Out of Context

Attending a conference
a straight shot
from the Mid West
to the East Coast
having navigated the mountains
of Pennsylvania and invested
heavily in the turnpike

I am out of context

Each day my schedule is set
the night previous
sitting in my hotel room
unable to sleep
the daytime filled with
meetings and lectures
but afterwards I am lost

and out of context

Wandering the streets
of Philadelphia humming
that Springsteen song
taking pictures
of people and places
eating cheesesteaks and chinese
because taking pictures

gives me context

It makes me feel connected
showing the street vendor
the photo I took of her
in an exploding sun flair
giving the homeless man
a dollar to take his picture
ventriloquist dummy in lap

connections creating context

***

The Road to Damascus

Road to Damascus, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I snapped this photo of Anya today while we were playing on her brother’s bed. He has a mobile of the planets suspended above it which fascinates her. At this point she was lying on her back and starting to extend her arm towards it. I saw the gesture, I saw the light, and with only seconds to spare I used my phone to take the shot. Cropping and processing came later and it wasn’t until I posted it online that the significance of the photo hit me.

The photo is divided into three sections by two diagonal lines that are parallel to each other. The first section is Anya’s face. The middle section is the darkened wall and headboard. The third section is the sunlit window. Her arm dramatically cuts across these three sections extending through the darkness and into the light  with her finger pointing the way. Just behind the headboard and partially hidden is a carved cross that’s still there from when her brother had no bed but just a mattress on the floor. To the right of Anya’s arm you can see some paper icons he has in his window sill from Church School. The most noticeable one is in the bottom right hand corner and is of St. Paul. The rest are partially hidden or blown out from the sunlight.

So there it is, the story of “The Road to Damascus” in a photo where Saul-soon-to-be-Paul has fallen to the ground blinded by a great light that  is Christ himself speaking to him. The partially hidden cross represents Christ and St. Paul is there as well in his icon. This is what I love so much about taking pictures. I don’t always know why I take them and oftentimes I don’t consciously think about how to frame the shot, but once in awhile a story sort of forms after the fact and completely surprises me. It is like a little blessing or gift from the “Giver of all good things.”

[fill in the blank] Worldview

Reality floated into view:
an inexplicable undulating mass
pulsing and sparking, 
pregnant with mystery.

Scared out of my mind
I seized upon my stamp
neatly columned and lined
black with ink.

A white surface
flat and featureless
lay beneath it
beckoning for imprint.

At just the right moment
with all my strength
I splattered it flat
trapped and grid-bound.

I scribbled feverishly
filling in the spaces
making sense of it all
in a fool’s scrawl.

Now it hangs
limp and lifeless
on my refrigerator door
for reference.


***

In the Garden

Neighbor's Flower Garden, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

On the way out of the hospital today the Muzak playing overhead caught my attention with a familiar melody that I could not immediately put my finger on. I hummed along a bit as I walked and then a few words popped loose in my memory… “walks with me”… “talks with me”… sounded kinda hymnishhh… Yes! “In the Garden” came full bloom in my mind with its pseudo-romantic lyrics and its plodding waltziness. It was strange enough to hear a hymn amongst the normal overhead fare but stranger still was the fact it was being played by an unaccompanied accordion. I decided it was a sign I should call my mother.

Growing up in Southern Indiana in the 70’s my Dad was a minister and my Mom, well, she was a minister’s wife. She had a magnificent red and white accordion that she would play at church from time to time singing alto to my Dad’s lead. When it was at home she kept it in a large black case with silver snap buckles and a velvet lined interior. I remember pulling it out of their closet one day when they weren’t around and hoisting that fascinating contraption up by its wide leather straps onto my boney shoulders. It was huge and heavy. The bottom of it hit me about mid-shin. The right side was the keyboard and the left side had rows and rows of little red buttons, one of which had what appeared to be a diamond imbedded in it. When you pushed down one button several others would mysteriously and inexplicably depress as well. I was secretly impressed that my Mom could even play such a thing!

