Just a quick note ladies and gentleman that the launch night for Uroborus journal will be taking place next Monday (17th October) at the West Street Live in Sheffield. More details can be found on the website,
http://uroborus.weebly.com/
also a massive thank you to the Off The Shelf Festival who have allowed the event to be part of their programme http://www.offtheshelf.org.uk/
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Sunday, 24 July 2011
Don Paterson - The Lie
So the third and final of my Lyric festival blog posts is about Don Paterson. He has a sort of melancholic/haunted look in his eyes like he knows the world is going to dump seething piles of excrement upon him and he can't do anything about it but is otherwise a very charismatic man. It was also quite interesting in that in any blurb about him they always make a passing reference to his desire to be a jazz musician which I hadn't given much thought to until he kept taking breaks in his performance to play an acoustic guitar along with a humerous aside about vasaline...
His poems were as high quality as I was hoping, the unexpected gem was when he explained that he had challenged himself to write a series of sonnets this year and read one that he had written about the TV show House! It had a rather epic feel, referring to him as the 'crippled god' although I may be biased by my love of the show..
The best he read that I can actually find the words to however is this...
Don Paterson - The Lie
As was my custom, I’d risen a full hour
before the house had woken to make sure
that everything was in order with The Lie,
his drip changed and his shackles all secure.
I was by then so practiced in this chore
I’d counted maybe thirteen years or more
since last I’d felt the urge to meet his eye.
Such, I liked to think, was our rapport.
I was at full stretch to test some ligature
when I must have caught a ragged thread, and tore
his gag away; though as he made no cry,
I kept on with my checking as before.
Why do you call me The Lie? he said. I swore:
it was a child’s voice. I looked up from the floor.
The dark had turned his eyes to milk and sky
and his arms and legs were all one scarlet sore.
He was a boy of maybe three or four.
His straps and chains were all the things he wore.
Knowing I could make him no reply
I took the gag before he could say more
and put it back as tight as it would tie
and locked the door and locked the door and locked the door
The ritual is a great way of opening as it frames the way we approach a lie - as something that requires maintenance. It makes me think of Don Draper in Mad Men constantly working to hide the fact that he isn't who he says he is and removing all traces of evidence(As an aside Don Paterson said that he had been watching Mad Men and one of his conclusions was that Don was the one person everyone wished they were - I completely disagree but that is another rant).
I particularly like the fact that the lie is a child, because it shows a sense of innocence. In all honesty it is we that confer importance, whether white or dread, upon a lie and is meaningless and unknowing in itself which makes it seem all the more fitting.
The fact that it questions him, perhaps a metaphor for the why our lies question our identity. Why do we feel a need to support the lie? What does it tell us about ourselves? What we need to hide or more importantly protect? But then again the point we often don't attempt to confront the lie we hide from it and lock the door and lock the door and lock the door.
The final line that is ace with its furious repetition, like scouring skin with soap until it is raw to get some unseen dirt out. It also manages to maintain the rhyme scheme which I am pretending isn't there...
His poems were as high quality as I was hoping, the unexpected gem was when he explained that he had challenged himself to write a series of sonnets this year and read one that he had written about the TV show House! It had a rather epic feel, referring to him as the 'crippled god' although I may be biased by my love of the show..
The best he read that I can actually find the words to however is this...
Don Paterson - The Lie
As was my custom, I’d risen a full hour
before the house had woken to make sure
that everything was in order with The Lie,
his drip changed and his shackles all secure.
I was by then so practiced in this chore
I’d counted maybe thirteen years or more
since last I’d felt the urge to meet his eye.
Such, I liked to think, was our rapport.
I was at full stretch to test some ligature
when I must have caught a ragged thread, and tore
his gag away; though as he made no cry,
I kept on with my checking as before.
Why do you call me The Lie? he said. I swore:
it was a child’s voice. I looked up from the floor.
The dark had turned his eyes to milk and sky
and his arms and legs were all one scarlet sore.
He was a boy of maybe three or four.
His straps and chains were all the things he wore.
