Monday, November 23, 2009
I will be taking Thanksgiving week off so I can head to Las Cruces and celebrate genocide and imperialism and how great it is to be a white male with two of my best friends. Updates resume on the 1st of December. In the meantime, maybe you could tell some people you know about me and my writing? It would help satisfy my constant need for attention and praise.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Come on and wave the damn torches already
She was always saying that we didn’t do enough things together, like maybe if we played more putt-putt or bowled under every blacklight and disco ball in town our problems would finally go away. It was autumn, and yeah, leaves were falling, and yeah, daylight savings time wasn’t doing us any favors, which maybe we could blame the sun going down so early every night for us looking at each other across the kitchen table and knowing we had the same idea.
The first time it was almost as a joke, but we got good at killing ourselves after awhile. Made an art of it. We would devote a whole evening, taking great fistfuls of pills and doing slow dances on the roof. Every morning, though, we’d wake up sweat-drenched in the noonday sun.
After we ran through our medicine cabinet we sat fidgeting on the couch watching the clock tick down the hours left in the three-day waiting period. His and hers handguns, hold in each breath, exhale and squeeze. The noise was something that we kept marveling at to each other. Did you feel it like it was inside your head like I did? Are your ears still hurting? God damn it was so amazingly loud. But we were among the living just the same. We tried a bunch of other ways, and then we started wondering if something was wrong.
We stumbled to the doctor’s office, sat in the waiting room holding hands and maybe a little happy again while impatient patients sat aghast. We didn’t blame them. We were covered in scars, rope burned necks, pockmarked livers, great sucking wounds in our chests. That last one’s a metaphor, but yeah, it felt good to be a team again.
The first time it was almost as a joke, but we got good at killing ourselves after awhile. Made an art of it. We would devote a whole evening, taking great fistfuls of pills and doing slow dances on the roof. Every morning, though, we’d wake up sweat-drenched in the noonday sun.
After we ran through our medicine cabinet we sat fidgeting on the couch watching the clock tick down the hours left in the three-day waiting period. His and hers handguns, hold in each breath, exhale and squeeze. The noise was something that we kept marveling at to each other. Did you feel it like it was inside your head like I did? Are your ears still hurting? God damn it was so amazingly loud. But we were among the living just the same. We tried a bunch of other ways, and then we started wondering if something was wrong.
We stumbled to the doctor’s office, sat in the waiting room holding hands and maybe a little happy again while impatient patients sat aghast. We didn’t blame them. We were covered in scars, rope burned necks, pockmarked livers, great sucking wounds in our chests. That last one’s a metaphor, but yeah, it felt good to be a team again.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
And across town the abandoned grocery store is being broken into
She liked to give out awards in the way she pronounced and inflected her words, sentences as Nobel prizes. There was a warmth that spilled out around the edge of conversation that she didn’t bother to hide. I wanted to know her better, to be blanketed by her voice telling of the tattoos she was going to get, what she liked to eat for breakfast, how she had trouble opening up to people except to tell them she had trouble opening up. She bloomed in my brain like I imagine an artichoke would, though I’d never seen it happen and maybe it doesn’t really.
And this was us sprawled across the unvacuumed floor of my apartment, our clothes picking up crumbs and hair and bits of the previous tenant’s life. I wondered at what she would be leaving behind as we talked, would it just be microscopic cells or would it be hair in the drain and her mother’s recipes on my tongue and an extra toothbrush next to mine. I’ve always been one to overthink a thing that hadn’t even started, tracing the future of every moment to its possible endpoints. I thought about saying this while I looked at the constellation of brushed-off bits forming slowly on her shirt.
I was calling myself a writer by then, which mostly meant that I was the kind of person who couldn’t tolerate a job and who was most happy when he wasn’t. I spent most of my time staring over a great yawning gulf and trying not to slip into it, but I felt like ground was giving all the time and I was headed back to double-whiskey places. Traps traps traps. There I was, though, child-like and simple on the floor, hearing her talk, glad to hear her talk, aching for it maybe. I put aside who I was for awhile and listened.
