foxtongue: (Default)

Air Empathy
by Jeffrey McDaniel

On the red-eye from Seattle, a two year-old
in the seat behind me screeches

his little guts out. Instead of dreaming
of stuffing a wad of duct tape

into his mouth, I envy him, how he lets
his pain hang out. I wish I too could drill

a pipeline into the fields of ache, tap
a howl. How long would I need to sob

before the lady beside me dropped
her fashion rag, dipped a palm

into the puddle of me? How many
squeals before another passenger

joined in? Soon the stewardess hunched
over the drink cart, the pilot gushing

into the controls, the entire plane, an arrow
of grief, quivering through the sky.

I love things I cannot control. Our weekend in New York was like a bullet fired from a gun, all velocity and shredding hours, with a sun hard as butter and heat like a prayer. We landed at six in the morning, then stayed up until the same, wandering through fictional landscapes and following Banquo and Rebecca, Macbeth and his wife naked in the bath, through an unbelievable space, caught up in the show like we were enchanted, the actors all hunters luring us through the forest, (fifth floor, outside the sanitarium), all the better to cut out our hearts. Add us to the taxidermy collection. Add my skin to the leather in the foyer, to that of the birds I pressed to my cheek in the jail! Feathers in the wall of the padded room. Alchemickal symbols carved into the bottom of every drawer. So much murder! What were some of those places for? So much like a butterfly caught on my silent, silent tongue. Perfection in every direction, dusting my knuckles on it, cutting myself open on the show. Raving in the disco, fire in the eyes of our hands. The crazed beauty of every single moment. I regret that I only have one life to give to Sleep No More. I regret that I didn't find any human teeth in the candy. Or the children's bedroom, drenched through the one-way mirror with blood. Instead I saw him kill the king twice, a cruel orgasmic smother, pillows and fists, blood on his hands, the water splashing on the hem of my dress. Instead a witch took my hand, pulled me into a bedroom alone, and locked everyone else out. She seduced me, we danced, she pulled me into a closet, then out the false back, the closest I've ever felt to fantasy, coats everywhere, her fingers in my mouth, then through a metal door, a loud slam, she lay down on the cold silver table, it was a morgue.

Later, after the show, we didn't go home, but we didn't go to our Brooklyn Burning Man party either. Instead we found ourselves drenched in the fierce, stammering lights of Times Square, waiting for Anthony, dancing to music only we could hear, sharing our earphones with strangers, a tiny flashmob party of two. It was on, it was late, everything was beautiful. I wore my mask over my shoulder, a bleached porcelain epaulette, the bones and angles of where we'd been on view to the world, our strange masque, a visible mark of haunting, physical and solid and near. Eventually he arrived and we conquered the city a stride at a time until the night bruised under our feet, our conversation running like rabbits. Finally we paused at a 24 hour diner, one I remembered passing by the night it felt like my best friend died, and let the time crash in over our heads like the tide. The sun was up when we rolled into bed, too tired to pull up the sheets.


Aug. 4th, 2011 11:12 am
foxtongue: (Default)
just a trim
"Don’t tell me the sky is the limit when there are footprints on the moon." - Paul Brandt

As unlikely and unexpected as it might be, I have even more good news! Not only am I going to Burning Man, I'm going back to New York. Not as time-serious a trip as last time, but a weekend jaunt concocted just to see the PunchDrunk show, Sleep No More, an astoundingly intricate 100 room retelling of Macbeth.

Ridiculous, a bit, as it was playing while I was there, but I didn't find out until after my trip, when Mordicai attended then posted about it, so now I'm flying all the way back just to see it! It's wiping out my emergency savings and much of what I earned as the photographer at Mishka's wedding, but I figure that after three years of scraping, living in crazy poverty to pay back Heart of the World, it's about damned time I starve for a good reason, something that makes me happy instead of twisting me bitter. It also helps that I've been managing to move forward with surprising rapidity with Burning Man prep. Though I'll still probably be scrounging until the last minute, (still no ride, still nowhere set to camp, etc), I think it will all be okay. I don't think there's going to be any reason to panic.

