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      "body": "Clients absurd enough to leave assets at the Canadian crypto trade QuadrigaCX have a great deal to be stressed over. As indicated by a post by the organization's top managerial staff, the stage has lost access to the advanced resources it held in chilly stockpiling. \n\nWhile the trade was just little regarding dynamic every day clients, as per figures from Coinmarketcap, the news by and by features the significance of clients assuming liability for putting away their very own advanced resources safely. \n\nNot Your Keys, Not Your Crypto \n\nNot exactly a month after very rich person and early Bitcoin evangelist Trace Mayer held the debut \"Confirmation of-Keys\"event as a showcase of money related sway, a Canadian crypto trade called QuadrigaCX has submitted a definitive bumble – losing access to its own cool stockpiling. \n\nThe QuadrigaCX trade went disconnected two or three days back. Support issues were refered to as the purpose for the downtime. In any case, it has since happened that the story is goes further than routine work on the site. \n\nAs per a post by the QuadrigaCX top managerial staff, the crypto trade is confronting \"critical money related issues\" that have affected the administration gotten by its clients. The Nova Scotia Supreme Court will choose a free outsider, Ernst and Young Inc., to look out for loan boss assurance procedures occurring one month from now. \n\nThe note from the board proceeds to express that endeavors have been made to fix liquidity issues obstructing the task of the organization. At that point comes the truly stunning confirmation – QuadrigaCX can't get to its own chilly stockpiling: \n\n\"For as far back as weeks, we have worked widely to address our liquidity issues, which incorporate endeavoring to find and anchor our huge digital money saves held in chilly wallets… Unfortunately, these endeavors have not been fruitful.\" \n\nThe post closes by expressing that QuadrigaCX will refresh its clients following the consultation on February 5. \n\nThe quantity of QuadrigaCX clients affected by the grand error does not seem, by all accounts, to be huge since the trade flaunted less that $500,000 in return volume over all exchanging sets in the course of the most recent 24 hours it was dynamic. Be that as it may, numbers aside, the news couldn't have feature the point supported by Mayer on Bitcoin's tenth birthday celebration any better. \n\nCrypto trades are the most hazardous spots to store computerized cash. They represent a wide range of threats to clients. To the extent we know, the QuadrigaCX model is the first of an exchanging stage essentially losing access to its own chilly stockpiling arrangement. Considerably more typical is trades being hacked – late precedents incorporate South Korea's Coinrail and Japan's Zaif. \n\nAnother hazard to those choosing to surrender duty of their own funds to an unregulated, to a great extent inconceivable organization is presented by the trades themselves. To be sure, early crypto trade Mt. Gox broadly fell because of stupendously poor administration of clients reserves. \n\nBeing as a rule unregulated, there is next to no plan of action on the off chance that one of these very normal events is in charge of you losing your computerized resources. \n\nDealers have minimal decision yet to abandon some cryptographic money on a trade for a considerable length of time for it to be considered in danger. Be that as it may, they can limit the odds of losing assets by pulling back after each session and just keeping a little level of their all out property in an online hot wallet. \n\nThen, speculators, or holders, have truly no reason to depend their crypto to a possibly obscure organization that they know almost no about the business practices of. Bitcoin and other computerized resources can possibly give extraordinary opportunity to the whole planet. Be that as it may, with such opportunity comes duty – head of which is guaranteeing that you and only you know the private key to your picked crypto stockpiling arrangement.",
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      "body": "[Source](https://bcss-campbellriverbranch.webs.com/famouspeople.htm)\n[Plagiarism](http://www.plagiarism.org/plagiarism-101/what-is-plagiarism/) is the copying & pasting of others work without giving credit to the original author or artist. Plagiarized posts are considered spam. \r\n\r\nSpam is discouraged by the community, and may result in action from the [cheetah bot](https://steemit.com/faq.html#What_is__cheetah).\r\n\r\n[More information and tips on sharing content.](https://steemcleaners.org/copy-paste-plagiarism/)\r\n\r\nIf you believe this comment is in error, please contact us in [#disputes on Discord](https://discord.gg/YR2Wy5A)",
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      "permlink": "famous-people-and-mental-illnesses-01",
      "title": "Famous People and Mental illnesses(#01)",
