Going Out on Dates Alone is Weird.

At a certain point in one's middle age, if one doesn't have a partner (husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, FRIENDS) with whom to go and do things, one must consider the notion of embarking upon something interesting alone.

There's no shame in being alone, for it sort of exudes confidence and a sense of self-worth that "Hey, I can do what I want when I want to do it, and I need nobody's permission." You know, those stages of dependence to independence to interdependence. I'm lodged tightly in being independent, which is normal and healthy for a 41-year old woman.

But it's also lonesome. Very much so. Especially when you're in a crowded, intimate venue and couples are cozied beside one another enjoying the show. I was seated at a table for 4, small, with an older woman named (I think) Deborah, and we were both there to see former Monkee Michael Nesmith perform solo, at the City Winery, where I just saw Anoushka Shankar with my mom. At least then, I had somebody to talk to. Deborah (I think) was deeply ensconced in a book for the hour which preceded the show and had zero interest in speaking with me, other than to acknowledge that I was getting up to use the ladies' room and go for one last smoke before the concert began.

It was sort of ironic, then, that one of the first tunes Nez played was "Propinquity." I shot this (audio ok, video? I hadn't yet figured out the zoom on my camera).

We've been over and back about the law of attraction known as propinquity probably a dozen times in this blog, so I won't reiterate it other than to say once again that it's likely you'll form friendships or romantic bonds with the people within whom you're in close proximity (in some form or another) for a decent amount of time. It's what I believe drew me to Guy and Guy to me. (And yes, I've explained propinquity to him a dozen times too.) We've grown more and more distant since our working-together propinquity ended almost 2 years ago. I haven't seen him but briefly since his mother's wake in October, and I miss him a lot. We've talked a few times, but haven't gotten together for either coffee or dinner and now the hectic holidays are coming. I'm sure he'll claim busyness and continue to not see me, which makes me sad.

There was no dinner conversation. My server was scant. It was all very expensive. I dolled up for nobody but myself. I thoroughly enjoyed the concert, and can think of several friends (including Guy) who would've enjoyed it too, but I decided to not try and wrangle non-Monkeephiles into seeing one of them for $65 plus dinner and a $50 taxi each way (the Michigan Ave "Mag Mile Lights Festival" parade really messed up traffic) and, like when I saw The Monkees a year ago, went alone. This Nesmith tour was un-Monkeeish, with the exception of an encore including "Listen to the Band." He concentrated more so on his older work with the First National Band ("Joanne," "Silver Moon," etc) to the late 70's, disco-inspired "Cruisin'" and the groundbreaking "Rio," which shotgunned his full-length video LP, "Elephant Parts" into Grammy territory. 

It's during those moments when you kind of do feel sorry for yourself. Like, "I couldn't even find a friend willing to go with me?" and I honestly couldn't. I fooled around on my phone with Twitter and Facebook, but didn't even really have friends actively texting or exchanging with me. Certainly not Guy, to whom I'd sent a couple of pictures from the Winery. Deborah (?) was a dud. Then you become the old object of  a "tear-in-the-beer syndrome," eat your dinner in solitude, and enmesh with the music and the artist as if you were the only two people in the room. And that's what I did with Michael Nesmith. 

The tour, entitled "Movies of the Mind," combined vignettes Nez told as a backstory he'd made up about the setting of each song or medley. All very well-crafted and visionary. I missed recording the one on "Propinquity," but I got most of the story on "Some of Shelly's Blues," about a wife who, after staring out the window and getting fed up with her discontent, tells her husband she wants a divorce. (From the thrice-divorced, 71-year old Nesmith.) 

My personal cabbie, Stan, who drove me to the concert (taking the longest, most back-route, expensive way possible to the show) forgot to pick me up despite my many texts that I was ready to go, apologizing Sunday morning that he'd eaten a rotisserie chicken and passed out on his couch (ok...) so I ended up hailing the first available cab home in the 12 degree weather, thinking had I driven down, and paid the $10 valet parking, it'd be a hell of a lot cheaper, but I wasn't about to get on the crawling expressway; furthermore, I was in no shape to drive home (Valium +++). 

Seeing Nez was terrific, apart from being there solo. But behind me, across from Deborah (?) was this empty chair, that I really wish had been filled. It was filled, just in the "movie in my mind."

