Tim Murphy latest
 

I just wanted to alert everyone to a post I made on Prayers for Tim. I was with him today and he loves all of you and is grateful for your friendship throughout all of these years and for your well wishes and prayers in this his final travail this side of the veil.

Here is the post:
all of
To all members of the Sphere,

I just got back to my parish from Tim's home in Fargo. He is very weak, but in good spirits. He is trying to take as little pain medication as he can so that he can remain lucid. He had a good day yesterday with lots of visitors and so today he was very tired. I prayed with him and administered the Rite of Extreme Unction.

I must admit, that I am in tears. We remembered together that grace filled day when he walked into Sts. Anne & Joachim, which proved to be a life changing event for both of us. Tim said it was a 'moment of grace' a truth with which I could not agree more heartily.

I spent about an hour with him talking about the old days, hunting, farming, poetry, God and His Grace, but he needed to rest and was overly taxing himself to stay alert, so I blessed him and left so he could get some rest.

He wanted me to tell all of you how grateful he is for your encouragement and friendship these many years. Listening to the audio of this thread, which Catherine most graciously recorded, filled him with profound joy. He loves all of you and thanks you for your kind words, thoughts and prayers, and especially for accompanying him in his love of poetry and through his travails.

He gave me a glimpse of the humor that belongs uniquely to Tim Murphy, before I left he said to me; "I have had a glorious past three years of...smoking and prayer." It made me, and his brother Jim laugh, and Tim smiled. And then I teared up, as I am now.

I plan on going back to Fargo to see him on Friday, so if you would like to send a greeting and a prayer or poem to him, I would be happy to print them off and read them to him then. I will leave around 9:00am Friday, so have them posted before then.

May God Bless all of you,

Fr. Rob

PS: I asked him if he was ready for death, and he immediately said yes. He is in a good place in his soul. I'm just not sure that I am ready for his death. I wish I could have taken more advantage of the time I had knowing him, but distance and ministry kept it from being so. I will always owe Tim a debt of gratitude for his inspiration and forthright honesty when it came to my doggerel and on the rare occasion when I managed, mostly with his help the help of many of you, to write something worth writing.

Thank you for this, Father Robert.


For what I think should be obvious reasons, I'm making this and the other thread "sticky" so that they remain at the top of the page for the time being.


With respect to a few other consistent presences, I don't think anyone has had the indelible impact on the 'Sphere that Tim has, and I hope everyone who can pay their respects on these threads does.

Thank You Shaun! Indeed, Tim made a great impact in the poetic realm and in my life, like a crater formed from the largest of meteors, and yet he brought life (except to his favorite winged fowl!), not death, with his impact.

Death may have him in his vile hand, but the Lord of Life holds him in His thoughts, so that he, Tim Murphy, can slip from that boney grip, and find in God what he has always sought: everlasting Peace for him who counted himself amongst least. Amen

Poems
 

To all who wish to send a poem to Tim, please post them hear. I would be blessed to read them to him. And please, compose one for him, as they will mean the most. And don't worry about their composition, he no longer cares if they are perfect as he cares far more for you than the perfection of your verse.

I was hesitant to post this publicly, but Robert suggested I do so.

There are few words to express how Tim's loss will be felt, but these are the best I can muster.




Elegy for a Hunter

A routine interrupted
by unconvincing stillness

A door that should be open
has yet to budge an inch

A bird that should be fearful
has cheekily come calling

And nothing’s as it should be
as all is as it is:

A dog looks for his master
but his master has gone home.

Tanka
 

This is from poem I wrote after my mother's death. I never posted it, but it is fitting for Tim too, it's a western Tanka. I have substantially edited for Tim, so this is the first poem that I have composed in three years:

a robin’s song
floating through the leaves,
the northern breeze...
still the red one wings
away to warmer climes

Three years ago or so, the Sphere had a Tanka event and I garnered the chosen Tanka, and Tim was the first to congratulate me. It was a triumph for me, and also for Him. He had lent me his credibility, when I was not worthy of it, and so for me to have achieved this minimal acclaim was a sort of vindication for him, and for me. However, my mother died on the same day and I have not written since, except to compose a brief Tanka for her (with the help of Michael Juster and David Anthony) a year later. What I posted above is an edit (a big one) of what I wrote for my mother.

