Dancing with W.W.

"I wandered lonely as a cloud"

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

I’ve read this beautiful poem by Wordsworth many times before, and I’m sure when I did, I appreciated its imagery, its form, its feeling, and everything else that’s wonderful about it. For some reason, though, when I recently read “I wandered lonely as a cloud” again, it struck me so deeply. Now, I appreciate all different types of poetry, and all genres of literature, but I think part of my renewed fascination with Wordsworth’s work is that I read it in an anthology while also reading other more modern poetry. Compared to these other poems, good ol’ William’s just seemed so much better. Now that I’m writing this, I think this conclusion I’ve come to probably just stems from my personal interest. In other words, maybe Wordsworth isn’t necessarily better than Jack Ridl or Ted Kooser; maybe I just like him more. Maybe my preference for Wordsworth says more about me than it does about the other poets’ work, no? After all, I, Shelley, am Wordsworth’s peer, right? So it only makes sense that I can more closely identify with his work than with that of the others.


I think a big reason why I connected so strongly to “I wandered lonely as a cloud” is because I specifically identified with the speaker. Often times, I will experience the beauty and magnificence of nature, and consequently, I will take the same journey that the speaker of the poem takes. I will wander along, I will notice or observe something stunning about nature—hills blanketed in wildflowers, the lull and might of ocean waves, the sun’s distorted light breaking through white, soft clouds, etc.—I will reflect on the meaning of my observation (or why nature has affected me so deeply, and why it has the power to do so) and never fully grasp the meaning, and then I will joyfully remember my experience with nature after the moment has long since passed. In essence, I guess the speaker and I both wonder what it all means because, like life, nature isn’t always so peaceful and soothing as “A host, of gold daffodils.” When it is, though, such awe and splendor brings a tear to my eye. That has to count for something, right?

I also appreciate this poem because it helps clarify why I love literature so much. Like the journey of reflection upon a moment in nature, we take journeys when we read and analyze great stories: we’re wandering along before we read a great novel or an amazing poem; maybe we’re a bit lost, or maybe we’re right on track; when we start to read something, we initially observe or experience the story for the first time during a first-reading; we reflect on the work of literature, and enjoy the quest to find meaning within it, whether we are successful in doing so or not; and then, “when on my couch I lie/In vacant or in pensive mood” I remember the joy that came from first experiencing the text, “And then my heart with pleasure fills” that such literature exists for my delight. So, whether I’m wandering through the woods or through a good literary work, I am happy to be on such a thoughtful journey; I can thank Wordsworth for bringing the process of such experiences to light.

Now I wonder: what type of journey fills you with delight? Please share!

Please, please give them something other than Romeo and Juliet

“Who lives by cunning, mark it, his fate‘s cast:
When he has gulled all, then is himself the last."
A Mad World, My Masters (last lines)

I may be biased because he is the subject of my current project, but I think Thomas Middleton is awesome and everyone should read his plays.

When I set out to write a new sample for my applications, I wanted to avoid the more popular names of English Literature, ie Shakespeare and Milton. If I wanted to set myself apart from other applicants, I thought I should probably avoid the authors and texts everyone seems to have already written about. Though Middleton is a “big” name in the early modern world (and there is PLENTY written about him), I doubted many students had been exposed to his works (based on my experience: in 6 years of school I only read one of his plays as opposed to more than half of Shakespeare’s works). At first, I did not decide to research “The Ghost of Lucrece” (his narrative poem) because I liked it but because very little has been written about it (which is very exciting when your field has been around for 400 years and usually you find that the essay you were thinking about writing has already been published and is better written). In fact, the first time I read the poem was in conjunction with Shakespeare’s version of the legend, and I thought Middleton’s version…well, kind of sucked in comparison. But it’s funny how almost 2 years away from a work can change your mind. (By the way, I don't think it sucks anymore).