And this was us sprawled across the unvacuumed floor of my apartment, our clothes picking up crumbs and hair and bits of the previous tenant’s life. I wondered at what she would be leaving behind as we talked, would it just be microscopic cells or would it be hair in the drain and her mother’s recipes on my tongue and an extra toothbrush next to mine. I’ve always been one to overthink a thing that hadn’t even started, tracing the future of every moment to its possible endpoints. I thought about saying this while I looked at the constellation of brushed-off bits forming slowly on her shirt.
I was calling myself a writer by then, which mostly meant that I was the kind of person who couldn’t tolerate a job and who was most happy when he wasn’t. I spent most of my time staring over a great yawning gulf and trying not to slip into it, but I felt like ground was giving all the time and I was headed back to double-whiskey places. Traps traps traps. There I was, though, child-like and simple on the floor, hearing her talk, glad to hear her talk, aching for it maybe. I put aside who I was for awhile and listened.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Pull the cord to stop
She had a detachable nose. Or at least I suspected. The way it stood out from her face and kind of dominated you would think it was a design choice, like maybe she had a whole collection of them and today felt like a day for being striking.
I thought about saying this to her while she sat on a plastic bus seat reading one of those plain little books that had been re-bound by the library with each passing decade, but I’d learned a long time ago that I wasn’t that great at things I thought were maybe compliments. She would probably just had said Oh and gone blade-eyed back to her book.
I wanted her to be interested, though, to see that having something weird was better than being regular. I wanted her to have something to say about me that would be unintentionally cutting. How my hair looks like it’s trying to start a band. How I probably think my lips are closed but really there is a slight gap in the center. How I look like the kind of person who would be dressed better. I was itchy is what, not for a fight exactly, not for conversation exactly, not for love exactly, but for something.
I thought about saying this to her while she sat on a plastic bus seat reading one of those plain little books that had been re-bound by the library with each passing decade, but I’d learned a long time ago that I wasn’t that great at things I thought were maybe compliments. She would probably just had said Oh and gone blade-eyed back to her book.
I wanted her to be interested, though, to see that having something weird was better than being regular. I wanted her to have something to say about me that would be unintentionally cutting. How my hair looks like it’s trying to start a band. How I probably think my lips are closed but really there is a slight gap in the center. How I look like the kind of person who would be dressed better. I was itchy is what, not for a fight exactly, not for conversation exactly, not for love exactly, but for something.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Whitman sees ships at dock
I was sitting on a brick planter outside of her downtown office complex, that time of day when afternoon and evening depend on your relation to the hard-edge shadows of the buildings. The day had gone cold here in the shade, and I clutched at my elbows and kept my jaw tight against chattering. I hadn’t really planned on being here except that I was forced to drive into town for an unpaid parking ticket.
But that’s a lie, isn’t it? I knew my day would end up here from the moment I got the summons or the warrant or whatever it’s called when you owe the county a hundred and forty three dollars. Maybe it was low impulse control, maybe it was fate. I guess it depended on who you asked. Mostly I was looking for a justice in the world, for her to say or for me to say what we’d spent so many months in mutual nonexistence not saying. I sat there, tapping both my feet with hands thrust deep into jacket pockets, trying to keep my extremities feeling alive.
People started coming out of the building in spurts, like each elevator load was a pump of blood. These people probably hadn’t been smiling on the way in, but now some were, and I wondered how they lived their lives when so much time was spent in the thing they dreaded.
Then it was her, talking to a girl I met at a party once where I had kept my mouth shut and took awkward sips of beer. She was beautiful still—I don’t mean the girl from the party—she still walked with that bounce that worked against the sunken slump of her shoulders, how she never really wore makeup anyway and how her hair was blowing all over and how her nose was starting to go a little pink already from the cold. I didn’t want to be here then, I didn’t have the right. The silence between us had been the justice I deserved. She saw me and froze, not smiling, not frowning, just blank-faced recognition, maybe with her head going through how sadly I was presenting myself these days, how goddamn pathetic to be sitting on a brick planter unshaven wearing an old jacket and trying to work up the nerve to look away. This was just what I wanted, and it felt awful.
But that’s a lie, isn’t it? I knew my day would end up here from the moment I got the summons or the warrant or whatever it’s called when you owe the county a hundred and forty three dollars. Maybe it was low impulse control, maybe it was fate. I guess it depended on who you asked. Mostly I was looking for a justice in the world, for her to say or for me to say what we’d spent so many months in mutual nonexistence not saying. I sat there, tapping both my feet with hands thrust deep into jacket pockets, trying to keep my extremities feeling alive.