For Tim, who introduced me to the phrase "waiting in the weeds" . . .

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3UEIIonYew

To waiting in the weeds, Tim! Cheers!!

love always,

Chrissy XOXOX

The lyrics . . .

It's comin' on the end of August
Another summer's promise almost gone
And though I heard some wise man say
That every dog will have his day
He never mentioned that these dog days get so long

I don't know when I realized the dream was over
Well, there was no particular hour, no given day
You know, it didn't go down in flame
There was no final scene, no frozen frame
I just watched it slowly fade away

And I've been waiting in the weeds
Waiting for my time to come around again and
Hope is floating on the breeze
Carrying my soul high up above the ground and
I've been keepin' to myself
Knowin' that the seasons are slowly changing
Even though you're with somebody else
He'll never love you like I do

I've been biding time with the crows and sparrows
While peacocks prance and strut upon the stage
If finding love is just a dance
Proximity and chance
You will excuse me if I skip the masquerade

And I've been waiting in the weeds
Waiting for the dust to settle down along the
Back roads running through the fields
Lying on the outskirts of this lonesome town
And I imagine sunlight in your hair
You're at the county fair

You're holding hands and laughing
And now the ferris wheel has stopped
You're swinging on the top
Suspended there with him

And he's the darling of the chic
The flavor of the week is melting
Down your pretty summer dress
Baby, what a mess you're making

I've been stumbling through some dark places
Now I'm following the plow
I know I've fallen out of your good graces
It's alright now

And I've been waiting in the weeds
Waiting for the summer rain to fall upon the
Wild birds scattering the seeds
Answering the calling of the tide's eternal tune
The phases of the moon
The chambers of the heart
The egg and dart of small gray
Spiders spinning in the dark
In spite of all the times the web is torn apart

And I've been waiting in the weeds
Waiting for the time to come around again and
Hope is floating on the breeze
Carrying my soul high up above the ground and
I've been keeping to myself
Knowing that the seasons are slowly changing
Even though you're with somebody else
He'll never love you like I do


* * *

Dear Cally,

Thank you, but for some irksome reason Youtube has blocked your poem. I have read it, but am denied the grace of hearing it.


Fr. Rob

Dear Father Rob,

It's a great song by The Eagles. I'm sorry you can't hear it -- the link is working for me. I'd love you to hear it -- it's a song that reminds me of Tim in so many ways.

(Could someone else check the link to see if it's working? Thank you!)

And Father Rob -- heartfelt thanks for what you are doing.

Cally

The link works fine, Cally. Thanks for posting it - I've never heard that song before and it's lovely!!
And thank you for everything too, Father Rob.

Jayne

Tim, just a brief thank you for all you have done for this Sphere I love. Your courage, your work as a poet, and your faith all make me think of Donne's Holy Sonnets; you give them new weight for me.

Father Rob, thank you for your ministry as well.

John

. . . .Meadowlark—
brightening the twilight
. . . with his song

Your grace is an inspiration that will last for generations, Tim.

I'm continuing to think of you, Tim, and wishing you well. I never knew EfH, because he was before my time -- but I'm glad I got to know you a little, and hear all the incredible stories and myths -- of your poetry, your faith, your struggles, your studying with R. P. Warren, your memorizing tens of thousands of lines of poetry, your return to North Dakota, and on and on. The legend of Tim Murphy will live on in the Sphere. Your indomitable spirit inspires me, and will continue to inspire many more. If any of us could live and write at even a fraction of your intensity, it would more than enough. Best wishes for a peaceful journey home.

And thanks to Jenny, Cathy, and Fr. Robert for taking such good care of him. What's happening right here is what I like best about the Sphere.

Nausheen

Thank you, Father.

I wanted to add something which may be of relevance here. Many have written asking me for Tim's phone number. His brother has now turned off the phone, as it was ringing so much, and Tim's condition has deteriorated so much. He simply cannot be contacted by any of you anymore, so please -- if you've got something to say, post it here for Father Pecotte to deliver.

Many, many times have I told Timothy that I love him. Please, members, you do it now, too, this way, which is now the only way.

Grace and peace to you, Father Pecotte, and the Spirit's divine blessings, always. I will write you presently.

