Mallory's Camera

Vote for RTT!

Tue, 30 Sep 2025 12:34:09 GMT

I'm making RTT a campaign website for his birthday.

I misplaced the campaign photos he sent me, so was forced to improvise with this photo, which made me laugh heartily:

If I could only use this photo, every cis female & gay male in Ithaca would vote for RTT!

###

Else? I continue to be very isolated. Which makes me feel a bit like the young Vito Corleone in Godfather 2 when he sits in his quarantine cell in Ellis Island and begins singing to himself.

Simultaneously, I am also very busy with a daunting amount of work that must be accomplished and dates it must be accomplished by.

I feel guilty writing in my diary for an hour every morning, and of course, nobody reads it, so I could easily ask: What is the point? But, you know: One does not keep a diary to prove one's exceptionalism to others; one keeps a diary for purchase on one's own thoughts & emotions. I am particularly abtruse when it comes to deciphering those last.

Brian used to read my diary every day! "It's an open tab on my laptop," he told me. "I never close it."

###

After Brian died, I started watching this show on Netflix called White Collar. It's a silly show, but I enjoy it, plus its star, Matt Bomer, is absolutely the most beautiful male human ever spawned on this planet. I could watch him endlessly.

White Collar is leaving Netflix today, & I haven't even watched its sixth season!

And somehow that news is upsetting me more than the fact that the U.S. government is shutting down tomorrow.

(Of course, I'm gonna immediately cancel Netflix.)

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The Mystery of Kevin

Tue, 18 Jun 2024 11:08:53 GMT

I’m gonna toss the haunted diaries.

I read through a few of them yesterday.

I pride myself on having an excellent memory—Well. Except for those times when I can’t remember “Rokeby”—but I couldn’t remember ¾ of the things I was reading in those diaries.

Did they really happen to me? Well then, I was someone else.

###

Case in point: Many, many pages in 1983 were devoted to a love affair I had with someone named Kevin. It was very sexual. I devoted pages and pages not just to the kinky sex but also to the dozens of friends I do remember—Susan!—advising me against having kinky sex with Kevin.

Thing is I cannot remember Kevin.

I have indexed the mental database 20 different ways. Searched it & searched it. But there is no trace.

It’s not like the memory failures I associate with, say, dementia where some recollection batters like a frantic moth against the window that is one’s consciousness.

No, this was more as though some celestial editor had said, This character doesn’t work, and red-penciled Kevin out.

###

I don’t think much of anything I wrote before 1993 when I attended the Clarion Writers Workshop is any good.

It is self-expression, and as such, does satisfy the Malcolm Gladwell injunction that you must put in 10,000 hours of work in order to get really good at something.

But it’s not good writing in the sense that Clarion taught me to recognize good writing—as something that both expresses and communicates.

Do musicians record & save those endless hours they spend practicing scales?

Well. Those diaries were scales.

###

What I am going to keep is those hundreds of fictive pages scattered amongst the diaries. Some of that stuff is really quite good.

###

Anyway. Even though it is not quite seven in the morning, temps are well on their way to the 80° mark, so I better get out there & tromp while tromping can still be a thing.

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The Diary Project: 3

Thu, 23 Feb 2023 17:06:19 GMT

Continuing to pull random diary volumes from the pile…

This one is a plain loose-leaf notebook, spanning dates between September 1974 through January 1975.

I was 22 years old.

Living on Colby Street (technically in Oakland, not Berkeley, though Berkeley and Oakland are contiguous.) Three houses down the block from George, my Texas millionaire (whom I had yet to meet) and right around the corner from Jessica Mitford (whom I had also yet to meet.)

I wrote in pencil, and at this nearly 50-year remove, much of the writing in this volume is barely legible. But interestingly, the handwriting itself is much, much neater than it would become 15 years later.

As many of the misspellings, mispunctuations, and stylistic peculiarities—ampersands instead of “and”—as possible have been left unchanged.

Gotta say: It's probably very boring to anyone but me-e-eeee. Hence the cut.

( Read more... )

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All "My Brilliant Friend"! All of the Time! Plus the Diary Project

Sun, 12 Feb 2023 13:33:32 GMT

The first three episodes of My Brilliant Friend: Season 3 are as excellent as Season 1 was.

