The earth rolled all the way around, and here we are.

Hello. Just me today, no fiction right now. Thinking of you all, and how close I feel to people I have never met. What is meeting in person really? It is pleasant to do. I would love to see your faces, hear your real voices, see what your hands do when you are thinking. In some cases I have had some of those things. I hold tight the memory of those I have met, or Skyped with.

But we don't really need that, do we? Single use phones,(remember the ones on the wall?) and big honking TVs are for our grandparents now, if we still have them.

We are returning to a text based world--as it was in the 18th and 19th, century. We have to be more agile, and careful of words now, now we are taking the time to write them. Someday, future historians, (perhaps wearing those body suits we dreamed in the 1970s,) will know the minute to minute thoughts of most on the planet, through facebook, twitter, etc. Imagine some poor young scholar wading through all that!

This is just to say, in writing then, I am still here. I bought in again, because this is the place that works best for me. I appreciate everyone who still drops in to read. I have quite a lot of old works now. You can get in there and wade around. Age of Sail comes when it will. It is timid these days. I have little fugitive glimpses of things, that are still formless, a feeling, an idea; the way a wet wool coat feels when it hits the back of your knees, finding a quiet place at a loud party, the way that water twines, brown and speckled, in a small stream. The trouble is finding out who has the knees, the party, the little (very little,) stream.

It is silly to say, but I am still working on the Marlowe story too. It has grown like a naughty vine, strong and thorny, and heading in at least three directions at once. So I am being more aggressive with that. I need to put it into order. If I had known in the beginning, I would have made an actual plan.

So that is me. I am here, in Brooklyn, with the same old husband,and sharing our house with daughter and her mate. We have 4 cats, and a large dog, and soon there will be a baby! Daughter is as round as an apple, an egg,as all the round things that are good.

Happy New Year to you all. May this year bring us health, time, and peace

(no subject)

The great bell began, not far, a deep baw baw, it was more than a sound, but something that came up through the soles of her feet. And now half a heartbeat behind, as always, the fainter smaller bell in the east. Enough. Nobody had come to the stall in the last hour anyway. Sideways rain was best for catching fish, but very poor for selling them. Marcella felt her mouth quirk into a smile that ached. Her father used to say that. Oh dad, I do miss thee...

And that achy thought made real the other aches. Marcella became aware of the hard bench beneath her. Maybe tomorrow she should bring a pillow. The bones where she sat seemed looser now. And there was a vicious pain in her back too that never seemed to stop.

Red Kate, her gossip had advice as always. “That boy is getting bigger every day. Best put him in the basket, let him fuss, he'll learn to like it there.” And Marcella had smiled. Kate had three, but John was Marcella's first, she was not going to do that. John was tiny and curled as perfectly as Tom Kyd's fancy lettering. He fit into her arms as if he had always been there, should always have been there. He smelled so good. She found herself lowering her nose, throughout the day to press it to the top of his silky head, his face. John's eyes had been vague and puzzled at first, but he knew her now. Marcella could tell, his eyes sought hers.

So she had the basket there. But she mostly kept him closer than that tucked against her. Oh she put him in the basket when she needed two hands free-- when she had barrels to heave, or when she had to use the knife.

Every day began the same, as a far as fish went. She still had to get the fish from the docks, and prepare them for sale. She ran a cord through the sharp pink gills without slicing her own hands to the bone. This so she could hang them in enticing display. The smaller fishes were laid out below, silver and shining and fresh, fresh. All of this, every morning, in the grey light of dawn. Well. Not Sunday obviously. Sunday found her at the Dutch Church with the other strangers. Her church, her place. A place for strangers,

Today was Friday. And mostly over, and raining. And he nearly finished suckling now. His eyes were closed, she could feel him heavy damp and replete. Time to go. Marcella reached down with a clean hooked finger to dislodge him.

He had been fishy,himself, blue and pink, uncertain; uncertain of color, but never uncertain of life. He had struggled from the first to be near her-- an upraised fist her first sight of him, as her gossips cleaned and swaddled, as they admired him, gave him the first praises and caresses of his new life.

He was a real color now, a sort of dark acorn.
Time to go. She locked the shutter down and stepped into her pattens. She snugged him close in his sling against her chest. He slept on, safe and warm. She could see that he was content. His mouth pursed, dreaming of her breast. She kept her left arm under, to warm him, now. Her right held her basket. She had herring for herself today.

