to Hive being
welcome
What is Hive Being, and Why the Name?
You have likely heard talk of a hive mind, where one global mind finds more or less figurative expression in various local minds. Such talk is common enough in nature documentaries, especially ones concerning ants or bees, and in sci-fi programs. Take that notion, at least a loose version of it, and broaden its scope. That will be a decent first step in understanding the title I have chosen both for my Blog and for the first five-volume installment of my magnum opus Made For You and Me, a fragmentary collection of minimalist stanzas from 2016 to 2020.
In alignment with Spinoza (the 17th Century Rationalist to whom I devoted my doctoral studies), I view reality in its totality as a grand hive Being: all entities are but pulsating manifestations of the buckstopping fount of everything, an ultimate being we might call “God” or “Nature” (so long as, out of respect for the capital “G” and the capital “N,” we limit it neither to some anthropomorphic cloud father hurling lightning bolts nor to mere wilderness untouched by human smog). According to the hive-Being view (where reality is one lone superorganism, a monistic—and we might even say unividualist—conception I defend in both my creative and academic capacities), each non-foundational being (each being, that is, whose essence does not involve existence) is an utterly necessitated expression or eruption or exudation of this eternal source—each is, perhaps better put, a mode or manner of being, and so a focal point through which is disclosed, what classical theists sometimes call “being itself” (ipsum esse subsistens): the realness of the real, the being of whatever may be, the sheer activity of being, the very isness of whatever is. This Blog, which duplicates my Substack, throbs as but one among many literary unfurlings of this self-necessitated foundation, this supreme wellspring, of which we—like black holes and broken beliefs, like fractal ferns and flickering flames—are the inevitable stylings.
My Journey
I am an academic who found himself pressured into early retirement by the rising tides of cancel culture. The illiberal scourge of censoring, silencing, and shaming—although always with us throughout our evolution—reached a local peak around 2021. That was the turbulent year my creative pursuits, which the old left once encouraged as a healthy outlet for the stresses of a childhood steeped in poverty and illiteracy, drew the ire of the new safe-space left. A small cadre of self-proclaimed victims and their allies, several of whom continue to berate me years later under pseudonyms as see through as their sexual infatuation, sought to erase me and my heterodoxy. They found support from a wannabe-woke dean, covered in the grand inquisitor robes of our decadent modernity (full-body tattoos) and just itching to signal his commitment to protecting “vulnerable populations” from triggering material (even if just, as it was in my case, off-duty poems “unbecoming for someone calling himself a teacher”). Although I eventually won my due-process case with the help of The Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression, I slunk away from a college that turned its back on protecting freedom of expression and from an institution increasingly intolerant of intellectual diversity.
The wrecking ball to my too-comfy office in the windowless ivory tower came with a silver lining. From the ashes of my professional aspirations rose a phoenix of increased freedom to fulfill the literary calling I have pursued for decades. Reputation concerns never stopped me, even within academia’s sterile halls of conformity. Indeed, my unapologetic defiance, which has long baffled friends and family, no doubt chummed even safe waters—almost as if I were asking for it all along—until the cancel shiver grew too frenzied to hold back its blind thrashings. But now, now I piston the most forbidden territories of human thought with no longer even a twinge of conscience. The newfound freedom means extra time to hone my craft. When not assisting special-needs communities (a day job far more rewarding than freeway-flyer drudgeries), I pursue my literary mission with Dionysian fervor.
Call for Co-Conspirators
This space, my digital sanctuary, showcases the fruits of my mission. Think of my posts, even those linking to my publications, as works in progress. I want your input, unflinching brutality included. Each post begins with an invitation to action: “Let’s workshop this [draft about x, y, z].” Your contributions, whether through public comments or my contact page, help hammer scraps of ore into polished blades fit for magazine publication.
Your input is valuable, even if you are neither a writer nor a reader of literature—twin disciplines dying by the cyber nanosecond. Sometimes—even if at the risk of uttering banalities—an outsider’s fresh vantage can pierce the veils of convention to reveal what insiders miss. It often takes an outsider to make us even think to question our ingrained presuppositions and attitudes. I stand by the hygienic value of contagion. That is one reason I advocate so strongly for intellectual diversity and freedom of expression. And that is also one reason I was so harrowed by the anti-diversity swell of cancel culture in academia (an institution that should be the utmost caretaker of such values)—harrowed especially insofar as that swell masqueraded under the gaslighting guise of “diversity”).
