Reminiscing

Two days ago, I was driving around KL. Seeing as how it was 9.30am on a weekday morning, I had a relatively quiet drive, and as usual when things are quiet, my mind starts to wander. This time, it wandered to the Rayas of my childhood.

I remember how as a child, Raya was a holiday to look forward to. Well, we looked forward to every excuse to not go to school, but Rayas were something else, something extraordinarily special.

Raya meant that we would be going back to my grandparents' in Muar! It meant that I'd get to see my cousins for extended play sessions! It meant lots and lots of yummy grub, all day long. It meant pretty new clothes and the chance to wear them nice, shiny necklaces and bracelets we were so rarely allowed to touch. Most of all - and best of all - was DUIT RAYA!! *G*

Raya holidays were always the same. The morning before Raya, Mum would pack us four kids into her Volvo station wagon. She'd lay the seats flat and spread a mattress in the back. Then, she'd heap us all onto the mattress along with a jillion pillows, blankets and cushions and pack the bags right at the rear door so that in the event the door spontaneously pops open the bags would go first before her precious children. And as soon as she had the bags wedged against the rear door to her satisfaction, she'd order us to lie down, close our eyes, shut up and go to sleep, she didn't want to hear a peep from us, not a single peeeeeep the entire drive to Tok's house. The amazing thing is, we would actually DO it; shut up, close our eyes and almost burst from not uttering a single peep. We didn't dare. That woman terrified us. *smile*

But thanks to the sleep we got (albeit forced), we would jump out of the car the moment we arrived at my grandparents' house and be ready to join in whatever game that was in progress. Kejar-kejar, police-and-thief, galah panjang, ketingting, you name it. Thing is, as small children my siblings and I spoke barely a word of Malay whereas our cousins spoke almost nothing but. I have no idea how we managed to communicate, but I suppose we did - and communicated well at that - as small children are wont to do, regardless of languages spoken. I don't remember it ever being much of a problem.

There were about twenty of us grandchildren when I was that age. More came later, but when I was a kid, there were only two sets: the teenagers, and us. There were about ten of us younger kids and we stuck together.

My grandparents had a few fruit trees on their modest plot of land. I remember one Raya when we were all playing, and a male cousin my age came up with the brilliant idea of climbing up one of the trees. Nobody else thought it was a good idea, but he talked soft-hearted me into climbing it with him. His pleas were heart-wrenching. So he and I climbed up this lovely-looking tree .. and what surprises awaited us! A few branches up, we spied a beautiful bunch of ruby-red rambutans! Bare seconds later, we made a second, more interesting but by far less pleasant discovery: kerenggaaaaaaaaaa!! We fell out of that tree hard like a couple of nangka busuks, and were subsequently chewed out by our parents, laughed at by our cousins, and grounded to the kitchen for the next few hours. *laugh*

Then there was the time the maids found me and my sisters squatting inside the chicken coop because we wanted to look for chicken eggs...*laughs*

One thing lingers: the smell of Tabard that our parents religiously (not to mention very vigorously!) rubbed onto our skin before allowing us outside to play. And to this day whenever I smell smoke off sparklers and pop-pops, I close my eyes and see in my mind us as children, writing our names bright in the black night. I remember how much pleasure we derived from such a simple game, what endless fun we had from the two short minutes the simple sparklers afforded us, and how it seemed anything but simple.

At night, it was us kids' chore to set out the mattresses for sleep, under our parents' supervision. My grandparents have a decent-sized house, and the living room would be packed wall-to-wall with mattresses as bedtime rolled around. Raya was also the only time we were not forced to sleep early, although anyone who stayed up playing congkak when everyone else was trying to sleep would be told the hantu congkak goes around at night looking for children to play congkak with. *lol* They told us that every night, every year, and it never failed to get us to shut up, and curl up under the blankets, sometimes shaking with fear. :o)

Raya morning would start with us being wakened at 8am. There would be a rush for the bathrooms (there were only three!), which resulted in sometimes five of us bathing together at the same time. Then we would dress in our new Raya best and have breakfast as soon as my grandparents came back from sembahyang Raya and visiting the kubur. Invariably, breakfast would be the ketupat, lodeh and sambal kacang sotong my aunt had cooked in the wee hours of the morning. Anything else and it would not have been a Raya breakfast. :o)

This would be followed by a whole morning of photography, followed by the distribution of .. DUIT RAYA!!!! Heheeeee!

