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Mondays With Muddy

05 Monday Dec 2016

Posted by emilypageart in blog, Uncategorized, writing

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Beatrice Allen Page, inspiration, journal, Landscape with Figures, Mondays with Muddy, unpublished manuscript, writing

Here is the next installment of Landscape With Figures, the unpublished manuscript of my grandmother, Beatrice Allen Page:

” When I woke up a little later than usual this morning, there were already floccules of shell-pink and mauve and dove-gray scattered loosely over the pale sky above the ocean, and through my east window I could see coral and luminous gold streaks just above the spot where the sun was due to appear.

A few minutes later I watched a fiery red sun blaze above the horizon. I could only keep my eyes on it for a second at a time as it rose higher and turned to burning gold. Its rays slanted through the pines, gilding the tips of the needles. Whenever a current of air stirred the branches, the spider threads slung between the twigs were revealed by the tiny hyphens of slippery light that shuttled back and forth on the invisable filaments. Down by the edge of the field the leaves of the poplars looked like thousands of shining coins tossed into the air. Everywhere I looked there was a radiance and freshness.

I wished with all my heart there were someone I could thank for it. Gratitude unfocused and unexpressed is almost painful, like a lump in the throat when you hold back tears.

My mind began to play over all the other beauty I have been privileged to enjoy this summer, not only the beauty of earth and sea and sky, but the beauty – and the truth and the goodness and the love – I have seen in human beings. I thought of Mr. Hollis’s utter simplicity and artlessness. I thought of the little girls painting sand dollars with pure delight. I thought of Dr. Rosenblum’s devotion to music and his wife’s devotion to him. I thought of hte look in Laura’s eyes when she said, ‘I love each and every one of my children with my whole heart!’ I thought of that crystal-clear morning when I was sitting down on the ledges and could almost…almost see through the invisible veil…

And suddenly it struck me with amazement and chagrin that I was not unlike the oldest Peabody sister, Elizabeth, who bumped into a tree when walking across Boston Common and explained, ‘I saw it but I did not realize it.’

How could I have seen evidence of God all about me and not have realized it, I wondered. The answer came at once, clearly, and to my dismay: Because I didn’t want to realize it. It was not that I could not believe in God, but that I did not want to. I still don’t want to. I am afraid of what it may reveal to me about myself. I am afraid of finding I have been living in the dark and may be blinded by the light, like the people in Plato’s cave. I am afraid of being called upon to make sacrifices. I don’t want to give up the directing of my own life, my own egoism, my pride and little vanities, my independence. I hate the word ‘obedience.’

I shall not give up without a struggle. It is only late morning as I write this, but combat fatigue is already beginning to set in.”

 

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Mondays With Muddy (on a Tuesday)

08 Tuesday Nov 2016

Posted by emilypageart in MOndays with Muddy, Uncategorized, writing

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Beatrice Allen Page, journal, Landscape with Figures, Mondays with Muddy, unpublished manuscript, writing

Admittedly, I’m a bit late with Mondays with Muddy this week. My laptop to a vacation to a service center, and when I got it back, the “d” key wasn’t working, so it had to make a return trip. So I’ve been getting by with S’s computer and my work computer, but it’s been making my time online kind of sparse. I finally got it back today and am working on playing catch up.

But I figure we could all use a charming distraction from this election day with some of my grandmother’s writing. So, without further ado, here is the next excerpt from Beatrice Allen Page’s unpublished manuscript, Landscape with Figures:

“A discussion over cocktails at the Stuarts’ as to where we would live and in what period if we had the choice. It made me realize what a provincial New Englander I am at heart. I’ve often thought I’d like to have lived in Concord during the era of Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, Bronson Alcott, Channing and their friends. I’m not sure that I’d have liked them all or agreed with their strong opinion (anymore than they always areed with one another), but at least you could be certain of an interesting conversation whenever two or three were gathered together.