“Ay-- Macella”

“How art thou Kate?”

“He's grown.”

“Mmmh. He smiles now. He knows me.”

“Well, aye-- of course he does. Oh the darling-- “ She leaned close, her voice low, careful not to wake him. Kate had worked her own stall all day, Marcella knew she had been up in the dark, gathering eggs, and spent the day frying waffles. Still, she smelled delicious and her coif was fresh and her apron even looked clean.

“Headed home?” Kate shifted her own basket to her hip.

“To my mother,” Marcella said. “But first I wanted to buy some--” She gestured to a larger shop, the wares there had never meant much to her, before, but now they seemed enticing, like tumble of green jewels. Her mouth had watered as she worked, dreaming of salad.

“I seen him this morning pissing on the lettuce.”

“What!”

“Keeps it green longer-- he does the cabbage too. You didn't know?”

Marcella shook her head.

“Learn something new every day--” Kate gave a gappy toothed grin. “Still want 'em?'

“No.”

“Come then, honey. I'll buy thee an orange. You can peel that, at least.”

Kate picked a big one, and put her money down. She put the orange into Marcella's palm, it was as bright as a piece of captured sun. It smelled delicious, and all hers. “I got mine this morning,” Kate said.

John was curled tight asleep, warm against her, and her body swayed back the way it had for the last year. He was happy there. And she was happy too, to walk in the free air, and laugh about small things. It made the big things sting less.

Here was her father's house now. Two floors, and at the very top a window that Marcella had learned the world from. Her room. Her mother had hung herbs from the roof beam to dry. Her room had smelled of rosemary and cresses. Marcella had slept among the shadowed leaves.

She was done with those times. She took a strong breath, stepped over the broken stone at the door, and went in.

And this at least was the same as ever; the strength of her mother's embrace and the smell of clean linen and cooking spices.

“Oh, the little man-- how does he today? Yes, yes, I see thee. How dost thou?” This in a high squeak, for little John. And Marcella could feel him squirm and kick in delight.

The embrace for Marcella came second but was no less for that.

“Mamma,” The sound came out with the squeeze, the word lost against her mother's kerchief.

“I did not think to see thee today, Come sit.”

The house seemed unchanged; the rush chair, the broom by the fire. There were subtle changes too, since father's death. Marcella felt them with her skin, with some core of herself. The chair was nearer to the fire than before, her mother was always cold now.

“Herring,” Marcella gestured to the basket. The place by the fire was dim, warm. Looking from there she could see the rest of the house. Light from the high little windows picked it out in fractured light.

“Ooh, I will make a pie of these tonight.” her mother was smiling down at the basket as she stepped into the golden square, the lifted spinning dust of the little chamber.


“ Mamma,” this time the word was different. It came from a cold place somewhere in Marcella's gut, an icy, oily, rolling there.

“Let me see thy arm,” Marcella hated to see the wide smile go out like a snuffed candle.

The scrape to the elbow was neatly dressed, hidden under her sleeve, but all along the arm bone it was hot and tight and swollen, bruised.

“What happened?” she stroked the arm, felt her mother wince.

“I fell.”

“Aye?”

“There was a man hanging a paper up, outside the church. I went to speak to him, to invite him within. I had a basket of waffles, for the congregation, you know?”

“Yes,” Marcella did know. The Dutch church was big and drafty. As a child, a day of services had been long, the voice from the alter had been loud, she had felt small as a mouse, sitting in the pew with her legs dangling. Her mother's Leiden waffles had been something good to eat at the end. The big basket was for everyone, but mother always made sure that Marcella got a hot one right off the top.

“Worth the walk from Great Zimbabwe, Best thing about our years in Holland,” Her father had always said. And his face had had little lines that bloomed when he laughed. Little Marcella had laughed. It was a joke, of course. She was the best thing.

Now Father was gone. Her mother was alone; Far from the African city where she had started, far too from Holland, which she had loved. Alone in London, with her timid smile, her kindness, her waffles.

“He was nailing up a paper. When he saw me looking, he ran at me. He knocked me down. My basket spilled. I hurt my arm falling. But I took his paper. He looked a wicked man and I did not want him putting it up.

Would you like me to read it, Mama?