      "body": "![Screenshot_2018-12-30-10-27-10.jpeg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmeKkgjavh7UEmEx73NhSsQFcRgTbzkX1QCCMQf8DDNiiU/Screenshot_2018-12-30-10-27-10.jpeg)\nIsaac Newton, most famous mathematician of the 17th Century was responsible for many scientificdiscoveries we take for granted today such as the \"corrected\" Gregorian calendar date. Newton’sgreatest mathematical discovery was the gravitational relationship between the earth and the moon, and of centrifugal force. Newton was well educated, had access to the best knowledge of his day and was wealthy in later life. He suffered from several “nervous breakdowns” in his life and wasknown for great fits of rage towards anyone who disagreed with him which some have labeled  Bipolar Disorder which was unknown at the time. In 1705 Newton was the first Scientist to be knighted by Queen Anne for his great scientific contributions.\n\nLudwig van Beethoven, composer, had bipolar disorder which some have said gave him such \ncreative power that his compositions broke the mold for classical music forever. He was a child \nprodigy which his father tried to exploit. His “manic” episodes seemed to fuel his creativity. He wrote his most famous works during times of torment, loneliness, and suffering psychotic delusions. It took him 12 years to finish his last and 8th Symphony in total deafness. He then medicated himself with the only drugs available in that day to bring some relief –opium and alcohol- and died several years later of liver disease.\n\nAbraham Lincoln, 16th President of U.S. suffered from severe and debilitating and on occasion \nsuicidal depressions, as recorded by Carl Sandburg in his comprehensive six-volume biographical analysis of his life. “A tendency to melancholy” Lincoln once wrote in a letter to a friend, “...let it be observed, is a misfortune, not a fault.” The most amazing part of his story was the sheer determination with which he willed himself to overcome his serious affliction and still achieve all he was able to achieve for our young and troubled nation at war with itself.\nVincent Van Gogh, famous painter and artist was labeled peculiar with unstable moods most of his short life. He suffered from epileptic seizures some believe from excesses of absinthe, very strong liquor popular among talented people for inspiring greater creativity. Many have tried to give a definitive diagnosis of his illness through reading his personal letters. From them it seems clear thathis depressive states were also accompanied by manic episodes of enormous energy and great passion. Van Gogh committed suicide at age 37.\n\nWinston Churchill, Prime Minister of Great Britain who, as one of the “Big Three” (Churchill,\nRoosevelt and Stalin) to lead the world to the defeat of Hitler in WWII, told in his own writings of suffering from “black dog” Churchill’s term for severe and serious depression. Less often talked about are his writings of how he often self-medicated with alcohol to deal with these times. Like so many other famous people with a mental illness, he was able to make the great contribution he did through sheer personal determination. There was a nation, he said, and a world depending on his efforts to lead Britain and the world in the defeat of their common and formidable enemy of Nazism",
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      "title": "Why I Hate Romance- Chapter 1",
      "body": "That's right. Even though I claim to be a writer, I hate romance novels. \n\n![20181113_125321_0001.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmZkZntwEeusHyAmeVaGuadnsfHZ9g1TapRBsXRBejKToh/20181113_125321_0001.png)\n\nI don't hate them because they are girly and mushy, though they usually are. Nor because they tend to be formulaic, though they certainly do. Nor because they're the most popular genre, crowding out better and more profound fiction. \nNo, I hate them for far better and more specific reasons. \nI hate them because the heroine is always beautiful, sexy, and pneumatic. \nI hate them because the hero is always well-muscled, handsome, and cuts a wide swath in the female population. \nI hate them because there's always some weird contrived reason for hero and heroine to meet. And when they meet, in ninety-nine percent of the stories the hero doesn't like the heroine for some reason—usually due to a misunderstanding—though he can't help but admit to himself that she's really beautiful and really sexy and/or really accomplished... but he still doesn't like her. \nThe heroine, on the other hand, after the fateful encounter brought about by her sudden poverty or by her inheriting a run-down property or getting lost on the moors or having a slight problem with a runaway horse... or by her coming across his lost/strayed/stolen little boy/girl/beloved pet with whom she happens to get on just stunningly... or maybe after needing to be rescued from drowning or being sold at a slave market or having been forced to work in a house of ill repute or having her chutes fail to open while skydiving can't help but be impressed by his manly chest or his rock-hard jaw or his piercing gaze or his tight butt and his big fortune. \nYes, his fortune, for a wealthy hero is almost always a requirement in romance novels. \nBut she still doesn't like him. \nI hate it that the heroine is always feisty or independent or at least spunky, while the hero is domineering, insensitive, in need of taming, or anti-social due to the lack of love from a good woman. Many's the rapacious pirate, evil robber baron, sweaty cowpoke, bare-arsed highlander, ferocious savage or cold-blooded assassin who has had his better nature brought out by a sweet but uncompromising woman... way too many. \nAnd if by some authorial quirk the hero is sensitive, I tend to hate the story even more. \nI hate the fact that the heroine often has some weird name that regular girls don't have, although it must be admitted that girls' names are getting more strange by the year. Consider sixth grade in a small school near me where three girls are named Taylor and four Courtney, plus Kerra, Kira, Keira, and Cara—not to mention Elise, Elissa and Isla. Whatever happened to Mary, Joan, Susan? Or even Harriet, Ethyl, Agnes? \nI hate heroes named Drake, Duke, Dai, Damian, Jared, Jaan, Judd, Adrian, Abel and Alpo. Heroes! These are the names of kids we would have been picked on in school. (Oh, and I also hate Dougal and Fergus.) \nI hate the contrived crises that bring hero and heroine together—the raging blizzards, the hurricanes, the leaky boats and car breakdowns... the predatory lawyers, the