Okay, I'm not exactly a poster child for fundamental christian principles. I'm not really even christian. Except that I am a Universalist: I believe in the fundamental truth of all faith. I do believe in something other than life in this dimension as we know it. Something bigger. Something greater. Something more. I also believe that we are incapable of really knowing what that is.
It's not uncommon for people experiencing dark and frightening times of life to seek greater wisdom and power. I have done that. I have asked. I have been offered otherworldly guidance. I have blindly followed. Blindly. And I mean that literally.
One day, I walked away from my life, my career, my ambitions, my education, my house, my belongings, my everything. I gave up. I had worked hard. I had a good education. None of that mattered. Security never existed. I couldn't count on anything I had ever believed in. Quite the contrary, I could count on everything I had believed in to be fundamentally false. What then?
I got a lot of advise. I tried a lot of things. I went in any number of directions. I do remember reading a lot of religion. I remember laughing at some of things I read. "Take nothing for the journey—no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra shirt. Whatever house you enter, stay there until you leave that town. If people do not welcome you, leave their town and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them. Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it. What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit their very self?
Wow. That's some instruction. Not that anybody would really do that. I certainly wouldn't. And even if someone did, not every body can. Because then there would be no towns, no homes, just a lot of lost souls wandering around seeking kindness from strangers. Would that really be a better world? No. But, then, if you take Jesus seriously, you are probably smart enough to realize that everybody isn't going to do that. And Jesus, being omnipotently smarter than anybody else, obviously knew that as well.
In truth, that's what I did. It was never what I intended to do. I made no deliberate plan and set out to accomplish it. In hindsight, I realize that doing so would have been contrary to the purpose. I just asked a question. In prayer, I wondered, cynically, what life would be like if I were to really do that. In fact, it's really only been recently pointed out to me that I did this, am doing this. It's very odd to me to look back and make that connection.
Truth is, we all have a gospel, all our own. We preach it every day. In our thoughts, our acts, our works, we spread our gospel as we go. what we have, what we do, this is what I cherish most. Often it is our children, our hobbies, sometimes it's our work, for many it is the public recompense we value most. What I am worth to the world in terms of dollars and cents - very real, very tangible, very necessary appreciation. We truly cannot live without it.
As an artist, and occasional writer, I accept that my recompense must often come in smaller increments, further apart, than most in our culture enjoy. When survival depends on having the gold and silver to pay the tax man, the corporate supplier of food, water, housing, transportation, then there is so little left over for things like beauty, decoration. Somehow, since starting this journey, I have always had enough. It hasn't always felt like enough. It often felt way too close to a day late and a dollar short. I've learned there is a wide gap between what I want and what I need.
We can all live with a lot less. Try it. For a month. Use only what you absolutely, bottom line need. You will quickly find that beauty, kindness, laughter are absolutely mandatory.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Charity
I'm something of an Antiques Roadshow freak. I love it. I'm sure I'll get that priceless prize at the garage sale, thrift store, trash pile on the side of the road. Whatever. I've always loved digging through attics, basements, boxes, just for the thrill of discovering what's in there.
The same thrill of discovery is achieved weekly on my favorite PBS show. The sweet old lady who spent twenty-five cents at a yard sale has an original Picasso. Too good to be true, but there it is. What's not to love?
Last night I watched in horror. A sweet little old lady proudly claimed an original artwork from a famous watercolorist. She found it at a silent auction. A school was raising money for scholarships to give to students who didn't have the money to attend the highly regarded private school. Mrs. Sweet Little Old Lady PROUDLY recalled how she bid seventy-five cents for the priceless work and the hovered around to make sure nobody outbid her!
WTF??? Am I the only one appalled? Is this behavior we want to encourage? I certainly hope not. I've been to numerous charitable auctions, silent and rowdy, and felt the point was to get the money to the charity, rather than expect a windfall take away. I've even applauded when raffle winners turned over the proceeds won to the charity involved. I've never won said raffle, so I can't vouch for what exactly I would do if I did win the color tv (or whatever). I'd like to think I'd be magnanimous.
I know I'm not the best person I would like to be, or even could be. I dance a fine line some days, knowing what's right, just not being fully committed to the personal wisdom of it (like the above paragraph - I did delete the series of nasty names I called the old bitch). But, there I go again.
