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Send us a textlove doves and walrus willows, Crouched in the Barbarian Lair on a Paddleday eve delivering a fresh Zany Audio Tidbit, dishing some shout-outs (because friends are the best), plus thoughts on utilizing mediation techniques, body language and heart math to assist in de-escalating situations and providing security for oneself and one's loved ones. A maxim that just keeps getting truer every sun cycle: if you want something done decently, may as well do it your damn self. And it's all about coming to the table in good faith. To skip the ramblin' plugs and get right at the meat and potatoes, your timestamp is: 26:18.un amor,little raven kerkawww*Heartfelt appreciation to the adults in the room keeping back-channel negotiations going right now. I don't take any moment for granted these days.*TRACKLISTHulk Hogan - Real American (FAIR USE: Verbed & Slowed)Hulk Hogan Ichiban - Axe Bomber (FAIR USE: Verbed & Slowed)12 Time All Star (& childhood hero of mine) Hakeem Olajuwon speaks about dominating NBA even while fasting during RamadansteveNspace - Walter Sobchak Greatest Moments (Big Lebowski YouTubes) Scene from Pulp Fiction: Samuel L. Jackson - Ezekiel 25:17Afro Lofi - ELEVATE YOUR MIND (smooth lofi to ascend/vibe to)Hanumankind ft. Kalmi - Big Dawgs (FAIR USE: Slowed & Verbed)SUPPORT FRIEND MONA AND ME ON YOUTUBES!Can Haz Subscribes? mew purr mew? Mona: https://www.youtube.com/@intothefloo1505Barbarian: https://www.youtube.com/@barbarian.noeticsExcellent Supps and Health Advice thru Christian Yordanov: Web: https://christianyordanov.com/Book: How to Actually Live Longer, Vol.1: https://amzn.to/3OnZJGlSupport the showSupport My Sponsor:Magic Mind Adaptogenic & Nootropic Elixir 20% off at Checkout! Support Link here | Use Code: BARBARIANNOETICS20Tip me in Solana (crypto):Address: 9XPHpqH7GawTGtPgZAzfXFU6oPWTpSua1QXwRYAWVh9y If you dig the pod, check out the adjacent video & livestream show Barbarian Yak Fest on Rokfin: https://rokfin.com/BarbarianYakFestFind me on IG: barbarian_noetics Become a Patron: patreon.com/noetics (unlock bonus content plus win a Dream Interpretation)Direct Donate on PayPal @barbarian.noetics@proton.me Cash App@ $BarbarianRavenbuymeacoffee.com/noetics.Spread the word and tell a friend. Remember to set the BNP on Auto Download after you subscribe. I appreciate you all. Section 107 of the Copyright Act of 1976 allows for “fair use” for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, education and rese...
Send us a textWhat's good all you culinary capybaras & sparkle-necked starlings! Crouched in the home studio saddle delivering some thoughts. topics include Saturday being named after a maniacal offspring-munching Roman deity, cultivating one's mental health, waging cage fights with depression, coping strategies for 2024, how wretched and self-defeating misogyny is, institutional religions being infested with demonic impulses, and more! Support links below, appreciate all the Day Ones & welcome all the new listeners!un amor,lr kerkawwwTRACKLIST FOR THIS EPISPODE Afro Lofi - GROWN FOLKS - soul lofi music to chill toExcerpt from Sex At Dawn by Cacilda Jetha & Chris Ryan(Chapter: In Search of Primate Continuity)Paul Robeson - Ol Man River (1938) From the film Showboat (FAIR USE SLOWED N VERBED)Paul Robeson was a Genuine American Hero. This cruel empire not only failed to appreciate his spectacular & multifoliate talents: singer, orator, civil rights activist, debater, stud in American football, and lawyer- but also the Agent Smiths of the empire relentlessly hounded the man his whole life. All he did was be a boss and take names and speak truth. Lord forbid!! Agent Smith hounded and hounded Robeson, eventually cornering him in a spiritually wretched London hospital and administering him unfair doses of the MKULTRA brainwashing drug BZ. According to Robeson's son Paul Jr., this horrific act of nonconsensual behavior modification "broke" Robeson, who shied away from public spaces until the end of his days. Goddess & God Bless you Paul Robeson. You continue to be an inspiration and source of strength and light to this day, in this wretched year of Another Dude who was hounded to death by imperial storm troopers for the simple act of speaking some sense, 2024. EMPIRES ARE THE PRIMARY PROBLEM. we're at the crossroads friends: liberate ourselves from the clutches of demonic imperial filth, or mad max it after a fiery poop storm. * ...tick tick tick... * we ain't gonna vote ourselves out of this horrid ditch we've built up. gonna take good honest community building and hard work.Support the showSupport My Sponsor:Magic Mind Adaptogenic & Nootropic Elixir 20% off at Checkout! Support Link here | Use Code: BARBARIANNOETICS20Tip me in Solana (crypto):Address: 9XPHpqH7GawTGtPgZAzfXFU6oPWTpSua1QXwRYAWVh9y If you dig the pod, check out the adjacent video & livestream show Barbarian Yak Fest on Rokfin: https://rokfin.com/BarbarianYakFestFind me on IG: barbarian_noetics Become a Patron: patreon.com/noetics (unlock bonus content plus win a Dream Interpretation)Direct Donate on PayPal @barbarian.noetics@proton.me Cash App@ $BarbarianRavenbuymeacoffee.com/noetics.Spread the word and tell a friend. Remember to set the BNP on Auto Download after you subscribe. I appreciate you all. Section 107 of the Copyright Act of 1976 allows for “fair use” for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, education and rese...
Book one-on-one story sessions hereRead this as an article, and share your thoughts hereLet's open with a story.Tiger Farming TermitesNeat rows of wood are crisscrossed to draw in delectable foragers, though truth be told, Tiger tastes termites in a pinch. Waiting. Crouched. Poised. Bored as the boards he's laid out, until an unconscious ungulate wanders warily, to nibble green blades. Tiger pounces, rolls, breaks the creature's soft neck. Crushes termites.The dying words of the aardvark are ‘Oh brethren bugs! Warn my kin.'When the feast has passed, Tiger grumbles for weeks, hungry.Are Stories Good or Bad?If we ask the question of whether a given story is good or bad, this binary approach quickly falls apart. For this exploration, let's use the word ‘story' in the broadest sense. This story could be an old myth that nourishes a people's relation with the land, or an old myth that pits people against others. It could be propaganda, put out by a political group or corporation to corral people into certain behaviors. A story could provoke racism, casting certain people in victor roles and others as villains. A story may cast us humans as masters of the Earth, with dominion over all others, or rather as newcomers to this wondrous place, and the most dependent of all the other beings who preceded us. Is there anything as powerful as a story? The stories that we take in determine our behavior, over our lifetimes and over generations. A story can be about everyday people from our own time and place, and the happenings in their lives may divert us from the difficulties in our own. The tale in a television series might capture the minds of millions, season after season, so much so that viewers know more about these fictional folks than they do about the historical figures upon whom they're based. For the minds and motivations of the historical figures are opaque, but those of the characters are transparent, allowing us, the viewers, to enter in, get a sense of who they are, and why they act as they do. Living StoriesIs a given story good or bad? Instead of a binary rubric—rooted in computing and notions of piety and sin, good and bad karma, or a scale of justice—I instead propose an animistic understanding. I'm sitting now by a pond where I often write these articles. I see old man's beard moss hanging on willow trees, and sword ferns with spores dotting their undersides. I feel the sun shining on my forehead, hands and chest. A mosquito lands on the moss, a raven steals eggs from another bird's nest. As the season goes on, this sun's cool light will increase in heat until I must retreat indoors in the full of the day. Are these things good or bad? The mosquitoes bad for me, but good for the birds who eat ki. The willow is beautiful to me, but is out-competing reeds and ferns around ki. The sun nourishes our entire planet, and yet can bring death-dealing heat. So let us drop this consideration of good or bad, and even a spectrum between them. Let's instead consider the willow, the raven, the sun, the mosquito, as beings with their own natures and wills, and their own intricate relationships with each other. Now, let's bring this allegory of an ecosystem to stories: their identities, their natures, and their relationships with other stories. As there are predatory creatures, there are predatory stories: propaganda that divides and conquers, setting kin against kin, fomenting nations into war. As a bear upturns a stone and digs up the larvae underneath, some stories cause people to enter the homes of others and take whatever they want. Those stories say, ‘They are lesser than you. You deserve this.' The bear doesn't need stories to do this, but somehow we humans do. Migrating StoriesA stream of water will gradually wear a trough into the land. That trough, given enough water and time, will become a canyon. So too with some stories who begin in an unassuming way, then grow and grow until they're wearing a canyon into minds and hearts of listeners. Consider the story of Christianity: a rabbi and his followers preached revolutionary love at a time of colonization and war. After his death, that story gradually spread from land to land, and as it did, it adapted to people's hearts and minds, or you could say they tamed it for their own purposes. The story appeared one way in eastern lands, another in the West, North, South, and indeed in every individual who came into contact with that story, be they believers or not. So too with the spread of Buddhism: from a man's teaching in northern India, it spread north into what's now called China, Tibet and Bhutan, south into India and Sri Lanka, east into Japan, and now in pockets throughout the world. In each place this story adapted to the landscape of minds, hearts and culture, just as moss will grow differently on an aldar or on an oak. Story SporesThere are stories that support empires. Empires arose in Europe, China, Japan, South America, United States, Germany, Italy, Rome, and Vijay Nagar, and elsewhere. Each had standing armies, central power, and stories to live by, which told them that they had a right to rule others, a right to expand, to take, to tax. Yet the stories within them had many different flavors in different times and places. Perhaps the stories justifying empire are like spores on the wind, finding purchase in different cultures and changing according to their host. Are spores good or bad?The old animistic view considers stories as beings. As people. Just as we're negotiating situations throughout our lives—setting terms, considering what kind of connection we want with this person or that person—so too let us consider our relationship with stories. Just as our relationship with human people is not fixed but shifting, so too is our relationship with stories. PromptsReflect on a story that migrated into your life from a different culture or background. How did it adapt to your inner landscape?Think about a story that supported or challenged an empire-like structure in your life (e.g. a restrictive relationship or community). How did this story challenge the old guard? Where did that story find strength?Explore a narrative that your business or industry promotes. How does this story interact with the broader cultural landscape?Reflect on how the marketing of a similar product varies between audiences. For example, how do you see different kinds of vehicles being marketed, or brands of ice cream? Which stories take root in which soil?Until the next,happy creating,Theo This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit storypaths.substack.com/subscribe
Episode 55 - Van Halen probably sucks but Eddie's cool, Coury likes to blast it out of both ends, Chris is planning on calling Weekend Rental up to the big leagues, Coury's kids are in summer camp, Chris gets morbid, Coury started a new fad diet, and the guys read a few listener e-mails. Send in a question to heresmypodcast@gmail.com #heresmypodcast #HMQFY
We would regularly stop to take heed of our surroundings. Crouched, we attempted to tune into the immediate environment, allowing the surroundings to occupy our senses so we could better filter what was going on around us. I was not the first to see it; that honour goes to my then-friend, who I shall not name as it is not my place to recant on his behalf. I know that he reached back with his arm without shifting his gaze from what he had seen and grabbed my arm. I looked where his head was fixated and saw it for the first time. It appeared crouched, almost as if it were mimicking our actions, no more than 20 or so metres from us. Although in that moment, I was unclear as to what I was looking at, what I can say was that it was large, to my eyes and mind, it was huge, black in colour, and not stationary, as I could see it moving ever so slightly from side to side.With all of us now firmly transfixed, it raised what I believe to be its head. The singular sizeable black mass now had a head, with two large triangular-shaped ears set at the top of the head. This was not a dog or one of the big cats, and its next action told me my assertions were not wrong. With a distinct, slow deliberateness, it stood up. Its arms seemed disproportionate in length, but because of the foliage between us, I was unable to see it's hands, nor could I see clearly defined features on its head other than the ears, and it stood roughly 7-8 feet tall and was broad.We ran...Jay's Youtube - https://youtube.com/@alexthirteen3265?si=846Yc5ORrzuqCQM8https://linktr.ee/bbrinvestigationsBecome a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/deborah-hatswell-bbr-investigations-cryptids-paranormal-unexplained-events--2840337/support.
Please join us at patreon.com/tortoiseshack Note: The podcast opens with a voice note sent by a clearly distressed Zak in Gaza. It was a pleasure to be rejoined by the best reporter on immigration in Ireland, the Dublin Inquirer's Shamim Malekmian, to discuss the case of Abdullah Musleh, who finds himself trapped in Gaza because of the inefficiencies in the Irish immigration service. We also discuss the latest from Gaza, the generosity of our tortoise shack members and the need to be careful of some new Palestinian allies who are really just opportunistic Anti-Semites. Full article here:https://dublininquirer.com/2023/10/18/in-gaza-city-a-father-waited-and-hoped-for-a-visa-to-see-his-kids-in-ireland-again-then-came-the-bombs/ Latest from Loay Elbasyouni is out now here:https://www.patreon.com/posts/patron-exclusive-91963531
Glen and Kevin review the loss to the Knicks and the trends of the past couple of weeks.
Tina: The Tina Turner Musical is coming to Perth next year so Clairsy & Lisa spoke to the star Ruva Ngwenya.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
Introduction (Shawn)Topic: League Summit Review (Brian and Shawn)Give a review of the lessons and some feedback received from coachesSat: 2023 review, TTC, Friday Fails, EAPSun: 2024 preview, Adventure, Dynamic Agility, Team CultureClinics: OTBS101 refresh, 201, course evaluationGive thanks to WWC for being a great hostTopic: Sponsor Announcement (Brian)Constellation Cycling - James Lee (course setter) is a member.CC is hosting their big event of the season (Lions Roar) on 22 OctoberLion's Roar. NCCX, Race #3. Sunday, October 22, 2022 - Lions Park - 516 Dennis Ave. Raleigh, NC 27604Topic: Season 8 Dates and Locations (Brian)Posted on website and announced via Iterable and social mediaHighlightsWalk through the events by dateTwo new venuesOne western venue - private!Qualifying championship (race committee to help determine criteria)Season finale = Adventure Festival Hybrid fee scheme - discount packageTopic: Sponsor Announcement (Brian)CognativeMTB a returning sponsorSupport to our TTC program: big 3000 hour goal in 2024 and Trail Week 24', March 18-24TTC staff is coordinating events with SORBA chapters and various conservancy groups across the state to help provide opportunities for teams during that week (goal of 1,000 hours that week)Topic: Pre-season Date Reminders (Brian and Shawn)GRiT - open to all registered female student athletes and coaches- 28 October at Keowee Park, Wilkesboro (Warrior Creek and Headwaters Hub trails)- 4 November at Medoc Mountain State Park, Hollister, NCAdventure - open to returning student athletes. (mention form in coaches conversation about new athletes) Must attend with their team. Head Coaches may choose one event for their team to attend. Each event is capped at 200 participants. If we have extra space at either event, we will open it to teams wishing to attend both, as space is available. Clarify does not count as a pre-season event- 18 November at Whitewater Center in Charlotte, NC- 2 December at Browns Creek, ElizabethtownRegional Event 10-12 Nov in FairHill MDRegistration closes Tuesday 17 October extended to 1 NovClosing (All)Dad joke
Engines pumping and thumping in time! The green light flashes the flags go up, churning and burning .... we're taking to the track in our vintage 1960s Formula 1 cars to see which one of us can SEND IT! We're playing Heat: Pedal to the Metal, designed by Asger Harding Granerud and Daniel Skjold Pederson. It was published by Days of Wonder. Post your comments to Twitter/Instagram @FirstTurnCast or email us at firstturntabletop@gmail.com. Please remember to rate, review, and subscribe! Until next week, play more games!
