In my dream, I am on a quest. I am always on a quest, filled with puzzling clues and ever-increasing tasks. I need to make it to the basement, but my car crashes into a convenience store and I need to put all the hostess cupcakes and boxes of ritz crackers back on the shelves before I can move on. I’m looking for clues scrawled on bits of lined paper rolled up and hidden in a grandfather clock with the president’s son, but the mystery stays tightly wound while I try to stay asleep. The worst is the dream where I am soaring down train tunnels, not part of the train but moving at the speed and rhythm of one and I end up in a chocolate store where you kiss me on the hand and I wake up before I can ask you why you are there.
For a fitful restless sleeper, it is agonizing to try to stay in my dreams. I hear a faucet running somewhere and my eyes shoot open. I look at the clock, 3:22 a.m. and try to go back into my dream because they need me there! I need to make it to the bottom of the slide, I need to go to the store for a jar of salted macadamias, I need to teach the class how to talk about farm animals in German. I am a better person in my dreams. I know how to say the right things and make sweet-faced boys want to hold my hand as we walk through a tent of green and yellow lights. The self of my dreams has goals and methods and a purpose and the morning sun in my eyes is always a dreary reminder that my waking self is weak and fickle.
Is it any wonder that I am eager to sleep at night? I can’t stand the uppers my friends try to share with me because they trap me in my consciousness where my fingers are fidgety and my mind has plenty of time to think about where things have gone wrong. My brain needs a rest, I tell them. I put on pajamas, an old camp shirt and a pair of shorts and mask my worries in the pages of a familiar book, maybe The Phantom Tollbooth, where everything is a directionless quest in a colorful baffling world. I read until my head is heavy and I think about a place I want to be, a place that only exists in watercolor and ink lines, and I slip into sleep again.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Frank Green
Here is Frank Green. He is 53, proud father of two and loving husband to Rebecca Green. Eleven months out of the year, he plays the family man. He takes Emily to the mall and she picks out clothes from the Limited Too and gets sparkly earrings from Claire's. Ryan is autistic. Frank doesn't see this as a problem, he loves Ryan for who he is. He is impressed when Ryan can name all 42 American presidents in under a minute at the age of seven, a feat that might have made a nice party trick for an adult, but garners little respect from a class of second graders. When Ryan is twelve, Frank and Rebecca switch him to a school across town where he will get a little more attention and have a little more time to work things through. Emily stays at the school down the block and runs home in the afternoons with her friend Anna to play with dolls and makeup.
Eleven months out of the year, Frank's job is a professional sandwich shop singer. He brings an acoustic guitar and a microphone and sets it up by a metal chair in the corner of Stuffer's. He plays old songs that he knows people like hearing: a little James Taylor, some Bob Dylan, the Beatles. He plays newer stuff too, 90's alt rock and recent soft rock radio hits. Sometimes he throws in a jingle to see if people are paying attention, and sometimes they are. If one a neighbor or friend walks in, Frank leans into the microphone and says "Hellllooo, Mr. Davison," or whatever the surprised person's name might be, in a low, radio announcer voice.
That is Frank Green, eleven months out of the year. For the month of October, however, he is Freaky Frank. Freaky Frank is a haunted house superstar, a hayride rocker and a costume party crooner. He dresses like a vampire and sings campy songs about werewolves through the lisp of his fangs; he dresses in a swirly moustache and a slick tuxedo and plays a film noir villain. His favorite persona is the hilbilly ghost. He paints his face white and streaks blood makeup on his cheeks and mouth, puts black caps over his front teeth, and wears a bright plaid shirt and overalls over his chubby body. This is his passion, Halloween. When he is busy being Frank Green, family man, sandwich shop singer, he secretly relaxes in the evenings by doodling picture postcards of monsters and ghouls.
