I don't know when I'll be able to blog again, so I'm going to make the most of the time I have now.

Do you know what claustrophobia feels like to me?

It's being trapped. Like the world is pressng down on your mind and squeezing your chest. It's layers of prison cells stacked up around you.

It's being chained, being caught, being contained.

Your arms folded up into your legs, your face smacked up against your shoulders, laughter interwtined with fear and happiness woven into your anger.

It's running after every drop of air.

It's not being able to breath.

I've always had this, and when I was a child I thought it was normal. I'm afraid of rooms and cars and hide and seek, but I don't show it anymore. I'm not afraid of this fear.

I let it come and take me. I've learned to live with it, because that's the only way to want to wake up the next morning.

But I've always wondered how it must feel to breath without fear. To take in the air as slowly as you want, without being afriad of anyone taking the air from you too soon.

To be out in the open, with no walls or roofs or doors or windows.

Outside. Just to breath.




It's funny how the city feels like home. Maybe a little lonely sometimes, but home nevertheless. And I don't even really live there. I love it. I love how everything is just outside the door, how so many people are aspiring towards something "great", how free it is, how they revel in chaos and uniqueness and all this diversity.

I mean, it was hard at first, actually immersing in it, and going inside, penetrating the skin. But under the fashion weeks and cavalry police, the hey babys and stereotypes, and all the warnings of how evil and fast-paced New York is, there is a very interesting, invigorating haven for people who just want to be who they are. Without the bullshit. Without the crap. Their unadulterated selves. Whether that be cheesy or cynical or corporate or artistic or unboxed or whatever.

There is no need for apologies, not really. And I love that. Inside New York there is a place to be at ease with who I am. Without worries, or self-consciousness, or rules. I don't have to be afraid of sounding like a know-it-all, or stupid, or a wannabe, or odd. People recognize that some people can swing from one emotion to the other, one side to the other. Like pendulums released in a world thick with caramelized individuality.

And it feels good.

Of course there are places where you have your poseurs, and your chichi girls, and all those pretentious club kids with a passion for seeing and being seen in Manolos or tugging at some trophy-hottie's arm. But you let that slide, because they let you slide, and you just have to swirl away in the rich sweet mix, and give each other a little room to breath.




And you take in everything. You suck in the air and it comes inside and you know you're alive. Not existent, but alive. Like the atoms that make you up are getting ready to split, a whole mass of potential atomic bombs in the space between your pores. You feel you can go anywhere, do anything.

Surrounding yourself with like-minded people just gives that feeling much more credibility. You're alone but in an oddly comforting way, you know you're alone in a mass of other loners. And that it's okay.

Sometimes I come home exhausted with an exhaustion that goes in deep,as if it has sunk inside the base of my subconsious. And sometimes I'm a volcano on the verge of erupting, vomiting, releasing hell and heaven in a single sneeze. It's the pendulum. Swinging on and on.

I love this city, because here I've found a me that will be hard-pressed to exist anywhere else, and it's a me that I need to hold on to. The other. The angel. The goddess.



And I'm not afraid to breath.

To the Duck in A Tent on the Lower Eastside

Do you know how it feels?

Your legs struggling too hard,
you arms flailing uselessly.
Your breath stolen before you can let it go.

To be owned.
While you are fighting.
To be owned anyway.

Do you know how it feels?

To clutch the one
that is pulling you down,
sucking you in,
wrapping you in a cocoon
of layers
of churning,
hidden fear.

To hold on
to the enemy
because there is nothing else,
no one else,
to hold on to.

Do you know how it feels?

To look at fragments in rapture,
because the whole is gone.
To know not above or under.
To know no touch except
Except
Wet air. Only that.
To bathe and sleep
And struggle to wake up
In another world

Where there is nothing
Worth waking up for.

To the Prince of Max. Fish
Even if God refused to give you wings.

Fly.
cut off your feet
if they weigh you down
there are no shoes in heaven

Fly.
Teach the choirs of angels
to sing your noteless songs
whispered by the night inside
your gut
to the day around
your mind.

Fly.
Crawl into the clouds
like a bird without wings.
And shiver in the mist
of ocean tears falling
lightly upward.

Fly.
my skin will be your blanket
my words will be the softest sheets
like sky on earth
like sea on sand

and in return?
only the map to worlds
churning in orbs
of stepped on grass in spring
muddy green eyes
swirling like smoke
you blow
to heaven.