In a lucky turn, Tony's going to come with me, which also makes my heart glad. I was willing to go alone, but I suspect it might have been a little bit of a tragedy, as Sleep No More is designed, down to the last bit of insane writing on the wall, to every minuscule atom of splendid performance, to be shared. Everyone that goes in walks a different path, discovers different scenes, finds different hidden treasures. Everyone gets a unique narrative, an incredible, very personal experience, so it's extra important to be able to share. (I would probably go twice if I could even remotely afford it). I'm also getting contact lenses for the first time, all proper like, just so I can wear the mask. I've only worn them once before, found the learning curve to be a little bit crazy, but this time, I can barely wait. I've been dancing everywhere, ever since we booked our tickets.

We fly out of Seattle late Thursday evening, and arrive first thing, the morning of Aug 19th. (We're staying in Greenwich and leaving Monday evening.) We have tickets to the Friday, 7 pm, Sleep No More show, and for the Sunday's Fuerza Bruta, (because Tony wanted to see it, after my rave reviews). Besides that, we have nothing planned.

Are you there, too? What are you up to that weekend? Let's visit!
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In an effort to prod myself out the door more often, I've started scouring the city for events again. The next trick will be to actually go to some of them. (Ex. I intended to hit up the PuSH opening gala last night, but spent time with A. then Lori instead. Fail? Not fail? Still social, though stayed in. Tough call.) That said, here's some good ideas I've chalked in, but haven't solidified yet. Who's in?


7:00 + 9:30pm - Half Price Tuesday, The Green Hornet by Michel Gondry at The Rio. $6. (With A.)
7-9pm - PuSH: Boca Del Lupo's free La Marea, Gastown, zero-hundred block of Water Street.


8-11pm - Jack and Martin from Maria in the Shower, an intimate duo show at The Helm restaurant, 1180 Howe Street. (With Jess.) Company bailed, stayed in.


12pm-6pm - PuSH: Iqaluit at the Woodward's Atrium.
7-9pm - PuSH: Boca Del Lupo's free La Marea, Gastown, zero-hundred block of Water Street. (With Beth.) Went to Bin 942 after for delicious tapas and killer chocolate fondue. Holy hell, I had forgotten how completely magical a raspberry tastes. There are no words.
9:30-late - EXCISION (Dubstep Invasion Series) at Gossip, 750 Pacific Blvd. $25.


9-late - Isaac's Freaks & 45's Formal birthday party. (With Tony & ?.)
12am - City of the Lost Children midnight movie at the Rio, (subtitled). Admission is $8 or $7 in costume. Stayed at the party.


8-12am - The Tequila Mockingbird Orchestra with Jess Hill at Cafe Deux Soleils. $10-15 sliding scale at the door. (With Tony & ?.) (Sold out before we arrived).
8:30-12am - Stay Wet: An anti-celebration of the 82nd anniversary of the Dry Bill, featuring The Furniture, Blackberry Wood, Antiparty, and The Brass Action at The Railway Club.
9-12am - Karaoke at the Main St. Legion, 3917 Main Street. (Added to this list by request.)

10-2am - SinCity at Club 23 West. (With Tony & A.)


2pm - PuSH: 46 Circus Acts in 45 Minutes, UBC Frederic Wood Theatre. 2pm. $12.50 General, $5 Kids under 12, $25 Family of 4 (max 2 adults). Box Office 604.822.2678
3pm - Day for Night: Full Moon in Paris by Eric Rohmer at the Waldorf Cabaret.
Went to brunch with Tony and A., then for hot chocolate at Cocoa Nymph.
foxtongue: (misery)
For those of you who are still unaware, the three children that died in the cabin fire at Shuswap Lake belong to Kim and Johnathon, the co-founders of Vancouver's Electric Company Theater.

I am shocked and so, so sorry. They have all the love in my heart.

I can't stop crying. I might have to go home.
foxtongue: (Default)
The Erotic Anguish of Don Juan, Performance Works, (1218 Cartwright Street, Granville Island), April 21 - May 9.

"Following the 2006 sold-out hit Famous Puppet Death Scenes, The Cultch will present The Trouts’ new show, a radical re-imagining of the Don Juan legend, a refraction of the many manifestations of that old ghost, who haunts us in our dreams, anxieties and fantasies."
The Ghost of Don Juan is summoned from Hell to repent for his sins, and to tell us the tale of his nefarious life so that we may avoid his fate. But does he truly repent? Is he a monster or a saint? He will attempt to save us from our amorous errors, and deliver a sermon of universal love. In the end, we are liberated from our fears, and what we thought would be a simple evening at the theatre becomes a transcendental orgy that will change us forever.

