Empty Days

Saturday, October 25, 2003

WWII seen from the garbage dump

Speaking of diaries... A few summers back I found myself rummaging through a pile of interesting garbage in front of some nice looking bungalow in a nice residential street. The garbage pile was not so nice and thus attracted my attention.
Turned out to be the contents of a house whose elderly inhabitants had recently passed away and the place was being cleared for sale - a whole mountain of personal mementoes where, among other things, I found photos from WWII, letters from old-time friends, pocket-diaries, and even the current passport of one of the deceased.
The diaries belonged to the old man who had served in London in the 40's. I still have his regiment's group-picture, and I read about his British tour-of-duty in the letter he had received from his wartime chum there. Included in the envelop was a strip of ration tickets and a humorous account of their olden glory.

Now, the diaries. The old man lived a long and active life, and to his very last he daily scribbled military-style reports in those tiny pocket-diaries which perhaps reminded him of his wartime officer-notebooks (as described by Evelyn Waugh). The entries are amazingly to-the-point: weather reports, sibylline little notes of daily deeds, memos... Maybe he had Alzheimer's.
Or else his wife died a few years before him, so this methodical diary-keeping was perhaps not all that futile. The solitude of old-age is quite different from the youthful brands of loneliness. He needed a clock to live by, to report to at the end of each day - his wife used to be that clock, now he had only a pocket-diary to keep the count.

Sad? Not really. Life is a meaningless entreprise. The best way to establish meaning is not to dwell on it too much, to live by the clock, to be a sport. The old man was all that. Futility and vigor examplified. Burried in a pile of garbage. Amen.

Thoughts on needlessness

I wonder what it means that I could never write a diary like it's supposed to be - things i did, people i met, projects i have. When faced with a blank page I'd immediately start digging into psychology, personal misery, literature... a whole lot of barely tangible stuff.

I guess there are two basic types of private writing - self-obsessed and less self-obsessed. Actually my earliest kiddy diaries are of the second kind, I was still a wholesome person. Then everything changed. Ever since it's been nothing but introspection. Only I know just how much I hate this kind of thing. The obvious solution was to stop writing all together, which I did. To no avail, because I am back at it again... right here.

Possible deterrent - that other people might be reading and I should be ashamed of myself. Additional safeguard - writing in English which I know badly and should practice for better purposes. Also - reading other people's blogs to humble myself plus imitate various styles of speech as an exercise in role-playing. Fernando Pessoa did it all by himself and I could bet his kind of nuttiness had a great therapeutic affect. Not that I have the talent of course. Which is a good reason for not mentioning Kafka or André Gide or anything British for that matter :-0


This was an unavoidable entry. What is particularly appealing about blogs is that nothing stays on for very long. I really took to emailing when it first kicked in for that very reason - written, sent, and gone for good!


Of course the preceding was just before I discovered Blogrolling... I can't remember where I read something paradoxical about discovery through abuse and utter vagary. Proved true here :-0

Also I note that ascii emoticons are not part of the blogging etiquette. Maybe I should disregard this - my stuff is neither journalism, nor literary, nor a personal webpage, nor else. Not even sure what it is yet, in fact.


Why is it that I always escape into mindlessness when I am actually reeling with untold emotion? Too ugly to splash it out on the screen, don't know where to start. Better *muse* on things without relevance precisely because. In the same way, I used to smoke pot after stressful days at work and after about a year of this pot-induced denial, would end up in a violent breakdown or burnout or whatever such nuclear explosions are called.

The untold horror of everyday blandness remains to be told. It is an old freudian truth that when one raves at bad politics or bad writing or bad anything one is actually venting one's burden of very insignificant and perfectly inexpressible griefs. Double-talk, you see. Or triple, or quadruple talk. Can't really peek under the hood and better not even try. Let the gloss shine - the moral law and the starry sky above my head.


Sometimes design or/and title are so catchy I *have* to excuse content. Life is Not Purgatory would be first on that list. The Great Tribunal of Reason would be next by title even though it is so newborn there's only one post to look at. And how about Life on the pedestal ?
First place should perhaps go the The Outsider but I can't read the language.


And now for something completely different. Some hairy content for you and me in case we're into recondite things - I vote for The Spy Game and Mistress Clarissa in one breath. Haha.
And here's a touchingly awkward blog with a poignant title Trite Remarks...


