Élucubrations québécoises (ET/OU: Publication en trois temps, littéralement, ET/OU Retour (ou re-retour).

NDLR #2 (2021-02-07): Ben oui, allo! Chu (re)back. Là, au moins, j'ai un ordi. Ça va mieux, pour écrire. Je (re)commence ça rough avec l'équivalent d'un vieux papier froissé qu'on regarde, on dit "Ah ouiii, ça!". Déplie, déplie, déplie le petit papier. Ah - c'est sur le back burner depuis 5 ans. Pourquoi on ne l'a jamais publié? On décide derechef "Ah pis phoque, je le publie pareil. J'ai juste à mettre une NDLR #2".

NDLR #1 (2018-06-07): Cette note a été écrite, à l'origine, le 24 juin 2016, et jamais publiée parce que crue perdue. Mais là, Fidèles et Avides Lecteurs de mon coeur, je viens de prendre une résolution il y a quelques semaines de revenir vous voir parce que vous êtes si charmants et patients, et en plus c'est super beau votre nouveau cheveu. Alors tantôt, j'ai retrouvé cette note, cachée dans mon téléphone. J'ai tapé ça dans mon téléphone. En tout cas. Bonne lecture, je vous embrasse.

Bonne Fête nationale!  À chaque St-Jean, à chaque fois que je souhaite ça à quelqu'un ou que je l'entends, je me dis: "À quel point est-ce que je suis souverainiste? À quel point suis-je prête à me battre pour mon pays?" Comme si être souverainiste, ça devait absolument vouloir dire qu'on ira à l'extrême. Y a t'il un Manuel du petit souverainiste parfait? Si on m’assoit avec un pur et dur, un vrai de vrai, est-ce que la conversation ressemblera à ceci?

"Hey, bonne St-Jean!"

"Bonne St-Jeaaaaan!"

(ici on entend un clonk de bouteilles qui s'entrechoquent)

"Je suis fière d'être une franco-ontarienne qui est devenue québécoise!"

"Ben t'es pas québécoise, d'abord. T'es canadienne, c'est tout."

Fin de cette conversation-là.

...ou encore:

"Bonne St-Jeaaaaan!"

"Ben oui, à toi aussi! *clonk* Yeaaaah!"

"Faque là c'est quoi que tu disais, t'as un blogue? T'écris quoi? Y'a tu beaucoup de monde qui te lit?"

"Ohhh non c'est vraiment pas, c'est pas un affaire de popularité, c'est plus comme un exutoire où je suis un petit peu anonyme. J'écris pour sortir des idées de ma tête, grosso modo. J'ai même un personnage qui fait la narration de ma vie. Y'a des personnages récurrents. Comme Little Person Living Inside my Head. C'est un genre de petit être, là, euh, comme un Gollum, pis..."

"C'est quoi, c't'en anglais ton affaire?"

"...y'est comme, il porte un genre de pagne, ou un euh, un loincloth, là...euh oui, oui j'écris en anglais."

"Ben pis notre langue à nous, tu t'en câlisses? En tout cas je te donne aucun point pour ton effort pour la sauvegarde de la langue de notre peuple!"

"...euh..."

"Pis après ça t'es fière d'avoir une fleur de lys sur la joue pis tu fêtes la St-Jean. Bravo."

Ouf. Dans les dents.

Ma vision à moi d'être québécoise, c'est une vision idéaliste qui, je m'en rends bien compte, frôle l'utopie de si proche qu'elle pue ça à plein nez et que ça me brise mon fun de dire bonne St-Jean. Comme franco-ontarienne, un jour, par besoin de soutenir une cause, je me suis déclarée québécoise. Je votais oui au référendum de 95 à l'hôtel de ville de Cap-Rouge, à l'époque. Ça allait être une cassure majeure: un grand craquement de la croûte terrestre elle-même alors que se détacherait un nouveau pays, en partant du haut de l'Abitibi, en se tordant vers la droite, puis en se scindant physiquement jusqu'en bas, à Hull dans le temps. Dans un grand soupir, tous les unifoliés encore hissés choiraient simultanément. Au ralenti, en noir et blanc, c'était l'exode des fédéralistes. On les regardait partir en silence, avec leurs valises, et on rebâtissait notre nouveau pays. Là ça devenait weird, mon affaire, parce qu'on était soudainement tous des hippies et tout le monde était buzzé. Mélange d'époques, c'est tout. J'aurais voulu vivre avec des cheveux longs, des jupes longues, mille bracelets et des fleurs dans les cheveux. Bon, il n'est jamais trop tard. But I digress.

