Sailors on the Sea
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Music Soothes the Savage Me
Don't know how you are affected by music. Some people aren't. Not really. They hear a song and maybe they like it. Maybe they don't. They feel the beat and dance. Maybe they don't dance.
Some people are very moved by music. I've seen more than one person weep during church services when some particularly moving song is sung. Afterward, they are convinced God was very close to them. I know what they're feeling, because I've felt it myself. I have no right to say just how close God was/wasn't to someone else. I do know that in my own case, 99% of the time the experience was neither holy nor pious. It was emotional. God is with us always, so I guess when we have these emotional times with a song he is there. But my feeling, at least regarding myself, is that, if anything, I am actually less spiritual at that moment than any other. To be holy and pious is to act, not feel. Too often we get them mixed up. I do anyway.
But it was not my intent to preach in this post. You got it because it's part of me. I suppose you may read my posts, here and in my other three blogs, or my stories, poems, or reflections, or converse with me via comments or whatever, and conclude that I'm not much of a representative of my faith. I won't argue with you. I can't. I have no defenses. I am guilty of all you claim.
You see, my hope is not based on what I am able to accomplish, or be, or refrain from. Good thing, too. In my life I have accomplished exactly - nothing. What am I? Nothing. What have I refrained from? Nothing.
My hope is based on forgiveness. I know that when I love someone I cannot stay angry with them long. I have a need to forgive them, even if they don't want to be forgiven. That is my hope with God. So when you read me spouting arrogantly about my understanding of God, please remember what I am and be kind. Remember what is written: "God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise, God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong, God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are," 1 Corinthians 1:27-28
I guess that means I am chosen, huh?
Wow! Tangent. Well, so what?
Learning new things, be it a skill to keep/get a job, or learning who we are is somehow changing again, can stir feelings like a stick in an ant hill. I remember doing that when I was young. There was this old tree stump which had nearly rotted away completely. Some big black ants had set up home there. Thousands of them. They milled about doing whatever it was ants do. I would sit on the fallen remains of the trunk and watch them for hours - sometimes. And every once in a while, just because I couldn't resist, I would take a stick and stir the pile. I suppose I was cruel.
Anyway, back to music.
My feelings are running the spectrum back and forth. The Muses are playing hard and fast. I'm writing poems and short stories, and they're stirring my emotional ant hill. So many feelings running around like the Keystone Cops. That's part of exploring new creative areas, I guess. Some of the feelings are fun. Some aren't. My method for dealing with them? Music.
Over the last few days I have been listening to the same 65 songs over and over and over again. Some are quite mellow, and haunting, such as Are you Sitting Comfortably, by the Moody Blues; and Eres Tu, by Mocadades. Others express strong feelings, such as Bonnie Tyler's, Total Eclipse of the Heart, and Peabo Bryson's, If Ever You're in My Arms Again. Some make me cry, such as Believe, by Josh Groben. And some bring me back to an innocent time, such as Mason William's, Classical Gas. Suzi Quatro's, Stumblin' In, makes me laugh. (Especially with the accompanying lip-sinc video - see A Voice in the Wind.) Oh Me Oh My, by Lulu, reminds me what it feels like to be in love. Kenny Loggin's, Return to Pooh Corner, reminds me that I've left the path. Aerosmith's, Dream On, reminds me to keep trying.
Right now. Today. This minute. I expect the song to best describe my journey from Nothing to Something is Believe. Believe. Sometimes I think that's what the past seven years have been all about. Believe. Choose what you will believe, Bevie. It's important.
I could not make it without music. It's one of my many weaknesses. It fills the many empty places in my heart. God is there. But God doesn't fill the spaces reserved for other people and other things. He simply takes his place on the throne and brings music to sit in the empty chairs around him. Music touches me where I am, and not where I am seen. With music I am never truly alone.
Is God music? I don't think I've ever heard it said. He must be, I think.
Some people are very moved by music. I've seen more than one person weep during church services when some particularly moving song is sung. Afterward, they are convinced God was very close to them. I know what they're feeling, because I've felt it myself. I have no right to say just how close God was/wasn't to someone else. I do know that in my own case, 99% of the time the experience was neither holy nor pious. It was emotional. God is with us always, so I guess when we have these emotional times with a song he is there. But my feeling, at least regarding myself, is that, if anything, I am actually less spiritual at that moment than any other. To be holy and pious is to act, not feel. Too often we get them mixed up. I do anyway.
