"Today I put pen to paper to..." do absolutely nothing.
I turned down a request for a drawing yesterday. This makes an interesting bookend to the happiness I felt in the fall, when a local group requested some of my work and I cheerfully complied. They ended up ditching me for someone better known, and never paid me for the piece that they did use, but that's not the cause of the funk.
The funk needs no invitation. It relies on no inspiration. It just settles in and blankets everything with a thick layer of dust. The dust is made of particles of every setback and obstacle, every disappointment, grief, and sadness.
Among the billions of humans crawling the Earth, waste no time on those whose weaknesses make them fall and die. Feel justifiable anger about those who are struck down by the actions of greed and prejudice, but anyone who just runs out of energy is easily replaced by someone more fitted to survive.
The funk is like the winter as it affects wild animals. A particular weakened individual might make it through to spring, if no predator finds it. If the weakened one can keep trudging forward, foraging minimally, greater light and warmth might save it. But let one blop of snow fall a little too heavily on it or in front of it, or let the cold wind rake it for just too long, or a carnivore spot it and give chase, and the story ends there.
Functional depression is just that: functional. In that condition, a person can go through the motions of daily routine and continue to work, but that's the limit. It may be beyond the limit for someone whose job calls for too much spontaneous energy or complex thought.
I turned down the request for artwork because I haven't picked up a pen in months. What used to be a compulsive habit has deserted me. I don't want to tell someone that I will produce for them when I don't know if I can, or how long it will take me. Interesting ideas occur to me, but the habit pattern is broken, like almost all of my other habit patterns: exercise, music practice, exploration, interest in the future.
Enough spark remains to warm me almost to the point of enthusiasm at times. Food brings comfort, so cooking seems worth the effort. Music was a comfort, but suddenly I ceased to progress and started to lose whatever scraps of ability I had managed to compile. "Don't be afraid to make an awful noise," a generous and kind professional musician and teacher told me. But now that seems to be the only kind of noise I can produce. I'm on the verge of quitting my weekly music group because everyone else is capable of producing so much better sounds. Why should I mess up everyone's evening? The group's teacher can use my money, but the shared goal is the music that I'm butchering. Poof goes another refuge from solitary darkness.
The biggest problem is time. I have a job that I used to enjoy. Now I'm just good at it. I need it to earn income to keep myself fed and sheltered. But, as the business I work for struggles for its life, I cannot fill the blank spaces in the work day with my own ideas anymore. I have to look as if I am busily engaged in things when there are no actual productive things in which to be busily engaged. For the peace of mind (relatively) of the poor bastards writing the checks, I have to fill every moment with something, even if it's just carrying a clipboard around and looking thoughtfully at some pile of clutter that used to serve a function when more people needed what we do and sell. And then it's time to go home and feed myself, do whatever domestic chores demand my attention, and fall into bed.
You need to learn to kill your dreams early enough in your life to come to grips with the reality of survival. Survival itself is victory. If you haven't amounted to anything by the time you're in your late 20s, it ain't going to happen. You blew it. Find something useful to do and crush out your imagination. That shit about how it's never too late? It's just that. Shit. You're burning daylight. Get busy.
Having used drugs and alcohol, I can tell you with certainty that they don't work. You may pass time in oblivion, but when you emerge from oblivion the things that sent you there will be waiting, and they have not been on vacation while you were away. I am fortunate that my consumption habits have never managed to take over my life. That's a lucky accident of my own physiology, not a commendable result of my iron will and strong character. For the benefit of all I report on the ineffectiveness of chemicals to truly banish the funk, to save anyone else from repeating the experiment. But in a way that makes it worse. There's nowhere to hide. There may, however, be somewhere to run. Physical activity can banish the funk, if you can get into it on a routine enough basis. It will be a struggle.
This fall, I resumed a regular schedule of really trivial physical exercise -- just a few light weights and some stretching -- that improved my outlook considerably. Something blew me out of the groove, probably the holidays and expanded work hours. I look now at a few hours or a day or two to myself and see a chaotic pile of everything I wished I had done for the past 40 years. See earlier reference to killing your dreams. But it's hard to know exactly when to put a bullet through their head. It's so irrevocable. You will be tempted, as I have been, to reanimate the corpse many times as the years pass. You'll fall for that bullshit about how it's never too late. I really want to. But I look at the work of people who did settle in and focus, and I see how wrong I am to believe that any other way can work.
