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We all know the feeling. You just want to kiss someone deeply, coup de foudre, a strike of lightning to the heart. Sometimes it happens to me. I don't act on it. But I do pause, think, and breath deeply. Kissing, done well, is magnificent.
My name, my handle, comes from the poem "To Be Of Use" by Marge Piercy:
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who stand in the line and haul in their places,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
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our place for private messages
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Mar 4, 2009 8:51 am
7140 Views
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Tell me me what you are thinking. Leave a note here if you find any connection between your life and mine. Friends are very important to me. Lust is honored and adored. Nobody else will see your words. This is our private space.
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a night out
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Apr 22, 2012 8:44 pm
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Hard physical work in my garden has been the rule for a few weeks. Work stimulates my mind but it drains my body so I stay at home at night. Sometimes I wonder what it might feel like to go out and meet new people. To be social. I like meeting people.
We have had a month of abnormally high temps and no rain, so the torrents of rain today kept me out of my garden and sent me out of my house to finally be social. I went to a restaurant that I know serves pretty good Mexican food. There is much better Mexican food closer but I wanted to be in a place where the atmosphere was mellow, a place I could hang at the bar, get fed, and chat with other bar-mates.
The food was good. Adequate but not great. The 'ritas were very good and the other bar folk were great fun so I hung out. The three piece group that had been performing upstairs for a private party came downstairs. They were great! The last few diners (me) and the staff hung out. We sang. We drank beer and tequila.It was a serious party.
I don't go out much but it was nice to find fun friends.
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gently weeping, with joy
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Apr 20, 2012 9:05 am
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Perfect blue sky and soft warmth surround my garden again. It will take ages to clean the dirt from under my fingernails after almost two weeks of ten hour days, digging, digging, digging.
Music also fills my garden. The song for today is George Harrison's "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" performed by a striking trio: Yo Yo Ma on cello, India Aire singing and Carlos Santana on guitar. Ma's cello is slightly mournful and Aire's voice soars over the electricity of the guitar. Santana turns this soft song into a guitar god's demonstration of how to bend metal and ionize the atmosphere.
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daylight, with the voices of angels
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Apr 18, 2012 7:04 pm
596 Views
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Spring has erupted much earlier than expected, our warmest ever. Birds and the sun are now waking me before 6AM. The birds are at their peak voice, singing to find their mates, beautiful songs everywhere. They call me into my garden but ... today I brushed my teeth and crawled back into bed with NPR telling me about what is happening in the world. Much of it sucks: a Taliban attack in Afghanistan, poverty in the US, outrageous pay grabs by corporate CEOs. My reverie could not last ten minutes. The sun and birds called me to come, please come, to the garden.
Juice and a banana were enough for breakfast but when I went into my garden I pumped music, not NPR as usual. The song of choice was "Daylight" by Alison Krauss and Union Station, a song that makes my heart expand. My sister calls Alison "Miss Angel Voice" and she is one of the greatest fiddlers of our generation, both titles attained before she was 21 years old. This is music you should hear.
And if you can, you should go into your garden to hear it.
Daylight
Daylight falls and I'm lost in the big parade.
Hold my hand, darling, I'm afraid
Of the daylight.
Shade is dark.
Cool and languid for life or love.
Safe in shadows; never stark as
The daylight.
As the daylight.
When I was just knee high,
My Momma told me, never try,
To be someone that I am not.
Yet over time I had forgot,
The wandering child, so lost at play:
He's found himself but he can't find his way,
In the daylight.
Oh, the daylight.
Ooh, daylight.
Ooh, daylight.
Life is short, and there's no turning back the time.
Fragrant meadows and rocks to climb
In the daylight.
In my mind,
There's a corner I need to turn.
Lessons lived is a lesson learned
In the daylight.
In the daylight.
I miss the forest shade,
You took me there, the promise I made,
To never leave the dark so deep.
Safe and soothing, yet I fear,
As I recall and now reflect,
I see it's safer to connect,
To the daylight.
Oh, the daylight.
Ooh, daylight.
Ooh, daylight.
Daylight falls and I'm lost in the big parade.
Hold my hand, darling, I'm afraid
Of the daylight.
Of the day...
