Upon my arrival, I can tell from her raspy greeting they had been singing at the studio piano then likely singing a capella instead of being at task for this interminable sitting. The walls seem to pulsate with absorbed melodies and laughter. If I put my fingers on the plaster, would they palpate vibrations?
Her mother started this project with Sargent. An expense, as he is known to be slow. But she wanted her daughter portrayed as she was when engaged. Prima del matrimonio. Who knows what I, as the mid-tier career soldier, might do to diminish her daughter? She will tell my children “Your mother was a great beauty.” with a grand gesture toward the portrait.
I am not a fool. I see an aspect of Elsie coming through. Sargent’s warm regard in wanting her. I lean over his shoulder and note the blush and exaggerated care given to her lips. As I loom he is silent, not from bravery but a worry a tremble in his voice may reveal too much. Famous as he is, he is still vulnerable and must fear a bad report. Yet he knows I will not pounce upon his work. His creation will outlast this room and my review. His desire imbues her portrait and becomes what she exudes for him. I have earned and sustained my higher station, but my victories on the field and maneuvers in this scene may not last as long as this portrait. His strategy is longer.
In her cool appraisal of those who evaluate her, the flush of her cheeks, this portrait is Elizabeth as a maiden. As she stands apart from me now, a laugh still in her stance, has she been girlish with him? I do not think she would be so rude as to bite her lip and act less womanly than she is. That may put him off, too. Knowing her power, and knowing it is accentuated by being not yet attained. She is not flighty here, she is strong. She knows and has lived, much by what we have shared. Her mother is not getting the portrait she wanted. That is gratifying.
And I indulge Elsie. No, too patronizing. I endure from others the whispers, asides, occasional daring remark in my presence that Elsie’s avocation and accomplishments as a concert singer are déclassé.
But it fills her. To see her take savor and draw in the air, bosom rising, delay before her note, knowing she could convey so much in her lilting soprano then drop to a feral resonance. Where will she go? Follow her training? Let the spirit take the moment? She is lost and happy and delirious in the suspension of the world and those fixed on her. We are held in thrall. She is happy. Obliged to perform, but the setting is of her choosing. Let them natter on in parties. She feeds from us. I am among those feeling within her and sustaining her. Admiring her as the room does, coveting my own all the more as others covet her. Then, her decision or spirit assented to, the note selected, force sanctioned, she carries us all along again.
And, my hand will be on the upper side of her hips, John, as her hand is posed off her waist. I will hold her there as she’s straddled over me to fix her in place. And her left hand will be set over mine to pin her even more. She will press on me with the assurance and lovely heft you have conveyed so well, John. And before then the palm of her right hand will tend to my need, wrapped with confidence as on the rim of your sitting chair. Yes, Sargent, those hands are daring and skilled and loving and clever and I know you have made a guess that is so, but I see you do not know from experience. You have posed her hands in speculation. I am amused.
This is a painting of allegation, admiration, want, abundance, poise. Her bosom is a marvel. I have seen our child feed there, and I still have desire and feel relief to take refuge and time there. And she lets me. Her soldier is happy there. And I am happy to make her happy.
“We are obliged to leave soon.” I say glancing at the clock on the wall. Strong chance Sargent’s clock is not accurate. Stronger chance any array of clocks he may have here do not corroborate one another.
Mrs. George Swinton (nee Elizabeth “‘Elsie” Ebsworth) painted by John Singer Sargent
“What time is it?” Elsie says. Her voice evenly modulated. I do not think Sargent would truly do anything untoward. He tantalizes himself. I look at the nearest clock again.
“It’s 22 past six.” Recital at 8. Reception at 9. Would she wear this ensemble? He paints her in white and coppery pearlish taupe. She stands now in royal blue. He is using her expression and proportions. She will not need a change tonight.
After the recital: praise, and flattery, and as she is flush with regard and expression I shall take her home, and we will bid the help good night then gaze upon our infant son asleep in the cradle then adjourn to our chambers. I will pin her down by her left wrist, leaving her right hand and my left to wander as they please, and I shall take her as she is arrayed now. She will see how what she set in motion by my catching her in this scene in the studio and her later scenes this evening will culminate in the light in my eyes fueled from the swells of desire from the crowds of men and envious women channeled and churning through me and she will be well pleased and sleep soundly and it will be a good morning.
