Archive for the ‘Brain Workouts’ Category

Older Entries »
h1

Paradise Lost

January 18, 2012

Happy New Year, friends!

I’ve been reading (off and on) from John Milton’s Paradise Lost. It’s wonderful, and I mean that in the classical sense that it provokes wonder within me.

I hated Milton in college. Hated him. He bored me because I didn’t understand him. I can tell I didn’t understand him because I’ve been reading my handwritten notes on the pages of my college text, and they’re completely off. And now, because I’ve read so much and so broadly over the last few years (although I haven’t written much about it) I hardly need any of the real footnotes as I read.

His poem flows. I’m reading it aloud to hear its rhythm and its lushness. It is both beautiful and touching, and I can see how it influenced C. S. Lewis. I believe he based Screwtape on this poem, and I know he wrote a preface to Paradise Lost that forms its own book. I know this because I have that book. But I haven’t read it yet.

The story starts in the middle, as good stories do. Fallen archangel Satan and his fallen angel warriors are in hell and recounting their battle with God and heaven. They are debating whether or not to force war again, given that it seems impossible to defeat God, or if they should try subtler means. By Book Two, the pandemonium (a word Milton made up — it means demon council) has agreed that they will go find a new creation they’ve heard will happen and see if they can convert its creatures to their side so as to gain revenge upon God. The creation is Earth, and its creatures are humans.

Satan is the only one willing to take on the task. He secures his leadership by doing so. Beëlzebub is second in command — he is not synonymous with Satan. The other leaders are the early gods Baal, Mammon, Belial, and the gods of Olympus, because Milton saw them as leading mankind away from the one true God.

The demons’ perverted logic is present throughout. Satan says, “Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven.” What he says to support his argument is that everyone in heaven will want to be the king because the higher up one is, the greater the glory, and so the desire for glory will create internal strife among the angels. Meanwhile in hell, the higher up one is, the greater the torment, and therefore no one else will want to supplant his leadership. Ergo, reigning in hell is superior.

I love lines 249-255 from Book One, so much so that I want to commit them to memory. Satan justifies his fallen state. He will be creator within his own dominion.

…Farewell, happy fields,
Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail,
Infernal world! and then, profoundest Hell,
Receive thy new possessor, one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. How many times have I thought that? Externally my life is good, and yet so often I have lived in hell within my mind, so much so that I’ve wondered if torment exists only here on earth and that we don’t need a parallel dimension for that. My thoughts on the afterlife is that it’s all or nothing, literally. We are with God or we refuse him and turn away, and the opposite of God is nothingness, not torment.

I don’t think my opinion aligns with Catholic doctrine, and my opinion is subject to change.

In the first two books of Paradise Lost there are negative parallels to the positives of the trinity and Creation. Satan pulled his own daughter out of his body, which parallels Eve from Adam. He has an only son by his daughter, a perverted parallel to Jesus from God. The power of threes: one third of the angels of heaven are fallen. And there are others, but I can’t remember them specifically.

Milton says there are nine kinds of angels, with top being the archangels and bottom being cherubim and seraphim. I can’t remember all the in-betweens, and I don’t really know what the difference among them is. Some are guardians of Heaven, and others are guardians of people on Earth, I think.

Milton originally studied to be a clergyman in the Anglican Church. He studied broadly and in at least four languages: English, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. He traveled throughout Europe in his youth and got to know, among others, Galileo and Cardinal Barberini, a friend of Galileo’s who later became Pope. Milton was profoundly anti-Catholic in his later adulthood, and I don’t know why. He became a lawyer and then a politician, and wrote many treatises, mostly in Latin. His poetry was in English.

I think it’s interesting that his one epic poem came out of him after he went blind, which means that he wrote it entirely orally. And of course, traditional epic poems were all oral. That may be why the sound of it is so beautiful. It doesn’t rhyme, usually, and the meter is all over the place, and yet the meter corresponds to the lyrics and gives them greater power. It is its own music. And I can see it, when normally I only hear what I read.

