August 30, 2009
Meeting of Cantaria in Rich’s garden. I thought it was going to be worse than it was. DJ thought it was just as bad as he expected. By this he meant that some people still blame MP for wanting excellence, and some people really don’t want excellence at all, but a sort of party with a theme. I don’t know what I want. I want a chorus of Thrones and Principalities that order and delight every ear that hears them.
We had nametags with glue on the back. I came home and stuck mine on Circe’s back. I thought we were playing, but her reaction was immediate and ghastly. She ran off, panicked, trying for a second or two to scratch or shake the thing off, but, being too afraid, would take off running again before she made any progress. I had to trap her in my room and close the door against her frantic escape before I could get close enough to pull it off her myself. She disappeared under the dresser for a long time. I couldn’t understand what would cause her to react that way to something which couldn’t actually hurt, something the likes of which she could not have experienced grievously before. But mostly I thought how inscrutable are the minds of others, even if they are a cat, how their strengths and weaknesses remain invisible until the unsuspecting moment.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
August 29, 2009
Early morning. J has me eating a protein supplement, claiming it would raise the metabolism and keep drowsiness away from of my current exercise-and-diet regime, and he seems to be right.
Ran into Michael C’s birthday party at the Usual; hiked to Darren’s at Asheville Pizza & Brewing. Festive, unexpectedly low-key in each case. My own birthday Tuesday looks to be almost uncelebratable, with all the duties that hedge it about.
Accomplishments slender for several days, but I have been happy. Concentrating on classes, exercise, letting the beard grow. I did buy myself a ticket and a hotel room in London for Thanksgiving week. Transferred from Paddington to Russell Square, where I can fall from my front door into the British Museum. Leave the day after Hamlet closes.
Broke the mold of the last few days with a whirl of activity. Exceeded three miles in running today, my mind lost to the pain, and boredom, by running lines from Hamlet in my head. Spent time with J in the studio, though I never actually lifted a paintbrush. Spent time in the office downstairs archiving old poems, and in finding some that could be re-written and resurrected. Progress on that front surprising, gratifying, to me, glorious. The lost have come home to me. Dug away some of the tropical overgrowth of the garden. Scratched many insect bites. Planted sky-blue iris for the spring to come.
Early morning. J has me eating a protein supplement, claiming it would raise the metabolism and keep drowsiness away from of my current exercise-and-diet regime, and he seems to be right.
Ran into Michael C’s birthday party at the Usual; hiked to Darren’s at Asheville Pizza & Brewing. Festive, unexpectedly low-key in each case. My own birthday Tuesday looks to be almost uncelebratable, with all the duties that hedge it about.
Accomplishments slender for several days, but I have been happy. Concentrating on classes, exercise, letting the beard grow. I did buy myself a ticket and a hotel room in London for Thanksgiving week. Transferred from Paddington to Russell Square, where I can fall from my front door into the British Museum. Leave the day after Hamlet closes.
Broke the mold of the last few days with a whirl of activity. Exceeded three miles in running today, my mind lost to the pain, and boredom, by running lines from Hamlet in my head. Spent time with J in the studio, though I never actually lifted a paintbrush. Spent time in the office downstairs archiving old poems, and in finding some that could be re-written and resurrected. Progress on that front surprising, gratifying, to me, glorious. The lost have come home to me. Dug away some of the tropical overgrowth of the garden. Scratched many insect bites. Planted sky-blue iris for the spring to come.
Monday, August 24, 2009
An Anniversary
August 23, 2009
Cranky, restless Sunday evening. Choir started back this morning, and I had to convince myself I was glad of it. My voice cracked often and memorably. I wondered if that is a sign of a summer’s disuse or of anatomical change; if the latter, it may be the sad but time-saving door out of my long commitment to vocal music. We had a very long run– from the 7th grade on, at least. I sat in the choir loft wondering how much I would miss it, and the answer came that, at some point, enough is enough. In any case, I don’t think I’ll be one of those codgers cracking and whining away twenty years after beauty and harmony are gone.
