| the golden west volume 22 part 6 - 2001 april-may | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
28 April Last night with Louie in her cabin, dressing her for a yoga banquet next week, curled on the couch watching Erin Brockovich. The city is everywhere soft green and confetti and scent, seen in the dark last night, stepping off the curb to cross the street between parked cars on Napier. I want something this morning before I start working. I'm with Frank every day, quite dimly. In the journal of 1961 I am more interested in him than in me. It's my reserve making me coy in an unpleasant way. I want to have been better company for him, and to have taken him to more freedom, which I could have done if I had known what I now know. What I was afraid of in him I thought immutable, because I never saw it handled in my father, his redneck contempts and rages. I could take him through them easily now. I've done beautiful work with Tom who is so much less my own self. I was just on the edge of stepping out, further back than he was. We didn't have birth control, we both had to hold on to our horses. I keep running up against the realization that he's gone forever, I can't do anything now. Every time it surprises me. He loved the land, he loved human powers. He was scared to be found incompetent. He surged and was afraid of his surges. He was a strong intuitive - very strong electrical field - other powers maybe of telepathy, tuning in, those unconfirmed powers of knowing and being. If there had been a theory he might have understood depression. He sometimes thought he was crazy. He thought the dream was telling him to do it. His unconscious wanted to kill him - is that the way to say it? Those times when I've felt it, what was it - it's just part of strong pain - murderous pain.
It's the child's unforgiveness of the betrayal. It's worst if the betrayal isn't acknowledged. The unconscious needs for you to ride through the suggestion feeling the betrayal for what it was. The betrayals by his parents of his ardent spirit. Among the Mennonites first the belief in breaking children, then the enforcement of defenses against knowing there was betrayal.
- [I phone Frank's ex-wife.]
The first ten years were good. He was never completely there. She had uterine cancer. She was in a car accident that smashed her skull. She's having a photo exhibit. She built an extension on her house. He drank a lot in the last ten years. He'd sit around with his weird bachelor buddies. He'd make cracks. His mother was always dropping in. She thought it was all behind her but these days she is remembering the good times. Depression, schizophrenia and learning disabilities in that family. He beat her up only once, but he used to fire his guns on the yard. The neighbours called the police. He never had anything good to say to his boys. He stood his son up on his graduation day. He wouldn't shave and clean up. She didn't think he'd come back to her but she thought one day there'd be acknowledgment and appreciation. Her kids were afraid for her life. He took a sawed-off shotgun to the psychiatrist's office. He kept finances secret. If she and the kids worked hard he'd buy another five acres of land. He was afraid of hell.
He wanted to move to the Peace River country. I said we cut it off when it was at its height and that had kept us attached to it. After a while Tom tuned in. He said what he's feeling in me is grief, maybe a grief under a grief. When he said that, I began to come into tears. I said I'd felt he loved me utterly. Tom said, If you felt he loved you utterly he did love you utterly. Maybe that was it for him. Maybe that was all he could do in his life. It seems like you bonded, you didn't get married but you bonded.
What I'm feeling now is the wrong of having slept with him when I went back when I was 19. If he had told her she wouldn't have married him. If he hadn't done it he wouldn't have had a secret from her. With such a secret the marriage could not be true. Without a true marriage he could not be a true man, nothing else could be true. I didn't do it to her, he did. But did I do it to him? 29 I didn't sleep well. I was feeling revulsion, horror, at the life I saw in Sharon's story. Stupidity, insanity, insufficiency, evil of the Mennonite community and his family in it. Backbiting, gossip, denial. Frank with his concordance bitterly arguing with the elders. The extraordinary lack of compassion of the Mennonites, especially the Mennonite men. What Joyce taught me about the difference between compassion and attachment. What it takes - the time, good will, and best professional help - to work through attachment into compassion. The ten commandments I can see are rules for living in a small community. Teaching the rules without understanding souls doesn't seem to work. Souls are lost or found in proportion to their loss or recovery of early love. Frank's soul was lost through male brutality and his decision to take its side. He had no compassion for Sharon, he made a cynical decision to get a helper for his life on the farm. Last night heart pain was hard rather than soft because I was not willing to love him after what I had heard. What Sharon told me first was that she was in a car accident and he went home and told the kids she was dead. I keep seeing her smashed skull.
