Album Leaves

Although I think that poetry is often pretentious and haven't written a great deal lately also because of the fear of hypocrisy, it feels like a good time to cram out verse that I wrote years ago and that I actually like. (Although they're far from remarkable: poems I churned out as 'sketches' for poems I cared more about and kept only because they could be worse.) These remind me of the oceanside and the streams and the forest scenes I'm no longer likely to see any more now that we've moved away from Canada.

Sea Anemones

Through the tea-like, sunlit shimmer of the water in the tidal pool,
colonies of pudgy anemones in moss-dark green, ring and pad the scaly granite:
their tentacles, as meekly pink as earthworms, extend in peaceful concentricity.

***

The sparkling path

In brilliant glee the crescent minnow wends its
tail through water clear to ripple out its minute
breath in bubbles rising to the air. It chases light
and chases shade and casts its faded silhouette on the static
blandness within the pebbled riverbed. 

***

Lastly, a very non-Canadian nonsense poem about rose branches climbing on a castle wall:

Up the castle walls, winding into the air, the tough brown twigs and bright green shoots and dark-scarlet tinged buds, the wings of stipule and hooked long sepals at the blossoms, where (thin and scented) gather yellow petals and a ring of crinkled brown pistils casts its pollen to the breezes: like incense censers to waft the rose's spring in past embrasures to the stony recesses.

Sutton Hoo and the Dig

It's a fact little known beyond my family that I used to want to become an archaeologist. After reading about it intermittently for years as a child, and starting to read The Greek Stones Speak in my gap year, I attended a Classical Archaeology lecture at UBC and wanted to take courses at the Freie Universität here in Berlin. But I wasn't permitted to sign up for the tutorials officially because the schedule was full.

So in the end I attended a semester's worth of introductory lectures to Ancient History largely in the Middle East, and then did a kind of work-study thing, at the Freie Uni, but only for two days because I felt too impostor-syndrome-y.

Older students who had been at an excavation of prehistoric material elsewhere in Germany over the summer sat indoors, alongside the professor. They took a ziplock plastic baggie at a time with groups of excavated materials in them, and cleaned the bones, stones, pottery etc. with water, toothbrushes, and wooden picks. Even toothbrushes were considered a bit too abrasive, though, so we mostly had to content ourselves with the picks. Their finds were not hugely exciting and they grumbled a bit about it, joking that this or that pebble was the Philosopher's Stone. They also gossiped about all sorts of other things — for example, how one of their professors had been appalled when, in an English-language paper, a student had referred to an archaeological 'dig' instead of an 'excavation.' Or about the headache it was as a parent to wait for a bus, if one bus after another is crowded and there is no room for a child's buggy.

I spent hours on an animal bone that had over an inch of hard dry mud packed into the central cavity, and waited for the soil to soften a little from the water, a process which was barely more exciting than watching paint dry. But to be honest I still didn't finish cleaning it out before I pretty heinously put it back where I'd gotten it from, and hoped no one would notice, à la Mr. Bean. A few fragments of pale honeycombed bone also crumbled in my hand as I worked it, and so I thought I'd done enough damage.

We put the cleaned items onto wooden frames, with metal grids across them, on top of newspaper, to let them dry.

When the artifacts etc. were clean and dry, we put a swipe of transparent glue onto each one. Then, in old-fashioned ink, we wrote the numerical code that was on the plastic baggie onto each glue swipe once it had dried. (It was indeed a good surface to write on.) The professor warned us not to put on a thick layer of glue. I ignored this for an unbaked brick-red pottery sherd, only to see grains of pottery — which had survived thousands of years until I got my graceless philistine paws on it — peel off with the glue. The professor had kindly said that the codes that I'd written on a few items in my tiny script (the despair of school teachers when they had to read my homework) were "sehr akkurat"; so I hadn't messed up everything. But along with the disintegrating bone, the crumbling pottery taught me a lesson that perhaps I wasn't ready to be entrusted with handling the history of mankind yet.

I also realized a little of the gate-keeping that exists in the archaeological world. There are of course many reasons, from grave-robbery to the damage of amateur work like mine. Also, naturally, funding is hard to come by.

And that was perhaps the end of my obsession ... until I discovered the British archaeological series Time Team on YouTube a year or two ago, and bored my long-suffering but polite colleagues with my enthusiasm.