The town itself was quiet and attractive and neighborly. If you felt in the mood for solitude, there were lovely walks to be taken through outlying meadows and woods and beside the placid Concord Rive with its white pond lilies. I have the impression it was an age of hope and optimism that the world was bound to grow better and better, although everyone seemed to have his own pet scheme for making it better. Or is that impression simply nostalgia?

Carrying my ‘ifs’ a little further, I ask myself: if I could have lived in Concord at that time, and if I could have been anyone I wanted, who would I have chosen to be? The answer is Sophia Peabody Hawthorne. In fact, she comes promptly to mind and excludes all other possibilities.

Sophia, the youngest of the three Peabody sisters, was the prettiest and most charming. She was bookish (she not only read Shakespeare and the English classics, she read Isaiah in Hebrew and Luke in Greek), but not in any pedantic, bluestocking sense; she was gay and witty. She was also a gifted painter but hapy to neglect her own talent to nourish her adored husband’s, ever sensitive to his needs as a person and as a writer, protecting his privacy, never losing faith in his talent, giving him faith in himself through her totally committed heart, always struggling to make ends meet financially and spare him the burden of such worries. In short, an altogether endearing person from a masculine viewpoint, I should imagine.

The real reason I’d have liked to be Sophia, however, is not because she was such an admirable wife, but because she was Nathaniel Hawthorne’s wife. I fell in love with him in high school when I first saw a picture of him and have never entirely got over it. Judging from Sophia’s description of him, who could blame me or any woman for falling in love with him? She wrote her mother he was ‘a union of power and gentleness, softness and spirit, passion and divine reason…ardent, rapt, tender…’

Nevertheless, one little episode has bothered me ever since I read it a few years ago, in Louise Tharp’s fascinating book on the Peabody sisters, I think. When he came upon his ten-year-old daughter, Rose, writing a story, he scolded her severely and forbade her ever to do such a thing again. Why? It was both cruel and seemingly senseless, and so unlike him. You would have expected him to be proud of her, to have encouraged her, or at least to have reacted with indulgent amusement.

True, he didn’t think much of women writers, although he seemed to have no objections to women painters – or at least those who gave it up for him. Writing, he thought, deprived women of delicacy; they might just as well walk through the street stark naked. Such an attitude just doesn’t fit my image of his character. Even if it had been his misfortune to read only poor writers among the female sex, surely he was intelligent enough to realize there might be a few good ones, too.

It hurts to discover such insensitivity in the man you love, so I try to find some explanation that will put a better light on it. Perhaps Hawthorne, knowing the torment of not being able to write the way he wanted, or sometimes not being able to write at all, of fearing he could not complete a book he’d started, or having completed one, fearing he’d never be able to write another – perhaps knowing all the agony and frustration he’d endured as a writer, he wanted to save his child from such suffering. So he punished her much as a parent spanks a child for running out into the street, not because it was doing something wicked but to make sure it will never get hurt.

That must be the explanation, I tell myself. Still, I’m glad I didn’t know about the episode when I was visiting the Old Manse some years ago. It would have spoiled my impression of the Hawthornes’ idyllic family life.

I remember sitting down on the window seat in the upstairs hall that day and imagining myself as Sophia. It was a lovely summer day and as I gazed out on the tranquil Concord River, I could almost see Thoreau drifting down it in his green dory, as I imagined Sophia must have seen him sometimes. Yielding to an impulse, I exclaimed, as I imagined she must have, ‘Here comes Henry!’

Instinctively, all the sightseers passing through the hall turned their heads to look out the window, before they eyed me a little uneasily and filed on down the stairs.”