It's not up to me to judge. But, when I see Gilbert Godfried celebrated in spite of spiteful anti Japanese 'jokes', or Mel Gibson praised in spite of just plain stupid meanness, or Charlie Sheen selling tickets and getting good reviews even though he beats women and isn't even allowed unsupervised around his own children, or old ladies cheaping out on a charity I just can't help but thing that maybe we are sending the wrong message about really matters. And in case you wondered, it isn't money.
The same thrill of discovery is achieved weekly on my favorite PBS show. The sweet old lady who spent twenty-five cents at a yard sale has an original Picasso. Too good to be true, but there it is. What's not to love?
Last night I watched in horror. A sweet little old lady proudly claimed an original artwork from a famous watercolorist. She found it at a silent auction. A school was raising money for scholarships to give to students who didn't have the money to attend the highly regarded private school. Mrs. Sweet Little Old Lady PROUDLY recalled how she bid seventy-five cents for the priceless work and the hovered around to make sure nobody outbid her!
WTF??? Am I the only one appalled? Is this behavior we want to encourage? I certainly hope not. I've been to numerous charitable auctions, silent and rowdy, and felt the point was to get the money to the charity, rather than expect a windfall take away. I've even applauded when raffle winners turned over the proceeds won to the charity involved. I've never won said raffle, so I can't vouch for what exactly I would do if I did win the color tv (or whatever). I'd like to think I'd be magnanimous.
I know I'm not the best person I would like to be, or even could be. I dance a fine line some days, knowing what's right, just not being fully committed to the personal wisdom of it (like the above paragraph - I did delete the series of nasty names I called the old bitch). But, there I go again.
It's not up to me to judge. But, when I see Gilbert Godfried celebrated in spite of spiteful anti Japanese 'jokes', or Mel Gibson praised in spite of just plain stupid meanness, or Charlie Sheen selling tickets and getting good reviews even though he beats women and isn't even allowed unsupervised around his own children, or old ladies cheaping out on a charity I just can't help but thing that maybe we are sending the wrong message about really matters. And in case you wondered, it isn't money.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Divine Miss Emmy
I've officiated at any number of funerals for pets. I never cease to be amazed. There is a ritual that dogs know. All dogs. The largest dog funeral I officiated had twenty dogs in attendance. My dog, Mongo, had to be put down. She was a fifteen year old lab mix with severe arthritis who had suddenly lost her sight. She had to do stairs and couldn't manage it without eyes, unless I carried her. I couldn't spend every minute with her and she didn't want to be where I wasn't.
She spent a lot of time at one particular farm. There were ten dogs that lived there full time. Another five to ten dogs were frequent farm visitors. They all came to say goodbye to Mongo. We brought her home from the vet's office. From the truck, she rode the wheel barrow to the little cemetery. Someone brought a little yard angel to sit beside her. I had dug the hole earlier. Mongo had sat beside me while I worked, content to be near me. There was a half of a chocolate cake left over from the weekend, so I fed it to her. She loved chocolate, and stole it whenever she could. She had to have known something was up when I gave it to her.
Friends came over to help me, and to comfort us both. I took a break. Mongo took a nap. In the hole. Any concerns I had over whether or not it was a good fit were at least dispelled. It took tugging, pulling, laughter and tears, and a pack of hot dogs to get her out of her grave and into the car and off to the vet. Talk about ironic.
When we came home, the dogs were sitting quietly in the yard, waiting for us. We loaded her into the wheel barrow and they followed behind me as I took her to the grave. There they watched while I placed her gently in the ground. They looked at me, as though they fully expected me to say something. So I did. I talked about the joy she gave me, the weird way she barked at airplanes, her love of forbidden chocolate. I said a little prayer. Then, one by one, each dog walked by the grave, nudged her, sniffed, went back and sat down. I covered her up, gently put the rocks around the space to mark it as hers. When I was done, Jake leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Those inclined to do so joined in. Then, they took off running full speed up the mountain.
