowing space for both pain and hope to exist.

Healthy optimism isn’t pretending that nothing is wrong. It is looking at reality as it is, recognizing what is difficult, and yet choosing to believe that there are possibilities, resources, people, and paths that can help us move forward. Perhaps, with a bit more honesty and less need to pretend, we can live in a lighter and more authentic way.

MS: What small daily habits or gestures can help us cultivate gratitude and a more positive mindset, both within ourselves and our families? And what advice would you give to someone going through a difficult time who feels they have nothing to be grateful for?

AM: There are people who have immense difficulty seeing the small positive things around them, and sometimes even quite significant ones.

Gratitude is a state of mind. When it doesn’t arise naturally, we can cultivate it at different moments in our lives. It is about developing the awareness that, no matter the size of the problem, difficulty, or obstacle we are facing, there is almost always an important lesson in that process. And that lesson, in itself, already deserves gratitude.

Human beings, in a way, have grown accustomed to never being completely satisfied. We are always looking for something more, something bigger, something better. And that “something more” can often be related precisely to the difficulty of recognizing and valuing what we already have in our lives.

This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t want to grow, change, achieve, or seek better things. The problem begins when we are so focused on what we don’t yet have that we stop seeing what is already present. And, often, important things pass right before our eyes without us realizing it.

My first suggestion would be: pause. Simply pause. Stop and begin to see, feel, hear, and pay attention. Pay attention to words, gestures, people, events, and small moments that pass us by unnoticed because we are always searching for “something” bigger, better, or different.

Sometimes, it’s a conversation. A gesture of affection. Someone remembering us. A text message. A moment of peace on a hard day. A meal. The opportunity to be with someone we love. Even small things that, because they are always present, we end up taking for granted.

And perhaps that is precisely where gratitude lives: not just in grand achievements, but in the ability to notice what is already happening while we are living it.

Because what happens when we don’t do that? We go on autopilot. We wake up, work, solve problems, handle our responsibilities, chase the next goal, think about what is missing, what we still want to achieve… and the day ends.

Then another day begins, and another. And, without realizing it, we can become people who simply exist, but aren’t truly living.

Cultivating gratitude is also cultivating presence. It is being able to step out, if only for a few moments, from this constant search for what is missing and look at what already exists. Because, often, the life we are waiting to live in the future is already happening right now. We just need to be able to notice it.

MS: For many immigrants, such as the Portuguese in Canada, life was built on sacrifices and fresh starts. Do you think this experience teaches people to appreciate the small things more and hold on to hope?

AM: Most certainly. I am the daughter of immigrants who went to Brazil after World War II, and I witnessed firsthand how they valued everything they achieved. I saw up close the sacrifices that were made, the effort to restart life in an unfamiliar place, far from what they knew, often out of necessity rather than mere choice.

There is something very profound in that experience. Starting over requires far more than willingness. It requires courage, perseverance, and the ability to believe that there is something better on the other side.

Everyone who prepares to immigrate needs, in some way, to cling to something stronger than themselves to keep going. It could be family, faith, a dream, an opportunity, the hope of providing a different life for their children, or simply the need to survive and build a new beginning.

Hope goes hand in hand with that perseverance and courage. Without hope, it becomes very difficult to envision a different future. And, in the end, that is precisely what every immigrant seeks: a different future.

Not necessarily a perfect future, but a future with more possibilities, more security, more dignity, or more opportunities than those left behind.

And perhaps that is why many immigrant families learn to value small victories so deeply. Because they know the price paid for them. They know that many things that seem simple or guaranteed to some were the result of immense effort, sacrifice, and courage.

Hope, in this sense, is not just waiting for something to get better. It is continuing to walk even without having all the guarantees, believing that today’s effort can make room for a different reality tomorrow.

Madalena Balça/MS

More than 800 gigabytes of Artemis II lunar science data – some of it previously unreleased – was released today, posted to NASA’s Planetary Data System. Most of the images from the mission were previously made public – although this Oct. 7 release is the official data archive with high resolution imagery and robust metadata. […]

LEVANTE | 7 ottobre, tre anni dopo: Netanyahu sapeva? Avvertimenti ignorati, Europa complice del silenzio e la legge sull’antisemitismo. Tre anni dal 7 ottobre 2023. Secondo inchieste di Haaretz, New York Times e Wall Street Journal, Netanyahu avrebbe ricevuto avvertimenti dagli Emirati e dall’Egitto prima dell’attacco. Perché nessuno ha agito? E perché Israele rifiuta ancora una commissione d’inchiesta indipendente? Bruxelles sanziona tre coloni e quattro organizzazioni, ma risparmia Ben Gvir e Smotrich. Contro il governo di Tel Aviv, nessun passo concreto. Ipocrisia o impotenza? Il ddl antisemitismo adotta la definizione IHRA: tutela necessaria o strumento per silenziare la critica a Israele? Ripartiamo dalle parole di Moni Ovadia, ospite lunedì su Casa del Sole TV. E poi: l’Accordo della Mecca tra Arabia Saudita, Turchia e Pakistan, la strategia di Erdogan, il fronte Houthi, la guerra dell’intelligenza artificiale e il declino della civiltà occidentale. Intanto in Italia inflazione al 4,2%, energia +22% e carburanti sopra i 2 euro. I libri degli ospiti: Federico De Renzi: Dialoghi sulle minoranze. Un viaggio attraverso le minoranze del mondo, Fabrizio Noli, Federico De Renzi- editore: Qulture Edizioni – anno edizione: 2014 L’India dei turchi. Una storia dimenticata del subcontinente indiano- Federico De Renzi, Simone Costanzo – editore: Il Cerchio 2025 Michele Putrino, Manuale di resistenza al potere – Uno Editori, 2019 Liberi dalla paura. Gli insegnamenti di un’antica dottrina per liberarsi dal controllo del sistema Uno Editori, 2021 Roberto Quaglia, Guerra e pace e zombi, 2025 Roberto Quaglia, Il fondamentalismo hollywoodista, 2020 Roberto Quaglia, Il mito dell’11 settembre e l’opzione dottor Stranamore, 2006 I LIBRI DI MARGHERITA FURLAN BRICS Scacco Matto (disponibile in italiano, inglese, russo) Un podcast d Margherita furlan, una produzione Casa del Sole TV Iscriviti, attiva la e sostieni l’informazione indipendente! #Levante #CasaDelSoleTV #AccordoDellaMecca #ArabiaSaudita #Turchia #Erdogan #Pakistan #Iran #Yemen #Houthi #MedioOriente #AsiaOccidentale #Russia #Propaganda #GuerraCognitiva #IntelligenzaArtificiale #DeclinoOccidente #Inflazione #CaroCarburanti #Geopolitica #Multipolarismo

L'articolo 🔴DALL’11 SETTEMBRE AL 7 OTTOBRE | LEVANTE LIVE proviene da Casa del Sole TV.

Hello, good morning, how are you? Another month… and what really matters is that we keep moving forward in good health, stumbling here and there, but following our path without harming anything or anyone. And, let’s face it, that isn’t bad at all.

We are celebrating Thanksgiving weekend, but shouldn’t we be thankful every day?

Not only for the food we put on our tables for our families day after day, but have you ever stopped to think that this very food is indeed a blessing, and that sometimes those who produce it and get it to us from its source might not even have enough to eat?

