Thank you all for coming. The life and death of poetry,
I hope I won't kill the whole thing by my own technological know how because I've tried to bring some slides and audio clips.
So forgive me if there are some gaps in the lecture while I kind of fuss around them.
This is not a lecture about the wasteland. It is an assembly of voices invoked by and including the wasteland in order to let me read that poem more.
Refreshingly, Elliott called it rhythmical grumbling,
and I have always resented the spell cast by his gloom a cloud which goes on darkening
because of the poems status as the most important poem of the 20th century.
The most translated poem in the culture.
What exactly is going on when the most important poem speaks to us like this?
What is that sound high in the air murmur of maternal lamentation?
Who are these hooded hordes swarming over endless plains stumbling in cracked earth ringed by the flat horizon only?
I don't like Eliot's technique of summoning a crowd in the same tone of voice as Dante,
but without Dante's pity or Chaucer's warmth or Homer's mighty perspective of forgiveness.
Eliot is a satirist and a satirist, is a brilliant critic rather than a compassionate fellow traveller.
For that reason, the religious transformation at the end of the wasteland always seems to me to be a private one.
The thunder and reanimating rain sweep into me as lyric events, internal thought events, not epic ones.
However, I have recently had to admit that the process of reading a poem begins with geography.
For five years, I have been trying to read Elliott through eyes accustomed to Devon, which could not make sense of his urban patterns.
Years ago, I moved to Bristol and something beyond my thinking something just behind the
retina and before the visual cortex began to accept not Eliot's metaphysics,
but his sequencing. The way the verses move round each other, incognito, like strangers,
like people on a pavement looking sideways and down to read the wasteland in a city is like lining up.
Two mirrors can see itself in the poem, and the poem can see itself in the city and in this doubled world.
I am sometimes confused to notice a figure from the streets flitting ahead of me through the text.
A woman crossing the road with heavy bags. Is she from my world?
Or Eliot's? I saw her briefly as I turned the page and behind her a line of diminishing reflections.
Ending in endlessness. That is what happens when you place one mirror in front of another.
That is how the world aids itself to poetry so that every poem given the right reflective surface is half made of paper.
And half made of life. Discovery is so enthralling to me that I am tempted to ask some questions, have my categories become too simplistic?
Might a written down poem be treated more like an oral poem permitted to alter from one occasion
to the next book become less like a permanent record and more like an improvising prompt?
Should the reader take more responsibility for the images provoked by a poem?
And even as literature is literary and language gets flattened and photocopied onto dead trees,
and Elliot claims that every poem is an epitaph and the engine of the wasteland
is the zombie movement of that corpse being recalled by water in section four.
Nevertheless, the reader is part of the picture and the reader is alive.
Ephemeral, three dimensional, dramatic, ordinary, unknowable and is entitled to ask What ails the wasteland?
What makes a poem depressing rather than life giving?
And it's poetry under pressure from its quiet, medium has grown more and more lyric in its scope.
Since personal truth is the kind most accessible to the solitary writer, then at times of collective disturbance, could the reader.
Should the reader be responsible for bringing in a chorus?
Elliott provides one answer to these questions. In his poem A Note on war poetry, he says the enduring is not a substitute for the transient,
neither one for the other, but the abstract conception of private experience at its greatest intensity.
Becoming universal, which we call poetry, may be affirmed in verse.
Not a little text, so I'm going to read it again. The enduring is not a substitute for the transient, neither one for the other,
but the abstract conception of private experience at its greatest intensity.
Becoming universal, which we call poetry, may be affirmed in verse right or only half right.
It's not the case that the feat of becoming universal is begun by the writer, but needs to be completed over and over again by the reader right now.
How shall I complete my copy of the wasteland?
About two months ago, in April, I decided to read Elliot and Bristol simultaneously.
Over the course of 30 days. This experiment would be a kind of rite of spring, and if I performed it correctly,
I could expect warm weather to move over the city, bringing first thunder and then real revivify in rain and new leaves.
That is, after all, what Elliot set out to achieve.
In the year before publishing his poem, he had been to the London production of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring,
in which a woman dances herself to death to ensure the fertility of the Earth.
Elliott was impressed by Stravinsky's music, which he later described like this.
Heather Stravinsky's music be permanent or ephemeral?