Emmy has been sick a long time, but had an attitude and enjoyment of life that belied her diagnosis. This week, though, she quit eating. Dogs have their ways of telling us when it's time to move on. Mongo didn't like being blind and I knew what she wanted - napping in her grave was only the last clue. Emmy loved to eat. She would eat everything. She could eat more than Webster who is four times her size. When she quit eating, I knew. I think, too, she didn't want Donna to see her that way, but to remember her royal demeanor. Donna knew, and we had talked about it, but it wasn't obvious when Donna left on a trip. It was obvious later. Donna knew I wouldn't let her, or any dog, suffer needlessly. She didn't give me the job, but I offered to take it on if it became necessary. She trusted me to know when that might be.
Abbey, Savannah and Webster came today and watched as I put Emmy in her own little grave. I planted an azalea with her. They each walked over to Emmy, sniffed her, nudged her, then sat respectfully and watched as I finished the work. I said some words, about how much she loved Jean, loved to eat, would push Webster away from his dish and polish off his dinner, push him off his bed to nap there, prance past the other dogs languishing in the ninety degree heat to go loll about in the air conditioning inside. Then I said a prayer. On cue, Webster leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Abbey and and Savannah joined him. Goodbye Miss Em.
She spent a lot of time at one particular farm. There were ten dogs that lived there full time. Another five to ten dogs were frequent farm visitors. They all came to say goodbye to Mongo. We brought her home from the vet's office. From the truck, she rode the wheel barrow to the little cemetery. Someone brought a little yard angel to sit beside her. I had dug the hole earlier. Mongo had sat beside me while I worked, content to be near me. There was a half of a chocolate cake left over from the weekend, so I fed it to her. She loved chocolate, and stole it whenever she could. She had to have known something was up when I gave it to her.
Friends came over to help me, and to comfort us both. I took a break. Mongo took a nap. In the hole. Any concerns I had over whether or not it was a good fit were at least dispelled. It took tugging, pulling, laughter and tears, and a pack of hot dogs to get her out of her grave and into the car and off to the vet. Talk about ironic.
When we came home, the dogs were sitting quietly in the yard, waiting for us. We loaded her into the wheel barrow and they followed behind me as I took her to the grave. There they watched while I placed her gently in the ground. They looked at me, as though they fully expected me to say something. So I did. I talked about the joy she gave me, the weird way she barked at airplanes, her love of forbidden chocolate. I said a little prayer. Then, one by one, each dog walked by the grave, nudged her, sniffed, went back and sat down. I covered her up, gently put the rocks around the space to mark it as hers. When I was done, Jake leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Those inclined to do so joined in. Then, they took off running full speed up the mountain.
Emmy has been sick a long time, but had an attitude and enjoyment of life that belied her diagnosis. This week, though, she quit eating. Dogs have their ways of telling us when it's time to move on. Mongo didn't like being blind and I knew what she wanted - napping in her grave was only the last clue. Emmy loved to eat. She would eat everything. She could eat more than Webster who is four times her size. When she quit eating, I knew. I think, too, she didn't want Donna to see her that way, but to remember her royal demeanor. Donna knew, and we had talked about it, but it wasn't obvious when Donna left on a trip. It was obvious later. Donna knew I wouldn't let her, or any dog, suffer needlessly. She didn't give me the job, but I offered to take it on if it became necessary. She trusted me to know when that might be.
Abbey, Savannah and Webster came today and watched as I put Emmy in her own little grave. I planted an azalea with her. They each walked over to Emmy, sniffed her, nudged her, then sat respectfully and watched as I finished the work. I said some words, about how much she loved Jean, loved to eat, would push Webster away from his dish and polish off his dinner, push him off his bed to nap there, prance past the other dogs languishing in the ninety degree heat to go loll about in the air conditioning inside. Then I said a prayer. On cue, Webster leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Abbey and and Savannah joined him. Goodbye Miss Em.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Good Advice
I'm reading a book about poetry. I just read that Juan Ramon Jimenez told Claribel Alegria not to write free verse. "You have to go through all the traditional forms. You can free yourself after that. Then you will know what you are doing." Great advice.