For the past two and half months I have become very close to Middleton and his body of work, and I have found him fascinating. He may not be as “quotable” and his universes aren’t as “neatly” constructed as Shakespeare’s, but I find his cynical reality at this moment in time so much more fascinating and very… modern. Very often when I finish his plays and the Tyrant has just molested the corpse of the woman he’s been lusting after and an entire stage of players have killed each other in such a fashion that would put Hamlet to shame, I have that moment of, “What just happened?” It’s almost absurd. (in a good way) Bear in mind that I am no expert in Jacobean plays and this era generally tends to me be more cynical than that of the Elizabethan plays, but I have read enough Jonson and Heywood to at least feel that Middleton’s work is distinctly unique and so entertaining.

Firstly, his plays have this tension between wanting to moralize his audience and yet wanting nothing more than to entertain them; between tragedy and comedy; between laughing at the world and judging them; between the most bawdy humor and dirty jokes and the most penitent characters. His is a “mad” world full of contradictions; he can be scathing in his assessment of the state of society yet so playful in his treatment of vice. I think A Mad World, My Masters epitomizes these contradictions: a whore tricks her way into a wealthy marriage, the penitent adulterer is forgiven of his sins, and the adulteress gets away with tricking her silly husband and he ends up none the wiser. Yet in the end, they are all “gulled” in their own way. His universe works “quid pro quo” but is in no way "fair" (in fact, I think his plays redefine/question what that word means or if its even possible that fairness exist). He seems to believe that the world is rotten to the core but doesn’t want to give up hope yet. And, it is this double personality that makes his work not only entertaining but so interesting as well.

And, what’s more is the kind of “equal” showing he gives to women. He is no way a “feminist”-- which is kind of a superfluous title to throw at early modern writers anyway -- but I think the way he constructs female characters again is unique. Both men and women are criticized equally throughout his plays. It is not as if he blames the world’s failings on women; in fact, he seems to lay the responsibility on men. It is their inability to control themselves properly that has caused the downfall in the court and the kingdom. The idea that they “need to control their women better” is in itself misogynistic to modern thinkers, but the men in the plays who are “too controlling” are made to be the villains: the father who wants to force his daughter into a loveless marriage, the jealous husband who hides his wife in a closet, the suspicious husband who no longer touches his wife because he is so afraid she will cheat on him, the tyrant who overthrows the king for a woman. Yes women are constructed as second to men, but they are just as desiring, just as deceitful and just as complex as their male counterparts.

Now, it is not to say that we shouldn’t be reading Shakespeare and Milton (those close to me know that my love for Milton is borderline inappropriate), but I really think we should expand our reading beyond that of names familiar to all. I know this is easier said than done as the early modern department already suffers a lack of new enthusiastic fans. Most have only heard of Shakespeare so that is the only class that can fill easily--even Milton courses are having trouble with attendance. Our departments and students seem drawn to “trendy” literature and technology gimmicks that we miss out on great literature. And, what is truly sad is that the current trend is to make people feel guilty about studying dead white men. But these are the works that our the foundation of our culture and it bothers me that it is being dismissed as too exclusive. I just have trouble seeing why we can’t embrace our dead white male authors and not be yelled at for limiting the canon. And, what’s more, is most modern authors allude to the greats more often than not, which should make them necessary (you can’t study Romantic poets without have first reading Milton). It’s not about devaluing the minority it’s only about maintaining the value of our beginning.

And, this is why I think Middleton would be fun to teach even in high school. He is slightly easier to read than Shakespeare because his language isn’t as poetic, but his ideas and struggles are as thought-provoking and interesting. And, his cynical tone I think is so relevant to teens who seem to be getting more cynical by the year. There are very few great Heroes in his work, and I think his universe so aptly fits that of our modern world and has the same contradictions we post-modern thinkers struggle with. I think highlighting “new” authors from a period that seems “dated” to most students can possibly make it more exciting. Again it isn’t about saying Shakespeare doesn’t deserve his fame, but showing that there was a literary world beyond Shakespeare. There was a market and competition, and I think it could make the period seem more real to kids who see Shakespeare as a sole god from a shiny period. So instead of reading 3 Shakespeare plays they read 2 and a Middleton…(and, dear god, give them something other than Romeo and Juliet).