Ms Anthropy, nee Miss Acatelepsy.

I feel like I've gone to hell, but I did get a chain on which to hold so I can swoop back up whenever my brain decides to feel better.

It's more than just being jaded, I think. It's more than being utterly aggravated that Guy didn't refill my heart medication days ago (UPDATE: they just happened to be ready JUST NOW whereas the pharmacy said they weren't even called in YESTERDAY) and, though he's in Boston, I texted him that I was running out of my beta blockers, and now I'm out of heart medication. (He had cell service, Jesus Christ, he wasn't in the Congo again.) I miss Guy, as usual, and our relentless bickering.

I told him it's getting to be that time of the year to enact "Illumination," the poem I wrote for him in 2012 before my hysterectomy--the first poem I'd written by hand in 17 years, from scratch, scribble, a thesaurus and all my heart. Given he leaves his Christmas lights on the house all year long, it's time to replace them with brightly colored bulbs, start a fire in the pit in the back yard, pour a scotch and think about how much he misses me too. He should totally listen to Mazzy Star while he's thinking about me, because how romantic would that be?

Depression. Again. Except when it comes to Anoushka Shankar.

The concert was phenomenal and our seats were in the 2nd table from the front. Excellent. Guy would've loved it, but my mom loved it as well, more than she thought she would. She enjoyed herself so much that she actually hugged me goodnight, which she almost never does. So that all worked out. Anoushka's new album really is terrific, "Traces of You," on which she does a few duets with half-sister Norah Jones. Norah's not on tour with Anoushka, but Ms. AS had a lovely singer with her who did this song from the new record:

A misanthrope, by definition, has developed a certain disdain for humanity in general. Like take the literally most misanthropic songwriter of the 20th century, Warren Zevon, and plunk him into a seemingly endless depression, but out of which came brilliant creativity and wit (if not eerily prophetic):

Plato's definition of misanthropy is, essentially, "The result of thwarted expectations or excessively naive optimism." (Wiki)

My propinquity with Guy has turned to mizpah, and my expectations aren't met as often as I wish they were. I realize I'm perpetually too hard on him, but hi, needy chick who's too loving! And way to send someone with panic disorder AND tachycardia into GIGANTIC panic heart-racing when one runs out of heart medication.

I stayed awake long enough to go to a little party at Meg's on Friday night (a girls' night in, a clothing party, where you be all girly and look at outfits that probably don't look good on you unless you're a size 2, but I did find a bitchin' outfit that'll knock socks off once I'm back down to a size 4).  Much wine was consumed, but I was with my mom and just ate all of Meg's cheese instead.

I've been plagued as of late by dormiveglia, which sounds like a worse medical condition than it probably would be if it wasn't just an expression in Italian which means the space that stretches between sleeping and waking.

Three-hour spurts. That's how I've been sleeping lately. In what's got to be my historically lengthiest bout of depression in my manic-depressive tenure, I'm literally sleeping and waking every 3 hours. If I manage to stay up for 2 or 3 hours at most, it's a personal triumph. Then back to sleep I go. It irritates Luke less than it does my mother, but it irritates no one more than myself. Yesterday was the worst of it. Apart from running almost 2 hours of errands with Luke (who's now sick), picking up my car (which WAS sick) and eating dinner, I literally slept in 3-hour spurts all day and night, awake for about an hour at a time. I finally gave up at 7am this morning and have been awake ever since. I made my bed to make it less inviting, though I'm sleepy.

And I have So. Much. Work. I have GOT to pack in some homework today, though I have all of next week off, but let's be honest: I'll probably do more dicking around than anything. There's Thanksgiving to consider. I just can't stay awake long enough to concentrate on any particular project. I did start one at 3:30 this morning, but wasn't exactly lucid, and soon fell back asleep.

I have this morose, sneaking suspicion I either have mono or am riddled with cancer. I keep breaking out into these random 101-103 degree fevers and when I do, the lymph nodes in my armpits start hurting really badly. Yes, I had the flu several weeks ago and another cold subsequent to that, but this is different and that all went away. I get so chilled that my fingers turn numb and lifeless. I wear multiple layers of clothing and just tremble. If I take some ibuprofen, within about 2 hours, it goes away almost entirely, only to come back several hours later or the next day. I should probably seek medical attention for it, but I'm so peevish and full of malcontent that I don't care and just deal with the symptoms without telling anyone in my family. The last time it happened was a week ago, about 2 hours before I had to go play drums, and the only person who knew about it was one of my singers, and I honestly didn't know how I'd hold the drumsticks with numb fingers.