***

This afternoon T. visited as I was making three rounds of cookies. As the supply of hot, chocolatey baked goods vanished, she advised watching a TV series or a film. In the end we watched The Dig, the drama based on the 1930s excavation of an Anglo-Saxon burial ship, in southeastern England.

Ralph Fiennes enters the scene as a gruff, laconic Briton who — from one of his earliest moments in the film, knocking at the front door to the disapproval of a butler, then standing by awkwardly — is conscious of his low social status in the stratified English society of the late 1930s. Self-taught, Basil Brown works as an excavator for archaeological digs, Roman and otherwise.

A rich widow with a wavy 1930s bob, an Agatha Christie-esque mansion that is all bay windows and wisteria, and clothing that alternates between flapper chic and cardigan respectability, Edith Pretty, has invited him to explore a series of earth mounds in a field on her estate.

She tells Brown, during the first discussion, that she 'has a feeling' about the largest earth mound. (Believing that the shape of the mound shows that its contents had already been looted, Brown declines to take her suggestion at first. But of course that's where the ship is buried.) The film draws heavy-handed parallels between the establishment's refusal to take Brown seriously because he is an untrained amateur from the lower classes, and Pretty's marginalization because she is a woman.

After a while the cast of archaeologist characters expands. I liked the character etc. acting in the film in general. I'm not sure if Ralph Fiennes was also aiming for an Academy Award nomination but his accent, posture, etc. were all conscientiously fitted to the role and consistently kept, and he does stand out.

As for the archaeology, I was a little appalled that the dig excavation wasn't marked off into neat squares and measured, so that each find could be photographed and recorded in context. But I'm not an expert on the evolution of historical methods of archaeology. All I know is that the method of digging a deep trench (and, apparently, neglecting to sift through the soil that's removed from an archaeological site in search of small finds that might be overlooked) is the typical magisterial methodology that was used by many early archaeologists. So the film may have gotten that right, even if a professional nowadays would shake his or her head.

What I did rightly question was that an untried young woman would be taken on at an archaeological excavation by seasoned professionals just because she was literally a lightweight. In real life Peggy Piggott already had experience when she worked at Sutton Hoo; and she went on to have an eminent, decades-long career in archaeology. Instead, Lily James is forced to play a ditsy role as the neglected young wife of a gay man who's the actual respected professional.

Also when a romantic tension is brewed between Basil Brown (who is married) and Edith Pretty just because they're of the opposite gender and inhabit the same movie plot, I wanted to hit my head on my desk. With the romance subplots I altogether had the uncomfortable feeling of prying into private business that I hate. Although the scene where a husband barges in on a bathroom only to see his own wife in the bathtub, and retreats in horror at the impropriety, is pretty funny and almost redeems it.

I felt that the tension of Edith Pretty's fear of dying and leaving her son to fend for himself, just as she and her son had already been left alone, and her son's fear and determination to find closure for her and for himself, were more absorbing subjects than the cringeworthy writerly matchmaking. The idea that a child might have wise ideas about life and death was gratifying, although of course there was a faint hint of kitsch and implausibility.

Carey Mulligan's approach to her character in general also lent interest and tension. She played her as a bit spoiled in her role as a queen of local society, posh in her diction and upbringing. At the same time, she was physically fragile and she also had an entirely different role in her private life: she was also motherly. Through it all she was aware of her vulnerable position as a woman whose father and husband had died, leaving her to represent her own interests in a world that ran roughshod over women or (in the case of the archaeological world) outsiders.

But she was let down a little by the screenwriting. The tinge of widow's desperation to find another man, leaving her to stare at her shattered dreams in a mirror when it didn't work out, seemed like a cheap stereotype. And I also felt that her love advice to Lily James's character was a little out of character.

The film did a fine job (as far as I know without having been there) of capturing the malaise of Britain when grim memories of World War I began to collide with the reality of preparations for a new war — signaled by the radio news, groups of recruits in khaki being ferried around in canvas-roofed automobiles for their training, and hordes of fighter jets flying in formation overhead — just before Hitler invaded Poland. The events end in around 1942, and the reality of air raids is signaled when Pretty is on a visit to a doctor in London.

