the vanity project (i)

You know when you write your name over and over until it doesn’t seem like it’s yours. Or like it’s so much yours you feel ill with it, with the sprawling scrawly endlessly sicked-up excess of it. Well, that’s what I was doing tonight, only with my KATY woodblocks. I started arranging them in daylight and finished when it was completely dark outside.

On the phone tonight Dad said touch wood and I knew right away what I would be doing when I got off the phone. I also knew I would be killing significant amounts of time tonight, just waiting, so it made perfect sense to kill time with my wooden blocks. And I was touching wood while I did, which seemed like the most productive/least agitated thing I could do while also biding time.

My aunt gave me my name in blocks when I was a baby. My grandmother kept a lower case d on the drinks table next to her chair in the den since forever. She touched it about a million times a sitting. She’d rest her hand on the top of the stem of the d and squeeze, praying for the immediate and the non-specific, all at once. It was a habit. She was sent away to the other side with the d beside her. My grandfather, in the coffin right beside her, was sent away with a packet of cigarettes in his breast pocket. Dad and his siblings wanted to tuck his lighter in there too but it was a fire hazard. The church man assured them he’d get a light on the way through.

where there’s smoke

Tomorrow will be my first and only day of the holiday spent alone. I was looking forward to it and now I’m not so much. I’m toying with the idea of a to-do list but I already know I will do all the unpressing things (re-potting planters, pulling out every twelfth weed, thinking about mopping the floor, etc, and not the one thing I’m supposed to be doing (advancing a tangled, unbudging plot). 

Tomorrow is also my last day of holiday (not counting the weekend), and my wedding anniversary.

Now we’re home and it’s just the two of us. This afternoon I sat at my desk just looking down the valley at the rooftops and the squally rain. It was that funny time of day when you don’t know whether or not to turn the lights on. But I didn’t need lights on for what I was doing — i.e. just sitting there. In the gloaming. That’s a funny word. (I’d have used twilight but the word’s been hijacked.)

But just sitting there (well, here actually — I’ve returned to the very same spot as before, but the view is much darker now) seemed like a good start. An honest attempt at re-grounding myself. I plugged my laptop in for the first time in more than a week. Then I was abruptly reminded what a horrible, deteriorating piece of shit it is. Then, in fear of imminent motherboard failure and irreversible digital obliteration, I started backing things up (applying my usual scattergun approach and then getting distracted by the prospect of dinner, never to return, postprandially, to the task at hand).

Since last I posted, Harry Arthur Sweetman joined the world. And my grandparents, Diana and Andrew Robinson, left it.

Before we left my parents’ house in Hawkes Bay for the last time almost a week ago we had this bonfire. It seemed like a fitting way to say goodbye to lots of things. It was nice. We drank wine out of plastic tumblers and fell quiet/forgot to talk. We ate formless marshmallows off sticks and got attacked by loud flying creatures in the smoky dark.

Thinking about the bonfire just now I remembered that my book (creaking old artifact that it is) ends with a fire scene. I haven’t opened the book (other than to sign it) in more than five years. But tonight I read the last two pages. So I guess I did do something a bit momentous tonight, after all.

We are halfway down the driveway… The sky is on fire… The world warps and shimmers and fractures… We stand around, staring at the grubby air… The night is fringed with orange. It is beautiful and dreadful. This world is over.

Now I’ve just got to muster up the courage to read the very long letter my grandparents wrote me a number of years ago in an attempt to help counsel me through a, um, shaky time. I have it right here in my desk drawer but I’m just not brave enough to even lay eyes on it. Not yet, anyway. I think there’s a bit more staring out windows to be done before I’m ready.

Kautuku

Suitably braindead. Overfed. Pink and bitten. Aimless. Biddable. Tipsy. Chlorinated. Uncoordinated. Intermittently nostalgic. Comfortably disoriented.  In a perpetual state of emerging from or gravitating back towards bed.

The yarns have been manifold/colourful and the mishaps amusing. Some activities, in summary: sloppy synchronised swimming, epic water battles, cricket, crosswords, Wiggles workouts, Pimms drinking, garden wandering, halfhearted sketching, bric-a-brac amassing, old diary reenactments, pyjamaed slapstick and more laidback quippery and double entendre than you could poke a (literal) stick at.