And don’t you think that those who provide us with work, which secures that food for us, should also be in our thoughts when we reflect on what we should be grateful for? We are—and I say we are because I am a sinner just like all mortals—we are, as I was saying, “ungrateful.” We complain about trivial things. For example, I find myself looking at my husband when he prepares a wonderful breakfast for me, which he does whenever he can, and then sets out the wrong cutlery—oh dear, I just can’t convince him that we have smaller forks and knives; it is what it is. But then I think to myself: well, there are also those who have no forks, no cutlery at all, nor any food, and so that fleeting moment of “ingratitude” washes away with the ocean wave that had brought it in.

I am grateful for my health, despite a few hurdles. I am grateful for my daughters, for my husband, and for 4 or 5 true FRIENDS, already including Ross, who never fails me in anything.

I am grateful to belong to two countries that, for now, still live in peace, for the roof that protects me and my loved ones, and for everything I have, whether much or little. I am grateful that I don’t care for ostentation or vanity, for being humble and knowing how to appreciate those who lend a hand when we falter or lend us an umbrella on a rainy day. I am also grateful for being humble—something that, along with gratitude, is slowly being lost these days.

I wish you all a Thanksgiving weekend filled with peace, abundance, love, and good health. Do not forget, however, a neighbor or family member who might not have anything to put on the table. Remember, Kindness begets Kindness.

It is what it is, and it’s always worth what it’s worth.

See you soon,

Cristina DaCosta/MS

Hear from the Artemis II crew about impact flashes — bursts of light caused by pieces of space debris hitting the ground — that they saw while they were on the other side of the Moon, during a planned loss of comms. Here’s what it was like at two key points in the story: when […]

Earth’s Moon is a historical landmark – a celestial body continually peppered with robotic landers shot from our home planet as well as being an in-your-face world dotted with human footprints planted there by a dozen visiting moonwalkers from 1969 to 1972. A recent gathering in Italy of the International Scientific Committee on Aerospace Heritage […]

Treasury Secy Scott Bessent clearly endeavors to be the second Pete Hegseth of Trump World, albeit via packing heat in the form of economic missiles rather than the kinetic kind. In fact, however, his ballyhooed Operation Economic Outcast actually amounts to the greatest windmill tilting operations since Don Quixote himself. So let’s cut to the […]

Riserve americane al minimo dal 1982, Cina che blocca l’export di carburanti, raffinerie russe in fiamme, Hormuz a scartamento ridotto: non è una crisi, è la somma di quattro crisi. E l’Europa le subisce tutte senza governarne nessuna. A Levante questa sera, martedì 6 ottobre, Margherita Furlan dialoga con Demostenes Floros, responsabile dell’area Energia del CER, sulla nuova geografia del potere energetico e su che cosa significa per l’Italia, nel giorno in cui torna l’accisa piena sul gasolio e il tetto ai prezzi resta affidato a Eni. Hormuz, l’OPEC+ senza Emirati e i 5 milioni di barili al giorno che mancano all’appello Washington svuota la Riserva strategica e minaccia di fermare il gasolio: l’Europa apre le scorte Pechino chiude l’export di carburanti e si tiene le cisterne La guerra delle raffinerie tra Kiev e Mosca e il conto che arriva alla pompa Gas e GNL: il Qatar ferito, l’Europa dipendente dagli Stati Uniti, l’inverno alle porte Eni, Mattei e lo Stato assente: tetto ai prezzi, dividendo straordinario, extraprofitti LIBRI DELL’OSPITE Crisi o transizione energetica? Come il conflitto in Ucraina cambia la strategia europea per la sostenibilità (con Stefano Fantacone), 2022 Guerra e pace dell’energia. La strategia per il gas naturale dell’Italia tra Federazione Russa e NATO, Diarkos, 2020 SOSTIENI CASA DEL SOLE TV Casa del Sole TV è un progetto di giornalismo indipendente autofinanziato. Per donazioni: IBAN: IT63P0326822300052392596590 Intestato a: La Casa del Sole Edizioni Causale: Donazione Casa del Sole TV Membership YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CasadelSoleT… Analista Multipolare €5/mese Inviato della Verità €15/mese Architetto del Futuro €25/mese I LIBRI DI MARGHERITA FURLAN BRICS Scacco Matto (disponibile in italiano, inglese, russo) SEGUI CASA DEL SOLE TV YouTube: @CasadelSoleTVChannel #Levante #CasadelSoleTV #MargheritaFurlan #Geopolitica #Multipolarismo #DemostenesFloros #Energia #Eni #Hormuz #Gasolio #Petrolio

L'articolo 🔴 IL MONDO A SECCO | LEVANTE LIVE proviene da Casa del Sole TV.

La finanza è colpevole: la guerra si combatte sui ponti di Kiev e si paga con il debito di Roma. A Levante, lunedì 5 ottobre 2026, alla vigilia del terzo anniversario del 7 ottobre, Margherita Furlan dialoga con Moni Ovadia, Francesco Dall’Aglio e Alessandro Volpi. Tre forme della forza che riducono la persona a cosa: la legge che vuole fissare i confini del dicibile, le armi che paralizzano una capitale senza abbatterne i ponti, il denaro che finanzia il riarmo mentre il debito costa ogni mese di più. AFFRONTIAMO INSIEME Il ddl antisemitismo alla Camera, la definizione IHRA, l’appello di Liliana Segre e il dissenso dentro la memoria Tre anni dal 7 ottobre: Gaza in una tregua che continua a uccidere e Milano che discute il gemellaggio con Tel Aviv Perché Mosca non abbatte i ponti sul Dnepr ma ne colpisce i cavi, e che cosa cambia per la logistica ucraina lungo la E40 Merz a Kiev tra le sirene, l’avviso russo ai diplomatici e la nuova soglia dello scontro Treasury oltre il 5,3%, Francia ai massimi dal 2002, spread fino a 131 punti: come il debito americano contagia l’Europa Interessi verso 117 miliardi l’anno, manovra e spese militari: chi paga e chi incassa «La terza guerra mondiale sarà quella della povertà sociale»: il nuovo libro di Alessandro Volpi GLI OSPITI Moni Ovadia, attore, scrittore, uomo di teatro Francesco Dall’Aglio, storico e analista militare Alessandro Volpi, Università di Pisa, autore di «La finanza è colpevole» LIBRI DEGLI OSPITI Alessandro Volpi, La finanza è colpevole Alessandro Volpi, La guerra della finanza. Trump e la fine del capitalismo globale, Laterza, 2025 Alessandro Volpi, I padroni del mondo, Laterza, 2024 SOSTIENI CASA DEL SOLE TV Casa del Sole TV è un progetto di giornalismo indipendente autofinanziato. Per donazioni: IBAN: IT63P0326822300052392596590 Intestato a: La Casa del Sole Edizioni Causale: Donazione Casa del Sole TV Membership YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CasadelSoleT… Analista Multipolare €5/mese Inviato della Verità €15/mese Architetto del Futuro €25/mese I LIBRI DI MARGHERITA FURLAN BRICS Scacco Matto (disponibile in italiano, inglese, russo) SEGUI CASA DEL SOLE TV YouTube: @CasadelSoleTVChannel #Levante #CasadelSoleTV #MargheritaFurlan #Geopolitica #Multipolarismo #LaFinanzaÈColpevole #AlessandroVolpi #MoniOvadia #FrancescoDallAglio #Kiev #Ucraina #Spread #DebitoPubblico #Riarmo #DdlAntisemitismo #7ottobre

L'articolo 🔴Kiev senza ponti Roma senza soldi | LEVANTE LIVE proviene da Casa del Sole TV.

