commonpeople1: (Avatar)
There was commotion outside Bethnal Green tube station this evening.

Walking from the station to the nearest bus stop, I spotted an elderly man sat in the middle of the road, surrounded by passersbys and the driver of a black minivan. Cars swerved around him, cyclists slowed down to take a good look, pedestrians lost interest in where they were going or the conversations they were having on their mobile phones to stop and watch with furrowed brows.

The man, it seemed, had been jaywalking with some other people when he was knocked over. An elderly Polish lady touched his shoulder and he swatter her away. She crossed over to the bus stop and told someone: “he’s rude! He’s rude!”

The black minivan driver rubbed the old man’s back, got into her car and drove away. New people arrived and formed a human shield around the man. One bespectacled gentleman got off his bike and became a traffic warden. A few of them spoke into mobile phones (emergency services?) The old man remained seated on the cold, wet asphalt, hunched over, cradling his arm.

Buses arrived and people climbed in. I decided to wait for the next one, as did the Polish lady.

“Did anyone call an ambulance?” I asked her.

“He’s lying!” she blurted back. “There’s nothing wrong with his arm! I touch it. I touch it hard. If it was broken, he would feel pain. He feel nothing. He’s pretending.” [1]

“Oh,” and I looked back at the old man (now turned into a con artist in my eyes) and the group of people (suckers.)

“I was behind him when he fell. Nobody touch him. He just fall by himself. He make this to get money from the government.”

“I’m sure the ambulance crew will figure this out when they check him.”

“I fell down my building’s stairs once. I get bruises on my back. I can’t bear even a small touch. So that’s how I know he don’t break arm. I touch and he feel nothing! I know what to do in this country. You go to hospital and you get doctor to write everything down. That’s how you get money from government. But he wants people to believe what he says, and not what the doctor says. He do the wrong way.”

A much emptier No.8 bus arrived and we climbed in together. Her Oyster card was a Freedom Pass. I climbed upstairs and sat on the seat right at the front, where I could look down on the man as the bus drove by. He had now been moved to the median strip. He looked a bit confused.

[1] Recreation of the lady’s Polish accent may be slightly incorrect due to author’s incapability of remembering verbatim what she said.
commonpeople1: (Avatar)
bus going by by patart00
bus going by, a photo by patart00 on Flickr.
On the way to work, hop on the No.8 on Roman Road and get off at Bethnal Green Tube station. Sit behind a man with a copy of The Sun. Sharon Osbourne on the front cover claiming Dannii Minogue had an affair with Simon Cowell. His thumb tentatively plays with the page; I can see a Page 3 breast poke through. The woman sitting beside him wears a yellow hijab.

After work, the No. 8 from Liverpool Street station because I just can't squeeze into the Central Line. All the windows facing North on Bethnal Green Rd are lit, open. Shirtless young men stalk front rooms. Young women hunch over laptops. Mixed students cook dinner together. Rooms jammed with clothes or completely sparse, just a few postcards bluetacked to the walls.

The young man sitting beside me holds his mobile phone up, trying to capture a good connection. He's on Grindr.
commonpeople1: (Sea)

The Silent History sounds like something just down my alley. Is this what fiction and literature will look like in the future? 

From what I understand, it's an app only for iPads or iPhones (but I may be wrong.) You download it and every day it gives you a new chapter on the story of children being born across the U.S. (the world?) who suffer from a mysterious condition where they are completely silent.  Each daily chapter is through the point of view of someone related to the epidemic - one of the main characters, doctors, parents, etc.

There's an additional feature, the Field Reports, which are GPS tagged and entered by the authors and readers - they can only be accessed when you are near them.  Which has, supposedly, led people to travel across the U.S., and now even to London, to unlock them (though they are not essential to the comprehension of the main story.) 

The story comes to an end one year after you download and start the app.

I've been thinking for some time now about storytelling that is interactive with social media and gadgets - in line with some of the stuff Secret Cinema does as well as other arts organisations in London.  My own idea revolves around a bus route in London and how different aspects of the story related to it can be unlocked/viewed if you: travel the route; visit certain houses near it; read certain newspapers; etc.

But my idea didn't include contributions from the public - it would be purely my creation and perhaps involve some film making with actors.  I like though The Silent History's use of the public's imagination - I'm tempted to download the app right now and start filing some of my own "Field Reports" around my neighbourhood, adding to The Silent History's "myth".

