The following 32 posts were part of a creative experiment I attempted in April of 2006. The circumstances were that I was fasting certain things in my life and during that time, I would keep a daily blog journal. However, for creative restriction, I would limit myself to no more than 50 words per blog each day.

Some of the results were surprisingly touching, others were beyond confusing and still more downright ridiculous. Yet, there are some gems in there and it was interesting to map the course of my heart over that month: where my thoughts went, how my faith shifted, etc.

The 30-day blog is presented here (including prologue and Eve blog) in a way so that the first blog is the oldest. You may read them by moving down the page and going to “Previous Entries” to continue the story.

Check it out. Some of them aren’t bad at all.

Florida, That Summer

The following four posts are the seeds of a much larger work currently in progress. They are based on true events and, some minor editing aside, appeared in an almost identical form on my former Myspace blog.

Instead of changing names, I opted to omit specific details surrounding the less flattering aspects of the event. In this, I focus much more on the emotion of the events than on the specifics. At any rate, I submit them for your approval and hope you enjoy them.

Things Work

I had promised myself I wouldn’t do it unless I could afford it. Then, it began to look like I couldn’t afford NOT to do it. They were almost all going and I couldn’t stand the thought of being on the absentee list.

The trip had been in development since March and while the initial invite had been extended to a good dozen people, the count had dwindled month after month down to seven. I made eight. Provided, that is, that I could either find affordable airfare, invent a teleporter or grow wings. I tried the last two first and was stuck with nothing left to do but look for a flight.

You see, good old Uncle Sam not a month ago had written me a letter telling me that he trusted me so much he was gonna let me help decide a court dispute for him. He called it jury duty, but I’m sure he meant coffee and a bagel. Either way, it was happening the same week as the proposed vacation. I called Uncle Sam up and told him I’d love to give him my advice, but could I do it next week and Uncle Sam said, “Fine.” Uncle Sam don’t say much these days.

Airline tickets were a minimum of 600 bucks and more than a few were over a grand. I was still counting on finding one for 250, but pigs can’t fly yet and Hell’s still hot. I kept looking and a week went by. Still looking when another week went by. Then, it got to the weekend just before the trip and I was still looking. At that point it looked like I stood a better chance building a teleporter, but they were all out of magic at Radio Shack.

Then, the Monday before the trip — bottom of the ninth for this ball game — I spent all day on the phone trying to find a ticket. But don’t tell my boss cause she thinks I was calling vendors that whole time. I was so panicked and downtrodden by the time I got home from work that I finally decided to pay whatever it took to get there. Through the course of the day, I’d allowed myself from 250 to about 300. I said I’d do it for that. Then, a few friends began to volunteer to help me out and a pool was reached that got me able to go up to about 400.

Well, at 7:30 monday evening, good old Delta came through and provided me with a 415 dollar ticket (after taxes) complete with a perfect schedule — fly out Thursday overnight and fly back home Sunday evening in time to report for jury duty Monday morning. My friends would be happy, Uncle Sam would be happy, and I’d be happy. It worked out beautifully. Sure, the money was gonna be super-outrageously-tight for the next couple of months, but banks are easier to break into these days if worse came to worse.

I worry a lot. Unintentionally, of course, but I do. How’s this gonna work out? Where’s the money gonna come from? Does she like me? Am I gonna get stupid someday? etc. You know the questions. Now, worry never did anything for me, but hope has done everything for me and its just as much a part of reality that sometimes things all work out. Sometimes ships come in and sometimes we actually make it to the other side.

So everything was in line. I would get to see my old college friends; I could finally visit Florida (a state I’d never seen); I could catch up with my college professor (read my profile to find out how much THAT meant to me); and not the least of all, I could relax for a fun-filled weekend of games and conversation, leaving all the stresses of recent months behind me. So, with a big smile on my face, I poured myself a glass of wine and enjoyed providence.

I just wish I’d checked the weather, though. Perhaps if I’d thought to check some extended weekend forecast I would have heard about the storms that were heading inward from the center of the Atlantic. Storms that would be mirrored in the lives of my friends throughout the weekend; storms that would severely transform my trip home; and storms that would wind up teaching me a few tough lessons about life and myself. I would be more than I was ready for.

But at that moment, only one thought careened through my mind: Sometimes everything works out just right.

Criminal

I had been sitting in the back seat of the squad car for about 10 minutes before she came back, hoping to God no one had chosen to play a Christmas prank on me.

Maybe I should start at the beginning. I have been house-sitting in Burbank for my wonderful cousins and their three adorable little pets. However, with a few remaining church obligations before Christmas comes and goes, I had to make a brief commute up to Castaic. On the way back, I decided that I needed some gas, so I turned the corner to head towards the bright red & orange Pilot truck stop that usually shines so brightly in my patio view.

As I made the turn, I saw the two black-and-white units make U-turns. They were doing so illegally at that particular intersection (lawbreakers!) and so I knew this only meant one thing: They were after me.

Sure enough, I turned on my signal and moved into the turning lane to enter the gas station and saw the bright blue & reds. Being already in the turning lane, I pulled into the station, finding the first parking space to stop my car. The two units parked angled behind my vehicle in a V formation so as to prevent any notion I might have of a speedy reverse exit. Just in case I suddenly thought I was Bullitt.

OK, maybe I took the turn too sharply. Maybe it was a yellow light and I didn’t notice and they want to slow me down. It’s nothing, I’m sure.

She tapped the window, her much taller partner standing near the rear of my car but still on the driver’s side. I rolled my window down and smiled.

“Sir, when an officer pulls you over, just pull over to the right side of the road.” I thought, well, I would have but I was already in the turning lane. Thought it best not to share that observation and just find out what was going on because I didn’t really like her tone. It made me nervous. And her partner, also a woman, was really tall.

“Do you have your license?” “Yes, ma’am.” I produced the license and she barely glanced at it. “Sir, have you ever been arrested before?”

OK. Hadn’t heard that question before. This was suddenly not so casual. Not so benign. I’m the guy who once had a police officer try to falsify an accident report against me to make their friend who slammed into me look better. I’m the guy who once got a $110 ticket while riding a bicycle. I don’t have luck with cops. Never have. And this one was asking me if I had ever been arrested before.

“No ma’am.” One breath. “Step out of the car please.”

I complied, everything suddenly moving in slow-motion. She grabbed my arm, led me over to her vehicle and moved my hand behind my back. “Place your hands behind your back and interlock your fingers.” I did so, and heard the rattle of the cuffs. I don’t remember feeling them — just hearing them rattle. That was enough, I think.

“Sir, I’m going to search you now. Is there anything in your pockets that’s going to poke me?” “My keys are in there, but that’s all.” As she proceeded to empty my pockets and ask my questions about why I was headed to Burbank from Castaic at 10:30 at night, I kept thinking to myself — If I go to jail, I’ll never get to sleep tonight. And I hadn’t been to bed from the night before (which probably meant I looked a little cracked-out and that was not a point in my favor). What if I get tasered? I’m gonna look like a moron flopping around like a fish. I hope they don’t think my prescription I just filled at Rite Aid looks suspicious. It’s for my stomach, I swear!

“Sir, I’m going to have to search your car. May I do that?” Not a whole lot I can do about it right now is there? is what I really wanted to say, but when I spoke it just came out, “Sure.” I’m buckled over the hood of their car, sufficiently nervous about them having pat-searched me when I hadn’t showered — or gotten their phone numbers — hoping to the good God in Heaven nobody from the church drove by. That would be just my Lackey-luck.

“I’m going to need you to sit in my vehicle while I search your car.” What? I’d never been in the back seat of a cop car before. Wow. She took off my hat (terrible hat hair – can’t believe I worried about it at that moment, but I did) and cupped my scalp so I didn’t hit my head on the roof of her mobile prison.

I looked out at everything from the caged back seat. Those bucket seats in police vehicles are ridiculously uncomfortable. Like those awkwardly hooked chairs they have in most DMVs. Her partner was in the other vehicle, running my license while she, step by step, took my car apart.

Now, I don’t want to get too dramatic, but I was a bit . . . confused. I had no idea why I had been pulled over, let alone searched and pocketed in the back seat of the car. For those of you who frequent my blogs, you may have seen my most recent entry (the challenge to eradicate negative responses). If you didn’t see it, read it quickly (it’s way shorter than this) and you’ll understand the predicament I’m in at that moment.

I’m being arrested for charges unknown, and I can’t even complain about it.

That Simpsons episode came to mind where Ned Flanders gets pulled over for speeding and winds up bent over Chief Wiggum’s vehicle when the church bus drives by and everybody waves. Yeah. Isn’t THAT funny. It’s amazing how being caught automatically makes you think you’re guilty even when you’ve done nothing.

About eight or nine minutes after I had taken my new residence in her car, I saw the two officers look at each other and their expressions both changed. They tensed and began to squint at each other. This is it, I thought. I’m spending tonight in jail. Somebody tell my mother I love her.

The officer who originally spoke to me returned to her car and opened the door. “Everything’s fine, Ronald.” She cupped my head again (forehead this time), helped me out of the car – the cuffs rattled again (louder this time, it seems) – and they let me go.

“I’m going to give you a warning, Mr. Lackey.” Oh, so soon? We were just having fun. “Your front driver’s side head light is out. Get it fixed.” Point taken. Loud and clear.

I collected my things, some scattered on the hood of their car, some scattered in my seats. I didn’t get their names, ask any questions, or even say goodbye. I just wanted to be done with the situation so I could do that whole “look-back-and-laugh” thing. I don’t know why their expressions had changed before they let me go. Maybe I disappointed them by not being Al Capone Jr. My car was still running, so I waited for them to drive away and . . . well, I still needed gas. Hm. Almost forgot that.

Did I mention I don’t have the best luck when it comes to police officers? Still, I should probably go ahead and get that head light fixed.

Renaissance (A Lackey Fable)

There once was a man of great talent, who could accomplish almost anything he set his focus upon. He had become an extraordinary musician, painter, writer, and philosopher — a man skilled in both sciences and legalities. There was no shortage of people who would praise both his discipline and his skill. And many said to themselves, “What a special kind of man this is, to have gained so much knowledge and experience.”

But the man did not feel this way in his heart. For he said to himself, “There is no one who will speak with me for even a minute. No one who will walk with me for even a mile. Every friend I have ever known has said goodbye and I am not where they are. Those who are here are strange to me, as I am to them.”

He spent many nights with this thought in his head. And such thoughts are too big to allow very many others in. He had traveled the globe, but could find no comfort beyond the four walls of his humble home. It was after a number of months that he discovered he had dwelt too long on the problem at hand, and not on the questions that would lead him to the solution. “What is my purpose,” he asked. “Of what good am I?”

So he decided to ask this of the local acquaintances in the town. Many of them said many different things, all of which came to this: “How can you ask what good you have or to what end your life has served? You have written great poetry and painted breathtaking portraits. You have soothed aches with medicines and calmed hearts with song. You are a special man, indeed.”

But their flattery fell false to him, for it was all about his works and not about his character. If his deeds were good, this did not make him good.

So he traveled all over the lands to be with those whom he had once called friend. He traveled through east and west, north and south and sought out every great companion he had ever known, asking them to what good end his life had served. Many of them said many different things, all of which came to this: “How can you ask what good you have or to what end your life has served? We made many wonderful memories together. We have cried together and laughed together, fought together and overcome together. Through it all, we have survived and will continue to do so in the days to come. This — freindship and memory — is a special gift, indeed.”

But their comfort left his stomach aching, for they spoke of things that were no more. When good things are gone, what remains that is still good?

He journeyed back to his home; the questions were his only companions. And though many knew his name, he felt utterly lost and alone. He prayed and prayed for understanding, for direction, and most of all — for purpose. But there came no answer.

Soon he cursed himself for being weak and for being selfish. He rebuked himself for needing what would obviously never be given him. And within his heart, his other feelings built a wall around his sorrow so that no one else could see it.

It was in the midst of this dark time that he discovered a small spider-web hidden in the ceiling corner on his home. The web belonged to a deadly creature, who was extremely dangerous due to its small size and uncertain temperament. The man was about to destroy the net, when he noticed a small fly struggling to break free from the silk prison.

The image reminded him of his own dilemma — trapped in a web of questions and emotions that could easily devour him whole if he lingered with them for much longer. And he realized, “The spider intends to eat this helpless animal, so to the spider, the fly’s purpose is food. However, the fly struggles against its bindings, so to the fly, its purpose is to survive. And me, I cannot choose a side:

For if I destroy the web, I will not save the fly,
And if I leave it alone, I will watch him die.”

And with this revelation came yet another, (one that lingered with him for a long moment) — that what we intend and what is intended for us are not always the same thing.

Eventually, he turned away from the web and did not destroy it. He thought it better to not know if the fly escaped or if the spider’s hunger was satisfied. He suddenly thought it better to laugh at the existence of things than to fear their ending. He believed it greater to take action and to create and to encounter than to seek reasons for such things.

And he knew, for that moment at least, that life was bigger than meaning. That it was, instead, full of meaning — and if something only serves one purpose, than that thing is dead. To be alive is to be above meaning and to allow purposes to come to you in their own time.

With this, he smiled, for he was at last glad to have no idea what he would do next.

– The End

In Between Better and Gone

My Grandfather (Papa) is sick and he’s probably not going to be here much longer. It can be difficult being almost 3,000 miles away and not knowing what to say or do or even what to think or feel when your loved ones are hurting like that.

In conversation with my Da, I said, “You know, what’s the worst about it is when you can’t deal with it yet because you don’t yet know what you’re dealing with. If he were better, but still sick, then we would deal with that. If he were gone, then we would deal with that. It’s in between better and gone that I don’t know how to deal with.”

And when I hung up the phone, I realized how that idea sums up so many things in my life. Our relationships, our self-worth, our jobs, our finances, our health, and our hearts. So many things aren’t well, but they’re not dead yet. The relationship isn’t over, but it isn’t good. The job sucks the life from you, but at least you have a job. The money barely meets the needs, and only then because you gave up food to get that bill caught up.

It’s a hard place to be. I don’t know what else I wanted to say besides pointing that out, but there’s a lot of people who are there right now.

And I guess for the sake of saying it (to myself and to anyone else who might read this who can relate at all to what I’m talking about) — sometimes we get better. Sometimes everything turns around you actually win. Sometimes you don’t.

Everything could have happened very differently. You could have been in a thousand different situations, loved different people, chosen different jobs, lived in different towns, made different choices, and even lived an entirely different life. But you didn’t. You are where you are, squarely in the middle of the best and the worst of everything.

But you’re not alone. You’re not alone. If nothing else, I’m there too. And without starting to preach — I could make another few comments about who I’m certain is with us as well.

This I Believe

Hard days, people. Hard times. We need some hope. We’re lost, folks. We make it most days, but some days we don’t. I can deal with some things but some things overcome me. I’m tired of saying goodbyes and of always letting go instead of getting to hold on once or twice.

But as honest as I can get, I lean back on my faith. A lot of people believe a lot of different things and some of you are gonna think I’m nuts. That’s all right, though, cause I secretly think some of you are nuts, too.

What do you believe, Reed? What does this life mean to you? How do you make it through tomorrow? Why do you pray? What’s the point? How are you going to make it through all of this stuff and come out clean on the other side? Can you tell me that? Can you tell me what all of this philosophizing boils down to for you?

I can. All that I believe about hope and life comes down to this . . .

In all things,
God will make a way,
Love will find it for you,
& Faith will walk you through it.

Yes, it sounds like a fortune cookie, but it’s as honest as I get. And it’s all I got right now.

Beneath This Me

I love superhero stories because I wish I was one.

I’d love to believe that underneath what everybody sees, there is something truly spectacular. That I had the power to save them. Or at least the power to help. — But I don’t have that power. And I’m not a hero. I’m a man.

The same man who occasionally knows just what to say or just how to act is the same guy who can lose his temper and act selfishly. The same guy who you can trust to love you and who you can depend on for support is the same man who can misunderstand you and speak with absolutely ridiculous ignorance. The same person who walks in and by faith and exhibits a sincere passion for God and Christ is the same person who will embarass his testimony and abuse his grace.

The good is as much within me as the bad. And the faults are as abundant as the merits. They are all a part of who I am. There are times in my life when I am at peace with who I am and what I’ve done. There are other times when there are things I simply wish weren’t there. And I wrestle with the guilt and I reach out for the love and I hope for the mercy.

But tonight, I ask a question. –
I have seen how naked I am. My eyes were opened and I’m ashamed. I’ve hidden in the bushes because I didn’t know what else to do. I retreat there with the snake when faced with the parts of me I’m embarassed by.

But my question is this . . . when God made this world — when He made me — and called it all “good,” . . . was I not naked then?

Just askin’.