But it was not my intent to preach in this post. You got it because it's part of me. I suppose you may read my posts, here and in my other three blogs, or my stories, poems, or reflections, or converse with me via comments or whatever, and conclude that I'm not much of a representative of my faith. I won't argue with you. I can't. I have no defenses. I am guilty of all you claim.
You see, my hope is not based on what I am able to accomplish, or be, or refrain from. Good thing, too. In my life I have accomplished exactly - nothing. What am I? Nothing. What have I refrained from? Nothing.
My hope is based on forgiveness. I know that when I love someone I cannot stay angry with them long. I have a need to forgive them, even if they don't want to be forgiven. That is my hope with God. So when you read me spouting arrogantly about my understanding of God, please remember what I am and be kind. Remember what is written: "God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise, God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong, God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are," 1 Corinthians 1:27-28
I guess that means I am chosen, huh?
Wow! Tangent. Well, so what?
Learning new things, be it a skill to keep/get a job, or learning who we are is somehow changing again, can stir feelings like a stick in an ant hill. I remember doing that when I was young. There was this old tree stump which had nearly rotted away completely. Some big black ants had set up home there. Thousands of them. They milled about doing whatever it was ants do. I would sit on the fallen remains of the trunk and watch them for hours - sometimes. And every once in a while, just because I couldn't resist, I would take a stick and stir the pile. I suppose I was cruel.
Anyway, back to music.
My feelings are running the spectrum back and forth. The Muses are playing hard and fast. I'm writing poems and short stories, and they're stirring my emotional ant hill. So many feelings running around like the Keystone Cops. That's part of exploring new creative areas, I guess. Some of the feelings are fun. Some aren't. My method for dealing with them? Music.
Over the last few days I have been listening to the same 65 songs over and over and over again. Some are quite mellow, and haunting, such as Are you Sitting Comfortably, by the Moody Blues; and Eres Tu, by Mocadades. Others express strong feelings, such as Bonnie Tyler's, Total Eclipse of the Heart, and Peabo Bryson's, If Ever You're in My Arms Again. Some make me cry, such as Believe, by Josh Groben. And some bring me back to an innocent time, such as Mason William's, Classical Gas. Suzi Quatro's, Stumblin' In, makes me laugh. (Especially with the accompanying lip-sinc video - see A Voice in the Wind.) Oh Me Oh My, by Lulu, reminds me what it feels like to be in love. Kenny Loggin's, Return to Pooh Corner, reminds me that I've left the path. Aerosmith's, Dream On, reminds me to keep trying.
Right now. Today. This minute. I expect the song to best describe my journey from Nothing to Something is Believe. Believe. Sometimes I think that's what the past seven years have been all about. Believe. Choose what you will believe, Bevie. It's important.
I could not make it without music. It's one of my many weaknesses. It fills the many empty places in my heart. God is there. But God doesn't fill the spaces reserved for other people and other things. He simply takes his place on the throne and brings music to sit in the empty chairs around him. Music touches me where I am, and not where I am seen. With music I am never truly alone.
Is God music? I don't think I've ever heard it said. He must be, I think.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Well, I liked it Anyway
No comments on Lawn Bunnies. That's a pity. I thought it was funny. In a kind of twisted way. I read it to Spouse and Son. There was this delayed pause before they laughed. Son really thought it was funny, so I guess I should have posted it on a site for sixth-graders.
The poem started out to be one of those lovey-dovey pieces extolling the virtues of nature and causing readers to think about the beauty of a rabbit's life. Unfortunately, I have a bit of a twisted sense of humor, and I thought of a scene in Watership Down in which Fiver walks to the edge of a field in time to see Violet get taken by an owl, or hawk. I couldn't resist changing the poem's direction.
Sorry.
I still think it was funny.
Not because of the rabbit.
The joke was on the reader.
So I suppose I should post something else, huh?
Well, unfortunately, I have not been physically working on any significant work of prose. I did write a new story. It's just over 1,500 words. Where Apprentice deals with the stages of falling in love, The Cost of a Friend deals with the consequences of not following the rules. I've asked a friend of mine to read it. I hope they are able. No guarantees.