imminent serial killers, the onset of dengue fever or contagious leprosy, the plagues of locusts... the need to save a deluded world from a neo-Nazi conspiracy or conquest by space-aliens. \nIt's always something—they can never merely get used to one another. They can't simply meet at a party and like each other's style. \nWell, enough of these lists, because what I really hate about romance novels beyond and above these plot gimmicks is... they always end happily ever after. \nHappily... and love is inevitably followed by marriage. \nGawd help me—can't one of them just once end in tragedy or separation? Ever heard of Romeo and Juliet, writer-folks? Tristan and Isolde?? Casablanca??? \nGulliver’s Travels???? \nSo there you have it. Perhaps in the future I'll try to explain why I also hate Horror, Suspense, Thrillers, Erotica, Westerns, Mystery, Fantasy, Paranormal, Historical, SciFi and Humor. \nAnd literary. Yeah, because I really hate literary fiction. ~ \nHighways (full of) Erratic Latent Psychotics \nFollowing seven straight hours of sharing the road with what seemed to be an ever-increasing number of poorly driven 30-ton trucks, I stopped for gas at a truck-stop on the edge of Schleprock, Arkansas. After filling up, I headed into the restaurant to relax over a cup of coffee. And in one of those strange coincidences that seems to happen all too often, I saw an old high-school chum sitting in the professional-driversonly section. \nFeigning formality, I slid into the booth across from him and said, \"Good morning, \nMr. Royd.\" \n\"Well I'll be a horse's... If'n it ain't the Halster! What's it been—five years?\" \n\"About that. How have you been, HM?\" (His given name was Herbert Morton Royd but everyone called him HM.) \n\"Great! Yerself?\" \n\"Pretty good.\" \n\"Whatcha doin' in Schleprock, Hal?\" \n\"I'm on my way to Texas to work for a couple of weeks. So, what have you been up to?\" \n\"Oh, I been a stud trucker fer about four years now. Say—If you're headin' fer \nTexas ya musta seen that nasty ol' accident north a' town.\" \n\"I couldn't see too much except fire trucks and ambulances around a semi. Know what happened?\" \n\"There was talk on the CB he was pushin' five.\" \n\"Pushing five?\" \n\"Five days, Hal.\" \n\"Five days isn't such a long trip.\" \n\"Nah! That's trucker lingo fer five days drivin' without sleep.\" \n\"You're kidding, HM! I hardly make it through a tank of gas without stopping for a nap.\" \n\"Only a fool tries to push five. Acourse there's some what does it regular, but they's nuts. Three er four's about the limit fer most.\" \n\"You drive that long without sleep?\" \n\"Sure, all the time when I'm doin' coasters.\" \n\"Coasters?\" \n\"Goin' coast to coast.\" \n\"Why during coasters?\" \n\"Well, if I leave on Monday an' don't git no tickets, I can make it to Shakytown, sleep six hours, hook up to a new trailer and make it back to the Dew Drop fer last call on Friday night.\" \n\"Isn't that dangerous? Don't you worry about falling asleep?\" \n\"No, not really. But ya gotta take percautions a' course.\" \n\"Precautions? Like lots of coffee and loud music?\" \n\"Yep. All kinds a' stuff like that.\" \n\"Isn't working that long against some kind of labor law?\" \n\"Nope. Less‘ n you start leavin’ tire tracks over the tops a' VW's er somethin' like that, nobody gives a dang.\" \n\"So all those trucks are driven by guys who haven't slept for days?\" \n\"Not them teamsters, they got it easy. But the rest of us get mileage.\" \n\"Mileage?\" \n\"You know, Hal, paid by the mile.\" \n\"So the further and faster you drive the more you make?\" \n\"Zactly.\" \n\"What happens if you only drive eight hours a day?\" \n\"You'd best be goin' about ninety!\" \n\"Ninety!?\" \n\"Ain't quite that bad, but it's gettin' worse. I ain't had a raise fer two years.\" \n\"Sounds like the trucking industry, since deregulation, is imitating monopolistic competition, and your short-run economic profit is being reduced by the influx of new firms, causing your average total cost to rise to the point of tangency with your demand curve.\" \n\"Huh?\" \n\"Every year more people start trucking, so the extra competition keeps wages down.\" \n\"Where'd you learn that fancy talk?\" \n\"In college.\" \n\"Oh yeah? I gravitated from college, too.\" \n\"Really? Where did you go?\" \n\"Triple C.\" \n\"Cuyahoga Community College?\" \n\"No, the Cautious, Courteous and Courageous School of Professional Drivers.\" \n\"Impressive! Must have been tough.\" \n\"Sure was. Took the best part a' two weeks an dang near three-hunert dollars.\" \n\"I mean all the studying and cramming to get certified.\" \n\"Oh sure. Radar Detectors 110 an' Advanced Map Reading 130 were rough, but Weigh Station Bypasses 200 was a killer—a whole hour a' rememberin' and figurin'. \nGive me a headache fer two days.\" \n\"But don't you need special certification?\" \n\"Heck no, but ya gotta have a chauffeur's license.\" \n\"I'll bet that was hard to get.\" \n\"Sure was. I had to mesmerize a whole pamphlet before takin' the test.\" \n\"Just a written test, no driving test?\" \n\"What fer? When yer doin' eighty downhill in a forty-ton monster everybody gits the hell outa yer way—ya don't even need to switch lanes. Why just the other day some ol' lady had the gall to do sixty-four in the fast lane, but after a couple minutes a' tailin' her about three inches from her bumper she pulled over an let me by.\" \n\"I see what you mean.\" \n\"Er, you don't have no Christmas Trees on ya ya'd wanna sell, do ya?\" \n\"Christmas trees?\" \n\"How 'bout some White Cross? Black Beauties? No? Well, at least I got plenty a' No-doze.\" \n\"Oh! Amphetamines?\" \n\"Willy Nelson ain't gonna be doin' no drivin', an' neither is Juan Valdez ner his mule.\" \n\"But don't you have to take drug tests?\" \n\"No way! It's unconsciontutable. Besides, you never see no cops er pollutetricians er teachers havin' ta take 'em, so how they gonna make truckers take 'em?\" \n\"I suppose.\" \n\"Well, it was good ta see ya, Hal, but I gotta hit the road if I'm gonna make it back to Ohio fer my Saturday bowlin' fer beer league. You take care now.\" \"You too, HM... \n\"Er, excuse me, Miss, may I have my check? And do you know of any motels nearby?\"",