My grandparents had ten children: five boys and five girls .. which summed up to helluva LOT of duit raya! Eeeheehee. Right after all photographs had been taken, there would be a yell of "Pak Ndak bagi duit raya woi!!" and a rush to queue in front of Pak Ndak: youngest first, the oldest right at the back. Salam, "Selamat Hari Raya Pak Ndak", take angpow, kiss cheek, biiiiig hug .. and two steps later gleefully open the packet. And right after the last person in line had received their packet would come the cry "Mak Bang woi! Mak Baaaaaaaaang!!" and another rush to be first in line. We always knew the order in which we had to line up, but the mock-mad rush was always, always part of the fun.

The only time spontaneous order would occur was when it came to collecting duit raya from my grandparents. They would sit side by side and we would shuffle past them decorously, all rowdiness put aside, but not smiles nor spirit. They always got the biggest kisses and biggest hugs even if they didn't give the biggest angpows because they were our Tok Ayea and Tok Mat. And after the last of the cousins had received their angpows, it was our parents' turns to give our grandparents their Raya wishes. And it was always a quiet moment, even for us kids, full of emotion as we watched our parents kiss their parents hands, then their feet and ask for their forgiveness and blessings.

Then there would be a lunch of beryani gam, ayam masak merah and rendang daging, a whole day of just hanging out at home as a family, eating rojak at the Tanjung whilst out on an evening stroll, followed by a dinner of mee SinSin or KFC by the barrels.

We no longer have Rayas like those. Nobody really has the time anymore, nobody could be arsed, and family politics have gotten in the way of our being a family. It's amazing how things have changed, or were things so simple then only because I was a child, unable to comprehend unpleasant nuances, or perhaps just able to shrug it off as unimportant.

I've said it once, and I'll say it again. Maybe children should be left to rule the world.

An Educational Week

This last week has certainly been .. exhausting. Eventful. Eye-opening. Extremely educational, not to mention exciting.

.. Okay, enough with the alliterations already, although I must admit I was doing in on purpose towards the end. Hee hee ....

Seriously though, in the last eight days, I've learned that the ones you love are the ones you take for granted and that the ones you love the deepest are the ones you hurt the worst.

That you don't realise the worth of something until you lose it, that you don't know how infinitely precious something is until it's gone. And if there is need for regret, then it is often too late.

I've learned that allowing yourself to be vulnerable sometimes doesn't make you weak but instead makes you all the stronger for it and strengthens your relationships.

That relationships don't survive without forgiveness, and when you are on the receiving end, few experiences are more humbling.

And I've finally learned that to be able to love and be loved with no 'if only's and 'but's is a liberating experience indeed.

Happy Birthday Fong!

It was our lovely Fongite's birthday .. yesterday.

' . ' * . ' " *
Happy Belated Birthday, my angel!
* . ' * ' . " . '

May all your wished come true. *HUUUUGZ*

A Sunday In KL

I thought to stay in today but found sitting around doing nothing unbearable, so I got in my car and drove around, windows down.

How beautiful and quiet my KL is at 8am on Sunday. It is almost a different city - the lack of traffic, the cool mist still clinging to the air, blanketing KL; a city subdued, a city only just waking. The breeze fresh, cool on my face, I drove down streets so frequently travelled, past buildings filled with memories, past landmarks changed, past sites of buildings which no longer exist. How I love this city, so attached am I to it that I don't believe I shall ever leave. No matter how far I travel, this is the place I will return to.

I went to Lake Gardens where I sat and read my book in the cool morning with the sun shining down on me, caressing my skin.

I went to the National Art Gallery, where I wandered and lost myself in the quiet of its halls, for a few hours severed from the tiresome world outside.

I watched "Phantom of the Opera".

I went to eat assam laksa at one of my favourite shops.

I went ice skating. I love the sense of freedom, the almost-weightlessness of frictionless gliding across the indifferent ice.

