Vaseline

Nipples are simple. They express tenderness. Montgomery glands. Muscle contractions. Areola. The stride of emperors, the fireflies of queens.

The excursion drill does cartwheels. I sigh like a congenial river. An angel trickles a blaze of lotus. It gets to me. I scream at the plug until it bends into a claw. And that’s what I take with me to the party.

I knock. The door opens. I leave all admonition behind and enter with a dream of snow. I envision a chronology of pumps and maintain a rectangular smile. I’m moody, it’s true, but who can say what a hiccup is? It is timeless all the way to the top of the spur. You can feel a visceral summer wrestling itself inside a hint of sponsored gospel.

The future doesn’t look good. But we’ll see what we can do about bringing the saddles and bedrolls to Sweden. If the hedonism is a success, and the tarts careen through our digestive tracts the way they’re supposed to, we can move on from there.

The importance of the Great Chain of Being in eighteenth-century thought is hard to overestimate, but none but the Apaches walked these mountains until the cry of the red hawk could no longer be heard. This was the year of riding through abandoned stations on the riverside line. The moon sat down like a delta, and said nothing, while the puppets lolled around in vowels, clacking like together like consonants at the end of a string.

We wanted to discuss everything then because we could see how it was all interrelated, how the people coming to our shore under a cloud of pessimism and despair had something unique to offer, something paroxysmal and warm.

Nothing feels quite so good as clean sheets right out of the dryer. Or the first hot shower after having a cast on your leg removed.

Hunger sags in a painting of toppled contact. The blossoms clink together like gizzards. Henna flaunts its peculiarities. I operate a little sleep until it hurries away into a cloud of spoons. I think movement is a thrilling steam to press into insight. It will become a reverie, the fabric of a thought for our journey, and permeate the carillon of our translucence, permitting ointment, and herring.

I can mime the butter better if I slouch a little at the picnic table. Nevada is larger than you imagine. The hills go away like swans until the moon plummets from its socket and plops in your glass like a cube of shadows. The cry of a loon echoes Baudelaire.

There is solace in a tray of rope. The road flare reminded me a little of a secretion I once saw come out of a man’s arm and smile like a cringe of embarrassed amber.

More recently, I’ve developed a taste for Barbizon cows.

The road flare widens the night. We collect compliments from the landscape which we put in baskets and then put aside as opinions, or goose bumps. They will come in handy later, when the sun rises, bringing with it a new day, a new mathematics, a new herd of cows.

The reality of lubrication makes me cringe. I wince like a novel of iron, a story of hyperboreal longings and improbable migrations. Reindeer clutter the sticks of the sentence until it goes unconscious and ends in a feeling of fumaroles and driveways, a long slow simmer of Icelandic angst. I feel a vibration in the air and stand back and let it all in: the peculiar noises a garage door makes when it opens and you see Lou Reed sitting in a lawn chair sipping coffee.

Experience is a force for good. Whatever you do in life, experience penmanship. Find a trombone or a stepladder and put some vowels in it. Open a can of paint. Polish a football trophy. Study a bas-relief in the light of our diagnosis, our being thrust into a world hectic with orthography and design, a Dasein, a bubbling string of excellent salt.

Sometimes we sit in the parlor polishing our buttons. The lines of a palomino can be seen to faintly emerge from a sheet of absorbent paper. I drop my gaze onto it to gently coax it into equilibrium, a balance of volume and plume. My nerves fondle the idiosyncrasies of Reykjavik. Seclusion is hot and nutmeg. I find a gardenia by pulling the lob of a warm haunted ear. Steam feels like a natural beginning, a way to enjoy breakfast while floating various ideas in the friendly light of a speedometer, the velocity of another vacillation bedding down in a jar of Vaseline. 

Splash Gently

Hills are hammers of raw umber. Sleep in the charcoal. Morals are confronted by forefinger, not ribbon. The subatomic world is more like cardboard. Electrons are bound to the nuclei of card sharps by festive decorations and the weird energy of bugs. What is rational is mistaken for guns. We skip doing the dishes and bend the warehouse trinkets into regions of space and time. This creates a sense of peripheral exultation and scrap metal mustangs. The grievances of subjectivity redeemed by lacuna. Overflowing stereophonic broomstick thumps.