This is kind of how I'm sleeping, and when I wake up, I feel like the guy at 2:54 in the video:

I emailed Guy that I'd been having bad dreams about him lately, but I'm sure I won't hear back for quite some time. In one, I had a cat fight with Lady GuyGuy, and he just sat there and laughed through it (which'd probably happen). I caught him alone and asked, "Were you ever in love with me?" He, I think, cited some example of when he felt in love with me, and said that he still was. Then (I don't remember if I told him this part or not, I probably did) he kissed me...a lot, and his kisses in the dream felt exactly like his kisses do in real life, only it lasted way longer. So bad dream/good dream/strange psychotropic medication-enhanced dream. 

In another, the night before Meg's party, her party was that of selling containers of insects, and only 2-3 people were let into the party at one time, and I waited outside with Guy, giving him a haircut. (???) Over walked George Harrison and his son, Dhani. Guy got irritated that I chose Dhani and we ran off together and hopped a train in Henley-on-Thames, England, where the Harrison estate actually is, in  train station I've actually been in. Yeah, sorry, Guy, but I'd run off with Harrison, Jr. (Are they twins or are they TWINS?)

As Douglas Adams called it, "The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul."

I need my heart mended expeditiously, both physically and metaphorically.

Cuts You Up, Part Two.

And that's exactly it. I haven't in all my years of cutting and recovery from cutting, found a more apt description of how cutting feels. The way I illustrate it to friends, family and laypeople is to point my finger at my forearm, then point my finger at my head and say, in succession, "The pain, the gore, the wretchedness of THIS (pointing to arm) makes you forget all about what's wrong up here (pointing to head)." I'll bet ya most of the people who cut have friends and loved ones who don't have ANY idea that they cut. I certainly didn't. It's SO easy to hide...from everyone except yourself.

Self-harm IS relief. It is also hugely dangerous and destructive. I haven't cut in almost 5 years, not because I haven't wanted to. My scars faded into oblivion and I got tattoos on the arm areas I used to cut. I'll be damned if I'm fucking up my tattoos. Especially with the bout of major depression and suicidal ideations I've had recently, the impetus to cut has been very strong, but I haven't gone through with it. And I don't think I will, and it's not just because I'm on like 14 different psychotropic medications.

But there is relief other than cutting out there. There is cognitive behavioral therapy, which'll teach you healthier coping mechanisms. There is medication that can curb the urge to self-harm. In an emergent situation, there's this:

IF you find yourself in crisis and are afraid to call someone, email me at annie@theoffbeatdrummer.com. It goes straight to my phone or Gmail and I'll do what I can. I'm not a licensed counselor (yet) but I am a compassionate, understanding, fellow recovering cutter (now it has the fancy name of "Non-Suicidal Self-Injury"). If you truly feel you are risk of harming yourself or others, or feel suicidal, please call 911 or go to your nearest emergency room. Any advice I dispense on this site is from a counseling student's perspective as well as a patient. I cannot be held responsible for anything you do or don't do as a result of reading my blog. But I will turn away no one.

Remember: You're beautiful just the way you are. You truly are. 

Twickenham

Twickenham Studios was this cavernous, cold, old, unused movie studio in London where the Beatles recorded the "Let it Be" sessions. Cameras and lights were set up to give a theatrical vibe in which surely the Beatles would create their latest masterpiece. Things didn't turn out that way, however. The end was near. These young men, who'd grown together as a family since what...1961(?) had, by 1969, grown weary of one another's clashing personalities and egos. They couldn't even pretend to tolerate one another's company during the making of "Let if Be." Not even for film.

A last ditch effort was made to cheer the boy up. It was at the Apple office in January of 1969, where the Beatles got the bright idea to go set up on the roof and provide central London with their last group live performance, ever.

(Later, they'd uh, "Come Together" to create one of the world's greatest masterpieces, "Abbey Road, which was released earlier than "Let it Be," though recorded later in 1969. I'm not entirely certain that having musical-genius-come murderer Phil Spector could've saved "Let It Be." But that's not my major point here.