Knowing I could make him no reply
I took the gag before he could say more
and put it back as tight as it would tie
and locked the door and locked the door and locked the door
The ritual is a great way of opening as it frames the way we approach a lie - as something that requires maintenance. It makes me think of Don Draper in Mad Men constantly working to hide the fact that he isn't who he says he is and removing all traces of evidence(As an aside Don Paterson said that he had been watching Mad Men and one of his conclusions was that Don was the one person everyone wished they were - I completely disagree but that is another rant).
I particularly like the fact that the lie is a child, because it shows a sense of innocence. In all honesty it is we that confer importance, whether white or dread, upon a lie and is meaningless and unknowing in itself which makes it seem all the more fitting.
The fact that it questions him, perhaps a metaphor for the why our lies question our identity. Why do we feel a need to support the lie? What does it tell us about ourselves? What we need to hide or more importantly protect? But then again the point we often don't attempt to confront the lie we hide from it and lock the door and lock the door and lock the door.
The final line that is ace with its furious repetition, like scouring skin with soap until it is raw to get some unseen dirt out. It also manages to maintain the rhyme scheme which I am pretending isn't there...
Thursday, 14 July 2011
Carol Ann Duffy - Cold
The second of my three part Sheffield Lyric Festival update is about Carol Ann Duffy and I have to say I was rather disappointed.
The first reason is that the main part of a poetry performance is the Poet's ability to bring you in. When I saw Paul Muldoon, none of the poems he read particularly spoke to me but he had such a warm and welcoming body language with a soothing voice that he made me feel like I was part of an experience. Carol Ann Duffy on the other hand is very difficult to connect with as although the words she used were warm and friendly her voice was very terse and her body language very cloed and negative. She looked as if she should be standing on a cliff while storms rage around her and pounding rain attempts to make even the slightest impression on her stony face.
The second reason is that there appears to be two types of Carol Ann Duffy poems. They are either, dark visceral things pregnant with meaning or quite naff lists. She read a lot of these lists and although I'm sure there are a lot of people who appreciate them, otherwise she would not be a successful poet, but hearing her do things such as reel off a list of pub names made me yawn.
The best poem she read that day was one of the former and was called Cold.
Carol Ann Duffy - Cold
It felt so cold, the snowball which wept in my hands,
and when I rolled it along in the snow, it grew
till I could sit on it, looking back at the house,
where it was cold when I woke in my room, the windows
blind with ice, my breath undressing itself on the air.
Cold, too, embracing the torso of snow which I lifted up
in my arms to build a snowman, my toes, burning, cold
in my winter boots; my mother’s voice calling me in
from the cold. And her hands were cold from peeling
then dipping potatoes into a bowl, stopping to cup
her daughter’s face, a kiss for both cold cheeks, my cold nose.
But nothing so cold as the February night I opened the door
in the Chapel of Rest where my mother lay, neither young, nor old,
where my lips, returning her kiss to her brow, knew the meaning of cold.
The power to this hangs in the last three lines. As through all the constant mention of 'Cold' in a full range of senses, the sight of it, the feel of it and the simple matter of being told you are it reinforces the assumption that you would know what it is. But the revelation of its true meaning only becoming apparent at her Mother's deathbed, like the earth opening up below her feet to allow a sensation to rush it and consume her to the core, that's power.
Perhaps the list poems are required in a performance to make notes like this stand out?
The first reason is that the main part of a poetry performance is the Poet's ability to bring you in. When I saw Paul Muldoon, none of the poems he read particularly spoke to me but he had such a warm and welcoming body language with a soothing voice that he made me feel like I was part of an experience. Carol Ann Duffy on the other hand is very difficult to connect with as although the words she used were warm and friendly her voice was very terse and her body language very cloed and negative. She looked as if she should be standing on a cliff while storms rage around her and pounding rain attempts to make even the slightest impression on her stony face.
The second reason is that there appears to be two types of Carol Ann Duffy poems. They are either, dark visceral things pregnant with meaning or quite naff lists. She read a lot of these lists and although I'm sure there are a lot of people who appreciate them, otherwise she would not be a successful poet, but hearing her do things such as reel off a list of pub names made me yawn.
The best poem she read that day was one of the former and was called Cold.
Carol Ann Duffy - Cold
It felt so cold, the snowball which wept in my hands,
and when I rolled it along in the snow, it grew
till I could sit on it, looking back at the house,
where it was cold when I woke in my room, the windows
blind with ice, my breath undressing itself on the air.
