Starting Over

 (Yes, there are a few parallels to the Easter season we just passed through, but I will let you draw those for yourself. Revision also connects, but you're smart enough to figure that out on your own, too.)

A few days ago, I started a new writer’s notebook. Nothing fancy, just a marble-covered college ruled composition book. And then I looked back at the beginning of the green-covered notebook I had finished the previous week and noticed a few similarities between the two entries (more than the not-too-tidy scribbling).

As scribbled in a brand new notebook April 3, 2025…

First tracks! As a freshman at Ricks College, one of my roommates, Casey Sullivan, pointed out the simple joy that comes from making first tracks in the snow, an untouched carton of ice cream, or even a tub of butter. Since then, I have relished making first tracks wherever I can. My own kids will occasionally shout out “First tracks!” when opening a new jar of peanut butter or a fresh package of toilet paper, and I can’t help but think of making a good first impression as one of the simple pleasures in life.

You can only do it once, or so the saying goes, so why not enjoy the times you can do it? Take advantage of new situations. I suppose if we want to make more good first impressions, we have to put ourselves in more situations that are new, unfamiliar, or something that contains some type of newness to it. Something like a new class roster every semester, new clients or customers, or for me (and countless others), fresh school supplies like unsullied notebooks, packages of pre-sharpened pencils, or unbroken seals on paper reams or journals or those markers that smell like plastic fruits that everyone fought over back in fourth grade.

There’s just so much life in starting over. No wonder spring is such a popular time of year. Nature renews herself. And the rest of us just try to catch up by making our own tracks, even if they are not first.

As scribbled in a brand new notebook February 23, 2021…

Ah! A fresh notebook! Well, not any more. The moment I sullied its innocence with the first stroke of ink, the limitless possibilities suddenly had a limit. My words, my thoughts brought to life via pen, established boundaries and brought definition to the previously blank slate—tabula rasa no more.

No, this slate now has a purpose, a space to gather my thoughts, my scribbles, and attempt to permit my mind to wander and wonder before solidifying for time and all eternity.

Ha! Of course I could rip out this page and start over, but the impressions left on the subsequent pages will remain. The cover can never be unbent. The remnant of the ripped pages would reveal that something had gone wrong.

Still, there is room to right those wrongs, explore the inner recesses of my mind to reveal to the world the patterns (or randomness) of my brain. Writing IS that powerful. Writing is thinking. It helps create permanence where none previously existed.

It’s hard to take back words once they have been spoken, but it’s even harder once they have been written. Mean tweets, anyone? Confusing text messages? Even honest mistakes result in crucifixion sometimes. (See also “Sweet” by John Triska.)

You may not find it all that interesting, but I seem to derive joy from starting over. Side note: I also have two different poems in drafting stages that talk about starting over, repentance, and snow. They are not nearly ready to be shared, but perhaps sometime they’ll make an appearance in public. I suppose that me, composing this post, and trying again to work on my writing is another form of starting over. However, it’s a little late for me to make a first impression on y’all. You know what kind of a wreck I am. Still, I can ask your forgiveness and patience as I try to start over and do and be a little better.

  

Another Call to Keep Writing Thanks to Nikki Giovanni

I love listening to Nikki Giovanni tell her story about her poem "A Bench (for Toni Morrison)." Today, as I read this poem to inspire my students to scribble a few words, it kicked my butt back into gear to write. After each of my failures to sustain a consistent writing habit, I inevitably receive a call to repentance. "A Bench" was mine today. (Poem all the way at the end of the post.)

Each time I pick up my pen from where and when I last dropped it, I tend to scratch out a few paragraphs (like these), often teeming with self-deprecating chastisement, and then I set a goal or two (usually one), and then I start anew in my quest to be a more consistent writer. As you now witness, my pitiful public penance is now penned (vomit-inducing alliteration very much intended this evening), and I get to move forward. However, this time I am not making any grand promises I know I will not be able to keep. I know that my professorial and ecclesiastical responsibilities reduce my personal time, but I do want to write more frequently. I now teach the Teaching Writing for Secondary English Teachers course at my university, and I know that I need to lead by example. I know that only writing produces text.

So here is my conundrum: I can squeeze in small chunks of time, but I need to be smart about where I direct my writing efforts. I have a few thoughts, but would genuinely appreciate some feedback from my teeny audience. (That's y'all.) Where should I direct my efforts?