I was getting the washing in from the garden. I remember it was summer and it was just after 10pm so it was getting dark out. My German Shepherd dog named Cody was looking at something outside of our garden. I couldn't see anything or make anything out. But then I heard a loud growl, as though something was standing right next to my ear and my brother said "you f###ing heard that right?" and I explained that I did and that it was right close to my ear. So we got our other brother to come outside with us because it terrified us.To Make a Report: you can contact Deborah at debbiehatswell@gmail.comDebs Email - debbiehatswell@gmail.comFACEBOOK - https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063604569253BBR Website - https://wordpress.com/view/debhatswell.wordpress.comTWITTER: https://twitter.com/BbrDeborahPATREON: https://www.patreon.com/DeborahHatswellBigfootReportsYOUTUBE - https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCYGn8pR90PO_oBzOjiZ23tA/SPREAKER: https://www.spreaker.com/show/british-bigfootAPPLE PODCASTS: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/british-bigfoot-dogman/id1480592906?uo=4MAP OF REPORTS - https://www.google.com/maps/d/u/0/edit?mid=1s1zOmmdM216PMftPUM9K1qqGrFg&usp=sharing
Topic: Woman cut rope holding painters 26 floors high A resident of a high-rise condominium in Thailand cut the support rope for two painters, apparently angry she wasn't told they would be doing work, and left them hanging above the 26th floor. 泰國一棟高層公寓大廈的一名住戶，剪斷2名外牆油漆工的支撐繩索，讓他們懸吊在26樓高，顯然是對未被告知施工一事動怒。 The woman is facing attempted murder and property destruction charges, and could face a prison term up to 20 years. 該名女性住戶面臨蓄意謀殺和財物毀損罪名，可能被判囚20年。 One of the painters, a Myanmar national named Song, told the Thai media that he and his friends had lowered themselves from the 32nd floor to repair a crack on the building. 其中一名緬甸籍宋姓油漆工向泰國媒體表示，他和朋友從32樓垂降，準備修復大廈的裂痕。 When he reached the 30th floor, he felt that the rope was heavier and when he looked down, he saw someone on the 21st floor open a window and cut his rope. He tried asking for help from other units, but nobody was in. The third colleague continued to support them from the top floor until a couple rescued them. 到達30樓外後，他感到繩索變重，往下竟看到有人從21樓打開窗戶剪斷繩索。他試著向其他住戶求救，但沒人在家，第3名同事則持續從頂樓支撐著他們，直到一對夫婦救了他們。 Next Article Thai chain's cannabis pizza: trendy but won't get you high 泰國連鎖餐廳的大麻披薩：夠時髦卻不會讓人飄飄然 One of Thailand's major fast food chains The Pizza Company has introduced "Crazy Happy Pizza", an under-the-radar product topped with a cannabis leaf. It's legal but won't get you high. 泰國大型連鎖餐廳之一「披薩公司」推出一款擺上一片大麻葉的低調新品「極樂披薩」，這是合法的產品，並不會讓人飄飄欲仙。 "It's just a marketing campaign. And you can taste the cannabis and then if you have enough, you may get a bit sleepy," said the general manager. 餐廳總經理說：「這只是行銷方式，可以讓人品嚐大麻，只是如果吃太飽，可能會有點想睡覺。」 The Crazy Happy Pizza is a mashup of toppings evoking the flavors of Thailand's famous Tom Yum Gai soup along with a deep-fried cannabis leaf on top. Cannabis is also infused into the cheese crust and there's chopped cannabis in the dipping sauce. A 9-inch pie costs only 499 baht. 「極樂披薩」混搭各種食材，使人聯想到泰國著名的酸辣蝦湯，上頭再放上一片酥炸的大麻葉。不僅起司餅皮填入大麻，沾醬也加入碎葉片。一塊9吋披薩僅售499泰銖（約463台幣）。 Thailand became the first country in Southeast Asia to remove specific parts and extracts of cannabis from its controlled narcotics list in December 2020, and later allowed them to be used in foods and beverages. 泰國在2020年12月成為首個將大麻特定部位和萃取物移出致幻毒品的東南亞國家，之後更允許在菜品或飲料中使用大麻。Source article: https://features.ltn.com.tw/english/article/paper/1499658 ; https://features.ltn.com.tw/english/article/paper/1503512 Next Article Topic: Parched fields force Thailand to look beyond rice Thailand has long served as one of the globe's main rice bowls, but chronic water shortages are pushing the country to move away from a grain that dominates its fields and has defined a way of life for generations. 泰國向來是全球稻米主要供應國之一，但長期缺水讓這個國家無法再固守單一作物，必須為往後的世代定義新的生存方式。 Laddawan has spent the past forty years coaxing rice from her plot in central Thailand, but she is tired of watching her farmland squeezed dry by increasingly severe droughts. 過去40年來，拉德旺一直在泰國中部的自家土地上細心照料水稻，但嚴重的旱災持續蹂躪這片土地，此情此景已讓她感到厭倦。 "I plan to replace some rice paddies with limes," she told AFP after attending a government-run workshop urging farmers to diversify their crops. 在參加完一場由政府舉辦、鼓勵農夫種植不同作物的農作坊後，她告訴法新社記者：「我打算不種稻米，改種萊姆了。」 At a workshop held in Nonthaburi province near Bangkok, Laddawan was sold the seeds fruit trees. 拉德旺在曼谷附近暖武里省的一場農作坊上買到果樹種籽。 These alternatives will drastically reduce water consumption but also break the monoculture that has deteriorated Thai soil for decades. 這些替代方案將大幅縮減用水量，也將打破數十年來造成泰國土質惡化的單一作物栽培模式。 "We have no choice, we need to adapt," Laddawan said, explaining that she used to plant three rice crops annually, but next year will only have enough water for one. 拉德旺表示，她過去每年種植3次水稻，但水資源只夠在明年種1次，「我們沒有選擇，只能改變。」 Next Article Topic: Thai hotel brews up coffee from elephant dung 泰國酒店從象糞中煮出咖啡 For those who like their coffee with a strong nose Thailand could be the ideal destination, after a blend made from elephant dung was put on sale by an upmarket hotel chain. 泰國一家高檔連鎖酒店販售象糞製作的咖啡後，對喜愛濃咖啡的人來說，泰國可能是個理想去處。 The Black Ivory blend, made from coffee beans digested and excreted by Thai elephants, is billed as producing a particularly smooth cup. 這種「黑色象牙」咖啡，是由泰國大象消化並排泄出來的咖啡豆製成，號稱味道特別溫和。 But it is not cheap, with Anantara Hotels saying the "naturally refined" coffee costs a staggering $1,100 per kilogram -- making it one of the most expensive blends in the world. 但象糞咖啡所費不貲，安娜塔拉酒店表示，這種「天然精釀」的咖啡豆每公斤要價讓人咋舌的1100美元，是世界最貴的咖啡之一。 "Research indicates that during digestion, the enzymes of the elephant break down coffee protein," the Thai-based hotel group said in a statement. 這家泰國酒店集團在聲明中說：「研究指出，在消化過程中，大象體內的酵素會分解咖啡豆裡的蛋白質。」 Next Article Topic: The Price of Recycling Old Laptops: Toxic Fumes in Thailand's Lungs 婦女們蹲伏在一間燈光昏暗的工廠的地上，整理被現代世界棄置的一些內容物：電池、電路板和成綑的電線。 Crouched on the ground in a dimly lit factory, women picked through the discarded innards of the modern world: batteries, circuit boards and bundles of wires. 她們或者用鐵鎚，或者徒手，拆解這些被稱作有害電子廢棄物或電子垃圾的廢品，再由男性工人鏟進一台鏗鏘作響的機器，以回收有用的金屬。有些男工用碎布包住臉來隔擋煙塵。 They broke down the scrap — known as hazardous electronic-waste, or e-waste — with hammers and raw hands. Men, some with faces wrapped in rags to repel the fumes, shoveled the refuse into a clanking machine that salvages usable metal. 當他們賣力工作之時，煙霧飄散至鄰近的村莊和工廠，居民對煙霧中有什麼物質一無所知—塑膠？金屬？誰知道！他們只知道聞起來很臭，讓人惡心。 As they toiled, smoke spewed over nearby villages and farms. Residents have no idea what is in the smoke — plastic, metal, who knows? All they know is that it stinks and they feel sick. 這間名為「新天空金屬」的工廠，是東南亞正蓬勃發展的電子垃圾業的一部分，是在中國大陸決定停止接收毒害其土地人民的全球電子垃圾後，應運而生。泰國特別成為這項產業的中心，過程中社運人士大力阻擋，政府則在公共安全與可觀的收益之間謀取平衡。 The factory, New Sky Metal, is part of a thriving e-waste industry across Southeast Asia, born of China's decision to stop accepting the world's electronic refuse, which was poisoning its land and people. Thailand in particular has become a center of the industry even as activists push back and its government wrestles to balance competing interests of public safety with the profits to be made from the lucrative trade. 去年泰國禁止外國電子垃圾進口，然而環境監控人員和產業專家說，新工廠仍然在國內各地開設，處理成噸的電子垃圾。 Last year, Thailand banned the import of foreign e-waste. Yet new factories are opening across the country, and tons of e-waste are being processed, environmental monitors and industry experts said. 「電子垃圾必須有去處。」以反對將垃圾傾倒至窮國為訴求的「巴塞爾行動網路」執行長吉姆．帕其特說，「中國就是把整個作業搬到東南亞。」 “E-waste has to go somewhere,” said Jim Puckett, executive director of the Basel Action Network, which campaigns against trash dumping in poor countries, “and the Chinese are simply moving their entire operations to Southeast Asia.” 他說：「賺錢的唯一方法，是用便宜、非法的勞力處理極為龐大的數量，而且大肆汙染環境。」 “The only way to make money is to get huge volume with cheap, illegal labor and pollute the hell out of the environment,” he added. 根據聯合國的統計，全球每年製造出5000萬噸電子垃圾，消費者習慣了丟掉前一年的機型，入手新款式。 回收這些小電器的觀念聽起來道德高尚：科技便利的無限循環。 Each year, 50 million tons of e-waste are produced globally, according to the United Nations, as consumers grow accustomed to throwing away last year's model and acquiring the next new thing.The notion of recycling these gadgets sounds virtuous: an infinite loop of technological utility. 但是，從廢棄的手機、電腦和電視中採集微量的金銀銅之類貴金屬，其實是骯髒且危險的工作。 But it is dirty and dangerous work to extract the tiny quantities of precious metals — like gold, silver and copper — from castoff phones, computers and televisions. 曾經有許多年，中國大陸大量接收世界各地的電子廢棄物。然後在2018年，北京對外來電子垃圾關閉了大門。泰國和其他東南亞國家看到了機會，因為它們環境法律執行寬鬆，勞動力剝削容易，而且商界和政府間關係緊密。 For years, China took in much of the world's electronic refuse. Then in 2018, Beijing closed its borders to foreign e-waste. Thailand and other countries in Southeast Asia — with their lax enforcement of environmental laws, easily exploited labor force and cozy nexus between business and government — saw an opportunity. 「每一片電路板和每一條電線都能讓你賺不少錢，特別是毋須考慮環境或勞工時。」環境監督組織「泰國生態警示復甦」領導人潘重．沙也譚說。 “Every circuit and every cable is very lucrative, especially if there is no concern for the environment or for workers,” said Penchom Saetang, head of Ecological Alert and Recovery Thailand, an environmental watchdog. Source article: https://paper.udn.com/udnpaper/POH0067/349813/web/
Opinions That Don't Matter podcast episode 108 00:00 Looking for the dog that bit Roxy 03:20 Kati has a wonderful community, after releasing a personal video, there were so many nice comments 5:50 Song writing & Keith Richards 6:45 Rick Rubin was a fantastic guest on the Lex Fridman Podcast https://open.spotify.com/episode/41N7H6fGT7repvu8OP84su?si=c23b8edc336c43f5 16:17 Sean's Italian is reviewed, an update on caffeine consumption & sandwich review 19:18 We're about to have a new baby in the family. 21:42 Christina P. and Chase O'Donnell - Stand up comedy tickets: https://christinaponline.com/tour-dates 21:57 Looking at your phone in the morning… The attack on the Subway in Brooklyn 26:57 Where is Morena from? AUDIENCE LETTERS 30:00 Do good and talk about it …and dinner with an Italian family - Christoph our Ambassador of R&R 37:00 A story about showers in France… 44:17 Ride into the Danger Zone....... Top Gun - Erin the AWESOME Toronto contributor 47:00 Response to ep. 95 & Norwegian Lesson! -Christina 01:03:00 Finally following up & A Romantic Tale from Venice - Hannah Aussie In Canada 01:11:33 Sean the Paperboy consolidated routes by any means necessary. 01:13:13 How to develop b&w film with coffee at home (+ short health update) https://youtu.be/hLjVntJIU5Q - Matt Love for Cheez Whiz! 01:23:00 On password selection - Science Ben excellent web comic XKCD https://xkcd.com/936/#podcast --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/otdm/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/otdm/support
Wren takes a road trip. A divorcee spots an odd insect. Conway tries to shake a rock out of his shoe. Featuring the voices of Nathan from Storage Papers (https://thestoragepapers.com), Jess Syratt from Nowhere, On Air (https://nowhereonairpodcast.weebly.com), and Rae Lundberg of The Night Post (https://nightpostpod.com/). (CWs, mild spoilers: LOTS of insects, body horror, fire, car braking sound) Transcript incoming, here's the rough script for now, which mostly follows the episode. “Now let's get to the weird stuff…” WREN: We humans generally like stability. Predictability. We like to figure out patterns and stick with them. I think that's why change can be so frightening for us. It throws the future--which once seemed so certain--into chaos. Anything could happen. We could be on the verge of destruction at any moment. But we could also be inches away from utopia. If you can learn to live with this change, this constantly revolting present, you just might make it out of the apocalypse with your sanity intact. Or so that's what I hoped. I had little else to count on. I tried to flow like water with the shifting tide. You can be the judge of how that all turned out. That's why you're here, right? Pockets of shadows remained in the cave, about a dozen or so people, seemingly oblivious to the life outside. They toiled under The Boss's directives, worked day and night for the Dead Letter Office. To what end, I couldn't really say. Seemingly just to perpetuate the office itself. If I could show them the way out, maybe they would help me take on the Boss. One shadow, Liz, was receptive to my offer. She still had some kick left in her diminished form. Her girlfriend, though, was blind to the world, just a single atom in the bureaucratic monolith. In Liz, I had someone on the inside. If she could go back and agitate from within the machine, we might stand a chance of turning a few more souls back to the light. It would be risky, though; if even one shade suspected outside forces were at work, they might alert the Boss. Even given all my experience with the paranormal and extranormal, I have no idea what would happen then. My gut feeling told me that facing the Boss prematurely would be...ill-advised. If I wanted to find more of these shadows, I'd need to search through the dead mail, find the stories that might have caught Conway's attention, and seek out their writers. The problem was that I had just walked out of my job, and I had a suspicion that if I showed back up unannounced, the Boss would take notice. Where, then, would I find these letters if not the office? I'd need to find the place that Conway kept all of the clues. I'd need to find Aisling. I'd need to find the vault. Would anything be left in the old vault, or had the Boss already figured out my plan and purged it? Only one way to find out. Yes, change can be terrifying. Yes, the future is in flux. But the scariest part is that the past can be made just as uncertain as the future. Memories fade, records burn, and witnesses pass on. Entire decades lost, cultures lost. Lessons unlearned. Mistakes repeated. If a place loses its history, how can its people know the present? Without a past, how can we make sense of the future? As a butterfly forgetting it was once a worm, who are we without who we were? Driving through the clogged artery highways of the state was a challenge, given that time appeared to be at a standstill for most of the world. If all the postcards and letters were to be believed, I was looking for a lakeside town. Somewhere along the Erie was a town full of shadows, a place haunted by its own history. And within that town was a lighthouse. This lighthouse was my metaphorical beacon. I kept the postcard printed with its image folded and tucked into my pocket. It was among the few items I took with me on this road trip: a cassette player with some of Conway's old tapes and a furry little friend also jostled around in a cardboard box on the passenger seat. I couldn't just leave the poor thing in the office after all we'd seen. The morning air was silent and stiff, only the sound of my rumbling engine accompanied the pink rays glancing off rows of glass and steel. I turned the stereo's knob, but the radio was entirely dead air. I loaded up one of the tapes to see if it would be of any help. The enormous hand still hung overhead like the executioner's ax. What was our crime, Conway? What did we let ourselves forget? *on tape* OLD INTRO MUSIC This is Conway, receiving clerk for the Dead Letter Office of Aisling, Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public. Dead letter 11919. An SD card found in a condemned building. The house caught fire in fall of 2011, but card was mysteriously undamaged. The fire department contacted one of our carriers, who brought it back to the office for investigation. The contents of the SD card are as follows. *off tape A month after my divorce I took up photography. Call it a midlife crisis if you want. I needed something to keep my mind occupied now that I was perpetually alone again, and a camera is a hell of a lot cheaper than a sports car. Photography's really for lonely hearts; you're by yourself, but surrounded by people. You watch them through the lens, feed on their fleeting touches. I threw myself into it fully without thinking too much, like I do with just about everything. Like I did with her. Three months after the divorce, I went to the butterfly house. To see things so wet and new enter the world, so hopeful, was healthier projecting my turmoil onto the world around me. The insects' colorful wings rendered through the lens like stained glass, and there was so much variety. I started shooting at the conservatory whenever I could, and gleaned a lot about butterflies in the process. Monarch butterflies, Danaus plexippus, migrate long distances, from the great lakes to the gulf, then come back again when the weather warms up. How they remember the path back home, no one's quite sure. Almost romantic. On the other end of the spectrum, some moths only live for a week. Actias luna don't eat anything during their brief week of existence, because they can't: their mouths are vestigial. Instead, they rely on what they ate in their larval state to sustain them throughout their lives. They eat, change, mate, and die. Also kind of romantic. In a sense. Six months after the divorce is when I saw it. The reason for this video. I was kneeling in front of a coneflower, Echinacea purpurea, waiting for one of the little powdery things to alight on a petal. A kid running through the conservatory was scaring off most of my subjects, but I could be patient. What else did I have going on in my life? My friends were mostly married and mostly busy, my family...well, I'd rather not go there. So I waited. Crouched, holding the hefty camera, lens focused, my mind was sharp but my body was getting stiff. I was about to call the day a wash when something interesting came into view. A large butterfly landed on the purple flower. Its folded wings were pure ashy black, and it looked sharper than the objects around it. This one had a sort of presence, a portentous aura, as if the events of the world waited on every flap of its wing. In my time here, I'd never seen anything like it. It held my attention in a vice, like it wasn't a bug at all, but a treacherous cinder in a pile of dry leaves. Like it demanded a watchful eye, else the ember might be stirred by a breeze to glow again and burn and burn. I snapped a few photos of its dusky form. Then it turned, its back now facing the camera, and spread its wings. There smudged across its span were three bars of color: white over red over brown on black. Like three chalky rectangles floating in the void. The thing that worried me most about this creature was that it was somehow familiar, like somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind I had seen this before. But not on a butterfly, no, it had to be something else. Six years ago, we drove up to canada in a cheap rental car. We threaded a trail up and east, across the Erie border, into the marigold hills of pennsylvania, through the vineyards and thin eastern pines of new york, up across the border. We were spending a long weekend in Toronto, taking in the sights and sounds of a real city, a place where public transportation isn't just a pipe dream. We bought fresh pears from a bodega in and took the metro across the river. We walked through the financial district and saw a seagull pick at fries in a discarded styrofoam container. I say we. I can see the places in my mind, remember the sounds and smells, but she's not really there in my memory anymore. My mind erased her from the picture, but the empty space she occupied is still there. Like a citation to a book that doesn't exist, an overexposed blob on a film negative haunting every frame. This was our last trip together, not that we knew that at the time. We were both worn out, a wordless static swelling between us. Radios tuned to different stations. We were growing apart, but neither of us wanted to admit it. That would be too brave. Easier to let it wither away until it's a dry husk of what it once was. We had exhausted just about every other method of holding this thing together, so in a mocking reflection of our first date, we went to the Art Gallery of Ontario. We casually wound through the hallways going through the motions, pointing out something interesting here, gently nodding there. In a dark room near the end, among the abstract expressionists, was that pattern I had seen before. A Rothko, white and red something, on display. It shook me more than I had anticipated that day. Something about the frankness of it. There was no obfuscation, no dalliance. It just was. I knew then that we had to split, come what may. The camera fell from my eye as my arm went limp. This couldn't possibly be the same pattern I'd seen six years ago. I must have been remembering the painting wrong. Or maybe some sicko had meticulously painted its wings. A cruel obsession. But the nausea welling inside me told me that I was flailing for a rational explanation for the irrational. That to know the thing was to unknow all else. That I was throwing darts at the tide. Putting a leash on an acorn. Crying over spooled milk. I pulled myself from my stupor and shot a few pictures of its outstretched wings before it flew off. I showed the photos to the head of the butterfly house, almost just to reassure myself that I hadn't imagined it. He had no idea where it had come from or what it was, but he did see the pattern, too. He guessed it was a rare genetic mutation occurring in a more common variety of butterfly. He went with me to look for it, but we didn't find a trace of it in the conservatory. Once I got home, I searched for the painting. There it was, Mark Rothko's No.1, White and Red from 1962. It was identical to the pattern on the butterfly's wings.There had to be some kind of connection between the bug and the painting, but even after hours of research, I just wasn't seeing it. Eventually, like anything else, the novelty of that day wore off and I went back to my usual routines as if it had never happened. One afternoon weeks later I stepped out of the humid greenhouse into the glaring september sun. The courtyard was hot and white. Sweat was dripping down my forehead, rolling into my eyes and stinging my vision. I squinted against the salt and light, and in my periphery saw a bird eating its dinner under an oak tree. A blackbird, large iridescent green-black, a white streak dripping down one wing. I rubbed my eyes to clear the sweat. The bird had something sticking out of its mouth: its poor prey hadn't been completely devoured yet. Poking out of the black beak was a butterfly. It didn't look like one from the conservatory, though. I took out my camera and zoomed in on the bird. The wing dangling from its mouth had a stunning pattern. Swirling blues and whites, tangerine globes and black spires. Before I could even register what I was seeing, the bird took off into the thick air. That sickening deja vu hit me again, but this time I didn't need to look it up to know what it was. Eight years back on our trip to New York we explored the Museum of Modern Art. It was the first household-name-famous painting I'd seen in person. Not as big as I expected, but stunning nonetheless. Van Gogh. Starry Night. I ran through the conservatory and out the door, tracking the blackbird as best I could. Jogging with my camera and bag wasn't ideal. By the time the bird landed, I was red and puffing hard. The shining bird with the dripping wing had landed on a branch next to a shuttered house. The surrounding houses were also condemned, and this one seemed to be in the worst condition of the bunch. The white paint on the doorframe was peeling, revealing the wood grain underneath in stripes like the teeth of a great beast. The shutters were drooping eyelids, hanging crooked from their hinges. The windows were dusty and glazed over with cataract grime, those that weren't shattered anyway. It was falling apart, a relic leftover from a more prosperous time, but it had an austere dignity that so many ancient and forgotten things do. The tree next to the slouching old shack had crashed through the roof at one point. There the blackbird perched, inviting me into its home. The door creaked open with a push, and the smell of wet wood and rotting fabric flushed out and spread over the brown lawn. Vines and mold reached in equal measure up the splotchy walls. Sunlight falling in through the hole in the ceiling stepped lightly down the stairs and caught dust in its place. An offwhite couch sat mouldering in one corner of the den, a table with a broken leg had years ago spilled its contents onto the floor. Green tendrils wrapped around lamp cords and stretched across rooms. A gentle drip in the stained kitchen sink rang out through the silent house. And all across the ceiling through the house hung little crystalline pods. Hundreds of cocoons dangling from the stucco, from fan blades, from mounted pots and pans and light fixtures. A few butterflies were already emerging, casting aside their comfortable skin to face the new. These cocoons continued up the stairway and onto the ceiling of the second floor. I crept up the uneven stairs, testing each one with a press of my foot just in case the whole thing was about to collapse. More chrysalis dotted the ceilings here, and so too did the pudgy little bugs that make them, inching their way across the abandoned home. Some bright and colorful, some drab and fuzzy, the caterpillars had moved into this space that people no longer wanted. The hole in the ceiling up there had been worse than it looked from the outside. A section of the wall had been caved in as the tree grew through it. Its boughs outstretched along the broken wall as if cleaving it open, a large ovular hole in the trunk nearby slack like a hungry maw. Living branches and leaves intertwined with the dead lumber planks and leaden drywall. Caterpillars nibbled at the corners of the vibrant green foliage fanning out across what was once a bedroom, crawled up and down the bedposts and nightstand. I shudder to think what might have been festering under the mildewy comforter. The tiny creatures here covered nearly every interior surface after the mold and water damage had taken their parcels. A faint hum reverberated from somewhere within its walls. Now that I had taken in the place, I could start examining the insects themselves. The caterpillars were mostly typical: short, rotund, many brightly colored like little tubes of acrylic paint, but they were hardly exceptional. They went about their business with a casual disinterest in my presence in their reclaimed home. The butterflies, on the other hand, were illogical, inconceivable, exquisite. Every lepidoptera had painted wings. Gently fluttering clouds, each point engraved with some classic or another; a monet here, a frankenthaler there. My mind reeled at the implications that this suggested. Did we influence them somehow, affect them to grow with these patterns? Or were our artistic hands subtly moved by some unseen force to create these great works? That's what a lot of the ancients thought. Certain gods and muses could be literal in their influence. Divine inspiration. On the other hand, what if there was an outside force affecting us, but it wasn't helping us? What if it was indifferent to us, like the rest of the universe? Or actively malevolent? What if it wanted to reclaim the land from us, like the insects had taken this home? I knew that if I thought too much about the big questions of the universe I'd lose myself, forget I'm a person and feel that cosmic unreality in the pit of my stomach. It struck me as odd that other people could perceive me. Odd that I existed at all. I knew I should go home, but I couldn't leave for fear that it might vanish just as quickly as it had popped into my life. I briskly walked to the truckstop up the highway to grab snacks, drinks, and a travel blanket. I was going to stay and document what I saw for as long as I could. The insects in this house behaved quite differently from the ones outside. For one, they rarely traveled beyond the yard. The overgrown lawns dotted with wildflowers and tall grasses surrounding the place provided all that they needed. They also seemed to function as a unit, like a school of fish: when one moved, many moved in a cascading wave. The artwork on their backs spanned ages. I saw greek pottery imprinted on their wings, the birth of venus, carvaggio's light and shadow. Many of the works I recognized, some I didn't. Who knows how many photos I took of the butterfly with the Last Supper on its back. It must have been weeks that I slept on the dusty floor with a thin blanket and my camera bag as a pillow. The excitement and wonder kept me in place. I subsisted on empty gas station calories and sugary soda. The wrappers and empty bottles started radiating around me in a ritualistic circle as time wore on beyond my knowledge. My skin grew pale and oily, my hair matted, but I hardly noticed. I ate, observed, and very rarely slept. I was so enthralled I had hardly noticed the change. The recent hatchlings had been trending toward modern art: no longer DaVinci's and Gentileschi's, the butterflies flitted about with more post-industrial design on their wings, Mondrian's squares, Picasso's blue period. The hum within the house had grown as well, but I hardly took notice at the time. Then came the seismic shift. I was feeling weak, lightheaded and nearly delirious, when I saw a horse and rider mid-gait painted on an eggshell white body. No, not painted, I realized after some inspection. Photographed. Days passed and more butterflies emerged with film on their backs: images of war, recreation, winston churchill and che guavara. The hum was loud enough now that I couldn't ignore it. My head was pulsing and the noise was only exacerbating it. I needed to get out for a minute of fresh air. I walked the abandoned neighborhood, then beyond into the former arts district. The stars were crystals hanging in deep blue velvet overhead. The streets were empty and still. I crossed the old craft store and paused to look in the window. I felt an irresistible compulsion to paint. But I had no money left after abandoning my job for weeks. I tore a section of my greasy shirt and wrapped it around my fist. The window shattered more easily than I'd expected. I absconded back to my hideaway with tubes of oil paints, turpentine, brushes and rags, canvas. Wading through the trash filling up my own little cocoon, I began to paint. I started on the canvas, but soon found it confining. My paint spilled off the page and onto the walls, the floors, the ceilings, the trash. I couldn't say how long I painted. I never grew tired or hungry. I didn't need or want. I was in the flow. I simply was. The house was only so large, though. Two floors entirely covered in paint, dirty rags scattered about and turpentine dripping down the stairs, and yet I wasn't satisfied. I'd have to make something else my canvas. I started on my free hand, red and purple spots along my fingers, then green up my arm. Black along the torso, white stripes near ribs. I stripped off my remaining clothes that got in the way of my brush. Blue around my eyes, yellow bands across my head. Once I was entirely encased in paint, I felt my mind relax, deflating like air let out of a balloon. I grew aware of my surroundings again. The hum had grown so loud it was shaking the remaining furniture in the bedroom. I had been so preoccupied with the transformation of the creatures that I hadn't even noticed where they were actually coming from: caterpillars were pouring out of the hole in the encroaching tree. Swaths of crawling, squirming bugs spilled from the crooked mouth of bark and writhed in the dark room. On the wall opposite the tree, butterflies gathered. They stationed themselves in a square on the white paint. They flapped their wings and moved in unison. This patch of living color formed a pointilist image of her face. An image I had taken. My own photograph of my former wife. The insectoid screen undulated and shifted, forming new images in succession like a flipbook, each one displaying a moment from my past that I had captured. New York, Toronto, chopping vegetables, hiking through shale caves, the first snowfall of our last year together. I could feel the change curling inside me. Was I destined to take these photos, to mirror the natural patterns of the world? Or were these insects somehow directed to grow in accordance with my life? The swirling thoughts surged forth in waves of vertigo. My brain was swelling, pushing up against my skull. I smelled smoke from the stairway, acrid chemical flame and burning cloth. Flames of every color rose and licked at the blackened walls, dancing and fluttering. Thick smog was filling the room. I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled to the only place that seemed safe, into the buzzing tree. I nestled down into the bark as far as I could, only the top of my head peering out through the opening. I felt my new brethren creeping and slinking in the darkness all around me. I set up my camera and recorded this testimony with the last of its battery. Oh my stomach is pulsing, moving, as if something is crawling inside. I can feel it bubbling up like gold from deep within. My back is splitting with wet folded wings. The photographs on their wings flip faster and faster until it's a moving image, a film, streaming through the striations of black smoke. I can't stifle my laughter as I see my life playing out before me on the living screen. Loud full body spasms. How else can you react to the absurdity of life laid bare so bluntly before you? If a caterpillar can become a butterfly, what might I look like after my metamorphosis? What glory might humanity ascend to in its next phase? I envy you, because if you're watching this, you know. We're ready to reclaim what you have taken. I am hatching. I am ascending on painted wings ablaze. But I am not in pain. I am beautiful. CONWAY ON TAPE: Well, I...I'm gonna need a minute. CLICK *** CONWAY: Nothing stays the same, no matter how hard we try. Something somewhere is always changing, like the water to vapor. Hell, even electrons are always moving around, can't quite pin ‘em down. The changes inside are the hardest to spot, though. And you're usually the last one to notice you've changed. You're you, after all. As I slipped my influence into every corner of this state, I could barely recall most of my life, such as it was. Didn't miss my body all that much either, never really felt like I fit in it anyway. But for a moment, I felt a bit nostalgic for my old job. This nostalgia is a warning sign that something isn't what it once was, that some part of you is no longer there. I hadn't seen the cracks forming yet. I was still intoxicated with my new position. There was a rock in my metaphorical shoe, though. A lingering thought I just couldn't shake, even with all this. It started with the phone call from the fisherman. “You're not real.” What the hell was that all about? Of course I'm real. “I think therefore” and all that. I'm the Boss. I've got buildings full of people who listen to me. Doesn't get much realer than that. But there was that itch somewhere in the vast and ever expanding recesses of my consciousness I couldn't quite scratch. I felt like I was forgetting something, or like I was about to remember something big. “How's Lucy?” *** Outro--interrupted *brakes screech* I fell asleep at the wheel and woke up at the bottom of an off-ramp. With no one else around and nothing to distract me, I dozed off. Just for a second. I'm not proud of it, but it's the truth. I caught myself quickly enough that I somehow managed to avoid smashing into any of the parked--well “parked”--cars on the highway. I was at a stop sign, and ahead of me was a one-lane country road. I couldn't see anyone in either direction for as far as my eyesight allowed. But below the stop sign was a bright green plaque, emblazoned with a path to what I'd been looking for: AISLING - FIVE MILES. Conway, here I come. *** LIZ: Is anyone here? *muffled response* LIZ: Hello? I know you're around somewhere. LIZ: Hey. Hey!...hmmm...hail and well met, shadow, I mean you no harm. *under her breath* “Hail and well met”? Jesus, what's wrong with me. SHADOW: *anxious* What was that? LIZ: I'm Liz, who the hell are you? SHADOW: *slowly, with effort* I...I don't know. It's hard to think. I'm...where am I? What am I? LIZ: I know, I totally felt the same. Just take a minute. Relax. I'm a friend. SHADOW: I can't feel my...anything. LIZ: Yup, that'll happen. Corporeality's kinda messed up here. So it goes. If you focus really hard, you might be able to keep yourself solid. See? SHADOW: I'm dreaming. This isn't real...I must still be asleep. LIZ: Sure, you sort of are. Anyway, what do you say we get out of here? See your friends again. SHADOW: But...wait, I remember something. I can't go yet. The Head Office. The Board Room. There's...there's something there. It's...oh god. The tower. We can't just leave it there. LIZ: Board Room? Can you show me? SHADOW: I think I can lead us there. But... LIZ, to WREN: Wren, this could be big. Could be a whole lot of shadows there for us to recruit. I'm going in. Good luck out there.
