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Written by: Nathan Hunstad

Category: Think About The Way

Last Updated: 30 April 2009

Think About The Way II

Minneapolis — Well, the hammer is finally falling. Whether it is some echo from previous head-expanding trips or a new phenomenon in its own right, the next generation of stone-cold cripples is finding out exactly where it is at these days. Unfortunately for us, the years upon years of careful grooming and primping by the Old Guard, as it were, are turning out not to be worth as much as we were told. There are very few people who are finding a lot of contentment in the drudgery they have been forced to endure, and those who are humming along in a fine manner will soon find that their mindlessness will force them to take the next exit a bit prematurely.

This is not a localized phenomenon by any means. Half a world away, a war rages for no good reason; our generation is going to get a version of Viêtnam to call our own. A World War is being threatened over it, and when an aging Russian president crazy on vodka points MIRVs at populations centers all over the world, you had better listen. Civility in all realms of debate is rapidly evaporating, and the foundations of rational discourse are disintegrating.

Meanwhile, scientists say that they have nearly cured gravity, that finding life on other planets is only a fortnight away, and as physics carries forward, it resembles more and more a Tibetan mandala. Yes, the more they know, the less they understand. Truly, the words of those who lived and died thousands of years before we had to worry about such things as International Peace-Keeping forces and Saturation Bombing campaigns. Things were a bit more sane then, because the evils of dehumanization had not yet occurred.

Dehumanization: what exactly does that term mean? It is this: writing on an electronic apparatus, because it is too time-consuming, too unimportant, or too painful to simply see a person. It is disembodied voices telling you to push 1 for your account balance, 2 for transfers, and # to end the call. It is assembling a vast collection of compact discs and digital tapes without ever seeing a live band, a chamber orchestra, or a Shakespearean play that has not migrated to the big screen but has stayed where it should be, on the stage. It is leading to the many psychoses of the latter half of the 20th century, as people forget what it is like to relate to others, to be empathetic, to be human.

It is only this that can explain the widely diverging paths that the world is taking. And as anybody knows, a mind divided against itself cannot stand. It doesn't matter what form it takes: the heart and the mind at war, the happiness of others versus your own happiness, the good of the many against the good of the few. They all lead to breakdowns, depression, insanity. Extrapolated to a global scale, it leads to the Apocalypse.

It had been a couple of months since my Homecoming fiasco, but in terms of mentality it could have been light-years. I moved out of the crackhouse I was living in when a perpetual antagonist from the likes of April 1998 and other, previous rants against all things political. Kevin's roommate, the ineffectual and highly immature (and soon to be former) U-DFL chair had decided that living with his parents was a much better option than arguing with Kevin constantly. This, of course, created a vacuum that needed to be filled, and I stepped up to the plate.

Meanwhile, the academic atmosphere continued its grim slide. I had survived the quarter with a "C" average: an A, an F, and a little "To be continued . . ." on my transcript. Of course, the learning was not really to be continued, the problem being only that a final project was not completed. What was to be continued was the bureaucracy, the rote, arbitrary assignment of a grade. There was little connection between the knowledge gained and the replacement of that "I" with another irrelevant letter. Not surprisingly, I wasn't too concerned.

But people . . . . ah, yes, people. Homecoming had found me trudging along University Avenue with a few people that were the bane of my existence up until then. I chose incorrectly at that time, it seems, and I was lucky to have been able to reverse that decision when I moved to my new apartment. Waffle was still in China, Mr. Spiczka still in Texas, Ross still drifting high above Savage City. Other, no less important people were more easily available, being within ten miles of my physical location, but things were still odd. Venerated at some times, chided at others, drawing the ire and admiration of those who saw me pull crazy stunts . . . the duality was there as well. It only accelerated until I found firestorms brewing on my porch and 3 AM, and then, poof. The duality was gone, the Many being reduced to the One, as if in some kind of Zen trance.

Instead, stories of Christmas. Stories of going to church in tears, stories of families ripped apart by distance, ripped apart by rivalry. Always stories of failed expectations, of shallow conversation, of plastering over reality for the sake of some holiday that nobody understands. It doesn't matter what religion you are; celebrating Jesus's birth probably didn't involve the three wise men bearing gifts of electric razors, five-day movie rentals, and jugs of wine. Gold, yes; Incense, yes; but not tickets to an air combat simulator.