People started coming out of the building in spurts, like each elevator load was a pump of blood. These people probably hadn’t been smiling on the way in, but now some were, and I wondered how they lived their lives when so much time was spent in the thing they dreaded.
Then it was her, talking to a girl I met at a party once where I had kept my mouth shut and took awkward sips of beer. She was beautiful still—I don’t mean the girl from the party—she still walked with that bounce that worked against the sunken slump of her shoulders, how she never really wore makeup anyway and how her hair was blowing all over and how her nose was starting to go a little pink already from the cold. I didn’t want to be here then, I didn’t have the right. The silence between us had been the justice I deserved. She saw me and froze, not smiling, not frowning, just blank-faced recognition, maybe with her head going through how sadly I was presenting myself these days, how goddamn pathetic to be sitting on a brick planter unshaven wearing an old jacket and trying to work up the nerve to look away. This was just what I wanted, and it felt awful.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
What epiphany looks like
She had painted a teenage boy at a piano all in Technicolor, he looked like a Von Trapp or something, and she wanted to know what I thought. I stared at the thing, which what do you say anyway? Every answer was wrong. The colors were good, but I was more interested in what was happening beyond the window on the back wall, it looked like something good was just out of reach. The boy’s dour face agreed. Maybe there’s the point.
I said I’m trying to understand your statement, but I’d like to know what you are trying for. She gave me this look and stalked into the bedroom all huffed. What else should she expect when she asked a question so loaded up with buckshot? That time I made the cake for her birthday, the one with the scrambled eggs in the middle from my inability to use a mixer, well when I asked her what she thought I hadn’t cried about the look on her face. And here she was painting more confusing scrambled eggs.
I went to the door and pressed hard into the jamb, which of course she was face down and rigid on the bed like an exclamation point. She said to go away, and I didn’t. I stood there, lonely, both of us trapped in our own understanding of the other, me slowly coming to realize that who I was and who she wanted me to be were different, her realizing it too, both of us waiting for me to apologize basically for not being an artist like her, to just say sorry for it. I found that even though I was, I couldn’t.
I said I’m trying to understand your statement, but I’d like to know what you are trying for. She gave me this look and stalked into the bedroom all huffed. What else should she expect when she asked a question so loaded up with buckshot? That time I made the cake for her birthday, the one with the scrambled eggs in the middle from my inability to use a mixer, well when I asked her what she thought I hadn’t cried about the look on her face. And here she was painting more confusing scrambled eggs.
I went to the door and pressed hard into the jamb, which of course she was face down and rigid on the bed like an exclamation point. She said to go away, and I didn’t. I stood there, lonely, both of us trapped in our own understanding of the other, me slowly coming to realize that who I was and who she wanted me to be were different, her realizing it too, both of us waiting for me to apologize basically for not being an artist like her, to just say sorry for it. I found that even though I was, I couldn’t.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Depression era foods, like jello or meatloaf
She was looking in the bathroom mirror pushing the features of her face around with her fingertips. I asked her what she was doing and she said she was playing Picasso. She threw her arm behind her neck and let it dangle there at an odd angle with her eyes gone crossed, which I guess she was Guernica then.
I tried reaching around her for my toothbrush but she pushed me away with her hip. I tried again and she swatted at my hand the way you would a mosquito or a disobedient child. I walked out then, because she never realized how the things that were funny to her carried weight from time to time. Anyway my teeth could wait her out.
I went out to the balcony that of course faced out into the apartment complex parking lot. If I were on the other side of the building I could see the power lines running through an undeveloped plot of land that would be an office park before I got a promotion or went back to school or reached any personal milestone besides maybe a birthday. I realized then, and this was a typical thing to realize while alone on a muggy night with eleven dollars and three cigarettes that were all supposed to last until payday, I realized that I had gone nowhere throughout one third of my life and had no intent to make a go of it really. Then the living room light came on through the window, and then the television came on through the window, and I knew that she was sitting down on the couch waiting to put her feet underneath my legs for warmth, and all of it was okay.