Mon Québec est un Québec inclusif sans les double standards. C'est un endroit où les gens sont accueillants et tolérants, et où ceux qu'on accueille nous ressemblent ou pas, et ont les mêmes opinions que nous ou pas. Et où c'est correct de parler une autre langue, voire deux autres langues.

Pis on apprend quand même à vivre ça bien, comme des gens civilisés. Je veux pas être trop gore, mais si on nous slice avec un scalpel, là, ben on saigne tous rouge. C'est juste que là, on a pas besoin de se slicer.

...c'est beau, être un pays.

Planter d'quoi.

Hey allô, toi.

Ça fait douze fois que j'y pense. Ça fait millemillions de jours que je n'ai pas écrit ici. Plusieurs semaines de tergiversations plus tard, c'est là que je commence ce projet de vous partager, Ô Millions de Fans Invétérés de ce blogue, petits et grands, depuis longtemps ou pas pantoute, mon "nouveau" paradis.

Je mets "nouveau" entre guillemets, parce que ça a fait un an le 5 mai que j'y habite avec mon Viking. Le Viking, il s'appelle comme ça parce qu'il a une barbe, genre, de Viking. Et en plus il est valeureux, ça compte. Mais il n'a pas de drakkar. Normal, allô, on habite dans les terres. 

Retour aux moutons (or lack thereof). Mon expérience de jardinage dans toute ma vie se résumait à aller à n'importe quel hardware store de la place où j'habitais, pogner quelques géraniums, deux ou trois bégonias, pétunias, et des petits trucs qui me semblaient sortir de l'ordinaire. Genre ma plante (dont je ne me souviens plus du nom) tout droit sortie de la Flore Laurentienne du Frère Marie-Victorin qui produisit, cet été-là, une fleur magnifique, une seule. Mais je l'aimais d'amour. Deux ou trois essais de noyaux d'avocats, de pieds de laitue, de pépins quelconques garrochés dans la plate-bande "pour faire du compost", qui résultèrent en magnifiques verdoyantes. Eh bien oui, c'était le stade expérimental, un balbutiement de "euh...attends... je trippe".

Fast forward au jour où ma première date avec le Viking finit comme ceci ( vous êtes libres de faire les voix que vous voulez, on ne vous en tiendra pas rigueur. Juste pas une voix trop nasillarde pour moi please.):

Le Viking: "Viens-tu canner des tomates chez-moi dimanche prochain?"

Moi: "Quoi?"

Little Person Living Inside My Head: "OK. Il vient de t'inviter chez-lui. Il habite à la campagne. Il a sûrement un Econoline brun avec du shag dedans pis une relation fuckée avec son hibou empaillé qui s'appelle Finntroll! Alarme! ALARME!"

Moi: "Quoi? T'as des tomates? J'ai jamais canné! J'y connais rien!"

Thus, le début de quelque chose de vraiment magique. Je vous épargne l'histoire d'amour, ça tanne le monde. Needless to say, Finntroll, finalement, c'est pas un hibou empaillé. C'est un band finlandais. Et la relation du Viking avec Finntroll est parfaitement musicale et saine. Et pas quotidienne. Ça rassure, quand même, non?

Donc là, au primtemps 2017, on a fait nos premiers semis. Ses jardins, au nombre de deux, contenaient déjà des pommes de terre, des oignons et des tomates, assez de tout ça pour durer une année. Sans blague. dans la chambre froide dans la cave. Semis prometteurs, qui nous ont donné des citrouilles, des zucchinis gros comme mon mollet (d'ailleurs on les appelait des mollets, pas des zucchinis), de la bette à carde avec laquelle on pouvait s'abriller, des carottes gigantesques qui faisaient de l'attitude, du basilic  à ne plus savoir quoi en faire (alors, forcément, des batchs des pesto), et j'en passe évidemment. On va mettre ça sur le dos de l'amour avec lequel on a fait ces jardins, ainsi que du fumier de vache de la ferme de mon beau beau-papa (BBP) et de ma belle belle-maman (BBM). Moi je suis la BBDA ( belle bru d'amour). 

