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Ash Men, Sins, and the Will of the Ancestors. In 25 parts, edited from the works of FinalStand. Listen and subscribe to the ► Podcast at Connected.. ‘Do you think you know who you are? Step outside your comfort zone.'  11:00 p.m. Thursday Night. Rhada stood by the Lily Pond. She'd looked at her phone once. A couple had walked past, causing me to delay my approach and heightened Rhada's unease; an unexpected bonus. It wasn't too difficult of a shot with my air pistol. The only light functioning in the area went out in a crash of light. She jumped slightly then crouched and scanned the surrounding overgrowth. The light had robbed her of her night vision which allowed me to get close. I snapped the air pistol off into its three parts. Running around with any kind of gun in NYC wasn't wise. In the same vein, the 'stun gun' I now brandished was all light and no shock. It was all theater for Rhada's imagination. With the flash of my weapon, Rhada's eyes bore in on my location. Her small knife was now over-matched, so her only option was flight. A smart 'victim' would race for the well illuminated road close by. Hunters who hunted hunters did what Rhada did; she raced into a geographic feature in Central Park called the Ravine. It was tough, uneven terrain off the beaten path. I had walked it once before, in dim light. This night I was aided by a half-Moon and the faintest clue of where the chase was leading while Rhada was having to figure things out as she ran. At the last second, she sensed she had lost the race. She spun around to slash at me; she was playing for keeps. I swung down, losing my false stun device while I knocked her knife free. I had lashed downward so that I could find her knife later; it was important to her. My tool cost $3 and I could live without it. We struggled. Rhada tried to scream so I covered her mouth with my sweater-covered forearm. Dutifully, she bit down. More close body wrestling ensued and I could tell Rhada was truly famished for the attention. I cuffed her hands behind her back, slapped some Christmas tape over her lips; I swear that stuff has no adhesive; and retrieved her knife. ‘What is it going to be, little Sweet-meat?' I taunted her softly as I caught my breath. I had Rhada pressed face-first in the loam. Despite her strenuous efforts to keep her legs together, I rubbed my hand between her legs. ‘Fuck it,' I mused. ‘You are a real whore. You are soaking wet over some guy running you down and making you a fuck-hole.' I wasn't sure she was wet and being called 'fuck-hole' really excited her. ‘You are probably so loose I couldn't feel a thing if I did fuck you,' I kept up the pressure. ‘Maybe I'll strip you down and leave you tied to a lamp post; write 'Free Slut' and see who is desperate enough to screw you. If I said '$5 per hole', do you think anyone would leave some sort of payment?' She whimpered. Soon enough, I located her knife. Without warning, I slipped it past her waistband and began sawing/cutting her pants down past the crotch. She was wet alright. I loudly unzipped my pants. After slapping against her molten labia a few times, ‘What? You don't want to be used by every diseased homeless deviant and drunk rapist roaming the park?' Rhada shook her head rapidly in the negative. ‘Do you really think you can do a damn thing to make me want to keep you?' I egged her on. Rhada thrust her ass back. Rhada whined, repositioned and managed to capture on her second attempt. She wept with rapture as I began pushing. All I had to do was lean forward slightly and let Rhada do all the work. She hammered with a voracious yearning. I was rather concerned what she would have been like if it had been a whole month. Rhada was sobbing and shuddering as pleasure wracked her body. I almost missed the soft crunch of leaves right behind me. I snatched up Rhada's knife and rolled halfway over. Oneida, tears in her eyes and her face etched in horror, was poised to strike me. ‘No,' Oneida groaned in a small, devastated voice. Yeah, this was going to be hard to explain. Rhada, on hearing the noise, rolled on her side so that she was mostly shielded by me. Do not scream 'this is not what it looks like', or 'let me explain' to a traumatized girlfriend. Wait until they are not traumatized to escape the disaster. ‘What are you going to do?' I whispered. Suggest that she make a decision because, guess what, she needs to make decision, not stew in the madness of the moment. ‘How could you?' Oneida lowered her attack stance and took a half-step back. ‘There is no way I can explain this,' I sighed. My legs came up to shield my exposed crotch plus I dropped Rhada's knife. ‘Even if I could make this sound rational, I wouldn't put you in that spot. This is an impossible reality.' Okay, that last bit was bullshit. ‘Is Rhada okay?' Oneida began to focus on the immediate and relegated the past five minutes and the forthcoming repercussions to 'things to do later'. I freed Rhada's hands and then removed the tape. Rhada picked up her blade and readied it. ‘Ask her yourself,' I suggested. Sensing Rhada's insanity rising up. ‘No Rhada, you cannot stab her. I won't allow it.' Rhada glared pure, un-distilled hate at Oneida, something the poor girl couldn't understand. ‘Rhada, I came here to save you,' Oneida gasped. She also prepared to fight. ‘You came to take my Cáel for yourself,' Rhada spat. Oneida was back to not understanding anything. It would come soon enough. Women are women after all. ‘I need to; get something from my backpack,' I warned them both. No one attacked me so I pulled out a set of black jeans and black panties for Rhada. ‘You brought a change of clothes for her?' Oneida was still playing 'kinky games' catch up. ‘Of course he brought me clothes, you insipid fool,' Rhada seethed. ‘How could we bind our souls into one if I had to walk around; ?' Rhada stopped. The idea of walking around naked in my presence appealed to her. ‘None of this makes any sense,' Oneida protested. It didn't matter. ‘Oneida, are your guardians close by?' I asked. I knew the answer, but getting that information out to these to ladies was relevant. Oneida nodded. ‘Rhada, get dressed and go home. Oneida, go home. I'll try to have this make sense to you one day,' I said. ‘No!' Rhada yelped as if I'd stuck her. ‘I cannot wait any longer.' ‘Rhada, unless you want Madi to find out and then have ringside seats as starving dogs tear me to pieces, you have to go,' I insisted. I wasn't afraid of hungry dogs. The Amazons wouldn't waste the time when they could slit my throat and be done with it. We all three heard a rustle of footsteps maybe fifteen meters away. Rhada looked at me as if she'd witnessed the murder of every kitten on the planet, then shot venom Oneida's way and finally snuck off, new clothes in hand. Oneida gave me a different look, one etched in sadness and unspoken heartache. She went off to bump into her bodyguards. I holstered my 'junk' and sat back, wondering why I dated crazy women. The answer was always the same; the sex was fantastic. I'd pay the bill later. (Friday Morning) I was damn tired getting into work. I locked my bike, walked into the lobby and realized something was horribly wrong. A dozen pairs of eyes riveted me with their aggression. The security chicks were in their usual places and unsettling in their nervousness. The dozen sets of eyes; those were Full-Blooded killers, not the standard 'Runner' security types. Adding to my discomfort, there was no Constanza, or even Naomi. A few of the normal ladies from the Security Detail where there; sadly, I had never caught their names, but they didn't look like they were waiting for me specifically. I walked up to the security booth, took out my ID badge and offered it up. What followed was mere formality. Of all of the hundreds of males in biker clothes coming into this masculine version of the Sixth layer of Hell, they needed to be absolutely sure it was me. ‘Cáel Nyilas,' the women at the guard station intoned and in they swarmed. Armed with personal defense weapons (read: SMG's) with hair-triggers, I had a split second to decide who I really was. A few were clearly SD. The rest; House Guard for families I didn't recognize. ‘Have I just won Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes, or what?' I grinned foolishly. I'm sure you can be very cool, calm, collected and rational while you laugh at death. I'm not that guy. One of the brutes tried to run off with my valise, a quick tug of war developed and four gun barrels were pushed into me. ‘Let go,' one of them hissed. ‘Do I at least get a claim check?' I countered. What I got was a gun barrel slammed down on the back of my hand. My fingers automatically flexed and my carrying case was taken away. The remaining seven members of the Welcome Wagon hustled me to a stairwell; not an elevator and down I went. Two proceeded me into a moderately sized conference down two levels with the rest following behind. We were doing fine until the coffle chains came out. That was my 'screw it' moment. It took me two seconds to realize they were no longer going to shoot me. I came to this revelation when I smashed the face of the guard right behind me. She stumbled into guards four through seven behind her. Guards one and two, already in the room, holding my chains, rushed in. One came in with a low sweeping kick. I went even lower, caught her leg and whipped her into the wall. I was on my back as number two advanced. Our legs tangled up, we both grappled, but I had strength and leverage. I pounded her temple against the corner of the table twice; hard. Then came the pain. The rest flooded the room. Number two was down, number one was momentarily stunned and the other five were deadly serious and coming on fast. To all our credits, they didn't try to overwhelm me with numbers. They closed in from both sides of the table, backing me against a wall. I was pretty good at fighting. I had damaged three of them striking from surprise. Surprise was gone now, as was their sloppy arrogance. This was all business and there was no way I could take on even two of these skilled warriors at the same time. Any advantage I gained over one, I'd lose to the other one so down I went. I was chained up before I could stop seeing double. Collar, hands cuffed at the back, leg shackles and all linked by twin chains. I wasn't going anywhere fast. I wasn't done yet. I tried to squirm around to a sitting position. ‘Stop that,' one of the guards stated. ‘I'd like to sit up, please,' I requested. With barely a pause, two guards came up, put my back to a wall then went back to their positions. ‘Thank you,' I responded. Several guards looked at me and smirked. Huh? ‘They all said you would fight,' the leader grinned. ‘We were getting a little disappointed then you chose that chokepoint to make your stand. That was clever,' she informed me. ‘Actually it was the sight of the chains that set me off,' I said. ‘Against seven of you I had no realistic chance. If I let myself get chained up, I knew I was completely out of options.' Several of the women nodded. Were any of them pissed? Apparently not. Even the one I'd cold-conked rubbed her temple and smiled at me. I worked in an insane asylum. ‘Is there any way I could make a video message?' I inquired. ‘No,' was the reply. ‘Please. Aya of the Epona is at Summer Camp and I want her to know that I'm okay, but won't be able to see her for a while,' I pled my case. ‘You will never be able to see her again, so why bother?' another asked. ‘I love her. Better to give her the illusion I may one day return than the harsh reality that she is doomed to end up like the rest of you,' I explained. ‘Save some of that defiance for your relocation,' the leader snickered. ‘You'll need it.' ‘Thanks. I will,' I sighed. There was a pause. They were being rather gregarious. ‘You've accepted your fate?' the one I'd knocked out questioned. ‘The fate you want for me? No. That this will mean my death; yes,' I shrugged. ‘Bravado,' a different Amazon snorted. ‘You think so? Once I am relocated I have nothing left to live for. Every ounce of my being will be devoted to ending the hollow parody of an existence I'm left with,' I stared at her. ‘I've beaten your ilk enough times to know I'll escape that life before too long.' That earned me some silence. They began talking amongst themselves. The group was a mixed group of House Guard and Security Detail reinforcements from other facilities. They either knew each other, or knew someone in common. An hour in, this had become incredibly boring. ‘When is the meeting?' I asked a women temporarily not in a conversation. She didn't look surprised. She hid it well. ‘What meeting?' she countered. I lowered my chin to my chest. ‘Do you know where I work, what I did yesterday, or how easy it was to figure this out?' I looked up. ‘What do you know?' she prodded. The others were now watching. ‘I work for Executive Services, I spent much of yesterday making housing arrangements for a ton of emergency visitors, and since I've been doing so many stupid things, plus my reception this morning, I assume the New Directive is under attack,' I laid out my case. ‘If you figured all that out, why did you show up today?' the leader wondered. ‘I work here. I have a 6:00 am session on the firing range. Work starts at 7:00 and normally goes to 5:00 with a 3:00 pm break for knife training. Then I either bike home, or work out in the gym, or the pool. Barring being called back to work on a special order, I get a date, a meal and then sex until midnight,' I mused. ‘I came to work today for the same reason I came in yesterday and last week; I work for a bunch of homicidal lunatics, a few of whom I care for,' I answered. ‘Their friendship and affection is pointless. I'm good-looking and amusing, a passing distraction in their lives and none of that matters one iota to my survival. I face my condemnation alone and I am okay with that.' ‘You sound angrier than your words indicate,' an Amazon noted. ‘I am angry. I don't desire death,' I shrugged. ‘I don't think I deserve this fate yet here we are. Personally, I know I put my hope in karmic rewards for all of us.' ‘What would that be?' the leader said. She was making small talk to alleviate the boredom. ‘Today; today I think you deserve a lingering, 24 hour torturous death. Starting with the very youngest followed by the next youngest and the next youngest proceeding in quick succession so that the oldest of you watch your lineages waste away. I want you gripped with hopelessness and despair as you are rendered powerless to control your futures. That's a fitting ending for the Amazon race today,' I stated. ‘Does that fantasy make you feel better?' she pressed, somewhat amused. ‘Of course not,' I laughed. ‘That is surrendering to hate and that would make me as bad as all of you.' ‘You know nothing of us,' she said and the others laughed. ‘Yeah; right. So, how many of you have murdered your paternal unit? Did you herd them into gas chambers, shoot them in the head, or slit their throats?' I grinned. ‘Do you dump those men and your sons in a massed unmarked graves, or burn them like rubbish? Those poor bastards have gotten the last laugh,' I chuckled. ‘Sterile females, deformed babies; you taught those men a lesson alright.' ‘You are all such epic bad-asses, you've butchered your way to extinction. But, hey, you've got your racial superiority, right?' I chortled. ‘You should shut up now,' the leader's eyes narrowed. I shrugged. This time, I had killed the mood so we sat in silence. An undetermined time later, Constanza stormed in and threw my clothes at me; no sign of the rest of my gear, or valise. ‘Get dressed,' she ordered. ‘Why?' I asked. She kicked me. The kick was aimed at my ribs, but I able to set up a knee block up in time. ‘You will do it because you've been told to do it,' Constanza snapped. I stayed where I was. ‘Help me get him dressed,' she addressed the room. I lost the fight if there was any doubt. I looked like a re-dressed corpse. No one would think I'd dressed myself. A few minutes later, the whole troupe plus Constanza frog-marched me to the elevators. I was shackled up thus taking small steps. I ended up farther down that I'd ever been before. Along the way I was given several quick examinations before being taken to two massive wooden doors with two SD guards, one being Naomi. She looked at my chains speculatively. ‘He has been summoned,' Constanza informed the door guards. One of my initial capturers began unlocking my restraints. I debated putting a knee to her head. That seemed rude so I refrained from violence. Naomi took me by the elbow while the other guard opened one of the doors. She led me into the nearly empty, cavernous room. Eight SD troopers were along the walls and Elsa stood at attention close to what I reasoned was Hayden's chair. ‘Stand there,' Elsa pointed to a large piece of slate with a rune upon it. ‘Sure,' I did as I was instructed. ‘Why am I here?' ‘Your only real hope is to be quiet and well-behaved, Cáel,' Elsa told me, resuming her statuesque stance. I honestly figured this was it for me. My jacket came off. I threw it to the closest chair. The tie came off next, looping it through my belt; because it looked weird. I kicked off my shoes and removed my socks, stuffing the socks in the shoes and tossing them to the chair with my jacket. Then I started my morning warm up routine. Sure enough, groups of paired women began entering the room, giving me odd looks before taking their seats. I was doing some handstand push-up (thanks Yasmin) when Katrina walked in with a woman I didn't know. ‘Good morning Cáel Nyilas,' she said. ‘This is my cousin, Arwen.' The push-up, tuck, flip and finishing up with landing on your feet ain't easy. I added to the difficult by successfully landing on my designated piece of slate floor. ‘Did your clothing magically fall of, or did they fail to finish dressing you?' Katrina smirked. ‘Cut me some slack, Boss. I'm three insults away from slinging poo,' I grinned back. ‘Nice to meet you, Arwen,' I offered my hand. She looked at it, but didn't shake. ‘She's your apprentice?' I groaned to Katrina. She nodded. ‘That is so not good for me. What did I do wrong this time?' ‘She thinks I have invested too much of our House prestige in this New Directive and you in particular,' Katrina enlightened me. ‘What is her survival stratagem then?' I ignored Arwen while addressing Katrina. ‘Have her cake and eat it too,' Katrina mused. ‘She thinks we recruit males then kidnap them and make them our slaves; because that has worked so well for us until now. To be fair, she favors genetics while ignoring such things as spirit, courage and loyalty.' ‘I'm about to die so any insight I might provide is pointless,' I shrugged. ‘Take care Katrina.' ‘Male, we are not here to kill you. You will be taken to a facility for breeding,' Arwen 'clarified' things for me. Katrina and I both broke out in laughter. Arwen didn't get it. More and more women came in. With them arrived more House Guard. Soon the once vast room seemed to not be big enough. Among other fans of yours truly was Ursula, the woman who sent Leona to kill me with her bow. It didn't take me long to determine there were four distinct groups. The smallest group hated my heart for daring to beat. The largest group seemed uncertain that me having a functioning cerebral cortex was a good thing. The second largest group was worried; about their very existence, but weren't sure I was the answer. The final group, nearly as big as the next largest group, was Hayden's pro-New Directive faction. As a plus, they also weren't afraid to show me some affection personally. When there were only seven chairs left unfilled, Hayden rose for the opening prayer. The 'junior' members started the chorus as the last 'senior' joined the main intonation. When the chanting ended, everyone but Hayden sat back down. ‘A small number of issues necessitate this unheralded meeting,' Hayden began. ‘A male knows our language, our nature and the secret. I seek guidance.' And then the shit-storm began. The only people not involved were Hayden, Saint Marie on Hayden's right, and an unknown older Amazon I didn't know. My life was being debated and I was losing in a bad way. Beyoncé rallied support for me. She was sadly outnumbered but persistent. Among the oldest houses I saw Oneida sitting junior with house Arinniti. Her house was the only one silent, which seemed rather odd. A consensus was reached. I would get to live, but I would be imprisoned for the rest of my existence; not even a breeding male. That was my 'reward' for channeling the ancestors thus saving Oneida's life. Hayden rose once more, took a hand count and raised her hand for quiet. ‘I will consult with the ancestors on this matter,' Hayden announced. ‘Does anyone have other salient points to add?' That was perfunctory. Everyone had already spoken so when the head of House Arinniti stood up, everyone around her whispered in confusion. She lightly slapped her hand on the table for attention. ‘I do, High Priestess,' the woman stated. Even Oneida looked worried and confused. ‘I recognize Shawnee, Head of House Arinniti,' Hayden nodded then resumed seating. ‘My sisters, I seek your agreement that you refrain from comment before I have made my three key statements,' Shawnee requested. She looked around the room, getting nods; some reluctant. (1)'First, I must confess to a crime against the Host and the Council,' Shawnee began. There were hushed murmurs. ‘At the end of the Second Betrayal, my house argued tirelessly for the salvation of the males who remained loyal. The Council voted against us so the head of my house defied the council and spared three of our sons.' Murmurs became shouts of outrage. Hayden used a subtle voice of menace to restore order. (2) ‘Second, Two Ash Men arrived after the rest; a veteran fighter of three and a half decades and a young man of twenty years. Knowing there was no hope for our sons, we took these two aside and instructed them to take our sons south, to a dubious future. That was our crime and it might never have been revealed if it wasn't for the New Directive.' ‘As you now know, Oneida, my granddaughter and heir, gave her Death Pledge. Cáel Nyilas intervened and, acting as a vessel for the Ancestors, he showed Hayden that her pledge had been rejected; for the first time in 3000 years,' Shawnee looked around the table. ‘At first I was simply grateful for my granddaughter's life.' ‘As that euphoria faded, I began to ask why he acted as he had. I began wondering why, while in dire pain, Cáel refused water and comfort, instead asking for songs in our tongue? That made no sense; unless,' Shawnee's face deepened in thought as she let the implications of that thought hang in the air. ‘Thus I had Cáel's genetic identity tested, to see if; ‘ ‘To see if he was one of your bastard male offspring returned after all these centuries,' Ursula stood and seethed. Hayden slapped her palm on the table for order. ‘Oh Ursula,' Shawnee smirked, ‘the ancestors are wiser than you, or me. Had I received my heart-wish and had one of those boys return, they would be condemned by Arinniti's sins and the Council's decision.' ‘But;' Shawnee persisted. Several Amazon's looked my way, clearly bewildered. ‘We had to check the skulls of the ancestors for that,' Shawnee stated. ‘We took a tooth and it confirmed his lineage. He is the descendent of the young man. He never broke faith with the Host. He was unaware when ordered by the Arinniti what the Council had decided, thus he was guiltless.' ‘Who?' Hayden demanded. Shawnee looked down the table, but not far. (3)'Cáel Nyilas is of the blood of Ishara,' Shawnee stated. I waited to see which house leader freaked out. None did. Then I realized they were all staring at an empty chair and it just happened to be one of the chairs closest to Hayden. Not good. The screaming, shouting and yelling began. The house leaders were standing up, shaking fingers and launching threats at one another. Me? I was trying to recall who Ishara was. She eventually became Ishtar, Goddess of War. In the Old Kingdom Hittite she was also the Goddess of Oaths, Love and Medicine. The only three people at the table not going nuts where Saint Marie, Hayden and the woman at her side. That woman was looking at her tablet intently. Once more the group reached consensus and I was still boned. I was still a male, so my lineage meant nothing. I wasn't part of the Host. Hayden took another deep breath, acknowledging this second decision. ‘You are all incorrect,' the unknown tablet-reader spoke. Everyone looked at her and nobody was yelling. ‘Elsa, who is that?' I whispered. ‘Krasimira, Keeper of Records,' Elsa quietly informed me. ‘What; what do you mean?' Messina, Fabiola's Mom stammered. ‘Only nine males went unaccounted for at the end of the Second Betrayal. The rest are recorded meeting their deaths in battle, or death by our hand. Of those nine, only one was of House Ishara and he would have barely been of mating age,' Krasimira related. ‘So?' Ursula remarked. ‘He's still a male.' Krasimira looked at Ursula as if she was talking to a five year old. ‘He was a member of the Host. If Shawnee of Arinniti is to be believed, Vranus, Cáel's ancestor, lived and died in service to the Host. He was never removed from our records, so he died a member of the Host, so his descendants are also members of the Host.' ‘He married without permission of his house, thus he is illegitimate,' an old enemy from Egypt chimed in. ‘Perhaps,' Krasimira nodded. ‘That is a matter he must take up with the Head of House Ishara.' ‘There is no Head of House Ishara!' Ursula stated the obvious and pointed at the empty chair. ‘Again, you are incorrect,' Krasimira shook her head. She half turned in her chair. ‘There is a Head of House Ishara and he's standing right there.' Even Hayden had a problem with that. ‘But he's male,' Hayden declared. ‘That is Irrelevant,' Krasimira said. ‘To be the head of a house, one must either be elected by the peers of your house, succeed in accepted ritual combat, or, in extremis, it shall be the eldest surviving member of the Host of that house. Cáel Nyilas is clearly the oldest member of House Ishara currently in the Host,' she quoted Amazon law, ‘so he is House Ishara's head.' Silence reigned. ‘Gun,' I extended my hand to Elsa. She looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. ‘Don't make me repeat myself.' I growled. Elsa didn't look for guidance. She wasn't that type. She drew her 45 automatic and put in in my hand. ‘The safety is engaged,' she enlightened me. I left my spot and began rounding the table to 'my' seat. ‘One more step and I'll shoot you where you stand,' Ursula threatened. ‘No you won't,' Saint Marie stood. ‘I'll kill you first.' ‘Ursula of Marda, you have no justification to attack House Ishara,' Hayden explained. ‘I don't like this anymore than you do. We do not pick and choose which laws to follow. Accept the will of our ancestors.' There were between fifteen and twenty women close by aching to put bullets in me. I didn't stop because that wouldn't be me. I ended up by the chair and absorbed the essence of this tiny shard of reality. Was I the son of some lost 'First' House? Without a doubt, the placement of this chair was in the top ten on this side. The ones across from me were all clearly 'First' Houses as well. The chair was old; maybe two hundred years. It held a sadness to it; no one had ever sat in it. It had been built knowing no one would ever sit on it. I thought about Pamela. I thought about holding Oneida up and refusing to let her die. That effort was me, physically conditioned over years, but I had never discounted willpower. It was possible that man could indeed be found back somewhere in my ancestry. Few invaders wipe out all the indigenous inhabitants. Usually they intermarry with the invading culture overwhelming the previous one. I couldn't forget my present and future while examining my past. I put the gun down. Hostility washed over me in palatable waves. I pulled back the chair. The room was about to explode. I kept moving it back, farther and farther until it was clear I wouldn't be sitting in it. ‘I will stand for House Ishara,' I announced. ‘I will not vote though I will