Once when my older sister was available we decided to take turns shutting each other in the case. I, with more daring than brains, decided to go first. I got into the case and assumed the fetal position. My sister shut it and then opened it a few times for me to get used to it. I then told her to click the snaps shut which she did, including the middle one with the key hole in it. You’ve probably already guessed where this is going. I stayed in the cramped and pitch blackness for as long as I could stand but then told her I was ready to get out. She couldn’t get the middle snap to unfasten. I remember yelling and beating at the inside lid in mounting panic as she ran off to find Mom. I’ve always been a little claustrophobic about tight places and it can likely be traced back to this incident.

So, I called Mom on the way home and put her on speaker phone. I told her that I’d heard an accordion playing “In the Garden” over the speakers at the hospital and took it as a sign I should call. She told me that that particular song had been very popular at funerals when we were growing up and that they’d sang and played it many a time at such. It then struck me as funny that when a baby is born at our hospital they play a snippet of Brahm’s lullaby. I surmised that maybe someone had died and so they played “In the Garden.” We had a good laugh at that (I mostly get my bent sense of humor from her). It’s been 2 years ago this week that she had her heart attack and we very nearly lost her. It was good to hear her voice and her laughter. As the song says,“And the joy we share as we tarry there...”

Here is Alan Jackson singing the hymn: In the Garden

Another World

Have you ever wondered what goes on in little minds that have not yet developed to the point they can effectively communicate what they are experiencing? It amazes me to think that in those little craniums countless neurons are growing, dividing, branching out, and finding connections to other neurons in neighboring parts of the brain at a dizzying rate. The migration of my neuronal paths ended almost 20 years ago and I have to be content with just the general upkeep of cell turnover and pruning while avoiding brain killing substances or falling on my head from high places.

Where did this sudden curiosity about the brain come from? Well, it came from my 7 year old of course. We were driving over to Great Clips to get his hair cut and passed a McDonalds that has one of those large three leveled indoor playgrounds in front. You know, the ones that kids clamor about until you give in and stop or else forces you to make vile threats to shut them up so you can drive on in peace. This time around he simply directed my attention to it and asked if I remembered when we went to one when he was four years old and we were living in Tennessee. I vaguely remembered it, but then he surprised me with what he remembered about it.

The look on his face was one I’d not seen before, like what he was remembering was new and strange somehow. In retrospect, I imagine it was a matter of him remembering an experience of something that had occurred significantly further up the neuronal pathway. Something experienced by a different kid for all intents and purposes. He said, “I remember standing at the top of the slide and I was really scared.” This was that twisty opaque tunnel slide that is the only way back down from the third level. He said we were standing at the bottom and trying to coax him to go down it. “I was really scared because I thought if I went down that tunnel I would end up in another world where I wouldn’t be able to find you or Mommy”.

What a strange predicament that must have been for the little guy! He had negotiated three levels of obstacles, some of which he could not negotiate backwards, and was now stranded high in the air with Mommy and Daddy so far away trying to convince him the only way back was through this dark hole in front of him, a somewhat counterintuitive notion for his little immature brain I’m sure. Not go back the way I came? Enter this hole and trust it goes to the right place? 7 year old Elias in the front seat of the car gave me a kind of embarrassed smile after he shared that as if to say “wasn’t that silly?”

Photographic Memory

Commute Impressionism, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I've recently come to make a habit of taking pictures on my commute home from work. It provides a kind of antidote for "zoning out" during that 20 minute time frame and forces me to look around at the world passing by and process it a bit. I think this is a good thing because there is a lot of world to experience between where I work and my house. Why should I ignore it? In olden times I would have likely been walking to work or waving and talking to folks while perched on the seat of my horse-drawn wagon. As it is, I speed along in my car but my heart can still take it in, a prayer connecting me to those I see on the way and a picture to remind me...

The Birds

The Birds, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I saw a "murmuration" over a massive conglomeration of rice paddies in South Korea in 1994 while on a cross country bus trip from Pusan to Seoul. It was not quite as spectacular as this one, but it's been a dream-like image that recurs from time to time in my memory and I initially had to re-remember where it was that I saw it to convince myself it wasn't just something I'd imagined. This video along with its soundtrack looks like something that would be in a Hayao Miyazaki animated film, but it's real!


Murmuration from Sophie Windsor Clive on Vimeo.