I do not know, but it did seem to transform the rhythm of the steps into the scream of the motor home.
The rattle of machinery, the grind of wheels, the beating of iron and steel,
the roar of the underground railway and the barbaric cries of modern life, and to transform those despairing noises into music.
The music of the wasteland moving through blocks of voices, cuts,
quote rhythmic cells and swift transitions towards drumming and drumming and final collapse is a rite of spring to which we are all invited.
And that is where I shall take you in this lecture, which is not really a lecture, but a carnival.
An April walkabout in the company of T.S. Eliot, as well as at Burton Bristol.
Playwright, poet and historian Dante Tour Guide to the after-world Lucy,
English poet and historian of performance poetry Ben Haggerty, carrier of the ancient tradition of storytelling.
Ian Hamilton Finney. The lament of a lost totality. The Hat Street poet Homer poet of Troy Jane, the drunk woman with the rucksack.
Linton Kwesi Johnson.
Great revolutionary poet Edwin Morgan, dead Scottish poet Danny Pandolfi, living performance poet and curator of the Lyra Festival.
Jenny Pearson, storyteller Aaron Saroyan, electric poet True Thomas, the prophet from Northumberland.
Duncan Williamson, Scottish Traveller singer storyteller Stone Waller, along with graffiti artists John Mozer.
Avoid sexy mish mint cloth Beck's face first sketched goose sodje one ism nick a stuffy summer.
And nights, as well as night, dusk, rose west and others remind me.
And. The state police said the sentences offered all the freedoms and distortions of the cerebral,
well, the readers world in which the mind slides over the memory like a sledge down a slope.
Mary Mary. Hold on tight.
Stretch of time movement backwards from spring to a single hour to a night of reading, then forwards again to the whole of winter.
The first line widens as the focus narrows. Death and life swap places.
The speaker is first invisible, then plural and female, then singular.
Before heading south with a suggestion of feathers, there are no rules to help you navigate the gaps between opposites.
You have to keep tobogganing over emptiness. Mary Mary hold on tight.
I used to find my way into the wasteland through the opening in that personal pronoun.
I read much of the night and fly south in winter.
I used to think a reader was a book servant, and as a reader sliding my eyes down slopes of paper to the edge and emptiness between pages.
I followed the laws of literature downwards from one reference to another to land at last in London, in pentameter with here and there a rhyme.
As if, after all, the tradition of Dante and Shakespeare and Webster Spencer while still working on fog of a winter dawn.
A crowd flowed over London Bridge. So many I had not thought death had undone.
So many sighs, short and infrequent were exhaled.
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet flowed up the hill and down King William Street.
But about two months ago, in April, the cruellest month I, the reader,
put down the wasteland and walked outside and a man in white with a white splurge on his
nose stepped off the pavement and handed me the Bhagavad Gita saying Shanti Shanti Shanti,
a woman in a crimson hijab, was running barefoot with a covered dish and someone was sitting under a tree singing drink drink.
The country is on the brink. You know life doesn't last long, sir.
Almost passed, so you better raise your glass and paint a bit of Bristol in your song, sir.
He looked surprised to find this huge voice coming out of him, as if a stranger had been living in his chest with the lights out,
and every time he heard himself, he offered a sweeping mediaeval gesture.
And suddenly, as if invoked by this song, a drunk woman appeared labouring uphill towards me, bent double looking down not just drunk,
but grieving, falling, wailing, breathless, exhaling short, infrequent sighs, she said she had a broken spine and couldn't get home.
Constant jangle of sorrow, leaning against railings, moaning like a two year old carrying too much.
I took her tripping scarves. She kept asking Why?
Why, why? Then, once her under character spoke firmly in a deep voice, I needed Veronique.
Then back to horror, literally doubled up with hurt, puffing up the hill.
I said by way of interview, Would you trust me to take your rucksack?
She said, No. Who are you? I said, Alice. She said, What do you do?
Gardening? I said. And poetry. She stopped.
She altered, illuminated. She said she loved poetry.
She had a book in her rucksack. She rummaged. She couldn't find it.
That didn't matter. It was not.
It is not the thing in the book that matters, but the fact of poetry is existence, the tradition of poetry that she was from Wales.
We Welsh. We love poetry. She rummaged. She straightened.
