Keep Writing Lover

"I'm a writer." Invariably my rapt listener will ask, "What do you write?" I write much poetry but never call myself a poet. I don't feel like a poet. What do poets feel like? Now there's a question. I started writing poetry after my divorce to deal with emotional pain. I tried journaling but found that journaling intensified my feelings to suicidal levels. I tried to quit writing but have a serious addiction to words. One day at Portland's original Rose Garden, Pennisula Park, late in the afternoon I wrote a poem. It saved my life. Thank you, God.

I needed a way to let out pain that did not involve guns, knives, or carbon monoxide. To my delight I found that poetry had a built-in safety valve. The beauty of the language made the pain of the words bearable. I cried tears of pain and tears of joy at the same time. Over the next months poetry helped me see beauty both inside and outside of the words. The more I wrote the better I felt. For a time people wondered just where I got my smoke.

Poetry's gave me an avenue to reenter the writing world. Originally I wrote to express deep emotions. Today, I have wider purpose. My poetic healing has freed me to start a couple novels. I write less poetry today than I did early on in the divorce. However, I still write two or three poems a week. Poetry feels like singing to me. I can write something; however, if I want to bring music to the words I resort and revert to my poetry. To me the world seems ugly. Poetry helps me see the beautiful.

Today I went a poetry reading sponsored by Spare Room featuring Crag Hill and Douglas Rothschild. As mentioned above I don't feel like poet. Let me say that differently. I feel inadequate. Today I went to the reading with the feeling very much on the frontal lobe.

I enjoyed hearing both men read their poems. I realized quite soon that they wrote for a different poetic purpose. Their poems did not drip with emotions or flowery imagery. Neither seemed suicidal. Both men have taught writing in upper echeleon educational instituitions. They had a better, wider grasp of literature than myself. They spoke poetically of international politics and inconsistencies in American policies and philosophies. As you might imagine my inadequate feelings went off the scale.

Surely these guys would see my poetry as mindless, emotional drivel. I rode away on my bicycle feeling full of good food but empty of confidence in my poetic existence. With that feeling I sat to write this blog. I got to right here when I had an incredible, brief, glancing but powerful epiphany hit my brain. I saw a similarity.

It brought tears to my eyes. Both poets spoke of something obviously painful to them. Both spoke of socio-politicial ugliness. It obviously bothered them. They felt pain, yes, of a different nature than mine but pain nonetheless. Ugliness and Beauty Wed in the Santified Hall of Poem's Cathedral. Beauty made the Pain bearable.

Ugliness and Beauty Wed

in Poem's Cathedral

socio-political, personal, human ugly

take thee beauty, metre, metaphor, and rhyme

yielding unbearable children bearable

ugly terrible

with tender and for this time

beast and beauty snuggle

in Poem's Cathedral.

Some people think that writer's live as a tortured lot. To the contrary, I have found most writers happy and well adjusted. I do believe, however, that writers by the nature of their craft observe more than the common populace. They see the ugliness that others miss in the rush. Sensitive souls, that ugliness bothers. Writers and poets in particular long for beauty. Ugliness powers their desire for beauty which accounts for the two sharing the same bed.

I sometimes hear writers criticize other writers. I understand. However, something in me rebels against the criticism. I love anyone who puts pen to paper. I love their courage. I love their longing for a different world made of their creating. We all have room for improvement. Who can say that the poem written from the mental ward in crisis has less value than the one written from the halls of institutes of higher learning?

I left the reading and stopped by Laurelhust park where a symphony orchestra played Haydn. I started this blog there. I closed my eyes. I seldom listen to classical music. I like the lyrical and melodic themes of different musical forms. Classical music feels directionless and random to me. I lean toward composers like Vavaldi because he has clearly musical themes. Please forgive me music critics. Thank God, however, that we have different music genres. Thank God we have different writing voices. God teaches me to look for the similarities and appreciate the differences.

What a day, huh? Ideas for this blog started in my new friends' backyard listening to poetry, continued in the park listening to Haydn, developed into concrete thoughts at Starbucks listening to James Taylor, and at 11:20 p.m. comes to completion at 24 hour Fitness after the hot tub and with a bit more of Taylor in the ear buds.