Nous voici là, ce printemps. Trois jardins, dont un buton de quatre plants de citrouilles (là, ce soir, après inspection, possible qu'un seul plant survive). L'an dernier, on avait mis les citrouilles avec les plants de patates, mais on a appris après les avoir plantées là qu'on ne met pas ces deux-là dans le même jardin: ça court, des citrouilles!) Le tour des jardins vite fait:

Dans le Jardin de l'Est: un rang d'oignons espagnols, deux rangs d'oignons rouges (pour le confit maison, quand même), un rang de poireaux, un rang de poivrons, deux rangs de basilic, un rang de carottes, et deux butons de trois plants de zucchinis. 

Dans le Jardin de l'Ouest: trois rangs de patates, deux rangs de navets, deux rangs d'épinards, deux talles d'asperges, et environ une douzaine de haricots verts et une douzaine de haricots jaunes, en alternance. 

Cette année, on a aussi investi pour un pommier, deux poiriers et un abricotier. Un deuxième bébé pommier s'en vient cette fin de semaine, question de polliniser le premier.

Ce nouveau post est le début, je l'espère, de la documentation de nos jardins et des merveilles qui poussent un peu partout dans la cour immense. Des lupins, des roses, des coeurs saignants, les fines herbes, des fleurs sauvages, les fougères, la platebande secrète du fond de la cour, les roses trémières, les pivoines et les petites créatures qui habitent tout ça. Et de mon nouveau tracteur à gazon qui s'appelle Salomène. Y'a un cupholder pis toutte.

Attachez vos calottes, les amours. Je trippe, moi là. Semaine prochaine: le Bestiaire! Moultes affections, avec affection.

Mlle Caro xxooxx

Getting better.

Please Let Go.

Nonsense.

I am Charlie.

Charlie I am. I do not like green eggs and ham. Ham and green cheese I like if you please, but nonetheless Charlie I am.

In the midst of all this, I feel powerless and revolted. I feel like telling everyone that this is not the human way. This is not what we were meant to do, to be, to say. I feel I would not be heard the way I want to be heard. I've heard so many disturbing things in the past 48 hours...I have heard, My Lovelies, so many hateful things. Where are we going? What are we becoming?

Where is this freedom of expression we value and cherish? I know that it is not shared by all beliefs, but should we be bashed and hurt and killed because of it? Should one's religion be powerful enough to obliterate and shadow all others? Is this what we have become? Sadly, glass-half-emptily, apparently, this is where we are at. I weep. I weep and I hope this is not where we end an all evil begins.

I am upset. My heart weeps.

Je suis Charlie.

I saw this great comic on Twitter. Jesus, Moses and Mahomet, sitting in lawn chairs side by side, cigars and wine glasses in hand for some, staring at a bomb exploding in the distance, one of them saying: "Wait - haven't we all taught them the same message?" and the two other agreeing whole-heartedly.

What hurt a lot was one of my friends posting on Facebook "Je ne suis pas Charlie". Saying that we should not show solidarity to something we are not a part of. That, my Lovelies, truly made me sad.

Doing Things to Time. Because That's What's Up.

Greetings, my Lovelies. Did you have a happy Christmas?

Today, a very unapologetic, first-level look at time. As in Time. Which eludes and confuses, which seduces and rebukes. A few definitions, that is all. I am sure there have been, over the ages, many other explanations or definitions of things we do to (or with) Time, but here is my take on it. Note that I began this post - hang on - three years ago. And fine-tuned it tonight. Whatever that means. Hey - maybe I've got time. Here we go.


Killing Time.
What a wonderful way of putting it. How grand and final it sounds…only none of the following are as gravitas-laden as this one. Killing Time, unlike Spending Time, sounds really final. It sounds…dramatic. Only it’s not. It is actually a rather enjoyable pastime. It involves sitting in a comfortable chair, or perhaps standing in a garden among the colours. Or a loud concert. Whatever. To me, it somehow involves silence, or then again there may be faint humming of a crowd in the distance. It creates Time, by making the Time Consumer realize there is, ultimately, nothing really important going on: yet the moment itself is so comfortable, you never want it to end. This can be achieved alone or with another, and it's understood here that the other party knows, immediately or during the killing of the Time, that that's what's up. And they're cool with it, which is why you keep them around. Remember these people: they save your life later on in the Story.
 