Could Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon be pushing the United States to a “Sputnik Moment” – the Cold War ‘heebie-jeebies’ stirred up when the former Soviet Union lofted Sputnik 1, the first artificial satellite to circle Earth in 1957? Blake Burman, host of NewsNation’s “The Hill” broadcast aired on September 25, sat down with NASA Administrator Jared […]

Margherita Furlan. Il prezzo della decadenza. Guarda la puntata intera: https://www.youtube.com/live/ouQzao-1gSU CASA DEL SOLE TV — Informazione libera e indipendente Il nostro lavoro è possibile solo grazie al vostro sostegno. Casa del Sole TV non ha editori forti né finanziamenti pubblici: siamo sostenuti da voi, il nostro pubblico. Se credi nel valore di un’informazione che non tace, aiutaci a continuare. Dona tramite bonifico bancario: IBAN: IT63P0326822300052392596590 Intestato a: LA CASA DEL SOLE EDIZIONI Causale: Donazione Casa del Sole TV Dona tramite PayPal: paypal.me/casadelsoletv Sostegno ricorrente: casadelsole.tv/sostienici Anche un piccolo contributo fa la differenza. Grazie di cuore!

L'articolo 🔴CHI PAGA SIAMO NOI proviene da Casa del Sole TV.

Dal 2008 in poi le banche centrali hanno inondato il mondo di liquidità: salvataggi bancari, acquisti di titoli, debito pubblico finanziato a tassi vicini allo zero. Oggi lo scenario si rovescia. L’inflazione italiana sale al 4,2 per cento, trascinata da un’energia che costa il 22 per cento in più di un anno fa. Il gasolio supera i 2,30 euro al litro, il petrolio oscilla attorno ai 100 dollari sotto il peso della crisi di Hormuz, e la BCE risponde alzando i tassi per la seconda volta quest’anno. Mentre l’Occidente stringe il credito, i BRICS e il Sud globale accumulano oro e costruiscono canali di pagamento che aggirano il dollaro. Fino a quando potrà reggere un sistema fondato sulla creazione illimitata di moneta? E chi pagherà il conto quando la macchina si fermerà? Dalla politica monetaria ai ricordi di chi ha visto da dentro lo smantellamento della programmazione economica italiana. Ne parliamo con Nino Galloni, economista post-keynesiano, collaboratore di Federico Caffè, già funzionario del Ministero del Bilancio e della Programmazione economica e direttore generale al Ministero del Lavoro. Intervista a cura di Jeff Hoffman Affrontiamo insieme: Banche centrali e creazione di moneta: quanto può durare ancora? La BCE alza i tassi contro un’inflazione da energia: medicina giusta o errore? Carburanti, bollette e inflazione: chi incassa mentre noi paghiamo Dollaro, oro e debito americano: il tramonto di una valuta di riserva BRICS e Sud globale: l’architettura del mondo multipolare Federico Caffè, il maestro scomparso, e il prezzo della coerenza La chiusura del Ministero del Bilancio: quando l’Italia ha smesso di programmare La Carta di Roma, le tesi del 2008 e il confronto con Washington Italia ed Europa: esiste una via d’uscita dalla subalternità? I LIBRI DI NINO GALLONI Il superamento del capitalismo. Il mondo post-angloamericano. Oltre l’economia della moneta a debito, Arianna Editrice, 2025 (postfazione di Roberta Lasi) Economia quantistica, irrazionalità e coscienza, Byoblu, 2022 La rivolta delle coscienze. Siamo troppi, inutili e dannosi?, Byoblu, 2022 Il grande mutuo. Le ragioni profonde della prossima crisi finanziaria, Editori Riuniti, 2007 La moneta copernicana (con Marco Della Luna), Nexus Edizioni, 2008 La Sicilia protagonista della rivoluzione sovranista costituzionale, Edizioni Arianna LE INTERVISTE PRECEDENTI Crisi energetica, che ne sarà del fu Belpaese?    • Nino Galloni: crisi energetica, che ne sar…   Statonote e spazi di sovranità    • Statonote e spazi di sovranità   Dedollarizzazione controllata    • NINO GALLONI DEDOLLARIZZAZIONE CONTROLLATA   SOSTIENI CASA DEL SOLE TV Casa del Sole TV è un progetto di giornalismo indipendente autofinanziato. Nessun editore, nessun partito. Per donazioni: IBAN: IT63P0326822300052392596590 Intestato a: La Casa del Sole Edizioni Causale: Donazione Casa del Sole TV Membership YouTube:    / @casadelsoletvchannel   Analista Multipolare €5/mese Inviato della Verità €15/mese Architetto del Futuro €25/mese I LIBRI DI MARGHERITA FURLAN BRICS Scacco Matto (disponibile in italiano, inglese, russo) Iscrivetevi al canale e attivate la campanella: è grazie a voi che siamo qui ogni sera. #NinoGalloni #FedericoCaffè #BancheCentrali #BCE #Inflazione #SovranitàMonetaria #Dollaro #Dedollarizzazione #Oro #BRICS #SudGlobale #CrisiEnergetica #Carburanti #MinisteroDelBilancio #Italia #Europa #CasadelSoleTV #JeffHoffman #MargheritaFurlan #Multipolarismo

L'articolo 🔴 NINO GALLONI: LA FINE DEL SISTEMA INFINITO DELLA CREAZIONE DELLA MONETA proviene da Casa del Sole TV.