All this week, my daughter was scheduled for Zoo Camp. My son didn’t have anything scheduled.
I had to work, and my mom was willing to have him stay for four days.
Got him back Thursday night, and wasn’t sure what to do. Then decided to cut work and spend Friday with just him.
He’s 11, and signs are accruing that puberty encroaches. Height increasing. Closes the door to his room a lot. More guarded about changing his clothes, bathing, growing sense of privacy.
We dropped his sister off at Zoo Camp, then strolled around the Zoo for several hours. I gave him the map and let him navigate. We weren’t in a hurry.
We boarded the Zoo Train (I hadn’t been on for a decade or so) and I noticed dark hairs on his legs. I said (quietly) “You’re growing up. Your leg hairs are darker.” “Not as dark as yours” “You’re getting there, though. It’s good to see you growing up.” He smiled. We talked about growing up and being able to drive, and going to college, and other milestones only 5-7 years away.
See the bag of green candy? Sour Skittles. He was MISERLY with them. I only got four, once he gave me three. A second time, one. He worked on that regular-size bag for about two hours. Hope he holds to that Golden Mean.
From the Zoo we went downtown. I let him pick lunch (noodles), and we went for ice cream. We read for about an hour and a half in the library (Me – reading on an artwork to write about, J – Fellowship of the Ring). Then he wanted to see if there were books on martial arts. I made him ask at the information desk and he was directed to a shelf of them. After about 20 minutes of browsing, he picked one. Checked it out, we were on our way.
Outside of the library, he asked me what sixth, seventh, and eighth grades were like for me. I told him they were tough for almost everybody. Puberty, confusion, frustration, kids getting more concerned about the body changes and new feelings, and not as attuned to the feelings and needs of others. I also mentioned around 6th grade is when my parents divorced. He listened thoughtfully. I told him he would someday go through those body and feeling changes, and I said I hoped he would come to us with any questions. “I will probably come to you, ” he said, “as it’ll be about boy and man changes.”
Took the light rail back to the Zoo, then sat in the cafeteria and read some more. All four of us met there after my daughter’s Zoo Camp was finished.
Throughout the day, he ran his arm around mine and we walked together arm-in-arm. He said “I don’t feel like holding your hand much anymore, but I do feel like doing this.” I nodded, absorbing the moments.
Later at night, he was speaking with his mom about cell phones. One of his friends recently got one. He wants one, too. “Other kids in class have them, too.” My wife asked: “Do you want one for talking with them?” “No, only my friends.” “Don’t you mean the kids in your class?” “No, I’m not friends with EVERYone in my class.”
Then she discovered he was only friends with the boys in his class. She observed: “That will probably change.”
“Yeah.” He guessed around age 13 he would use the phone to talk with girls. Then around 17 he would be old enough to drive, and then use his phone and car to go pick the girls up.
Rick Santorum would like you to know he is not gay nor a dog rapist, and in no way is a hateful git who deserves the years and years of internet mockery he had coming to him.Doing my part to shore up the 8 year campaign to define (via Google) the gay-bashing, pent-up, milquetoast ninny Rick Santorum.
DEFINITION: SANTORUM
Pronunciation: san-TOR-um Function: noun Etymology: Savage Love – 05/29/03 [Great post, worth reading – Ed.]
1. The frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the by-product of anal sex.
2. Former Senator Rick Santorum
This effort has worked for years, and still holds so strong that Santorum complains about it all the time. Google “Santorum”, gangsta!
Scanning recent photos, came across this one of my meal at Pinocchio Village Haus in the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World from April. It was late at night, and work stuff (really!) kept me and a buddy occupied and we didn’t enter the park until 6:00 p.m. or so. We scurried around from ride to ride, hitting a bad streak of 3 or 4 rides delayed or broken as we were in line. It’s a Small World broke the streak and was smooth sailing on its brackish waters (WDW’s version SO underwhelming compared to Disneyland’s).
I’m a wuss about needing to eat, so it was unusual to have waited until 9 or so. But I was particular about what I wanted after our leisure stress, psychoemotional reversion to childhood, and hunger: Coke, chicken nuggets, French fries, apple slices. BAM!