Meantime my mood has evolved. A baffling example of devotion to blogging and the spread of knowledge from Laputan Logic and, to redeem the above sins, a political galore from A Skeptical Blog - find somebody who'd shoot the President for you, if you really-really asked...

[ Disclaimer: Not presuming to judge I presume to link ]


It is clearly becoming a pattern. Tiring of my own scriptures, I hassle other people's blogs and find gems everywhere.


On the subject of the misuse of the Bible as a tool to spruce up reality found these heartening musings by the young and pure in heart saying Good Morning to the lot of us bitter snakes of the world.

Many are called, few are chosen... and a host of other such quotes have tempted pretty much every single human being who has tried to use the Bible as her very own portable torchlight. What abysses lay in wait for the trusting lamb here I'd rather not say.

Better look at Disputations for the other side of the coin...

vainglory vanity vanitas

Vanity is the most ancient and the most fundamental of all the 7 deadly sins. I don't know how they counted sins, but since it's an impressively old technique and the number is notoriously esoteric, I am not going to doubt the math here.

The more pedestrian way to go about bashing vanity and its children - vainglory, conceit, use your thesaurus - is to say that man is too insignificant to rest solely upon his ego (hen upon her egg?), that greater personalities exist that demand respect and obedience, like God Almighty for instance - and I am not using the name in vain, I don't know the name.

But even absent stronger characters in the universe (let's say we can't get it into our head that there is a God - the royal "we" here, as Dude de Leibowsky liked to say), even absent that - still, vanity has a psychological value of foremost importance. I could even say that the whole psyche is wrapped around it like the snake around the damn tree of knowledge.

I don't think I am being obscure here. All hidden quotes from better minds.

The well known Catholic lament for "the hollow man, the stuffed man" is about vanity impotent, vanity wane, man lost to himself. An abstract of modern psychology.


A few steps down the ladder, here I am wrestling my glory to the ground. As I catch myself exulting in my own image, a horrible rush of guilt throws me off my horse.

Who is this austere knight and why the punishment? Behold - it is my father and I am not enough of a heir. Kill thy father and thou shall inherit thine kingdom.

Hence vanity must be repossessed and indulged for it is the root of all life. Self-murder. Resurrection. Death.

Friday, October 24, 2003

Franca Italia

Il mio è un viaggio acido nei confini dei pensieri... Could have been a line from Gabriele d'Annunzio, the great Italian fascist and even better poet. But it's only from a blog... pProserpina.

Aux confins de la pensée is yet another adventurous voyage that might well end in death and doom. But this one is universal. As in Voyage au bout de la nuit by another great fascist, Celine the French.


Here comes my anguish. The belua marina that lives in my depth came to the surface - rolling in the waves like a floating boulder.

Have you seen stones go up with the cadaver attached to the rope for weight? Well, now you have.

Dream city

I lived in the same town for over 20 years and it turns out it's not on the map. It is located somewhere in Canada, which does exist on most maps, but I can't find my city anywhere, not even through the internet. Perhaps it is restricted to public access.

It is a city I've lived in most of my life. Now I can't even account for my life because I don't know where I've been.

Should I give it a name of my own invention or go to the neighbours and ask what they think it's called? They don't know, no better than I do. What on earth...

Virtual friendships

Being a social outcast of advanced age (mid-30's - terminal phase, as these things go), I naturally fell for all the vagaries of virtual bonding as soon as the internet became more plain-user friendly, which was something around the mid 90's. For a few years the whole thing seemed like a godsend for the urban-hermit I was and still am (and probably always will be, unless I finally manage to escape into a rural community where they don't yet have telephone lines... )

So. Of course I did develop a fulsome of long-term friendships, obsessions, and even experienced a massive cyber love affair which fell flat right when it was going to change my life into a forever paradise. Nothing wrong with it - somehow we all look for a lost Eden, even in cyberspace, even in deep sleep.

In the end however time has put things into perspective. A bleak one for sure, but with a tinge of lucidity. I have nothing to say against illusions. I wish mine had a bit more of a staying power but no such luck for a skeptic mind. After a good decade of this, I gradually came to understand the full meaning of the word - virtual. My translation: shadowy, ghostly, ghastly.