The exception, I suppose, is writing. The verbal diarrhea never quits. Whether it's worth reading is another matter. I have been putting together words since I could hold a pencil. You can write whatever you're feeling and thinking, even if what you write is, "I feel like shit and I would jump off a bridge if that didn't seem like it would require too much energy."
When the funk lifts, it leaves us embarrassed by the feelings of uselessness and despair that had so recently seemed like the only reality. It can seem like a responsibility, to be that flat-affect character incapable of pleasure. Everyone is used to you in that role, so why disorient them? Besides, you know that sorry bastard is only off taking a piss behind a dumpster and will be back to inhabit your skin as soon as whatever sparked your unseemly bout of euphoria goes away. It even provides a nifty gateway to further self contempt, because you aren't even world class at depression.
For the moment, I have baked goods and cats. Much of winter lies ahead.
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
James Madison was an idealistic dipshit
I'll admit that during the years when I was supposed to be getting an education I was much more concerned with looking cool and getting laid. Everyone who was around me at the time can attest to my failure at both of those, but they were still my preoccupations. Otherwise I would have come to this opinion much sooner.
To be fair to all the boneheads like me, and all of the others who accepted the world as they found it and got on with their personal ambitions, the country was turning 200 years old when we were in our school years. We'd beaten the Nazis and were holding the Commies at bay. We were growing up in the greatest country that had ever existed, and it had nowhere to go but up. Wasn't everything worked out already? Sure, there had been slavery, but the Civil War stomped that out. Sure, there had been civil rights problems, but that was getting sorted out, too. Cynics could say what they wanted about corruption and incompetence, but the country was fundamentally great.
My nearsighted eyes scanned the world through prescription rose-colored glasses.
Now here we are with it all falling apart. And I come to find out, from this handy article in The Atlantic, that the defects were all built in purposely, by our revered Founding Fathers, who turn out to be a bunch of idealistic dreamers. This country badly needed some cynics back while there was still time for the cure to work.
Lots of things leaped off the page at me, but this one was especially poignant:
"The best way of promoting a return to Madisonian principles, however, may be one Madison himself identified: constitutional education. In recent years, calls for more civic education have become something of a national refrain. But the Framers themselves believed that the fate of the republic depended on an educated citizenry. Drawing again on his studies of ancient republics, which taught that broad education of citizens was the best security against “crafty and dangerous encroachments on the public liberty,” Madison insisted that the rich should subsidize the education of the poor."
The poor bastard had no idea that the crafty and dangerous encroachments on public liberty would be the absolute aim of the rich. The rich had no need for democracy and individual liberty. The term globalism might not have been coined yet, but rich people everywhere share one unifying philosophy: become richer. Once the war of independence was done and dusted, the rich could get back to commerce. The nation itself was just a vehicle for ensuring that power remained concentrated in the right hands. Sure, the concept of liberty meant that a commoner could join their ranks through the right combination of education, experience, acquaintances, and luck. But no one had to take seriously the opinions of tradespeople and farmers unless they had managed to make their commercial endeavors sufficiently lucrative.
Or maybe he wrote the whole thing with a twinkle in his eye, as a sop to any among the rabble who might be able to read and reason a little bit. Many of our public documents scan really well. But then the Soviet Union had a nice constitution, too. And the very same US Constitution was used to justify racism and to combat it. It brought us Roe v Wade and might take it away as well. It's all subject to interpretation. Laws are only as good as their enforcement. If it was all cut and dried, no one would bother to become a lawyer.
The very concept of a republic unabashedly favors elitism. Those are your choices: the mob rule of direct democracy, or the elitism of a republic. The idealists who penned our owner's manual at the end of the 18th Century believed that an enlightened elite existed and would continue to exist. They believed that some concept of inclusive, socially responsible virtue would naturally accrue through education and good breeding. They had faith that the concept of the republic of free men would have such eternal appeal that the rich and powerful would revere it for generations.