My own poet-mentor gave me the same advice. Alexander Whitaker at Berry College told me: "Learn all the forms intimately. Write those meters in your head over and over. Use those forms until you know all the nuances. Then, later, when you break the rules, you'll know what rule you're breaking and why. It will mean more to you and your audience." That was probably the best advice any one ever gave me about writing. I still write in those old forms. I like the rhythms, the meanings of themselves. And it does make breaking the rules that much sweeter. And I do like breaking rules.
Writing by the rules taught me that rules have reasons. They exist because they matter. They remain because they continue to matter. And if you didn't have rules, you wouldn't know who your revolutionaries are. If no one is out breaking those rules, reinventing reality, then we know we aren't growing. And when people are out breaking those rules, we know where the autocrats are ruling. And we can break free of their power.
My own poet-mentor gave me the same advice. Alexander Whitaker at Berry College told me: "Learn all the forms intimately. Write those meters in your head over and over. Use those forms until you know all the nuances. Then, later, when you break the rules, you'll know what rule you're breaking and why. It will mean more to you and your audience." That was probably the best advice any one ever gave me about writing. I still write in those old forms. I like the rhythms, the meanings of themselves. And it does make breaking the rules that much sweeter. And I do like breaking rules.
Writing by the rules taught me that rules have reasons. They exist because they matter. They remain because they continue to matter. And if you didn't have rules, you wouldn't know who your revolutionaries are. If no one is out breaking those rules, reinventing reality, then we know we aren't growing. And when people are out breaking those rules, we know where the autocrats are ruling. And we can break free of their power.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Too Strange To Not Be True
I did something embarrassing. You know those ads for internet match makers? I finally succumbed and had to look. Really, I've never done it before. But there it was. There I was. Time on my hands when I really should have been doing something productive but didn't want to. So. I peaked.
Of course, the first thing I learned was that you have to provide a profile of your own. Yikes. I don't, like, want anybody to actually, like, pick me. Not really. Well, I might, but let's face it, Jack the Ripper would pick me. John Boy Walton would just walk on by. Mr. Right would never recognize me from an online write up. Not that I equate John Boy as Mr. Right, but at least he isn't Mr. Axe Murderer.
So, I did what any other lurker would do. I made up something. As far as my online profile goes, I'm a 62 year old, hindu woman, 4'2", weigh 230 lbs., have no hair, 10 children living at home with me, have no income and am looking for a serious relationship with someone who is over 6'9" and independently wealthy. I figured that anybody who'd bite at that profile had to be at least interesting.
So, I lurked. I searched. There are easily 300 single/separated men in the area of Canton to Blue Ridge who are actively looking for love. No shit! They are all, to a man, over 6' tall, self described good looking, Christian of religion and Conservative of politics and own a Harley. Okay, one is agnostic and is 5'2", but he wants a good woman to cook for him and be sweet, so that even rules out my alter ego, not to mention me (well known for NOT sweet). WTF? Is there no variety? NO. They have 'blond' hair and blue eyes. They like long walks on the beach (I like tall cocktails at the beachside bar). They like cooking gourmet dinners (I like eating gourmet dinners, but not the ones usually cooked by Harley riders and let's face it, they're going to be out riding the Harley and want to come home to a gourmet dinner, not cook one). They are sincere and loyal (which is why the mother of their children is nowhere to be found). They smoke. WTF??? Where were these men when I smoked? Oh, yeah, they're Conservative Christians.
So, now that I've satisfied myself that the pool really is comprised of neanderthal losers, I've come across a dillemma: Someone sent me an email. OMG. I can't read it, because I will NOT pay whatever it costs to actually, literally look for love online, but I am so curious to know who would email someone who fit the description that I could just bust. Oh, well, curiosity killed the cat - no need to worry about it. It's Jack the Ripper.
Of course, the first thing I learned was that you have to provide a profile of your own. Yikes. I don't, like, want anybody to actually, like, pick me. Not really. Well, I might, but let's face it, Jack the Ripper would pick me. John Boy Walton would just walk on by. Mr. Right would never recognize me from an online write up. Not that I equate John Boy as Mr. Right, but at least he isn't Mr. Axe Murderer.
So, I did what any other lurker would do. I made up something. As far as my online profile goes, I'm a 62 year old, hindu woman, 4'2", weigh 230 lbs., have no hair, 10 children living at home with me, have no income and am looking for a serious relationship with someone who is over 6'9" and independently wealthy. I figured that anybody who'd bite at that profile had to be at least interesting.
