Verdant Vagrant

This blog here is a creative experiment. I would like to call it a day in the life but that's stupid. This is more than just a day in my life, it is a lifetime in a day. What effects me? What things in my past have an influence on my daily experiences and thought processes. Am I over thinking you say? That is okay.

Do not encapsulate me as one would encapsulate a theory,

Analyze an allegory or breathe a heavy sigh upon hearing a sonata,

There is nothing lamentable about me.

In all my subtleties, in all my joy,

In my greatest despair, under life’s steady wear,

I sway and stumble, blur, whisk, smell,

Strike my eyes to the ground, back up upon a stray sentiment,

Only to avert them once more, tumble beneath me,

You stones of men, behind me, beside me,

Ahead of me, the weary treads on,

I am somnolent in the morning,

I am taciturn in the many,

In the few I dote daintily upon something new,

Pining for someone to tell, yet pushing and excluding

Those who could never know,

How longing unfolds and stretches its languid tendrils,

Gripping my heart, pumping its poisons into my head,

Concentration, the clock, my shoes, toothpaste, coffee,

My shirt, my pants, the strange glance from my neighbour,

Finally my pen, etching across the blank page.

My head returns atop its body, subdues vivid emotions.

However it is in my quiet hours, that I still glance around the room,

And notice how silent it is, how lonely it is.

I am a world within a world,

Why do I build castles to be destroyed?

On the brink of existence, far from anywhere I belong,

The sand sifts through my toes,

And yet the world rolls on, its foamy waves crash into my keep,

Flooding the towers and the dungeons,

Obliterating the honour and the sordid.

The guards were always fickle, with each imparting folk;

A new face to show their pedestrian subjects.

A new face to show the enemy, and who is my enemy?

The world and its walls of water, hurling themselves at my ramparts?

Its shape vaulting me over the horizon as I stand upon a distant hill,

I look upon what is before me, the pollen of a sweet spring,

As it dances on a fragrant wind.

Everyone is so small, their colours so muted.

Yet they do not stand out, they do not intrude upon the tranquil scene.

Should I force myself into this landscape?

Discolour the harmony, to penetrate the palette?

Who am I but another speck in the distance?

Who am I but everything?

How can you explain everything?

I am of this world, I am of you, you of me.

Do not try to label me.

Do not try to marginalize me.

You are a hater of man.

You are my bane, perfidious, despotic.

Sit and hear me talk as my words glide softly towards you.

Take my hand, and know that I am you, I see you, and you see me.

Is my visage pleasant? Shall I depart never to return?

Say the word and it should be so.

I do not mean to intrude; I am not in the mood

To deal with disparity.

I am radiant; do not cast your shadows upon my glow.

But as we go, you encroach, my brilliance is mired,

The buzzing of the city comes in, and man destroys me.

How can we exist together and never cause malice, nor hate?

Realize I am infinity and you will never cease to be surprised,

By what I contain, what you obtain.

We are all apart, the prism is broken, shattered upon the field.

But, there shall be some repose,

A solve for all your woes.

An end to my longing:

Let me paint my picture my way, you shall cast a verdant hue,

A rich blue, a regal purple.

And as for me, I will present you one of my faces,

Whichever shows, it shall match your composition just as well.

Do not hate, do not impose.

For we can mash our colours together,

So that they do not oppose.

Did I just say I should not try to encapsulate myself as one would a theory? Yes, correct. That is the purpose of this project. It is fragmented, it should be unending, though for lack of vigor it will end at some point. So a series of post will guide me through a typical day, to other topics and off and off into my own self. In the end will I get some type of concrete picture of who I am? Doubtless not. But, that's not the point of this project.

The day began simple enough, after someone knocking on our door at about three in the morning asking for our neighbors, I rose at six in the morning, my bags packed and ready to depart. It took about twenty minutes for the Aircoach to the airport to arrive. I settled down, relaxed that I was finally on my way. I gandered at my flight itinerary to check my departure gate. My stomach erupted with anxiety, my flight was at 8:15. I cursed myself for my stupidity, I had mixed up my November flight to Munich with the current one. The ominous crimson clock at the front of the bus glared at me; it was 7:25 and I was barely past O’Connell Street. My feet shook with impatience with every stop. I called my mom, disconsolate over the fact I’d have to buy another ticket—standard Ryanair practice. I sprinted through the airport, out of breath by the time I reached security.