The Wizard of Us

The Wizard of Oz , a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

While reading some political commentary from a Right-ward leaning friend today about the “real motives” behind the Wall Street protests it occurred to me that those caught up taking sides in a politically bifurcated system can do little more than purvey half-truths and try and foist them off as the whole shebang. In looking back on the earlier phenomenon of the Tea Party Movement with my Left-ward leaning friends’ critiques I see the mirror image.

Using mirror as metaphor, it is like describing half a person, but then putting a mirror up to the edge to give an illusion of seeing the whole person. This half person posing as a whole person allows for pronouncements of nefarious connections and motives that are tenuous at best as well as providing a self-serving and incomplete picture.

Is this the famous “Straw Man” of debate fame? The Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz longing for a brain? Whatever it is I think this approach does precious little to help solve the problems we face as a society, but is more a symptom of its self-destruction. Maybe we need a Tin Man approach whereby we long for a heart?

Night Swimming

I learned tonight that R.E.M. is disbanding.  The flood of memories that have come with that revelation have been almost overwhelming.  I most associate their music with the two years I spent in Korea as an infantryman from 1991 to 1993, a strange and melancholy time for me.  I remember listening to songs from their album “Out of Time” while swimming in a pool on a lonely hilltop that overlooked the Demilitarized Zone with other members of my squad.  From this hilltop the fake city of “Peace Village” in North Korea could be seen in the hazy distance adding a surreal quality to this rare moment of downtime. 

“Automatic for the People” came out some time after we'd transferred back to our base at Camp Casey, headquarters of the US Army's 2nd Infantry Division.  The song "Losing My Religion" followed me in and out of the PX and shops in the small town outside of our base as well as haunted my trips to Seoul where it played through store front speakers in Myeongdong.  Their music was a kind of soundtrack for that two year tour of duty and that song in particular encapsulated my experiences, thoughts, and feelings of the time.

I remember one night in particular.  I was walking back to my barracks some time after midnight, having just come from hanging out with Korean friends in a coffee shop outside the gate in Dongducheon. Half way there I passed the base swimming pool and found myself staring across the road at the blue glow of the water behind a high security fence. A tremendous wave of melancholy washed over me. My mind began to fill with thoughts of my situation: far from home, far from family and friends, trying to find lasting friendships and relationships in a situation that was impermanent and tenuous at best.

The feeling was so intolerably strong that I suddenly found myself headed across the road while keeping an eye out for the Military Police patrolling in their humvees. I scaled the high fence and squatted at the water’s edge looking into its depths. As if in a trance I stripped down to my boxers and allowed myself to topple forward into the water. 

I wouldn’t say that I was looking for death per se, but it was a longing for a release from the emotional pain of life that is felt in those moments when we feel utterly alone.  In retrospect, baptism would be an apt analogy, wanting to move from death to life in the act of immersion and then rebirth.

I remember the glow all around me, the sensation of floating, feeling detached from my cares. I swam for no more than a few minutes staying mostly underwater. I wanted to continue to do that until the sun rose, but getting caught would have resulted in serious consequences in that environment. I eventually got out and put my clothes back on with my boxers soaking through my pants and walked the kilometer or so back to my barracks where I quietly climbed into bed and fell asleep.

***

Vespers

Vespers, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I attended the Saturday Vespers service at St. Gregory of Nyssa Orthodox Church last night and brought my camera along. While uploading the photos to my computer later in the evening it sparked memories of the first time I stepped foot into an Orthodox Church in the summer of 1995. A friend from college had an Orthodox publication that I had perused while visiting him which intrigued me. That led to reading more about this ancient Christian church that I knew so very little about.

That reading led to looking for a local Orthodox Church which I found in the phone book of a larger nearby town and I called the priest, Fr. Athanasius. I asked to meet with him and that led to some visits in his office and even a lunch date or two. In those early meetings he patiently answered my (mostly foolish) questions, but also encouraged me to “come and see”. This was difficult because I was teaching a Sunday School class back in my hometown on Sunday mornings. At some point I made the decision to attend a Saturday evening Vespers service.