Spending Time.
Throwing Time away casually to obtain another sort of Time: the kind that entitles the user to do nothing but to use it for whatever purpose seems right at the time. This can also be achieved with someone. It can be quite tasty with someone who gets it. Cooking, bathing, reading, or looking outside are perfectly acceptable activities to engage in while Spending Time. Then again, so is water-skiing, kite-surfing or building a house. We're flexible like that. You're welcome.

Clinging to Time.
Ah – there’s another matter, for it slips, you see. You can try to cling, but it slips through one’s fingers, through one’s hair, thus discolouring it slightly to a snowy grey, slowly, and for some, instantly. It takes precious memories away, and casts a shadow on one’s mind, sometimes. On the other hand, it sometimes lets the mind recover, to get back to its senses, and to shake it off, shall we say, and to continue on its merry road, and that is when we experience better, bigger things. But then, there is the open-mind thing to take into consideration, and that is, My Sweets, a whole other story.
 
Buying Time.
That involves that Time becomes a currency of some sort, akin to the “Spending Time” concept. Except in this case, it is something else you use to effectively push back the moment until you are ready/better disposed/expecting to face Time. Good luck with tis one, it can be tricky.

There. I hope that helps. Peace.

Walking backwards, looking ahead.

Well, hello, you Sweaty Horde of Screaming Fainting Groupies, throwing your panties at me like Tom Jones fans. All two of you. Hello, hello. Have a seat. Here, have some tea. Oh - oh...here are your panties back. I have my own, thank you.

First things first. I am very sad and offer a profound salute to my favorite blogger Cat of all time, the beloved Estorbo, who passed away on November 16th last. This rooftop garden cat made me laugh and cry. The news of his passing sent shivers up and down my spine and rendered me speechless. Although I never met Don Estorbo, I felt he was part of my life, because one of my blogger friends, my precious B, is his aunt-in-law. I weep wih her and Estorbo's loving Wooman and Smoothman as we say goodbye to the gorgeousest, magnificientest, larger-than life plus attachant des Blag Cad. Tu nous manques, Storbito. Dayeeen, dayoud. I wish I had a more fitting tribute. Eep. Eeeeeep.

Click here or on Estorbo in the menu on the left, under 'Mademoiselle follows', to get a glimpse into this matou majestueux's world, translated by Marie, the Wooman.

So - I'm not going to explain my absence from this creative writing venture which is my blog. A dear friend told me to come back, so here I am. Turns out I needed this, and my friend did not even know it. I will not call this divine intervention, as God and I have had our differences in the past (believe it or not, we once were buddies, looooong ago) and I don't agree with His divine design. But that's okay, we're still sorta buddies and leave each other alone. Although we speak through mediators occasionally. Anyhoo.

Actually, I've changed my mind about the explanation. I won't bore you with the whole shebang - here's the abstract (you can skip this paragraph altogether if you so desire - it's boring shit anyway...oh - and you can skip paragraph six as well, while we're at it).

So. I was let go in the Spring, left to fall flat on my back from a metaphorical fifty-story building, still gazing lovingly into the bottomless-pool-eyes of the man who doesn't love me anymore as I plummeted to the ground smiling. And I am still reeling, months later, from the shock. I feel broken. I probably am not. The silver lining in all this: I've seen in the far distance, beyond the mountains and the canyons. There seem to be tiny flashes of some kind of light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, but I am still searching my pockets for the map and my flashlight. I'll get there eventually. But for now, these are dark times. There. All is said. Now - on to other things.

It's Saturday. I am sitting uncomfortably at the kitchen table, the laptop is too high and my chairs are hard and offer no support whatsoever. Let me get the ergonomic chair. Hang on. Ah - much better. 

Olive (my seven-month old puppy, seen below) is circling around the apartment, looking to destroy things and generally being unpleasant because I am not completely paying attention to her. She's a baby, she requires attention and caring and constant supervision and care. I am not an adequate parent/master/pack leader for this adorable, demanding, cuddly demon-child. I am a cat person. But that's another ball o'wax altogether... 

I am your greedy demon-child. Care for me. I am the cutest ever. Look.