Chicken nuggets devoured, ate about half the French fries, drank 1/3 the soda pop (HATE diet, but I can rarely bring myself to consume 12 oz. of pop nowadays. The era of guzzling 44 oz. like a Viking returned from the surface of the sun long past) and all of the apples (are ya proud, mom?). It was tasty and stupid expensive but I loved it and we got outta there and jumped back into the fray and kept rolling through the late hours until park closing.
Yes, I’m getting emotional about this meal. When I bond with something, it’s stronger than steel. I wish there were some necromancy that would allow me to summon this meal once more and eat the fuck out of it.
Not 100% sure I had the ranch dressing with the chicken nuggets, but since it’s only us I’ll go ahead and guess that I did.
According to Squarespace analytics, a person using Google in India came across this site using the search term “sex feh”. Wonder how much an SEO consultant would have charged for that return. Is that a market worth targeting? Seems grouchy.
“It has so many AWESOME parts. You simply won’t believe how much this book can change your life.”
“Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, just as it is the spirit of a spiritless situation. It is the opium of the people.”
— Karl Marx, Contribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right
“Hello. My name is Elder Price, and I would like to share with you the most amazing book.”
— Elder Price, The Book of Mormon
When listening to the Broadway soundtrack (and eventually watching the show: YAY!) to the Tony-sweeping The Book of Mormon, I keep thinking of Marx’s compassionate point preceding the “opiate of the people” line.
The musical gets a LOT of deep digs in at Mormonism, but makes a profound point in its savage satire with complex, catchy, funny, moving songs. People need stories, and will adapt stories to resonate with them, no matter how ridiculous their sources. The more oppressed the people, the deeper the wish-thinking in their collective sigh for a tale to tie it all together.
“I’m going to take you back to Blblical times: 1823.”
— Elder Price, The Book of Mormon
Referral form used by Mormon missionaries circa 1993. Yes, my copy.
Joseph Smith, the founding “Prophet” of Mormonism, was a multiple-count convicted con-man “money-digger” who charged money to tell people where treasure was buried by using a sham device. The victims would dig where he told him. When they found nothing, the move was to say “Ah! The treasure must have moved, then. But it USED to be here.”
Smith claimed to be directed by an angel named Moroni (!) to dig in a yard in upstate New York, where a series of drilled-hole bound golden plates was buried telling the story of the Mormon people. A tribe of Jews sailed from the Middle East to the Americas and had a bunch of dull-ass adventures and talkity talk. Also, Jesus visited the Americas between the Crucifixion & Ascension. And Eden is in Missouri.
“I believe in 1978 God changed His mind about black people!”
— Elder Price, Book of Mormon
Mormonism was a hobby in my teens & 20s along with my buddy Paul and later on with buddy Fanny. More lore? Dark skinned people were marked because they were cursed, and ineligible to be full Mormons. Jesus and Satan are brothers. Only men are eligible for priesthood (crazy!) but since all men of age are eligible to be priests there is no vow of celibacy (whew!). In the afterlife, the blessed get their own planets (Coo-ol!). In 1978, the Mormon President announced a divine revelation that dark-skinned people could be full Mormons. New demographic for international markets!
Joseph Smith did not allow anyone to see the golden plates he got. He persuaded a neighbor, Martin Harris. to dictate him “translating” the golden plates from behind a suspended blanket. Smith was not even looking directly into the plates, but into magical seer stones set inside of a hat to block out all light. Harris was never allowed to see the plates. It became an obsession for Harris at the expense of maintaining his livelihood. His spouse, the brave Emma Harris, hero for the ages, had enough of this bullshit and swiped away the 116 pages of manuscript and demanded Smith try to reproduce them. No big deal, given he was reading from magical golden tablets still in tact. Right? RIGHT? In pure Imam/Vatican fashion, Smith declared the first manuscript infected by Satan (like the “Satanic Verses” of the Koran) and a new version from OTHER plates, even more pure, was incipient and would be dictated to other writers.
Back to the book. It sucks. It’s boring. It lifts entire sections of The Bible, and clumsily apes the poetry of the King James Bible. But the preface is AMAZING and crazy and ballsy and defensive. Joseph Smith persuading people to sign testimony they saw magical figures beaming in to interact with Joseph Smith. Check it out if you get a chance.
“Did you know that Jesus lived here in the U.S.A.? You can read all about it now. In this nifty book, it’s free, no you don’t have to pay!”