Jennifer

Tim,

Our paths never really crossed, but you once commented on one of my poems very soon after I joined. It wasn't particularly complimentary as I recall haha, but I remember it was very charming and you said something very funny about Gerard Manley Hopkins. It made me feel like I was in the right place.

Peace be with you, and safe passage.

Mark

Peace, Tim, from another stranger; drawn to you by the beacon of your poetic soul. May the poems you have produced be timber for the vessel you sail across the river.

There is a theatre game I play with children. It's a skit. Half the group stands together on one side of a wide blue piece of fabric that is a river.

The other half of the group approaches the river from the other side and, seeing the group across the river, calls out to them, "How do we get to the other side?"

The group replies, "You are on the other side!"

A back and forth argument ensues.
"No, you are!"
"No, you are!"
"No, you are!"
"No, you are!"

Each group decides to help the other group get to the other side by making a human chain of hands to pull them across.

In the end, the "other side" remains an enigma. But this much is clear: "The other side" is where you are always going. Safe passage, Godspeed.
x
x

Dear Father Pecotte:

Nearly eleven years ago, when Tim was in a dire situation and facing possible death, members of the Sphere were asked to post comments or poems for him. If I recall correctly, you collected and delivered those messages to Tim. Below is the verse I wrote at the time:

For Tim: A Huntsman Far From Home

Because you've wandered far away
And we have lost your track,
Remember friends who wait and pray,
Think home, and double back.

Richard Meyer
19 September 2007

Now I offer this little verse, a farewell to a comrade in the craft:

For Tim: A Huntsman Nearing Home

No need of pack or shouldered gun,
you stride the hunter’s final trail
and journey toward the risen sun.
A dove, pure white from beak to tail,
takes wing close by to lead you on:
A gate. A welcome lodge. The dawn.

Richard Meyer
21 June 2018

Dear Fr. Rob,

Thank you for this opportunity for us to post a final message to our "EfH"! I was moved to tears when Tim wrote to me that I was his EfH, too, but the H was for Heaven . . .

I wrote the following poem for Tim when he was first diagnosed in January. He has since read it, but if you would kindly read it to him, Fr. Rob, that would be wonderful.

But before I post the poem, I just wanted everyone to know that Tim remained strong and hopeful throughout these last weeks. In his "The Trial, an Ode", part V, he writes about a dream he had:

Chucky, Opening Day, it's time to go!
The mourning doves have stayed,
cooing in fragrant shade,
the western cedar boughs that softly blow,
the junipers that roosters claw with spurs.
Here we have ears for everything that whirs.

So, this was my poem for Tim:

For Tim, on the Eve of Battle

This charge I commit unto thee, son Timothy,
according to the prophecies which went before on thee,
that thou by them mightest war a good warfare. (1 Timothy 1:18)


The rattles, caws and clicks of circling crows
outdo the western meadowlark of late;
flickertails in burrows hibernate
in colonies till spring; and I suppose
your fields are carpeted with winter’s snows,
your hunting boots and Winnie 28
cleaned and set aside. They’ll have to wait,
like Chucky who looks up at you, and knows.

Yet soon the great Red River, frozen now,
will recommence its northward course, and pink
wild prairie roses bloom beneath the fair
cerulean High Plains skies. Farmers will plow
their acres once again. Let not your ink
run dry, my friend. Fear not the trumpet's blare.



—Catherine Chandler, January 2018

Tim's ink certainly did not run dry. When Last Poems is eventually published, there will be over two hundred pages of some of his best work, full of grace, grit, and gratitude.

Cathy

Tim is very weak this morning, but he is conscious, lucid, listening and responding. Don't wait. Say what you need to say, now.

Also, please consider sharing this information with other of your friends and colleagues outside the forum, who may not be aware -- here is their last chance to speak to this great spirit before he passes to another plane.

Many thanks,
Jennifer

Your poem is lovely, Cathy, and so is yours, Richard.

And when Last Poems is eventually published, what a big seller it will be! I'll be buying lots of copies to give to (non-Spherean) friends who love poetry.

The book will be a marvellous tribute to Tim.

Jayne

Words of my own fail me at this point, Tim, so please accept a few lines by my favorite, George Herbert, from his poem "A Flower".

