Another move.

Well, I've done it once more and felt the restless urge to try my hand at this bloggy thing again, only somewhere else.

http://laelefanteria.blogspot.com/

I don't know why. I guess I like the feeling of a fresh start.

A small recap:

This year has been much about change-- relationship shifts, health and lifestyle adjustments, and mostly an enormous surge of writing that's sort of twisted things around in my head. I was invited to read at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts , where my poem, Taking my Baptism, was chosen for web publication (you can read it at the link). Near the end of the year, I was the recipient of the Gertrude Claytor Poetry Prize through the Academy of American Poets for a small collection of five poems. These accomplishments, while not the most important aspects of my MFA experience, provided just the validation and bolstering effect of acknowledgment to balance out the ever-growing stack of rejection letters, and the constant ebb of self-doubt around this whole Trying To Make It As A Writer business. Far more important in my first year was the harnessing of an understanding with my work, and deeper connection with myself and what makes me write what I write. I have two solid collections at their halfway points (one a series based on the beautiful but often surreal experience of an all-girls' camp and education; the other based on what I've affectionately dubbed "The Dead Dad Stuff"), and have a handful of prose pieces that don't make me cringe. These are all good things.

This summer things have mostly hit their stride: I run most mornings, then over a bowl of almond-butter-and-oatmeal write for three hours in my cubicle at the Taubman Museum of Art. In the afternoon I drink tea and attend meetings, and pull together layouts and budgets for my Big Project there. In the evenings there are some MFA boys and usually a movie, accompanied by some delicious home-cooked meal a crazy companion of mine might slap together (I'm a little gun-shy when it comes to cooking for others.. akin to my anxiety over performing any kind of mental math on command). At night I read until I can't hold my eyes open any longer and try not to murder my overly-vocal cat in a sleep-drunk rage.

It feels good to form my erratic behavior into a routine, and on Mondays I feel myself falling into it much as one might collapse into a warm old duvet. While much of what whirls around in my brain still feels manic and nervous, knowing that I can run and write daily despite my 40 hour work week has an almost immediate calming effect. As does good food. Which is also what my summer has been about:

Let's see how I keep up with things over at La Elefanteria 2.

La Elefanteria

Last night, while watching the better Capote film, Infamous, I was reminded of an interview in which Frank Sinatra once said that every time Judy Garland sang she died a little inside...that's how much she gave. And, in the ensuing argument that occurred between my fellow movie-watcher and I, I discovered that I completely agreed with this notion. (Yes, I'd like some wine with my cheese, thank you.) But let me explain:

When you make art, when you really give yourself to something that requires creation, I don't think it's unreasonable to say that you become controlled by it. And it's because art is, to a large degree, an autonomous thing-- something that must be worked over and reasoned with as well as coaxed into existence. I don't know a single writer, artist or performer who hasn't felt consumed by their work at some point, like it could kill them if they let it. Yet while it seems that believing in this idea could indicate a kind of fatalistic perspective on the maturation and quality of an artist's work, I don't think it's any more damning than recognizing our own mortality. We have a finite number of years to live, and accordingly, a finite number of works that we can create. While the work can and probably will "kill" the artist a little bit from time to time, I don't think that this indicates a diminished quality in the work as it progresses... but maybe a tarnished or wearisome artist? Sure.

Which is my somewhat roundabout way of saying that I simply have not been able to face the great challenge of a blog post since starting grad school. I've been writing about 500% more than I'm used to, and any writing that was not art or casual emailing seemed beyond my mental faculties. Maybe this will change, as school continues and my brain and body become accustomed to this kind of work, who knows. In the meantime, I have found myself lamenting a waning memory capacity for small things that I've mentally noted to blog about. With the addition of a smartphone in my life, I've decided to get back to my photographic roots and keep a "notebook" on tumblr:

http://elefanteria.tumblr.com/

Again with the elephants, right? I guess I could offer a tiny explanation: when I was a kid, visiting my abuelita in Santiago, I remember that she had a vast collection of elephant figurines in her dining room. So intense was this collection that the room became a kind of storage space that could no longer accommodate a dinner or guests, and truly, not even a small girl's wandering feet. The elephants were made of everything from wood to bronze to ivory, and were as small as pearls or large as Great Danes. I've loved elephants ever since (despite their unfortunate political affiliation) and find myself drawn to them in nostalgia.