— Elder Young, Book of Mormon
In the 19th century Mormons DESPERATELY wanted to be a separate nation named Deseret that extended from what is now Utah to southern California, Nevada, chunks of Oregon, Nevada, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico. Congress threw them land-locked Utah territory instead. Also, polygamy was an important part of doctrine and critical in swelling LDS numbers. Polygamy isn’t as big a deal to my sensibilities now, so long as it’s between adults – when it leads to childbrides, though, send in the rescue teams! But polygamy got shed from Mormon doctrine more than a century ago.
“Eternal life is super fun! And if you let us in we’ll show you how it can be done!”
So, the Book of Mormon compounds a bunch of American crap with shoddy, all-too-human rubbish imagination and bigotry as a Third Testament to the New Testament, itself a collection of contradictions and tamperings by womb-fearing men written generations after the death of Jesus that ends with a petulant smashing of everyone’s toys and eternal torture of those not in the club. And the New Testament compounds the idiocy and superstitions of the Old Testament, a series of Iron Age myths written and edited and re-edited when Man did not know anything about anything. But the Book of Mormon, unlike the Old and New Testament, at LEAST acknowledges geography beyond the Middle East. So, point awarded to Joseph Smith. Still, a mish-mash glopped onto hash that was already on a pile of hash.
“I’m wet with salvation!”
The musical The Book of Mormon mocks a LOT of that, even starting up a FOURTH Testament to compound on Smith’s book with more absurdities. Magical frogs that cure AIDS. Boba Fett as divine instrument of justice. On and on. Each element hilarious and/or heart-wringing. Each of them adapted by a native people in despair and distress. Joseph Smith’s book evangelized by the Mormon missionairies bores them, but frogs that cure AIDS and holy admonitions to not circumcize people (in this case, women)? That resonates with them NOW!
The musical knows Mormons tend to be “really fucking polite to everyone” and plays it for laughs, then finds its heart there. Video below of a HUGE, grim laugh in the first half of the show. “Turn it Off”, a number about ignoring horrors and troubles, including being a closeted gay, by clicking them off, like a light switch. At this point, the two main missionaries, Elder Price (the tallest, handsomest, charismatic and most destined for greatness) and Elder Cunningham (shlubby, prone to making things up), are experiencing culture shock after arriving in a war-torn Uganda village where their fellow Mormons have failed to convert a single person. This number earned the main singer in the number (supporting player Rory O’Malley) a Tony nomination. Official video is not available, but here’s an amateur production that’s charming:
Nikki M James
Nikki M James has a Tony. She is talented and beautiful. World domination inevitable.After witnessing a violent act by a warlord general, Elder Price begins to doubt his destiny as the next Joseph Smith. His crisis of faith splits him from Elder Cunningham, who must take the lead after being disregarded his whole life. He falls in with a local girl Nabulungi (Nikki M. James, who won a Tony for the role) who is charmed by his imagination and sees him as a way out of the horrors of Uganda to a paradisal land called Sal Tlay Ka Siti. James’s performance of “Sal Tlay Ka Siti” (say it aloud to get the joke) is a turning point that the show will not be completely “Har har!” mockery of its characters. It’s moving, and she does a great job of selling the yearning in a song that ends: “I’m on my way/ Soon life won’t be so shitty./ Now salvation has a name. / Sal Tlay Ka Siti.”
Side note: the actors playing Ugandans have wandering accents, shifting from genero-African-ish to Carribean inflections and, heck, I’m not a dialectitionator. Not gonna go to Uganda to research this point. I’ll drop the pretense.
From the rousing final number: “Who cares what happens when we’re dead? We shouldn’t think that far ahead. The only latter day that matters is tomorrow.”Elder Cunningham flourishes and uses his lying/creativity to adapt and exaggerate and customize stories that resonate with the tribe, as Joseph Smith did. And the people exaggerate the stories even further to suit themselves.
The writers of The Book of Mormon (the dudes who make South Park and the composer behind Avenue Q) have mentioned originally they were going to have Elder Price killed by gunfire, leaving Cunningham completely alone to lead the tribe, as Joseph Smith was fatally shot and left Brigham Young to lead. A severe, intriguing idea. Price does not die (spoiler!) but does go on a divergent path that makes for a richer exploration of ideas about religion, faith, and not needing belief in heavenly reward to work to help people in this realm.