Most nights, anyway. Depends on the audience.

Tuesday to Saturday: 8:00pm, Sunday matinees: 2:00pm

Tickets from Ticketmaster, (604-280-3311):
Adults (+s/c): Advance: $26; at door: $30
Students/Seniors (+s/c): Advance: $22; at door $26

I'm likely going to be buying my ticket this afternoon. Tuesday, May 5th sound good for anyone?
foxtongue: (Default)
The Dusty Flowerpot Cabaret, makers of a magical and fantastical world,

in collaboration with

The Pivot Legal Society, purveyors of justice and equality,

present to you...

The Listening Jar.
(facebook event page)

Thursday February 26th
until Sunday, March 1st
Doors 7:00pm Show at 8:00pm
Followed by a dance party and social

Russian Hall 600 Campbell Ave. in Strathcona
Advance Tickets $16

Also available at
Pivot Legal (678 E Hastings)
$20 - $30 sliding scale at door

One performance by donation
Saturday, February 28
Doors 2:00pm, Show at 3:00pm

I'm lining up between noon and one o'clock on Saturday with treats from the Elizabeth Bakery.
Come join me for a line-up picnic! Bring sandwiches!
foxtongue: (Default)
panda - panda - panda

365 2009: 18.01.09
365 2009: 18.01.0

The PuSh festival starts today, Vancouver's most fascinating little performance festival. Two weeks of perpetually rewarding dance, theater, music, and, this year, astonishing puppetry. (festival event calendar). A slice of my heart is breaking that I've no resources this year to make it to anything. Shows have been especially calling to me, too. Ronnie Burkett's Requiem for a Golden Boy, Bang on a Can All-Stars, Woodpigeon at Club PuSh, and a rare concert by one of my favourite bands, the beige, who are playing at Performance Works at 11 pm next Thursday. After all, what's life without marionettes, otherworldly collaborations, and stripped-back sweetheart jazz?

darling allow me to introduce someone i met in the hallway
they say they remember when we first were sweethearts
lightning around us
and i knew you were the one for me
foxtongue: (tripwire)
Some friends of ours are starring in Spectral Theater's new play, The Velvet Edge. (Read: Duncan Shields and Erin Puckey).

Held at The Chapel, 304 Dunlevy, the same funeral-home-now-arts-venue that the Carnival of the Arts was just at, it's got a cast of nearly twenty, the guarantee of at least one flawlessly hot girl, Naomi's costumes are without-fail incredible, and there's both nudity and blood. How awesome is that?

"An English novelist comes to an asylum to hear the story of one inmate who, after a journey into the decadent heart of 18th century France, was charged with the murder of his wife, but committed due to his presumed insanity. As the inmate recounts his bizarre and terrifying descent into debauchery and madness, the audience is drawn into the scenes of his past. Could his delusions be in fact, a terrifying reality?"

Tickets are $20, which is steep, I know, but Duncan, who is in it and should know, claims, "This is going to be an adult theater show at adult theater prices. This isn’t schlocky horror. It cost a lot to put on and it’s a visual spectacle. It’s worth every penny of the $20. People are going to be talking about this one for a while."

November 5th - 6th & 8th - 15th

Tickets $20 (minimum donation)

Doors at 7:30 PM Show at 8:00 PM

Written by Blake Drezet and Directed by Des Hussey & Blake Drezet

Warning: Coarse language, scenes of violence, suggestive scenes and nudity.

Reserve your tickets by calling 604.569.2013, e-mailing or RSVP through Facebook: Nov. 5th Opening Night, Nov 6th, Nov 8th, Nov 9th, Nov 10th, Nov 11th, Nov 12th, Nov 13th, Nov 14th, Nov 15th.
foxtongue: (while I hope)
  • Making Canned Halloween Monstrosities

    The Here Be Monsters Carnival of the Arts is on again.