Perhaps the fact that it was a republic of free men made its odds seem much better. Viewed through that lens, it becomes a joint business venture in which all the major shareholders get a voice unlimited by hereditary aristocracy or an overbearing monarch. The United States of the founders' vision was a nice private club. Too bad they didn't have the wit to write their charter a bit more exclusively from the outset. It would have saved us a lot of grief. Of course if you happened to be a slave or a woman or a native, things would have stayed as bad as they ever were. Careless writing set the stage for centuries of bloodshed. I blame the pot. You know those plantation owners grew hemp and wacky weed. I can just see a group of them, sitting around in a cloud of smoke. One of them, holding in a cough, says:
"Gentlemen: Imagine a country in which the only limits on a man are his own initiative and the gifts God has given him." Coughs through his nose, loses it, the whole room breaks up laughing.
I'm sure they meant well. But every concept can be twisted, and some concepts lend themselves much more easily to it than others. The United States was designed to depend on the good faith and intentions of its most powerful and influential people. And yet what do they say of power? It corrupts. Even the desire for it corrupts. We have no fail safe mechanism to filter out the greedy and the grandiose from the truly selfless and dedicated. And why should we have to depend on our leaders being saintly? If that sort of behavior wasn't rare, we wouldn't have saints. We would just have people, being routinely good.
The America of the modern ideal, say the fantasy we held in the1960s, depended on a sense of shared struggle and shared reward. That supposedly drove the country during the Second World War, and evolved into the antiwar and social justice fashions of the 1960s and '70s. But it was crumbling by the end of the 1970s, and took fatal blows in the 1980s.
I used to believe that human nature was fundamentally good. Then I started to believe that maybe some people were fundamentally bad. Now I believe that the concepts of good and bad depend entirely on your point of view. I know what I think is good and bad, but the world has demonstrated time and again that it doesn't care what anyone thinks. Evolution merely tallies the totals from every category and spits out a result.
To be fair to all the boneheads like me, and all of the others who accepted the world as they found it and got on with their personal ambitions, the country was turning 200 years old when we were in our school years. We'd beaten the Nazis and were holding the Commies at bay. We were growing up in the greatest country that had ever existed, and it had nowhere to go but up. Wasn't everything worked out already? Sure, there had been slavery, but the Civil War stomped that out. Sure, there had been civil rights problems, but that was getting sorted out, too. Cynics could say what they wanted about corruption and incompetence, but the country was fundamentally great.
My nearsighted eyes scanned the world through prescription rose-colored glasses.
Now here we are with it all falling apart. And I come to find out, from this handy article in The Atlantic, that the defects were all built in purposely, by our revered Founding Fathers, who turn out to be a bunch of idealistic dreamers. This country badly needed some cynics back while there was still time for the cure to work.
Lots of things leaped off the page at me, but this one was especially poignant:
"The best way of promoting a return to Madisonian principles, however, may be one Madison himself identified: constitutional education. In recent years, calls for more civic education have become something of a national refrain. But the Framers themselves believed that the fate of the republic depended on an educated citizenry. Drawing again on his studies of ancient republics, which taught that broad education of citizens was the best security against “crafty and dangerous encroachments on the public liberty,” Madison insisted that the rich should subsidize the education of the poor."
The poor bastard had no idea that the crafty and dangerous encroachments on public liberty would be the absolute aim of the rich. The rich had no need for democracy and individual liberty. The term globalism might not have been coined yet, but rich people everywhere share one unifying philosophy: become richer. Once the war of independence was done and dusted, the rich could get back to commerce. The nation itself was just a vehicle for ensuring that power remained concentrated in the right hands. Sure, the concept of liberty meant that a commoner could join their ranks through the right combination of education, experience, acquaintances, and luck. But no one had to take seriously the opinions of tradespeople and farmers unless they had managed to make their commercial endeavors sufficiently lucrative.
Or maybe he wrote the whole thing with a twinkle in his eye, as a sop to any among the rabble who might be able to read and reason a little bit. Many of our public documents scan really well. But then the Soviet Union had a nice constitution, too. And the very same US Constitution was used to justify racism and to combat it. It brought us Roe v Wade and might take it away as well. It's all subject to interpretation. Laws are only as good as their enforcement. If it was all cut and dried, no one would bother to become a lawyer.
The very concept of a republic unabashedly favors elitism. Those are your choices: the mob rule of direct democracy, or the elitism of a republic. The idealists who penned our owner's manual at the end of the 18th Century believed that an enlightened elite existed and would continue to exist. They believed that some concept of inclusive, socially responsible virtue would naturally accrue through education and good breeding. They had faith that the concept of the republic of free men would have such eternal appeal that the rich and powerful would revere it for generations.