So, I lurked. I searched. There are easily 300 single/separated men in the area of Canton to Blue Ridge who are actively looking for love. No shit! They are all, to a man, over 6' tall, self described good looking, Christian of religion and Conservative of politics and own a Harley. Okay, one is agnostic and is 5'2", but he wants a good woman to cook for him and be sweet, so that even rules out my alter ego, not to mention me (well known for NOT sweet). WTF? Is there no variety? NO. They have 'blond' hair and blue eyes. They like long walks on the beach (I like tall cocktails at the beachside bar). They like cooking gourmet dinners (I like eating gourmet dinners, but not the ones usually cooked by Harley riders and let's face it, they're going to be out riding the Harley and want to come home to a gourmet dinner, not cook one). They are sincere and loyal (which is why the mother of their children is nowhere to be found). They smoke. WTF??? Where were these men when I smoked? Oh, yeah, they're Conservative Christians.
So, now that I've satisfied myself that the pool really is comprised of neanderthal losers, I've come across a dillemma: Someone sent me an email. OMG. I can't read it, because I will NOT pay whatever it costs to actually, literally look for love online, but I am so curious to know who would email someone who fit the description that I could just bust. Oh, well, curiosity killed the cat - no need to worry about it. It's Jack the Ripper.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Come out, Come out Whoever you are! (shameless self promotion)
I stumbled on my stats page today. I knew it was there, but hadn't really bothered. Somehow, I keep thinking of this as my digital diary, where I rant to myself, pretending that other people actually care and read it. Then, I saw that I had followers. Then, I saw that I had followers I didn't even know. Actually, follower is more correct. So, today, I looked to see what my stats could tell me about the growing number of people who read me.
This month alone, 127 different people viewed me at least (on average) 4 times each. Wow. For all time, it's 423 people. 423 different people. In Germany, Denmark, UK, Croatia (really? Croatia?), United Arab Emirates (GET OUT!), Canada, China, Singapore, and Iran. Iran? OMG! I'm global! Who are you people? Now, I don't mean that in my snarky, cynical tone. I mean that in my, oh, I love you, you are my friends, you read my words, I want to love you back tone.
Apparently, a number of you pop in just to see if I've posted something lately. Most of you pop in via Facebook (likely after I've shared that I have a new post). I wish it would tell me who you all are. I know who 8 of you are - my dear, loyal followers. I get to like you best of all because I know who you are. The rest of you, I really would love to know who you are. Please share. Please, if you read me, leave a comment. Or don't. If you would like to comment, but don't want anyone to know who you are or read your comment, please email me at ellijayblueridge@yahoo.com. And if you really like me, feel free to make a donation. Really. Shameless as that sounds, I have a bit of the Steven Colbert self promotion instinct that begs for cash and attention whenever and where ever I can. And that is pretty much everywhere. The link is just to the right, and you can click on it and it will allow you to make a donation via Paypal. If you don't have a Paypal account, then trust me on this - you should. Paypal is an excellent company (short of the fact that they are owned by Ebay which is evil, but WTF, it's an easy and safe way to send money to me from anywhere in the world. If you know of a better way, let me know). If you like, I will send you a print, a photograph or a painting in exchange for your donation. Go to L. J. Burton Fan Page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/L-J-Burton/152050821477986?v=app_2373072738&ref=mf) and pick out one you would like. Or just leave a comment. Anyone who leaves a comment is exempt from donations. For now.
This month alone, 127 different people viewed me at least (on average) 4 times each. Wow. For all time, it's 423 people. 423 different people. In Germany, Denmark, UK, Croatia (really? Croatia?), United Arab Emirates (GET OUT!), Canada, China, Singapore, and Iran. Iran? OMG! I'm global! Who are you people? Now, I don't mean that in my snarky, cynical tone. I mean that in my, oh, I love you, you are my friends, you read my words, I want to love you back tone.