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      "title": "Mother And The Other Monsters-Chapter 1",
      "body": "Ancestor Money\n\n![20181113_124143_0001.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmZ4xEqR76M6W7cim2zgV87N2swoWkmDwVYM1LtG7Di1mg/20181113_124143_0001.png)\n\nIn the afterlife, Rachel lived alone. She had a clapboard cabin and a    fine. Purple morning glories grew by the\nkitchen door. It was always an early summer morning and had been since her death. At first, she had wondered if this were some sort of Catholic afterlife. She neither felt the presence of God nor missed his absence. But in the stasis of this summer morning, it was difficult to wonder or worry, year after year.\nThe honking geese told her someone was coming. Geese were better than dogs, and maybe meaner. It was Speed. “Rachel?” he called from the fence.\nShe had barely known Speed in life—he was her husband’s uncle and not a person she had liked or approved of. But she had come to enjoy his company when she no longer had to fear sin or bad companions.\n“Rachel,” he said, “you’ve got mail. From China.”\nShe came and stood in the doorway, shading her eyes from the day. “What?” she said. “You’ve got mail from China,” Speed said. He held up an envelope. It was big, made of some stiff red paper, and sealed with a darker red bit of wax.\nShe had never received mail before. “Where did you get it?” she asked.\n“It was in the mailbox at the end of the hollow,” Speed said. He said “holler” for “hollow.” Speed had a thick brush of wiry black hair that never combed flat without hair grease.\n“There’s no mailbox there,” she said.\n“Is now.”\n“Heavens, Speed. Who put you up to this,” she said.\n“It’s worse ’n that. No one did. Open it up.”\nShe came down and took it from him. There were Chinese letters going up and down on the left side of the envelope. The stamp was as big as the palm of her hand. It was a white crane flying against a gilt background. Her name was right there in the middle in beautiful black ink.\nRachel Ball\nb. 1892 d. 1927\nSwan Pond Hollow, Kentucky\nUnited States\nSpeed was about to have apoplexy, so Rachel put off opening it, turning the envelope over a couple of times. The red paper had a watermark in it of twisting Chinese dragons, barely visible. It was an altogether beautiful object.\nShe opened it with reluctance. Inside it read:\nHonorable Ancestress of Amelia Shaugnessy: an offering of death money and goods has been made to you at Tin Hau Temple in Yau Ma Tei, in Hong Kong. If you would like to claim it, please contact us either by letter or phone. hk8-555-4444.\nThere were more Chinese letters, probably saying the same thing.\n“What is it?” Speed asked.\nShe showed it to him.\n“Ah,” he said.\n“You know about this?” she asked.\n“No,” he said, “except that the Chinese do that ancestor worship. Are you going to call?” She went back inside and he followed her. His boots clumped on the floor. She was barefoot and so made no noise. “You want some coffee?” she asked.\n“No,” he said. “Are you going to write back?”\n“I’m going to call,” she said. Alexander Graham Bell had thought that the phone would eventually allow communication with the spirits of the dead and so the link between the dead and phones had been established. Rachel had a cell phone she had never used. She dialed it now, standing in the middle of her clean kitchen, the hem of her skirt damp from the yard and clinging cool around her calves.\nThe phone rang four times and then a voice said, “Wei.” “Hello?” she said.\n“Wei,” said the voice again. “Wei?”\n“Hello, do you speak English?” she said.\nThere was the empty sound of ether in the airwaves. Rachel frowned at Speed.\nThen a voice said, “Hello? Yes?”\nRachel thought it was the same voice, accented but clear. It did not sound human, but had a reedy, hollow quality.\n“This is Rachel Ball. I got an envelope that said I should call this number about, um,” she checked the letter, “death money.” Rachel had not been able to read very well in life but it was one of those things that had solved itself in the afterlife. “Ah. Rachel Ball. A moment . . .” “Yes,” she said.\n“Yes. It is a substantial amount of goods and money. Would you like to claim it?” “Yes,” she said.\n“Hold on,” said the voice. She couldn’t tell if it was male or female.\n“What’s going on?” Speed asked.\nRachel waved her hand to shush him.\n“Honorable Ancestress, your claim has been recorded. You may come at any time within the next ninety days to claim it,” said the strange, reedy voice.\n“Go there?” she asked.\n“Yes,” said the voice.\n“Can you send it?”\n \n“Wait,” she said. But when she pushed redial, she went directly to voicemail. It was in Chinese.\nSpeed was watching her, thoughtful. She looked at her bare feet and curled her toes.\n“Are you going to go?” Speed asked her.\n“I guess,” she said. “Do you want to come?”\n“I traveled too much in life,” he said and that was all. Rachel had never gone more than twenty-five miles from Swan Pond in life and had done less in death. But Speed had been a hobo in the Depression, leaving his wife and kids without a word and traveling the south and the west. Rachel did not understand why Speed was in heaven, or why some people were here and some people weren’t, or where the other people were. She had figured her absence of concern was part of being dead.