It's starting to feel like spring. Sunny & warm(er) than its been for months. I'm getting restless. Craving things I'm not actually sure I want, just sure that I want something. Amy & I leave for Europe in two and a half weeks. Time goes by. There's still so much to be done--essays to write, preparations to be made. All I want (well, not all) is seventy degrees & sun dresses; long, long hair again. A stack of books I keep meaning to read. Vodka & lemonade. Simple stuff.
This week I saw both Jane Goodall & Ruth Padel, the great-great-granddaughter of Charles Darwin speak. Both were amazing--these phenomenal, captivating, spirited older women who have done such interesting, important things. Goodall was quieter, passionate but even-tempered. Wiser, somehow. Padel--witty, acerbic, her poetry brilliant. I never really think of science as being beautiful--I never really think of science at all--but it's true; her friend was right. The attention to detail; the precision required, it's all the same. It is vital you teach that in schools, vital you engage children with it, vital for lots of reasons. She's up for Professor of Poetry, Padel, and I signed up to volunteer the day of the elections. It could be quite interesting--the people you'd see.
My fiction tutorial takes place in my tutor's study, and this week we were interrupted by a phone call, and a quite intimate one at that. Her mother is in the hospital, suffering from dementia, on her "last lap" as my tutor put it, and sitting there, staring fixedly out the window, wanting to seem invisible as she talked to various doctors, I had to blink back tears, fight away thoughts of my own grandmother and a similiar situation. "I'm so sorry," I said when she got off the phone, but what else do you say? There's no place for commiseration, really. She took a breath, picked up my story, dived back in. Compartmentalize. You compartmentalize. I used to be quite good at that. These days, less and less.
There has been a lot of 'future' talk as of late--planning for senior year, planning for graduate school, planning even for after that. I have to remind myself to stay in the present, to not constantly compare myself to my mother, to what she had accomplished at my age. 21 and about to graduate from Yale, about to marry my father. A year later, juggling Columbia & a waitressing position at a shit Howard Johnson's in the Village. Then five years in Greece under the military junta, not seeing her parents for five years, just phone calls at Christmas. A doctorate after that; lots of things after that. Though maybe no one gets the future they think they'll have. It's never perfect, is it?
Still. There are things I want to do, lots of things. I want to have my own adventures. My own accomplishments. I already do, I know, but there are fears I need to overcome. "Submit," my tutor keeps telling me. "Send things out. You're good. You can be published." And yet I don't--not to anything besides Oxford & Sarah Lawrence literary magazines--because I'm not sure how good I actually am. I stumbled upon my tutor's blog, and she wrote about me--called me a rising star. Of course it doesn't matter what anyone says, if I don't actually do these things. Take risks. I'm learning, really.
I've been eating too much crap lately. Now I'm leaning towards early mornings, fruit & yogurt, meandering walks. I guess that's what happens when you live on pizza & oatmeal, late nights & later mornings. Your body starts to rebel. I bank on the fact that really, I've always been small & thin, but even so, I could do with a change. Even now though, it's hard to fight against that troublesome instinct to cut back entirely when I feel things getting out of hand. "You are not the same girl then as you were now. That's a good thing"--Amy, of course.
Katie & I had a long heart-to-heart a few days ago. I'm really glad I'm living where I'm living; of the people that I get to share this experience with.
"You've got to own your own days & name them, each one of them, every one of them, or else the years go right by & none of them belong to you" --That might be my new goal.
Went on a search for a swingset last Saturday, when, like today, the weather was beautiful. Was unsuccessful on that front, but spent a lovely hour wandering around Jericho, which I had yet to explore. I'm looking forward to roaming Oxford & London in the days before and after my European adventures.
What else has happened? A pancake party for 'pancake day' last Tuesday--English and American style; tea with Roxy; Revolutionary Road with Rand, which I enjoyed, though it doesn't exactly make you long for Connecticut--I kept explaining to people afterwards, that really, it's not like that, I promise. Taboo & wine with the Williams boys; dinner tomorrow with the Williams girls. Drinks last night with the Williams boys. Emma's birthday party today. Balls next term. I need to find an actual gown. My hair is now dark red & I'm in the middle of Christopher Isherwood's Goodbye to Berlin. Bath on Friday. London the week after that.