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pahty!
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Apr 15, 2012 9:20 pm
610 Views
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Mid-April is party season in these parts. The Red Sox opened their home season on the one hundredth anniversary of the finest baseball stadium in the world, Fenway Park. The Boston Marathon will go off tomorrow under brutally hot conditions. Monday is Patriot's Day, our local holiday celebrating the first day of the Revolutionary War, and the bloodiest battle of the first day was fought less than a mile from my house (not in Lexington or Concord, despite our school history books). Public schools have a vacation week. In the local language, it is time to pahty! (If you were born here, pronouncing the letter "r" in a word like party is optional).
I have been behaving like a wild man,truly out of control. Not.
For the past few weeks, I have been alternating between my household tasks and time in my garden. Well, not alternating equally like half time being a good homemaker and half time being a garden slut. More like 80% garden slut and a little bit of time painting or doing other household tasks inside. Plus some cooking, maybe a lot of cooking.
The stunning heat of the past few months (can anyone continue to doubt that climate change is real?) has both allowed me to and forced me to work hard and fast in my garden. I slacked off a bit from my garden for the past two years and invasive weeds have attacked. Now I am working it like I used to do ten years ago, long days in the garden. It will look better than it ever has and it is disappointingly too late to put the place on a garden tour. Too bad, as it will be a spectacle. Pics will be posted.
Today I commenced barbecue season while I worked. A pork shoulder marinaded in a Cuban/Puerto Rican styled spiced orange-based marinade for the past two days. I smoked it for six hours at 200 degrees over hickory, basting it every thirty minutes. The first slices were some of the finest food I have ever cooked, and the basting liquid was luscious. I thought I had perfected this one dish.
Later as I started breaking down the rest of the five pound shoulder I discovered that large parts were under-cooked. Crushed, I went into rescue mode. The perfectly cooked meat was sliced and refrigerated, the undercooked meat was carved and separated. The shoulder bone and cartilage became the base to make a rich pork broth. Tomorrow the under-cooked pork will simmer in the broth and then be joined by peanuts, sweet potatoes, onions, cumin and chilis to make a thick pork and peanut stew. This classic combination is found in both Africa and the American South, part of our shared food heritage from the slave trade.
Temps here will approach 90 degrees tomorrow, a month earlier than should happen. I will work the garden in the morning, making the stew in the background. I will take some of my surplus plants to my sister's house. Maybe I will bring the stew and invite myself to stay for lunch. It will be too hot to do much during the afternoon except sit in the shade, drink gin & tonic, and eat the stew. Pahty!
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once upon a time
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Apr 13, 2012 10:55 pm
675 Views
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It is rare for me to go out at night, even more so on a "school night" but last night a singer who once blew me away was back in town. So I went out.
She and I have a small history. Six years ago she was the opening act at a show where I made a last minute decision to attend. She had already started her set, so I waited until she finished her first song before I made my way to my second row seat in the large auditorium. As I moved in she laughed and said to me into the microphone "thanks for coming to the show." I was mortified in front of hundreds of people. Turns out she is a fabulous singer, songwriter and pretty damn good guitarist from the Austin school of music. My kinda music. I was pleased.
I saw her after the show as she stood by her CD stand. She recognized me and gave me sweet grief for interrupting her show. We chatted. Some might say we flirted. I like her music and she is hot, so what was I to do except return her interest? We intimately chatted by email over the next few years but it petered out. It seemed like she had a relationship with someone that might end and it did.
We met again at a private house concert. When she saw me she recognized my oh so attractive face. She said it was my eyes (no, I am not blushing) and we continued flirting over beer, her guitar, her singing. But we let it go as the night ended.
Last night I again went to see her perform. She was fabulous, singing twenty years of her songs, great tunes sung by a great voice and accompanied by another guitarist who was shockingly good. After the show she was surrounded by adoring fans. I hated the sense that I might be a groupie, or worse yet that she might not remember me, so I kept my eyes away from hers as I slipped out the door.
The next time I am in Austin I will seek her out, even if it is only to flirt over a beer and her guitar.