Cold, too, embracing the torso of snow which I lifted up
in my arms to build a snowman, my toes, burning, cold
in my winter boots; my mother’s voice calling me in
from the cold. And her hands were cold from peeling
then dipping potatoes into a bowl, stopping to cup
her daughter’s face, a kiss for both cold cheeks, my cold nose.
But nothing so cold as the February night I opened the door
in the Chapel of Rest where my mother lay, neither young, nor old,
where my lips, returning her kiss to her brow, knew the meaning of cold.
The power to this hangs in the last three lines. As through all the constant mention of 'Cold' in a full range of senses, the sight of it, the feel of it and the simple matter of being told you are it reinforces the assumption that you would know what it is. But the revelation of its true meaning only becoming apparent at her Mother's deathbed, like the earth opening up below her feet to allow a sensation to rush it and consume her to the core, that's power.
Perhaps the list poems are required in a performance to make notes like this stand out?
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Simon Armitage - The Christening
As always I find time quite a scary thing in that I have been meaning to write a trio of posts about Sheffield's Lyric Festival which took place in May and it is now already July. *shiver* but I am going to set myself a challenge dear readers to give you an update once a week! Bets are now on to see if I actually manage it...
So the Sheffield Lyric Festival, snuck up on me because it was a series of really brilliant, free events organised by Sheffield University and the advertising for it was appalling. If it hadn't been mentioned in passing by someone at a writing day I wouldn't have realised it happened!
Complaint aside, the first event I went to was the inaugural lecture of Simon Armitage. It was called the slim volume and the idiot lantern and was billed as a discussion about the relationship between poetry and TV but was essentially Simon talking about his career history and the half poetry half documentaries he'd done.
Now I never used to like Simon Armitage, his stuff I had seen on the written page had never worked for me and I had seen some of his poetry documentaries - namely porn the musical - and I though they were rubbish. Still do in fact and they had me thinking for a long time that all of his work was an 'I am a (insert long word that has nothing to do with anything)'.
However all this changed when I actually saw him perform live at Sheffield's Off The Shelf festival 2010. So I'm not going to get you to read his work, I won't you to click on the following link for the The Christening being read at another festival.
http://vimeo.com/2054023
When I read this poem I thought it was crap and just couldn't get on with the juxtaposition of Whale facts and slices of pop culture. it jarred and forced me out of the piece but listening to him read it, the work flows naturally. I can appreciate that it is a single voice and so his thought about the Green Party and the fact his song his available on compact disc suddenly becomes not just humorous but an obvious thing for a whale to comment on. There is a certain magic in his voice the page can't capture.
So my advice if you're wanting to encounter Armitage and really appreciate - don't read him, go listen to him. Be warned you may end up being converted...
So the Sheffield Lyric Festival, snuck up on me because it was a series of really brilliant, free events organised by Sheffield University and the advertising for it was appalling. If it hadn't been mentioned in passing by someone at a writing day I wouldn't have realised it happened!
Complaint aside, the first event I went to was the inaugural lecture of Simon Armitage. It was called the slim volume and the idiot lantern and was billed as a discussion about the relationship between poetry and TV but was essentially Simon talking about his career history and the half poetry half documentaries he'd done.
Now I never used to like Simon Armitage, his stuff I had seen on the written page had never worked for me and I had seen some of his poetry documentaries - namely porn the musical - and I though they were rubbish. Still do in fact and they had me thinking for a long time that all of his work was an 'I am a (insert long word that has nothing to do with anything)'.
However all this changed when I actually saw him perform live at Sheffield's Off The Shelf festival 2010. So I'm not going to get you to read his work, I won't you to click on the following link for the The Christening being read at another festival.
http://vimeo.com/2054023
When I read this poem I thought it was crap and just couldn't get on with the juxtaposition of Whale facts and slices of pop culture. it jarred and forced me out of the piece but listening to him read it, the work flows naturally. I can appreciate that it is a single voice and so his thought about the Green Party and the fact his song his available on compact disc suddenly becomes not just humorous but an obvious thing for a whale to comment on. There is a certain magic in his voice the page can't capture.
So my advice if you're wanting to encounter Armitage and really appreciate - don't read him, go listen to him. Be warned you may end up being converted...