It is 1968, and Sessantotto is erupting in the college towns of the North, Pisa, Bologna, Padua. In the South, recovery from the devastations of World War II are finally underway, and telephones and televisions are becoming common household appliances.

In the U.S., in Berkeley, I too was participating in political marches—against the Vietnam War, in favor of People’s Park.

Once I was babysitting Alicia and decided to take her to a protest.

We got tear-gassed—and I can remember dashing madly across Sproul Plaza pushing her stroller.

I didn’t have a clue about the things we were protesting against, of course.

It was just fun to be out on a sunny day with other people my age singing If I Had a Hammer and screaming, “Fuck the pigs!”

Better than the best rock concert you can possibly imagine.

###

Also started reading the novels.

Here’s a passage close to the beginning of Chapter 1:

Adults, waiting for tomorrow, move in a present behind which is yesterday or the day before yesterday or at most last week: they don’t want to think about the rest. Children don’t know the meaning of yesterday, of the day before yesterday, or even of tomorrow, everything is this, now: the street is this, the doorway is this, the stairs are this, this is Mamma, this is Papa, this is the day, this the night.

I can attest to the truth of that because I have very vivid memories of my childhood.

Most people don’t. Or claim not to.

But among the people who are unashamed to remember their childhoods, a certain mythology develops, their childhood memories are the Iliad or the Odyssey, and Ferrante captures that very, very well in the opening chapter of My Brilliant Friend. The HBO series captures it very, very well, too, and I think that’s what gives the series its extraordinary emotional punch.

###

Anyway, I really cannot surrender myself totally to My Brilliant Friend for another day because I simply have too much to do.

And one of those things is transcription.

Long-time readers may recall The Saga of the Diaries: How when I closed down the Monterey house, I took the 20 or so volumes of my paper journals and shut them up in a storage unit, and then, how in 2021, I finally became brave enough to fly to California and deal with that storage unit. I threw everything away! I loaded everything into a UHaul that Ichabod had specifically rented for a trip to the dump.

I felt a vast relief.

I was free of the past.

But then a weird thing happened: The UHaul got stolen.

And then an even weirder thing happened: Ichabod had packed some of his own things into that UHaul that had been in my storage unit, including his Stanford diploma, which he'd intended to take back up to Ukiah. And someone had found the Stanford diploma—along with my diaries!

They had been able to trace him through the diploma. And he, of course, knew where I was.

Here is what the diaries looked like when the person found them:

Clearly, my diaries are the malevolent Chuckie-doll of diaries!

Never mind that I hate them, and I hate the person who wrote them—they have a mind of their own, and they will not be rebuffed or ignored.

So, I will be transcribing them. Volume by volume. The contents of the volumes are in chronological order (of course.). But the volumes will not be in any particular order.

9 July¹

A peaceful moment between invasions…²

Sweet peas in the vase on my desk, Albioni on the stereo, a room w/a view. The view is of a garden, I planted the garden myself. A garden will teach you better how to cherish the small specifics than all the Zen review courses ever packaged.

Said goodbye to Michele³ a couple of nights ago w/something of a pang—certainly the closest thing to genuine emotion that I’ve felt in quite some time. Who knows when I’ll see her again… If I’ll see her again… My soul registers a real loss. From the first, I was extremely drawn to Michele far beyond what the social circumstances of our acquaintance were prepared to authorize. I have such little confidence these days in the drawing capacity of my own featured attractions, that I never speculated that the pull might be reciprocal. Michele was such an adventuresome soul, such a quintessentially free spirit: I celebrated the archetype in the many dreams of her I was always too busy-worked to remember once I had fully awakened from them.

She was (she is) one of those women who are beautiful w/out being the slightest bit pretty; her looks so different from the standardized surveys of female attractiveness that you had to be something of a standard deviate yourself to appreciate them. She reminded me of the heroine of the “French Lieutenant’s Woman”⁴—one of my favorite novels.

I liked her so much that the liking was awkward so that finally I avoided her as often as I sought her out. That constraint, at least, was reciprocal or so it seemed: however animated our banter and eye contact was around other people, a deux we were pointedly guarded. And it was only in parting—the hug she made me was one of great warmth, tenderness, and yes, some regret—that it occurred to me that Michele, too, might have been shielding herself from the intensity and ambivalence of the attraction.⁵

_______

¹ No idea what year this was. 1986? In the next entry in this volume I mention being pregnant, so it must have been 1986, and we were living on San Lorenzo Street in Berkeley, close to the Berkeley/Albany border.