Perhaps the fact that it was a republic of free men made its odds seem much better. Viewed through that lens, it becomes a joint business venture in which all the major shareholders get a voice unlimited by hereditary aristocracy or an overbearing monarch. The United States of the founders' vision was a nice private club. Too bad they didn't have the wit to write their charter a bit more exclusively from the outset. It would have saved us a lot of grief. Of course if you happened to be a slave or a woman or a native, things would have stayed as bad as they ever were. Careless writing set the stage for centuries of bloodshed. I blame the pot. You know those plantation owners grew hemp and wacky weed. I can just see a group of them, sitting around in a cloud of smoke. One of them, holding in a cough, says:
"Gentlemen: Imagine a country in which the only limits on a man are his own initiative and the gifts God has given him." Coughs through his nose, loses it, the whole room breaks up laughing.
I'm sure they meant well. But every concept can be twisted, and some concepts lend themselves much more easily to it than others. The United States was designed to depend on the good faith and intentions of its most powerful and influential people. And yet what do they say of power? It corrupts. Even the desire for it corrupts. We have no fail safe mechanism to filter out the greedy and the grandiose from the truly selfless and dedicated. And why should we have to depend on our leaders being saintly? If that sort of behavior wasn't rare, we wouldn't have saints. We would just have people, being routinely good.
The America of the modern ideal, say the fantasy we held in the1960s, depended on a sense of shared struggle and shared reward. That supposedly drove the country during the Second World War, and evolved into the antiwar and social justice fashions of the 1960s and '70s. But it was crumbling by the end of the 1970s, and took fatal blows in the 1980s.
I used to believe that human nature was fundamentally good. Then I started to believe that maybe some people were fundamentally bad. Now I believe that the concepts of good and bad depend entirely on your point of view. I know what I think is good and bad, but the world has demonstrated time and again that it doesn't care what anyone thinks. Evolution merely tallies the totals from every category and spits out a result.
Sunday, January 06, 2019
Bump stocks and bombs
After a couple of nice, quiet years, the neighbors have started blowing things up again.
When I moved here, the mountain behind me was entirely covered with mature forest. There was one house across the road. There were other neighbors, but the next nearest occupied house on my side of the road was hundreds of yards away. Except in hunting season, no one seemed to venture into the woods up the mountain, or explore the flood plain toward the river. There was a little cabin right next door, but the owner was elderly and seldom got to come to it anymore.
I had good relations with my neighbors. When hunters cut a trail across the elderly neighbor's land, I contacted him to make sure that they did not have permission and then confronted them when they showed up to use their unauthorized access on opening day of deer season. When a timber thief showed up and started cutting where it was easy instead of where he was being paid to cut, I alerted the neighbor and had a few conversations with the logger until he gave up and moved his operation to where it belonged. But, for the most part, good relations consisted of quiet coexistence, appreciating the natural setting we were fortunate enough to inhabit, and seeing little of each other.
Incrementally, houses pop up. Some rich guy started a "shooting preserve" on what had been a beautiful parcel of undeveloped floodplain. It had been cleared for ill-advised development in the 1980s, and then abandoned when the scam went belly up. It was a beautiful place, thick with blueberries and wildflowers. Now it is closed off to the public and it makes its money letting paying groups shoot at pen-raised exotic birds. Bang b-bang bang bang pop pow b-bang bang. But they're not the bombers.
Guns are a fact of life (and cause of death) everywhere. When the cellist is in Baltimore she hears gunfire, and its intent is usually homicidal. Up here, the projectiles are usually aimed at animals and birds, or at various inanimate targets. The river valley is an amphitheater. Sound carries a long way. You start to get a sense of who shoots what where, as the years go by.
A few years ago, my elderly neighbor with the cabin finally died. He had no children, but apparently left the property to a nephew or something. The new owner subdivided the lot and logged the half farthest from me. He sold that piece to some people who built at the back of it, sticking a house into what had been the lower skirts of the mountain's little wilderness. They have some animals and poultry. Occasionally someone will come charging out of their driveway on a racing ATV and zoom up and down the road in front of my house. It seems like a test run after working on the machine, perhaps. As much as I detest motorized recreation, I have to tighten my gut and let it happen, because they have every right to waste fuel and spew pollution to get their jollies in this free country of ours. Clean air and quiet are the casualties, the lesser rights that are easily trampled by noisy, smoky people's right to whoop it up.
