I Hacked into an old SD Card.

This is the letter that will be going at the beginning of the book of poems I’ve been working on for mmm.. Seven months now? Maybe one day it’ll happen. Here you go-

August 28th, 2014
A very formal introduction
To a very non formal flimsy book
Of sometimes mediocre poetry.
Or, a feeling to share.

Earlier this year I acquired a typewriter. It isn’t the first one I’ve been able to set fingers to keys on, but it is the first one I’ve been able to call my own. I had high expectations for this typewriter. I envisioned myself hunched over, laboring over some piece that the world would never read. I’d be exhausted and strung out, driving the keys home. Every ounce of my energy sucked dry by this beautiful machinery. I wanted to live for this instrument, be its life force, it’s blood. I wanted to be the person I always saw in my mind. The skin and bones, the coffee drip that played the part of morphine, the dark circles. If I were male, the five o’clock shadow that would never leave my face. I wanted that so, so badly. Today I finally investigated said typewriter and to my dismay, it is nothing of what I thought it would be. I know, I mean, I imagine it isn’t so easy to find a has been from the sixties still in working order, but I had hoped so hard it hurt.
My typewriter doesn’t do much without help. The platen doesn’t travel on it’s own as it should. Every letter is forced to be typed on top of the one before it. This is a big problem, bigger than I thought I would have when originally lugging the thing home. Everything else on it, for the most part, is in okay condition. The ribbon isn’t even dried out completely. I can make faint letters in red or black ink, but always in the same spot. When I manually move the platen, using the carriage release lever, it flies in the correct direction and even makes that lovely ding! that I always adored about my Pepere’s.
Regardless of my new ill feelings toward the once impressive hunk of memories, I decided I would clean it up. I would pluck every pine needle from it’s case and I would polish off any spots. Rid its metal body of all dust and use it as a decorative piece in a home I don’t yet have. I cleaned deliberately, fully, relentlessly until it shined. Once I was done doing the easy bits, I decided to rub each key clean gently, pressing them in one by one with my pointer finger protected by a tissue, soaked in a bit of solution. I felt the indent of each key, the care that was taken in creating the beauty in front of me. Meant for comfort, for class. Cleaned up, she looked real nice.
As I continued to press each key I noticed how well each of them worked. All of them except the ‘I’ key. For some reason this sucked me in and made my head spin. The thought of the ‘I’ key getting hammered in repeatedly by it’s previous owner made my insides uncomfortable. It felt like a million remember when’s that belonged to he or she just came out on to the tissue, which then wrung itself out, and soaked into my poor, vulnerable skin. It caused me to look into where my typewriter was made, when it came to be, what the make of it even was.
My beauty is from the sixties. Sixty six to be exact and she was made for convenience. That case that she came in? It’s attached to her. Like a hermit, she never leaves home. It was supposed to make my poor Galaxie portable. I can only imagine how much she has seen, how much she has felt, how much she has heard. That being said, if you haven’t been able to tell, I fell in love with my typewriter today. Staring at her dust free insides, her polished, pale blue exterior. The color every appliance back then was painted. She makes my mind reel and kick itself. I can imagine her previous owners, I can imagine who they were and what they loved. I can imagine the life my old girl has had, having her ‘I’ key jammed in by some pretentious, New York twat that was only ever worried about what he or she had to say. I thinks this and I want that, I prefer this and I hate that. Not ever worrying themselves with what their instrument had to tell them.
I feel that scoring my Galaxie was a stroke of luck, some sort of stupid destiny. I believe it was meant to fall into my lap, to enjoy it’s retirement and recollect. It was meant to be by my side wherever I move, to be cleaned and caressed affectionately. That ‘I’ key forever getting stuck. And from here on out, I’ll be the savior, the one gently returning the arm to it’s home.
Here is a collection of poems I wish I could say I wrote, hunched over my beloved blue babe. Instead I have to be honest and tell you that they were most definitely written on a phone, on paper, on a computer here or there. A discarded napkin or recorded In pieces while driving. This collection of poems was written in the company of my typewriter and the thought of her. Though originally that would have felt so wrong to admit, I’m happy to say I haven’t caused any further damage to such an old broad. And I’m even happier to say that she’s been an on going inspiration to me. 
Enjoy.