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one of my obsessions
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Apr 9, 2012 9:17 pm
789 Views
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It has been suggested by a person or two (or more) that I suffer from an obsession even though they have noted different obsessions: The Perfect One, politics, food, and gardening are often mentioned. I plead guilty on all counts. There is nothing wrong with going all the way with what grabs your soul, your heart, your brain. I don't need a twelve step program for my obsessions.
April ignites my gardening obsession, something I have not written about here on ArfArfArf in a long time. I long ago grew tired of winter in New England. A few cold days and some snow on XMas is enough for me so I have been spending my winters in Atlanta and Mexico for the past few years. When I return home I am gripped with a need to dig, to clean, to plant. This mild spring has set my obsession loose with a vengeance.
I am reclaiming the ground of my sister's house from a banal covering of hostas. By mid-May her backyard will be a patio surrounded by dwarf fruit trees (I planted these babies last fall), blueberries, raspberries, asparagus, rhubarb, tomatoes, kale, lettuce and herbs. I have already hacked through her front yard and she now has 500 hundred spring flowering bulbs and dozens of summer perennials.
My own home is special to me. Inside, it is nicely decorated but outside it is extraordinary. I have seven thousand square feet of land, only one sixth of an acre, a suburban lot. The entire lot is my garden with not a blade of grass. It is entirely organic, not a chemical sprayed in fifteen years so I have an collection of rare critters: salamanders, a hummingbird who has been visiting me for five years, a nesting pair of Orioles for three years, and a pair of red-tailed hawks for six years.
Three-quarters of the plants on my property are native to the northeast before the Colonists arrived here. I grow some of the most extraordinary flowers on Earth, flowering shrubs, winter hardy orchids, rare fruit trees, even some plants that are on the EPA's endangered species list. I gush every time my favorite landscape architect comes to my house and tells my other guests that I have the best personal garden she has ever seen. I am a sucker for flattery.
In three weeks my front yard will erupt in waves of pastel flowers. Two weeks later my backyard will start blooming, just in time for dining on the deck. My side yard will also start a six month party of flowers, some of the most extraordinary flowers you might never see because they are too large for most gardens.
This obsession is my work, two hundred hours of labor in the garden between April and May, but my early efforts nearly eliminate the need for summer work. I love the work, the ten hour days in the spring. Tonight I feel the pain from a twelve hour day in the garden but it is eased by a gin and tonic.
The kind hands of a blog reader might further ease my current pain. 
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Passover and Easter for a non-believer
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Apr 7, 2012 10:58 pm
856 Views
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Like most spring weekends, this is one for yard work, family and community, but this one comes with a holiday twist, Passover and Easter.
Thursday night I received a note asking for a Passover brisket recipe. Why do the Jews in my family send this confirmed non-believer requests for recipes for brisket on the day before Passover? And why do I create a recipe for tzimmes with brisket for them? Then they ask me for a recipe for charoset? My parents faked giving me a Christian education and now I am doing Jewish culture for my Jewish in-laws? And why does every sentence I write end in a question with my shoulders raised? Eh, you would think I came from Brooklyn. 
At least I got confirmation, one thousand miles away, that the food was good on Friday night. Chez moi, I gently poached fish in oil for the first time and got exactly what was promised: moist and delicate fish without a hint of fat, truly sublime. Write to me off line and I will explain the science of why poaching fish in oil is the fat-free way to cook fish.
I started today with a few hours of volunteer work maintaining a native wildlife habitat I have been working on for a year. Then I went directly to my sister's new-ish home to paint some beauty onto a property that had been planted entirely with endless swaths of hostas. Soon her house will be swimming with color and edibles. This project will only take another year to complete because they trusted me last year to act boldly and we ripped out dozens and dozens of the hostas and put in the foundation plants that turn a piece of earth into your own yard.
Tonight I took on the oil-poached fish concept a second time and OMFG I discovered how brilliant and versatile it is, poached with a mild Indian curried oil and tiny radishes.
My neighborhood has an Easter Egg Hunt tomorrow. The couple who initiated the Hunt promised mimosas so I stepped up with the food. I prepared a breakfast casserole with sausage, eggs, bread, onions and spices. Since I cannot be with my baby grandchildren this weekend in other states, I will be happy to feed the local kids and their parents.