So. Scrapes and bites. Choking on salmon bones the size of pine needles. Some absent friends. Some lessons learned (e.g. when driving in a convertible with the top down, seatbelts make for disastrous tan lines).  The end of an era, in a lot of ways.

Our last days at Kautuku, for one. I got married on the lawn (above) five years ago.

I can’t get my head to work any more. It hurts. I think I might go and scrape some melted handmade chocolate out of a tray and enjoy one last drink under a multitude of country stars now. And then I will go to bed and read until the wee small hours of the morning, just because I can.

bathroom art, carwash meditations & the end of things

As I write this, our household contends with finishing off a bird murder. Sort of like animal kingdom Cluedo, only the assailant wasn’t doing much about concealing his crime, proud as he was of it. 

My bung-eyed crying jag started long before Bax tried to deposit a half-dead bird amongst the presents under the Christmas tree just now. And now I seem to be crying all about the bird. I’ve forgotten what else there was. Good to have a focus for my aimless weeping, though.

Really, of course, I haven’t forgotten at all, but it’s just easier and more straightforward to cry for the bird. (Actually there was a second bird too, right after, but it was dead upon entry, and I only have mourning capacity for one bird at a time.)

Alice and I were engrossed in discussing girl/family stuff in the doorway and quickly scarpered to the other end of the house, leaving Simon weilding the plastic dustpan, promising not to ruin the Persian rug on which the bird had finally been set down to flutter. (I may mourn small creatures but I am also houseproud enough to think the practicalities all the way through, even in a heightened emotional state.)

I haven’t been here for a while. I wondered if I might summarise key points from the past fortnight so as to regain some ground. Trouble is: I remember nothing. Or very little, anyway. But here’s a start, and not in any order of appearance or importance.

my register of missed opportunities

On Saturday night I spent a glorious evening alone in an empty house, cleaning. Or more like tidying with a little bit of surface fussing, but the tidying itself was significant. No husband or house guests for the evening — I bade them all adieu — and all I wanted to do was restore a sense of order. I got around to unpacking my bag from the previous weekend away and found all the pesky little things (like deodorant) that I couldn’t find during the week.

And as we had a houseguest staying in our extra spare bedroom, aka the office, it seemed like a good time for me to do something about the masses of paper that had somehow spewed all over the entire floor and the tower of old journals I’m now well bored of ransacking. It started out simple but then I had to give myself motivation to go on, especially once I found myself under my desk.

So I resolved to make a register of unpursued ideas as I sifted through plastic files and outsized envelopes full of paper whilst trying not to hit my head on the underside of my desk. I did find some interesting stuff, but it didn’t have much to do with writing. (Some things did make me curious though, like some kind of unstarted exposition called Madonna in Socks (um?). And also a true-life snippet I had obviously felt compelled to capture which went: He just told me that every day is the best day of his life. I wanted to punch him in the mouth.)

The best things I found were the things slipped in between the pages. Like old business cards (I can’t believe that, even by association, I was ever connected with something called Business Development, since I can quite safely say that I haven’t developed one iota of business in my whole life) and a full book of stamps (probably the best score of the evening). Anyway, the cataloguing system under my desk is now a thing of beauty. The register, on the other hand, is not.




bathroom art

See above. Friday night, women’s bathroom, Happy, Wellington. I’m gathering quite a collection of bathroom art now. Like this.

no ideas but in things

This is not really for now (point 2 at least has got WORK written all over it). But, for now, I have been thinking two sort of related things:

1. How I like pictures and making stuff. There’s nothing abstract about them. They’re so there.

2. How the composition of good [instructional] web writing (blogs, articles and so on not included) is not unlike the making of the leanest poem, with a touch of science applied. Part formula, part instinct. A process of stripping back. Of simplifying and then simplifying again. No abstractions or tangents.

I kept thinking of William Carlos Williams’ The Red Wheelbarrow:

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens.

 

crying jags

When it starts and just keeps on going and then abating and starting all over again for the course of a day (not good when it starts up again on day two — that’s sort of like waking up with the headache you went to bed with). Until it feels like someone’s slugged you in the eye sockets (maybe because you said every day is the best day of your life) and all the centre of your chest has been carved out. Not helped by G&Ts or chopping onions, both of which I took to simultaneously earlier this evening (although the stereo was made off-limits — I think Simon thought Perfume Genius or Morrissey were going to get a woeful hammering).