I went to the small park I used to frequent as a student, read a bit more and chucked McDonald's fries at the squirrel that was there, in all probability the very same one who used to tease me and keep me company when I did the exact same things as a student. It once swindled me out of almost half a box of fries. The critter cutely scampered back and forth, grabbing the fries I chucked its way and stuffing it in its cheeks before sitting on its haunches and giving me a curious look until before I knew it, I sat with a much diminished box of chips. I often brought a packet of Ngan Yin for it if I knew I was going to the park. It once showed me where it lived.

I spent two hours sitting on the floors of Kinokuniya, browsing through book after beautiful book at random.

Then I went to Chocz and people-watched while I sipped on an Aztec.

And when I finally came home, I baked a lovely cheesecake for my neighbour's birthday tomorrow and my grandmother's pineapple tarts enough to feed a horde.

Then I sat under the stars in the garden, lit a few citronella candles and played my guitar.

It was nice, doing the things I love most, the things that make me forget my troubles for the moment, the things that bring me a measure of peace, even if only for a short while.

I spent the day in my own company. Like I said, it was a nice day, I enjoyed it, but I wish I had someone to share today with. Nobody I know would have enjoyed the day so with me, and I wish there was.

Me, Stripped Bare

I'm currently reading "The Bride Stripped Bare" by Nikki Gemmell, formerly known as Anonymous.

I'm only somewhere near halfway through, but if I have one thing to say about this book, it is that it is depressing. Poignantly so. Well, so far. Yet, it was a best-seller. Chic lit. It is undeniably chic lit, but heavy stuff it is. IMHO.

Reading it, I felt it strike a chord. It was about a woman who is dissatisfied with her marriage, or rather the state her life is in. More accurately, I think, she is unable to find satisfaction in something, in anything at all about her life in the aftermath of her disillusionment of marriage. Eventually, she takes a lover, which satisfies her for a while, but only really offers a brief respite. After the novelty has worn off, she begins to tire of him. I've just started reading that part, and the story continues in its poignant sadness.

The protagonist is an unending paradox. She is naive, but deeply cynical. A woman of innocence, but possesses great sexuality. She is a woman who has given up hope, yet keeps her eye riveted on the horizon, waiting for a knight in shining armour, the cresting of the faintest glimmer of happiness, something, anything to change her life for the better. She is a woman who no longer believes, yet clings stubbornly to faith. I don't think we ever know her name.

Nikki Gemmell initially did not publish this under her own name, but anonymously as, well, Anonymous. Apparently, she did not want it to be known as her work as she feared it would hurt her own relationship with her husband, family and friends as something so raw and plainitive could only hit too close to home. And apparently, it did. The people closest to her were hit hard by it, apparently, when it was revealed she wrote the book. Yet, she felt it needed to be written.

The book is raw. It is plainitive. There is a certain desperation to the way it is written, and it is disturbingly haunting, because for me, it did hit close to home.

I sometimes wish I could write here anonymously. Not for the first time. Then I could write what I really wanted to, without fear of hurting the people I know, people I care about, because sometimes what I have to say, what I need to let out I know WILL hurt some people. I have tried to write anonymously, but was found out. Apparently, my writing style is too recognizable. :oP It is frustrating having to censor myself for the sake of diplomacy, yet it is necessary. I have no desire to hurt my nearest and dearest, yet it is sometimes at war with my need for self-expression. But today, the need for self-expression wins.

I think that sometimes I could easily be her. The Bride. Having to hide what I really am, what I'm really feeling behind a mask of who I'm supposed to be, behind an act of who I ought to be, because I don't want to hurt the people I love, the people who love me.

You know how some people say that if you keep thinking you're happy and act like you're happy, you'll eventually achieve true happiness? What a load of bollocks. Believe me, I've tried it, and all it did was make me almost hysterical with the whole pretence of it. Pretending is well and good, but it is only pretend.

I'm only just realising some things. I feel like I give too much of myself without taking enough back in return. Generosity works both ways. It is not better to give than to receive, another load of pure bollocks. Rather, it is finding the balance between giving and receiving - and right now, I do not take back enough.

Having said that though, I don't blame anyone for it. It is part of my character to not ask for things. I hate asking for things and absolutely refuse to accept things not freely given, of the person's own accord, hence the refusal to ask. And when people don't, I get disappointed. I know, I can't realistically expect people to be psychic, but.. *shrug* I hate imposing myself on people.

So I tried asking, it's about time I learn to anyway, but that doesn't seem to be working too well either. Is there a Plan C? Or maybe I should persevere with Plan B still?