As far as the cinematography goes, I didn't always find it appropriate. For example, the swooping camera view as Ralph Fiennes pedals his bicycle toward the mansion felt artificial; and then the handheld camera work with the haphazardly composed field of view when Brown first visits the Pretty mansion and the butler opens the door was a little meh. And I thought it was too unsubtle to mirror shots like Pretty's lonely walk down a sunken path to her husband's grave, with her walk down the trench into an Anglo-Saxon noble's grave — a meditation on death and grief across the ages, etc. Not to mention when Brown is curled in the fetal position and Pretty is also curled in the fetal position ... But the landscape looked luminous, warm fields and mists and raindrops on reeds and leafy trees ranged along the fields and meadows. And I appreciated that the flyovers of military aircraft did not look CGI'd.

The props, the farmyard where the Browns live, etc., were also pretty great. I liked the touches like Edith Pretty pouring water into an urn on her husband's grave before sticking in the roses and clearing up the petals that had fallen onto the grass — the everyday details of what people would be doing while talking, moving around, or thinking were well thought through. Although, shockingly, Robert Pretty never seems to go to school.

But I had doubts about the musical score. I found it invariably generic and too pompous: growing dramatic at the smallest touch of a shovel to the soil of Surrey, and not paying much homage to the time, place, or the subject at hand.

Anyway, after the film, I instantly Wikipedia-searched any biographical information I could lay my hands on. Perhaps due to the film and someone's resulting intention of accommodating the viewership with extra material, there's tons of gratifying detail to complete the picture.

Tech Culture and Everyday Sexism

I've finished reading Loathe at First Sight, which is packaged as a romance novel but is really a fictional look at American women in the computer gaming industry.

It's not a bad book. It reflected my own workplace, broadly speaking as a workplace in the technological sector that mainly employs younger people, 'through a funhouse mirror'. The Jira tickets, the 'deliverables' and project managers in charge of them, stand-up meetings, etc. were all familiar.

What I found less believable was that all of the heroine's projects were always ready on time; this is the exception rather than the norm in my experience. That said, I've only worked at one technological company so my ability to compare and generalize is tightly limited.

But as a romance the book rather failed, considering that what the leads know of each other is as much as someone could find out in a 10-minute conversation.

And from a psychological perspective I would say that it's frightening if people in their late twenties — as the main characters in the book are — still have such nuance-free views on personal relationships and professional behavioral standards.

(Note: I've been reading so many books lately that this one has faded in my memory a bit; sorry if I get any facts wrong.)

***

I'm not sure if the book is just written for teenagers and so it makes sense that adults think like high-schoolers, or if the book reflects the culture of the Pacific Northwest.

(I seem to remember that the book is set in Seattle, which I've never been to but is of course not that far away from Victoria and Vancouver.)

Crossroads in January

Work is a never-ending fountain of drama lately, and just as one spring bubbles down, another takes its place. Hopefully all of this is vague enough to preserve the anonymity and credit of the institution for which I work.

I said candidly in the team leaders' meeting on Monday that I felt that we needed to address what happened during Black Friday 2020, with regard to assigning new projects to teams that need to concentrate on meeting our old and new clients' expectations. There was agreement and so the idea was to ask for a 'retrospective' meeting run according to Agile principles, with the team leaders and management. Then we could figure out what to do differently next time. My suspicion is that management will not want a retrospective, but I might be wrong.

Anyway, I felt at last that I'd conscientiously and thoroughly thought everything through. I could pause the hamster wheel of thought, and no longer wake up in the night and not be able to go back to sleep, no longer stay awake until 4 a.m. because I was too worried. I'd just need to tell myself that I'd been over all of these problems and have come up with a few solutions and explanations. This week I've finally begun exercising regularly again, too.

So I thought that I might finally settle down. I had, for a while. But ever since my last 1-on-1 meeting with the now-CEO and a human resources colleague, I'd been sleeping badly because he didn't answer my question if there's a plan to coordinate task assignments during Black Friday 2021 so that my team is safe from Aug. 15th to Dec. 1st. He said that there were plans to have a steering committee, but was vague about what its aims would be.

... Then in a new meeting on Thursday — that's where the next round of drama began. This time it did not involve my team directly, so I'm temporarily cheerful. Besides I'd asked colleagues for 'spoilers' because I had no idea what the meeting was about when it was put on my calendar and I didn't want to be in suspense. After the meeting I started randomly chuckling for the rest of the day whenever I remembered that the CEO had said that I'd 'pushed for' the new teams that have in fact been making me miserable for months; T. (who was also in the meeting) also said that she found that part amusing. Presumably he meant 'pushed forward,' because I have participated in the planning for those new teams?