I usually end the blog with some admonition to the courage creative ones. I woke up late. I felt nothing creative stirring within and went to the poetry reading with high hopes and low energy. I felt little through the reading but took notes and wrote a poem there. I had unrecognized, unacknowledged feelings of inadequacy festering in my pysche. My Muse kissed me on the cheek, "Hey, inadequate one, if there were no ugliness, would you or could you write of beauty? Keep writing, lover." And so reader, listen to my Muse. Keep Writing Lover.

The Advantage of Blind Faith

I set out for Hollywood and arrived. See proof. See the pained expression. I look that way squinting into the sun and leaning back enough to get the Hollywood sign in the picture. I arrived at Hollywood but someone just told me that I missed California. I sit in Hollywood, Oregon a subcommunity in Portland.

Often in life we end up someplace other than we planned. The years pass, the cynicism grows, and we get beat up along the path toward the wrong place. I have always liked the line in the movie "Seabiscuit" where Smith the trainer says to Howard the horse owner, "You don't throw away a whole life just because it's beat up a little." Smith understood that with horses, but later in the movie their jockey, Spiderman (Toby Mcquire), Red Pollard, admits that he has lost vision in one eye. Smith wants to throw him out on his ear. Howard takes him by the shoulder and gently says, "You don't throw away a whole life just because it's beat up a little."

The road to Hollywood has bodies strewn along it's shoulders. We encounter life. Creativity needs nurturing and usually goes first along with our innocence and imagination and our faith. It takes effort to develop it and faith to keep it. I will show some unusual honesty here. I have trouble keeping the faith in regards to my creativity. Hey, even Stephen King had thrown his books in the trash. His wife fished out Carrie and sent it in to a publisher. King had already done it before. For some odd fate reason, the publisher took it this time. Even Stephen King had lost faith in himself.

What keeps me going? Sometime I give up and go watch a movie or worse. I keep coming back. Why? One, I think God has called me to this and has given me some gifting--that's the way you say it if your from Minnesota or were taught not to have confidence. Confidence and pride meant the same thing to my parent's generation. And so I struggle to believe the calling or the gift.

Sometimes it helps to go back and read something published. Believe it or not I have published. I recently reread some stuff I wrote years ago, and had to admit that "it was pretty good." Sometimes it helps to hear other authors at a book reading. I'm in need of that again. It helps to just keep writing. It helps to dream a little about success even if it takes imagination. I dream of my first book tour. This blog helps me keep going. I know that at least I write and hopefully develop a following.

I have learned that you cannot and must not try to get faith from others. They probably don't know their calling nor do they have faith in that calling. How can you expect them to have faith in you?

You know, it helps to have "blind faith." The Bible says, "Faith is the evidence of things not seen." It helps to go blind because the blindness that prevents you for seeing success is the same blindness that prevents you from seeing the obstacles to your success. Use blindness to your advantage. Turn that blind eye to obstacles, failures, limitations, temptations, and past mistakes. Why do I choose to see failure and refuse to see success? If I pretend blindness, why not live blind to it all?

I have rambled. Today's blog shows me processing during a downtime in the writing life. Obviously, I'm writing and so it evidently worked this little talk with myself. I hope it helped you. Keep living creatively. God made you that way.

Speaking for the Speechless

I spoke at a memorial service today for my sailing buddy. Bob had wanted to sail his whole life and upon retirement had the opportunity. I had the privilege of learning with Bob in those early years of sailing. His wife wanted someone from his sailing circle to speak. I felt honored to tell some sailing stories and talk about my friend.

Several people came to me after the service and expressed gratitude for my words. It touched me and caused me some thought. In the service I made the comment, “If I had to choose one word to describe Bob, I would choose the the word 'gracious'.” I heard an audible, collective gasp in the audience, and could see the word hit them. All felt the same and knew that I had hit upon the right word. His wife shook her head in acknowledgment and tears came to her eyes. I went on to tell some sailing stories illustrating his graciousness (see yesterday's blog).

Other people felt what I felt. I put it into words for them. Most times I think that I write for me to express my thoughts. Often I think about the people for whom I write. I have never thought of writing as me expressing thoughts and feelings for others. When you work on your particular craft, you develop an ability to do something that others may not have the ability to do for themselves. Today, I spoke for others. I expressed their thoughts, their emotions, and their connections with others.