I tried reaching around her for my toothbrush but she pushed me away with her hip. I tried again and she swatted at my hand the way you would a mosquito or a disobedient child. I walked out then, because she never realized how the things that were funny to her carried weight from time to time. Anyway my teeth could wait her out.
I went out to the balcony that of course faced out into the apartment complex parking lot. If I were on the other side of the building I could see the power lines running through an undeveloped plot of land that would be an office park before I got a promotion or went back to school or reached any personal milestone besides maybe a birthday. I realized then, and this was a typical thing to realize while alone on a muggy night with eleven dollars and three cigarettes that were all supposed to last until payday, I realized that I had gone nowhere throughout one third of my life and had no intent to make a go of it really. Then the living room light came on through the window, and then the television came on through the window, and I knew that she was sitting down on the couch waiting to put her feet underneath my legs for warmth, and all of it was okay.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Not an ending exactly but
If we have to talk about it, I found myself years later on a bar balcony overlooking a college campus, radio rap in the air from some car and used bookstore poetry spread out in front of me like a map of living places, which probably it was. If I had thought about it, I would be sad that I never much thought about it, but then that’s a paradox worth ignoring. I took a sip of my beer.
The traffic sounds, the chipped paint tables, the stale smell of smoke in my clothes, they felt good. The same with it being about to rain, being boxed in by dark dragging clouds coming from the north and west. It had been months since I’d seen a building taller than the corn factory with the raised letters in what I guess was the bad part of town, and that was another thing to feel good about.
The rain began, smudging the words I’d written about Elizabeth Bishop, who was as lovable as anybody I’d met. Life is like that sometimes. Life is a gentle lie replacing the ungentle ones. But that’s just sometimes.
Where was she? I didn’t know. Wasn’t my right to know. It didn’t much bother me. I gathered up my poetry and went inside. It was early afternoon, so the place was emptied out save for a guy and a girl playing foosball in the corner, concentrating on the game with cigarettes hanging from their mouths, laughing. They were vital and young. Her feet slid along the scuffed floor as she moved between the handles. He could reach them all without moving. They moved together, and the small wooden men moved with them, and the ball made sharp noises against the sides of the table. I guess I thought it was pretty beautiful.
The traffic sounds, the chipped paint tables, the stale smell of smoke in my clothes, they felt good. The same with it being about to rain, being boxed in by dark dragging clouds coming from the north and west. It had been months since I’d seen a building taller than the corn factory with the raised letters in what I guess was the bad part of town, and that was another thing to feel good about.
The rain began, smudging the words I’d written about Elizabeth Bishop, who was as lovable as anybody I’d met. Life is like that sometimes. Life is a gentle lie replacing the ungentle ones. But that’s just sometimes.
Where was she? I didn’t know. Wasn’t my right to know. It didn’t much bother me. I gathered up my poetry and went inside. It was early afternoon, so the place was emptied out save for a guy and a girl playing foosball in the corner, concentrating on the game with cigarettes hanging from their mouths, laughing. They were vital and young. Her feet slid along the scuffed floor as she moved between the handles. He could reach them all without moving. They moved together, and the small wooden men moved with them, and the ball made sharp noises against the sides of the table. I guess I thought it was pretty beautiful.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Irresponsible with a heart is all
The worst part was there not being a worst part. Like how did we get here? I thought maybe if we got that dog then there would have been something to feel lousy about at least.
Look at it this way. I still couldn’t sleep at night, yeah, but I actually felt like getting out of bed sometimes. Looking at her across the table at that same damn coffee house as always she looked more beautiful, more alive, like I had taken something great and scuffed it like a sneaker. The question then is one of living with how the mistakes maybe weren’t mistakes, at least on a subconscious.
She asked if I had all the papers. We talked like old friends with a bitter lack of a future, ready to blame each other for things as a scholarly exercise. Every once in awhile she got those saran-wrapped eyes and didn’t talk for a second, looked out the window or picked at her fingernails painted blueberry dark and chipping. We both knew, though, that it was all reflex.
She said she had to go to the bathroom and could I get her a refill. I watched her go, looking for something new in her step or the way her body navigated chairs, and it wasn’t until she turned the corner that I realized I didn’t know her drink.
