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Monthly Archives: January 2011

No Grey Food for E M Forster

23 Sunday Jan 2011

Posted by gerard oosterman in Helvi Oosterman

≈ 40 Comments

Tags

Crocodile steak, E M Forster, French-English Breakfast

Helvi Oosterman

Forster was returning to England from somewhere exotic, maybe India, on the boat train, sitting in the dining car, he’s waiting for the breakfast to be served. He wrote about this episode later in Food and Wine magazine; it was 1939.

“At last the engine gave jerk, the knives and forks slid sideways and sang against one another sadly, the cups said ‘cheap, cheap’, to the sauces, as well they might, the door swang open and the attendants came out crying  ‘Porridge or Prunes, Sir? Porridge or Prunes, Sir?’ Breakfast had begun.

   That cry still rings in my memory. It is an epitome—not, indeed, of English food, but of the forces which drag it in the dirt. It voices the true spirit of gastronomic joylessness. Porridge fills the Englishman up, prunes clear him out, so their functions are opposed. But their spirit is the same: they eschew pleasure and consider delicacy immoral. That morning they looked as like one another as they could. Everything was grey. The porridge was in pallid grey lumps, the prunes swam in grey juice like the wrinkled skulls of old men, grey mist pressed against the grey windows. ‘Tea or Coffee, Sir? Rang out next, and then I had a haddock.   It was covered with a sort of hard yellow oilskin, as if it had been out in a lifeboat, and its insides gushed salt water when pricked. Sausages and bacon followed this disgusting fish. They, too had been out all night. Toast like steel, marmalade a scented jelly. And the bill, which I paid dumbly, wondering again why such things have to be.”

Some breakfast that was. We all have been faced with inedible food at times, and Foster’s brekkie has made me think of what has been my most horrid food experience.

If I had been forced to swallow the doughy dumplings mum sometimes added to her otherwise excellent pea soup, I would now have to say that it was that soup. Luckily  my darling sister loved the dumplings and allowed me to slip them on her plate when no one was looking.

Having to eat raw oysters for the first time and at a rather formal lunch was scary and somewhat tricky, but a good white makes many unwanted things slide down easily. Then there was that dreadful cook in my primary school, and her even more dreadful food… I think that was IT, and only some warm school milk to assist you to  get it  down.

What about you, was it tripe, brains..or a crocodile steak?

Warrigal’s Friday Music – The Human Condition

21 Friday Jan 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 25 Comments


Jackson Browne Running On Empty

Paul Young Everything Must Change

Simply Red  Holding Back The Years

Daryl & John Oates Do What You Want, Be What You Are

Linda Ronstadt Desperado

Judy Collins Both Sides Now

Sandy Denny Who Knows Where The Time Goes

Goanna Livin’ On The Razors Edge

Harry Chapin Cats In The Cradle

Dianna Krall Lets Face The Music And Dance

Elvis Costello & The Attractions Shipbuilding

XTC Making Plans For Nigel

Blood Sweat and Tears Alone

Glen Campbell Wichita Lineman

Harry Nilsson Everybody’s Talking At Me

Prince Sign Of The Times

Jimmi Hendrix All Along The Watchtower

Lou Reed Take A Walk On The Wild Side

Marvin Gaye What’s Goin’ On

Johnny Cash Hurt

Jackson Brown The Pretender

Those curves, those lovely curves

21 Friday Jan 2011

Posted by gerard oosterman in Gerard Oosterman

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

curves, poplars, Vermeer

After having taken Milo for his twice daily walk I have come to notice that many large blocks of land in our neighbourhood have been converted to multi dwelling town house developments. The original houses are still there but the gardens are now occupying those strata titled town-houses. Most have between 3 or 8 townhouses depending on the size of the original block or the size of the town houses.

In deciding the one we would finally live in was not easy. It is rare that simplicity is maintained and with most of those developments a kind of faux Edwardian or some other English past era is emulated in the ‘style’ of the architecture.

The idea of living close to shops and a place that is not tizzy with a feel of something approaching simplicity and honesty in a dwelling is not as easy as it may sound. We did finally find something that had all those attributes and at an affordable price. But what might have clinched our choice perhaps more than anything was that the driveway into the complex had curves. Now, this for me might well be a throw-back to Dutch Vermeer’s lovely curving, poplar lined country-laneways of the past but both of us seem to be drawn to curves more than straight lines.