When we encounter Frank Green, it is nearing the end of September. Frank is lining up gigs for the holiday season and shopping for costume materials. Stuffer's feels like a cage in which the Cheers theme song slides into "Mr. Jones" and then into "American Pie" in an endless loop. It is still warm outside, but the children are in school now and the air finally smells like a real midwestern autumn. Emily is a freshman now, and Ryan is 17 going on 18, but Frank has been avoiding the problem of what Ryan will do after high school until now. Frank finishes singing some Sinatra, and there is a smattering of applause. A wave of heat fills the room as the door of Stuffer's opens. He glances at the door and sees three girls come in from the parking lot, clearly enjoying themselves. He recognizes one and leans in to say, "Hellllooo, Miss Booth." His neighbor turns to look at the source of the greeting and waves a friendly hello in return. Frank smiles and starts idly strumming while thinking of a song to play. The girls focus the menu, and Frank thinks they are probably about Ryan's age. He thinks Miss Booth's two friends look familiar, maybe he'd seen them in the neighborhood, or maybe in a newspaper article about a school play or a track meet. He starts to play the 90s hit, "Closing Time," and the girls are obviously delighted. They start singing along as they bring their trays over to a table to sit. The Booth girl says to the others, "Did you know he's my neighbor?" Frank hears a note of pride in her voice, and though he can't tell if it is real or joking, he appreciates the recognition anyway.
A few songs later, the girls get up to leave and wave goodbye to Frank. In the parking lot, he sees them each light a cigarette, passing a pink lighter between them. In the same moment, a blue Jeep pulls up with Rebecca and Ryan in the front seats. They are there to pick up a sandwich and to drive Frank home from work. The Booth girl gives a small embarassed wave of recognition to Ryan and he nods awkwardly in return. Frank sighs and remembers that he has other things to do and wishes that he didn't. He winds up the set by playing "Wild World" and brightens with the knowledge that ghoul season is only a few weeks away.
Eleven months out of the year, Frank's job is a professional sandwich shop singer. He brings an acoustic guitar and a microphone and sets it up by a metal chair in the corner of Stuffer's. He plays old songs that he knows people like hearing: a little James Taylor, some Bob Dylan, the Beatles. He plays newer stuff too, 90's alt rock and recent soft rock radio hits. Sometimes he throws in a jingle to see if people are paying attention, and sometimes they are. If one a neighbor or friend walks in, Frank leans into the microphone and says "Hellllooo, Mr. Davison," or whatever the surprised person's name might be, in a low, radio announcer voice.
That is Frank Green, eleven months out of the year. For the month of October, however, he is Freaky Frank. Freaky Frank is a haunted house superstar, a hayride rocker and a costume party crooner. He dresses like a vampire and sings campy songs about werewolves through the lisp of his fangs; he dresses in a swirly moustache and a slick tuxedo and plays a film noir villain. His favorite persona is the hilbilly ghost. He paints his face white and streaks blood makeup on his cheeks and mouth, puts black caps over his front teeth, and wears a bright plaid shirt and overalls over his chubby body. This is his passion, Halloween. When he is busy being Frank Green, family man, sandwich shop singer, he secretly relaxes in the evenings by doodling picture postcards of monsters and ghouls.
When we encounter Frank Green, it is nearing the end of September. Frank is lining up gigs for the holiday season and shopping for costume materials. Stuffer's feels like a cage in which the Cheers theme song slides into "Mr. Jones" and then into "American Pie" in an endless loop. It is still warm outside, but the children are in school now and the air finally smells like a real midwestern autumn. Emily is a freshman now, and Ryan is 17 going on 18, but Frank has been avoiding the problem of what Ryan will do after high school until now. Frank finishes singing some Sinatra, and there is a smattering of applause. A wave of heat fills the room as the door of Stuffer's opens. He glances at the door and sees three girls come in from the parking lot, clearly enjoying themselves. He recognizes one and leans in to say, "Hellllooo, Miss Booth." His neighbor turns to look at the source of the greeting and waves a friendly hello in return. Frank smiles and starts idly strumming while thinking of a song to play. The girls focus the menu, and Frank thinks they are probably about Ryan's age. He thinks Miss Booth's two friends look familiar, maybe he'd seen them in the neighborhood, or maybe in a newspaper article about a school play or a track meet. He starts to play the 90s hit, "Closing Time," and the girls are obviously delighted. They start singing along as they bring their trays over to a table to sit. The Booth girl says to the others, "Did you know he's my neighbor?" Frank hears a note of pride in her voice, and though he can't tell if it is real or joking, he appreciates the recognition anyway.