² Note my peculiar love for ellipses back then. I suppose I thought they were evocative.

³ I have no idea who Michele was! I cannot remember her in the slightest.

⁴ Wait! What? The French Lieutenant’s Woman was one of my favorite novels in 1986? No-ooo-ooooooo!!!

⁵ Clearly this was a Sapphic attraction! Up until my first marriage, I was sexually active with men and women alike. Actually, preferred women sexually, but there was a certain something they lacked partner-wise, not enough polarity, I guess. Also, I very much preferred the dreamy, drifty, clandestine nature of my female dalliances to the brisk daylight and normality of same-sex couplings today. I suppose I’m the only person in the world who regrets that loss.

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Confession Is a Form of Self-Indulgence

Tue, 15 Nov 2022 15:38:38 GMT

If I weren’t so obsessed with finishing the current Remunerative Project, I would drive up to Hudson today where various Joan Didion artifacts are on display, waiting to be auctioned.

You can sit at Joan Didion’s desk!

You can pound out The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog on Joan Didion’s own IBM Wheelwriter 5 Selectric!

And when you do, all Joan Didion’s writerly mana will be magically transferred to yew-w-w-w-w-w-w!

Unfortunately, though, I have now become obsessive about finishing this Remunerative Project.

Not that becoming obsessive helps me complete it any faster, you understand.

Since most of my obsessing takes place while I’m in the shower, or while I’m tromping, or while I’m eating, when I’m seized with a terrible feeling of guilt and think, Slacker! If you weren’t such a lazy cow, you’d forget about tending to the puny needs of your slave body!!! You’d dedicate every waking moment to Remunerating!!!

This is the real problem with working at home.

There are no clear boundaries between work and what we laughingly refer to as “real” life.

###

For some reason I picked up one of the old paper journals that live under the bed like the bad monster in some little kid’s terrified imagination.

In the spring of 1984, I was conducting an affair with someone named Kevin.

I cannot remember Kevin!

And yet, there he was! Page after page after page! Kevin said this. Kevin looked at me in that special way that could only mean…

Who the fuck was Kevin?

‘Cause, I mean, I picked my memory up and shook it like an old coat, hoping for quarters to scatter from the pockets.

Nope. No quarters.

No Kevin.

###

Also, I stumbled across a bunch of photos of Erica.

Erica was one of the two most fabulously successful femmes fatales I’ve known over the course of my lifetime. (The other is my erstwhile boss Maria.)

She was my Tai Kwon Do instructor for five years or so. We slept together occasionally without strong emotion on either side.

I didn’t like the way she kissed, like a bird taking innumerable tiny sips from a fountain. Also, her skin was very dry.

But it was a prestige gig since dozens of men were constantly swooning over her. I guess it was the blonde hair, the appraising blue eyes, the aloofness, the impeccable preppy wardrobe.

Erica’s third husband was ___ _______, a physician and a very famous mountaineer who was the doctor on the ill-fated 1963 American Mt. Everest expedition. I met Jon Krakauer at ___’s funeral.

After that, I think Erica became Mr. ______ _________’s mistress—he being the billionaire _______ ____ who bankrolled all of Senator _________’s political campaigns.

I think—but I don’t know.

Because Erica never divulged the slightest details about her private life.

“Confession is a form of self-indulgence,” she told me once when I was ranting and raving to her about something, her lip curling upward with the slightest hint of disdain.

Maybe I was ranting and raving about Kevin.

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On Falsifying Life Narratives

Fri, 03 Jun 2022 12:47:16 GMT

I did blissful nothing yesterday!

Blissful!

Well—not quite nothing. I toddled over to the Most Fabulous Garden Store in Dutchess County where I saw these fabulous canna lilies:

I spent three hours in the garden weeding and planting flowers in my pollinator swath. Behold my fabulous new salvia:

I think this salvia is a perennial. Think. Salvias are actually a bit AC/DC on the annual/perennial spectrum.

I also bought (and planted) some sky-blue pansies and some incipient snapdragons, and this of course was a waste of money because they will not survive the winter.