So, even if you aren’t a student or a teacher, I think we should create a new readership for Middleton--that is outside of early modern scholars. I don’t think he is as daunting as Milton and Shakespeare, and, he is very funny. I suggest diving in with some of his comedies and working your way to the tragedies. Maybe if we create a new audience, I could actually find a performance of one of his plays. And, now that there is actually an edition of his collected works, hopefully it will happen.

Quote of the Day

Stumbled upon this gem earlier on today and felt like it would be good to share:

The artist is a receptacle for the emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider's web. - Pablo Picasso 

So, on this ordinary/extraordinary Wednesday, I ask: what inspires you? 

How beautiful the season is now...I will need to enjoy it before winter

“How beautiful the season is now--How fine the air. A temperate sharpness about it. Really, without joking, chaste weather--Dian skies--I never liked stubble-fields so much as now--Aye better than the chilly green of the spring. Somehow, a stubble-field looks warm--in the same way that some pictures look warm. This struck me so much in my Sunday's walk that I composed upon it.” John Keats


On Sunday, I went apple picking for the first time (at least that I can remember--my dad swears that he took me as a kid and that there are orchards in California). And, it was the most beautiful autumn day.

As a native Californian, I had been told by my Midwest and East Coast friends that I had never really experienced the “true” seasons. I always defended my beloved state by saying that in the Bay Area we do have our own versions of the seasons and have some variety of color and temperature (in So Cal, however, we really only have Summer and “Light Summer”). But I learned this weekend that nothing is quite like a real Autumn: clear crisp chilly air, pale blue skies smeared with bright clouds, a plethora of color in the trees that sway in a light breeze. What I think the Bay Area misses is that clear transition into another part of the year, which I think is what truly makes Autumn feel more like an event, more like a purposeful move by nature to continue on its way. Last month, the weather had been holding onto summer, and then all it once the air dropped to just above chilly and the trees turned fiery red and orange. The air even felt and smelled differently-- the balmy weather of summer left and the lighter air of autumn arrived.

And, I think that’s what people like about distinct seasons in general; it feels like a different time of year. Those who are in school usually measure time by semesters--we know summer is over when school starts. And, the constant newness is refreshing, new teachers/ students, new classes, new projects. But for those of us who have entered the ever monotonous existence out of the school system, it is good to measure time with nature. I can’t generalize these feelings to everyone, but for me at least, it’s nice to feel as if time is progressing; it’s satisfying to see change around me when my life no longer has that constant newness that I thrive on.

It isn’t to say that my life hasn’t changed in big ways; I’ve moved states and we’ve just closed on a house today--but they don’t feel like my personal accomplishments. And, moving somewhere, for me, is a very slow immersion process. It takes awhile for it to sink in and to feel as if my life has changed. Life is more than just a place; it’s a job, it’s friends and family, it’s habits, it’s favorite restaurants and mostly, it’s school. Illinois may look a little different with it’s open spaces and flatness, but it’s not as if I feel like I live in a different country. It’s not as if I feel any different now that my person is in another state. And, especially with our modern technology, Skype, Facebook, airplanes, email, I don’t think distance and place really mean that much anymore--technology has eliminated these boundaries (And, I‘ve never been one to get homesick, no matter where I‘ve been). The biggest difference I can find is that the people are much more friendly here.

The changing seasons also remind me that the year is almost over, and it inspires me to work and write and accomplish--reminds me to keep progressing forward with my goals because nothing is permanent and the year is moving on without me. It may be morbid, but the dying world serves as a reminder that I only get one life and I need to make it count--which brings me back to my beloved Keats.