A few songs later, the girls get up to leave and wave goodbye to Frank. In the parking lot, he sees them each light a cigarette, passing a pink lighter between them. In the same moment, a blue Jeep pulls up with Rebecca and Ryan in the front seats. They are there to pick up a sandwich and to drive Frank home from work. The Booth girl gives a small embarassed wave of recognition to Ryan and he nods awkwardly in return. Frank sighs and remembers that he has other things to do and wishes that he didn't. He winds up the set by playing "Wild World" and brightens with the knowledge that ghoul season is only a few weeks away.
Jared, or Hannah has a messed up mind
Jared often fantasized about kicking dogs as he passed them on the street. He hoped it wasn't a sign of a deep perversion, but he was pretty certain of his sanity. Jared had managed to convince himself that he wasn't serious, that he wouldn't actually get any enjoyment from punting a daschund like a football, but he couldn't shake the thought. It actually kind of sickened him, the process he went through when encountering a dog. He watched the dog and watched the owner and tried to imagine. What sort of noise would the dog make? Could it land on its feet? He grinned as he imagined the shock on the owners face; he considered the possibility that they might let go of the leash and let the dog scamper off. One time he had passed a girl with a tiny chihuahua and accidentally laughed out loud thinking about the chihuahua soaring through the air on the arc of his kick.
He didn't dislike dogs. He had owned one once, actually. A terrier-type black and gray mutt named Henry who was already 8 years old when Jared was born, so by the time Jared reached age 10, Henry was already a very old dog and he died. But Jared remembered a few idyllic fall afternoons, jumping around with Henry in muddy leaf piles. They had been good friends and Jared hated to imagine anyone doing any harm to Henry, even 15 years later.
Jared was sure that he could not actually go through with his daydream. He didn't know what kinds of animal cruelty laws he would be breaking, let alone how to deal with a conscience or react to the insults he would expect to be hurled at him by angry pet lovers. He didn't even know if he could kick hard enough to do anything worth noticing. He had always been terrible at sports, his coordination was off and he had no idea what level of force it would take to boot a howling puppy to the curb. His best reference point was the one year he had spent playing soccer in middle school. The coach was constantly yelling commands at him, "Connect, Miller! Run it down, come ON, keep up with the rest of the team, don't just stand there! Aim when you kick!" He had tried, but he didn't care for the running around and keeping score and falling down all the time.
While Jared was out walking one day, the weather was pleasant and he felt stronger than ever that he wanted to go through with his dream. He found himself stopped at a crosswalk with a squat middle-aged woman holding a brown schnauzer on a nylon leash. He stood to her right; she was looking to the left at the traffic coming on. He stuck out his left foot, clad in a dirty white Nike sneaker and positioned it against the dog's warm underbelly to mark where he wanted to aim. The dog twitched, and the woman felt the leash tug and stared at Jared, his foot still pressed against the schnauzer's stomach. He blushed. "Sorry. I...don't know what I was thinking." She kept staring, suspicious. The light changed and Jared rushed out into the street, mortified. He was oblivious to the too-fast bicycle coming from his right until it hit his foot and sent a sharp pain up his leg. He cursed and watched as the bike tried to brake but slammed into the dog anyway, rubber wheels meeting matted fur with a screech and howl.
Jared gawked. He gagged at the blood and hair on the bike tires and listened to the biker stammer apologies to the woman, whose hands were fluttering around the thrashing body of her dog as she began to cry. Jared gagged again at the dog's body and then turned and ran into the McDonald's on the corner. He went into a bathroom stall and retched into the toilet, holding onto the bowl for a few moments and thinking of Henry and how he hated himself. After he was done, he sat on the grimy floor of the stall and was silent. Then he began to chuckle. Jared thought about the dog and the woman and the blood on the bike and had a good, long laugh.
He didn't dislike dogs. He had owned one once, actually. A terrier-type black and gray mutt named Henry who was already 8 years old when Jared was born, so by the time Jared reached age 10, Henry was already a very old dog and he died. But Jared remembered a few idyllic fall afternoons, jumping around with Henry in muddy leaf piles. They had been good friends and Jared hated to imagine anyone doing any harm to Henry, even 15 years later.
