Ouch. You have no idea. You really don't, do you?

Ice cold.

To what extent is it a good thing...

... to be cynical?
... to be guarded, emotionally?
... to wear one's heart on one's sleeve?
... to remain at arm's length from those who frighten/challenge you?
... to admit that first impressions are clouded by self-doubt/distrust?
... to indulge in snarkiness?
... to admit to being less than yourself?
... to be honest?
... to change?

I'm fairly level-headed, in my opinion. Yet I have a tendency to take the 'bait,' that same pride-singed reaction as during the middle school years of never turning down a 'dare' in games. Sometimes I forget things... like the fact that not everyone knows me well enough to judge me based upon the sum total of my self and not merely the biting comments and asides. Humor is only funny when it's shared, not when it is exclusive to its originator, isn't it?

At what point do I run the risk of turning my heart into the equivalent of Steve McQueen and his baseball in The Great Escape? Thumping, repetitive, rhythmic... and solitary. Untouched by the sunlight of the greater world. Enclosed within a self-erected (in my case) fortress without windows. There comes a time when acting in the name of self-preservation is little more than miserly, callous even. To protect one's feelings at the expense of others'... I fail to see anything noble in that.

And of this I know I am guilty... often.

The time has arrived to evolve past this immaturity, no matter how deserved the tightly furled petals of original heartbreak may have been... Recovery. Forgiveness. Acceptance. Tenderness. Growth. Spring renewal.

Anais Nin once wrote something - her exact phrasing escapes me, surprisingly - to the extent of 'and the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.'

If the earth is renewing herself, so then should I, no?

It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.

- Margaret Atwood, 'Variations on the Word Love'

Her name was Lola...

A glorious Sunday of sunlight, dog walks, brunch, best friends, and a knock-'em-dead hangover.

After a sufficient recovery period (aka nap, ibuprofen, mass ingestion of hydrating liquids), I must try to recount some of the grand adventures that were last night.

Preview, in brief:
1. Marathon bar crawl.
2. Elise scratching phone numbers into the bathroom wall of one of such bars. ('FOR SEXY TIME CALL...'). Don't mess with our family. We defend our own.
3. Impromptu 'no pants party' once we got home.
4. So many cocktails... My. God.
5. Abundance of photographs that seem to resemble the zombies of Shaun of the Dead far more than our actual likenesses... eeks. The crunk eye. It'll getcha.

Oy vey... the madness that is my life.

Tradition.

Wednesdays are kindof a big deal. This has been mentioned before. It remains so.

[Example at right, 2 weeks ago.]

However, in lieu of partaking in typical Wednesday activities tonight, I am staying home, staying sober, and uploading photos of previous Wednesday excursions.

... which is kindof like actually going out, right?

I am in pajamas, a robe, glasses, slippers, and my hair is being held atop my head with a pen I took from work. And shall return, incidentally. I made fresh chamomile tea. I might eat a grapefruit. Or a popsicle. Or I might go crazy and have both. Feeling so healthy I hardly recognize myself.

Additional Potential Activities for Tonight:
- Tackle Iron/Mending pile. Really.
- Fill out app. for job promotion
- Mail electrical bill
- Finish book about Josephine Bonaparte
- Work on birthday gift projects... most of which are far beyond 'belated' at this point
- Clean microwave
- finally watch The Passenger

It's good to be the Queen.

Posse, Party of 3.

Saturday somehow became a petri dish of inspiration.

1. Jack Black on Nickelodeon. That's right, bitches, I saw it. We watched the entire performance of some studio-birthed pre-teen mini-rocker band... whose name I have promptly forgotten, but their catchy chorus of "I don't wanna go to school!" is definitely a memorable stand-out. Hey, sing what you know, sparky. Let the feelings out. Let go of the rage. And this make confirm my spot on the 'going to hell because I am a horrible human' list, but all I could think about while I watched this little lead singer yell and glare and stomp around his rock-n-roll kingdom was, "Psh... good luck keeping this kid off drugs." Is that awful? But honestly, if you don't want all your little starlings to evolve into Pete Dohertys, don't dress them all like him, eh?

I digress. Ben, Eddy and I had just had our daily fill of Parker Posey (goddess) and were channel-skipping and happened upon the Jack Attack hosting the Nickelodeon kid's choice awards night. And allow me to insert my very strong belief that Mr. Black was wicked blazed during that opening number. Did anybody else see the whites of his eyes? No? Really? Me neither. Party on, Jackie-baby. Party on.