I arrived early and nervously opened the front door. The first thing that hit me was the smell of incense and then I noticed the flicker of candle flames a few feet away. There was a warm glow about the place and a few people were walking around bowing and kissing icons. The service started and I heard the Psalms being read as well as chanted in a Middle Eastern sounding tone. At some point the priest stood in front of a table (the altar) with a golden censer in hand, quiet and attentive, with his head bowed. As the chanter began to sing “let my prayer arise before You as incense” the priest began swinging the censer which jingled with the sound of small bells… “hear me, hear me, Oh Lord.”

16 years later I still treasure Vespers as the sun sets and "we see the evening light", the candles brighten, the air becomes hazy with incense, and I feel my heart beating “hear me, hear me, Oh Lord.”

Pictures in the Dark

Drawing Pictures in the Dark, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

Most nights I lay with Elias after our bedtime ritual until he falls asleep and then I quietly extricate myself when I’m sure he’s asleep. Tonight he requested his Mom lay with him and was told she would join him after getting Anya to sleep. With this assurance of an eventual bedtime companion I left his room and gave dire warnings of what would happen if he were to be seen leaving his room as he’s wont to do if he is awake and no one is with him in bed.

After some time I was pleasantly surprised to realize it had been several minutes since my exit and he had not left his room despite me hearing him mumbling things like “I’m bored” from his bed while I sat in the office next door doing meaningful work (OK, I was on Facebook). The comments eventually stopped and not sure of what to make of his unexpected obedience I peeked in on him. His bed was empty and scanning the room I caught sight of his small dark silhouette hunched over his desk with marker in hand drawing pictures in the dark.

In the Night Kastle

In the Slanted Lands

where only shadows grow

lies the Night Kastle

Asleep in the parapet
lies little Kramer Krow
high in his perch
between sheets of ice and snow

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow

The cry of the grubble-snout
resounding long and low
awakens the sleeping Kramer
from his dreaming undertow

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow

He rubs his tired eyes
and wiggles his talon-toes
sprouting from his back
two slender black wings grow

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow

Tottering on his tower
a breeze begins to blow
he tumbles into the air
to go where he does not know

Falling feels like flying

Sleeping seems like dying

It sometimes leaves you crying

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow.

They’re gardening boots now...

They’re gardening boots now
Stained only with the dirt
Of my small raised garden

Seeds unsealed from plastic
Await a proper burial
Reminding me of a past

That still weighs on my heart
But gives me hope
For the possibility of new life

Reading Buck's "The Good Earth"

"The Good Earth" comes to mind
As I mow my yard and think of “the land”
This is my land and it’s not much
But I work it with sweat and care when I can

There are more weeds than grass
But I enjoy the variety that my neighbors lack
With their absolute uniformity
Of changeless blades

I add nothing to it that kills or coerces
Things that the liver must clear
To maintain the body’s health
But may revisit with sickness years hence

My son plays here where bunny burrows hide
Strange and varied flowers grow where they will
It’s my land and it’s not much
But I will not subjugate, only steward

Pirates for Hire

Sunday morning I was on call and the workload was mercifully light which allowed me to head home just after the noon hour. At home I was presented with the daunting task of “entertaining” Elias (which basically means keeping him out of trouble) while simultaneously helping J get the house together for the family Christmas get-together that we are hosting for the first time in our 10 years of married life. You can see the challenge I was up against.

Elias helped by picking the theme early, pirates. I dug through my chest-of-drawers to find two old bandanas that we could wear and he located his belt and sword along with a sweeper attachment that he gave to me for my “little cannon”. Now, here is where the parallel tracks of play and work needed to run through the course of the day. Our first task was to dig through a large box full of unpacked framed photos from our previous house with a plan to hang some of them so it looks like we actually live in the current house.

The epiphany came when Elias stumbled upon a small glowing monkey globe that had somehow found its way into that box, a glowing jewel, a treasure if you will! So, boxes were now treasure chests. It was a short leap from there to the idea that our house was a vast pirate ship requiring repairs and other forms of maintenance to keep it sea worthy. The upstairs became the rigging, the downstairs became the main deck, and the basement became the hold. Elias began to really get into this new idea with strange nautical terms and was helping me unpack dishes, carry boxes up and down the stairs, and put books on shelves.