I notice I keep wanting to be sitting at a table with my parents talking about it.
- Louie came at noon and heard the story crying, and when she was crying for herself, which was only part of the time, she was crying that her love woman feels there is something wrong with her, that she hasn't had any experience. I said she has had experience, experience of loss. There was an Australian writer on Eleanor Wachtel this afternoon, a rural satirist, he said, who is concerned that young rural men are killing themselves. They don't know how to behave to women if rage and violence, which defined manhood, are not allowed, he said.
Exclusion from love, rage and violence were ways they used to cope with those things. 30 I dreamed Luke as a boy, bare and thin chest, a lanky maybe fourteen year old, with me at the corner of the porch, lying down in the dew, in a chill dark. It was heart-rending. He seemed so sad, lonely, done in, despairing. I was saying, Come inside. I wanted to wrap him in blankets and hold him to warm him. I woke and it was 3:30. Should I phone him? I did. A receptionist at Platypus said, Who may I say is calling? I found him at his desk looking at papers before going to sit with the others for lunch. He's flying to other cities once or twice a month, Durban, Johannesburg. Rent a car at the airport, cell phone, laptop, hotel pool. He seemed responsible and at ease. 1st May Have to figure out what ch 9 is saying and how to handle the last part of ch 8. I have 30 pages of ch 8 solid. It was a hard chapter to organize. The last section shades into ch 9. I'm foggy today, don't know why. Groping. I have organizational problems because I am not sorted enough in the points I'm making. The end of ch 8 is further suggestions about R and L homologs - if they are structures originally same, and each altered for rep purposes, then: 1. what was the original structure for; 2. how is it used on L; how is it used on R; what is the present relation of the two. I haven't got it yet.
not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am As soon as you become Mrs Linton, he loses friend, and love, and all. Nelly, I am Heathcliff - he's always, always in my mind - not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself - but as my own being; so don't talk of our separation again On a mellow evening in September, I was coming from the garden with a heavy basket of apples which I had been gathering. It had got dusk, and the moon looked over the high wall of the court "Yes, Heathcliff," he replied, glancing from me up to the windows which reflected a score of glittering moons, but showed no lights from within. I've fought through a bitter life since I last heard your voice, and you must forgive me, for I struggled only for you. Tell her what Heathcliff is - an unreclaimed creature, without refinement - without cultivation; an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone ... he's a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man. [I ignored Tom's birthday because he'd neglected mine]
2nd I felt a rush of joy when Tom accepted my justice. He tried me, we had a stiff little conversation about other things. And then he said he knows I love him, and he loves me for doing it and for looking after myself. Tom these days often laughs, and he swerves into wonderful invention and makes me laugh too. Whales away. He's in balance, in the clear. 3 What Frank would have made of Wuthering heights and Pride and prejudice. WH has gothic passions and some weather, Pride and prejudice has satire lightly and precisely framed, and little countryside. He would have liked himself in Heathcliff and Darcy both. I did not like myself in either Elizabeth or Cathy, though I wanted Darcy's estate the moment I caught sight of it, and quite liked Darcy too. Frank turned out to be Heathcliff in self indulgence. I'm liking him less. His letters are seeming illiterate. Who was it - Paul - said schizophrenics think they are better than anyone. Frank thought so at many moments and soon gave up instructing himself. I'm writing this in Austen's brittle voice, which has a conceited pleasure in turns of phrase but an unpleasant pinched feeling in the forehead. My natural voice, which I can remember feeling, though I'm not in its state, feels wider, warmer, pitched lower in the body. Alright, come back. What is it I'm feeling about Frank - something I've never felt, that there was ambition and calculation in his desperation to have me. Is it so? I didn't realize I was connected to a good family in being connected to the Konrads. He wanted me to save him. Frank could not be bothered to write sentences, even. I suppose my family let us because they weren't sure I could do better. Hanging back from work today. One o'clock and I haven't started. Heathcliff is a dream of bad temper, Darcy is a dream of fortune, both are men invented by women who had never lain in bed with a man. What was my dream of Frank: that he was a true-hearted man who loved me dearly and would love me 'til he died. He was not a true-hearted man, he did love me dearly though not 'til he died. An attached heart is not a true heart, it is a mad heart. He was malicious with his wife and sons. And then: his attachment did me good at the time. I've had a romantic view of him. He wasn't a good man, though he loved weather and land. There was a preacher on KARI last night ranting about homosex-u-al priests and the abomination of the Catholic church, Prophet Hansen, he called himself. That ranting was Frank and other madmen of the church. Religious madness, what is it? Early brutality, the hatred of fathers. The bedlam of religious community, a boot camp. - My mum phones. I tell her my joy about coming through with Tom. 1. After half an hour he's really contrite. 2. He likes it that I stand up to him. She cannot be happy for me. I hear her voice go tight. She won't say Ed was wrong. She's anxious about her own fear. She can't want to know more of my story. When I say Frank did the Mennonite thing and would not praise and encourage his sons, she will not agree.