Infrared mink ceremony. Laughter at bangs. Packs of junta. Unfold the cartwheel. Excerpts generate your stem. And then it operates like dark.

Blue rumor. Gluttonous stud supplied with implausible melodies. Give falling a finger. My vernacular joins the piano. Elephant aerodrome. Flowers sifted among leeches. Grieve below the scattering. I expect the bulbs to bobble.

Tangible delectation. Luminous glass nipple in a roan coat. Summer flows by and deposits a film of pollen on our windshield. Your French trumpeted perception and became a little postulate, which we named Stephen, and raised like a tiny device of lips and arms. The table bounced like consciousness. And was cookies and lips symbolically colloidal. Enthusiastic can also mean milk and eggs. Airplanes ply the invention of candy. The playhouse is shameful. It extends into space and lingers, like a Ferris wheel on the coast of Zanzibar.

Fire trek. Creosote. We’re sawdust, alpaca. I am the swans of a murdered mouth. Clay mongrels. Grebes. Nerves. Reach for caramel. In the right circumstances, laziness is nonindustrial cunning.

Generate gifts where a chip came off. And then stupor, jiggled with chlorophyll. Listen to the solace of lines, the meat of the poem, which is similar to an éclair, or a piece of furniture. Theorems drooling congeniality. The force of skulls. Yell. Scream at the embassy. Breakfast flavors that pull you into your mouth. Swim in a myth and twinkle. Appear to be official, or at least inaccessible. Embark on a long voyage. Haul in a net of weird animals. Fulminate, hiss like the mad alchemy of pumpernickel.

Is your heart a washing machine or a runway?

Bar clatter. Innocent moose. Opulent embroidery. Crime debris shoveled into a courtroom. Ablution spoon. Lounge of pullulating drinks. Rascal incarnated in a movie about taffeta planets.

Bistro smells. Groaning extraverted portraits rendered in energetic failure. I maneuver the flavor of sand. The canvas honors its shapes by talking to eternity. Eternity answers with Rembrandt.

Candles are a testimony done backward, to satisfy a little wrinkle of character.

Brush with almonds.

There is a deviation that can escape the determination of elbows and yet slosh around in the wrist like the metaphysics of angels. That sort of thing. The jaw is an example. Howl of a silver buckle. The sublime thrust of a master sergeant and corresponding eyebrows.

Mutable running gray form that embodies the strings of a kiss. And that’s called a lipid, and is primeval.

Dipping The Eyes

Not a single object can be described. Not fully. Not completely. Not so that its essence can be entirely transmitted. The words are too clumsy.

So why even try?

Well, you’ve got to try. I mean if it’s important to you to do that.

Nobody’s going to give a shit. Most people avoid reality. It’s the sensible thing to do. Reality hurts. You start going after essences and you’ll find that out soon enough. Just a warning. That’s all.

That said, describe something. Describe a cat. Not cats in general. Not the species. A biologist can do that. A particular cat.

My cat is a black and white female. She has a patch of white on her nose, white paws, and a patch of white on her belly. Her fur feels smooth. She loves receiving and showing affection. She loves licking my hand. As soon as I begin stroking her she’ll begin licking my hand. She will sometimes lick my eyelids in order to get me awake to feed her. She loves to eat. She’s obsessed with eating. She was eight pounds when we brought her home. And she weighs eleven. She’s an indoor cat so she doesn’t get exercise hunting, but we do try to play with her. One never knows whether she is genuinely hungry or wanting to eat out of boredom. It’s a dilemma. She begs constantly. She’s good at it. She will sit by her bowl and look at you pleadingly. She will rub against your legs. She will reach up and claw your pants. She will break you down.

That’s one way to describe her. Here’s another: my cat is a subtle contrarian with gray-blue fur and volcanic eyes. Her teeth are bright as lunar shadows and her legs are as solid as mahogany doors in a best-seller about the Pyrenees. She likes to play with bean coupons and distresses the carpentry of meaning with the hard laughter of the undertaker. She can balance a table on her tongue and thunders like a hippopotamus in a coconut tree. Her claws are like foundry commas and her breath is as fragrant as a souk in Tunisia.

A person is not just the sum of the chemicals in their brain. Sometimes it takes a Ferris Wheel to draw the correct conclusion about life.