\nRachel had died, probably of complications from meningitis, in 1927, in Swan Pond, Kentucky. She had expected that Robert, her husband, would eventually be reunited with her. But in life, Robert had remarried badly and had seven more children, two of whom died young. She saw Robert now and again and felt nothing but distant affection for him.\nHe had moved on in life, and even in death he was not her Robert anymore.\nBut now something flickered in her that was a little like discontent. Amelia Shaugnessy was . . . her granddaughter. Child of her third child and second daughter, Evelyn. Amelia had sent her an offering. Rachel touched her fingers to her lips, thinking. She touched her hair.\nWhat was it she had talked to on the phone? Some kind of Chinese spirit? Not an angel.\n“I’ll tell you about it when I get back,” she said.\nShe did not take anything. She did not even close the door.\n“Rachel,” Speed said from her door. She stopped with her hand on the gate. “Are you going to wear shoes?” he asked.\n“Do you think I need them?” she asked.\nHe shrugged.\nThe geese were gathered in a soft gray cluster by the garden at the side of the little clapboard cabin where they had been picking among the tomato plants. All their heads were turned towards her.\nShe went out the gate. The road was full of pale dust like talcum powder, already warmed by the sun. It felt so good she was glad that she hadn’t worn shoes.\nAs she walked, she seemed to walk forward in time. She came down and out the hollow, past a white farmhouse with a barn and silo and a radio in the windowsill playing a Reds baseball game against the Padres. A black Rambler was parked in the driveway and laundry hung drying in the breeze, white sheets belling out.\nWhere the road met the highway was a neat brick ranch house with a paved driveway and a patient German Shepherd lying in the shade under a tree. There was a television antenna like a lightning rod. The German Shepherd watched her but did not bark. She waited at the highway and after a few minutes, saw a Greyhound bus coming through the valley, following the Laurel River. She watched it through the curves, listening to the grinding down and back up of its gears. The sign on the front of the bus said lexington, so that was where she supposed she would go next.\nThe bus stopped in front of her, sighing, and the door opened.\nBy the time she got to Lexington, the bus had modernized. It had a bathroom and the windows were tinted smoky colored. Highway 25 had become Interstate 75 and outside the window, they were passing horse farms with white board fence rising and falling across bluegreen fields. High-headed horses with manes like women’s hair that shone in the sun.\n“Airport, first,” the driver called. “Then bus terminal with connections to Cincinnati, New York City and Sausalito, California.” She thought he sounded northern. Rachel stepped down from the bus in front of the terminal. The tarmac was pleasantly warm. As the bus pulled out, the breeze from its passing belled her skirt and tickled the back of her neck. She wondered if perhaps she should have worn a hat.\nShe wasn’t afraid—what could happen to her here? She was dead. The bus had left her off in front of glass doors that opened to some invisible prompt. Across a cool and airy space was a counter for Hong Kong Air, and behind it, a diminutive Chinese woman in a green suit and a tiny green pillbox cap trimmed with gold. Her name tag said “Jade Girl” but her skin was as white as porcelain teeth.\nRachel hesitated for the first time since she had walked away from her own gate. This grandchild of hers who had sent her money, what obligation had she placed on Rachel? For more than seventy years, far longer than she had lived, Rachel had been at peace in her little clapboard house on the creek, up in the hollow. She missed the companionable sound of the geese and the longing was painful in a way she had forgotten. She was so startled by the emotion that she lifted her hand to her silent heart.\n“May I help you?” the woman asked.\nWordlessly, Rachel showed her the envelope.\n“Mrs. Ball?” the woman behind the counter said. “Your flight is not leaving for a couple of hours. But I have your ticket.”\nShe held out the ticket, a gaudy red plastic thing with golden dragons and black. Rachel took it because it was held out to her. The Chinese woman had beautiful hands, but Rachel had the hands of a woman who gardened—clean but not manicured or soft. The ticket made something lurch within her and she was afraid. Afraid. She had not been afraid for more than seventy years. And she was barefoot and hadn’t brought a hat. “If you would like to shop while you are waiting,” the woman behind the counter said, and gestured with her hand. There were signs above them that said “Terminal A/Gates 124A” with an arrow, and “Terminal B/Gates 1-15B.” “There are shops along the concourse,” the Chinese woman said.\nRachel looked at her ticket. Amidst the Chinese letters it said “Gate 4A.” She looked back up at the sign. “Thank you,” she said.\nThe feeling of fear had drained from her like water in sand and she felt herself again. What had that been about, she wondered. She followed the arrows to a brightly lit area full of shops. There was a book shop and a flower shop, a shop with postcards and saltand-pepper shakers and stuffed animals. It also had sandals, plastic things in bright colors. Rachel’s skirt was pale blue so she picked a pair of blue ones. They weren’t regular sandals. The sign said flip-flops and they had a strap sort of business that went between the big toe and second toe that felt odd. But she decided if they bothered her too much, she could always carry them.