Tom said joyfully, when I'd praised him, "I'm up to speed and I'm going to tickle you pink." He also said he enjoyed the birthday thing even at the time. There's the basic right thing, but sometimes he likes to hear other people speak in him, Johnny Cool for instance. I think that's true and not true. He has an inner watcher when he's being one of the others, but that does not mean it is in control. 5 Saturday morning in a tizzy - the light on the wall early this morning - it's going to be bright today, I said - the light today is so beautiful I can't hardly stand it - I'm jumping out of my skin wanting to be with Tom - playing his tape - I must be love woman today, I have no clue in work - I look at it and feel a fog of displeasure. Tom said when he meets anyone his first question is about their degree of sanity. What's mine - it's whether they're interesting, which is to say something like free. The opposite being orthodox. Discovery Institute selling intelligent creation scares me. The agenda is moral authoritarianism, which is the authority of male money inevitably. The digital revolution is the men surging ahead again - it's a serious threat.
It's a threat to women's intelligence and enterprize, to general sanity and to physical earth. Supporting Bush increases danger of war. I felt Clinton was loose enough not to escalate. Bush gives me the heebie-jeebies. Moral authoritarianism = repression = dangerous split-off dark side = hatred and outbursts and vigilant oppression. Late afternoon, after doing nothing all day, I sat down to work. Here's how it is: chapter 4 sets up points, surfaces and oriented volumes, dorsal structural sense; ch 6 sets up guided sim; ch 8 sets up IPL, configuration sense and rep; ch 9 gets into cases, for instance prepositions; ch 7 has a little section on abstraction. Here's what I need to know, is the outline clear enough now? I'll finish 4, 8 and 9 at the same time. That leaves 5, 6, 7, for not as major work. Chapter 10 is extra or last-burst. A lot of reference checks to do. Some illustrations. - Tom is grateful to himself - I recognize the feeling - he's grateful not vainglorious - he has earned pleasure in himself - by patience, discernment, good will, sobriety, instinct. I said now he's being a king not a gunfighter and it's fun isn't it. He admits it's fun. 7 I have woken discouraged. The herb garden is in the hands of someone who doesn't understand it and is wrecking it. Everyone I sent messages to about my work hasn't answered. I have to go to welfare tomorrow. I dreamed David Bowie was my boyfriend and when I kissed him he went flat. Louie's tales of great success. Her conference made $100,000. She gave a talk that was brilliant strategy and united her personal and their public foes. On the last morning she was one of the on-stage demonstrators. She was nervous and then saw her two old parents proud and confident at the back of the hall, and went into a trance and didn't see the audience any more, just did her practice. What I'm feeling is that her book is leading her to success and my book is leading me to lead Tom successfully but I am having and will have no success with this endless project, and my past glorious success, the garden, is being sabotaged by Joan Potatohead.
