Posts Tagged With: Art


Now I ready for bed, for another day in wine’s branching hue, and I have to run tomorrow night, even if only for 30 or so minutes. I feel ready for bed now, yes, but regretful I didn’t do more with day. But I had two great lectures this morning/afternoon! That’s what I’m truly meant to do! But I can’t. Again it comes back to the whole FT/adjunct maelstrom. That reaction from the 1B class when I offered that Road/Sur idea, the link, the thematic bridge and ricochet.. I’ve never heard that from one of my sections, in my near-10 years of instruction. Thursday, I need bombard them, all, each class, with poetry, insight, visions and ideas and notes! Be what I want! The Literary figure. Yes, one day I’d love to have my own wine label and maybe even winebar but I need the writing to flutter first.
My little Artist, upstairs in his bed, the most cozy and encompassing set of comfort I’ve ever seen. I thank and praise his mother, my novelized wife, Ms. Alice. Everything she does is a story, a set of pages. And how she does so, I’ll never know. I can only note like and idiot and watch, wish I was like her. And look at her! She doesn’t have to compromise, she doesn’t have to have a square job, she doesn’t pour.. NO! she teaches, her life is knowledge and educating children, something meaningful!
I have a little wine left, a bit of the common blend, whatever’s in there. Not sure I want to know what they really did to it. But I do want to wake early tomorrow, hope I do so I can finally transfer the notes I took today, and that’s all today’s been, fucking notes. I’ve had no elevation, no roar, no flex. I was deflated, a hobbling lizard down a Phoenix street in blazing sun, ready for death. 20 minutes till bed, and I have nothing now to note only that the garbage is full (right) and tomorrow…

…Upper right of this screen showing 9:58PM, so the day’s ending, and I feel like I haven’t done a thing but I have, I need to focus on the reaction of the 1B to that offering, and how they all spoke with each other and how they are so lively, as well as the 1A! And the 1A a 7AM-er. But we’re all concerted, cooperative.. isn’t that what education and LIFE invite?

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Home, with night’s cap, a

vocally full glass of my sister’s red cuvée.. the one I mentioned earlier. Get-together at Bob’s, nice and diverse and communicative, all about wine. Didn’t get too far into the vertical, but I did encounter three vintages: ’95, ’97, and ’01. I didn’t know something that reprising and drawn could come from the Sonoma Valley AVA. But I learned, and I grew from tasting the wines year to year and now I have more material for ‘Krystal Vision’.. oh how I want to write that novel before the Massamen piece; and I had a thought, a lovely scope, flash just now, my whole literary and novelized career rounded from the lives of my sister and I; she, Krystal, and me Mike Massamen, and there it is, family on page, a “family business” as they love to say in the wine world but many times it’s just bullshit. But with my MSS it’d be truth, so truthful. The red tonight, more settled, more serene, more mirroring to my preferences, and what else am I supposed to look for? I’m a consumer just like anyone else and I want to sip wines I like, no? The effects of the red are staring to catch me, and I didn’t sip that much at Bob’s house, and I didn’t have a glass as day’s end, today, but I’m slowing, I see, but I’m fighting, potently. No distractions, just prose and stories and the people coming into the tasting room to taste but also some of them for answers, answers to what?… Who knows, it’s wine, that’s what I repeat to myself, but for someone from Iowa or South Dakota, say, it’s more; it’s mythic, it’s Gregorian, palatable Pantheon. And it’s only wine, that’s what I repeat to myself but I live here, it’s my life and I do see myself slowing, I have to type faster like Kerouac before he submitted his ‘Road’ manuscript.. how did he do that drunk? I’m barely bent and I keep having to delete and retype. Driving around the property with Sophie today reminded me of the spell and liturgy of the the vineyard and the Naturalism surrounding the commercial, the transactions, the wine club signings and all the ‘goals’. What? This is Heaven! And we trivialize it! We bastardize it! We reduce it to campaigns and banners and billboards on 12, or 29, or 128.. frustrated with what I see and in love at the same time, wine.. dividing my diligence, so sip whence…
Bed, sleep, sounding more than musical at moment. I need to finish this glass so I can close this night, the chapter that is.. and the bar, not full today, no as much as yesterday, and not as much material, disappointing. And the wine’s done, there, done, now I can close the day. Staring at the empty glass, I think of myself on the Road and having to give a lecture the next day and how I should be in trot of going to bed at more regular hour, like now, 9:23. Why am I not in bed? Tomorrow morning I’ll try to get little Kerouac to school early then to Kenwood to write, maybe some of that hit-and-miss coffee they have in the container in the back by the breakfast burritos. But I need to stay in this barreled bind, in wine, at all times, but tomorrow nothing of such sway! I’ll be running, then the next morning to ‘Road’ with 1A, then to ‘Sur’ with 1B.. I see completely all that’s me… Need sleep. Singular speedy shift, then I skip…