Drink, work, sleep. Bask in the sun. Flirtatiousness & debauchery. Life is as usual.
My next entry will not be so long--or after so much of an absence. Really. Promise.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
"step, step right over the line and onto borrowed time"
Jeff, this entry is for you, since, as you pointed out last night (and with all due sincerity) it has been two weeks since my last blog post, and isn't it about time I write something?
Lets see. There was major emotional turmoil two weeks ago, arising from two different situations, which ultimately gave rise to some interesting conversations, including one which will be the discussion topic at WomCam next week--female solidarity.
I continue to enjoy my fiction tutorial, though I've discovered now, in order to generate ideas I need to get out of the flat, walk, be around people. Otherwise the day just slips by stagnantly and I start to go a little nuts.
I read Virginia Woolf's The Waves last week, and I adored it. It might be the first thing I've read all year that really, truly resonated with me on a deeper level than just surface admiration for the complexity of the prose or the loveliness of a particular sentence (i.e. Tender is the Night or Farewell to Arms). It was also one of those books that you struggle to hold onto after you've finished. It starts to feel like a dream you had months ago, where you thought, for a moment, it all made sense, you had it all figured out, and then the phone rings, the alarm goes off, you wake up and forget what it was exactly you dreamed in the first place. Still. Much of what she ruminated on--at least what I focused on--was art & nature; how you survive; the responsibility one has to one's friends, to one's self; what you lose by distancing yourself from the world--or if that distance is vital. All things I've been thinking about, at one point or another. Bernard, one of the six characters in the novel, and, in some ways, an amalgamation of Woolf herself, is forever the observer, left to record his friend's stories in lieu of his own, because somewhere along the way, he didn't get around to making his own. He was passive, always searching for the "true story," unable to see the beauty in the natural world anymore than he could in a touch between lovers.
I've been considering applying to Oxford directly after I graduate to do a Master's in Literature (1900-Present), though who knows if I would even get in. If I didn't, I would just work for a year, in some aspect of the publishing industry, and even if I did, I'd still apply afterwards to get my MFA. Stay in school, delay the inevitable, I can't give up writing or literature. So why not continue them both, at least for a while. If I can, if it's possible. Anyway. There's a wonderful quote in The Waves which made me feel, for a moment, that the last thing I should do is spend more time in a classroom--that I should be out living, experiencing, crafting my own story (which, I think, I already am):
"that would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly"
This one too:
“Should I seek out some tree? Should I desert these form rooms and libraries, and the broad yellow page in which I read Catullus, for woods and fields? Should I walk under beech trees, or saunter along the river bank, where the trees meet united like lovers in the water? But nature is too vegetable, too vapid. She has only sublimities and vastitudes and water and leaves. I begin to wish for firelight, privacy, and the limbs of one person”
Valentine's Day was Saturday, and instead of bemoaning the fact that this year I happen to be unattached, I realized, in a fleeting moment in the midst of a delicious spending spree, that this was the first time since I was sixteen years old that I haven't been in a destructive sexual relationship / pseudo-relationship with anyone. Which, I think, is something to be celebrated. I baked brownies, and ate them for dinner, drank strawberry wine coolers while wearing a polka dotted silk slip and massive Lolilta sunglasses, and spent the night with some of my favorite girls, getting drunk off champagne and raspberries and vodka shirley temples, singing along to Celine Dion. All is well.
Europe planning is more complicated than I had foreseen, but in a month from yesterday, Amy and I will be on our way to Paris, then the Riviera, then Geneva, Lausanne, Lake Como, Venice, Rome, Vienna, Prague, Amsterdam, then back to Paris one month later just as our Eurail passes run out at midnight. How very Cinderella.
I also got in touch with the author of a fantastic manuscript I read this summer, which was then picked up, and is going to be published sometime next year. It's one of those things, where, as the intern, all the difference you make happens behind the scenes--the authors have no idea who's the first to read their manuscript, even though the interns are who make the majority of the intial slush acceptance/rejection decisions, I'd say. It was nice to actually speak up, congratulate her, see how excited she was to hear about me. It felt rather rewarding.