I'm so distraught today. The book is not helping. I don't understand what's happening. Can I have taken such a strong hit, either from Louie's success or from Joan's attitude, just that? Heart pain, defeat. I'm crying and shaky. If I cared about the herb garden why didn't I find someone for it? Is it just being personally attacked? Or being spoken to the way Joan spoke? Is it having to go on welfare? Is it the long slog without human exchange? Fear and pain at heart, thinking of failure, fear of the future, not knowing how to go on, not having courage. [separate lists of failure in the last years, successes in the last years, successes in my own terms] The objective count helps. I'm most surprised there's been so little success in my own terms. Is that what this despair is about? Louie has worked hard for six years and has an empire. I have worked hard for twelve years and have nothing. Is it because she has her parents standing at the back of the hall and I do not? I'm in a well of defeat. Louie succeeds because she works hard AND flatters and networks. So it isn't wanting others to fail, it is that others' success makes me see that I'm failing, and seeing it, feel it. If Being about is a failure, what do I do next? If I were standing somewhere with no commitments what would I do? I would praise and support other peoples' work. I say that with tears. I thought first of Castenada. If no one will praise mine I could praise theirs. It comes to the same thing. I am so lonely and isolated and poor. I can't succeed in the arenas of my best powers for reasons that don't have to do with me. I can succeed in an arena of my lesser powers if I give everything away. I don't know what to do (sobbing). The philosophers don't want me. I have beautiful philosophic gifts. Who wants them? Do you know who wants me? (Sobbing.) I have done no work today. That's two days this week, or three. I'm flagging. 9 Started the welfare process yesterday. Yesterday my balance was back. I finished the grammar section. Here are 4 and 8. Today go begin to finish 9.
Tom's happiness these days. He needs the men at work to love him, and he works to make them do so, and now he's won them all. His honesty in needing is very wonderful. He's full of grace, generous as if all his dreams have come true. He says our work on the phone is the source. I keep hearing the line about Rumi and Shams, "an overturned cup, which being set upright was filled with love." 10th Peter Manning finally, "visual clarity is an aspiration." Visual clarity in music. What examples can I think of - the two women singing something Baltic. Spem in allium the first time I heard it like Dante's line about sparks jumping out of the stream. Wd need to find more about how it makes me come to attention when the music is simple enough to be seen and at the same time unusual enough in its detail to hold me. It is the same with writing, I'm thinking. "Stimulating," he said, even just to remember or evoke in talking about it. Alright, calm down. 11 I am Dorothy Richardson moving on a road by rocking firmly on my heels. It's an odd movement but it lets me scoot along very smooth and fast. What was I thinking as I was lying there just now. If I start being romantic about Peter Manning remember his weak small hand. Second, what's the source of the feeling? Soul, because the space seen in computer music is, can be, something to do with feeling soul. I'd like to be with someone in that kind of creation. It's the grain scrapbook. It's a realm, fairyland. Is there a way I could work on this question for chapter 10. No, apparently. I came to a dead stop when I asked that, all sorts of little eddies dying around me. But what is the last question - how does an artist know, how does an artist bring others into knowing states, what is an artist, what is good to make. I had to create a framework by revising the manner of speaking that holds in philos, psych, cog sci. I revised it using an artist's means: own experience, recognition, process imagining, intention to get to the bottom of something, listening to the other side, bookwork, wholistic intuition. Then I found confirmation in psych and neuroscience results. The whole account is a demonstration of the results of the method, but not of the method - it would be good to show the method but too laborious to reconstruct it. So what should the last chapter do about completing the project. What would I like it to do. Well, the new project, mind and land. What else, my photos and writing. Get closer to what I actually do - the journal. Start again. At the end of this project do I have a further question? Yes, that is the question. The last chapter sets up the next project. Given the rootedness of mind in body rooted in world, what's different in how to think of humans in world. Structural aboutness. The shambling miseries on Hastings - is it that they are about nothing? The tight knit of Rhoda altogether, is it that she is about much? Aboutness is the final value. Form, function and value. An ethic of the heart. It's an ethic of intelligence. A secondary value of made things insofar as they promote it. It's not an ethic that can be exhorted. It can be fostered. Would the moral authoritarians hate it? Yes but only because they don't understand that their moral rules in general promote contact by preventing dead spots. Is this ethic already being promoted? Surely, since I found my way to it. Is it an elitist ethic? In a sense, but it's not an economic or power elite. Being about and demonstrating aboutness are not the same, although those who are well about would be able to see it. Demonstrating is about convincing those who are not well about. 12 Here is a bad thing. I am having to notice I am not remembering. A conversation I had with Louie about a car, a week ago at the Havana. No memory of it. The ministry building on Dunbar I had to go to two years ago. I drove round and round looking for it because I didn't remember Wall St starts at Dunbar, and I didn't remember Dunbar either. I struggle with these interrelated chapters because I don't remember what's in the earlier ones.