speak my thoughts on matters. I will hold this spot until I have a daughter of age.' ‘No man of House Ishara has ever voted in the Council of the Host and no man will now,' I kept going. ‘Outside of those concessions to my Mothers, I am House Ishara. I am right here. If you have a problem with me, I will be easy to find. I have never hidden from you bitches and I'm not going to start now.' ‘You insult us,' Messina stood up. Five other women joined her. ‘By all means,' Katrina stood, ‘we eagerly await your challenge.' Eight other women joined her. I hadn't suddenly become more popular. Between my refusal to vote, the bizarre revelation of Shawnee and the gravitas of the 'First' Houses, the more conservative women were retiring to regroup. Messina's backing down lasted only seconds. She immediately proposed that no male be allowed to be a member of the Host; disqualifying me by fiat. Krasimira wasn't going for that. Amazons could not legislate a member of the Host, or a House, out of existence. That's why they had killed the Ash Men in the first place. Technically, they had been Amazons. They couldn't make them 'not-Amazons' and there was no exile in this society. Eminently practical, they made them dead instead. That was coming back to bite them in the ass now, because they killed them; they'd never taken them off the rolls. Poor, young Vranus had loyally led his charges away on orders. Had he fled, they would have put him under a death sentence; which I would have to fulfill. No, my ancestor was unsurprisingly pig-headed. One senior warrior and three children; sure, let's walk off into the wilderness with hostile tribes all around. Why? They told him to and like a loyal little mutton-head he'd obeyed. If I believed in magic, or mysticism, I'd worry about how I ended up in that first board meeting speaking this screwed-up language. I'd re-examine how Leona had missed that crucial first shot because Aya had missed hers. Aya herself and the same spiritual twist that caused Oneida to hurl her life into my unsteady hands. I'd like to put that to accident and genetic abnormalities. Then there was Pamela. I'd like to think she was delusional, suffering from an acid flashback, or whatever. Shawnee slid a wooden box; a meter by 70 cm; to me. Whatever parliamentary etiquette Amazons followed was unknown to me. I opened the box. Inside was what looked like a lamb, or sheep, skin pressed in some kind of glass. The artifact looked horribly old and was faded to the stage where it was barely legible. I let the buzz die down around me as I squinted at the picture. There were five figures; from the left was a tall one with a shield and spear, three small figures, and another tall man; with two axes. That was; no I couldn't accept that, not right now. Along both sides and the top were prayers of some kind, though they were too faded to make out accurately. On the bottom were five names. The right-most was Vranus. Oneida hadn't been trapped by madness and pride. She'd been a slave to destiny. She had seen this skin, I was sure. She'd seen me with my two axes and when it turned out to be more than show, she'd had to save me and she couldn't tell anyone why because of the Arinniti sin. Perhaps she had some delusion we were distantly related. Now wasn't the time to ask. I closed the box and slid it back. In my absence, the verdict for House Arinniti was narrowed down. Some wanted Shawnee's head because she was the inheritor of those lies. Others wanted Oneida's head because it would be a more terrible lesson for her house. I didn't like those ideas. ‘Are you seriously arguing about the paint on the doghouse while your home is burning down?' I mocked them. ‘You don't; ,' a different, yet still hostile, Amazon choked out. ‘They didn't sell your sisters to the Roman coliseum,' I glared. ‘They valued bravery and loyalty over conformity. Did they defy the Council? Yes. I think we all agree with that. Put in context though, the rest of you screwed up.' Tons of 'how dare you' and descriptive insults to my family, gender, species and intelligence. ‘Answer me this; Ursula, can you turn around right now and slit your 'apprentice's' throat?' I posed. I could see the 'no' forming on her lips before the Great Wall of Implications fell on her head. ‘Everyone in this room that voted for the slaughter of the Ash Men broke your own laws,' I explained. ‘You had every right to kill your sons. They were legally and physically helpless. The Ash Men; they were members of the Host; and there is every indication you butchered them without trial, or attempt at redress. Correct me if I'm wrong, but those men did not break the law; you did.' ‘You are correct,' Krasimira said. ‘All members of the Host must be informed of their crimes and seek trial if they disagree. Any sentence of Death can be appealed to the High Priestess, who can commute the sentence, assign an ordeal of some kind, or have it carried out.' What doomed Leona was the obvious nature of her crime in front of the High Priestess. The only person who protested was Ursula, the Mistress of Leona's house. Looking back on things, Ursula had acted insanely sending Leona to kill me. Yes, she would have derailed the New Directive for a few years. She would also have alienated every neutral member of the Council. The vote for the New Directive was distasteful yet deemed necessary by enough houses for it to pass. The vote at the end of the Second Betrayal; that was the issue now. Miss Senior Egypt made one last end-run around the process. ‘What is to stop him from bringing more men into the Host?' she muddied the water. Me? I pulled out my shirt and looked down at my chest. ‘Is someone making fun of my A-cup sized breasts?' I appealed to Hayden. A tiny smile crossed her lips. ‘I am not sure Cáel,' Hayden responded. ‘Fatima, be precise with the nature of your worries.' ‘He should not be allowed to recruit into his house until his status is decided,' Fatima stated. ‘His status is not in question,' Hayden purred. That was the 'I'm about to lose patience with you' purr. ‘I would never recruit anyone into House Ishara who was not qualified. It is insulting to think otherwise. Is there a specific male you are worried about?' I inquired. ‘I don't know you, or your ways,' Fatima spat. ‘You need to think about what you just said, Fatima,' I snorted. ‘So, not knowing anything about me you are making assumptions about what I might do? As you said yourself, you don't know me.' ‘If you did, you would know that while I wish virtually every Amazon alive would drop dead, thus making the world a much better place, I would never embarrass Katrina, or betray her. Now, are you going to keep looking stupid, or are you going to accept that House Arinniti not only acted in accordance to Amazon law 2500 years ago, they continue acting so today,' I stated. ‘After all, they risked everyone's anger for the restoration of one of your eldest houses. When I turned out not to be one of Arinniti's long-lost sons, they could have kept quiet. They did not. Arinniti bravery means one day a daughter of Ishara will bring her voice to this council once more. They certainly didn't do this for themselves. Ask yourself if you would have the courage to bring such possible shame to your family prestige,' I challenged the Host. ‘You trained your monkey well,' Messina mocked Katrina. ‘Ah;' I mused as I picked up my pistol. ‘Safety.' I got a feel for the weapon. ‘Messina, what's the name of your 'apprentice'?' ‘You wouldn't dare,' Messina hissed. ‘You dare to insult me and my House, Whore-Bitch,' I smiled insanely. ‘Why do you think I'll let you get away with that? I'm not going to kill her; just gut-shoot her.' ‘Pull that trigger and you will die,' Messina spat. Her junior looked far less pleased with the turn of events. ‘Not relevant. My House Prestige is too great to suffer such an insult. You did call me, the choice of a hundred generations of House Ishara ancestors, a monkey,' I pointed out. ‘Cáel of Ishara, put the gun down; please,' Saint Marie sort of asked. I clicked the safety and put the gun back down on the table.   Messina was looking terribly pleased with herself, ignoring 'The Golden Mare' coming around her side of the table. The hair-yank Saint Marie inflicted made me recoil in shock and I was some distance away Messina. Slap-backhand-slap-backhand. Saint Marie released Messina's hair. Messina stumbled back, fearful and furious at the same time. ‘Are you going to exert some common courtesy, or shall we continue?' the Marshal of the Amazon Host glared at Messina. ‘I don't like him, or where he stands, but I am far more embarrassed by your behavior. At least the male exerts some restraint. The rest of you are acting like he is a weakling-idiot. He is not. Know your opponent dammit.' ‘Wait! Hayden, now that I'm;' I got all excited. ‘No, Cáel, you still may not refer to the Marshal of the Amazon Host as 'Pony-Lady',' Hayden scolded me. I snapped my finger over the lost opportunity. A pregnant pause was suddenly vacated by a snicker and then several more until half the table had to hold their hands over their mouths. ‘Did you really call (dead word spoken) Saint Marie, 'Pony-Lady'?' this unknown House Leader asked. She wasn't one of my fans. ‘Only after she kicked my ass, totally humiliating me,' I revealed. ‘I got one punch in. Next thing I knew I was wondering how regularly they changed the fluorescent lighting in the Firing Range while I was on my back, soaking up the cold comfort of the concrete floor.' It took them a second to figure out what I meant. Saint Marie was already marching back to her chair. ‘You are very poetic,' another commented. ‘That is how I learned your tongue; I was taught Old Kingdom Hittite erotic and love poetry. I know the same in nine other forgotten languages, as well as four current languages,' I informed them. ‘Hayden, you would not dare chastise any other Head of House the way you treated; him,' Ursula griped. ‘In what possible universe would Cáel Nyilas be considered normal?' Hayden countered. ‘He is not like any other Head of House. He forgoes voting because He values our traditions.' ‘He does not sit in his designated seat at our table because he takes into consideration our sensibilities. This from a man we all decided to imprison forever not five minutes ago. If any of you think he does this out of fear, you are sorely mistaken. He is a person of many failings without question yet he is courageous to a fault,' Hayden lectured the room. ‘Saint Marie, what was the first thing he said to you after you crushed him?' ‘He said 'What. Had enough already?'‘ she snorted. ‘Those were his exact words, lying on his back, looking up at me. I thought I had concussed him.' ‘This is not a humorous matter,' Egypt Senior was still cranky. ‘I don't know about that,' Saint Marie reposed. ‘I found it to be fun actually.' ‘Even the part where he had the gun pointed at me was interesting. I was certain he was about to shoot me,' Saint Marie continued. ‘Pity he missed you,' Messina glared. ‘He didn't miss me, Messina,' Saint Marie sneered. ‘I told him to give me the gun and he gave it to me. He's not disloyal, just pugnacious.' ‘What of Arinniti's crime?' Beyoncé prodded. She wasn't feeling self-righteous. Quite the opposite; the mood had shifted away from bloodlust to uncertainty. Amazons liked decisiveness. They also liked only having to do something once and being done with it. That was the riptide of the New Directive; some houses couldn't let go of the fact they'd lost. That constant pecking away at the plan were the half-measures Katrina was complaining to Hayden about. From my experience, the Ash Men was Katrina's goal all along. Had she been open and honest with this desire, there was no way any aspect of the New Directive would be implemented. If you believed in conspiracy theories, Katrina had groomed me for some time. If you believed in luck, Katrina was cosmically lucky our paths collided. If you believed in mysticism, I was screwed. Let's not forget that there were three millennia of bad ass bitches on the other side of the spiritual divide who thought nothing of guiding me into a life full of fear, heartache and pain. A lengthy debate ended in a classic Amazon compromise; they forgot about it. Literally, they erased the crime against the Ash Men and Arinniti's 'omission' of sparing three of their sons. What had happened to all my 'Ash' brethren? Whoops; they were misplaced. They weren't erased from the rolls; that would make my existence inexplicable, so we remained honorary Amazons. I was sure their angry ghosts were totally mollified. I was sure me and the first female Pope would get it on too. As the meeting was breaking up, one of the 'unfriendly' Amazons shot me a remark. ‘I supposed you are elated,' she grumbled. ‘Really? You think so? Here, let me sell all your underage daughters to Romany gypsies so that you never see them again and you'll have an inkling of how I feel,' I smiled serenely. ‘You should be happy you are allowed to stand in our presence,' she got truly pissy. ‘Lady, I won't be happy until I get to hunt hate-filled monsters like you for sport,' I kept smiling. ‘Until then, I'm afraid we are both going to have to live unsatisfying lives,' I added. ‘Perhaps we should handle this with a blood feud?' she salivated at the prospect. ‘Sure. I'll get the Neutron Bomb we have in the Armory. You chose whatever you like. I'll meet you downtown at noon,' I proposed. It is much better to make a nuclear weapon joke and not have every authority figure in the room glance at you nervously. Did we really have a nuclear warhead in the basement? Fuck if I knew. They'd have never told me if there was. I felt a hand on my shoulder and recalled the touch. "Cáel Nyilas, you are forbidden from engaging in blood feuds - in your case, feuds of any kind until one lunar cycle is completed," Hayden instructed. "Thank you. I appreciate that," my honesty, heartfelt reply slipped forth. "My judgment wasn't for you, Cáel. You've caused catastrophic trauma to our society as an outsider. I tremble to think what you can do now that you are one of us," Hayden gave me a truly serene response. "Give me a little time to prepare." "Oh! Great idea," I exclaimed. "Gotta go!" and I raced for the door, tossing Elsa her gun. "Should I shoot him?" Elsa suggested. "Only to slow him down a bit." I made it to the elevator carrying my jacket and shoes. With me were four sets of Amazons that wanted me dead and one set who were rather ambivalent about the whole matter. I caught one of the 'hater' juniors looking at me. I turned my head enough so we could make prolonged eye contact. I smiled. Reluctantly she smiled back. I leaned in slightly. "Can I borrow your phone? SD beat me up earlier and stole all my stuff," I innocently requested. I was pretty sure she was as surprised as every other man-hater in the box that she handed it over. Like shooting fish in a barrel. I began making a few quick texts to the three crucial people in my scheme. "What did you do that for?" her senior hissed. With my brand new Stinky Pooh-Bah status, she couldn't knock the device out of my hands. "I don't know," she pleaded to her superior. I finished up then handed it back. "Your 'apprentice' has rendered House Ishara an important service that shall be entered into our records of boons and debts," I nodded gravely. "What is your name?" "Gale," she batted her eyelashes. "What did I do?" "What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?" I magically conjured up her hand in mine with my fingertips coursing over her palm and wrist. "I'll explain it then." "You may not spend time with this...person," Senior insisted. "We should not overlook an opportunity to make an alliance with a First House," Gale countered. Bang! Looking like trout for lunch. Gale won, I won and we were meeting at my place so we could figure out where to eat - yummy. Somewhere in the episode, I'd introduce Odette into the mix. It was only fair. I was asking her to hide in Timothy's room until I got Gale warmed up after all. I was the first one of the 'team' to arrive. I was nervously pacing Katrina's office when Desiree and Paula showed up. Desiree took a casual seat on the sofa while Paula hovered around my desk. "Is this going to be really bad, or really good?" Desiree mused. "Why should you have to choose?" I laughed. "Besides, we are aiming for epic status today." "Why are we here?" Paula worried. I stopped. I had a 'Eureka!' moment. There probably was a Bible for what I was planning to do, but they hadn't given it to me. I ran to the bathroom and came back with a glass. "Desiree, I need two things. I need your sharp, pointy thing and for you to slap me until I cry," I looked at her expectantly. "My pleasure," Desiree rocked up from her seat. "Slapping then knife?" I nodded. I was still in the painful smacking process when Buffy and Violet entered. "Can anyone join?" Buffy asked Paula. "I...I don't think so," Paula shook her head. "He's got a plan. I don't know what for." I dodged Desiree's final swing. I had gathered enough tears - I hoped. "That was truly therapeutic, Cáel," Desiree stated. "Let me know if you need a repeat performance." She handed me her small knife. Helena and Daphne finally strolled in. I wove past them, retrieved a piece of paper which I tore in two and two pens. "Helena and Buffy, please write your names down on these pages," I requested. "What the hell?" Buffy growled. "What is this about?" "Trust me," I met her gaze. "Buffy, Cáel is an ass, but he's not crazy. He's up to something," Desiree intervened. Helena stepped up and wrote her name. Buffy followed suit. I took the pages to Katrina's desk. "Come forth and kneel before me," I commanded. This was the point in the ritual when I figured my death was most likely. Buffy shot an evil look at Desiree then very reluctantly complied. Helena followed. Hmmm...Amazons kneel with both knees on the ground. That puts their mouths almost...I had to keep with the program. I burned the two autographs and scattered the ashes. "There is no Buffy DuBois. There is no Helena Shultz," I began. I dipped a finger into the shallow pool of my tears. I ran one down under the left eye of each lady. "With this, I open your eyes to the joys and sorrows of our ancestors." That brought on a hush and the anger in Buffy's eyes evaporated. I cut my left forefinger then motioned them to do the same. First Buffy: I linked our bloody digits. "With this, our blood is mixed. You are Buffy of House Ishara from this moment forth. You are the first of this House. You are our spear and shield," I met her gaze. She started crying. "You are Helena of House Ishara from this moment forth," I continued on. "You are the second of this House. You keep the records of our Host, keep track of our deeds, sins and accounts." Helena began weeping too. Had I said 'just joking', the cleaning team would have been finding torn pieces of me weeks later. "House Ishara is dead," Daphne stated the obvious. "Suffice it to say, long ago, House Ishara brought a male into their ranks as a member of the House," I started. I motioned for my two House-mates...members to rise. "The Second Betrayal," Violet interrupted. "Yes. During the Second Betrayal, some males remained loyal. My descendent was sent on a mission for the Host. The mission took him past his lifespan. His offspring continued on until you end up with me - being here - today. Suffice it to say, he was never removed from the rosters of the Host, thus every offspring was a member too," I recalled recent edited events. "By Amazon law, House Leaders are selected by their peers, victors in a challenge for leadership, or..." I continued. "The eldest of the house," Daphne gasped. "Since Ishara is...since all the female members of the Host are dead, you are the eldest member of the Host." "You don't have to be a female?" Desiree muttered. "That's insane. We are Amazons." "There hasn't been a male in the host for over 2500 years," I explained. "It never came up. Back when they had them, there simply weren't enough men to worry about. Afterwards, there were NO men to worry about. Apparently your ancestors thought writing down 'eldest female' was redundant." "That had to have gone down like a mouse passing an elephant turd," Paula muttered. We all looked at her. "What? Since I met Cáel, I've been writing down little phrases to use in situations like now. This was the first one I could recall." "Actually, they wept tears of joy, lifted me up on their shoulders and sung paeans to my glory," I lied. "So, when do you think the first assassination attempt will be?" Desiree shook her head. This was a lot for her to take in. Not only was my tale fantastic, Buffy was her friend and Desiree knew that Buffy bled for a chance to join the Host and had done so for years. "Why do you think I called Buffy first?" I snickered. "I won't let you down," Buffy declared with grim determination. "Calm down, Buffy," I assured her. "I don't think me being casually snuffed out is on their agenda. They've already gone through a torturous compromise to end up with this screwed up situation." "So why did you pick me...and Helena?" Buffy studied me. "Buffy, you are the most amazon-Amazon I know," I told her. "You like Helena and she said nice stuff about Daphne which showed her character, so I chose her next." "Hey, this means I can finally slap Fabiola around," Buffy's eyes grew bright. "Which reminds me - can I get any volunteers for Old Kingdom Hittite lessons for these two," I begged my 'new hire' companions. "I'll take two nights a week," Daphne offered. "I'll take one night," Paula added. "I'll take a fourth," Violet completed the set. "Damn it," Desiree cursed. "This means Buffy must be taught the Prayer of the Ancestors." "You are right," Buffy gasped. "I accompany Cáel to Council meetings now." "One note - I don't vote," I informed them. "I made that decision. House Ishara has never had a male vote for it and I'm keeping that tradition. I can speak, but not vote. When my daughter comes of age, she will have full rights." Desiree, Buffy and Helena were confused. Daphne, Violet and Paula, on the other hand, were enraptured. This was the only life - only traditions - they had ever known and I had sacrificed something of importance to them out of respect to their sensibilities. "Cáel's decision makes it easier for you, Buffy and Helena," Daphne explained. "This allows the other Heads of House to get used to him being there - less of a culture shock," she continued. "In a few years he may end up getting a vote anyway as they learn to respect him and House Ishara. You are one of the First Houses - reborn, I imagine." Buffy's eyes grew wide and her mouth gaped open. "Yeah Buff," Desiree shook her head. "One of the first twenty war leaders of the Host. You have the blood of Mycenaean warriors on your hands." "Cáel, I..." Buffy began. "I gave you nothing, Buffy. If you think there is someone more deserving than you, please point them out," I touched her tear-drenched cheek. "I do want something from you," I said compassionately. Buffy was attentive. "I want you to undergo a sex change operation and become a real woman." Ow! Buffy punched me. "Buffy, you might not want to damage your House Head in public. It is bad for his prestige," Paula pointed out. "Good point," Buffy frowned. "Cáel - bathroom - now." "Uh-oh, no way, no how," I back-pedaled. "Today has been painful enough. I had a run in with some Security Detail and House Guard on the way to the podium." "What did they do to you?" Helena inquired. "For starters, they haven't given me back my valise," I complained. "Also, who do I report these additions to House Ishara to? Finally, Buffy promised me she'd wear a thong and those little, circular Band-Aids if I got her into the Full-blooded gym again." "Decorum, Buffy," Desiree stopped Buffy from punishing me. "Decorum." "Why don't you have to behave?" Buffy glared at me. "I'm the ghost of a man dead for over 2500 years," I winked. "I'm allowed to be eccentric." "I'll start calling around to find out who gets told what and where your stuff is Cáel," Helena grinned. She was full-blooded now; the goal of every Runner who joined. "What is next for you now?" Daphne questioned. "I imagine I have a job to do," I replied. "I mean, Katrina works and she's head of House Epona. I'm an intern, just like I was yesterday. That hasn't changed." "Oh goodie," Buffy smacked her hands together, "you can still work for me." "Oh - yay," I groaned sarcastically. "What's wrong now?" Katrina said as she waltzed into the room. I caught sight of a few SD chicks hanging around outside. "There are for your protection if you feel you need it." "Nah," I shook my head. "I have that taken care of. I brought Buffy and Helena into House Ishara." Katrina stopped and looked at me. There was definitely some tension between us. "You might want to consult with - others before you do something like that again," Katrina cautioned me. "I'll definitely consider your offer. For now, I chose the best for the future of Ishara," I said, "as is my duty and responsibility." We locked gazes once more. Things had changed between us. They had to have. "I seem to have missed my Firing Range practice today as well as the morning meeting," I reminded Katrina. She'd known what fate awaited me when I walked in the door and not warned me. I didn't blame her. That was what she was looking for - the anger. Before, I couldn't have acted on it. "Cáel, get dressed. I saw Helena running off on some sort of errand which I imagine is your fault, so you are working with Daphne for the rest of the day," Katrina resumed her pace to her desk. She examined the nearly empty glass. "My tears," I answered. "It is part of my ritual for induction into House Ishara." In case you missed it, I never said 'my house'. This was on purpose. As long as I made no open claim to such a lofty spot, they could ignore me hanging around a bit better. "You may want to talk with House Arinniti, or Šauška about such rites," Katrina advised. "He burned their old names to ash, scored their left cheeks with his tears to remind them of his ancestors and mixed his blood with theirs so they would be known to all as members of House Ishara from this day forth," Daphne related. "It was very touching - simple and to the point." "That's Cáel for you, simple and straight to the cultural jugular," Katrina shook her head. "He did nothing wrong," Buffy protested. I was getting dressed. "Buffy, I have wanted to initiate you into House Epona for years. Family politics have prevented that. Sixty years after the First Initiative, fewer than a fifty 'Runners' have been brought into the Host. Mutual condemnation has kept each house in check - restrained from recruiting new blood into the Host." "And now we have Cáel," Desiree groaned. "Who does care not one bit about social ramifications of bringing a hundred runners into one of the oldest houses of the Host," Daphne sighed. "But, we deserve this," Buffy proclaimed. "That, Buffy, is the point and the problem - you and others like you do deserve it," Katrina fondly regarded her 'now-Full-blooded' friend. "Most of the other houses would disagree though, but they won't be able to convince Cáel of this - thus begins the next quagmire of Cáel's creation." It was the prejudice laid bare. The 'Runners' knew they had very little chance of being accepted into a House. They had a long history of neglect to look back on. The few who had graduated had been virtually superhuman to be accepted. Then I came along. Suddenly, for some of the best and brightest of the 'Runners' there was a serious likelihood they could be brought into a highly prestigious House, because its leader was a nutjob. This morning, when the meeting adjourned, House Ishara had been a tiny blip on the Council's radars. Those women so disregarded the 'Runners' they hadn't even thought about my reaction to the dilemma of the miniscule size of my house, despite the answer being all around them (though safely contained upstairs in their minds). House Ishara with a lone member, a male at that, wasn't a threat - not really. The specter that Katrina foresaw was something different. She saw a House Ishara with a thousand members, and all hardened, dedicated and trained Amazons - formerly 'Runners'. Loyal to me?