She walked upright, almost lifted up the hill. Not by the thought of gardening, but by the thought of poetry against all odds, the survival of poetry.
I saw it actually bring her back to life. A sort of goddess of collapse.
A waterfall became a human. It was April.
I was reading much of the night, and as I turned the page, I saw that woman labouring towards me with her rucksack rummaging for a book.
Perhaps the very book I was reading, whose pages faced each other like diminishing mirrors behind each surface,
the facsimile of some previous surface. First, we had a couple of feelers down at Tom's place that was old Tom Boyle to the eyes blind.
Don't you remember that time after a dance?
Top hats and all wee and silk cut Harry, an old Tom took us behind, brought out a bottle of fizz with old Jane, Tom's wife, and we got Jo to sing.
I'm proud of all the Irish blood that's in me. There's not a man can say a word agin me first draughts.
Elliott began the wasteland like that, introducing himself as one of a crowd of drinkers.
The Lyons a homage to Joyce, but also a recollection of music hall and Ballard, and a night spent drinking in Boston.
It feels as if a carnival is starting up and the reader prepares to be intoxicated.
I need a drink, but Elliot, the critic Elliot the reader, made a decision.
He took a pencil and lightly crossed out the whole page like a law enforcer.
Warning drinkers off the streets and instead of Old Tom, our first true glimpse of him is that Rita staying up half the night before heading south.
Elliot never destroyed the first page, but sent it with the rest of the manuscript to his friend John Quinn,
knowing that Quinn was a collector and would value it.
John Quinn, a lawyer and patron of the arts, had offered financial assistance to both ££ and Elliot.
So it was a simple act of gratitude to send him the first draught of the wasteland.
Elliot had a sense of the home's value, but I think he also had a sense that the poems attentiveness to the past had its own past,
and that LB editing, as well as his wife's remarks and his own discarded passages, formed part of its tradition.
He ruefully remarked in the 1950s, Well,
the fate of that manuscript or typescript with his blue pencil slings on it is one of the permanent so far as I know minor mysteries of literature.
Sure enough, Old Tom came to light in Quinn's papers in 1968 so that now there are two wastelands the sermonising one,
which guides a reader from a death to an attempted resurrection,
and the Carnival one published in facsimile in 1971, with old Tom leading the procession and silk hat Harry beside him.
Not the Ali, a fly cop came along looking for trouble, committing a nuisance, he said.
You come onto the station, I'm sorry, I said it's no use being sorry, he said.
Let me get my hat, I said. Starts up, people begin to cross boundaries.
The reader becomes the writer, the writer becomes the reciter, the living and the dead walk alongside each other.
The seven opening sentences become seven hecklers. The crossed out characters take command and silk hat.
Harry's hat, which used to appear to me in tattered black cloth with mould shimmer when you tilted it.
This hat has become something quite extraordinary, which I witnessed moving towards me in April on a steep street between houses about two foot high,
a pile of colour and fake flowers, silvery scraps, windmills, feathers, shiny, indefinable things and underneath it, a poet lifting his hat a little.
He offered me a menu on which a list of poems with prices was written that day.
Special cost £50. It must have been an amazing poem and.
There were others at various values, sweet poems, sour poems or whatever.
I paid £3 for a mid-length poem and a chance to interview the poet.
I'm ashamed that I have forgotten the poem, although I remember the intensity of its delivery.
I remember much rhyming and punching and people stepping round us.
And afterwards, this conversation. This, he said, this is basically what the birds would do travelling round, trying to sell poems.
Not all of them. I said a little on my guard and uncomfortable and needing the defence of my opinions.
What about Thomas Reimer true Thomas, who was coerced to tell the truth for the rest of his days and therefore couldn't sell anything?
Thomas is a full Spaniard written by Walter Scott.
He said true, Thomas was a neurotic with anxieties about the truth, whereas me, he said, I'm a fool.
I come from a long line of tricksters. I was a fund raiser once, he said, stopping people on the streets,
and I started doing a poem as part of the pictures I used to work up the case studies into verse.
Now that's what I call functional poetry. You've got intro problem solution.
What we're doing about it and then ask for money back. I was recently walking down a canal, he said, and there was a couple.
I said, Can I do a poem for you? And whipped out my menu? They were taken aback, just me and them on a canal on a Sunday.