Jared was sure that he could not actually go through with his daydream. He didn't know what kinds of animal cruelty laws he would be breaking, let alone how to deal with a conscience or react to the insults he would expect to be hurled at him by angry pet lovers. He didn't even know if he could kick hard enough to do anything worth noticing. He had always been terrible at sports, his coordination was off and he had no idea what level of force it would take to boot a howling puppy to the curb. His best reference point was the one year he had spent playing soccer in middle school. The coach was constantly yelling commands at him, "Connect, Miller! Run it down, come ON, keep up with the rest of the team, don't just stand there! Aim when you kick!" He had tried, but he didn't care for the running around and keeping score and falling down all the time.
While Jared was out walking one day, the weather was pleasant and he felt stronger than ever that he wanted to go through with his dream. He found himself stopped at a crosswalk with a squat middle-aged woman holding a brown schnauzer on a nylon leash. He stood to her right; she was looking to the left at the traffic coming on. He stuck out his left foot, clad in a dirty white Nike sneaker and positioned it against the dog's warm underbelly to mark where he wanted to aim. The dog twitched, and the woman felt the leash tug and stared at Jared, his foot still pressed against the schnauzer's stomach. He blushed. "Sorry. I...don't know what I was thinking." She kept staring, suspicious. The light changed and Jared rushed out into the street, mortified. He was oblivious to the too-fast bicycle coming from his right until it hit his foot and sent a sharp pain up his leg. He cursed and watched as the bike tried to brake but slammed into the dog anyway, rubber wheels meeting matted fur with a screech and howl.
Jared gawked. He gagged at the blood and hair on the bike tires and listened to the biker stammer apologies to the woman, whose hands were fluttering around the thrashing body of her dog as she began to cry. Jared gagged again at the dog's body and then turned and ran into the McDonald's on the corner. He went into a bathroom stall and retched into the toilet, holding onto the bowl for a few moments and thinking of Henry and how he hated himself. After he was done, he sat on the grimy floor of the stall and was silent. Then he began to chuckle. Jared thought about the dog and the woman and the blood on the bike and had a good, long laugh.
St. Michael and the Little Match Girl
(work in progress, revision suggestions and anything that doesn't work is helpful to me, thanks)
(also if you know me, i apologize for being corny and obvious. i can't help it.)
The Little Match Girl met St. Michael the day after Michaelmas, walking outside the high school.
"I saw you in the newspaper," she said with unusual boldness. "You were wearing a robe and crown. It seemed pretty important."
St. Michael looked down from under a thick mane of orange hair and smiled at her with his eyes. They walked together, kicking through autumn leaves, delighting in new conversation.
=
The sweet summer air came in through the open window; it was the last day of June and she was going to have a picnic with St. Michael. She stood barefoot in the kitchen, making two salami sandwiches and wrapping them in wax paper. She wore a t-shirt with a skirt that she had made from her father's old work shirts. Her feet had scars and blisters from breaking in her rubber sandals. A black cat stepped around her legs as she finished the sandwiches.
"Okay, cat. Wish me luck and don't wreck the house while I'm out."
The cat responded with a blank look that made The Little Match Girl smile.
=
They sat together during a school assembly, and St. Michael told The Little Match Girl that he liked her ears. She told him he had a nice nose. He put his hand on the thigh of her red tights. She crossed her legs, catching his hand like a Venus fly trap and laughed when he blushed.
"You should wear skirts more often," he said, touching the hem of her denim skirt. "You look cute as hell."
"I have a new white one from Goodwill, I just don't have the nerve to wear it," she said.
"Wear it on Monday," he suggested. "Then I can come up to your chemistry class and throw you on Mr. Turner's desk and make love to you in front of the class. It'll be great."
"All right then, let's do it." She laughed again and a teacher shot them a warning glance.
The Little Match Girl wore the skirt on Monday; a white slip showed sloppily from underneath. St. Michael came to her class and smiled when he saw the skirt, but of course they never made love: he was a saint and she was just a child.
=
The Little Match Girl put the sandwiches in a bag and drove to St. Michael's house. The car was an oven and she gripped the steering wheel until she was used to the burning. A lock of short brown hair stuck to her forehead, glossy with sweat. At St. Michael's house she stood on the doormat and rang the bell. He opened it, wearing a white T-shirt that was loose at the collar and showed his pale skin beneath it. They drove to the park and she drummed on the streering wheel while St. Michael did the air guitar solo.
=
In the early spring they went shopping together. They took St. Michael's car, a white sedan with a checkerboard roof and teeth painted around the wheels and a broken odometer. They went to the comic book store and rummaged through the box of used action figures. St. Michael talked about heroes and how all boys want to be one.