It’s good to cry. I should do this more often. If you do it properly and for long enough it’s a good sleep aid, and cheaper than ongoing psychiatry.

carwash meditations

See below. Meditations is probably a bit grand. But what I mean to say is that Sunday afternoon carwashing (not DIY carwashing, I mean — fuck no) is a treat. It’s so peaceful and cavern-like. And a bit American. I always feel a bit American sitting in the carwash. Plus you can make everything go away for ten whole minutes, until the green arrow comes up and you’re ejected back out into the world.

the end of things

I.e. the prospect of losing loved ones and the indignity of old age. And then putting the bird out of its misery, to cap it all off. All I could hear was the thumping.

the den

Tonight we’re hanging out in the den listening to records, doing stuff on our laptops. The rug went down this evening and now it feels even more den-like. (The rug really ties the room together, as The Dude would say.)

The den is far far away from anywhere. I even forget it’s part of the house. I have big plans for this room. The blind needs to be made this side of Christmas. Plus it’s being painted un-red, and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are going in around the doorframe, which obviously you can’t see in this photo. And then the wall behind Simon is being wallpapered. Fancy having a feature wall! I promise it’s not naff. At least, I don’t think it is.

And that’s about it. In this room, that is. Oh and there’s one more lamp to come. And different art. But I’ll sort that once we’ve replaced the glass in the frames that smashed in the move. Oh and I also need to get the hurricane lamp glass re-blown. That’ll go in the den, too, eventually.

I’m trying to learn not to want to do everything all at once. I can’t help it though. On Sunday afternoon I drove around town in gridlock, late for an afternoon tea date, trying to find small plastic rings to fit inside the plastic Italian lampshades I bought so I can suspend them from the ceiling properly. No dice, though, and today I bought some, but they’re the wrong ones. Something tells me my mind won’t properly rest until those lampshades are in place. And then, when they are, there will be the peas to re-pot and the tomatoes to re-stake. And fabric to choose. And GOD what a boring story. Sorry about that.

Now we are listening to TAPES. Far out. The vocals sound seriously adenoidal. It’s all warpy, like scuba-diving in sound. It’s making me feel a bit hayfeverish.

My grandparents always had dens. They still do, but now their dwellings are sort of one big den. We all used to gather in there, all the aunts and uncles and the grandchildren. Eating club sandwiches and specially-prepared croquettes, sometimes whitebait fritters. Listening to the family stories inside a hot, perfumy fug of smoke. The accumulated damp of all that excited breath lining the insides of the windows. And you’d lose all sense of time. I could never work out if the grandfather clock chimed on the hour or every ten minutes or so. Either the hours went super fast or the minutes went really slow. Everything was a bit monumental. There’s no way of explaining it, really. Or maybe there is, but still I can’t.

And when we were old enough to drink — by god were those pours stiff. In university days when I’d have den time with Didy and we’d smoke cigarettes and talk about writing I’d eventually return to the daylight outside blinking with heavy lids, drunk on gin diluted with the merest dash of poorly carbonated tonic. She always insisted on paying for the taxis, too. I don’t know if she thought she was sending me all the way to Ashburton in a cab or if the regular fistful of money was just her way of saying off you go and be young — go and buy a dress and don’t think too much about things. Actually I do know.

And now I have my own den, so-called in my grandparents’ honour. It makes me think of them. It feels grown-up and grotto-like. Something happens to conversation in here. It’s hard to remember the concerns of the day or the mess beyond the threshold. Hours go by. Cups of tea are had. And now I have no idea what I am supposed to be doing right now, after this. I suppose it doesn’t really matter; I suppose it can’t matter. Maybe I’ll just do this some more. Sit here in a semi-daydream with tape music filling my head like warm water all tight and soupy against my eardrums.

dirty laundry

 

This is Helene’s photo. I like laundromats and I really like the birds flying over in this photo. I also really like the colour of the sign. It’s nearly the colour my new craft room is going to be. In 11 days I will have a new craft room. Actually I will have a whole new house. And while I’m talking about wall embellishments and what have you, this is possibly the pièce de resistance (in thunder). It’s only going to go on one wall, though. And in the formal room, as well. Although I should really just call it the music room, because it’s safe to say that’s what it will become (along with the rest of the house) and also we don’t really do formal, or even mildly grown-up, really.