You will witness the breathing evolution of my writings over time. To track these changes, I label each revision by round: “ROUND 2,” ROUND 3,” and so forth. Each piece undergoes continuous refinement based on your feedback and my own revisitations. Sometimes changes will mar the work. That is the risk of creative tinkering as a finite creature. I hope you will alert me to missteps. After many semesters of university writing workshops, one rule has impressed itself upon me: when someone senses a flaw, something almost always needs to change—even if, yes, the proposed solution misses the mark (which often it does). From a quick look into the archives, accessible here, you can see how much I have benefited from your feedback so far.
My Hope
Sharing drafts can be daunting. But showing you the ravaged and unperfumed real deal unfiltered by makeup (stuttering starts and falsities, awkward line breaks and clumsy word choices, grammatical errors and misspellings)—that not only makes my work more relatable, but helps me refine things through your input. I hope the unfiltered look at the raw process of fumbling, rather than just the polished product, also helps other writers develop their craft. Imperfect works often instruct more than perfect ones: whereas the perfect ones tend to have a grace by which they slip inside us without activating our scrutiny, the imperfect ones—especially the near perfect ones—show us glaringly what not to do.
People laugh at me, seeing—in my tilting at the windmills of literary excellence—a Don Quixote clunking around in Arthurian armor in a post-knight era. I am not naïve. I am well aware of the diminishing ability to read, let alone well: slowly and deeply, with gratitude. I am also aware that my style, which often nests subpoints within larger points, never waters down virtuosity for the sake of mass appeal. I watch readers stumble over my sentences, unable to unlock even just the music of the envelope let alone the semantic meat within, which—given my tendency to flashlight through the darker facets of human nature (the addicts, the miscreants, the abusers among us)—only adds an additional alienating layer of difficulty). Beholding these depressive scenes of even supportive family members getting bucked off my syntactic bronco makes me feel like a dinosaur who should get a hint and, if not succumb to the brain rot of skibidi-toilet speak, just hang himself already. Even though the decline in linguistic background and grammatical voltage makes my compositions seem quixotic in a world binging Netflix and TikTok, I persist—raging against the dying of the light—by some internal compulsion to celebrate the richness of language and thought.
My hope is that, despite social media’s unparalleled power to farm our attention, people never forget the unique power of writing. Beyond unveiling hypocrisy, teasing out complex implications, and detailing the commonalities between even the most alien phenomena, writing offers something we need today—trapped in agoraphobic cyber bubbles only thickened by the Lyme dangers of forests and the COVID dangers of cities—perhaps more than ever. Granting us rich access to the first-person perspectives of others (to how things feel to them), writing serves as one of humanity’s best tools for combating loneliness. It allows us to linger, broadly and deeply and at high resolution, within the inner lives of others in a way that other arts can only suggest.
What to Expect
My work spans a broad spectrum: from metaphysical discourses on free will and determinism and the ontology of holes to the ephemera of western culture (whether the childhood impacts of the hypersexual mono-image of black woman as squirting twerkers or Terrence Howard’s sham revolution of mathematics). Some tight and minimal, others free-flowing sprawls; some heady and abstract, others emotional and imagistic—my inkwell musings, which often blend scholarly rigor with a dark humor from both high and low culture, aim to capture the visceral intensity of our personal and social and ultimately existential predicaments.
By no means can I deny that drug abuse, sexual assault, and the tales of the broken and the damned loom large in the tag cloud of my work. My writing will never be a paradise of easy truths and comforting lies. It will challenge you, provoke you, and at times even repulse you. I offer no apologies for the monsters I unleash. They are as much a part of us, at long root scared rodent mammals scurrying in the shadows of dinosaurs, as our noblest aspirations.
But make no mistake. It is not all downer darkness. The archives are my receipts. You will find pieces exploring the pursuit of authenticity in a media-saturated world, the search for meaning in an indifferent cosmos, and the celebration of beauty in both the sublime and the profane. I locate much of my inspiration, in fact, in novelists like Dostoevsky and poets like Ted Kooser—writers unafraid to pursue moral agendas or risk Hallmark sentimentality in an age that often sneers at sincerity.