Oh God. Blue is on the telly, singing horribly horribly off-key. Some Concert in Hyde Park shite. Someone shoot me through the head now.

I feel suppressed, people demanding I'm not allowed to do things, forbidding me things I like and enjoy, denying me my desires. People telling me I can't do certain other things, that I am incapable of accomplishing some dreams. I know I shouldn't let it discourage me, but when there's nobody there to root for you in your camp, it's hard to keep your chin up and you don't really know how to cope. And to hope your loved ones will be there for you, I've long since learned that not even loved ones can be depended upon to be there for you when you really need them to be. And that makes the loneliness ever more lonely.

The Bride. The desolation, the feeling of being invisible and insignificant in every sense, the feeling of utter hopelessness and being infinitely weary. So weary. I feel so tired.

I'm rambling. It's late, that may have something to do with it. But I've always been less inhibited when I write, late at night, all alone. I no longer feel like I have to jaga hati anyone, be someone else for everybody else's sake. No, that's not entirely right. I'm not someone else for other people, I'm just the chirpier me, burying all the unhappiness for sake of better social interaction. Pteh. But when the quiet velvet of night falls and I am entirely alone with my thoughts, the need for pretence slips away. And the need to write compels.

Why I want people to read this, I know not. But write I have. I'm going to watch TV now. Potatoes and Dragon is on. I love that cartoon. Have a good night, everyone. Better than mine, at least. Be well.

2004

If this year was anything, it was a year of events. Personally, anyways. The many, many weddings of friends, close and otherwise; the births of nieces, by family and proxy-families; and to cap off the year, a death.

It may be slightly early for an end-of-the-year recount, but like I said, there's no telling when I'll next be able to log on, and this is as good a time as any anyways. Besides, the muse was visiting.

Two days ago, DrMucho called, saying the mother of a close friend, JC, had suffered a fall and sustained head trauma, and was subsequently diagnosed brain-dead. So we went to see him, to lend moral support, a shoulder to cry on, chauffering services, whatever. He seemed .. collected. Calm. Certainly shaken, but collected. I found his strength in the face of tragedy admirable.

I sat at his mother's bedside for a while, wanting to hold her hand, to offer .. something. She looked so peaceful, like she was asleep. The illusion might have been preserved had I not noticed the rise and fall of her chest move in sync with the harsh hiss of the ventilator. For every hiss was a breath sustaining her life. For every drop of dopamine was another pump of the heart, keeping her blood circulating. Without either, without both, she wouldn't be alive.

They were suspending her life - or death - so her daughter could come home from India to say goodbye.

It was terrible. It was so, so terrible. And it shook me badly. How tenuous our hold on life is.

What a way to end the year.

Certainly, this year has seen a full cycle. From marriages, to births, to deaths. More personally, I watched my brother grow up. Both of them. The elder one is now 17. Last week he attended his prom. I remember getting ready for my prom. *chuckles* Remember that, Min? Ben? :o) My little brother is all grown up! And LittleSumo, he's now three. A three-year-old terror, the tyrant who rules our house and hearts.

And I had to watch someone I love infinitely get married. Well, two of em this month, actually. Congrats Lut and Apin. I pray for nothing but the very best for you both. I love you both so very much. If F and J ever make you cry, I swear I'll get Anne and Tina together and we'll break their balls. :o) *hugz*

But I was referring to someone else. It wasn't easy watching Him marry another woman. Oh God, it wasn't easy at all. Yet, it was the right time to let go. About time. Long past due, really. :o)

And maybe it's true when they say there isn't a better way to get over a guy than to get another. Lol. I've always thought that that was a bit like exchanging the poison for a dagger, but .. lol. Maybe there's some truth in it, maybe not. All I know is that I am so grateful MrBurns came into my life. :o)

Never have I met someone who so persistently, so relentlessly, quite so successfully broke through my defences .. and as most will attest, I can be a tough nut to crack, on account of my incredible stubbornness! lolz. But he did, and in the process helped me heal, helped me let go. For the first time in years, I feel happy. At peace. Somewhat. :o)

I'm glad, this instance, he was more stubborn than me. I never thought that could actually be possible! lol! He's in London now, for his convocation ceremony. I miss you, my sweet goldfish. :o)

Enough with the sappiness. I look forward to seeing what 2005 will bring. It looks set to start strong. I look forward to next year.