Look at it this way. I still couldn’t sleep at night, yeah, but I actually felt like getting out of bed sometimes. Looking at her across the table at that same damn coffee house as always she looked more beautiful, more alive, like I had taken something great and scuffed it like a sneaker. The question then is one of living with how the mistakes maybe weren’t mistakes, at least on a subconscious.
She asked if I had all the papers. We talked like old friends with a bitter lack of a future, ready to blame each other for things as a scholarly exercise. Every once in awhile she got those saran-wrapped eyes and didn’t talk for a second, looked out the window or picked at her fingernails painted blueberry dark and chipping. We both knew, though, that it was all reflex.
She said she had to go to the bathroom and could I get her a refill. I watched her go, looking for something new in her step or the way her body navigated chairs, and it wasn’t until she turned the corner that I realized I didn’t know her drink.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
After all day at the beach
The room smelled of sea salt and so did we. It was patterned in blues and seashells, just that generic ephemera nautica. None of this is what I would have done, but that’s a time share.
Somewhere over the weekend we had been drunk and something happened, I don’t know, to make us more than just two friends getting away from the concrete and steel. If that had been the plan or what, again, I didn’t know, either for my account or hers. Maybe it was just remembering what skin smelled like on a day like this, the kind of thing I’d forgotten about somewhere and needed to be told again.
She was back in her bathing suit that set off her skin so she was all pink and brown, sucking on a hard candy from the restaurant that she had slipped into her jeans pocket without giving to the charity. She always did that small time larceny on the leukemia patient at the cash register because she said it was probably a hoax and someone else would cover her Jolly Rancher eventually out of guilt.
She rolled over and pressed up against me, her skin hot and I knew she was about to realize she was burnt, maybe send me off to find aloe now that things were different, but for now she kissed me with her green apple lips and we didn’t talk at all.
Somewhere over the weekend we had been drunk and something happened, I don’t know, to make us more than just two friends getting away from the concrete and steel. If that had been the plan or what, again, I didn’t know, either for my account or hers. Maybe it was just remembering what skin smelled like on a day like this, the kind of thing I’d forgotten about somewhere and needed to be told again.
She was back in her bathing suit that set off her skin so she was all pink and brown, sucking on a hard candy from the restaurant that she had slipped into her jeans pocket without giving to the charity. She always did that small time larceny on the leukemia patient at the cash register because she said it was probably a hoax and someone else would cover her Jolly Rancher eventually out of guilt.
She rolled over and pressed up against me, her skin hot and I knew she was about to realize she was burnt, maybe send me off to find aloe now that things were different, but for now she kissed me with her green apple lips and we didn’t talk at all.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
I wondered where I was worse off
I thought some things were easy that weren’t. I don’t mean like nuclear physics or putting together an entertainment center. I’m talking about how my perspective was you could slide out from under the emotional weight of a lie whenever you wanted and create another, lighter one. This is called callousness, I guess, or it isn’t. I don’t even know anymore.
It goes like this. I woke up next to her with one of those thoughts you can’t figure, like maybe I thought that the clock always goes still for a second or two before I opened my eyes to look at it, like maybe it waited on me to start up again. The kind of thing that seems true even when it isn’t, you know? I used to think I had control over just everything, like the only reason we didn’t have good weather most days was because it suited me. I thought I was goddamned Zeus or something. I was full of illogical thoughts and the illusion of control is all.
I was there in bed listening to her deep breathing and looking at that clock when I realized that the whole of my existence was a path I could not see. Every time I made a choice—the choice to get up, the choice to roll over and wrap her up in me between the sheets, the choice to keep still right there and let the whole bleak truth of life wash over me some more, well, they were all made blind. Even if I could be childish enough to believe that I had a thing like free will, it didn’t much matter overall.
But my problem with the lies and the emotional weight. I didn’t ever lie on purpose. It was only that words were never enough for the truth. Actions either. There’s too much truth to tell to even try to tell it. This is what I was thinking when the clock stopped ticking for four or five seconds. I counted in my head. I never felt more alone.
________________________
No update on Thursday. Sorry. I'm on a book tour.