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write.
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing. O my only light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.

Herbert is particularly apt, Gail. I was thinking about Izaak Walton's account of Herbert's passing, of which he summarizes:

"Thus he lived, and thus he died, like a saint, unspotted of the world, full of alms-deeds, full of humility, and all the examples of a virtuous life; which I cannot conclude better, than with this borrowed observation:

--All must to their cold graves:
But the religious actions of the just
Smell sweet in death, and blossom in the dust."

Tim, your work has brought such beauty into the world, and recreated grief as beauty, too. Thank you for the poems you gave us & all those you continue to give.

I love this beautiful ekphrastic piece--a finely chiseled gem from your extraordinary body of work.

http://www.poemtree.com/poems/MuromachiCranes.htm [Stanza shapes are preserved at the link.]


The Muromachi Cranes

With outstretched wings the dancers pirouette.
Arching graceful necks
they open great green beaks
and join their voices in a wild duet.

Preening and strutting on a silken stage
the cranes are not dismayed
that painted feathers fade.
Immortals grow more ravishing with age.

Contentedly they wade the swirling ink
of their appointed pool
where spawning minnows school
and poets are prohibited to drink.

As the sun sets on snow peaks in the West
snow cranes contemplate
the chirps which emanate
from the lone egg sequestered in their nest.

Over that egg a four-toed foot is curled
as though a Taoist sage
in a thatched hermitage
slowly revolves the ovum of the world.

~Timothy Murphy
_____________

Author's note: The Muromachi Cranes is a scroll
painted in the Muromachi period of Japanese art,
circa 1570-1610.

From Robert Crawford and Midge Goldberg on Facebook:


Reading Tim Murphy in Frost's kitchen today.


"We both thirst for a waterhole, where calm
grants to the heart the solace of a psalm."


Godspeed, Tim. I read your Hunter's Log out loud to the empty barn this morning. Godspeed.





https://scontent.fymy1-2.fna.fbcdn.n...b0&oe=5BA7C75A

"Home is the sailor, home from the sea, / And the hunter home from the hill." Safe home, dear Tim!

Perfect quote, Julie.

Susan

At last, Julie - le mot juste.

Father Rob,

Rose Kelleher sends her best wishes.

Thanks you, Robert. Tim returned to the church de profundis, and it gave him the peace he had been seeking many years.

He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.

To all who have posted or pm'd me, thank you. Reminder, I am heading to Fargo to see Tim tomorrow morning.

His brother told me today that Tim is sinking fast. In and out of lucidity. Please, those who pray please do so.

Pax Vobiscum,

Fr. Rob

Please give Tim my love. And my thanks for his guidance and wonderful poems.

Thank you.

Nick

Please repeat what Nick says for me as well. Into the light!

Father, I have received messages from Michael Peich, (the co-founder of the West Chester Poetry Conference), and from Gerry Cambridge, (the editor of The Dark Horse). The poet, Deborah Warren, sends her love and deep thanks to Tim. Alexandra Oliver bids Tim the peace of Our Lord, and bids us remind Tim of Wilbur's translation of Francis Jammes’ “A Prayer to Go to Heaven with the Donkeys.” David Rothman and Susan Spear, editors of THINK Journal, have sent me a file of the upcoming issue, which is formally dedicated to Tim. I will forward that file to both you and Jim, but please be aware -- it is not for distribution, but marked "For Your Eyes Only."

Also, Cynthia Haven asks me to send her love. Tim will remember, she is the writer who interviewed him for "The Cortland Review." Daniel Rifenburgh, too, sends all his best to Tim. The critic, William Logan, says, "Ave atque vale."

Below, please see my missives from Gerry Cambridge and Mike Peich. Thank you so much. Grace and peace, and may the angels themselves carry you on your journey there today. As Tim loves to say to me, "We are the evangels."

Jennifer

---

"Dear Tim,

I remain proud at The Dark Horse for publishing more, in the early days of your career, of your excellent, pithy and distinctive first poems than any other journal, way back over twenty years ago when we were both relative striplings beginning our ventures in publishing. Singular spirit, I wish you all the very best for what is to come from a lad who singled neeps in his youth in Ayrshire, and who recognises with admiration the authentic note struck by your own poetry. Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemus. Bravo, old bard."