Monday, 16 May 2011
Dino Merlin - Love in Rewind
So another Eurovision rolled round and this was one of those years which involved a gaggle of us shouting at the TV while drinking and much fun was had by all.
The majority of songs are sung in English and I'm sure its a source of much frustration to other countries but it does throw up some interesting uses of the language. Some are quite cringe worthy, like a couple of years ago when a Russian trio of girls sang about their asses being spun round, while others can be really thought provoking.
The one that got the grey matter cogitating this time was Bosnia and Herzegovina's entry by Dino Merlin called 'Love in Rewind'.
The chorus is about if the singer should die today, what would he leave behind. Now there are all sorts of objects, legacies, ideas and descendants that could be left behind but for the singer it will just be a couple of songs and whoever he is speaking to's 'love in rewind'. Now I find that a really beautiful idea, as if their entire relationship has been building up this moment and now it will unravel backwards - reliving each embrace, tryst and whispered word until they are nothing more but strangers again passing each other in a crowd.
Now I don't think it is an especially good song (my vote would have been for the cheesiness of Sweden's 'Popular' or the sheer sillyness of the gnomes of Moldova!) but it is catchy enough.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQsrGBDUtM8
The majority of songs are sung in English and I'm sure its a source of much frustration to other countries but it does throw up some interesting uses of the language. Some are quite cringe worthy, like a couple of years ago when a Russian trio of girls sang about their asses being spun round, while others can be really thought provoking.
The one that got the grey matter cogitating this time was Bosnia and Herzegovina's entry by Dino Merlin called 'Love in Rewind'.
The chorus is about if the singer should die today, what would he leave behind. Now there are all sorts of objects, legacies, ideas and descendants that could be left behind but for the singer it will just be a couple of songs and whoever he is speaking to's 'love in rewind'. Now I find that a really beautiful idea, as if their entire relationship has been building up this moment and now it will unravel backwards - reliving each embrace, tryst and whispered word until they are nothing more but strangers again passing each other in a crowd.
Now I don't think it is an especially good song (my vote would have been for the cheesiness of Sweden's 'Popular' or the sheer sillyness of the gnomes of Moldova!) but it is catchy enough.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQsrGBDUtM8
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Gooogle by Adam O'Riordan
Ok ladies and gentleman we are going to break from the usual text based format to include a You Tube link! I'm not sure if anyone else has noticed but whenever someone assumes the mantle/guise/pretention of poet they develop 'Poet's Voice'. I know I'm afflicted and Adam is a definite example of what I mean...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ogVYJI86yE
At a poetry business writing day I produced a poem about the internet which I decided to workshop and one of the attendees recommended I hunt down this poem. As a result when I first heard it I didn't like the second half, my mind was more interested in the men interacting with the internet but after listening to it a second time I can see the homecoming queens as part of their journey - that it is not about them but the men's desire for what they meant and still mean to them.
The imagery is fantastic in this piece, men being described as Geishas not only conjures an idea of devotion and unnatural beauty but removes them from their archetypal dominant position. Describing the movement of their fingers as crickets is a beautiful way to capture the sound of keys being tapped. There is also a lot of effective dual imagery; stoking engines provides both that mental imagine of driving the metaphorical engine that is these mens' desires and fuelling the search engines where their obsessions are cast.
The best example of this duality is the final line as although at first it seems a bit cliche and tangential the more I think of it the more I find it extremely clever as he combines seamlessly the real and the intangible. At once the line is both a sign that these men have been searching lost loves so long that the dawn has arrived and that on this day there is an interesting development within the sky while on a more fantastic sense it is as if the Roman goddess of love her self has entered to bear witness to her lonely disciples and reinforcing the overarching them of a yearning for a lover.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ogVYJI86yE
At a poetry business writing day I produced a poem about the internet which I decided to workshop and one of the attendees recommended I hunt down this poem. As a result when I first heard it I didn't like the second half, my mind was more interested in the men interacting with the internet but after listening to it a second time I can see the homecoming queens as part of their journey - that it is not about them but the men's desire for what they meant and still mean to them.
The imagery is fantastic in this piece, men being described as Geishas not only conjures an idea of devotion and unnatural beauty but removes them from their archetypal dominant position. Describing the movement of their fingers as crickets is a beautiful way to capture the sound of keys being tapped. There is also a lot of effective dual imagery; stoking engines provides both that mental imagine of driving the metaphorical engine that is these mens' desires and fuelling the search engines where their obsessions are cast.