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2:01, in Loft..

listening to KCSM on the way over here, some broadcast on raising money, for something, something connected to Nina Simone, and I thought how this, this journal, can be read as somewhat of a broadcast, news, and now, I’m not in the mood to talk to a single soul. Just want to write, just want to taste wine and deconstruct it as I do Literature.. haven’t written my somm friend Chris yet but that’s precisely what I’ll address with him, a different take on wine, from a writer’s perspective, one with no formal wine training (well.. other than TR experiences and shifts, and some “VIP” interactions). Just Literature, reacting to it, detecting and appreciating, and REACTING, to characters, stories.. what I’m juggling in my head currently, and what I juggle are axes, knives, haven’t dropped one or cut Self, yet. Shit, forgot to note when I got here.. let’s just say 1:57, so that means I have till 2:20-something to write.. ugh how I do’t want to talk.. not that I don’t want to be at work with my coworkers and friends, on the celestial estate, I very much do, I just don’t feel like conversation, wasting my words on interactions that will be brief and part of some pitch, essentially, not today, I just want to write.. about the wine I opened last night, the ’12 cuvée from St. Francis.. loved everything from the pleasant confrontation of olfactory sense to the expansive and very persuasive enigmatic roll of the palate.. yes, I’d say it’s young, but guess what.. I opened it last night, gave it a bullion of time to “open”, and it was charming and enchanting in all its dimensions and palate chapters.. love, and Bordeaux-ish amalgamation like that is just what any Cab lover or heavy Rhône pursuer would adore. Do I have to score it? I do? Oh. Well I’m not going to. And that’s what I never got about wine judging, the scoring, the rubric (being and adjunct English Professor for 9 years, now).. some “rubrics” if you could call them that have ranges, so say, in example: “90-93”. So why score it 91, or 92, what’s the difference? And the descriptors, I somewhat embrace that practice, yes, but when did you taste it, I’d ask.. now my somm friend Chris I entirely respect, all about his practice and execution of assessing wines.. his innovative tendencies and varietal and stylistic proclivity I’ve never seen in a sommelier before, which is just why our characters are sterlingly associated. In my vision. And in this Palooza Loft, where I always collect, I further meditate on Mr. Massamen, and his love of wine and what he’s to do with it.. blog? Of course! And just write for his LIFE, like his grad school professor, Fiction (Steve was his name, Steve Gomez), told him. Steve steered him away from the MFA at SF State, saying, “Why do it? Why do it at all? you already have a fucking Master’s. Just write for your life!” And Steve has an MFA, so he’s credible, Mike thinks. And at Mike’s age, he can only write. what would another acronym do for him? Why not live, capture, sip, love…
Haven’t seen any new pictures of my sister– and on that note, before I forget, I thought of a title for her novel: ‘Krystal Vision’. Do I want to write that first or the Massamen Notes, first novel? Shit! I hate decisions, and I hate having to make one, but my sister always has to and I just need to, and not second-guess mySelf. Like she said when we made our ’11 Cab, “If you second-guess yourself you’ll never make wine.” And translated to my world, the page, I’ll never have a singe bloody MS out there if I don’t just write, publish, decide, leap– Are you joking? 2:16 already? Should have ordered a beer. Should have ordered 2! But I didn’t. I decided to write! Or did I get one! I’m a novelist, I write fiction, which means I lie. A LOT. Ha ha… I know Steve’s laughing, if he’s reading this.. I love this Loft, everything about it.. this one table left here for me so I can “get some work done” as Jeff always says, that bar over there, right/corner.. and all the space– freeing, again.. where I meditate.. it’s own type, or varietal, character.. and my sister’s blend last night, had the wooing character that all wine lovers seek. I mean, why ever drink wine or appreciate it at any further level if you don’t look for character, depth, interaction, a certain palate challenge? I don’t want to go back.. I want to stay here– no, I want to go home and be with Ms. Alice and little Kerouac.. no, I’ll stay here for a bit, or I would. WOULD. But I have to work, and I want to, I want to meet more characters and pour for them and experience their reactions to wine.. Wine is my story and my BEAT, and I’m layered in conception, both actual and theory-based as I sip, and as I observe from the other side of the bar.