Un volo da Dubai a Tel Aviv, una colluttazione in cabina, un atterraggio d’emergenza in Arabia Saudita. Il movente è ancora ignoto, ma la cornice è arrivata subito: attacco jihadista, nuovo 11 settembre sventato, eroi a bordo. Come si costruisce un racconto prima dei fatti, e a chi serve? “Gli USA giurano di sconfiggere chiunque sia il nemico contro cui siamo in guerra”, titolò la rivista satirica The Onion all’indomani dell’11 settembre. L’attacco al giornalismo fu senza precedenti. Asfaltate le organizzazioni sindacali, rovesciate come calzini le associazioni di giornalisti. Ne parliamo con Stefano Re, criminologo, saggista ed esperto di metacomunicazione, e con Roberto Quaglia, scrittore di fantascienza e saggista. Due sguardi complementari: chi studia come un messaggio comunica il modo in cui deve essere letto, e chi da venticinque anni smonta i miti fondativi della propaganda occidentale. Affrontiamo insieme: Metacomunicazione dell’emergenza: parole, immagini e tempi con cui si fissa una cornice L’11 settembre come unità di misura di ogni minaccia, venticinque anni dopo Il dirottamento come genere cinematografico: eroi, cattivi e lieto fine già scritti Falsa bandiera: i casi documentati della storia e il confine con il sospetto automatico Realtà ritoccata: fotografie ufficiali, video virali, immagini sintetiche Profilo criminologico: attentato pianificato, gesto suicida o ancora nessuna delle due cose Lo stesso volo raccontato da Tel Aviv e dai media arabi I LIBRI DEGLI OSPITI Stefano Re LaScienzah. Quando la scienza si trasforma in fanatismo religioso, Arianna Editrice, 2025 Mindfucking. Dai manuali segreti della CIA al marketing, le tecniche di condizionamento mentale, Arianna Editrice, 2024 (edizione ampliata) Roberto Quaglia Guerra e pace e zombi. Democrazia totalitaria contro mondo multipolare, Youcanprint, 2025 Hollywoodism. The Invisible Ideology, Youcanprint, 2025 Il fondamentalismo hollywoodista. Viaggio in Iran alla scoperta dell’invisibile ideologia dell’Occidente, Youcanprint, 2020 Il mito dell’11 settembre. I versetti satanici della democrazia occidentale, Youcanprint, 2020 SOSTIENI CASA DEL SOLE TV Casa del Sole TV è un progetto di giornalismo indipendente autofinanziato. Nessun editore, nessun partito. Per donazioni: IBAN: IT63P0326822300052392596590 Intestato a: La Casa del Sole Edizioni Causale: Donazione Casa del Sole TV Membership YouTube:    / @casadelsoletvchannel   Analista Multipolare €5/mese Inviato della Verità €15/mese Architetto del Futuro €25/mese I LIBRI DI MARGHERITA FURLAN BRICS Scacco Matto (disponibile in italiano, inglese, russo) Iscrivetevi al canale e attivate la campanella: è grazie a voi che siamo qui ogni sera. #StefanoRe #RobertoQuaglia #Flydubai #11Settembre #FalsaBandiera #FalseFlag #Netanyahu #Metacomunicazione #Propaganda #GuerraCognitiva #Narrazioni #Mindfucking #Hollywoodismo #CasaDelSoleTV #Multipolarismo

L'articolo Chi scrive il copione? proviene da Casa del Sole TV.

Il prezzo alla pompa è l’ultimo anello di una catena che l’Italia non governa più: greggio dal Golfo in guerra, gasolio da raffinerie passate in mani straniere o dall’India, prezzo fissato da una quotazione privata. E oggi Washington chiede all’Europa di svuotare le scorte di diesel, minacciando di bloccare le proprie esportazioni. A Levante, venerdì 2 ottobre, Margherita Furlan, fondatrice di Casa del Sole TV, e Vincenzo Maddaloni, giornalista e già corrispondente da Mosca e Varsavia, partono dal distributore per allargare lo sguardo al mondo multipolare. Conduce Jeff Hoffman. Affrontiamo insieme: L’ultimatum americano sul gasolio e perché colpisce soprattutto Germania e Francia Raffinerie: dalla ventina di impianti degli anni Novanta alle dieci di oggi, metà della capacità in mani estere Il Platts CIF Med, cioè chi fa davvero il prezzo, e le accise mobili dal 6 ottobre BRICS, unanimità a geometrie variabili: pagamenti, cavi, calcolo, minerali dopo il vertice di Nuova Delhi Il Valdai di Putin e il cuneo fra America ed Europa I 100 miliardi di Draghi per l’intelligenza artificiale: a chi andranno i calcolatori? Il ddl sull’antisemitismo e la frattura nel Pd GLI ARTICOLI DI CUI PARLIAMO Margherita Furlan, «BRICS, unanimità a geometrie variabili», La Fionda, 15 settembre 2026 Margherita Furlan, «Raffinerie, l’Italia decida di essere un Paese», La Fionda, 19 settembre 2026 I LIBRI DEGLI OSPITI Vincenzo Maddaloni, «Voglia di rivoluzione. Storia e storie di un desiderio inappagato», Nexus Edizioni, 2024 Vincenzo Maddaloni con Modini, «L’atomica degli ayatollah», Nutrimenti, 2006 Margherita Furlan, «BRICS Scacco Matto» (italiano, inglese, russo),2025 SOSTIENI CASA DEL SOLE TV Casa del Sole TV è un progetto di giornalismo indipendente autofinanziato. Per donazioni: IBAN: IT63P0326822300052392596590 Intestato a: La Casa del Sole Edizioni Causale: Donazione Casa del Sole TV Membership YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CasadelSoleT… — Analista Multipolare €5/mese — Inviato della Verità €15/mese — Architetto del Futuro €25/mese SEGUI CASA DEL SOLE TV YouTube: @CasadelSoleTVChannel #Levante #CasadelSoleTV #MargheritaFurlan #Geopolitica #Multipolarismo #VincenzoMaddaloni #Gasolio #Carburanti #BRICS #Raffinerie #Valdai #SovranitàEnergetica

L'articolo 🔴Prezzo alla pompa ultimo anello | LEVANTE LIVE proviene da Casa del Sole TV.

On September 30, SK Hynix’s American depositary shares closed at US$184.15 on the Nasdaq. Earlier that day in Seoul, one ordinary share closed at 1,776,000 won, about $1,308.80. Ten ADSs represent one Seoul share, so each ADS’s slice was worth about $130.88. Comparing those two closing prices gives the ADSs a 40.7% premium. The markets […]

The post Why Americans pay 41% more for SK Hynix shares than Koreans appeared first on Asia Times.

Back on May 20, 2023, an asteroid plowed into Earth’s atmosphere over northwest Queensland, Australia. It produced 1 of the 20 most energetic bolide events reported by NASA’s Center for Near-Earth Object Studies (CNEOS) since 1988. It also was the most energetic fireball observed over Australia since satellite reporting began in 1988. The Queensland superbolide […]

A Levante questa sera, giovedì 1 ottobre 2026, alle 19, Margherita Furlan dialoga con Franco Fracassi, giornalista d’inchiesta e documentarista, sul volo Flydubai Dubai-Tel Aviv dirottato verso l’Arabia Saudita. Netanyahu ha parlato di «un 11 settembre evitato». Ci chiediamo chi scrive il racconto di una crisi prima ancora che se ne conosca il movente, e a chi giova a cinque settimane dalle elezioni statunitensi del 3 novembre. Il volo FZ1073: i fatti accertati e quelli ancora da verificare Dall’11 settembre al 7 ottobre: lo schema che ritorna L’Arabia Saudita stretta fra Houthi, Washington e Tel Aviv Oman, Emirati e Accordi di Abramo: chi perde e chi guadagna Verso il 3 novembre: pressioni su Trump e scenari di destabilizzazione Cosa significa per l’Italia LIBRI DELL’OSPITE 7 ottobre. L’inganno, 2025 Altri titoli: https://francofracassi.com/libri SOSTIENI CASA DEL SOLE TV Casa del Sole TV è un progetto di giornalismo indipendente autofinanziato. Per donazioni: IBAN: IT63P0326822300052392596590 Intestato a: La Casa del Sole Edizioni Causale: Donazione Casa del Sole TV Membership YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CasadelSoleT… Analista Multipolare €5/mese Inviato della Verità €15/mese Architetto del Futuro €25/mese I LIBRI DI MARGHERITA FURLAN BRICS Scacco Matto (disponibile in italiano, inglese, russo) SEGUI CASA DEL SOLE TV YouTube: @CasadelSoleTVChannel #Levante #CasadelSoleTV #MargheritaFurlan #Geopolitica #Multipolarismo #FrancoFracassi #7ottobre #Flydubai #ArabiaSaudita #Israele #MedioOriente

L'articolo 🔴Il ricatto di Netanyahu | FRACASSI A LEVANTE LIVE proviene da Casa del Sole TV.