EP-144: It crouched like a linebacker! Darrell's turkey hunt took a turn... who's hunting who? Mental health therapist discusses the science of trauma associated with Bigfoot encounters. You can support CreekDevil by becoming a Patreon at: https://www.patreon.com/CreekDevil If you enjoyed this content, please subscribe and click the bell! Question, Comment or Encounter? Shoot us an email: Questions@CreekDevil.com Visit us on the web: https://CreekDevil.com https://WilliamJevning.com iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast email: Questions@CreekDevil.com Friends of Creek Devil: David Pearson / ReallyBigMonkey1: https://www.youtube.com/user/Reallybigmonkey1/featured Cam from Dixie Cryptid: https://www.youtube.com/c/DixieCryptid/videos https://www.whatifitstruepodcast.com/ Lynn Smyth: Bigfoot Case Files: https://www.youtube.com/c/BIGFOOTCASEFILES/videos CREDITS: Bigfoot Artwork by Guido Basille Jared Rivit https://www.imdb.com/name/nm1066424 Jim Sower Margey Lima Music: Epic Cinematic Dramatic Adventure Trailer by RomanSenykMusic. Music Link: https://youtu.be/c-XpTMGPQvI Opinion Disclaimer the views and opinions expressed on https://CreekDevil.com, https://WilliamJevning.com, https://www.youtube.com/user/wjevning and are those of the guests and do not necessarily reflect the opinion, official policy or position of CreekDevil.com, WilliamJevning.com WILLIAM JEVNING - Founder CreekDevil.com - Jevning Research Group To all who seek adventure and knowledge. -- William Jevning © William Jevning 2021 All Rights Reserved
This episode starts of strong and upbeat with shoutouts to James' sister, Melissa, and a big thank you to everyone. James learned while editing that Nespresso and Nescafe are not the same thing...and though he says Nescafe repeatedly, he meant Nespresso...and shouldn't record first thing in the morning as a rule. Then the musings take a more somber turn up the Boulder turnpike as James goes on about how the recent shooting event there got under his skin quite a lot. A song by the band Apathy (Colorado) is included in this episode, with permission, and is also the namesake of this episode's title. Hug your people if you are able. Take care of yourselves, and each other. "Dying Eyes And they died. The look in their eyes. Unconscious surprise. Unknown terror. It's concrete in their eyes. They were taken – death's form in children. What were they thinking? Not a Goddamn thing, they were gravely mistaken. Mistaken. Fucking cowards. There are no words to describe the void that you left inside. Your lives in vain, your mind's – insane. What made you think you had the fucking right, what the fuck? You had no fucking right. Taken. Unliving. Past forgiving. A place on Earth that we can call Hell, but we're lucky enough to call it home. Fucking pussies. Two minds so weak. What made them think they'd accomplish a thing? I'm sorry to the victims and their families. We all share in your grief. Weak-minded motherfuckers. How could this be? This can't be happening to me. My mind's now free. Eternal serenity. Fucking freaks. My mouth can't scream. I can't let these fucks take my life from me. But if I can hold on I might make it to see another day. Crouched on the floor. Horrors outside the door. I am numb to everything, except complete fear. I turned to God that day. I looked for His help that day in hopes that I could go away. Just go away, and see my family. But some died. A whole world cried. They lost their precious lives for nothing. What's so wrong that our young think they have to kill to be heard at all? Fucking why, have innocent died? We're truly sorry. Respect to you. And our love to you, and we hope that you make it through. But fuck those two that fucking put you through insane shit that you should have never had to go through. Weak-minded motherfuckers." --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/deathmetaldisco/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/deathmetaldisco/support
Today I'm going to take you through Shadow Over Innsmouth. To reveal the techniques that make this story, and cosmic horror, work. It's one of Lovecraft's finest, and the unique way all the elements come together at the end is amazing. It's a thing that you feel when you read it, but I'm not going to settle for feelings. I'm going to show you how it works.Written in 1931, The Shadow over Innsmouth is tied with At the Mountains of Madness for my Favorite Lovecraft story. I think you read those two and you get the man at his best. This story is more conventionally structured than Call of Cthulhu, which I’ve done a previous video on and it, involves real jeopardy for the protagonist’s body and soul. It’s a tale in five unnamed chapters.The external story here is a young man traveling to a decaying seaport town in New England, finding that it is populated by people who have been mating with fish creatures in the deep, and barely escapes with his life. It’s thrilling. But the internal story is the truly terrifying thing. The first part, which I’m calling sucked in, sets up Innsmouth, and we see the unnamed main character drawn to the place.SUCKED INin the beginning, the character tells us thisI have an odd craving to whisper about those few frightful hours in that ill-rumoured and evilly shadowed seaport of death and blasphemous abnormality. The mere telling helps me to restore confidence in my own faculties; to reassure myself that I was not simply the first to succumb to a contagious nightmare hallucination. It helps me, too, in making up my mind regarding a certain terrible step which lies ahead of me.And upon first reading, you think this certain terrible step is committing suicide. It’s Lovecraft, after all. But it’s not suicide. It’s worse than that. What can be worse than suicide? Well, if you haven’t read it — or you don’t remember, just hang in there with me.If you've watched my earlier, Call of Cthulhu video, you will recognize this weird, geeky, 40-year-old virgin setup. An antiquarian and sightseeing tour is not what I would call a rite of passage. But this, in itself, is foreshadowing, as we will see.The main character is trying to take the train to Arkham, but he's broke, so the station-keeper says:“You could take that old bus, I suppose,” he said with a certain hesitation, “but it ain’t thought much of hereabouts. It goes through Innsmouth—you may have heard about that—and so the people don’t like it. Run by an Innsmouth fellow—Joe Sargent—but never gets any custom from here, or Arkham either, I guess. Wonder it keeps running at all. I s’pose it’s cheap enough, but I never see more’n two or three people in it—nobody but those Innsmouth folks."Don't, don't take the old bus. Trust me on this one, ya never take the old bus.But the ticket agent gives him a bunch of scoop on the town. Including on the founder of the town, Captain Obed Marsh,The old Captain Obed Marsh ben dead these sixty years, and there ain’t ben a good-sized ship out of the place since the Civil War; but just the same the Marshes still keep on buying a few of those native trade things—mostly glass and rubber gewgaws, they tell me. Maybe the Innsmouth folks like ’em to look at themselves—Gawd knows they’ve gotten to be about as bad as South Sea cannibals and Guinea savages.“That plague of ’46 must have taken off the best blood in the place. Anyway, they’re a doubtful lot now, and the Marshes and the other rich folks are as bad as any. As I told you, there probably ain’t more’n 400 people in the whole town in spite of all the streets they say there are. I guess they’re what they call ‘white trash’ down South—lawless and sly, and full of secret doings. They get a lot of fish and lobsters and do exporting by truck. Queer how the fish swarm right there and nowhere else.None of this scares our hero off. In fact, it draws him in. Antiquarian that he is, he starts researching. At the end of Act II he learns about the Esoteric Order of Dagon - which has taken over the town's churches and sees this strange bit of jewelry that has come from Innsmouth. It is intense.It took no excessive sensitiveness to beauty to make me literally gasp at the strange, unearthly splendour of the alien, opulent phantasy that rested there on a purple velvet cushion. Even now I can hardly describe what I saw, though it was clearly enough a sort of tiara, as the description had said. It was tall in front, and with a very large and curiously irregular periphery, as if designed for a head of almost freakishly elliptical outline.It clearly belonged to some settled technique of infinite maturity and perfection, yet that technique was utterly remote from any—Eastern or Western, ancient or modern—which I had ever heard of or seen exemplified. It was as if the workmanship were that of another planet.Among these reliefs were fabulous monsters of abhorrent grotesqueness and malignity—half ichthyic and half batrachian in suggestionAt times I fancied that every contour of these blasphemous fish-frogs was overflowing with the ultimate quintessence of unknown and inhuman evil.And as we break into Act II he can’t even sleep, he’s so excited to go to this creepy weird town.The Road to InnsmouthI’m not going to lie. The first part feels slow and wordy by modern standards. It’s not an error, this is the style that was in use. But the amount of tremendous stuff that is set up skillfully in the start is amazing.And what I’ve noticed the most re-reading Lovecraft is how he manages the ambiguity of the way he conveys information. The first act is a lot of exposition. And we think we have been well-armed with the facts. But, by the end of the story, all of what we think we know about this character is going to shift underneath us and make us feel queasy and... horrified.I think this is a key to the effect that Lovecraft creates. If you know anything about this story, you know we’re walking into a town of people interbreeding with frog-like creatures from the sea. And, that’s disgusting and creepy, but, you know, it could edge over into absurd real quick. Like the Disney treatment of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but they somehow rope Lin Manuel Miranda into doing a hip-hop mash up of an old pop song, and we wind up with an Escape from Innsmouth chase sequence powered by "Who let the Frogs Out"This is not to mock the tale. I love the story, but just point out that, to pull off horror like this, you have to be masterful with your tone — and he is.So we meet the bus driver. And he’s nasty.He had a narrow head, bulging, watery blue eyes that seemed never to wink, a flat nose, a receding forehead and chin, and singularly undeveloped ears.The fingers were strikingly short in proportion to the rest of the structure and seemed to have a tendency to curl closely into the huge palm. As he walked toward the bus I observed his peculiarly shambling gait and saw that his feet were inordinately immense. The more I studied them the more I wondered how he could buy any shoes to fit them.A certain greasiness about the fellow increased my dislike. He was evidently given to working or lounging around the fish docks, and carried with him much of their characteristic smell. Just what foreign blood was in him I could not even guess. His oddities certainly did not look Asiatic, Polynesian, Levantine or Negroid, yet I could see why the people found him alien. I myself would have thought of biological degeneration rather than alienage.Note how specific this description is. We can see this guy. And this is where Lovecraft really shines. He gives us images so powerful and precise, they stay with you and you often remember them years later. Here’s another example.At last we lost sight of Plum Island and saw the vast expanse of the open Atlantic on our left. Our narrow course began to climb steeply, and I felt a singular sense of disquiet in looking at the lonely crest ahead where the rutted road-way met the sky. It was as if the bus were about to keep on in its ascent, leaving the sane earth altogether and merging with the unknown arcana of upper air and cryptical sky. The smell of the sea took on ominous implications, and the silent driver's bent, rigid back and narrow head became more and more hateful. As I looked at him I saw that the back of his head was almost as hairless as his face, having only a few straggling yellow strands upon a grey scabrous surface.Jesus Christ, get off the bus! As the drive continues, Lovecraft describes the crumbling, creepy town. But this is the bit that sticks with meTwice I saw listless-looking people working in barren gardens or digging clams on the fishy-smelling beach below, and groups of dirty, simian-visaged children playing around weed-grown doorsteps. Somehow these people seemed more disquieting than the dismal buildings, for almost every one had certain peculiarities of face and motions which I instinctively disliked without being able to define or comprehend them. For a second I thought this typical physique suggested some picture I had seen, perhaps in a book, under circumstances of particular horror or melancholy; but this pseudo-recollection passed very quickly.The bus isn’t leaving until the evening, so our unnamed protagonist decides to have a look around.Don't take the bus? Don't get off the bus? I mean how hard is this? But trust me, Lovecraft is not just having the protagonist wander into trouble to tell a story. There are reasons for this behavior.THE RIME OF THE DRUNKEN MARINERIn his rambles. He gets word of the town drunk, Zadok, who will spill the beans if you give him likker. So he grabs a pint and goes looking for scoop. And the town drunk tells him this crazy tale and confirms what we should already know if we’ve been paying attention, the whole town is turning into fish. And that the townspeople have been sacrificing children to the creatures on the other side of the reef just offshore. And that the plague that wiped out the town was really creatures swimming in and attacking the town. At the end of the Rime of the Drunken Mariner, Zadok sees something out in the sea and runs away screaming.ESCAPE FROM INNSMOUTHSo he gets back to the bus stop and… wouldn’t you know it. The bus is broken and he’s going to have to spend the night. No need to build this up brick by brick. The townspeople try to kill him. He makes a daring escape from this hotel room, and the town is full of man/fish/frog creatures hunting for him. There are two things that a very interesting about this. As he’s eluding the pursuers in the town, he looks out to sea.For at a closer glance I saw that the moonlit waters between the reef and the shore were far from empty. They were alive with a teeming horde of shapes swimming inward toward the town; and even at my vast distance and in my single moment of perception I could tell that the bobbing heads and flailing arms were alien and aberrant in a way scarcely to be expressed or consciously formulated.And this is what I mean when I say that Lovecraft succeeds at the level of the image. And it's worth asking but how does Lovecraft keep this sequence from degenerating into absurdity. Cause it's going to 11. There’s willing the suspension of disbelief, but that can be broken. And, while you are reading, the instant you think, “Well, this is a bit much” the spell evaporatesHe does it in two ways -- First he's very specific.Drawing inside the hall of my deserted shelter, I once more consulted the grocery boy's map with the aid of the flashlight. The immediate problem was how to reach the ancient railway; and I now saw that the safest course was ahead to Babson Street; then west to Lafayette--there edging around but not crossing an open space homologous to the one I had traversed--and