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Mondays With Muddy

26 Monday Sep 2016

Posted by emilypageart in karma, MOndays with Muddy, Uncategorized, writing

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Beatrice Allen Page, demons, journal, Landscape with Figures, Mondays with Muddy, unpublished manuscript, Vietnam, writing

As a reminder, every Monday, I post an excerpt Landscape with Figures, an unpublished manuscript by my grandmother, Beatrice Allen Page, who I called Muddy. We’re nearing the end of it with only another 35 pages to go. I do have other unpublished works of hers (along with her published works), but none in the style of a journal, so not as easy to break up for weekly posts, so I’m still figuring out if and how to continue with our Mondays With Muddy. I’ll keep you posted, of course. Anyway, here is the next excerpt from the current manuscript:

‘Over at the hairdresser’s I picked up one of the expensive, sophisticated women’s magazines and while sitting under the dryer, I read my horoscope for the month. The prevalence of horoscopes in magazines is another indication of the widespread interest today in the occult and the esoteric, in everything from witchcraft to I Ching.

Why are so many people ‘looking for a sign?’ Are they unwilling to take responsibility for their own lives and decisions? Are they caught in a hopeless bewilderment that makes them grasp at any straw? I suspect most of them would indignantly reject such a suggestion. They probably feel they are seeking not escape from life but greater intensity of life. Instead, however, of searching out the mysteries of existence with patience, humility and awe in the way of previous generations, so many people today see to be looking for a quick and easy road to heaven. Unfortunately a lot of the shortcuts apparently lead to hell.

To dabble in the occult has always been recognized as dangerous. You may stir up demons that get out of hand and take over control. I begin to sound like Mr. Hollis despite the fact the demons to which I’m referring are born and lurk in the dark hollows of the human mind. (As a matter of fact, if I truly believed in a creative, just and loving God, instead of being one of those who are ‘lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot,’ I think the Lucifer myth would offer as plausible an explanation as any other I’ve ever heard for the presence of evil in the world.)

But even if I can’t quite accept Mr. Hollis’s belief in demon-possession, I find it is not at all hard for me to believe that hatred is a force that can erupt in some event that has no apparent relationship to the hater. Sometimes when I read about some cold-blooded murder or ghastly accident, the uneasy thought creeps into my mind that I myself may have had something to do with that bloodshed even though it took place thousands of miles away and is utterly abhorrent to me. It is as if some of the rancor, the meanness, the callousness in my own heart and mind seeped through the body of humankind like a poison in the blood and broken out eventually in violence. Not because my personal thoughts and feelings are working some kind of sorcery akin to casting the evil eye on someone, but because we are all more closely related than we realize. I’m not talking about what people mean by ‘collective guilt’ when they blame society for a crime that has been committed by an individual. I mean something much less obvious, something hidden like a malignant cell that proliferates and spreads to another part of the body before it becomes manifest.

If this were true –  and apparently I have almost persuaded myself that it is – then there is a positive as well as a negative side to it: my good will as well as my malice, my joy as well as my despair, could have an influence on some person or some event either near at hand or far away.

I remember now what B. said to me once when her son was in Vietnam: ‘I pray that Bill’s life will be saved. I can’t conceive of a God who would save one boy’s life because he had a mother praying for him  but would let another boy be killed because he didn’t happen to have anyone pray for him. But I do feel an obligation to keep my spirits up as much as possible, not only for Bill’s sake but for all the other boys involved.’ She groped around for words, trying to explain what she meant. ‘I have a conviction that minds touch one another, that moods may set up waves or vibrations that travel great distances in space and time and affect the thoughts and moods of others.’ She smiled a little wryly, I recall. ‘Call it superstition if you like. I’ve no doubt the psychiatrists have an even less flattering word for it.’ And then catching the look on my face, she added, ‘I suppose you, too, think it’s a crazy notion.’

When I assured her that I found some of the evidence for ESP very convincing, she shook her head and said: ‘I mean something more than that. It’s as if all the people in the world were roped together by an invisible rope, climbing a mountain. Each one has to exert all possible effort not to slip, not just for his own sake but because if he loses his footing, it’s going to pull down the next man who’s roped to him, and then the combined weight of the two falling will exert even more of a pull on those on either side of them, and so on. Of course, people will slip from time to time, people who are in more dangerous spots or who may have less strength. That’s all the more reason for those with a firmer footing or more strength to hold tight and keep climbing.’