Be they satirical dissections of modern social dynamics or poignant poems about addiction or academic articles on moral responsibility, my goal is to provoke thought, evoke emotion, and foster meaningful dialogue. Fear has not and will not stop me from challenging humanity’s fundamental taboos (like bestiality and cannibalism) or self-reflecting into the dark chaos of the subconscious, even if that means exposing the Jungian shadows—the inner Goebbels—lurking within us all!
Expect posts each day, no day missed. Donations are welcome, but I impose no paywall: it feels wrong to charge for art, especially given our date with obliteration. Feel free to explore what amounts to, at the time of writing this, close to a thousand pieces of poetry and prose here. That should give you a sense of what awaits.
Join me—specula holstered—on this literary odyssey into the public and private nooks of the hive Being. Let us navigate the labyrinth of creation together, confronting our demons and even slaying our darlings if we must. Let us dance on the razor’s edge between the sublime and the profane in pursuit of an elusive literary perfection never to be confused—as it has been confused in our declining civilization—with the pursuit of popularity or likeability over truth.
tag cloud
- poetry
- literature
- literature community
- poem
- literary
- American literature
- writing
- creative writing
- poetry community
- Michael Istvan
- Istvan
- perception
- defiance
- suffering
- existential poetry
- dissociative
- poet
- healing
- adolescence
- sex
- existential
- human
- campus warrior
- Nietzsche
- power
- substance abuse
- art
- artist
- sensual
- Earth
- resilience
- hardship
- evolution
- death
- darwin
- mortality
- murder
- Life affirming
- God
- anxiety
- teen
- parenthood
- sexuality
- taboo
- prison
- parenting
- woke
- disease
- dysmorphia
- crack
- abuse
- love letters
- love
- hypermasculine
- vines
- poison
- transgressive
- christianity
- fatherhood
- father
- junkies
- drugs
- social justice warrior
- meditation
- religion
- philosophy
- music
- hoodlum
- artistry
- teens
- worship
- thugs
- poor
- rape
- Biggie
- disturbing
- change
- islam
- hypocrisy
- poverty
- muslims
- cocaigne
- children
- babies
- transformation
- addiction
- survival
- safe space
- SJW
- pound town
- Hudson Valley
- Camus
- feet
- baby feet
- collection
- collections
- care
- cops
- Prometheus
- bully
Posts
Full-Bodied Crookedness
Full-Bodied Crookedness delves into the psychological and physical ramifications of the narrator's obsessive self-perception, capturing the relentless pursuit of bodily symmetry and the attendant sense of futility. The poem addresses themes of body dysmorphia, anxiety, and the intersection between the physical and existential, offering a layered exploration of self-image that spirals from an early awareness of physical imperfection into a broader, all-encompassing fixation.
The narrator's awareness of his physical "crookedness" begins early in life, specifically with his nose. The metaphorical comparison between his nostrils' asymmetry and "Luke and Jabba"—characters symbolizing the moral and physical extremes in Star Wars—immediately sets the tone for the poem. This exaggerated contrast between good and evil, hero and grotesque villain, symbolizes the narrator’s perception of his own bodily imbalance. His desire to "reset the set point" through American-style overcompensation reflects a cultural critique of perfectionism and the extremes one is willing to pursue in the face of perceived inadequacy.
The poem moves from local observations about the nose to a more militaristic obsession with other features, as the narrator scrutinizes his face with increasing intensity. Weed enhances his paranoia, opening him to a deeper "panoptic facial horror." The imagery of his face collapsing "like a November jack-o-lantern" suggests the fragility of his self-perception, as if his identity, like a decaying pumpkin, is subject to irreversible forces of decay and deformation. His bodily interventions—stretching his mandible, warping his jaw—become ritualistic, yet they never succeed, as the face "oozed back home," an apt metaphor for the inescapability of one's essential physical reality.
As the narrative continues, this obsessive compulsion expands beyond the face. The "imperialism" of his interventions broadens to include his hairline, where he begins shaving away parts of his scalp in the hopes of masking the crookedness. The poem’s use of terms like "imperialism" and "campaign" evokes a military strategy of control, underscoring the narrator’s self-destructive attempts to conquer his own body. Yet these interventions only worsen the problem, revealing a deeper tension between perceived self-improvement and the worsening consequences of obsessive control.