My New Year's Resolution? I don't make New Year Resolutions. I hate it enough when people put expectations on me, I refuse to do it to myself. But my wish for the new year: to be happy. To have my soul happy and satisfied. To have new beginnings. To have the opportunity and space to make, or break, my own life.

It may be early yet, but here's my wish for you: that the coming year will bring you much joy, much laughter, much peace and fulfilment. It's time to leave the past in the past, and usher in new beginnings. Be well, everyone. May peace be upon you. Have a Happy New Year.

Much Love,
Jas. :O)

The Technologically Behind ...

Am having a difficult time updating .. the last working computer in the house has crashed, and I now have to resort to begging friends to let me use theirs or *gasp* internet cafes. :oP

This sucks .. it's time I upgrade. *Duh!*

I've Got A Lovely Bunch Of Coconuts

Down at an english fair one evening I was there
When I heard a showman shouting underneath the flair

I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts
There they are all standing in a row
Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head
Give them a twist a flick of the wrist
That’s what the showman said

I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts
Every ball you throw will make me rich
There stands my wife, the idol of me life
Singing roll a bowl a ball a penny a pitch

Roll a bowl a ball a penny a pitch
Roll a bowl a ball a penny a pitch
Roll a bowl a ball, roll a bowl a ball
Singing roll a bowl a ball a penny a pitch

I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts (they’re lovely)
There they are all standing in a row (one, two, three, four)
Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head (and bigger)
Give them a twist a flick of the wrist
That’s what the showman said

I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts
Every ball you throw will make me rich
There stands my wife, the idol of me life
Singing roll a bowl a ball a penny a pitch (all together now)

Roll a bowl a ball a penny a pitch (harmony)
Roll a bowl a ball a penny a pitch
Roll a bowl a ball, roll a bowl a ball
Singing roll a bowl a ball a penny a pitch!

And My Temperament Is ...

Stealing a page off the incomparable MzMin. According to the Temperament Sorter II, I have the temperament of an:

Artisan

Artisans are the temperament with a natural ability to excel in any of the arts, not only the fine arts such as painting and sculpting, or the performing arts such as music, theater, and dance, but also the athletic, military, political, mechanical, and industrial arts, as well as the "art of the deal" in business.

Artisans are most at home in the real world of solid objects that can be made and manipulated, and of real-life events that can be experienced in the here and now. Artisans have exceptionally keen senses, and love working with their hands. They seem right at home with tools, instruments, and vehicles of all kinds, and their actions are usually aimed at getting them where they want to go, and as quickly as possible. Thus Artisans will strike off boldly down roads that others might consider risky or impossible, doing whatever it takes, rules or no rules, to accomplish their goals. This devil-may-care attitude also gives the Artisans a winning way with people, and they are often irresistibly charming with family, friends, and co-workers.

Artisans want to be where the action is; they seek out adventure and show a constant hunger for pleasure and stimulation. They believe that variety is the spice of life, and that doing things that aren't fun or exciting is a waste of time. Artisans are impulsive, adaptable, competitive, and believe the next throw of the dice will be the lucky one. They can also be generous to a fault, always ready to share with their friends from the bounty of life. Above all, Artisans need to be free to do what they wish, when they wish. They resist being tied or bound or confined or obligated; they would rather not wait, or save, or store, or live for tomorrow. In the Artisan view, today must be enjoyed, for tomorrow never comes.

Artisans make up between 15 to 20 percent of the population, which is good, because they create much of the beauty, grace, fun, and excitement the rest of us enjoy in life.

The Four types of Artisans are:

Promoters (ESTP) Composers (ISFP) Crafters (ISTP) Performers (ESFP)


.... I didn't think it was accurate, as those who know me well would probably concur, but interesting, nonetheless. So, I took it again and got:

Idealist

Idealists, as a temperament, are passionately concerned with personal growth and development. Idealists strive to discover who they are and how they can become their best possible self -- always this quest for self-knowledge and self-improvement drives their imagination. And they want to help others make the journey. Idealists are naturally drawn to working with people, and whether in education or counseling, in social services or personnel work, in journalism or the ministry, they are gifted at helping others find their way in life, often inspiring them to grow as individuals and to fulfill their potentials.