Apparently, a number of you pop in just to see if I've posted something lately. Most of you pop in via Facebook (likely after I've shared that I have a new post). I wish it would tell me who you all are. I know who 8 of you are - my dear, loyal followers. I get to like you best of all because I know who you are. The rest of you, I really would love to know who you are. Please share. Please, if you read me, leave a comment. Or don't. If you would like to comment, but don't want anyone to know who you are or read your comment, please email me at ellijayblueridge@yahoo.com. And if you really like me, feel free to make a donation. Really. Shameless as that sounds, I have a bit of the Steven Colbert self promotion instinct that begs for cash and attention whenever and where ever I can. And that is pretty much everywhere. The link is just to the right, and you can click on it and it will allow you to make a donation via Paypal. If you don't have a Paypal account, then trust me on this - you should. Paypal is an excellent company (short of the fact that they are owned by Ebay which is evil, but WTF, it's an easy and safe way to send money to me from anywhere in the world. If you know of a better way, let me know). If you like, I will send you a print, a photograph or a painting in exchange for your donation. Go to L. J. Burton Fan Page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/L-J-Burton/152050821477986?v=app_2373072738&ref=mf) and pick out one you would like. Or just leave a comment. Anyone who leaves a comment is exempt from donations. For now.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Poetry
I'm reading Bill Moyers' book The Language of Life, a companion to his series on today's poets. I wrote my first poem at age 6 in the back seat of the family Buick. I thought is was great. I was really amazed with myself. I wrote poetry nearly every day after that for at least 20 years. There were some breaks. When I was 11, we moved and my mother tossed my box of poetry. That pissed me off so bad I gave it up for a while. Until my first crush and there I went. I wrote nearly every day again. In college, a favorite professor volunteered to read my poetry and help me with my writing. His constructive criticism was exhilarating. I wrote more and better than I'd dreamed possible.
I was 27 when I moved out of an apartment with one of those roommates from Hell. I went far off one way, roommate went far off another. Roommate took that box of diaries and all the poems contained therein. Never to be seen or heard from again. Breaking up is hard. Going back, even for one's life work, can often just not be worth it. I like to imagine some distant future, grandchildren cleaning out an attic find the Lost Years of my poetry, thus completing my legacy to the great relief of literary critics everywhere.
I've written maybe three poems in the interim, two of which are lost to posterity. There might be some in my diaries, but life has been full and rich and painful and joyous and I don't really want to revisit my diaries, even to loot them for lost verse. I prefer to move forward. These really are the best years of my life, I promise you that.
Still, as Barbara Kingsolver noted, unwritten poems become dust bunnies. Dust bunnies multiply and lurk under the bed, waiting to attack you at night, in early morning, whenever they can. I have today been assaulted by the attack of the dust bunnies. My early instincts have awakened and now my soul shall be heard.:
Friends
An Apple keeps you well and wise,
a Banana safe and pure.
Pears will never show surprise,
A Mango's always sure.
Cherry is so very merry
as it is with many berries.
But, ah. A Peach.
So out of reach,
will steal your friends,
and when she's done (and just for fun)
she'll turn around and suck you in.
I was 27 when I moved out of an apartment with one of those roommates from Hell. I went far off one way, roommate went far off another. Roommate took that box of diaries and all the poems contained therein. Never to be seen or heard from again. Breaking up is hard. Going back, even for one's life work, can often just not be worth it. I like to imagine some distant future, grandchildren cleaning out an attic find the Lost Years of my poetry, thus completing my legacy to the great relief of literary critics everywhere.
I've written maybe three poems in the interim, two of which are lost to posterity. There might be some in my diaries, but life has been full and rich and painful and joyous and I don't really want to revisit my diaries, even to loot them for lost verse. I prefer to move forward. These really are the best years of my life, I promise you that.
Still, as Barbara Kingsolver noted, unwritten poems become dust bunnies. Dust bunnies multiply and lurk under the bed, waiting to attack you at night, in early morning, whenever they can. I have today been assaulted by the attack of the dust bunnies. My early instincts have awakened and now my soul shall be heard.:
Friends
An Apple keeps you well and wise,
a Banana safe and pure.
Pears will never show surprise,
A Mango's always sure.
Cherry is so very merry
as it is with many berries.
But, ah. A Peach.
So out of reach,
will steal your friends,
and when she's done (and just for fun)
she'll turn around and suck you in.
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