"La Elefanteria" is in reference to the animal, and to the South American tendency to name a store by simply adding the suffix "-eria" to whatever it is they're selling: "Levanderia" (cleaner's) "Joyeria" (jewelery store) "Sanwisheria" (you get the idea). Obviously, I'm not selling anything, nor is my blog particularly elephant-related, but I was thinking of the old phrase that "an elephant never forgets." I intend to upload photos, quotes, small notes, etc of things I encounter that strike me in some way and I want to "remember."

I'm super scattered and disorganized, and I hate that "tip of my tongue" feeling when trying to recall. It's kind of a New Year's thing, I guess. And maybe I'll come back here if ever I feel inclined to elaborate on my notes.

Muchos besos, prospero año, etc.

A little bone-picking from a curvy lady.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting with an old friend at a bar enjoying (in my opinion) the best martini in Houston. I was happily slurping away, the bartender there a like-minded creature who, believing the martini glass an evil invention that makes everyone look sloppy, had kindly delivered the chilled, pretty-dirty beverage in a high ball glass. Thumbs up.

So euphoric was I with my delicious cocktail, I almost missed the double-entendre-statement my drinking companion tossed my way, that went something like this:

"OMG I love hanging out with you! Everyone I usually hang out with is so super skinny and tiny and they make me just feel huge."

Call it testimony to the scrumptiousness of my cocktail that I didn't "accidentally" tip it into her lap.

I've been sitting on this in the meantime (flattening it out with my apparently elephantine figure), wondering what the hell would prompt one to make a remark like that. Initially, I decided to give the speaker the benefit of the doubt: she couldn't possibly have meant it that way. I have a whole list of reasons why no one in their right mind could say something like that to me, all of which boil down to this one, singular fact: I'm gnome-size. Seriously. I can wear children's size coats, and can still fit into my favorite fifth grade pair of jeans. No pair of pants, not even the "ankle length" (whose ankle? Shaq's?) can be worn un-hemmed. I have to drive with the chair pulled so close to the wheel I can barely exit my freaking car, and I rue the day Austin Powers declared small hands "carnie." Unless you're five, using me as your counterpoint to feel tiny is delusional. Case closed.

The comment was almost written off as such, but a few nights later the situation seemed to shift into auto-focus. After making some off-hand remark to a fitness trainer friend not to look at us for exercise talk because we don't work out, I, sans delicious but distracting drink, informed the ignoramus that um, no, actually I work out 4-5 days a week. And then homegirl said, with all the disbelief, shock and outrage she could muster, "Reeeealllyyy??????"

Look, I'm not delusional. I know that while I may give immediate meaning to the term "Shawty," I am no pixie (I said gnome, remember?). As you may recall, my breasts came in when I was nine years old. Well, they came with friends: a pair of hips and an ass that rely wholeheartedly on the solid foundation of legs built like a shetland pony's. The Boogs and I affectionately call all my lady lumps "Maluendas," after the side of the family who so lovingly bestowed them upon me. I'm half-Chilean; you can see it in my ass.

Had the incident occurred this time last year, there's a chance I would have done what so many insecure, American women do and internalized the thing as my problem. I don't know how we were trained to function this way, as though the passive aggressive insult is constructive, important, or even accurate, but the impulse cussing blows. So let's play a game: using the incident at hand, let's test its weight (ha) against these three attributes: accuracy, constructiveness, and importance. Maybe I'm wrong, after all. Maybe I should go hide under a rock until I lose 30 lbs. Let's be scientific about this before I do anything rash like, I don't know, move on with my life.

1. Accuracy

I think I pretty much covered this above, but I'm willing to expand for the sake of diligence. While I'm certainly not Shakira, I sure as hell ain't no Snookie neither. Being small and curvy does leave a little wiggle-room to wonder what's "right," and most women have developed their own methods of understanding when they're in a good place, and when they've maybe over-indulged. I know I'm in trouble when I can't fit into my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle onesie, for example.

Obviously, if we're measuring accuracy, the question of the speaker's figure must come into play. While I'm disinterested in carping on someone I've decided has some serious body-image and self-esteem issues, I will say, for the sake of our thorough investigation, that if I'm an Ewok she's Chewbacca. But that's only if we're getting technical.