subsequently back northward and westward in a zigzagging line through Lafayette, Bates, Adam, and Bank streets--the latter skirting the river gorge--to the abandoned and dilapidated station I had seen from my window.He’s described everything about the town, including the layout, with such precision, that it seems real. In fact, in part III he goes for this walk through the town to get to Zadok, and it seems to be a bit pointless. Like how much atmosphere are you going to hit a guy over the head within one story. But now it all pays off because the time he spent on description seems to ground the place so he can be more over the top and not lose you.The second way is that the protagonist is arguing against what he’s telling you the whole time. He doesn’t want to believe it.Later, as he eludes his pursuers, we get this:Something was coming along that road, and I must lie low till its passage and vanishment in the distance. Thank heaven these creatures employed no dogs for tracking--though perhaps that would have been impossible amidst the omnipresent regional odour. Crouched in the bushes of that sandy cleft I felt reasonably safe, even though I knew the searchers would have to cross the track in front of me not much more than a hundred yards away. I would be able to see them, but they could not, except by a malign miracle, see me.And then as they approach he doesn’t look at first. As he retells it, he tries to find any way it might be a dream — because he doesn’t want to remember this as true.Can it be possible that this planet has actually spawned such things; that human eyes have truly seen, as objective flesh, what man has hitherto known only in febrile phantasy and tenuous legend?And yet I saw them in a limitless stream—flopping, hopping, croaking, bleating—surging inhumanly through the spectral moonlight in a grotesque, malignant saraband of fantastic nightmare. And some of them had tall tiaras of that nameless whitish-gold metal . . . and some were strangely robed . . . and one, who led the way, was clad in a ghoulishly humped black coat and striped trousers, and had a man’s felt hat perched on the shapeless thing that answered for a head. . . .And then he faints dead away.So up until now, I think it’s been a good, but not great story. It’s very well-crafted. Sure, it’s written in a style that’s a bit wordy for today’s taste, but it’s very solid. But it's, you know, a story that you could read as a cautionary tale about getting on creepy buses.The Inner TwistBut Part V is where it becomes unforgettable. That's where we hit the twist, the WRENCHING in the internal story. What, is the internal story here? It's easy to miss because up to this point it's only had one beat.And it was all the way back in Part One. Some 22,000 words ago. He’s coming of age. And he’s researching the family history. He wants to know who he is and become who he is supposed to be. And holy s**t does he find out. Because this is, for all the Eldrich and Cosmic horror, A COMING OF AGE STORY. He tells us in the first sentence and we totally miss it. But this coming of age is what makes this so terrifying.So he escapes Innsmouth, and, sometime later, having put the whole thing from his mind, goes to visit relatives who have some of his great-grandmother’s jewelry. And the first piece out of the box is one of those strange and creepy Innsmouth tiaras. Then he puts the pieces together.My great-grandmother had been a Marsh of unknown source whose husband lived in Arkham—and did not old Zadok say that the daughter of Obed Marsh by a monstrous mother was married to an Arkham man through a trick? What was it the ancient toper had muttered about the likeness of my eyes to Captain Obed’s? In Arkham, too, the curator had told me I had the true Marsh eyes. Was Obed Marsh my own great-great-grandfather? Who—or what—then, was my great-great-grandmother? But perhaps this was all madness.And that's when the dreams start.One night I had a frightful dream in which I met my grandmother under the sea. She lived in a phosphorescent palace of many terraces, with gardens of strange leprous corals and grotesque brachiate efflorescences, and welcomed me with a warmth that may have been sardonic. She had changed—as those who take to the water change—and told me she had never died. Instead, she had gone to a spot her dead son had learned about, and had leaped to a realm whose wonders—destined for him as well—he had spurned with a smoking pistol. This was to be my realm, too—I could not escape it. I would never die, but would live with those who had lived since before man ever walked the earth.He contemplates suicide, but decides against it and embraces his destiny, fully coming of age in the end.No, I shall not shoot myself—I cannot be made to shoot myself!I shall plan my cousin’s escape from that Canton madhouse, and together we shall go to marvel-shadowed Innsmouth. We shall swim out to that brooding reef in the sea and dive down through black abysses to Cyclopean and many-columned Y’ha-nthlei, and in that lair of the Deep Ones we shall dwell amidst wonder and glory for ever.So let’s break this down.This is a story circle. Lots of people have talked about these. I think it started with Campbell and the Hero's journey. And this one is the Hero's journey through the lens of the Magnificent Dan Harmon. There’s a link to Dan's explanation of it in the description. Don’t worry about the particulars right now -- just watch how it fits. He needs to know who he is. He goes to Innsmouth and searches out the truth. And he finds it, even though he doesn't completely understand it when he does. Then he must struggle to escape. He returns to the real world. Gets a job in Insurance (as boring and real-world as it can be.) But he’s changed by the experience. An utterly horrifying way.So the external story is a thriller. The character goes through life and death struggle. But in the last bit something crazy happens. Oh, he becomes who he really is, but that means that who he thought he was has to die. This is always the case with coming of age stories, but it’s powerfully horrifying here because the human part of him is what dies. The story splits as the thing inside him takes over.I mean wow! This is amazing. It’s an inversion of the traditional coming of age plot. Because we as readers never notice that the character’s weaker, less capable, less mature self is dying. But when the character’s weaker self is his or her humanity!?!Woof. That’s intense. That’s blasphemous. That’s a great horror story.We have met the monster and it is us.Protip: Watch the video for outtakes of me reading some impossibly large Lovecraftian words Get full access to How It's Written by Patrick E. McLean at patrickemclean.substack.com/subscribe
Hello 通勤家族，歡迎收聽Look Back Sunday回顧星期天，在這個節目John老師會彙整過去不同國家與主題的熱門跟讀文章，讓你可以在十五分鐘內吸收最精華的世界時事趣聞！我們這週聽聽泰國的趣聞，Let's get right to it! Topic: Spray and pray - Thais celebrate Songkran Thailand's traditional New Year, as known as Songkran, is celebrated on April 13 to 15 every year. It is a time when people splash or spray one another with water, to symbolize washing away the old and welcoming the new. The word Songkran derives from the Sanskrit word for “passage” or “cross over,” representing moving into a new year. Songkran is also celebrated in Myanmar, Cambodia and Laos. 「宋干」一詞來自梵文，有「通過、跨越」的意思，代表進入新的一年。除了泰國，緬甸、柬埔寨和寮國也都會慶祝宋干節。 Known by the Taiwanese as the “splashing festival,” Songkran conjures up images of street water fights, with participants using water pistols or buckets. It originated from a traditional Buddhist ritual, and the water represents purification and blessing. 被台灣人稱為「潑水節」的宋干節，最出名的景象就是大家在街上拿水槍或水桶打水仗。潑水的起源是佛教傳統儀式，因為水代表淨化和祝福。 Songkran is about more than water fights. Traditionally, Thais also go to Buddhist temples to donate money or goods to the temple or monks during the festival, and the monks sprinkle holy water, symbolizing blessings, on them. People also bathe statues of the Buddha by pouring water over them. Thais will also sprinkle water in the hands of family elders, symbolizing respect and the receipt of the elders' blessings. 不過宋干節可不是只有狂潑水而已。泰國人傳統上會在這幾天到佛寺裡奉獻金錢或物品給寺方或僧 侶，僧侶們再以聖水灑向民眾，象徵祝福之意，民眾也會以水淋佛像，稱為「浴佛」。此外，泰國人也會把水輕灑在家族長輩手中，象徵尊敬並獲得長輩的祝福。 Miss Songkran beauty contests are also held throughout Thailand, as a way to preserve traditional Thai costumes. There are around 700,000 migrant workers in Taiwan. Of these, just over 60,000 are from Thailand. 此外，為了要保存傳統的泰式服飾，泰國各地也會舉辦宋干小姐選美比賽。 在台灣，來台的移工人數已達到七十多萬人，其中來自泰國的移工有六萬人。 In order to make Thai workers in Taiwan feel at home, Songkran was celebrated on Sunday at the ASEAN Square in Taichung, organized by the Ministry of Labor and the Taichung government. There will be another Songkran celebration held this coming Sunday at City Hall Square in New Taipei City. 為了讓在台灣的泰籍移工一解鄉愁，勞動部與地方政府合作舉辦潑水節活動，十四日已於台中東協廣場舉行，二十一日則將在新北市政府市民廣場舉辦。 Source article: http://www.taipeitimes.com/News/lang/archives/2019/04/17/2003713497 Next Article Topic: The Price of Recycling Old Laptops: Toxic Fumes in Thailand's Lungs 婦女們蹲伏在一間燈光昏暗的工廠的地上，整理被現代世界棄置的一些內容物：電池、電路板和成綑的電線。 Crouched on the ground in a dimly lit factory, women picked through the discarded innards of the modern world: batteries, circuit boards and bundles of wires. 她們或者用鐵鎚，或者徒手，拆解這些被稱作有害電子廢棄物或電子垃圾的廢品，再由男性工人鏟進一台鏗鏘作響的機器，以回收有用的金屬。有些男工用碎布包住臉來隔擋煙塵。 They broke down the scrap — known as hazardous electronic-waste, or e-waste — with hammers and raw hands. Men, some with faces wrapped in rags to repel the fumes, shoveled the refuse into a clanking machine that salvages usable metal. 當他們賣力工作之時，煙霧飄散至鄰近的村莊和工廠，居民對煙霧中有什麼物質一無所知—塑膠？金屬？誰知道！他們只知道聞起來很臭，讓人惡心。 As they toiled, smoke spewed over nearby villages and farms. Residents have no idea what is in the smoke — plastic, metal, who knows? All they know is that it stinks and they feel sick. 這間名為「新天空金屬」的工廠，是東南亞正蓬勃發展的電子垃圾業的一部分，是在中國大陸決定停止接收毒害其土地人民的全球電子垃圾後，應運而生。泰國特別成為這項產業的中心，過程中社運人士大力阻擋，政府則在公共安全與可觀的收益之間謀取平衡。 The factory, New Sky Metal, is part of a thriving e-waste industry across Southeast Asia, born of China's decision to stop accepting the world's electronic refuse, which was poisoning its land and people. Thailand in particular has become a center of the industry even as activists push back and its government wrestles to balance competing interests of public safety with the profits to be made from the lucrative trade. 去年泰國禁止外國電子垃圾進口，然而環境監控人員和產業專家說，新工廠仍然在國內各地開設，處理成噸的電子垃圾。 Last year, Thailand banned the import of foreign e-waste. Yet new factories are opening across the country, and tons of e-waste are being processed, environmental monitors and industry experts said. 「電子垃圾必須有去處。」以反對將垃圾傾倒至窮國為訴求的「巴塞爾行動網路」執行長吉姆．帕其特說，「中國就是把整個作業搬到東南亞。」 “E-waste has to go somewhere,” said Jim Puckett, executive director of the Basel Action Network, which campaigns against trash dumping in poor countries, “and the Chinese are simply moving their entire operations to Southeast Asia.” 他說：「賺錢的唯一方法，是用便宜、非法的勞力處理極為龐大的數量，而且大肆汙染環境。」 “The only way to make money is to get huge volume with cheap, illegal labor and pollute the hell out of the environment,” he added. 根據聯合國的統計，全球每年製造出5000萬噸電子垃圾，消費者習慣了丟掉前一年的機型，入手新款式。 回收這些小電器的觀念聽起來道德高尚：科技便利的無限循環。 Each year, 50 million tons of e-waste are produced globally, according to the United Nations, as consumers grow accustomed to throwing away last year's model and acquiring the next new thing.The notion of recycling these gadgets sounds virtuous: an infinite loop of technological utility. 但是，從廢棄的手機、電腦和電視中採集微量的金銀銅之類貴金屬，其實是骯髒且危險的工作。 But it is dirty and dangerous work to extract the tiny quantities of precious metals — like gold, silver and copper — from castoff phones, computers and televisions. 曾經有許多年，中國大陸大量接收世界各地的電子廢棄物。然後在2018年，北京對外來電子垃圾關閉了大門。泰國和其他東南亞國家看到了機會，因為它們環境法律執行寬鬆，勞動力剝削容易，而且商界和政府間關係緊密。 For years, China took in much of the world's electronic refuse. Then in 2018, Beijing closed its borders to foreign e-waste. Thailand and other countries in Southeast Asia — with their lax enforcement of environmental laws, easily exploited labor force and cozy nexus between business and government — saw an opportunity. 「每一片電路板和每一條電線都能讓你賺不少錢，特別是毋須考慮環境或勞工時。」環境監督組織「泰國生態警示復甦」領導人潘重．沙也譚說。 “Every circuit and every cable is very lucrative, especially if there is no concern for the environment or for workers,” said Penchom Saetang, head of Ecological Alert and Recovery Thailand, an environmental watchdog. Source article: https://paper.udn.com/udnpaper/POH0067/349813/web/ Next Article Topic: About Thailand - Thailand's pet groomer reopens as new coronavirus cases slow Chewy and Miley, both two-year-old Schnauzer dogs, are getting their hair cut at a groomer in Bangkok for the first time since the new coronavirus outbreak began in Thailand in January. 都是2歲的雪納瑞楚伊和麥莉，從新型冠狀病毒1月開始在泰國爆發以來，第1次在曼谷讓美容師剪毛。 Pet grooming shops are among a handful of businesses that the Thai government allowed to reopen this week, following the decline in the number of new coronavirus cases. 冠狀病毒新增病例數下降後，寵物美容店成了泰國政府允許本週恢復營業的少數商業活動之一。 Extra precautionary measures that accompanied the reopening to prevent a new round of outbreak mean that the owners of Chewy and Miley are no longer allowed inside the shop. 用來防止新一波爆發的額外預防措施隨重新開業上路，意謂著楚伊和麥莉的主人不再獲准進入店裡。 Instead, they have to make an appointment and pick a hairstyle for their dogs in advance. They then drop off their pooches in a sterilised basket behind a plastic barrier in front of the shop. None of the dogs' personal accessories are allowed into the shop. 取而代之，他們必須預約並先幫愛犬挑個髮型。然後，他們把狗狗放在店舖前方一道塑膠柵欄後面一個消毒過的籃子裡。狗狗自己的配件都不准進店裡。 “Instead of being able to groom more than 10 dogs during the whole day, we can only take about five in order for us to practise social distancing,” said Sukhum Nuangjanpat, the owner of Modern Dog Grooming and School shop. 「摩登狗狗美容與學校」商店老闆蘇坤．努恩姜峇說，「不再是一整天可幫超過10隻狗理毛，我們為了執行社交距離，大概只能接5隻。」 Next Article Clawing back normality: Bangkok cat cafe reopens after virus shutdown 回到常態：曼谷貓咖啡廳在因病毒歇業後重新開放 As Thailand's capital cautiously reopens many restaurants shuttered over coronavirus fears, the feline “employees” of the Caturday Cafe are back at work. 隨著泰國首都謹慎恢復許多先前在冠狀病毒恐懼下關閉的餐廳營業，「貓週末咖啡廳」的貓「員工們」返回工作崗位了。 The few dozen friendly cats typically lounge around the cafe, breaking up naptime to saunter over to human customers for snuggles and belly rubs. 幾十隻親切貓咪通常在咖啡廳周圍閒晃，午睡時間結束就漫步走向人類顧客，討抱抱或摸肚肚。 The friendly furballs give some much-needed outside contact for Thais who have mostly been confined to home during weeks of semi-lockdown with most non-essential businesses closed. 這些友善的小毛球提供給好幾週以來大多關在家的泰國人，一些亟需的外在接觸，那段期間半封城，多數非必須商業活動不營業。 Like other businesses across Thailand, the cafe has new rules aimed at curbing the spread of the virus. Before entering, customers must have their temperature checked and wash their hands, and once inside must wear a mask at all times. 如同泰國其他商店，這間咖啡廳有新規則來遏制病毒擴散。入店之前，顧客必須檢查體溫和清洗雙手，一旦進門就必須一直戴著口罩。 As an extra precaution, the cats have dry baths, their fur brushed and eyes cleaned every day. Source article: https://features.ltn.com.tw/english/article/paper/1373101 ; https://features.ltn.com.tw/english/article/paper/1371500 通勤學英語15mins.Today榮獲 Apple Podcast 2020年十大熱門節目 KKBox 2020年十大Podcast風雲榜 (唯一語言學習Podcast) Himalaya 人氣票選播客總冠軍 每日英語跟讀Podcast，就在http://www.15mins.today/daily-shadowing 每週Vocab精選詞彙Podcast，就在https://www.15mins.today/vocab 每週In-TENSE文法練習Podcast，就在https://www.15mins.today/in-tense 用email訂閱就可以收到通勤學英語節目更新通知。
Brian and Monica talk about their favorite cards from the Darkmoon Races mini-set, as well as plenty of changes and additions to Arena, Battlegrounds, and Duels as a result of Patch 19.4! Listen to new episodes every other Friday at warcraftradio.com/live! New intro/outro music provided by @Jaythebard on Twitter. Check out his Youtube channel and Bandcamp page for more great music!