Yes, there are times when I'm performing and I can see my client being ripped out and restructured,
and space and time do that narrowing thing and then clunk. I love it.
I'm comfortable with this kind of discomfort, he said, because I used to play bass guitar.
My roots are in rock and metal, but when I took out the music, I suppose I sort of softened.
The thing is that I'm very confused and I'm happy with that. I once wrote a poem in hexadecimal, he said, which is computer code.
You've only got 15 characters that was batshit crazy, but I'm always trying to undermine myself.
I ebb in and out of rhythm. I compose on the phone and memorise what I write, and then sometimes I write something and forget it, OK?
So that was just a leaf in the river. In a way it goes. I'm always trying to evolve, he said.
Always looking for the ubiquitous word that could come from anywhere. I never know what I have until I perform it.
Sometimes I have to pause to let a car go past. But at my back, from time to time, I hear the sound of horns and motors in the spring.
And when I'm out in my hat, if I meet children, there's joy straightaway.
But then I come across old, bitter man with no sexuality that just a mist of hatred.
I don't care. But now my hat, his hat, as I've mentioned, is about two foot high.
A pile of kind of fake flowers, silvery scraps, windmills, feathers, shiny, indefinable things when he's without it.
He has glasses and leans forward like a puppet left on a peg.
Oh yes, my hat, his female. She is the expression of my higher self.
My tradition made of things, gifted bits of stuff picked up at festivals.
She is my confidante, my wife. I speak to her. I charge her up.
The intention builds and builds till it's no longer myself. Oh yes, there are some things best not spoken of.
It was April that cruellest of months when poets ought to be sitting inside.
Close reading the wasteland. But the closer I read, the more the poem becomes mere rubric asking for a congregation.
Oh, that Shakespearean rag. It's so elegant. So intelligent.
What shall I do now? What shall I do? I shall rush out as I am and walk the street with my head down.
So it's not just that the city has altered the poem, but by the time I rushed out to walk the street with my head on.
So the poem has altered the city someone has been through in the night and stencilled four
lines of poetry on a wall and someone else has scrubbed them out now from the nearness.
What does it say now? From the menace? The mere gloss, the mere land under the mist?
Something, something something.
Is this Bill Wolff, or is it a new poem written by the mist itself, turning that ancient poem into columns of rubbed out shadows?
It is just as Elliot warned me. The past is being altered by the present as much as the present is directed by the past.
There are shadows behind shadows, voices behind voices.
Dead poets carried like a virus in the flesh. Dead storytellers whose stories keep speaking in the living room.
And here is someone standing in her garden in excitable air, remembering one of the Scottish travellers who taught her storytelling.
Let me tell you about Duncan Williamson, she says.
So attentive to the audience of shrubs and me and the cat walking across that she has to hold on to things to stop the stories from stealing her away.
Let me tell you about Duncan Williamson, she says, if you gave him the floor, you couldn't stop him for three days.
He was exhausting. He was born in a tent. His mother was born in a cave.
He was a traveller. He trained as a stone waller. He was a horse trader.
He spoke Scottish count. He stole stories from his grandmother's pocket while she was sleeping.
The truth is just another. Duncan never spoke much about himself.
How are you? Duncan, you'd say. And he'd say well enough.
You know, there was once a king who had three daughters. He would talk in a roundabout way.
Part of his tradition was to make up the tradition. He was a wonderful singer.
He would get down on one knee and look you in the eye. And that is how his repertoire passed into writing.
A woman from Chicago fell in love with him, and that was that.
A man with eyes closed, tilted forwards, flushed, heartless, tremulous singing folk songs,
hearing his voice filled out by the arch, lingering on erotic hints and half notes, he can't see it.
But along the line of the brickwork, it says, topple in luminous white paint, which lights up whenever a car goes through.
I'm not sure whether the instruction is to him or the bridge, but they both keep standing just about.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is not Eliot's unreal city. It is Bristol City of slam and spoken word.
The slave trade and the statue of Colston rode into the river.
And now, from the nearness under the mist, a motorway like a thin blue pencil in line by Ezra Pound has cut two communities in half,
and the crossed out voices won't stay silent.
April 2nd, 1980 42 years ago, in the cruellest month, riots broke out in the Black and White Cafe in St Paul's.
And to mark the date, Linton Kwesi Johnson is performing in Bristol on April the 2nd 2022.