I need remember this lesson. I write for others, but I express words for the entire human race. I have seen the same in music. I can't make the music, but I trust others who have chosen that endeavor to sing and play for me. I can't do pottery, but the potter expresses what I can't. I can't work on my car either. I depend on the creative mechanic to communicate with the beast.

If you have no desire to live the creative life for yourself, think about living it for others. You creative outlet gives you a unique opportunity to express what others cannot express for themselves. I speak much about writing because I have chosen that avenue. Your creative expession may lie more along the lines of drying flowers. Use it to capture the beauty that I don't know how to capture.

Random Acts of Writing Kindness

George Bailey Goes to Oregon

He lived His Wonderful Life

now in Stumptown free of Bailey Bank strife

He lives a coffee snob.

He and

Clarence hob nob.

Sip, sip, ring, ring, another angel earns wings.

Your persevered balusters loose wanting to fling.

Tonight you and Mary will Willamette walk

and of your Wonderful Eternal Life talk.

I wrote this poem some months ago in a coffee shop which featured Wonderful Life paraphernalia. When doing my laundry, I usually slip over to this kava shop to write. I like the atmosphere and the folks who work the counter (excuse me Barista...what's a female Barista?)

I could leave a tip like normal folks, and I do. However, I like to utilize the personal touch occassionally. And so, I'll write a

poem for a shopkeeper or a brief note to someone who looks down. Words have great power.

Recently, I came across an old friend through Facebook. We worked "together" for a curricula publisher. I laugh when I read that last sentence. I never met my boss nor did I meet this friend. I worked as a freelance writer in Oregon for the company based in Texas. Anyway, the company went under and put the employees through some rough stuff. In the middle of it all, I wrote my friend a note.

Some fifteen years later I learned that she has kept that note. I love that about writing. Had I just spoken a word of encouragement, it would have encouraged for the moment. Writing has an eternal quality. "In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God."

Last summer I got a job helping paint a house. The crew usually retired to a coffee shop in the locale for lunch. The Black Cat has a unique atmosphere. We have a large lesbian population in Oregon and seemingly many of the shops cater to and/or have that population as proprietors. Did I say that delicately or what? As a side note they had a sign in the restroom which read, "The hardest thing about explaining my move to Oregon was convincing my mother that I wasn't a lesbian."

Anyway, I liked this little shop and it's folks (Baritas again). One day I got to talking with the baritas about writing--imagine that. I asked her about her writing life. I felt connected and wrote her a poem. I don't think I save that poem which strikes me as odd. I gave it to her and left. Let me put your mind at ease. The poem encouraged her as a writer. I kept the love part to myself; although, as a fellow writer I did feel a good measure of "love" toward her.

I love to see my work published. I like money and acclaim, but I live for these little moments writing where I can touch another's life with encouragement or comfort. Use your creativity to enrich the world. I have this theory. If I learn with my writing to enrich my world with the little "w," quite possibly God will use me to enrich the World.

As always I end by encouraging my fellow travelers toward creating. Create people! Create in love. Create to enrich the lives of others and in the process find your own enriched.

Words that Touch the Soul

We write to describe, inform, instruct, and entertain. Occasionally, a writer gets to use his writing in a personal manner to encourage, to express love, to extend empathy, or to show sympathy. I've had two such occassions this week. Like most writers, I have a sense of satisfaction seeing and reading my words in print. However, my spirits soar knowing that those same words touched a life.

I write these words through tears. I just lost a dear sailing friend. The family has asked me speak at the memorial service. I will share the following:

I met Bob through a mutual sailing buddy. Bob had a boat and needed a mate. I worked nights, sailed days, and looked for any opportunity to sail. Bob and I cast our lots together on his little boat we called the Compaq. I had a little more experience than Bob but not much. We learned together by many errors and even more trials.

I had the privilege of sailing with Bob alone. I know him as a sailor and a friend. If I had to pick one word to describe Bob, I would pick the word “gracious.” Bob carried himself first and foremost as a gentleman. He had class.

Bob invited myself, my wife, and another couple to Hawaii. The women looked forward to land activities. The men went over to sail Bob's newest boat. With the boat largely untested and unknown by this crew, we set off to Diamond Head from Pearl Harbor. The wives wisely stayed home.

