His Master had told him to call for help should a Wolf attack the flock, and the Villagers would drive it away. As he expected, the Villagers who heard the cry dropped their work and ran in great excitement to the pasture.
A Gnat flew over the meadow with much buzzing for so small a creature and settled on the tip of one of the horns of a Bull. Jupiter saw what simple and foolish creatures they were, but to keep them quiet and make them think they had a king he threw down a huge log, which fell into the water with a great splash. The wise old Owl knew quite well that it would do no good to argue with the Grasshopper, nor with anybody else for that matter. Just then an immense shadow blotted him out entirely, and the next instant a Lion struck him down with a single blow. The stones were flying thick and fast and the Boys were enjoying themselves very much; but the poor Frogs in the pond were trembling with fear. In a spell of dry weather, when the Birds could find very little to drink, a thirsty Crow found a pitcher with a little water in it. In Portugal, the government did the opposite – plunging ahead with a project destined to destroy the nation’s oldest cultural heritage by completing a 300-million-dollar dam whose reservoir will flood a valley packed with dozens of art sites spread over at least 17 kilometers. A male ibex with his head shown in two positions, as if he were turning to watch the female behind him. Far away across the moonscape of rutted ramps, knots of men stood before tunnels as fleets of dump trucks, made so tiny by distance that they only gave away their magnitude by over-sized wheels, eased to the brink of platforms, and added avalanches to tailings.
Still, I complimented her on her English, sympathized with them for having to put up with this hierarchical bother, and kept spinning innocuous questions, while she kept waiting for me to go.
When Rebanda's secretary came out again, to see if she could get either me – or her boss - to give up as the wait grew embarrassingly long, I asked her what the round silos with tipped roofs on the hills had been used for.
What the press forgot to emphasize with quite as much fervor was the fact that Clottes had prefaced his Solomonic verdict by saying, “Whatever happens, the engravings must be preserved and not be damaged.” Clottes might have felt that he could safely pass the buck because no art conservationist could honestly guarantee the engravings’ fate once they were subjected to currents carrying abrasives, burial under the petrifying alluvia that accumulates behind dams,33 and the world’s most destructive solvent – water, which would dissolve pigments and destabilize rock that had proven its resistance to aerial conditions over tens of millennia.
The irony of it was that Clottes’ efforts to be honest without irritating his hosts had been the spark that the French diplomats had dreaded. Despite the fact that the great prehistorian’s reputation would remain largely intact, and with good reason, in much of the rest of the world,34 the Portuguese intelligentsia began to shun him. Upon leaving, Sebastian asked to check out the Pocinho dam, so I drove round an interchange into an empty parking lot with planters. As the sun slanted over the plateau into the wilderness of the Coa valley, I decided to sneak into a side-valley to the north of our campsite that Rebanda's map had cluttered with pins. Suddenly, I remembered what Rebanda had said about the engravings' association with witchcraft. Being obstinate (or perhaps because of the prehistoric setting), I started whittling stone, knapping a microlithic surgeon's kit, and then bent single-mindedly to my task - failing till I was disgusted with myself and worried for my victim (which I had bizarrely associated with Rebanda).
After he'd hastened to take up his time-clock again, I wandered if there might not be even more testimonials of man's attraction to this classical Eden with its islets and fords in the flowery river, and browsed through a plowed orchard, along a contour which I judged would have been the valley floor half a million years ago. 33 Bednarik & Jaffe have been the most outspoken spokesmen about delusions concerning the protective qualities of reservoirs – which not only inundate art panels with water but deep alluvial deposits that make their later recovery dangerous and impractical.
40 In November 1995 - six months after this call-to–arms was published and circulated to Prehistoric Art Emergency’s volunteers (who I’m glad to report included a young actor, Yann Montelle, who went on to earn a doctorate in prehistory) - a book edited by Jorge called “Dossier Coa” appeared with 20 contributions by him or his wife. Atak describes several days in her life, concluding with the loading of camels and donkeys for the family’s move to better grazing.
Most Andean Indians dwell and farm at a particular high elevation that limits what they can grow and produce, requiring trade with people living at other levels.
The scattered local people who send their kids to the little school helped the couple build the school and their own comfortable house with planks cut out from the forest.
With udders full of milk and hurting, the mother camels are eager to nurse their hungry babies.
Mohammed continued his story, “It was hot, so we settled in the little bit of shade under a small acacia tree to talk.
Mohammed continued his story, “It was hot, so we settled in the little bit of shade under a small acacia tree to talk.  But then a herd of gazelles passed by.
Today as I reflect more deeply about being shaped by experiences, it is the women who have continually touched my Life and who are held most deeply in my heart with gratitude. Not to be overlooked are my younger sisters; together they have taught me how to care for another. Perhaps the most overlooked experience-shaping women are all those who have given and received love without expectation of reward or credit. As I move towards “old age,” it is not how fast I can run, how well I can write, or how well my accomplishments will be remembered that sustains me. We stand face-to-face and as he explains the importance of getting his name right, the ancestors within him shine through the sincerity of his eyes and soft voice.
During my journey home, the numbness was there inside me, and I sat with it feeling and thinking very little; just letting it be there. At this time of Thanksgiving, the promise of each moment fills my being with gratitude for my transformation from living in a bed of thorns to joyfully sharing a life lived fully.
This week chatting with friends, someone said that I ran on my own time, and I said that I ran on kairos time. On my way home, I remembered that when my children were young, I told them that in order to use a word they needed to know how to spell it and what it meant.
As chronos time passes, I want to be more awake to the kairos time in my life; to be so present in my life that I can feel each moment with clarity and gratitude. To add to my self-judgment, the young woman who had inspired my longing to try stone carving was unexpectedly occupying the table next to mine along with her friend, who was also an accomplished stone carver. Though the task they had to do was very light compared with that of the Oxen, they creaked and groaned at every turn.
A timid little Mouse came upon him unexpectedly, and in her fright and haste to get away, ran across the Lion's nose. But when they got there they found the Boy doubled up with laughter at the trick he had played on them. But the party ended dismally with all the birds entangled in the meshes of the Farmer's net. They had so much freedom that it had spoiled them, and they did nothing but sit around croaking in a bored manner and wishing for a government that could entertain them with the pomp and display of royalty, and rule them in a way to make them know they were being ruled.
One warm summer afternoon as she dozed away in her den in the old oak tree, a Grasshopper nearby began a joyous but very raspy song. When the wind blew, the great Oak stood proudly upright with its hundred arms uplifted to the sky. But the pitcher was high and had a narrow neck, and no matter how he tried, the Crow could not reach the water. Standing right in front of some of the most spectacular engravings, the Secretary of State for Culture dismissed them as being nothing more than “children’s doodles” – whereupon the students from Foz Coa’s high school turned the official into a laughing-stock by presenting him with a schist slab covered with their own scribblings4. Still, here was our first encounter with the powers that be, so I took this opportunity to probe, and get a first step up the hierarchical ladder. So I explained how Sebastian and I had come so far to see the Paleolithic glories that Portugal would be displaying with pride, spoke of credentials, and placed us (and our pen) in his hands. With swifts swirling in up-drafts around our heads, we scrambled and picked our way among sheer precipices and ledges.
Its tight horseshoe of cliffs and rubble made the perfect hiding place for our car and tent from the gray guards roaming the surrounding crests with binoculars. Sebastian snuggled tighter into his sleeping bag, so I set out to reconnoiter alone, systematically working quadrants and contours between our quarry at Fariseu and Piscos brook.
The numbed waters suddenly spangled upstream with glitter and so many flowery white tresses of water plants that the currents looked like sudsy pastures. Whatever was going to happen to him afterwards in the backwater of Portuguese archaeology had surely been inconsequential, since experience proved that nobody made much fuss over sites that were out-of-sight and out-of-mind - especially with archaeologists beholding to dam-builders and political appointees for access and records. According to the insinuations, he could have continued his documentation right up to the headwaters as his masters worked their way upstream step by step. Sure enough, there was the 12 year-old Pocinho dam sweeping the valley with a clean curtain.14 But the silos of this former construction site's cement plant were speckled with rust, the ranks of its offices and dormitories were deserted and almost every window was broken. The dam had become a poisonous political issue in a national election with the President and his fellow Socialists attacking the center-right Prime Minister for its willingness to sacrifice both the nation’s patrimony and vineyards to a flaky building scheme. Suddenly, the Portuguese public felt that the dam-builders were not only destroying the nation’s most ancient claim to world grandeur and civilization, but that they were in league with a man who would never have been so cavalier with Paleolithic masterpieces in his own country! No sooner had Clottes triggered a public outcry, than he began to explain away his tepid defense of the Coa’s importance by saying that he had not been shown enough art to form a true idea of the valley’s richness.35 But the truth is, he was shown Rebanda’s trove of drawings from submerged sections and sites upstream36 and could have been more demanding. Both Rebanda and Simoes de Abreu could have been traitors and saviors at once, and as long as I was with this archaeologist, I felt bound to encourage the savior in him. It must have seemed like an insult to him after all his efforts, so with an anarchic gesture, he announced, what the hell, he'd photocopy their fax when it came, so we could enter a second. We bagged the warning or omen, caught and released a giant water beetle - the kind that injects deliquescing enzymes into living frogs, then sucks out their juice - and worked our way along what was actually the upper tier of a disappearing cliff.