But like most things that will not survive the winter, they are very pretty…

Came home, read 100 pages of Intimate Lies, which is Sheilah Graham’s son’s deconstruction of the many ways his mother falsified the narrative of her relationship with F. Scott Fitzgerald. Well-written book! Entertaining!

I did not Remunerate!

I think I needed not to Remunerate.

I’d been pushing myself very hard the previous two days.

I will Remunerate today.

###

Reading Sheilah Graham’s son’s book did make me realize one of the reasons I was in such a funky mood earlier this week.

I told Ichabod when I was talking to him on the phone that I was going to send him a copy of my travel insurance documents so that he will be able to access his (and RTT’s) billion-dollar payoff instantly when my plane crashes on the way to Italy.

“Do you have a will?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I don’t have any assets. Making a will seems like a waste of time.”

And he began chastising me.

And I supposed I deserved to be chastised.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “The only thing I have that might be of some value are my diaries. I’ve been keeping them for almost 60 years. And I write extensively about everything. Surely, they’re valuable as a historical document.”

“Yeah, you should do something with them,” said Ichabod. “I mean, I won’t have time to read them—”

THUNK.

###

My own mother was insane but a really, really good writer.

On those rare occasions when I found myself alone in her apartment, of course I would go through all her private papers and read anything that looked interesting.

She kept carbon copies of every letter she ever wrote to anyone!

Writing well was the family curse. Her two sisters, my evil Aunt Jane and my careless, cruel, self-involved Aunt Annie, were excellent writers, too.

But I’m the only one in the F2 generation that seems to have inherited the gene.

Anyway, after my mother died, I searched through all her papers, eagerly, desperately, trying to find something, anything, that might explain her to me.

But by then, she’d cleared out all her carbon copies.

I wondered why.

Of course, she was incredibly secretive because she confabulated so much. (She would have been incredibly pissed off to find me shuffling through her papers, but I mean, c’mon—how could I not?)

One document remained, and it was an essay she had written for some kind of class she took at San Francisco State University.

The essay was about the Greyhound bus ride she took from New York City to San Francisco in 1964 following a massive psychological collapse where she took to her bed for two weeks, hallucinated on the ceiling, and I had to feed her and change her (‘cause she insisted on peeing on herself.)

The usual cliches about Greyhound bus rides. The amusingly odd passengers, the panoramic unfolding of the scenery, blah blah blah.

But the funniest part of the essay was that I was apparently on this trip with her! Much of the essay was devoted to the contrast between the expansive, free-spirited, enlightened woman and her crabby, narrow-minded 12-year-old daughter.

I’m happy to report that I did see the light! Quite literally: It was a sunrise over Las Vegas. Mother and Daughter bonded. I think Daughter may even have murmured, Thank you.

Mother knows best!

###

Of course, I was never on any Greyhound bus ride with my mother in 1964.

So reading this essay made me very snarly indeed.

Fuckin’ liar, I thought.

Pathological lying was a characteristic my mother shared in common with Ben.

But since then, I’ve grown more charitable.

Maybe this was an attempt at fiction.

And even if it wasn’t—what does it matter if people falsify their own narratives?

Especially if their own narratives are all they really own?

###

Anyway, my feelings were dreadfully hurt when Ichabod said he wouldn’t have time to read my diaries.

I continue to think they have some objective worth.

But maybe, they don’t.

Maybe they’re sand paintings.

Whatever, the conversation did make me think that I should find a literary executor.

Two people come to mind.

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Proactive States of Emergency

Tue, 26 Oct 2021 11:50:11 GMT

Dreamed the old volleyball gang—which over the years kinda morphed into the Big Bash collective—was publishing a magazine with state-of-the-art printing technology invented by Steve R_______.

We were all still young.

Marybeth informed me with the deliberate carelessness that was always oh! such a studied effect with her that Nef had been chosen to edit the thing.

Nef! I thought. That shallow, empty-headed poseur?

Of course, I would have been a better choice to edit it, to write every single piece in it if it came to that, but it wasn’t likely I would be picked seeing as how I was no longer on speaking terms with most of those people. (Which is true in Real Life, too.)

Maybe, I could write a piece or two, Marybeth continued.

And I was torn between the desire to be represented in this exciting and bound-to-be-successful-‘cause-the-R_______-were-doing-it endeavor and the desire to shout, Fuck all of you! at the top of my lungs.