Not long after these new neighbors settled in, we started hearing explosions quite close at hand. Maybe they have a cannon. Maybe they're experimenting with fertilizer bombs. I don't know. There would never be any warning. The blasts could occur at almost any hour, but seldom very late at night. We would just tighten our guts a little more, and try to get our breathing back down, and hope that one day we would hear ambulances arriving for them after one of these explosions.
One evening, several years ago, the blast was so powerful that the shock wave actually made our house bounce. The wave and the bang came out of nowhere. I felt it compress my chest as the floor dropped momentarily. It was the kind of sound you would expect to be followed by screams as a fireball billowed up into the night sky, but instead there was only blackness and silence from over there. That was a bit disappointing.
The size of the blast prompted me to call the state police to ask politely how large an explosion private citizens were allowed to enjoy before they had crossed some legal line. That prompted the staties to swing by and find out a little more from me. They may have talked to the neighbors after that, because it did usher in this long period free of bombs. From time to time I might have to put up with a little small arms fire, but that is one reason people move to the country, to be able to set up a little range and fire away. It was pretty nice.
That ended last night.
Pop pop bang bang. Bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang. ....silence....BOOM
I went out onto the deck and heard the cackling and yeehawing from next door. Years before, the staties had questioned whether I could be sure where the sound came from because of how noise travels in the river valley, with the mountain as a reflector. There was no doubt last night. It hadn't been as big as the house-shaker, but it did have a punch to it.
Some of the smaller noises could have been fireworks, but others were either firearms, or fireworks carefully created to mimic firearms. And in the bursts the rate of fire was faster than the human finger can twitch; not quite the speed of full-auto, it still marched with a quick, relentless cadence. I did not count how many rounds it was, but it was more than a few. Gunfire has a more directed sound than fireworks. You can sense that the detonation is coming out of a tube rather than simply bursting in air.
Forces gather in our troubled land, celebrating the impending abandonment of civilization. They consider themselves realists, these people who build and promote that reality instead of trying to seek a different, equally possible path. Human nature is incorrigible, they tell us. Face the fact that humans are killers and survival depends on your skills and equipment for defense. Human evolution is best represented by the evolution of our weapons, and our ability to view their effects without horror.
No thanks.
I no longer believe that humans will get their shit together and start treating each other decently. We gave up on that notion almost immediately after it reached peak popularity in the early 1970s. And even at its peak popularity, it had a long way to go to start actually making meaningful inroads on the prejudice and paranoia that shape most human interaction. But I refuse to join the forces I cannot beat. I simply spared any future generation from my loins having to live through the coming times of pain and destruction. Every bang, every boom brings a little thud of pain and sadness. I can't help a feeling of regret that my species loves violence and destruction more than anything else. But that appears to be the case. Bang. Boom. Rev. Zoom. Fire. Smoke. Cut. Dig. Grab. Consume. Discard.
I continue to support the other way, without the faintest hope of success. Just because it's losing doesn't mean it is wrong.
When I moved here, the mountain behind me was entirely covered with mature forest. There was one house across the road. There were other neighbors, but the next nearest occupied house on my side of the road was hundreds of yards away. Except in hunting season, no one seemed to venture into the woods up the mountain, or explore the flood plain toward the river. There was a little cabin right next door, but the owner was elderly and seldom got to come to it anymore.
I had good relations with my neighbors. When hunters cut a trail across the elderly neighbor's land, I contacted him to make sure that they did not have permission and then confronted them when they showed up to use their unauthorized access on opening day of deer season. When a timber thief showed up and started cutting where it was easy instead of where he was being paid to cut, I alerted the neighbor and had a few conversations with the logger until he gave up and moved his operation to where it belonged. But, for the most part, good relations consisted of quiet coexistence, appreciating the natural setting we were fortunate enough to inhabit, and seeing little of each other.