2. Constructiveness

You may wonder how it could ever be constructive for a friend to comment passively on one's weight and size while out in a bar, and you're bewilderment would be well-founded. But, full disclosure, I do have a pact with the Boogs to inform me when the Maluendas are getting a little out of control (and I would inform him if ever he garners some man-maluendas), so I think it's possible to gently address a loved one's weight gain. The real issue here is timing: let's say I have suddenly put on 20 lbs that can't be attributed to medication, pregnancy, or extreme muscle mass. Would it be helpful for me to have a friend tell me how much she appreciates my new plumpy figure for how thin it makes her feel? Yeah, about as helpful as her chosen background for delivery: the bar. Nothing I want to talk about more than body image while I'm out on the town. Martini's only taste okay without a healthy dose of body-bashing, duh.

3. Importance

While I've concluded that my general response to this whole incident was to let it go, to maybe feel a little sad for the commenter, and you know, to blog about it, I'm not going to deny that I wasn't a little bothered. Unfortunately, the vestiges of American body-image brainwashing haven't totally vacated my internal monologue, and I definitely felt more conscious of my Maluendas in the days that followed. But what bothered me far more than any insecurity the comment could have bolstered was how mean it was. Not to mention just flat-out weird-- both remarks were made in bars, where one goes with friends to generally laugh and have a good time. Who busts out bitch in those situations?

The thing is, our idea of body image is completely bat shit to begin with. Whether fashion begets the figure or the figure fashion is chicken and eggs (though I'm pretty sure we can blame the designers if we wanted to get down to it), but to function as though Calvin Klein's 90's ads are the pinnacle of ideal women's figures is absolutely coo coo bananas. Sometime in the 80's, someone decided clothes look better on hangers and thus died the supermodel and all we got for it was Kate Moss. Clothes may look better on hangers, but women sure as fuck do not.

I used to lament my bad timing. But it's all a matter of perspective: with my pale skin (ivory complexion), high forehead (noble brow), and voluptuous figure (T&A), I could've been a relatively successful centerfold in any number of eras ranging from the middle ages to the 80's.

But why miss what I never had when I've got what I do now: a body women essentially pay to construct themselves. My Maluendas make impants of any kind completely unnecessary; I don't need surgery to feel like a woman (I was Kim Kardashian before Kim Kardashian was Kim Kardashian, yo). And though I'm independently pretty happy with my curves, it doesn't hurt that I live with a man who, after 5 years together, still drops whatever he's doing like a dumbstruck teenager when he sees me naked.

I hate it when I read that one has "made peace" with their body because it sounds like they've just sucked it up and compromised with mediocrity. I do not have a mediocre body, and I sure as hell don't want to feel that way about it. My body is amazing. I am continually impressed with what I can do when I push myself, like when I came home from a run and, on an endorphin high, challenged David to a man-push-up contest. I did 25. Straight. I can do the splits and touch my nose to my knees. I can balance myself on my hands, with my shins resting on the backs of my arms. I can stand on the tips of my toes for almost 5 full seconds. I can also finish an entire pizza, a 10-cup pot of coffee, a whole pumpkin pie and a bottle of wine (separately). Boo-ya.

So how important is it that this one friend felt the need to remark that I, in her warped little world, made her feel small? Not very. In fact, I'm happy to help out. If a friend of mine is so starved for positive body affirmation she must create illusions that fortify her confidence than please, let the make-believe begin. I am a gnome after all.

So this is Love

This delightful little candy knows the way to my heart: sea salt. I can't get enough of this magical seasoning, especially nestled inside of delicious sweets. The bar had me at first glance, with it's adorable little correspondence packaging-- the embossed gold heart mimicking a wax seal is indeed a nice touch. But the moment I knew that ours was the stuff of lasting love was when I glimpsed the Shelley poem printed on the inside of the wrapper...

The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The Winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle--

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another,

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdain'd its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea--

What are all these kissings worth,

If though kiss not me?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make out with a bar of chocolate...