This makes the second short story I've written in a short while. Perhaps that's what the Muses want me to do now. I've no inspiration to work on an actual novel. My novel ideas are still in my head and swirling there. It's best to let them cook. Every so often I lift the lid and stir, but those meals are far from ready to serve at this time.
Short stories, and poems, are like snacks and appetizers. I guess that's where I am now.
There's been another explosion of ideas in my head and they're all running around clammoring for attention. To promise anything on anything not completed is to lie to myself. The Muses have me running all over. In one area I'm completely out of control and need to pull back. Perhaps short stories (under 10,000 words) and poems are the way to go right now. I'm in an emotional time, and short pieces grant me the flexibility of shifting gears quickly.
I promise, not all of the poetry will be of the same ilk as Lawn Bunnies. But all the same, don't be surprised if Risa (Muse of Laughter) doesn't inspire other works.
The poem started out to be one of those lovey-dovey pieces extolling the virtues of nature and causing readers to think about the beauty of a rabbit's life. Unfortunately, I have a bit of a twisted sense of humor, and I thought of a scene in Watership Down in which Fiver walks to the edge of a field in time to see Violet get taken by an owl, or hawk. I couldn't resist changing the poem's direction.
Sorry.
I still think it was funny.
Not because of the rabbit.
The joke was on the reader.
So I suppose I should post something else, huh?
Well, unfortunately, I have not been physically working on any significant work of prose. I did write a new story. It's just over 1,500 words. Where Apprentice deals with the stages of falling in love, The Cost of a Friend deals with the consequences of not following the rules. I've asked a friend of mine to read it. I hope they are able. No guarantees.
This makes the second short story I've written in a short while. Perhaps that's what the Muses want me to do now. I've no inspiration to work on an actual novel. My novel ideas are still in my head and swirling there. It's best to let them cook. Every so often I lift the lid and stir, but those meals are far from ready to serve at this time.
Short stories, and poems, are like snacks and appetizers. I guess that's where I am now.
There's been another explosion of ideas in my head and they're all running around clammoring for attention. To promise anything on anything not completed is to lie to myself. The Muses have me running all over. In one area I'm completely out of control and need to pull back. Perhaps short stories (under 10,000 words) and poems are the way to go right now. I'm in an emotional time, and short pieces grant me the flexibility of shifting gears quickly.
I promise, not all of the poetry will be of the same ilk as Lawn Bunnies. But all the same, don't be surprised if Risa (Muse of Laughter) doesn't inspire other works.
Lawn Bunnies
I had just finished feeding Firestar (cat) and was closing up the large bag from which I had poured about a week's worth of food into a small tupperware pitcher. The bag was on a small chest freezer which blocks the sliding doors leading to outside. As we have no deck (dining room is on second floor), the freezer only blocks the lower view.
Anyway, in the crusted snow surrounding my son's play area I saw the footprints of some of our nocturnal guests, who find shelter in Son's old playset, or under the delapidated shed Spouse and I built together. (It was delapidated the first day.) Suddenly, I felt inspired to write another poem. It was going to be several stanzas, but after four lines I realized I was finished. So, without further ado, here is, "Lawn Bunnies", by Bevie James.
I’ve watched the bunnies on my lawn
Playing, eating, ‘till the sun says, “Dawn!”
Being a bunny would be neat
To one day fly in an eagle’s feet
Anyway, in the crusted snow surrounding my son's play area I saw the footprints of some of our nocturnal guests, who find shelter in Son's old playset, or under the delapidated shed Spouse and I built together. (It was delapidated the first day.) Suddenly, I felt inspired to write another poem. It was going to be several stanzas, but after four lines I realized I was finished. So, without further ado, here is, "Lawn Bunnies", by Bevie James.
I’ve watched the bunnies on my lawn
Playing, eating, ‘till the sun says, “Dawn!”
Being a bunny would be neat
To one day fly in an eagle’s feet
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Turning the Worms
I once saw an interview with Gene Wilder in which he spoke about the creation of, “Young Frankenstein”. The idea was Wilder’s, but he knew that in order to get it produced he was going to need help. Ultimately, that help came from Mel Brooks.