 Our previous stay in Moss Vale’s complex of many town house also had a  curved look about it with the different dwellings being somewhat staggered making for the eyes a rather pleasing type of village vista.

Anyway, on my walk with Milo I noticed that many of those town-house developments have rather regimented gardens with ram-rod straight driveways which for us are immediately off putting.

 But, does the curved line hold up to being more pleasing than a straight line? After all, the beauty of a woman is also part curvaceously determined, is it not?.

But what about a man though. He is rather Eckish  ‘rectanglish’ is he not? Is he less attractive? Could it be the curves in his mind that makes him alluring to the female?

Still, a woman’s mind is often very full of curves and round a-bouts as well. How does one explain that then?

As always, there are so many more questions? Where are the answers?

De-Chickenification – or The One

21 Friday Jan 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Lehan Winifred Ramsay

≈ 14 Comments

Painting and Story by Lehan Winifred Ramsay

I guess that my forage into the World of Red Shoes gave me my first ever standard.

I can never be satisfied with a good red shoe. Even a great red shoe. This shoe I liked wasn’t the best shoe in the world, not the most attractive, not even the reddest. My professor at university spent some time talking about immanence. A kind of glow, a kind of spirit. When you know it’s good, and it’s right. What my red shoe did for me was to give me an example of something that I could hold up as a standard for what I really wanted – my immanent shoe. I had always had trouble really knowing what I wanted. So easy to be submerged by what was there, to believe that inside of that group a choice needed to be made, or the fear that I would get nothing at all.  There’s nothing at all wrong with nothing at all. It’s just waiting, and sometimes waiting is not a finite state. Maybe you can see that this was a revelation for me? And it stands with me now as a solid, companionable post that I can lean on when things get tough. I really have nothing better to do, and I like that red shoe. So I’m happy to keep looking. And wait.

My doctor said: so you are free then? Of course he wasn’t talking about the shoe, nor was he trying to make another appointment. If you are free you hardly need another appointment…I was surprised, I hadn’t realized what freedom was. It really wasn’t what I expected.

I Wasn’t Seduced

21 Friday Jan 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Cricics, Critics, Everyone's a Critic, Emmjay

≈ 14 Comments

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Giacomo Variations, John Malkovich

Last night we went to see the renowned John Malkovich in Giacomo Variations at the Sydney Opera House.  I had high expectations after seeing him in many movies and having gone to the Steppenwolf Theatre Company’s “August: Osage County“ production at Sydney Theatre Company last year.  It was a tour de force – possibly the best theatre I’ve seen in years.  Malkovich is one of the founding actors of this Chicago-based group.

After paying $125 a seat plus $35 for parking, not forgetting the least memorable Chandon NV (for another $20 the pair), we abandoned our massive holiday treat investment at interval and didn’t return.

I’m not a huge fan of operetta or whatever the format of Giacomo Variations actually is (they called it a “staged performance”) – orchestra, opera-like singing, sort-of-lavish costumes, surtitles, spoken dialogue – but I was hoping for a lot more from John Malkovich.

I rate the acting and direction as poor, but it seemed that the real problem was with the source material – an old Casanova retelling the seductions of his youth.  Sad and pathetic. The leading part was weak, his performance tepid and the overall subject matter and production was really crook.

And I have to say that this is not the first time I have been suckered by a big name in the Sydney festival. When Cate Blanchett starred in War of the Roses, she set the low bar. Incredibly minimalist set, lacklustre cast, forgettable dialogue, truly uninspired direction.

It seemed that the organisers had fubbed it by spending all their dough on one big name – neglecting all the other things that make a memorable performance.

That just about sums it up for me with John Malkovitch as well.

I’d like to say that the music and songs were memorable, but I’d be fibbing.

One chap actually booed after about ten minutes and saved the OH staff from ejecting him – being the first to walk out unaided; unlike the ABC luminaries sitting in front of us who just dozed quietly through the first half.  So tired from working on the First Tuesday Book Club and Talking Heads, probably.

A colleague at work wanted to go and see Giacomo Variations – but last night he was preparing for a colonoscopy.  I reckon we saw more crap than he did.