"Boys are more likely to think it's cool to get hit by a car because they were saving somebody's life," he said.
"That's a bullshit statistic," said the girl. "I think it's dramatic and romantic, and I'm not a boy."
"Yeah, he said,"But you're manic depressive, that doesn't count."
The Little Match Girl frowned and bit her lip but didn't reply.
Later, in the pet store, they looked at rows of fish tanks and tarantulas and ferrets. They talked about Tom Waits and fingerprints and whether it is a sin to love your mother more than you love God.
=
At the park, they walked across a covered bridge over a small polluted river, down a path and sat down at a picnic table, avoiding the mulberry stains and spots of bird shit. Far on the other end of the park, they could hear the faint happy voices of a group of kids playing frisbee.
"Do you ever wonder," said The Little Match Girl through a mouthful of salami sandwich, "If Homer had a bunch of wannabe epic poets following him around? Maybe he was the most mainstream epic poet and there was a whole counterculture of epic poetry, they just didn't care about posterity as much as Homer and his people."
"I can't say that I've ever wondered that," he said, bemused. He thought for a moment. "Posterity and posteriors, I bet. All poets are just trying to get some."
=
The next Michaelmas was unseasonably cold. After class, they walked quickly toward the school doors. The Little Match Girl tried to hide the fact that she was about to cry. St. Michael held open the middle door for her, but she went through the left. He looked like he had been slapped.
"Have fun this weekend," she said in a choked voice as she approached her car. "Don't worry about me, just pretend I don't exist. You're pretty good at that." She got in and turned on the engine, but St. Michael stood at the side of the car, hoping she wasn't upset enough to run over his foot. He motioned for her to roll down the window which she did, reluctantly. There was no point in hiding the tears now; The Little Match Girl sat and cried pathetically while St. Michael knelt outside her window. He leaned his head into the car and lightly kissed her neck below the ear. She shrugged him away, rolled up the window and drove off.
=
St. Michael and The Little Match Girl ate their sandwiches in the shade of several trees.
"I can't believe your parents had you learn to play the fucking lyre when you were a kid. The Biblical lyre. That's absolutely ridiculous," she said to him.
"It's not like I can remember how. I had to learn the trumpet and how to speak German, too, and I don't remember a thing. By the way, do you want some cheese?" he asked. "I brought it for dessert."
"No offense," she said, looking at the squishy hot cheese," but it looks kind of gross after sitting in the heat so long. We could feed it to those geese over there."
They unwrapped the cheeses and pulled off warm sticky pieces and tossed them to a nearby group of Canadian geese. The geese waddled closer, honking aggresively and crowding all around them. Then The Little Match Girl noticed a brown spider descending onto her arm. She jumped, shaking it off. Then there was another on St. Michael's shoulder and three more scurrying across the table. The whole place suddenly seemed overrun with spiders and angry geese.
"Can we go? This is kind of insane," said The Little Match Girl. St. Michael agreed. As they left, they talked about what a shame it was that such a nice picnic had to end so soon.
(also if you know me, i apologize for being corny and obvious. i can't help it.)
The Little Match Girl met St. Michael the day after Michaelmas, walking outside the high school.
"I saw you in the newspaper," she said with unusual boldness. "You were wearing a robe and crown. It seemed pretty important."
St. Michael looked down from under a thick mane of orange hair and smiled at her with his eyes. They walked together, kicking through autumn leaves, delighting in new conversation.
=
The sweet summer air came in through the open window; it was the last day of June and she was going to have a picnic with St. Michael. She stood barefoot in the kitchen, making two salami sandwiches and wrapping them in wax paper. She wore a t-shirt with a skirt that she had made from her father's old work shirts. Her feet had scars and blisters from breaking in her rubber sandals. A black cat stepped around her legs as she finished the sandwiches.
"Okay, cat. Wish me luck and don't wreck the house while I'm out."
The cat responded with a blank look that made The Little Match Girl smile.
=
They sat together during a school assembly, and St. Michael told The Little Match Girl that he liked her ears. She told him he had a nice nose. He put his hand on the thigh of her red tights. She crossed her legs, catching his hand like a Venus fly trap and laughed when he blushed.