Option A: random personal narratives and thoughts (as previously expressed on this blog and other random locations).

Option B: focus on more important life-defining moments in my personal history.

Option C: finish up the scraps of poetry I have been drafting over the past several years (or at least some of them).

Option D: look to write something professionally (teacher-practitioner style).

Option E: just write curriculum.

Option F: none of the above.

Let me know what you think, and I'll take Ms. Giovanni's advice. (Poem posted below.)

“A Bench” (for Toni Morrison)

benches aren’t just pieces of furniture

sure

we find them at rest stops where birds have stopped over

and truck drivers have pulled aside

to smoke a cigarette

(no matter how bad they are for you)

and yes

in fabulous museums we find

benches decorated sometimes

with gold or bronze

and the faces of the famous

sometimes we even find benches

among the poor

which are simply logs put across the other

or sometimes just bricks

piled and put deeply enough into the earth

to stabilize those who need comfort

 

but benches are actually

a metaphor

they are friends we call on sad days

they are two old ladies who bring

Duck Eggs when your Grandmother passes

 

they are a friend’s mother

who makes a quilt when she hears

you have lung cancer

and mostly they are the voice

on the other end of the phone

who says “Write”

when you are so sad at losing your mother

“Write” when you don’t know where to go

“Write” when the only person who can read you

is on a Cross

“Write”

because it is your job

“Write”

 

---Nikki Giovanni

 

 

Only Writing Produces Text: A Call to Repentance

This morning a local church leader challenged those listening to reflect on their strengths, the things that they did well. He went on to ask everyone to reflect on the things that bring us closer to God. However, my ears tuned out at that point, and I listened more to what my heart was saying. The parable of the talents came to mind, especially the poignant conclusion: “For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath” (Matthew 25:29). 

(taken from https://thescribblingssite.wordpress.com)

As I have noted on prior occasions, I do not feel like I have many strengths. I am just the Joe-of-all-trades, master of none—the quintessential Average Joe. Perhaps, instead of five talents, or two, or even one, I was given a couple of farthings or pennies, to carry on the Biblical metaphor. Regardless, I do not want to be the unprofitable servant. I have been given a few gifts, and I need to do better at improving those talents. I can’t squander what I have been given, or else it will be taken away.

I feel a little like the saints under more modern day condemnation—“But with some I am not well pleased, for they will not open their mouths, but they hide the talent which I have given unto them, because of the fear of man. Wo unto such for mine anger is kindled against them….Thou shalt not idle away thy time, neither shalt thou bury thy talent that it may not be known” (Doctrine & Covenants 60: 2, 13). My "talent" has been hidden for a while.

Now, I am not saying that I am going to be struck by lightning (I hope) any time soon, but consider this my call to repentance. “Why?” you ask.

Lately I have not been writing.

(taken from https://www.raindance.org)

And as my good friend Melissa pointed out to me again the other day, if you teach writing, you should write also. A sermon I have not been practicing lately. (Gulp.)

I teach writing (Composition I and II at BU), but I have not been writing. You may have noticed this, as I have not been posting anything. 

So I’m calling myself on the proverbial carpet. Forgive me. I need to write more. As I am well aware, only writing produces text. My doctoral chair pointed out that simple truth as I began my dissertation, and I often impart its wisdom to my students, but every once in a while, like right now, I need to apply it myself.

It’s not that I haven’t thought about writing—I have. A lot. I just haven’t done much about it. And I'm not going to pass off my laziness or fear or whatever my problem is on simple writer's block.

Here and now, I declare that I will no longer squander my talents, as meager as they are. I am going to write more. I am going to share more. I am going to bother you more with my writing, about my writing, and perhaps even in my writing.

With some luck and determination I might actually turn my penny into a talent.

(borrowed from Bill Watterson)

A Little Rambling and a Little Waiting

This post is mostly for me to reflect upon what I have written recently.