The best example of this duality is the final line as although at first it seems a bit cliche and tangential the more I think of it the more I find it extremely clever as he combines seamlessly the real and the intangible. At once the line is both a sign that these men have been searching lost loves so long that the dawn has arrived and that on this day there is an interesting development within the sky while on a more fantastic sense it is as if the Roman goddess of love her self has entered to bear witness to her lonely disciples and reinforcing the overarching them of a yearning for a lover.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
Sunday, 6 February 2011
What Were They Like? - Denise Levertov
I was at the January writing day held by the Poetry Business and one of the writing exercises was to produce a poem in the style of the following.
What Were They Like? - Denise Levertov
1) Did the people of Viet Nam
use lanterns of stone?
2) Did they hold ceremonies
to reverence the opening of buds?
3) Were they inclined to quiet laughter?
4) Did they use bone and ivory,
jade and silver, for ornament?
5) Had they an epic poem?
6) Did they distinguish between speech and singing?
1) Sir, their light hearts turned to stone.
2) It is not remembered whether in gardens
stone gardens illumined pleasant ways.
Perhaps they gathered once to delight in blossom,
but after their children were killed
there were no more buds.
3) Sir, laughter is bitter to the burned mouth.
4) A dream ago, perhaps. Ornament is for joy.
All the bones were charred.
5) it is not remembered. Remember,
most were peasants; their life
was in rice and bamboo.
When peaceful clouds were reflected in the paddies
and the water buffalo stepped surely along terraces,
maybe fathers told their sons old tales.
When bombs smashed those mirrors
there was time only to scream.
6) There is an echo yet
of their speech which was like a song.
It was reported their singing resembled
the flight of moths in moonlight.
Who can say? It is silent now.
This is an utterly brilliant anti-war piece, especially as it does not specifically mention the war, who the aggressors are or the cause for it. It creates a brilliant dialogue in your head between the poet telling you what has been done to the Vietnamese and your own thoughts and understanding of the war. This flicking from one to another mirrors exactly what you do on the page as you match question to response.
What really shines though is the sheer sorrow that something beautiful has been taken from the world; the poem forces you to embrace the loss. Especially with such ugly lines as 'Sir, laughter is bitter to the burned mouth.'
So the piece I produced from this writing exercise is below, inspired by the fact that a few music venues in Sheffield seem to have closed recently. It pales in comparison but if one does not practice they cannot improve. There was a silence after I read this and I'm not sure if its because I hit the spot or everyone was unimpressed.
The Quiet Death of Live Music - Martin Collins
1) What happened to the musicians?
2) What happened to the concerts?
3) What happened to the venues?
1) Everyone loved them for their sound.
Peoples dreams rose on their notes
but no one would pay them.
so they were forced into day jobs
and played outros to the crescent moon.
2) There were always those who would not pay.
There were always who would not go out.
but then there was a new breed,
wanting to see the world only throuh a screen,
so the concerts grew empty.
3) The venues went to extremes.
They put on bands for free even though it cost.
hoping people would buy drinks which they would not.
They gambled on expensive bands, charging high door prices
and hoping the expenditure would pay off.
Either way, eventually they died.
What Were They Like? - Denise Levertov
1) Did the people of Viet Nam
use lanterns of stone?
2) Did they hold ceremonies
to reverence the opening of buds?
3) Were they inclined to quiet laughter?
4) Did they use bone and ivory,
jade and silver, for ornament?
5) Had they an epic poem?
6) Did they distinguish between speech and singing?
1) Sir, their light hearts turned to stone.
2) It is not remembered whether in gardens
stone gardens illumined pleasant ways.
Perhaps they gathered once to delight in blossom,
but after their children were killed
there were no more buds.
3) Sir, laughter is bitter to the burned mouth.
4) A dream ago, perhaps. Ornament is for joy.
All the bones were charred.
5) it is not remembered. Remember,
most were peasants; their life
was in rice and bamboo.
When peaceful clouds were reflected in the paddies
and the water buffalo stepped surely along terraces,
maybe fathers told their sons old tales.
When bombs smashed those mirrors
there was time only to scream.