“We are all still Latter-Day-Saints. All of us. Even if we changed some things, or we break the rules, or we have complete doubt that God exists. We can still all work together and make this our paradise planet.”
This guy on staff was really cool about handling people eager to figure out how to get tickets.
The Book of Mormon is the hottest ticket on Broadway, even before reaping Tonys. I love theater, but had never been to a Broadway show, or New York City, before watching it August 13. I’m not much of a musical afficionado. The few musicals I do know, through film, I know deeply: Singin’ in the Rain, An American in Paris, West Side Story, Grease, and … that may be it. Oh, Purple Rain, but that doesn’t really count. The Les Miserables mania in the late 80s? Pass. Phantom of the Opera? Get the fuck outta here. Wicked? May see it before I die, but wouldn’t recognize a single song.
I dig theater. I’ve seen nearly 100+ productions at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival over the last 25 years, modern and classical productions. And I’m competitive about being the first audience member to clap. An embarrassing trait during classical recitals in the break between one musical movement to another.
But The Book of Mormon? I’d listened to the soundtrack maybe 20 times before seeing the show, and it’s the first time in my life I’ve owned a soundtrack for a currently running Broadway show.
It does skim ONE problem with regarding religion as stories – it’s okay to let other people follow whatever myths they want. But the evangelism, telling other people what to do, is where the true harm comes in. Why can’t people imbued with the Great Cosmic Answer seem content and happy? Why the need to bully others? Not so much a Mormon trait, but a general lamentation about the self-Elected.
Seeing the production, the script and plot points not conveyed by the songs themselves (though the songs do a great job of moving the story) was a great experience. Inspired acting and direction, catchy tunes, fun choreography. Toward the end of the show, I got teary-eyed from being so happy to be there and see the show with great wit and heart. It was fun watching the show with a friend who didn’t know what to expect. And even knowing what to expect, the show exceeded my hopes.
What I’m saying is: the story of The Book of Mormon really resonated with me. And I want to share its story with you.
Writing on an airplane is HUGELY productive. An expensive habit. Is it the boredom? Disinterest in the in-flight movie, especially compared to the delights of parsing the safety video? Sustained physical discomfort resulting in yoga-ish inward journeys? Mid-conscious realization that flight in a huge metal tube at lethally cold low-pressure altitudes is an hours-long defiance of the designs of Nature, and Nature ALWAYS wins?
Jay-Z seems a nice enough fellow, very much of his time. Kanye West is more forward-thinking and entertaining. I sympathize with his egomania, but it so echoes my own solipsism that his songs as they bounce within my ear canals give temporary relief at forming my own self-aggrandizing thoughts. Doesn’t count as entertainment, more a palliative.
And his pronouncements/stunts usually make 100% sense to me. Still have a hair-trigger wildly intense response to defending his bumrush of Taylor Swift in the name of Beyoncé and the integrity of art itself. Drumming fingers over lips contemplating a post about this. Three years late, sure, but the power of Internet Posterity compels it!
Any-hoo, gonna let the world chew on their joint album Watch the Throne, and see what singles come out of it. If I hear three singles I like, or two that I REALLY like, I’ll buy it.
In the meantime, here’s a cute photo of Jay-Z sitting next to Kanye who may be having a stroke. Anyone who reads this is HEARTILY welcome to come up with a caption.
Not that strokes are funny. If you are having one and reading this, for gosh sakes leave your mobile device/laptop/tablet/desk/WebTV and seek medical attention immediately. Unless you’re a faith healer, in which case goodbye and you may wanna close those browser windows of fetish porn in your last few flails and gasps.
Was driving the kids back home from swim lessons and played R.E.M.’s Out of Time in the car. Wasn’t sure if the kids had heard it before, but when “Losing My Religion” came on, they knew some of the words and were doing their best to act out the verb at the end of lines. “I think I thought I saw you cry.” = Kids make crying sounds.
Got to “Shiny Happy People” and realized I hadn’t seen thie video for a while. Maybe even since the 90s. Recalled impressions (while safely driving) from ’91:
“They look happy.”
“Michael ‘Never-gonna-lipsync’ Stipe is now lipsyncing all the time. He’s decided to be dorky. Dig it.”