I can relate strongly right now with the disconcert of my own band. We've been largely a family for almost a decade, and and in the last 18 months, have dealt with abandonment (the lead guitarist and his piano-playing wife), after our original bassist quit a couple years ago due to an alcohol dependency. That made our bassist, Jake, take over with lead guitar and me largely relying on the djembe to soften things up a bit. Once in a while I'd get behind the kit, but it was rare. 

Jake suddenly passed away on July 5th. This left us hanging with Pastor guiding practices and soundchecks, and Meg occasionally, would kindly sit with us on keyboards, though she has her own church bands to play with. In between hiring this fella we have now and Jake's death, I've been sort of the wrangler/leader of the group, under Pastor's guidance, of course. 

Drummers are professionals at waiting around for everyone else to get their shit together, which is NOT EASY the present moment, and I truly feel for Ringo. A new band director was hired, which I understand, but 1) I would've appreciated being in on the discussion and voting pre-hire and 2) dude, don't hand me blank sheet music for how you want to do things "your way" when I'm the one who's notated the chord sheets, played by ear alone and and glance at them from time to time the first time you meet me. Don't add or subtract from the 200 pages of notated music I've painstakingly memorized without asking me if I preferred that or not as a musician.

Don't tell my singers to alter pieces and endings that we've done for YEARS because you think the congregation won't be able to follow along and either there'a an 8 measure guitar solo involved or you want to cut out entire verse or bridges,  Have mercy! Trust our instincts and that the singers are following the tempo of the drummer in lieu of a bassist. He may have a master's degree in "singing and literature," which is essentially opera, but to come into our "family," at least have the decency to sit out a couple of sets and see what we can do.

I admittedly angrily aired my grievances via Facebook, which made Pastor Dave look like he'd made a bum decision in hiring the guy. We're open to change; we're not open to assault. It's not Pastor's fault, or that of any committee, but after the 3rd time we've played under this bloke's direction, more and more discontent has followed.

One singer lied to me ( a teenager) about an email exchange which had gone on between she and the new band director. Another singer approached me at post-band dinner, after which the director said she was on "Strike 2." So she decided to quit, since he wouldn't budge regarding the length of certain songs, and where guitar solos belonged originally, what the congregation was used to, etc. While true, our music ministry has undergone the most devastating of changes in the last year and a half, we always manage to get our act together, but our act is not how we rehearsed it 1,000 times.

I had a sit down with the Pastor this week, pledging to be more of the as-labeled "matriarch" of the band, but in this case, I side with the singers. Tonight, the acoustic/electric guitar sounded twangy and tinny (as other congregants told me) and as usual, I can really only hear some of the vocals out the PA. I can't even hear his guitar. 

I volleyed at practice to get our way in a number of songs, kind of like this, from the "Imagine" sessions:

To me, anyway, the role of the director is to direct, not to order around. My singer veterans are unhappy, I'm unhappy.....at the leisure and praise activity I've enjoyed the most for 8 years. I like coming home full of adrenaline and "It went great!" as opposed to the last month, where I've come home to my mom and said, "What a clusterfuck THAT was." Drumming in the band is one of my life's only joys. To walk away from that would throw me over the edge of despair.

The new director's a nice person, and obviously enthusiastic about his position ( a year-long contract--who ok'd that? What if he turns out to be a total douche, master's degree or not?).  In the following scenario, which is very brief, I'm totally the Ringo here, though a small bit. bit largely the vibe we've got going on band-wise right now:

 Practice is more like this, and I'm Ringo, mind you: 

I love all those girls in the band, their random infancy notwithstanding. But don't pull the wool over my eyes and make me try to believe the director said one thing when he actually said something else (and not send me the proof via email). With whom does my alliance lie? With the church itself. Not with any individual ego, no matter how much do love each of them. Pastor Dave has the last say, and the band director has to abide by them as much as I do. That said, I do have a modicum of authority in what happens with the band, as the "matriarch," of course.

Being one of only 2 musicians in a band is difficult. I can't hear much more of what's going around outside of the acoustics of my own instrument. On the weekend when the lead guitarist/singer can play guitar, I'd vastly prefer the director play bass to help ME out, but so far, he's been un-receptive to that idea, why, I'm not sure. It'd certainly help a lot when said drummer (me) counts in 1,2,3....1,23.. instead of 1,2, 3, 4, 5...." which is not how drummers work and throws this self-taught, learn by ear, never learned music theory totally off-kilter.