Attended Amanda Porter’s recital, which was a masterpiece of selection and presentation. Most of the pieces were unfamiliar, and delightful. Purcell’s “The Blessed Virgin’s Exposition, Z.196" was flatly wacky. Both that and Copland’s setting of Dickinson’s “Going to Heaven” were examples of truly serious music in the service of awful poetry, an intentional frisson which I always find tasty. Amanda’s voice was more under control than at the last recital I heard, a truly supple and flawless instrument of interpretation. She convinced me that songs from Meet Me in Saint Louis could serve perfectly well as Leider. She and three other women sang a selection from Mark Adamo’s opera Little Women. If the rest of the opera is anything like that selection, it is a stunningly beautiful, profound work. She ended with Quilter’s setting of Shelley’s “Love’s Philosophy,” a turnabout-is-fair-play piece, showing that great poetry can be set to trifling music, and the result then, too, if everyone has the right attitude, is fun.
It occurred to me during Amanda’s recital that there is a fine symmetry in my picking up that box of poems when I did, for today is the anniversary of my first poem. August 23, 1966– a teenager alone in his room, bitterly unhappy, having fallen in love with his cabin-mate and having no idea that was actually what happened, but only knowing his misery was inexpressible and without bounds. He was reading a book of Poetry from Around the World, the Arabian section. The moon was rising or barely risen. He picked up a pen, and wrote. He is reciting that poem in his head right now. No ear but his and God’s will ever hear it.
Blame, too, that dark angel, is being exorcized by the last few days. A habit of thought, especially since my father’s death, has been to search back into our family life to see how I was twisted in the ways I think I was twisted, whom to blame, what percentage of my original self is still salvageable. The urge fades. I think now that I was a spirit of almost toxic creative energy born–by some cosmic joke, and not a bad one at that–into the last family on earth which could deal with such a thing– a sort of hillbilly Feanor engendered among accountants and tire builders. No hatred hovered over my cradle, no violent opposition, just blank incomprehension. People would love me to the exact degree that I hid my scary self away. Even infants know how to work this. I lacked Feanor’s galactic confidence, but possessed something he didn’t, adaptability. I was able to sense when people– beginning with my family–thought I was weird or had crossed some line, and was able to veer away and cover. There were doors that could be shut even in our tiny houses. I was able to find a path for my energies that was recognizable and approvable: to be a poet was not recognizable, but to be a scholar was. I found that, dug into that, triumphed with that. It was not me. Everyone, including myself, forgot that it was not me. When I found those discarded poems, I found me, the hidden one, for not one eye but mine has seen any but the few that came at the end, when I began to offer them up for publication. I failed at Johns Hopkins because I was about to give myself over wholly to the scholarly, and my guardian angel (whatever on earth he could be) put the brakes on. I have not know that surely until this hour.
Now that I have said this, I must backtrack a little. My father, as evidenced by the little projects he did with mechanical fairies and toy scenes set in rock walls, could be quite fanciful, if hidden even deeper than I. At the end of his life, when no excuses needed to be made to anyone, he began to paint, fancifully and memorably. I think his reaction to me was less incomprehension than horror, and the horror had to do with his shame at the same strain in himself. Father almost successfully masked a lifelong disgust for his son, based on his son’s being less successful, or less interested, than he in subverting his essential nature.
Here is the strangest thing. I think, after all, it was well. Feanor, given his head, consumed himself and his race. I would have no particular effect on my race, but I could see that those energies, the unbounded Luvah that I could have given myself over to, could have been destructive to me and those around me. The forces of antipathy that, maybe, my parents feared on my behalf really might have come to bear. Running down the “wrong” path gave me a secure and rewarding career, and credibility in areas my natural inclinations would have missed entirely. No one beat me up at school. I did not starve in a San Francisco alley. I did not die of AIDS in a West Village walk-up. I did not become one of those jackass careerist poets who exhaust everybody with illimitable self-delight. The degree to which I am a jackass has very little to do with my art, and that is something for which to be grateful. That I am a solid person is attributable, I think, to the fact that I had to build a far wider foundation for myself than my natal character, if indulged, would have required. Yes, I might have been born amid artists and boundless minds, and gone to boarding school and Oxford and been lifted up for my true self by those who loved and understood me. Would that have been better? Perhaps not. Perhaps not at all. In any case, the experiment cannot be performed. I think it was well. It seems that I have been granted enough life to make good on discoveries made beyond adolescence, and as discoveries go, this is a whopper. I will not say “all is redeemed,” for that is to tempt the gods. I will say all is in the process of redemption, and I am trying to comprehend, and employ. I am trying to understand–strangely, unexpectedly, inexplicably– how lucky I was.
