Many of my students come to classes wondering why in the world they should spend their time studying ideas--especially OLD ideas. So I have to get them thinking about why ideas just might be important. And what ideas are.
Here's how I start:
* When I talk about important ideas, I mean general statements about reality that are influential—they move people and convince them and activate them—but that are not based on historical or empirical fact. In many cases, important ideas are about the way things SHOULD be rather than the way they HAVE BEEN or ARE. For example, “All men are created equal” is an important idea. Why? Because it has shaped national policy, workplace regulations, and the conditions of life for Americans for the past 200 years. That is pretty important. But there was no basis in fact for the idea offered in our Declaration of Independence. Historically speaking, there was no reason to make such a claim. So an idea became a reality (or edged closer to becoming a reality) in America--and elsewhere.
* Many important ideas were “born” in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Many others simply developed into their mature forms.
* The women’s rights movement, the civil rights movement, the battle between supporters of evolution and creationism, the development of modern media and industry, and the structure of our economy are all founded on what happened since 1750 or so. These things are all built on ideas about human nature, and where we came from, and how market relations should be managed.
I then ask students to come up with an important idea—for good or ill—that is still relevant to us today. Here are some that we talk about:
More is better.
Bigger is better.
Money is the highest value in the “real world.”
College will get you a job.
Poetry is boring and old-fashioned.
Jews are ruining the German economy. . .
Hopefully, by the time we finish this discussion, students are beginning to see that ideas are important, and that literature is a force that creates and re-shapes ideas.
When we read, we experience something. Experiences and ideas are always related. We experience things, and then we generalize ideas from that experience. In middle school, for instance, many of us have enough data to determine that school is essentially boring and pointless. That is an idea that comes from the facts of daily school life. But we can also have an idea that schools should be better than they are. And we can change things based on that idea. Literature is one place where we play with ideas—possiblities—ways of seeing the world. I try to get students to look at it that way.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Changing our minds . . .
In order to start changing our habits of mind, and our minds, we must remove ourselves from some of the “gross and violent stimulants” (Wordsworth, "Preface" to Lyrical Ballads) that surround us. Begin with a retreat. Set aside a long weekend for the work. And then turn off the Internet, the TV, and the iPods. Start the day by watching the sun rise. Plan activities that are family-oriented if your family is willing. Clear the slate so your mind is not full of everything that “must be done.” Play cards. Read. And write down the things that you enjoy most in your life. Reflect on those things. What is it that makes them enjoyable? How can you make other activities in your life similarly enjoyable?
The principle of substitution. Like people who are quitting smoking, an old habit cannot simply be dropped. New habits must take the place of old ones. So think about ways of changing your practices. What will be the gum you chew? Or the toothpicks you chew? Or the favorite foods you eat? Find something that will give you a different pleasure, and use it as a starting point for new habits. Best to choose several alternatives so that you don’t get too fixated on one. Otherwise you will find yourself with yet another hard habit to break.
First, consider the issue of habit. Habit is important. It enables us to think less and to get more done. Without it, we would have to start over from scratch every time we did anything. Imagine a world in which you had to re-learn the alphabet every day. Or learn how to walk again every day. Impossible. Learning is partly about moving new skills and ideas from the novel to the habitual. Once we have accepted a practice as good, or satisfying, it has a tendency to become habitual very quickly. The more pleasurable the practice, the deeper the “groove” of the habit produced. Thus we are rightly concerned as a culture about sexuality, cigarettes, drugs, alcohol. These things produce intense pleasure at levels that are very persuasive. Sometimes they are very hard to manage for that reason.
We love these things, and we fear them, because of their power to alter our perception of time and engagement with the world. When we are sexually aroused, we become totally focused on the moment of pleasure at hand. When we are drinking, we feel relaxed, untroubled by the busy and frantic worlds of work and family responsibility within which we usually find ourselves. When we smoke, we feel alert, empowered, more intensely in the moment. All of these pleasures involve a sense of immersion and connection that we often lose in the repetitive and form-filled world of work. Boredom is our greatest enemy; but boredom is a choice, not a necessity.