We had a great sail aside from dodging nuclear submarines which kept popping up beside us at inconvenient times and aside from one-third of the crew now incapacitated below with seasickness. Once again, Bob and I found ourselves sailing alone together. He and I sat on deck the wind blowing through his full head of hair and blowing through my ears. We teased our sick mate and enjoyed the wind, wave, and wonder of Hawaii. I'll never forget that glorious day with Bob.

Bob graciously suggested that we turn around for the crew's sake. I reluctantly agreed. We sailed until we could see the entrance to Pearl Harbor. I walked back to the motor and gave a hearty yank on the starter cord which promptly snapped off in my hand without unfortunately starting the motor.

I yelled at the sick mate to come topside. “No, I don't care how you feel. I need your help up here.” We had our continuing sub escort, the wind on our nose, a narrow inlet to navigate, no motor, and one very sick mate. We called on the radio for help, and heard only silence in reply. I remember as an added bonus that the poisonous jelly fish had started their annual migration through Hawaii. The water teemed with them. I really wanted to avoid a swim. Dave and I tried to sail in. I believe Bob finally raised someone on the radio.

But you know what I remember most about the day? Bob never yelled at me, never accused me, never even teased me about the starter cord. Ever gracious, he never converted his fear into anger. He handled it well.

On the Columbia River in a different boat with a brand new motor I tested Bob again. Why these guys ever let me start a motor I can't figure. This time the entire throttle unit came off in my hands and promptly dropped to the bottom of the river.

We had to negotiate a three knot current and a crowded marina with an engine that ran but ran without the benefit of throttle control. I remember Bob kept asking over and over, “How did that happen? Where did it go? It just fell off?” Incredulous, yes, but ever gracious he never pointed a finger at me even in jest.

Bob had his theories about boats as do all sailors. He hated a low boom on a boat. The boom runs along the bottom part of the sail and ranks as the most dangerous part of a sailboat. In pirate movies someone always get thrown overboard by a swinging boom.

In Pearl Harbor with the wives aboard we sailed blithely along having cheated death on the open seas. We felt secure inside the harbor. Hawaii, however, had another dirty, little secret for us called Kona winds. A downdraft they slide down the mountain side gaining momentum as they go and then rush silently across the water at tremendous speeds. They made the submarines look tame. We got hit hard. I still have scars on my hands where the nylon main-sheet ran through my hands burning my skin as it went. I really had no time to see if any one's head stood in the path of the boom. This boat had a high boom thanks to Bob. It probably saved some one's life. You were right, Bob.

Bob has many qualities that I lack. I sail on the edge. I like my adrenaline rush. Bob sailed safely, cautiously, conservatively. He knew when to quit, when to start the motor and go in, when to call it a day. He didn't have to sail to dark every time. He didn't have to sail just because the wind blew.

Bob had the money to buy a bigger boat. In the time I knew him he owned three boats—in succession I should add. He didn't have to have the biggest, the best, or the most expensive. He bought little boats, used boats, boats with high booms. I never forgave him for selling the Compaq. I loved that little boat. That's the boat he and I sailed on most together. Bob prided himself on “never losing money on a boat.” We teased him about his perceptions of boat ownership.

Most of us who sail soon find out that our wives and families don't necessarily share the same passion we do toward this sport. They indulge us. Bob loved sailing, and Sylvia wisely let him enjoy something that he had both wanted and had earned. Ever gracious, Bob did not take undo advantage. He kept things in perspective. He kept expenses reasonable. He kept his priorities straight.

Bob and I have one thing very much in common. We both like to talk. I said to Dave, my sailing buddy, on a recent a sail. “You know, I wish we could get Bob out again. I miss him.” I'll never forget and will always miss having Bob in the companionway telling some story or encouraging us to plan for our futures.

Sail on, Bob. May the wind always be at your back. Stay clear of the boom, keep your deck shoes dry, and we'll meet you on the other side.

A Steady Healm

You sailed this life and now a different realm.

You put your head down and earned

supported your family to one day sail you yearned.

And one day you did

the river, the harbor, the ocean to rid

yourself of land's cares

to float trade wind fair

against low booms you railed

with steady healm to seas beyond you've sailed.

Patching up Your Definition of Creativity

I had to patch a couple inner tubes yesterday. I had a slow leak on my rear tire which needed immediate attention and another tube which I had procrastinated with for some weeks. With bucket of water and pump in hand I went about the discovery phase. Just then Mr. Naysayer entered my patching domain. "Why fix it? You can buy a new one for three bucks."