6) There is an echo yet
of their speech which was like a song.
It was reported their singing resembled
the flight of moths in moonlight.
Who can say? It is silent now.
This is an utterly brilliant anti-war piece, especially as it does not specifically mention the war, who the aggressors are or the cause for it. It creates a brilliant dialogue in your head between the poet telling you what has been done to the Vietnamese and your own thoughts and understanding of the war. This flicking from one to another mirrors exactly what you do on the page as you match question to response.
What really shines though is the sheer sorrow that something beautiful has been taken from the world; the poem forces you to embrace the loss. Especially with such ugly lines as 'Sir, laughter is bitter to the burned mouth.'
So the piece I produced from this writing exercise is below, inspired by the fact that a few music venues in Sheffield seem to have closed recently. It pales in comparison but if one does not practice they cannot improve. There was a silence after I read this and I'm not sure if its because I hit the spot or everyone was unimpressed.
The Quiet Death of Live Music - Martin Collins
1) What happened to the musicians?
2) What happened to the concerts?
3) What happened to the venues?
1) Everyone loved them for their sound.
Peoples dreams rose on their notes
but no one would pay them.
so they were forced into day jobs
and played outros to the crescent moon.
2) There were always those who would not pay.
There were always who would not go out.
but then there was a new breed,
wanting to see the world only throuh a screen,
so the concerts grew empty.
3) The venues went to extremes.
They put on bands for free even though it cost.
hoping people would buy drinks which they would not.
They gambled on expensive bands, charging high door prices
and hoping the expenditure would pay off.
Either way, eventually they died.
Saturday, 22 January 2011
Uroborus - Opportunity to showcase artisitic/writing talents!
Uroborus is most commonly seen as a serpent locked in a constant cycle of eating its own tail. The image is used to represent the eternity of nature, creation being consumed by destruction only to bloom once more into the infinite.
Art is equally cyclical and as the greats of our time rise, they are destined to fall and be replaced by others.
I intend to produce an A5 journal under the guise of Oroborus showcasing new creative talents and in order to help each one rise, all contributors will be asked for a brief bio and some form of contact details (whether it be a website, email address or twitter).
This journal will not only be for people to get more of their work out there, but to also have the opportunity for interested parties to contact them about it.
So, if you want to take part then I will gratefully accept submissions on any subject to the e-mail address erranttentacles [AT] googlemail.com in the following formats:
Poems
Short Stories
Commentary
Artwork
Photography
Comics
Please keep in mind that everything needs to be able to fit on A5 pages, maximum submission lengths for written work is 2 pages, for comics 4 pages and artwork 2 but bear in mind only the cover and its inside will be printed in colour so once those 4 have been taken up only black and white submissions can be taken for the inside.
The aim is to have the first edition out by June and a website will be created to coincide with the release. From then on it will be quarterly.
Disclaimer time>
I'm afraid I cannot guarantee that all submissions will be included in the publication but you will be informed whether your work is included or not.
Unfortunately I cannot promise feedback either due to time constraints.
Copyright of all work remains with the creator.
Art is equally cyclical and as the greats of our time rise, they are destined to fall and be replaced by others.
I intend to produce an A5 journal under the guise of Oroborus showcasing new creative talents and in order to help each one rise, all contributors will be asked for a brief bio and some form of contact details (whether it be a website, email address or twitter).
This journal will not only be for people to get more of their work out there, but to also have the opportunity for interested parties to contact them about it.
So, if you want to take part then I will gratefully accept submissions on any subject to the e-mail address erranttentacles [AT] googlemail.com in the following formats:
Poems
Short Stories
Commentary
Artwork
Photography
Comics
Please keep in mind that everything needs to be able to fit on A5 pages, maximum submission lengths for written work is 2 pages, for comics 4 pages and artwork 2 but bear in mind only the cover and its inside will be printed in colour so once those 4 have been taken up only black and white submissions can be taken for the inside.
The aim is to have the first edition out by June and a website will be created to coincide with the release. From then on it will be quarterly.
Disclaimer time>
I'm afraid I cannot guarantee that all submissions will be included in the publication but you will be informed whether your work is included or not.
Unfortunately I cannot promise feedback either due to time constraints.
Copyright of all work remains with the creator.
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