“Dying” may not be the best descriptive for Autumn, though that may be what literally is happening. When I went apple picking in a small orchard in Wisconsin, I didn’t see death--I was overwhelmed by life, which is what Keats found so inspiring on his Autumn walk. The sun was bright, and the trees were weighted down with apples. The air smelled sickly sweet because of the rotting and half-eaten apples littering the ground-- it felt like I was walking through apple juice. Anyways, I finally could truly understand why he wrote a poem “To Autumn”:


SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies

Autumn here is at once teeming with life but also subtle in its beauty and calm. In the first stanza, the season brings an overabundance: everything “swells” and is “plump” and “ripe” with life. However, the season paradoxically alleviates the strain that comes with its overabundant creativity. For instance, the coolness of autumn comes as a relief from the “warm days” of summer that felt as if they would “never cease”; the harvest lightens the trees that “bend” with fruit. In the second stanza, the abundance has been harvested, and there is a lazy calm that comes with this wealth--the sense of urgency that I feel is not present in this poem yet. The hours of autumn are slow, “drowsy,” and “oozing” forward. It’s as if the earth is falling asleep into winter. At the farm, the apples were so ripe that they were falling off the trees and rotting on the ground--autumn is they very picture of life and death, which I think is what makes this season so unique. In the third stanza the music of autumn seems that of preparation for parting--Autumn is the anticlimax of the year, but a beautiful one. The poem helps us appreciate the beauty of both the plentitude of the season and the death that lies underneath the surface. Autumn IS the passing of the seasons, of time. Life is full of both creative moments and movement towards an end.

Although the poem is about the season, it is also “about” the harvesting of one’s own teeming mind (if you don't harvest, all you will have is rotting fruit?). Just like the season, this poem reminds me (us) to create (whatever it is that you create) and to appreciate all that life has to offer… before it’s winter.

Next Roundblog: Appreciating YA Fiction

For our next Roundblog choice we will be reading Incarceron by Catherine Fisher.

With all of our previous chatter about YA fiction, we thought we could broaden horizons by making a recent YA bestseller our next book choice.

Please read along with us and join our next roundblog.

Round Blog: The Whistling Season and our longing for those simpler times

Melville: I know my comments lately have relied heavily on reader response for this blog and that trend is going to continue yet again today because, frankly, I adore this book. Ivan Doig's "The Whistling Season" was a treat to read. I love any novel that not only celebrates the art of teaching but ALSO manages to allude to Yugoslavians (some of the kids in the school were Slavs -- and frankly, this is the first book I've read in about five years that actually mentions anything remotely related to my Slovenian heritage)!

With that said, Doig is a master of regional literature. He so effortlessly captures a sense of place with turn of the century Montana -- a land of homesteads, open sky, and men with big dreams. To show us this place from a child's perspective also helps make Montana seem like a wondrous adventure -- from the daring backwards horse race to the marvels of a snow day. The older voice of the narrator effectively unmasks the unhappy truth that these small towns are slowly withering away and giving in to the pressures of a globalized (and, consequently, a homogenized) world. The narrator leads us to the conclusion that we must look back and treasure our gifts from the past.

My favorite character, and I'm sure my fellow "Bookers" will agree is Morrie -- the former crooked boxing manager who turns into a master one-room schoolteacher. His scenes in the classroom motivate me to be a better teacher and to want to bring that sense of vast possibilities of life back to my (mostly) already-worldly students. Doig cleverly set the plot of this novel as the same year as Halley's Comet appearance -- 1910. Morrie himself is like the comet, a brilliant visitor who flies through and sparks new life into the community, and disappears just as quickly. After all, what student wouldn't like a teacher who so comfortably fits in among scholars and schoolyard boys? I thought it was very clever that this Latin-spouting, Spat wearing, mustacchioed Morrie was also a man who can slip on a pair of brass knuckles to fight. What a teacher!

Anyway, before I talk about how much I wish Morrie was a flesh and blood man...I better turn this conversation over to Shelley.