Footballer's Delight

With the World Cup finally coming to a frustrating end, I now have little excuse to keep me from resuming some kind of consistent blogging. But today, in honor of the only game I've ever loved, I will forgo the usual discussion of beauty products, pop culture and breasts to attempt something that's going to make my mother's jaw drop: sports writing.

My sporting penchants were set early in life: soccer was always around, my Chilean father ever the advocate with his regulation size ball in the trunk, pulling it out at the site of the smallest stretch of grass, dirt, or empty parking lot. I remember learning how to head the ball one particularly swampy afternoon in late summer of my elementary years, in a parched field landmined with drying dog turds next to Herman Park. After applying my forehead to an underhand toss maybe 4 out of 10 times, he declared me "ready," and sent a short-ranged chip square to my face.

My father had generally taught me that a 6-year-old girl's inclination to sob from pain is not okay. "Toughen up, Pipas. Be a man." But after taking a rock-like punt from a full grown man to the mug, I was having a hard time stifling the tears. Luckily for me, there is crying in soccer. And thus my love affair began.

Many of my friends are not too fond of soccer. The complaints are pretty standard-- you may harbor the same quibblings yourself: nothing happens, there are barely any goals, it's just a bunch of running around, etc. etc. I suppose, if I had not played the game in my childhood and early teen years, I would probably be among the chief carpers, because I certainly have my share of sniveling against other sports (American football! Baseball!). And while I know it can be off-putting to have someone try to convert you to the Other Side simply because they happen to reside there, well... this is my blog.

=)

Why I Love Soccer And You Should Too

Contrary to the notion that "nothing happens," the game is a full 90 minutes (usually more) of solid, unrelenting play. Two 45 minute halves that go mostly uninterrupted (even the most dire injury will be cleared away with the swift discretion of a C.I.A. operation) is a hell of a lot more action than you'll see in say, a 3 second football play or watching baseball players stretch their hamstrings all game. The average midfielder in a soccer match runs MILES (7 or 8, if you're Michael Bradley), on thighs plucked from a prized thoroughbred. Thus, ladies and gents, you don't have to care about the game to get into it: you can just sit back, drink a beer, and let the shameless objectification commence because these guys are fit. Seriously. Soccer players are built like gods straight from Mount Olympus. Case in point-- U.S.A. hero Landon Donovan:

Ah, yes. The good-looking athlete. Thank God for soccer because it seems like there are so many athletes out there looking like Shrek these days. I remember the first time I actually tried to watch an Astros game, looking down at Jeff Bagwell's enormous ass in his white pants. What? I thought. Doesn't he get paid millions and millions of dollars to play sports? Shouldn't he look like Herakles, rippling quads and sinew, delts straining against his jersey? And then I found out that there's really minimal movement required for baseball. If there isn't heart-stopping action, gorgeous players should be a requirement. Period .
(The USA team. They didn't win, but they're certainly easy on the eyes.)

There is pressure, intensity, and emotion in every soccer match, the likes of which you are unlikely to see in any other sport. From superhuman athleticism to personal fouls, faked injuries or booking disputes, you won't want for drama in any given match. Soccer players are coursing adrenaline so thick they simply can't help but succumb to the extreme of every emotion they feel. And who doesn't want to see a grown ass man throwing a full out tantrum?
Now, I'm not much of a sporty jargon user, so I can't support the point as well as say, this guy, but I feel pretty confident declaring that soccer athletes are arguably some of the best athletes playing in any sport the world over. The game requires tremendous stamina, endurance and raw physical power. It ain't some small thang to run for almost 90 solid minutes over a space longer than an American football field while 11 demi-gods do everything in their power to plow you down. Manipulating a ball with your head or body demands perfect timing and unimaginable core strength. And, with no flabby guts slowing up the game, there's some serious break-neck speed, coupled with instantaneous decision making that is often breathtaking to behold. Here, check it out:
Best of all for the fan, there are no obnoxious commercials breaking the mood, nor billions of instant replays blocking out the game at hand: the fan is right there with the players in real time, experiencing each excruciating step up a mountain of intensity so great that the only way for it to end is with some fantastic, impossible athletic feat. And then, under insurmountable odds, the moment breaks in sheer, real emotion. You will find no poker-faced winner or grimly silent loser in this game. Adult men will shed real crocodile tears, will embrace one another in genuine camaraderie, will fall to their knees and shout praise to the floodlit heavens. Plus, who can make the argument that the post-goal celebrations aren't the most incredible celebrations to behold?