David Alm | Longreads | October 1, 2026 | 5,726 words (24 minutes)

I got off Interstate 81 to give my soul a break. The back roads of southwest Virginia wind, crest, and plunge through lush valleys of oak, poplar, birch, and maple trees. It’s easy to lose track of time and distance there. People drive slower. Cows graze in pastures. And there are no placards festooned with Motel 6 and Starbucks logos, flattening the American landscape into a homogeneous blur. Any signs you might see are low to the ground and handmade, protesting a data center, for instance, or thanking Jesus.

I’d gone to this rural pocket of the country for the 90th annual Old Fiddler’s Convention in Galax, an independent city of just under 7,000 near the North Carolina border whose population, for six days in early August, balloons to around four times that. They arrive in RVs and Casitas, camper vans and cars to stake out 20-by-35-foot plots in Felts Park, a 28-acre fairground in the heart of Galax, transforming it into a massive, muddy parking lot sprinkled with portable toilets and a cluster of food trucks, offering loaded potatoes, funnel cake, and blooming onions.

The Old Fiddler’s Convention—or just Galax, as the diehards call it—is the oldest and largest fiddlers’ convention in the world, a place where banjo pickers, guitar players, and other maestros of old-time strings gather to see how they stack up. Founded in 1935, Galax has been canceled only twice since then: once during World War II, due to travel restrictions, and again in 2020, due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Many Galaxers have been going every year for decades, some for as long as they’ve been alive.

There are scads of rules: If you play clawhammer-style banjo in the bluegrass band competition, you will get disqualified. Same if you play bluegrass-style banjo in the old-time competition. If you break a string while performing, you must stop immediately. Playing time during competition is limited to two minutes and 30 seconds. And, crucially, no electric instruments of any kind are allowed, either on stage or in the tightly packed fairgrounds, where self-described hillbillies, accountants, firefighters, and session musicians pick day and night in blistering, impromptu jams amid the RVs. 

One does not merely attend Galax. It’s not a music festival. There are no headliners, and no full-set performances. There is a single stage, and over the course of six days, contestants take it one after another to play one song for a panel of judges and a smattering of spectators. There are more than a dozen categories, little changed in the past century: old-time fiddle, guitar, dulcimer, folk song. Cash prizes for individual players range from $35 to $285; a campsite and contestant pass together cost $175. “The prestige of being judged a ‘winner at Galax,’ and the respect for one’s musical talent that goes along with it, far outweighs any monetary award,” wrote Fred Burton in the March 1984 issue of Bluegrass Unlimited. 

In the 1980s and ’90s, cars lined up days before the gates to Felts Park opened. The fairgrounds got so full back then that people slept in the horse stables that used to line one end of them. Once, Elizabeth Taylor made a surprise appearance with her then-husband, Virginia Senator John Warner. Rumor has it that members of Old Crow Medicine Show and Leftover Salmon have shown up at Galax, under the radar, just to jam. 

And yet, despite appearing well attended to my virgin eyes, the Old Fiddler’s Convention’s numbers are down from the pre-pandemic years, and way down from peak Galax. Folks say it’s not like it was. Maybe, as one long-time attendee speculated, it’s that more kids are choosing devices and passive consumption over face-to-face activity with other humans, or that more and more young adults are fleeing southwest Virginia due to the gutted coal, tobacco, and manufacturing industries. Or maybe it’s just that people around there are dying faster than they’re being born. Glen Alexander, a 55-year-old fiddler who’s been going to Galax since he was a child, put it bluntly: “We’re all scared to death this is gonna go away.” 

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Tara Linhardt, a professional mandolin player from Leesburg, Virginia, with thick, curly hair and a determined gaze, has been going to Galax since she was in high school, and was happy to advise me on how to survive my first time. Buy what you need locally, she told me; it was cheaper than New York. It will probably rain, so bring mud boots. Find a high patch of ground, because rainwater pools in the low spots. Afternoon jams were open to anyone, but unless I was dead good, I should just observe the nighttime ones, where the “thoroughbreds” play so fast that a newbie like me would only drag it down. 

Tara and her husband, Ian, pulled into Galax late Saturday afternoon, just in time to get a bite before parking their Four Winds RV by the dumpsters behind the Applebee’s at the edge of town. She told me to sleep in my car there, since the church parking lot was already full, and Applebee’s, unlike Hardee’s, doesn’t mind. We’d need to queue up by the gates to Felts Park before seven o’clock Sunday morning to ensure we’d get decent campsites. First-come, first-served. 

I’d arrived earlier that afternoon, hours later than Google Maps had predicted, because I forsook the interstate. The day before, I’d left my home in Brooklyn only to spend two hours driving five miles to reach the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey. I was spat out onto I-78, which at some point blended into I-81, hauling me across Pennsylvania to Staunton, Virginia, where I slept in a former sanatorium. I had recently been laid off from a job I’d held for 13 years, editing reports for a geopolitical risk advisory firm, and needed reprieve. I sought my escape on Route 11. 

In the trunk were a guitar and two banjos, instruments I was determined to spend the week playing in the Blue Ridge Mountains in lieu of applying for jobs and fretting about AI in my Brooklyn apartment. It was the first long road trip I’d taken alone in a quarter-century, and I’d hoped for a reset. Call it a midlife crisis if you want, but I drove cross-country a lot before I moved to New York, always on back roads. America is best seen up close.

After chatting awhile with Tara, Ian, and a luthier named John Hamlett, who’d also parked his RV behind the Applebee’s, I folded myself into the backseat of my Chevy Trax rental and more or less slept. I awoke at 6 a.m. to a downpour, rain pelting the roof of my car like fingertips on a conga drum. 

The four of us caravaned into town, where we waited until almost 9 a.m. to enter the park. We figured it was due to the rain. In fact, it was because of an issue with the gate itself. My source for this intel was none other than the Galax chief of police, DeWitt Cooper, who was directing traffic into Felts Park that day and hails from the Bronx. I’d see Chief Cooper again a couple days later, at Willie’s Food Truck inside the fairgrounds, where we chatted over catfish and collard greens about his philosophy of policing. “Don’t judge based on appearances and treat people with love,” he told me. 

I chose a plot on the far side of the fairgrounds, near a fence and a row of portable toilets, with Tara, Ian, and John all nearby. Our little commune wouldn’t last; the next day, Four Winds got stuck in the mud and Tara had to summon a Moose—one of the men of Moose Lodge No. 733, a fraternal organization that’s managed the Old Fiddler’s Convention since the beginning—to drag it out with a tractor. They found higher ground by the tennis courts and I stayed put. That night it rained again, and I awoke at 5 a.m. in a half-inch of water that had pooled in my tent overnight, soaking my sleeping bag, pillow, and clothes.