T'aint nothing like little kids laughing. I don't care which gods they believe in.
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thanks to life
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Apr 1, 2012 1:03 pm
977 Views
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I awoke at 7:30 this morning to sunny blue skies. There was a little tingle telling me it was time to return to my garden, or at least some other productive household activity, but my conscious brain said no. I brushed my teeth, turned on the radio to NPR, and pulled my laptop to bed with me and started reading the NYTimes on-line. At some point I set the laptop aside and took a nap, a sure sign of a lazy day coming.
The annoying sounds of the 11AM church service carried live on the radio awoke me and drove me to take a shower. Taking a morning shower was a fairly decisive act: it signals I am not prepared to do any grunge work today. I have had enough of painting the basement, cleaning the garage, blah, blah, blah. I finished the pate I made earlier this week and sat down with the dead-tree version of the Times and the local paper, the laptop now moved to my side on the couch.
I had high hopes that I would be visited by an adult friend this afternoon but even the prospect of seared duck tacos with an Afghani pumpkin and clementine relish was insufficient to lure her here. There is even a fine bottle of gruner veltliner from Austria, a wine we both fancy, waiting for her. When hunger pangs hit this afternoon, I instead fried some of the skin from the duck I roasted last night. There is nothing like hot duck fat attached to crisp skin with a little salt and pepper. Yum!
It is the mellowest of afternoons. On lazy Sundays like today, I read the papers and go on-line to read my favorite blogs and the international press. Simon Johnson is my favorite economist, Climate Progress is my home page, Al Jazeera and the BBC cover the world better than the US domestic media, and my email lets me do the occasional minor task (I am organizing all of my neighbors to join a joint spraying program using an organic biological control to kill the winter moths that are decimating our hardwood and fruit trees). The birds are making a helluva racket and my hawks have returned to their nesting location. They patrol the 'hood and cast large shadows as they pass over my skylights.
This is a really nice way to spend an afternoon but I do wish that my elusive friend were here. I like her, talking with her, and no it ain't about sex. We just talk.
The soundtrack for the day is a mix from my iPod but the first song I went to is "Gracias a La Vida", a poem written by the great Chilean poet Violetta Parra and set to music by the incomparable Argentinian singer Mercedes Sosa.
Mercedes, La Negra, was revered around the world for her singing and her unrelenting force. She sang of love, of peace and power, an infinite capacity of spirit to stop evil. This tiny woman, barely over five feet tall, scared the fascist military government that took over her native Argentina during the late 1970s and early 1980s. They banned her music. They arrested her on stage. She was threatened with death and subjected to bombings in a country where 30,000 people "disappeared." Go to the Plaza of the Disappeared in the now peaceful Buenos Aires to see what happens to people who speak out when most people are scared into silence.
"Injustice is not unimportant. I only ask that those who do it do not forget it easily."
Listen to her sing. You do not need to understand Spanish to hear emotion. Sounds pour like liquid from her mouth. She brought thunder from the sky. Her voice will lift you from your chair, knock down walls. Quavering notes show the uncertainty of love and loss. She left us two years ago. She was one of the people I would have just liked to hold hands with.
This translation of "Gracias a La Vida" does not do justice to Violetta Parra's original in Spanish and Mercedes' song but it will have to suffice.
Thanks to life (by Violeta Parra)
Thanks to the life that has given me so much
It gave me two bright stars
And when I open them I distinguish perfectly black from white
And in the the high sky its bright center
And in the crowd the man I love
Thanks to the life that has given me so much
It gave me hearing in all its breadth
It records night and day, crickets and canaries
Hammers, turbines, barking and rain showers
And my lover's tender voice
Thanks to the life that has given me so much
It gave me sound and words
With it the words I am thinking and declaring
Mother, friend, brother and a light illuminating
The way to the soul of my lover
Thanks to the life that has given me so much
It has given strength to my tired feet
With them I have walked cities and puddles
Beaches and desserts, mountains and planes
And to your house, your street and your patio
Thanks to the life that has given me so much
I give my beating heart
When I see the fruit of the human brain
When I see the good so far from the bad
When I see your clear eyes
Thanks to the life that has given me so much
It gave me laughter and tears
So I can distinguish happiness from sadness
Both are parts that form my song
And your song is mine too
And the song of everyone is also my song
Thanks to the life that has given me so much
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finding an adult friend
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Mar 30, 2012 7:35 am
960 Views
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I have been a busy boy since my return from Mexico and Atlanta where I saw The Perfect One. I am working around the house, visiting friends and OMFG even going out at night on occasion!