My Seven-Year-Old Niece Just Saved Your Life

Peyton dug up the earth with her broken twig, buried her lollipop stick in the ground (after it had sufficiently been licked bare, of course) and ran back to the swing, prideful in her work ethic. Landon, my nephew (now 13), then broke it down for me:

“Someday, when we’re all robots and the invding aliens come to destroy our center of gravity, they’ll find this spot. They’ll dig up that lollipop, thinking that it’s an ancient artifact from the mid 2000s. But there will STILL be residue on it from the sucker. They’ll taste it and their eyes will glow with joy! They’ll say, ‘Humans can’t be bad if they can create such delicious sticks that remain so tasty after thousands of years!’ and they’ll stop the invasions and let the robots go back to watching TV.”

And I thought, ” . . . BRILLIANT!” So me, my nephew, and my niece (who shall be hereafter called Her Honorable Benevolence) decided that instead of going inside to play American Idol (cause Peyton won last time anyway), we should gather up every lollipop in the house, lick it clean to the paper (but leave just a little bit for the aliens to find) and bury it for the good of all humanity — and robotdom.

Today’s lessons — swing as high as you can on the playground, so the clouds get jealous and rain somewhere else; American Idol is always more entertaining when the judges are all three your uncle; and littering should be occasionally encouraged for the greater good of mankind.

You didn’t know. Now you know.

La Vita e’ Bella

I had met this girl at the airport (lovely, very kind, & a writer no less). We began to talk before we boarded and, due to the rather small passenger quantity, we changed seats so we could chat through the five hour aerial trek as well.

Once the conversation finished bouncing around from work to family to wine to travel to writing to Hollywood to reading to 24 to that occasional snicker at the guy who couldn’t help but yell along with the in-flight movie (forgetting he could be heard above his headphones), I said something that took me off guard.

“I think I’m just glad to be alive.”

The reason it took me off guard was because of what I didn’t say. I hadn’t said, “At least I’m alive,” or “I’m glad I’m not dead.” In those few moments, trapped in that little moving box above the clouds, I was so very grateful for every single scrap of anything good or bad I’d ever seen or heard or experienced in my world.

In those moments, I ached at what I’d lost (and at what I wanted but still didn’t have). I smiled at all that I’d been given (instead of wondering when God was gonna realize I didn’t deserve it and take it away). I got all pissed and passionate about the geekiest crap you’ve ever heard, I’m sure (instead of trying to play like I was anything close to normal). I got choked up a bit when I talked about my faith (and wasn’t too embarassed that I couldn’t explain why I believed what I did). I lost my breath when I looked out the window (and realized again how full of wonder things can be). And I laughed when I’d lost all thought of what to say next (even openly admitting that I was trying so damn hard not to be boring).

I think maybe I’m supposed to be more cynical and not sound so much like a flickin’ Hallmark card. Cause you don’t want to hear all this sappy crap-flappy optimism when things aren’t how you want them to be. It’s like, dude, you’re really setting off my Gay-dar through the red here with this “Ain’t-life-grand” routine. Get real, for crying out. Life sucks.

No. No, it doesn’t.

You know, I’ll die not having everything I want & probably not having done everything I wanted to do. I won’t deserve half the crap that falls on me and I won’t get some of the precious few things that maybe I do deserve. But I get lost sometimes in a feeling like a bomb in my belly that sends goosebumps up my arms and makes me breathe in so deeply that I almost choke. And it’s such a weird feeling when it hits that I have to respond to it somehow. I have to shift around or take a walk or write something or laugh or listen to music (really listen) or cry or talk to somebody about some silly nonsense thought I had that made me feel funny.

I think I’m just glad to be alive.

It doesn’t much matter if I seem silly or naive. If you can’t sit still for five minutes and look around you and be filled with awe, then no wonder optimism sounds foolish to you. But if you can, then you’ll know just what I’m talking about — and you’ll be glad too.

The plane landed and I hugged my new friend goodbye. She had said to me earlier, “It’s nice to meet somebody who isn’t afraid to be happy for a minute or two.” And I was about to respond with some quick catch-phrase I’d probably read somewhere in one of those dang Chicken Soup for the Soul books but before I could say anything, that guy two rows back with the headphones on let out a loud “WHOOO!” because the basketball player in the movie had just won the game. He woke up the little Asian guy whose head was already hanging in the aisle. The guy was so startled he forgot where he was and almost tripped the stewardess carrying the trashbag towards the back.