    David and I took Nicole and volunteered at the opening night cabaret at the Chapel, the re-purposed funeral home down behind the Princess Hotel. (A skeezy neighborhood, but venues are venues and you work with what you've got.) We had a surprising amount of fun for standing at a door and collecting loose change from people. The show was good, if a bit bizarre, the art had enough hits to make up for the misses, and I reconnected with Ashley, someone I liked seeing every week when I worked at the Dance Center. I'm looking forward to going back on Wednesday, Thursday and maybe Friday for the Showoff Festival, their "lite" version of Theater Under the Gun. (Tenth anniversary, no less, how time flies.)

    Would anyone else like to come? It's free if you volunteer.

  • Making Monstrous Paper-Mache Pumpkins
  • foxtongue: (beseech)
    Lung's other best friend, Melo, is in from Montreal this week, so last night we took her to some of our favourite places, starting with a delicious dinner at Phnom Pehn, moving on to dessert at Cloud 9, (where the food is expensive and terrible but the view is unparalleled), and ending the evening with a late night drive around Stanley Park, stopping to take tourist pictures on the seawall in the dark. I think she's wonderful. Not only is she incredibly fun, she looks like a Russian fashion model, tall, and solid, with the sort of black cut hair and pointy-toed boots I'd expect from a Red Mob girlfriend in a William Gibson short story.

    Today he's taking her to Granville Island Market, the LuluLemon store, (she wants to shop), and possibly the Museum of Archeology. Does anyone know if there's any Giant Sequoia trees within a day's drive? I'm fairly certain they're all either on the Island or down in California, but she says she read something about local ones. Apparently she's never seen any truly massive trees before and really wants to see some trees bigger than anything else alive, as if real mountains versus Mt. Royal wasn't enough size shock.

    Tonight David and I are going to the Pay What You Can premiere of Letters from Lithuania, a Mortal Coil Performance Society production at the Stanley Park train, before catching up with them again.

    Based on a true story, originator and performer Bessie Wapp recounts: "For generations, my ancestors lived in a small Lithuanian village called Varniai. Fleeing from the pogroms of Europe, my great, great grandparents immigrated to the United States in the later 1800’s. Of the large extended family who remained in Varniai, only a young mother and her three daughters survived World War II. After the war, they were reunited and the mother wrote to the only living relative she knew of, her brother-in-law in South Africa. But she didn’t hear back. Twenty years passed, and then word came from the son of the brother-in-law in South Africa. While sorting out his recently deceased father’s belongings, he had found her letters. But they were unopened: his father had kept them for 20 years but had never read them."

    And as if that isn't fascinating enough, it features friends who are A+ performers, stilt-walking, shadow puppets, and a klezmer band on a miniature train. How could anyone say no? I don't think there's a better ticket in Vancouver tonight.

    foxtongue: (Default)
    Duncan is going to be starring in one of Spectral Theatre’s Late-Night Double Features!

    Every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night through until the end of the summer, Spectral Theatre has been presenting two one-act horror plays for the price of one ticket. Coming up in the final set of their summer series, they'll be featuring two sci-fi/horror shows:

    Nimbus, "a journey into the far reaches of space where the mysteries of creation end and the madness begins",
    written by Blake Drezet, directed by Michael Cope and featuring Aurora Chan, Joanna Gaskell, Vincent Riel & Devan Vancise.


    The Hunted, "marooned on distant shores, stalked by an alien menace that boggles the imagination",
    written by Blake Drezet, directed by JC Roy and featuring Blake Drezet, Vincent Riel & our very own
    Duncan "the big man" Shields.

    At the Spectral Theatre Studio, 350 Powell Street. Doors at 9:30, show at 10:00. Tickets are $8. It'll fill up fast so book your tickets early.
    foxtongue: (plumhat)
    Just wanted to remind you that tonight is Pay-What-You-Can for Leaky Heaven Circus' Bone in Her Teeth.


    8 pm at the Russian Hall. Box office opens at 7 pm.
    Tickets available for cash, at the door only. Any amount is accepted.
    foxtongue: (wires)
    The Linear Animal
    Saturday, March 15, 2008, 8:00 p.m.

    Western Front (303 East 8th Avenue, Vancouver)
    Tickets $15 / $10 Students and WF Members

    Digital media meets the 19th century tradition of paper theatre in this interdisciplinary performance work. A meditation on home and exile, and on the nature of storytelling, sweeping an arc that ranges from Bavaria across the New World and to the bottom of the deep blue sea...