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Again in the next day.

No time to write last night as Alice and I had dinner from the little Trattoria down the street. But yesterday morning, I wanted to note, while in shower coating myself with that tropical wash gel, that this project is a collection, a meditation for the next book! The first of the Massamen notings. (shit, just remembered I forgot to write my somm friend Chris a letter expressing my ideas for collaboration, as he couldn’t make our beer meeting last night, already having a gig in Petaluma..) I may make this a habit before every book! One hundred days of three pages at least.. yes, that’s how obsessive and how nothing-else-is-on-my-mind I am. And I want people to know that.
Feeling the beer and wine from last night, a little, but I stopped early so I’m not to “curled” as I let my friend Allie know in a text last night, I told her my pages have me ‘curled in regret’. Not sure what I meant by that, but I find it interesting, the wine-pooled ME, acting and talking differently but still with writing on the mind. OH– coffee in kitchen on the dock of the machine, ready for me but I don’t want to stop with my moment; Jackie throwing his dinosaurs, and now lining up his trucks, and me thinking about the lectures for Monday– I mean TUESDAY! Still not used to teaching those days.. and no nap! Have to run, as I will today after work..
First sip and I’m more awake and what remains of one of my sister’s cuvées fades, now ready for day. Jack lifts the bigger vehicles now and sets them by his chalkboard. He examines them closely, interesting, “Oh that’s a big one!” he directs to me, and now he languages shifts a bit with a new vehicle, “That’s a heavy one.. that’s a heavy one, Dada…” One of the vehicles makes sounds, and he states, “So loud, no!” I laugh and he turns around to observe my reaction, then back to task lifting the biggest of the trucks, the yellow dumper. He pushes it across the floor a bit then situates it back to its original plot.

Can’t get behind in this project as I have been, and I’m not sure why it’s happening now, at the end, or toward it. I’m not bored with the project by any tilt of thought or tiring as a writer, I don’t think. I hope not! That’s why I was taking so many pictures yesterday, and the day before.. anything to stimulate the prose and shove it forward. Right now I could use something, some shove or fire lit beneath my character and seat– The Massamen notes on mind, with everything my poor fellow adjunct has on his plate or wishes were on his plate, putting all faith and belief in the system, the educational plan and pattern, he was part of a mass movement, a MASS movement, but he was not moved, and why should he be? There was no guarantees for his near ten years of teaching, TEN. Yes he’s applied, but nothing, nothing.. one fulltimer years ago even had the nerve to infer it’s a bit selfish of adjuncts to be “so focused on a full-time job, when there are students who need their attention and passion…”, something of such word yield. And it infuriated him. But he teaches, he does what he can, but something has to be shifted, he realizes, he wants to do something else, but what, what? He thought about wine, and how he’d always loved wine and how people talked about it, and he had the idea of talking about wines or considering them as he does Literature, one of his favorite books, but not to overthink it.. and he won’t move too quick on this, it’s just an idea at this point. But he has to have a plan, some vision for his character and his development, his “career”. He can’t go on like this, nearing 40.. it’s out there, he hates the number, and it will find him, that bloody count, Time, the world, him in it, that ‘age’. So he runs, bikes, hikes, anything to defy the encroachment of the 4, the 0. The cardinal count, why, why was he valuing it as he did– Change of mind, he thought– But what am I writing it like that, 3rd? It’s going to be narrative! All my novels must be from me, and Mr. Massamen.