Asked for another confab with Pastor next week.....I don't want to lose my singer, because she's extremely talented, but I don't want to be the bad guy either.....

Nobody Gets Too Much Heaven No More.

Guy's known about my brother's band playing the Hard Rock tomorrow since Halloween.

He didn't say "Boo" about it all week or when I reminded him about it this morning.

Suddenly, he's booked a trip to visit his daughter in Boston, leaving tomorrow morning. He'll be gone all week.

The judges' votes are in. 10/10/10 on douche points, although your dismount left a lot to be desired.

Congratulations, Guy, you get the Gold Medal!

I decided to skip telling him I love him when he hung up on the phone tonight.What the fuck is the goddamn point?

If I endured visits from my parents as often as Guy and Lady GuyGuy go visit their daughters, I'd slit my throat. It's college and young adult independence time. Cut the fucking cord already! Oh, right, they have to go tighten the girls' chastity belts.

Mushy Gushy

Some page I randomly follow on Facebook posted this today, so I figured "what the hell" and decided to analyze it within the context of my relationship with Guy. Keep track here now while I explain. I'll refrain from citing specific examples of when any of the following took place, though as Guy knows, I have a photographic memory.

The parameters:

What a kiss means.. actually read the whole thing cause its nice!
+ Kiss on the stomach = I'm ready
+ Kiss on the Forehead = I hope we're together forever
+ Kiss on the Ear = Your my everything
+ Kiss on the Cheek = We're friends
+ Kiss on the Hand = I adore you
+ Kiss on the Neck = We belong together
+ Kiss on the Shoulder = I want you
+ Kiss on the Lips = I love you

What the gesture means...
+ Holding Hands = We definitely love each other
+ Slap on the Butt = That's mine
+ Holding on tight = I don't want to let go
+ Looking into each others Eyes = I just plain love you
+ Playing with Hair = Tell me you love me
+ Arms around the Waist = I love you too much to let go
+Laughing while Kissing = I am completely comfortable with you


OK, here's what I've deduced:

We hope we're together forever.
We're friends.
We love each other.
We definitely love each other.
He doesn't want to let go.
We just plain love one another.
He loves me too much to let me go.

Keep in mind, this is *not* a product of my wild fantasies. Said events are true. I sort of wish there was a definition for the half lip/half cheek awkward "Where should we kiss--kiss the most effectively to signify that we have no attraction to one another and I will go to my grave denying that you're kinda cute." 

Whomever came up with the criteria might be batshit nuts, and had to be a chick, but I'm a hopeless romantic. I'm also stuck in the friend zone, which is beyond aggravating. 

Oh goody. Today is the class during which nobody pays any attention yet we all still manage to appease the professor by chiming in when some of us aren't looking for coffee tables on overstock.com, engaging in 3 Google chats at the same time, and don't answer his questions with "Hang on, I just have to input the CVV code off my credit card to buy these shoes--then I promise, I'm all yours." 

I've seen some really strange memes online in my time, but this one takes the cake. Google "George Harrison Jesus" and you just might find this one, which hey, to be honest, I'm pretty cool with that, unless George Harrison can also tell who's in the fantasy with you, especially if it's George Harrison himself. And can't you see God knocking on George's little heavenly sanctuary door (where they've sequestered the Hindus), asking, "George, what are you DOING in there?" George answers, "Cough Cough. NOTHING!":

Aeipathy, Nefelibata and Yuanfen

Guy exhibits 2 nerve-grating behaviors: denial and avoidance. Naturally, he's Catholic and guilt-ridden.

He wants me to fictionalize or to pretend he hasn't kissed me in the past. Or that I forced it upon him, which I never did. I need to take him out and get him stinky drunk sometime to find out the truth about what compelled him to kiss me in the first place. Is he even attracted to me?

I'm still irked that he suggested I turn my blog into a fictitious account of my life.  Screw that noise! Again, NO ONE WOULD BELIEVE IT WAS FAKE because it's never been (except for my jet ski accident death). What am I supposed to tell my readers? "All that stuff from the last 6 years? Yeah, none of that actually happened, it was all just made up shit."