Your thoughts Shelley?

Shelley: Great comparison of Morrie to the comet, which, until you so beautifully pointed out, I hadn't really put together. I also think the comet bears some significance in relation to Doig's perspective about memory, which is obviously inextricably bound with the past. Like the comet, the older Paul describes memory as being "magical" and "faithful," and exuding "radiance": "The Rembrandt light of memory, finicky and magical and faithful at the same time, as the cheaper tint of nostalgia never is. Much of the work of my life has been to sort instruction from illusion, and, in the endless picture gallery behind the eye, I have learned to rely on a certain radiance of a detail to bring back the exactitude of a moment" (152). Although viewing the comet (which I remember doing as a wee kindergartner) is vivid and impressionable, it does happen quickly and sparsely (like every 75 years). Such an experience is a memory in itself, but it also mimics the general experience we have while remembering a moment--certain parts are vivid and detailed, while most of the occurrence surrounding the details we remember are not (similar to the many dreams/nightmares Paul has growing up); at the same time, despite the more "illusive" parts of it, aspects of the experience and soon-to-be memory--essentially, our past--hugely influence the rest of our lives.

And this brings me to one of the most significant themes of The Whistling Season: the experience of our past as children growing up--and more particularly, the memory of that experience (the feelings and emotions associated with it)--greatly shape who we are for the rest of our lives, during the time in which we are "being introduced to ourselves" (5). This may seem like an obvious statement, but, as Melville mentions, Doig is a beautiful regional writer; as such, he emphasizes the importance of place--specifically, the schoolhouse--in the significance of our experience, the memory of that experience, and then the ultimate construction of who we are and how we contribute to society as adults because of that experience and memory. The happenings of the country school is not only central to the novel, but it is central to all of the students' lives: because they live so far apart on their homesteads and such, the school is not only where they learn their subjects, but it is also where they learn to socially interact, and become educated about the morals enveloped within such interaction. Take Eddie, for instance: without the aid of his experience at school, there would be no doubt he'd end up with the same destructive and selfish tendencies of his dangerous father; it would be difficult for him to know differently. Although his circumstances might not prevent Eddie from following in his father's footsteps, Doig stresses the beneficial effect the schoolhouse has had on this apparent bully: he sways his father to not beat up (kill?) Morrie because doing so would be unfair and illogical. In this way, Doig not only celebrates the actual place of the schoolhouse, but the leader within it (a leader who affects Eddie in such a way): "All points of the plains: without my ever having said a word to him about it, Morrie was conjuring paths beneath the paths that had arrived to my eyes back there at the schoolhouse pump" (127). Like Paul, the reader's eyes, or perspective, are led to the importance of the schoolhouse and the teacher within it. Consequently, Doig honors the significance of being educated at a school, as well as the monumental power and impact teachers hold; but, as older Paul's title as school inspector implies, Doig is concerned about how society is progressing, perhaps about the loss of memory in relation to a time long since past, or the loss of a simplified life and place which could shape individuals so beautifully. What do other readers of this text think? Paul is obviously remembering his education and how his beliefs were shaped, but is he worried about the future of education, progression, or a loss of place (as emphasized by the older Paul's point of view)?

Like Paul, I remember moments of my childhood schooling in extreme detail, and can see how it has contributed to my present self. Like Paul and Doig, I also remember the beautiful region that is Montana: "the pesky...whistling" (1) wind that would wake me in the summer mornings, a "homestead etiquette" (97) that most citizens abide by, the ever-present dust following fields of wildflowers and green meadows, and the starriest, clearest skies I've ever seen. Now, as someone experiencing and greatly enjoying Montana summers throughout her entire life, these memories might be more nostalgic in nature, however true they really are. One thing is for certain: Doig captures how beautiful simple homestead (family) life can be and was in the American West, with all of the Millirons' sorrows, struggles, and complications. They are intelligent, honest, mature, and caring natives of the country, not slow hillbillies or backcountry neanderthrals. Like the land they inhibit, and like the pace of the novel, the Millirons nurture and embrace their simple, faithful, magical, and radiant lives.