It's hard to believe half the year has gone by. It feels like I'll be here forever (in the best way).
Lets see. There was major emotional turmoil two weeks ago, arising from two different situations, which ultimately gave rise to some interesting conversations, including one which will be the discussion topic at WomCam next week--female solidarity.
I continue to enjoy my fiction tutorial, though I've discovered now, in order to generate ideas I need to get out of the flat, walk, be around people. Otherwise the day just slips by stagnantly and I start to go a little nuts.
I read Virginia Woolf's The Waves last week, and I adored it. It might be the first thing I've read all year that really, truly resonated with me on a deeper level than just surface admiration for the complexity of the prose or the loveliness of a particular sentence (i.e. Tender is the Night or Farewell to Arms). It was also one of those books that you struggle to hold onto after you've finished. It starts to feel like a dream you had months ago, where you thought, for a moment, it all made sense, you had it all figured out, and then the phone rings, the alarm goes off, you wake up and forget what it was exactly you dreamed in the first place. Still. Much of what she ruminated on--at least what I focused on--was art & nature; how you survive; the responsibility one has to one's friends, to one's self; what you lose by distancing yourself from the world--or if that distance is vital. All things I've been thinking about, at one point or another. Bernard, one of the six characters in the novel, and, in some ways, an amalgamation of Woolf herself, is forever the observer, left to record his friend's stories in lieu of his own, because somewhere along the way, he didn't get around to making his own. He was passive, always searching for the "true story," unable to see the beauty in the natural world anymore than he could in a touch between lovers.
I've been considering applying to Oxford directly after I graduate to do a Master's in Literature (1900-Present), though who knows if I would even get in. If I didn't, I would just work for a year, in some aspect of the publishing industry, and even if I did, I'd still apply afterwards to get my MFA. Stay in school, delay the inevitable, I can't give up writing or literature. So why not continue them both, at least for a while. If I can, if it's possible. Anyway. There's a wonderful quote in The Waves which made me feel, for a moment, that the last thing I should do is spend more time in a classroom--that I should be out living, experiencing, crafting my own story (which, I think, I already am):
"that would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly"
This one too:
“Should I seek out some tree? Should I desert these form rooms and libraries, and the broad yellow page in which I read Catullus, for woods and fields? Should I walk under beech trees, or saunter along the river bank, where the trees meet united like lovers in the water? But nature is too vegetable, too vapid. She has only sublimities and vastitudes and water and leaves. I begin to wish for firelight, privacy, and the limbs of one person”
Valentine's Day was Saturday, and instead of bemoaning the fact that this year I happen to be unattached, I realized, in a fleeting moment in the midst of a delicious spending spree, that this was the first time since I was sixteen years old that I haven't been in a destructive sexual relationship / pseudo-relationship with anyone. Which, I think, is something to be celebrated. I baked brownies, and ate them for dinner, drank strawberry wine coolers while wearing a polka dotted silk slip and massive Lolilta sunglasses, and spent the night with some of my favorite girls, getting drunk off champagne and raspberries and vodka shirley temples, singing along to Celine Dion. All is well.
Europe planning is more complicated than I had foreseen, but in a month from yesterday, Amy and I will be on our way to Paris, then the Riviera, then Geneva, Lausanne, Lake Como, Venice, Rome, Vienna, Prague, Amsterdam, then back to Paris one month later just as our Eurail passes run out at midnight. How very Cinderella.
I also got in touch with the author of a fantastic manuscript I read this summer, which was then picked up, and is going to be published sometime next year. It's one of those things, where, as the intern, all the difference you make happens behind the scenes--the authors have no idea who's the first to read their manuscript, even though the interns are who make the majority of the intial slush acceptance/rejection decisions, I'd say. It was nice to actually speak up, congratulate her, see how excited she was to hear about me. It felt rather rewarding.
It's hard to believe half the year has gone by. It feels like I'll be here forever (in the best way).
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
"it looks like rain tonight, and thank god, because a clear sky just wouldn't feel right"
I think you find the little pieces of good in every day & keep going. I think you have to do that. Otherwise, the world is too dark of a place.