So what have I written over the past month? Obviously nothing on my blog. That's pretty noticeable, but I have been busy. Mostly, I've been writing letters of application, philosophy statements, and scholarly writing samples. Well, I've been tweaking them. For those who don't know, I am looking to break into the ranks of academia on a full-time scale. It's somewhat similar to what I did five years ago when I was asked to apply for a university position and did better than I thought I would not having the PhD yet. However, as of this moment in time, since last March when I began this crazy go-round, I have applied to sixteen different positions across the country, received three online interviews, four rejection emails, one rejection letter, and a whole lot of nothing from everywhere else. Makes a guy wonder what's wrong. Now, I know there are many factors involved, so this isn't a pity party, and to be fair, it hasn't been very long since I've applied to some of them, but in the words of one of my favorite Spanish sword-fighters, "I hate waiting."

This past August, though, I was hired locally as an adjunct professor to teach Intro to Writing, a required freshman level class, two evenings each week. It's been fun, but it has taken up a lot of my time. I've written a few sample papers for that, but nothing of any consequence.

I've started tightening up my to-write lists as well. My list of narratives that need to be told is getting longer, although the production rate has slowed.

My plans to write a teacher education book are starting to poke through the soil as well. Maybe within a few months blossoms will form--or at least some greenery. I also need to go back and break down and put back together some professional articles from my dissertation. I know I need to do it, but other parts of me just want to seal that monster in the dungeon and throw away the key--the only access being a trap door that hapless scholars might succumb to. Who knows?

I did find another draft of a narrative I started a few months ago that might make an appearance soon. I guess we'll (you and I) will have to wait and see.

Small Celebrations

Today's thought is stolen, or rather borrowed, as I am giving credit where it is due (unlike a handful of students whose essays I graded over the weekend). There's not really much more to add to these concluding words from the book I finished this morning. Well...maybe this: take some time to read professionally...whatever you do. Find or create ten to fifteen minutes every day to better yourself by living vicariously through someone else's real experiences. You can avoid a few mistakes and discover a few new tricks. That said, here is what I found today about celebrating writers. I also think it applies to all aspects of life:

(taken from “Closing Thoughts” in Celebrating Writers: From Possibilities Through Publication by Ruth Ayres with Christi Overman)

            “‘…You have the power to decide if the day is going to be pleasant. It is completely up to you. You can make choices that lead to a pleasant day or choices that lead to unpleasant consequences. Either way is up to you.’

            “The same is true in our classrooms. There are many things we cannot control. We cannot control educational mandates. We cannot control fathers drinking and mothers leaving. We cannot control standardized writing assessments.

            “But we can choose joy.

            “This is the heart of celebration. We choose joy about the excess periods in a student’s writing, because a month ago there were none. We choose joy about the three meager lines of writing, because yesterday there were crushed pencil points and tears. We choose joy about the misspellings, because all of the sight words are accurate.

            “In the face of so much need, we can make a choice to celebrate. There will always be an error, a refusal, an inadequate paragraph. Student writing will never be perfect. We live among the mess. We can choose to wallow in the doom. Or we can choose joy.”

Book Connections:
1. Let the Celebrations Begin by Margaret Wild (Julie Vivas)
2. The Table Where Rich People Sit by Byrd Baylor (Peter Parnall)
3. Touching Spirit Bear by Ben Mikaelsen

We'll see if anyone gets the connection with the picture:

(Taken from http://hazyoasis.deviantart.com/art/Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy-290665440)

Revitalized

Okay, so my December explosion of blog posts was a dud--worse than the Fourth of July fireworks show that didn't really happen one year because a semi-dud found its way into the back of the truck containing the rest of the explosives...but that's another story. Yes, I know where intentions pave the road, but I did have high aspirations of sharing some bodaciously useful words. I'll keep doing it every once in a while, but I don't think it will be a regular occurrence as I had previously envisioned. Stay tuned.

No, I just need to keep writing, though. I got derailed in December because I let the online class I teach take over my life. Well, actually, I don't think that phrasing is quite right. It was more like a plague of locusts invaded my cyberspace and I had to spend my wakeful hours (and some not so wakeful ones) driving out the pestilence that filled my inbox.

Still, it isn't really a valid excuse. Writing takes time, and I have to make time for it.

In the meantime, I have cleaned up that mess, decided to become healthier (along with my lovely wife), and wrung my hands about red tape and my dissertation (still roadblocked, waiting to hear back from two people). I am planning to teach two writing seminars this summer, and have been asked to submit to a couple of publications (don't know if it will happen right now).