Anyway, some giant fuzzy sea creature costume wearing sunglasses (... at night) that was 'jamming' onstage with Jack is the basis for our next party venture/group identity.

The Rocktopus.

We are now calling ourselves 'THE ROCKTOPUSSY POSSE.'

This is one of our proposed costumes. [note that they are referred to as 'jumpin jammerz'... with a z. Like Liza.] Ben had the great idea to get us all the electric guitar printed sets and (drumroll) BEDAZZLE strets onto the guitars in the fabric. Ummm... hello fabulous!

We must host a whopping ballyhoo of a party based upon this theme.

Side note: Am I the only person in the 'under 30ish female' demographic who hasn't listened to these Jonas Brothers? Really? What is going on with that? Apparently I am tragically behind when it comes to what's 'in' with the youth of America. Which makes me really nostalgic for the primordial soup of grunge band culture that I emerged from during the early nineties. And based upon the coiffures of said jonas brothers, I feel that a more appropriate and entertaining band name for them could be Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail. Yes, even after watching all of 12 or so minutes of Nickelodeon, I can verify with all certainty that there exists only one truly trendy boy-cut... and not everybody is making the pseudo-skater-side-sweep-flippy-shag-thing work. Sorry, fellas.

2. Patsy and Eddie watched our favorite episode of AbFab - season one, ep. 3: "France." Watch it. Love it. Embrace the madness.

3. While I'm thinking of fashionable outrageousness, am delighted to report grand progress with the seasonal wardrobe switch. I have removed all things woolly and thermal from current main closet and folded them neatly in the corner of the room. (Obviously if I take the time to package, seal, and store them in their summer home above the luggage closet it will snow. With a vengeance.) So they remain stacked and colorized by the window... at least for a few days until my OCD gets the better of me.

And I had forgotten how fun summery clothes are! Anything to which the word 'diaphanous' may be applied is definitely my absolute favorite. Well, that and black turtlenecks. I guess I go from looking like some busty beatnik Sprocket all winter to a mix of the New Look and the costumes from A Midsummer Night's Dream. What can I tell you... if the shoe fits, buy two pair.

Exciting to see a visual manifestation of the changing weather and charged atmosphere that accompanies these first weeks of spring renewal. Ahh! Time for some greenery! Blossom, damnit, blossom! Besides, spring vintage dresses are always better than autumn/winter varieties. And definitely less likely to reek of mothballs or horrid fermaldehyde-esque granny closet. Bleh. Gross.

Oh and managed to evict yet another three bags of unncessary/unloved wardrobe rejects. To the glue farm for the lot of them. And by 'glue farm' I mean the family shelter on Allisonville. Very excited. Decluttering my life, one ugly sweater at a time.

this too.

A Little Fall Of Rain

I love rainstorms. When I was growing up we would sit in the sunroom during night tempests with the lights off and the ceiling fan on high speed. Not only did we have a breathtaking panoramic view of the stunning miracle of rainfall and thunder, but we also had the pseudo-natural strobe effect that lightening bolts had on the whirling fan blades. Yes, I grew up in the country. And it was beautiful. And green. And fresh. And wondrous.

Every time I catch myself in bitter spirits about the weather or complaining about the inconvenience of mudpuddles, deflated hairstyles, or general depressive anxiety from cloud-laden skies, I cannot help but marvel at my own blind cynicism and selfishness. Rain used to brighten my days, so to speak. I have photos documenting some of my finest rain dances, spinning in rain-drunk circles in the emerald grass and leaping giddily like a forest sprite, careless and soaked and incandescently happy. It's rejuvenating - literally, figuratively, spiritually, metaphorically.

"And rain will make the flowers grow."

I'm waiting for tulips. And daffodils. And irises.

If I were a maker of perfumes, I would make one and call it 'Spring,' and it would smell like this cool, sweet, early-morning air. - Ann Petry

You Had Me At Hello.

Ten Most Historically Inaccurate Movies: Films That Make Your High School History Teacher Cry.

Obviously I had to read this, based on tag-line alone.

And let's face it, history is much more palatable with beautiful people. I don't really want to know what Queen Elizabeth really looked like astride a horse at age 52. I do prefer my Spartans in 'leather speedos' (great line!). William Wallace deserves his skirt-sporting, lady-romancing legacy to remain unblemished by 'truth.' And here in America we certainly reserve bragger's rights regarding our military record. Let's just consider our 'winning' the Battle of Guilford Court House an original version of 'Mission Accomplished.'

Lastly, props awarded to Mel Gibson for his astonishing representation on the list (involved in at least 30% of the films). It's official, Mel. When I want somebody to give history a makeover, I'm calling you.