\n \nShe addressed it to Simon Philpot, Swan Pond Hollow. At the door to the shop there was a mailbox on a post. She put the card in and raised the flag. She thought of him getting the card out of the new mailbox at the end of the hollow and a ghost of the heartsickness stirred in her chest. So she walked away, as she had from her own gate that morning, her new flip-flops snapping a little as she went. Partway down the concourse she thought of something she wanted to add and turned and went back to the mailbox. She was going to write, “I am not sure about this.” But the flag was down and when she opened the mailbox, the card was already gone.\nThere were other people at Gate 4A. One of them was Chinese with a blue face and black around his eyes. His eyes were wide, the whites visible all the way around the very black pupils. He wore strange shoes with upturned toes, red leggings, elaborate red armor and a strange red hat. He was reading a Chinese newspaper.\nRachel sat a couple of rows away from the demon. She fanned herself with the beautiful red envelope, although she wasn’t warm. There was a TV and on it a balding man was telling people what they should and should not do. He was some sort of doctor, Dr. Phil.\nHe said oddly rude things and the people sat, hands folded like children, and nodded.\n“Collecting ancestor money?” a man asked. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and tie and a Fedora. “My son married a Chinese girl and every year I have to make this trip.” He smiled.\n“You’ve done this before?” Rachel asked. “Is it safe?”\nThe man shrugged. “It’s different,” he said. “I get a new suit. They’re great tailors. It’s a different afterlife, though. Buddhist and all.”\nBuddhism. Detachment. And for a moment, it felt as if everything swirled around her, a moment of vertigo. Rachel found herself unwilling to think about Buddhism.\nThe man was still talking. “You know, I can still feel how strongly my son wants things.\nThe pull of the living and their way of obliging us,” he said, and chuckled.\nRachel had not felt much obligation to the living for years. Of her children, all but two were dead. There was almost no one still alive who remembered her. “What about,” she pointed at the demon.\n“Don’t look at him,” the man said, quietly.\nRachel looked down at her lap, at the envelope and the plastic ticket. “I’m not sure I should have come,” she said.\n“Most people don’t,” the man said. “What’s your seat number?”\nRachel looked at her ticket. Now, in addition to saying “Gate 4A,” it also said, “Seat 7a.” “I was hoping we were together,” said the man. “But I’m afraid I’m 12D. Aisle seat. I\nprefer the aisle. 7A. That’s a window seat. You’ll be able to see the stars.” She could see the stars at home.\n“There’s the plane,” he said.\nShe could hear the whine of it, shrill, like metal on metal. It was a big passenger 747, red on top and silver underneath, with a long, swirling gold dragon running the length of the plane. She didn’t like it.\nShe stayed with the man with the Fedora through boarding. A young man in a golden suit, narrow and perfectly fitted, took their tickets. The young man’s name tag said “Golden Boy.” His face was as pale as platinum. At the door of the plane, there were two women in those beautiful green suits and little pillbox stewardess hats, both identical to the girl at the counter. Standing, Rachel could see that their skirts fell to their ankles but were slit up one side almost to the knee. Their nametags both said “Jade Girl.” On the plane, the man with the Fedora pointed out to Rachel where her seat was.\nShe sat down and looked out the window. In the time they had been waiting for the plane, it had started to get dark, although she could not yet see the first star.\nThey landed in Hong Kong at dawn, coming in low across the harbor which was smooth and shined like pewter. They came closer and closer to the water until it seemed they were skimming it and then, suddenly there was land and runway and the chirp of their wheels touching down.\nRachel’s heart gave a painful thump and she said, “Oh,” quite involuntarily, and put her hand to her chest. Under her hand she felt her heart lurch again and she gasped, air filling her quiet lungs until they creaked a bit and found elasticity. Her heart beat and filled her with—she did not know at first with what and then she realized it was excitement. Rising excitement and pleasure and fear in an intoxicating mix. Colors were sharp and when one of the Jade Girls cracked the door to the plane, the air had an uncertain tang—sweet and underneath that, a many-people odor like old socks.\n“Welcome to the Fragrant Harbor,” the Jade Girls chorused, their voices so similar that they sounded like a single voice. The man with the Fedora passed her and looked back over his shoulder and smiled. She followed him down the aisle, realizing only after she stood that the demon was now behind her. The demon smelled like wet charcoal and she could feel the heat of his body as if he were a furnace. She did not look around. Outside, there were steps down to the tarmac and the heat took her breath away, but a fresh wind blew off the water. Rachel skimmed off her flip-flops so they wouldn’t trip her up and went down the stairs to China.\nA Golden Boy was waiting for her, as a Jade Girl had been waiting for the man with the Fedora. “Welcome to San-qing, the Heaven of Highest Purity,” he said. “I am supposed to be in Hong Kong,” Rachel said. She dropped her flip-flops and stepped into them.\n“This is the afterlife of Hong Kong,” he said. “Are you here to stay?” “No,” she said. “I got a letter.” She showed him the Chinese envelope.\n“Ah,” he said. “Tin Hau Temple. Excellent. And congratulations. Would you like a taxi or would you prefer to take a bus? The fares will be charged against the monies you collect.”\n“Which would you recommend?” she asked.