Fly.
before it rains in all directions
and life pours down
in buckets
in spurts
in little drops

Fly.
I will hold you
if you find me there.

Two things.

I am happy to report that my ditzy period is slowly coming to a halt. We shall soon go back to our standard daily blog fare (whatever that is). Thank you for the patience.

I have the openning halves of two stories but no endings. I have ideas for poems but no words. I have metaphors but no plots. I have characters but no climax. My writing is one big mess right now, and I'm still trying to wade through the muck. So in this light, there will be an interruption in blog service from Sunday to Tuesday afternoon. To give me more time to focus. Sorry.

Lunch was extremely nice. Ken asked me out again already, and also got my number. One point for me.

He was also very endearing, because number one, he said I was pretty and actually meant it, and number two, he was kind of tiptoeing around me, like he wasn't sure if I had a nice time. Which is always fun because I know I already have the upper hand.

Dinner was okay, except I'm not sure if I'm gonna get a callback. Christian said he'd call (and he did get my number), and he said he wants to meet up tomorrow, but you know all these New Yorkers and their "I'll call yous". Plus the place we went to was littered with models... as in the beauiful people.

He was sending very mixed signals. He waited for me for a full hour (I took a nap and didn't wake up when I should've), took me to a nice place, and took me to another, "more romantic" place, but something was wrong. It felt like our thoughts were running along the same lines, but they weren't really connecting. I don't quite know how else to explain.

We were talking a lot, and I know a good chunk of his story (ofcourse with him coming away knowing next to nothing about me), we had a really good discussion about art, and the east village, and writing, but something was just missing. I don't know.

He hand rolls his cigarettes too. Just a bit odd. We'd be sitting and talking, and then he takes out a packet of tobacco and is suddenly licking the paper. (And yes, I'm sure it's not weed.)

He's very different from anyone else I know. Very different. Very, err, challenging.

Ahh... a very interesting new player in the GAME, boys and girls. And I hate losing.

Oh yeah... what's weird is Ken did a search on my name over the net, and he actually found some stuff. It turns out I have an ISBN number for some of my work... and I have poetry and fiction all over the place. Really strange.

I have not worn a coat in a week. Ah. Bliss.

Today was spent walking like a madwoman. I had a date with Italian-Asian guy, whose name was Lica and not Luca as first reported. While not exactly a disaster, it was very, very close. First, we were both late and nearly missed each other, because we both thought that the other had already left. Second, he had the very annoying habit of calling me sweetie. And third, he was too impressed by my using the word "archipelago" to describe the Philippines. Eh?

He asked me out for Friday but I said I was busy. Busy avoiding him. For those of you who want to know what he looks like, email me and I'll send you the pic he frickin' sent me over the net. Did I mention his narcissistic streak? He's in love with his face.

Anyway, on to nicer news. You guys remember half-chinese (half-united nations) man? I saw him on the subway today and I just realized that the guy is really hot. And he has a really nice voice. And he's had two chapbooks published, plus some other stuff on thirty national and international literary magazines.

On the train, while we were talking, I was thinking I should have said yes when he asked me out, because he makes for decent conversation, at the very least. I was starting to think that maybe he's the type not to push it, and he was never going to ask me out again. But guess what? When I got home today, I openned my inbox and saw an email from him, asking me out for Thursday (dinner). Only this other guy (different from everyone already mentioned) asked me out for Thursday as well (lunch). Kind of weird to have two dates on the same day.

Spring break means too much free time.

So I have a date with a guy named Luca. Half-Italian half-Asian. We all know I have a weakness for brown-white mestizos. We're meeting at Alos, 32nd and Broadway.

Arranged by a classmate. If nothing else it's a free meal, right?

I met up with Pat for dinner and a few beers in New York today. When will all the Saturday subway re-routing end, I wonder? I haven't used the same route to get anywhere on a Saturday this past month. Confusing.

Anyway, it was fun and extremely nice to see a FAMILIAR Filipino face (apart from my tito and tita) after two whole weeks.

Actually this whole day was pretty enjoyable. Before I met up with Pat I hung out at Bryant Park near the NY Public Library (where the New York fashions shows are held) with Grant and his, err, posse of, err, photography student friends who were trying to realize their "artistic vision, babe" by taking pictures of each other climbing trees (before they got told off by security), doing karate on the benches (my idea), and the like. They really tripped on me too as I was the only girl and Asian to boot. The so-called "exotic" touch.