Cranky, restless Sunday evening. Choir started back this morning, and I had to convince myself I was glad of it. My voice cracked often and memorably. I wondered if that is a sign of a summer’s disuse or of anatomical change; if the latter, it may be the sad but time-saving door out of my long commitment to vocal music. We had a very long run– from the 7th grade on, at least. I sat in the choir loft wondering how much I would miss it, and the answer came that, at some point, enough is enough. In any case, I don’t think I’ll be one of those codgers cracking and whining away twenty years after beauty and harmony are gone.
Attended Amanda Porter’s recital, which was a masterpiece of selection and presentation. Most of the pieces were unfamiliar, and delightful. Purcell’s “The Blessed Virgin’s Exposition, Z.196" was flatly wacky. Both that and Copland’s setting of Dickinson’s “Going to Heaven” were examples of truly serious music in the service of awful poetry, an intentional frisson which I always find tasty. Amanda’s voice was more under control than at the last recital I heard, a truly supple and flawless instrument of interpretation. She convinced me that songs from Meet Me in Saint Louis could serve perfectly well as Leider. She and three other women sang a selection from Mark Adamo’s opera Little Women. If the rest of the opera is anything like that selection, it is a stunningly beautiful, profound work. She ended with Quilter’s setting of Shelley’s “Love’s Philosophy,” a turnabout-is-fair-play piece, showing that great poetry can be set to trifling music, and the result then, too, if everyone has the right attitude, is fun.
It occurred to me during Amanda’s recital that there is a fine symmetry in my picking up that box of poems when I did, for today is the anniversary of my first poem. August 23, 1966– a teenager alone in his room, bitterly unhappy, having fallen in love with his cabin-mate and having no idea that was actually what happened, but only knowing his misery was inexpressible and without bounds. He was reading a book of Poetry from Around the World, the Arabian section. The moon was rising or barely risen. He picked up a pen, and wrote. He is reciting that poem in his head right now. No ear but his and God’s will ever hear it.
Blame, too, that dark angel, is being exorcized by the last few days. A habit of thought, especially since my father’s death, has been to search back into our family life to see how I was twisted in the ways I think I was twisted, whom to blame, what percentage of my original self is still salvageable. The urge fades. I think now that I was a spirit of almost toxic creative energy born–by some cosmic joke, and not a bad one at that–into the last family on earth which could deal with such a thing– a sort of hillbilly Feanor engendered among accountants and tire builders. No hatred hovered over my cradle, no violent opposition, just blank incomprehension. People would love me to the exact degree that I hid my scary self away. Even infants know how to work this. I lacked Feanor’s galactic confidence, but possessed something he didn’t, adaptability. I was able to sense when people– beginning with my family–thought I was weird or had crossed some line, and was able to veer away and cover. There were doors that could be shut even in our tiny houses. I was able to find a path for my energies that was recognizable and approvable: to be a poet was not recognizable, but to be a scholar was. I found that, dug into that, triumphed with that. It was not me. Everyone, including myself, forgot that it was not me. When I found those discarded poems, I found me, the hidden one, for not one eye but mine has seen any but the few that came at the end, when I began to offer them up for publication. I failed at Johns Hopkins because I was about to give myself over wholly to the scholarly, and my guardian angel (whatever on earth he could be) put the brakes on. I have not know that surely until this hour.
Now that I have said this, I must backtrack a little. My father, as evidenced by the little projects he did with mechanical fairies and toy scenes set in rock walls, could be quite fanciful, if hidden even deeper than I. At the end of his life, when no excuses needed to be made to anyone, he began to paint, fancifully and memorably. I think his reaction to me was less incomprehension than horror, and the horror had to do with his shame at the same strain in himself. Father almost successfully masked a lifelong disgust for his son, based on his son’s being less successful, or less interested, than he in subverting his essential nature.