They were a hundred yards apart, making perpetual rounds as they kept time clocks happy by cranking them every few paces with keys chained to the fence. The leftist press and Portuguese archaeological milieu reacted with just as much reflection, ignoring both Bednarik’s qualifiers and his pioneering role in organizing the world campaign to fight for the whole valley’s salvation (see Dossier Coa p.
3; Catherine Vincent, writing in Le Monde on March 11, 1995, goes into much more detail about one particular vineyard, Ervamoira, that would have been lost, along with its exceptional Port wine.
Standing right in front of some of the most spectacular engravings, the Secretary of State for Culture dismissed them as being nothing more than “children’s doodles” – whereupon the students from Foz Coa’s high school turned the official into a laughing-stock by presenting him with a schist slab covered with their own scribblings4.  In an on-going cover-up and attempt to diminish the find’s exposure, journalists from the BBC and elsewhere were barred from the valley – and the state-owned electrical utility, or EDP5, hastened to erect the mighty concrete wall that would doom the engravings behind a fait accompli. Note: Ataka’s mother died when she was a baby, requiring that her father “nurse” her with camel’s milk, often on the move aboard his camel.
The baker, seamstresses, and other adults work outside their huts, some stirring cocoa beans drying on large makeshift tables. A few days ago, my father rode away on his white, blue-eyed camel to In-Gall, an oasis town far to the south.
We throw each other glowing red embers from the fire, and catch them with bare hands before quickly passing them on.
It’s hard work to break the millet grains with her pestle.  So once in a while, Raisha rests by leaning on it. My habit—started with my Mom long ago—is to turn it over in the hand of someone nearby to spread the luck of finding it. He speaks out of the stillness and says, “It is a blessed day and you are part of that.” I agree, shake his hand, and get into my car feeling at peace without further words.
The strong Father figure, the older brother, the brother-in-law, the clever science teacher, my first mentor, my first love and my most current loves, my sons and grandsons by blood as well as those adopted within my heart have influenced my physical life in so many ways.
In my Life they have been called friends, but that does not describe who they have been in my Life and how they have shaped my choices.
He taught me the importance of being present and trusting that the experience I’m having with another will be the one we need.
Their faces are bright and concentrated with wonder as they gaze upon the incredible performers as they fulfill their roles. When asked what that meant, I gave the explanation that I had heard so many years ago and had embraced as my own definition of how I would like to live. If they did both of those things and still felt it was appropriate for their use, I was okay with that. To see the magic of a flower bursting into bloom, to watch the changing of the seasons, to hear the mating call of the owl outside my window, to feel the love of my grandchild as he shares his Halloween candy on Facetime, to feel the energy of my daughter as she prepares dinner in the background, to laugh out loud with a friend, to watch the sunset, to hear excitement in the voice of others, to feel the wind in my hair. As with much of my experience, the story of the stone came first and the wisdom of the stone followed in sometimes painful and sometimes amazing small steps.
The next day, with the pressure of performance for others no longer triggering my fears, I set up a permanent workstation in the garage. My process of co-creation with the stones inspired a poem and became a Mother’s Day present for my daughter. Just as he was about to leap over, his master caught him by the tail and tried to pull him back, but the stubborn Ass would not yield and pulled with all his might. The poor Oxen, pulling with all their might to draw the wagon through the deep mud, had their ears filled with the loud complaining of the Wheels. With each pebble the water rose a little higher until at last it was near enough so he could drink. Regardless of how old the Coa’s art turns out to be, it is unique in its richness above ground and astonishing in its illustrations of movement - with animals tossing their heads with the same stop-action dynamism found at Chauvet and only millennia later in photography and Futurist painting. We had arrived at Pandemonium and would try to insinuate ourselves into an audience with the Chief Engineer himself.
Only one was so spotless and redolent of perks, though, with its rolled lawn incongruous in the desert, that we knew right where to head among forking roads. After Simoes de Abreu and Jaffe had unleashed the scandal by revealing the conspiracy to flood Europe’s richest assemblage of open-air Paleolithic art, the IPPAR and Portuguese Ministry of Culture had scrambled to get their own expert witness – and, in a further twist, had asked UNESCO to recommend an expert to challenge the power company’s growing efforts to prove the art wasn’t Paleolithic but recent27 – in which case, the EDP seemed to think that the public would drop the subject as being the relatively recent work of peasants drawing their cows.
Then, as fate would have it, Clottes was back in the headlines within the week, announcing drastic measures to protect France’s new crown jewel, Chauvet. And as if anyone could even find new art during the two weeks a lake might be emptied (every hundred years) while everything was coated with algae and grime!
Opposition editorialists had a field day with Clottes’ apparent hypocrisy and dismissiveness towards Portugal - and demonstrators flooded the streets.
Two, because people are often driven to produce their greatest work and worst mistakes by similar drives.
Scientists - like lawyers - ply an adversarial trade, but the chance to put Portugal into the archaeological heavens – and to boost their own reputations with it - had given many researchers more ulterior motives than usual.
Personally, I couldn't see anybody bedding down for the night and traipsing out the next morning with people who had announced that they were going to expose him.
But basically the dam was a streamlined machine without much need for local intervention or maintenance.
We peered into a dovecot, a squat white tower lined inside with empty compartments like a city after a plague. If the guards hadn't been under strict orders not to sell admissions, they'd have made a killing; but then any financial association with the art is anathema to the dammers: the next thing they knew, they'd have a revolt on their hands! As we passed the threshold between the deadened depths and virgin current with its billowing water-foliage, we had to skirt and climb over a sheer wall blocking the side-valley’s entrance.
Although it is true that one must be extremely circumspect about doing so, such evidence often opens new perspectives that have more in common with the subsistence systems of ancient cultures than does our own, and the two authors showed considerable originality and courage in exploring it. 1994 - most Portuguese archaeologists with access to the Coa sites now shun him as thoroughly as they do Clottes and Rebanda.
539, for a resolution, written in defense of Coa, by Bednarik, in a book filled with vitriole against him). These retractions confirmed that some of Zilhao’s criticisms of the direct dating attempts were well founded, but don’t necessarily reflect on other matters raised in his disputes with Bednarik and Jaffe. In the English sections, Jorge generously credits numerous associates and generations of Portuguese prehistorians by full name, while studiously avoiding any mention of Rebanda except where it is unavoidable, and then only with his last name between brackets. Eldest of four children, Becky helps her parents with chores, often assisted by her best friend, Bonsa.
And I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I have seen rain, and then little of it. With the air still cool, we sit around the fire, sometimes warming our hands near the flames.
And although there is a summer breeze, the air surrounding him is quiet and filled with calm. The experiences we have shared have triggered within me the need to shrink at times and to grow by leaps and bounds at other times. Our relationship was sometimes contentious, which created in me a need to think for myself and to stand firmly within my choices. Together we have shared victories and defeats, wins and losses, and have stood together and faced our new futures with strength and resolve; a strength and resolve built on shared experiences and love for each other.
They have listened when I needed an ear, they have been honest with me when I needed clarity, they have called me when I was lonely, they have tolerated me when I was difficult, they have loved me when self-love seemed impossible; their loyalty has been a sustaining force as I make choices that may not agree with the choices of others.
So today, especially for the women who have deeply shared themselves and their experiences with me, I am filled with the shape of gratitude.
Although I’m not sure what was going on with the others there, inside me was complete stillness and a growing numbness. The family portrayed was dysfunctional to say the least; it kept many secrets and the only emotions the members seemed free to share with each other were anger and disappointment.