“Yes,”

The letter was heavy, costly paper, It was writ big, to be seen from a distance. It was stained with mud.

Marcella began reading. She could feel the sour fear rising in her.

“I really don't want to read this. It just goes on the same way to the end.” No she didn't want to read it, but she already had. Her mother should not hear it though.

“Well, does it say who wrote it. I can see a name at the bottom, I think.”

“It says 'Tamborlaine.'” I don't know who that is, but I think I can find out. She tucked the letter in her pocket. She would go to see Tom Kyd.






great bell began, not far, a deep baw baw, more than sound, but something that came up through the soles of her feet. And now half a heartbeat behind, as always, the fainter smaller bell in the east. Enough. Nobody had come to the stall in the last hour anyway. Sideways rain was best for catching fish, but very poor for selling them. Marcella felt her mouth quirk into a smile that ached. Her father used to say that. Oh dad, I do miss thee...

And that achy thought made real the other aches. Marcella became aware of the hard bench beneath her. Maybe tomorrow she should bring a pillow. The bones where she sat seemed looser now. And there was a vicious pain in her back too that never seemed to stop.

Red Kate, her friend had advice as always. “That boy is getting bigger every day. Best put him in the basket, let him fuss, he'll learn to like it there.” And Marcella had smiled. Kate had 3, but John was Marcella's first, she was not going to do that. John was tiny and curled as perfectly as Tom Kyd's fancy lettering. He fit into her arms as if he had always been there, should always have been there. He smelled so good. She found herself lowering her nose, throughout the day to press it to the top of his silky head, his face. John's eyes had been vague and puzzled at first, but he knew her now. Marcella could tell, his eyes sought hers.

So she had the basket there. But she mostly kept him closer than that tucked against her. Oh she put him in the basket when she needed two hands free-- when she had barrels to heave, or when she had to use the knife. Every day began the same, as a far as fish went. She still had to get the fish from the docks, and prepare them for sale. She ran a cord through the sharp pink gills without slicing her own hands to the bone. This so she could hang them in enticing display. The smaller fishes were laid out below, silver and shining and fresh, fresh. All of this, every morning, in the grey light of dawn. Well. Not Sunday obviously. Sunday found her at the Dutch church with the other strangers. Her church, her place. A place for strangers,

Today was Friday. And mostly over, and raining. And he nearly finished suckling now. His eyes were closed, she could feel him heavy damp and replete. Time to go. Marcella reached down with a clean hooked finger to dislodge him.

He had been no human color at birth, himself fishy, blue and pink, uncertain; uncertain of color, but never uncertain of life. He had struggled from the first to be near her-- an upraised fist her first sight of him, as her gossips cleaned and swaddled, as they admired him, gave him the first praises and caresses of his new life.

He was a real color now, a sort of dark acorn.
Time to go. She locked the shutter down and stepped into her pattens. She snugged him close in his sling against her chest. He slept on, safe and warm. She could see that he was content. His mouth pursed, dreaming of her breast. She kept her left arm under, to warm him, now. Her right held her basket. She had herring for herself today.

“Ay-- Macella”

“How art thou Kate?”

“He's grown.”

“Mmmh. He smiles now. He knows me.”

“Well, aye-- of course he does. Oh the darling-- “ She leaned close, her voice low, careful not to wake him. Kate had worked her own stall all day, Marcella knew she had been up in the dark, gathering eggs, and spent the day frying waffles. Still, she smelled delicious and her coif was fresh and her apron even looked clean.

“Headed home?” Kate shifted her own basket to her hip.

“ To my mother,” Marcella said. “But first I wanted to buy some--” She gestured to a larger shop, the wares there had never meant much to her, before, but now they seemed enticing, like tumble of green jewels. Her mouth had watered as she worked, dreaming of salad.

“I seen him this morning pissing on the lettuce.”

“What!”

“Keeps it green longer-- he does the cabbage too. You didn't know?”

Marcella shook her head.

“Learn something new every day--” Kate gave a gappy toothed grin. “Still want 'em?'

“No.”

“Come then, honey. I'll buy thee an orange. You can peel that, at least.”

Kate picked a big one, and put her money down. She put the orange into Marcella's palm, it was as bright as a piece of captured sun. It smelled delicious, and all hers. “I got mine this morning,” Kate said.