Christmas music is playing, and I'm even having the customary Saturday afternoon glass of wine, to get the creative juices flowing. My universe-renowned cretons are cooking on the stove top, it smells really, really yummy in here. I've pulled out the paint chest from one of the seven dwarf-doors in my tiny apartment. Quick note: these doors baffle and amaze me. These doors, which are about four feet high, open to reveal 'compartments' that line the walls, like hidden passageways. If you are four feet tall or smaller and less than two feet wide, you can actually walk from one corner of the kitchen to another between the walls unharmed. Pretty nifty storage. There are three dwarf-doors in the kitchen, one in the bedroom, two in the living room and one in the bathroom. I've been playing with the idea of making door signs and postboxes for each of them. But anyway. I'm trying to keep a grip, here. 

I bought supplies at Michaels two weeks ago, to make Squibbit plant companions. Here's the 1-inch version, made a few years back:

Now - this one, he's sideways, so you can't really see him. But basically, they are my creation, although full credit for the name is due with much reverence to K, my artisty, loopy lovey friend who lives waaaaay to far in Toronto. I miss her.

Squibbits, you should know, live in nature, generally. At least that's what I sense. Don't worry - I'm not off my rocker, they don't actually talk to me and I don't see them hopping around the house with their skinny limbs of wire and pearl-tipped antennae. I've still got a grip on reality. Sort of ;) These little guys have been with me ever since, about ten years back, they suddenly appeared out of the tip of my markers as K and I were doodling one evening. 

I didn't quite know what was happening - they were hanging off a clothesline, upside-down in some cases, and they were just staring back at me, completely innocent, harmless, and somehow, somehow...deeply connected to my very core. They are part of my life, I draw them everywhere, and they are copyright, because I am afraid someone will steal them. Just putting a picture up here makes me all tingly and stressed out. At least I've got the legal disclaimer at the left of this window. Look - seriously, whoever you are - they are our Squibbits, mine and K's, and they are protected by law. Back off with your filthy black stealing hands, you stealer thief burglar.

This one, above, sideways, is a bit dusty. He lives in one of the plants at my sister's, two and a half hours away. His big brother, to be adopted at Christmas this year, is two inches across. Bigger. Since I'm kinda broke, I've decided to make gifts instead of buying them. So everyone in the family will be getting Squibbit plant companions this year. I'll even make one for myself.

I'll be taking pictures of the progress in making the Squibbits. I'll post them later.

A quick hello and big hug to my life-long friend who made me come back here. You know who you are, you Home Depot card, Swedish-talking, Shakespeare-quoting being. Thank you, this feels good. And thank you for bearing with me through my on-again, off-again blogging. Would you like a Squibbit for your plants?

A Different View From Down Here.

I am crouching under the leaves of a lush, bright-green fern, somewhere in the middle of a forest, east of here. My fingers are firmly planted in the moss and the soil beneath me. I can smell the sickly-sweet decaying leaves, the fresh scent of green living things around, the rain coming in a few minutes. She also senses all these things, albeit very differently. She scoots over closer, leans her rounded shape into the curve of my back. I've removed the saddle for now, it's starting to chap her sides, and I have not yet found enough leather to make another one. I think I'll have to ride bareback for a few weeks, until we return to the scrapyard. We've been tending things in this neck of the woods for a few days now - I can't wait to get back home. We're hunched low - someone has heard us, and we do not wish to be seen. We were stuck in the crevice under the bark of the white birch in the middle of the wheat field for hours - someone is stalking us. And we are usually the stalkers.

The wood piles are high and airing out, the barrels are in place, and we should reap most of the silk we need before the frost hits. Fall is always this busy. We must make rounds, make sure everyone's tucked in and has everything they need. Our allies have grown loyal over the years, and even though they sometimes grunt and protest for show, they are steadfast. When we gather around the flicker of the autumn flames, spirits are high and we share smiles, knowing that our mission is accomplished.

I can't wait to get back home. When I do, I'll have to go through the usual pains, turning back, towering over her, and treading lightly. She will return to the palace I have built for her beneath the floorboards, with her brethren, and I will go back to the oven, the yarn, the soapy water and the warmth of my husband's arms.

I am the tiny Queen of this Land. She is my Ant.

Important note: I have borrowed these pictures from various corners of the web, and have not properly credited their owners. I will fix this. In the meantime, thank you for your images, they are amazing and beautiful.