So, my disgruntled followers, the few of you who even bother to check up on this blog, all is not lost. I am revitalizing and re-prioritizing so I can find and make more time to write. I have been reading Kelly Gallagher's book Write Like This, and remembering why I love teaching writing, why I love reading good writing, why I simply love to write.

Along that line, I am undertaking a new long-term project (yes, another one): I have decided, glutton for punishment that I am, to map the writing I have already done and create a personal history. This will allow me to see which parts of my life I have already written about and where serious potholes need to be filled. I want more authentic topics for my students to see me modeling, and this will give me an opportunity to branch away from the same old stuff.

So, in the words of L.L. Cool J, "Don't call it a comeback." I'm still here, but Joe, Version 38.1 is going to share more frequently, more deeply, and more openly (maybe). Prepare yourself. Brace for impact. Whatever. It's coming. Be afraid; be very afraid. (Not really. I just wanted to use one more cliche.)

P.S. Don't tell my other blog this, but I'm down 16.6 lbs. from the beginning of January!

Belated Ramble in Two Parts and Mixed Metaphors

Part I

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist, or any other kind of –ist for that matter, to see that I have neglected my blogging as of late. However, I need to articulate that I was writing, just not blogging. I started a few pieces. Then I put them down (literally and figuratively). I journaled. I dissertated. But I could not come up with anything I deemed blog-worthy.

Before I go on, though, I must confess that I am a little disappointed that I only had one entry for the poetry contest. Dave, you win! (Again!) Now back to our not-so-regularly-scheduled blog post.

As I worked on my seventh draft of my dissertation proposal, I had an epiphany. In the words of Smee from Hook, “Lightning ha[d] just struck my brain.” I encountered an amazing quote in my research book of all places. In her latest edition of Qualitative Research: A Guide to Design and Research, Sharan B. Merriam quotes Harry Wolcott: “Writing is not only a great way to discover what we are thinking, it is also a way to uncover lacunae in our thinking. Unfortunately, that means we must be prepared to catch ourselves red-handed when we seem not to be thinking at all. The fact should not escape us that when the writing is not going well, our still-nebulous thoughts are not yet ready to be expressed in words” (Writing Up Qualitative Research). That from a research book? Wow.

I didn’t need to feel too guilty (apart from breaking my promise to write 31 narratives, which I am still working on). 

Part II

And so I thought about my blog. And my writing. Then I looked down at the book again and noticed all my notes scrawled in the margins. Ping! (That’s the sound of the light bulb.) My ninth graders are annotating To Kill a Mockingbird right now (and digging deeper than they ever have before). As I revised, I was using the annotations I had made, just like I had been taught in Mr. Albert’s class. So I thought—hand on chin, pensive furrow in my brow—about the different skills that I had picked up over the years.

Mrs. Thompson taught me how to respond to questions with complete sentences in fourth grade. Mrs. Curry taught me how to effectively summarize (without embellishments) in fifth grade. Mr. Iwanski, even though he was a super creeper, pounded grammar and usage into me in sixth grade. That same year Mrs. Saiki taught me how to research, paraphrase, cite, and read as a writer. I started writing story to escape the realities of seventh grade. I wrote for audience in eighth grade, as it were in the Algebra Express. Mr. Albert, in tenth grade, instilled in me the importance of revision and the need to appeal to an audience. He also made sure that I knew how to back up my arguments and opinions with evidence and to never try to argue for something I didn’t believe in—at least when my grade was on the line. That same year I became a wannabe poet on the side. (Scattered evidence can be found on this site.) Mrs. Misselhorn helped me as a junior  to take something abstract and transform it into a concrete image, as well as to focus thesis statements. The advisors of the Lancer Lot gave me the confidence I needed to start publishing. And in twelfth grade I finally realized that I was a writer—not a very good one—but a writer nonetheless.

Various instructors throughout my college career helped me to shape my craft both academically and aesthetically. I sat through lecture and workshop and acquired piece by piece my writing tool belt. And just like Batman’s utility belt, there’s more there than you would ever think possible.  Nevertheless it’s still packed in there.

(I know I’m rambling now, but I needed to just spill a few thoughts and the way they came to me.)