That’s what I’m getting out of Paradise Lost through Book Six. The entire piece is twelve books, but the Fall doesn’t happen until Book Nine. I plan to venture into Eden and witness the Fall in the near future.

Posted in Brain Workouts | Tagged , | Leave a Comment »

h1

The Future of Medicine

November 7, 2011

In the spirit of getting back to the stated purpose of this blog, I will share with you a TED talk I finally had a chance to view last night. Last year at the Texas Book Festival I had the serendipitous opportunity of seeing Abraham Verghese, a medical doctor whose novel Cutting for Stone was featured in one of the forums. I had never heard of him or his novel, and in fact was only in that lecture because of the lure of free books. None of them was authored by him, and a year later I have yet to read them.

But because free books brought me into an auditorium in the basement of the Texas State Capitol in the fall of 2010, I had an experience that was astonishing. Dr. Verghese began to speak. And as he did, the audience fell silent. All squeaking of seats, rustling of bags, clearings of throats ceased as we sat transfixed. The man transcended charisma. He transcended brilliance. He spoke, and we listened, feeling as though something were shifting inside of us.

This summer Dr. Verghese did a TED talk in Scotland about what he believes should be the future of medicine. It’s about going back to the past. It’s about recognizing that we, the patients, are not automata to be examined by machine. It’s about recognizing that the doctor-patient relationship is a personal one. The power of technology does not replace the power of human touch.

I invite you now to listen to what he had to say.

Posted in Brain Workouts | Tagged , , | Leave a Comment »

h1

Like Water for Chocolate

September 6, 2011

In my quest to cure my intellectual laziness, I’m hoping that reading Like Water for Chocolate in its original Spanish will prove to be a watershed moment.

Not that I’ve seen any improvement in my attempt to read Kant.

If you didn’t see the 1992 movie (or just need a refresher), the plot goes something like this: in 19th-century Mexico, during the revolution, 15-year-old Tita falls in love with her handsome neighbor Pedro. When Pedro asks Tita to marry him, their love is thwarted. Her mother (Mamá Elena) will not permit the marriage because Tita, as youngest daughter, is bound by family tradition to be her mother’s handmaid until Mamá Elena’s death. Pedro decides to marry Tita’s older sister Rosaura instead so as to live in the same household as his beloved. This brings about many complications, as you might imagine.

Throughout the novel and movie is an underlying theme of cooking. Tita’s emotions are expressed through the food she makes, and everyone who eats her cooking experiences those emotions. The guests leave Pedro and Rosaura’s wedding weeping after eating the cake Tita baked, for one example.

It’s an entertaining book and movie. Mamá Elena is a wonderful (if one-dimensional) character, Disney-esque in her evil.

Back in 1993, when I saw the movie, Pedro’s actions and the smoldering heat between he and Tita all seemed reasonable. But on reflection, I think I was distracted by the beautiful Marco Leonardi.

Reading the book made something readily apparent: Pedro is an idiot. Not only was it completely stupid for him to marry Tita’s sister, but his constant stalking of Tita, who is trying to move on with her life, borders on creepy. And the poor girl gets no relief even after her mother dies; just when it looks like she’s found real love in Dr. John Brown, Pedro intervenes again. But he won’t leave Rosaura. Nope, Pedro’s going to play it both ways, and Tita, distracted by lust, continues to make poor decisions.

Still, it was fun to read this as a married adult instead of as the unattached, hormonal teenager I was when I saw the movie. Today I would take Dr. Brown over Pedro, thank you very much. He actually cares about Tita and is responsible and kind AND IS NOT MARRIED TO HER SISTER.

I did pick up some interesting Spanish in the course of reading this book. You know how we use an onion as a metaphor for the many layers of a person? The Spanish equivalent is lettuce and its many layers of leaves.

I read a lot of recipes in the book and descriptions of cooking, and one frequent direction was to squeeze broth or some other liquid through a thick cloth. The Spanish word for thick is tupido. Something that is thick es tupido. Someone who is thick is stupid, and the word in Spanish for stupid is estúpido.

