Streaking

Winter days in the little trailer on the edge of town. There were not many students living in the park. Most were working people, older than we were but not much. The couple next door were in their twenties. One day, a pretty, young girl moved in with them. She was the fellow's niece, and really, she was more than pretty. She always smiled when she saw us, and one day she said hello. It turned out that she was only seventeen, and we were afraid. She didn't look seventeen, but that is what she said, and her redneck uncle probably wouldn't approve of us chatting her up too much, we knew. But she sort of liked Mike, and she would come over once in awhile to make us nervous. We would play our guitars and sing for her, and when she wasn't around, we'd sing for her, too. It was a torment for us, but only for awhile. One day, she was just gone. And in a way, it was a relief.

But in those days, it did not take long for something else to arrest our interest. And one day, like a tornado or a tidal wave you can't predict, people began streaking. It happened quickly. One day, people simply began to take their clothes off and run through classrooms. I was in my organic chemistry class the first time I saw it, a large amphitheater with doors in the front and in the back. It was over in a flash. A boy opened the back door and galloped down the gently sloping stairs and out the front. There was a howl from the class, of course, and the professor looked startled, but then he chuckled and simply continued to lecture.

Within a few days, it was a national phenomenon.

One night, Mike and I were walking on campus after dinner and noticed a huge crowd of boys beneath the windows of one of the dormitories, so we walked over to see what was going on. On the third floor, the lights of a single dorm room were blinking on and off behind the venetian blinds that covered the window.

"What's going on," we asked a guy in the crowd.

"Two girls are up there teasing all the fellows. They are going to do a striptease."

And they did. As one girl worked the blinds with the skill of a carnie, opening them and closing them in rhythm to some barely heard music, the other girl began taking off her clothing. The boys began to whoop. With the yelling, of course, the crowd began to swell, and the boys who had been sitting cross legged in the grass while the lights went on and off were forced to their feet, the blinds obscuring then revealing, horny boys moaning out in agony and delight.

That week, during a nationally televised basketball game, a boy streaked across the court at half time. The nation saw it and we were proud. In Boulder, they had set the record for the number of people streaking at one time. Somewhere else, a group of students had parachuted naked. But WE had streaked on national T.V.

Every day for two weeks, you'd see people take off their clothes and run naked across the campus. And like any frenzy, it had to peek. And so one Saturday night, a march had been organized. People would walk naked from Fraternity Row to Sorority Row, a march of around a mile. Everyone had heard about it, even the town's folk, and that night the "Parade Route" was lined with thousands of people. Families came with picnic baskets and blankets, patiently waiting.

"Are you going to take off your clothes," one of us asked?

"Don't know. Let's just follow and see what happens."

What happened was that we found ourselves in a crowd of about a hundred naked men. We marched along behind them watching the swell of cheering townspeople, children on father's shoulders, waving and shouting like it was Mardi Gras.

"I don't want to take off my clothes to march with a bunch of swinging dicks," one of us said to the other, but just then, there at the back of the line, the first girls joined in. Suddenly, they ripped off their clothing and got in line. They were naked and they were cute, and without saying anything, both Mike and I began shedding our shirts and pants, sticking close to the girls, watching the shiny whiteness of their bouncing breasts and butts like beacons in the night. And suddenly, the number of naked marchers began to grow. Now, even townspeople were getting into the act, jumping from the curb with a hoot and a shout and getting naked, too. There were a lot of naked people now of both sexes, but truly, it was still mostly guys. Mike and I jockeyed hard to stay next to the girls as abruptly the crowd began to run. And suddenly, there were television lights and cameras everywhere. "Shit," Mike spat as we ran head on into a camera crew from our own hometown. I put my head down and held my pants in front of my face. "Great. My parents are going to be watching the news tomorrow night and see my naked ass running toward the camera. They're going to cut off my money."

Just then, as the naked crowd began to slow, the group of girls peeled away down a little hill next to an old dormitory. Mike and I went with them. They were laughing and shouting excitedly while they slipped their clothes back on, Mike and I dressing with them. I don't know what we thought might happen, but whatever it was, it didn't.

"You guys want to go over to Sarah's," one girl said to the others.

"Let's get something to eat first. I'm starving."

Mike and I stood there watching and listening like we were about to be invited, but we weren't. The girls waved and we waved and they were gone, left alone, standing in the darkness below a knoll of cold and slippery grass that separated us from the crowd.