Of course, all this only applies to my kind of virtuality. The addictive "no exit" sort. The shadowy existence I lead on the internet is perhaps nothing but a grotesque metaphor for the rest of me out here. I am not complaining, viva cyberia etc. But woe to me who has once mistaken virtual bonds for the real thing. Nothing lasts in the shadowland. It is a doomed world by design and I am a ship's boy on the Flying Dutchman.

Thursday, October 23, 2003

A soldier?

Ok, doing my blog-rounds tonite, found a thread that lead me to this article in The Guardian called We are facing death in Iraq for no reason.

Hmm. Supposedly this was written by a genuine USA soldier on active duty in Iraq. I have no qualms with whatever is being said but I sort of can't possibly believe it was authored by someone who's not either a journalist or a speech-writer or worse still - the same sort of chap that "cooked up" those fake pro-invasion letters that were stupidly published in too many major American newspapers...

I don't think I am paranoid. I think it's fake. Bingo. Got there from The Bite group-blog who think they're being smart. Sure. Like The Guardian could ever be trusted for clean-hands fighting tactics...

saints and sadists

Seen that documentary before but couldn't keep myself from watching it again - it's that good. Check out The Taking of Logan Marr on PBS tonight.

Like all truly thoughtful stuff, this particular investigation turns over some universal rocks, while ostensibly examining an obscure yet poignant case of power abuse by small clerks in small town gov outfits. To my mind, this whole story is not only about wasted kids and wayward mothers, but also and mostly - about the devils of the ubiquitous psychology of the good and the lawful.

Sainthood turns into unavowed sadism. Sinners are trampled and ground to dust. The obligatory love for thy neighbour's child "as if she were your own" is predicated upon power madness... And through it all the great demon of human stupidity beats its mighty wings.

Themes worthy of Dostoevsky and Marquis de Sade.

Artist and success

Watched an interview with Woody Allen where he humbly explains where his films come from. Luckily it was not so much about film-making as about his personal philosophy of life. A treat, actually.

One of the things he made quite plain is that success is not an idol but a law of nature - there is really no point in trying to escape its grip. Avoiding success leads to failure. Failure leads to death, whichever way you take it. That simple.

And I can't disagree. Artist in the attic is a myth, a *bad dream*.

Another vital point which I found extremely Jewish and well-founded: the role of chance, luck, the arbitrary and the unjust. Life is fundamentally absurd, we all know that. So why even try? Well, just showing up for the show, trying your luck, all there is to it really. If you don't *happen* to have it in you (Nike, haha), then just push off, dude.

A whole new look at self-discovery.

back to the woods prayer

Learning new "technologies" while trying to use them for whatever human purposes (like reflecting on life out loud for instance) is something of a feat. Or fit. My eyes are bloodshot from an all-night struggle with tags and tools of an unknown kind. I wanted to talk, instead I am battered into submission by a horrendous onslaught of technical information I would now like to forget all about. RIP this day for it's been lost.

Nevertheless, found another informative blog of a Mildy Malevolent type.


I certainly wonder how geeks are even able to remain human, with all this machine-stuff they have to eat up on a daily basis. Something must give along the way - a piece of brain crumbling or mutating into a hitherto unheard of form. Reminds me of a paranoid-suicidal friend who was a topnotch network engineer... Coincidence? Perhaps not.

I wish there was never either internet or computers or rocket-building or skyscrapers or tanks or factories or metropolis or .... I long for the woods and the no-hot-water no-toilet no-electricity kind of place where I, the city larva, would not survive but may perhaps find a moment of liberation before slow death from hypothermia.

I love nature. And it's been ages since I've seen it up close. Oh Lord...

salon.com etc

Ha. Seems like this wanton Scott Rosenberg blog is the only part of salon.com I'll be able to access without paying up.

I quit reading that site a while ago and now I am back and what do I see? It's pay-time blues. Probably justified. But that's why there is homegrown blogging - everything else is becoming inaccessible, *presto rapido*...


This new beginning called amateur conservative certainly wetted my appetite. Maybe it'll be a flop. Maybe a story of conversion and self-discovery. Maybe just your usual politico rant...

I see zeitgeist in just that one nascent blog - and how!

Richard Rose

Here's a strange guy from the "Zen now" movement - his own little outfit is called Tat. Very obscure and muddled thinking which seems somehow congenial.