I like imagining laundromats as a sort of stage for daily dramas, although I can’t say that I have ever frequented one.  I’d like to, but not to wash my clothes. I don’t really like the idea of dirty laundry in public, now that I think about it. Call me prudish or something.

Maybe it has something to do with the time I was returning to London from Sweden and my makeshift bag broke (I think I accumulated too much stuff so we made a new bag and put all my unwashed laundry in it and tied it up with string). Standing at the luggage carousel at Heathrow I didn’t think oh shit that looks like my underwear when I watched the oversized clear plastic bag go round and round unclaimed. I just thought what kind of shameless idiot would pack their underwear in a giant see-through plastic bag? Until it was the very last item on the carousel and I finally recognised the pattern on a pair of knickers or something and was forced to uplift it and fireman’s lift it (it was really that big) onto the tube and then the bus. There was really no disguising it, either, although I did try unsuccessfully to conceal it by using it as a cushion when I finally got to sit down.

Ugh. That’s a horrible recollection. I can’t believe I just shared it. But I didn’t really have anything else to write about this evening though, apart from the cats, and I have been thinking how I don’t really want to turn into crazy cat lady of the internet. So I’ve resolved to only post photos of the cats intermittently. Every other week, maybe.

Oh but that could then open up my blogging schedule for pictures of some little cuties, like these two…

Look how cute they both are. Even cuter than cats, dare I say it.

known unknowns (& unknown knowns)

If in doubt, post pictures of cats — it’s failproof. This is Sylvie helping me pack. She’s giving me her anxious look. The so where are we going, then? look.

It’s been a wee while between blogs. I was going to write at the beginning of the weekend. The thing I was going to write was going to be called benevolent elephants. Then the weekend took a slightly different turn and all of a sudden benevolent elephants didn’t seem very appropriate, and neither did writing, full stop, at all.

It still doesn’t seem so right to write this, even now. Sometimes life just comes out of nowhere. You don’t expect your loved ones to have sudden freak injury visited upon them. It’s not a call you expect to receive. But it’s probably better to live without expecting it… because what kind of a mincing, hedged-in life would that be? Sort of like knowing the exact date of your departure from this earth and trying to stay happy-go-lucky regardless.

In the weekend I spent a bit of time thinking about helplessness and prayer. Helpless praying, I mean. Then I thought about helplessness on its own, and then prayer in its own right, too. I tried not to get in an argument about it, given that someone in our house (and it’s not Sylvie… she’s far to busy with boxes) thinks that prayer is for the weak and deluded.

As for me, I would like to be able to pray. In times of helplessness, at least, it would be helpful. I started out my early life with knees-on-carpet at the foot of the bed (and then graduated to shut eyes and steeple-fingers in front of my face once the whole kneeling kick wore off). And then somewhere early in the teenage years (with their now-laughable turbulence and all that OTT hand-wringing and bleating uncertainty) I couldn’t do it any more.

All those years of carpet-burned kneecaps and not a scrap of faith to show for them. I guess that might have something to do with why I keep worry dolls in the drawer beside my bed.

But still. You put in all that prayer time in your unformed years — sort of like misguided groundwork — and on the rare occasions when utter helplessness finds you later in life, when all your logic and girlguideness and life skills and rote-learned mantras fail you, it’s hard not to assume prayer as the fallback position. So, I didn’t pray this weekend, but I did actually miss prayer. It seemed like it might have been the most useful thing I could have done.

At the moment for school I am writing about known unknowns. How to know them better, etc. It seemed a bit dumb this weekend. Another example of words being all very well and good.

So I thought about unknown things this weekend, too…. the unknown, but not really in a sci-fi kind of way. I wondered why I woke up at 3am-ish this Saturday morning for no apparent reason in a state of fear. And when I sat in my bed and I felt the tremors an hour or so later, I did wonder why my whole body went cold, when night-time rumblings are hardly new to us. I could probably quite easily retrospectively attribute some kind of clairvoyant quality to this, but I won’t. The truth is that while I hadn’t had a night episode before Saturday morning for some time, I don’t think I’ll ever be entirely rid of them. I think I’ll just call it a fitting coincidence.