[Oh, Hollywood.]

Superstar.

me: yeah I can't really admit that kind of shit to anybody else, huh

me: "I have a crush on a 65 yr old dude that makes a living playing rock star jesus"

everybody else: "you = loser psychopath looney tune"

Chona: hahaha

me = "i want to have a crush on a guy like that"

me: totally

bless you, my child



I mean seriously! And Corey Glover as Judas! Yes! That show was fierce!

Ooohhh la la 1938!

Run out and go see Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day! Immediately! Simply marvelous, dahling.

Reasons I'm excited:
1. caught the matinee with jules. Aka cheap tickets. We were without a doubt the youngest in the theatre by 35 years minimum. Love the early birds!
2. Love that despite our being 35 years younger than the rest of the film-goers... we were absolutely exactly at home. The little-old-lady set? Totally our people. We're all Miss Pettigrews, it seems.
3. Painting my nails crimson red in honor of the film. Those costumes... ahhhh... simply gorgeous!! I want to exist in a divine jazz and cocktail rhinestone-dazzled cabaret paradise. Clearly I was born a few generations too late for my own good. Damnit.
4. Well-behaved and getting my coiffure styled tomorrow at lunch. Very Elizabeth Arden. Hoping to emerge with some semblance of Catherine Deneuve-esque chic.
5. Booknerd paradise tomorrow afternoon with jules. Love library dates!
6. Home with Death at a Funeral for a lovely sober evening of girly manicure, perhaps an art project or two, and pjs. And I do so utterly adore this film. Hysterical.

A great day.

Wide Awake.

Read Venus in Furs this week and have been having the most incredibly bizarre dreams as a result. My thoughts have been overtaken with a peculiar brand of sadomasochism, it seems. Have just woken up with a start only to see that it's barely 5 in the morning and I'm parched... a result no doubt of drinking 3 bourbons earlier. Yikes.

A fascinating Thursday night it was. Spontaneously hopped over to my favorite bar in the city, a jazz dive a mere block and a half down the street from me. Live jazz every night of the week and a delicious bohemian patronage reminiscent of the beatnik scene. I love it. Can't help but meet a colorful cast of characters each time I go, this time being no exception. Also happened upon two friends I hadn't seen since high school - a good many years, which seems both odd and somewhat gratifying. Aha... we have all moved on at last. I love those unexpected reunions, am genuinely thrilled and interested to catch up, rediscover a fantastic personality, sense that unspoken bond of having grown up together in our little midwestern hometown bubble... which seems so far away but really... isn't, I guess.

Can already sense the bourbon headache, though. Paired with the strange dream that I can only vaguely recall.

And you can dance... for inspiration.

1. Listened to Madonna's Immaculate Collection this afternoon whilst in the shower, etc. Seemed to capture the glorious downtown saturday vibe... and definitely a sign that I'm having dancing withdrawal.

Gah! Madonna = Love. The woman is a goddess.

2. Flipped on the television for weather status check (hello mid-march snow!) and delightedly discover that Married to the Mob is on. Well, final scene anyway. Ummmm... hello 80's Madonna fashion at it's Jersey finest!

Rar. Corkscrew curls, oversized headband, and a totally rad turquoise/purple tunic combo. I'm not kidding, I ab-fab-solutely love it.

3. Immediately following? The Birdcage. Hell yes - queens, clubs, manpris, cabana boys, parasols, and South Beach. It's like... the promised land.

Coincidence? I doubt it. The stars are aligned... and all signs point toward drag queens and limousines. (an excellent song, by the by)

Soooo.... just might need to follow our tapas/sangria plans with a heavy dose of gay bar fabulousness, cocktails, and dancing.

Must divine some jazzy retro madge ensemble to wear! Viva 80's chic!

Proof that sometimes, there just is no sex in the champagne room

Brilliant Insight as revealed between two of my most fabulous college girlfriends:

R: what the crap?!

C: i know

it's always the circumstances

oh, i live elsewhere...i might move in the future...i have a girlfriend..

..i like guys...

R: If it's not one thing, it's another dude**

C: haha

quote of the century



**Story of our lives. No. Seriously. You have no idea. Went to the theatre tonight with my mother and as we were waiting to pull out of the parking lot swarm I kept noticing the schmoopy artsy/hipster young couples gallavanting along the sidewalk on their just-saw-a-musical-and-about-to-go-home-and-get-laid love swoons. I sighed and told my mother, "You know, I just really want someone to want to go to the theatre with me." My mother turns to me wide-eyed and says, "Well... I'll always go to the theatre with you! I'm here right now, aren't I? I love Broadway!" "Mother," I calmly exhaled, "I was talking about heterosexual males."**

I could have danced all night.