Normally I don't buy into Zen stuff because most of it is so elaborately remote from anything I recognize as reality. Of course, Zen does not condone reality, so nothing strange there.

But with Richard Rose we have a regular example of out-of-this world nuttiness explained in your everyday language. This guy is from backwoods Virginia and it shows. Plus he has a vivid imagination and claims having experienced a mystical something which sounds incredible but is credible the way he talks about it.

His founding book is called Albigen Papers. I never read it because it costs way too much to export from the States, but it's supposed to be a homegrown attack on western religions which are basically accused of barring the way to the Absolute (Truth). Motto - one cannot know truth, one must become truth. Brilliant stuff. The man had studied to become a Catholic priest but, through trial and error, became a rabid *heretic* instead. Strange witness this, to God knows what.

suicide and Suicide

Seven days... a suicidal anti-depression blog. Which started me thinking.

Let's say I have a severely suicidal father (I do) and let's say I have a friend who's planning a third and definitive attempt (I do). Now, let's say I once had a neighbour who's offed herself (I did) and I still live in the same goddamn building (I do).

With all this, I am myself "not a successful member of society" prone to bad spells of self-loathing also known as *depressive episodes*. Ha-ha. Of course, the thought has occurred to me, many a time even.
But it's just fancy. In fact, when these things get bad I actually stop communicating including kicking the net-habit then and there. So. If I were to take a step further in that direction it would not happen in words but in utter muteness.

Discussion of suicide is a survival tactics. True suicidal thinking happens somewhere below the surface, quite beyond words and even consciousness. Whatever action surfaces thereafter is the product of this underground thinking. Is there such a thing as destiny? That would be it - things happening despite oneself.

[ P.S. falls in nicely with this previous entry on Evelyn Waugh ]

How to write on philosophy

First, here's a nicely designed blog though unreadable to me. And now...

My friend, soon to be published (I'm sure) by Cambridge University Press, gave this truthful answer to my question how not to feel small and lost when writing on philosophy:
About philosophy - I take pretty seriously the claim (by Whitehead?) that the history of philosophy is footnotes to Plato. I realize that almost anything I could say has been said before, probably better. But that doesn't mean that it doesn't need to be repeated sometimes. Many philosophers my age (most?) have a pretty shaky grasp of history. One thing I always try to do is to point out the historical roots of a debate or problem. In taking the past seriously, I feel I'm already ahead of most of my peers.

How to know when you're done enough background reading? It really is somewhat arbitrary. I doubt you really ever know enough to know that you've read enough. When I get interested in a problem, I look it up in philosopher's index. I read through all the abstracts and pick out the ones that sound interesting. If something is in an obscure place (say, a journal I've never heard of, or a grad student journal) I ignore it. I try to formulate the problem narrowly enough that I don't have to read too much. As I read through the abstracts and then the full papers, certain important names/papers will keep coming up, so I make sure I've read them too. Then I ask around - people who know the history - and find what else I should read. When I have a draft of the paper, I show it to people or read it at a conference. Usually, people will mention something else they think I should read. (I'm never offended by this, and I almost always look up the suggestion,) As I said, most people my age don't pay enough attention to the past (I think) so I feel I do enough. I've been lucky in that I've been writing on topics few others seem to care about, so I'm not
swamped in reading! (JB)
My question could have been - how not to get lost in the world at large... Well, that's how :-0


It's actually early morning, not dawn. There is no such thing as dawn in the winter months, only early mornings - when it's dark and people are waking to go to work.

Lord... Reminds me of my former 9-to-5 routine. I have no routine now, no money, no nothing - supposedly this is freedom. Without the freedom of movement. But still...

In my freedom I've discovered this great blog by some wonderful guy with a sense of life. A gust of fresh air. Different, yes.

dawn at last

My first sleepless night in nearly a year (maybe). I don't have the health to do that anymore. Or the youth. I am ageless but not where it counts.

late night rants

Something that caught my eye:..."Praise God that our church finally has a fast internet system!"...

Turns out Christians are in the internet underground movement now. Brewing and puffing under the same hood as the rest of us - unacknowledged. Plus, religious types are bent on preaching. So webpublishing must indeed seem like a God-given. I do understand. And the slogan is pretty much universal - the church of me on the net.


Turns out I am basically learning CSS on the fly right here. Very slow but that's something to do at least. Will resume normal human thinking later on.