Shit — I just read over this and it’s got quite heavy (sorry) and taken an existential turn I honestly wasn’t planning. (Did I ever tell you how I dropped out of philosophy 101 because people tried to tell me that my dog didn’t have a soul? That’s a bit  irrelevant right now, but I dislike talking about existentialism in the same way I dislike contemplating Pavlova’s impossible soullessness.) I don’t really know how to U-turn my way out of this sombre little pot-hole. (Is that a mixed metaphor? Or just a slightly uncomfortable one?)

I know. I will end this with 1. biorythms and 2. SLUT graffiti. The slut graffiti, at least, is sort of funny. Let’s go out on a bit of a high note (well, compared with the rest of this dark muddle, anyway…).

1. When we got our first family home computer back in the very late 80s (or it might actually have been 1990) it had a biorythm programme on it. You typed in your birth date and it whipped up a graph with three lines on it — physical, emotional and spiritual — which spiralled away into perpetuity. On the days when two lines crossed it was supposed to be a bad thing. On the days when three crossed — look out — you probably shouldn’t leave the house. We spent a lot of after-school time back in the day trying to predict bad shit with that programme. 

Oh, and I just found an online biorhythm calculation thingy here, in case you want to work out when bad shit is going to happen to you. (There are millions of these sites – this isn’t special or anything.) I admit that (the crockness of) biorhythms did enter my head this weekend too, as well as prayer.

2. SLUT graffiti, Vivian Street. Say no more. (Although it is quite interesting to guess at what might have possessed the graffiti artist to pen this… Bad date? Overbearing mother?) 

hello me

Just discovered I ♥ wool stockings heaps. I also ♥ Thursdays. And I ♥ the closest I can get to reckless abandon (not very close actually). I ♥ pretending goodbye isn’t goodbye. I ♥ grandiose ideas. I ♥ rocking chairs. I ♥ shadowy rooms where you can’t quite make everything out. I ♥ quiet. I ♥ hard-gotten gain. And tapas. I ♥ night. And imaginary furnishings. I ♥ hatching plans. I ♥ heading for the hills. And mental pictures. And bed. And blue hydrangeas. And Lily.

leaving off, picking up

I remember this wallpaper vividly. But anyway, I’ll get to that. Right now I have extremely warm feet and the best writing set-up ever. I think I have come to this writing set-up too late in life, but I didn’t think about it until tonight. My grandmother’s fold-down table with the leaves folded up, pulled up to the sofa with more cushions than a human being can humanly need. So I can be sort of sprawling and Cleopatra-ish and perhaps even a bit productive as well, should productivity deign to call on me. We’ll see. But right now I must feed these hungry brutes. BRB.

Okay, back now.

Dad used to have this photo on his desk at work. Orua Bay bathtime. I used to get a bit embarrassed by it, mostly because of my semi-dressed state, the shared bath situation (cute when you’re not quite school-aged, maybe not so cute when you’re old enough to prefer a shower all on your own), and because Dad worked in a boys’ secondary school. Whenever a boy said to me I’ve seen you in the bath (which happened, once or twice) I would be quietly mortified, my mortification clearly signposted by a deep and sudden shade of mortification-red.

Last night in a feeble state I promised more substance here today than I could muster last night. Now I’m sort of kicking myself. It might have paid to underpromise. Or to promise nothing at all, even better, and play iPhone Bejeweled all night long, scot free.

So let me dither a little bit longer (and remember what I got myself in for in yesterday’s blog). I just had an idea. I might form a commune. But a commune with rules (my rules), very high barriers to entry, long and lively dinners with the finest of wines, hardly any shared facilities, no underlying communist ethos and no alarm clocks. It would be highly selective, carefully populated, clean, nicely decorated and infused with a very expensive, rustic kind of minimalism which to only the most untrained eye might be passed off as roughing it. Come to think of it, maybe what I have in mind isn’t a commune at all. Actually it sounds more like going to stay with family in Hawkes Bay. Apart from the selective bit.

The reason I thought I might form a commune though is that we’re all (3 of us) sitting here at our makeshift desks, listening to records, writing. Not talking. It feels quite serious, like sitting in a classroom (but only if the classroom had wine and fluffy slippers and David Bowie in it).

But back to yesterday.