-- Gerry Cambridge


"If I could read Tim a poem, it would be Fred Morgan's 'The Step,' a poem I read at my parents’ memorial services, and for the services of three friends.

The Step

From where you are at any moment you
may step off into death.
Is it not a clinching thought?
I do not mean a stoical bravado
of making the great decision blade in hand
but the awareness, all so simple, that
right in the middle of the day
you may be called to an adjoining room."

-- Michael Peich

Father Rob,

Please also give my thanks to Tim for his and Alan’s generous welcome to me here at Eratosphere many years ago, and for his continued generosity and encouragement since then. And especially for the wonderful poems he has made.

David R.

To all
 

I am off to see Tim, pray for a lucid visit. I have printed off this thread and the PMs and emails to read to Tim. If you want to post some more in the next few hours please do so, and I will read those posts to him from my phone.

Pax Vobiscum,

Fr. Rob

Dear Tim, your poems move me so much. I've been looking through our old emails, and my Sphere notes over the years, and re-reading your poems. Here's one I especially love.
Your friend,
Mary


To Timothy
by Timothy Murphy

Bring me my cloak. Bring Mark.
This prison cell is dark
and Luke, my only friend.
I am very near the end,
nothing much left but bone.
The shackled mastiffs bark,
and other prisoners groan.
Mortal this cold, the dark.
Bring me my cloak. Bring Mark.

Father Rob, Catherine Tufariello also has sent me tidings to Tim. Please check your email for her message. Thanks.

Jennifer

Dear Robert

I wonder if you would able to remind Tim of the poem (it is a translation) below. You will see that it is dedicated to him.

It is the last poem of my first collection, Jigsaw, a book he was instrumental in bringing into being in 2003 by commending me to Phil Hoy at the Waywiser Press in the UK, which had the previous year published his fine third collection, Very Far North.

I have many times expressed my gratitude to Tim for his extraordinary support in those years and think of it particularly at this dark time. His warmth and encouragement overset my innate caution and, as far as poetry is concerned, steered me into a new furrow. This goes to explain its prominence in the collection as the last poem, and also the dedication. It seems fitting in a new way just now.

Tim is very much in my thoughts.

Thank you.

Clive Watkins


Hans Carossa: The Old Fountain

for Timothy Murphy


Put out the lamp and sleep. The only sound
is the old fountain’s wakeful pattering.
Soon you will find, as all my house-guests do,
that you are accustomed to its murmuring.

Yet sometimes, in the middle of a dream,
through the whole house a strange unease can spill.
Heavy footsteps crunch on the courtyard gravel,
the bright splashing suddenly falls still –

and you awake. But do not be afraid.
Above the earth the numbered stars still stand.
It’s just a wanderer come to the stone trough
to scoop a little water into his hand.

Soon he will leave, and the pattering resume.
Rejoice that in this place you are not alone.
So many walk abroad in the starlight,
and others journey towards you, yet unknown.


From the German of Hans Carossa

Tim, when we met I was 27. I had just posted my first poem on Eratosphere. I thought it was pretty hot stuff, and the membership received it very well indeed. I was basking in their praise, and being pretty obvious about it, when, to my surprise, I got a private message from you. (I googled you and was thrilled to discover that you were a Big Deal.) Your note was two lines long: the first told me my poem was pretty good but ought to be a lot better, and the second told me to send you my three best poems. I gasped - I didn't *have* three good poems - but I sent you what I had, along with a whole lot of prefatory hemming and hawing.

Your response to those? One line this time. You told me I might have some talent but that I should bear in mind that, by the time Keats was my age, he'd been dead two years.

Is it coming through in this note that I *loved* these exchanges? So much that, 15 years later, I still reflect on what they mean for me as a writer and as a man? Because I did. I do.

We went on like that for years, Tim. I would try desperately to please you, and you would be encouraging -- but without ever calling a turd a souffle. And I tried to sell you an awful lot of souffle.

Sometimes, I would use you to sharpen my claws. You would write "Red State Reveille," and I would parody it in "Blue State Epiphany." It never occurred to me to treat you as if you might be vulnerable. You always seemed big to me, big enough and strong enough to hold the bag however hard I punched it. It never occurred to me you could topple (except when you tippled). You felt to me as a whetstone must feel to a knife.