It goes like this. I woke up next to her with one of those thoughts you can’t figure, like maybe I thought that the clock always goes still for a second or two before I opened my eyes to look at it, like maybe it waited on me to start up again. The kind of thing that seems true even when it isn’t, you know? I used to think I had control over just everything, like the only reason we didn’t have good weather most days was because it suited me. I thought I was goddamned Zeus or something. I was full of illogical thoughts and the illusion of control is all.
I was there in bed listening to her deep breathing and looking at that clock when I realized that the whole of my existence was a path I could not see. Every time I made a choice—the choice to get up, the choice to roll over and wrap her up in me between the sheets, the choice to keep still right there and let the whole bleak truth of life wash over me some more, well, they were all made blind. Even if I could be childish enough to believe that I had a thing like free will, it didn’t much matter overall.
But my problem with the lies and the emotional weight. I didn’t ever lie on purpose. It was only that words were never enough for the truth. Actions either. There’s too much truth to tell to even try to tell it. This is what I was thinking when the clock stopped ticking for four or five seconds. I counted in my head. I never felt more alone.
________________________
No update on Thursday. Sorry. I'm on a book tour.
BOOK TOUR
SEATTLE, WA STOP
Tuesday, Oct 13th, 3:00pm
Pilot Books
219 Broaway E
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=138688946286&index=1
PORTLAND, OR STOP
Thursday, Oct 15th, 7:00pm
Reading Frenzy
921 SW Oak St
(I have heard a rumor about free beer at this reading)
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=112788939398&index=1
ALTERNATIVE PRESS EXPO
Oct 17th and 18th
San Francisco, CA
(we'll be hanging out mostly with the Topatoco people)
SAN FRANCISCO, CA STOP:
Sunday, Oct 18th, 4:30pm
Booksmith
1644 Haight St
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=271357790552&index=1
After that, I'll be heading back to my real life at doctoral school, but Mike and Joey will continue on to Los Angeles (and probably Tijuana if we're being honest). They don't have a venue for their LA reading yet, so if you have a place it would be cool if you emailed us.
I hope to see you guys there! Joey's going to read from Overqualified or from Lockpick Pornography or from It's Too Late to Say I'm Sorry, and I'll be reading from my novel Apathy and Paying Rent and a few vignettes here and there. It will be pretty great, probably.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Flip a switch and wait
We bonded most easily over hatred. We hated Becky, we hated anything to do with the word fusion, we hated the government, we hated ourselves. It was like junior high all over again, just the music was a little better and we drank coffee instead of Mountain Dew.
We would walk through parking lots with retro sunglasses on and just bitch and bitch until we got to the car. We weren’t fit for the world, it hated us as a matter of course, and we were going to kick with earnest futility at all the spiderwebs. This is how we justified making the faces our boss might make during sex. How we had a whole routine of noises to go along. Meanness suits the misfits.
One day while we were sitting on a coffee shop patio talking about reality television, which we only watched it so we could expend most of our mental capacity in complaining about it, I saw two birds hopping around a scrap of bagel, taking turns picking at the thing, you know how finches or whatever do with the bright and curious tweaks of the head. Something about those two dumb birds got right in under my skin and lived for a little bit. I told her I thought it was a pretty good scene, and she looked over her shoulder to see. She agreed, but she didn’t feel it violently like I did, and that got me full of wondering about what her love was like, if it was tender or subdued or an ocean or firecrackers or dying. I painfully wanted to know.
We would walk through parking lots with retro sunglasses on and just bitch and bitch until we got to the car. We weren’t fit for the world, it hated us as a matter of course, and we were going to kick with earnest futility at all the spiderwebs. This is how we justified making the faces our boss might make during sex. How we had a whole routine of noises to go along. Meanness suits the misfits.
One day while we were sitting on a coffee shop patio talking about reality television, which we only watched it so we could expend most of our mental capacity in complaining about it, I saw two birds hopping around a scrap of bagel, taking turns picking at the thing, you know how finches or whatever do with the bright and curious tweaks of the head. Something about those two dumb birds got right in under my skin and lived for a little bit. I told her I thought it was a pretty good scene, and she looked over her shoulder to see. She agreed, but she didn’t feel it violently like I did, and that got me full of wondering about what her love was like, if it was tender or subdued or an ocean or firecrackers or dying. I painfully wanted to know.
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