Adam and Ben are joined by Lias Saoudi, the lead singer of the most exciting rock n' roll band still in existence (that is less than 30 years old), The Fat White Family. While rock n' roll has hit its dinosaur phase, with bands seeming to opt into the binary choice of abject commercialist conformism or subterranean underground nigh nonexistence, The Fat Whites are a stark reminder of the rebellious, confrontational, and provocative soul of rock music. Lias, a brilliant writer and unhinged performer, is in the lineage of naughty rock n' roll wordsmiths: Lou Reed, Mark E. Smith, Nick Cave. Yes, he's that fucking good. Adam first saw the Fat Whites play in 2014 after getting excited hearing the group's debut album 'Champagne Holocaust.' Crouched in at the Bowery Ballroom, he stood at the front of the crowd and watched the band perform an extended intro of its psychedelic punk anthem "Auto Neutron" that upon entering into its first verse exploded in libidinal catharsis. Lias, shrieking the lyrics and screaming with reckless abandon, had his cock out half way into that first song. With this, Adam was sure that he felt what people must have felt when seeing Nick Cave and the Birthday Party in the early days, or what people must have felt watching Suicide in the '70s: shocked, appalled, and thrilled. Joyous and based. Viva rock n' roll. Adam has corresponded with Lias in the past. He interviewed him for Autre Magazine upon the FWF's second album 'Songs to our Mothers,' and once photographed in Brooklyn at a show for Lias' other band, The Moonlandingz, which got shelved (unfortunately). We got in touch with Lias to praise his pandemic conceptualized column for The Social that eviscerated shitty, woketard post-punk band Idles for their fake working class affectations and their American NGO created "activism," to talk about the transitions in his politics, the nature of rock n' roll, writing, art, all our hits basically. Enjoy! Links: Lias on Idles: https://www.thesocial.com/life-beyond-the-neutral-zone-8-lias-saoudi/ Lias on Schopenhauer: https://www.thesocial.com/life-beyond-the-neutral-zone-lias-saoudi/ Lias on art criticism and Dylan's new record: https://www.thesocial.com/life-beyond-the-neutral-zone-11-lias-saoudi/ Adam interviews Lias in 2016 (when we were so hopeful about this Bernie/Corbyn thing): https://autre.love/interviewsmain/tag/fat+white+family Lias' cultural touchstones: https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2017/mar/18/on-my-radar-lias-saoudi-musician-interview-bock Lias interview in Vogue: https://www.vogue.com/article/fat-white-family-band-interview-lias-saoudi
The forgotten ghost town of Meridean sits on the Chippewa River west of Eau Claire. Not only is the area thought to be haunted by the siren-like ghost of Mary Dean, it also seems like a favorite prowling grounds for hellhounds. According to local legend, nearly 60 years ago a parked truck was found down at the boat landing of Meridean. It was believed that two young kids who had gone down to the area and parked their vehicle were brutally torn apart by some fierce wild beast. When police looked inside the vehicle, they discovered blood splattered all over the interior, but the bodies of the victims were missing. Further analysis uncovered clumps of hair from some unidentified animal, and the bodies of the youngsters were never found. The next man to make a report was a big burly biker, the exact type of guy who wouldn’t be scared by anything. He stated that he and a couple of his friends decided to take their bikes out to see the ghost of Mary Dean. They arrived at the area and immediately felt watched. The bikers were then able to see a number of strange Dog-like creatures approaching them. The Dogs appeared to be nearly transparent – the group could almost see right through them. The second thing that freaked them out was the fact that the group exited the area at a quick pace, but the Hellhounds had no problem keeping up with them, no matter how fast they went. With a gruesome-looking Hellhound running right next to him, the man kicked out his foot and attempted to hit the ferocious Dog. Much to his surprise, his foot simply went right through the Creature. This aggressive action seemed to work, because after the kick, the Dogs simply disappeared into the night. Fearing that the Dogs were out to harm them, the bikers quickly decided to scurry out of the area as fast as they could.Within a few hundred yards of the boathouse is another report made to Michael Bachman. A Motorist Spots ‘Dogman’ in Wisconsin. - A man driving through the Eau Claire region in Wisconsin, spotted an unidentified animal he said “it looked like a two-legged wolf”. David M a Canadian businessman reported that he was driving along Interstate 94 the night of Oct. 1 when he came upon the alleged creature. “I was hoping to make it to the casino in the dells and stay there,” he says. “As I drove along, I noticed a figure moving towards the right side of the road.”David described it “as a black 6 to 7 feet tall creature and “fuzzy and shaggy in appearance”. It was standing upright, slightly leaned forward.” He added that he could not figure out a head or upper limbs because it was “a quick glance”, but that there was one thing about the animal that really captured his attention. “Its legs. They were slender and backwards from that of a human…debbiehatswell@gmail.comPlease Donate to Help with online costs - GOFUNDME - https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-bbr?utm_source=customer&utm_medium=copy_link&utm_campaign=p_cf+share-flow-1PAYPAL: - https://www.paypal.me/BigfootResearchMAP OF UK SIGHTING REPORTS: https://drive.google.com/open?id=1s1zOmmdM216PMftPUM9K1qqGrFg&usp=sharingHere is a very short and simple HOW TO use the Map video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRmRRDHcWKE&feature=youtu.beONLY FANS https://onlyfans.com/u72985588PATREON: https://www.patreon.com/DeborahHatswellBigfootReportsYOUTUBE - https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCYGn8pR90PO_oBzOjiZ23tA/DEB FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/Deborah-Hatswell-169843400334424/FACEBOOK Cryptid Creatures and the Unexplained, discussion of the more alternative theories behind the Cryptid Phenomena, UFO, Paranormal Events. https://www.facebook.com/groups/1168154236640975/FACEBOOK Werewolf Watch: Upright Bipedal Canine, Dogman, Werewolf Reports https://www.facebook.com/groups/570854456720329/MEWE: https://mewe.com/i/deborahhatswellREDDIT - https://www.reddit.com/user/BigfootDogmanReports/SPREAKER: https://www.spreaker.com/show/british-bigfootAPPLE PODCASTS: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/british-bigfoot-dogman/id1480592906?uo=4SPOTIFY: https://open.spotify.com/show/5KEn4UdewvJAUWce0zJHBbBITCHUTE https://www.bitchute.com/channel/ZK2I2Mv2KqWt/WEBSITE: Cryptid Creature BlogWORDPRESS: British Bigfoot Blog Wordpress.comBOOKS - Read the Witness Statements in their own words. Book 1 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0851LN7H1 paperback £4.99 on Amazon. People Who 'Witness Paranormal' Creatures Book 1 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B084166RNK Kindle £1.77 on Amazon. People who Witness Paranormal Creatures Book 2 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08HGR5G39 paperback £7.99 on Amazon. People Who Witnessed Dog Men, Werewolves, Wulvers and Shucks. Book 2 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08H7BV6MM Kindle £3.99 on Amazon. People Who Witnessed Dog Men, Werewolves, Wulvers and Shucks.#BBR #BBRINVESTIGATIONS - Copyright ©2005-2021 All Rights Reserved.
Welcome welcome, Friends, to The Bargain Den! This week, we watched The Reluctant Fundamentalist. And trust us when we say we but the FUN in The Reluctant FUNdamentalist. I was RELUCTANT to make that joke here since we already make both of these jokes in the episode, but whatever…. https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2032557/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_5 ...You can contact us at: TheBargainDenCast@gmail.com ...You can find The Lounge Kittens' rad music at: www.theloungekittens.com/ ...Sara Anastasia did our cover art and you can find her at: sawoowoo.bigcartel.com/ ...Become a supporter of this podcast: anchor.fm/the-bargain-den/support ...And if you want to start your own podcast, visit anchor.fm/start today! --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/the-bargain-den/support
1. Keep On Loving (19 Beatkilla Extended Rework) - Kevin Yost 2. Crusin' The Streets (Crusin', Rejected, The Pick Up, Busted, Reprise) - Boys Town Gang 3. White Powder Scream (Roach Motel Remix) - Fire Island 4. Lets Stay Home (M&S Epic Klub Mix) - Frankie Knuckles, Directors Cut, Inaya Day 5. Through Your Love (Extended Mix) - Kaz James feat. Mr.id & Kawtar Sadik Extended Mix 6. A Thousand Dances( Mollono. Bass Remix ) - Dole & Kom 7. Alien Dinner - Tube & Berger 8. Cabala King (Original Mix) - Tube & Berger 9. Down To Earth (Wankelmut Remix) - Flight Facilities 10. Feeling Good (Original Mix) - Mollono Bass 11. Precious (Gonzalo Sacc, Rodrigo Lapena Interpretation) - Depeche Mode 12. Turn On The Fun - Barem & Alexis Cabrera 13. Step Into a Groove (Forteba Alternative Remix) - Homero Espinosa 14. Bumpy Night - Natasha Kitty Katt 15. Leave It Smokin' (Terry Hunter Club Mix) - Tamia, Terry Hunter 16. Life Is A Dancefloor (Club Mix) - The Shapeshifters, Kimberly Davis 17. Always (Danny Krivit Edit) - DJ Spen & The MuthaFunkaz Feat Sheila Ford 18. Saturday (Dimitri from Paris Instrumental) [2018 Remaster]- Norma Jean Wright 19. Let Her Dance (Original Mix) - Barry&Gibbs 20. Gypsy Woman (Kaytronik Remix Extended Version)- Nicholas Ryan Gant, Karizma, Kaytronik 21. Clock On The Wall (Amateur's Lonely dub) - Amateur At Play & Karla Brown 22. Why We Sing (Louie Vega Expansions NYC version 21 Years Later) - Kenny Bobien 23. Climbing High (Nikos Diamantopoulos & Aris Kokou Vocal Tropical Mix) - Tsalikee, Darryl D'Bonneau, Kevin Wheatley 24. Nena (Original Mix) - Andre Rizo 25. Dusha (Original Mix) [Ritual Records] - Tebra 26. Human (Original Mix) - Space Motion 27. Dougne Te Soye (Original Mix) - Massimo Lippoli 28. Ceiron (Christos Fourkis Remix) - Mahmut Orhan 29. Hafla (Moroccan Vibe Mix) – Naamane 30. Sophie (Original Mix) - Kintar, Delum 31. Cello Song (M.O.S. Edit) - The Books ft Jose Gonzalez 32. Sergio Fernandez - Wagogo (Original Mix) - Sergio Fernandez 33. Take Me To The River (Nesco Remix)- Kaleida 34. Remember You - Zoo Brazil 35. Moon Rocks - Clarian 36. Golden Nights (Collective Machine Remix) - Danny Serrano, Lu 37. Midnight (Original Mix) – Hosh 38. Medusa (Main Mix) - Nikos Diamantopoulos, Christos Fourkis, Leslie Carter 39. Balearic Bliss (Anders Ponsaing Remix) (feat. Denver Knoesen) - Steen Thottrup 40. People, Be Nice (Eli Nissan Everlast Remix) - Luka Sambe 41. Muladhara - Stan Kolev 42. Julia (Original Mix) - Chill Out 43. Late At Night (Rogier Remix) - Christos Fourkis 44. Summer Love feat. Joahn Dashi (Original Mix) - Christos Fourkis 45. Without You (Christos Fourkis remix) - Adam Byrd 46. Stronger - Anthony Mea 47. In The Air Tonight (Vintage Culture Remix) - Phil Collins 48. Cello Song (M.O.S. Edit) - The Books ft Jose Gonzalez 49. Cover Me (Dixon Remix) - Depeche Mode 50. Desire (feat. Jennie Nega) - Roni Iron 51. Feather (Original Mix) - V-Sag feat. Alexandra McKay 52. Home And Dry (Alex Dee Gladenko Remix) - Pet Shop 53. Empty Streets (Haji & Emanuel Remix) - Late Night Alumni 54. We Live (Jimmy Gomez Dub) - Jonathan Pierce 55. Life Dance [Disco Mix] – Sonia 56. Closer to You (Buc's Morning Party Mix) - MarQus Cover: "Crouched" by Joe LaMattina
57. Magic Tribe - Taste Experience 58. Flower Duet (Kabbalistic Village remix) - Leo Delibes 59. Take On Me (PistolPuma Remix) - A-Ha 60. The Captain Of Her Heart (PH Edit For Dj Miguel Rosa) - Double 61. Strawberry Fields (Fear of Infiltration Re-imagination) - The Beatles 62. Hard Times - Queen Latifah 63. I Love You Always Forever (Viceroy Remix) - Betty Who 64. I Want A Dog - Pet Shop Boys 65. Message In A Bottle (Jondai Remix) - John Mayer 66. Not Alone (Ensauszwei Remix) - David K. feat. Strahan 67. If You Wait (George X Remix) - London Grammar 68. Don't You Worry Child [Joshua Grey Remix] - Beth 69. Here Comes the Sun (Milton Rivero Deep Rework Mix) - The Beatles 70. Solamente Tú (Con Díana Navarro) - Pablo Alborán Cover: “Crouched” by Joe LaMattina
In terms of sheer hostility to human life, this remote and little-known range is second to none. One unlucky climber finds out why a third of all who summit The Mountain do not return to tell the tale. Credits: Narrated by Marissa Chin Written and produced by Doryen Chin Sensitivity Reader: Auden Granger "Deep Horrors" "Deep Noise" "Departure Ghostpocalypse" "Echoes of Time v2" "Medusa" by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/ "Spirit of the Dead" by Aakash Gandhi The Beacon Jar - Copyright 2018 Doryen Chin Transcript and Content Warnings under the cut: ----more---- [content warning: gaslighting, descriptions of corpses, descriptions of mental illness] Note: The audio you will hear is slightly altered from the text below, but the transcript is accurate for most purposes. MOUNTAIN Written by Doryen Chin My name is Agatha Bembridge, and it is by pure, dumb, terrible luck that I am alive. So that no one will go seeking to verify my account for themselves, I will keep the name of The Mountain a secret. Some of my peers may be able to guess its identity by deduction through any clues I unintentionally provide. But, it is my sincere hope that my reputation and this warning alone will be enough to give them pause. The two-week hike up to Base Camp was as slow and arduous as I'd heard, even after eighteen months of training and planning. I was traveling with a handful of guides who were native to the region, as well as a wealthy European couple making their second attempt at the summit. We had to stop several times along the way to visit various temples and villages, so that our guides could pray for safe passage into these barren lands. On the evening of the twelfth day, we arrived. Normally, the first night at Base Camp is spent in relatively good spirits. Just getting here is a small miracle in its own right, and it's rightly celebrated by most who make the trip in one piece. However on the night of our arrival, we were greeted by ashen, solemn faces. News from a party descending the summit had just come in. One of their climbers had died. The party leader, Helen Schwarzschild, had lost her son, William, shortly after they began their downward climb from the peak. We sat in relative silence, our dinners growing cold on our plates as the remaining survivors emerged from the darkness. The fact is, nearly a third of all climbers who reach the summit of The Mountain do not return. In terms of difficulty, there are several more challenging peaks in the world. But in terms of sheer hostility to human life, this remote and little-known range is second to none. The thing which makes the mountain so deadly is a subject of contention, however. You see, most deaths which occur on The Mountain aren't the result of a bad fall, or an avalanche, or an injury of any kind. Though, that does happen on occasion. No, most people who die on The Mountain, simply stop climbing, sit down, and never get back up again. They call it, “Mountain Sickness.” According to Captain Schwarzschild, the manner of her son's demise was congruous with the others. He was tied to her life line when he perished, and she had to cut him loose with her own knife. There's a saying, popular among many mountaineers and alpinists familiar with the perils of high-altitude climbing. “Those who die on The Mountain, stay on The Mountain.” Despite the best efforts of the local government, most who perish near the summit must remain there indefinitely. Too costly to find, or too inaccessible to reach. But, the attempt must be made. The European couple offered to cover the cost of the extra climbing and retrieval gear for the guides, as well as any incidentals incurred along the way. At first, the grieving mother was reluctant to accept their charity, insisting that the insurance would cover it. But it didn't. The only indignity it spared her that day was the “littering” fee imposed by the local government, for leaving the boy's corpse on the mountainside. In the morning, it was decided that our local guides would accompany us up the mountain to assess the possibility of retrieving the boy's body, and, if it was feasible, bring him back down. After a light breakfast, while the weight of the evening's tragedy still hung on our hearts, we were given the go by the Weather Team to set out on the first leg of our expedition. Due to the extreme altitude, we could not actually attempt to summit the peak for several more days. The first week of our climb would be spent between Camp One and Camp Two as our bodies acclimatized to the low oxygen environment. Like many of the world's highest peaks, Camp One on The Mountain lies nearly a thousand meters above Base Camp, on a narrow ledge accessible only by ascending a treacherous ice fall. For those who don't know, an ice fall is basically a river of solid ice, running down the mountain like a glacier at a rate of about six feet per day. It can calve without warning, sending boulders of ice the size of houses, weighing twelve-hundred tons each, crashing down on you. If you're lucky, you die instantly. We reached the ice fall as the sun was beginning to rise over the eastern range, and began our ascent once we had checked in with the Weather Team. There are no fixed ropes on the ice fall. It's a six-hundred-meter free-climb over ever-shifting terrain, across crevasses up to thirty feet wide and immeasurably deep. In order to cross, several steel ladders must be lashed together and laid over the chasm. Then a guide may carefully traverse this makeshift “bridge” and anchor a rope to the other side. Our guides had done it so many times, they simply walked across. The ladder jostled and creaked under their feet as