Writing came to me slowly, as a process, one small fragment at a time.  And as I reflect on my skills, I realize that everything I learned back when I wondered if I was ever going to use it in my life…well…I still use them. These skills and shortcuts and secrets and styles—they are all a part of me. My own voice and style are a reflection of all the reading and writing I have ever done. Even the words I scribbled on the tiny Fisher Price desk with a chalkboard with yellow chalk that always squeaked and sent goose bumps racing over my body (They are visible now as I relive that memory.) helped lay a foundation, helped me to become the writing superhero I pretend to be. It’s up to me—jumping back to the Batman metaphor—to help them pack their utility belts, so they can use the tools whenever they need them. Okay, now that I think about it, I'm probably more like Inspector gadget than Batman, but the idea is the same.

Because I know hardly anyone will ever read this far, I’ll wrap up simply asserting that the writer I am today is because of the patchwork I stitched together from so many others. To the many, thank you. And as I try to instill similar skills in the nebulous minds of my students, I hope that some of them will also realize that I am just adding a piece to their puzzle. For some, it will just be a small patch of sky that blends in with the rest of their life’s panorama, but for others, I may be the red roofed villa in the hills that serves a s a focal point that gets the puzzle started within the boundaries of its frame. And yet for others, I may even be a straight-edged side, or even a corner foundation, from which the puzzle of their lives begin to take shape.

That’s enough of the metaphors, but I hope you know what I mean. Just take life, and writing, one piece at a time. And when the pieces don’t always fit, it may be time for a new puzzle. Either that or you just need to re-cut them to make them fit.

Can anybody tell me what this is supposed to be?

Teach Me How to Write a Poem

(This is to make up for December 27, 2013. See? I haven't forgotten.)

            At the beginning of the school year, I decided to host a poetry group during our school’s release time where students can come in and get extra help or participate in an enrichment activity. And to be honest, the results haven’t been too positive. The most students I get on a Thursday morning is two. Some days only one or the other will appear. Sometimes, I sit by myself and ponder what it would be like to stare out a window (since I have none) and petition the muses to club me over the head or drop me into the pit of inspiration. See also Billy Collins’s poem “Monday.”

            For the longest time, only one young man, a former student of mine, came in and we would discuss how to read poetry—where to breathe and emphasize words. He would ask for my suggestions on pieces he had written for his creative writing class. It was comfortable.

            Then one day, he didn’t come. Instead a small, bespectacled, or rather be-Coke-bottled, seventh grade girl squeaked in just as the bell rang. Feeling like a giant, I asked, “What can I do for you today? Are you looking for the study hall?”

            She crinkled her nose, pushed up her glasses, and stared me in the face. “Mr. Anson?” Pause. “Could you teach me how to write a poem?”

            I had no idea who she was or how she knew who I was.

            She blinked again—big eyes magnified by the big, black rims.

            “Sure,” I stammered, unsure of where to begin. “What kind of poem do you want to write? A haiku? I thought this was a logical place to start as my 9^th grade honors class was hosting the annual zombie haiku contest in conjunction with Halloween.

            “No. I want to write a good poem. How do I begin?”

            And begin we did, starting with a discussion on imagery, appealing to the five senses, and the use of figurative language. We discussed the fact that poems filled with empty emotion are only good for emo bands. We talked about avoiding tired phrases and images and looking at ordinary objects and situations from different perspectives. We talked more about form poetry versus free verse—the freedoms, limitations, and challenges of each. She sat, nodding in parts of my deluge of poetic spouting.

When she didn’t respond conversationally, I assumed she had drowned in the informational downpour. I supposed I should scale it back, so I asked what she wanted to write a poem about.

            Blink. Head tilt. “Morning,” she finally replied.

            I suggested framing a specific setting for the images, and she chose winter. We brainstormed a list of visual images: things you normally see in the morning, things you hear, smell, taste, or feel. I presumed she would want to write about Christmas morning or a school morning or some other cliché morning.

            “What is the first thing you associate with the morning?” I asked.

            Without hesitation, she replied, “Exhaust.”

            And that’s when I knew that she had been listening, absorbing everything that I had lectured not minutes before. It was impossible to conceal my grin. I felt it spreading like an accident down a toilet training toddler’s leg.

I know that I am not the wordsmith I would like to be, and that my poetry will probably never influence the masses, but in that moment, it was reconfirmed to me how powerful poetry can be. One simple image, one connected heartstring, one sliver of light cutting through the darkness can change your perspective or the direction from which the shadows are cast.