I do not lead a vibrant life, in fact I could say I have no life at all, so it's nice to fiddle with something meaninglessly creative for a change. I know it won't last - nothing ever does - but while the going is good...


Turns out I kind of like the as-yet-limited experience of checking out random blogs and putting them up in the links in here. Most of the new blogs don't have a comment-thing on them. Too bad.
People are saying vivid things and there's an urge to say "I read your post, you know, and here is what I think..."

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

Was wirklich ist

Incidentally, this German thing is from Hegel whom I've never read but the quote is fundamental - what is real is rational.

Which basically means - whatever happens to you (be it an epiphany or a ghost apparition) is set in stone once it's happened. You can't get it out of the continuum of your experience. You've seen a ghost and it's not even a matter of whether you believe in ghosts or not - it's there now, it's been real to you if only for a moment. Therefore it's rational. Your mind has dealt with it. This is what life is like.

Now here is my question and I can never properly answer that one.

Let's say we're talking religion, god, spiritual dimensions and what not. Let's say we indulge in a lofty argument about deeds and creeds etc. And then I walk out into the street and it's all gone. The only *wirklich* thing out there is the street and my average state of mind as I walk to the store.

What happened to god, spirit, creeds? They're out of my mind. And they're out of my mind 97% of the time, most of my life. Reality does not match up to my beliefs or - to put it mildly - aspirations. Lofty moments pass rather quickly, otherwise I would mostly float around instead of walking the earth.

So where is the connection between the life of the mind and life lived? I don't really see any. Maybe there isn't any. I wouldn't be surprised. It's not exactly a question of hypocrisy. It's something different - not wanting to know oneself as one really is.

Quote from the Aboveground Man :

"Kierkegaard chastised others for not living in the categories they think in. This is also the view of the postmod. But Shestov says we fail to think in the categories in which we live."

Media spamming

Since I am so new to blogging, I eat it up without moderation. Gloating over all those powerfully-worded sites all over the place. And as a result there is a notable and rapid pollution of mind in progress.

z.B. what do I care about Michael Moore and american politics? I can't exactly stop or launch a war in [whatever]. Yet it turns out I do care. What's more, I like loud-mouth morons with a sense of humor (not Bush). Hereabouts we have Don Cherry on Hockey night in Ca. He's racist, gross and loud. I like his rants, they're irresponsible, the guy has never grown up - what a relief. The spark of truth is of course humor - not meaning.

Also, I like critics fighting other critics. They have an ease with words that is exemplary. They're agile and angry - beats boxing anytime, if you ask me. Ecopundits.com, ha-ha.

Kierkegaard useless

I think I do not like Kierkegaard.

I've tried hard to get into his range of thought-feeling but apparently there is some chip inside my head that is maladapted to this particular philosopher.

There are things in his writings which I respond to, find interesting or even profound. But on the whole it has been a fiasco - no charm for me here. Another reason might be mere non-understanding. He does fall into rather abstruse reasonings sometimes, vide Concept of Dread etc.

It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that SK is something of a fad nowadays. I keep discovering signs of Kierkegaard-worship everywhere. But fads are not just random mass-movements of thought, fads have a deep meaning. They strip their object of all niceties and duplicities, to the bone, so to speak. The amount of misinterpretations that goes with it is of course staggering but those are just side-effects.

What this Kierkegaard-fad tells about Kierkegaard is worth some pondering. Personally, I think it tells loud and clear that Kierkegaard is the man for our times - an empty man. Gutted clean of all except his vapid mind. Clamoring for faith, life, all those things that are not to be found on bookshelves. I can't find any spark in this - it is all too familiar.

More on Waugh

So Waugh was a Catholic. And a strange one at that. Or simply lucid? A telling quote from Unconditional Surrender where the hero Guy Crouchback describes his motions of faith:
"Guy genuflected and then stood to pray asking mercy for Virginia and for himself. Although brought up to it from the nursery, he had never been at ease with the habit of reciting the prayers of the Church for particular intentions. He committed Virginia's soul - 'repose' indeed, seemed the apt petition - to God in the colloquial monologue he always employed when praying; like an old woman, he sometimes ruefully thought, talking to her cat."
(Penguin ppback., p.198)

By a mere chance just happened upon a Catholic blog musing on precisely the same subject... Oh mysteries of life.