That includes cats, but it might also refer to the act or manner in which objects or animals are perceived. Some believe that the sole object of perception is the thing-in-itself. Others believe that a realistic lure isn’t a lure that looks exactly like what fish are eating, but features a pattern that has a general match for what fish are eating. Religions are more like trees; they have multiple branches and roots that go deep into the unconscious, finding nourishment among worms and darkness.

Desire is the best way to come to know reality. Illusion is its sad consolation prize. Utopias generally lead to disaster. Avoid isms. Isms are prisons.

The way to what is most near to us is the longest and the most difficult.

Said Heidegger.

The margin constrains the circle.

Said Anne-Marie Albiach.

Our heads are round so our thoughts can change direction.

Said Francis Picabia.

Life is that which, undertaken, oscillates between wakefulness and dream. There is no reason for life to be hollow or terrible, but sometimes it can be raw and horizontal. I entered life as I found it, visceral and wet and surrounded by Minneapolis. Later, I discovered secretion and oysters. I sat under a piano and wore a cowboy hat.

The kiwis came later, with fecundation and sunglasses. That's why I often feel the urge to paint. The realism of plumbing leaves me no alternative but to use black for the microscope and blue and white for the birds on the ceiling. I can no longer behave like a vestibule. I must percolate violins. I must rush to the zoo. I must paint the guitar with reminiscence. I must drive the crisis to a drugstore. I must use geometry. I must introduce you to coconut.

It’s not often I feel luminous. But when I do, I pin a gardenia in my lapel.

There’s a door of ice hinged with silver that opens to the gnarled spectacle of wanting and a room in which the body finds its bones and flesh. I'll open it and see if the room I imagine is also the one I'm already sitting in. I like my chair, even if it’s torn, and the reality of it that supports my illusions, which are tufted with the upholstery of the troika, and creaks with infinity. These are just shadows, but the algae are real, and the machines in the sand are words, the gears pulling my life into the tinkling of the chandeliers. 

Don't Wake The Dog

The lessons of life are relatively easy. Eat well, keep warm, get plenty of sleep. Try to get along with people. It’s easier to avoid people, so if you can do that, that would be the ideal thing, but if you’ve got to be around people, it’s hard, I know, but try not to kill anyone.

Above all, pay attention. Notice things. Care for things. Love animals, they have to put up with human beings.

Most everything in life is easy to figure out. Religion can be a tough nut to crack. Watch out for that one. What none of us really expected was to have a front row seat for the sixth mass extinction and the death of a planet. That’s a bit of a surprise.

I hate giving advice. I’m not really cut out for that kind of role. I’m just saying things to say things. Saying things is fun. It’s fun to say things. Saying say is fun and so are guffawing and duplication.

It’s somber to guide a milkweed through a forest of prepositions. But it’s good to have lots of soap. Snow transforms the world. I’m an inveterate homebody so when I see snow out the window I can’t wait to get outside and cease being an inveterate homebody. Maybe I’m not so inveterate. Just an ordinary homebody waiting for some snow to come along and urge me into the public sphere.

Life can also be thorny. I should mention that. It can hurt. Painful things include romance, paper cuts, and war. Avoid war. At all costs. Avoid war and those who endorse and begin wars.

I no longer have any family. Parents are all gone. What has taken its place is a feeling of detachment, of being untethered. The burden of one’s-self is lightened. When there are fewer people around to mirror your being, to reflect your image back to you, which is going to be highly distorted, that’s inevitable, you’re left with a distorted view of yourself. Quite often, that’s not good. If you pay attention to the Buddhists, you’ll eventually discover the true self is not-self, or anatta. There is no essential self, no core at the center of one’s being that is permanent and unchanging. There is just a bubble, and bubbles pop.

I blow soap bubbles for our cat. She likes to sit and watch as the glistening little spheres come drifting down to the floor where they repose for a few seconds before popping.

What does it take to produce a fact? Verifiability: whether the item at hand can be demonstrated to correspond to reality. For this, you need witnesses. Reliable witnesses.

But what the hell, let’s take a chance, fill a thermos full of coffee, and go to Mars.

How does one weigh a thought? Do thoughts have substance?

Thoughts are waves. They capsize canoes and lead to languishing under willows in lonely English meadows waiting for inspiration to bring us food and silverware. It’s good to be around water, especially when it’s deep and still. This is where reflection takes place. Ideas emerge. The horse is saddled. There is a reckoning to resolve. An experiment to conduct. And so once again thinking causes microcosms to roll around in the head like coconuts.