I wish someone would have taught me how to write a poem.

Canned Snippets (Not Quite as Long a Shelf Life as Vienna Sausage

I've tried to blog several times since the end of last school year.  Honestly, I'm getting so frustrated that my writing groove took a hiatus (beware the groove), that I'm almost desperate.  Like Macklemore, I'm ready to take your grandpa's style (Can I have your grandpa's style?) and raid the thrift shop for some hand-me-downs.  I'm not all the way back yet, but I thought I would drop a couple snippets since I haven't posted in three months.

13 August 2013

Writing with fresh ideas is like cooking with fresh ingredients.  You don't have to reconstitute anything.  No adding water or thawing needed. Sure, you can cook some pretty darn good stuff with mixes out of a box or can, but there's nothing like fresh, original thoughts.  This post, for example, had to be put on ice since I'm traveling and don't really have a way to do anything but preserve my thought in a few notes.  Yes, I'll get to it by and by, but it won't hold the same appeal (or nutritional value) of using it when it was fresh.

(...as self-fulfilled by me posting this two weeks later.  I've had some other ideas percolating, but either I haven't had the time or the energy or the right pictures.  Yes, folks, I will be posting pictures in the near future.)  Here are a few more rambles that didn't really go anywhere.

29 July 2013

Last night I attempted to write about my experience at Arlington National Cemetery, and the over-used adage about missing something one day and I feel it, missing two days and those close to me can feel it, missing more than that and the general public can tell; well, anyone who might still be reading this should be able to tell by now that I am off my groove with most everything (except eating, that is).  Writing comes in at the top of the list; however, even reading for pleasure has been more of a chore lately.  I realized this as I forced myself to stay up late to read Doyle's "The Speckled Band" over two nights, when it's normally one of my favorite Holmes mysteries.  It should only take me 20 minutes or so.  How sad is that?

As I type and retype and retype this in my WiFi-deficient hotel room, I reconfirm all theories and postulates and such regarding the need for consistent literary practice. To show you how bas it really is, I don't even know where a pen is at this moment.  And I usually carry one everywhere!

So now, as my family sleeps soundly, and I fumble in the dark on my too-small iPad keyboard, I resolve to never let myself become so deficient with my reading and writing again.

To start out, Ill try to get back on track by blogging a little more.  Some of you have noticed that I haven't done that since May.  Yikes!

28 July 2013

After lunch, Amy, Kevin, Brad, Brian, and I visited Arlington National Cemetery.  I had never been, and I have to say, that it was a very cool experience--one that I will always remember.

The sporadic drizzle that broke through grey skies felt refreshing in the high humidity, which, by the way, soaked us more than the light rain.  I haven't sweat like that in quite a while.  And it was only around 87 degrees.

Arriving 15 minutes before the changing of the guard, we hoofed  it (and huffed) across the grounds to witness one of the coolest rites I have experienced.  Pondering the symbolism, the simplicity, and the crisp elegance to which the soldiers performed their duties, I stood as the solemnity washed over me.  As we hiked up to the Confederate Memorial, I commented to my brother-in-law that I think (and I still think) that I was more impressed with this changing than that of the guards at Buckingham Palace.  Sure, the pomp and ceremony is overwhelming--bright colors, giant crowds, fuzzy hats-- (SWITCH THIS PARAGRAPH AROUND).

On a lighter note, we ran into one of my former students at Arlington house.  I seriously can't go anywhere (even 2200 miles away) without running into one of them, can I?

We also saw the gravestone of Abner Doubleday.  And I honestly don't care if he wasn't really the "inventor" of baseball, it was just cool to see.  Some loyal fan left an homage of two baseballs on its ledge.

The flame at JFK's grave reminded me of the flame for the soldiers' monument in Philadelphia.  Wet, hot, but very cool.

Despite all the screwy things that happen in our country and in the world, regardless of the corruption that runs rampant through all aspects of life, there are some things that are good and proper and right.

Blah.  More thoughts are on the way, and despite all my less-than-adamant protestations that writing about what I did over summer vacation being boring and pointless in most cases, I'll even let y'all in on the goings on of the fam.

P.S.  Check back later and I may have added some pictures to this post as well.  Then again, maybe not.