It’s no fun to wake up in a puddle, but when it rains in your tent, or the fairgrounds get so muddy that you watch a young woman lose a Birkenstock forever to the muck, or you start to stink because there’s only one public shower in Felts Park, it all feels incidental to what matters more: There’s pickin’ to do. You hear it all around, all the time. A lone fiddle at dawn, guitars easing into the afternoon, jams that grow in size and volume throughout the day, until night falls and Felts Park erupts in a surround-sound jamboree of syncopated banjos, arpeggiated fiddles, and bass notes so low and driving that they cut through it all at ground level. When it’s not raining, those jam sessions continue through the night, practically until the early morning’s still air is broken anew by someone’s fiddle.

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My first jam came on Day 0, after the rain abated and I’d set up camp. The Old Fiddler’s Convention wouldn’t officially start until Monday night, with the astoundingly good kids’ competitions—the reigning bluegrass fiddle champion herself, Hollace Oakes, was 14 when she won the adult contest last year—but everyone in Felts Park was eager to pick.

Tara wanted to introduce me to Bill and Nancy Sluys, a couple in their early 70s who’ve been going to Galax every summer for some 50 years. We walked to their site, where Bill, a towering figure with a steady voice and a long, white, braided ponytail, emerged from their Airstream to invite anyone who might “wish to partake” to join Nancy and a few others inside. I told Bill I’d thought of bringing edibles to Galax, but the convention website said state laws concerning drugs and alcohol are “strictly enforced,” and Google’s AI bot, Gemini, warned that law enforcement would be crawling Felts Park with K-9 units, even though recreational cannabis is legal in Virginia for adults over 21.

Bill laughed and said that hasn’t been true in more than 40 years, though it used to be, on account of a music festival that happened once, half a century ago, about 15 miles up the road. Stompin 76 featured Bonnie Raitt, John Prine, and other big names from the time. The festival attracted a huge crowd, including a motorcycle gang that allegedly wanted to keep the party going after the festival wrapped, so they rolled into Galax on their hogs, stocked with methamphetamine, moonshine, and guns. Mayhem ensued. The authorities cracked down after that, ostensibly to maintain law and order in fiddleland. By the mid-’80s, they realized that the Old Fiddler’s Convention really was a family affair and let the fiddlers be. 

A group of six or seven people had gathered outside the Airstream by this point, all brandishing instruments. Bill, who grew up on Long Island, assumed his position behind an aluminum upright bass from the 1930s, while Nancy, a fiddler and banjo player roughly half Bill’s height who grew up in Connecticut, emerged from the Airstream with her fiddle. She sat down on a folding chair, called “Soldier’s Joy” in the key of D, and kicked it off at breakneck speed. This was an old-time jam, and “soldier’s joy” was a Civil War-era euphemism for morphine. Galax had begun.

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An old-time jam goes something like this: Anywhere from two to umpteen musicians gather in a circle, knee-to-knee, and someone—usually the fiddler—calls a tune. Before you know it, you’re carried away by a cyclone of fiddles, mandolins, banjos, and guitars, all locked into a swirling rhythm that can, when it’s good, take you to church. 

The tradition dates to the mid-1700s, when Scots-Irish immigrants first settled in Appalachia. Even then, coastal property was for the elite, forcing poorer immigrants inland and south, through the Shenandoah Valley to southwest Virginia, where land was plentiful and cheap. Their music quickly took root. “The Scots brought fiddles and liquor,” Ted McAllister, one of my neighbors in Felts Park, told me. “The Germans brought church music and beer.” 

Over time, Scottish fiddle tunes evolved, as oral traditions do, and began to mix with the musical traditions of enslaved Africans, who had brought with them gourd instruments that would evolve into the American banjo, along with rhythms the Scots had never heard before. Old-time music, in other words, is the music of diasporas, fed into a blender and then worked into a froth. A lot of traditional folk songs came out of this period, too. One that I learned at Galax, “Going to the West,” tells the story of a young man who leaves the mountains of his birth, “where labor is in vain,” to seek the fertile plains out west. It’s the story of my own Scottish forebears, who settled in South Dakota before moving to what is now suburban Chicago, and later, Florida. 

Bluegrass, by contrast, was born in the 1940s, when Bill Monroe and The Blue Grass Boys took those mountain sounds, combined them with Southern church music and blues, and tightened it all into something you might call an uncle of rock ’n’ roll. There’s a reason that Billy Strings plays to sold-out arenas and pickers from around the world can play classics like “Blue Ridge Cabin Home” at the drop of a one-chord. 

Where bluegrass is punchy and clean, designed for the stage, old-time is ecstatic, designed for participation. Bluegrass jams attract spectators who marvel at the players’ pyrotechnics; old-time jams get people on their feet. At Galax, some folks drag big pieces of plywood around the fairgrounds looking for old-time jams, where they’ll lay the board down at the edge of the circle and dance. Flatfooters they’re called: the percussion section. 

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The New York bluegrass community has a Signal thread, and through it I met Harrison Corthell, a banjo player from Queens who was camping in what he called the “gayborhood” of Felts Park: two tents and a rainbow flag. Corthell offered to introduce me to Tyler Hughes, who was also camping in the gayborhood. Hughes serves as the executive director of the Crooked Road Heritage Music Trail, a nonprofit founded by the Virginia Assembly in 2004 to boost tourism through music. Alsace has the Route des Vins, and Kentucky the Bourbon Trail. Southwest Virginia has the Crooked Road.

I found Hughes Thursday afternoon as he was setting up the Crooked Road’s information booth. Musicians were streaming by for the clawhammer banjo competition, which was set to begin any minute. As we sat on a park bench, I told Hughes that I’d begun to think of its music as the region’s chief international export of the past 100 years. “I think that’s a fair assessment,” he said, but stressed that he resists thinking of Appalachia’s musical traditions like a natural resource such as iron or coal. “We really try to stray away from an over-commodified, over-commercialized vision of southwest Virginia,” Hughes said. 

Musical traditions can be packaged and sold, after all. Last winter, an Appalachian folk musician named Murphy Campbell discovered that her videos on YouTube had been used to create AI clones of her voice and banjo playing. Someone then used Vydia, a music distribution platform, to share those clones via streaming services and to make copyright claims on Campbell’s own videos. Campbell described her ordeal on Instagram, including trying to address the matter with “agents” at those streaming services: “I’m telling robots to take down music robots made,” she said. Her posts went viral, causing Vydia to ultimately withdraw the copyright claims and ban the user responsible, according to reports. “It’s the wild west,” Campbell said in one of her posts. “And it can happen to anyone.”

I asked Hughes what percentage of the people in southern Appalachia play an instrument of some kind. He guessed around 70 percent. I’d heard the same number from Daniel, a 32-year-old banjo player I’d met earlier in the week, who works at a sawmill in Grayson County. “It’s kinda the only thing goin’ on around here,” Daniel said. He explained that when the cotton mill in Grayson County closed in the late 1980s, “everyone” started using meth. Then opioids. Within the next 20 years, drug overdoses had become a leading cause of death in southwest Virginia. Getting together to pick, Daniel said, “helps you through real hard stuff.”

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The guitar I took to Galax is a 1989 Takamine I’ve had since I was 14, when my parents indulged my desire to learn Pink Floyd and Jimi Hendrix songs on the condition that I take classical guitar lessons. I spent my first day or two in Felts Park carrying it around like a security blanket, but I was there to play the banjo. Upon arrival, I realized that I might have been the worst banjo player in Galax. 