Tonight! Theatre tickets with the momma! Hurrah!

Fin.

I confessed to Jack that the toughest thing for me was to decide to be with someone for good. The idea that this is it, this is the man I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. To decide that I will make the effort to stay and work things out and not run off the minute there is a problem is very difficult for me. I told him I could not be with just one man for the rest of my life, which was a lie but I said it anyway. He asked me if I thought I was a squirrel, collecting men like nuts to put away for cold winters. I thought it was quite funny. Then he said something that hurt my feelings. The tone changed drastically. Then I misunderstood what he was saying. I thought he meant that he didn't love me anymore and that he wanted to break up. It always fascinates me how people go from loving you madly to nothing at all. It hurts so much.
When I feel someone is going to leave me I have a tendency to break up first before I hear the whole thing. Here it is, one more, one less. Another wasted love story. I really loved this one.
When I think that it's over, that I'll never see him again like this... well yes, I'll bump into him, we'll meet our new boyfriend and girlfriend, act as if we had never been together... Then we'll slowly begin to think of each other less and less 'til we forget each other completely... almost.
Always the same with me: break up, break down, drink up, fool around. Meet one guy then another, fuck around to forget the one and only. Then after a few months of total emptiness, start again to look for true love. Desperately look everywhere, then after two years of loneliness, meet a new love and swear it is The One, until that One is gone as well.
There's a moment in life where you can't recover anymore from another break-up. And even if this person bugs you 60 percent of the time, or you still can't live without him... And even if he wakes you up every day by sneezing right in your face, well... you love his sneezes more than anyone else's kisses.

Julie Delpy
2 Days in Paris

Influenza, take two.

Second day in a row home sick, bedridden, shivering between menopausal hot flashes and feverish cold spells, feel like I'm starting to ferment from having been in bed for so long. Lovely lovely start to the week.

At any rate, just received this as a forward email and it might just be the greatest bit of my (admittedly terrible) day.

Enjoy.

_______________________________

This is an actual letter from an Austin woman sent to American company
Proctor and Gamble regarding their feminine products. She really gets
rolling after the first paragraph. It's PC Magazine's 2007 editors' choice
for best webmail-award-winning letter.


Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for over 20 years and I
appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core or
Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa
dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in
tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary
Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how
crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and
secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from
thecurse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting
right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging
through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll
be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with
knife skills.' Isn't the human body amazing?

As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen
quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers
monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know about the bloating,
puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying
jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for
most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jenifer fought the violent
urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just
because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps.
Crazy!

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just
crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants... Which brings me to the
reason for my letter. Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful
I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always
maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words:

'Have a Happy Period.'

Are you fucking kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny
middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing
happiness is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned
above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless
you're some kind of sick S&M freak, there will never be anything 'happy'
about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and
lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local
Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in
a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a
moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something
that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular
Manslaughter is Wrong', or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately,
there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my
maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your
Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending
bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.

Best,
Wendi Aarons
Austin , TX

It descends.

Spent the afternoon trying to remember that feeling so lost is something to appreciate, savor even. Part of the journey. A chance to awaken to a myriad of opportunities and chance gifts from the unknown that is life.

Trying, at least, to remember that, to believe it. It's something.

Just returned home from a screening of The Other Boleyn Girl. Beautifully crafted and visually stunning... but let me just say it is not what I would recommend for viewing on a day already darkened by personal shadows and doubts. My God so dark, so vividly and achingly dark. I crave the sleep that seems to come only with the aid of medication, unmarred by dream or thought or any such consciousness. The kind that seems to come after several glasses (bottles?) of deep crimson wine, that hollow detachment and deceiving liberation from reality.

It has been a day of clouds, dark thoughts. That strange and unfamiliar urge to let go of tears and fling myself head-on into a cathartic emotional breakdown. Not by nature a cryer, emotional certainly but only internally. That physical release that is so often characterized as feminine is just not... me. Nobody seems to think this is healthy but alas that is another issue for another day... or another therapy session at least.

So much is collecting in my mind, weighing my thoughts like lead anchors. So much has happened of late and I cannot seem to process anything. I don't know what to do, how to respond, where to go, what to consider.

I'm so overwhelmed. So... paralyzed.

I just hope that each day that I get out of bed and carry myself on through my daily pattern and routine will be one day closer to aligning myself with the rainfall of change that seems constantly to drizzle around me.