So, I didn’t spit out a cliche’ catch-phrase answer. I just couldn’t stop laughing.

Prologue: Half a Dozen Nickel Tails

I talk about myself = I’m a blithering idiot.

It all sounds made-up or silly — to me. But I’m no liar.

I just prefer saying anything to saying nothing.

This afternoon I found six separate nickels — All Tails Up. Downside up in my upside-down life.

I would much rather say SOMETHING.

Month’s Eve: “Live Every Day As If It Were Your Last”

That’s hollow advice.

Cherish things because they are or because they are gone. But when you force yourself to cherish something only because it soon will be . . . gone, — you betray its beauty.

I believe that Life (and all within it) is precious for more reasons than that it is fragile.

Day 1: April’s Fool

My mother stood by her convictions today. She made a relatively minor issue a matter of no-compromise. People were embarassed & one reacted with harsh tones.

But one asked Ma to share her faith with them.

I am humbled & slightly ashamed.
Had I been there, would I have done the same?

Day 2: Irritable

Splitting headache set in yesterday. The worry set in today.

How we gonna make it this month, God?

I speak Faith to others, to so many others, and have so little left for myself.

How easy it is to believe that the miracle can happen to somebody — anybody — else.

Day 3: Please Secure Your Oxygen Mask Before Assisting Others

I never understood why you’re supposed to put on your oxygen mask in a plane before helping your neighbor’s. Sounds selfish.

Is it that you have to help yourself before you can truly help other people? Or is that just a fancy justification for selfishness?

Either way — plane’s going down.

Day 4: Shifts in Thought and Action

Headaches are gone, but I got a weird bug in my belly.
I feel like something’s wrong but don’t know what. (Hate that!)

Somebody else (I don’t recall who) said, “I don’t live right and I don’t want to live right. But I want to want to live right.”

Amen.

Day 5: Valley Talk (a.k.a. Dang! This Morosity’s Gotta Cease!)

Comparing what you had to what you have now is a double-edged sword. It is equal parts tragedy & comedy; joy & regret; despair & hope.

Each of us bears a burden . . . we carry alone.

Mine is that I don’t know how my story ends. Tough spot for a storyteller to be in.

Day 6: Diversions and Escapism

It’s been a good day. New Paul Simon album, full stomach, home early, etc.
So I submit to you, a brief commercial.

Day 7: This Ain’t Smallville

I’ve said this before . . . I want Superman for a messiah. Swoop in, save me, then fly away and leave me be.

But what I want is not what I need.

And bullets don’t bounce off the messiah I believe in. In fact, He still has nail scars in His hands.

Day 8: A Day Off

Spent some time with friends.

After the video games (once wine & theology talk started flowing), this thought lingered . . .

We belong to Christ, but Christ doesn’t exclusively belong to us. If we start thinking we somehow “own” Christ, like Judas, we may start thinking we can sell Him however we please.

Day 9: Sad . . . But True

I wish I could love myself the way I love my neighbor.

I wish I could fight for myself the way I fight for others.

I wish I could trust myself as I trust the words of strangers.

& I wish I could forgive myself as much as I’ve forgiven you.

Day 10: A Conversation for Which I Was Present

This hurts.
I know.

Ive always felt so alone.
Thats your own fault.

How do I change it?
You already know the answer to that.

Stop being so cryptic. Just tell me.
If I did, you wouldnt listen.

So what are you gonna do?

I’m gonna be here. With you.

Day 11: Second Fiddle

I read an old article that made the following observation:

There is an empty space inside every instrument which gives it a special tone. . . . Hm.

So, some emptiness (or yearning) is supposed to be there. If I try to fill that void my own way . . . I’ll cease to be an instrument.

Day 12: Whole Lotta Nothin’

I love having days with nothing to do because of how relaxing they can be.

I hate having days with nothing to do because of how wasteful they can seem.

I guess this officially confirms me as at least average-level lazy. Well, at least I’m rested.

Day 13: Trinity

Each of us are made up of three parts . . .

Our Thoughts
Our Words
Our Deeds

It is startling to me that those three things will always reflect the one from whom they come, but they don’t always express the same character in that person.

Yet — somehow — they are the same.