There was a period when your paternal tendencies, which were always strong, became especially pronounced. There were a bunch of us Young Turks bellowing on the boards, taking aim at you (as it now seems to me), and getting tired of being treated as the juvenile unit. And the way you responded made me feel like you'd been in on the game the whole time, that your provocations had been, in fact, meant to provoke us, and that you were pleased with what they had surfaced. You wrote that wonderful, eponymous poem for Aaron Poochigan (http://mirror.ogbuji.net/www.the-fle...oochigian.html). And privately, you wrote one for me. You sent it with an apology, the kind of apology I might have sent you at 27: you confessed that the poem hadn't turned out, you were sorry about that, but you wanted me to have it because you wanted me to know you'd had the thought. As it turns out, your talent knew something about the difference in careers that Aaron and I would have, certainly before I knew it, perhaps before you knew it. But I felt so special to have been included among your boys. Still do.

Tim, one day, when we had known each other several years, the strangest thing happened: I wrote some lines that actually pleased you. They pleased you, actually, much more than they pleased others; unlike my first poem on Eratosphere, this one came in for some tough criticism. But I felt, and you saw, that I had finally hooked something worth catching, and you weren't going to let me snap the line through inexperience. You emailed me (!) directly and privately, and you passed the poem on to a very prominent poet, again privately. I know you must have done this hundreds of times over the years, for dozens of poets who were, for the first time, in danger of writing an actual poem. The prominent poet responded, you gave me pointers, and I went off to work on it. I ended up lousing it up; despite your best efforts, it's still in a drawer -- so this isn't a story about the poem. It's a story about the phone call.

After a couple days passed you asked me for my cell phone number and, voila, all of a sudden I heard a resonant baritone saying "This is Tim." We talked for 15 minutes. It was, frankly, awkward as hell. How could I talk to you? I mainly remember feeling very nervous, not knowing what to say, accepting your praise for the three or four lines I'd written that pleased you, and as quickly as possible steering the conversation away from me. I wheedled you into reciting a poem of yours, "Harvest of Sorrows."

What I know now that I didn't then is that my feelings toward you were a knot of longing and embarrassment, anger and envy - envy for that inexhaustible gift of yours, a fountain of verse that spilled forth from you in gluts and torrents (which might have been part of what left you so thirsty). And though I knew you through your gift, you were, in fact, a man. A man with a voice talking on the phone, just another person in the body, as frail as any other.

I wish I had taken the right thing from that lesson, and stayed closer to you, Tim. It's been many years since that phone call, and many since we last had contact. It's odd to me that now I'm saying goodbye to you through the medium where we first met, that I'm typing this into the familiar old text box of Eratosphere. I've never forgotten you, Tim, or how much you gave to this community of poets and erstwhile poets, and I'll never forget what you gave to me, in word and deed. Every bit of it is treasure.

Rest easy and safe voyage.

Much love,
Clay

I've heard them liltin' at the ewe milking
Lassies are liltin' before dawn o' day
Now there's a moanin' on ilka green loanin'
The Flow'rs o' the Forest are a' wede awa'.

At baughts in the morning, nae blythe lads are scornin'
Lassies are lanely and dowie and wae;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighin' and sabbin'
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her awa'.

At e'en in the gloamin', nae swankies are roamin'
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk maid sits drearie, lamentin' her dearie,
The Flow'rs o' the Forest are a' wede awa'.

In har'st at the shearin', nae youths now are jeerin',
Bandsters are runkled, an' lyart, or grey;
At fair or at preachin', nae wooin', nae fleechin',
The Flow'rs o' the Forest are a' wede awa'.

Dool for the order sent our lads to the Border,
The English, for ance, by guile, won the day;
The Flow'rs o' the Forest that fought aye the foremost,
The prime o' our land lie cauld i' the clay.

We'll hae nae mair liltin' at the ewe-milkin',
Women an' bairns are heartless an' wae;
Sighin' an' moanin' on ilka green loanin',
The Flow'rs o' the Forest are a' wede awa'.

It's about the Scottish tragedy at Flodden and is now a lament for those who have died too young. I'll try and post the bagpipes. Tim has Scottish ancestry and I think would appreciate it.