People often say the stupids things when trying to make small talk. One, tubes for my bicycle costs closer to five bucks. Two, a patched tube probably has more strength than a new one. It would take a knife to puncture a patch. Three, if I can make a tube "stretch" through four or five punctures, then I have saved fifteen to twenty dollars. I patched mine while watching television. It took one minute to scratch the tube with sandpaper and apply glue. I let the glue dry five minutes, and then applied the patch. I held my tongue understanding that his small talk qualified for the adjective "small" perfectly.

About ten minutes later I found myself at the same hose with the same bucket washing my bicycle. Mr. Naysayer came by to once again enlighten me. "I gave up riding."

"Why's that?"

"Too many flats. The last time I had about a twenty-minute ride to someplace. On the way back I got a flat. I ended up walking and arrived late to work. I got in trouble. I bought Kevlar tires but haven't ridden since."

I so wanted to blast him with my logic laser. However, I took the path less travelled to mix my metaphors. "Well, I always carry a spare tube in one pocket and a plastic tire iron kit in the other. Yes, I hate changing a tire alongside the road. Punctures come with the territory. I would rather take ten minutes alongside the road than walk fifty miles."

My mouth said one thing. My mind said another. In my mind I yelled, "You idiot. You chastise me for taking five minutes to patch a tube and for saving twenty dollars. And you don't have the sense to spend "three" dollars for a spare tube to avoid an inevitable event. You gave up riding because you didn't have the forethought to stick a tube in your pocket. Would you drive your care without a spare? Cars have exponentially fewer flats than bicycles and yet you ride without a spare?"

In the middle of my internal rant I heard a still small voice ask, "What about you? What insignificant event or setback has caused you to give up on something? When have you stopped writing? Did someone say something to hurt your oversensitive feelings? Did you freeze? Did you park your future over a three dollar tube?"

My friend has a creativity problem. He froze. I got a flat on my way to work. I got in trouble. I can't let that happen. I don't trust bicycles. I will take the car. He had the flight or creativity choice. He chose flight. His circumstance blinded him.

We tend to define creativity as art, writing, music, and movies. Creativity is as big as God. In the beginning God created. Creativity is my cat throwing his weight in his carrier to knock himself off the boat onto the ground in order to spring the door for the purpose of running amok and afoul. Creativity is putting a spare tube in your pocket to avoid a long walk home. Creativity is my father designing and making a tool when the tools manufactured at the plant fail to meet his needs. Creativity is using dental floss to remove a ring stuck on a swollen finger. Creativity is finding a means to stay alive when it seems like you have used up all your options. God has woven creativity into the very fabric of our existence. Creativity is not an option. Creativity is the thing that keeps us alive and makes life worth living.

What are you waiting for? Stick a tube in your pocket and get back on the road. Live creatively. Get unstuck. Look for solutions. Focus on the possibilities. Bloom. Forget the politics, the naysayers, the economy, your critical mother, you high-brow ed English teacher, and your boss. Create like your life depends on it because it does.

Go Visit Your Fairygodmother-I Did

For some time now I have wanted to write a Christmas story combining the fictional and the real. Recently I came upon the idea of writing the story of Saint Nikolas who just happens to have both the fictional and real going for him. I needed a little help with the story and decided to have a visit with my fairy godmother. That's her stage right. Where does one find one's fairy godmother? Well, you can try scrubbing floors for a living. I did that for many years during the college days. Or you can go to a Powell's author reading. I like floors and feel that no building should go without them. However, I enjoyed the reading much more.

My fairy godmother, one Carolyn Turgeon, has just published a book entitled Godmother. My FB friends can go to her Face Book "Godmother-The-Secret-Cinderella-Story" page. So what's this have to do with creativity?

Sometimes even the most creative types need to cross pollinate. Every experience, every day, in every place serves as grist for the writing mill. You can get inspiration at the park or the shopping mall or even with a writer on tour. Since I have this Saint Nikolas idea, I thought it might prove beneficial to hear from someone who has recently enhanced a standard tale.

Publishers expect writers to make tours. Writers make tours because tours sell books. News flash--not all writers like public speaking. I have not done a book tour yet. I yearn for the day. However, I think it could prove scary. Think about it. In a single day you might address a radio audience of millions, speak at a writer's conference to hundreds of eager writers with not-so-easy-to-answer questions, go to a local book signing, visit a book critique group, teach a college English class, or read to kids in a library.