they did so. Watching them, I could not help but imagine how easy it would be to slip into that crushing abyss. Unable to climb out again. Unable to be rescued. Sliding helplessly down razor sharp ice walls and disappearing into darkness. I actually don't remember crossing that first time. I know I must have. I just remember being afraid and then, around mid-afternoon, we arrived at Camp One. Memory is a strange thing. We don't get to choose what sticks. Forced to remember things we wish we could forget, yet somehow always forgetting where we put our keys. While the rest of the team prepared Camp One, the guides continued to climb to Camp Two to see if they could spot William's remains from that clearer vantage. Several hours later, just after the sun had disappeared below the western horizon, they returned. We had dinner waiting for them, and as they sat down to eat, one of the Europeans asked the question nobody else wanted to ask. Had they seen him? The head guide, who I'll call Tam (though that was not his name), shook his head and explained that high winds had ruined visibility on the upper mountain. They would have to continue up with us to Camp Three and then decide if it was worth it for them to carry the cumbersome rescue supplies any further. Under that pall of uncertainty, we tucked into our tents to sleep. I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sudden howling of frozen wind. Bewildered, I clicked on my flashlight and found myself staring out the open entry of my tent. The outer flap whipped around like a flag against the darkness. My sleep-dull mind struggled to comprehend what I was seeing until I realized, with mounting shock, someone had zipped open my tent while I was sleeping. My heart pounding, I scrambled to the front of my tent and reached outside to pull the flap closed again. Idiot. It was like dunking my hand in a freezing river. The bitter wind burned as I fumbled with the zipper. Once I had finally re-sealed the tent I collapsed, cradling it. I must have sat there for ages, replaying the evening over and over in my head. I knew that I had secured my tent. Someone must have opened it, either on purpose or by accident, and left the flap open, exposing me to hypothermia, frostbite, or worse. I got on the radio and demanded to know if anyone else was awake, if anyone else had heard anything. After a minute, one of the Europeans came on and asked if I needed help, if they should contact Base Camp. I told them what happened, and to their credit, they took the situation seriously. Within an hour, they had awakened the entire team, and the guides, and demanded an explanation. As we sat shivering in our own tents, huddled over our radios, some folks became understandably defensive. No one would admit to leaving their tents after dark, and all happened to have a credible witness to their whereabouts. Then the questions were turned on me. Was anything missing? Was I touched inappropriately? Was there any evidence that anyone had actually been in the tent? I explained that no, nothing was missing, the only thing that was violated was my privacy and safety from the cold. One of the other members of the team suggested that perhaps I hadn't properly secured my tent that night, and it was my fault that it came open. We didn't speak much after that. The following morning was tense and uncomfortable, our optimism dampened by interrupted sleep and accusations of impropriety. In light of... what happened later, I struggled over whether I should have apologized. In the end, I came to the conclusion that no matter the true perpetrator of the infraction, I was well justified in my actions and behavior. It's bad enough to be endangered in such a way, much less to have my own competency questioned rather than the intentions of others. I simply wish that the others gave my experience as much credit as they did their own professions of innocence. It was made clear, not in words but in actions and the silences, that I would from now on be treated only with kid gloves and polite tolerance. That is, except for the European couple, who seemed to genuinely sympathize, and offered to let me share their tent. I regret that I declined. Though if it might've done any good in the end, I really can't say. We spent the next week, climbing back and forth between Camps One and Two, until we were given the all-clear to proceed to Camp Three. As they had done before, our guides - who were still committed to retrieving the remains of young William Schwarzschild, climbed on ahead of us on the first day to see if they could determine his location. Again, they failed. As a means of boosting morale, the European couple broke out the special food they had been saving for Summit Day, and shared it among the rest of the camp. We spent the evening singing songs and telling old climbing stories until we had nearly forgotten the emotional challenges we had faced so far on our journey. For that brief moment, the mountain was just a mountain, and we were all just good friends. To say that the climb from Camp Three to Camp Four is challenging is less of an understatement and more of an outright lie. There is only one passable route, and only one climber at a time can negotiate it safely. It involves twenty feet of inverted free-climb, and the fixed ropes have a tendency to bunch and tangle there, which slows progress to a crawl. It is understood that the most experienced climbers always go up first. This, of course, meant the guides, followed by the European couple, then me, then the rest of the team. Dangling by your hands from frozen rock, with only half an inch of slack nylon between you and certain death, is an enlightening experience. You're so high up that the sky seems to be all around you in almost every direction. It's easy to get confused, lose track of “up and down.” At one point my brain panicked and insisted that I was falling into that blue-black abyss, and that I should turn around and climb back to safety. A nano-second later, my training kicked in and I froze in place, clutching my life line in a death grip, realizing that I had just nearly let myself fall. My heart pounding in my ears, I slowly and deliberately ascended the remainder of the climb to Camp Four. With all climbers present and safely inside Camp Four, we proudly radio'd to Base Camp that we had completed the first half of our expedition to the summit. From there on out, the summit attempt was broken into smaller teams. For obvious reasons, I had already decided to partner with the European couple, and when it came time to break into teams I made my preference known. This was when the friendly facade of the group finally began to crack, because it would mean that the most experienced climbers were all grouped together, while the lesser experienced ones would be left to fend for themselves. The guides tried to explain that they would do their best to spread themselves evenly between all teams, but for one climber in particular, this was not a satisfactory solution. This was the same man who had suggested that it was my own fault that my tent had come open on our first night on the mountain. It was eventually decided that he would be partnered with the European couple, and that I would help lead one of the lower experience teams. Finally, under a tense peace, we turned in for the evening. I couldn't sleep. Between the stress of the climb, the worsening social friction, and the decreasing prospects of retrieving the boy's remains, my mind was a whirlwind of doubt. I was lonely and desperate for company, perhaps that's why at around 1:30 in the morning I found myself clutching my radio in my lap. The channel open. Just listening to the static. I had just nearly began to drift off when the radio emitted a sharp, piercing squeal. I was so startled I reflexively threw it across my tent where it landed behind my pack with a soft thud. The squeal continued, now muffled, and I don't know if it was just my mind playing tricks on me or not, but, I swear it sounded like someone screaming. Feeling immediately foolish, I nevertheless couldn't bring myself to retrieve it. In the back of my mind, I suppose part of me hoped that someone else would hear it and respond, but no one did. It got louder and louder until I couldn't stand it and had to cover my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. The screeching went on for over a minute and then, without any drama whatsoever, it stopped. Cautiously, I opened my eyes and leaned forward, afraid that it might start up again any moment, but it didn't. When I finally worked up the courage to crawl over to it, I found that it was dead and would not turn on again. I pulled open the battery compartment and checked the internals, but everything seemed to be fine. No sign of a blown fuse, no melted plastic. Aside from a faint whiff of ozone, there seemed to be absolutely no sign at all of anything wrong with it. The adrenaline wore off pretty quickly after that, and in the ensuing lethargy I finally found sleep. In the morning, I quietly asked one of the Europeans if their radios were working okay. They said that as far as they knew, they were working fine. I asked if they had heard anything or been woken up by any loud noises, but they again said they'd experienced nothing of the sort. When I saw the barely hidden worried look they gave to their partner, I stopped pressing and just asked if they had any extra batteries I might borrow. They kindly obliged, and when I told them not to mention it to the other climbers, they silently agreed. With clearance from the Weather Team, we were given the go-ahead to ascend to Camp Five, which would be the staging point for our summit attempts. Each team would go up and come down in turns while the rest of us waited behind in order to keep the lanes clear. Everything above Camp Five exists entirely within the Death Zone, where the oxygen content of the atmosphere is around 30% of that at sea level. Most folks bring their own oxygen regulators, which can be heavy and cumbersome. Many more “adventurous” climbers choose to do without. I was halfway up the nearly vertical rock face when out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. I knew exactly what he looked like. That young man's face was burned into my memory ever since my first night at Base Camp. And now there he was. Crouched in the snow, eighty feet above me was William Schwarzschild. I screamed. I couldn't help it. I had seen the bodies of fallen climbers before. It's an occupational hazard. But something about seeing him there, out in the open like that. It turned me inside out. Hearing my scream, the other climbers halted to check if I was alright. My arm tight around my support rope, I pointed with my free hand toward William's body. However, it would seem that due to the awkward angle of the slope, surrounded as it was by jutting crags and uneven ice, I was the only person in the entire team who had a clear line of sight to the corpse. And, since I was the last one up, there was no-one behind me to corroborate. Tam, the head guide, agreed to climb down and check for himself once I had pulled myself up to Camp Five. Not wanting to wait behind and miss their summit window, the first two teams embarked on their run while my team and I waited for Tam to verify what I had seen. After nearly an hour had gone by, I began to worry. The other two members of my team sat huddled together by their tent, whispering to each other while I waited at the edge of the ridge for Tam to return. The first team had already summited the peak and were on their way back down by the time he finally appeared again. He explained that he had taken a long time because about a quarter of the way down, his ropes had gotten tangled and he had to stop to sort them out. By the time he had reached the point where I was able to spot William's body, the sun's position had shifted and made it difficult to discern it from the surrounding rock and snow. He said he had no way of being sure whether it really was William's body, and if it was, it was much further from Camp Five than he had expected it to be. According to Mrs. Schwarzschild, William died close to the camp, and therefore his body should have been much more accessible. He explained that if it truly was William's body, the likelihood of retrieving him was, he was sorry to say, slim to none. We waited patiently for the first two teams to return from their summit attempt. When the first team arrived the guides that came with them conferred with Tam and confirmed his assessment of the situation. It simply was not worth the risk to attempt to retrieve William's body from the place where it had come to rest. As the second team trickled into the camp, Tam radioed down to Base Camp to relay the news and offer his apologies. The mother was inconsolable. She flew into a rage and demanded that Tam and his team perform another, more thorough search. She was absolutely adamant that William had perished not fifty feet from Camp Five, and could not have moved or fallen in the intervening days since. Somehow my name was dragged into the ensuing dispute, as I was the first person who spotted the body, and she got it into her head that it was my testimony alone that informed the decision not to attempt the retrieval. Ultimately she handed off the radio and refused to continue talking to us after insisting that she'd put together her own rescue team and bring him down herself. By the time the situation had been thoroughly deliberated, and my team was preparing to make our summit attempt, we got word from Base Camp that a weather system was moving in and the mountain would be impassable within a few hours. Sure enough, a thick haze had enveloped the entire eastern face and the winds were growing fiercer by the minute. We decided to hunker down and make our summit attempt in the morning while the other two teams were descending back to Camp Four. We each took our dinners alone in our tents, listening to the wind moan and scream through the camp. I read while I ate, grateful for the dog-eared copy of We Have Always Lived in the Castle that I always kept in my bag. Knowing I would need to be well-rested for my summit run in the morning, I took a sleep-aid with dinner and kept my lantern as dim as I could read by. I went to bed not long after I finished dinner and fell fast asleep. From deep within the well of sleep, I slowly became aware of the sound of a deliberate, rhythmic scraping, somewhere nearby. Do you know what somnambulance is? It's the scientific word for walking in your sleep, and a known but rare side-effect of the particular sleep-aid which I had taken that night with my dinner. A sleep-aid that I have personally used for years, without any problems, complications, or issues whatsoever. I don't remember exactly why I woke up, only that I when I did, I found myself inexplicably outside in the dark, about thirty feet away from the safety of the camp. It was such a surreal feeling that at first, I thought I must have been dreaming. Then I became aware of my hands, tightly gripping a fixed rope. After a moment's examination, I realized that somehow I had gotten dressed, laced my boots, strapped on my headlamp, left my tent, and was preparing to rappel down the mountainside when I awoke. Or at least, that's what I thought. But then, that sound came back to me. The odd, rhythmic scraping. I turned to look and found myself facing the edge of the ridge, beyond which was the 90 degree rock face between camps Four and Five, not twenty feet away. Then I felt it. A gentle tug on the rope in my hand. I stared down, watching it. With every little soft scrape in the distance, the rope tugged a little at my clenched hands. I immediately dropped the rope and fell against the icy slope. The scrapes were growing louder, nearer. Suddenly the rope became taut and creaked liked it was supporting something heavy. I couldn't look away. I just sat there, watching and listening as the rope creaked and twisted. Something was climbing the rope, that was the only explanation. And all I knew in that moment was that whoever it was... whatever it was... I did not want to see it. Panic knotted my gut, and I began to fearfully pat myself all over, searching my pockets and belt, until finally, as the taste of bile rose in my mouth, I produced my pocket knife. The thing was barely a few feet from the edge of the ridge as I once again took hold of the rope in my trembling hands and began to saw through it. I squeezed my eyes closed tight against the freezing wind and the fear of even catching a single glimpse of what was coming, and worked through the sturdy cord for what felt like an eternity until finally, with a soft snap, it gave. The rope slipped from my hands and slithered quickly over the edge and disappeared into the endless void beyond. Sitting there in the snow and wind and darkness, thousands and thousands of feet above the rest of the world, I listened hard for the sound of impact. For a scream. For anything. But there was nothing. Only the wind. I struggled to push myself out of bed the following morning, the possible ramifications of what I'd done weighed heavy on my mind. What if I'd made a mistake? What if it wasn't... Then I remembered. The two teams who had made the summit yesterday were descending this morning. Whatever I had cut loose in the night would be discovered within the hour. I hastily threw on my gear and joined my team outside, wanting to appear as calm and unassuming as possible. My teammates were already agitated, and asked me why I wasn't responding to my radio. I told them that I had unintentionally slept-in and that my radio had been on the fritz for the last few days. As we knelt down to discuss our plan of attack, Tam the guide came over and quietly asked if he could speak with me alone for a moment. My blood ran cold, but I did not let my anxiety show. I nodded and stood to join him. Walking away, I could feel the eyes of my teammates burning a hole in my back as they stared. Once we were alone, Tam gave a wary glance back at the camp and I could