Then, the inevitable quarrels. Time to go to Midnight Mass, always been a family tradition, literally tearing down the walls in a futile attempt not to go, or meekly acquiescing to give the patina of a big, happy family. The accusing shouts come next, religious persecution, "your heart's not really in it, why can't you pretend better," sitting through a sermon that Father MacKenzie wrote, only to end it in front of a fireplace where nobody speaks, or perhaps waiting by a window with a long face, waiting for it to end. Or perhaps a sarcastic comment. A commercial comes on the television: "Kids, what do you do when somebody asks you to do drugs?" "Hell, yes," comes the reply, the contempt from the adults, think about the kids, for chrissakes.

I had fought those battles years before, and so I didn't have to worry about nagging, yelling, or poor manners. At least not when it came to any of the basic arguments. My family's movie was one of utter destruction, of one where everybody lived apart and nobody was happy, where even the safest, most veiled comments usually brought a tirade from some member of the family. Many times it was me, and the remainder it was my mother, but this year my brother started to let things fly as living alone with my father had started to push him over the edge. Only broken families go out for dinner on Christmas, and so that is what we did, dutifully filling our role. I was certainly happy I went home as I stared at the walls in my mother's new, unfurnished apartment. I was lucky to have a bed; she didn't.

This was understandable, from my point of view. Then why was it that no matter where I went, no matter who I talked to, no matter how long-distance I called, it was the same story? Tears, only tears. Perhaps surly British youths or missionaries in Lhasa had the answer: screw this pretense garbage. Why fight it? With everything going to Hell in a handbasket, from the 2,000-year old Catholic Church to a three-month old student government administration, why not just get out of the way? Surely, it would be far easier, and less painful. Just hide in a corner, and hope that the debris doesn't finish you off as well. Of course, it isn't very likely that you survive the fall of Western Civilization, but didn't somebody do it in The Postman? Brad Pitt, maybe, or some other actor whose name fails me now. Well???

As the bile rose in me, I realized that there was a reason. There are few things as good for coming up with deep thoughts than sitting alone in a hospital, or zooming along Wright County Road 75 doing about 90, listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young cry in D minor about those lads in Ohio. Few songs hold the raw power that Ohio has. Those four people who died when the National Guard decided to open fire on a bunch of unarmed protesters certainly weren't giving up. They weren't going to sit back and watch as the Man, working through the Military-Industrial complex, brought freedom to its knees starting in a hamlet called Southeast Asia. No; they were going to fight, yell, scream, throw rocks, and get bayoneted while giving their all. In many ways, we are in better shape than they were. In many ways, we are in worse shape. But there is still hope.

Three words. That's all there is to fighting, and winning. Very Zen, yes, but that metaphysical basis is correct in many ways. But not all, which is why my Zen Companion is floating towards New Orleans as we speak. But still, three words.

Attention. Every moment chants perfect sutra. It is insulting to God, Allah, Buddha, or even the laws of physics to say that something shouldn't have happened. If something shouldn't have happened, then it wouldn't have happened. Gravity doesn't decide to take a day off, light doesn't slow down to 30 km/h when it is tired of running around at, well, the speed of light. Everything happened as it should. If only we paid attention to the subtleties, we might see. Hell, we don't even have the luxury of being able to act in the present. It is a parlor trick to prove that there is no present, a trick I have mastered, but even that is disingenuous. The mere fact that we are human means we have that .05 second delay before we act. We are always living from the past, never able to catch up with what is really happening, unless we are masters. If we truly see, then we can learn, and act.

Patience. Nin. Patience is not only sitting around on your ass like a stone Buddha. Patience is knowing when your time has come, through that darn Attention, and then acting. It may be patient to wait until the weather is perfect to cultivate your fields, but you will wait forever and thus you will starve. Patience is governing your emotions; it is not squelching them. Sometimes it is right and wise to go nuts, to shout "Nixon to the Wall! Long live Spiro Agnew!" at the drunks coming out of the Press Bar. Sometimes it is the time to play MarioKart, stone drunk, and laugh about the obscene prices in Target. And sometimes it is correct to stand to the side and buy your boxers from K-Mart when the time is right. Do not rush, do not tarry.