I'm living so dull a life, so little excitement, so little newness. I should start selling things and getting ready to move. A question about perspective drawings:
- Brain fog, dry mouth, aching muscles, especially shoulder joints - what is it? I went out to the computers - worked on pictures - the monkey mother staring at a berry - and later was looking at the tree picture - flipped it - was isolating areas at the back and saw what I hadn't seen when it was the other way around, two dark forms walking together as if toward an entrance under the leaves on the left. I could feel them, their way of walking with their heads a little bent. The land they were walking through was soft, rich, darkish, blotted, velvety. 13 Propositions. I'm mopping up ch 9. Footsteps on the gravel, cops blue and plainclothes, a dog. They're watching a drugged-out piece of meanness who looks like he was starved and beaten every day of his childhood, who was battering a door in the crackhouse two buildings over with an axe? Something like that. There's barking. It's taking a long time. A cop in the alley with a shaved head and a long rifle, shades. Both plainclothes are wearing baseball caps backward. As I was leaning out the kitchen window there came Rhoda into the alley, looking like Hollywood, thin, silver, beautiful in new clothes. Here I am with my clothes in shambles, dark under the eyes, ten pounds of flab, some of it in my face.
Louie called me to say she'd had a dream and also she was about to go for her first date with Calvin and was frightened. The dream was a classic Louie perfect dream I won't recount, but I'll say at the end, after a several stages zoom-out to the clear light of the void, she is sitting with one of her students, who says to her, I have loved you so much this year. Louie wants me to ask [the book] who the student is. I ask a private question about the mother card, and then say to Louie, Go into the student and look through her eyes and tell me what you see. Louie speaks as the student. She says, You opened something up for me, you have been so patient. It's a few minutes before Calvin arrives. Louie has got the answer to both her questions, she's all better. She has been love woman's mother. Her love woman did not have a mother. (Mine didn't either.) My thought was something like that she'd be okay if she went to gratitude. Thank you, Louie said, and went. Tom dreamed we were on a beach with many big rocks. I was not sure I would be able to walk on it. He said there was a narrow path by the water. It was on the lake at Del Dios. There were houses on the cliff looking over the lake. We could go into one of them through the back door. He somehow knew it was the house we'd be living in later. There was an old fashioned country kitchen with old timey things in it. A shotgun hallway. We couldn't go into the living room because we could hear voices there. The bedroom wall was all window, with a deck outside. He smelled wood smoke as if from a fireplace. If I tell that one I should tell Louie's. She was on the grass with a small group of yoga association executives. Claudia was wearing a red sock that was beautiful in the green grass. Louie was feeling the recent rumble and saw the group as if on a TV screen. The view of the group was being zoomed out, so it got farther and farther away. She found she was identifying with the zoom itself, traveling away, away, out of the world, out of the universe, into nothing but white light. Not sure whether it was bliss or whether she should worry about having died. And then the scene with the student. Louie has been in core depression for several years, she says. Tired? I say. I also say, You haven't got laid in years, of course you're depressed. What she wanted to ask her mother before she went out was, 1. is it necessary to conceal her depression, and 2) is it alright to touch him if she wants to? 14 I'm waking up thinking my hungers have died. I am no longer hungry for love, sex, intimacy, beauty, company. Hesitating over fame and success. There's only a little hunger for taste in the mouth. It's confinement and lack of energy. There's nothing but slog. I should never do this again. It's dangerous. I look back in wonder at my early time with Tom, I was so young. Ah, it's raining. It's a cold May. Monday. Welfare appointment this aft. I have a plan. I have the plan. 15 Three things. First, the welfare interview was easy. I'm picking up a cheque this aft. Second, in Chinatown afterwards I went up and down the street in the rain looking for journals. In a ceramic plant pot shop I found five of the older kind with yellower paper, $3 each. I bought them all. And then at 6, fetched Philip Hoffman and took him to the Sylvia for supper and afterwards in the last light drove with him around Stanley Park. There are two maybe opposite things about Phil. One of them is that - I'm just seeing the academic writing is flattening this writing - one is that he's had good fortune since Marion died. Her mortgage insurance paid for the farm, $100,000. He got a job at York and they bought him a G4 as part of the package. He and a woman in the department took one look at each other. He has a step-daughter. The community