The parade had ended now, and people were just hanging around wondering what to do. But suddenly out of nowhere a motorcycle bearing a naked couple came driving by. The crowd set up a cheer just as the police cruiser pulled them over. "Hey, what the hell," somebody yelled, and within seconds another cruiser had pulled up. We were on campus and these were the campus police. Surely they would make the couple put their clothes back on and let them go. But it was taking far too long. And suddenly--and I don't know what got into me--I was standing on a retaining wall and shouting out, "Look, look, they are arresting the motorcycle couple. We can't let them do this! It isn't right." And like that, the crowd began to move toward the cruisers, piling up around them. And then somebody began a chant which the crowd picked up.

"Let them go, let them go."

And then more policemen showed up. Things were getting ugly. The police had not let the couple get dressed and they had handcuffed the boy. He still had his motorcycle helmet on.

"Free the streakers. Free the streakers," the crowd chanted, now in a more furious tone.

But it was to no avail. Suddenly, two officers put the boy into the back of a squad car. They put the girl into another. And seeing that, the crowd went wild. Shoving forward, they began rocking the squad car.

"Let them go. Let them go."

But the police moved in doing their usual policemen thing, grabbing selected boys from the crowd to make an example for the rest. Then the two cars with the arrested streakers drove away and were gone.

And that was that. The crowd began to disperse.

"What a night," Mike said.

"You think we'll be on T.V.?"

"I hope not. My dad will shit. He already thinks all I do up here is hang out and fuck around."

That was Saturday night. By Monday morning, it was all over. The university had identified the boy who had streaked at half time of the nationally televised basketball game and had suspended him from the university. I don't know whatever happened to the streaking motorcyclists. But nobody ever streaked again. It had been two weeks of crazy silliness and fun.

I thought about old friends who were not living this life, those working day to day at ordinary jobs and those who had chosen not to come to the state university. They were missing much, I thought, things they could never really catch up on. How could you tell it? They had seen it on the local news, but they would never know what it felt like, and I would find that there would be no use in trying to tell them. God, I thought, I got lucky.

They Were Wrong, I Know

This photo was taken by my father, I think, an old black and white Polaroid. The man is my cousin. I think I remember the girl a little. Well, how could you not? I would have been twelve when this photo was taken. She had a high, baby doll voice. Did he marry her? I don't think so, but I don't remember. They lived in Ohio, and I did not see them much. He married somebody. My cousins were hellboys, but they all married only once. They smoked and drank and used words I never heard other people use. I knew they were wrong, but it seemed so exciting. I never saw them living day to day, so for me, they were only the stories they told, and nobody has ever told stories quite like those. This is the cousin who had the twelve cylinder Jaguar. He lost control on the hill of a highway and crashed it through a billboard. That's the story. He had some trouble with the Mayor's son and his buddies one night, so he stopped his car in traffic and grabbed a tire iron and ran up onto the car's roof and busted the windshield while screaming, "Get out of the car, motherfuckers," but of course, nobody did. That's the story. They go on and on and on. Colorfully.

I've only recently come across this photo again. I want more, but the store is closed. Like I always say, you just can't make old photographs.

Nothing Ventured

Happy

(Photo by Rita Bernstein)

I'm sorry, but I wanted to post another. They are so beautiful.

* * * * *

"I just love my therapist," she said. "Really, I don't know what I'd do without her."

"How long have you been going to her?" I asked.

"I just started a few months ago. I was seeing another woman, but eventually we were going nowhere. It was OK at first, but after a while, it seemed that we were just doing the same thing again and again and again."

"Sounds like a lot of relationships," I opined.

"Yea, but this new woman is really dynamic. She just makes me feel better walking into the room."

"That's great."

"Yes, I feel like she appreciates who I am. It feels like she really gets me."

"How'd you hear about her."

"Margaret goes to her. She was very enthusiastic about her. She's been with her for about three years now."

"Wow!"

"I think I'm going to be really happy this time."

"Well good for you. Good for you. If you are happier, everyone will be happier, too. The world definitely needs more happy people."

Rita Bernstein

(All Photos By Rita Bernstein)

I fell for these photos the moment I saw them. Romantic, dreamy, far away things, though not really. Simply everyday scenes just out of reach. I wrote to the photographer, Rita Bernstein, right away to talk about the pictures and to tell her of my appreciation. Ms. Bernstein was kind enough to write back and tell me something about her process. She prints her images on handmade Japanese Gampi paper that she coats with a photo emulsion. The paper is thin and delicate and, I think not so easy to work with. The scanned images are beautiful, but I know that they do not begin to approach the quality of the actual work itself. She makes prints in two sizes, 7x7 and 10x10, in editions of fifteen. You can query her about the prices.

Gray, humid days that pass for southern winter. In this flat light, I miss the brilliance of those sharp-lined shadows. I am gray enough without gray days, but there are plenty of opportunities for brilliance if I could only be so. It is simply that, like the days, I too have lost contrast.

You can get to know so much about a person by the photos s/he presents. For days now, I have been envying the life Ms. Bernstein shows us in pictures.

Internet Outage

(Photo by Luther Gerlach)

Oh my! Went to bed with internet working, got up and it didn't. I won't go through the narrative, but I was on the phone for three literal (not figurative) hours with my internet provider trying to right their wrongs. I've had the phone to my ear while crawling under the desk to disconnect then connect then disconnect cables, ad infinitum. I can't go into the intricacies of it, only the horror. I have spoken with scores of incompetent people who each said something that contradicted the last advisor. I know how corporations work at a general level. Layer after layer of low level competence. Repetitions of rote apology. An opportunity to fill out a customer satisfaction survey. Somebody somewhere, a smart guy or gal, sitting in an office feeling sharp because s/he has hundreds who report to him/her, wearing a business suit and feeling important but wanting to feel more, has dropped the ball badly. In a smaller organization, there would be accountability and someone's ass would be handed to them as the smarmy business ones say. Maddening impotence on my end. I hate not being self-sufficient/self-dependent. But I couldn't fix this one on my own.

But I don't have time to write it now. Awful.

Here are two photographs by Luther Gerlach. He practices the dark arts that I am slouching toward, good ambrotypes and kallitypes. When I saw his work, I was impressed and wrote asking him if I might show a couple of his images, and he agreed. Go to his site and look around. Swell stuff, indeed.

Oh. In the end I got a month's free service. It is definitely not enough.

(Photo by Luther Gerlach)

Johnny Weismuller, "Sea Hunt," and the Lesson Learned

Fleeting fame faded, my obscure life resumes. It seems to start later and end earlier every day. The hours between become more monotonous. I begin to doubt my recall. The past is more dreamlike. Surely I'm lying. We could not have lived that way nor have been that happy doing so. There could never have been that much time.

But I wrote a lot of it back then, and it seems true.

I hope to impart some of that sense of wonder and texture to my friend's son. He loves the Cartoon Network and the Disney Channel as much as the next kid (and, unfortunately, I watch it with him to make certain I can speak to the issues I see there), but I have put other things in the mix. He has seen the entire Sherlock Holmes series starring Basil Rathbone. And he loved them. He has seen the Johnny Weismuller Tarzan series co-starring Maureen O'Sullivan and Johnny Sheffield. I took a chance and showed him the Thin Man series with William Powell and Myrna Loy. And he loves the Charlie Chan series, all thousand of them with both Warner Oland and Sidney Toler. We have begun to watch some old TV shows on Hulu. He got a kick out of the few episodes of "Sea Hunt" and "Flipper" he has seen.

Now listen, before you begin to complain, he can recite much poetry, too, and scored in the top one percent in the nation in math skills. He fishes and plays baseball and takes music lessons, sings in the choir, is in the Gifted Program at his school, etc. He is popular with his teachers and his classmates. He can name the plants and animals around us and put some into their correct Phylums and Classes.

In truth, I'm knocked out by how smart all the kids I meet seem. Brilliant, really. They have been exposed to more than I had been at their ages and already know so much. My own childhood seems to have been lived out in caves by comparison. I think we used to write with chalk on shovels.

OK. I've lost my way here and can't find a road back. Your assignment is to find a thread in this entry and write a conclusion. I'm still weak and dizzy from illness and going back to too much work too soon.

The kid got a new accordion. He outgrew the old one. You wouldn't believe how much accordions cost. Maybe that is why kids don't get accordion lessons any more. No, that is not why, I know. But this boy is getting good and soon will dazzle ears and send imaginations flying with the songs he will play. And as he gets older, every musical group will want to have the only accordion player in town join them.

He played the new one for me last night. I took a photo. Not a very good one, but I will make a good one this weekend. Trust me.

Eight Hours of Fame

591 Photography Blog published seven of my "A Few Days One Summer" photos with a brief essay yesterday. Psyched. I am always happy whenever anyone is nice to me. 591 always makes me happy. Check it (and me) out!

I just spared you a long diatribe on "happy" with one stroke of the "delete" button. Now you are happier, too. Trust me.

Ground Hog Day. Something about it has given me the creeps since I was a child. A smiling man in a top hat holding a giant rodent in front of a crowd always seemed more than a little nightmarish. I like knowing that today is the midpoint between winter and spring. There is something in that. Perhaps a celebration of sorts is called for, but they need to stop with the other thing.

And since I'm at it, ventriloquists should stop it, too.

"Is there really a leap year?"

Still sick, but getting better, weak but restless, I decided to see "Crazy Heart" last night. I was prepared for a typically romantic story about a loser whose tremendous talents make his foibles an adjutant to his accomplishments. I was terribly wrong.

I stood in line outside the box office in front of a mother and her teenage daughter, and I couldn't help but overhear their conversation as they discussed which movie to see. I was startled when the daughter asked, "Is there really such a thing as a leap year?" a question, I presumed, brought about by the movie of that name. Then her mother said something about "It's Complicated," to which the daughter replied, "I don't like old people." And of course she is typical of a generation taught by the Disney Channel that parents are buffoons in need of correction by children and by the news that old people are all dangerous criminals in search of young victims. "Jesus Christ," I thought, "I should have stayed on the couch." But just then an old man at the head of the line cried out to someone, "What's it called? That's right, that's right." Then gruffly funny, "I keep thinking The Incredibles", he said, moving in that arthritically abbreviated way old men have as they pat around their pockets in a quick panic for something they fear they've misplaced. People all around smiled and chuckled to one another, and a fellow in line ahead of me, a man in his late forties, said, "I'm not going to laugh, I'm not that far from it myself." But he was chuckling as he said it.

We all think we're far enough from it.

I won't tell you about the movie. Rather, I'll simply warn you. The movie will not make you feel better about anything. Jeff Bridges deserves every award they give for acting this year, but it won't make you feel good. He is brilliant, but you will never look at him in the same way again. If you've ever made a mistake in your life that has cost you something you didn't want to lose, you'll live with it front and center for a long while after the end of the movie. Really. It's that bad.

The trailer for the film ends with Robert Duval's character opining, "It's never too late, son. It's never too late." But the statement is enigmatic, and the implications are haunting.

See the film, by all means, but don't say I didn't warn you. I'm pretty sure you won't have to stand in line in front of a teenager who is not certain what leap year is proclaiming, "I don't like old people." But I can't guarantee it.

Horvat Redux

(Photo by Frank Horvat)

I wrote my Fan's Note to Mr. Frank Horvat as I said I would. It was a gushy missive of appreciation for his immense talent and his willingness to change his work with new technologies as they develop. In sixty years of photography (Mr. Horvat is now nearly eighty), he has seen a lot of changes.

To my happy surprise, he wrote back straight away. I would like to publish his note here, but that would not be right. But his writing is an analog to his work, very open and generous. Now, there is much more I would like to say to him, and much more that I would like to ask, but how does one do such a thing without being a pest or worse?

When I Googled him, I was surprised to find that there is no Wikipedia page about him. I know, I know, but everyone has a Wikipedia page. I am thinking of writing one about him. A tribute.

But that is not enough. Going through his CV, I do not find a big retrospective show in the U.S. He is more than deserving of that. Perhaps I will barrage the ICP with letters, mount a campaign. Why haven't the Met or MoMA done something? But I don't really know how such things work. The Staley-Wise Gallery in New York represents his work, and the art scene there is something beyond my hillbilly comprehension.

But I can't help myself. I must quote from one part of his response. In part, he said:

The difference between a Leica and a digital compact is about as great as between a horse and a motor car. People who fail to recognize this are simply not living in the present. There is nothing wrong with a horse or a Leica, it’s just a pity not to use a car when it’s available.

This from a man who has made some of the most beautiful film images you will ever see.

Make me write the Wikipedia page. Before I publish it, though, I will send it to him for approval.

(Photo by Frank Horvat)

"I am . . ."

There is no need to tell you, of course, that last night was the Full Wolf Moon, the brightest of the year. Nor to tell you why. It was a well-publicized moon, indeed. I didn't think I would get to see it where I live because of cloud cover, but it was merely hazy, not congested, and so when I walked out of my house in my weakened state and looked over the roofs of the houses across the street, there it was. I grabbed my camera as I always do and walked the neighborhood. I felt better than I had. Perhaps it was only moving, but I had been out earlier in the day and that hurt me rather than helped. I'd prefer to think it was the pull of the moon itself combined with some ocular stimulation, a sort of primitive synergy at work in the reptilian part of my too bad brain. Who knows? There may be no miracles, but that doesn't mean that there aren't mysteries. The world is full of them at the most basic level, that being those things that are as of yet unexplained. I love science and what it does, but I do not wish to be blinded by it into seeing only that part of existence that is revealed by evidence. There are an infinite number of problems of which we have yet to conceive. The best scientists are artists at heart in search of those things you and I have not yet thought of. The worst are mere artisans practicing their craft.

The night was warm, and I walked slowly in shorts and a t-shirt in the shortened steps of a shut-in noticing how lovely the neighborhood was in the night. It is an old neighborhood, not a development, and where I live, that is an oddity. I am a bit of a voyeur as are most photographers, I think, and I gazed into the windows as I passed the houses, feeling the warm light that spilled outside. Stories in every house, lives expanding and contracting like the tide, the old ebb and flood more pronounced with this full moon.

Looking out over the lake, there was the warm breeze and the hooting of owls calling to one another. A mystery. What were they saying? I was certain that it was simply what we all are saying always. "I am here. Here I am."

Frank Horvat

(Photo by Frank Horvat)

I don't know why more Frank Horvat books are not available. He is one of my favorite photographers. More than that. You must look at his website. It is a wonder. Though I have yet to do so, I will write and tell him of my adoration. Today. Just after this entry. I am disappointed that there is not even a Wiki page on him. Someone must do him justice. He was born in 1928 and in 2006 began a diary of digital photographs, a project that culminated in a 2009 publication. Everything he does is charming. He simply never quit evolving. Go to his website. Look. He might change the way you want to live your life.

(Photo by Frank Horvat)

My own life needs more charm. I will work on that just as soon as I regain my feet. Yesterday, I simply lay upon the couch listening to music and daydreaming, half in thought, half asleep. In illness, we dream of the past, glory days when we were heroic and strong. And then. . . we are gripped by The Fear. I will try my feet today. We shall see.

1-28-20

I made a Facebook account a while back so that I could view something a friend wanted me to see. But I didn't want an account, so I put up my father's name and birthday. As a result, I have been getting birthday wishes. It is very sweet and I am touched. Truly.

My father was a hell of a great guy. He would be ninety today, but he has been gone a long time now. He has missed a lot, but he hasn't missed much, if you know what I mean. He was thick and strong from working on the farm in his youth. He boxed in the navy in WWII and later trained boxers at my uncle's gym. He used his G.I. Bill to go to trade school and learned to be a tool and dye maker. He worked at that the rest of his life. It was a rough life, I think, working every day and often overtime, making all the money he could. Then, every year, there was a two week vacation. But my father was a romantic and wanted to travel. When I was young, he twice quit jobs to take my mother and me around the country for months. We saw everything. One year, after returning to Ohio, the Little Miami River flooded our house and my father decided to move to Florida. We had been there several times, and it was still a frontier.

But after that move, he never really travelled again. I remember as a kid that a man my father knew, "Lucky Lochier," who my father called a millionaire, bought a yacht and asked my father to sail it with him. My mother, of course, said no, and that was that. From then on, he worked his fifty weeks, taking us some weekends to stay with my aunt and uncle who lived near the coast. And there was the two week vacation in August.

After twenty years of marriage, my father and mother got a divorce, and my father left everything. He moved into a little one bedroom duplex and lived alone until I came to live with him a year later. He never got remarried and died when he was sixty.

The gods turn their backs on the aged. That is what I learned then. If you don't have people, and often even if you do, you are on your own.

I tried to work through this terrible flu I've caught, but that only made it worse. Today, I've called in sick. I will drink soup and sleep and try not to think of all the things that have piled up on me that need to be done. I will put on music and doze on the couch and hope to feel better in the morning.

To Be Wonderful

(photo by Igor Vasilladis)

Still sick. Haven't shot a photo in a very long time. Started to make a set in my studio but haven't completed it. I am flummoxed. Being sick and incomplete is a terrible thing on a brilliant day, but there you have it. The sun shines, the sky is intensely blue, the air crisp and cool. My throat is sore, my nose is running, and my mind is filled with trepidation. The past piles up against the future, heavy and burdensome. Horrors on a beautiful day.

But there is this photo by Igor Vasilladis, a Russian who sometimes works in wet plate. I'd never heard of him until today. Such beautiful things. I will write to him, but I think I may not hear back. He is listed as "one of the top ten photographers in Russia." He may be busy.

More equipment arrived yesterday for my own wet plate production. Much to do and so little time. And all this desire to be wonderful.

Down

I've got the sickness. I'm down. Garden variety with a spiritual component. Most of the people I work with have had the physical part in the last week. I didn't ask about the other.

So here's my advice. Fix your own food and keep your hands to yourself. Drink plenty of fluids and get lots of sleep.

Beyond that, you're on your own.

Everybody Wants to Be. . .

Salon

Conversation overheard while getting hair cut.

Girl to hair stylist:

"What kind of makeup do you use?"

"I just use the cheapest kind."

"Really!?"

"Yes, but I don't use much makeup anyway. I think ***** is a good brand and it's cheap. But all the gay guys swear by ******."

"Really?! They say that's the one, huh?"

"Yes. That is all they will use. They say it is by far the best."

"Is it expensive?"

"Yes, it costs about twice as much as the makeup I use. But they say it's worth it."

The customer thinks heavily about this before buying $150.00 worth of hair product.

I'm impressed. If I wore makeup, I believe that I would have to give it a try.

iPhone

(last night)

The fellow who sent the iPhone images also sent me his old iPhone so that I could play with the camera apps. I got it yesterday, and I have to say that it is fun. I bought one app so far, the "Hipstamatic." For a buck-ninety-nine, it comes with two types of film and three different lenses. It gives you the option to buy more of each. I have the old phone, as I say, so the camera is not nearly as good as on the newest version. These apps, though, make instant what many people have worked hard to develop in Photoshop. It was inevitable, of course. It is digital.

The foundry called me yesterday to let me know they have mounted the old brass 19th century lens I bought to the lens board. I have some developing tanks coming from the Star Camera Company, too. I will soon be ready to make collodion images just like the shutterbugs of the 19th century. It is very difficult work.

But I like them both. I like all the visual arts and communications, no matter what the technique.

I hope they make these apps available for using in other digital imaging programs. I know that many people will deride and dismiss them, but not me. In talented hands, everything works.

(this morning)

I Would Have Saved Them. . . .

Those images of Haiti do not tell you much. It is unimaginable there. No matter what you think, there is despair beyond the things you can make up. Not intermittently. Every minute without thinking that it is going to end, because minute leads to minute leads to interminable minute, on and on, day after day until that is all there is, just that.

But we all suffer something horrible some time, and the suffering in Haiti does not mitigate our own. There is no shortage of it. There is more than enough to go around.

I think of the horror in Haiti, but I cannot sustain it, my mind returning to itself. "I will go to Haiti," I tell myself, "and I will help to build a house." Well intentioned, I feel a release.

A friend called. He has lost his job, lost his home, and then gone mad. How will he pick up the pieces? How will he ever get back to where he was?

The title of a book I read long ago keeps running through me: "I Would Have Saved Them If I Could."

Loss

("Diana the Huntress", Master of the Fountainbleau School, 1550)

Loss. Sometimes there is only one way to go. You can lose much: a parent, a child, a significant other. You can lose a job, your house, money, friends. You can lose your health, and you can lose your confidence, too. You can lose yourself and a sense of purpose. Any of those can be a terrible thing.

But sometimes it all piles up and you can feel it. You know that at any moment, you are going to lose it all. You know the cards are dealt and there is nothing you can do or not do. You know it is about to happen. You think, "I've had my time. What did I do?"

You can lose your relevance, your significance, your opportunities.

You can lose things you never knew you possessed.

It is what we have. Count on it.