I reached the gate at 7:55 and, surprisingly, with time to spare. I heaved a sigh of relief and got in line for departure. Lulled into security, I handed the dispatcher my pass, he glanced it over then looked back at me.

“Do you know you’re supposed to have this part stamped where it says Visa?”

I had missed my chance to do that. “Seriously?” He nodded. “I had no idea.”

I had an anxious feeling that despite everything I'd still have to buy another ticket. I had been so close. He then, to my surprise, ripped it, “Tell the people on the plane the dispatch has the top part of your ticket.”

I thanked him profusely. Buoyant, I walked briskly to my plane. I was going to London, the capital of the greatest empire the world had known, to walk the streets that kings had before me.

I landed and London was wrapped, to my great pleasure, in a floating shield of fog. I was practically skipping and in my wake I hummed the chorus to Rule Britannia. Luton was about an hour from city center, but that did nothing to dim my excitement. I alighted at Blackfriars station and with no sense of direction wandered down Victoria Street until I found my way to Cannon Street and rounded the corner to the imposing façade of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Its dome stretched into the sky and its base was broad and strong. As I’d come to remark about much of London, it was quite impressive. I advanced across the Thames, it was expansive and coursing. It cut straight through the heart of London; a mass of buildings crowded each bank. I walked for about four hours before meandering to the hostel. On the way I passed Shakespeare’s Globe; the London Eye, Parliament and Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey. After checking in I decided to explore some more. I was not disappointed by any of what I saw. I passed by Big Ben and Parliament again, this time stopping for coffee, ironically, in the Methodist Hall. Onward to St. James’s Park I went until I emerged upon Buckingham Palace. Queen Victoria stood vigilant in front, the words “Regina Imperatrix” carved boldly into the base. A Queen and an Empress, surrounded by monuments to all her once dominions. The British look lamentably back at their Empire, surrounding themselves with memories of it, as masses of tourists jam in front of the palace to take pictures. I was one of them.

I continued my tour of London through Green Park and into Hyde Park; but by then I was so tired I broke down and took the tube back to my hostel. I engaged a British Army paratrooper who was staying in my room in some conversation. He was an interesting chap; he and his wife were divorcing and he was waiting for the army to set him up with a place to live. He told me the British Army was the greatest in the world, that the marines had nothing on the SAS. His own conviction was enough to convince me. He had seen service in Iraq and Afghanistan, and was able to deploy at a 200 feet drop. I didn’t even know what to say other than “Wow." As much as I disapprove of our presence in other countries, you have to admire such conviction.

The next day, as Mike joined me, we began at the Imperial War Museum. It was fascinating to see World War II from a more intimate perspective, there was even a woman who had been evacuated from London as a child on hand to talk to school groups about the experience. It must have seemed like the world was ending in a grand, explosive spectacle. The ruins of society standing tall, with St. Paul’s dome hanging stalwart in the distance, illuminated among the smolder.

We then went to the Natural History Museum, followed by the Victoria and Albert museum, full of over 3,000 years of art. We then mosied onto the with the British Museum, which held statues taken from the Parthenon in the early 19^th century. And then of course we finished our night with an obligatory dish of fish and chips.

The next day, still tired from about eight hours of walking and from being kept up from what must have been death groans from the person above me, we departed. That day was to be a grand excursion! And it was. By the end of it, we had seen the Tower of London, the Crown Jewels, looked down upon London from the top of the Tower Bridge, toured Shakespeare’s Globe, and been daunted by the interior of the magnificent dome of St. Paul’s. We ended the night with Avenue Q on West End. Its irreverent take on Sesame Street was a laugh riot. They managed to work in a few relevant jokes. In one of the numbers, this one about the selfish nature of giving, the lead found a British pound, and remarked, “You can’t buy anything with that.” At the end, with the moral of the parable being “Your tragedies are just for now”, they blasted out, “Swine flu is just for now.” Truly inspiring and quite pertinent concerning the current recession and flu epidemic.

