Is anyone out there known to have learned skills of building just so that they could destroy, to start anew? If these walls could talk. If they could absorb.
Would they swell, well, wail?
With grief of past renters? Laden with uncomfortable memories of someone’s poor sitcom taste? Or spooked by the inability to comprehend an old tenants’ idolatry? Or find humor in and joy of private dancing with the likes of us they contain?
Are they pleased with the blush-colored tiles that coat their kitchen parts?
Do they revel in the bed banging against them ferocious, and ache for more as well?
Because if everything has energy, then there stands a chance at a secret life that we know as much of as to think that birds just migrate without communication, but magnetism and instinct? Greedy, narrow, humankind.
So then, am I their favorite thus far?
Should I lean up against them and divine their favorite music? It must be Nina- the album with her in front of a pond in Central Park…
The walls. Inert and unable to grow, only wither in time. Unable to self-fortify. But- able to hear? God ears? You are probably not alone.
Turn off your halogens. Be true be true! If someone or something is always the witness, could you really be you?
You can find a hammer and smash till you’re blue. Or bang out a window to let the air through.
If these walls could listen. If they’ve been listening all along- how would you do? 
Posts Tagged ‘life’
Considering Wall Witnessing
Posted in art, musings, ordinary madness, photography, poetry in motion, prose, random, Uncategorized, tagged art, entertainment, humor, life, observations, photography, poetry, random, reflections, street photography, writing on January 26, 2018| 2 Comments »
Clouds are Easy
Posted in art, creativity, inspiration, love, meditation, musings, nature, photography, prose, random, travel, Uncategorized, tagged art, entertainment, games, inspiration, life, marqui, mind games, observations, personal, photography, random, reflections, science, street photography, travel, true story on January 7, 2018| 8 Comments »
Eves-dropping on neighboring cloud watchers across the isle:
–Young girl- maybe age 7- speaking in absolutes: “I see a hand.”
–Man beside her- maybe mother’s boyfriend: “I see it.”
Pause. Watch. Stillness. “I see some mashed potatoes.”
–Girl -calm: “Oh yeah. Yeah.”
“I see a coyote without legs. Do you see it?
Planes are huge. Almost bigger than the world. We’re almost to space. Did you know that?”
–Man attempts an explanation about atmosphere, stratosphere… starts out strong. Flounders. Reverts to talking about library books on the subject.
Girl turns her head from the window of Largest Views. She finds a heated shaft of sunlight taken to sitting on the top of her hand from the other side of the plane. My side.
Reflection projection.
Steady she holds it; her sun-hand. Her free hand whirling small fingers atop its partner’s radiance. Spinning a small dance above orphic golden. She wants to show her mother who sleeps;
Looking back and forth from mother to glow, mother to glow, mother to glow.
She is a kind child. I can tell. Her mother rests on, while dutifully with providence, she hosts the light.
Girl sees me looking and offers a soft-kid smile my way. It’s too late to look away. I’ve been indulgent in my dreamy observing.
Down she puts the sun.
Back to cloud-watch; the line between boredom and the ease of nothing else to do, giving call to the deciphering of true existences.
High game, low stakes.
Infinite interpretive possibility.
A pooh-bah baby; she tells what’s what. The crown in passing light.
In a flash I’m brought back too.
Times no linear thing when you’re suspended in the air and have exhausted your ink pad and reading resources and suddenly… I’m young again, head-scratching, squinting wonder, looking for what’s really out there.
By and by eking out that dolphin pattern of automatic coordination involving focus, locus and vergence.
If I’d stare hard enough… If she’d stare hard enough…
Now the mother’s eyes are opened and the three talk of sun. I hang on their words like heavy warm suds sky bath; well intentioned interloper that I am.
They share curiosities over cardinal directions; the great Atlantic acting to anchor the origin. Wondering just what they’re flying over. Wondering where the man’s house might be very right now.
In an instant the plane tilts- revealing a ground covered in snow. A secret held from us by the simple act of sheltering our eyes. Covered in snow, dotted in trees. All small far down. Snow inside of snow.
The clouds have begun to thread, actively uniting, they soon mimic the land below as a blanket and a few levels higher measured by hundreds of feet, or thousands if you’re good at guessing jelly-bean-jar-quantities; filtering sun, laying across us fly-ers, dressing us in riches of watermelon and orange juice two hues.