Transconsciousness. This last bugger is the tricky one. It is not sub-conscious, it has nothing to do with Freud's trip of Id and Superego. When you combine Attention and Patience, you have Transconsciousness. When you first learn to ride a motorcycle, or drive a stick, that bastard clutch taunts you. I know, o Lord how I know. It is a surly bastard, making you jump or stall altogether. In the beginning, you have to put all of your mind to letting that sucker out correctly, making all your motions smooth and connected. And still you screw it up half the time. But after a while, even when it is the beginning of spring and you haven't ridden that piece-of-shit motorcycle since the engine froze last August, well, you just do it. You have forgotten the consciousness, but the real lesson remains. If you want to ride a motorcycle perfectly, become a perfect rider and then ride naturally, without thought, without effort.

It is quite elusive. It would be easy to say that this is subconscious, but that does it no justice. Breathing is subconscious, but you don't learn how to breathe. The unfortunate connotation of "sub" being below is the problem. Breathing has nothing to do with Attention, or Patience. However, when somebody is coughing, well, you give them a glass of water. Without a thought. That is Transconsciousness. It is not an elaborate flow-chart to work through: "A. Bob is hacking up his uvula, do I go to B. or C.? Well, Jesus, let me think about this . . ."

Yes, please, laugh aloud. But the flow-chart game is easy to fall into. Our entire culture has been fooled into believing this. Now, there are two generations of those emotional cripples: Generation X, who were raised in a plastic and formica world without much meaning, are dealing with their own lack of self-worth. And their parents, the Baby Boomers, who were told that to raise children who would not lack self-worth they should read Dr. Spock, going through the decades until their divorce prompted them to read 101 Lies Men Tell Women, complete with the answers. Nothing about Attention, or Patience; just case study after case study, and what worked for Pat and Bob can certainly work for you, in the exact same ways. Just follow the directions and you will solve everything and live happily ever after, follow the script. Poor saps, the script is what go them into trouble in the first place . . .

And me, yes, me, the one who openly told anybody two years ago that it was my goal to learn everything that there was in the world and then to forget it. I misunderstood that Zen saying. I was letting knowledge pass through me like a sieve, not letting it make any impact whatsoever, and what I did keep I rattled off without knowing what it related to, or how it related to me. The purpose of Transconsciousness is to let knowledge pass through you, yes, but on the way to mould you into a more perfect shape. The forgetting means that you will not get hung up on particulars, on specifics. Forgetting means that you will not compare one situation to another to find a solution, because setting up what you like against what you don't like in your mind is the end of sanity, and comparisons are indeed odious.

I was blind to this, however. I thought that the act of forgetting proved something. I had made it my goal to learn everything, but I had forgotten that my ultimate goal was the perfection of character. And when people only valued me for my knowledge, not for any other parts of me, I was indignant. However, how could they see anything else? My God, I had admitted that the acquisition of knowledge was my goal, thinking that because I was not driven by acquiring money or power, that I was somehow better than others. I had forgotten that all of those are simply the means to an end. Those people who saw nothing of my personality, my other beliefs, did not see them because I had discredited the other aspects of my being myself. I was to blame.

Everything is set up to reinforce this message. University teaches knowledge for the sake of passing a test and getting a diploma, not for any other reason. A class that demands that the students learn how to write in the styles of other authors is not concerned with the gifts of each individual. It is concerned with the illusion of teaching, for it is far easier to judge whether somebody can properly ape the lowercase rants of e.e. cummings than it is to judge each student's essays, individually, on the question of whether they have Quality or not. Quality that comes from the person, not the method. It is like telling Picasso to paint some pictures that aren't so damned warped. Jesus H. Christ, what kind of world is it when some fiend can be original? . . .

A person like Picasso paid attention to his surroundings. He saw. Then, he did not start with a normal portrait and then think of ways to fuck it up to piss off the classical art scholars. He did not consciously warp and goo and twist and misshape. He painted the way that he did simply because that method contained more Quality for him, and so that's what he went with. Cubism was the name, but the method was purely Transconscious. It could have been called Edsel, for all it mattered. Now, however, with its name and thorough study by "experts," it is ready to be copied so that young artists can learn to imitate. Not only are they imitating somebody with more talent than them, but with a different kind of talent. That's why it shouldn't be copied.