The moment of realization on the carpet, when the narrator notices his legs are unequal, marks a turning point where the body’s crookedness infects the core of his being. His compensatory behavior of standing with one foot on a Bible—symbolizing the weight of moral and existential struggle—speaks to the spiritual and psychological burden that accompanies his physical preoccupation. His overcorrection becomes metaphysical, suggesting that his sense of misalignment is not merely physical but reaches into the existential. The line “infected his code” ties bodily asymmetry to a deeper systemic failure, one that encompasses both mind and body, leaving him trapped in an endless cycle of perceived flaws and failed fixes.
The poem closes with a resignation to fantasy. The idea of a “supercomputer” iron-maiden that could force his body into perfect alignment illustrates the dark fantasy of a final, ultimate correction—a violent, mechanistic process that reflects the narrator’s underlying desire for order at any cost. The imagery of the iron-maiden—an ancient torture device—emphasizes the brutality inherent in this quest for bodily perfection, suggesting that the narrator’s desire for symmetry is itself a form of self-torture. His triumphant exclamation, “Take that, bitch!” conveys the ultimate irony: the victory, even if achieved, would be hollow, a victory over a body that resists being reshaped by sheer will.
In its entirety, Full-Bodied Crookedness is a meditation on the psychological toll of body dysmorphia and the lengths to which one might go in the futile pursuit of physical perfection. Through its grotesque imagery, militaristic language, and existential underpinnings, the poem captures the obsessive, self-destructive nature of perfectionism and the deep existential anxiety that often lies beneath.
body dysmorphia, obsessive perfectionism, self-image, physical asymmetry, existential anxiety, self-destructive behavior, body fixation, neurotic self-perception, American perfectionism, grotesque imagery, body modification
What If He Had Known About Beta Blockers?
What If He Had Known About Beta Blockers? explores the tension between artistic performance, anxiety, and the role of neurosis in creative expression. The poem's title directly references beta blockers, a class of drugs often prescribed to help performers manage anxiety by reducing the physical symptoms associated with stress, such as trembling or a rapid heart rate. In the context of the poem, the speaker speculates about how the subject's life might have changed had he known about this medical intervention, suggesting a possible escape from the overwhelming mental chatter that impedes his saxophone performance.
The poem opens by portraying the "intrusive mind chatter" of performance anxiety as a force that obstructs the subject’s natural "saxophone brilliance" from achieving the "flow states" necessary for consistent creative output. In psychological terms, a flow state is a mental state of full immersion and focus where an artist’s creativity flows effortlessly, without the interference of self-consciousness or doubt. However, for the subject, the invasive thoughts brought on by anxiety create a blockage, cutting off access to this peak creative experience. The saxophone, an instrument known for its association with jazz—a genre rooted in improvisation and spontaneity—serves as a symbol of this interrupted potential, where anxiety kills the opportunity for artistic freedom.
The poem then shifts to how this anxiety paradoxically "shoved him into poetry," a medium where neurosis is not a hindrance but a source of creative power. In this medium, his anxiety transforms from a murderer of expression to a "midwife of magic." The metaphor of a midwife emphasizes the idea that, within poetry, the neurotic mind gives birth to something profound, rather than stifling it. Poetry, in this case, becomes a space where headiness—intense self-awareness or overthinking—is not only tolerated but celebrated as a tool for creating meaning.
The poem further uses the metaphor of "a whistling sphincter" to emphasize the absurdity and rawness of neurosis. The "whistling" represents a form of uncontrolled, involuntary expression, something grotesque yet functional. This image, while jarring, captures the unpolished nature of creativity born from anxiety: it is not smooth or refined, like the flow of saxophone music, but instead rough and filled with the unpredictable quirks of the mind.
Ultimately, the poem asks whether the subject’s creative path might have been different had he been able to quell his anxiety with beta blockers. By posing this hypothetical, the poem raises questions about the relationship between mental struggle and artistic output: Would the subject have continued to pursue music, excelling in his original field, or was the shift to poetry—where neurosis thrives—a necessary outcome of his anxious nature? More broadly, the poem reflects on how the mind's inner turmoil, while often seen as a hindrance, can sometimes be channeled into creative productivity in unexpected ways. This tension between anxiety as both a barrier and a catalyst for creativity is central to the poem’s thematic exploration.