Originality and mimicry

For a long time I've been confused into believing that striving for originality was the best way to avoid getting sucked in by the gyrating movement of the world at large.

It seemed so obvious. It wasn't. I deeply regret so many lost years spent in the pursuit of this *bad dream*.

Originality cannot be a goal - for it is best achieved through mimicry. The poor individual is only real as long as he is absorbing and vomiting out all sorts of influences, which, in the last account, are his only true connection to life. Self-expression is fatally dependent on the art of imitation. Absent this, a void remains. A death-wish.

Evelyn Waugh

Slowly disengaging from the spell of Evelyn Waugh. And it is a spell. Turns one's mind around, this elaborate example of vicious self-examination. At least that's how I read it. A Catholic mind, not to forget.

It is curious that this son of the publishing lords only took to writing after an odd suicide-attempt (later obliquely reported in one of his novels). Which is to say that one can never escape one's past - rather than one's calling. Those who are born into the fine world of word-making rarely ever shake themselves free. With various success. But success is not the point.


Let's see what it all comes down to. In any event this is a late post and since I am mostly preoccupied with blog-setting, there isn't time, oh there isn't time for anything meaningless - as yet.

How about you go here and read this stuff instead - somebody who's trying very hard *not* to kill himself... By all means!

Tuesday, October 21, 2003

Stupid me falling for fads

As a matter of fact how is all this "blog" thing different from outfits like LiveJournal and other diary.dot places?

I do not see a difference. The difference I see it that there's no integrated add-comment feature and my browser doesn't support toolbar clicks for faster blogging.

So why am I here if not for the word "blog"? I am blogging, you see. Me too, me too. It would be wise to delete this adventure once I've emptied my sack. Free the servers for the young! Hoo-ha.

How on earth

Watched something about the gay community on TV. More exactly - AIDS in the gay community.

Surprisingly, dykes too claim high rates of infection. Which started me worrying about how on earth... I mean - if anybody were at all exempt, I'd think the dykes would be the ones.

But no. Being part of the community apparently requires high mortality rates. Unprotected female-to-female intercourse? Never heard of it.


It's been my dearly held desire to say out loud things that are not nice and may merit flogging. For instance this.

What is all this chest-beating-over-Holocaust phenomenon in this part of the world? I mean in the media, movies, that sort of thing. It's not exactly a street-level thing - it's a manufactured thing. Showered upon us from the heights of Hollywood and other such places. Like campuses - campi deserti.

At this date it is beginning to resemble rather closely the Italian mafia lore, a fave feature of public life in... well, you know. So in the end we all sort of take time (primetime) to enjoy some spaghetti-flavored street-shooting on the big/small screen and the next minute we get to view some more shooting, this time of Jews by Nazis, and the amusing thing is - it's still just entertainment.
Mafia life is as real to you and me as the celebrated gas-chambers. That is - not real at all. The more we get to look at it the less real it seems. Strange, hein?

Well, my theory is - you can't really get your idea of life from the movie-theater. Because it's not there. And I am sorry for those guys who think they're paying tribute and making things more real for people - like Steven Spielberg for instance. The power of art is such that E.T. becomes as real as the Holocaust. Which is an adverse effect to say the least.

So in the end, all I am saying is - don't drag it around too much. Give it a rest, let the dead die and the living live. Holocaust is in rags and I don't wanna hear about it no more.

No tears in my eyes... not my real eyes anyway.

On writing and thinking

Turns out it is a rather time-consuming feature. Blogging the web alias bloating. Words that get wiped out - out of mind, out of sight. A giant waste-basket. Naturally, this was what www was destined to become anyway, and how existence itself is a sort of pollution - loitering around in throngs, whoever, whyever...


Using language is a delicate endeavor. Thinking and writing are a world apart. I think mostly when I watch movies on TV, when reading somebody else's book, when passively confronting whatever comes to me from out there, where the world lingers. I definitely do not think when I put it all down in writing - or rather, it is another type of thinking, it is about weaving words and other things together into a set-piece of meaning.

And of course it is all very far from meaningfulness.

But surely there is no real need to express what has no beginning nor an end. Plucking out whatever comes forth from the haze, some building-blocks to jostle around. Suggestions mostly. Yes - suggesting is the best one can do. Suggesting how and where one is.

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