There is very little Transconsciousness today. Bill Clinton wasn't patient with his horny urges. Slobodan Milosevic is not attentive to the differences in culture and religion between Serbs and Albanians, and how they can live in peace. Boris Yeltsin is probably drunk as he undergoes sextuple-bypass surgery, another liver transplant, and a free makeover by an undertaker. He isn't conscious of the light of day, much less attentive or patient. On and on, ad infinitum, the ignorance and impatience ripping through organizations and institutions. It is easier to come up with an incorrect half-assed solution, a band-aid, or ignore it altogether. So much easier. Dehumanize it, forget consciousness, stuff it in a bottle and leave it for tomorrow's suckers.

The battle starts here. Having left too much value hanging by a thread, almost lost to the grand indifference that is life at the fin de siècle, the goal of Transconsciousness is once again the ultimate end. A perfect character, by definition, does no wrong, and though everybody always fails in the attempt to become perfect, it is the attempt that matters. While not everything has Quality or great value, there are some things, some people, some ideals, and some beliefs that do. Those define the battle for life, and the battle will be joined. What has been learned must be un-learned, re-learned, and then forgotten again, leaving its permanent imprint. It will be done, or there will be nothing to save.

Details

Written by: Nathan Hunstad

Category: Think About The Way

Last Updated: 30 April 2009

Think About The Way I

Minneapolis — There are only a few shouts erupting from the otherwise quiet night. Homecoming 1998 has been a relatively calm affair, with no major riots or police busts. The drunkenness curve had flattened at around 10 in the morning, perfect time for the parade, and hadn’t budged since. People were as crazy as they were going to get, which was good news for the local cops.

Good news for me as well, in a roundabout way. I had already been forced into the Homecoming parade for the good of the Democratic party, and that was as much of the festivities that I wanted to see. The half-mile stretch held numerous altercations and annoyances, and as usual I was in the middle of them. A fine magnet for all that is weird at the U. Upon reaching the end, gubernatorial candidate Skip Humphrey still intact, I could finally let out a sigh of relief and head home. Homecoming for me was a done deal, for the most part. I didn’t give a fuck about football or any other nonsense.

My memories of previous Homecomings were dim. I was totally oblivious to the event last year, although I managed to work security on the lovely 8 PM to 4 AM shift that left me with more contempt for humanity than I felt was possible, much less desirable. I did happen to be around to be a dim spectator for SCSU’s Homecoming in ‘97; however, it was more a case of seeing which of my former classmates had run their lives onto the sandbar than anything else. At that time, the major controversy was whether bars could open in the morning to give the poor buggers a place to drink. Of course they could. It’s the American Way.

So this time I wasn’t too enthused about having to think about the damn thing. However, I had promised that I would wave a sign and harass spectators and play dopey politician for the morning. The two days before I had gone without sleep, working, going to class and then dropping a few C-notes short of a grand on a wager that I may yet live to regret. 10 to 1 says I will come back from Europe in the form of a refugee from a Dionysian festival; whether that is good or bad is still up in the air. It was a bet I was railroaded into, unfortunately, and I will be sitting on some Greek island asking the locals if the motorbike I will be renting is equipped with a Virgin Mary.

This tangent is only slightly relevant: I was so damn tired that I fell asleep shortly before 8 Friday evening. I knew that at precisely 8 o’clock I would receive a call on the tele, and when I awoke to the ringing of that damn phone the clock read 7:59. Jesus, how did I know that, I wondered after the fact. There wasn’t any planned rendez-vous, and when I answered it nobody was there to greet me. This led to a somewhat agitated state that was made worse by my extreme exhaustion; I *69ed the bastard and got a local number that was unknown to me. Fuck it, I thought (or instinctively reacted; I was too far gone for thought). I immediately fell asleep for another 10 hours, which was still not enough.

For some reason, we had to meet in front of Sanford Hall at 7 in the morning. It was still dark when my alarm went off at 6 and I decided that my colleagues would not enjoy the presence of a washed and sentient Doctor. So I rolled over and dozed until the last possible minute, knowing full well I would be one of the first ones there anyway.

Third, to be exact, and just in time to see one of my supervisors come out of the dorm after his night shift there. He had a red biohazard bag, and was trying to figure out what the hell to do with the thing. The police said just throw it in the trash; this struck my supervisor as somehow incorrect and he was just going to bring it back to the office where somebody with a clue would hopefully tell him what to do. I didn’t inquire as to what was in the bag. Some things are better off unknown.

So after a quick chat with him I was settled to sit down and rant and rave with those of my comrades who had already arrived. It was early and I had thoughts of social protocol and levels of acceptability on my mind, topics that weren’t going to be shared by everybody. I wasn’t into the whole gig, I was simply there to take orders and follow them as best I could. I always have ulterior motives for doing anything, anything at all, but in this case they were small and mostly irrelevant. This was just another hassle that came about from having a conscience and an inability to say no. Certainly not attributes that will get me far in this nut-cutting world.

By about 7:30 almost everybody who was going to show up had arrived, and we were talking about the ineptitude of those who were putting this thing on. The most anger, however, was directed at our own chair of the U-DFL, who had managed to forget about 2,000 brochures for Amy Klobuchar in the office. He hadn’t shown exceptional leadership or organizational skills so far in his tenure, with a grim prognosis for the future. But I didn’t expect anything else. The anger was lost on me, and I just sat around to brood.

Utmost on all of our minds was the tendency for politicians to do stupid things like canceling at the last minute. Skip was supposed to march with us, and he had even sent out a pick-up truck to use as a pseudo-float. But the candidate himself had yet to show, and as it got close to 9:00, the start time for the parade, we became more and more nervous. A camera crew from Fox News had by this time harassed us once or twice as to his whereabouts, and the walking pencil from the Minnesota Daily was also there to soak up his wisdom. However, every single one of us knew the business, and when he arrived only minute after nine, we were amazed at his punctuality. One of his opponents, Norman Coleman, the swarthy little Republican from St. Paul, was so late that his entourage had to pull to the side of the campaign route and wait for him.

We had a grand old laugh as we passed by them. The candidate was persuaded to walk the route, with great success. While we held up signs and gave many a five-year old child Humphrey/Moe stickers, Skip was doing a good job working the crowd. He was helped by a few of us preceding him, finding a group of students and coercing them into shouting "We want Humphrey" when he passed by. This was no great accomplishment, however; we could have gotten the drunk sorority sweethearts to shout just about anything we could come up with. However, I never did try to get anybody to scream "John Chancellor to the wall!"

As we got further along the avenue towards Frat Row, things got a bit hairier. The men we sloshing around with open bottles of Heineken and Red Dog and trying to jump into the truck. One briefly succeeded, but was beaten back when Kevin threatened to kick his pretty-boy ass. A brief dialogue ensued:

"So you think you’re a tough guy?" the idiot drawled.

"Yes I am," said Kevin.

"You know what I hate about tough guys?"

"No, what?"

"MMMMmmmm," he said and tumbled out of the truck without further ado. A little violence would have lightened the scene considerably. Although we had planned on rumbling with the Coleman supporters or Jesse "The Body" himself, fighting frat boys would be just as pleasurable. Nothing doing, however, and we kept our goddamn hands to ourself. Skip did need to have us rescue him from some of the more obnoxious Ventura supporters, but he never lost his cool.

There were many a sorority person out as well, and I ran into a couple that I knew. The first was Brook, who I had planned on running into anyway. She was there, as usual, with plenty of bad things to say about Kevin. Earlier in the morning, Kevin had made his own slanted remarks about Brook. The extremely fucked-up dynamics of that whole scene still amuse me when they don’t make me question the very notion of vengeance. It’s a bit pathetic to see two people with no real reason to hate each other do so, but what can I say? As far as I can tell, I am the only person who talks to and sees the both of them on a regular basis; nobody else is quite in the same position. Then again, that’s how it always had been. Tuesday for a movie, righty-o, and I was off to catch up with the Humphrey mobile.

The second real instance of seeing somebody I knew came a bit later as I caught an old classmate in the crowd. What sorority she belongs to I still do not know, although I see that information as irrelevant anyway. I had sure ins for unloading a sticker, I thought.

"Hey, Sonya, you want a Humphrey sticker, don’t you?"

"Nathan, what are you doing? Jesse’s the man," she replied.

Along the route, you could instantly tell who the Ventura supporters were, and there was no way around saying it. They were archetypical angry white males. There is a female component to the vote, however, the companion to those men who take off their shirts and bitch about feminazis and taxes. If I had to think of a person who would be that counterpart, I would have come up with my former classmate. And with those people part of the democratic process, God have mercy on us all.