I don't understand why these things happen. You can talk them in circles for hours, analyze power dynamics and culture dynamics to death, talk about what it means to be a feminist, what society's definitions of masculinity imply, what responsibilities we owe each other. You can talk about the system and talk about justice, you can talk until there's nothing left to say because you've said it all and you're tired of discussing these things but you still have to because it hasn't gotten any better. Maybe in time. Maybe you keep fighting this fight because someone has to, and someday it will change things, and someday it will get better. You take the small steps and look at the big picture and hope against hope that it will matter.
Maybe you wake up in the morning, after having barely slept, a night not as bad, but close to, the night you had yourself two and a half years ago, and you look outside, at the sun rising, and the patches of snow, burning eyes and head aspin, and you take a breath. Because that's the only thing you can do, that is all you control. You give back what you can, you provide what you can. You look ahead. You slow down, for a moment, for a day, and then you keep going.
I don't know if that's the right thing to do, but it's what you have to do.
I don't understand why these things happen. You can talk them in circles for hours, analyze power dynamics and culture dynamics to death, talk about what it means to be a feminist, what society's definitions of masculinity imply, what responsibilities we owe each other. You can talk about the system and talk about justice, you can talk until there's nothing left to say because you've said it all and you're tired of discussing these things but you still have to because it hasn't gotten any better. Maybe in time. Maybe you keep fighting this fight because someone has to, and someday it will change things, and someday it will get better. You take the small steps and look at the big picture and hope against hope that it will matter.
Maybe you wake up in the morning, after having barely slept, a night not as bad, but close to, the night you had yourself two and a half years ago, and you look outside, at the sun rising, and the patches of snow, burning eyes and head aspin, and you take a breath. Because that's the only thing you can do, that is all you control. You give back what you can, you provide what you can. You look ahead. You slow down, for a moment, for a day, and then you keep going.
I don't know if that's the right thing to do, but it's what you have to do.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
My brain is in a fog, I slept three hours later than I had planned, due to being so impossibly hungover I scared the shit out of Amy when she found me unelegantly sprawled on the hallway floor, begging to be put of my misery, and because I started my essay so late, my plans for this afternoon/evening of hanging out with people, and going to Evensong at the University Cathedral in Radcliffe Square are shot as well. And this essay is not going to be good. I enjoyed Tender is the Night, but I can't seem to hold onto a cohesive thread of arguement. I have too much textual evidence to use for an eight page paper, and not enough critical back up. Ugh.
Enough complaining, back to work.
Enough complaining, back to work.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
"Sure that this was all and all and all"
"Faces, not flowers," D.H. Lawrence told Clare. It's all about portraits and details, more grit and less beauty. Or maybe just less an outline, more reality. I don't know. It stuck with me; it felt important. Faces, not flowers. My romantic view of the world.
Cari came to visit two weeks ago. It was lovely having her here, before the official start of term, when we could wander the streets and go out for tea, make dinner, drink wine, dress up. All the things we do anyway, but with a relative calm attached. It really is work hard and play hard, she observed. Indeed. So nice, as well, to see the city with a visitor. Oxford is always beautiful--it's impossible to ignore that, even in the cold and the damp and the rain--but sometimes showing it off to someone new reinforces that fact, helps to remind me of where we are. I love the way the buildings around Radcliffe Square look all lit up in the night.
I keep saying there's so much I want to see and do here; that I feel I've barely scratched the surface, both in Oxford and out. So therefore, instead of merely fretting about it, I've decided every weekend I will do something new and adventurous. Alex and Amy--you will be dragged along. I want to see the villages on Oxford's outskirts and wander through the parks. Drink in new pubs, sit in meadows. Walk down streets I've never been. I want to go to London at least once a month. I want to actually do these things and not just say them. I fluctuate between holing up in my flat in sweats, piles of books and bottles of wine for company, sleeping all day and staying up all night, feeling as if we'll be here forever, and panicking over the thought that there's still so much more I want.
"I don't know if I'm having the life changing experience I thought I would be," I confessed to Amy. "You are having a life-changing experience," she affirmed. And you know, that's probably true. I'm past the stage of mere affection for this place, and am starting to fall in love with it. I love my flatmates, I enjoy my tutorials, I'm thrilled about romping around Europe for a month. It is life-changing. Maybe not in the cinematic, in-one-fell-swoop way one might tend to envision things before packing up and leaving home, but in the quiet, more important ways. The ways you learn to sustain yourself, the friendships you make, the day to day experiences you have. I can't wait to see Oxford in the summer, when its warm.