I picked up the instrument in 2024, at age 48, in part because my maternal grandfather played one and I was always curious about it. More than that, I wanted to build a mountain banjo, the rustic kind people in Appalachia made from whatever wood they had nearby, animal skins for heads, and guts for strings. I liked their warm, thuddy sound, totally unlike the piercing banjos of bluegrass with their steel strings and resonator backs. So I learned everything I could about how to build one and called my dad to ask if he’d help. I knew the banjo; he knew wood. 

That summer, we spent a week together in his shop in Illinois, building a fretless eastern Kentucky-style mountain banjo out of walnut and ash. Most people in New York ask what it is; everyone at Galax identified it instantly. I’ve since built seven banjos and acquired three more, all different styles. This spring, I carved a neck from a piece of walnut entirely by hand, no power tools, for a 19th-century-style tackhead, the kind played by enslaved Africans on plantations and by Civil War soldiers around the campfire. It’s not just that I’m fascinated by the instrument. As my actual trades—crafting sentences and teaching others to do the same—are increasingly devalued by technology and a society that no longer reads, building banjos gives me one thing that I can hold onto. 

Shortly after my banjo obsession began, I started going to old-time jams in New York City, and later, bluegrass jams. I didn’t—and still don’t—actually listen to old-time or bluegrass music; my tastes trend melancholic. But I missed playing music with other people, something I hadn’t done since college and had begun to crave during the endless, isolated days of the pandemic. In early 2025, I started going to a regular jam session at a bar in Brooklyn called Sunny’s, whose owner has turned it into an institution of roots, bluegrass, and folk music. Some of the best pickers in the tri-state area turn up there each week, along with people like me, there to learn. It took me months to lead a song without blacking out. They call it “jamnesia,” and it’s humiliating. 

After one week among the pickers of southern Appalachia, I got tighter, faster, as if the place itself does some of the teaching. A fiddler friend from New York, who’d been to Galax in the 2010s, was more succinct: “It seeps from the earth.”

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Galax is hardly the first fiddlers’ convention; it’s just the oldest one still left. In the days before the railroad and automobile, let alone the World Wide Web, fiddlers’ conventions brought the people of Appalachia together, allowing songs and picking styles to spread like gossip over those hills. They could get pretty wild, and early-days Galax was no exception. Women and children did not go to Galax back then. It was a place where men gathered to let loose—“outside of the eyes of their preacher and their wives,” Rex McGee, a multi-instrumentalist from North Carolina, told me.

I’d heard of the McGee jams already, where “things get weird,” according to a woman I met Monday morning while I waited in line for the shower. Their camp sits right inside Felts Park, steps from the food trucks, identifiable by a 1974 Ford school bus painted an ominous matte grey. They call it the Muddy Creek Bus, for the band that Glen Alexander’s dad formed in the 1970s and soon became the back-up band for Rex and his brother Ralph’s grandfather, Ralph McGee the First, aka the Old-Timer. The Muddy Creek Boys could party as hard as the Old-Timer; it didn’t hurt that they could pick too. By the 1980s, the real show came after hours. Dozens of people would gather outside the bus to watch the Old-Timer, then in his 80s, fiddle with just about anything he could find: a toothpick, a comb, a “coon dick”—literally a bone from a raccoon’s penis. And it was loud. (For any curious fiddlers out there, you can buy four of these on eBay for $39.95.)

Felts Park is a galaxy of legacy camps like the Muddy Creek Bus. Almost everyone I met told me they’d been going to Galax for 40, 50, even 60 years. Their stories are legion, and they love to tell them: The year it rained so hard that one group holed up in an RV for six days with eight people, an upright bass, and “a little bit of cocaine.” The year a couple of young women got into a fight over a guy, went to fisticuffs in the mud, and ripped each other’s shirts off in front of scores of onlookers—“no one wanted it to stop,” one man recalled with a chuckle. The year several people went mudsliding on the tire tracks, which, for reasons unclear, were composed of raw sewage. 

Jimmy Kidd, an 86-year-old Dobro player who’s been going to Galax since he was 29, regaled me with the time he won the guitar competition, in 1969, by playing the Dobro because there was no Dobro competition then. His daughter, Vicky, told me she met Elizabeth Taylor when she came through Galax, in 1977, when Vicky was 12. Taylor was in a wheelchair, Vicky said, and she wasn’t very nice.

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Leo Lindblom sat on a low stool cradling a mandolin, his sister Lucy beside him. They’d taken the stage in the kids’ mandolin competition on Monday night, and Leo was focused. With flawless timing and dexterity, the 12-year-old picker dazzled the audience, Lucy accompanying him on guitar, for roughly two minutes. Then he rose from the stool, took a bow, and, with Lucy, exited the stage. 

On Thursday, I met Leo, Lucy, and the rest of the Lindbloms—Marina, Jon, and their nine kids, all but one of whose names begins with an L—at their bus in a gravel parking lot just across the road from Felts Park, where it was a little quieter than Galax Central. The Lindbloms first went to Galax in 2021, after discovering bluegrass at a gift shop in North Carolina while on a family vacation five years prior. All nine of the kids responded instantly to the “happy, upbeat” music coming out of the speakers, and mom and dad bought the CD on the spot. 

The kids, who range in age from 12 to 28 and were all homeschooled, each chose an instrument and formed their two bands, Headin’ Home and The Brothers Five. Now, when they’re not home in Bloomingdale, Georgia, they’re on the road playing festivals and gigs across the country. I asked what makes Galax special. Libby said it gives them a rare chance to slow down, to not have to be “on” all the time, and just spend time together. 

As we sat outside their bus, all 11 of them and me, I asked: Why bluegrass? After all, Marina and Jon met at the Eastman School of Music and played in the Savannah Philharmonic for 10 years. They know Tchaikovsky and Brahms just as well as Bill Monroe and the Carter Family. They could teach their kids classical music, or any other kind. “Our goal, in everything we do, is to glorify the Lord,” Marina explained. And with bluegrass, she said, they are able to give people a bit of happiness, a chance to tap their feet and forget about their troubles for a little while. It’s an act of service. 

Then I turned to Leo, the youngest, who was perched on Lucy’s lap, and asked what he likes about playing music that, surely, most kids his age don’t know anything about. “Everything,” he said, before checking my presumption: All the kids he knows play bluegrass or old-time, he said. He’s met them all through places like Galax. 

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I’d registered for the clawhammer banjo competition a month before Galax opened its gates, but by the evening of the contest, I was so worn out from five semi-sleepless nights, as many days packed with conversation and playing, and a dubious diet of beer, bananas, and cheese sandwiches that I decided to sit it out and trekked up the hill to Main Street for some Chinese food. Besides, I don’t even play clawhammer banjo. I’ve developed a hybrid style: I use finger picks, like bluegrass, but keep rhythm by striking the strings with the back of my middle finger, like clawhammer. After five days of watching virtuosos of both styles create magic on their instruments, I wasn’t about to do my mishmash in front of a panel of judges.