But hearing how exhausted and disillusioned other team leaders are was saddening. I remembered them being bouncy and resilient and calm, two months ago; but today either they were just having a bad day or there was a major metamorphosis. We talked about their perspective today; and by the evening I was so wound up and anxious that for the first part of my vocal coaching lesson after work, my coach just worked on restoring me to a halfway calm state again. But on the whole this one is a fight I can sit out; I've just thought of a few methods and techniques to try to create positive change in my own sphere of influence.

But, in general terms: If being in the company is ruining my health and I've lost faith in the leadership, I need to face up to what is happening to me and keep asking if it's worth the cost. But it's been so good to me in the past and of course I adore the colleagues ...

What I'm thinking of is gathering more technical skills that are still useful to me now, but also helpful elsewhere. Also, learning data science for journalism, and beginning to build up my competence in a new but semi-related direction.

Vienna New Year's Concert 2021

This year I was going to be less satirical about the Vienna Philharmonic's New Year's Concert. Maybe it is because I've grown up and finally appreciate the work that goes into the mini-films that accompany the Philharmonic's music. Or maybe it is because during a coronavirus lockdown I am desperate 1) for an event, 2) for armchair travel. But in the end I think I have relapsed to old habits.

The first glimpse of the orchestra on the stage of the Wiener Kunstverein, the hall itself vast ranks of empty benches, was a shock. Not wearing any masks, not noticeably distanced from each other, I was speculating 1) whether they'd just decided to infect each other, or 2) whether the musicians had been quarantined from the sight of family and friends or confined to a large and precarious 'bubble' like professional athletes, for the past two weeks. Their happy air hinted at a lighter regimen of corona testing instead.

[After that concert Mama was channel-surfing when we spotted another, really distanced concert. Chairs in regimented formation were dispersed across the stage and beyond the stage. A menacing army of masked singers was standing to attention and barking forth in post-apocalyptic form. A few extra singers, looking frankly like Hitchcock's birds, perched up in the loges in black gowns, standing in 3/4 profile for some reason. Everyone had a tortured expression on their faces, in service of the passion of the music perhaps or in general woe. I then felt better about the lack of masks in Vienna — from an aesthetic perspective.]

When the music began, conductor Riccardo Muti — he's said he trusts the Vienna Philharmonic to run themselves, but I suspect that the presence of an audience usually inspires him to greater efforts — looked almost bored at the podium. Then he decided to infuse showmanship here and there, hopping up and down once in a way that impressed me considering he's no longer twenty, and then apparently ducking underneath his music stand to look for cobwebs. But he seemed never to stop feeling weird when he turned away from the musicians and bowed toward an imaginary audience/a single cameraman.

Moving on from corona, I had feminist doubts about part of the way the orchestra was presented. In my view, the surface differences between the female and male musicians could barely have been emphasized more: heavy eyeshadow, the blush on one lady that you can spot from fifty yards, false eyelashes, and ostentatiously styled hair. Whereas a few men displayed heartening symptoms of a 'corona haircut' in the uneven strands draping the napes of their necks, etc. Perhaps they were permitted to concentrate on the music. If it was the women's own choice I sincerely apologize and of course television make-up is never subtle; but I could not imagine focusing on music with that much going on in my face.

The flowers were unusually prolific in the concert hall this year: roses, lilies, carnations, orchids, etc., and unfortunately the anthuriums for which I will uninventively recycle the term 'butt-ugly.' This year the anthuriums were largely pale green, floating around the flower arrangements like lily pads in a garden pond, and pale pink; the pale pink ones were worse and their artificial bubblegum shine highly suggested plumbing cleaning fluid and u-bend pipes to me. Later on, two taxidermied birds were propped in the blossoms. The second one, a nice little yellow bird, was fine; but the first, a larger concoction which looked like a parrot that had been stuffed underneath a couch cushion and had reemerged with a vague tousled stump instead of an identifiable head, was a little disconcerting.