If getting my MFA at Oxford isn't an option, then maybe I'll apply for literature. I feel more at home here, in certain ways, than I ever did in New York.
I will leave you with this, an excerpt of a conversation I had last week over welcome-back-to-Oxford drinks:
Her: "So, what period are writing about for your historical fiction tutorial?"
Me: "The Left Bank in the 20's--the whole expat scene."
Her: "Oh, yeah, yeah I can see it now...So, do you believe in reincarnation?"
Me: "Uhhhhhh."
Her: "Because, now that I look at you, I totally see it. It totally fits. Yeah. Yeah, you were there, and you died young. I don't know of what, but you died young. I don't want to give too much away."
Me: "Uhhh." *gulps wine*
Goodnight.
Cari came to visit two weeks ago. It was lovely having her here, before the official start of term, when we could wander the streets and go out for tea, make dinner, drink wine, dress up. All the things we do anyway, but with a relative calm attached. It really is work hard and play hard, she observed. Indeed. So nice, as well, to see the city with a visitor. Oxford is always beautiful--it's impossible to ignore that, even in the cold and the damp and the rain--but sometimes showing it off to someone new reinforces that fact, helps to remind me of where we are. I love the way the buildings around Radcliffe Square look all lit up in the night.
I keep saying there's so much I want to see and do here; that I feel I've barely scratched the surface, both in Oxford and out. So therefore, instead of merely fretting about it, I've decided every weekend I will do something new and adventurous. Alex and Amy--you will be dragged along. I want to see the villages on Oxford's outskirts and wander through the parks. Drink in new pubs, sit in meadows. Walk down streets I've never been. I want to go to London at least once a month. I want to actually do these things and not just say them. I fluctuate between holing up in my flat in sweats, piles of books and bottles of wine for company, sleeping all day and staying up all night, feeling as if we'll be here forever, and panicking over the thought that there's still so much more I want.
"I don't know if I'm having the life changing experience I thought I would be," I confessed to Amy. "You are having a life-changing experience," she affirmed. And you know, that's probably true. I'm past the stage of mere affection for this place, and am starting to fall in love with it. I love my flatmates, I enjoy my tutorials, I'm thrilled about romping around Europe for a month. It is life-changing. Maybe not in the cinematic, in-one-fell-swoop way one might tend to envision things before packing up and leaving home, but in the quiet, more important ways. The ways you learn to sustain yourself, the friendships you make, the day to day experiences you have. I can't wait to see Oxford in the summer, when its warm.
If getting my MFA at Oxford isn't an option, then maybe I'll apply for literature. I feel more at home here, in certain ways, than I ever did in New York.
I will leave you with this, an excerpt of a conversation I had last week over welcome-back-to-Oxford drinks:
Her: "So, what period are writing about for your historical fiction tutorial?"
Me: "The Left Bank in the 20's--the whole expat scene."
Her: "Oh, yeah, yeah I can see it now...So, do you believe in reincarnation?"
Me: "Uhhhhhh."
Her: "Because, now that I look at you, I totally see it. It totally fits. Yeah. Yeah, you were there, and you died young. I don't know of what, but you died young. I don't want to give too much away."
Me: "Uhhh." *gulps wine*
Goodnight.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
"greatness is never a given...rather it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things"
Farewell, Bush regime and the eight years of atrocious irresponsibility, heinous judgment, and laugh-so-you-don't-cry soundbites which accompanied you. Here's to hope & change & all the rest.
Watched Obama's inauguration in the Wadham JCR, surrounded by Sarah Lawrence students and Wadhamites alike; it was almost impossible not to be moved by Obama's eloquent, powerful, told-it-like-it-is-but-here's-to-the-promise-of-the-future speech. "This will be the moment that defines a generation," he said. I guess that will come to be true for our generation; not the Clinton years; not the Bush travesty--Obama. That's what our generation will come into--and fingers crossed, four years from now, it will still look as bright as it does right now.