Incrementally, houses pop up. Some rich guy started a "shooting preserve" on what had been a beautiful parcel of undeveloped floodplain. It had been cleared for ill-advised development in the 1980s, and then abandoned when the scam went belly up. It was a beautiful place, thick with blueberries and wildflowers. Now it is closed off to the public and it makes its money letting paying groups shoot at pen-raised exotic birds. Bang b-bang bang bang pop pow b-bang bang. But they're not the bombers.
Guns are a fact of life (and cause of death) everywhere. When the cellist is in Baltimore she hears gunfire, and its intent is usually homicidal. Up here, the projectiles are usually aimed at animals and birds, or at various inanimate targets. The river valley is an amphitheater. Sound carries a long way. You start to get a sense of who shoots what where, as the years go by.
A few years ago, my elderly neighbor with the cabin finally died. He had no children, but apparently left the property to a nephew or something. The new owner subdivided the lot and logged the half farthest from me. He sold that piece to some people who built at the back of it, sticking a house into what had been the lower skirts of the mountain's little wilderness. They have some animals and poultry. Occasionally someone will come charging out of their driveway on a racing ATV and zoom up and down the road in front of my house. It seems like a test run after working on the machine, perhaps. As much as I detest motorized recreation, I have to tighten my gut and let it happen, because they have every right to waste fuel and spew pollution to get their jollies in this free country of ours. Clean air and quiet are the casualties, the lesser rights that are easily trampled by noisy, smoky people's right to whoop it up.
Not long after these new neighbors settled in, we started hearing explosions quite close at hand. Maybe they have a cannon. Maybe they're experimenting with fertilizer bombs. I don't know. There would never be any warning. The blasts could occur at almost any hour, but seldom very late at night. We would just tighten our guts a little more, and try to get our breathing back down, and hope that one day we would hear ambulances arriving for them after one of these explosions.
One evening, several years ago, the blast was so powerful that the shock wave actually made our house bounce. The wave and the bang came out of nowhere. I felt it compress my chest as the floor dropped momentarily. It was the kind of sound you would expect to be followed by screams as a fireball billowed up into the night sky, but instead there was only blackness and silence from over there. That was a bit disappointing.
The size of the blast prompted me to call the state police to ask politely how large an explosion private citizens were allowed to enjoy before they had crossed some legal line. That prompted the staties to swing by and find out a little more from me. They may have talked to the neighbors after that, because it did usher in this long period free of bombs. From time to time I might have to put up with a little small arms fire, but that is one reason people move to the country, to be able to set up a little range and fire away. It was pretty nice.
That ended last night.
Pop pop bang bang. Bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang. ....silence....BOOM
I went out onto the deck and heard the cackling and yeehawing from next door. Years before, the staties had questioned whether I could be sure where the sound came from because of how noise travels in the river valley, with the mountain as a reflector. There was no doubt last night. It hadn't been as big as the house-shaker, but it did have a punch to it.
Some of the smaller noises could have been fireworks, but others were either firearms, or fireworks carefully created to mimic firearms. And in the bursts the rate of fire was faster than the human finger can twitch; not quite the speed of full-auto, it still marched with a quick, relentless cadence. I did not count how many rounds it was, but it was more than a few. Gunfire has a more directed sound than fireworks. You can sense that the detonation is coming out of a tube rather than simply bursting in air.
Forces gather in our troubled land, celebrating the impending abandonment of civilization. They consider themselves realists, these people who build and promote that reality instead of trying to seek a different, equally possible path. Human nature is incorrigible, they tell us. Face the fact that humans are killers and survival depends on your skills and equipment for defense. Human evolution is best represented by the evolution of our weapons, and our ability to view their effects without horror.
No thanks.
I no longer believe that humans will get their shit together and start treating each other decently. We gave up on that notion almost immediately after it reached peak popularity in the early 1970s. And even at its peak popularity, it had a long way to go to start actually making meaningful inroads on the prejudice and paranoia that shape most human interaction. But I refuse to join the forces I cannot beat. I simply spared any future generation from my loins having to live through the coming times of pain and destruction. Every bang, every boom brings a little thud of pain and sadness. I can't help a feeling of regret that my species loves violence and destruction more than anything else. But that appears to be the case. Bang. Boom. Rev. Zoom. Fire. Smoke. Cut. Dig. Grab. Consume. Discard.
I continue to support the other way, without the faintest hope of success. Just because it's losing doesn't mean it is wrong.
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