In essence, What If He Had Known About Beta Blockers? engages with the idea that creative expression can arise from the very mental obstacles that seem to stand in the way. By highlighting the shift from music to poetry, the poem suggests that anxiety may not be an entirely negative force but rather a complex one that, when harnessed, can lead to profound artistic output in different forms.
performance anxiety, beta blockers, creative expression, neurosis in art, flow states, saxophone brilliance, poetry as escape, mental struggle, artistic productivity, jazz improvisation, anxiety and creativity, shift from music to poetry.
RE: Lotery Grandprize Millon
RE: Lotery Grandprize Millon presents a layered critique of societal vulnerability to deception, blending humor with an underlying sadness that emerges from the modern age's predatory systems. The title itself—a misspelled version of a scam email subject—perfectly sets the tone, signaling a world where the obviousness of deceit is overlooked by those desperate for validation or hope. The poem draws sharp parallels between two exploitative schemes: OnlyFans targeting the young and email lottery fraud targeting the elderly, thus showing how different forms of exploitation prey upon the fragile desires of both age groups.
The first stanza focuses on the world of OnlyFans, where young women—lured by promises of quick fame or fortune—often find themselves commodifying their bodies online. The line "barely legal / OnlyFans debut!" highlights the predatory nature of the platform, with its appeal to a "barely legal" audience, emphasizing the exploitation of youth and the fragile state of being thrust into adulthood with little foresight. The phrase "bagged by such DMs" not only captures how these young individuals are enticed by predatory messaging but also suggests their passive victimhood, entrapped by systems promising quick success.
In contrast, the second half of the poem shifts to focus on the elderly, specifically "gray widowers," who are equally vulnerable to another kind of digital manipulation: email lottery scams. The poem humorously yet tragically describes how these elderly men fall prey to schemes like the one referenced in the poem's title, where scam emails with broken grammar ("Dear Winner Luky") offer the illusion of financial salvation. The vivid image of these men shuffling out to obtain a "SMALL proces fee moneys order" reflects a deep desperation and the almost tragic hopefulness with which they pursue this illusion. The misspelling in the title and email highlights how glaring red flags—such as grammatical errors—are often ignored by those so desperate for relief from loneliness or financial instability.
The poem juxtaposes these two scenarios—youthful exploitation on OnlyFans and elderly deception by scammers—to illustrate a shared vulnerability across age groups. Both the young and the elderly are exploited by the digital age’s promises of quick solutions to deep-seated human desires, whether it’s fame, money, or validation. By weaving together these two forms of manipulation, the poem creates a broader commentary on society’s tendency to prey on the weak, whether young or old, using different techniques but with similar devastating results.
In its tone, the poem blends dark humor with a sharp critique of the systems that facilitate these scams. The casual cruelty of the OnlyFans world—where youth are reduced to objects of consumption—and the almost absurd vulnerability of the elderly—who fall for obvious scams—reflect how deeply predatory mechanisms have woven themselves into modern life. The humor in the poem's closing lines, where "widowers shuffle out" to get their money orders, underscores the tragedy of how the most vulnerable in society are often the easiest to deceive.
Ultimately, RE: Lotery Grandprize Millon draws attention to the universality of exploitation in the digital age, where individuals—whether young or old—are equally susceptible to manipulation. The poem serves as a reminder of the human cost of living in a world where quick gains, false promises, and digital illusions dominate our sense of reality, leaving many, regardless of age, vulnerable to deceit.
digital scams, OnlyFans exploitation, email lottery fraud, elderly vulnerability, youth manipulation, societal critique, digital age deception, human desires, predatory systems, scam culture.
The Tooth
The Tooth presents a raw, visceral portrayal of a strained father-son relationship, shaped by addiction, violence, and a quest for validation. The poem is divided into three sections, each depicting different moments of emotional manipulation, cruel humor, and desperation, where the son—both victim and instigator—comes to terms with his father’s self-destructive behavior while grappling with his own emerging sense of identity and power.