Never too late.

Well hello, there! 

I hear you saying: "What is this - a huge, mind-blowing comeback?" Nuh-uh. Calm down, I know you're excited. "Okay, sweet longing for writing, need to do something other than just think about it?" Getting warmer... New Year's resolution? Nope. I know. It's December 31st, 2013. I've been silent. I keep doing this, right? I publish a few posts in a row, with high suspicions that no one is reading (with all due respect to you, reading this at this very moment). I'm picking up where I left off. It was an eventful year. It's not all been good. I'll leave it at that. 

We have a very cute, very sweet addition to the family - his name is Euclide Plouf. 

 

Besides being the cutest green thing in the Universe, he is smart, funny, and gentle. His voice (yes - it's a voice) is soft: he kind of sounds like a mix between a child and a chipmunk. Best description I can come up with. Really. He only squawks when he's pissed off. He has intelligent little parrot eyes, and I swear, the way he looks at us sideways sometimes, it's like he's trying to read our minds or understands things we don't. He is a mini-parrot (a Barred Parakeet, or Toui Catherine in French), and we've had him since the end of August. Hypothetically, his birthday is June 2. That means he'll be seven months on January 2. He used to live in a great big house my hubby (I shall henceforth occasionally refer to him as The Monkey) built for him. It is gorgeous. All wood, no nails, no screws.

Birch, pine, a little bit of wood glue and a lot of patience. My boyfriend built in two side shelves, outside the cage, just for greenery. Originally, we wanted to have a mini bamboo forest on the bottom shelf (on the left) and a betta fish on the top shelf (on the right).

However, little parrots with sharp little parrot beaks love to gnaw and bite on things, which we were told this specific little guy was not inclined to do. Well. He's eaten through four bars so far, effectively opening back doors to his home and undertaking his very own renovation projects, which in itself was not really a problem. There is one problem, though: this bird, sadly, does not fly. His flight feathers were cut off before he ever learned how to, and although these feathers eventually do grow back, the reflexes are just not there. I mean, he flaps his wings and kind of floats off for a few moments, then plunges to the floor and hurts his chest. He is an excellent climber, though - quite the acrobat! He has launched himself off the four-foot high cage once too many times. It's too high for him. So he's now moved into a temporary home, as we will build him a nice one out of wood and metal this summer. In the meantime, this is the temporary setup.

A la cucaracha, a la cucaracha, ya no puede caminar...porque no tiene, porque la falta, una pata pa' caminar...(or something which sounds like that, anyhoo.)

 In this picture, he is attentively listening to his favorite tune, La Cucaracha, sung in Spanish by my man. The day we welcomed Euclide in our home, he was understandably very nervous (as were we). As The Monkey started singing the song, this feathered cutie fell asleep. So it became his theme song, and the only way we know to calm him. Life lesson to me when it comes to parrots: they are not cats. I've still got some learning to do. Lots of it. 

Alright, folks. Go make the food for the New Year's bash. That's what I'm about to do. Oh - and nice to see you again. I've missed you. See you next year.

12 juillet 1992.

Twenty years (and a few extra moments) ago , I was at the Québec Agora. I was sixteen. It was a beautiful day and the setting sun had a greenish hue, because in memories, colors fade and change. A slight breeze blew from the river, but we did not care, because that night, that night, it was special. I recall the overwhelming trepidation. I can still smell the crowd, the excitement and the spicy smell of the remnants of the afternoon sun on our skins. It was Indochine in concert, July 12, 1992. That night, I lost my silver graduation ring, the one my mother had paid $110 for.

A colleague lent me a DVD yesterday, the show at Stade de France in June 2010, where the crowd roars and pumps its collective fist in the air, chanting the lyrics Nicolas Sirkis is crooning from the vertiginous stage, almost surreal. I have just been, after barely three songs, catapulted back twenty years. It takes a lot to do that.

Twenty years ago, I think Sirkis was the first man to make me feel that twinge, that slight twisting of the groin. The first instant where, while listening to the melody, the lyrics, the breathlessness caught me unaware. Question marks rolling around: what does that mean? Where does it come from? Indochine as a whole, but more specifically their lyrics, their music, were very sexual to me, and still are to this day, I realize. Maybe Paul McCartney did this for my mom, when she was sixteen. Huh. I'd rather not go there. ;)