The balance of my life depends upon my ability to interpret my world, contemplate and analyze and categorize and solve and understand. Without that... I'm just floating aimlessly along an unidentified tide.

It's difficult these days. I don't understand myself, don't recognize the revolving masks of those I love, don't know up from down. And it hurts, I'm feeling the hurt so intensely for the first time in months, really feeling those emotions I have for so long buried and cast out, denied, distracted myself from in so many different ways.

I am a happy person, a joyful soul, according to my healer. And I believed her then as she spoke, heard those words fall as truth, and I believe her still. I am a happy person. I do think I'm meant to reflect the glory and light of life, destined to illuminate, radiate, emit my own personal incandescence somehow.

But not today.

Not today.

Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
I've lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

At last, she sleeps.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing. Paul lay against her and slept; whilst she, always a bad sleeper, fell later on into a profound sleep that seemed to give her faith.

- D.H. Lawrence,
Sons and Lovers

oh god. I sent it.

... and now I'm about to go desperately gulp down a bottle of red wine. Fast.

Prodigal Daughter.

I've never seen the blackest of nights emerge so luminous as Wednesday did. Missed the pinnacle of the eclipse by half and hour, but was shocked to gaze upon the snow-glazed hills behind the house as they radiated the moonglow hours later... so bright and crystalline, so illuminated in the night. The kind of world one imagines the Masters were envisioning in their nocturnes, quiet and serene. Alive but hushed in that ethereal pause of night. A rare moment of appreciation, reward for sleeplessness.

This week has been the second half of the boomerang effect, a return to origin, home, status quo to a degree. That which goes up must, inevitably, fall back to earth again. Being home - for the first time since the new year - was refreshing. Complicated, even through my whiskey-colored glasses. Troubling on an internal level, like some small undercurrent of hysteria bubbling just below the surface. We stand on the brink of change, and for the first time none of us is certain of what will happen next. So many unknowns, so many long-buried secrets and repressed feelings... spring has undoubtedly become our season of 'airing out the laundry,' 'spring cleaning,' what have you.

It has been a long and difficult three years.

[I don't know what to write to him.]

This is further compounded by a relentless headache and desire to escape into the beckoning arms of fantasy - a book, a movie, a poem, the piano, something. I feel paralyzed by reality, frozen in the high-beams. How much longer can I postpone my life?, I keep demanding of myself. What catalyst will finally end my inertia? For god's sake, what must I do to overcome this irrational, self-defeating fear? What changes are necessary? What sacrifices?

I must clean something. 'Dirty house, dirty life,' I always say. Frustratingly, just one week ago I did the same thing and have returned after so many days away to a home in the same state of perpetual messiness as before I devoted so many a long hour eradicating the dust of winter life.

I think today is a day to dig the Xanax out of the cabinet. This hostility is ridiculous. I cannot let this affect me, I must be positive and clear and open to the world... the February sun is making a rare appearance, after all.

Not going out tonight. Not. Not. Not.

"Love him and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters?" - James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room

_____________________________

The Moment

It was a day in June, all lawn and sky,
the kind that gives you no choice
but to unbutton your shirt
and sit outside in a rough wooden chair.

And if a glass of ice tea and an anthology
of seventeenth-century devotional poetry
with a dark blue cover are available,
then the picture can hardly be improved.

I remember a fly kept landing on my wrist,
and two black butterflies
with white and red wing-dots
bobbed around my head in the bright air.

I could feel the day offering itself to me,
and I wanted nothing more
than to be in the moment - but which moment?
Not that one, or that one, or that one,

or any of those that were scuttling by
seemed perfectly right for me.
Plus, I was too knotted up with questions
about the past and his tall, evasive sister, the future.

What churchyard held the bones of George Herbert?
Why did John Donne's wife die so young?
And more pressingly,
what could we serve the vegetarian twins

we had invited for dinner that evening
not knowing then that they travel with their own grapes?
And who was the driver of that pickup
flying down the road toward the single railroad track?

And so the priceless moments of the day
were squandered one by one -
or more likely several thousand at a time -
with quandary and pointless interrogation.

All I wanted was to be a pea of being
at rest inside the pod of time,
but that was not going to happen today,
I had to admit to myself

as I closed the blue book on the face
of Thomas Traherne and returned to the house
where I lit a flame under a pot
full of water where some eggs were afloat,

and, while they were cooking,
stared into a little oval mirror by the sink
just to see if that crazy glass
had anything particular to say to me today.

- Billy Collins