Imagine the implications for other genres... a horror story, for example!  You could unlock a segment of the story once you visit a church after sunset.  Or a walk through one of the "Magnificent Seven" cemeteries in London.  The possibilities are endless actually, and they can be used to comment on a load of things.  It could also be a wonderful way of teaching history, languages, social concern.

Very curious now about other apps/stories like The Silent History currently in development.
commonpeople1: (Default)
Tantrum by Gillian Syer
Tantrum, a photo by Gillian Syer on Flickr.
I was waiting for a bus home at Bethnal Green when I noticed a father and his young son standing nearby. The boy was holding a union flag umbrella and was arguing with his father about something. The bus arrived and the father ushered the pissed off little boy inside.

As they climbed the double-deck, the boy started crying. I'd been thinking about my brother and his son and I became curious about these two - about what they were arguing about and how the dad was dealing with it. So I chose a seat right behind them to eavesdrop on their conversation.

I didn't realise I'd just purchased A1 Stall tickets for the mother of all tantrums!

The boy cried louder and louder, his face red and wet from tears. The father told him to shut up and calm down but it only wound up the boy. "I want to go to Sidney's! I want to go to Sidney's!!" he cried. Louder. And louder. AND LOUDER.

The father slapped him once, then twice, then three times, telling him to shut up and calm down. He could go tomorrow to Sidney's, not today. This worsened the situation because apparently the dad had previously promised a visit to Sidney's today. Everybody in the bus was hypnotised (some disturbed, some smiling with sympathy.)
commonpeople1: (Default)
anti-slavery campaign by Herbi Ditl
anti-slavery campaign, a photo by Herbi Ditl on Flickr.
I rode the No.8 beside a sausage dog. I gave him my hand to sniff as I sat down; I wanted to pet him but his owner (young, bearded guy - is there any other sort in the EastEnd?!) didn't seem too keen to share the dog. It made me miss the ones living with my family in Brasil.

The bus went by the circus set up in Mile End Park. During the weekend, I saw families lining up to buy tickets and I was thoughtful of the chavy ones standing side by side with the muslim ones. It seemed like a good family activity to bring together all sorts of people from the community.

Today, though, there were protesters standing outside the circus with signs on animal cruelty. I thought all circuses now were like Cirque du Soleil!? They still use animals? Very sad...

Just Dance

Feb. 10th, 2011 08:07 am
commonpeople1: (Log Lady)

Originally uploaded by sir_joeking
They came to the classroom and told us we'd have to put on a dance show. I turned to Cheryl and said that I'd be anything - the manager, the marketing officer, the PR, the runner, the designer, the photographer - anything but a dancer. She laughed and pointed out that we all had to take part in the choreography.

We could all dance, and we did with Michael Jackson hats and large steps across the stage in our white tank tops.

Later, I washed my hair kneeled by a bus stop with the water from a tap. Took us a while to figure out it was the wrong stop and we needed to walk back a few blocks in the dark until the right bus came along. In the rush to leave, I had no time to wash off all the conditioner.
commonpeople1: (Motorbike)

Bus crash
Originally uploaded by paul_clarke
I was on the phone to a colleague this afternoon when she suddenly said "oh my God, my bus just crashed!"

"What do you mean?"

She started laughing. "It just crashed!"

"Are you OK?"

"Hmm, yeah."

"Maybe you should call me later?" I suggested. She agreed. From the tone of her voice afterwards, I gathered it wasn't that serious.
commonpeople1: (Paris)
This morning, during the Tube strike, I took the District line to work and actually arrived half an hour earlier than usual at work.

At night, when the Tube strike was supposed to be over, I walked for miles trying to find an empty bus because none of them had enough space for me and all the supposedly functioning Tube stations were locked shut.

At least the launch for our festival went really well tonight: we had about 60 people despite the terrible Mondayness of it all. The poet enjoyed himself, the organisers were happy and my boss congratulated me on getting the high commissioner for the poet's country to attend. We are all feeling so much more positive and hopeful that the marketing and press is finally working and things will turn out OK this month.

Cold Feet

Sep. 15th, 2010 08:44 pm
commonpeople1: (Mr Stamp)

Shower in gym 1900's
Originally uploaded by gaswizard
Our boiler malfunctioned three days ago and we haven't had any hot water since. Yesterday morning I went to the gym before work and noticed for the first time that they pump music into the shower room. Black Eyed Peas don't make good showering companions. Today, I went after work and there were many guys about but I was lucky enough to have the shower room to myself. Our landlords have offered their home's bathtub while they sort someone to check the boiler. They had us over for dinner last night as a thank you for watching over their cat Blanche on the weekend.

I only have two days left at the recruitment agency. A famous Bollywood star came into our building today, according to the security guard at reception, but my team didn't see him. He looks a bit like Antonio Banderas on his Wikipedia page. My co-workers tease me about my new job, about who's going to substitute me, about the little inside jokes we have built over these past weeks. I have no energy to join in the fun because I'm fighting some kind of cold (brought into the office by my line manager, who had a chest infection over the weekend). We are all getting sick.

I'm still reading Joe Orton's diary on the bus rides to work and home. He was very raw and very smart. His entries, though, on the Moroccan boys he brought home and shagged are troubling. I'll be commuting on the Hammersmith line as of next week, which will give me lots of hours underground to get through more books. Anything to keep me distracted from the weather getting cold and grim.

Juicy Blood

Sep. 8th, 2010 11:08 am
commonpeople1: (Motorbike)

In Cold Blood
Originally uploaded by Michael_Kelleher
In the No. 8 bus this morning, a fidgety girl sat next to me. She wore tight faded blue jeans, red All Stars and black-rimmed glasses. She kept pinching her legs and stretching them as if she had bed bugs crawling all over the place. She was reading Capote's In Cold Blood, her body leaning against mine the whole way to Holborn. I was briefly worried the bed bugs would jump on me. There's a world-wide infestation on the rise, apparently.

I have a job interview tomorrow at 2pm. I already Facestalked the woman that called me yesterday and she looks really friendly.
commonpeople1: (Steven Lubin)
Yesterday, I took my camera to work and recorded some footage from the No. 8 bus. I wanted to capture the street piano again, hopefully with someone playing it like the day before.

Want to know what it feels like to be in my skin when I commute in the morning, sitting in the No. 8's second floor, with the iShuffle plugged in? Here's my footage (with Broadcast & The Focus Group's "Royal Chant" as soundtrack):

Didn't make it to the community garden today. I'm hoping to meet my brasilian friend Vini Bambini sometime this afternoon and/or go for a long walk. Tomorrow, myself, [ profile] wink_martindale, [ profile] desayuno_ingles, one of the Sissies plus some other friends will be attending and volunteering at Cancer Research UK's Pride Walk. There will be a lot of men in drag, apparently.
commonpeople1: (Morrissey)
There's a piano just by the stairs that lead down into Bank Station. It's part of the City of London Festival and it has a big sign that says: "Play Me!"

A woman was playing it this morning as my bus went by - her bags to the side, a few commuters milling about and watching her with cigarettes in their hands. I heard a few notes but I have no clue what the piece was. She looked like she had blocked out the world and there was only the music.

I wish I could play the piano.
commonpeople1: (Log Lady)
When I left work yesterday, I started entertaining this fantasy of throwing a party at The Victoria pub - the kind of party where a band is on stage while all the attendees arrive dressed up (in tuxedos, as cowboys, 40s gangsters - whatever the theme dictates.) This fantasy then took me back to the night we saw The Severed Limb play The Victoria - a really good show, but poorly attended.

A few blocks later, who was standing at the same bus stop I catch the No. 8 home? The singer from The Severed Limb, dressed up like Johnny Cash and holding a guitar case. That threw me off a little. Psychic moment? Or do coincidences exist? The questions didn't go any further because the universe threw me another curve ball with the appearance of Darnell from Big Brother 9. Before my mind could find the secret connection between their simultaneous presences, their buses arrived and they were gone.

Wink and I are not in the mood for gardening this morning. But it's nice outside - it would be a shame to spend it indoors.

Nice Women

Jun. 18th, 2010 12:17 pm
commonpeople1: (Paris)
I take the number 8 bus home. Yesterday, the bus was unusually packed and I had to squeeze into a corner seat on the ground floor - the kind where you have two people facing you. A pair of women with a suitcase and a copy of the Metro between them sat across from me. I pulled out my current reading choice and was about to start a chapter when one of them spoke in french to the other. Something about her was familiar. I looked up and realised that she was one of [ profile] sushidog's oldest friends, introduced to Wink and I some time ago during one of Sushidog's visits to London. She's the one half of a lesbian couple who have known Sushidog and her parents for ages, now living in Hackney - really funny, warm people.

The non-Londoner must have been a french friend just arrived in town. They chatted about what to cook for dinner and called someone to confer about courgettes and Tesco. (I imagine it was the other half.) They got off at Liverpool St station. I should have said hello, shouldn't I?

This morning, a prospective candidate from the French Guiana came into our agency for an interview. We got chatting in french and it turns out her mother is brasilian (from Fortaleza). She was lovely. It was the first time I spoke to a native french speaker where I didn't feel a sense of inadequacy. I hope they find her a good job.
commonpeople1: (Default)
I'm in Londrina, visiting family. All my bureaucratic problems with the military were solved within a day, without a hitch (and for less than 2 pounds).  I can now renew my passport and sort out my other legal documents here.  

Took loads of photos. Am taking the midnight bus tomorrow back to my mom's guesthouse: a 12-hour trip.  It's 32 celsius, which is apparently "cool" after a recent heatwave.  Am slightly sunburnt and crawling the shades whenever possible.

My dreams have come true: LJ now accepts Google Analytics! I installed it today and I'm very curious to see what comes up after the first 24 hours.

Say hello to my stalkers.

Street Life

Dec. 3rd, 2009 10:45 pm
commonpeople1: (Clarice)
I was waiting for a bus yesterday evening (and failing to get any since London + Rain = Crammed Buses) when I noticed a guy looking at me. Eventually he got close and explained that he needed to catch a bus or cab to Homerton Hospital. Then he produced his pièce de résistance: a giant gaping wound on his forearm beside what looked like a protruding bone. My first reaction, before he showed me the wound, was to say I didn't have any spare change - but when I saw the state he was in, I tried to make amends for my suspicion by convincing him he needed an ambulance. He refused categorically. I asked what had happened and he said he fell off his bike. He then wanted to know which bus I was waiting for (number 8), said he was waiting for the same one (it doesn't go anywhere near Homerton Hospital), then slipped inside the 388 through the back door when it arrived. I lost the chance of getting [ profile] neenaw to allocate him some help.

This morning, I'm bundled up and miserable with the other commuters as we wait for the bus into town when I spot something out of Hulbert Selby Jr's imagination walking towards me: a young woman in a tiny black mini skirt, high heels, teeny top that says D & G, bleached blonde hair, fake fur coat (open) and a cigarette. Her skin is covered with acne and she blows smoke like she doesn't give a shit. Every. Single. Man. Can't. Help. Staring. An unsettled girlfriend even steps in front of her man's field of vision because he's incapable of quitting the gaping.

Who's this girl and why is the cold not bothering her? Has her work shift just ended and she's heading home while the rest of us start our day? She flicks her cigarette into the gutter, lifts her fake fur coat's hood to cover her head and enters the bus before everyone else.
commonpeople1: (James)
Last night, after a few hours spent with friends at Vagabonds (London's premier monthly night dedicated to 80s trad goth/alternative classics), Kevin and I hop on the No.8 bus, heading home. As the bus stops near Brick Lane, a hoard of drunk revellers push into the bus through the exit doors. Kevin and I move towards the back. The doors' alarms beep incessantly because there's not enough space to close them; I look at Kevin and predict we'll go nowhere (my experience in the past has been with drivers refusing to depart unless people pay their fare or leave the bus.)

The bus is crammed, except in the corridor where Kevin and I are standing. Suddenly, someone starts slamming the windows with their hand. I look and it's a guy outside calling my attention. He orders me to move back so he can get in. I ignore him (I'm drunk and, in any case, what difference does it make where I move if the people elsewhere in the bus aren't budging?) He continues to slam the windows and, after a minute, I look at him again. This time he looks at me as if he could rip my head off - he wants to get in the bus and apparently it's my fault he's not succeeding. He calls me a wanker by gesturing at me with his hand; I tell him to go to the driver and pay up. He hurries to the front of the bus.

Now, in the back of my drunken mind, I imagine the guy climbing on board and pushing his way to the back, where he'll confront me - perhaps even attack me (how dare I talk back at him?) The people near the exit finally force the doors shut, allowing the bus to continue its journey.

As the bus pulls away, I see the guy standing by the bus stop with other people that didn't make it inside. He's got that look of a petulant child that didn't get the toy he wanted. We make eye contact. I lift both my hands at him, shove two fingers up in the air repeatedly (that's two fingers on each hand, doing that ever so British V-sign), watch him scream with outrage and try to chase the bus, then feel a rush of excitement and satisfaction as we leave him behind (to hopefully remember the incident to the end of his life.)

Divine justice, Kevin called it.

And Then It Snowed in London Today... )
commonpeople1: (Rita)

You never know what you're going to find inside a London bus. Yesterday morning, on our way to Canary Wharf's ferry, we found this pack of condoms(?) on one of the No. 277's second floor seats. A straight polish couple that hopped aboard after us picked up the package and took it home.

He's Got Your Heart, You've Got His Soul )
commonpeople1: (Mr Stamp)
Despite attending a "lame" fetish night at Slimelight on Friday, then not getting any sleep, [ profile] tina found enough strength yesterday to get on a train from Walthamstow and come meet the actor who plays Kevin and I at Liverpool Street Station. Every Londoner was out and about after a smiley sun rose above the capital. She looked gorgeous as ever, although a little sleepy; we walked over to Brick Lane for the South African B-B-Q I'd promised earlier in the week, as well as a long-overdue catch up.

Afterwards, we grabbed some coffee and had a look at the stalls that sell overpriced crap by clueless Shoreditch designers. There seemed to be a vintage store every ten feet, which brought the shopper out of Tina and Kevin: soon he had a grey bag for his notebooks and pens, and she had a vest and a beautiful dark blue dress.

We visited Nog Gallery so Tina could check out their zines and art books; we ended up discovering a neat exhibition of darkly humourous etchings made by a Hackney artist called John M F Casey. They are quite beautiful - I believe he painted the wooden canvasses white, then black, then etched through them to create imagery of hellish horrors that would suit Tim Burton's living room.

Birthday Boy tired of treasure hunting London

We said our goodbyes to Tina around 4.30pm and went to Spitalfields Market to wait for [ profile] tom. His girlfriend [ profile] christa had planned for him a massive treasure hunt across London, and we were his almost-at-the-end-of-the-line stop. I had a pirate badge pinned to my bag which said "Happy Birthday to Me"; as soon as he found us, I removed it and he pinned it on his jacket. His task was to sing any of The Smiths' songs in their entirety, with no mistakes, so he could learn his next destination. He shocked me to the Moon and back by not knowing in full any of their lyrics. He stammered through "This Charming Man", failed at "Bigmouth Strikes Again", and was about to bomb on "Shoplifters of the World Unite" when Kevin told me to give him a break and suggest an easy one. So I suggested "How Soon Is Now?", which he murdered hurried through before making his escape. Remind me to never go karaoking with him.

We headed for Waterloo for a meeting with my old friend Kelly at the BFI Southbank. Juliette Binoche's paintings are being exhibited there as part of their "Binoche Season" and they are worth checking out if you are in the area. Her paintings are pairs that match her career's characters with the directors she has worked with. All of her self-portraits are infused with the personalities and physionomies of the directors that created them.

Kelly showed up with a gift for us, some french cheese, figs and lavender she collected from her house in France. We walked over to Soho's Curzon because the idea of watching a grim Icelandic thriller called Jar City on a beautiful September night seemed like a good idea. It was one of those films which could have easily been made for TV - a sort of Prime Suspect with detectives that eat goat heads for dinner and juggle their personal lives with their depressing work. The film had some wonderful aerial shots of Iceland but its main message seemed to be: DON'T LIVE IN THIS FUCKING MISERABLE ISLAND. Iceland's Ministry of Tourism should look into suing.