The two men collaborated – and fought – to create a classic, enjoyed by millions in the original release to theatres, and again in VHS and DVD release. We have a copy of it, and Son will periodically choose that as the evening movie instead of more recent productions aimed more closely to his age. I think some of the double-entendres go past him right now (which is fine with me), but as regards sight gags and such he’s right there laughing with me.
But it is the “fighting” aspect of the collaboration which I wish to address. According to Wilder, they would have some horrible fights in which (he in particular) would consider just chucking the whole thing. Had one not been submissive to the other, that may very well have occurred. But Wilder admits to being intimidated by Brooks’ age, experience, and knowledge of the crafts of comedy and filmmaking. That’s not to say Wilder never won an argument. But his victories only came after great effort.
He relates an incident in which Brooks announces that a certain gag routine is now out of the picture. Wilder was horrified. “Why? It’s a great gag.” “No,” says Brooks. “It’s not funny at all. It’s out.” What ensued was a half-heated debate (Wilder was at the edge of tears while Brooks was impassive) which nearly broke Wilder. Then, out of the blue, Brooks changed his mind. “All right. It’s in,” says Brooks.
When Wilder calmed down enough he asked Brooks what had just happened. Brooks responded by saying he wasn’t sure about the gag. He wanted to know how Wilder felt about it. If he was willing to truly fight for it, then it must be funny. It was, by the way.
It's funny about dominance, though. With certain people I am dominant (not many), and with others I am submissive (most). With family and friends dominance is often determined by what is going on. I think this is called respecting each other's strengths.
Even so, collaboration isn’t easy.
Which is why I seldom do it. I tend toward the submissive side, which means my ideas are the ones which must be fought for. About twenty years ago I was involved in a collaboration effort with three others. I was the Scriber. I would write what had been agreed upon and present it the following day, or week. This allowed me the freedom to add new ideas which occurred to me in the writing. (Haven't you had had experience in your own writing? You have a scene all planned out, but as you write you discover a better way?) Many times these ad hoc ideas were accepted without complaint. But sometimes there would be an outcry, and if I wanted to keep what I had created, I was going to have to fight for it. Sometimes I did. Sometimes I got to keep it. Didn't much care for the fighting, though. Got no elation from either victory or defeat. We wrote some good stuff, though.
The two men collaborated – and fought – to create a classic, enjoyed by millions in the original release to theatres, and again in VHS and DVD release. We have a copy of it, and Son will periodically choose that as the evening movie instead of more recent productions aimed more closely to his age. I think some of the double-entendres go past him right now (which is fine with me), but as regards sight gags and such he’s right there laughing with me.
But it is the “fighting” aspect of the collaboration which I wish to address. According to Wilder, they would have some horrible fights in which (he in particular) would consider just chucking the whole thing. Had one not been submissive to the other, that may very well have occurred. But Wilder admits to being intimidated by Brooks’ age, experience, and knowledge of the crafts of comedy and filmmaking. That’s not to say Wilder never won an argument. But his victories only came after great effort.
He relates an incident in which Brooks announces that a certain gag routine is now out of the picture. Wilder was horrified. “Why? It’s a great gag.” “No,” says Brooks. “It’s not funny at all. It’s out.” What ensued was a half-heated debate (Wilder was at the edge of tears while Brooks was impassive) which nearly broke Wilder. Then, out of the blue, Brooks changed his mind. “All right. It’s in,” says Brooks.
When Wilder calmed down enough he asked Brooks what had just happened. Brooks responded by saying he wasn’t sure about the gag. He wanted to know how Wilder felt about it. If he was willing to truly fight for it, then it must be funny. It was, by the way.
It's funny about dominance, though. With certain people I am dominant (not many), and with others I am submissive (most). With family and friends dominance is often determined by what is going on. I think this is called respecting each other's strengths.
Even so, collaboration isn’t easy.
Which is why I seldom do it. I tend toward the submissive side, which means my ideas are the ones which must be fought for. About twenty years ago I was involved in a collaboration effort with three others. I was the Scriber. I would write what had been agreed upon and present it the following day, or week. This allowed me the freedom to add new ideas which occurred to me in the writing. (Haven't you had had experience in your own writing? You have a scene all planned out, but as you write you discover a better way?) Many times these ad hoc ideas were accepted without complaint. But sometimes there would be an outcry, and if I wanted to keep what I had created, I was going to have to fight for it. Sometimes I did. Sometimes I got to keep it. Didn't much care for the fighting, though. Got no elation from either victory or defeat. We wrote some good stuff, though.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Come Back, Bevie - I Still Love You
I don't write poetry much. Not much good at it. I tend to use the same few cadences over and over and over again. But when I do write it, it touches me. Good poets touch others. I don't. My poems are for me. Pity. But maybe not. My deepest poems often bring me to tears.
I wrote this just this morning. I got up at 1:00 a.m. and came down to the computer and caught up in the business inventory. Spouse has been wanting me to get this done for a couple of weeks now. I've not been good about it. The business is a failure and I drag my feet for it. Did get the Minnesota Sales Tax filed on time. [sad smile] When I finished, about 3:00 a.m., I didn't know what to do with myself. So I've been bathing in my music. I've been going home, where it's safe and secure. Looking for the place of comfort. When I came across Kenny Loggins, Return to Pooh, I opened Word and began writing whatever my feelings were. This is the result. I changed one line during my Read. Otherwise, its the original draft.
It's a poultice song, if you know what that is. My face needs to be wet right now.
I call it, The Spoken Words of Love. Just because.
The Spoken Words of Love
Love. I’ve heard it spoken of well.
It’s the thing of beauty which saves us from hell.
Come gather me, and wrap me in your arms.
Comfort me and hold me and shield me from harm
The beauty of your eyes is like emeralds in the sun
They shine in my heart and make fear come undone
You gaze in my eyes and I melt from your heat
I giggle with joy because our eyes meet
In your arms I can cry and rest from my fears
In your arms I am safe and you dry all my tears
I’m wayward and poor, and acceptance I seek
You give it to me and I’m strong when I’m weak
I love you, my God, and I wish I were good
You know I am not – I live not as I should
Forgive me and love me and hold me again
Touch my deep spirit and keep me from sin
I am such a child, I am such a fool
My need to be loved just makes me a tool
Let me cry now and let me now sleep
Take the weeds from my garden before I must reap
Love. I’ve heard it spoken of well.
It’s the thing of beauty which saves us from hell.
Come gather me, and wrap me in your arms.
Comfort me and hold me and shield me from harm
I wrote this just this morning. I got up at 1:00 a.m. and came down to the computer and caught up in the business inventory. Spouse has been wanting me to get this done for a couple of weeks now. I've not been good about it. The business is a failure and I drag my feet for it. Did get the Minnesota Sales Tax filed on time. [sad smile] When I finished, about 3:00 a.m., I didn't know what to do with myself. So I've been bathing in my music. I've been going home, where it's safe and secure. Looking for the place of comfort. When I came across Kenny Loggins, Return to Pooh, I opened Word and began writing whatever my feelings were. This is the result. I changed one line during my Read. Otherwise, its the original draft.
It's a poultice song, if you know what that is. My face needs to be wet right now.
I call it, The Spoken Words of Love. Just because.
The Spoken Words of Love
Love. I’ve heard it spoken of well.
It’s the thing of beauty which saves us from hell.
Come gather me, and wrap me in your arms.
Comfort me and hold me and shield me from harm
The beauty of your eyes is like emeralds in the sun
They shine in my heart and make fear come undone
You gaze in my eyes and I melt from your heat
I giggle with joy because our eyes meet
In your arms I can cry and rest from my fears
In your arms I am safe and you dry all my tears
I’m wayward and poor, and acceptance I seek
You give it to me and I’m strong when I’m weak
I love you, my God, and I wish I were good
You know I am not – I live not as I should
Forgive me and love me and hold me again
Touch my deep spirit and keep me from sin
I am such a child, I am such a fool
My need to be loved just makes me a tool
Let me cry now and let me now sleep
Take the weeds from my garden before I must reap
Love. I’ve heard it spoken of well.
It’s the thing of beauty which saves us from hell.
Come gather me, and wrap me in your arms.
Comfort me and hold me and shield me from harm
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Happy Rabbit Hole Day!
Make way! Make way for The Detective! Over here, Sir.
My, what a mess!