Poetry today.. pieces I can read.. goddamnit there’s never enough time to do anything I want, I feel.. like now, it’s already 7:4-goddamn-2. Time all around me. More coffee, cup 2 already brewed and I’m slowing. And if I have the luxury of editing this piece, no that won’t unfold. and I don’t need it to. Like a jazz session, it just happens and goes with its own measures– the core of caprice, the Leap. And that’s where the poetry will come from, like Kerouac’s sea poem.. I want to read three pieces per appearance, I’ll write the first today, and they have to be new conveying right where I am today, in this Now, and covering the mood of the last few days, when I was in this very couched spot, in the morning after the 1A with coffee, my jazz, the quiet and heated condo… There, 4 lines for the first poem, typed.. maybe in the Loft today I’ll finish it, have it go to the third page, then stop. Yes, one poetic standalone for reading. And be firm with yourself, Mike.. don’t slide away from your aim, from your poem, what you’ll read.. and whoso, the whoso chapbook series.. put online, a new blog maybe, but people HAVE to PAY to read it.. ask for support, solicit it! Sell it! You have to! ‘whosonotes’ I’ll call it.. yes, alive this morning as I was Thursday after class, after that bloody… no, not noted here.

-notebook, wine, notes, expression and voice
-new books for Jackie
-start writing Tues lectures…
-Run for hour after school, Tues
-whoso, my ideology, FOREVER, like my friend Pippa touts

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In loft. Hoping

to have a beer with my sommelier friend, Chris, after work.. and if that doesn’t come to fruition then I rush home to open a couple wines, I may open a couple reds to see how they react to oxygen and taste at different stages. In the loft, there are not tables, hardly. My usual has been moved, and now, rather, I sit at the only seated table, by the stairs, and one chair at its stationing; meant for me, to be. Just finished with a group of ladies from Nebraska and MN, celebrating birthdays, all of them, I guess all turning the same age this year. And their attitude, story and disposition only pleasurable, laughing and chatting and uncomplicated, just how any interaction over wine should be. I have to work quick in this loft, and think about how to get the writing out– has to be the blog, what I once scorned I know see as foolish to– why hate what’s essentially free? The copying of pages, at least at this point will only add clutter to the condo, and cost what I can supply, money-and-other-facet-wise. So I exhale and breath in my Loft.. sorry if I didn’t capitalize earlier.. this session, like an unfiltered wine; rough, raw, honest, TRUTHFUL. The kegs over there, by Jeff’s office, getting my attention for some reason.. beer, when I come from wine, but it doesn’t represent an antithesis, at all! Why do people, some, think so? All of us in the wine world enjoy beer, at least the people with whom I invest time. 16 minutes.. no way I’m landing on a thousand words.. not today.. maybe tomorrow when I can bend the clock a bit. Thinking tonight I’ll look for or project a certain character, in wine, meaning when I open the bottle and start interaction I’ll meet… whatever character I’m targeting. Like what? Well, tonight I want romance in the character, truthful charm and nothing intrusive.. so, a Rhône? No.. a Merlot? Maybe. But I don’t have any Merlots at home, I don’t think– or wait, I may have one.. can’t recall at the moment, not that my wine collection or ‘cellar’ is so expansive.. I’ll stop by the store, find a couple Merlots to play with, meaning I may only have a couple tastes and dump the rest– OR, bring to work tomorrow for the crew to taste. And that’s another aspect many don’t get about wine.. it’s to share, to build community and conversation, character, and exploration like a book, let it drive you mad, keep you awake, have you forward, or diagonal, or in circles.. that’s indicative of some loving dynamic. 11-something minutes now, and I think of what Katie’s doing on her travels.. I do hope she writes, or takes more pictures or at least journals, something.. she has to! How can’t she? Well, she or someone could say, “No time.” True. But if you want to capture a moment then you do. And she is taking pictures, which I love, so that’s a start. And maybe that’s her method. We are the same, but we’re not. Katie equates, she measures, I just leap.. my approach to wine is consideration of character and story and a loose projection of how the character will develop, or “evolve” as Zach likes to say. Mine, more a reader’s proclivity. Not that mine’s right, but it’s mine. And that’s what I hope to discuss with my friend Chris, how wines greet the sipper, their character, different language evoked from the wine itself. Time ready myself for leave from this lovely Loft– I’m singing in wine’s climate and code.. watch me, no worries, only the pursuit I cited the other day, and above.. my notes my life my way my story… The beginning of Massamen’s notes….. Not just an adjunct. I will not be KEPT!