see the exhaustion in his face. Something was bothering him. He looked back and me and he held my gaze and told me that, I shouldn't blame myself. It wasn't my fault. I must have looked confused, because he asked, hadn't I heard? And I responded, hadn't I heard what? His expression turned grim, and said, he thought I knew. Apparently, sometime in the night, Helen Schwartzschild, William's mother, had disappeared from Basecamp. I was gutted. The world turned under me and Tam caught me as I fell. I was sick in the snow, and began to weep openly, in ugly coughing sobs. Everyone nearby immediately went silent and turned to watch my humiliating breakdown. After several minutes, I realized that someone had brought me toilet paper and tea. As I blew the snot from my nose, Tam sat beside me and told me that, it would be okay if I didn't want to attempt the summit today. I could go back down with the first two teams and he would lead my team for me. I wanted to. God. I wish I had. But I didn't. I shook my head, “no” and told him that I had come this far already. I told him that I owed it to William and to Helen and myself to keep moving forward. In reality, it was cowardice that made me do it. In the end, I simply did not want to face whatever was waiting at the bottom of that fall. If only I'd known. We began our summit attempt before the first two teams had even finished packing their gear. I took lead, and Tam brought up the rear. There are a few different routes which one can take to reach the summit from Camp Five. Each has their own benefits and drawbacks, though only one is significantly more challenging than the rest. More challenging, but not necessarily more dangerous. This was the route I had logged in my flight plan, and I saw no convincing reason why I should've changed my mind so late in the game. So that was the one we took. Perhaps it was pride, or perhaps it was just the simple fact that it's difficult to dwell on other things, while your life is hanging on the strength of your fingers and toes, as you cling to a steep wall of wind-blasted ice and stone a over a mile high. As we approached the peak, breathing heavy into our O2 regulators, I began to feel a sharp pain in my chest. It spread slowly and made me shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the frozen air around me. I could see the summit. And beyond it was... absolutely nothing for miles and miles. That sensation akin to vertigo gripped me again, and I fought to maintain my grasp on perceiving up from down as gravity itself seemed to become confused. I heard a muffled voice call out and realized that it was Tam. I turned and saw him behind me, and he was scared. Seeing his fear, I took a deep breath from my regulator and gave him a thumbs up. We were almost there. Have you ever been so exhausted, so relentlessly tired, that your body somehow takes over for you? Puts you on autopilot? That's how it felt, scaling those last few dozen feet toward the final precipice at the top of the mountain. At precisely 1:37 PM, I set foot on the summit of The Mountain. Being the first up, I helped the others one by one as they joined me at the summit. Remarkably, it was Tam's first time. I only found that out after he had joined me there. There was cheers and shouts and celebration from everyone, and for a moment I forgot my fear. I forgot the cold sharp pain that continued to grow under my ribs. Everyone posed for a few photos and I guess I must have as well, though I don't remember it. No, the next thing I remember is the call. Tam's radio chirped and he answered it, still cheesing from the rush of his achievement. As he shouted back and forth into the radio, I felt that the hairs on the very back of my neck had begun to prickle and stand up. Who was he talking to? I couldn't make it out over the roar of wind in my ears as it rushed over my parka. I saw him look at me. He nodded and shouted into the radio, then leaned over to ask me something. I looked at him, saw that his lips were moving, but I couldn't make out a single word. I just frowned and shook my head. I've forgotten so much. They say that happens when your brain is exposed to a low-oxygen environment for too long. You get gaps in your memory, develop behavioral problems. Over time, through therapy, they can reverse most of it. Of all the things I've forgotten from the expedition, I wish I could forget what happened next. Within moments, the others had begun to descend from the summit, and Tam helped me to follow him. But after a few feet I stopped. For the first time since reaching the summit, I did the one thing I dreaded more than anything since we set out that morning. But I had do. There was no avoiding it. I looked down. And there, beyond Tam, beyond the other climbers of my team, on a bare outcropping of rock amongst the sea of snow and ice, she stood. Unable to look away, I croaked, “Mrs. Schwarzschild.” Tam, who was reaching out to take my hand, froze as I spoke, and said, “Aggie, it's not your fault.” “What?” I asked, blinking hard against the blinding sun and the tears stinging my eyes. “There was nothing you could have done.” He said. As I stared at Mrs. Schwarzschild, I saw that her skin was rough and taut. Her hair was tangled and matted with ice. Chapped lips framed her mouth which hung dully open. Tam seized my hand and coaxed me forward, but I froze. “She's there.” I said. He looked around at the other climbers, exasperated. “Aggie, they found her body. Didn't you hear?” That did it. I looked at him as he indicated his radio. “She froze to death on the ice-fall, a few hundred feet from Basecamp.” My heart dropped as I turned back to where I had seen her and saw that somehow, while I had averted my gaze, she had halved the distance between us and now stood only a hundred feet below us. Not only her. Over her shoulder, crouched in the snow as I had first seen him, was William. But they were not alone. All over the mountainside I perceived them. Dozens. Hundreds. Twisted, desiccated corpses with yawning mouths and sun-yellowed teeth. Staring helplessly out of shrunken, dried sockets. But they weren't truly dead. They were still here. All of them, trapped here. Trapped inside. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. My body was dying. The terrible icy pain in my chest had spread throughout my entire body and I was paralyzed. Tam watched me sink to my knees and reflexively reached out to catch me, and in doing so he lost his own balance and tumbled down onto the icy slope below us. The slack ran out on his lifeline and I was immediately yanked down behind him, and somehow, in the rush of falling, I felt my hand take hold of my pick. My training, the countless hours of purposefully sliding and falling took over, and it was pure instinct that dug my pick into the rapidly passing ice and slowed our fall enough for Tam to regain control. It's been almost a year since it happened. a take medication for the nightmares, and these days I don't dream at all. But the thing I long for most is solitude. I cannot remember the last time that I was alone. Unable to visit me in my dreams, I am forced to endure them in broad daylight. They say that what dies on the mountain, stays on the mountain. God. I wish that was true.
Crouched low. Hiding in a fire escape backstage with his fingers plugging his ears. This is how Sergei Rachmaninoff experienced the premiere of his Symphony No. 1. What should have been a triumphant night for Rachmaninoff turned into a nightmare which only worsened once the review appeared in the newspaper. "Diseased and perverted harmonizations." "Morbid atmosphere." Fit for the "inhabitants of Hell." These were the words used by St. Petersburg's leading music critic, César Cui, in his review of Rachmaninoff's Symphony No. 1. That very public flogging sent Rachmaninoff into a downward spiral.
There’s pain, and then there’s intensely deep pain. We all have pain. We all have the pain of failed experiences,sordid disappointments, wasted opportunities and wasted investments that we thought were opportunities. There’s the pain of not being where we imagined being, of being forced to embrace dreams as more fantasy than substance, of friends in flight and fortitude forgotten. There’s the pain of growing up and growing jaded, a world devolving despite relentless efforts to reverse it all, of diminished confidence in our fellowman and a diminished confidence when the fellowman is us. There’s the pain of watching others in pain and the pain of feeling our own pain, whatever it might be. Then to top it all off, there’s pain that we can’t even identify despite our desperate efforts to do so which makes whatever’s hurting us hurt all the more. Yes, there’s pain and we all have it. Then there the ‘core of your soul’kind of pain that’s entirely different. It’s the kind of pain that’s rarely sharp but indisputably debilitating,profoundly aching to a paralyzing numbness with a venomous bite that’s emotionally heart-stopping. It’s exceedingly more than painful, it kills; not a straight-up obvious kind of death, but more the killing of the soul that leaves us alive while simultaneously dead. It’s a pain that flaunts healing, that defies a cure and that leaves a forever ‘limp’ in our souls, if not something more paraplegic in nature. This kind of pain is entirely unreasonable and terribly cruel in terms of its intensity, but it makes sense in terms of our humanity. It seems reasonable that we would feel this way or could feel this way. There’s something of depth and soul-ness about our humanity that makes perfect sense of this kind of pain. Yet, it’s horrific despite the fact that it makes sense. We can embrace it as feasible, but we prefer to reject it as entirely too painful. When we feel this kind of pain we would often gladly give up some of our humanity to whittle down the pain. Such is the intensity that we often wonder if we’ll ever recover, or recover fully. We often think that if the world is capable of inflicting such pain and we’re capable of feeling it, what kind of world is this anyway? And if the world is capable of doing this to people and we’re capable of feeling stuff at this depth, it’s likely that the world’s going to continue to hurt us because it can and ultimately it will. Acknowledging Pain Probably the first step in dealing with all of this is to acknowledge that we do experience pain and that we will continue to experience pain. Pain seems to be accentuated when we fight it as cruel, unjust, wicked and inherently destructive. It’s in fighting pain that we escalate pain. The battle against pain is where a significant degree of our pain comes from in the first place. This is not to say that we welcome pain into our lives with open arms and loving words of passionate greeting. Rather, it’s to embrace that fact that life has its fair share of pain and we’re going to experience our fair share of it. It’s refusing to take the principles of fairness and justice as some kind of ethical template and affix them over our pain because when we do, it’s highly likely that our pain’s going to be unjust. When that becomes painfully obvious, we rage and tantrum about the injustices perpetrated upon us in some childish rant that only serves to expend more energy and amplify our pain. We will experience pain, both just and unjust. We’d be wise to accept that. The Goal of Pain Eradication No one like’s pain; at least almost no one. Because we’re adverse to pain, our first goal is to eliminate it. There’s really no other reflexive orientation that we have other than take some sort of step to get rid of it. The natural and ingrained response when we incur pain is to react in a way that will make it stop. That action’s essentially habitual;something that we do without ever even realizing what we’re doing it. It’s only in recognizing that we’re doing something that we can ever even ask why we’re doing it. The largely unrecognized, yet terribly fatal flaw in a sole focus on pain eradication is that taking action to stop the pain will typically direct our efforts solely to the more superficial aspects of our pain rather than focusing on the deeper dynamics which are in all likelihood the major source of our pain. The Language of Pain - Pain Is Telling Us Something We don’t take enough time to ask what pain is telling us because we’re too busy trying to get rid of it. We want to shut it up. We’ve long lost the language of pain. We don’t see it as an indicator, a light on the dashboard of our lives, a warning siren signaling the approach of something, or a red light that suggests that we come to a full stop. Pain’s no longer a system of the body, or a relationship, or of life that’s flagging down before we fall down. We’ve meticulously demoted it to being nothing other than pain, and in the demotion we’ve come to conveniently assume that it’s pain only and nothing else. We’ve stripped it and silenced it. Its warnings go unheeded because we don’t hear them. Us Authentic Khalil Gibran said that “your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.” Whatever that shell is its solid to the point of being impenetrable. Typically it’s constructed from the composite material of our defense mechanisms and it’s fired to a steeled strength in the blast furnace of our previous pain. We’re constantly constructing methods to protect ourselves from threats that are in some instances quite real, and in other instance are at product of imaginations that are fed by the real experiences. Pain demolishes those shells. Pain strips us raw in the sense that all the games and all the protective layers are ripped away. Pain draws us down and back up into authenticity. It’s a raw and frighteningly vulnerable place to be, but it’s a profound place from which to understand who we are and to grow deep in that understanding. Embracing Pain Opens Up Life An unknown author wrote that “love means exposing yourself to the pain of being hurt, deeply hurt by someone you trust.” If we refuse to risk pain or feel pain, we’ve shut down vast amounts of the landscape of our lives. Refusing to feel pain means that we will refuse to engage nearly all of life. We huddle in some hovel, fearful and winching at the very thought of pain. Crouched over, with our arms wrapped about us in abject fear we live out lives of desperate isolation. It seems that the trade-off is far too costly. If we want to live; to live in a manner that’s wholesale and abandoned to living itself we’ll need to accept pain,quite trying to eradicate it as a first step, figure out what it’s telling us, let it reveal the true depths of who we are, and grow in the wild concoction of itall. Feel pain and live!
Crouched on a rooftop among a metropolitan cityscape are the silhouetted figures of Joshua Witsaman and David Tavolier, heroic co-hosts of TRIO SIMPATICO! This week Josh and Dave discuss comic books and some of their favorite funny book writers and artists! This episode they will be triangulating their thoughts with the one and only CARL RANDLES who has more than a few things to say about comic books!
As you listen to this, are you hunched over a smartphone? Crouched over a computer? Slumped in a chair, Curved over a table? Some of us sit up to 17 hours a day, which is pretty obviously not ideal, especially if you are sitting in the wrong position. Today’s Zestology guest might be able to help you with that. The New York Times calls her ‘the posture guru’. She is Esther Gokhale and the more we spoke, the more I realised how important good posture is for good health. I first heard her on a very inspirational TED talk - she was great so we got in touch and she agreed to come on Zestology. GUARANTEE. When you listen to today's show, you will start to rearrange yourself into all kinds of postural adjustments that will make you feel good. The posture of success. (I'm not sure if the posture of success is an actual thing but you know what I mean). When you listen you'll hear: Living with more energy Sitting with form [5:50] Restoring length in the body [15:14] Easy household items that can help you sit better [18:05] How back pain is draining your energy [19:30] How to properly use a standing desk [24:14] Easy, everyday tips for vitality The Barefoot Posture Approach [7:15] Posture for Infants [13:00] How to properly sit (and change your life) [17:16] Standing for beginners [22:25] The importance of stacking [25:10] Finding motivation Learning from people who are close to the ground [4:50] Movement as a part of the human heritage [10:25] Adding strength to the system [15:45] Modern people have different needs in the 21st century [29:10] Ecosystem posture method [34:16] For more information Gokhalemethod.com In the Ice Palace JOIN the Zestology MAILING LIST by going to our website (http://www.tonywrighton.com) Connect with Tony on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/tonywrighton If you love the show, please take a moment to rate & review it on iTunes. We appreciate that so much. You can also go to http://www.tonywrighton.com for show notes, online streaming, extra bits and the Zestology Challenge.
Daddy daughter dance, planning Syd's life, picked last and a heart attack.
Steven Kerzner may be the most famous TV performer you've never heard of. His hand has insulted some of the biggest pop stars in the world. Crouched just out of frame, he had a worm's eye view of the heyday of CityTV and Muchmusic, and he tells Jesse all. Support CANADALAND: https://canadaland.com/joinSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
Damian Duffy (NUI Maynooth) at the 2014 Tudor and Stuart Ireland Conference. a lady of suche port, that all estates of the realme crouched unto her - Margaret Fitzgerald, countess of Ormond.
An Even Temper, by Michael Saad Narrated by John Roberts, co-host of GAG The Manager. The shopping cart slammed into the doorframe, causing a crash that pierced the silence of our apartment hallway. Crouched in the front basket, I held up my forearm to prevent my body from barreling through our front door. “Monty, you [...]
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