It’s difficult to be honest, particularly with one's-self. But if you can pull it off, you will solve the problem of people. People don’t like being around honest people. Honesty hurts.

But why say that? Why should honesty hurt? Aren’t there occasions when honesty opens the eyes to something that feels good? I’m sure that happens. But no instance presently emerges to confirm it.

I want to be open to things. I want to be open to the world. But that comes with a price. It helps to be numb. Numbness costs money, and leads to addiction. So be careful. Be careful being numb.

Do you have a favorite tool? I’m partial to the shovel. It’s good for burying things.

Books, on the other hand, bring back the dead. We hear the bells of Notre Dame, we see a cowboy riding through a stand of cactus, we feel the emotions of emperors, we smell the freshly ploughed dirt on a Nebraska farm in 1882.

Technically, heat is an excitation of molecules, but the sensation is something entirely different. It’s one think to analyze the phenomenon of heat and another to feel it.

Follow the parabola of an idea across a sheet of paper and you’ll discover a pot of gold in your cerebral cortex. We can go onto the parlor and discuss this. I think we may be on to something, don’t you? Something light. Something drifting slowly through the air. Empty inside. Shiny outside. A bubble. Drifting down. Reposing. Thinly. Delicately.

Pop.

What is the interaction between the body and the mind? They are one and the same.

Or not.

Maybe the relationship is based on interrelation with the world at large. Would it make sense for a mind to be confined to the head? No.

It makes sense to find a living dynamic in stone. A dollop of morning unrolling on the ground. The voyage begins with a single scooter. The organ can make music but the object itself is not music. This is the lesson of pipes.

And air. At my age it’s easy to sift through the ashes and find something worth saving. What did I learn in life? I’m not sure. It’s temporary, I can tell you that. Closets are weird. Houses are expensive. Diseases are dismal. Outlines are powerful tools. Fiddles are actually violins. The doors of perception may be opened by psilocybin, but don’t wake the dog.

Elevation

Elevations are funny. We always associate them with things that are noble and good, even though there is nothing that can demonstrate that empirically. Elevation, in and of itself, is just a height above a given level. The level could be anything: the sea, my chair, the floor. However, as soon as one refers to an elevation, images of the sublime appear: clouds at the top of a mountain, a rocket leaving Earth's atmosphere. The gods on Mount Olympus. The view of Paris at the top of the Eiffel Tower. These are all things evocative of exhilaration, exaltation, magnificence.

Take Baudelaire. His poem “Elevation.”

Above the ponds, above the valleys,

Mountains, woods, clouds, seas,

Beyond the sun, beyond the ethers,

Beyond the confines of the starry spheres,

My spirit, you move with agility,

And, like a good swimmer enraptured in the waves,

You gleefully furrow the profound immensity

With an indescribable and male determination.

Fly far away from these morbid miasmas;

Go, purify yourself in the rarefied air

And drink, like a pure and divine liquor,

The clear fire that fills the crystalline spaces.

Leave behind the troubles and vast chagrins

That bear down on the murkiness of existence,

Happy is the one who can hurl themselves

Into the serene and luminous zones with a single vigorous wing!

The one whose thoughts, like swallows,

Swoop to the skies in sheer freedom,

-       Who hover over life, and effortlessly understand

The language of flowers and other mute things!

Baudelaire’s elevation has little to do with altitude. It’s all attitude. The euphoria is palpable. This is a clear mental state. There’s an exhilarating sense of power enhanced by an exquisite sense of being, giddily and freshly unshackled from the burdens and murk of everyday existence. The experience he’s presenting is elemental, waves, wings, the language of mute things, things with a language all their own, the language of space, the language of air, the language of zones outside the tiny parameters of our miasmic subjectivity. Enveloped in this rapture, the sky becomes a “divine liquor.” You can feel the poem’s energy trying to break free of itself and become a thing as elemental and primary as the experiences it describes.

I was eighteen when I first encountered this poem. It blew my mind. I hadn’t connected with anything that deeply before. Bob Dylan’s music and lyrics had had a profound effect on my direction, but this poem spoke to me at a very deep level. I wasn’t a happy adolescent. Few are. In U.S. culture, once you graduate from high school, you’re either off to college or the start of a soul-killing, brain-deadening job. I also had the specter of the draft and the Vietnam war casting a menacing shadow over me.