Yes, Sir. What should we do about it, Sir?
Clean it up, of course!
That’s been tried sir. The King…
1 Yes, yes. I know about The King. He’s quite merry up in that castle of his.
Yes, Sir. And he sent…
2 No good. They couldn’t do it. You go find someone who can.
Who, sir?
Find someone!
Very good, Sir.
You! Boy! What’s your name?
Jack.
What do you think you are doing?
3 Jumping.
No, you’re not.
Well, I was jumping. But my toe caught afire.
I see. You know anything about this mess?
Oh, no Sir. I’ve just been jumping.
Well, stick around for questioning. Do you know who that is?
Oh, yes, Sir. That’s Jack.
Jack? I thought you were Jack.
I am. But so is he. He’s a builder.
A builder? What does he build?
4 This house over here, for one thing.
What about this other fool?
His name’s Jack, too.
Jack, huh? Hey, you! Jack! Where you going?
5 To get some water.
Know anything about this mess?
No, Sir.
Detective! Detective!
What is it, little girl?
That old man.
6 You mean the odd one with the even stranger cat?
Yes.
What about him?
7 He was playing with my knee.
Deputy!
Yes, Sir.
Arrest that man!
Sir, we just don’t know how to clean up this mess. Do you have a suggestion?
Yes.
Sir?
8 Get a large frying pan and let’s have an omlette.
In case you missed any, here the the eight ( 8 ) nursery rhyme references:
1 Old King Cole
2 All the King's Horses (part of Humptey Dumptey)
3 Jack Be Nimble
4 This is the House That Jack Built
5 Jack and Jill
6 There Was a Crooked Man
7 This Old Man
8 Humptey Dumptey
Yes, I know. I may as well have forgotten. This is hardly my best stuff. The poems were better.
This is NOT the story I was planning on posting. I apologize. I got caught up with something and used up all of my time. This is basically my notes. I was planning on a nice story of about about a thousand words. Sorry. I screwed up.
I do have some cute poems on the other blogs that I did get in on time: Cat in the Buff, A Voice in the Wind and SOF - The People. Maybe next year I'll be better organized. Sigh.
My, what a mess!
Yes, Sir. What should we do about it, Sir?
Clean it up, of course!
That’s been tried sir. The King…
1 Yes, yes. I know about The King. He’s quite merry up in that castle of his.
Yes, Sir. And he sent…
2 No good. They couldn’t do it. You go find someone who can.
Who, sir?
Find someone!
Very good, Sir.
You! Boy! What’s your name?
Jack.
What do you think you are doing?
3 Jumping.
No, you’re not.
Well, I was jumping. But my toe caught afire.
I see. You know anything about this mess?
Oh, no Sir. I’ve just been jumping.
Well, stick around for questioning. Do you know who that is?
Oh, yes, Sir. That’s Jack.
Jack? I thought you were Jack.
I am. But so is he. He’s a builder.
A builder? What does he build?
4 This house over here, for one thing.
What about this other fool?
His name’s Jack, too.
Jack, huh? Hey, you! Jack! Where you going?
5 To get some water.
Know anything about this mess?
No, Sir.
Detective! Detective!
What is it, little girl?
That old man.
6 You mean the odd one with the even stranger cat?
Yes.
What about him?
7 He was playing with my knee.
Deputy!
Yes, Sir.
Arrest that man!
Sir, we just don’t know how to clean up this mess. Do you have a suggestion?
Yes.
Sir?
8 Get a large frying pan and let’s have an omlette.
In case you missed any, here the the eight ( 8 ) nursery rhyme references:
1 Old King Cole
2 All the King's Horses (part of Humptey Dumptey)
3 Jack Be Nimble
4 This is the House That Jack Built
5 Jack and Jill
6 There Was a Crooked Man
7 This Old Man
8 Humptey Dumptey
Yes, I know. I may as well have forgotten. This is hardly my best stuff. The poems were better.
This is NOT the story I was planning on posting. I apologize. I got caught up with something and used up all of my time. This is basically my notes. I was planning on a nice story of about about a thousand words. Sorry. I screwed up.
I do have some cute poems on the other blogs that I did get in on time: Cat in the Buff, A Voice in the Wind and SOF - The People. Maybe next year I'll be better organized. Sigh.
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