ME, ME, ME, ME, ME

I have concluded that M.E is the most boring 'disability' of the bunch.

I mean - at least only having one leg has the potential to be amusing. ...Though having said that, Heather Mills seldom looks happy. Conversely, Jake the Peg always looked incredibly cheery. Huh. Maybe Rod Stewart had the right idea in marrying Amazonian limbed Penny Lancaster: legs really are the key to happiness. Okay, so maybe they were a bad example. But there are lots of other disabilities that must be more entertaining than the general sloth-sickness that is my constant slumbering.

I only get frustrated with it when "normal" people begin expecting me to do "normal" things. My particular problem is with planning things more than a few hours in advance. That doesn't mean I am exciting and spontaneous - I wish it did - it means that I am irritating and flaky. Because M.E is indiscriminate of favour, it doesn't matter how much I may wish to participate in a planned activity: if my body decides that it will not grant me the energy to achieve my goal then there is nothing I can do about that. I got used to coping with pain years ago, and actually preferred it to the M.E sometimes, because pain is treatable - either with ridiculous amounts of head-trippy opiates or by being a stubborn cow who would rather almost kill herself than give in. M.E isn't like that - it's not really something I can fight in the same way, because it robs me of both the energy and the inclination to protest the symptoms.

I think the apathy is the most anti-social part, because whilst I feel a little bad about letting people down at the last minute, I will stop caring about the change of plan a long time before the other disillusioned parties. I wouldn't handle it nearly so well without the apathetic side-affect though. When the M.E was milder I used to get incredibly frustrated with myself for not being on top form, but now my inadequacies just roll over me these days.

I think the only time I get particularly frustrated now is when I am too tired to be creative - because I can't bear for my writing and sketching to be inhibited - and when I realise how much time has passed without my achieving anything particularly grand. Of my two closest friends during my adolescence, one is studying in New York, where I would adore a visit to, and the other has just gotten married.

What you have to understand is that they were two of the loveliest - but silliest - young women in all creation (perhaps best illustrated by their long-time tolerance of me.) That the first is studying medicine in NYC, and the other is settled with a mortgage and a job in a bank is as appalling as it is surprising. Surprising because once-upon-a-time I was the sensible one people expected things from, and appalling because their lives are so pedestrian - and make me obstinately glad to be unusual, but also feel as if I am doing very little of any import. Publishing a few poems and trying to turn myself into some sort of human gemmological dictionary so I might better understand the jewellery trade is a reasonable attempt given my uncommon situation, but it’s hardly contributing much to society.

I sometimes wonder if I'll do anything of merit. Then of course my ego rears its head and reminds me that "of course I will." Arguing my future employment opportunities with my own narcissism is perhaps not a productive expenditure of limited energy resources. I'd be useless if I was lost in the desert with only one canteen of water. I'd never make it last. I can't restrict myself to necessary use of scarce supplies, be they of life-enhancing energy or life-saving water. I'd also be REALLY fed up that I couldn't have a cup of tea if I was stuck in the desert. I'd be so hacked off that it might motivate me to find civilisation. (I think that of all people, I am the one likely to escape boiling to death in the Sahara purely because my tantrum was forceful enough to overthrow fate.) I think that it would also put me at an advantage in deciphering a mirage from a genuine oasis, because if I suddenly saw a Victorian teashop in the desert I'd know it was in my imagination. The only potential confusion might arise if I saw/thought I saw a Starbucks. Because they get everywhere, and finding one in the middle of the desert wouldn't be impossible.

The M.E would also make it tough being stranded in the desert - not simply because of the strenuous effort involved in trudging over sand and battling heatstroke, but because the light-sensitivity would be difficult to negotiate with the sun both beating down and bouncing back off the sand. (If I was blinded by a migraine I wouldn’t be able to see the spiders. That would be a problem.)

I don't think there will ever be a point where I would even consider wandering into the desert - unless I was hypnotised by Derren Brown and transported there before being brought out of it, all grouchy and tea-deprived.

I sometimes wonder if hypnosis would affect the M.E actually. Is it powerful enough to override some of the fatigue, or is M.E more physical than psychological? Yes, there are lots of physical symptoms, but there are still those who feel it is also impacted by depression/stress/anxiety and CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) is still a big part of the treatment plan for many sufferers. (Not me, as I have said before I see psychologists as a challenge, and generally see it as my job to 'defeat' them. If I do fool them then I immediately lose all respect for their professional capabilities and the appointment is pointless.)