Perhaps I’m making up that etymology by combining two words, but I doubt it. This isn’t like the urban legend that Nova is the combination of No va, meaning “it doesn’t go,” which is why the Chevy Nova failed to sell well in Mexico. (It did fine, sales-wise.) That would be the equivalent of claiming that women refuse to see a therapist because they are afraid of the rapist. If women refuse to see a therapist it’s because bitching about our problems to our girlfriends is much cheaper and more fun besides.

Not that there’s anything wrong with seeing a therapist.

Anyway, here’s a link to a Spanish website with a trailer for the movie. I can’t get a direct YouTube embedded link because the movie trailer contains nudity. If that isn’t an illustration of our cultural difference, I don’t know what is. Enjoy!

Posted in Brain Workouts | Tagged , , | 1 Comment »

h1

Spanish on the Brain

September 1, 2011

Hello again.

It is the start of a new school year, and so I am once again buckling down on my home study of the classics. I rarely blog about what I’m reading, but I am reading nonetheless. Sometimes I’m even reading things that are harder to comprehend than People magazine.

But I still love People.

This month my on-line reading group is tackling Immanuel Kant, an 18th-century German philosopher who changed philosophy.

I don’t know how he did that, but that is what I’m told. I’m attempting to read his Critique of Pure Reason, and I’m finding it to be incredibly slow going. Here’s the opening passage:

Whatever the process and the means may be by which knowledge refers to its objects, intuition is that through which it refers to them immediately, and at which all thought aims as a means. But intuition takes place only insofar as the object is given to us. This again is only possible, for us human beings at least, when the mind is affected by the object in a certain way. The capacity (receptivity) to obtain representations through the way in which we are affected by objects is called sensibility…

It just keeps going on like this and getting more and more convoluted. I struggle through each word, and yet my mind is a sieve, leaving me with no memory of what I’ve just read. While I try to absorb each word of each line of text, my on-line group races ahead in their heated debate over this work. I’ve gotten to wondering if they’re all miles above me intellectually or just full of shit. I’m betting it’s some combination of the two.

I felt it necessary to refer to a YouTube video that someone from Three-Minute Philosophy put together using MS Paint for animation. It’s quite entertaining.

I am not alone in my opinion that this is tough reading. To quote directly from the introduction to my translation: “Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, though probably philosophy’s single most acclaimed work, has remained notorious for being obscure and excessively difficult more or less since the day it was published. It has driven some of the finest philosophical minds to despair, or even, owing to the bleakness of its doctrines as much as that of its prose, to the verge of suicide.”

I can’t see myself verging on suicide from reading Kant. More likely, I will put him down and pick up something else.

In fact, that’s what I decided to do last week. I wondered if maybe Kant was so unapproachable because he was German and I was reading him in translation. Those Germans create all kinds of crazy word combinations for which there is no English equivalent, words like zeitgeist or schadenfreude or welzschmerz.  (I can’t remember how to spell that last one, but it’s the one from which Steinbeck derived “Welsh rats.”)

So I thought, “Why don’t I try to read something in a foreign language that I kind of know and see if it’s any easier than Kant?” The only foreign language of which I have any grasp is Spanish, and the last time I studied it was in 1993. I can’t speak it particularly well, nor can I understand it spoken in real time, as opposed to veeeeery slowly. But as it turns out, I can read it.

I bought this book several years ago with the idea that I would re-learn Spanish. At the time I got about two paragraphs in before giving up on it. But I’ve been reading tough stuff for two years now. My brain has been buffing up. So I gave it another shot.

And this shocked the hell out of me: I read it in three days. The entire thing. By the end I didn’t even need the English/Spanish dictionary anymore. It was absolutely insane, like some hidden part of my brain that I had forgotten about suddenly re-emerged. In fact, it re-emerged as some kind of super-brain, because I was never able to read a Spanish novel even when I was studying Spanish.

Unfortunately, this does not mean I can speak Spanish any better. Nevertheless, I feel like a new world has been opened to me because now I know I can read not just English works in their original state, but Spanish works as well.