John was curled tight asleep, warm against her, and her body swayed back the way it had for the last year. He was happy there. And she was happy too, to walk in the free air, and laugh about small things. It made the big things sting less.

Here was her father's house now. Two floors, and at the very top a window that Marcella had learned the world from. Her room. Her mother had hung herbs from the roof beam to dry. Her room had smelled of rosemary and cresses. Marcella had slept among the shadowed leaves.

She was done with those times. She took a strong breath, stepped over the broken stone at the door, and went in.

And this at least was the same as ever; the strength of her mother's embrace and the smell of clean linen and cooking spices.

“Oh, the little man-- how does he today? Yes, yes, I see thee. How dost thou?” This in a high squeak, for little John. And Marcella could feel him squirm and kick in delight.

The embrace for Marcella came second but was no less for that.

“Mamma,” The sound came out with the squeeze, the word lost against her mother's kerchief.

“I did not think to see thee today, Come sit.”

The house seemed unchanged; the rush chair, the broom by the fire. There were subtle changes too, since father's death. Marcella felt them with her skin, with some core of herself. The chair was nearer to the fire than before, her mother was always cold now.

“Herring,” Marcella gestured to the basket. The place by the fire was dim, warm. Looking from there she could see the rest of the house. Light from the high little windows picked it out in fractured light.

“Ooh, I will make a pie of these tonight.” her mother was smiling down at the basket as she stepped into the golden square, the lifted spinning dust of the little chamber.


“ Mamma,” this time the word was different. It came from a cold place somewhere in Marcella's gut, an icy, oily, rolling there.

“Let me see thy arm,” Marcella hated to see the wide smile go out like a snuffed candle.

The scrape to the elbow was neatly dressed, hidden under her sleeve, but all along the arm bone it was hot and tight and swollen, bruised.

“What happened?” she stroked the arm, felt her mother wince.

“I fell.”

“Aye?”

“There was a man hanging a paper up, outside the church. I went to speak to him, to invite him within. I had a basket of waffles, for the congregation, you know?”

“Yes,” Marcella did know. The Dutch church was big and drafty. As a child, a day of services had been long, the voice from the alter had been loud, she had felt small as a mouse, sitting in the pew with her legs dangling. Her mother's Leiden waffles had been something good to eat at the end. The big basket was for everyone, but mother always made sure that Marcella got a hot one right off the top.

“Worth the walk from Great Zimbabwe, Best thing about our years in Holland,” Her father had always said. And his face had had little lines that bloomed when he laughed. Little Marcella had laughed. It was a joke, of course. She was the best thing.

Now Father was gone. Her mother was alone; Far from the African city where she had started, far too from Holland, which she had loved. Alone in London, with her timid smile, her kindness, her waffles.

“He was nailing up a paper. When he saw me looking, he ran at me. He knocked me down. My basket spilled. I hurt my arm falling. But I took his paper. He looked a wicked man and I did not want him putting it up.

Would you like me to read it, Mama?

“Yes,”

The letter was heavy, costly paper, It was writ big, to be seen from a distance. It was stained with mud.

Marcella began reading. She could feel the sour fear rising in her.

“I really don't want to read this. It just goes on the same way to the end.” No she didn't want to read it, but she already had. Her mother should not hear it though.

“Well, does it say who wrote it. I can see a name at the bottom, I think.”

“It says 'Tamborlaine.'” I don't know who that is, but I think I can find out. She tucked the letter in her pocket. She would go to see Tom Kyd.

Trying something new

I have started a patreon page. I am going to go back through some of the Kit stories and put them up. Not sure it is ok to put Horatio up. But if I can, I might.

A have a lot to learn. Don't really know how to use it yet. Maybe I will be roundly ignored. I hope the new platform, and a little bit of money, (maybe,) will help me write more often. I love LJ and wish it was as busy as it once was. I will put things here too, as I used to do, of course.

I think you can get there by searching 'Eglantine.' The first things I put up will be really old stuff from years ago.Then i will try to make new stuff to fill in the corners. I will tell you all when I start to do that.

Your Dearest Lives

Your Dearest Lives
Kyd/Kit
Word Count 600




Your Dearest Lives


My corrections to Amleth were nearly done. My back ached and my eyes burned. Writing, done well, is work as hard as the plow or the herring net. Kit was working on a project of his own, something about fairies. He pushed his chair back, the sound of it, sudden in the silence.