As I sat in my air-conditioned booth, hovering over a plate of garlic chicken, I got a call from Tara. Was I going to compete? I told her I’d spent the whole day interviewing people and was exhausted. “You have to participate!” she countered. “I triple-dog dare ya.” I was just delirious enough to bend. Thirty minutes later I was backstage rehearsing my song with John Garrison, who has gone to Galax each of the past 46 years. After a few runs through an instrumental version of “White Freightliner Blues” by Townes Van Zandt, I checked in, slapped a number on my chest, and took the stage. Tara squatted right in front to take video, smiling wide. Our pickin’ was clean, but we landed way outside the money: I bastardized the form and played a copyrighted song. We still got a big round of applause. 

My style served me better in the jams, where more than once people assured me that if it sounds good, ain’t no reason to change it. Some of the best sessions I went to were inside an A-frame tent adjacent to the gayborhood and maybe 100 yards from my campsite. On Monday night, I played fiddle tunes and shared a jar of moonshine in that tent with three young guys who lived just down the road, near the town of Fries, in Grayson County. One of them built a fiddle from scratch; it took him years. I did my version of “White Freightliner Blues” with them, and when we finished, one yipped, “That’s how it’s done!”  

Thanks to the moonshine, I forgot about Tara’s advice to sit out the nighttime jams and hopped over to a bluegrass jam that was really crackin’. At least 10 musicians stood in a circle, and the tempo was hot. I asked a guitar player if I could join. “You’ll have to ask him,” he replied, motioning to the only banjo player in the group. They did not expand the circle to let me in, and I hung awkwardly on the periphery for a song or two before going back to my tent. 

It was one of only two times I felt unwelcome at Galax. The other came after the guys from Fries learned I was a journalist from New York City. I’d gone back to their tent Tuesday afternoon to jam but ended up talking with Daniel, the sawmill worker, instead. He was without his banjo, so while the other guys picked fiddle tunes, I told Daniel I was there to write about Galax and asked if I could record our conversation. He cheerfully agreed, but after that—and I could very well be wrong about this—I sensed that the other guys looked at me sideways. 

Daniel, on the other hand, remained inviting and warm. One afternoon late in the week, I was sitting by my tent when he wandered over to say hello. He wanted to give me a leaf of galax, the rubbery, low-lying evergreen from which the town takes its name. “I thought you’d like this for your story,” he said, and stayed to visit awhile.

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I broke camp Saturday afternoon and packed up my car. Before I left Galax, however, I dashed over to catch the “43rd Yearly International Kazoo Championship” a few campsites down from Bill and Nancy’s Airstream, as Tara had assured me it was “not to be missed.” Reporters don’t spend much time at the Old Fiddler’s Convention, and Tara was concerned that I might focus too much on the negatives in my writing—the mud, the gastronomic limitations, the attrition. Like everyone I met in Felts Park, she wanted me to return to New York with a real sense of why they keep coming back, year after year, and of what could be lost if they stopped.

Several dozen people were gathered at the “soup kitchen,” a community tent where, two nights prior, Chief Cooper had served hundreds of Styrofoam cups filled with venison stew, made by Nancy herself, from deer she and Bill had hunted on their property. Now, the ground was muddy and more rain was imminent. The contestants were undeterred, ready to blow their hearts out on plastic kazoos. 

I soon understood Tara’s insistence. The International Kazoo Championship pokes a little fun at the rigidity of the main stage. One by one, each contestant was disqualified for breaking at least one of the competition’s 12 rules, which included “No Fun Not Allowed” and “All Participants Must Be Present In Order To Attend.” They were then each invited to perform again, and one by one, each was named the winner. Then all the contestants and judges second-lined through Felts Park in the rain, led by a trumpet and trailed by a banjo, blowing “When the Saints Go Marching In” on their kazoos.

After a quick walkabout to say my goodbyes, I drove north on Route 221, past the Applebee’s and the Walmart where, at Tara’s urging, I did most of my shopping for the week. That night I met up with a friend from New York, who’d invited me to a 40th birthday party at a 19th-century cabin deep in the woods north of Roanoke. We stayed up late, drinking bourbon and talking about music. I’d rather have been playing it. 

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On Sunday morning, I got in my car and continued north on Route 11. As I wound through the mountains, catching the occasional glimpse of semis and cars streaming by on I-81, I played a recording I made of “Going to the West” through the car’s stereo. Brian Muller, who placed third in this year’s mandolin contest, led us in the jam, his plaintive baritone providing the perfect soundtrack to my drive: I leave you here, in this land that you love, ’mid scenes so bright and fair, where fragrant flowers are blooming and music fills the air. I imagined bringing the song to New York jams, and wondered if it would fly.

Passing through the town of Buchanan, a few hours from Galax, I saw a familiar face. Ted McAllister and his wife, Debbie, were getting out of their car just outside the Buchanan Baptist Church. I pulled alongside them, rolled down my window, and said, “Fancy seeing you here.” Ted, guitar case in hand, told me to come inside.

A few dozen people were gathered in the Fellowship Hall for a potluck lunch to celebrate the Buchanan Baptist Church’s 190th anniversary. A preacher named Bill Hartsfield welcomed me at the door. (“Like a field of hearts,” he said with a firm handshake.) Then he walked with me to the serving counter, where I fixed a plate of fried chicken, cheese casserole, and ambrosia salad. We sat down with the McAllisters and two other local musicians, Alan Berry and Mike Lee. “Galax is a subculture of a subculture,” Ted explained as we ate. Music is woven into everything from Sunday morning church services to holiday parties and family picnics. 

We finished our plates and went into the chapel, where, for the next 90 minutes or so, Ted, Alan, Mike, and a banjo player named Kim Wood played bluegrass versions of church hymns for around 20 people. Two little girls danced in the aisle, swept up by the music. Halfway through their set, as I sat in my pew, Ted walked to the pulpit and introduced me. He explained that we’d spent the week as neighbors in Galax, talking, telling stories, picking songs, and he was delighted to show me a little more of “how we do things ’round here.”

I hadn’t been to church in decades, and a couple hours of Southern hospitality won’t make a believer out of me. But hearing Ted and the others play, watching children dance, and meeting people who looked me in the eye and didn’t rush the conversation felt deeply familiar. I may have spent almost my entire adult life in New York City, but I grew up on the Illinois-Iowa border, on the banks of the Mississippi. Church backrooms, potlucks, and ambrosia salad were all part of my childhood. 

By 2:30, I really had to get going. For the second time in two days, I said goodbye to Ted, got in my car, and was on my way. 

A week later, I was back at Sunny’s Bar in Brooklyn, playing songs with a dozen or so people in the bar’s backroom. I called “Going to the West,” and after a quick run through the chords on my latest banjo build, a resonator back with a dragon fretboard inlay that I’d played on stage in Galax, I started singing. It was a little shaky at first, but by the second verse everyone was locked in. 

When we finished, one of the musicians remarked that it was a beautiful song. I agreed and asked if he knew it already. “No,” he said. “But I’m going to learn it now.”

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David Alm is a Brooklyn-based writer and editor. His work has frequently been included in Longreads‘ Weekly Top Five and annual Best Features lists. He also teaches journalism at Hunter College-CUNY, where he focuses on feature writing and creative nonfiction.

Editor: Brendan Fitzgerald
Fact-checker: Julie Schwietert Collazo
Copyeditor: Cheri Lucas Rowlands

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