The one bone that I had to throw him periodically involved shooting people that were bullying him with my “little cannon”. I really chafed against this kind of senseless violence, but it seemed a small price to pay for all the work I was getting out of the little guy. He would say something like, “that boy just pushed me down, Daddy Pirate” and I would have to immediately draw the cannon from under my belt and blow the imaginary kid away with a loud explosion sound. All in all a very productive day despite the terrible sight of imaginary bloody kid parts strewn throughout my house.

I Thought I saw the Theotokos

I thought I saw the Theotokos
walking the halls of the hospital
where I work,

her face dark, warm, and
glowing with an inner light,
hair bound up in a colorful wrap,

a veil draped over all
cascading down and
getting lost in the folds

of her ankle-length gown.
Someone told me she was
from the Somali community

here in our Midwestern town,
but I think I saw the Theotokos today
and it made my heart glad.

***

The Country Shed

The Country Shed
Originally uploaded by []Aaroneous Monk[]

Some time in the mid 90’s the so-called “bypass” in Marion Indiana was being widened to accommodate a growing amount of traffic. It was originally built to bypass the downtown area which had grown stagnant and made getting from A to B in a timely manner difficult. Over time it began to attract a multitude of chain businesses. With this kind of proliferation came increased traffic and traffic lights which eventually made it a not very efficient way to get from A to B. A casualty of this widening was a small unassuming brick building known as "The Country Shed”.

It was here that Indiana Wesleyan University students could experience some local-color-realism by breathing in substantial amounts of second hand smoke and eating off of greasy plates while sitting conspicuously isolated from the usual patrons. Kevin grew up in Marion and had befriended many of the unseemly types that frequented the Shed. My impression from the few opportunities I got to hang out with Kevin and the Shed regulars was that they didn’t exactly know what to make of him, but found him strangely compelling and over time even came to love him. At some point Kevin convinced three of these folks, a woman and two men, to allow him to create a painting of them sitting around a table talking and smoking.

I can think of few better expressions of letting someone know they are precious and unique than spending the time and effort to capture them in a fine art piece. And the fact they sat there for such a long time while Kevin worked at his canvas, feeling somewhat conspicuous or at least a little silly as they must have, said a lot about the reciprocal nature of what was being shared.

Before the painting could be finished the Country Shed was closed in order to be torn down for the bypass expansion. Kevin was able to convince the owner to loan him the table and chairs along with glasses, salt & pepper shaker, sugar dispenser, and ash tray. He had them set up in the middle of his small studio apartment so he could invite the three former patrons over to talk, smoke, and joke while he painted. The one man I remember meeting at Kevin’s apartment was likely in his upper 50’s with greasy combed back hair, beard, and a penchant for chain-smoking. He reminded me a lot of the Vietnam vets I would later go on to meet and treat at a Behavioral Health Clinic in Washington DC.

***  

Kevin was a “fool” in the sense that Prince Mishkin was an “idiot” in Dostoyevsky’s “The Idiot”. His straight forward naiveté in loving and accepting others unconditionally was likely incomprehensible to many who only knew calculation, mistrust, and hurt in their own hearts and lives. Now that Kevin is gone I wonder if there are those who now say “didn’t our hearts burn while we were with him?” And by those less gracious, “he eats with publicans and sinners.” May his memory be eternal.

The Haunting

30 April 2009

This past week I’ve been in the process of clearing from Ft. Campbell in order to begin a new life sans military. It is a strange place to be, no clinical duties, no set schedule, like a homeless person or ghost flitting about the base. As a ghost who haunts the places he once knew I have been eating lunch and spending my in-between-clearing-appointments time at the Adult Behavioral Health clinic. It’s nice to continue to connect with my soon-to-be former colleagues and answer the occasional lingering treatment question for patients that will be transitioning to someone else now that I am technically out of the loop.

Today I dropped in and was told that Dr. D’s office was available if I wanted to hang out there. Dr. D is our Clinic Chief and a civilian. We worked together in another building prior to the new clinic being built which now sits half demolished about a block away from here (see photo). Due to his long experience and the need for continuity (military personnel come and go frequently) he was made Chief when we moved into the new building. Almost two months ago he shared in the weekly staff meeting that he had been diagnosed and was in treatment for cancer, but did not want to make it public until now. The reason he wanted to let us know was due to the fact it had spread significantly which meant he would be missing some days for more aggressive treatment and he anticipated there might be complications arising over time.