I caught sight of him in the morning leaning smoking against a wall and was reminded of that
passage in the Odyssey about a poet walking through a city with more faith around him.
The grace of shape speech crowning his head as if the poems had floated visibly from his mouth and formed a smoke ring.
Although even as I think this, I can hear Linton Kwesi Johnson saying sharply that some have the privilege of studying Greek and Latin,
and it's all very well to make these associations. But for the average reader, that kind of poetry doesn't work.
What I'm interested in, he said. What I'm interested in is finding the music and the language skipping rhymes, old times sayings.
I'm interested in poetry that sings. Yes, there is something musical in Elliott, he says.
I absolutely love the love song of Alfred J. Prufrock.
But then in my late teens, I became intoxicated by the elegant extravagance of Christopher Okigbo.
Aren't you interested in oral traditions? I asked. And he answered, Not really.
The difference between the scribble and the oral is always extremely problematic.
He said that it's in the language itself that you find the oral tradition.
He said there are phrases in the Bible and phrases his grandmother used, which are all the poetry you need.
A fool's thought is his own comfort chicken Mary.
But Hawk Dania Young Bird don't know about the Hurricane Hardy picnic Pitney Rockstone know.
He said he was not interested in landscape poetry either,
even though he grew up in the hills of Clarendon and all the different plant forms and the sound of a storm they register in the conscience.
But Derek Wolcott has already spoken for that, he said. Whereas I came to poetry through politics, I was there at the Brixton riots, he said.
I am part of the rebel generation. I thought.
What? OK.
That happened in Penguin Classics.
The line shapes land on the surface of your eye and you have to reveal them in and lay them out in the quiet place of the mind.
And if you are anything like me, then whenever you think of the poem,
the piece of paper remains inwardly visible, holding everything very thin and still and rectangular.
It is an effort to keep a written poem moving.
You have to keep walking outside to remember the mysterious on paper innis of the world.
But when you hear that poem, the actual air is altered, St. Paul's is altered, the crossed out world becomes visible,
shivering voice ripples move out from the speaker and something wing like the gear changes it's humming and is drifted sideways,
like when you walk into a pillar of sunlight.
In a world where midges are suspended in an airborne auditorium being lifted up and down by the same sound as agitates
the leaves and then a gust comes through and the hissing overhead shifts the whole swarm suddenly to one side.
That is the nature of the spoken word the audible,
amplified winged word close in kind to the life of insects who feel and float and hum with the same instrument.
And then again, when a poem starts blowing through a room,
your whole canopy is shaken as if four people had taken hold of your skin at each corner and wafted it up and down.
And if the poet is a thinker and a watcher, if the poet has a warm sense of justice as Linton Kwesi Johnson does,
then you'll be followed out of the building by a swarm of sounds, a bloom whose structure rebalances the air.
And that is the haze that lies over the city and makes a drunk woman walk easily
uphill because the book in her rucksack partakes of the same pattern of life,
given voices from the audience. I was there at the first Bristol Slam says when I thought I can do that and my life changed.
I woke up and became a poet. I came to it age 14, says another.
Don't get me wrong, I was writing poems and exercise books, but then I heard rap, underground rap and scat singing.
The whole tradition going back through Linton, Kwesi Johnson, the beats, the Dubs, the music of Reggae and Langston Hughes.
And the third says Linton was a huge influence to me.
The skill of poetry is being able to listen to hear other voices.
I have Caribbean parents, he said. But our home was always open to everybody.
A Ukrainian soldier lived with us for four years that b young Asian women escaping from their families.
My dad's eccentric, hard drinking friends, not to mention eight brothers and sisters.
Hip hop AP English patois Creole.
I have so many selves, he said to me. The skill is to be able to listen and hear my other voices and someone who is not there,
someone who has travelled the world to research the training required for shaped speech,
which is not the same as written down speech, nor is it the same as ordinary speech.
This one contains inside his head a whole paragraph which widens the city as he walks, he says.
I've watched A6 competing to compose spontaneous verse in perfect metre and rhythm on subjects given by the audience,
with two inch needles placed between their lips to reduce the available vocabulary, he says.
I've listened to a Gujarati praise singer, consciously bringing energy to his voice chat by chat.