We writers spend a good deal of time alone. I write much in public places, but I write alone. We keep our own company with our little fictional friends and our writing voice running through our creative little heads. We get used to it which means that we get out of practice with the public thing. Carolyn approached the podium shyly. She briefly explained her book with a nervous smile. Dare I say, "It was cute." Then she started to read. The cuteness slid away as did Carolyn. I could tell that she had reentered the world of her book. She grew animated and mesmerized by her own writing. She loved the words, and so did I.

Carolyn has studied Victorian poetry. I could tell. Her writing had a lilt and a fresh imagery that you learn writing poetry. I have written much poetry lately and wondered about its value and impact on my writing. I could see the effect in her writing. The imagery engaged me. It drew me into the story. You know how some movies just throw sex in when the movie is about farm trucks in Pennsylvania. Other movies it may actually fit into the storyline; at least, you can kinda see it. Imagery can feel the same way. With some authors I skip past lengthy descriptions because I want to get on with the story. I felt no inclination to skip Ms. Turgeon's descriptions. She captures the music.

It came time for questions. I hate to dominate a group. I guess I have writer's syndrome too now that I think of it, but I raised my hand. I asked her how she came up with the idea of writing the story from the standpoint of a jealous fairy godmother. She asked for more questions. I had many more but hesitated. Carolyn stopped. I bought her book and then asked two or three more shop-talk questions. She solved a problem for me in the Saint Nikolas book.

So what's the point Rollie? If you don't feel creative today, go visit your fairy godmother. See Powell's website for author readings or the Oregonian or the Willamette Weekly. It will inspire you, and it feels all authorly if you know what I mean.

When You Live Under a Bridge

I don't live under a bridge. I live here. I ride a bicycle. I'm unemployed. I don't think that I will appear on the cover of Fortune 500 this month at least.

I called a county hotline one night in a bit of a crisis. Divorced, alone, broke, dissillusioned, depressed, and yes, even suicidal, I'll never forget what the gentleman at the call center told me.

He said, "When you live under a bridge, you start where you're at. You work with the resources you have. You don't focus on what you have lost or what you don't have. You focus on what you have. You survive by using the resources at your disposal."

So what does that have to do with my blog about creativity--everything. Creativity by definition means using what you have in and around you. Life is about creating opportunity at the place where you reside. What better place to learn creativity than under a bridge? If you can create there under a bridge, then you can create anywhere. The call center guy got it right and write.

In the creative life you start at the beginning. You start with you, where you are, who you are, and with whatever resources at your disposal. You learn to live faithful to your creativity. You create. I have discovered that when you get good at using what you got, you get more. You start to see more opportunities. You get more exposure. The Bible says it this way, "Be faithful in little things and I will give you more."

Here's an example. I decided to show my AllClear blog to the Clear representative at my local shopping mall. He shook his head. "What a great idea--a place for people to write in about their Clear experiences. Say, you should come to work for us."

I actually have met quite a few homeless folks. I used to supervise crews that cleaned up homeless camps in Portland. I have talked with them and have found a universal cynicism in each. Now you might assume that when life has knocked you down that you grow cynical. Actually, I believe that the cynicim precedes the fall. Homeless folks universally see conspiracy, coverup, and evil under every rock. They have a helpless, hopeless feeling. It all feels bigger than them, and so why try. Just live under the bridge.

You see, they try to create with what they have lost or what they don't have rather than create a new life with what they have. You have to bloom where planted. You have to start with the shopping cart, the people, the gifts, the community, and the life given to you. Sure I want to write a best selling novel about Ryan Rouse my high school imaginary writing hero. It's coming. But I have to live faithful to my bridge first.

Yes, I consider the future. Everyday I explore other writing opportunities. I have started two books and have signed up for contract work on Odesk. My vision of the world and its opportunities increase when I do my daily eye exercises under the bridge. Now, I'm just out there writing what floats up to me under the bridge and have this opportunity to work for Clear. Who wudda thunk it!!!

You don't feel creative? Go sit under a bridge. Talk to the folks there. I guarantee you will have something to write about at the end of the day. Hey, post a comment here when you get home.