I go out alone at night when traveling and I chat easily with strangers. At home it is different. When I sat at a bar on Tuesday eating Asian tapas, waiting to go to a lecture, a woman at a nearby table flirted with me. She was my age, beautiful, and smiled at me on my entrance. She spent a fair part of her dinner with her MIT-student-son looking at me and on occasion chatting with me. Then they left. Poof. She was gone and I never even learned her name.
I am not easily flummoxed. Usually I am the flirt, even though I rarely go beyond the flirt. But I don't know how to approach a woman when she is accompanied by one of her children.
Two days later I took my father to a small but deluxe cocktail party. The guests-of-honor were two Hollywood people whose names you would recognize (think Saturday Night Live). Two women, both gorgeous, zeroed in on me like we were old friends and introduced themselves. I was a bit surprised they approached. They were obviously a mother-daughter combination, dead ringers except for a large age gap. I assumed that I would have more in common with the older of the two and she was sweet but it quickly became apparent that her daughter was more interested in me and more interesting to me. I spent the next hour enchanted by this thirty year old. It is rare, at least for me, to have the rapt attention of a tall beautiful young woman and equally rare to be socially interested in someone so young. Then, as if a bell rang, the two excused themselves and left.
I would be delighted to have either or both as friends and they may feel the same as they both asked to be invited to dine chez moi, even the married mom (my father brags endlessly about my cooking and gardening skills so they knew what to ask for). I am not looking for a lover, a FWB, or a fuck buddy. I am actively seeking friends but I never thought of finding one who is young enough to be my daughter.
I have both of their names and know where they live but I am not likely to pursue them. One is married and I am not sure how to ask a married woman out for lunch. Can I say "it is just lunch, I am not trying to get into your pants"? Not sure either how to invite a young woman out for a drink. Can I say "it is just a drink, I am not trying to get into your pants"? The complicating factor is that even though I really am just looking for friends I would have a very very very hard time resisting a more intimate invitation from either (stop that TBOU, don't even think like that).
My course of action became clear. I painted my basement. Today, I will start work on painting my windows. That should fill a few more days. I will cook the duck in my refrigerator and eat it alone.
What makes this otherwise very self-assured man, someone who is poised in front of a television camera, unable to ask a woman to be a friend? BTW, almost all of my friends are women. I wish there were a service that could act as an Adult FriendFinder.
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living for food, food for life
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Mar 28, 2012 9:58 pm
1034 Views
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A blogger friend here on ArfArfArf wrote to me and said that she does not often cook since her children left the nest. Cooking took a very different route through my life. It is a minor obsession, but I can quit anytime I want, honest. I don't need a twelve step-program.
I watched cooking shows on TV when I was in elementary school. My blue-collar parents did a good job of serving food that moved beyond meat and potatoes. As a poor college student I shopped at the food co-op and bought everything I had read about in the food columns and played with my food. Asian food was my focus. I saved my money so once a month I could eat in the exotic Szechuan restaurants I read about in Cambridge's alternative newspapers. Yeah, we had two alternative weeklies in Cambridge. Latter day hippies still exist there.
When I was in my sophomore year in 1978, I found a professional mentor. His old-school Irish exuberance was always ready for a new experience and we made our first visit to a Thai restaurant together. Two very different political operatives returned to our normal world the next day and had to answer a lot of questions from our colleagues. The second generation Irish and Ital establishment we worked with would not even eat the food of their grandparents and could not understand why we wanted something so obscure. We could not understand why you would not want to explore something new.
Later, a woman who occupied five years of my life, a French teacher enamored of all things French, guided me to cook French. As an Ital by birth and a backyard gardener since the age of eight, it was easy to pick up the western Mediterranean palette, including Spanish and Portuguese food. Mexico and Latin America then became my new vacation destinations and my food focus shifted south.
Years later I married a magnificent woman a bit older than me. As a result, two additional beautiful young women who were in their late teens became part of my family. When they left home my wife said she was done with cooking. She had rarely cooked for me as I was a workaholic and never home in time for dinner, so I did not notice a big change. If I was home during meal time I was the one who did the cooking before the girls went off, but once they left I became the only cook. When I was home, dinner was good. If I was not home, my wife ate peanut butter from the jar or Jenny Craig.
When we moved into our new home, I ripped out the old kitchen and built a fairly large one made exactly to my arm and leg lengths. That makes me fast behind the counter but it is dangerous if you get behind me when I am in the zone and wielding knives.
I love to cook for friends and family but I also cook for myself. Nobody has set foot in my house in weeks but in the that time I have twice made pate, three pork roasts, Chinese lacquered duck, empanadas, a breakfast polenta with cinnamon and raisins, bacon jam, three kinds of pickles and OMFG another duck flew into my refrigerator this afternoon!!! I bring food to the homes of others if they let me stay and dine but I want an audience of one, here, where I prepare the whole menu including the drinks.
If I can get my basement wall painted tonight, tomorrow that duck is smoked. Or roasted more likely, since it will probably be too cold to fire up my smoker. A simple rich potato casserole should match it. Later this week while the weather remains chilly and the paint is drying I will be making a brandade, salt cod and potatoes, the simplest of French peasant food elevated to gourmet status.
It would be a delight to share these foods with any of you, my readers. The weekend is coming. When will you arrive?
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a less than perfect kiss
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Mar 19, 2012 9:52 pm
1211 Views
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I have been told that I am a good kisser. I revel in kissing, love the way lips touch. The warmth, the wetness, tongues touching, they all make me go "squish" inside. This strong guy gets weak in the knees if I get kissed well.
I am flattered by the words that roll slowly off of the lips of a woman after a kiss because they are honest words, never spoken loudly or brashly. Those words are only breathed when your lips are three inches away. You can still taste each other at that distance. You want more.
I even love the way I can kiss my Euro and Latin men friends on the cheek, scratchy beards and all. After a long absence, it really means something to do the cheek kiss.
The kiss of a child goes far beyond. Usually.
I keep a trim beard and after a quick kiss, The Perfect One quickly rubbed her mouth, clearly irritated by the hair below my lower lip. The beard she once loved was too intense. She came back for a second kiss and it was fine but I am a touch worried.
I need the kisses of TPO.
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it is not just about food
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Mar 17, 2012 11:22 pm
1260 Views
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I went out with family early tonight to miss the typical late night St. Patrick's day wildness in this city filled with faux Irish party-ers. People who claim Irish heritage, yet have never been to Ireland and drink green beer on this day tend to make a lot of noise, drink too much and think badly cooked corned beef and cabbage is good. Instead I had a decent Shepard's pie and a couple of pints of our local beer, Sam Adams, not the Corona Lite with green food color that was featured at the neighborhood pub tonight.
So I came home early and hit the kitchen. The big TV pivots on a wall mount so I can vaguely pay attention to Anthony Bourdain re-runs while I stand at my cooking counter. I brined a pork loin and will likely roast it on Monday, probably with a rosemary-pomegranate glaze, sitting on a bed of vegetables. I pickled a batch of green beans that should be ready in a week. I made some vegetable stock with trimmings from vegetables in the fridge and some dried mushrooms and made a late night snack of Thai rice noodle soup.
Tomorrow I will make baked empanadas filled with ham, roast pork, ricotta and guava paste and then a batch of bacon jam. You don't know from bacon jam? Google the subject and see the praise and the recipes. Another batch of pickles too, carrots in malt vinegar and warm spices, will be set up. With all of the potatoes, onion and bacon I have bought this week I will have to make a rich potato casserole sometime soon.
I still lack a proper audience. It probably feels overwhelming to my family and single friends when they are on the receiving end of so much food so often, and I need new audiences. We are entering one of the three peak seasons for the Maine lobster and I am have my eye on someone who will join me for lobster and the aforementioned potato casserole. I hope it is someone other than one of my sisters or neighbors. They are all fine people but I want something different, someone new.
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