“I crush on Kate Pierson. Oh, Kate. Kate Kate Kate.”
“This video is a depiction of the interior of Mike Mills’ brain.”
“If I ever get a chance to meet Peter Buck, gonna check to see if he’s ticklish. It might sprain his face, but bet the answer is ‘yes’.”
“Hey! I’m Jane Pratt! Dig my daisy dress! I’ve helped millions of girls with self-esteem and assertiveness! Rad! Also, again, my daisy dress!”
Got home, watched the video after the kids changed into their pajamas.
The comments on YouTube’s Warner Brothers official clip (doesn’t allow embedding, so I’ve created a work-around) have an intermittent theme of “It’s sarcastic/satire, you idiot.”
Yes, yes. Old man laboring makes the whole thing happen. Nothing is easy. But he gets relief from a sweetheart of a girl. All is well. Work done. Let’s all hop around and make silly faces without being wry. If we’re gonna dork, let’s dork all-out!
They keep cutting away from Peter Buck right before it looks like he’s gonna crack-up. A motif!
How’d they go forward in time to 2011, gather a bunch of people from downtown Portland, and get them to 1991 to dance around? Hope they returned everyone and restored the timeline.
Kate, Kate. Kate-tilly-itily-Kate. Your hair is a thick raspberry-flavored cotton candy my fingers would gladly get stuck in. Wait. Did I type that, or merely think it?
Live conversations are good. Telephones are good. Not the smartphone part, with the data plans and the web surfing. Talkin’ ’bout the phone itself, verbal exchange function. One voice, another voice. Old school.
Texting can be a quick exchange of wit. Or a way of shooing away some nuisance you’d rather not truly engage. This aversion can be a tacit agreement.
Social networks are SORT of communication, more like flash-posing.
User: “Here’s a polished tableau, ponderously composed, now displayed for your appraisal.” [POST] “What do you think, world?”
World (consisting of myriad sub-Users): “Ah! Good pose. Will mark it. Then will respond with a counter-pose.” [POST] “Hey, initial User and fellow sub-Users, will you validate my existence by marking my selected façade?” [Eyes half-kept fixed on notification alerts]
Email burnout: I am days behind messages friends sent to my home account. Smartphone trills during the day with home email notices, so I’m aware of them. Once home it’s tough to find the will to start up email after obediently tending to it all day. Even when I care about my friends in the messages (and I always do). Even when I know they are waiting for my response and wondering where the hell I am.
But I like talking on the telephone. I especially like talking in person. If someone calls to propose some fun, or ask a question, I answer and bound into action immediately.
I don’t go out very often. “Ah!” I hear you thinking (you should turn the mic off on your computer, with all that loud-thought-stuff going on), “Maybe you should return home email messages more promptly, thus faciliate more social opportunities!”
Thanks for the advice. Imagine me making a “Meh” face.
This trait precedes interwebs.
My high school girlfriend and I had long phone conversations. 3 hours. A few 8 hours. Maybe a 10 hour in there. Wake up in the morning, phone handset pressed against face. Rat-a-tat sharing and laughs, then as things hit a downward cycle (at many points also hurtling back upward – we were like the economy) there were loaded silences. I once measured a 20 minute silence.
— A pause to reflect on how people in their late teens may not be able to speak with 100% certitude of inextricable metaphysical bonds and destiny. Even when meant really, REALLY hard. —
Okay. Back now.
As awful as they were (and laughable now), the loaded silences had charm. There was drama, but wouldn’t have been so loaded if there weren’t a deep trust and vulnerability. Rawness. In-the-moment. With voices. Interrupting each other when urgent. Human to human.
When stakes are low in phone conversations (or in person) a sweet span is that groggy zone where you don’t care if the next thing expressed would be intelligible in a transcript. The WHAT talked about may fade. What DOES last is that I-don’t-give-a-shit what I say next, because there’s trust and belief the other person is worth listening to. Voices (and faces) getting dumb and funny because there’s no worry about sounding smart. Dopey, slapdash, no typing needed.
Poses online can be a tedious pageant affirmation of existence/territory. Flash and counter-flash. Admire my plumage. I’ll glance at yours.
Phone calls and conversations reach deeper primate nature. Assurance you merit receiving shared things, worth being heard, and trusted with words and moments not planned.