Cáel's tombstone: For the love of women, women put him here.In 25 parts, edited from the works of FinalStand.Listen and subscribe to the ► Podcast at Connected..

Nanne Kennedy has her feet firmly planted in the soil of midcoast Maine. Growing up on a farm near the ocean, she could smell the salt air and small local factories, and she started saving in her “future farm fund” when she was 12. Eminently practical, she looked for ways that her farm could make her a living. “I'm a New England Yankee, and self reliance is really important,” she says. “So it's always been a critical theme to me that, yes, you do the right thing, but it sure as heck has to make economic sense in a way that is good today, but good forever.” Raising sheep could offer multiple sources of income, but the available finewool sheep were poorly suited to her climate. Studying in New Zealand, she grew interested in Polwarth sheep, which combine finewool and longwool genetics. Nanne imported genetic material from New Zealand and set about establishing the breed in the United States, seeking sheep with dense, fine fleeces; long staples; excellent parasite resistance; and sound feet. After decades of careful breeding, her flock has exceeded her expectations for wool and healthy animals. To increase the value of her wool, Nanne learned to dye yarn. Once again seeking an economic and environmental solution, she developed a unique system using seawater to provide the salts and sunshine to warm the dyepaths. Seacolors Yarns are what Nanne calls bioregional, produced within 5 hours of Meadowcroft Farm. Like many farmers, Nanne works on a variety of projects at the same time. The popular Maine blankets she developed in partnership with other small textile manufacturers have hit a snag with the retirement of the napping machine used in finishing, but she partners with local knitters and crocheters to offer unique handmade sweaters. She runs a short-term farmstay and also offers educational opportunities for aspiring shepherds. She vends at farmer's markets and hosts fiber art classes. At least, that's some of what she was doing when we spoke. By the time you hear this interview, who knows what Nanne Kennedy will have dreamed up to benefit her animals, ecosystem, and regional economy? Links Visit Nanne Kennedy's farm, yarn store, and other projects at GetWool.com (https://getwool.com/meadowcroft/sheep-doula/). Learn about the dye process for Seacolors Yarn (https://getwool.com/yarn/seacolors/) and buy it online (https://getwool.com/yarn/). Meadowcroft Farm raises Polwarth sheep (https://getwool.com/meadowcroft/animals/). Naturally colored roving is available on the Seacolors Wool website (https://getwool.com/roving/). Watch a video of Meadowcroft Farm, Polwarth sheep, and Nanne in the video The Science of Soft (https://vimeo.com/714278628). Stay in the farm's Airbnb (https://getwool.com/cuckoos-nest-air-bnb/), or stay longer with a Small Ruminant Residency (https://getwool.com/meadowcroft/small-ruminant-residency/) or Sheep Doula Apprenticeship (https://getwool.com/meadowcroft/sheep-doula/). This episode is brought to you by: Treenway Silks is where weavers, spinners, knitters and stitchers find the silk they love. Select from the largest variety of silk spinning fibers, silk yarn, and silk threads & ribbons at TreenwaySilks.com (https://www.treenwaysilks.com/). You'll discover a rainbow of colors, thoughtfully hand-dyed in Colorado. Love natural? Treenway's array of wild silks provide choices beyond white. If you love silk, you'll love Treenway Silks, where superior quality and customer service are guaranteed. You're ready to start a new project but don't have the right yarn, or you have the yarn but not the right tool. Yarn Barn of Kansas can help! They stock a wide range of materials and equipment for knitting, weaving, spinning, and crochet. They ship all over the country, usually within a day or two of receiving the order. Plan your project this week, start working on it next week! See yarnbarn-ks.com (https://www.yarnbarn-ks.com/) to get started. Sustainability and regenerative ranching have been a way of life for the ranches of Shaniko Wool Company for decades. They are the first “farm group” in the U.S. to achieve certification to the rigorous international Responsible Wool Standard and NATIVA Regenerative. Shaniko ranches raise Merino/Rambouillet sheep in the Western United States, delivering a fully traceable wool supply that gives back to the Earth and its ecosystems. To learn more, and discover Shaniko's yarn partners, visit ShanikoWoolCompany.com. (https://www.shanikowoolcompany.com/) The Adirondack Wool and Arts Festival is the perfect way to spend a weekend surrounded by over 150 craft vendors in Greenwich, New York. Discover a curated group of vendors featuring the best of wool and artisan crafters. Throughout the weekend enjoy workshops, free horse drawn wagon rides, free kids' crafts, a fiber sheep show, and a sanctioned cashmere goat show. Join us September 21 & 22, 2024, and every fall! For more information visit adkwoolandarts.com. (https://www.adkwoolandarts.com/)

In this episode, I'll be reading a brief excerpt from my new biography, Marcus Aurelius: The Stoic Emperor, which is available as an audiobook as well as in hardback and ebook formats. The book was chosen as an editor's pick by Barnes and Noble and currently has 4.7 stars on Amazon. You can hear a sample from the studio-recorded audiobook, and read reviews, on Audible. Also see Goodreads for reviews.* “Given the erratic, not to say murderous, behavior of many of [Marcus's] predecessors, . . . how did so sterling a character as Marcus come about? That is the subject of Donald J. Robertson's excellent biographical study.”—Joseph Epstein, National Review* “Addictively written, this riveting visitation of the fascinating figure of Marcus Aurelius is as comprehensive as it gets, covering everything from his reign to his philosophy.”—“Notes from Your Bookseller,” barnesandnoble.com* “Eminently readable. . . . A leading light in the modern revival of Stoic philosophy, Robertson directly and elegantly draws out the connections between Marcus' experiences in the unforgiving crucible of Roman imperial politics and the philosophical ideas he expresses in the Meditations. . . . An invaluable companion to the Meditations itself.”—Peter Juul, Liberal Patriot* “Few historical figures are as fascinating as Marcus Aurelius, the emperor-philosopher. And few writers have been so effective at bringing his complex life and character to the attention of modern readers as Donald Robertson.”—Massimo Pigliucci, author of How to Be a Stoic: Using Ancient Philosophy to Live a Modern Life* “[Robertson] thoughtfully and readably capture[s] the essence of this great man and his great life. It's a must read for any aspiring Stoic.”—Ryan Holiday, coauthor of #1 New York Times bestseller The Daily Stoic* “Robertson has written a very thorough and very readable account of Marcus's life and the events and people that shaped him. Anyone who wants to understand the author of Meditations should read this book.”—Robin Waterfield, author of Marcus Aurelius, Meditations: The Annotated Edition* “Donald Robertson guides us into the world of a philosopher-emperor whose humility and Stoic teachings fill the pages. We are indebted to Robertson for this wonderful account of the emperor who penned notes to himself while in battle that would be later known as the Meditations and read by millions for philosophical inspiration. Simply spellbinding.”—Nancy Sherman, author of Stoic Wisdom: Ancient Lessons for Modern Resilience* “Robertson's biography provides a compelling narrative of Marcus' life, carefully based on the primary sources. He brings out very clearly the life-long significance of Stoicism for Marcus and the interplay between philosophy, politics, and warfare.”—Christopher Gill, author of Learning to Live Naturally: Stoic Ethics and Its Modern Significance* “This highly readable biography is the perfect place to begin for anyone who wants to learn more about the man behind the Meditations.”—John Sellars, author of The Pocket StoicStoicism: Philosophy as a Way of Life is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Thank you for reading Stoicism: Philosophy as a Way of Life. This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Stoicism: Philosophy as a Way of Life at donaldrobertson.substack.com/subscribe

Beginning writers need this. Before you sit down to write, listen to this encore episode. Award-winning author PeggySue Wells provides succinct tips to get your writing career started.“Eminently quotable, PeggySue Wells is a tonic — warm like your favorite blanket, bracing like a stiff drink.”History buff and tropical island votary, PeggySue parasails, skydives, scuba dives and has taken (but not passed) pilot training. The bestselling author of 30 books, including the What To Do series, The Slave Across the Street, Bonding With Your Child Through Boundaries, Homeless for the Holidays, Chasing Sunrise, and The Ten Best Decisions A Single Mom Can Make, PeggySue's most challenging and rewarding adventure was solo parenting seven children. She is the founder of SingleMomCircle.com. Good to have you here PeggySue.Today, Linda and PeggySue discuss the first decisions a writer makes.The What, Who, and Why you need to know before you begin.What vehicle format is best suited for what you write?Format options.  Word count for your genre.Setting up your manuscript.The three essentials every story must have for fiction and non-fiction.LINKSPeggySue Wells20-Tips for Unsticking a Stuck Wordsmith PDFWho's Your Audience? Writing Genre Word-counts PDFSingleMomCircle.com Visit Your Best Writing Life website.Join our Facebook group, Your Best Writing LifeAbout your host - Linda GoldfarbAwarded the Spark Media 2022 Most Binge-Worthy PodcastAwarded the Spark Media 2023 Fan Favorites Best Solo Podcast

Totally, eminently qualified was how Senator John McCain describe our guest, Eric Fanning, during his confirmation to be Secretary of the Army. In a career that weaves in and out of senior roles in government and industry, currently as CEO of the Aerospace Industries Association, Fanning was often the first gay person to occupy those heights. Yet that rarely comes up publicly, the focus is on his qualifications. Still, his sexual orientation played an important role in the way he developed as a leader. Being gay gave him perspective on himself and those he served that helped shape him into a leader of teams capable of incredible things and thriving through change.

Today on the Ether we have Cephii hosting a discussion on Zephyr Protocol, the eminently useful proof of work system. You'll hear from LVL10 n00b, DUB, Midas, 0xEars, sanjeev Rawat, Milo, Mr. Fox, LORD, Fluxbit, and more! Recorded on December 7th 2023. Make sure to check out the newest tracks from Finn and the RAC FM gang over at ImaginetheSmell.org! The majority of the music at the end of these spaces can be found streaming over on Spotify, and the rest of the streaming platforms. Check out Project Survival, Virus Diaries, and Plan B wherever you get your music. Thank you to everyone in the community who supports TerraSpaces.

WBT afternoon show host Brett Winterble joins Good Morning BT with Bo Thompson & Beth Troutman with reaction to the ousting of Kevin McCarthy as Speaker of the House of Representatives.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Katya welcomes the ever-so-engaging Courtney Act to the pod for part 1 of a lengthy conversation about the beauty of braces, the positivity of pool-dancing, and the innate silliness of the gender binary. This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at https://www.Betterhelp.com/BALD and get on your way to being your best self! Get Factor and enjoy eating well without the hassle! Head to https://www.FactorMeals.com/BALD50 and use code BALD50 to get 50% off! Start shopping at https://www.Rakuten.com or get the Rakuten app to start saving today, your Cash Back really adds up! Follow Trixie: @TrixieMattel Follow Katya: @Katya_Zamo To watch the podcast on YouTube: http://bit.ly/TrixieKatyaYT Don't forget to follow the podcast for free wherever you're listening or by using this link: http://bit.ly/baldandthebeautifulpodcast If you want to support the show, and get all the episodes ad-free go to https://thebaldandthebeautiful.supercast.com If you like the show, telling a friend about it would be amazing! You can text, email, Tweet, or send this link to a friend: http://bit.ly/baldandthebeautifulpodcast To check out future Live Podcast Shows, go to: https://trixieandkatya.com To order your copy of our latest book, "Working Girls", go to: workinggirlsbook.com To check out the Trixie Motel in Palm Springs, CA: https://www.trixiemotel.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Cait interviews Emma (Elinor) , Olivia (Marianne) and Isabella (Margaret) to introduce the wonderful new production from the Putney Theatre Company: Sense & Sensibility, Jane Austen's classic, adapted by Jessica Swale and directed by Ben Clare.In case you don't know, here's an outline of the ageless story. When their wealthy half-brother cheats them of their fortune, the penniless Dashwood sisters are forced to leave the comforts of Norland Park and relocate to chilly Barton Cottage in Devonshire. Eminently sensible Elinor pines for the kind-hearted Edward Ferrars, but the impulsive Marianne loses herself in the idea of her hero on horseback. When handsome stranger John Willoughby arrives one day with a rain-drenched Marianne in his arms, the sisters are convinced that their fortunes are changed forever.In Jessica Swale's delightful adaptation of Austen's dearly-loved classic, we follow the fortunes of Elinor and Marianne as they chase their dreams from Devonshire to London and back.CASTElinor Dashwood: Emma BuggMarianne Dashwood: Olivia JacksonMargaret Dashwood: Isabella Walsh-WhitfieldMrs Dashwood: Enid GayleEdward/Robert Ferrars: Josh MallalieuWilloughby: Jamie CameronColonel Brandon: Alexsei ToshevMrs Jennings: Sarah KitchenSir John: Perry KitchenFanny Dashwood: Emily ThomasJohn Dashwood: Pascal OrzabalLucy Steele: Meg ChristmasMrs Palmer: Lois SavillMr Palmer: Hubert MacGreevySophia Grey: Helen WoodCREATIVE TEAMDirector: Ben ClareAssistant Director: Cait Hart DykeProduction Manager: Lyndall Brown20–24th June 2023Ticket link: https://www.putneyartstheatre.org.uk/event-5177715(click on the calendar date for tickets)Box office hours: 020 8788 6943Artistic Directors: Barney and Cait Hart Dyke. Podcast Editor and Sound Designer: Nick Wells. Music is 'At the Tropicana' by Chalalatas, license courtesy of Epidemic Sounds.Elements Recorded at the Putney Arts Theatre and The Kitchen's rehearsal studio.The Putney Theatre Company at The South West End! See us online – putneytheatrecompany.org.uk

*Parenting can be tough work, and at times it can feel like just surviving is the most you're able to do. But psychotherapists Siegel and Bryson show that the most difficult moments are actually opportunities to thrive – you just need to use integration. *Integration means connecting the two sides of your – and your child's – brain. *This can occur both horizontally, left brain to right brain, or vertically, ‘upstairs' brain to ‘downstairs' brain. *It's about engaging both the emotional and logical parts of the brain and understanding how these sides develop at different stages in your child. *Eminently practical and engaging, the strategies and techniques in The Whole-Brain Child will help your children lead connected, meaningful and balanced lives. Theme 1: The Importance of Integration - 0:29 Theme 2: Memories and Mindsight - 11:02 Theme 3: The Whole Brain Family - 23:07 Like what you hear? Be sure to like & subscribe to support this podcast! Also leave a comment and let us know your thoughts on the episode. You can also get a free weekly email about the Book Insight of the week. Subscribe at memod.com/insights Want quick save-able, share-able bullet points on this book? Check out the Memo: https://memod.com/KarinRichey/the-whole-brain-child-method-can-revolutionize-you-276 HEAR THE FULL INTERVIEWS MENTIONED IN TODAYS' EPISODE HERE: Siegel, D. (2019). TPP 090: Dr. Daniel Siegel on Helping Our Kids Develop a "Yes" Brain. [online] SoundCloud. Available at: https://soundcloud.com/deborah-reber/tpp-090-dr-daniel-siegel-on-helping-our-kids-develop-a-yes-brain?consumer_key%3D815e7acf2915c50abba1bce5fa411952&sa=D&ust=1557784424500000&usg=AFQjCNEBey6esI3eeg-18QlnXWcuKqpf_A. Kids in the House. (2019). Articles on Watch Parenting Videos - Expert Advice for All Parents | Kids in the House. [online] Available at: https://www.kidsinthehouse.com/all-parents/parenting/resilience/helping-children-overcome-bad-experiences&sa=D&ust=1557784424516000&usg=AFQjCNEjfiu54KKiMWe34M9ojMKFjE7v5w. Full Title: The Whole Brain Child: The Whole-Brain Child: 12 Revolutionary Strategies to Nurture Your Child's Developing Mind Year of Publication: 2011 Book Author: Daniel J Siegel, Tina Payne Bryson To purchase the complete edition of this book click here: https://tinyurl.com/tumbuchm Book Insight Writer: Dinsa Sachan Editor: Morwenna Loughman Producer: Daniel Gonzalez Production Manager: Karin Richey Curator: Tom Butler-Bowden Narrator: Kristi Burns

This show is made possible by you - thank you for supporting us on Patreon - subscribe for early episode drops, extra discussions, and opportunities to appear on our live audience They Joined It episodes (https://www.patreon.com/TheyCoinedItPodPatreon.com/theycoineditpod) Please note: we schmooze for awhile - Mad Men commentary starts around 18:25 It's Thanksgiving Day, and we are thankful for you, for rizzle. We cannot tell you how much it means that you welcome us into your earholes week after week. For today, we do a little schmoozing, followed by a recent Eminently Chewable episode - these are recorded and dropped to our Patreon members as companion pieces to our main episodes - loose little addendums. This happened to be a double, where we discussed additional thoughts on episodes 607 and 608 - Man With a Plan and The Crash. This EC opened with its own schmooze, so to skip the schmooze, FF to 18:25. Anyway, have a happy, however you're spending today, and we'll see you next week. For now, please enjoy "Power Technology Draper and Pryce." R&D WE'VE GOT MERCH! - They Coined It on a shirt or Your Dick Whitman is Showing on a mug or Eminently Chewable on a sticker or whatever else. CONTACT US: Questions@TheyCoinedItPod.com Patreon Instagram Twitter Facebook Producer, Editor - Roberta Lipp Graphics (logo and merch) - Albert Stern (stickrust arts) Theme by Adam Michael Tilford (Venmo: @Adam-Tilford-1) - need a podcast theme? Adam is your guy.

When an icon and role model in food policy and food studies writes a memoir, after writing more than a dozen policy-heavy books --you might expect it to be serious. Even a little preachy. But you'd be wrong here. Marion Nestle's telling of her life story is juicy and delicious. Eminently readable. In addition to her own journey, it is a surprisingly candid reflection about the difficulties of a serious and professional woman in academia coming of age in the 50's and 60's. Married at 19? Really Marion? She's quite a woman and it is quite a tale. Let's hear from Marion Nestle about her memoir – Slow Cooked.Photo Courtesy of Marion Nestle.Let's Talk About Food is Powered by Simplecast.

Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day for August 7, 2022 is: eminently • EM-uh-nunt-lee • adverb Eminently is used as a synonym of very and means “to a high degree.” // All three outfielders are eminently capable of making an All-Star-caliber catch to help their team. See the entry > Examples: “As far as tequila goes, blancos are by far my favorite. And not without good reason: They're eminently drinkable—whether in cocktails, on the rocks, or neat.” — Karla Alindahao, Forbes, 2 May 2022 Did you know? When British physician Tobias Venner wrote in 1620 of houses "somewhat eminently situated," he meant that the houses were literally located in a high place. That use has since slipped into obsolescence, as has the word's use to mean "conspicuously"—a sense that reflects its Latin root, ēminēre, which means "to stick out" or “protrude.” The figurative sense of “notably” or “very” that is prominent today was likely a new development when Venner was writing.

Beginning writers need this. Before you sit down to write, listen to this episode. Award-winning author, PeggySue Wells provides succinct tips to get your writing career started.(We hope you enjoy this highly downloaded  encore episode)“Eminently quotable, PeggySue Wells is a tonic — warm like your favorite blanket, bracing like a stiff drink.”History buff and tropical island votary, PeggySue parasails, skydives, scuba dives, and has taken (but not passed) pilot training. The bestselling author of 30 books including the What To Do series, The Slave Across the Street, Bonding With Your Child Through Boundaries, Homeless for the Holidays, Chasing Sunrise, and The Ten Best Decisions A Single Mom Can Make, PeggySue's most challenging and rewarding adventure was solo parenting seven children. She is the founder of SingleMomCircle.com. Good to have you here PeggySue.Today, Linda and PeggySue discuss the first decisions a writer makes.The What, Who, and Why you need to know before you begin.What vehicle format is best suited for what you write?Format options.  Word count for your genre.Setting up your manuscript.The three essentials every story must have for fiction and non-fiction.LINKSPeggySue Wells20-Tips for Unsticking a Stuck Wordsmith PDFWho's Your Audience? Writing Genre Word-counts PDFSingleMomCircle.com Enjoy our content? Support this podcast Visit Your Best Writing Life website Your Best Writing Life PodcastJoin fellow writers in our Facebook group, Your Best Writing LifeVisit the website of our host, Linda GoldfarbAbout your host - Linda GoldfarbBesides hosting Your Best Writing Life, Linda Goldfarb is a multi-published award-winning author, audiobook narrator, international speaker, board-certified Christian life coach, and the co-owner, co-founder of the LINKED® Personality System, and co-author of the LINKED® Quick Guide to Personality series. Linda and her hubby, Sam are empty nesters leading full lives. With four adult children and grandbaby #15 on the way– life is a new adventure every day. She loves sipping frothed coffee with friends, traveling the countryside with Sam, and sharing transparent truth to help others take their next best step-- personally and professionally. 

The Olympic Games have officially begun––how to reconcile excitement for the sports and the spectacle with the reality of the situation. Plus, controversy is brewing over the remains of Captain Cook's ship the HMS Endeavour. And choose your fighter: 3D-printed vegan meatballs or Build-A-Bear's sultry “After Dark” line of stuffed animals for adults. Sponsors:Jenni Kayne, Use code KRH at jennikayne.com for 15% off your first orderMunk Pack, Use code KRH at Munkpack.com for 20% off your first purchaseLinks:2022 Beijing Winter Olympics: Given China's human rights abuses, why report on them or pay attention? (Slate)Olympic spotlight back on China for a COVID-tinged Games (AP)2008 Beijing Olympics opening ceremony: How Zhang Yimou pulled off a masterpiece for multiple audiences. (Slate)The 2008 Beijing Olympics Opening Ceremonies planners have fallen out of favor in China in 2022 (Washington Post)Olympics 2022 -- How we ended up with a Winter Games amid China's human rights crisis (ESPN)Controversy erupts over Aussie museum's identification of HMS Endeavour wreck (Ars Technica)Row erupts over wreck in US waters identified as Captain Cook's Endeavour (The Guardian)IKEA is offering 3D-printed vegan meatballs to job candidates while it interviews them (Business Insider)Build-A-Bear just launched an 'After Dark' series (CNET)Kottke.OrgJackson Bird on TwitterSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Whether you celebrate this American holiday or not, however you are spending it, be very safe and well. We are thankful for all of you. Meantime, Pajamagate carries on. ___________________________________________________________________________________________ Support us on Patreon - make a 1-time donation, or subscribe for early episode drops, extra discussions, and opportunities to appear on our end of season They Joined It. And get yourself some merch - you totally want Eminently Chewable across your chest or Your Dick Whitman is Showing on a mug (or our logo on anything). ___________________________________________________________________________________________ CONTACT US Feedback/Comments/Dirty Jokes: Questions@TheyCoinedItPod.com Patreon Instagram Twitter Facebook Producer, Editor - Roberta Lipp Graphics (including logo and merch) - Albert Stern (stickrust arts) Theme by Adam Michael Tilford (Venmo: @Adam-Tilford-1)

Hey Coiners, no "episode episode" this week, but not to worry, we'll be back next week with our "Summer Man" discussion. Meantime we've brought you a conversation Roberta has with her sister on "Public Relations." Deborah Lipp's James Bond book can be purchased here. ___________________________________________________________________________________________ Support us on Patreon - make a 1-time donation, or subscribe for early episode drops, extra discussions, and opportunities to appear on our end of season They Joined It. And get yourself some merch - you totally want Eminently Chewable across your chest or Your Dick Whitman is Showing on a mug (or our logo on anything). ___________________________________________________________________________________________ CONTACT US Feedback/Comments/Dirty Jokes: Questions@TheyCoinedItPod.com Patreon Instagram Twitter Facebook Producer, Editor - Roberta Lipp Graphics (including logo and merch) - Albert Stern (stickrust arts) Theme by Adam Michael Tilford (Venmo: @Adam-Tilford-1)

Dave Pascoe craves the competently boring.

It's ancient unused interview day, with two dogs, two guests on one mic, & there's nothing you or we can do about it. This was taken out of the vault in remembrance of the anniversary of our dear friend Mikl-Em's passing. Levity from Cafe & elsewheres. Mikl-Em of Bianca's Smut Shack et al. At least it's an ethos. Load. You should be my peeing friend. The worst time of your life. Something we forgot we used to do. Mini migration. The City Metaphor. Oedipal not edible. Also, the world if we ran it. Plus, Mikl was always game and he is missed every day. Music: Monkey Shave by Thee Harlequine The late, great Mikl-Em. R.I.P. my friend. https://blog.longnow.org/02020/08/31/rip-michael-mcelligott/

Beginning writers need this. Before you sit down to write, listen to this episode. Award-winning author, PeggySue Wells provides succinct tips to get your writing career started.“Eminently quotable, PeggySue Wells is a tonic — warm like your favorite blanket, bracing like a stiff drink.”History buff and tropical island votary, PeggySue parasails, skydives, scuba dives, and has taken (but not passed) pilot training. The bestselling author of 30 books including the What To Do series, The Slave Across the Street, Bonding With Your Child Through Boundaries, Homeless for the Holidays, Chasing Sunrise, and The Ten Best Decisions A Single Mom Can Make, PeggySue's most challenging and rewarding adventure was solo parenting seven children. She is the founder of SingleMomCircle.com. Good to have you here PeggySue.Today, Linda and PeggySue discuss the first decisions a writer makes.The What, Who, and Why you need to know before you begin.What vehicle format is best suited for what you write?Format options.  Word count for your genre. Setting up your manuscript.The three essentials every story must have for fiction and non-fiction.LINKSPeggySue Wells20-Tips for Unsticking a Stuck Wordsmith PDFWho's Your Audience? Writing Genre Word-counts PDFSingleMomCircle.com July Writing Tips and Soul Care for Writers PDF DownloadVisit our website Your Best Writing Life PodcastJoin fellow writers on our Facebook page, Your Best Writing Life Visit the website of our host, Linda Goldfarb 

This week on Conversations & Catapults, the Players talk puzzles, failure in implementing puzzles, and the 12,000 theories they have about what's going on! Instagram | Twitter | Discord | Patreon This show is made possible by our Patrons. If you enjoyed this episode, consider donating yourself or leaving a review for us on Apple Podcasts! Conversations & Catapults Part 7  

SI & 60 Minutes' Jon Wertheim discussed Naomi Osaka walking away from the French Open, her open struggles with anxiety, why tennis administrators really misread her situation and how it should have been handled by both sides from the start.

Fr. Pat takes a closer look at Rabbi Gamaliel, teacher of St. Paul, and at Gamaliel's advice to the Sanhedrin concerning how to deal with the Apostles, who in disobedience to the Sanhedrin would not stop teaching in Jesus' name.

Fr. Pat takes a closer look at Rabbi Gamaliel, teacher of St. Paul, and at Gamaliel’s advice to the Sanhedrin concerning how to deal with the Apostles, who in disobedience to the Sanhedrin would not stop teaching in Jesus’ name.

On Saturdays in our house, my wife typically makes homemade pizza and the kids and I watch a movie. This gives me a chance to expose my children to culturally enriching experiences, and to spend time with them. And it also gives Lauren some peace and quiet to work on sewing or school planning or reading without interruption. Last night we watched Peter Jackson's The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, and I realized I had not seen that film so recently as I might have unconsciously assumed. Jackson's Hobbit trilogy was released from 2012-2014. The Lord of the Rings trilogy came out from 2001-2003. We're talking 7-20 years ago since these films made their theatrical debut. But it is just as well that it had been a long time since we had watched them, and I enjoyed sharing this first Hobbit movie with my youngest three children, since none of them were old enough or even necessarily born yet the first time around. And even for my having seen the movies before, and read the book, I remembered how much and why I like Tolkien's story here. There are good, sound reasons why it has the staying power it does. So let's talk about that, shall we? Let's delve into the resilience and durability, and eminent relatability of hobbits. --- 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/garrett-ashley-mullet/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/garrett-ashley-mullet/support

In perhaps the most personal  podcast yet, I got to speak with the incredibly pragmatic philosopher that is Terry McMullen. In this podcast, we spoke about the value of questioning why we believe what we believe and do what we do. After earning an MBA from Harvard and landing a lucrative job at IBM, everything seemed to be  going exceptionally well and according to plan. Then within a year, he lost a sibling, his wife became ill, and they had a son. McMullen spent the next seven years studying philosophy, as well as cognitive and social psychology,  in order to better understand himself and his relationship to life during these hardships. He went on to become a member of the American Psychological Association,  American Sociological Association and has posted personal reflection videos every day for a year on youtube. Eminently thoughtful and intelligent, McMullen was an unforgettable guest. 

Jonathan Melville hosts this episode on how we handle breaking down complex problems so that we can implement a solution.

We had a amazing conversation with Peggy Sue Wells this week!  “Eminently quotable, PeggySue Wells is a tonic — warm like your favorite blanket, bracing like a stiff drink.” History buff, and tropical island votary, PeggySue Wells parasails, skydives, snorkels, scuba dives, and has taken (but not passed) pilot training. Writing from the 100-Acre wood in Indiana, PeggySue is the bestselling author of 29 books, translated into eight languages, including The Slave Across the Street, Slavery in the Land of the Free, Bonding With Your Child Through Boundaries, Homeless for the Holidays, Chasing Sunrise, and The Ten Best Decisions A Single Mom Can Make.  We hope you enjoy this episode! Sparkle on friends!   Follow our hosts of 24 Carat Phylis Mantelli Facebook https://www.facebook.com/ phylismantelliauthorpage Instagram https://www.instagram.com/phylismantelli/   Rhonda Velez Instagram  https://www.instagram.com/p/CHn9JmEgFeO/?igshid=11hr7qyxumcew www.rhonda velez.com Facebook  https://m.facebook.com/rhonda.velez  Follow our guest www.peggysuewells.com Instagram https://instagram.com/peggysuewells?igshid=1evw0hlspa4xg                 www.rhonda velez.com   Facebook  https://m.facebook.com/rhonda.velez

It was on this particular day, in an Airbnb near to the Johannesburg airport, it occurred to me that I might be a strong contender for the title of world's preeminent dumbass. I woke up, bags packed, ready to head out when I was struck by a realization: I had failed to secure a visa for Vietnam, my intended destination. Without that visa, I wouldn't be able to enter the country.As an American, I'm somewhat accustomed to presenting myself at the gates of a country and announcing, "I'm ready to come in now." A boy is then sent to collect my baggage, and I'm received in celebration as a hero of capitalist tourist bucks. I can show up pretty much anywhere on the globe and expect this sort of treatment. Vietnam is not one of those places. And while some countries will process an online visa application in a matter of minutes -- I once obtained an Australian visa between the time of my arrival at my airport of embarkation, having only then discovered one would be required, and the departure of my plane -- the one for Vietnam takes a least a couple days to process. Between the breathtaking heights of my smugness and my profound inability to accomplish even very simple tasks, I think my girlfriend, Haily, was pretty impressed.Working within the available parameters, a plan was formulated posthaste. I would go to the airport, as originally intended, and smile real big at the airport attendant checking my papers. Perhaps I'd be able to pull off the subterfuge of slipping onto the plane without proper documentation. If I made it that far, I'd be able to deviate from my stated itinerary by stealing away during my layover into a country that would allow me in sans visa.Owing both to the ingenuity of the strategy as well as my aptitude for covert action, the plan worked. I was on my way to Hong Kong.And what a truly delightful thing it was to find myself on a flight to Asia. For in performance of my usual ritual at the outset of a flight of any significant length -- to scroll though every available in-flight movie, consider the potential merits of each at length, and mark the ones with promise for potential viewing over the next twelve hours -- I discovered a cinematic work that aroused in me a great deal of interest. It was a Chinese movie -- clearly a rip off of the lucrative Todd Phillips flick, the Hangover -- called "Girls versus Gangsters."The film details the initiatives of three protagonists -- Xiwen, Jialan, and Kimmy -- young women from northern China of approximately marrying age, whom, having between intimates of long-standing though not always amicable relation, set off together to celebrate the impending nuptials of their friend, Jinjin. As is the standard motif in the genre, the action begins when, after a night of especially vigorous carousing, the trio awaken to discover that they have failed to maintain an account of the whereabouts of their compatriot. This sets (as they say in the script-writing business) a clock. For their misplaced friend is to be married in a matter of hours. The objective of the trio is to set off into the Vietnamese jungle -- the treacherous environs in which our heroes now find themselves -- in order to locate Jinjin and ensure her safe and timely return for the ceremony.In the scene of crucial plot-thickening, the trio wake up on a beach. They are naked, though they remain semi-modestly buried under the sand. "Semi-modestly" because the sand around each of them has been sculpted to resemble a nude and voluptuous female form. Jialan and Kimmy -- whom we've learned are, if not quite full-on nemeses then engaged in rivalry -- are hand-cuffed to a heavy box, one on each handle. A familiar train of dialogue (though with the novelty of transpiring in Mandarin Chinese) follows."What happened last night?" asks Jialan."Where's Jinjin?" asks Xiwen. Having failed to provide an answer, she exclaims, "I lost Jinjin!""Xiwen," says Kimmys, "When did you get a tattoo?"Covering themselves in banana leaves, à la Adam and Eve, the trio teeter through the jungle. At length, they come upon what is evidently a Korean café. Why there is a Korean café in the middle of the Vietnamese jungle is a question no one poses."Maybe there's a handsome Korean guy inside," says Kimmy, optimistically.Then the audience is treated to a moment of pure movie magic. The girls hear a series of thunderous stomps. The camera pans from the ground up in slow motion. There are Jurassic Park style rumbles with each step. A nearby glass of water trembles. Eventually the camera reveals who has emerged in such dramatic flair from the Korean café. It's Mike Tyson. Shirtless.Romantic music plays. Jialan stares at Mike, mouth agape. Mike bites his finger provocatively. He bites his lower lip. The jungle gets even steamier.Abruptly, Kimmy interrupts the fantasy. In English, she says, "Excuse me, do you have any clothes you can lend?" In a clever turn of conversational redirection, Mike Tyson responds, "What happened to you?""We just woke up on the beach like this," says Kimmy."Listen," Mike relates sagely, "trust me. S**t Happens. And I know too well. Man, alcohol's hard to resist, right?"Right, Mike."Hey, just come to my room with me," he offers. "I'll see what I can find for you girls to wear."They enter Mike's room-slash-hut-slash-café. On the wall are pictures of Mike slugging people in the face. Also his belts.Jialan: "You have got so many championships."MT: "You like watching boxing? I'm half American, half Korean, and I won most of my fights in the US and Korea."Jialan: "You are mixed?!"MT: "Yes." (He isn't.)"Do you speak Korean?" Jialan asks.Mike replies, in Korean, "My name is Dragon. You're so cute.""Thank you Dragon oppa," says Jialan, also in Korean.Mike goes to peruse what sartorial options he might be able to offer the girls. There is, of course, a tiger in Mike Tyson's closet. The tiger's name, also of course, is Tony. MT dismisses Tony and the jungle cat never makes a reappearance.As it turns out, Mike Tyson only stocks boxing trunks. No tops of any kind. Which he elucidates in the deft line "Nowhere. There's no top. I'm the topless king." The girls, having no other recourse, each hike up a pair of trunks to their chest, in a kind of MMA-fantasy romper."Wow, good looking ladies," remarks Mike, conveying a sentiment that is semantically, if not syntactically, clear. "Looking really good."Then Mike turns to the problem of the box and chain. He can't break the chains, because his hands are weak after so much fighting. He mentions a friend who is a locksmith. We never meet this friend.Remembering their mission, the girls take leave of Mike Tyson.Jialan: "I'll be back soon."MT: "Please. Please come back. Come back. I love you so."At this point the movie begins to lose the thread of the plot. Or at least I didn't have the exegetic tools to keep up with what was going on. What I can tell you is, at length, and for reasons I failed to ascertain, Mike reenters the plot. While Jialan is otherwise occupied, he engages in a heartfelt conversation with Xiwen."You find your friend yet?" asks Mike. The answer is obviously no, as she isn't with them. Xiwen points this out. "Ah," he offers in consolation, "don't worry she'll be fine."Mike hands her a bottle of green tea."Want a soda?" he asks. Mike evidently doesn't know what green tea is, despite being the proprietor of a Korean café in the middle of the Vietnamese jungle. Xiwen nods assent.Mike tries to open it. He can't. Weak hands.Then in a bid of romantic endeavor, Mike asks Xiwen about Jialan's interests. The main thing is Korean dramas. A show called "Descendants of the Sun," in particular."She watched it four times," says Xiwen."I watched it five times," he says."Wow," says Xiwen. "Why?"Then Mike Tyson spots Xiwen's tattoo and on that basis makes a diagnosis: "Vietnamese fiancé?" Xiwen is surprised at Mike's powers of inference, to have derived this fact on the basis of such scant evidence. He indicates toward the tattoo. "Now, though I'm not that good at my Vietnamese" -- why in Vietnam then, Mike? -- "it does appear to be Vietnamese."Later on, the climax of the film begins when the girls find themselves critically imperiled, yet on the verge of reuniting with Jinjin. Heroically, MT emerges onto the scene. He is wearing military fatigues, in what is evidently an homage to a Korean drama, probably, I imagine, Descendants. There is a car chase scene. Then a Mike-Tyson-bursts-out-of-his-clothes-like-the-Hulk scene. Then a boat chase scene. Ultimately, Mike proves victorious over the nefarious forces that be (the "Gangsters" of the title, as it were). He sees the girls off as they make their way back for Jinjin's ceremony."Oh!" calls Mike to Jialan at the last second. "Can I have your WeChat number?"In the denouement, we learn that (spoiler alert) Jialan breaks up with her boyfriend -- whom no one really liked anyway -- and ends up with Mike Tyson. It was with this perplexing and strangely enticing series of images seared into my mind that I found myself arriving on a new continent.I would soon be landing in glorious, glorious Asia.To arrive somewhere with fresh eyes is a special thing. It is enthralling to find oneself in a place one has never been. A sort of virginity, it is a moment that cannot be reclaimed. But there is also something about having been somewhere, left it, and finding oneself returning to the place one has been. It is to be received as an old friend. A recognition that, yes, some things are just as I left them. Yet some have changed, and I am unlikely to encounter them restored to their previous state in any medium save for memory. To return is to have an established relationship with a place, and to feel that relationship -- as is the nature of every relationship -- evolve with time's restless shifting.It was this sense of returning that I felt upon landing in Hong Kong. It is a place I have found myself drawn back to over the years. The city -- the island, the culture, the harbor, the Chinese Special Administrative Region, whatever it may most accurately be called -- holds special meaning for me. In my first trip as a solo traveler to Asia, as a fresh college graduate, this was my first port of call. To me it will always symbolize a sort of gateway to this continent, which for the rest of my life will call me back to savor experiences new and old, to unexpected enlightenments and familiar joys. Not entirely unlike Istanbul on the opposite end, it is a juncture of East and West. It is a place I knew. It is also a place that, impressed somewhere deep within its eternal memory, knew me.My first call was at my hostel. I had booked a single night there, confirming the transaction and shutting my laptop just as I was about to hop on the plane. Hostels in Hong Kong aren't as appealing as they tend to be elsewhere in Asia. In most Asian cities, hostels are a kind of minor resort for tourists, with ample room for beer pong, late night dance parties, and then, for the professionals, another round of beer pong. In Hong Kong, they are essentially just apartments with decently large square footage. A couple barracks rooms and a couple bathrooms. Several stories up. A check in counter maybe.I had gotten into the airport around seven in the morning. I arrived at my hostel well before check-in. I made it nonetheless into my building, and when I finagled my way into the apartment door of the hostel I spied on the desk a number provided for early or late arrivals. I texted it, and a few minutes later a sleepy figure emerged through the doorway and reluctantly but mercifully set me up with a bed. The place seemed good enough, spare though it was. I liked the location, in the heart of Kowloon. Most crucially of all, it had solid air conditioning. I booked a spot there for my remaining nights.Coated in the grime of long distance travel, I was eager to take a shower. This provided another reminder that I was now in Asia, though a slightly less welcomed one. Germane to these tightly packed Hong Kong hostels are the cramped showers. They are undifferentiated from the bathroom area as a whole. In space of about three skinny Chinese chaps, there is a toilet, a shower head, and a sink. Whatever business you intended to do, it can be done here -- though not always with an overabundance of grace. Almost immediately, I succeeded in getting myself wet, along with everything else in the restroom. I tried to spare the toilet paper, but to no avail.Freshly laundered and eager to engage the city, I took leave of the hostel. It had been winter when I left Africa, having come from the southern hemisphere. Now I found myself in the sweltering Asian summer. It took me all of about thirty seconds after leaving the hostel to become comprehensively sticky in a coat of sweat. It took me another thirty seconds to become thoroughly confused by the sights and sounds of Hong Kong. (Actually not even that: a delivery guy had to help me negotiate the building's exit, as it required I pressed a button before leaving; it'd been a while since I'd been confronted with that technology.) Kowloon is intensely Chinese, in the overwhelming way that all Chinese things are intense to one unaccustomed to encountering them. Many of the city's façades are covered in bamboo labyrinths, which act as scaffolding for the not insignificant number of buildings under construction. Piled high, story upon story, are signs, banners, and advertisements, contending for attention. The mass of them are so aggressively seeking one's notice as to be almost indecipherable -- presumably, even if you speak the language -- like so many beggars hassling tourists in an urban corridor. I had become acclimated to the mellow pace of Africa. Being in Asia made me feel like Will Ferrell's elf in Time Square.Time to get down to business. 10:30 in the morning. Five different breakfast establishments on my street. Each one of them full of patrons. All with pictures in the window of dishes I wouldn't normally associate with breakfast. The furthest one had a small queue, only one couple, and I took the wait to be a good sign. I saw they had pineapple buns, which is what I'd been hoping for. Then I spied an attractive dim sum stall across the street, where I could get my food for takeaway. I took a moment to contemplate the tantalizing prospect of dim sum. But then when I took another look at the queue for the other place I saw it had grown to a half dozen parties of Hong Kongers. I wasn't about to give up my spot.At length I earned a seat in the restaurant. With Hong Kongers always having one eye on efficiency, I was seated at an otherwise full table top with three other mostly silent eaters. My first round was a p-bun and a cup of coffee. Contrary to its name, the traditional Hong Konger pineapple bun has no pineapple in it, but is basically just crusty white bread sprinkled with sugar. The top is dimpled in a manner resembling a pineapple, if one is willing to look at it with a certain level of generous imagination. It comes with a pat of butter, several times overgenerous. The coffee is what we typically think of in the West as Vietnamese coffee, which is basically coffee-flavored condensed milk. My serving was delivered to me approximately three and a half seconds after I ordered it. Promptly, I drank my coffee -- which proceeds from the cup at the rate of molasses -- and distributed p-bun detritus on my lap and the table before me. I ordered another round, and enjoyed my bun and coffee as the morning transitioned to midday. The restaurant was a flurry of constant activity. People waving over waiters. Parties coming and going. The bussing of plates. Even the lobsters seemed industrious. My colleagues-in-consumption stared fixedly at their phones. I stared at them. I was officially in Hong Kong.As I had only really ingested sugar so far, I did go across the street for dim sum. I looked up at the cashier and contemplated my options. The cashier gave me a look that said, "For f**k's actual sake, please order something so we can get on with it." I picked something, then handed the cashier a fifty. I reached down to jingle around in my pocket for coins, but she had already produced my change before I could even retrieve the currency from my pocket. I took a seat on a nearby stoop to dive into my steam-emitting box of treats. It was only while biting into the first pan-friend dumpling of scalding broth and meaty goodness that I seriously injured myself. I consumed the second one unharmed, which I think implies that I'm something of a quick learner. As I enjoyed my dim sum, several questions occurred to me. How, for instance, did I manage to cover myself in sticky dumpling residue so quickly? The observation that I had somehow contrived to spread it all the way down to my ankle aroused in me a certain scientific curiosity. And why put the soup in the dumpling? Why not just put it in the bottom of the box where it invariably ends up anyway? Biting into one of those little suckers is like biting into an over-inflated balloon: it requires a level of pressure slightly beyond what you'd like to give, which you must achieve experimentally. Eventually, and always unexpectedly, it explodes in your face in dramatic fashion. It's lack gnawing on a frag grenade, but tastier.I sat on the steps of a bank on Kowloon's main drag, Nathan Street, and watched Hong Kong go by. It occurred to me that I was the only person in the city who didn't have an urgent need to be somewhere. So when I finished my dumplings, I strided off, pretending that an important person in a high-up office somewhere was tapping their watch and expecting to receive the quarterly Wellington financials from me, like, yesterday. My striding, blessedly, took me to that beloved old haunt of mine. Nowhere in particular.One of the enigmatic thrills of Hong Kong is that is one is dripped on by innumerable urban waterfalls fed by unseen tributaries. In a city of high rises rarely outfitted with central air conditioning, there are a practically infinite number of AC units to rain condensation on the heads of passersby. Chinese banyans line the urban thoroughfare of Nathan Street. These trees consist of many constituent tines, which seem to vie democratically for the direction in which the tree as a whole will grow. Further down past the banyans, the sidewalk is dotted with Indian gentlemen, who, upon identifying a white guy in their midst, thrust a business card in his direction, promising bespoke suits and shirts at a "very good price for you, my friend." An industrious segment of them quietly offer intelligence about where to purchase weed -- more likely oregano -- from undisclosed suppliers. The jewelry shops are innumerable. Every single person seems to be wheeling around a suitcase. Where they're all going, I have no idea. I thought about making my way down to the waterfront to the harbor, which is the best part of urban Hong Kong, maybe the best part of the urban world. But I decided to wait to savor it until sundown. It is after nightfall that one see's the true glory of the fragrant harbor from which Hong Kong takes its name.Given that my circadian rhythm was still on Africa time, I was ready for a respite in the AC. Maybe also to grab my suitcase before I head out again. I retired to my hostel and settled in for a world class Africa-Asia nap.In the evening, I entered the metro station at Tsim Sha Tsui. Of a sudden, I was engulfed in a squall of Hong Kongers, more being pushed and pulled by human current than coherently moving in any direction. (One doesn't necessarily walk the streets of Hong Kong so much as negotiate them.) I was fortunate to find a break in the current long enough to swim my way over to an "Add Value Machine," so I could re-up on transport funds. Experimentally, I put my Octopus card in the slot and began to work my way through the labyrinth of available options. Though I had been the only one at the machine moments ago, I was now the lead of a queue. Then a voice came from behind me."What are you doing?" said the woman.Oh, I wondered, am I not doing it right? I retrieved my card from the machine and inquired as to what course of action I might otherwise take. She grabbed my card, shoved it back in the slot, and tapped away on the screen."See?" she said.Having elucidated this gambit, she proceeded to snatch a fifty from my money clip and feed it into the machine. That wasn't necessarily what I had intended to do. It wasn't necessarily against my wishes either. I just hadn't planned that far ahead yet. I withdrew my money clip before she could donate more of my cash to my Octopus fund."That's great," I said. "Thanks." She handed me my card back, and I immersed myself once again in the convective swirl of human activity, praying that it swept me toward the appropriate subway line. Whereas Kowloon is a world built on the capital of traditional China, Hong Kong Island is devoted to the monetary capital of the Chinese nouveau riche. On opposite sides of the harbor, these are the two main hustle-and-bustle areas of Hong Kong. They provide a compelling juxtaposition. It's not that one is devoid of tradition and the other is not. But while Kowloon holds up its aging buildings with massive latticeworks of bamboo, the Island side's central district has no need for such erections, with its rows of Gucci, Patek, Hublot, and their ilk. This is the part of the city designed to satisfy the seemingly infinite capacity for Chinese consumption of the gaudiest and most expensive trimmings of Western culture.My first call of the night was at a cocktail venue, The Quinary, notable for a drink they call the Earl Grey caviar martini. On the menu, it's described as vodka, elderflower, "Earl Grey caviar and air." What the "air" refers to is essentially Earl Grey bubble bath piled high atop the martini glass. It's a non-standard ingredient, and so it wasn't immediately apparent to me how such an ingredient was intended to be consumed. I sucked in a breath-full (as one is wont to do with air), which was so aggressively flavorful as to inspire a brief but enthusiastic coughing fit that all but blew off the top of my martini in the manner of the Big Bad Wolf. The "caviar," I was delighted to find, consisted in a small deposit of Earl Grey mini popping boba at the bottom of the glass. Popping boba -- which are marbled-sized saccharine capsules of flavor that can usually be ordered as accoutrement in one's bubble tea -- are, in my opinion, a most underutilized cocktail ingredient. Taking a look through the rest of the menu, I inquired about the nature of their wasabi-infused vodka. The barkeep embarked on a lengthy discourse on its origins and constitution, then offered me a taste. I believe she was under the impression that I was a cocktail critic of some note, because I was there early in the evening, making technical inquiries, sitting on my own, and jotting down my reflections. I was then treated to a sample of their marshmallow vodka. It came in a miniature Coke bottle, filled with what is pretty much an alcoholic version of the marshmallow fluff that one can buy in a jar. It was delightful. The good news for The Quinary is that my review is two thumbs up; the bad news is that I'm not actually a cocktail critic.The bartender who had offered me the gratis drinks introduced herself as Shao Li. It being too early in the evening for the crowds to roll in, she occupied her time by chatting with me and engaging in the repetitive activity of relocating a tincture from a large glass to a smaller one with an eye dropper. She performed this activity for about thirty minutes, conveniently located at a station adjacent to where I sat. In my mind, I knew it was a ploy to be in my presence in order to drum up conversation with me. Not to mention that it was a thinly veiled metaphor for coitus. Alas, I was too poor to afford another drink at this bar, even a free one. Our dialogue winding down, I agreed to come see her when I next visited HK. She waved as I walked out. As soon as I did I realized I was still wearing the jeans I had changed into so as not to look like a schmuck at a cool bar. I considered whether I should go back in, change in the restroom, and reveal myself to be not only a schmuck but an absent minded one at that. Not at chance. I chose to remain sticky and uncomfortable. Sometimes the moral victories are the hardest to endure. Fortified by the heady assurance that a sizable number of our planet's women have an undisclosed desire to sleep with me, I made my way to a spot of familiar joy. An alleyway carved into the crowded hillside of the Island's commercial zone. There one can find kind all the artifacts necessary for happiness. Steaming woks of amalgamated flavors and spices. Tiny red plastic stools. Sweating bottles of cold everyman's lager. Making my way through, I inspected the dishes of each patron until I found one I liked, and put in an order for "that one" at the appropriate stall. The lady indicated that it was "pork rib in salt and pepper." Which wasn't my interpretation of what I saw, but I was willing to go with it. Much to my chagrin, I could not afford a Tsingtao ("Ching Bao") beer to go with it since I only had enough cash for the meal. Soon enough, the dish came, which presented me with an occasion to consider the conventions for anglicization of Chinese cuisine. "Pork rib in salt and pepper" neglects to disclose, at the very least, the presence of chilis. At any rate, I was happy. Next I called at 7/11 for reunion with my old friend, Pocari Sweat. Pocari Sweat is a glorious beverage, a milky white electrolyte drink with a crisp, Columbia blue label. The stated marketing pitch of the company is that it "resembles" the body's "natural fluids." I don't know if the company's executive board has ever seen sweat before, but it isn't the bodily fluid that is most directly imitated by a milky white solution. Setting aside any discussion of its actual merits, the drink reminds me of my first time in Asia.At this point in the evening, I was overcome with a desire to go back to the Quinary to see if Shao Li was still there. It was nice evening. I wished I had someone to share it with. Perhaps she was about to get off from work and wanted to go out for a beer. Alas, just because one is inclined toward creepy and deranged thoughts does not mean one is required to act on them. So I didn't. Instead I took the Central-Mid-Levels -- which has the distinction of being the world's longest outdoor escalator promenade -- up until the hillside of Hong Kong Island becomes residential and sleepy rather than bustling and studded with hip restaurants. Then I descended further until it was again commercial and posh. I was quite lonely by the time I got to the bottom of the hill. I thought of the insight Chris McCandless jotted down before perishing, alone and unkempt, in the Alaskan wilderness. "Happiness only real when shared." Hoping to inspire a rebound in my spirits, I headed toward the Hong Kong harbor ferry. This is what I'd most been looking forward to since stepping foot in Hong Kong. The harbor is truly a magnificent sight. Viewed from the Kowloon side looking toward Hong Kong Island, the commercial high rises put on an epic display of urban lights against the backdrop of the world's most delicious hillside. Beholding this sight is like conducting an orchestra. It is the feeling of watching something so splendid and so tremendous unfold before your eyes. Each section performs its own part, while inexplicably remaining concerted with the rest. Taking the ferry across, I squished into a corner of the boat, on the upper deck with about 100,000 Hong Kongers. They were all carrying on in conversation and not, I couldn't help but feel, at a whisper, either. Disembarking from the ship, I covered the waterfront. My hope at this point was to repair to a dreary pub where I'd sit alone at the bar and the man behind the counter would tersely serve me an ice cold Tsingtao. I searched for a while in the streets of Kowloon. No dice. So I settled for a bubble tea and retired for the evening. Before doing so I was presented with the evening's final joy. I went to the ATM to withdraw some currency. The transaction ended with the directive, "Please take advice." It means 'receipt.'As our double-decker bus made the bend, the top of it seemed to lean into the oncoming lane. It put me in mind of the bus scene in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, which darts through the road with such belligerent haste as to imperil the story's hero. Or at least it would have, if I wasn't scared for my life. Sitting on the upper deck, I was confident in my assessment that the bus was actually tipping across the other lane of traffic and over the sheer cliff on the other side. I swear I could see down to the bottom of the gulley below. It was a hot day. The air was solid with humidity. Not entirely unlike trying to breathe Earl Grey air, actually. It was the kind of hot that would be of interest to scientists hoping to induce a chemical reaction or a breakfast-enthusiast attempting to fry an egg. I was going hiking. That is, if I didn't succumb to the driver's psychopathology first.Hong Kong is actually famous for having some of the world's greatest hiking trails. Or at least they're good ones. I'd heard they were world-class. But it's not immediately clear to me what would so distinguish one hiking trial from another in any objective sense like that. At any rate, I was to tackle the fabled trail known as the Dragon's Back.That was my plan. It was also the plan of a non-negligible number of Chinese tourists. The bus screeched to a halt at a nondescript location where there appeared to be an opening in the otherwise impenetrable thicket of brush lining the roadside. The driver called for Dragon's Back. I alighted along with a good deal of the rest of the bus. I was eager to get out ahead of them, so as not to be caught in a traffic jam. Mercifully the open stretches of the trail were partially covered. I followed the rascally meandering dirt road lined with brush. Slight uphill. Even with a healthy shade, I was drenched in sweat by minute fifteen.Shortly, I came to the kind of staircase one climbs in a movie to reach an ancient master of an esoteric martial art. Thin wooden steps, rising approximately forever into a thin cloud cover. The top of the hill became apparent only at the culmination of the steps. Or at least the local maximum. The ridge fell and rose with a consistent periodicity, rather like a dragon's back, as it were, or at least the scrawny, undulatory Chinese conception of the creature. I emerged into a cleared hill top, which became a punishing landscape without recourse to the cover of flora. It did, however, unveil a spectacular view. Before me was a glittering sea of Hong Kong's islands. Situated on a peninsula was a scattering of urban settlements. My sweat was thick and dense. I took a polaroid.As a consequence of my dillydallying, I became intermingled with pack of young Asian women. One had on a miniature Marc Jacobs backpack and a flannel, like it was the first day of 8th grade and not a death march through HK jungle mountains. I felt that demonstrated a lack of respect. From the apex of the ridge I felt that I could reach up and touch the sun, hot as it was. I was perspiring about a liter per minute by now. In the distance the sea continued to sparkle and the ridge to undulate. The islands gave the appearance of an old Chinese painting, depicted in geometric rather than linear projection. The lot of them proceed towards heaven rather than into the distance. I jetted past the Asian girls. Reaching the crest of another notch in the dragon's back, I could see freight headed for Hong Kong harbor. Azure water. Gum-drop islands. Glimpses of far-off settlements. Other islands could never be so verdant, or have such perfectly sculpted mounds or sit in such a blessed, glittering sea, or periodically expose the brilliant high-rises off in the distance. I was in a watercolor painting. It was unfairly beautiful.Taking creative measures to deal with the heat situation, I took off my synthetic shirt and put it under my baseball cap so it draped over the back of my neck. I put on a tank top in order to retain a semblance of decency. I looked like an a*****e. But I didn't care. The shirt was cool and damp and protected my delicate skin from the sun. Relinquishing into mercy, the trail dove into a cover of eucalyptus trees. Using this respite into coolness to reapply my eighteenth round of sunscreen for the morning, I was overtaken by a white man forty years my senior. I heard him pass the Western couple behind me. He greeted them, "Pretty warm, eh?" The man was tan and spry, obviously a retiree. Also obviously a hiking enthusiast, the kind that having a job doesn't allow for. As he zoomed past me he gave me his signature "Pretty warm, eh?" I nodded. I looked like a sea monster, one who required constant moisture or will otherwise shrivel and expire. He looked prepared to take the trail. He didn't have a shirt draped over shoulders like a jackass.Dragon's Back Log, 11:00 AM. Supplies check: Water, two-thirds gone. Sunscreen, running on empty. Position, maybe a third of the way through the trail. Only one party member remains alive.I passed a couple going the other way. I greeted them with a "Pretty warm, eh?" They agreed, then shot one another a look to suggest that they may have missed a key memo on standard greetings while hiking in Hong Kong.Soon enough I came upon a creek, which ran through the trail. A Chinese couple had stopped to dip towels in the water for placement under their hats. They didn't look like dumbasses. They looked like geniuses. It occurred to me that this was probably an obvious thing to do for anyone who had ever been on a hike before. I scurried by, not wanting them to think that it was their ingenuity which gave me the idea. Fortunately, I soon came to another creek. I removed my head dress to douse it. I wanted to remove all of my clothes and submerse myself in the fresh, clear water. But I thought better of it, given that my retiree friend was also refreshing himself in the running water.I decided not to linger, so I could get a head start on him. Alarmed by my sudden progress, he put his cap back on and gave chase. To his credit, I doubt he had come all the way to Hong Kong to be bested by some punk kid with a shirt on his head. He soon overtook me without a word. There was nothing I could do about it. It was evident that he had no intention of taking names. He was only here to kick ass.The trail swung onto the backside of the mountain, under the merciful cover of foliage, safe from the sizzle of the open sky. I was happy to trade temporarily the glories of the sea and islands for protection from being broiled alive by what at this point seemed the unnecessarily proximal star at the center of our solar system. Now rather acquainted with the trail's flora, I started the notice the fauna. There was a spider the size of Papua New Guinea. Its legs were longer than mine. It looked like it could snatch a bird from the sky, like a baseball player straining to catch a ball at the top of an outfield fence. Only instead of a baseball, it would be a robin or a small eagle. Eminently creeped out, I scuttled onward. I added this spider to my list of concerns, which at that point contained looking like a foolishly novice hiker, sunburn, dehydration, and tigers. If you were on this trial, I think you'd be concerned with each of these as well.At length, I reached a juncture at the bottom of a slope. I saw the retired man inspecting a map. When he noticed my approach he took off. I followed his course. There were signs for "big wave beach." Periodically, he checked behind him to make sure I was in his wake. We were on a paved road now. I dodged back and forth in the lane to remain under shade cast by surrounding foliage. I stopped at another look-out point. I could see several communities of high-rises, erected in uniform pylons. They were so tightly packed and similarly constructed that they looked like the spiky erections of iron dust when a magnet coaxes it skyward. As we made our way closer to the beach, I saw the retiree split off on a more direct route. Neither wanting to deliver the blow of whooping his ass in the final stretch nor to let him have the satisfaction of whooping mine, I continued on my present path which would descend with unhurried leisure toward the bottom.Then the beach came into sight. In a flash of sudden insight, I understood the objective measure of a world-class hiking trail. To have all that previous wandering be rewarded with this? Just perfect. The hill from which I was descending swaddled the beach in a lush wrapping of vegetation. In some mirror image of the circles of hell, it formed a concentric ring of utopian vision. At the heart was the bay, ensconced in the Platonic ideal of white-sand beach, opening up into the luxuriant hillside. The name "big wave" less described the largeness of the surf at this particular beach as much as the smallness of surf in these parts generally. I took off my hood so as not to gave myself away as a schlub, in case I ran into Shao Li on the beach. Only having breached noon, the beach was still uncrowded. Maybe a dozen or so families. It felt like my own little share of real estate in Hong Kong heaven. When I turned the corner from path to beach, the sea was spread out before me as it faded from cloudy and sandy to idyllic cerulean. It was spangled with the same intensity as the view above, though now I could reach out and touch it. The water was warm, like a tepid bath. I waded in and immersed myself in the the strip of infinite blue. As the beach began to fill up, I noticed there were, in my estimation, entirely too many families and not enough bikini-clad women. I did not, for the record, encounter Shao Li.In the water I roamed like a wild animal, with no pattern to govern my behavior. Sometimes floating, sometimes swimming; sometimes shallow, sometimes deep. Never with any particular destination in mind. The only sounds were those of the happy children and the waves languishing along the shore. Intermittently, there was the gentle awk and splonk of the neophyte standup paddle boarder capsizing.After about an hour of grazing in knee deep water, I reemerged from the water and repaired, still wet, to the beach café where I acquired a well-earned Dragon's Back pale ale. While enjoying my beer I spotted a couple long-sought bikini girls from afar. I finished my beer and reequipped myself to go back in the water. Upon entering I realized it was a false alarm -- a mirage of sorts -- and dripped out of the water, this time to enjoy a Big Wave IPA. As soon as I did, the girls came back. I swear.Satisfied with my experience in the out-of-doors, I headed toward the nearby lot where a van waited to take beach patrons back to civilization. On my way I acquired a mango popsicle. Then I spotted a sign that promised "Ancient rock carvings - 330 m." I debated momentarily whether this was worth extending my time in nature. I decided to go back home. Who gives a s**t about rock carvings anyway? I boarded the van to take me back. Waiting for the vehicle to fill up, I saw another sign. "Ancient rock carving - 500 m." I pretended not to notice, failing to fool anyone involved in the situation. It was then I remembered who gives a s**t about rock carvings. I do. F**k it. I got off the bus, put on my headdress, and went back toward the beach in search of rock carvings.Eventually, I found them. Doubling back on my previous recollection, I now remembered why no one else gives a s**t about rock carvings. The delta between rocks and rocks with ancient carvings in them is not, as it turns out, that great. The saving grace of the endeavor was that I did, on my way back to the van, acquire another mango popsicle.Taxi hour. The time in the middle of the night when the streets are devoid of all vehicles save for a trickle of black and yellow cabs. Some zip by on their way to the airport. Some return a pair of lovers to wherever it is they plan to spend the remaining hours of the night. Some just idle on the side of the road, killing time until called into action. One night I couldn't sleep and so found myself on the streets of Hong Kong, the lone soul wandering the streets in human form.My time in Hong Kong was coming to a close. Visa issues sorted, I would soon be reunited with Haily. I had loved my excursion to Hong Kong. But I had also missed Haily. In case you couldn't tell, a part of me longed for a companion to enjoy it with. Happiness only real when shared.And so we would be together again soon -- elsewhere in Asia. We continued as we had before, in our summer devoted to going places and seeing things. Her family in Vietnam. Taking the train though Java. Bali. Friends and family in Singapore. There are stories to tell from those adventures, too. But I will leave them out of this collection, to allow them to remain as stories that belong only to us.The final episodes in the season take place at another time, in another season of the year and another season of life. They skip sideways along the Asian continent, to a portion of South East Asia on the same latitude as Hong Kong. The Buddhist stronghold of dark political history, still processing its own militant reaction to a colonial past. South East Asia's largest country by land area, but one of its smallest in terms of tourist figures. A place that I fell in love with from the moment I first stepped a dusty sandal on its soil. The final destination of the first season of Notes from the Field: Myanmar.Next Episode:Thanks for checking out Season 1 of Notes from the Field. If you’ve enjoyed it, please consider becoming a premium subscriber. I’m trying to do more of this kind of travel writing in the future. But as you can imagine, it’s hard to have these kinds of experiences while also holding down a job. Your subscription goes a long way toward helping me to do that. Use the link below, and you’ll get 50% off an annual subscription. Thanks! This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit codykommers.substack.com/subscribe