I later discovered in Baudelaire a hatred for the mediocrities and stupidities of the western culture bourgeoisie. I had a taste for the exotic, a powerful appetite for spiritual and metaphysical adventures, ambrosial, rarefied indulgences that ran counter to the withering literalness and pragmatic obsessions of what the German sociologist Max Weber described in the title of a singularly insightful book The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.

Nietzsche, too, enjoyed a singular obsession with elevation. Unlike Baudelaire, who sought elevation in wine and hashish, in sexual freedom, in sublime, otherworldly pleasures and a contrarian aesthetic, Nietzsche looks for elevation in suffering, in great suffering. There’s a bit of that in Baudelaire as well, an acute fascination with the exquisite tortures of maladjustment and chronic dissatisfaction, but in Nietzsche the suffering is Olympian:

The discipline of suffering, of GREAT suffering--know ye not that it is only THIS discipline that has produced all the elevations of humanity hitherto? The tension of soul in misfortune which communicates to it its energy, its shuddering in view of rack and ruin, its inventiveness and bravery in undergoing, enduring, interpreting, and exploiting misfortune, and whatever depth, mystery, disguise, spirit, artifice, or greatness has been bestowed upon the soul--has it not been bestowed through suffering, through the discipline of great suffering?

In chemistry, it’s called sublimation: it occurs when a substance goes directly from a solid to a gaseous state without passing through an intermediate liquid state. One minute you’re a brick, the next you’re an angel. It’s an endothermic change in that the substance absorbs sufficient heat from its surroundings to volatilize. Chemists use sublimation to purify a substance from its compounds. Poets use it to volatilize into poetry and its cheerful luxury of detaching from the impurities of a world obsessed with money.

I prefer the idea of sublimation to elevation. I’m afraid of heights. I don’t see any mountain climbing in my future. I will not be leaping off of a cliff in one of the fjord of Norway in a webbed suit with a parachute to be opened at the last possible minute. I believe this is called BASE jumping, and while it’s looks like a total adrenalin rush, it also looks totally insane. I will be staying at home in my chair, attaining elevations by way of metaphor, which is a form of sublimation requiring words, a brilliant capacity for play, and the craftiness of a Houdini to unshackle the chains keeping me here.

Soup Du Jour

The life of the hero is worth less than the force that runs through his body. We faint. We are stripped, purified. The act of self-sacrifice arrives without reflection. There is no time to think. It's the impulse that counts. We act, then think. Reflections feed our inadequacies. They have the stubborn power of obsessions. Exactly as in reality, where  - if all we manage to do is maximize our profit  - we miss a dimension and a deeper sense to our life.

There is more to beauty than sausage. One example might be everything in Japan. Another might be cake. Lately, a lot of people have been asking about the Caravaggio in the lobby.

What can I say? What do you want me to tell you? That I met the Beatles?

I didn’t. The reality principle caught me off guard. I met The Rolling Stones instead. They seemed to like me. They let me pick up the baby goat and use him for a photobooth prop. Those were the days my friend. We thought they’d never end. And then Brian was found floating face down in his swimming pool and the world shimmered with the refracted light of a setting sun.

Death is at the bottom of everything. Cabbage, moss, carpentry, water polo.

I open my eyes and see stained glass. I close them and see the moon. Coffee walks through my blood sprinkling diamonds and agitation. Vagrancy blends deviation with philosophy. It must. Otherwise, it's just savage equations of rust and fornication, barns and manure, legs in continuous motion, colossal insecurities, molecular blizzards, long roads and stony detachment.

You can approach this world from different angles, but one way or another, you must find a direction, a goal, however illusory, and let it guide you through the murk of feeling, the hum of neurons.

The thing with cauliflower is that there is often another smell in the kitchen, which could be just about anything, cheese, wine, salami, bacon. It is here that the neurons become active and create impressions of a reality that has not yet remembered what it does, or what it’s supposed to be about, if anything, who knows what an appetite might become if it gets what it wants. People want different things, so that there is darkness and thunder, and then the picture gets murky. Anything out there could be talking your language. It could be pain, an introspection, a seed. Seeds are the matter that express that. You know? That simple way to say lamb, to say faith in natural things, to say nothing, to say please share my umbrella. If the illusion is pretty, use plaster, pin a little fire in the stove.