\n“On the bus, people may not speak English,” he said. “So you won’t know where to get off. And you would have to change to get to Yau Ma Tei. I recommend a taxi.” “All right,” she said. People wouldn’t speak English? Somehow it had never occurred to her. Maybe she should have seen if someone would come with her. This granddaughter, maybe she had burned ancestor money for Robert as well. Why not? Robert was her grandfather. She didn’t know any of them, so why would she favor Rachel? That had been foolish, not checking to see if Robert had wanted to come. He hadn’t been on the plane, but maybe he wouldn’t come by himself. Maybe he’d gone to find Rachel and she’d already been gone.\nShe hadn’t been lonely before she came here.\nThe Golden Boy led her through the airport. It was a cavernous space, full of people, all of whom seemed to be shouting. Small women with bowed legs carrying string bags full of oranges and men squatting along the wall, smoking cigarettes and grinning at her as she passed with the Golden Boy. There were monkeys everywhere, dressed in Chinese gowns and little caps, speaking the same language as the people. Monkeys were behind the counters and monkeys were pushing carts and monkeys were hawking Chinese newspapers. Some of the monkeys were tiny black things with wizened white faces and narrow hands and feet that were as shiny as black patent leather. Some were bigger and waddled, walking on their legs like men. They had stained yellow teeth and fingernails the same color as their hands. They were businesslike. One of the little ones shouted something in Chinese in a curiously human voice as she passed, and then shrieked like an animal, baring its teeth at another monkey. She started.\nThe Golden Boy smiled, unperturbed.\nOut front, he flagged a taxi. The car that pulled up was yellow with a white top and said Toyota and Crown Comfort on the back—it had pulled past them and the Golden Boy grabbed her elbow and hustled her to it. Rachel expected the driver to be a monkey but he was a human. The Golden Boy leaned into the front seat and shouted at the driver in Chinese. The driver shouted back.\nRachel felt exhausted. She should never have come here. Her poor heart! She would go back home.\nThe Golden Boy opened the back door and bowed to her and walked away.\n“Wait!” she called.\nBut he was already inside the airport.\nThe driver said something gruff to her and she jumped into the taxi. It had red velour seats and smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. The driver swung the car out into traffic so sharply that her door banged shut. A big gold plastic bangle with long red tassels swayed below his mirror. He pointed to it and said, “Hong Kong in-sur-ance pol-i-cy,” and smiled at her, friendly and pleased at his joke, if it was a joke.\n“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I want to go back home.”\nBut apparently, “Hong Kong insurance policy” was most, if not all, of his English. He smiled up into his rearview mirror. His teeth were brown and some were missing.\nThis was not what Rachel thought of as death.\nThe street was full of cars, bicycles, single-piston two-cycle tractors and palanquins. Her driver swung through and around them. They stopped at an intersection to wait for the light to change. Two men were putting down one of the palanquins. In it was a woman sitting in a chair. The woman put a hand on one of the men’s shoulders and stood up carefully. Her gown was a swirl of greenish blues and silvers and golds. Her face was turned away but she was wearing a hat like a fox’s head. There was something about her feet that was odd—they looked no bigger than the palm of a human hand. Rachel thought, “She’s walking on her toes.” The woman looked over towards the taxi and Rachel saw that it wasn’t a hat, that the woman had marvelous golden fox eyes and that the tip of her tongue just protruded from her muzzle, dog-like. The light changed and the taxi accelerated up a hill, pushing Rachel back into her seat, queasy.\nNarrow streets strung overhead with banners. The smells—dried fish and worse—made Rachel feel more and more sick. Nausea brought with it visceral memories of three years of illness before she died, of confusion and fear and pee in the bed. She had not forgotten before, but she hadn’t felt it. Now she felt the memories.\nThe streets were so narrow that the driver’s mirror clipped the shoulder of a pedestrian as they passed. The mirror folded in a bit and then snapped out and the angry startled cry dopplered behind them. Rachel kept expecting the face of the driver to change, maybe into a pig, or worse, the demon from the plane.\nThe taxi lurched to a stop. “Okay,” the driver said and grinned into the mirror. His face was the same human face as when they had started. The red letters on the meter said $72.40. And then they blinked three times and said $00.00. When Rachel hadn’t moved, the driver said, “Okay,” again and said something in Chinese.\nShe didn’t know how to open the car door.\nHe got out and came around and opened the door. She got out.\n“Okay!” he said cheerfully and jumped back in and took off, leaving the smell of exhaust. She was standing in an alley barely wider than the taxi. Both sides of the alley were long red walls, punctuated by wide doors, all closed. A man jogged past her with a long stick over his shoulders with baskets on both ends. The stick was bowed with the weight and flexed with each step. Directly in front of her was a red door set with studs. If she tilted her head back, above the wall she could see a building with curved eaves, rising tier upon tier like some exotic wedding cake.\n \nmusic sounded very musical.