Then I was talking to one of the magazine people, I think Ruth, except in Real Life, Ruth is an exceptionally nice human being whereas this person in the dream was shallow and undeserving. The dream-Ruth lived in a dream-San Francisco, which was not the real San Francisco, in a mega-million-dollar house at the bottom of a tall hill. And she was telling me how she grew all her own vegetables.

And I woke up.

###

I more-or-less did nothing yesterday except read and Remunerate.

Guilt began to creep in in the early afternoon.

But the sky was pewter grey, and the landscape was shadowless, and honestly—who wants to go tromping in that?

In the evening, Ichabod texted me to tell me that someone had found his Stanford diploma and a bunch of my old diaries.

(Those diaries had comprised several black bags worth of garbage in the purloined UHaul.)

Damn! I thought. Now I’m gonna have to keep those diaries.

Because the diaries have obviously gone to a lot of trouble not to be destroyed.

###

It’s supposed to rain buckets today. A Nor’easter except without snow. The governors of New York and New Jersey have declared proactive States of Emergency.

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Terroir and Jayne LeGro

Sat, 31 Aug 2019 13:08:49 GMT

I had totally forgotten about the time I gave Ben an ultimatum: See a therapist!

And for three months, he “saw” a therapist.

Her name was Dr. Melfi. Dedicated Sopranos fan that I am, you’d think that would have been a dead giveaway. But no-o-o-o, I was like one of those weighted-bottom, blow-up punching bags. Punch the clown! Punch it again! I always believed him.

Every week, he would confide the details of his latest session. A bit reluctantly—they were deeply private, deeply intimate, deeply transformative, after all, these forays into his personal archeology. He was beginning to see patterns.

“But why hasn’t Dr. Melfi sent me a bill?” I asked.

Because, of course, I was paying for the archeological expeditions.

First, she had sent me a bill. But she’d sent it to the wrong address.

Then she’d decided to bill me monthly.

Then she’d decided that Ben was such a unique and striking case that she’d decided not to bill me at all. “She wants to write a paper for a journal,” Ben explained. “About me.”

Well, of course, that was the giveaway. There’s no therapist on the face of the planet who wouldn’t bill a nominal amount. It's part of the therapy.

I think Dr. Melfi was my favorite of all Ben’s many confabulations.

Certainly, recalling their sessions together a dozen years or so after the fact, I found myself laughing merrily.

Though I don’t think laughed at the time.

###

I became reacquainted with Dr. Melfi because I did something last night that I almost never do: I read back over the years 2010, 2011, and 2012 in my own life.

Wow! I thought. From a pure writing point of view, this is very, very good! The absolute nadir of my life, of course. I’d lost a business, I’d lost a house, I was 3,500 miles away from anyone who cared whether I lived or died, and my husband had just walked out on me because I was no longer a viable meal ticket. I was a dead goldfish in a bowl of scummy water. From that point of view, it was terribly embarrassing and hard to read.

But I was writing like an angel.

Complete with great dialogue. And humor.

Even if I hadn’t been reading about myself, this was a page-turner.

It would take you exactly three months to edit this into a memoir, the dissociative Nanny function inside my brain informed me.

I even have the catchy title: Terroir and Jayne LeGro.

###

I do have to say that reacquainting myself with Ben’s asshole behavior left me with no interest whatsoever in attending his (ugh!) Celebration of Life.

Although if I don’t go, RTT will never speak to me again.

And it could be pretty amusing. Particularly if the X-girlfriends square off against each other: I was the one who understood his deep poetic nature the best! No, I was the one who understood his deep poetic nature the best!

I wonder if it’s too late to order a blowup swimming pool and a cubic half-ton of mud so the girls can wrestle.

###

In other news, Darryl’s OD turns out to be heroin-related rather than a suicide attempt.

No wonder he seemed depressed to me!

I’m very glad I informed Lew about the 100 or so morphine pills, and vials and vials of hydrocodone in Ben’s sickroom so that Lew could safely dispose of them. It would have been very bad indeed if these had fallen into Darryl’s hands.

###

Also, early autumn is all around me, as I run through the Vanderbilt estate:

And I found a fabulous dress for the (ugh) Celebration of Life. A Rachel Zoe. Rachel Zoe may be the world’s most obnoxious celebrity but she’s a good designer. I intend to glam the dress up with an enormous broad-brimmed hat, gold sandals, and AOC™ red lipstick. I will be the most beautiful person there and make many scathing remarks.

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The Elephant Waiting To Be Asked To Dance

Wed, 04 Apr 2018 16:30:27 GMT

I think it was sunny on Saturday.

I think.

I honestly can’t remember.

I’m one of those people who lives in a temporal cave defined by my last 48 hours of sense memory. If it happened 49 hours ago, I may be vaguely aware of it. Kind of like a frieze painted on the walls of the cave: Oh, right, it was sunny on Saturday; I went for a long run; Columbus discovered America in 1492.

I don’t do well when it’s perpetually overcast, and no amount of Vitamin D, full-spectrum lightbox illumination, or exercise can disguise that fact. It’s my Sicilian mitochondria or something. They crave bright sunlight, olive trees, heat ripples in the air, glints of light dancing off shallow turquoise coastal waters.

When I don’t get that, I get weird. Broody.

What I’m really craving is sunlight, but the brain exists to make up reasons why the autonomous nervous system wants what it wants.

So, I think I’m brooding over all sorts of other things.

Like, Why are you the biggest failure in the history of mankind on this planet?

###

Anyway, last night my brooding took me to the years 2009 through 2012 as chronicled in this very diary.

Typically, I don’t reread anything I write in this diary. The benefit is all in the act of writing. Writing gives me narrative distance from the events of my own life, and since the narrative mask I assay most often is a kind of ironic, self-deprecatory, comic persona, the diary writing works well as a coping mechanism.

I do go through the diaries after I’ve written first drafts of fiction pieces to harvest bits of prose that might work in the context of those first drafts.

This, though, is a methodical process done with outlines, index cards, and specific referents: Chapter 4, scene 3. NEEDS: (1) Epiphanal conversation with flaky father; (2) description of Grand Army Plaza Brooklyn Library. That kind of thing. I’m not reading what I wrote with any degree of emotional openness.

Last night, though, I was just a wounded little girl wandering through all the bad shit that happened to me once upon a time, and it was really quite painful to read and remember.

How did I ever manage to survive that time in my life relatively intact?

I’m lucky to have survived that time in my life relatively intact.

Somewhere, somehow, something was looking out for me.

Because the odds were not in my favor.

###

I was waaaaay too hopped up to sleep when that was through around midnight or so, so I watched a movie I can remember liking a lot in the early 80s when it first came out. An Officer and a Gentleman. Starring Richard “Why-does-this-man-have-a-career?” Gere and Debra “Why-isn’t-this-woman-in-more-movies?” Winger.

I think I may have seen this movie three times, that’s how romantic I thought it was. Broody male loner who doesn’t understand that life’s real adventure is not a motorcycle ride but the LUV of a good woman. The Kerouac myth!

When I saw it again last night, all I could do was cringe.

Man, I was brainwashed as a young woman.

A week or so earlier, I’d watched Five Easy Pieces, a more nuanced, sophisticated and realistic look at the Male Loner Archetype. Five Easy Pieces was my mother’s favorite movie. She thought Five Easy Pieces was romantic!

Five Easy Pieces stands up across well over 40 years, partly because of the acting but mostly because of its complete lack of sentimentality: Whatever my mother may have thought, Bob Raphaelson knew he was making a movie about an asshole.

But that was my mother’s primary romantic archetype: Men who treated her like shit. Men who abandoned her.

One of whom was my father.

Since my father abandoned us when I was very young, I don’t actually have any conscious associations with that abandonment. It’s another one of those psychological exercises where the absence of something has to be construed as the presence of something else.

It seems far more likely to me that what I feel when that great black void begins to close over my soul is my mother’s panic, and because she was a borderline personality, and because she dominated me so thoroughly in the first 12 years or so of my life, I’m still very inept when it comes to walling out my mother's panic. Even though she's dead.

###

“You’re not in the least bit like your mother,” Rik told me once matter-of-factly. “I get that you suffer from your mother’s nightmares. Only remember: They’re not yours.”

This was back in the days when we used to go to wild Berkeley parties together so he could hit on all my girlfriends. Hitting on me would not have been at all socially acceptable, though I suppose that was the elephant in the party dress waiting to be asked to dance.

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