“Storm seems to have missed us, Kyd,” he said. He opened the shutter, and the scent of the world came in. I could see a little of the sky, blue as a blue egg. A mass of clouds too, piled up like feather pillows.

Kit was wrong about the storm. I could smell it coming, the earth was opening for the rain. The leaves of trees shivered in expectation

“We should--” Kit said. But I never found out the rest of it; we both heard the rushing footsteps, the knock at the door.

“Marcella--” I drew her into a close embrace. We usually met at her house. Besides she had a new man now, since the baby. Still I was glad to see her. She was awkward against me, even without the great belly. I could feel a steely tension in her, under the soft cover of her flesh. She was not here to kiss me.

Kit stepped from the window to the shadow of the room.

“Give you good day, Sir.” Her curtsy was absentminded. She knew his name of course, though I do not think they had met before today. I shut the door, and she shone in the dim little chamber, darkness and light, like the stormy sky.

“How now, honey, what troubles thee?” I said.

“This. Did your friend write this Tom; did you?”
The paper that she held out to me was bigger than a book page. It was meant to be put up on a wall. And indeed it had been, it was damp and mud spattered.

A pretty bit of writing, here. It scanned, the rhyme did not falter or bind. The threat was clear and direct, hateful. Dutch strangers should watch themselves, stop taking Englishmen's jobs, better yet, leave town; Jews too. Old words. Fighting words. Kindling words for that acrid fire, that burned underground; the one that came with rocks and screams, It was signed 'Tamberlaine.'

I knew Kit had not written it, of course. As sure as I knew his step or face from any other. But Marcella did not know, neither would the rest of London.

“My mother saw it,” Marcella said. “She's so afraid.” Marcella's mother and father had come here from Africa, by way of Holland. They were assigned to the Dutch church, the one designated for Strangers, for dark faces, and
strange tongues. And it was there that Marcella went, every Sunday, on pain of fine. There she sat and stood and knelt, in her best dress, and a pristine kerchief, Marcella, with her brown skin, and her sharp tongue, her stout boots, and her soft breasts. She had been born in London, the same as me.

“I did not write this, Mistress.” Kit said. She looked at him with quizzical sorrow

“My mother has nightmares you know.” She made an abrupt flapping gesture. She opened the door, shut it quietly, and was gone.
“Jesus, “ Kit said. He went to the table and sat. “They want a bloody riot,” his gaze was distant and cold. “Someone was paid for this—I have to go.” He left too, taking the paper with him. I, and my unease, got back to work on Hamleth,

Those painted ponies-- things and stuff

Things.Things happen. That is, after all the nature of things.

The cooling of the air, and the apartment to myself, there are three of them here, but they are away doing things. I am able to let the thinking part of me expand. I have been writing a little. So happy that Following Sea has come alive again. I started with that. There at least I know what I want to say, and am able to keep a consistent tone.

Marlowe is harder. I am making that all by myself, and right now it is growing in all sorts of weird disconnected sections. The plot is a jigsaw with pieces missing. But I have not given up. Please don't mock me for writing so slowly.

We are still in the same little second floor apartment, in Brooklyn. Fall is here. You want a sweatshirt some mornings now.

Biggest news of all-- my daughter is going to be a mother! There will be a baby at the beginning of April. We don't know what sort of baby yet. But as daughter and her man live with us, we get to enjoy the whole thing. She is just entering 2nd trimester. Have the go-ahead to share. I am 54. i do not feel any older, on the inside, than I did at 12, or 16. The stout wrinkly woman in the mirror does not match how I am on the inside. I look just a little like Angela Merkal. I wonder how old she feels to herself.

The Best Laid Plans

Title The Best Laid Plans
Author Eglantine_br
Word Count 1144


The Best Laid Plans


The horse was one he did not know, a big gelding with a tough mouth, and disinclined to listen. Kit had gone to speak and meet him, to blow in his face, before mounting. But he did not get a greeting bunt, or sneeze, or nuzzle. The horse rolled a white eye at him, and shifted his feet. Now Kit's hands slipped, sweaty on the reins. His arms ached. His back itched. Two hours more to go. The empty trees and land made his stomach upset. At least in the city there were people nearby, who might not be friends, were perhaps not enemies-- yet. And, too, it bothered him obscurely that he had not had to bring apples for the horse.