Soon after that announcement I found myself filling in for him more and more frequently as Chief. The last two weeks of my clinic duties he was not here due to catching a cold of some kind which had progressed to something more incapacitating. Today I read an e-mail from one of the other clinicians who had just visited him at his home and reported that he was doing very poorly. As I write this I am sitting in Dr. D’s chair surrounded by many of the things that made up his life: pictures, books, graduation certificates, a very old “Two Way” radio from General Electric, and multiple post-it notes with various reminders. Despite having terminal cancer he continued to do his job in a very stressful environment helping transition our clinic to a more efficient and effective place of treatment for the huge number of soldiers returning from deployments. He will be sorely missed.

“Lord, Jesus Christ, Who suffered and died for our sins that we may live, if during our life we have sinned in word, deed or thought forgive us in Your goodness and love. All our hope we put in You; protect your servant Dr. D from all evil. We submit to Your will and into Your hands we commend our souls and bodies. For a Christian end to our lives, peaceful, without shame and suffering, and for a good account before the awesome judgment seat of Christ, we pray to you O Lord. Bless us, be merciful to us and grant us life eternal. Amen.”

-from the Orthodox Prayer Book

Everybody needs a little luck

Creche
Originally uploaded by []Aaroneous Monk[]

This is the second year in a row we've visited a Live Nativity at a church down the road from us. It is held in the evenings leading up to Christmas for a few nights and involves driving with your lights off around a very large loop lined by candles in plastic milk jugs. The camels (as advertised!) are a sure draw for Elias with the donkeys and sheep coming in a close second. We drove slowly from scene to scene explaining to Elias what was going on with the actors and admiring the real fires blazing outside prefabricated porticos, inns, and stables.

As we came upon the second scene along the road I saw a pregnant woman and her husband approach the innkeeper looking for a place to stay. I knew from the story that they had traveled far and long to get here and she was very near giving birth. I guess being a husband and father myself with the immediacy of the situation I was caught off guard. As the innkeeper shook his head "no" I began to cry. I must have been making some strange noises because Jennifer turned from the scene to give me a quizzical look. But for those few moments I couldn't help it. It was overwhelming.

Moving on, I got my hormones under control (men have them too ya know) and we rolled past the shepherds, singing angels, and then the manger scene with the three kings approaching one by one to bow and offer their gifts to the Christ-child. That was the last one and as we moved past it I said, "Goodbye baby Jesus, try to stay warm" in a sing-songy voice for Elias' benefit. He quickly added in a similar voice from the back seat, "and good luck!"

WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

Recently Elias has become more and more involved with using our vacuum attachments as his “shooter” and wearing his hooded bath towel as a head covering with flowing cape (clothes optional). His grandma dubbed him “Darth Vader” this past weekend which he quickly adopted as “Dark Vader”, much like Max in his wolf costume in the children’s literary classic WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE. We’ve been working on redirecting his desire to “kill bad people” into destroying “Robots & Monsters” (btw, I think we might just chuck our TV out the window).

While all of this has been transpiring the past several weeks I’ve been working my way through a collection of letters by St. Theophan the Recluse quaintly titled “The Spiritual Life and How to be Attuned to it.” As Elias and I were tearing through the house clearing it of Robots & Monsters room by room my mind made a strange connection. In St. Theophan’s letters, which are simply a modern application of the teachings of the Church and Desert Fathers, he makes clear the real battle we face. Not against “flesh and blood” (read: other people), but against our own evil inclinations and disorderd desires that swirl about inside of us and contribute to suffering in the world.

It seemed to me at that moment our efforts to transform Elias’ enemy from “bad people” to “Robots & Monsters” was just such a thing. “Robots” in his imagination are people-like, but devoid of warmth and love which can make them scary, spiritual imposters, much as the absence of these things in us can do the same thing, ie, dehumanize us. “Monsters” are those spiritually malevolent forces which assail us and which need be resisted. So, here is the lesson of St. Theophan, to direct our efforts at killing those things in us and not at “bad people” who are simply foils for our own inner frustrations and shortcomings which are outwardly expressed in violence and anger towards others.

OK, that was a little heavy, so now LET THE WILD RUMPUS START!