Here is the strangest thing. I think, after all, it was well. Feanor, given his head, consumed himself and his race. I would have no particular effect on my race, but I could see that those energies, the unbounded Luvah that I could have given myself over to, could have been destructive to me and those around me. The forces of antipathy that, maybe, my parents feared on my behalf really might have come to bear. Running down the “wrong” path gave me a secure and rewarding career, and credibility in areas my natural inclinations would have missed entirely. No one beat me up at school. I did not starve in a San Francisco alley. I did not die of AIDS in a West Village walk-up. I did not become one of those jackass careerist poets who exhaust everybody with illimitable self-delight. The degree to which I am a jackass has very little to do with my art, and that is something for which to be grateful. That I am a solid person is attributable, I think, to the fact that I had to build a far wider foundation for myself than my natal character, if indulged, would have required. Yes, I might have been born amid artists and boundless minds, and gone to boarding school and Oxford and been lifted up for my true self by those who loved and understood me. Would that have been better? Perhaps not. Perhaps not at all. In any case, the experiment cannot be performed. I think it was well. It seems that I have been granted enough life to make good on discoveries made beyond adolescence, and as discoveries go, this is a whopper. I will not say “all is redeemed,” for that is to tempt the gods. I will say all is in the process of redemption, and I am trying to comprehend, and employ. I am trying to understand–strangely, unexpectedly, inexplicably– how lucky I was.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
August 22, 2009
When DJ commandeered my old desk, he found a drawer full of poems, which he put into a box. While attempting to reduce the garage to order, I found that box. It is shocking, grievous, amusing, stupefying to look at the poems now. There are hundreds of them Perhaps thousands. And I know there were five times that many at one point, which I winnowed and discarded, or hurled into dustbins or onto the sides of streets in the grip of one fury or another. The ones I’ve uncovered so far date from the 70's and early 80's, a few from the 60's. I’m going to preserve them somehow. . . slip them in plastic sleeves. . . bind them in binders. Something. It’s not that they’re good, very many of them, but that they are fragments of me. . . pieces of me that had some influence on me, even if, like Sauron’s ring or Voldemort’s horcruxes, I was not in contact with them, had forgotten that they existed. They make me laugh. They make me sad. The last thing I had planned to do this weekend was to deal with them. I did, in any case, write and write back then. Three, four poems are dated sometimes on the same day. Some are paths that led to the spot I inhabit now. Many seemed to be dead ends, or derived from energy not really my own. In my hand I hold “Tellus,” typed at Koinonia in 1973, which was to be the culminating statement on my experience in Baltimore. It mentions almost nothing real, but it is very lyrical, a bird of paradise beating its wings over a jeweled forest. It was written with blood. There may not be a single line in it I can use today. It is grievous, amazing.
I remember now I stopped, walking home at night, on the corner of Beaumont Avenue and York Road, to sing the verses as they came to a great oak, who I assumed was the only being who would listen to me. I thought, “When I vanish as blown smoke, the oak will remember.” I touched its bark with my outstretched hand and whispered “Tellus.” I was pretty safe, as nobody but fools would be walking that stretch of street by night. I suppose I really was invisible as smoke. Perhaps that’s what saved me.
Before midnight. Though it was far from what I planned, I spent most of the day with the crate of old poems, sorting them, sleeving them, putting them in order, binding, recalling the circumstances of their composition. Different emotions flooded over me at different times, but the one which remains as the day ends–the one which came upon me finally, and with some surprise– is an emotion of completeness. What I was is restored to me. These are the depths which uphold the breaking wave of the present. It is the sea I sail on, vanished now, hidden away, but massy and deep. It is very well. Most of the poems are quite awful. Or, if not awful, unreachable–in a language very like English, but somehow failing to commit to communication. Reading them as a stranger, I would know that the author was well informed, interested in many things, fond of words, but I wouldn’t know one thing about him personally. I was a miracle of abstraction. Any personal interest was deflected by allusion or verbal complexity. Everything was intellectual, universal, rhetorical, a series of propositions an alert mind was weighing within itself. I looked at poems from when I was in agonies of love over G and H and K, and not one sign of that appears in the work. When I was suicidally miserable in Baltimore, what I wrote betrayed nothing except that I had been reading Pound. Only when I began The Glacier’s Daughters did immediate emotion begin to inform the technique I had been building all those years. Maybe it’s well it went that way. My students embarrass by pouring their real emotions into bad verse. I mildly engaged the intellect by pouring intellectualism and verbal gymnastics into able verse. If I had never grown out of it, my fault would be by far the worse. But I grew out of it. The poems which are very good I look at and murmur, “Where the hell did you come from?” Bad and good, I am glad to have them back with me.