Why else do we value sports if we don't need for this spectacle? Call it simulacrum, but if you don't feel your troubles fading into the background you aren't paying attention. I used to doubt the benefits from channeling all of your stress and frustrations into a professional sporting event, but I can say now with full confidence that I not only understand the phenomenon but also support it. There's simply no doubting the cathartic and unifying effects of sports. Not once I found myself, tears streaming down my face, reflecting on recent troubles with a much lighter heart. Seriously. I could've been hanging out with one of my least favorite, pompous, obnoxious acquaintances, but witnessing that Donovan goal in the 90-something minute of the Algeria game and there would've been genuine, full-bodied bear hugs in order. Watching all that man-love on the field is just bewitching.
The World Cup pulled me out of the nasty, almost 3 month case of the Mean Reds I've been suffering after a wedding contract job went sour and my writing hit a major wall. The frustration, anger and outrage churning in my gut was enough to have me jumping into a superfluous and asinine court case over $200 with a passive aggressive bridezilla who seemed to believe that paying an inexperienced independent designer a little more than minimum wage would sufficiently cover a progressive list of jobs appropriate for an entire team of florists, designers and movers. Any bitch who figured that formula somehow entitled her to the perfect, problem-free wedding of her dreams obviously doesn't live on a planet where reason and logic roam free, but pride caused me to briefly consider taking the thing to small claims.

Luckily, after promising the Boogs not to do anything rash for at least a week, the tournament began. And, in those precious hours each day spent following ESPN.com and engaging in some major shit-talking with fellow supporters, I found all the anger and helplessness with the Crazy Bride melting away. What did I care about a bat-shit princess when I had referees and Argentina to endure my wrath? How could I sit around feeling sorry for myself when the U.S. was devastated after our best-ever run, or when Ghana went to penalty kicks after Suarez's outrageous Devil's Hand? The sound of an entire continent's collective heartbreak as they watched their last African hope fall out of the tournament was all the perspective I required to shrug away my now meager troubles.

(Suarez's desperate handball prevents a Ghanan goal in the last few minutes of overtime halves, pushing the game to penalty kicks)

Though none of my 5 picks made it to the final two (I was pulling for Ghana for third, Germany to win), and though I backed the Dutch in a game that will forever be etched into the books as one of the scrappiest, dirtiest, least-soccer-played finals in World Cup history (seriously, if Howard Webb red carded every time it was deserved, the match could have easily turned into some coo-coo banana circus event of 9 on 11, not that the Netherlands weren't asking for it) I bid South Africa farewell with a light, grateful heart. Thanks WC. See you in Brazil 2014.

Here, some articles on Why Americans Should Love Soccer, an excellent argument Supporting the Most Un-American Aspect of The Sport.

Hi, how've ya been?

Hello dear blog-followers (Hi Ari! Hi Mal!):

I haven't forgotten about you, I promise. I've got half a dozen blog posts half-started in my "To Be Edited" folder, I swear. But I've been fighting a bad case of the Mean Reds this past month or so, and just couldn't bear to pull out another filler YouTube video, or some mediocre commentary on pop culture fads. I needed a break, I needed to regroup: do some Pilates, clean out the studio, drink some wine. No good blogging could come from these things, I think. And so it was for you, dear reader (Mal! Ari!) that I abstained from the drunken blog post, or the post-yoga meditation on the BP oil spill and Lady Gaga. Life's too short to read Bad Blogs, I reasoned.

And so consider this my solemn vow, dear ones, that I am going to return to the semi-regular posting quite soon, and that I have gathered quite the delicious array of fodder for your eagerly seeking creative non-fiction blogging needs (bad weddings! lover's quarrels! Facebook faux-pas!). I do think, however, that I needed to ease my way back into the conversation on neutral, if not positive terms, as I'm afraid that most of these topics lead me to chugging the Haterade (Bridezillas! Art reality shows! Creating-fake-practice-family-portraits-with-someone-else's-child-on-Facebook-like-a-psycho-asshole!) and I'm not too keen on alienating my dear readers on the pretense of bitching.