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Poe’s Barrel


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8:32PM. One glass tonight.

Red; nightish, musical, voluminous, dedicated. Decided not to run tread tonight as I when I picked up little Kerouac he was so elated to see his father and after what a positive day it was today, in nearly all respects (including the 1B section and the nap when I came home), I elected to stay home with him, wait for Alice to come home from spin.. I’ll go tomorrow, straight from the winery, run for an hour, maybe a little more, then come back home for writing and family, and rest. Forgot my wallet on drive down to PC but when I realized it was too late to go quickly back, so I drove south 101, light fog when I arrived, and no coffee, in fact I haven’t had a cup since the couch sitting earlier. This Washington blend, 2012, I’m sipping, darker than most wines I’ve recently sipped. And I’m lightly familiar with this wine as I worked a campaign for Long Shadows when at the box, but I only tasted a couple of them, this being one. And this bottle obviously influence by Bordeaux-leaning expressions, and has me thinking again of winemaking, having my own label eventually, and why not, why not try? I have a professional winemaker sister! But patience, wait.. writing first, everything else in future. ‘Cause right now I can have whatever I want in the writing, I can be a winemaker in fiction, with my character Krystal, or a pilot, or a doctor– no, as I don’t know that world.. but I can be an adjunct, for sure.. anything, within reason. Write what you know, right? Or that’s what they say, and yes that’s what JK did.. but wine and winemaking will always be in my vision, and right now my winemaking sister is in New York, making sales visits and attending winemaker dinners, I think. Well, right now the little sis sleeps, and she should rest up. So it’s.. what… 12:44AM there. Oh yes, she’s asleep. I most assuredly wouldn’t be able to, I’d pour another glass of this ’12 Pirouette and write from my room, right by the window, looking down at Manhattan. Oak into wine, I think, how much is enough and why let it override the fruit’s expression, ever? Some say the detection or visibility of oak shows or displays the winemaking.. I heard that once, and I was like ‘WHAT?’ NO, it shows OAK! I want to drink more wine, analyze it, consider it as character as I did in ’09 when I first started blogging on mikeslognoblog.. back to that vinoLit approach, that wine is Literature, that it’s always a story, that there’s always a voice of some sort in the glass, in the bottle before it’s poured. Now, my glass stand empty on that cherry coaster of Alice’s. And tomorrow night, one of no wine sipping, but wine research, winemaking study, then a nice bottle Saturday night. What, though? What will I open? May go to St. Francis and buy a few bottles, red and white, open a couple of those, red for me and white for Alice..
And so, I’m on page 5. Finally did it, finally, what so long me took? Tomorrow I WILL make it to the loft to write and I’ll force myself to write more fictively, for the Massamen stories, about being an adjunct, flying on the freeway and not separating from that dream of teaching full-time, writing about his adjunct story.. telling, telling everything, everything about what he and other adjuncts go through.

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Home, 9:01AM. (Day 72 excerpts.. no edits)

…Mom said, “Laughter’s a proven life-extender!” Yes, very true, Mother.. now I create and focus on my images, the one of me just walking around a vineyard (in this particular conscious envisage, St. Francis’ Wild Oak Vineyard), between Syrah and Chard, and I think that’s Merlot.. not sure, but I just walk, look up at Hood Mt. and stare back at the ground. My wife, Jackie and I took pictures over there, far left, over by the visitor center, where the tasting room is. All positive and poetic about this morning and this imaginary walk, ‘nother sip… Mr. Hutcherson plays, and I play.. music and poetry, my teaching, talking about Kerouac to the students and seeing what they have to say.. this 1B session, about wellness, health (mental and physical), about Personhood and “spirituality”. Duluoz, in a battle for Personhood, for (dare I say) recovery! He wants to, possibly, recover from everything and recover and/or recapture what he’s lost, leaving the madness behind– I’ll save for the paragraph below, the one I’ll post to the teaching blog. Today I live as how I saw myself living later in life when I was 17 or so, in high school, in Mr. Sullivan’s Creative Writing class; I saw myself, at this age, as a writer/professor, and that’s it. And today, that’s it, ‘that’s the ticket’ as they say, I’m him, the New Mike! The one I saw then and now and the one I revel in. Divorcing the negative, attaching Self to the positive; my son, my wife, my family, the words, the mélange of it all, all the positive, all the lifts and gives to growth, that makes me smile, this poetry, the Art and expression and LIFE! That old expression: ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all.’ Radiantly correct! Why would you! Why would you dignify the negative and what would prompt to say or write negativity with the Art, with words? No! Only the affable and transcendent!