Party Bus on Charing Cross Road

Outside the cinema, past 11pm, London suddenly seemed overwhelmed by crowds of horny, drunken louts from the 'burbs. Everyone shouted over everyone else, and cars honked uselessly at a traffic that was going nowhere. A gang of women dressed as FBI agents, the leader wearing bridal headgear, stumbled past us. Even the neon lights seemed brighter than usual, intense enough to burn your retinas. A nightmarish sight rolled into view: a red double-decker bus crammed with people, blasting "YMCA". The bus carried girls wearing glittery tiaras who were having a right hoot rubbing their boobs against the windowpanes for the benefit of the men on the sidewalk, their hands banging in the air as if the Village People were the ultimate rave experience. Some girls on the street felt compelled to join the fun by rushing to the windows and doing their own YMCA moves back at the partygoers inside. It only dawned on me to take a photo of this modern horseman of the apocalypse once it was pulling away - thus the shaky photo above.

The Sickly Green Chest of Drawers

Today, we took our iPods and newspapers to Vicky Park, bought some bagels and coffee and lay on the grass in full view of the sun. On the way back, we found this chest of drawers sitting on the sidewalk, not too far from our tower block. There was nothing wrong with it apart from its green snot colour (debatable defect) and food stains (solved quickly with a soapy cloth). It's going to sit in the master bedroom after it failed to look alright in the hallway, the sitting room and the dining room.

The Squirrel Who Thought People Were Made of Carrot Cake

This little fellow approached us last week, when we were sitting on the lawn outside the Geffrye Museum enjoying coffee and slices of cakes bought at Broadway Market. [ profile] dawnkitten made the mistake of giving it some of her carrot cake, instantly creating a friend who thought she was made of cake. I never saw a squirrel this upclose before; he was actually slightly intimidating. It didn't even flinch away from Kevin's paparazzi-style photography. Just look at that mouth. It wants to eat you. Yes, YOU!
commonpeople1: (Default)

Crepes at Broadway Market
Originally uploaded by Tom T
[ profile] sushidog is a perfect shopping buddy. She was good company last week when I needed to go downtown and buy underwear, and yesterday she offered anecdotes and companionship as we explored the food and second-hand deals of Hackney's markets and shops.

The day couldn't have been more gorgeous; August's first proper summer day. We met up in Victoria Park and meandered up Regent's Canal to Broadway Road Market. After checking out the stands, which sold anything from crockery and vinyl records to crepes and fresh juices, we ordered Samosa Chatts, bought some bottled water and found a patch of soft grass in London Fields to rest, not too far from a One Man Band playing some kind of bicycle drums.

As we ate our lunch and chatted about this'n'that, I saw a beautiful toddler with large blue eyes approach us like the shark in Jaws (hum to yourself the film's theme song). He held Kevin's shoulder and leaned his head against him. I wish my eyes had cameras inside them so I could keep that image forever - the cutest thing I've ever seen. The father whisked the toddler away, apologising, which he needent have done since it was such a lovely and funny thing for the little boy to do. I turned to Kevin afterwards and asked if we could have one of those. There's my tip for what to get me next Christmas.

After lunch, we took a bus to Holloway Road and visited The Fantasy Centre, one of London's best second-hand bookshops that specialises in horror, fantasy and sci-fi. Unusually, there were about ten different Guy N. Smith titles in the horror section. I called [ profile] naturalbornkaos, Smith's biggest fan, to see if any of the copies were rarities he might want, but his phone was turned off. There's your tip Rattler for where to go shopping next time you are in town! I also spotted a copy of Wurm by Matthew J. Costello, a horror novel that I really enjoyed in high school. At the time, I was trying to convince a dutch friend to read horror, so we agreed that she would read Wurm if I tried out Anne of Green Gables. I loved Anne but was kinda pissed off that my friend wussed out and broke our agreement. I debated yesterday whether I should buy Wurm and re-read it, but then I was reminded of the Neverending Story cautionary tale, which teaches one never to read a book or watch a film you loved as a kid so you won't run the risk of tarninshing your memories.

There's a large vintage store nearby that is good value-for-money (most items range between 5 and 10 quid). Kevin and I found short-sleeved shirts that fit alright, and [ profile] sushidog nearly took a cocktail dress from the 70s and a pair of purple boots. On the way back to Victoria Park, for some restorating cake and coffee, we found ourselves swamped by football supporters moving up Holloway Road like an invading army. There was ice cream, more sun, coffee, lemon tarts and conversations on crime statistics, creative writing and the X Factor once we reached the cute coffee shop in Victoria Park's village.

[ profile] sushidog is my neighbour and it only makes sense that we should hang out loads. Now I only wish my other London friends would move nearby...

April 2017



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