The rest of the parade was uneventful, and when we pulled to the side of the road next to Mariucci all that was left was to take pictures for the U-DFL scrapbook and get the hell out of there. I had accomplished my goals for the day, and I still had a sense of humour. That was to go later in the evening.

Homecoming is a grand social event. Only the gimps of society are walking about by themselves on this Saturday night, perusing the used compact discs at Cheapo while nursing some deep bleeding wounds that society had inflicted upon them. Some were sitting outside of McDonald’s nursing a beer or a cigarette, or just plain nursing their bent egos. It wasn’t the cream of the crop, to be sure.

I can be counted in with that group. I had decided to get some damn air after watching the news; the cheap perfume from room 21, right below me, was getting a bit much. I was hungry to boot, and so I went to the Meat-Spud place that was close to campus for a momentary respite from starvation. Nothing serious, just a change of scenery to get the juices flowing.

I picked up a paper from the stand and sat down to read it as I was eating. It wasn’t long, however, before I was in a serious state of shock.

The paper was dated October 24th, all right, but I had already read it about a week ago.

No mistake. No confusion. Just glancing over pages that are already in the past, no matter what the bloody date says. I was sure it was a mistake on the part of the paper, and so I checked the Pioneer Press to confirm. It too held the same stories that were already old news to me. And these aren’t time-sensitive issues here. I had simply read everything previously, at least a week previously.

Now, one can make the argument that reality is a bunch of bullshit created by some malevolent demon to torture us, but that line of reasoning is a bit hard to back up. But this was too much. It was George Winston holding the photograph of three dead men in 1984. It was holding some totally illogical and impossible act right in your very hands. And what could I do? I was totally sure that I was right. My explanations for that even were no good, and could not be framed in terms of this reality whatsoever.

About this time I noticed a very strong scent of cheap perfume again, and sure enough my housemate had ended up in the same place I was at. Fuck that. I was trying to escape, and what did I find? Impossible time fabrication and people who were following me. I beat a hasty exit to pace around campus for a while, looking for trouble. I just found more people who I knew. I need to get out less often.

By this time I was not in a good mood. I was pressed to explain the events of the day, and there was a backlog of events that still needed explaining. As I wound my mind faster and faster up to speed, searching for any threads of reason that would explain this, I merely exposed the shortcomings of my own mind. Unsane, intrasane, call it what you will; the fact is that the world does make perfectly wrong sense. My problem lies not in the fact that my thinking is internally inconsistent, it lies in the fact that my rules are fine for other dimensions but aren’t applicable to the here and now. I’m using Euclidean geometry to fool around with Einstein’s theory of relativity. The wrong tool for the job. That, and plastic angels holding fake diamonds aren’t a solution to anything.

I couldn’t do anything, and I definitely was up for some soma out of Brave New World. However, our technology and pharmaceutics hadn’t yet progressed to that level. But a substitute was found rather quickly: the television. Even with the five or so channels I get it is enough to kill the mind. And as I watched the SCSU hockey team pull out a win over the U of M in the final 20 seconds or so, I suddenly found that I didn’t have the ability to do any more heavy-duty thinking. Fuck the future: we are in a consciousness-draining society now, and we are all playing our parts.

Which was just as well for the evening. The shouting, soft as it was, wouldn’t allow for introspection anyway. Just a nice backdrop for a bit of light/heavy reading about true Freaks who almost had it in 1966 but lost it soon after, and though many a comeback was tried none succeeded. I dimly remember that Homecoming has something to do with the past and alumni and all that nonsense; I was celebrating it in my own way. The only difference is that I never graduated from my alma mater, never even saw it. Hell, it probably never even existed. But from time to time as I see with glistening, short-lived clarity the nonsense we all put forward in the name of not rocking the boat, I just feel that things were right somewhere, sometime.

There will be no Homecoming for this school. It may be a school of thought, a philosophy, a church (I am still angry at having to defend the Pope yesterday; why did I do that?), anything. The teachers have no tenure, most students take far longer than four years to graduate, and only a few can afford to go continuously. But it probably exists somewhere. I’ve got the papers to prove it, along with all of those battle scars. At the very least, there will be no drunken shouts as this parade goes marching down the avenues of history, the only venue that is proper. And that is enough for me.