This year there was less Strauss music than usual, I felt, with Franz von Suppé, Carl Zeller, Carl Millöcker and Klaus Komzák compositions mixed in. It had less energy in the first half of the concert, more energy in the second half; I think what also really helped is that the musicians made a little noise at the end of pieces in the second half by tapping their music stands to applaud soloists — the percussionist who handled the cuckoo box and the bird whistle, the harpist, etc. It was less incredibly creepy than the faceless applause that was streamed in from live volunteer listeners. The musicians had to stand and accept this applause at length with pained grins as they stared at the empty auditorium; it felt mechanical and to be honest rather dehumanizing.

***

During the intermission, there was of course the film that annually celebrates Austrian tourist destinations with excerpts of chamber music. This time it celebrated a centenary of the Burgenland state in Austria.

As the start year was 1921, we were led around the Burgenland landscape by a young man who wore early 20th-century motoring breeches, a jacket and goggles as he conducted a dazzlingly clean motorcar (they must have wiped down the windshield between takes to get rid of the bugs and dirt) through the leafy green forests and hilly fields.

Independently, the camera showed gleaming white plastered churches and further landscapes like fields of sunflowers that could barely have been filmed in a cheesier way.

The time setting was a little uncanny: 1921 was of course soon after World War I and I couldn't help thinking that war amputees, shell-shock and poverty would have been a more frequent sight in Austria at the time.

As part of the 'plot,' the young man (it turns out based on the official notes that he is supposed to be an American GI tasked with drawing the new borders between Austria's Burgenland and Hungarian territory according to the peace agreement) would peer through telescopes embedded in land surveyor's equipment, and make stops to photograph farms where peasantry chopped wood for kindling, etc., in traditional shirts and dirndls. This celebration of rural customs was unluckily a little reminiscent of 1920s and 30s homeland propaganda. Anyway, the young man would group together the peasants in doubtful lighting conditions, lift another period camera that must have been kindly loaned to the production crew by a museum, and then make another haphazardly composed photo.

(I might sound needlessly mean by talking about the photo composition, but one thing I've noticed about early black-and-white photography is that there was an artistic ethos to it, where the photographer always wanted the proportions to be accurate in a way that reflects traditional painting and sketching, more than photography as an independent medium. For example, I think — and, yes, this is a bit of a 'hot take' — that Ansel Adams is generally more an Expressionist painter on film than someone who took photographs as photographs. So the sloppy composition of the film's amateur photographer felt like a historical anachronism that I'm willing to be pedantic about.)

Maybe the film production had qualms of their own re. superficial echoes of Nazi propaganda. When the camera glided away to show a crew of five uniformed men trooping up a tower for a ceremony that involved swinging a large gilded white flag from the top (and no I still don't know what that was about), green boughs and red roses were thoughtfully taped to the barrels of their rifles to show that they came in peace.

Anyway, then the film paid tribute to Franz Liszt, who lived in the Burgenland. A trio of a pianist (a lady who wore a bright red gown to keep her apart from the male musicians who were clad in standard, more nondescript professional concert attire ... honestly), a cellist, and a violinist sat or stood on the green sward beside a bland pedestal with an oversized bronze bust of Liszt on top that looked it might fall over at any moment because it was so top-heavy. The music itself was a little... pounding, but that's just Liszt. Haydn's trio that was turned into the melody of the German national anthem, played by a different group of colleagues earlier in the intermission, was a little friendlier.

Then the film ended with a trio on a flat tourist boat on an empty lake, the sun setting in the background.

These landscape concerts always require me to cross my fingers, clap my hands and very strongly believe that a) the instruments are perfectly safe from harm, and b) that the acoustics are remotely like the pre-recorded ones we're hearing.

On the boat I imagine there must have been a loud flapping noise from the ship's flags, a loud roaring noise from the motor and a loud blustering noise from the wind.

Again, I stewed a bit because of my feminist convictions. The lady musician was given a powder-blue blazer that matched the colour of the boat (why?), while the gentlemen as I recall wore regular, monochrome suits. Likely I'm over-interpreting, but this arrangement where the gentleman is the visual stem and the lady is the visual flower is a gendered trope I'd expect more from an André Rieu concert where feminism is a faraway evil banished from this technicolour paradise. (Note: I do not actually have an idea of Rieu's stances on gender issues.) It's true the violinist looked fine enough with the adventure. If the women are going to look differently from how professionals in the Vienna Philharmonic usually look, though, the men should also be wearing crimson apparel or pastel blazers. If that's not going to happen, the film production crew should think why that doesn't make sense to them.