When DJ commandeered my old desk, he found a drawer full of poems, which he put into a box. While attempting to reduce the garage to order, I found that box. It is shocking, grievous, amusing, stupefying to look at the poems now. There are hundreds of them Perhaps thousands. And I know there were five times that many at one point, which I winnowed and discarded, or hurled into dustbins or onto the sides of streets in the grip of one fury or another. The ones I’ve uncovered so far date from the 70's and early 80's, a few from the 60's. I’m going to preserve them somehow. . . slip them in plastic sleeves. . . bind them in binders. Something. It’s not that they’re good, very many of them, but that they are fragments of me. . . pieces of me that had some influence on me, even if, like Sauron’s ring or Voldemort’s horcruxes, I was not in contact with them, had forgotten that they existed. They make me laugh. They make me sad. The last thing I had planned to do this weekend was to deal with them. I did, in any case, write and write back then. Three, four poems are dated sometimes on the same day. Some are paths that led to the spot I inhabit now. Many seemed to be dead ends, or derived from energy not really my own. In my hand I hold “Tellus,” typed at Koinonia in 1973, which was to be the culminating statement on my experience in Baltimore. It mentions almost nothing real, but it is very lyrical, a bird of paradise beating its wings over a jeweled forest. It was written with blood. There may not be a single line in it I can use today. It is grievous, amazing.
I remember now I stopped, walking home at night, on the corner of Beaumont Avenue and York Road, to sing the verses as they came to a great oak, who I assumed was the only being who would listen to me. I thought, “When I vanish as blown smoke, the oak will remember.” I touched its bark with my outstretched hand and whispered “Tellus.” I was pretty safe, as nobody but fools would be walking that stretch of street by night. I suppose I really was invisible as smoke. Perhaps that’s what saved me.
Before midnight. Though it was far from what I planned, I spent most of the day with the crate of old poems, sorting them, sleeving them, putting them in order, binding, recalling the circumstances of their composition. Different emotions flooded over me at different times, but the one which remains as the day ends–the one which came upon me finally, and with some surprise– is an emotion of completeness. What I was is restored to me. These are the depths which uphold the breaking wave of the present. It is the sea I sail on, vanished now, hidden away, but massy and deep. It is very well. Most of the poems are quite awful. Or, if not awful, unreachable–in a language very like English, but somehow failing to commit to communication. Reading them as a stranger, I would know that the author was well informed, interested in many things, fond of words, but I wouldn’t know one thing about him personally. I was a miracle of abstraction. Any personal interest was deflected by allusion or verbal complexity. Everything was intellectual, universal, rhetorical, a series of propositions an alert mind was weighing within itself. I looked at poems from when I was in agonies of love over G and H and K, and not one sign of that appears in the work. When I was suicidally miserable in Baltimore, what I wrote betrayed nothing except that I had been reading Pound. Only when I began The Glacier’s Daughters did immediate emotion begin to inform the technique I had been building all those years. Maybe it’s well it went that way. My students embarrass by pouring their real emotions into bad verse. I mildly engaged the intellect by pouring intellectualism and verbal gymnastics into able verse. If I had never grown out of it, my fault would be by far the worse. But I grew out of it. The poems which are very good I look at and murmur, “Where the hell did you come from?” Bad and good, I am glad to have them back with me.
Friday, August 21, 2009
August 21, 2009
Revising The Ghost of All Saints, re-titling it Showings. It’s a good play which I let languish, typically, because I sensed antipathy or resistence. From whom? I don’t even remember. The tendency to throw up my hands in bitter despair is a great flaw in my program. I’m thinking of Ben Lynch, who originated Simon when Ellen played Julian in 1996. He is dead long ago, of an overdose. Sweet, skinny kid. David, who originated the Man in Black is dead too. Suicide, in despair over HIV. Jenifer Paterson is dead. Len Whitaker is dead, stabbed to death on Montford Ave. Maybe that isn’t an especially high mortality count for one playwright, but it seems so. I miss them both. I miss Ellen. The stages were filled with people I never see.
When you open the front door you see a cloud of mosquitos hovering against the white siding. They’re probably everywhere, but visible mostly against the white.