While this is very exciting, I’ve discovered that being able to read Spanish has not made reading Kant any easier. So the dilemma: which of these do I tackle next?

I’ve never read One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez, but I do know of its reputation as a fantastic piece of literature and the progenitor of magical realism. And now I feel like I can tackle it in its original form.

I will try to slog through Kant, but I have a feeling I will be turning to Márquez before long.

I want to blog later about some interesting things I learned from Laura Esquivel’s book. I hope I will be able to remember them long enough to write them down. Wish me luck.

Posted in Brain Workouts | Leave a Comment »

h1

Call Me Ishmael

July 4, 2011

Slowly (so very, very slowly) I’ve been reading my way through the classics of Western civilization. I purchased a couple of book collections to that end a few years ago. One is the Great Books of the Western World, published by Encyclopedia Britannica (bought on eBay for roughly 1/6th the retail price) and another is called the Five Foot Shelf of Knowledge, or officially, the Harvard Classics. This set is one that Charles Eliot, then-president of Harvard University, put together in 1909. The premise was that by reading for 15 minutes a day from the collection, anyone could obtain a thorough liberal arts education.

2011 fancy leather version: $70 per volume. 1909 first-edition: $40 per foot on eBay.

Every now and then my five-foot shelf of knowledge will catch my eye. It actually takes exactly five feet, by the way. Ambrose, my incredible library carpenter, made each shelf 30 inches wide, and the 50 volumes take two shelves. (There’s an extra volume, an index, that moves to a third shelf, but I don’t think that one counts.)

One book called to me today, and I’ll quote from the introduction:

The merit of [this book] was recognized in both America and England immediately after its appearance, and it at once took rank as the most vivid and accurate picture in literature of the side of life it sought to portray. W. Clark Russell, himself one of the best writers of sea-stories in English, called it “the greatest sea-book that was ever written in any language,” and the convincing detail of its narrative led to comparisons with the masterpiece of Defoe.

It’s the greatest sea-book written in any language. And it’s called Two Years Before the Mast by Richard Henry Dana.

Wait, what?

If you’ve never heard of this book, you may count me in your company. I only paused before it today because I’m reading Moby Dick with my online book club. Melville published Moby Dick in 1851. Dana published his fictionalized memoir in 1846. He was a Harvard College student who took a couple of years off from school to sail the wild seas before returning “the hero of his fellow students.” (I quote Pres. Eliot.) Even with the Harvard bias in place, it’s difficult to understand how Dana’s work found itself in the essential five feet some 63 years later but Melville’s did not.

No matter. I’m enjoying Moby Dick anyway. Here’s a quote that will appeal to many people I know:

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid, –what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvelous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

The two orchard thieves would be Adam and Eve. This is good stuff.

Posted in Brain Workouts | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment »

h1

Graphing the Perfect Chicken Nugget

April 4, 2011

The Big M and I were walking through Sam’s Club with the kids earlier this evening when everyone’s stomachs started rumbling. There were supper fixings waiting in the fridge at home, but I had done no prep, and it would be at least an hour.

We got into the car and looked at each other. Some beautiful spark crossed our synapses at exactly the same time, and we just knew.

Chick-Fil-A.

O! purveyor of perfectly fried chicken! You have waffle fries and lemon pie and salads with sunflower seeds on top! You will meet our desires!

And then we went and did something inexcusable: we ordered too few chicken nuggets.

There’s something magical about Chick-Fil-A chicken nuggets. They never stop being delicious, and it seems mathematically impossible to ever be full.

I’ve graphed this phenomenon as follows:

You’ll note that hunger actually spikes at the third nugget before steadily decreasing, only to flatline at a not-quite-full level as nuggets approach infinity.

Now it’s all well and good to consume nuggets ad infinitum, but in the presence of others one must consider decorum.

The problem, of course, is that social inappropriateness is achieved long before full satiety. (The scale above represents men; ruh-roh levels arrive much earlier on the women’s scale.)