***

Later, in the second half, the dancers appeared. This year the costumes were by Christian Lacroix, acid-colored ensembles that were ruched for the larger dance, a little raunchy but still elegant, cannily adapted the 1920s aesthetic even if Lacroix himself is more 1980s. The ballet dancers cavorted in pointe shoes across closely cropped lawns and gravel paths, which made me shudder; it might be just because I do beginner's ballet but it seems like a messy and risky type of ground to dance on. This year I liked the choreography, however, and the acting.

There were two dances, of course, to illustrate different compositions on the musical programme. One was the more classic dance at the Gartenpalais Liechtenstein in Vienna. Then there was another dance in an opulent 1900s bank/department store house designed by Adolf Loos* with mirrors and wooden panelling: picture a little Edouard Manet and Auguste Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec mixed with a little Alphonse Mucha, and then you have it. The dance had influences of tango in it, the shoes had heels, and the dancers' costumes were drop-waisted and flapperish. Three women flirted with a man and two danced along with each other, and that was the plot; and one woman ended up being chosen while the other two philosophically shrugged their shoulders, and that was it. I was, for once, not offended.

* The Wikipedia article amusingly narrates that "It was said that Emperor Franz Joseph had not only avoided passing next to Looshaus for the rest of his life by using the exit at the Michaelerplatz, but also had to leave the windows of the Hofburg nailed so that he did not have to see the 'hideous' house anymore."

Many arabesques, leaps and pirouettes were performed in risky-looking places. For example, right at a glass platform with a stately carriage in the Gartenpalais. (I thought this was for the Kaiserwaltz, where aside from mustache-heavy portraits of 19th and 20th century Emperors and the burlesque red and gold furnishings of a formal room, we were also treated to opulent portraits of Empress Sissi. But since the Gartenpalais celebrates the royal family of Liechtenstein instead, I must be wrong and I'm probably thinking of images from that were screened without any dancing, later on.) Or, in the 1900s house dance, the dancers were swinging their legs right at thin white freestanding joists in a low roof, or the mirrors and gilt railings ... I almost literally had my hands glued to my cheeks like the scream emoji.

The 1900s house perils recalled the James Bond film The Living Daylights. Specifically, the scene where the American arms dealer who has an obsession with toy soldier battles has a final showdown with Bond in a roomful of glass cases and sculptures. But nobody whistled "Rule Britannia," there were no glass shards or blood spatters, and the dancers were all safe in the end.

***

While a representative of the orchestra also spoke earlier (in German and in English) to offer the music as an emblem of hope, the conductor Riccardo Muti also took the opportunity to address the heads of state who like watching the concert. He said that there was medicine for the body, but also medicine for the mind; music is medicine for the mind. He hoped that governments would recognize that culture — and I was glad that here he was speaking of all forms of music and other culture, not the Vienna Philharmonic or classical music narrowly — is a primary need. I thought it was a brave and helpful message. Then came the Prosit Neujahr! greeting, and the Blue Danube Waltz encore, as it does every year. And then the Radetzky March...

My annual modus operandi for the Radetzky March in the New Year's Concert programme is to drag a blanket or hoodie over my head, dramatically moaning in horror and anguish at this darned March, as one or two family member laugh with a startling lack of empathy.

But this time I was wondering how the concert organizers would handle the clapping that the audience usually contributes to the piece, which is the part I detest most. So I stayed unblanketed, and was rewarded because... This year there was no clapping! (Well, all right, there was clapping from two of my brothers and Mama, but not. from. me.)

At last, after seventeen years of dedicated dislike — and of course I am a misanthrope for preferring the silence of humans there — I almost liked that encore.

***

Disclaimer: I've undoubtedly mixed up many details. Official, but German-language, details of the concert are here:

"Neujahrskonzert der Wiener Philharmoniker 2021: ORF überträgt zum 63. Mal live im TV – erstmals ohne Saalpublikum" [ORF]

"„Neujahrskonzert der Wiener Philharmoniker 2021“ live in ORF 2 und Ö1" [ORF]

"Neujahrskonzert 2021 mit Riccardo Muti" [Wiener Philharmoniker]