The next day was a long one. It began with a service in Westminster Abbey. I turned to Mike and remarked, “What do you think they’d say if they knew we were Catholic?” The inside was littered with powerful statues of Kings, Queens, Admirals and Prime Ministers. The large organ boomed and the choir echoed into the vaults above. We then walked to Buckingham Palace. We first toured the Queen’s Galleries, to some colorful and dramatic Peter Paul Rubens paintings, glorifying the monarchy in mythological allegory. Next were the Royal Mews, which contained beautifully adorned carriages and a fully operational riding school. Kensington Palace was after that; its state apartments were once inhabited by Queen Victoria herself as a child. We finished off with some Indian food, and began our homelessness. Mike and I then wandered around for about an hour taking epic pictures of ourselves in front of Big Ben and Westminster. We had all night. After all, we were homeless in London. I decided to have a couple drinks to ease the burden. We walked up the street, and to our chagrin, found an Irish pub. We laughed knowingly, because anything bearing the name O’Neill—the name of the pub—reeks of Irish stereotype.

After spending about two hours in the train station waiting to get to the airport, another three in the airport, one on the plane, and another on the aircoach, which didn’t know about a marathon taking place on O’Connell Street, we finally made it home. I slept from 11 am till 7pm. I felt as if I had just experienced a whole city and culture in a weekend. Like I had seen the grandeur and splendor of the former capital of the world. It seemed like it had whizzed by, fragmented, yet alluring. London, I will return one day.

Killarney lay in front of us, over the lazy countryside of Ireland that stretched out in all directions through the train window. Bales of hay lay amiably with spotted cows and green hills. The Irish countryside is truly a thing to behold, as pastoral as it is alluring.

The train ride was equally as interesting as I made a fool out of myself in my own bombastic personality. But it was all good fun. We arrived in Killarney to a quaint town. The buildings were vibrant, shops of all kind. It was clear from the get go that the town’s main industry was tourism as I noticed the myriad of gift shops. The dreary skies cast a gloom upon the town, accenting the recession; the town was a lot quieter than I had expected it to be. Especially considering that Kerry—Killarney’s county—was in the all Ireland Gaelic Football Championship. Yet, despite this the town was still able to retain some of its own charm in the narrow streets and picturesque pubs.

The first night was uneventful, which made the next day even more stupefying and ridiculous. Brooke and Mike K (Denver Mike), clearly the adventurous ones of the group were first to rise and rally the rest of us. The chances of me waking up before noon on a Saturday upon my own full volition are about as good as getting me to go to church, which coincidentally is normally before noon anyway, OH NO DOUBLE NEGATIVE.

Bypassing a shower, we began our trek. Mike K, Mike D (California Mike) and Brooke leading the way, while Steph, Meg and I lagged behind in a sloppy and haphazard sleep-induced daze. Now you remember the song for Gilligan’s Island? Let me revise those lyrics if you so please:

“Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale of a fateful trip
Around these large lakes
The Skipper and mate, Brooke and Mike
And four other pedestrians
Went on a four-hour hike

Here they are
They're now stuck in a bog
But that's not the end of our tale
Here they are on the slope of a mountain
With Tom
And his two other friends

The weather was getting so poor and rough
And if not for the courage of the few
Oh our gleeful group would have been lost

We tread through mud and dew, off the trail too,
Brooke and both Mikes,
Tom, Steph and Meg
And the rest are here in Killarney National Park

This is the tale of our renegades
They’re here for a long time
These guys will have to make the best of these
It's an uphill climb
So join us here each week
I know you'll get a smile
From those six stranded castaways
Here in Killarney National Park”

After eight hours of hiking around Killarney National park, we finally made our way back to our hostel. Yet, this post would be lacking if I did not recount some of the absurdity. At first it began well enough. About 20 minutes in, I was completely drenched for my lack of a rain coat, having jeans that needed a hemming, and wearing a pair of cloth shoes. We went through the main entrance to find the lakes laying before us. The mountains to the side sharply contrasted the valley which expanded across the skyline. A heavy fog truncated the tops of the mountains, mysteriously leading them into the unknown. We trekked around the lakes and towards the mountains as we began our uphill climb. Did I mention I’m not a morning person? Meg and I fell to the back as we joked of how we would perish for sure on the mountain. I pretty much saved her life actually.

After we had passed the beautiful Torc Waterfall, we elected to deviate from the path. I fell several times in the mud. It then wasn’t long before we realized that our impetuous venture off the path had actually led us parallel to it. We abandoned our off road quest hastily. The morning people, Brooke and the Mikes to be specific, decided to chance another one. I quickly forwent that idea with a “Fuck that” and decided a more prudent course would dovetail with my sleepwalking. So up Meg, Steph, and I went along the path. And lo and behold, we found the actual way to the top of the mountain, complete with a wooden walkway and stepping stones. Cut scene to Brooke, Mike and Mike, wading waist deep through a bog and climbing over a hedge of prickly bushes. The clouds rolled away and as if by an act of providence rays of sunlight shot through; we had reached the top of the mountain. I firmly planted an American flag at the top and claimed all the land in the name of Manifest Destiny. Boo yeah.

Before leaving we descended fully into the valley of the lakes and were rewarded with one of the most majestic sights in all of Ireland, a vast and tranquil lake back dropped by clear and beaming skies and green mountains. The way back seemed utterly unending as we were all weighed down by our equal exhaustion. Meg remarked, “I feel like a 95 year old woman.”

And I rebutted, “Not until you start crapping your pants.”

Brooke informed us during our repose that we had in fact hiked about 15 miles. We quickly collapsed, all soggy and worn out messes into our beds. The rest of the night consisted of watching movies in the lounge.

Sunday was casual. Brooke and Mike K departed for Ross castle, the rest of us politely declined. Meg, Steph, and I all went shopping, while Mike D went back to the hostel. I got stuck with boyfriend duty holding all their stuff, which is about a degrading as being a talking coat rack. But, I took to it dutifully. We then made our way to a pub to walk the Kerry vs. Cork Gaelic Football Championship. Imagine American football, soccer, volleyball and basketball rolled into one and you have Gaelic football. Though I was interested, I couldn’t help but chuckle at Steph’s graceful sleep waltz which consisted of an almost rhythmic bowing of her head up and down in time to avoid it smacking squarely on the table.

We left for home at 6:20, somnolent and ready for our own beds as the sun cast an evening glow upon our trip back.

The following week a few things of interested happened. I was cast in the chorus for the musical after receiving a call back for the lead. It was rigged obviously. Arthur’s Day, in its whole drunken debauchery, took place throughout the city; though I was a bit incongruent, as sober as I was for the occasion. Unfortunately, my school work has shifted to the backburner a bit amid such trifling times. In fact, I’m off to read Caleb Williams right now. Toodaloo!

Beyond the rainy haze of the Dublin sky, the sun lies asleep, swaddled in a cotton swab cradle jumbled with murky moisture, as if a painter’s stroke had fallen too far into the rising smokestacks on the ground below and muddled all the whites and putrid grays together. It yawns with a brilliance and huffs all the clouds and haze away. A blue tide washes over the heavenly sphere and small dollops of foam float carelessly over its surface. Upon a precarious precipice I stand, as the world rolls over into the horizon, one way into unending fields, and the other into interminable sloshing depths.

Since coming here it has been one vibrant, but intense, mix of sleep deprivation, alcohol, and an exploration of my own condition. Two Thursdays ago I was apt to indulge in my own reckless age performance, aka pub hopping in Temple Bar and a drunken shwarma sauce beard to accompany our ramblings with a drunken Irish crackhead who had just come home to divorce papers on his dining room table. Poor lad.

It is such a strange thing to find yourself completely isolated, to fight with your own human nature to attach to social interaction and proximity, so as to not place your dreams and hopes under the foot of a clumsy elephant. "I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams." I’ve already experienced an interesting mix of people here, people at first who seem genuine, only reveal their festering innards within days. Empathy is at worst selfish, and rarely genuine in its infancy. Case in point: John McGuinness. At first I was a bit put off by his incongruent attire and demeanor. I should have followed that intuition and avoided him. He’s turned out to be a belligerent misanthrope, quick to intrude and equally sharp to prove callous. While frequenting a pub he quickly made it clear that he was American with his arrogant disruptiveness. I lowered my head in a tacit scolding, hoping to disassociate myself with such assertive, blatant, and embarrassing American imperialism. Despite this, I have found a group of friends which seem accepting and genuine in their generosity.

This last weekend Brooke, Mike, his visiting girlfriend Allie, and I decided to make some amorous sojourns into the suburbs of Dublin. First was Dun Laoghaire, a beautiful port town with magnificent houses barricading the inland. We made our way around to neighboring towns, past the Martello tower where Ulysses begins, which hung perilously out in the bay, stalwart and lonely, waiting to be washed by the tide. Bray was the next day, which was flocked with people frantic to bathe in the sun before it disappears indefinitely for the winter. Bray’s Head hung in the distance, a mountain perched upon the coast line, the large cross on the top casting its shadow upon all of Ireland. At the peak, the bay was clear for miles. The cerulean hue of the ocean blurred at the horizon with the sweet blue of the sky. Off to the west were the Wicklow Mountains which bended into a vast, green, mysterious and radiant country side.

The following day Brooke and I visited Howth, the northernmost peninsula of Dublin Bay. The perilous and peaked cliffs were what I had expected to see when I first came to Ireland, like a dark and omnipotent monolith, towering against the whirling white foam crashing into it. On the way to the top of the cliffs we passed a house in which W.B. yeats had lived between 1880-1883. He must have treaded softly indeed in his house hanging over certain doom. The cliffs were spectacular, a true momento mori as one sees the craggy, horned rocks below and imagines the simple step one would have to abandon everything upon, hoping to land upon “The blue and the dim and the dark clothes of night and light and the half-light”, but being poor having to rely on their own dreams to catch them in an incorporeal embrace. Oh, but to be able soar over all that sharp intolerance and sardonic buzzing, sawing, clanking, yelling, and crying into the place where the heavens and sea blur. But, for now I’ll settle for just being in fair Eire.

The coming week involved a course in reality for the freshers (freshmen) frequenting the campus as they realized attending class might be a good idea. My lectures seemed interesting enough, even though I have ended up in a Romanticism class which so far seems to scream against what I believe. Maybe that’s just Edmund Burke’s paternal ramblings. Though perhaps I will find some profound interest in the exultation of the self in nature that poets like John Keats so beautifully express. The week also afforded a few new friends, California Mike (well technically I met him on the Thursday of the previous week), Steph and Meg. Without much delay we all (Denver Mike, Brooke, Meg, Steph, Cali Mike, and I) had already planned Taco Night on Wednesday and a weekend trip down to Killarney. Which is where my next post will take us to, the SPRAWLING mountains of the Irish countryside.

Riverrun down the Liffey and upon a tumbling two-story bus which scampers through the streets of Dublin and South towards Belfield, the ground sodden with rain never stoops under my reckless weight. Though the sullen streets speckled with litter are overwrought, still dwarfed by the ominous shadow which hangs upon the frontage of Dublin Castle, there is a Celtic tiger which leaps forward and fumes against its former master. Yet its stripes have faded and its claws have been trimmed by American decadence. It feigns and redraws, to once again lay with the lamb it once so adored.

Yes, the Celtic Tiger took off in Ireland, a huge economic boom which gave Ireland the sixth highest per capita income in the world. This tiger had managed to emerge from the former abhorrent and gloomy English aristocracy holed up in Dublin Castle (the seat of British power for many centuries). Is there something to be learned by the Irish striving to be too like us Americans? I believe so. There is a real resentment among the people. Two young Celts approached us in a bar in Temple Bar, passing out fliers execrating Neo-Nazism in Dublin. How far has the serpent of vanity and greed slithered between the toes of Dubliners that such blatant hate could ever emerge?

With sincere confidence I would like to say there is verily a faith in human-kind which pervades the Irish spirit. It weathers the rain, and paints the Wicklow Mountains a serene and prominent green, gentle and nurturing the soul. The verdant hills are fecund, and clear for miles, as ubiquitous as the selfless nature of this grand race. I can see how Ireland is wary of the EU, for their confidence in one another is so fervent yet tacit that to extend that acceptance to so many other disingenuous Europeans might forever swallow it up.

Yet despite this rising resentment, the descending hills of the Wicklow Mountains remain as fertile as ever. I have found the utmost ease in approaching anyone in Ireland with my troubles. In return, I have been gifted simple and bright grace. But, to the Irish it is not a gift, it is a necessity. No wonder the country has been glazed in bountiful palettes of green, for they most certainly do nurture one another as if they were each other’s brother. I have already met three Irish girls who talked my ear off about cultural differences, so that I would understand better. And then without delay offered to show me around outside the city on our next meeting. There is never a bus driver unwilling to let you off where you need to be, to give you directions, or hold up an entire bus of people in order that you might gather yourself. People smile at you as you pass, say hello as you wander. Why just the other night we were reprimanded by security officers for carrying beer around. He then promptly advised us to acquire a better stout. Dublin is crowded, but not frantic. Somehow the putrefaction that infuses interaction in cities such as New York has not reached this isolated island.

Though hardship has hit the island like an afternoon rainfall, unexpected and inundating, I do not expect this Irish spirit to be washed away by the oncoming tide. For Éire has known hardship, and has dealt with it by strengthening their faith in one another.

I soar as the world vaults me through its burning rondure. The red bleeds sweetly into the clouds. A crimson tide rolls over my visage, washing the sorrow away. I am calm, but full of rage. Full of embers that singe under the dying sun and cast a serene glow down the sloping hills and budding trees of Northern Maryland. And with several roars I am airborne. On to unfathomable depths, normally forfeit, murky, clammy with a malevolent dew, an oppressive air, a basilisk horribly ravaged by Herculean conformities, sniveling in the dark, his eyes demonic fireflies. But my own being is majestic and supernal, ineffable yet laudable. It paints the macabre valley a brilliant red, it flows with the emerald isle, as I return so many years later to forge within my own soul that by which I exist.

And so my journey began on Aer Lingus. A dreadful bore before left me at the airport for three solid hours. Where just to be ironic I played Medieval 2: Total War Britannia and conquered most of Scotland with some of my flippant Irish lads. I had a whole row to myself on the flight, and a whole head of hangover from my cousins wedding the previous night. That didn’t stop the airplane, but it barely stopped my gag reflex. It would be a flight of about 4 hours. I can’t sleep in public spaces, however. The noise gets on my nerves and then I get so flustered my body keeps me awake in protest to my mind’s admonition. Which makes absolutely no sense, for it is my body that is tired, not my mind. That it would protest so is utterly paradoxical. So instead I watched The Soloist, almost cried by the end, and then closed my eyes in a vain attempt to find rest.

Dublin was drenched yet everything I expected. Rainy, chilly, but unperturbed. A calm hung in the air, buoyant under my own excitement that I was in the land of my ancestors. As if some blood knowledge had kicked in. That’s mostly just silly verbose grammar, but I was as exhilarated as the radiance that hung beyond the hazy sky.

Two Americans notied my college acceptance letter and we quickly found solidarity with each other. I made my way on, so as not to impose, yet struck up another conversation with them at the baggage claim. Something about transportation. And lo and behold, the younger of the two’s father had already hired a valet. She kindly offered a ride to me and the other American. So we were off in our small American enclave deep within Irish culture.

The regular niceties ensued. The younger, Brooke, was from Maryland as well; the older, Sarah (who was 27), from Colorado. Brook gave the impression of the normal American college student: not too interested in much beyond trying to fit in. Sarah’s quirky and ditsy coquettish demeanor reeked of sorority girl. But these were just gut feelings, which should never be ignored however, just secreted away for calculating conversation topics.

After we were unable to find our apartment we waited in the rain for the office to open for an hour and then parted ways. With a crushing force my body collapsed into bed, weary and bewildered.

I awoke to six rowdy Irish gents. One barged in after I turned my light on, and retreated like a scolded animal when I spoke up. I waited until one mentioned American football to introduce myself in the common room. True to my race, only considering what interests me. Perpetuation of race stereotypes sometimes gives you something to talk about, in a somewhat demeaning insidious way.

Only one of them was actually living with me, a burly rugby player who I know had taken a shining or two. His name was David, a law student who could enforce his own legality with his tenacity.

They soon left for some “cans” over in another dorm. Sure to raise hell in their own native land, in order to one day claim it.

My other roommate arrived soon after, an American from Colorado. I was relieved and disappointed at the same time. Relieved I would not have fight for social survival among two foreigners, but disappointed that I would not have to. The rest of the night consisted of a trip to the Wal-Mart-like Tesco fifteen minutes away and a round of drinks at the ON CAMPUS bar. Did I mention the bar was on campus? I could only imagine the law suits in America.

Anyways, after that I hit the hay hard and woke up the next day at 2pm. Fantastic! My trip is off to an utterly sublime beginning!