We need to substitute other forms of immersion for the immersion of drugs, alcohol, and sex—or to increase our immersion time. Being completely involved in ANYTHING is satisfying. We have all felt the power of reading a great book, or watching a great movie, or watching a game, or playing a sport, or . . . We are most happy, according to psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, when we are completely involved in an activity that challenges us but also rewards our skills. So it makes sense that we should work at creating immersion opportunities. E.F. Schumacher said that we should focus on creating Good Work, rather than focusing on “productivity” or “growth.” And he was so right.
As a culture, however, we have trained ourselves into believing that immersion activities are separate from work, separate from family life, and separate from “productivity” on the whole. Hmmm. We have generated a model in which we work only 30-35 hours a week and dedicate the rest of our time to a highly troubled “leisure” that remains completely unsatisfying to most of us. “Leisure” is not really “leisure” when it is full of second jobs, running errands, raising children, and so on. It is, in fact, more work. But the fact is, work can be satisfying when we participate fully and do it well. QUALITY is the key. Most people find mediocrity completely unsatisfying, yet they live with it and even become it in order to “save time” and to have more leisure. Mediocrity is the result of non-immersion practice. When you are thinking about one thing and doing another, you are committing mediocrity. When you are doing something in a hurry in order to “get finished,” you are committing mediocrity. When you are doing a job you hate in the name of making money only, you are committing mediocrity. So most of us find ourselves committing mediocrity on a daily basis. And it doesn’t feel good, does it?
Eventually we start to believe that mediocrity, and non-immersive experience, is the primary mode of life. We are hungry for immersion and at-one-ness with our work, with our friends, and with our spouses. But we feel that it cannot be found in everyday activities which reek of mediocrity. So we begin to try other routes—New Age junk, drugs, alcohol, vacations, various “escapes” from mediocrity. But since they are not authentic immersion experiences that cultivate our learning, our skills, and our sense of who we are, they are simply distractions from the ongoing problem of being detached from the world that we live in. This is what we call “escapism,” and it is rampant in today’s world. If the world of work and the world of social values are so unsatisfying, why do we tolerate them? Because we must? Or because we don’t know any better? These are questions worth asking.
Csikszentmihalyi offers several stories of factory workers, office workers, and “line workers” who found what he calls “flow” in their work. I would say that “flow” begins with openness and a willingness to try things—to learn. It is sustained by patience and a patient commitment to getting better at anything we do. It ends with mastery and control. Once a job is routine, and there is nothing new to be learned in that job for a person, that person will rapidly lose the sense of “flow” or complete immersion in the task at hand. And that is the beginning of alienation. But any job can produce flow for a time, and many jobs can produce flow indefinitely (people-oriented jobs are often this way—new people, new situations every day). So the conditions under which we labor, while they are often not ideal for flow and immersion, do not make flow and immersion impossible. What makes it impossible is the state of our own minds as we face the conditions of our lives.
The principle of substitution. Like people who are quitting smoking, an old habit cannot simply be dropped. New habits must take the place of old ones. So think about ways of changing your practices. What will be the gum you chew? Or the toothpicks you chew? Or the favorite foods you eat? Find something that will give you a different pleasure, and use it as a starting point for new habits. Best to choose several alternatives so that you don’t get too fixated on one. Otherwise you will find yourself with yet another hard habit to break.
First, consider the issue of habit. Habit is important. It enables us to think less and to get more done. Without it, we would have to start over from scratch every time we did anything. Imagine a world in which you had to re-learn the alphabet every day. Or learn how to walk again every day. Impossible. Learning is partly about moving new skills and ideas from the novel to the habitual. Once we have accepted a practice as good, or satisfying, it has a tendency to become habitual very quickly. The more pleasurable the practice, the deeper the “groove” of the habit produced. Thus we are rightly concerned as a culture about sexuality, cigarettes, drugs, alcohol. These things produce intense pleasure at levels that are very persuasive. Sometimes they are very hard to manage for that reason.
We love these things, and we fear them, because of their power to alter our perception of time and engagement with the world. When we are sexually aroused, we become totally focused on the moment of pleasure at hand. When we are drinking, we feel relaxed, untroubled by the busy and frantic worlds of work and family responsibility within which we usually find ourselves. When we smoke, we feel alert, empowered, more intensely in the moment. All of these pleasures involve a sense of immersion and connection that we often lose in the repetitive and form-filled world of work. Boredom is our greatest enemy; but boredom is a choice, not a necessity.