Compassion for anyone anywhere that came into this physical existence to become aware of the rage within along with the courage to heal it. No matter how I sought comfort, it seemed I was lying in a “bed of thorns” and each movement tore at my soul; so many questions and no answers. In mournful croaks they begged Jupiter to take away the cruel tyrant before they should all be destroyed. While the paintings in the French cave, which became known as the Grotte Chauvet, often have engraved contours, the Portuguese menagerie may also have been painted, but, being outdoors, their pigments have usually weathered away. Finally, I discerned a flock ambling down through dry brush, then a shirt flashed a white dot, and we converged within hailing distance on opposite banks. A stand of poplar trees crackled like Chinese New Year with small birds, abundant as leaves. Of course, the stories went, the honorable witnesses had refused to become accomplices and had immediately denounced the whole plot – writing open letters to the Portuguese President, Vice President and Director of IPPAR - with carbon copies for the press.13 If only his employers had known that Rebanda was so naive! She announced that it was no use disturbing the doctor, who I could see through a jarred door talking to someone over the phone with peevish vehemence. After all, the archaeologists and reporters had allowed the Tagus petrogylphs to be drowned with hardly a whimper. Not only did the contrast with his actions in Portugal now smack of a double standard, but there was a piquant irony.


With stakes this high, both parties unleashed their opinion-making machines, making hash of Clottes’ carefully weighed words as quickly as they’d vilified Rebanda. Clottes’ words may have been earnest, but with stakes this high and politicized they were about as reasonable as Pontius Pilate’s attempts to keep the peace.
In Rebanda's place, I'd have calmed down and let the traitors fall to sleep, but then I'd have snuck away - trekking fast through the dark, picking myself up when I fell, but getting out - bloody knees and all - and calling that alarm first!
But then Piscos Brook ran between trees, pastures and cane-groves, with cliffs full of shelters and stone panels at each bend. In the same book, which Jorge compiled to record the campaign he was spear-heading to save Coa – a laudatory effort, if there ever was one, that made Jorge synonymous with yet another of Rebanda’s finds - Bednarik is repeatedly dismissed as a “charlatan” (pp. During rain, the school’s tin roof leaks, so the teacher sends the kids home with their chairs––a rain day. My mother died when I was a baby, so my grandmother and unmarried Aunt Maunem live with my father and me.
During those years, we had servants and lower ranking tribes to do the work that my family does now.
Before the angry mother reacts too harshly, an older relative will quickly carry the child away.
My actions in response to those shared experiences have without a doubt had a profound part of shaping who I am and who I am becoming. Without any specific effort, she taught me to sing, to write poetry, to take risks, and to trust that being who I am will serve me best.
As an adult, she has stood by me with a loyalty supported by one of the most loving hearts I have known. When those choices have created pleasure they have cheered; when those choices have created disappointment, they have stood with me in silence.
At other times, we may take on a project from a state of fear to avoid an emotion we don’t want to acknowledge or feel; to stay busy.
They seem to have permanence, but when observed closely they are filled with cracks and colors created by their adjustments to their environment. He and I are the collective experience of generations raised together separately, and within us both is the deep human need to know that we, all of us, matter. Our level of healing comes in it’s own way and time and catches us when we are brave enough to experience the deeper pain and just be with it. Her eyes sparkle and dance like stars filled with the enthusiasm and challenge of her youth. She tried to find it on the Internet without success so I said I’d find it and send her the web link. The instructor chose a stone for me, which was my first encounter with my fear of not being in control of my experience. Now with the intimate experience of sharing and being open to the wisdom of the stone, I understand what he meant with my heart.
Despite all the insinuations about Rebanda and IPPAR, they were actually the first to try blocking the philistines with the clout of an institution as important as UNESCO.
These conscientious people know that they’re barely tolerated by the forces of Mammon - scraping crumbs from the tables of vast enterprises armed with dynamite and bulldozers - and make compacts all the time with them, telling themselves, for instance, that the alluvial strata that cement plants exploit are always too tumbled to contain intact Acheulian hearths. Within weeks, local academics had begun signing their names to Rebanda’s discoveries, tracings, and interpretations while forgetting to cite him. I woke Sebastian in time to see the beast lumber over the bank and glide away, and then it was high time we checked out our other line at the doctor's office.
There were so many warblers piping and whistling, there must have been a dozen species with overlapping territories. Both” - Baptista and Gomes – “were closely involved in the rationale to submerge the rock art (to 'protect it from vandals'); in fact, on 8 November Baptista spoke of how sedimentation behind dams should protect rock art” - my italics. Two little girl cousins chase after each other, sometimes bumping against me and against my aunts, disrupting our work. Our tents allow little privacy, so outsiders are expected to wait at that distance until invited to approach.
For Bujimra there will be no change of pace routine because Amud will need his help with the larger herd. But, no matter how many days they last, they always leave a star-filled sky during the cool night, giving us temporarily relief. A small young man becomes a high-flying aerialist when moments before he chatted via his cell phone with his girlfriend on the back-stage side of the curtain. Role-playing is fun, exciting, entertaining, and requires support, practice and skill; however, being stuck in the illusion of a role makes intimacy impossible.
These actions were stirred together with their suppressed feelings and the result was painful fear turned inward and then outward to rage. Love of the work and stone replaced impatience and with the stone guiding me, we co-created an abstract shape that is called, Moth to the Flame.
Except for the absence now of bigger species, this was how Solutreans had experienced the world - with whistling, mooing, barking, roaring and trumpeting not just on the Serengeti, but to the frozen north! But not before signing controversial non-disclosure agreements with the EDP, which was hoping that their techniques would yield dates so recent that they could be used to ridicule stylistic daters who had identified the engravings as Paleolithic (Baptista & Fernandes 2007, p.
Meanwhile, with the family house on stilts above floodwater, the girls do errands mainly by canoe.
And piece-by-piece, it supported my soul’s restoration: I slept in it, ate in it, watched TV in it, cried in it, dreamed in it, wrote in it, and laughed in it. Surgically, it was a nightmare: I'd have to pry its head out, keep its neck extended, wedge open its powerful beak and finally thrust the treble barbs down its throat, so as to carefully extract their burr, without snagging them again!
Left without milk and animals to barter at the market for food, thousands of nomads like us died of hunger. A young mother becomes the center of attention as she commands enormous animals all around her and she sparkles without fear. My mind leaped to judgments about how I should have been present when others were selecting their stones so I would not be stuck with this less than ideal stone. So as not to get behind, I started carving at home; unskillfully struggling with the stone to make it look like the photo. The teaching couple survive like their jungle neighbors by fishing, slash-and-burn agriculture (manioc, plantain, bananas) and a vegetable garden on a river’s floating raft, which keeps ants away, besides a few chickens. I hold them in my hand, I look at them, I cherish their beauty, and I do not compare them with any other stone I have seen. We tell each other about those we love and what sharing our lives with them has supported us in learning. Looking down as some beings perform in the bright lights of the big-ring and some beings stand ready back-stage awaiting their turn, the elephants, camels, horses, and dogs are brought into the dimly-lighted area and made ready for their curtain calls. My intention was to stay with whatever was occurring in this moment for as long as it took to find compassion for the part of me that feels wounded by acts of past betrayal, my own and other’s. There are many thoughts from that time that trigger sadness still, but the sight of that sweet “bed of healing” continues to stir feelings of joy within me. As she tested it out and smiled up at her Mom, my heart softened with tenderness and joy for the promise such young people represent. It wasn’t working, and after hours of grueling effort and messiness, my frustration level was high. In him I see no self-pity only acceptance, and he shares how that acceptance has left him in such a peaceful place. Even now on cold winter nights, I sometimes take my books and curl up in its softness, fall into a peaceful sleep, and wake restored.
I hit the chisel hard with a hammer and a large chip of stone sailed across the porch and away from the curvy part at the stone’s top; my design ruined. One old oak tree, near the edge, anchored in the stoney bank reaches with it’s mighty branches toward the creek. So I share my love of nature and photography and how I am practicing staying in each moment to find the richness here while grateful for all that has come before and, as much as possible, staying open to whatever the future brings. The hillside behind the creek is eroding red Virginia clay made bare from it’s years of withstanding the water’s strength and speed. The time flew by and without my knowing it three hours passed; the stone was beginning to form itself.
He says, “Me too.” I tell him sharing the “photo of the day” with friends and family adds to my feeling of connectedness. They brought opportunity for change and I had the courage to embrace them, sometimes with eagerness and sometimes with trembling. Without force, without frustration the stone art was taking a shape that was pleasing to my eyes.



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