Your thoughts, Wollstonecraft?

Wollstonecraft: I mostly agree with my fellow bookers. My favorite character was Morrie and I found his character inspiring. Today, because we all experience so much media and so much of the world through the internet and television, it is hard to feel that wonder he created in his students for the comet. I think most teachers can agree that it seems harder and harder to get students amazed by anything because they have seen so much already. Even though the lights of the city block out the stars, they can go online and see pictures of the Milky Way. They can watch Gladiator and gain a version of history more exciting than the one I can tell them. Our visual media and wealth of information take away from our ability to give students something they’ve never seen before. And, I think this can be applied to adults as well; we all live in such a “seen it” age, it is harder to find that sense of wonder in our everyday lives. And, in this sense the book made me nostalgic for a piece of that “simple” past.

However, once I realized I like my right to vote, I like that more kids have a chance at education, and I like running water, I no longer feel nostalgic for the past.

Though, for the most part, I did enjoy reading the book, I felt torn about Doig’s longing for this era. The book champions these one-room school houses as a piece of not just the character’s past but that of America, and a piece that we need to remember. However, the problems of this nostalgia that bubble under the surface are left unexplored. Although Morrie was ultimately able to diffuse Eddie’s violence, the fact that it existed points to a problem with this kind of simple past: the lack of access to a quality education and knowledge. Before Morrie, the students were not getting that great of an education and many of the students will just be recycled through the small town. And, the lack of education produces the ignorance and violence of Eddie’s father. With the simple life of the past also come the problems of the past: ignorance, racism, inequality, etc. The only female character in the novel was the “perfect” Rose: charming, sweet, pretty, but oh so stupid. I may be taking the book too seriously, but I couldn’t help but feel annoyed that part of her charm that captured all the men in the novel was that she was a little bit stupid.

Doig also seems to vacillate between advocating the simple life of the “honest laborer” and supporting a life of the mind, or the intellectual. And, I do not think the book decides if there is a “better” way; perhaps he seems to say we need to appreciate both. (The book felt like it was written by an intellectual who wanted to find “real” life in the hard-working small town citizen.)

That said, I liked how the book criticized the education system today. Our schools are in no way perfect, and the current obsession with standards and statistics is diverting attention away from the real problems in our system (as Doig demonstrates in the novel). The book begins and ends as we enter this era of standardized testing, which comes with a different set of issues. We label all changes as "progress" without really understanding if this progression is any more effective. I also think it is interesting how he criticizes the unfortunate relationship between politics and education; the narrator is superintendent during the cold war where “science will be king, elected by panic.” And, the loss of the schoolhouse the narrator feels is all the more poignant with such a terrible setting as the McCarthy era.

However, education is only a small piece in the complex experience of Paul, our narrator. He is coming of age, and the book shows how seemingly small moments impact us and our characters forever, as Shelley has already discussed. More than anything this book is about childhood, the confusion inherent in growing up, the wonder at new adventures, the realization that adults aren’t always what they seem, the feeling that this moment will change the rest of your life—everything that comes with discovering where you fit in, which transcends the place and time of the novel. In a sense, even though times have changed, “childhood is the one story that stands by itself in every soul.”

Lastly, looking back through my notes, I wonder how nostalgic the book is meant to be about the past. I am always skeptical of hoping for the “good old days” (unless I was a white rich male), and there are moments in the text that show perhaps Doig is too. It is always dangerous to wish for previous moments in times of nostalgia because we gloss over too many of the problems and only see the good. We tend to romanticize these moments, which skews the reality of it.

Overall, I thought it was prettily written, though I wish he further explored some of his themes. For me, it is hard to long for the days Doig writes about, though I see the value of them as a piece of our history. I am too much of the information, blogging and Facebook age to really wish to live in the time and place he writes about.