Girl, Man, Mother are quiet. My mind quite quiet. And the clouds- speak silence full into the figures we see of them. Wipe away to white. Begin again if you please.
Exhuming Creativity & Shots at Luster
Posted in creativity, inspiration, musings, nature, ordinary madness, poetry in motion, prose, random, Uncategorized, tagged art, creativity, human nature, imagine, inspiration, life, miscellaneous, musings, nature, personal, poetry, practice, random, reflections, strange design, words on October 12, 2017| Leave a Comment »
There is a well of surface-scraped-depth within me.
I know.
And maybe you too.
I need to know what gems lay deep, bound by body basalt; encased in black rock; kidney crystal. Clinging to crags. Affixed & sturdy.
Formations of luster; robust & ripe; uncomprehended in fullness.
And it worries me.
How to mine myself for precious bounty?
Am I made of softer stone? Might I chip?
What earthly instrument would act as chisel?
How much wonder, precision & intent is required for self-extraction.
To mother words.
Arrange them & categorize.
The placement in a great pantry of order, positioning strategic visions; moving over pink salt, second hand plates, glass jars, almond flour, the old orange juice press, wayward spices- to arrange enigmatic & even alien feelings that can use the generosity of air-time to dry upon the lacquered, shaded kitchen shelves still shieldable from light with manageable doors.
That can benefit from this. To breathe & to steady.
The place my private mind has kept sacred & mysterious, precisely where X marks the spot, though barely tended to- not having intended to gloss over them or feed the deterring, fleeting, faux shiny distracting forces; shielding fears of my own discoveries & the responsibility that comes from choking- one day- upon an throat full of undigested diamonds.
How do you do bounty?
We are each equipped with inherent, ancient farming techniques.
How to learn treasure.
If You Please: A Mini Questionnaire
Posted in creativity, inspiration, love, musings, photography, random, Sexy fresh, travel, tagged culture, entertainment, fascination station, freedom, inspiration, life, miscellaneous, personal, photography, random on May 7, 2014| 20 Comments »
Can I ask you some questions? Would you be so kind as to take a moment to reflect for me? It’s about you. It’s for me… well, for now. But I have ideas OF COURSE. So if you prefer, you can answer anonymously. You can even have my personal email: thelighteningcan@gmail.com and I will respect your privacy when I reiterate. Though, I don’t think you’ll be feeling too exposed when you get right down to it.
I want to know 3 things.
- What makes you unique?
- What makes you special?
- What makes you fortunate?
I have answered these questions with my own brain to provide a template of depth I hope to find, verses some topical answer. Answer in one part, two parts, three parts… whatever. Get loose with it!
Baby L (me)
- What makes you unique?
a. Often- I’ll see people that seemed deeply embroiled in a heavy make out session, all intertwined and public. Then upon further inspection it turns out that it is in fact just one, solitary obese person.
b. A new vocabulary word that I have never used before will be on the tip of my brain upon wake, awaiting its debut in my conversations perhaps.
c. I dream about water bodies in some capacity every night.
- What makes you special?
I care deeply for justice and work towards it in some way almost every day. I have wired my life around it.
- What makes you fortunate?
a. I am fortunate because I have creative, tireless brain that when on the right trajectory has the capacity to produce beeeaaauuuty! And crazy drive. I am constantly getting new, cool ideas for art on a larger scale. I’ve always been dipped in some form of self-expression.
b. Also, I have parents that have been supportive of my zany ways that differ so strongly from their approach at life. We love each other.
c. I have a beautiful house and beautiful friends.
d. I’ve been granted with an overall positive disposition.
e. I consider myself pretty self-aware and am always striving to be my best self.
f. I got rhythm for days and I ain’t afraid of no dancefloor!
So there it is. Spice it up/ break it down. I’m listening. Sock it to me (((please!!)))!
How I Once Got My Groove Back in My 20’s, the Ocean’s Pull, & Don’t Mess with Gangs
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged adventure, art, drama, entertainment, freedom, fun, humor, life, love, mexico, miscellaneous, musings, photography, random, stencil, street art, travel on February 25, 2014| 15 Comments »
It was one of those break ups that leaves you a bag of bones. An empty vessel of a person, where all you get to be is mash up of organs working lethargically & only because they have to, long & stretched paled skin, sad mush brain, empty tired eyes, charred flaccid heart… The kind of sadness remediable by one thing and one thing only. One golden word: vacation.
So, Mexico, eh? $400 some odd bucks to get myself from the dreary rainy season that wrapped itself with prodding, icy fingers around and throughout the town that my ex and I shared that felt frighteningly small? Oh God- yes, please.
So a plane. And then some wayward nights spent in a few different places. Increasing fun. Throw in some new travel friends. Sprinkle some hitchhiking adventures in. Put me on a beach with my home girl in the middle of a stashy surf hub, full of sun-kissed surfer-boy babes and feed me a couple of drinks and you got yourself a real good story on ze boiler.
I shook my ass. I let my hair down. Real Julia Roberts kinda stuff. I was holding that. If I had to wear a neon sign reflecting my mind-heart-soul state- surely it would have flicker-buzzed that tricky, multi layered word: Healing. And with the all-too-common recklessness that accompanies a proper heartbreak, I got mine.
And I met Ernesto. His tall shadow across the sand taking over my memory. His flash of black curls. Big, knowing hands. Sexy swagger. Of calculated movement. Eyes open. He had game & was connected. He was street. He was bad. So good bad. He was in a gang… I did not realize what this meant. Either way he was very yummy. I liked him, though I was on vacation- don’t forget. So naturally I dispersed my time in many different ways…
And so Ben. Another local. A lone-wolf surfer. Compact body carved by the ocean. A total romantic. Dark & deep… In a rival gang. Who knew? And I thought he yummy too.
And so haay rebound. And so you go girl n’ shit. Allathat. And ride that wave until it crashes & lord watch for the shore.
My time with Ben turned out to be probably just four intense days together before he was convinced that he was in a painful kind of love with me, which I found quickly terrifying. He went off the deep end when I cut him off, the little bit of what we had. I’m not qualified to diagnose, but still maintain that homie was certifiably crazy, & I pity the woman who may very well be stuck with him somehow at this point of life. Needless to say I spent long days after avoiding him, which was no easy task, as there were only a handful of places where the nightlife action was. I just wasn’t ready to leave.
Truth of the matter is that either of the hes’ are not what or whom I think of when I think of the week & change spent in this spot. This little beach town- a town that healed me, gave me love, restored my spine, provided amazing times, helped me develop a shining (over) appreciation for tequila… I think not of that so much. I think of one night where the boomerang effect hit me smack in the face.
It was another night music & friends & Ernesto. Another night of avoiding poor Ben. Another night with the perfect salty air enveloping me and putting me in tropical trance… The way that breeze skimmed across my skin… I found myself on a rooftop bar where people were dancing & drinking. This is where memory & accuracy begin to get muddy. I remember free flowing, generous mezcal shots. I remember feeling annoyed that I had to keep running away from someone who wanted to work out nothing workable. I remember needing a cigarette & asking some local guy if I could have one. I thoughtlessly asked him for one in Spanish but instead of responding to me saying a simple yes or no, he chose the unscripted option of inquiring aggressively in English about where I was from. When I responded, slightly taken aback- about being from the states, he got up in my face, pointing his stranger hand right up in to my nose, to say the following: “You are from the United States and you are asking ME for a cigarette?!” And then, whilst furiously shaking: “FUCK YOUUU. FUCK YOUUUUU.” And on and on and on, with this weird stupid finger in my face, fuck youing me to pieces, backing me up until I was smashed up against the side of the building, with his terrible, angry, misdirected, spittle-maker-face against mine. And I blacked out. And did I hit him? Push? Did he push me? I’m not sure because don’t give me tequila & yell at me for your hang ups. Next thing I know, I’m in the middle of the floor but getting pulled back by two or Ernesto’s boys, while others from his crew swoop in on this guy and remorselessly remove him from my sight, pushing him down the stairs, taking him out the building, far out of my sight or anything I would ever know more of.
I remember yelling because I was shocked & drunk. Yelling because I was bugged out & confused. Yelling yelling yelling in English because I’m more used to speaking English now. Who knows what was conveyed, & I was being held back by these guys, & then there is sad, crazy head Ben with his boys, in my face- from where anyway? And now would there be a rumble? Ben- telling me to calm down and trying to hug me & drunk drunk drunk me, no memory.
I know I ran. I ran I ran I did not stop until I had to because I contained breath no more. I had run to the beach, ignoring peoples warnings against going alone to at night for various unheard, far-from-convenience-reasons, but reckless & still somewhat broken, I did not care. I needed ocean solace. I ran onto the sand & I melted. I cried cried cried cried. For more than that night or the moments of shit roof. I cried out of frustration for Ben; cried for loss of my boyfriend & how the fracture was my irreparable fault; cried for fear of/for that merciless seeming roof guy who was so angry at me who was nobody to him, & how much bitterness one must carry to hate strangers. Plump drunk dehydrating tears, bent over, standing in a loosey goosey forward fold, until I felt a sudden excruciating pain grip my legs & run up the length of my body faster than lightening. Tsunami faster. I felt like I was dry brush on fire, the flames licking me, twist biting at my skin- everything terrible. Fire ants. I had chosen my melt down spot to be perfectly situated atop a hill of fire ants. Hysterical now, in retrospect. Just perfect. But holy did they hurt so unbelievably bad. With out thought or alternative I found myself bolting-same-time-stripping soon-to-be-diving into black night ocean.
By morning the bites no longer bothered me. At least my memory does not hold that. I don’t even remember how I saw Ernesto, but I know that when I did see him, did ask him about what happened to the man from the roof, his eyes serious & fast- told me never to ask about him again. Impenetrable. I remember feeling Latino 90210 town on steroids. Tired. Drama lama ding dong.
I was done. Full. I’d had enough. My heart had been restored. I’d filled in the gaps between my vitals. The blood coursing through me- purified a la beach mode, despite the maybe murder… Ready to go home.
When the Lights Go Down in the City
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, life, miscellaneous, musings, photography, random on November 7, 2013| 4 Comments »
At the mention of pelvic floor to any woman, an instantaneous muscular response ensues.
The hint of simple nod towards a kegle creates a domino effect in us ladies more contagious than a yawn. ((It’s happening right now ladies, isn’t it?))
And so, as such, I glide my coffee, straight backed, unshakable thighs, tight pantied- to my haven table amidst the oceans of tantalizing print literature and calling, glowing screens a sparse cafe does hold on a rainy day.
My potion, viscus, flirting just above the brim- my tool to groundation and focus. A cheap, less monitored effect than Adderall or common prescribed pill-tools over my dawdling head. One can hope. The barista gifted me with a frothy heart atop my hot palmed mug, much like my own sometimes, all afloat and warm with a penchant for the grand spill. Oh coffee, why mimic me so?
A power outage led me here today. With a swift flicker, the glow of my alarm clock- a decisive two to three electric attempts at resurgence- the whole house- as if to settle all at once with some hefty exhale- gave up it’s connection to contemporary lifestyle and customs it thoughtlessly holds. And I- up with bright grey sky hinting- arose to a more simple portalistic time. Way backish.
My thoughts went to oil-lamps. My thoughts to sweater layering. My thoughts to non-perishables. My thoughts to generating internal warmth in the loved/hated yogic chair pose. My thoughts to what if this is it and our reliance upon modernity now severed, and be damned with the freezer goods, and the ability to operate appliances like an emergency drill, or entertain myself with my nil-discussed-distracting online video shorts addiction. My thoughts to I must be more prepared for the Big Shut Off. Big Cut Off. Water supply extra and perhaps time to start canning. Not really canning, but some sort of Oregon Trail-y preparatory shit.
My thoughts to common baby light my fire. Or really more that- I could or should light a fire, but when is life not fit for a surprise song?
Back to the big Turn Off. Whilst I sip at my warm, opaque choice. The northeastern half of the city sits in the dark and still in Little House on the Prairie mode and I wonder, as I should: what if. If when. Cowboy coffee is easy enough, but basic power is past me. I can’t coerce a bulb to brighten even though I am so so very beautiful. My own craft, how I make my bread and pay my bills- beyond limited, considering my heavy reliance upon today’s conveniences. I am ever/ we are ever~ just. so. acclimated. In time we would find our way back to elementals, but until then… amazing adaption and tremendous tyranny.
Crossing town had it’s own absent-minded loveliness to it. The stop lights being out, forcing people to work together. Zippering. My turn your turn my turn your turn. And on so.
Despite the rare sense of cooperation, the act of the 3-D shadow of dead incandescence all but lingered upon us, overarching, with a menacing feeling. Blackened, hanging stoplights. Firelights void of heat. Red yellow green colorless, sucked dry. Swaying lifeless like rot fruit bewitched to the vine. Soulless. Burnt out and in. Nothing left to keep those lights alive passed a rewiring if possible, or our brilliant, once upon a time, memories. “When I was young, child, we had great lights that hung above the streets and told us what to do. It was beautiful. Especially the rain part, child. Especially the rain”.
What might it be like, imagining we were prepared for it. Imagining the Big Shift did happen. What would it be like? No more voltage. Sleep you electrons, so little. You’ve done so good. Thank you thank you.
Now what? Our city’s minds, our ways; back to scratch. And then? What now? My thoughts? Time to prep. A resurgence of survival skill knowledge. Time to tighten up.
Go On, Bright Sky
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, creativity, entertainment, fresh, inspiration, life, miscellaneous, music, poetry, random, song, unique on August 26, 2013| 8 Comments »
Part 1:
You tell me- how can I not invoke the cosmos when I’m writing? It’s a tricky thing to keep at bay when I have no control of the tides.
How can I be expected to leave the moon where it was? These arms gotta hold for something and who wants a bunch of armor or perishable groceries taking up space when tales of Venus are tugging at your tongue.
The epic love story lays in the ether, wondrously waiting it’s bounce. That finicky thing.
These hips of mine await the rhythm- the pulse of ozone before the pour.
Perpetual motion.
Part 2:
-unrelated-
These songs we create. These sketches we doodle. These seemingly insignificant sweet little diddys’. With the proper frame work they are great achievements because we allow our minds to wander into realms of the unseen and uncharted. We let roam and go spin cycle. We free range.
Here we are now, who knows for how long, standing, sitting, laying on this earth. We are fashioned to make. Fashioned to connect. Built to link- in the physical, in the mental. Here we are, the trees bare gifts, our hearts and minds the same. We are abundance from the smallest of ways: humming while we prepare food, to creating feats like the Sistine Chapel. La Sagrada Familia. And here we are still.
Even if you don’t think you’re very good. Even if a white piece of paper seems daunting- it is your duty, in a sense, to exercise your creative mind. So open up and sing and feel real good.
The Summoning
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, human nature, inspiration, life, love, manifestation, miscellaneous, musings, nature, photography, poetry, prose on June 3, 2013| 10 Comments »
Soft breath came out in undulose roll, a serenity given to understanding incidences of stolen moments receding. Time time time, just a moment away.
All she ever wanted was a muse by her standards which were seemingly not set too high. It didn’t take much to ignite the visionary exacting that lay inside her, but love was indubitably, formidably, the key. The world could speed up for all it wanted, or creak slowly in orbit, if-to-when that one would enter stage left. Or right. Or come climbing down downy, silken spun, dream-fire-escapes and just come on in. The water is oh so fine.
Her inner workings were a scramble. Try she might, but the holes inside were waxing and waning with the tides and the moon. Her fits of full and lonely nipping at her heels just the same.
Sometimes the vibe was self-evident. A physically provable thing, probable thing, displayed in sights of messy hair, tired from tugging. Showed up in baggy eyes, bruised from booze. Achey muscles, self-induced over-workings, awaiting their holy massage.
Thank the greatest ones for her breath. The flowers were with gratitude. The trees felt younger for it. Where she could finally slow her roll and simply believe… just a moment away.
Luz
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, color, entertainment, human nature, inspiration, life, miscellaneous, musings, mystery, personal, poetry, random, science, wonder on April 8, 2013| 8 Comments »
Phosphenes. That’s what they’re called. Seeing light without light entering from a source outside of ourselves. “A luminous image produced by mechanical stimulation of the retina, as by pressure applied to the eyeball by the finger when the lid is closed.” Or- you know, sitting bent over, or lazing dreamily and jamming your palms into your sockets. Your choice.
That was my first trip. I would lay for what seemed like hours in kid-years. Staring at rainbow pinpoints that would reliably scurry off once I would unsoften my focus. This I learned: to take in this self induced beauty, one must look ahead and not direct into the source. Those dots would always disappear before me if I got greedy and tried to look right at them. Don’t look at the amazement head on, but gaze ahead, knowing it’s around you, and absorb.
And isn’t that the catch? Couldn’t this be the world’s most tragic metaphor? ~Babies first transcendant experience~ teaches that beauty is not ours to hold, but to be in, without attachment. It all keeps moving… Tragedy is a mere definition according to the beholder, sure, true. One can say at least there is beauty. At least we can retreat to our own minds and watch the show. Our own private viewing. Available at any time. No screaming children or lousy large popcorn to reckon with. Just the thin veil of splendid. Yes yes- your argument is fair.
Those phosphenes. Their gentle model. Proof that entertainment lies within. Proof that we are mere continuums of space, a float. Proof that we can’t know it all, beyond a few syllables fortunate enough to be strung together and a limiting capper of a definition. Those dots of light showing us the fluidity of artistry. No more manmade brightness, kids. Retreat and test. You know you want to. See your science sleeping with your spiritual. Bare witness to the bed where-which they meet and get freaky. But don’t try to figure it out.
Waiting for the Hit
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, entertainment, fiction, human nature, inspiration, life, miscellaneous, musings, random, strange design on March 9, 2013| 8 Comments »
She came in late because that’s what she does best. Looking for an open chair before looking around at the people there. Walking in after the momentum was set in motion always made the grade school feelings resurface of trying to peep a spot to sit in the lunch room, carrying this goofy tray that must have been dipped in anti-cool spray, seeing that it always felt dorky, and wanting to look smooth and like she had friends- a place to be or go to of importance. She had them, it was just one of her little quirks. She pendulumed between the now and triggers of the old. It was her bit. Anyway, she had to settle before she could settle.
There were probably 45 people in that basement. One quarter of them set to speak at some point in the night in front of the rest of crowd, present. The literary types. The solo ones. The ones who came to listen, to glean inspiration, to be alone in a crowd. These people, being under the cover of night, posting up in a dark, dingy Portland basement in Old Town- pretty much optimal for this chiquita.
When you think about it, people are just balls of swirling habits and needs. Some have habits to be filled outside of themselves. Some have that artistic fever. The kind that wells up and demands release. This one- she had the latter. Her need for speed showed up in the likes of pen and ink. Leaving the house without a writing tool would be akin to leaving the house pants-less. But colder. And stupider. Sure.
So boom. Her ass on the stool. Her eyes keen on the speaker. A plain-looking middle-aged woman, spouting off some biz about dragons in the Victorian era or some-such has-been stuffy topic. The woman’s voice- pleasant enough, and for that she could be forgiven for the fact that the sweater she wore was the deadly and dreaded ”skin tone” color- a mistake that no white person should make again; that and it made her boobs look terribly boring. Burn all these items. Ok ok ok- also the fact that she was creating– so for the subject matter she could be forgiven. 5 Hail Marys’, ma.
Our girl momentarily cut the physical vision off to illuminate the inward visual potentials. What could come to light from the contact high of these people, in this hole in the wall full of wayward history? Well, I’ll tell you one thing- if you ever wanted imagine a ghost pinching your chichones, now is your time.
“Write about us, mija. Tell your people sobre nuestra historia. Tell them there are witches everywhere. Brujas rojas, blancas, negras.”
Damn, she thought. I open up to tap in and some ghost dude’s got me reporting on some bullshit that’s played and noone’s trying to hear. Give me something juicier. Witches are outta season. Sassy bitch.
Give me fodder about funny things we do, ghost. What do you see? Maybe you gotta get over yourself in the spirit world. You lingering beings take yourselves way to seriously. Give it up. And don’t climb on my head- this writer’s block is already killing. Give me some ESP or something.
Well that ghost had it. Ghosty middle fingers on blast and the haunting was over. Sitting erect, intent on the speaker, open to absorption; She waited. Mother fucking writers block. Assassinate the maker of this beast. Who coined the term was coconspirator. Take em’ out, Darwin. Right? Let’s do this. Open up the channels. Stupid spirits flying around. Permeating the corners and hallways of this whole damn block. This entire neck of the woods. Old fodder was all she had for the now. Boring like those long mound- upstage sweater titties. Waiting for the perks. Ready ready ready.
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