Her analogy doesn’t answer the age-old question as to why some of us should have ‘a firmer footing,’ i.e., the opportunity to lead lives of freedom and security while others never have a chance to know anything but war and horror, of deprivation and grief. >That question is as unanswerable as ‘Why is that dog for?’

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Mondays With Muddy

19 Monday Sep 2016

Posted by emilypageart in MOndays with Muddy, Uncategorized, writing

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art, Beatrice Allen Page, Landscape with Figures, magic, Mondays with Muddy, unpublished manuscript, writing

Here is the next installment from Beatrice Allen Page’s unpublished manuscript, Landscape with Figures:

“I brought home from the library C. S. Lewis’s autobiographical book, Surprised by Joy, simply because my eye chanced to fall on it and I have enjoyed other books of his. I read most of the night and my astonishment kept me awake the rest of it, for there I found described far more vividly than I could ever do, the strange, haunting sensation associated with both ‘The Magic’ and ‘the northern mood.’

The magic was always evoked for him, I gathered, by something with a northern connotation. They belonged together as one experience which he calls ‘Joy’ even though, as he says, it might almost equally well be called a kind of grief: ‘an unsatisfied desire which is in itself more desirable than any other satisfaction.’ In each instance it only lasted a moment but it seemed to him of tremendous significance, something quite different from ordinary experiences, ‘something, as they would now say, ‘in another dimension.’ He speaks of it as a ‘stab,’ a ‘pang,’ an ‘inconsolable longing.’ ‘All Joy reminds,’ he writes. ‘It is never a possession, always a desire for something longer ago or further away or still ‘about to be.’

He caught his first glimpse as a child of whatever-it-might-be through nature. His second glimpse of it came through Beatrix Potter’s Squirrel Nutkin, which aroused in him an intense desire for what he calls the ‘idea of Autumn.’ He went back to the book again and again, not to gratify the desire because it was manifestly impossible to possess a season, but to reawaken the desire.

His third glimpse came some years later when, leafing through a volume of Longfellow, he came upon the lines from Tegner’s Drapa:

I heard a voice that cried

Baldur the Beautiful

Is dead, is dead –

(A ‘northern’ shiver runs down my spine as I copy the words.)

Lewis had no notion of who Baldur was but he was ‘instantly uplifted into huge regions of northern sky.’ He ‘desired with almost sickening intensity something never to be described (except that it is cold, spacious, severe, pale and remote).’

Later on he came to call whatever gave him this sensation, ‘Northernness.’ It might be a landscape or Norse mythology or Wagnerian music. The last surprises me: Wagner’s operas seems too flamboyant, too crushing to be northern, even though they deal with Norse mythology. He speaks of being engulfed in pure Northernness: ‘a vision of huge, clear space hanging above the Atlantic in the endless twilight of Northern summer.’

He wondered for awhile if the bittersweet longing he felt was a disguise for sexual desire – a possibility I, too, have speculated on – and came to the conclusion that sex might sometimes be a substitute for Joy, but no more than a temporary expedient. ‘You might as well offer a mutton chop to a man who is dying of thirst as offer sexual pleasure to the desire I am speaking of.’ (I doubt if he meant to imply there was any resemblance between a mutton chop and sex.)

He learned, even as I, that to focus on the sensation was only to frighten it away, and that it could not be sought for its own sake, for the ‘thrill’ of it. It came to him when he was least conscious of himself and his own feelings or state of mind. Eventually, after his conversion to Christianity, he came to believe that the experience itself was of no importance. ‘It was valuable only as a pointer to something other and outer.’ Since my recent glimpse of The Magic a couple weeks ago, I could almost go along with him in accepting it as evidence of ‘something other and outer’ – not just some momentary psychological state – but I wonder if I shall ever find the explanation or the word for that other and outer.”

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Mondays With Muddy

12 Monday Sep 2016

Posted by emilypageart in MOndays with Muddy, Uncategorized, writing

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Beatrice Allen Page, getting back to nature, Landscape with Figures, Mondays with Muddy, unpublished manuscript

This is the next excerpt from Beatrice Allen Page’s unpublished manuscript, Landscape With Figures:

“Just read a newspaper article maintaining that the human organism can learn to adapt itself  to a contaminated environment. Even supposing that is so, can the human spirit transcend an atmosphere of ugliness and callousness?

How can we have any reverence for human life if we have no reverence for other forms of life and for the earth on which all life dwells and which is part and parcel of it?

Not that I’m advocating a simple back-to-nature movement as a cure-all for the world’s ills. As George Eliot wrote somewhere, it takes more than turning a man loose in a field of buttercups to make him moral. As long as we have closed our minds and dulled our senses to everything that does not serve our immediate needs and greeds, it won’t avail us much to move to the country or the mountains or the seashore. But if we could look beyond those immediate needs and greeds…

More and more I am coming to believe that if we have become alienated from one another, it is in part because we have become alienated from our common ground of being, in a quite literal sense.”

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The Book Maketh Progress

31 Wednesday Aug 2016

Posted by emilypageart in art, dementia, Fractured Memories, gratitude, Uncategorized, writing

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book, copyedit, editor, Emily Page, Fractured Memories, publishing a book, scaring the cats, unpublished manuscript, writing

Guess what guess what guess what guess what?! I got the copyedited manuscript for Fractured Memories back today from the publisher. The person I’m working with from the publishing house had this to say, ” I think you are going to be very happy with your Copyedit.  The editor loved reading it – he said it is beautifully written (the highest praise I have ever seen him give) and my Editor-in-Chief told me she teared up a few times reviewing it.  I can honestly say that she has never said that before.”

Which made me jump up and down and go “SQUEEEEEEEEE!” so that the cats looked at me funny. But they should really be used to that by now. Get over it, cats. Stop being so judge-y. Jerks. 

Anyway, super-excited-little me just wanted to let you know so that you can celebrate with me and hope that the suggested edits aren’t too agonizing. I’m about 12 pages in, and so far, it’s just minor grammar stuff like adding or taking out commas. Hoping it continues like that.

Now off to scare the cats some more.

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Mondays With Muddy

29 Monday Aug 2016

Posted by emilypageart in MOndays with Muddy, Uncategorized, writing

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Beatrice Allen Page, Beatrice Page, birds, crows, journal, Landscape with Figures, Mondays with Muddy, unpublished manuscript

Here is the next excerpt from Beatrice Page’s (my grandmother) unpublished manuscript, Landscape With Figures:

“Whoever coined the phrase ‘as the crow flies’ to describe the shortest distance between two points never watched crows at daybreak when they first wake up. They are seemingly catapulted out of the trees, one after another at split-second intervals, sometimes only two or three, sometimes a small flock, all cawing loudly and incessantly as they flap around wildly, as if drunk and having trouble keeping their balance and sense of direction. I can discern no pattern or purpose, just a brawling, sprawling pandemonium until they manage to shake the sleep out from under their wings, regain balance and perspective, quiet down and set off presumably in search of food in a straight line ‘as the crow flies.’

Another thing I’ve noticed about crows, which I’ve never seen mentioned in a bird book, is a peculiar sound they make at times. Everyone know that crows caw, but this other sound they make is a rapid succession of clicks, something like that of castanets. I haven’t been able to figure out what they mean by it.”

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Illustrating

24 Wednesday Aug 2016

Posted by emilypageart in art, culture, Uncategorized, writing

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acrylic paint, art, artist, children's book illustration, Emily Page, Emily Page Art, illustrating children's book, paint, painting

I had friends coming down over the weekend, and since my guest bedroom is also my studio, I couldn’t work in oils for the week because it would make it all fumy and oil painty and turpentiney for them. Hardly a welcoming smell. Luckily, a friend recently hired me to illustrate a children’s book that he wrote with his daughter, and I had already decided to use acrylics for it. So, I spent the last week and a half or so working on those illustrations. It’s a super cute story about kids looking for a Christmas present for their mom who stumble into a book cooking store. Chaos, of course, ensues. Eleven paintings later, my hand is just about ready to fall off, but I’m pleased with most of them. A little tweaking here and there is necessary, but they’re mostly done:

Book Cook illustrations lined up.jpg

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Mondays With Muddy

22 Monday Aug 2016

Posted by emilypageart in MOndays with Muddy, Uncategorized, writing

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Beatrice Allen Page, Beatrice Page, environment, journaling, Landscape with Figures, Mondays with Muddy, unpublished manuscript

This is the next installment of Beatrice Allen Page’s unpublished manuscript, Landscape With Figures:

“Unable to throw off a mood of inexplicable sadness all morning. I kept feeling as if someone I loved had just died. Not until early this afternoon when I was sitting down on the ledges did I realize it was the anniversary of Father’s death. Curious how you remember year after year in some buried layer of your mind certain anniversaries which the top of you mind has forgotten.

Then I recalled that at the time of his death, when I had returned here for a few days, I had gone by myself for an hour and had sat in that selfsame spot on the ledges. And I remembered how I had found a measure of tranquility and a consolation of sorts in thinking how long that rocky coats had endured. It was essentially the same as when the last glacier receded from it tens of thousands of years ago: a little erosion by the waves, a little chipping off by winter’s frost, but basically unchanged. It seemed to me it would endure for as long or longer in the future, a background against which untold numbers of individuals might appear briefly even as I, until the universe came to a natural end in fire or ice at some inconceivably remote date. That day I had felt one could almost (but not quite) learn to accept death as the end of the individual without undue agony of mind since the miracle of life itself in all its manifestations would go on virtually forever.

This morning as I sat gazing out over the calm sea, I tried to recapture that pensive mood but instead I became incensed as my thoughts turned toward what we are doing to our world. Even if we don’t bring it to an abrupt and violent end my bombs, we may do it just as effectively by gradual devastation: polluting our rivers and lakes with chemicals and waste materials, poisoning the air we breathe with noxious fumes, contaminating our food either directly or indirectly with pesticides, cutting down forests and draining swamps that support much of our wildlife in order to build shopping centers and airstrips, bludgeoning baby seals to make high-fashion coats out of their skins…

The list goes on and one, as everybody knows, and thank God more and more voices have been raised in warning and outrage during the past few years. At long last it’s being realized that the relationship between humankind and the environment is a matter of health and therefore of life or death. At least some effort is being made to halt the destruction.

But there are those who warn that without a greater effort it will soon be too late. There are those who say it is already too late.

What a paradox that we are all looking for more abundant life in one way or another and at the same time seemingly doing our level best to destroy what life we have.

I came back to the house in a rage and wrote another batch of protest letters to various powers that be.”

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Artist Grant

22 Friday Jul 2016

Posted by emilypageart in art, culture, Fractured Memories, gratitude, humor, painting, Uncategorized, writing

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art, artist, artist grant, dementia, Fractured Memories, frontotemporal dementia, grant, I'm a real artist, paint, painter, painting, Pinocchio, today rocks, Ulysses S Grant, writer, writing

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod! I just won a grant! Not Ulysses S. Grant – although that’d be pretty cool, if maybe a little stinky since he’s been dead so long – but a grant for the book and related art! This is the first time I’ve ever won one (wow, say “won one” 3 times fast and you start to sound like Lavender in Harry Potter calling Ron “WonWon”) and my husband is taking a nap so I can’t jump up and down and scream like I want to. Thus, you’re getting all the crazy excited thoughts spewing out of me. I won a grant, y’all! I’m a real artist!! I’m like Pinocchio when he realized he was a real boy only my nose isn’t going to grow when I lie (just when I get too old…seriously, why do people’s ears and noses get so much bigger when they’re old??!!). Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

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