The first section introduces the father’s addictions, presenting them as a backdrop to the son’s childhood. The father’s "oral fixation" manifests in chain-smoking and excessive drinking, both of which the son observes with a mixture of frustration and fascination. The vivid imagery of the father’s substance abuse—Newport 100s lit in succession, cases of Natural Ice consumed daily—sets the tone for the chaotic and dysfunctional dynamic between father and son. The son’s response is initially one of rebellion, expressed through pranks that, although humorous on the surface, hint at a deeper desire for control and revenge against a father who has repeatedly broken promises to quit drinking. The pranks evolve from lighthearted actions like throwing bologna on his sleeping father to darker, more demeaning acts, such as drawing a clown face on him while unconscious. This escalation mirrors the son’s increasing frustration with his father’s inability to change, as well as his own growing thirst for power over the man who once held authority in his life.
The second section delves deeper into the psychological complexity of their relationship. The son uses emotional manipulation to toy with his father’s guilt, constructing false narratives of abuse in order to provoke a reaction. The son’s performance, laden with after-school-special-style dialogue, showcases the depth of his cunning as he exploits his father’s drunken state. The father, despite his inebriation, is drawn in by the son’s fabricated stories, falling into a state of protective rage, sobbing and threatening to kill the imaginary abuser. This scene is both tragic and darkly comedic, as the father’s genuine concern is met with the son’s insincere playacting. The son’s need to provoke an emotional response from his father reveals a deeper longing for attention and validation, even if it means manipulating the man who is already emotionally fragile. The son’s fabricated accusations of "love games" reflect the blurred boundaries between affection, manipulation, and violence that characterize their relationship.
In the final section, the poem reaches its climax with the father’s self-inflicted tooth extraction. The scene is charged with a sense of masochistic pride as the father, goaded by his son’s taunts, proves his love and paternity by pulling out his own molar with a pair of linesman pliers. The son’s manipulation in this moment is both calculated and cruel, as he questions his father’s identity and challenges him to prove his worth. The father’s response—“If I love ya!”—is both a declaration of affection and a submission to the son’s power, as he mutilates himself to affirm his paternal role. The violent act of tooth-pulling becomes a grotesque metaphor for the father’s desperation to hold onto his place in his son’s life, even at the cost of physical pain and humiliation. The linoleum splattered with blood serves as a stark visual representation of the emotional carnage that has been building throughout the poem.
Throughout The Tooth, the son’s relationship with his father is marked by a complex interplay of love, resentment, and power. The son’s pranks and manipulations are not merely acts of rebellion but expressions of a deeper desire for control in a world where the father’s addictions and failures have rendered him powerless. The father, in turn, is portrayed as a tragic figure, both complicit in his own downfall and desperate for his son’s approval, even if it means self-destruction. The poem captures the cyclical nature of their dysfunction, where love is intertwined with cruelty, and validation is sought through pain. The repeated phrase, "If I love ya," underscores the father’s desperate need to prove his worth through extreme actions, while the son’s calculated manipulation reveals his growing understanding of the power dynamics at play.
Ultimately, The Tooth offers a stark commentary on the complexities of familial relationships, where love is often expressed through violence, manipulation, and self-sacrifice. The poem’s visceral imagery and dark humor amplify the emotional intensity of the father-son dynamic, leaving the reader to grapple with the unsettling nature of their bond.
father-son relationship, addiction, manipulation, self-destruction, power dynamics, oral fixation, familial dysfunction, emotional manipulation, tooth-pulling, dark humor, violence, paternal love, visceral imagery.
blog
FAQ
Visit my Substack: Hive Being
Visit my Substack: Hive Being
Don’t let anyone tell you that real life is lacking in poetic interest. This is exactly what the poet is for: he has the mind and the imagination to find something of interest in everyday things. Real life supplies the motifs, the points that need to be said—the actual heart of the matter; but it is the poet’s job to fashion it all into a beautiful, animated whole. You are familiar with Fürnstein, the so-called “nature poet”? He has written a poem about growing hops, and you couldn’t imagine anything nicer. I have now asked him to write some poems celebrating the work of skilled artisans, in particular weavers, and I am quite sure he will succeed; he has lived among such people from an early age, he knows the subject inside out, and will be in full command of his material. That is the advantage of small works: you need only choose subjects that you know and have at your command. With a longer poetic work, however, this is not possible. There is no way around it: all the different threads that tie the whole thing together, and are woven into the design, have to be shown in accurate detail. Young people only have a one-sided view of things, whereas a longer work requires a multiplicity of viewpoints—and that’s where they come unstuck.—Goethe (Conversations with Eckermann)
Featured Blog Posts
have appeared last night—
all those met along the way?