And so, I'd like to reopen the dialogue with a list of recent obsessions: things that make me happy, things that I cannot stop using/buying/consuming/thinking about/watching. This is, to say the least, MY Tiffany's, the only surefire cure for the Mean Reds.

1. Rompers.

I am totally obsessed. I have three of them, and the moment I come home I hop out of my clothes at a speed that would inspire Warner Bros. to reexamine the Road Runner, and slip into one of these cotton, full-bodied numbers that make me feel cozy, practical and sexy. Every time the Boogs comes home and finds me doing Pilates, reading, or cooking in one of these ingenious sartorial inventions, he calls out "Romper!" and I stop what I'm doing, and frolic. Just for a moment. They are so, so delicious.

2. Say Yes to Carrots Body Butter.

I found this in a mini travel size at Target and I cannot stop putting it on my hands and arms. It is creamy, light, and soft, everything a good dessert mousse should be, for your skin. The smell is subtle and clean, and if I can't control the fervor with which I rub it all over myself in public, I'm afraid I'm going to just have to start eating it.

3. PG Tips

I was introduced to this delicious tea last summer when the Boogs and I lived in the Catskills with two Brooklyn artists and their young son Jasper. (Check out their sites on the links provided!) At night, after the Jasper had been put (usually temporarily) to sleep and we all retired to our studios for late-night contemplation, Kirsten and I would make enormous mugs of PG tips with milk and raw sugar. I developed a bit of an obsessive craving for the stuff and was abruptly cut off when we were traveling shortly thereafter. Upon our return to the US we were so absurdly poor that it wasn't until this past month that I finally felt totally comfortable buying the whole damn 80 satchel box at Whole Foods. Tis heavenly at 10 o'clock at night, with a big hard back book and graham crackers.

4. Anthropologie dishware

All of which were purchased today with the help of my handy-dandy family discount card courtesy of the Boogs' job (he's the display artist at Urban). I cannot tell you how long I have coveted the latte bowls, nor can I fully express what joy it brings me to see them stacked now, next to a bottle of wine and a big white Anthro bag with those spartan, elegant red handles. I believe we've called this feeling "happiness," though it seems to fall devastatingly short of what I'm currently experiencing.

5. The World Cup. More specifically, the USA team in the World Cup.

I know this may seem like an unlikely transition, given all the beauty and food items listed before it, but I am equally obsessed (if not more so) with this year's World Cup. I came into it with what I thought was a very "realistic" approach: given the stats and my own instincts, I settled upon a rough Top Five of Germany, Ghana, Mexico, Chile and the US. While Ghana and Germany are definitely abreast my expectations, Chile and the US have far exceeded them, and I am happy to say that I am fully backing our dear country in the upcoming elimination round. I was skeptical, though unsurprised, by their performance against England and Slovenia (our defense was wild, if not pathetic) but the Algeria game that won us our group (first time since 1930!!!!!) makes them worthy not only of their spot against Ghana in the elimination round (a totally worthy team, a strong and surprising group) but also of my total, 100% undying support.

I saw on the ol' FB that many-a non-soccer fan (re: the vast majority of my American friends) were confused- nay- resentful of the sudden outpouring of support and soccer-love via status updates. "Where did all these soccer fans come from??" they queried, not without judgement, not without a tone that would imply that we futbol-watchers were Sunday-supporters, fair weather fans. To these skeptics I say this: I never hear you wondering "where did all these Olympics fans come from!?" during the games. The World Cup also occurs every 4 years, and thus, we are fully informed, fully saturated, fully satisfied. Deal with it.

And, USA v. GHANA, SATURDAY JUNE 26th, 2:30 ET. Be there.

A love of elephantine proportion.

In honor of today, here's a photo of me and my Mama, circa 1986:

I know. I was heart-meltingly cute. It's been kind of a tough thing to keep up with.

My mother is one of the most dedicated, kind, and patient women in the world. She is also stunningly beautiful, and by some fluke in the Universe's genetic lotteries, my face favors hers over Dad's. And for that, I am completely and totally grateful.

To my incredible mama, from whom I received cheekbones, little-to-no body hair, and lady feet that fit the tiny-size shoes always on super sale at department stores (they look larger in the photo).

Thanks for everything.