Idealists are sure that friendly cooperation is the best way for people to achieve their goals. Conflict and confrontation upset them because they seem to put up angry barriers between people. Idealists dream of creating harmonious, even caring personal relations, and they have a unique talent for helping people get along with each other and work together for the good of all. Such interpersonal harmony might be a romantic ideal, but then Idealists are incurable romantics who prefer to focus on what might be, rather than what is. The real, practical world is only a starting place for Idealists; they believe that life is filled with possibilities waiting to be realized, rich with meanings calling out to be understood. This idea of a mystical or spiritual dimension to life, the "not visible" or the "not yet" that can only be known through intuition or by a leap of faith, is far more important to Idealists than the world of material things.

Highly ethical in their actions, Idealists hold themselves to a strict standard of personal integrity. They must be true to themselves and to others, and they can be quite hard on themselves when they are dishonest, or when they are false or insincere. More often, however, Idealists are the very soul of kindness. Particularly in their personal relationships, Idealists are without question filled with love and good will. They believe in giving of themselves to help others; they cherish a few warm, sensitive friendships; they strive for a special rapport with their children; and in marriage they wish to find a "soulmate," someone with whom they can bond emotionally and spiritually, sharing their deepest feelings and their complex inner worlds.

Idealists are rare, making up between 20 and 25 percent of the population. But their ability to inspire people with their enthusiasm and their idealism has given them influence far beyond their numbers.

The Four types of Idealists are:

Healers (INFP) Counselors (INFJ) Champions (ENFP) Teachers (ENFJ)


.... Much more accurate, I believe. ;o)

And Yet ...

Sigh. So much to write about, so much. Yet ...

Writing is such wonderful therapy. When troubled: write. When upset: write. When I'm sad, down and depressed: write. When I'm lost, confused and trying to make sense of things: write. Yet ...

Deciding to leave the past where it belongs - in the past - is one thing. Moving on from it is another. Thing is, it is not an instantaneous process. It will - it must - progress at its own pace. I can't hurry it. And yet ...

I wish I could.

Of late, I've been living my life in the third perspective. I see what's going on, I am aware of it, yet I am removed from it all. It's like watching a movie. Nothing is personal, nothing affects me. Nothing breaks through this stasis.

I wish it wasn't so. I want to feel.

I am tired of living behind walls, of being numb, of feeling indifferent. It's wanting something, desiring something so much, yet not being able to reach out and grasp what is only an arm's length away.

With Him, it was necessary to erect an emotional buffer. When I was happy with him, I was insanely happy. Love is a powerful drug. But when I was upset, it would plunge me into an abyss of despair so absolute and overwhelming that there was nothing left for me to do but to hide and sob as if my soul was being rent into a hundred million pieces. A bit bombastic, but you know what? That really was exactly what it felt like. The highs were unbelievably high, and the lows so despairingly low. Love is a powerful drug.

So what did I do? I retreated into myself, reasoning that it was by far better to feel nothing than a destructive whirlwind of emotions. It didn't make me happy, but at least I no longer wished I would go to sleep and never wake up just so the insanity would stop. The oblivion of sleep, when I could sleep, was a blessing, a small respite from my torment, and being numb was better than going insane ... but now I'm beginning to wonder if living in an emotional fortress is any better?

I am afraid of opening myself to the possibility of disappointment again. I am not a risk-taker by nature. I am cautious, and deliberate. It takes me a while to get used to an idea, I need to let it float around in my head awhile, ponder it, meditate on it, become accustomed to the feel of it first before being able to decide what to do about it, before acting on it. I realise that this may cause me to miss certain opportunities, but I'd rather miss a few opportunities than suffer the consequences of a rash decision.

.. And I'm only just realising that sometimes what I need is a gentle, but firm push in the right direction. I am not afraid of change, but I am rarely confident enough to take that crucial first step. And much as I don't like being pushed, I think that sometimes I do need it. Only don't push too far. :o)

Nothing new, is this? *chuckles* As if I am the first person to ever go through it all. But maybe it really is time to come out of my cocoon and live again.

I'm so sorry, pet. You make me happy. Happier, at least. Sometimes. Most times. I miss the scent of you.

You're just there. And I'm trying to reach out.