If a good romance story is what you're looking for, search no further than.....wait, nevermind.

I'd sent him some words that are deep and powerful regarding emotions that I'm sure he doesn't know the definition of: aeipathy, nefelibata and yuanfen. All I got back was a text saying he was at the attorney's and would check his thesaurus later. (Dummy, you need a dictionary or Google, not a thesaurus!) As Kate said, reading the will so soon? Gauche indeed. Unless, of course, in my dreams, he's at a divorce attorney's splitting up with Lady GuyGuy, which would make me more than elated.

Invited him to tag along to a gig my brother's drumming with at the Hard Rock Cafe downtown next Thursday. Meg and I are definitely going, but Guy's the one who said he wanted to hop on the bandwagon at the spur of the moment; which, in this case, I gave him a week's notice. It's not until 9pm & should only last an hour or so, so I'm sure he'll be done working. But mark my words. I will hear neither yay nor nay about whether or not he is or isn't going with us until Thursday, if I hear anything at all. 

It's the band, Not By Chance, who did the video over the summer which featured my brother recovering from his motorcycle accident. Now Steve's their studio and live drummer, which he seems to be having a lot of fun doing. He's back at work starting Monday and is able to lift 100 lbs again. Amazing for how serious his injuries were on May 1st, when the accident took place and I had to see him in that awful ICU in Rockford. Fortunately, Steve still doesn't remember anything about the accident, which is lucky and the brain's natural defense mechanism. I can't wait to see him play with Chance and the new revamp of the band. If you're in Chicago, the cover's only $7! 

A refresher on Not by Chance, "Keep Hope Alive," featuring my brother injured after his crash and in a wheelchair. He's made a miraculous recovery.

I swear, If Guy wishy-washes on coming, I'm sure I'll be singing THIS Genesis song instead:

But speaking of Phil Collins, who was so cute when he was younger in a teddy bear huggy sort of way, I came across this gem I hadn't heard in a long, long time, which reminded me of Guy. It's cheesy and dated but warms my heart. We do have a groovy kind of love (at least I think so, but of course Guy thinks I just have a very active imagination and we have no actual feelings for one another):

I DID, as a matter of fact, complete the 2 heavy midterm papers that were due yesterday by 5pm and midnight, respectively. The psychological analysis one about myself (I used Meg's name as a pseudonym for me, (her real first name) that had to be I think 7-10 SINGLE spaced pages long (which is the equivalent of a 14-20 page paper in double space). But I cranked it out in one sitting (not including smoke breaks) and submitted it late Thursday night, leaving that at least out of the way while I concentrated on the paper about Meg's real-life career development, which was the harder of the two papers and also the one not due until midnight on Friday. That ended up being 9 pages, which sufficed, and most of it was truly constructed based on my interview with Meg. I laid down at 5pm for a power nap, and didn't awaken until 2 hours later, giving me 5 hours to write the paper on Meg. I cranked that one out as well, in one sitting.  I'm very relieved that my major work is done for a week or two at least. My brain needs a break from all that academic writing!

I'm a little more hypomanic the past couple of days, largely due to the deadlines imposed upon me. I do work best under pressure, and while the depression still looms, I even managed to get my pile of things to file and do under control in my room this morning, when I woke up at 6am and was grocery shopping by 8:30 in the morning. At least I made a dent and I was pleased with the way the papers turned out, for the most part. 

Good news! My mom's going out tonight to play board games and eat pizza at church! Has she converted to Guy's church without telling me? PS, Guy's Catholic parish has turned loco. Now you don't even have to show up and worship God. They started accepting offerings online. How handy!

Luke's Holy Confirmation was great. Here's a picture of his godmother, my cousin Susie, Luke, Pastor Dave, Luke's father, Craig, and my brother Steve, Luke's godfather. Great party, great celebration, great church service. A tear-jerker, for sure. Luke, enjoy your Lutheranocity to the n'th degree.

He received a Holy Spirit Stoll, a certificate and a beautiful plaque bearing his Confirmation Verse, which says "Lucas Alexander Bechtel," and the date of his Confirmation. What's funny? We had to buy the robe as part of the Confirmation class. Where else is he going to wear it? Dress up as a pastor for next Halloween? A ghost? Wear it to the church voters' meetings? 

Since he probably won't end up reading this, here are your definitions: