Yes, it’s been a while. Sorry about that.

Several of you have been kind enough to ping me both behind the scenes on here on the blog, in comments, to ask if things are going okay for me, given that it’s been well over a month since my last post. Is there life after divorce? It turns out that there is. But a lot of it seems to be spent in… recuperation.

The Kids. The kids are doing great, for the most part. I feel like I have to add that last part because, come on, kids are always going through *some* learning curve, whether their parents are divorced or not. The two older kids (ages 9 and 6) are not getting along as well with each other as I’d prefer, and the middle child still resists doing what he’s told… but nothing about that seems related to divorce. It seems more like business-as-usual for 9- and 6-year-old brothers. I’ve been told that the fact that they continue to sometimes not get along shows that they remain secure in their home life; that if their home life seemed too tumultuous to them, they’d cling to each other as islands of constancy rather than try to get each other’s proverbial goats.

The youngest (3), in the meantime, has suddenly pushed back hard on the potty training, which means we are sending him to pre-school in clear violation of the rules on that subject. We’ve never had this kind of outright refusal to use the potty/toilet from the other two, but I suppose each one has to blaze their own trail. Aside from going into the “terrible threes”, our youngest is proving to be very outgoing, engaging, talkative, and expressive. Except for using the potty, he is asserting his ability to do things for himself.

When they’re not bugging each other, the kids are generally happy and engaged. They love to read and ride their bicycles, listen to my music, and yes, watch TV. Speaking of music… all three can tell you the differences between the Run DMC and Aerosmith versions of “Walk This Way,” and each has their own reasons for preferring one or the other, but no, they don’t actually understand the lyrics, and that’s just as well.

The Finances. I continue to be employed, doing work that keeps me intellectually engaged, with co-workers who appear to appreciate my efforts, and a paycheck that covers my bills. I’m slowly recovering from the financial strain that led to losing the house — and, let’s face it, divorce means both parties are now supporting an entire household without the benefit of someone at home to help take care of things. So, I’m slowly starting to regain my financial footing. This is just as well, as my car is starting to show its age, and I need to rebuild a cushion in case another work slow-down leaves me gaps between paychecks.

The job itself has some high pressure moments, but only on days that end in a ‘y’, and while the strain is sometimes a bit intense, I’ve had much, much worse. Still, seeing how much pressure there is… has the workplace always been this high-stress, and I just never quite comprehended that, or are we, as Americans, working ourselves up into a frenzy more so than in decades past? In the past, I could say it was just me putting pressure on myself, but this is my third foray into Big Corporate America, and I’m seeing pressure coming from all sides. Hmmm…

The Ex. Penny and I continue to co-parent well together, which is a blessing, and I dare say we talk about as much as ever. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this here, so pardon me if I’m repeating myself, but I once observed to a friend that Penny’s and my relationship in divorce is not all that different from our relationship in marriage, and pondered whether that meant we had an excellent divorce or a terrible marriage. My friend replied, “Both.”

My health. Physically, I continue to be relatively healthy except for the fact that I’m overweight, and not quite at the top of my game when it comes to strength or fitness. I returned to Tae Kwon Do, but my knee does continue to bother me, and I’ve occasionally caught myself worrying (in the middle of class) about re-injury… which, as some of you may know, can cause one to be more prone to injury. Ugh. It’s difficult enough to try to get in any exercise when I have the kids and need to feed them, wash their laundry, and encourage them to do their homework, but even when I don’t have the kids, there’s so little free time to go around and so much crap I gotta do, and that I wanna do. So, sometimes I exercise, and sometimes I pay bills, and sometimes I sit around in my sweatpants and stare at the walls because I have no energy to do much else. Sometimes I surf the net, but obviously, I haven’t been writing much.

My writing. Um. Uh.

My love life. I’ve been on a few dates with Scarlette Johansson so far. Although we’ve only spent a weekend together at her summer cabin in unbridled passion, I take the fact that she still phones me every night to be a positive sign. Her work keeps her very busy, of course, so that’s managed to keep things nice and light as far as commitment goes. She loves the kids, though, and we can spend just hours talking about anything and everything. Oh, and she says I’m an excellent kisser.

Unfortunately, Sandra Bullock has said I’m going to have to make a choice between her and Scarlette if she’s going to continue to see me, as well. It’s kinda fun, dodging the paparazzi with her, and we’ve made quite a game out of it. But other than Sandra and Scarlette, there’s really not much going on in my love life at the moment.

There’s actually a lot more to tell. Lies about my love life aside, there’s a lot brewing. In a lot of ways, I’m in an in-between place, right now, as far as my head space goes. It’s a retrenching period. I suspect there always has to be one, as you shed one old life and start building a new one. But there has to be more to life than work, feed the kids, collapse into a coma, and then do it again the next day.

There’s more to come on what else is going on in my life, very soon…

I know I’ve commented several times in the past about how my life often strikes me as a sitcom.

(Like my Getting Stuck in an Elevator in New York City at quarter ’til Midnight on New Year’s Eve story, or that time one year ago when I killed my laptop, or how I managed to accidentally slit my wrist, etc.)

Today’s story is sitcom plot number 16: Sending the Irretrievable Message That Must Be Retrieved. You know the one. The irretrievable message in television sitcoms is usually delivered to an answering machine (or voicemail or text message to a phone), via a letter, or by way of a third-party messenger who cannot be intercepted. This is a favorite plot of Cheers and Frasier, Friends and Seinfeld, MASH and Three’s Company. Hijinks ensue when the protagonist tries to retrieve the message.

In today’s modern twist… I can’t retrieve the message, because it went out via Facebook.

Here’s the story:

A couple of high school friends have been on my mind recently, for very different reasons. These were two of my very best friends during high school, who later cut off contact with me altogether (again, for very different reasons). Now I realize that high school was a long, long time ago, and there’s a lot to be said for leaving the past to the past. Still, because they were important to me during a crucial time in my life, I still occasionally feel the phantom limb sensation that a severed relationship can sometimes leave behind. It doesn’t happen often these days, but it does, from time to time.

So imagine my surprise when, yesterday, one of these old, dear friends from my past accepted a Facebook friend request that I’d sent, oh, about a year ago.

My smartphone alerted me that my friend request was accepted, and when I saw the name, I logged on to see what I could see. It turns out, this was (as I’d suspected a year ago when I sent the friend request) not my friend’s “real” Facebook account. I had seen his real Facebook page once, a long time ago, filled with tons of pictures and likes and all the rest. This page showed fourteen friends, ten of whom he had just accepted. One of whom was his brother, who had told me (over dinner, about a year ago) the sad tale of how my friend had cut himself off from everybody — family, friends, mutual acquaintances — had gotten a divorce, and pretty much disappeared from the life he once knew.

This was when I dug around and stumbled upon his “real”, well-hidden Facebook page. When I later noticed he was listed as a FB friend on his brother’s page, I sent a friend request. Which brings us to yesterday, when I saw that this particular FB page is empty. No wall posts. Almost nobody linked as a friend. No real information or photos or anything to speak of. Clearly, this is a holding pen.

That’s fine. I briefly considered whether I should put him on a list of FB friends who only get to see a limited version of my FB page. I don’t currently make such distinctions, my thought being that if I wouldn’t want the public to know about it, I wouldn’t put it on FB. Which, btw, is why there’s no mention of this blog on my FB page. But what do I do about someone who clearly isn’t comfortable letting me know anything about his current life, when my FB page is pretty open about what I’m up to?

I decided to let it be, for the time being. I don’t know the real reasons for why he cut me (and the rest of his family and friends) out of his life, nor why now he decides to let me into a contained, isolated ante chamber on Facebook. Still, he was a good friend and made a positive difference in my life, once upon a time, and if he should come back, I will happily resume the conversation.

Okay, that’s not the sitcom part. But you can see where my head was at when another proverbial shoe dropped today. Also on Facebook.

This is another dear friend, also from high school. She had such a significant impact on how I look at the world that there are very few stories about my life that don’t ultimately come back to her, in some fashion. Here’s how important she is: I haven’t even mentioned her directly on these pages before. She’s part of the bedrock; she’s assumed. She was my fiercest rival and my most trusted ally. She has one of the keenest minds I’ve ever met, is intellectually honest (and demanded nothing less from me), has a wicked sense of humor, but also suffered greatly from depression.

I’ve toyed many times with the idea of telling you a little bit about her here in my secret little corner of the blogosphere. But that would take this blog well beyond the end of my marriage and the building of my new life, and into the bigger picture of the Story of My Life.

Oh, and today is her birthday.

Facebook reminded me.

I logged on to FB to see some pics that my sister had posted of my oldest son visiting with my niece and nephew, and there it was in the upper right-hand corner: “Today is Pearl’s birthday! Wish her a happy birthday.”

Pearl had stopped responding to me long before I saw her on FB, but I’d sent her a friend request to see what would happen (this was a couple of years ago) and she eventually accepted it, but there’s been no other give or take since.

So I clicked on the link to her page, and noted that several others had wished her a Happy Birthday. I decided, rather than posting to her wall, I’d send her a direct message.

When you click on Messages, you also see all of the previous messages to and from. There was one. From me, to her: “Sorry I missed your birthday, but here’s a wish for a happy belated!”

Yep. From last year.

I suspect I know why she is not currently acknowledging me, but it really is only a guess. In my happy birthday message to her, my goal was to say, essentially: Look, whatever the reason is that we’re not currently talking, just know that everything’s cool on my end, and I really do wish you a happy birthday, and all the best in the future.

Of course, writing it like that sounds fine enough, but keep in mind, I’ve had the better part of today to think about how I should have worded it. I did what I always do as a writer, I started by writing. It’s easier to re-write something that’s written than it is to write something perfectly out of the gate. So, my first quick stab at it came out like this:

I  apologize for whatever I did, didn’t do, represent, or am that causes me to not fit well into your current life, but I do hope it’s all going well.

No, no, no. That is awful. Besides, I’m not really apologizing, because I have no idea what, if anything, I did. (I don’t really think it’s that simple, anyway.) So, change apologize to I’m sorry, which is true:

I am sorry for whatever I did, didn’t do, represent, or am that causes me to not fit well into your current life, but I do hope it’s all going well.

Bleh. Still sucks. It sounds all… pathetic and sad. I know. I’ll say I realize I don’t fit into her current life right now, but still, I wish her the best, etc., and so let’s delete that and re-type…

Wait. No. I hit delete. Why did you send? I HIT DELETE!!!

Crap. It sent it. There it is, in all its pathetic glory. Okay, if I hover over it, can I see an “x” to delete it, like with a Wall post? No?

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Okay, this is the part of the sitcom where the protagonist thinks up some wacky scheme for breaking into the recipient’s house to retrieve the message and delete it before she can see it. Which would be fine, if she weren’t over a thousand miles away, if I had her exact address, if I knew how to pick locks and could bluff my way into their building, if I could get there before she logs onto her computer, if nobody is home when I get there, if they don’t have an alarm system, if…

Or, maybe, I just write a follow-up note. Because, hey, how could I make it any worse, right?

Okay, I realize that’s just begging for trouble. “We can’t get out of this situation with the same thinking that got us into this situation,” and all that. But, I’m a writer. Let’s see if I can write my way out of the mess I’ve created.

Here’s what I came up with. Keep in mind that this will show up immediately below that stupid sentence that was posted by mistake. What do you think?

Annnnnd, just as I was clicking to delete that and write something less pathetic, Facebook decided to post it anyway. Let’s try again:I realize that I don’t fit well into your current life, but I hope it’s going well. (See? Less pathetic, right?) It’s obvious from the few comments posted here on your FB page that you’ve made a very positive impact on several people’s lives, which is a testament to how good you are.

Someday down the line, we’ll talk again; there’s much to catch up on. The burning question in my mind these days is how to make the world a better place, because it sure does seem to be heading in the wrong direction, and I’m not sure what one person can do to help make it better. But there’s got to be something, right?

Until then, I genuinely wish you the best… and no, I’m not as morose as that first draft makes me sound!

Neener, neener.

–Inris

As for the “burning question,” that’s all true. This is a natural part of the ongoing conversation Pearl and I have been having going back all the way to the beginning. Will the conversation ever resume? Who knows? But I count myself fortunate that I can have this conversation with you, gentle reader.

 

Hmmm… wonder if I should re-read this and revise, or just post it as-is….

…or, at least, it can get better after divorce. And so far, for me, ever so slowly, it has been getting better.

I have commented previously about how, for me at least, divorce is a process. So, too, it seems to me, is recovery.

As readers of earlier posts to this blog already know (and, likewise, anyone who has been through this him-or-herself already knows), there’s a lot of fear when considering whether to get divorced: what if I should fall on financial hard times? What if I never find another suitable romantic partner? What if I suck as a solo-parent? What if my Ex turns into a raging asshole and ties up my assets and my time in court for years to come? What if I never recover my sense of fun or my sense of humor? What if I slip in the bathtub and crack my skull and die, naked and alone, with no one to discover my bloated, pruney body until weeks later, when the landlord — oh, wait, I have auto-pay, so even my landlord won’t realize there’s a problem until the money runs out — well, until *somebody*, anybody wonders enough about my long absence that they actually call the police to have them check on why I’m not answering my phone or the door even though my car is in the driveway and…

Wait. Where was I? Oh, right. Fear.

Talking with friends of mine who have gone through, are going through, or are contemplating divorce or break-up, they all seem(ed) to face the same, biggest fear that I had to confront when considering the Big Split: what if I’m alone for the rest of my life?

As with most people, I’ve found that the best way to deal with the Big Questions like this is to rationalize. In my case, the rationalization went (and goes) like this: if I stayed in the marriage, it was a near certainty that I would remain bitter, isolated, and celibate. By getting out of the marriage, I allowed for the possibility of recovery, reconnection, and (dare I say it?) sex again in this lifetime.

When I broached the subject of divorce with Penny, I didn’t suddenly feel this huge weight lifted from my shoulder. When we moved into separate households, I wasn’t magically transformed back into my previous, fun-filled self (if I ever even was that person). When we snapped the line on our financial ties, the fears didn’t suddenly fly away. Neither did I breathe some huge contented sigh of relief when a judge said, legally, the marriage is kaput. Nor when I started spending time with single (women) friends of mine. Nor when I started making plans to meet-up with fellow bloggers.

And yet. And yet. Have I mentioned this already? Because it bears mentioning more than once, it seems: I look back and realize that ever so slowly, ever so gradually, it’s been getting better. I am getting better.

Let me give you one small, recent example.

I went to the airport to drop off one of my sons, who was set to embark upon a commercial flight to visit his grandparents (my parents). Since he was travelling as an “unaccompanied minor”, I was asked (required) to stay at the gate until the plane departed. On this particular flight, there were several unaccompanied minors. Which meant, there were several parents of unaccompanied minors waiting for this plane to leave. Oh, and the plane apparently was having “mechanical difficulties”, because it just sat there… for, oh, an hour past when it was supposed to pull away.

A woman sitting nearby made some comment to me about something she’d heard me say to my kid or to the gate agent, and we struck up a conversation. She was probably a few years younger than I, but old enough, it turns out, to have a teenager, so she wasn’t *too* much younger than I. She was attractive, well-dressed, and well-spoken. And while I say she was well-dressed, she was dressed like “one of my kind” — ie, like a friend of mine or a co-worker would likely dress; she wasn’t over-dressed or fashion-model-dressed. Her daughter was flying overseas for the first time, so that also put us in the same class mentally — with horizons that expanded beyond staying close to home or “playing it safe.”

Keep in mind that what I’m describing here didn’t necessarily occur to me consciously at the time, but it was obvious on some level that we had a lot in common. We were both parents. We were both educated. We both worked for a living, but got paid a reasonable wage. And as we talked, other common ground emerged: we both liked to travel, we both were parenting solo, we both valued family, and so on. She may or may not have been one of my own — an idea I’ve talked about in previous posts — but she was pleasant, smart, and (dare I say it?) easy on the eyes. Oh, and one other thing: she seemed to genuinely enjoy our conversation as much as I did.

So, when the plane took off and it was finally our chance to leave, I faced a choice: do I try to extend the conversation beyond this chance meeting? Or do I let us go our separate ways, and that would be that?

During a writing workshop I took a few years ago, one of my mentors made a distinction that I’ve taken to heart. Someone had asked about having to re-write a story, and my mentor said that you shouldn’t let re-writes be daunting. Of course you’ll have to occasionally do something over. A concert violinist plays the same song over and over again, and you never hear most of those performances; you only hear the ones that have been honed to the point of being presentable. So, too, with writing: don’t be daunted by failure or by having to try, try again. Instead, recognize it for what it is: practice.

I’ve used that distinction to get over a lot of things that might otherwise daunt me. Like, for example… broaching the subject of giving my phone number to someone I just met.

So I asked her point-blank, as we were walking toward the escalators that would take us away from the terminal: “Are you married?”

“No,” she said, “but I have a partner.” Then she laughed. “A male partner. But… yeah.”

I smiled. I was a little disappointed, but this wasn’t really surprising. She was, as I mentioned, a smart, attractive, woman with a career and a certain resilience. “Well,” I said, “it’s at least comforting to know that there’s life after divorce.”

She laughed again. “That there is.”

And that was that. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I do not tend to be interested in people who are not available (yes, with the apparent exception of my former wife, cough cough), so I did not offer my card, but for that matter, she didn’t run away screaming or beat me over the head with her purse and call me rude names. I didn’t die of embarrassment, nor of fright.

For those of you who think this all sounds a bit young and silly, I’ll remind you that I haven’t been “available” myself since… oh, crap. My five-year college reunion. My mid-to-late-ish-twenties.

So, given that I’m now an early-to-mid-fourties guy who wouldn’t mind some female companionship after years in a broken marriage, this was a milestone. I had a pleasant conversation with a pleasant woman who was previously unknown to me, and it was just fine. It was pleasant enough that, if she weren’t otherwise unavailable, I’d have offered her my card, and whether or not she would have ever called me, I felt great just knowing that I could, well, even get that far. I’m not in a rush to start a new romantic relationship. But it’s good to know I’m not a leper, even so.

One of my blogging friends has named her blog “This Broken Heart Has Hope,” and I think that’s a good title. It sums up my own situation rather well. I don’t feel broken-hearted any more, which itself may also be a sign of improvement, but I’m also starting to feel hope again. I had a nice conversation in person with someone who had previously been a stranger; someone I wouldn’t have minded getting to know better. I’ve been enjoying some awesome conversations with friends I’ve made through this blog. I like making friends. It’s nice to get out there again.

And heaven help me, I just used the word ‘nice’ more than once in this essay. Either my mood really is lightening-up, or I’m up way past my bedtime.

I cannot recommend divorce. Divorce sucks. But if you use it as a tool to move your life forward, and if you continue to try your best to make things better (divorce, like the rest of your life, being a process and not an event), well, there’s hope that it can get better. That it will get better.

Because, hey, there’s hope for me.

Hello, my friends.

After the divorce was finalized, and the nearly simultaneous foreclosure on the marital home, I have suddenly found myself with the occasional block of… time that is not already committed to work, the kids, or the burden of crap I’ve been dealing with for the past year and a half. What I need to do with this occasional chunk of “free” time is resume building the life I want to live. Instead, I find myself vegging out. I watch DVDs. I cook myself dinner. I pay bills and do other chores that take little thought, and spend way too much time doing them.

I should be writing. I should be cleaning out the garage and putting up new shelves. I should be exercising. Hell, I suppose I should be dating. But I’m simply never in the mood. I rarely have the energy. If I do venture out of the house, I go out with “safe” friends — good friends who pre-date the marriage and who are allowing me to acclimate to my new small windows of freedom without a lot of pressure.

There have been some exceptions, to be sure. A fantastic visit with an awesome new friend. A couple of meet-ups with fellow bloggers (and more in the works) who are simply amazing and helping me to stretch my wings. A pen pal who I really need to write to more frequently. And a good friend and co-worker who continues to challenge me and my perspective.

Heh. That sounds like I’m actually doing a lot, but when you figure how long a time frame I’m talking about… no, most of my occasional evenings to myself are spent catching up on The Daily Show or otherwise stalling.

What am I waiting for?

I don’t suppose it’s all wasted time. I imagine that some of this is just recuperating and decompressing from a long, hard few years. And let’s face it; time alone with the kids can tap one’s reserves of mental energy.

But as time slips by, it’s becoming increasingly odd to note that a great many of my friends (especially mutual friends) are unaware that Penny and I have divorced. This past weekend was funny; we had previously agreed to take the kids to a concert at the zoo (“Zoo Tunes!”) to see a performer we all like, and we bumped into an old, dear friend whom we haven’t seen in years. It was like old times. And when the questions arise, “How are you all doing?”, it just seems awkward to say, “Well, the house was foreclosed and we’re divorced, but the kids are doing well and the business is picking up.” Especially in front of the kids. And especially while here we were, toting the kids along to a concert as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

A year and a half ago, I posted the question of when to let people know about our (then upcoming) divorce. The general consensus among commentors was to tell a few friends and allow the news to slowly filter out from there. A sound strategy. In fact, it was comforting to me just to re-read those comments as I prepared to write today’s post.

But while I’ve told some friends at the martial arts studio, I also ended up damaging my knee, and haven’t fully returned yet. A few co-workers know, including my relevent managers (who have been very gracious and tactful about allowing me the time I needed to take care of matters.) And when it comes to our mutual friends… I find I simply haven’t been up for talking about it.

It’s not that the divorce is a sensitive subject. I’m just… a bit talked out at the moment on that subject. Perhaps this is part of the reason I haven’t been posting here as frequently as I used to, as well. Again, there are exceptions… I do seem to keep bringing up Penny when I’m around one friend in particular, and my penchant for self-deprecation sometimes rears its ugly head in strange ways. I’m glad I have good friends who gently but firmly give me the nudge I need when I start wandering down that path.

But I’ve got some truly dear friends who I have I simply lost touch with over these past few drawn-out months, and they don’t even know that Penny and I are living in separate houses, let alone divorced. How odd is that?

I’ve toyed with the idea of putting out a FAQ, sending it out the way you’d send out a birth or an engagement announcement:

We’ve moved!

His address is [my place], and her address is [Penny's place]

What? Why do we have separate addresses? Because we’ve divorced.

Why have we divorced? Nobody did anybody wrong. But it truly was a case of irreconcilable differences.

How are the kids? They’re doing well, and they live half the time with him, half the time with her, and both within walking distance of each other and their new elementary school…

Perhaps it’s time to shout it out on Facebook. Or my “real life” blog (which hasn’t been updated in over a year at this point.)

Several people have suggested, and I’ve long considered the idea (as has Penny) of throwing a divorce party. Would that be making too light of the situation? I don’t know. Again… I’m not feeling up to it at the moment. That doesn’t mean I (we) shouldn’t do it anyway.

Or maybe we just let it be. Tell people on an ad hoc basis as we have been.

I need to shake this malaise and get on with figuring out the new me. But it still feels like I have some loose ends to tie up with regard to my former life.

What are your thoughts, my friends?

When moving out of the marital home, I brought over a lot of boxes of stuff. A. Lot.

There was no time to sort through most of it, but there was a lot of, “Do I really need to move all this shit? I haven’t opened it since the last move. Hmmm.”

I know that the house I live in now is not going to be the last place I ever live (sudden death notwithstanding), so there *will* be another move. So, rather than wait and end up going through a similar exercise next time (what to keep? What to ditch? Ah, rats, there’s no time, I guess I’ll just have to move it all!), I’ve decided to start going through *everything* and making the hard decisions of what to keep and what to toss.

Yes, I commented on all of this earlier in a post on The Weight of Stuff. Here’s where things stand now:

I have committed to myself that starting this past weekend, I’m going to go through my stuff every week for the rest of the year and dispose of at least one box. Every week. For the rest of this year. “Dispose of” means one of three things: donate, sell, or trash/recycle it. Of course, I also expect to unpack and *use* a lot of stuff, but I still need to shed myself of a considerable amount of the baggage I’ve been carrying around.

This past weekend, I started (but didn’t finish!) on a box of clothing. Tonight, I sorted through two boxes, producing one box-worth of clothes that I can part with easily. There’s a charity pick-up tomorrow, so the box is already labeled and waiting at the curb.

By the way, I don’t even know if I have thirty boxes-worth of stuff to get rid of. We’ll see. In the meantime, and for the foreseeable future, I’ll be releasing back to the universe some things that I really don’t need to keep lugging around. The box of clothes that I put at the curb for pick-up isn’t much, and it’s not like I feel this huge metaphorical weight lifting from my shoulders. But… it is one less box of clothes I’ll have to carry around. Or store. Or trip over. Or pay to have moved or stored or tripped over. Heh. Hopefully someone else who needs or has use for those shirts will benefit from them. If so, then even better.

I’m making room in my life for the new me. It’s only one box so far, but it’s a start.