I like to sow the air with clocks and infrastructure. How about you? What are you up to? Me, I’m sitting here riding up and down on the windshield wipers. It’s a mechanical pleasure, like crawling into some music and caressing all the gentle facts relating to the impertinence of art during a time of crisis.

Creating anything is to go on talking. Philosophy is being a dog in different colors. Unlike literature, which is a pleasure that should not be spoiled by studying it, I see in philosophy a phenomenological struggle with the difficulty at hand where one can maneuver -  however clumsily - without damaging the questions. Once the objective is attained, we find a void. Here is where it begins. The feeling in meaning and being.

You can get it wrong and still think it’s alright. But that’s ok. We can work it out. I found a way to loosen the vice. And so I tell stories to make up for the fact that I hadn’t been told about it and that I almost burst out of this illusion in the name of an ideal, an unnamable energy, which caused me to be hunted as a rebel and made me lose almost all my friends. At the cost of these very painful ruptures, I got rid of the powerful mental hold that had been exercised on me. So if there is indeed a transcendent experience of self, must it always spur us to exceed our limits in such manner? Or does it mysteriously come to inhabit them? Invest them without abolishing them?

I don’t know, but the soup sure is good. 

The Origin Of The World

The jabber at our table is useful. It collects our empty coordinates and gives them an echo amid the stains of time. We all have coordinates. Coordinates are things that you feed geometry to make it silky and otherworldly. Apothems, trapezoids, hot dogs. Giovanni Piranesi understood this. The cleavage of the rhombohedron is an aboriginal glimpse at the idiosyncrasies of life in an eyebrow, the way it is dreamed, and the way it is compounded into corkscrews of hair.

Do fat clothes make you look thinner? I don’t think so. But nature abhors a vacuum and so I squirt bricks at a seesaw. This causes an immediate terracotta, a kind of cringe that teleports moods of amber to a nice quiet corner in the Louvre.

It should be obvious. I yearn to grow a neck as mighty as the potato. Nails aren’t apparitions. Nor are they worlds. They’re just nails, instruments for holding lumber together in a glorious cohesion. So yeah, I guess that does make them worlds of a sort. But what isn’t a world? A dollar isn’t a world. It’s only a dollar. A million dollars is a world, but a very bad world. It’s more of a milieu than a world, a place where orchids bloom in private conservatories and a hibachi rusts on the porch as a young woman weeps from a broken heart and a hairy lout and movie producer waters his grass during a drought.

I can make more than one noise. There is a pain on each page that thinks it's a boat.

I’m not against strikes. Far from it. I stand next to the potatoes with a bottle of nitroglycerin in one hand a prayer in the other. Life doesn’t have to be sloppy, just sturdy. There is a way to articulate a grievance quite effectively with a few sparkling generalities sprinkled about the room and a little fanaticism to make it stick. You can go ahead and sag if you want, just lean back and let the jukebox selections wash over you.

But enough about fencing. What about happenings and such? Whatever happened to them? People squirming through inner tubes, or going for random walks in Amsterdam. I think I what I need right now is a little momentum and a big bowl of gravity.

Pretzels. Ocarinas. Waterfalls.

The arrival of spots expresses a break in the continuity of the climatological record. The grumble of bubbles arouses the shores of Denmark. A mermaid sits on a rock combing her hair. The fishing tackle crawls out of the dormitory clapping its signatures. We find a painter and the landscape begins to make sense as a form of analgesic, heroin or rainforest.  

The knowledge of velvet is a difficult cage to open. That’s what made the Fauves so crazy. How do you ad lib a vulva? Here it is, take a look. As you can see, the origin of the world alternates between convulsion and steam. Time may be ugly, but it’s never trivial.

All those folds, all those membranes. Life evolves in so many interesting directions. Clams, camels, kangaroos, infusoria. Tiny aquatic animals and leopards prowling stealthily through the jungle. What is the color of ooze? Let’s just call it henna and go on our way.

The thermometer does this all the time: clank by in its shadows, showing us temperatures that never existed until you scribbled the calculus of stucco on the blackboard. That made some sense, but it was too late to clink glasses with royalty. The army changed its clothes and became a crowd of individual shapes. And that’s when everything else happened, and the enamel burst our expectations, causing Spanish and horseshoes.