So, today I have decided that whilst M.E is incredibly tedious, it is better than having either one or three legs, being married to Rod Stewart, or being lost in the desert searching for a Costa Coffee (or equivalent.)

Who needs Open University, when I have the internet and a vivid imagination?

Shrek and the Spider's From Mars

This morning - before I had even had a moment of sleep - I was accosted by a humungous spider that moved so fast that I think it actually rivalled the speed of light. Had I not managed to (valiantly) fight for my life and swatted, then it would have careened through the double-glazing and buried itself in my garden... Like an eight-legged Donald Campbell in Bluebird, or a turf-gouging arachnid version of Richard Hammond.

I'd had the window open all night because despite today’s slight chill, we've had surprisingly clement weather the last week (it shouldn't be surprising to have sun in June, but recent cold summers have instilled the tradition.) Because I am currently unfortunately nocturnal, I was faffing around with the curtains - trying vainly to block out all the morning light so I might sleep - when I caught sight of la araignee (only a blur, obviously, because it moved so fast.) My response to noticing the spider was to do that sort of girlie-panicky-swatting thing whilst cursing like a navvy and generally being ridiculous. By some miraculous fear-induced insect-homicide tourettes-spasm I managed to kill it. I should feel bad, but I don't. Someone once justified their killing spiders as being no different to someone who was afraid of tigers shooting one that was bearing down upon them . Now, I understand that a tiger is more likely to kill you than a spider (though you wouldn't be so sure of that if you'd seen the size of this one. It had more battle-scars than 50Cent.)

Anyway, I would find it far more difficult to shoot a tiger that was about to rip my throat out, than I find it to squish a spider that is about to induce a coronary. I do know that's stupid, but tigers are pretty. I couldn't harm a man-eating beastie that can purr.

The trouble with spiders is that - even when they have been dispatched - my biggest problem comes from my recalcitrant brain. Just when I stop feeling like I am going to shiver, and have checked every inch of the room and sprayed the window frame with insect repellent, I can't relax. As the paranoia subsides, and I think I can stop thinking about spiders, my brain will begin to torment me. It will start to picture horrible things: spiders crawling everywhere, getting in my mouth, being in the bed or in my hair.... Horrible things that I don't want to be thinking. I end up having an argument with my mind, telling the disgusting, creepy bit to stop sending pictures to the wimpy, high-maintenance bit. The disobedient part seldom complies with my pleading, and takes a schoolboy-ish glee in tormenting me - like a kid brother putting a frog down my party dress.

I'm not sure other people argue with their own imagination. It surprises me that it's not a common phenomenon, and surprises me even more that some people can control their dreams. I can't control the images generated by my mind when I am awake, let alone when I am unconscious.

Dreams are unusual things at the best of times, though. Lots of women dream about having a big wedding - and Coleen McLoughlin and Wayne Rooney have apparently realised that aspiration in the most extravagant manner. They have married in Portofino, Italy, and reportedly spent five million poundson the day. Hello! OK! magazines were covering half of the cost for exclusive rights to the photographs, and the bride and groom requested guests send donations to an appointed charity instead of giving them wedding presents, but I still find the total cost obscene.

It has been the topic of much discussion in the four days since the ceremony, and everyone has a slightly different opinion on the matter. Some think that as they have the money available, they may as well spend it. Others share my view that 'percentage of income' isn't the point - it's the hideously warped principle of spending that much money on a single day of entertainment for a few people, when there are so many imbalances that money could redress. I don't expect everyone with money to give it all away - that would be impractical and unpopular - but I can't understand how anyone can justify that sort of personal expenditure to themselves. On a house maybe... Or on the preservation of a great work of art for generations to come... But not on a single day of frippery and extravagant showboating in the name of everlasting ardour.

Their everyday lives are extraordinary and exceptionally luxurious - and so it follows that they would have to make a tremendous effort to eclipse that and make their 'Big Day' as momentous as it is expected to be. I just find it all so unnecessary. It turns the event into a circus. They weren't 'happier' because they spent £5m than they would have been had they spent £2m. A wedding is a couple expressing their commitment by bowing to tradition. Marriage is a ceremony dedicated to preserving traditional rules and boundaries of society, and has little to do with sentiment. Love may be the catalyst, but legality is the reason. The bigger the gesture, the more resoundingly its emptiness seems to echo.

Admittedly, I have never really categorised myself as the "marrying type" - possibly because I have seen too many divorces to consider it worthwhile, and also because I am quite fiercely independent and don't like to be categorised in any way whatsoever. (Having no distinct "first choice" career is a good example of that.) I dislike the notion created by the Bridget Jones generation that there is something pitiable in an unmarried woman. The idea that all women who have been with a partner for a year or-so (or are over 30) are dying to marry is an abominable one. It's appalling that we are still expected to enter into a religion-blessed union, and that we are perceived as being either ashamed of our partner, or in some way hard-done-by if we choose not to have a ludicrously expensive white wedding in front of as many simpering relations and sycophantic friends as one can cram into a church, or crumbling gothic castle.

I can appreciate the commitment of an engagement, because it is symbolic - one is retiring their single self and is both accepting and announcing the stable longevity of a partnership. It's an internationally recognised promise to remain faithful and committed to one person. Marriage legalises the bond but seldom strengthens it. I think I am too jaded. I would be much more secure knowing that my fiancée were returning to me through choice, than I would had I a husband who felt he had no choice but to come home. I don't feel any security in suspecting ones partner is trapped into remaining in a relationship. I've never once planned my dream wedding - not even as a child. I haven't imagined myself getting married, or ever dreamt of it. I've joked about it - such moments usually involve Johnny Depp and a diamond ring large enough to have been awarded its own postcode and head-of-state (a bit like that spider) - but I have never seriously considered it. I've had occasion too, but even when I should have given it the courtesy of contemplation, I could do no more than laugh. I don't rule it out, but neither do I have an unquestioning faith in the enevitability of the prospect. It would take a lot for me to consider it with any sincerity, but I think that's a far healthier way to view the whole affair than as a foregone conclusion.

I think it is this matrimonial apathy and general cynicism that makes it even harder for me to comprehend the spending of such large amounts of money as have been frittered away on the Rooney/McLaughlin wedding. After all the cash siphoned into their 'Wedding Fund,' it still rained.

I would give £5,000,000 to the person who can invent something that keeps spiders 100yds from me at all times, however. That is of infinitely more practical value than Mrs Soccer-Shrek splashing the cash on 'symbolic' pigeons and boxes of butterflies.

(...I hear one of the butterflies had an illicit liaison with David Beckham round the back of the marquee. Don't tell Posh. She doesn't mind his affairs - but she'd die if she knew there were beautiful creatures skinnier than her.)

Poetic Ponderings

I was reading some poetry recently by a semi-professional author (in a pre-publication workshop for her anthology) and there was one piece which has been very well received in the literary community, and had mostly glowing praise from some particularly respected writers. Almost everyone who had read the piece was being very complimentary, but I didn't feel it worthy of nearly the same reaction.

It was a human rights piece - and so had a strong message - and I think that was one of the reasons why others had been so eager to support the work. I have found that it is often the case that people will review literature far better if they think they need to be seen empathising with the traumatic scene laid out in the piece. A young girl dies, it's very sad, it's a true story, and therefore people fail to be as harsh as they would if the same level of skill or technique were applied to a less 'worthy' subject.

For me, poetry isn't just about having a strong voice, valid message, and correct literary style. It is often necessary for a good poem to conform to certain rules of meter and/or rhyme - and it must have a deliberate, crafted rhythm - but far more importantly, it must have an inner timbre. Virginia Woolf said "Language is like wine upon the lips," and she was absolutely right - but poetry should also be a liqueur for the mind. Some poems bubble and splash like the sound of wine being poured into a glass. Others are rich and velvety, burning your throat, and warming your soul as you imbibe them. More still should knot your stomach with that urgent clawing-at-slowed-time as you watch a dropped crystal wineglass plummet to the floor.

That extra, indefinable something was missing from the piece I read today. I was at a loss to explain myself to the author, and she'd had so many compliments on the piece that my criticism was dismissed as the opinion of a lone voice - the whitterings of an uneducated, inexperienced girl who fails to realise the works' humanitarian validity.

That I recognise all this makes it harder to be a writer of poetry myself, as I often doubt the motives of my readers’ reactions to my work. Are their positive reviews because they agree with my sentiments - not because they are seduced by my style? Did they react negatively to other poems because they found the subject matter uncomfortable, and not because the standard was poor?

Every poem should mean something to author and reader, and it's for this reason that I am most unhappy with my latest foray into that fickle talent. I haven't had a single damning response to it (unusually) but conversely, this has made me even less pleased with - or indeed proud of - the work than I have been about my more divisive pieces. It is a poem revealing why we write poetry, and why sharing the skill is significant. Those writers of my acquaintance connect with the piece, and feel it tackles the subject well. For this reason they identify with the work, and I feel that they are reluctant to rate it badly because they fear it will appear as if they are not as dedicated to the art as others who purport to have really felt a kinship with the message. Those non-writers who have experienced the piece believe it allows them a glimpse into the fascinating-but-unattainable world of the author, and I think they have been so uncritical because they like to convince themselves that they understand it, that they "get" what I am trying to say, however obscure the meaning is at times.

Poetry is subjective - and as such it does not always have to give definitive answers to every line. It is one of few mediums that invite interpretation, but people forget this because they assume there must be a right and wrong meaning to everything. Instead it is more like classical music - it must be judged on how it feels to experience. Music shares a similar need for that same 'je ne sais quois' that poetry must posses: for even if every single note is perfectly placed, the harmonies exemplary, and the story evocative, it is possible for the piece to leave you feeling nothing unless it has that special something.

Anyone can write poetry, but good poetry is much more of an elusive skill. I hope it is one I will learn - but considering just how subjective the genre is, am not certain I will ever know if I have reached the heady heights of poetic proficiency.

In place of the personally crafted work I feel is still unfit to share, I present you with those works of others: both those long retired from the art and of those still to write their signature piece. They are a small selection of poems I enjoy reading, and are all by well known authors, though some are more widely feted than the rest. (There are of course many, many more wonderful pieces, but these are a few I have re-read recently.)


The Hug by Thom Gunn.

It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined
Half of the night with our old friend
Who'd showed us in the end
To a bed I reached in one drunk stride.
Already I lay snug,
And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.

I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug,
Suddenly, from behind,
In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:
Your instep to my heel,
My shoulder-blades against your chest.
It was not sex, but I could feel
The whole strength of your body set,
Or braced, to mine,
And locking me to you
As if we were still twenty-two
When our grand passion had not yet
Become familial.
My quick sleep had deleted all
Of intervening time and place.
I only knew
The stay of your secure firm dry embrace.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


THE HARLOT'S HOUSE by Oscar Wilde.

We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.

The took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."

But she--she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Do not go gentle by Dylan Thomas.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because there words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Warming Her Pearls by Carol Anne Duffy.

Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

resting in the Yellow room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

She's beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.

Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head ... Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

she always does ... And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


MADONNA MIA by Oscar Wilde.

A LILY-GIRL, not made for this world's pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe,
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

Splintering A Rocky Marriage

My computer refused to let me onto the Internet for several hours today, and after the initial frustration came both blind panic and a feeling of devastating isolation. Admittedly I am not the worlds most people-friendly person, but the idea of being wholly disconnected from outside stimulus was an awful predicament to face so unexpectedly.

I don't always have either the energy or the inclination to involve myself in other people's lives - particularly when it requires being in the same room as them, because it makes them far trickier to switch off. Having the freedom and distraction of the World Wide Web is an acceptable compromise: and one that presents my mind with the opportunities my body is otherwise so fatigued by. To have that connection severed serves as a reminder of how addicted to online entertainment I actually am, and how limited I would be if I were without it for long. I'd either have to interact with the real world more than I like to, or closet myself away like an embittered hermit-luddite. I'd hate either option, and as the M.E often affords me an unfortunate propensity for apathy, I think I would probably begin with the former choice, but soon descend into the isolated second option.

I say that the apathy is "unfortunate" - but it has also been beneficial, in an odd sort of a way. Because I don't have the energy for grand emotion, I have managed to avoid too many extremes of temperament. I think that's why I have never been terribly depressed by the illness - it's because I can't care as much as I probably should. I accept it because anything else would require too much effort. Even with my recent technological troubles, I was frustrated and did have a few minor temper tantrums where I considered tossing the laptop out of the window: but to actually get terribly cross with it would require me to apply myself - show some dedication to the infuriation - and I surrender to apathy long before I reach such levels of temper.

Speaking of surrender, I may have to accept a little assistance with my mobility again for a while. Although I am healthier since my weight stabilized, the effort of recovery from last year has taken it's toll and this flare in severity of the M.E is proving somewhat stubborn. I'm accustomed to the joint pain and fortunate that it doesn't affect my mobility as it does some people (I've known others of my age with M.E who walk like pensioners crippled with arthritis. I've never had that problem.) My trouble is weakness when I'm exhausted, and of course the complications with my back (after the medication I was on as a child damaged my spine). Anyway, I think it may be necessary to call my old physiotherapy department and get a pair of crutches again to stabilise me a bit. Falling over because of my daft shoes would be embarrassing enough, but hitting the deck because I am just pathetic and knackered is unacceptable! If I must have crutches for a bit then it will be under one condition: that I may spray-paint them black and use a gold marker pen to detail them. I am undecided if I would decorate them with a sort of combination-animal-print, or if I will copy a designer logo such as the intertwined Fendi 'F' or the little symbols synonymous with Louis Vuitton.

Alternately, I have toyed with the idea of leaving them sprayed black - and only using the gold marker to detail the screws etc - and then attaching coloured voile scarves to them like rock stars do with their mic stands - a la Steven Tyler of Aerosmith.

Tyler and the veils:


Not convinced about that idea yet, as I would need to change them to match whatever I was wearing because I am obsessive compulsive about colour. It's either a side affect of being creative or just another sign that I am a little mad, but I even have to change my jewellery in the evening to match my nightwear. I'm so OCD about colours that if I am wearing bottle-green Russian Diopside pieces, and about to change into a lilac chemise, then I have to take the gems off before I change. Then, once I am redressed, I can then wear something complimentary such as a tanzanite ring. I think that's why I love my plain gold and diamond pieces - because they require less careful attention to insane detail!

I paint a terribly screwed up picture of myself, in a bonkers-and-broken way, but I really am neurotic about colour and style. It's because I have to be if I am to design with any flair. I must notice the shapes and tones of the world that others overlook if I am to create fine works myself. It's as much of a handicap as it has been an advantage though. I was taking my nail varnish off in the ridiculously early hours of this morning, because it didn't match my sleepwear and I couldn't ignore it any longer. I was testing myself, and I lasted three hours before it bugged me so much that I had to get rid of it.

I am aware of how incredibly stupid that all is, by the way. I'm not naive to my eccentricities, but as they are usually benign I am reasonably happy to ignore them. At least I'm not certifiably mental. While watching last weeks edition of Have I Got News For You - and trying not to shout at my computer again - I learned of the peculiar story of a Swedish woman who married the Berlin Wall. (Yes, really. She has MARRIED the BERLIN WALL. What's worse is that she's now cheating on it with a fence.)

No one I have told this story to believes me until they Google it, so I won't be offended when you do the same. Whilst Google is loading, allow me to explain. The woman in question - Eija-Riitta Berliner-Mauer, 54 - has revealed that she has been married to the Berlin Wall for 29years. She is purported to be suffering a medical condition called "Objectum Sexuality," which means she has an uncommon fondness for inanimate objects. The practical application of her madness was that she held a 'wedding' ceremony and 'married' the Berlin Wall in front of a small gathering of - I imagine very understanding - family and friends. She has anthropomorphised the wall to the extent that she refers to it as a "he" and calls him her "husband."

From The Times: Mrs Berliner-Mauer, who lives in Liden, northern Sweden, said: "I find long, slim things with horizontal lines very sexy. "The Great Wall of China's attractive, but he’s too thick – my husband is sexier."

Since the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 - when she believes they "mutilated [her] husband" - she has switched her attentions to a garden fence. (One word: Splinters.)

She also says she is "a virgin with humans." No? Really? (I do suggest that the RSPCA not let her have a dog though. Noone who specifies that they "don't have sex with humans" should be allowed a pet.)

Herr und Frau Berliner-Mauer:


There's really not enough medication in the world to cure that, is there? I suppose living in blissful ignorance of her own insanity is the best option available to her now - as if she were to be cured of the affliction and confronted by how completely bonkers she is then she'd probably die of shame. (Contrary to any sensible medical opinion, it isactually possible to die from shame: I know because I came very close to it when I bought a Smurfs album for my Dad.)

At least my ever-so-slightly mad tendencies can be cured by giving myself a talking to and making a cup of tea. Actually, talking to myself and then indulging in my other OCD behaviour of tea-making is probably not the best treatment for being a bit mental, is it?

I'm quite possibly making it worse.

Maybe I should just concede and betrothe some trellis.