put together a book on his work. They can afford a place in town and use the farm for holidays. The film festival is giving him this tour. The other thing is that there's something the matter with him. It's something I think I can see. He is a small brown man who had a steady brown core. I'm not sure I'm not imagining this. It's as if the core is gone or weakened. When we were parked looking across to the Second Narrows he talked about his state after the death and I saw another person, agitated, twitchy, a certain kind of character, like a character actor, I mean. It's like a compression, a squashed-togetherness of the head, with twists and twitchings. I cannot be sure what I'm seeing isn't just aging, or maybe even deepening - or whatever that good thing might be. His touch therapist said he'd been in a shamanic state. Another doctor said he was being stretched. The first weekend he went back to the farm he saw Marion for a second next to the plants by the fireplace. He asked the cat where she went. The cat said upstairs. When he was in bed she came and kissed him. He was in a state where everything was significant, all the dates that were the 17th of the month. Hatshepsut's palace. Later a massacre in that palace. Tourists were gutted and propaganda pamphlets placed in their bellies. Marion felt she was Hatshepsut because she'd had to pretend she was a man, and her body was erased from the record. It was when he was saying "Marion was the queen" that he became most agitated. Marion was gutted and propaganda pamphlets were placed in her belly. He hasn't yet told the truth about Marion. The spooky stuff and the cutting and tricks in his film evade it. The truth is that lives go wrong. What I'm seeing in him is a softening of spirit because he didn't take that fence. Shamanism is a sense of the perils of the soul, the walk along the edge of the precipice. One of the great dangers of soul is to wish not to know that souls are imperiled. Is softening the word? No. Disordering. Coarsening. Soul loss is relative not absolute. This is making me think of Frank. "I was with Frank, he was showing me pages of a story." "He knows the use of ashes." "Into the ashes a stone for each." I've dropped Frank's story because it isn't consoling me any more. Today: $180, email from Tom, email from Debbie Rose. "I think Leaving the land absolutely gorgeous. I'd like to quote from it in a talk I'm giving this year, if that's okay?" I'm happy Debbie says it's gorgeous. She replied in lower case I just noticed. - "lovely you, hoping you're future news because i tom is in plans wondrous for you post cummings ours not ease in springtime proclusive i love you" - It's night now, raining. I'm in a warm room crosslegged drinking some kind of barky milk tea, thinking of mind and land work. When I'm free and have institutional resources I'd like to finish we made this and make something with the notes in origin material. I'd like to have beautiful clothes and go to conferences. Will I be free and Dr Epp in beautiful clothes and have institutional resources to work on mind and land? Now I've been reading the interview Mike Hoolboom is publishing. Liveable margins. What do I think. It's awkward in ways I used to be, but it's brave witness to the costs and joys of the life I've lived, how something comes to be made. It talks about sex, drugs, religion, money, sickness, beauty, ecstasy, misery, isolation, community, violence, fear, and much more. 16 Oo. The dream that woke me. I was in Daniel Jans' arms. We were going home together. He bought a red candle. While he was buying it I suddenly remembered Tom. I've just remembered I'm attached, I said to Daniel. What to do. I was at a gathering with a lot of people, with Louie. Daniel came up behind me to say hello as he passed. I dipped my knees and ran my back up his chest to say hello back. As he went on I saw a woman holding his arm, black haired. She was looking back at me. I didn't like her look. Ill-tempered is not exactly the word, something between ill-tempered and not smart enough. I wake up and groan. Talking to Tom last night was horrible. I told him about Debbie's note. He didn't get it. He didn't respond. He was on the desk at work and kept putting me on hold. When someone came to the window he said crassly, loudly, so the women at the window would hear, I have to go, my sweetie sweetie pie smack smack smack smack. I'll ask what it has to say about that but first what do I have to say about it. I've been rushing past Daniel but I never don't like him. He's so straight and present. I always notice him physically. Last time I noticed how recently he'd shaved. My cunt prickled when I said that. He's more civilized than Tom. He asks questions. I see him talking to people at the counter. He's interested, he investigates. Would I go for him if I weren't vowed to faithfulness? I don't have a crush on him. It isn't like my old days. It's the way normal people fancy someone. But would I go for it? I say, he's probably gay, he would see me as too old. But yeah I'd go for it. I would definitely go for him. But then there's the fact that he lives here and I want to leave. And then also I'd like a man who does something.
|