A kid who wants to stage manage for The Beautiful Johanna also wants $500 for doing so. I’m inquiring as to whether that’s a reasonable figure, but even if it is, it’s indicative of the state of affairs wherein technicians in the arts are compensated far more (and consider themselves worthy to be compensated far more) than actual artists. Whatever those thieves and incompetents at Bailiwick paid themselves, they paid me nothing. Despite a contract. In this I am somewhat to blame, being too disgusted with them even to e-mail But, should I have to? I remember being asked in Atlanta to help cover the expenses of the actors who were doing The Faith Healer. Whatever I end up paying my personnel in Johanna, the idea that something will be left over for the playwright, for the father of the whole event, is probably far-fetched. Crown of Shadows made, officially, a profit, but part of that profit was $1000 from me, expenses borne and never compensated. That I might have received compensation for the scripts surely never crossed anybody’s mind. Our light technician, who slept through an entire show, was paid a quarter of the outlay and howled for more. How did writers and artists let it all become such a buyers’ market?
MB has a play in the Turtle Shell summer festival, the one Werewolves of London was dropped from. He sends out notices of it, and every time I see them, I cringe. I have prayed for the failure of the festival. Of course I worried that might be a nasty and unworthy prayer, but maybe it’s a just prayer. Who knows? I figure if it’s unjust, God won’t listen and no harm will be done.
Tonight I sit, apparently, on the chair of justice. It’s not all that comfortable.
Revising The Ghost of All Saints, re-titling it Showings. It’s a good play which I let languish, typically, because I sensed antipathy or resistence. From whom? I don’t even remember. The tendency to throw up my hands in bitter despair is a great flaw in my program. I’m thinking of Ben Lynch, who originated Simon when Ellen played Julian in 1996. He is dead long ago, of an overdose. Sweet, skinny kid. David, who originated the Man in Black is dead too. Suicide, in despair over HIV. Jenifer Paterson is dead. Len Whitaker is dead, stabbed to death on Montford Ave. Maybe that isn’t an especially high mortality count for one playwright, but it seems so. I miss them both. I miss Ellen. The stages were filled with people I never see.
When you open the front door you see a cloud of mosquitos hovering against the white siding. They’re probably everywhere, but visible mostly against the white.
A kid who wants to stage manage for The Beautiful Johanna also wants $500 for doing so. I’m inquiring as to whether that’s a reasonable figure, but even if it is, it’s indicative of the state of affairs wherein technicians in the arts are compensated far more (and consider themselves worthy to be compensated far more) than actual artists. Whatever those thieves and incompetents at Bailiwick paid themselves, they paid me nothing. Despite a contract. In this I am somewhat to blame, being too disgusted with them even to e-mail But, should I have to? I remember being asked in Atlanta to help cover the expenses of the actors who were doing The Faith Healer. Whatever I end up paying my personnel in Johanna, the idea that something will be left over for the playwright, for the father of the whole event, is probably far-fetched. Crown of Shadows made, officially, a profit, but part of that profit was $1000 from me, expenses borne and never compensated. That I might have received compensation for the scripts surely never crossed anybody’s mind. Our light technician, who slept through an entire show, was paid a quarter of the outlay and howled for more. How did writers and artists let it all become such a buyers’ market?
MB has a play in the Turtle Shell summer festival, the one Werewolves of London was dropped from. He sends out notices of it, and every time I see them, I cringe. I have prayed for the failure of the festival. Of course I worried that might be a nasty and unworthy prayer, but maybe it’s a just prayer. Who knows? I figure if it’s unjust, God won’t listen and no harm will be done.
Tonight I sit, apparently, on the chair of justice. It’s not all that comfortable.
August 20, 2009
Ancient music on the CD. Outside, rain alternates with the music of crickets and night insects. Even at this late date, I have to break myself of ever new, ever emerging bad-- or at least distracting-- habits, in order to get down to work. You can spend all night watching videos, reading ever-diminishing-in-significance bits of news on the Internet. Everything conspires to trap one in distraction. I do not think it is accidental. I do not know whom to blame.
Ancient music on the CD. Outside, rain alternates with the music of crickets and night insects. Even at this late date, I have to break myself of ever new, ever emerging bad-- or at least distracting-- habits, in order to get down to work. You can spend all night watching videos, reading ever-diminishing-in-significance bits of news on the Internet. Everything conspires to trap one in distraction. I do not think it is accidental. I do not know whom to blame.
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