We need to substitute other forms of immersion for the immersion of drugs, alcohol, and sex—or to increase our immersion time. Being completely involved in ANYTHING is satisfying. We have all felt the power of reading a great book, or watching a great movie, or watching a game, or playing a sport, or . . . We are most happy, according to psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, when we are completely involved in an activity that challenges us but also rewards our skills. So it makes sense that we should work at creating immersion opportunities. E.F. Schumacher said that we should focus on creating Good Work, rather than focusing on “productivity” or “growth.” And he was so right.
As a culture, however, we have trained ourselves into believing that immersion activities are separate from work, separate from family life, and separate from “productivity” on the whole. Hmmm. We have generated a model in which we work only 30-35 hours a week and dedicate the rest of our time to a highly troubled “leisure” that remains completely unsatisfying to most of us. “Leisure” is not really “leisure” when it is full of second jobs, running errands, raising children, and so on. It is, in fact, more work. But the fact is, work can be satisfying when we participate fully and do it well. QUALITY is the key. Most people find mediocrity completely unsatisfying, yet they live with it and even become it in order to “save time” and to have more leisure. Mediocrity is the result of non-immersion practice. When you are thinking about one thing and doing another, you are committing mediocrity. When you are doing something in a hurry in order to “get finished,” you are committing mediocrity. When you are doing a job you hate in the name of making money only, you are committing mediocrity. So most of us find ourselves committing mediocrity on a daily basis. And it doesn’t feel good, does it?
Eventually we start to believe that mediocrity, and non-immersive experience, is the primary mode of life. We are hungry for immersion and at-one-ness with our work, with our friends, and with our spouses. But we feel that it cannot be found in everyday activities which reek of mediocrity. So we begin to try other routes—New Age junk, drugs, alcohol, vacations, various “escapes” from mediocrity. But since they are not authentic immersion experiences that cultivate our learning, our skills, and our sense of who we are, they are simply distractions from the ongoing problem of being detached from the world that we live in. This is what we call “escapism,” and it is rampant in today’s world. If the world of work and the world of social values are so unsatisfying, why do we tolerate them? Because we must? Or because we don’t know any better? These are questions worth asking.
Csikszentmihalyi offers several stories of factory workers, office workers, and “line workers” who found what he calls “flow” in their work. I would say that “flow” begins with openness and a willingness to try things—to learn. It is sustained by patience and a patient commitment to getting better at anything we do. It ends with mastery and control. Once a job is routine, and there is nothing new to be learned in that job for a person, that person will rapidly lose the sense of “flow” or complete immersion in the task at hand. And that is the beginning of alienation. But any job can produce flow for a time, and many jobs can produce flow indefinitely (people-oriented jobs are often this way—new people, new situations every day). So the conditions under which we labor, while they are often not ideal for flow and immersion, do not make flow and immersion impossible. What makes it impossible is the state of our own minds as we face the conditions of our lives.
Expanding Mind
We need a new mode of analyzing natural systems: matter and energy are only part of the picture. Information "flows" are critical as well. How can you analyze a natural system in time without attending to the flow of representation and interpretation that makes change possible? DNA communicates pattern; animal behaviors communicate threat, sexual readiness, friendliness, awareness of predators, and so on. How can we imagine that we understand a natural system without attending to the complex of codes and responses that are part and parcel of it?
At a higher level of abstraction, we have in the human world the use of imagined behaviors and gestures. It is “as if” something were said or done when we read it in a book or an article. Extended stories and arguments become part of the world of possibilities for interpretation and reaction.
Mindlike activity, according to Gregory Bateson (Mind and Nature), starts with something as simple as a thermostat-driven heating system. The thermostat triggers the furnace, which heats the house until the thermostat triggers the stop mechanism when the temperature reaches a certain level. But this system really does not involve information only. A physical “key” is usually used as the trigger, which means that the system can be described in terms of exchanges of matter and energy only. Or does it? How about chemical “signals” in the brain? They act physically or energetically, but do they not also act symbolically (standing for something—a state, a condition external to themselves)?
Genome and epigenome—code and activation of code. Represented worlds and actualized worlds. Habit and disruption of habit. At all levels, entropy and order work together to create possibility. Randomness doesn’t really exist. Or does it?
At a higher level of abstraction, we have in the human world the use of imagined behaviors and gestures. It is “as if” something were said or done when we read it in a book or an article. Extended stories and arguments become part of the world of possibilities for interpretation and reaction.
Mindlike activity, according to Gregory Bateson (Mind and Nature), starts with something as simple as a thermostat-driven heating system. The thermostat triggers the furnace, which heats the house until the thermostat triggers the stop mechanism when the temperature reaches a certain level. But this system really does not involve information only. A physical “key” is usually used as the trigger, which means that the system can be described in terms of exchanges of matter and energy only. Or does it? How about chemical “signals” in the brain? They act physically or energetically, but do they not also act symbolically (standing for something—a state, a condition external to themselves)?
Genome and epigenome—code and activation of code. Represented worlds and actualized worlds. Habit and disruption of habit. At all levels, entropy and order work together to create possibility. Randomness doesn’t really exist. Or does it?
Saturday, May 9, 2009
On (not) giving up . . .
How many of us have watched a great athlete, or team, find a way to "hold on" despite being way behind, or tired beyond endurance, or divided? It's easy to see the power of "finishing," but not so easy to attain it. How does a 60 year old man dig deep enough to face the hill in the final miles of the Boston Marathon? What do we mean when we say "dig deep"? Why does it move us so profoundly to witness it when it happens?
The answers to these questions are significant in our efforts to understand human character and identity. The essential human act is creativity--the act of making a self out of the chaos of our perceptions. We generate integrity through coherent actions and habits. We create wholeness and purpose and meaning with disciplined practice. Thus in music and sports, my favorite analogs for these life processes, we become greater, more complex, and more capable than we were. Attention, and will, and patience are essential to this work.
Great moments in sports are not trivial. Our hunger for such moments is an indication that they reveal something important about ourselves. And so do great moments of drama in movies, and great moments of accomplishment in the arts, and great moments of success in business or in everyday life. Some of the most moving moments in all these arenas involve the engagement of minds and bodies in what seem to be "losing battles." We love the "underdog," and are delighted when he or she finds a way to come back, to win--or even simply to make the other team struggle a bit more. We love to hear the old refrain "they're not giving up!"
What does it mean to "give up"? Why do we expect it even as we wish it away? Why are we amazed and satisfied when it does not happen? More on this topic soon. . .
The answers to these questions are significant in our efforts to understand human character and identity. The essential human act is creativity--the act of making a self out of the chaos of our perceptions. We generate integrity through coherent actions and habits. We create wholeness and purpose and meaning with disciplined practice. Thus in music and sports, my favorite analogs for these life processes, we become greater, more complex, and more capable than we were. Attention, and will, and patience are essential to this work.
Great moments in sports are not trivial. Our hunger for such moments is an indication that they reveal something important about ourselves. And so do great moments of drama in movies, and great moments of accomplishment in the arts, and great moments of success in business or in everyday life. Some of the most moving moments in all these arenas involve the engagement of minds and bodies in what seem to be "losing battles." We love the "underdog," and are delighted when he or she finds a way to come back, to win--or even simply to make the other team struggle a bit more. We love to hear the old refrain "they're not giving up!"
What does it mean to "give up"? Why do we expect it even as we wish it away? Why are we amazed and satisfied when it does not happen? More on this topic soon. . .
Friday, May 8, 2009
Extending our pleasures
Interpretation involves experiencing well. In fact, one could say that good interpretation requires perceptual acuity and quality of experience. If one reads a poem like a newspaper, one’s experience of that poem is impoverished. If one’s experience of a poem is impoverished or minimal, one’s interpretation of that poem will likewise be impoverished or minimal. The “capability of mind” that Wordsworth seeks to stimulate and increase in his work is precisely the ability of the mind to engage in experience fully and to be pleased more broadly and readily with what it finds there.
So to focus on the experience of the text is central to doing good interpretation of texts. Without attending to the one, how can we presume to do the other?
With that said, how do we get at the experience of the text? This is the difficulty of the transactional view of Louise Rosenblatt: we have the text, and we have ourselves. But can we access the poem itself? It is the same problem central to reality and representations of it. We have language, we have our own experiences, but we don’t have access to broader truths or meanings until we construct them. Rhetoric is at the core of it all.
Wordsworth calls the core issue “the language of the sense.” But what is it? How do we access it? How does it become sensible to us? Clearly it is important, and prior to conceptual language. But how does it happen?
Perception is neuronal mapping of sensory inputs. Data is selected, screened, assembled, and represented to us for decision-making. Pleasurable inputs are strengthened by feedback and sought again and again. Painful inputs are only strengthened by feedback when reflection indicates long-term pleasures beyond and causally related to the painful inputs. The excitement of the brain can be pleasurable, but over-stimulation crosses a threshold into pain at some point. I’m not sure that pleasure and pain can be mapped entirely as matters of degree (as David Hartley tried to do in his Observations on Man (1749)). They may be related to different centers of activity too—like taste sensors on the tongue.
Wordsworth wrote that “the mind is capable of being excited without the application of gross and violent stimulants.” And he asserted that the job of poetry was to “increase this capability” in the reader. This is where neuronal changes come in. How does one learn to feel a rush of pleasure when reading a poem or playing a word game? Is such a pleasure “automatic” or learned? How does one learn to experience pleasure in a good equation? A well-drawn diagram? A diving catch on a baseball field? What brings us back to the aesthetically-pleasing? To what Robert Pirsig (in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance) called QUALITY?
Education should partly be about the process of refining and extending the range of pleasures that we can experience. We should be capable of being pleased by word-play, by stories of the past, by dreams of the future, by the worlds of “as if” and “ought to be.” If we are not, our experience will surely be impoverished. And our interpretations of “reality” (and the worldview we assemble from them) will surely follow suit.
Any educational situation that ignores pleasure and quality, and sacrifices them (in the literal meaning of the word) in the name of “discipline” or quantities, is a failure. The Puritan strain in our educational system asserts that play and work never join forces, that pleasure is not part of learning, and that “discipline” means categories and dogged repetition of a limited repertoire of activities. Ouch. How wrong can this be?
Why do we have an educational curriculum that denies pleasure, play, and open making of meaning? Well, it comes from the “Western Tradition” that academics have been so proud of for so darned long: concepts privileged over experiences, objectivity favored over subjectivity, mastery favored over inquiry, control favored over spontaneity. All of this is dangerous and damaging to the human mind. In fact, TV and the Internet and drugs and alcohol and a host of other social innovations have been efforts to bring play and un-directed experience and spontaneity and subjectivity back into our culture. But they bring them in the back door and do not integrate them into our way of understanding ourselves.
In the name of authority and control, we have created educational and business structures based on yes/no and either/or thinking. We have followed the lead of our computers. But rhetoric is central to learning, thinking, and relating to other complex creatures, and we cannot neglect it. Representation, metarepresentation, interpretation, attention, and other factors come into play. The answer to many questions remains “mu”—neither yes nor no—for a long time. And that is good! To jump to conclusions is one of the fatal flaws of human cognition. Better to hold information with a metarepresentational tag (as Lisa Zunshine and others describe it). So and so said this, or I read this in such and such a newspaper, or . . . in the world of rhetoric, judgments are always contingent. But that does not stop us from making choices and acting. Our best judgment guides us, and that must be (adaptively speaking) good enough. Can I jump far enough to avoid falling on that ice spot? Did my friend give me the best instructions for getting to his house? Should I take the job offer I just received, or stick with a sure thing that I’ve already got? Both/And thinking always comes into play.
The university, and public education in the U.S., were built on principles that no longer hold. Education in medieval times centered on cultural memory. Monks copied manuscripts, storing and transmitting the written word and thought from generation to generation. The scale of human thinking was limited by the small scope of both thinkers and their influence on readers. The corpus of knowledge was small, relatively speaking, and a life’s work could result in complete mastery of major subject areas. One could, truly, know the best that had been said and written. Knowledge was accumulative, centered on memorization and identification. Expertise was mastery of a body of texts and ideas. Ph.D. programs and teacher prep programs remain enmeshed in the assumptions of this medieval understanding of knowledge
It is time for a change of direction. I'd love to hear comments on this.
So to focus on the experience of the text is central to doing good interpretation of texts. Without attending to the one, how can we presume to do the other?
With that said, how do we get at the experience of the text? This is the difficulty of the transactional view of Louise Rosenblatt: we have the text, and we have ourselves. But can we access the poem itself? It is the same problem central to reality and representations of it. We have language, we have our own experiences, but we don’t have access to broader truths or meanings until we construct them. Rhetoric is at the core of it all.
Wordsworth calls the core issue “the language of the sense.” But what is it? How do we access it? How does it become sensible to us? Clearly it is important, and prior to conceptual language. But how does it happen?
Perception is neuronal mapping of sensory inputs. Data is selected, screened, assembled, and represented to us for decision-making. Pleasurable inputs are strengthened by feedback and sought again and again. Painful inputs are only strengthened by feedback when reflection indicates long-term pleasures beyond and causally related to the painful inputs. The excitement of the brain can be pleasurable, but over-stimulation crosses a threshold into pain at some point. I’m not sure that pleasure and pain can be mapped entirely as matters of degree (as David Hartley tried to do in his Observations on Man (1749)). They may be related to different centers of activity too—like taste sensors on the tongue.
Wordsworth wrote that “the mind is capable of being excited without the application of gross and violent stimulants.” And he asserted that the job of poetry was to “increase this capability” in the reader. This is where neuronal changes come in. How does one learn to feel a rush of pleasure when reading a poem or playing a word game? Is such a pleasure “automatic” or learned? How does one learn to experience pleasure in a good equation? A well-drawn diagram? A diving catch on a baseball field? What brings us back to the aesthetically-pleasing? To what Robert Pirsig (in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance) called QUALITY?
Education should partly be about the process of refining and extending the range of pleasures that we can experience. We should be capable of being pleased by word-play, by stories of the past, by dreams of the future, by the worlds of “as if” and “ought to be.” If we are not, our experience will surely be impoverished. And our interpretations of “reality” (and the worldview we assemble from them) will surely follow suit.
Any educational situation that ignores pleasure and quality, and sacrifices them (in the literal meaning of the word) in the name of “discipline” or quantities, is a failure. The Puritan strain in our educational system asserts that play and work never join forces, that pleasure is not part of learning, and that “discipline” means categories and dogged repetition of a limited repertoire of activities. Ouch. How wrong can this be?
Why do we have an educational curriculum that denies pleasure, play, and open making of meaning? Well, it comes from the “Western Tradition” that academics have been so proud of for so darned long: concepts privileged over experiences, objectivity favored over subjectivity, mastery favored over inquiry, control favored over spontaneity. All of this is dangerous and damaging to the human mind. In fact, TV and the Internet and drugs and alcohol and a host of other social innovations have been efforts to bring play and un-directed experience and spontaneity and subjectivity back into our culture. But they bring them in the back door and do not integrate them into our way of understanding ourselves.
In the name of authority and control, we have created educational and business structures based on yes/no and either/or thinking. We have followed the lead of our computers. But rhetoric is central to learning, thinking, and relating to other complex creatures, and we cannot neglect it. Representation, metarepresentation, interpretation, attention, and other factors come into play. The answer to many questions remains “mu”—neither yes nor no—for a long time. And that is good! To jump to conclusions is one of the fatal flaws of human cognition. Better to hold information with a metarepresentational tag (as Lisa Zunshine and others describe it). So and so said this, or I read this in such and such a newspaper, or . . . in the world of rhetoric, judgments are always contingent. But that does not stop us from making choices and acting. Our best judgment guides us, and that must be (adaptively speaking) good enough. Can I jump far enough to avoid falling on that ice spot? Did my friend give me the best instructions for getting to his house? Should I take the job offer I just received, or stick with a sure thing that I’ve already got? Both/And thinking always comes into play.
The university, and public education in the U.S., were built on principles that no longer hold. Education in medieval times centered on cultural memory. Monks copied manuscripts, storing and transmitting the written word and thought from generation to generation. The scale of human thinking was limited by the small scope of both thinkers and their influence on readers. The corpus of knowledge was small, relatively speaking, and a life’s work could result in complete mastery of major subject areas. One could, truly, know the best that had been said and written. Knowledge was accumulative, centered on memorization and identification. Expertise was mastery of a body of texts and ideas. Ph.D. programs and teacher prep programs remain enmeshed in the assumptions of this medieval understanding of knowledge
It is time for a change of direction. I'd love to hear comments on this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