…COFFEECOFFEECOFFEE, my singular obsession in this sitting.. why do people drink alcohol when you can have this? Especially if you write? You’d rather have a drink, a whisky or wine or bourbon or beer? Are you a fool? Look at this, this madness that folds and delivers me from any sorrow or depression or holding, or clockish confines! I will hit 5 pages today you can bet, and when I wake from my nap I will run, only five miles, that’s it, maybe just do my ‘big daddy’ run that Alice often does, just five, a comfortable and leisurely 5! After 10 now and I should take a break from the page, maybe use the restroom, stretch, breathe, meditate without writing, but can I do that? Something so godly about Literature, and Philosophy, and the act of reading, what’s on a page, the Author having the fire to confess what he/she does. I could only have heros like Plath, Kerouac, right? Like Mr. Hemingway, like Dickinson, Joyce… I’m at peace in my Personhood now, so thankful the story brought me here, home, around my son’s toys and on this couch, hearing this jazz paired with the fridgehum in the kitchen. I’m smiling right now, fearless in my joy and positivity, my thanks for everything, my loves; Mom, Dad, Katie, Jack, Alice, Grandma and when she told me only days before she left, “It’s YOUR life…You have YOUR choice.” And, now and always, I choose to be happy, and to be in love, with everything, with tomorrow and today and what brought me here, all in my story. Namaste…..

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…she didn’t say a word.. I use this for writing

for momentum for my rebirth as it were. I’m alive this morning, more than I’ve ever been! All for my priority plate: POETRY, music, the prose that’s so beautifully confessional and that my wife an mother warn I shouldn’t put out there. I have to. Maybe not on the blog, okay, occasionally, yes, but I must be honest and aggressive with that Hemingway fire and truth otherwise I’m dead and my little boy has a coward as a father. While having a beer with Mary afterwork yesterday, she made me laugh, made me see humor, made me forget.. I wish I was as strong as her, not this sensitive Artist, but I’ll learn, I will… Plato say music is a universal law, that it is moral, that it’s about life, then today, I’m musical, my own genre, defying all formalism (like my grad school poetry professor), and everything saying I have to write this way, think like this, sing like this.. be careful, someone might read.. isn’t that the point? but okay, I become more covert, more cunning, more methodical, more predatory.. a stronger poet, prose carver… oh look at me go, high on caffeine like Kerouac on benzadrine.. I’m alive, and if you don’t approve of this style and intensity then it’s obvious you wish me dead. BEAT4EVER!!!

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Didn’t make it to five

yesterday but came close. I’m committed to making today one of the greatest in my collective story.. how though, I have an idea but don’t want to hex it by writing all details here, now.. has to do with teaching, not abandoning it, going forward with it, and finally getting– NO. Stop. Talking to Michael the other day about his doctorate has me– What did I say! No more! But I’m thinking, and the 1A lecture will be written, actually written out, by noon. So I’ll take Kerouac in with me, ‘Road’, and note everything, questions and answers and writing prompts and character insights.. and the issue of Morality, Ethics, civility and communication.. remembering the medical resident I met the other day and how he told me his undergrad was in something not at all med-related. Can’t remember what it was, but I was piqued. Hastened to my drive and image for the day.. Professor Madigan.. sounds fluffy but I very much take to that over one pouring, or “advancing” however you do andorwould in this industry. First step.. my morals, morality, others, Emerson.. Russell. Today, all ideas pyrophoric.

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