    Is it a love story?
    Is it Heideggerian ontology?
    Or is it just a bunch of cardboard cutouts?

    Putting a modern spin on an antique form of household entertainment, The Linear Animal utilizes recent technologies to create a one-of-a-kind performance. Through live narrated voice, live video, and an improvised score of recorded sounds, the story unfolds alongside a children’s train set that circles in front of the audience, carrying on it the cut-out characters of the story. The narrative behind The Linear Animal is one of history, family, adolescence, love and memories; but most of all it is a story that explores different views on the often conflicting and perplexing idea of “home.”

    The text of The Linear Animal was written by Andreas Kahre; an interdisciplinary artist, designer, writer and musician who has been involved in the creation of more than a hundred projects with theatre, dance, and music ensembles across Canada. His collaborators for The Linear Animal are internationally recognized media artist, composer-performer and software developer Kenneth Newby, and media and visual artist Aleksandra Dulic. Kenneth and Aleksandra are both members of the Computational Poetics Group at Simon Fraser University, where they specialize in the development of intelligent performance instruments and the creation of new works that combine live animation and music techniques for live performance. David Garfinkle narrates, and Stefan Smulovitz joins the ensemble as a special guest improviser on viola.
    foxtongue: (welcome to the sideshow)
    Felix Culpa - voices of liberty
    foxtongue: (bright spring)
    365 day thirty-three: closing in
    365: thirty-three

    Improv Everywhere has launched Improv Everywhere Global. There's a Vancouver faction!

    From wikipedia, "Improv Everywhere (abbreviated IE) is an unorthodox comedy group based in New York City, formed in 2001 by Charlie Todd. Its slogan is "We Cause Scenes," which the group lives up to by executing non-demeaning pranks in public places. The events ("missions") organized by the group are often considered flash mobs, but the group's website insists that they have nothing to do with flash mobbing and that IE was created years before flash mobbing gained popularity."

    Here's a link to their most recent action, Frozen Grand Central.
    foxtongue: (beseech)
    Small Metal Objects started with a sense of wonderful displacement. We sat in tiered rows of seats placed in the main square of the Vancouver Public Library, wearing headphones that were wired directly into microphones worn by the actors. A fantastic idea - as the soundtrack started, suddenly all of the people who happened to be walking by were part of the production. They acquired extraordinary depth and meaning as we scanned faces, trying to pick out what we were meant to be watching for, much like background music sets tone in movies. Voices began, a plodding two-person conversation punctuated with surprisingly effective ambient pieces of song. It was interesting watching other audience members examine the surrounding pedestrians, searching for the actors we were ostensibly there to be watching. I liked how divorced we were from our surroundings, how replacing what we heard created an artificial barrier between participants and everyone else, molding us into a rather ultimate audience. Suddenly absolutely everything was part of the show. One man, dapper in a works-at-university sort of way, white hair, books in hand, did a little dance number as he walked past, enjoying the attention, as did a tiny girl. Another pair stood directly in front of the actors, blocking our view entirely, and pointed to our smirking amusement, unable to figure out why everyone was suddenly looking right at them.

    The story itself was not particularly arresting, an (unconfirmed) awkward drug-deal that didn't go anywhere, tense, interesting and fun without being captivating, but I loved how simply the production premise transformed the beautiful, though otherwise mundane space into a gloriously semi-anonymous stage. It reminded me of what flash mobs have evolved into, groups of people participating in what seems to be something completely random to anyone not in on the event. Invisible theater. Pillow-fights, flash-freezing, going without pants on subway trains, silent dance parties. Especially silent dance parties, but with an extra level, as we were only passively participating, yet could be mistaken for a performance all our own when we laughed in unison at apparently nothing.

    I saw another hyped show this week, Clark And I Somewhere In Connecticut. Heavily relying on video, it involves a man in a subversive, slightly creepy, caramel coloured bunny suit telling the story of a suitcase full of anonymous photo albums he found in an alley behind his home. Tied in with accounts of a famous Japanese cannibal and strange repeated interviews about a story of a puppy killing, the facts and fictions woven around the family history he reconstructed from the photo albums make for a fascinating narrative, as well as a perfect background for the legal saga that unfolded once he found the family pictures. The family that, unfortunately, did not want him to use the photos in any way whatsoever and threatened him with a lawsuit if he continued, which led into a very interesting exploration of copyright and the use of found images in art.

    I felt somehow that it started out trying to be provocative, but ended with a catch in its voice, thoroughly sincere, as if it's impossible to remain cynical or ego-less when dealing with such personal subjects. One of the books, for example, the fifth book, is devoted entirely to a poet Pomeranian, Mandy, who gets more attention than the other fourty years of family combined, and it was easy to tell that the artist who wrote and acted the piece, James Long, found something inescapably heartfelt about it. Though initially he mocked the dog-obsession with a wry condescension, his tone becomes compassionate, more serious as the emotions tied to the books become increasingly anxious and urgent. In the end the little dog is a showpiece, a fluffy little metaphor ferociously loved and compellingly protected. There were other choices I appreciated, like how, in order to avoid mentioning any of their names, he created complicated physical memetics for each one, like the patting of his breast to signify as the name of The Archivist, his title for the woman who seems to have put the books together. The tone was heavy water, but bright as an oil slick on a puddle. Michael tells me he's booked it to play at the High Performance Rodeo next year. by then, we agree, it will be really worth seeing.
    foxtongue: (Default)
    365 day twenty-two: keep a light on
    365: twenty-two

    In is down, down is front. Out is up, up is back. Off is out, on is in. And of course, left is right and right is left. A drop shouldn't and a 'block and fall' does neither. A prop doesn't and a cove has no water. Tripping is OK. A running crew rarely gets anywhere . A purchase line buys you nothing. A trap will not catch anything. A gridiron has nothing to do with football. Strike is work, (a lot of work). And a green room, thank mercy, usually isn't. Now that you're fully versed in theatrical terms, break a leg. But not really.

    Tonight there's a group of us going down to the Art's Club to see The Black Rider, a play written by Tom Waits, Robert Wilson, and William S. Burroughs.

    Plan: Meet there at 7:00. Show's at 7:30.
    foxtongue: (hot in here)
    The Black Rider, a play written by Tom Waits, Robert Wilson, and William S. Burroughs, is currently playing at The Art's Club Theatre down on Granville Island. All I know is it's an expressionist faustian tale and apparently "fucking splendid". It stars Jon Baggaley, Kevin Corey, Rachael Johnston, Colleen Winton, Michael Scholar Jr., and my friend Mackenzie Gray, who (when his cell-phone isn't crazy-glued to his ear) tells gloriously Orson Wellian stories about Canadian theater as if it were Hollywood in the 1930's.

    Nicole, Ray, Brett, Beth, her mother, and I are going on Tuesday night. Anyone else want to come? Tickets are steep, but seriously, look at those pretty, pretty writers.
    foxtongue: (dial tone)
    Three cats and a programmer, that's who I'm living with. The house drips with the edges of stories we're not quite telling. Out for dinner, up in the morning, laptop in the livingroom, random laughter talking alone. Moments I want to remember.

    Sigur Ros is filming a documentary.

    The Fringe Festival lounge is constantly full of people I used to spend my life with. Now I only see them this once, every year, though I miss them. It makes it a very strange place for me. Everyone is a flamboyant memory of someone I used to be. Words thunder across the room, bringing back burning flashes of the smiles I wore, the names I used to sweetly remember, but my personal mythology doesn't have an anchor anymore. I adore these people, their theatrical grand gestures and ridiculous, rewarding turns of phrase, so much I forget how we lost each other. We hug close, damp with laughter, talk about how great it was, how great it will be, but sobering, know that we'll just do it again next year. Wonder where we went as every week passes by at the introspective speed of light, while the days drag on, threatening rain with every mile.

    Dan Mangan was playing at the Lounge when I left tonight, another note in an absent chord of friends. I wanted to stay long enough to properly say Hello, but Ray was my ride and falling asleep on his feet, so I badly scribbled the word COFFEE? on one of my cards and left it on the stage where he was singing.

    As I went, I promised people I would be back tomorrow. I'm already surprised at how much I'm looking forward to it.
    foxtongue: (concentration)

    photographs from riding the rails

    If only good theater were contagious, I could infect you all. Spread a dramatic virus, upstaging all your favourite shows, something like American politics, but without all the going-down-in-flames. A new world order, literate, thick with allegory, better than video games.


    foxtongue: (Default)

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