As the emotion intensified, I've watched a 16 year old Pan Vani Singer make 3000 villages,
follow her improvised songs through the epic twists and turns of the Mahabharata.
I watched a Chinese woman strike her drum in such a way that your mind cannot wander.
I've listened to the man in griots Kora conjure up the shimmering armour of a distant army.
I've heard a Rajasthani kabuki storytellers wife sing long lines of narrative,
warding off barrenness and encouraging fertility as she held an oil lamp to illuminate
the secret details of a scroll painting in the desert under stars a primal,
dramatic effect that could reach back to the paintings in the caves at Lascaux.
John Moser Avoid sexy mesh mint cloth Beck's face first sketched goose sage one ism nysc story.
Graffiti is the voice of the passing by.
The tradition goes back to the caves via 1960s New York, when people started leaving their tags in impossible places.
Subways, high hoardings, train cars, lift shafts.
The tag was a kind of personal advert, a boast as if to say I was here and I was winged at the time.
Winged words land here at night,
spray cans lined up on the kerb and a sound system fills up the space so that the writers can hide inside loudness inside fumes.
One person sits there as if on God with eyes down. The other is shaping huge orange letters at various times.
Various ephemeral instructions issued to the sleeping city.
A avoid in squished capitals gone by the following night.
Then believe then soup and virus set forth in Gothic and then gone and once for a whole week night was
written on the outside arch in black lettering with silver edges as if the Moon was coming up behind it,
as if ancient night herself had passed that way with a spray can and then gone.
And a year later, I passed dusk in a playground, clouded grey letters with daylight blue behind them.
No doubt it will have passed by now.
It is all part of the performance of the language in this city that these words print themselves into you and then get painted over.
Avoid haunts me for a couple of days, then soup then and luminous jackets arrive with grey paint and clean the whole
thing off within an hour of them going nudge and loopy green letters like a weed.
It looks amazing on its own against all that grey. But by the following day, a cartoon bird has landed next to it.
Signed Sally. Some people call it graffiti.
Some call it word art, and the different names summon different traditions.
In the 1960s, just as the fashion for graffiti was growing popular in the U.S.
Ian Hamilton Finley invented the concept of the one-word poem with title of any length.
These two elements forming as it were a corner which would then contain the meaning.
He asked for contributions for his magazine.
Poor old tired horse and Edwin Morgan offered this title before cool, beautiful thing vanishing with the single word blue as its content.
Hugh McDermott was infuriated by what he saw as a betrayal of the seriousness of modernism.
He refused to have his work published in any book that contained Hamilton Finley,
even though David Jones, the most serious and the most epic of the modernists,
was a quiet pioneer of word art,
and his long poem in parentheses succeeds in combining the stillness of inscription with the movement of myth and ordinariness.
But that's another story for a later lecture. Then there is our Saroyan American minimalist writer born in 1943,
who's in the Guinness Book of Records for writing the shortest poem in existence a four legged m, so wrote one word poems without titles.
For example, his poem Light spelt elegy HGH.
I would love to see that word graffitied on a dark wall. He called it an electric poem.
He said apparently the crux of the poem is to try and make the ineffable, which is light,
which we only know about because it illuminates something else into a thing.
An extra G.H. does it. It is sculptural on that level.
In effect, he said, the single word is a new reading process instant and continuous like electricity.
So it would seem, finally, in the 100 years since the wasteland was published,
or at least in the 30 days since I started rereading it, that the written down language has been able to grow.
First flesh, then wings, then light itself as if coming back to life again,
returning to its earliest singlets existence inscriptions carved by sunlight into ice haiku,
swift rain signs coming and going over stones,
legible letter shapes of geese and printouts of animals so that it is hard to say which is the signifier and which is the signified.
As I watch the silvery ink of a snail crawling over a wall on which someone has felt tipped, Rose West knows best.
That snail knows as well as anyone what Rose West knows, which we none of us know.
And there are spiders slowly crossing out. Not yet upset.
Written perhaps by the same winged character in red wax crayon in a doorway.
And here and there, I keep noticing amongst ordinary shadows the stencilled shadow of a human with the tag.
I was here, but I disappear.
I caught it on the railway bridge as I walked over and a stag was passing underneath me in April, barking a personal advert amongst the ash trees.
I was here in this improbable place. And yes, as I remember it now, it was raining with a hint of thunder.