I said I might talk about tonight’s Wellness Clinic. 5.30 on a Monday, my own personal wellness is not exactly my chief concern. Not even the promise of scroggin party bags (I’m not kidding) was enough to entice me. It turned out, though, that I turned up late, and never got my own personal brown paper bag full of birdseed. Good thing I never wanted it in the first place. (Came home and had Doritos instead, ha ha.)

I learnt quite a lot tonight though. I also came away with action points. One of which is to not sleep on my stomach. But I love sleeping on my stomach! That’s going to be a real sacrifice.

If I were to summarise a key message, Cliff Notes style, I would say: we get sick because our minds are too agitated and our bodies are too still. So if we could work out a way to re-engergise our bodies and still our minds we might be getting somewhere.

I’m not going to talk about self-sabotage or the internet as a stomping ground for the demented and deranged like I said I was going to. Not tonight.

I will end on the subject of platonic embraces. I am a big fan. Others apparently not so much, guys in particular (and correct me if I appear to be generalising without foundation… I did do a very limited vox pop in order to reach this conclusion). I wouldn’t platonically embrace just anyone. I’m not advocating free hugs, either. And I also don’t much like hugging people who don’t like hugging. And I also wouldn’t suggest too much hugging in communes, for obvious reasons.

XOXO

the old Wellington

I have no voice. Really. It’s quite funny. I reckon I could get by for ages without talking. People look at me with puppy eyes, which is amusing enough in itself, temporarily. My huskiness is much more endearing than Simon’s current lung-wrenching, gravel-toned cough, for example.

Crushed ice and wool-lined slippers help, but sleep doesn’t. This morning Bruce gave me some lozenges that singers use, but they tasted like something you’d stick in your car’s engine or baste your tyres with, so for now I have opted for silence.

I’m not a huge fan of internet malady-talkers. (e.g. the I’m so sick of being sick Facebook status update, usually from the same person every three weeks or so.) That’s not what I’m meaning to do here. My cute muteness is just an intro.

I’m not from Wellington originally. I came to Wellington full-time in — I think — July or August of 2000. So by my reckoning I’m coming up a decade in this fine town. I don’t mean that sarcastically, either. I really can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.

This evening as I attempted to compose my sickly self in a darkened steamy room, I had one of those flooring childhood flashbacks. My first memory of coming to Wellington as a kid.

I remember not being well. I think I must have had a chest infection. I remember everything having a funny smell, everything tasting strange and musty, but it must have been coming from inside me. I remember being sort of febrile and disoriented, intruiged in a fuzzy sort of way. I remember it being bone-bitingly cold as well, so I’m guessing it was winter.

We were staying with my aunt and my uncle and my cousins. The cousins were older. I actually don’t remember very much at all about the trip. It’s all a bit fish-eyed. I might have been four. Five maybe. I’ll consult with my mother about this tomorrow. (I thought it best to write this with the partial memory still unfettered, none of the gaps filled in.)

I remember things being goat-tracky, landscape-wise. Also the cousins had their own underground world. Subterranean cubbyhouses and secret clubs, that kind of thing, under the house. It was immensely impressive to someone of my inferior years. I think just being let in to their sunken den made me all at once forget my childish ailments. I didn’t want to blot my copybook. I remember being acutely aware of the extreme privilege that was being bestowed upon me by being brought into their fold. It sounds silly now.

In later years we used to drive through Wellington on university holidays on our way back home. Bex and I would make mix tapes and make our way up to Picton late at night, smoking with the VW/Fiat windows wound down. Wellington was a place of harbour lights and stopping by.

Sometimes I would stop over for a couple of days and crash with my Vic friends. 262 The Terrace. That was where Simon lived, way back before any of this. There was a hole in the bathroom floor people used to fall into. Takeaway food was the only way to ensure sanitary dining. It was vile and beautiful and chaotic and eye-opening. It felt like a halfway house or a commune. I can’t even really go into it here. I remember every inch of that place vividly. It’s one of those places you hope you’ll only encounter once. But then it’s also one of those places that you’ll look back on for the rest of your life knowing that you’ll never get any of that craziness back again. It’s a myth.

So I suppose tonight I thought about my mythical Wellington. Chapter One. The time before I came to dwell here. All brought on by a dose of laryngitis and a lukewarm bath. Funny how these dinky old recollections come about.