So how many nuggets could one realistically consume? I decided that a good limitation would be the amount of money in my pockets. I have $21. Given that Chick-Fil-A nuggets run about 34 cents each, the maximum amount I could consume would be 63. I have represented that as follows:

While 63 is the financial maximum I can achieve at this moment, my guess is that I might not be able to consume quite that many. My best guess on consumption would be:

More experimentation is needed.

Posted in Brain Workouts | Tagged , | 3 Comments »

h1

Forbidden Fruit

March 29, 2011

Close to our vineyard there was a pear tree laden with fruit. This fruit was not enticing, either in appearance or in flavor. We nasty lads went there to shake down the fruit and carry it off at dead of night… We took enormous quantities, not to feast on ourselves but perhaps to throw to the pigs; we did eat a few, but that was not our motive: we derived pleasure from the deed simply because it was forbidden. –St. Augustine, Confessions, Book II

I painted a pear today. I didn’t steal it or throw it to pigs, but I thought of Augustine nonetheless. If you ever have an opportunity to read Confessions, it’s worth doing. The Maria Boulding translation is excellent.

I chose to put a yellow pear on a yellow cloth to explore painting in color when there seems to be only one color.

Obviously there’s more than one color, otherwise you wouldn’t see the pear at all. Nevertheless, yellow is the theme. I only had about 30 minutes left to work by the time I started this painting. That turned out to be a good thing. I didn’t fret about it at all. I didn’t even bother to do a drawing first. I just mixed up a bunch of different tones of purple and went to work.

Purple is the complement of yellow. To make a duller yellow, you have to add its complement.

I thought my painting turned out pretty cool, especially given the time squeeze. I may develop it more next week or start something new.

That’s just purple and yellow up there. Wild, isn’t it?

Posted in Art, Brain Workouts | Tagged , , | 4 Comments »

h1

Oh, it’s hard to be humble

March 15, 2011

This morning I was looking back over the list of books I’ve read over the last couple of years, and I didn’t even remember having read some of them. This is why I write them down.

My friend Sylvia is very smart; she writes a mini-review of each book after she reads it. That way, when she looks back she not only can remember what the book is about, she remembers whether or not she liked it.

More than once I’ve been halfway through a book before realizing that not only have I read it before, but I didn’t particularly care for it the first time around.

So…in the interest of both self-discipline and self-preservation, I’m making myself write down quotes from books as I read them — statements that stick out to me at the time.

I liked this passage as I read Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography:

In reality, there is, perhaps, no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself; you will see it, perhaps, often in this history; for, even if I could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility.

I thought that was both true and funny.

Posted in Brain Workouts | Tagged , , | 2 Comments »

h1

feuerall things

February 2, 2011

That last post went a completely different way than I had expected.

When I found the postcard from WWI, I started thinking about something amusing I had learned about people’s reactions in the U.S. to the war: anything German-sounding had its name changed. Hamburgers (Hamburg) became Liberty Sandwiches. Sauerkraut became Liberty Cabbage. I assume this is also when hot dogs became hot dogs instead of wieners or bratwurst or whatever they were called up until then.

So I was going to write about how that’s yet another example of history repeating itself, what with the whole Freedom Fries thing that got going a few years back. (And any time I think of that, my mind wanders to the crazy mom in Better Off Dead who serves what she thinks is French food to the foreign exchange student. “We have French bread, French fries, French dressing…”)

But then I went a whole ‘nother direction when I sat down to write.

I’ll take you back to three days ago. I was listening to a lecture on T. S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, a poem I find incomprehensible, even after listening to the lecture. Eliot referenced a line from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, a line about “my fathers eyes were pearls,” which meant that his father had drowned, and then his body had been consumed by the sea and resurrected into something new.

So I poked around in my Riverside Shakespeare, laughed at what his buddies had to say about Shakespeare in the First Folio, and finally got around to reading part of the first act. Afterward, I retired to my room, where The Big M and I watched Winter Wipeout, a show that never ceases to be funny. (Thank you, Japanese TV, for bringing your crazy game shows to my country.) You would think watching someone collide into a giant bouncy ball and then fall into water would get old. But you’d be wrong.