Watched Obama's inauguration in the Wadham JCR, surrounded by Sarah Lawrence students and Wadhamites alike; it was almost impossible not to be moved by Obama's eloquent, powerful, told-it-like-it-is-but-here's-to-the-promise-of-the-future speech. "This will be the moment that defines a generation," he said. I guess that will come to be true for our generation; not the Clinton years; not the Bush travesty--Obama. That's what our generation will come into--and fingers crossed, four years from now, it will still look as bright as it does right now.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
"falling slowly, eyes that know me, and I can't go back"
As predicted, as soon as I actually arrived in Oxford, all the anxiety I was feeling about returning passed. The flight wasn't bad; I was okay mostly, and only panicked a little during takeoff, at which point the woman sitting next to me asked if I was ok, and if I wanted her to take my hand. She did, and we ended up chatting for a while, about authors we both like and places we've been; about my life in Oxford; about hers as an Israeli diplomat living in Moscow for the past year. I never got her name, and she disappeared before I could say goodbye.
It felt ironic, given a conversation I had had while waiting to board in JFK.
Landed at Heathrow around 630 in the morning, then proceeded to drag myself into Oxford by 10, with a splitting headache and thinking only of falling into bed, which I did, for about three hours, before Mark & Jeff roused me, and I set about doing the things that needed to be done--unpacking, food shopping, etc. Alex showed up a few hours later and we headed to the co-op to collect the essentials. The essentials being wine, of course, and the necessary ingredients for our welcome-home-to-the-flat dinner. Watched Gossip Girl at night with the SLC girls next door, then fell into bed around 2; realized I had been up at that point for almost 36 hours straight.
Amy gets back tonight, which will be good. Hopefully Eunice will make it into Oxford from London tomorrow for lunch, and Cari comes as well for two days. Then it's all about work, work, work, this weekend. My evaluations from my tutors were both good--an A from Ballam, A+, surprisingly, from Linda. And now I know what I can improve this term as well. Still, not looking forward to writing that Gertrude Stein essay this weekend. I really think I need to read the last ten pages of Three Lives whilst intoxicated. Need to hit the EFL tomorrow morning to collect sources. Meh. Welcome back, alright. And I know what I'm writing about for my historical fiction tutorial as well--instead of trying to sustain a novella, which didn't quite work for me, I'm going to write invividual vignettes, I think, following the life of a harlequin-turned-picture dealer in the Left Bank in the 20's. Which means, finishing up my Paris research; tracking down images of Picasso's Rose Period, etc. I'm excited.
Now off to do Oxonian Review edits.
This time, I think I actually might be able to leave it all behind.
It felt ironic, given a conversation I had had while waiting to board in JFK.
Landed at Heathrow around 630 in the morning, then proceeded to drag myself into Oxford by 10, with a splitting headache and thinking only of falling into bed, which I did, for about three hours, before Mark & Jeff roused me, and I set about doing the things that needed to be done--unpacking, food shopping, etc. Alex showed up a few hours later and we headed to the co-op to collect the essentials. The essentials being wine, of course, and the necessary ingredients for our welcome-home-to-the-flat dinner. Watched Gossip Girl at night with the SLC girls next door, then fell into bed around 2; realized I had been up at that point for almost 36 hours straight.
Amy gets back tonight, which will be good. Hopefully Eunice will make it into Oxford from London tomorrow for lunch, and Cari comes as well for two days. Then it's all about work, work, work, this weekend. My evaluations from my tutors were both good--an A from Ballam, A+, surprisingly, from Linda. And now I know what I can improve this term as well. Still, not looking forward to writing that Gertrude Stein essay this weekend. I really think I need to read the last ten pages of Three Lives whilst intoxicated. Need to hit the EFL tomorrow morning to collect sources. Meh. Welcome back, alright. And I know what I'm writing about for my historical fiction tutorial as well--instead of trying to sustain a novella, which didn't quite work for me, I'm going to write invividual vignettes, I think, following the life of a harlequin-turned-picture dealer in the Left Bank in the 20's. Which means, finishing up my Paris research; tracking down images of Picasso's Rose Period, etc. I'm excited.
Now off to do Oxonian Review edits.
This time, I think I actually might be able to leave it all behind.
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