Collapse )

Introductions

Introductions

(This one belongs before the other one,)


The limb of the tree was warm beneath him, too wide and solid to move with his clambering, or with the small wind. It was too solid to move, really, at all. But his shirt lifted as he wormed his way forward. He could feel the scrape of the bark and green lichen on the soft belly of him. His hands were full. He had the things he needed wrapped in his doublet, the old leather one from home, it hardly fit anymore. He steadied his way with his elbows and knees, pushed the doublet bundle carefully ahead. He had left his sadd cloth robe back in his room. An infraction, of course, but next Wednesday was a full week away, and nobody could get up a tree in an ankle length robe. Inside the doublet, sheltered by his hands, were important things. He had a corked inkhorn, a pen and knife, his commonplace book, (not the one he used for school but the real one, that he put his thoughts in) He had two apples, taken from the tree itself. They were small and rather wrinkled but still edible. There was a piece of cheese too, that he had been saving.

Nobody else that he knew seemed to have this need-- he had never seen it in them. Never seen them show any sign of the clawing that overcame him, to be alone, to spill out the words that climbed up the insides of him, that wedged in his throat, that peopled his dreams. Not Latin words, at least not mostly, not school words; question words, names of things, bits of stories that didn't fit together yet, those things went into his book. He put them there so they would leave him alone. And too, he put them there to hone and sharpen them, to return to them, to make them right, to get them cutting sharp. He had to be alone for that.

He had felt the words itching him all week, like a living thing scratching at his insides, as he tried to be good and pay attention, or at least seem to. Every moment was spoken for, meant for something here. He had class, study, prayers, study, class again, time to eat in silence There were only a few moments of humanity as they readied themselves for sleep, a few mumbled words, in Latin now out of habit. So this time was stolen of course-- but he thought he had gotten away unnoticed again. And if not, he would be punished for it, but not until next week, a whole week from today. Worth it.

There were little corners in the world, even here, as there had been at home, where he could fade from sight, where he could see and be less seen, where he could hear and be he nearly unheard. And now here was the the join of the tree , the trunk with the branches, and he could sit, with the doublet to pad his backside. His feet hung down free either side of the limb, and he leaned the little book against the wood and began to write.

He saw it clear as he worked, the towers of Troy, the faces and bodies of Hector and Achilles, the grating voice of old Nestor. He had thought it would be a poem-- and it was, but as he worked he realized it could perhaps be also a play.

He muttered to himself as worked, getting the voices right. He did not know this. For some time the only other sound was the sound of the tree itself. He had forgotten the tree, forgotten the food and his own empty insides.

The other sound came to him slowly, from below. It nagged and at first he ignored it, but it wrapped itself around his thoughts and his words and his pen stopped. He leaned over the side of the tree branch, pushing the leaves aside.

“Who are you?” Kit kept his own voice low, but he was not really worried. One small voice, at the base of tree, snuffling and sobbing was certainly another student. And it was Wednesday, after all.

“Who wants to know?” The voice was young, hoarse from weeping, but belligerent as well. Dark eyes, under a flop of limp dark hair, pale skin, except the nose which was kitten pink at the moment.

“Here, I'll come down.” He could not think why he said that exactly; said it to the rough little voice and the pink abraded nose. And anyway, Kit knew who this was now. This was the broken armed sizer of last winter's ice.

The boy nodded and scrambled back a little to let Kit drop.

“ I am Thomas Nashe, he said. “”Well, Tommy really.”

“Tommy then,” A smile then, swift and purely reflexive, buck teeth white under the floppy mane made Kit think of a pony in need of the farrier.

“You are a sizer-- I mean, I have seen you before.” Kit thought, a moment too late, that this was, perhaps not the best start.

“A sizer aye What of it? My father is a poor curate from a town of fishermen. At least he--”

“Nothing of it--” Kit rode over the words though he kept his own gentle. “My father is a cobbler. He can barely sign his name.” And that was true. It was true though Kit had never said it before to anyone. Father was good with his hands-- good at making the shoes, fixing the shoes, fitting shoes, fitting the shoes. Father was good at convincing the reluctant to buy. But mother was the clever one. Mother and Kit.

“My father is a cobbler--” Kit said again. “My name is Cristofer. At home they call me Kit.”