If you missed Giacomo Variations, you were lucky indeed.  And richer for the experience.

*  In fairness to John Malkovich, he read an Allen Ginsberg anti-war poem – accompanying – or accompanied by Philip Glass last Tuesday at the Sydney Recital Hall.  And he was brilliant; the highlight of that performance.

Of Proust and Penguins

18 Tuesday Jan 2011

Posted by gerard oosterman in Uncategorized

≈ 18 Comments

By Helvi Oosterman.

I’m standing in front of our floor to ceiling book cases and I don’t know where to start my weeding; we are moving to a smaller place and I have to select which books to take and which not. I have three milk crates on the table: one for daughter, one for charity and one for the cottage. The ones I want to keep can stay until we actually move.

I take books out at random. ‘The End of Certainty’ by Paul Kelly is the first one. It was a birthday present from Allan, who passed away far too young at fifty. His beautiful hand writing makes me choke at the loss of a dear friend and I want to keep the book. ‘In the box’, says the boss who hasn’t even read it. The next one happens to be a slim volume by Marguerite Duras, a French writer who used live in Vietnam when it was still Indo-China. I start reading ‘Practicalities’; beautiful short essays about life, love, writing, Paris and wasting time. I feel I’m not wasting a minute re-reading this and not sticking to the task at hand: I have to keep this one;  it’s only a slip of a book.

On the bottom shelf, out of sight are my yearly diet books; I have bought one every January, new year, new me. Easy goodbyes to all; from Atkins to Scarsdale to South Beach. I count only seven;  many of them have already left the house to end up fattening girl friends’ book shelves. Then I pick a stack of yellowed old Penguins, Mishima, Kawabata, Hermann Hesse and Böll, which have escaped the previous throw-out. They are like very old friends now;   I put them back on the shelf.

I’m not doing too well, and I decide to take a break and walk to check the cottage collection. I find that most of them are results of previous culls, books that I had not chosen myself. Even so I managed to bring back an armful: a book on Finnish art, a long lost one of V.S. Naipaul and ‘By Way of Sainte-Beuve’ by Marcel Proust.

I have spent some hours by now and not much to show for; maybe the best thing to do is to tackle one shelf daily until the job is done. We have time;  we haven’t even put the house on the market yet. Husband walks by and looks at the empty boxes, he can see that I’m getting a headache and am close to tears: Maybe I can help tomorrow? This is not what I want;  he’ll only leave his Patrick Whites and some boring stories about Aussies migrating to Paraguay and maybe George Perec’ s  ‘Life, the User’s Manual’. ‘You can help with the cook books and the gardening ones’, I say as I have already promised to give them to family members; I have enough recipes in my head by now and my new garden will  be very small.

Oh no, I have totally forgotten about dictionaries and other language and reference books in the office and all my favorites in the bed room!

Uncle Oprah Touched Me

18 Tuesday Jan 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Gregor Stronach

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Oprah

by Gregor Stronach

It was a cold November day when the unthinkable happened. The world changed, irreversibly, and the sad part is that none of you felt it happen.

But I was there. I know. I’ve seen.

My story begins with my trip to Chicago. I was supposed to be joining a walking tour of several large cities of the United States of America, to discover first hand the awesome beauty and style of the architecture of Kim Il Hung. Kim Il Hung was an escaped Communist sympathiser whose years in the northern death camps had cramped his ability to think in anything other that straight, vertical lines – probably something to do with the chain link fences which kept him separate from his wife for nine long years.

Anyhow – I traipsed around the Windy City, an apt name for Chicago as it was suffering some terribly blustery conditions for the entire time we were there. So too, it would seem, were the cab drivers. On their own they could well have earned Chicago its unofficial moniker on their own. Smelling worse than the Venice Canals at low tide, the taxi drivers really need to be unionised and bathed, or put out to pasture. I blame the frozen custard that everyone seems to be eating over there – by day four of my tour, I too was suffering the ‘Roaring Forties’, much to the disgust of the doorman at my hotel.

Like all good tourists, I did the tourist things. Having gotten myself thoroughly lost a couple of times, I found myself meandering down North Lakeview, coming to a stop beside the National Shrine of St. Frances Xavier Cabrini, where a poor black man was begging for change, wrapped in several layers of clothing which did nothing to protect passers-by from his smell.

“Be touched by Oprah Winfrey”, he croaked as I walked by.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Had I heard him correctly? Was this homeless man pimping for Oprah?

“Come and be touched by Oprah Winfrey”, he rattled, his rheumy eyes streaming, staring deep into my soul. He knew it was what I wanted. He knew that a simple brush with fame would seal this holiday once and for all as a life-changing experience.

I began to pepper him with questions.

“How? How is this possible? What do I need to do to make this happen?” I asked, marvelling at the prospect of returning home to London, able to tell my friends that I had been touched in a special, special way by Oprah.

“Sixty bucks”, the old man coughed, extending a polio-withered hand from the depths of his tattered rags.

I gladly handed over the cash. The mere thought of meeting Oprah Winfrey had me dancing like Snoopy – on the inside.

He led me into a dark alley, past three dumpsters and up to a plain black door. Knocking twice … pausing … then knocking six times, he stood back. The door opened a crack, and a pair of bright eyes peered out of the darkness.

“You have one?” a voice asked.

The wino nodded, pushed $40 through the door, deftly pocketing the extra $20. I didn’t mind – I’d gladly pay double that fee.

Quick as lightning, we where whisked inside. I found myself standing on a stage, 400 middle-American housewives baying for blood in an orgy of pseudo-sapphic lust. They were here to see Oprah too, each one having paid their money I assumed for the chance to be touched by Oprah.

“Get over there!”, I heard, as I was manhandled onto the couch, cheap pancake makeup applied hurriedly over my rosy cheeks and shining, perspiration damp forehead.

“You’re Robert Downey Jr, ok? Just smile, talk about drugs and hookers and the inherent sadness of the human condition. Try to imagine yourself as a star of the 80s trapped in a new millennium where cocaine is unfashionable and supermodels are only interested in each other.”

I nodded dumbly, confused as the audience went wild. Loud muisic assaulted my senses, and the rush of activity behind the cameras ceased so suddenly, I thought someone had stopped time. I looked off-stage, and gasped. It was her.

Teetering on four-inch snakeskin heels, Oprah waddled to the couch, waving to her adoring audience of Modern American Women. Having taken her applause, Oprah appeared to notice me for the first time.

“On today’s show, we have a very special guest. It’s been a long and difficult road for this extraordinarily talented young man, so I’d like a big Oprah welcome for… Robert. Downey. Junior!”

The cheering got louder than ever before, several women needing to be restrained by burly security guards as they tried to rush the stage to steal Oprah’s clothes.

She sat down next to me, turned to me with her giant bovine eyes, saying “You look amazing. After all you’ve been through… doesn’t he look amazing?”

As the ladies present barely controlled themselves, and after an implausible amount of clapping and cheering, it happened.

Oprah Winfrey put her hand on my knee …

First published by Rumandmonkey like last century

Milo moves out

17 Monday Jan 2011

Posted by gerard oosterman in Helvi Oosterman

≈ 27 Comments

Tags

dog house, fleas, Jack Russell

Helvi Oosterman

Milo moves out…

Milo is a dog who knows what he wants. When he turned into a grown-up dog, when he stopped being a puppy, he decided that he was ready to sleep outside. It was more exciting to be out there with the wombats, kangaroos and the occasional blue tongue lizard, and all the weird Australian birds.

The cold did not bother him; frosty nights of Southern Tablelands did not drive him inside. He popped in on Tuesday nights to watch The Inspector Rex, but only if the little boys happened to be visiting the farm. The old sofa on the big verandah was his bedroom. Surrounded by many cushions, which he nightly arranged into a cosy bed, he was off to doggy dreamland only to scratch the door in the morning to be let in to share breakfast with us.

When we moved into a new home and surroundings, we thought it best that for time being he’ll sleep inside. The huge floor cushion made of an old Persian or Afghan carpet, bought in Byron Bay, became the base of Milo’s new bed. He made clear it was too rough even for a rough-coated Jack Russell, and I had to add one of those large European style pillows for softness. He now had a proper double decker, and he was happy.

There is a right time for everything, and when we discovered that the Bowral’s more humid warmer weather had  brought the fleas, which we never had in Brayton, Milo had to move out, or at least sleep outside. We bought a little Doggy House with a blue roof and over-hanging eaves to keep the rains out. Hubby and other family member were doubtful about this house moving. I knew that it would be successful. The time was indeed right and Milo was ready to sleep away from us again.

Yesterday our old neighbours visited us with their three year old daughter. It was a warm day and we had the doors to the street and to the garden open for a breeze. As we were all talking excitedly, happy to see each other and to share news, we did not notice that Hannah was not around anymore. We rushed upstairs, checked the bedrooms, the front and the back garden…no Hannah.

And then, there she was, crawling red-faced out of Milo’s little house…

Virgil’s Aeneid, Part 2

17 Monday Jan 2011

Posted by astyages in Astyages, Virgil's Aeneid

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Aeneas, Aeneid, Carthage, Dido, Fall of Troy, Virgil

A ship struck by waves during a storm over the Black Sea

An example of the kind of storm the seas in this region experience even in modern times: A fierce storm with winds of up to 67mph (108kph)batters the northern shores of the Black Sea, sinking several ships.

by Astyages

And while the pious prince bewailed his fate, fierce Boreas, the cold north wind, drove against his flying sail and rent the sheets. The raging billows rose and lifted the storm-tossed vessel to the skies and when it fell broke all the oars as the ship slewed around and turned her prow, while those astern, as they slid down the steep slope of the deck, through the gaping waves beheld the boiling deep.

Three ships were blown by the south wind who cast them furiously upon those hidden rocks, which the Ausonian sailors call the Altars, when upon occasion they rise above the flood into view and bared their spacious backs. Three more were driven angrily by Eurus, onto the shallows of moving sandbanks which left them stranded in the middle of the ocean.

Orontes’ ship, which bore the Lycian crew, before Aeneas’ very eyes, oh, horrid sight, was washed by waves from stem to stern and finally the pilot was washed overboard, torn from his rudder and hurled headlong into the sea, in which he circled the ship three times before a huge wave sucked him under and he was lost to the deep; while here and there, floating on the waves were arms, pictures, precious goods and floating men, as the stoutest of the Trojan vessels gave way before the storm, her shivered timbers and loosened planks letting in the rushing sea. Iloneus was her captain, and old Alethes was in her crew; while faithful Achates and the bold and youthful Abas endured no less in their own ships, which both let the briny sea in through gaping seams.

Meanwhile, Neptune, hearing the sound of the raging tempest, was displeased and, fearing some usurpation of his watery reign, raised his mighty head above the sea with serene majesty, then rolled his eyes and looked around him. He saw the distress of the dispersed Trojan fleet, oppressed by winter’s stormy winds. He knew all about his sister, Juno’s envy, and what she intended for the Trojans. He summoned Eurus and the West Wind, and cast an angry glance on both of them as he rebuked them:

“Audacious winds! Where did you get the insolence to make such a bold move! Do you now take it upon yourselves to ravage the seas and the land without my supreme command? To raise mountainous waves on the troubled sea? But first let me restrain the billowing seas and then you shall be taught obedience to my reign! You may remind your lord, Aeolus that the realms of the air and the ocean are mine; not his. The trident of the sea and the liquid realm, fell by fatal lot to me. From now on Aeolus’ power is confined to hollow caverns, where he can keep the winds and boast and bluster in his empty hall!”

And as he spoke, he smoothed the troubled sea, dispelled the darkness and restored the daylight, as Cymothoe, Triton and their sea-green train of beautiful nymphs, the daughters of the sea, cleared the Trojan vessels from the rocks with their hands, while the god himself, standing with his trident ready, opened the deep and, spreading the moving sands, then heaved the vessels off the shoals. And wherever Neptune guided his finny coursers, the waves unruffled and the sea subsided, while the Trojan sailors plied their shattered oars and made for the nearest land, which, as Fate would have it, turned out to be the shores of Libya.

Within a long, recessed stretch of coast, they found a bay, hidden from the sea by an island and the two stretches of land on either side which jutted out into the sea, which also protected it from the wind, making it safe for the Trojan ships to ride within the bay even without anchors. Between the two rocky promontories on either side, a cool, green and friendly grotto was formed, whose lichen-covered rocks were the resting place of the Nereids, where they could hide from the heat of the day, while a crystal waterfall provided pure, clean drinking water. Within this harbor, seven ships met; the thin remainders of the scattered Trojan fleet. As soon as they arrived, the sailors, worn out from toil and spent with woes, leaped onto the welcome land to seek repose from their troubles.

First, the good Achates struck flints together repeatedly over the dry tinder and withered leaves he’d collected until first a small flame sprouted among the dry leaves; within a few minutes the fire had caught and as Achates piled on more fuel, the flames rose towards the skies. Wet and dripping, the Trojans dropped to the ground in front of the fire and lay along the ground, or stood around the cheerful blaze. Some dried their corn, which had been thoroughly soaked with brine, and then ground it into a flour to prepare their meal.

Aeneas climbed the brow of the mountain and took in the prospect of the sea below, to see if he could find some sign of the rest of his ships; those captained by Capys, perhaps, or Antheus; perhaps he would see the pennant streamers of Caicus flying somewhere out on the main. But there were no vessels to be seen. However, on the plain below him he saw three well-muscled stags leading a lordly train of does and fauns which grazed contentedly as they moved slowly along. Standing up he took the bow which Achates had given him and let fly his arrows, bringing down first the stags of the herd and then does, until he had felled seven magnificent beasts; one for each of the ships.

He returned to the port triumphant from this little war and broached the large jars of wine which Acestes had generously given him when they left the Trinacrian shore and prepared for a feast, sharing the meat out into equal portions; and as he passed the portions round, the pious leader tried to ease the common grief, “Endure, and conquer! Jove will soon turn our present woes into future good. You have braved the rocks of Scylla with me; and defied the inhuman Cyclops in his den. How much more are you able to bear? Dismiss your cares and keep courage within your breast and Fate will ensure that the hour will come when, with all your sorrows left behind, you relate all these adventures with pleasure for the amusement of your friends. Though we have passed through various hazards and events, we are still on our way to Latium and those realms fore-ordained by Jove, where Trojan kingdoms once again may rise! So, endure your present hardships and survive… live and preserve yourselves for a better fate.”

Thus spoke Aeneas, but he was speaking in order to put heart into his melancholy crew; and not speaking from his own heart; his outward smiles hid his own inward hurt. But for the present the men forgot their own troubles and made haste to prepare the feast. Some skinned the beasts while others cut up the meat; the limbs, still trembling, were put into a huge caldron to boil, while the reeking entrails were roasted on the fire. Stretched out on the grassy turf, they dined at their ease, restoring their strength with meat and cheering their souls with wine.

But once their hunger and thirst were sated, their minds turned once more to the doubtful fortune of their absent friends and hope and fear alternately possessed their minds. They did not even know whether or not their comrades were dead or in some dire distress. Above all, Aeneas mourned the fate of brave Orontes, and the uncertain fate of Gyas, Lycus, and Amycus. Thus the day, but not their sorrows, ended.

***     ******     ****

The Red Shoe

16 Sunday Jan 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Lehan Winifred Ramsay

≈ 30 Comments

Tags

Red Shoe

Painting and Story by Lehan Winifred Ramsay

I found a pair of red shoes in a shop in Melbourne.

It was a long time ago. It was a seconds shop. I brought them home not liking them much, grew to love them more than any shoes I’d ever had, wore them out. When they broke I wasn’t too perturbed. Shoes aren’t so difficult to replace. But I couldn’t ever find a replacement for them. I looked around. I found myself in Melbourne, went back to the shop. It was gone. A year after that I began looking regularly in the second hand shops, but they never appeared there. Every week for nine months I looked for them. A few years after that I realized how much I missed those shoes. Every time I went to another country I would go to shoe shops I passed, hoping that there would be a shoe like my shoe. Germany, France, Amsterdam, America, Australia, Thailand, Vietnam. I realized that my shoe shopping habits had changed. If I needed a shoe I bought one. But never did I find another pair of shoes that I MUST have.

I would go out to the shops thinking: there is this shoe I want. I could spend hours looking, never really wanting anything. Then I realized that a great thing had happened. Finally I had found something that was worth waiting for. Finally, I knew what it felt like.

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