Anyway, the next day I started reading The Tempest again, and I found the passage:

Full fadom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark now I hear them–ding-dong bell.

Isn’t that beautiful? What had captured my attention in the Eliot lecture was the “sea-change.” I remembered that Fitzgerald repeatedly used that phrase in The Great Gatsby, and it felt like there was some sort of theme related to it. So I wondered if maybe The Great Gatsby was The Tempest redone for a modern audience. It would be ironic (in an Alanis Morrissette way) if the Great American Novel turned out to be a ripoff of Shakespeare.

Yesterday I finished The Tempest, and the short answer is — no, it has no relation to The Great Gatsby, at least none that I see. (I really liked The Tempest, though. For one thing, the protagonist, Prospero, is very into books. I could identify with that. For another, it’s funny.)

But thinking about The Great Gatsby got me thinking about WWI again and the post-war disillusionment that Fitzgerald and Hemingway and so many other writers experienced and wrote about.

I was all set to write about Freedom fries when my neighbor’s band started up and the thump-thumping of bass penetrated my walls. To keep my focus, I turned some music on and ran a genius list based on “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers, an up-tempo (if depressing) song.

Before I knew it, Genius had picked Radiohead. As Thom Yorke’s melancholy vocals oozed over me, I started mulling on war and disillusionment, and you see the result.

Music is so weird in how it can influence your thinking, and even your memory.

This post’s title comes from Shakespeare’s First Folio. feuerall is what we now write, “several.”

Those are my several things for today.

Posted in Brain Workouts | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a Comment »

h1

Shakespeare’s Buddies

January 28, 2011

I heard a line from The Tempest about eyes that turned to pearls (or something like that) and decided that I needed to read the play, because that’s the kind of weird thing I do. Frankly, it’s a miracle I ever finish reading anything with all the tangents I get led off to. I probably abandon half the reading material I pick up in any given year, usually because it will reference something else that sounds more interesting.

I found my old college Riverside Shakespeare and was thumbing through it when I happened upon some photocopies of the First Folio. This was the first “official” copy of Shakespeare’s plays, and it was published in 1623, a few years after his death. His friends published it.

As you might expect, there are plenty of forewords lauding the poet, thanking his noble patrons, etc. Ben Jonson wrote a sweet poem to him, with lines like, “…Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn,/ for a good Poet’s made, as well as born/ and such wert thou. Look how the father’s face/ Lives in his issue, even so, the race/ of Shakespeare’s mind and manners brightly shines/ in his well-turned and true-filled lines…”

Just so you know, I updated the spelling and didn’t use f for s or u for v, ’cause that’s really hard to read.

It’s all very high-minded, lots of tributes … and then we read John Hemmings and Henry Condell, two of Shakespeare’s friends and fellow actors. Theirs is the most honest of all the prefaces, and one I found quite funny.

“To the great Variety of Readers. From the most able, to him that can but spell: There you are numbered. We had rather you were weighed. Especially when the fate of all books depends upon your capacities — and not of your heads alone, but of your purses. Well! It is now public, and you will stand for your privileges we know: to read and to censure. Do so, but buy it first. That doth best commend a book, the Stationer [bookseller] says. … Judge your six pence’ worth, your shilling’s worth, your five shillings’ worth at a time, or higher, so you rise to the just rates, and welcome. But, whatever you do, Buy.”

You can criticize Shakespeare’s plays all you want, they say, just so long as you buy the book.

“It had been a thing, we confess, worthy to have been wished, that the Author himself had lived to have set forth and overseen his own writings. But since it hath been ordained otherwise, and by death he departed from that right, we pray you do not envy his Friends the office of their care and pain to have collected and published them…”

Don’t get mad at us for trying to make money off him. We wish he could have done this himself, but he’s dead now. So he can’t.

“…before, you were abused with divers stolen and surreptitious copies, maimed and deformed by the stealth of injurious impostors…”

Don’t be fooled by those pirated copies you bought before. This is the one and only genuine article.

More evidence that nothing ever changes.

Posted in Brain Workouts | Tagged , | 1 Comment »

Older Entries »
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.