"You should wear skirts more often," he said, touching the hem of her denim skirt. "You look cute as hell."
"I have a new white one from Goodwill, I just don't have the nerve to wear it," she said.
"Wear it on Monday," he suggested. "Then I can come up to your chemistry class and throw you on Mr. Turner's desk and make love to you in front of the class. It'll be great."
"All right then, let's do it." She laughed again and a teacher shot them a warning glance.
The Little Match Girl wore the skirt on Monday; a white slip showed sloppily from underneath. St. Michael came to her class and smiled when he saw the skirt, but of course they never made love: he was a saint and she was just a child.
=
The Little Match Girl put the sandwiches in a bag and drove to St. Michael's house. The car was an oven and she gripped the steering wheel until she was used to the burning. A lock of short brown hair stuck to her forehead, glossy with sweat. At St. Michael's house she stood on the doormat and rang the bell. He opened it, wearing a white T-shirt that was loose at the collar and showed his pale skin beneath it. They drove to the park and she drummed on the streering wheel while St. Michael did the air guitar solo.
=
In the early spring they went shopping together. They took St. Michael's car, a white sedan with a checkerboard roof and teeth painted around the wheels and a broken odometer. They went to the comic book store and rummaged through the box of used action figures. St. Michael talked about heroes and how all boys want to be one.
"Boys are more likely to think it's cool to get hit by a car because they were saving somebody's life," he said.
"That's a bullshit statistic," said the girl. "I think it's dramatic and romantic, and I'm not a boy."
"Yeah, he said,"But you're manic depressive, that doesn't count."
The Little Match Girl frowned and bit her lip but didn't reply.
Later, in the pet store, they looked at rows of fish tanks and tarantulas and ferrets. They talked about Tom Waits and fingerprints and whether it is a sin to love your mother more than you love God.
=
At the park, they walked across a covered bridge over a small polluted river, down a path and sat down at a picnic table, avoiding the mulberry stains and spots of bird shit. Far on the other end of the park, they could hear the faint happy voices of a group of kids playing frisbee.
"Do you ever wonder," said The Little Match Girl through a mouthful of salami sandwich, "If Homer had a bunch of wannabe epic poets following him around? Maybe he was the most mainstream epic poet and there was a whole counterculture of epic poetry, they just didn't care about posterity as much as Homer and his people."
"I can't say that I've ever wondered that," he said, bemused. He thought for a moment. "Posterity and posteriors, I bet. All poets are just trying to get some."
=
The next Michaelmas was unseasonably cold. After class, they walked quickly toward the school doors. The Little Match Girl tried to hide the fact that she was about to cry. St. Michael held open the middle door for her, but she went through the left. He looked like he had been slapped.
"Have fun this weekend," she said in a choked voice as she approached her car. "Don't worry about me, just pretend I don't exist. You're pretty good at that." She got in and turned on the engine, but St. Michael stood at the side of the car, hoping she wasn't upset enough to run over his foot. He motioned for her to roll down the window which she did, reluctantly. There was no point in hiding the tears now; The Little Match Girl sat and cried pathetically while St. Michael knelt outside her window. He leaned his head into the car and lightly kissed her neck below the ear. She shrugged him away, rolled up the window and drove off.
=
St. Michael and The Little Match Girl ate their sandwiches in the shade of several trees.
"I can't believe your parents had you learn to play the fucking lyre when you were a kid. The Biblical lyre. That's absolutely ridiculous," she said to him.
"It's not like I can remember how. I had to learn the trumpet and how to speak German, too, and I don't remember a thing. By the way, do you want some cheese?" he asked. "I brought it for dessert."
"No offense," she said, looking at the squishy hot cheese," but it looks kind of gross after sitting in the heat so long. We could feed it to those geese over there."
They unwrapped the cheeses and pulled off warm sticky pieces and tossed them to a nearby group of Canadian geese. The geese waddled closer, honking aggresively and crowding all around them. Then The Little Match Girl noticed a brown spider descending onto her arm. She jumped, shaking it off. Then there was another on St. Michael's shoulder and three more scurrying across the table. The whole place suddenly seemed overrun with spiders and angry geese.
"Can we go? This is kind of insane," said The Little Match Girl. St. Michael agreed. As they left, they talked about what a shame it was that such a nice picnic had to end so soon.
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