Half-chinese-half-United-Nations man was there too (yeah, psychedelic poem through email guy). He's so serious -- brooding, artistic angsty type. Sort of reminds me of Sarah Black's Moe, except taller and with a bigger complex. He's nice though, in his own way (then again, I think most people who buy me chocolate chip cookies are nice).

Spring Break

To celebrate the first day of Spring Break, I put on really comfy yoga pants, sneakers, a beanie and a coat, got about $20 worth of coins, my cellphone and keys, and my ATM card and rode the first bus that stopped at the bus stop.

I had no idea where I was going, but what the hell. Commuting here is easy. There's always a bus that will take you back and it will usually stop just across the street.

My first stop was New Brunswick, which I guess is primarily a Latin and black neighborhood. I heard Spanish more than I heard English. It was basically a very young town, full of, err... really energetic people. Kind of reminded me of Paranaque actually.

Then I rode the bus to Newark, contemplated on heading off to New York but opted to take the train to Trenton. Newark is a really busy place, comparable, as Pat says, to Makati. From Trenton I went to Rutgers and passed by Princeton, which is ofcourse another young area. There are a couple of nice cafes in Princeton. I had a late lunch (yes, by myself) at a really cute sixties-inspired diner there. Then I went back to Trenton, rode the train to Metropark, took the bus to Woodbridge Center Mall, and just walked home.

On the way home, I discovered a cozy little place called Zen Den. They have open mike nights and poetry readings on the first Wednesday and Saturday of every month. The place is really, really nice. It's a coffee-snacks-drinking place with the usual artsy vintage feel. Think Crowded House meets Odd Manila meets Sanctum, only smaller.

It was fun. I love being by myself, obviously. And it just affirmed my belief that people are much nicer than they're given credit for. I mean, sure, there are rapists and axe murderers and all that, but we have to remember that they only really make up a tiny percent of the population. They are not the norm. I can't let them hold me back from enjoying this world, now can I?

And besides, if you look like you know where you're going, people usually won't bother you. You just have to be able to size up a person really quickly. Intuitively. Anyway, I'm slowly expanding my little comfort zone. There are too many things to see and do to stay cramped up at home, nevermind if I have to see and do them alone.


By The Way, if you are a fan of any of these bands:

sugarfree * twisted halo *dicta license * fatal posporos * fish trio * matilda * musings of a cigarette smoking man * itchyworms * boldstar * sandwich * pan * eraserheads * squid9 * ciudad * imago * chicosci * makiling ensemble * kamikazee * the brew * sacramento * popgun * narda * romeo lee and the brown briefs * grasspipe * durins bane * candyaudioline * lester canon * superlooge * soapdish * kiko machine

Or if you would like to support a good cause, which is to help the victims of the Kamia incident, herd up your friends and trek on over to Bahay ng Alumni at UP, 5:30, Tuesday (March 18) for the benefit concert.

Announcement: Congratulate Pat. She got in Bank Street College in New York. Yehey!

By the way, to all the Pinoys, test your knowledge of the language here. I bet you won't get 15 out of the 100.

Have they all gone mad?

Freedom fries? Freedom toast? Do we say Freedom cut bikini and Freedom tip manicure as well?

Mad.


To be totally off-tangent, here's a copy of my midterm essay, which is a pass-fail requirement (no grades). It's rather long and it's nothing great (we were under time constraints). I'm only posting it because someone asked me something similar to the essay question (What is writing and who is the writer).

Minor Rant

Why is it that the temps presented to me all have a tinge of weirdness? Is "strange work only" written on my forehead? It seems I'm destined for oddity.

So I can choose to be a personal assistant to a Ph.D.-ed lunatic (she calls herself Marijuana Barbie, for crying out loud), or a personal assistant to a slightly mental writer (which isn't so bad except she lives in frickin' Long Beach, Long Island), or a personal assistant to, well, a very volatile stage actress (who's probably at the tailend of the twilight of her career). Should I really tie myself to any of these people for $8-9/hour?

A personal assistant. Unfortunately, that's the only thing I could find that has the potential not to kill me. I cannot be an "apartment shower". I cannot be a 3x-a-week receptionist for any firm in mid-Manhattan (the egos and the yells would be too much, I'd get fired eventually). I cannot be a telemarketer. I cannot be a waitress (mom, can you just imagine?). I obviously can never be a bartender(uhh... how do you make that again? oops, sorry for accidentally dumping the ice on your head).

And we all know that a REAL job, one that involves desks, a genuine boss, and a corporate hierarchy, would suck the life out of me.

If I were only a five-foot-nine-inch-model-actress type, I could have probably gone to some of these casting calls flooding the city. Or an "Athletic Asian Woman" -- Nike's looking for ad models. Or stupid/crazy enough to audition for a reality pilot (God, someone put a plug on all these sickening reality shows already).

But actually, I would much rather be a rich yaya. I would much rather be a $600/week, Gucci-watch-wearing, Prada-bag-toting rich yaya. Even if I have never liked Gucci or Prada. At least I know I can wear and tote them.

But no, all the good babysitting jobs are taken. No more opennings for watching little American heiresses, or arranging playdates for baby Euro-jetsetters, or fixing a "lightly toasted whole weat, all-natural peanut butter sandwich and Pepsi in a crystal glass" snack.

NYU-ers, especially the "older" students, have grabbed them all, even before I had the chance to read the notice board. Everyone's strapped for cash, it seems.

Ughh. Back to the classifieds.


School Work

First of all, I may have another reading scheduled for the end of the month. I say may because as of now, I have nothing to read. They need a definite answer by the 15th, and it looks like the answer will be one big fat "I'm sorry". Good thing I can actually renege on that reading with a clean conscience because I never actually committed to it. They knew it was all subject to "availability of material" right from the start.

I am such a dork. I only have five more books to go for the reading list, a list that should have lasted me the whole semester. Somehow, without me noticing, I managed to read a quarter of the list in the four days that I was deprived of internet (hey, they were very engrossing), which makes a grand total of 15 books in less than three months. After these five books (I'm in the middle of one right now), I will have fulfilled all my reading requirements. And since Spring break is coming and I have nothing better to do other than enroll in a writing workshop which requires a reading list of my choosing, I will probably finish the remaining four by the start of class. Of course, being such a bloody dork , I've already asked my professor for extra credit.

Obviously, I have no life.

Since we're moving out, our phone line will be cut tomorrow. Unless I use the computers at the library (which means I actually have to go to school and it's snowing), this might be my last post for the week.

Apparently, my work is moving along pretty well. The evaluations came in yesterday, and I'm happy with mine.

Penguin Putnam confirmed publication of Erik's manuscript. I don't know how long the process takes, but we're all pretty excited about that. It's nice to know I'm not the only one who thinks the man is a genius.

It's submissions season over the Spring Break. I don't really have anything to submit yet though, because my first story is unfinished, and I'm only starting on a new one now. But that's alright. I'll wait until fall -- funny how easy it is to begin thinking in seasons here.

God, I really want to go to the beach. [M]

Moratorium to the Stop the War

Students across the nation walked out of their classrooms yesterday to protest the war against Iraq. I heard about it from Pat, and then I called some of my classmates to ask what happened. We at the graduate school are always the last to know. Especially since we got assigned to the isolated classroom over at the back-of-everything building.

High school students in New York walked out in the morning. College students followed later in the afternoon. They all converged at Union Square to join the rally led by Hunter College. A candle-lit march followed.

I found out that Grant is a Republican, and not just a Republican, but a staunch Bush supporter. We agreed to avoid discussing politics.

"Any life is made up of a single moment — the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is." -Jorge Luis Borges

Maybe it’s better not to get too comfortable in your skin, because rather than relax in it, and grow into it until it becomes too snug, and you are suddenly trapped inside wrinkles swimming in cream, or faces too taut over themselves, you are compelled to jump out from it, itching to tear down physics and throw your soul into the sky.


Last Song Syndrome

The rhythm is in my head. The tune of Coldplay’s “The Scientist” over and over again. It’s the note on the piano that insists on burning into the back of my mind. Burning. Until it’s all I ever hear. Until I can see it. Pink. Pink eating the whiteness of the clouds, like marshmallows that have melted into a sticky blob. Pink swirling into brilliant reds, like a sunset in Boracay over shakes from Joni’s.

It’s a movie that plays mercilessly. A movie with only two scenes, both of them heart-wrenching goodbyes. It’s the torturous nightmare that has barricaded the path to waking up.

It’s me not turning down the radio while I scream “Make it stop”.

But really, it’s that note on the damn piano.

So I talk to myself.

Imagine two worlds moving parallel to each other. One familiar and comfortable, the other exciting and full of promise.

Imagine jumping from one to the other. Imagine suddenly realizing that you are unsure whether these worlds will run parallel for very long. They may run side by side for all eternity, and one may take a turn in a few seconds. You don’t know.

Imagine not knowing if you can ever really go back to the exact place you left. Imagine two sides tugging at you in two different directions all at once.

Imagine thinking very carefully about what you might leave behind – friends moving on with their lives, sisters growing up from a distance, your old world moving along without you in it. Imagine the space you once occupied being covered with dust. Imagine being displaced. Imagine seeing a stranger where you used to be.

Imagine what you may achieve in the new world you’ve placed yourself in – realizing who you are, holding the world in your palms, living like you’ve always wanted. Imagine the stark emptiness before you, the responsibility of carving out your own fate, of filling the void by yourself. Imagine the strength you will need to find, the courage you will have to discover.

Imagine holding the weight of two lives in your hands – both yours.

Imagine being able to choose only one.

“You want people to ingest you like opium.”

O-pi-um. I love how that word rolls of the tongue. Instantly it conjures pictures of Chinese silk and heavy lacquered boxes in gold and red, dark rooms with carved brass pipes, dragons painted on melancholic walls, smoke curling up like oiled pencil moustaches, snakes painted on heavy carpets, aged Buddha bodies in constant hazy deliriums. A sort of dirty decadence. Opulence.

O-pu-lence. The fat kind, with its soft paunch stretched out against the rich, antique daybed.

Sometimes it’s strange how a phrase will burrow in your thoughts, like a snake nestled in hibernation. And you let the days slip by, forgetting, maybe never knowing, that it’s sleeping there. Until the reptile wakes up to uncoil itself, hungry from its sleep, slithering slowly around the crevices of your brain, devouring pieces of it whole.

Finally your mind acts, suddenly afraid. But it clamps on the creature so tightly, that you can neither squeeze it nor let it go. It’s just there, trapped inside the fist of your head.

And your daydreams and night-dreams and day-mares and nightmares all sing of it. Sing of opium. Loudly, a bit shrilly. In pentatonic scale. All dressed in elaborate costumes, like the Chinese opera singers.

O-pi-um. I don’t even remember who said it. Or when. All I can remember are the words, my mind choking the words.

And knowing that it’s all true, even if it isn’t real.

Maybe my story is hopeless.

Ha-ha. The story I'm working on (yes, still the same one!) is getting to be one frustrating write -- not just for me and Erik, but for my teacher as well. Honestly, right now, it's not "bad". It's just not there yet. And as a writer (naks), you can't be content with a passable or even good piece. Everything you shell out has to be as brilliant as it can possibly get. What am I doing studying halfway across the planet if not to be the best damn writer I can be?

Pushing myself is the name of the game. And I intend to master this game, even if it kills me.

Anyway, both Erik and Marianna (the prof) have told me to step back from this story and to try to not even look at it for atleast a month. "Distance", they said. For perspective. According to them, right now, I can't do anything for it anymore, because if I continue doing the revisions, the whole thing might come out tired, or forced. Plus I might eventually stop writing from "inside", which might cause me to lose the tone of the piece.

So, fine, "distance" then. Marianna told me to write a satellite story instead. Just a few pages, to keep me on my toes.

For the Artsy Manilenas:

For those of you who are into the performing arts, there will be a sort of Women's Art Week to be held on March 4-8, in Manila (mostly in Intramuros). Participants will come from Japan, Australia, Hongkong, Cambodia, Laos, Norway, and others. Very interesting. Please go and see for yourself.

Click here for a schedule of performances.

The book I'm reading for class is going to take me time. A lot of time.

Boys and girls, it's written in Spanglish. With whole chunks of it in Spanish -- and not just Castillian Spanish, which I'm not comfortable with, but at least is dictionary-friendly. Sometimes it's Mexican Spanish, sometimes a Tex-Mex Spanish Variant, and sometimes it's Chicano Spanish, which derives very heavily from Nahuatl, an Indian dialect.

So the blingual dictionary, while a very helpful tool, is sometimes made helpless by all these riotous children of the spanish tongue, which makes me just stare dumbly at the wall, my brain at a complete loss.

Although Gloria Anzaldua is a very smart woman, and I think this book of hers shows talent (that is, when I can actually manage to understand it), "La Frontera" is also turning out to be one of the hardest reads.

There are Latinos in the class, and even they shake their heads sometimes, especially when confronted by Nahuatl. But I must say, it's very interesting. She takes us through Aztec-Southwest American history, and explains the way of life in the borderlands -- the space between the U.S. and Mexico.

With that foundation, she makes the parallelism between those physical borders, and the other, less tangible borders, like race, sex, age, etc.

I just wish I had a better grasp of the imagery and the layers of meaning inherent in her langauge, because as of now, I'm just happy with actually understanding the words. Nevermind sifting through the nuances that those words may contain. I'm afraid I may have lost so many things in the translation.

Quise de aprender el español tan yo lo puedo hablar y lo leyó, pero esto es ridículo. Oh well.

Buena suerte a mí.

Really Long and Boring Entry on Really Trival Things

There was a dumb-ass white boy screaming "Hey nigga" in the bus today. He was just a really sorry excuse for a person. I mean, fine, the guy he was screaming to looked black, but what about the other black people in the bus who could've been offended by his idiotic attempts at attention?

I was hoping he'd get told off by the really big African-American guy behind me, but no such luck. I had to put up with his crudeness until he got off somewhere in Union City. You could almost hear all of us in the bus breath a collective sigh of relief.

And on the same ride, this little 10-year old kid sat down on the seat across the aisle from me. I know his age because I heard the driver ask him. Kids under 12 don't pay for public transportation here.

Apparently, he was going to New York alone. He seemed so proud of himself too, all puffed up because he was "grown-up" enough to ride the bus by himself. What a little cutie.

I had an eye out for the cute kid when we got to Port Authority, because I wasn't sure he knew his way around. He was beside me on the escalator, so I asked him if he knew where he was going. Turned out that he'd done this twice before, but he was still a bit apprehensive about which train to ride on the subway. Since I was going uptown anyway, I offered to stay with him until at least his stop.

Then when I found out he was going down at 116th, I figured I'd just see him through and walk the rest of my way since it was just going to be a six-block difference (I was supposed to go down at 110th). He was so cute. He even offered to buy me soda. And he asked for my IM screen name. A ten-year old computer geek. Adorable.

By the way, did anyone make today PDA day? Because there was an inordinate amount of kissing and hand-holding in the trains this evening. Going downtown to NYU, I found myself wedged between a straight couple whispering heaven-knows-what into each other's ears, and a gay multi-racial couple giving light airy kisses on each other's cheeks. The homosexuals were cute, but that other couple was sickening.

And what's with the increase in the number of brainless males on the street? I know getting hey-babyed and sup-gorgeoused is just another part of the New York ride, but there were a lot of them today. Even the people in class brought it up. I mean even some of the guys got whistled on while on their way down. It would be funny if it wasn't so annoying.

Even class was unusually rowdy, which really makes me wonder why people's energy levels seem to be on high. Is there a full moon out or something?

Oh and I got asked for directions twice. A nice-looking French woman even asked me to "kindly explain the subway system please". Excuse me? Uhh... I might not be the right person to ask about that, since I just got here two months ago. It must be the NYU-student-looking clothes.

Plus this Pinay thought I was Chinese, and a chinese snob at that. She didn't want to talk to me because I looked like a snob! And even when I told her I was Pinay, she didn't want to talk to me in Tagalog because she thought I wouldn't understand. I must look like the quintessential Asian prototype.

So anyway.that was my day. All my papers were on time, thank God.

Now I shall lay me down to sleep.

Loved the replies, especially Mx23's whole treatise on the subject, which unfortunately I wasn't able to completely read because of the dealine looming before me. Rest assured, however, that I'll read it when I get home.

Anyway. Quiet Party tonight and guess who's not going? I need sleep. I need to hibernate, actually. I can barely keep my eyes open to type, and I still have to get dressed for school.

So that's the post for the day. I just really wanted to say thank you, dear boys and girls.