\nThere were red pillars holding up the eaves of the temple, and the whole front of the building was open, so that the courtyard simply became the temple. Inside was dim and smelled even more strongly of sandalwood. A huge curl of the incense hung down in a cone from the ceiling. The inside of the temple was full of birds; not the pleasant, comforting and domestic animals her geese were. They had long sweeping tails and sharply pointed wings and they flickered from ground to eaves and watched with bright, black, reptilian eyes. People ignored them.\nA man in a narrow white suit came up to her, talking to the air in Chinese. He was wearing sunglasses. It took her a moment to realize that he was not talking to some unseen spirit, but was wearing a headset for a cell phone, most of which was invisible in his jet-black hair. He pushed the mic down away from his face a little and addressed her in Chinese.\n“Do you speak English?” she asked. She had not gotten accustomed to this hammering heart of hers.\n“No English,” he said and said some more in Chinese.\nThe envelope and letter had Chinese letters on it. She handed it to him. After she had handed it to him, it occurred to her that she didn’t know if he had anything to do with the temple or if he was, perhaps, some sort of confidence man.\nHe pulled the sunglasses down his nose and looked over them to read the letter. His lips moved slightly as he read. He pulled the mic back up and said something into it, then pulled a thin cell phone no bigger than a business card and tapped some numbers out with his thumb.\n“Wei!” he shouted into the phone.\nHe handed her back the letter and beckoned for her to follow, then crossed the temple, walking fast and weaving between people without seeming to have had to adjust. Rachel had to trot to keep up with him, nearly stepping out of her foolish flip-flops. In an alcove off to one side, the wall was painted with a mural of a Hong Kong street with cars and buses and red-and-white taxis, traffic lights and crosswalks. But no Jade Girls or fox-headed women, no palanquins or tractors. Everything in it looked very contemporary; the light reflecting off the plate-glass windows, the briefcases and fur coats. As contemporary as the white-suited man. The man held up his hand that she was to wait here. He disappeared back into the crowd.\nShe thought about going back out and getting in a taxi and going back to the airport. Would she need money? She hadn’t needed money to get here, although they had told her that the amount of the taxi had been subtracted from her money. Did she have enough to get back? What if she had to stay here? What would she do? An old woman in a gray tunic and black pants said, “Rachel Ball?”\n“Yes?”\n“I am Miss Lily. I speak English. I can help you,” the woman said. “May I see your notification?”\nRachel did not know what a “notification” was. “All I have is this letter,” she said. The letter had marks from handling, as if her hands had been moist. What place was this where the dead perspired?\n“Ah,” said Miss Lily. “That is it. Very good. Would you like your money in bills or in a debit card?”\n“Is it enough to get me home?” Rachel asked.\n“Oh, yes,” Miss Lily said. “Much more than that.” “Bills,” Rachel said. She did not care about debit cards.\n“Very good,” said Miss Lily. “And would you like to make arrangements to sell your goods, or will you be shipping them?” “What do people do with money?” Rachel asked.\n“They use it to buy things, to buy food and goods, just as they do in life. You are a Christian, aren’t you?”\n“Baptist,” Rachel said. “But is this all there is for Chinese people after they die? The same as being alive? What happens to people who have no money?”\n“People who have no money have nothing,” said Miss Lily. “So they have to work. But this is the first of the seven heavens. People who are good here progress up through the heavens. And if they continue, they will eventually reach a state of what you would call transcendence, what we call the three realms, when they are beyond this illusion of matter.”\n“Can they die here?”\nMiss Lily inclined her head. “Not die, but if they do not progress, they can go into the seven hells.”\n“But I have enough money to get back home,” Rachel said. “And if I left you the rest of it, the money and the goods, could you give it to someone here who needs it?\n“At home you will not progress,” Miss Lily said gently.\nThat stopped Rachel. She would go back to her little clapboard cabin and her geese and everything would become as timeless as it had been before. Here she would progress.\nProgress for what? She was dead. Death is eternity.\nShe had been dead for over seventy years, and she would be dead forever and forever. Dead longer than those buried in the tombs of Egypt, where the dead had been prepared for an afterlife as elaborate as this one. In her mind, forever spread back and forward through the epochs of dinosaurs, her time of seventy years getting smaller and smaller in proportion. Through the four billion years of the earth.\nAnd still farther back and forward, through the time it took the pinwheel galaxy to turn, the huge span of a galactic day, and a galactic year, in which everything recognizable grew dwarfed.\nAnd she would be dead.\nProgress meant nothing.\nIt made no difference what she chose.\nAnd she was back at her gate in Swan Pond standing in the talcum dust and it was no difference if this was 1927 or 2003 or 10,358. Hong Kong left behind in the blink of an eye. She wasn’t surprised. In front of her was the empty clapboard cabin, no longer white-painted and tidy but satiny gray with age. The windows were empty of glass and curtains and under a lowering evening sky, a wind rhythmically slapped a shutter against the abandoned house. The tomatoes were gone to weeds, and there were no geese to greet her.\nAnd it did not matter.\nA great calm settled over her and her unruly heart quieted in her chest.\nEverything was still.",
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