Some people just float.

Excuse me, I’m going to get kind of mopey real quick. Its been a rough week or so, however long.

My grandfather passed away earlier this week. He was eighty six and I always saw him as the strong, silent type. I didn’t know much about him. When I was young he worked at Santa’s Village, he was a practical joker, he liked beer, and he could be stubborn. I loved my grampa, but I feel only recently he started to speak up more and express his feelings. I never needed him to. I know he loved me because… I just knew. It was an obvious feeling. His name was Omer.

My dad drove up to Groveton, New Hampshire- his hometown- when he got the news that my grandfather’s doctor’s appointment didn’t go well and the hospital wasn’t going to let him leave. My grandfather was my grandmother’s caretaker. She had three strokes and could no longer move one of her arms, couldn’t move her legs, she needed my grandfather. My father was a mess, he had so much to take care of.

I learned around Christmas eve that Omer had either lung cancer or tuberculoses and it was bad, whichever it was. When my father reached him he discovered that the infection in his lung was terrible. He wasn’t going to make it through the weekend, the way it was looking. I was told this while at a girls night at a coworkers house. I drank a cup of coffee and fled the party. I drove to Chelmsford to be with Aj. I slept restlessly.

Sunday we went home to have dinner with my mother, sister, and her lovely boyfriend Tom. We had lasagne and drank beers. I picked on Melissa unmercifully and she was a good sport about it. The comic relief. We always seemed to fall into that position. My head made me think of every other time we’ve been through this and how we all have the roles that we play, the mental position that we put ourselves in. I finished eating and did the dishes. There was rum cake and black raspberry ice cream. I skipped the cake.

Monday I went into work. At noon my mother texted me with the information that my grandfather had passed on. He was in the hospital still and got to see my grandmother once more before he did. I road out the day. Tuesday my father came home and he came with memories, stories, and hugs.

There are certain people that when they hug me, I simply can’t hold myself together. My father is one of them… Normally. I still didn’t cry. I hugged him tightly and listened to his words.

My grandfather shot a bobcat once. The story goes that my grandmother was really sweet on the neighbors little girls, she thought they were great. Since I didn’t get to make it up there often enough, they were like her imposter grand daughter’s. I think its cute. She would take them out for ice cream and make cookies in her kitchen. The little girls would cut across their yard to get to my grandparents. One evening after a day of candy making and rabbit feeding, my grampa caught a glimpse of the wild cat.

My grandfather shot the cat because he knew that said cat would go after the little girls and he knew his wife thought the world of them. He knew he loved his wife and wouldn’t let her hurt, not for anything. The newspaper did a story about him and the kill, about how it wasn’t okay and how next time he would call the officials. Such bullshit.

I always loved that story but hearing my dad tell it was my favorite way to hear it. He was much more entertaining than the new paper clipping and the smile on his face while the words left his mouth caused me to also.

Wednesday I left work early because I couldn’t think, I couldn’t concentrate. I left work early and drove to Chelmsford. On the ride I realized that I hadn’t really cried and I wondered why this was. I hadn’t stopped. From the moment I found out Omer would be passing, I ran. I got in my car and tried to do anything except think thoroughly. I started to feel guilty.

I’ve lost my memere, my pepere, my great grandfather, and my great grandmother all while I was still fairly young. A year and change I had gone through losing someone that was once a best friend. In middle school I lost a friend and on each separate occasion, I had cried nearly immediately because I didn’t have the luxury of running from the feeling, from my head.

I lost myself in the song that was on and thought about everything that wouldn’t be the same. My grandparents would never live in their trailer again. There would no longer be guns hanging on the bedroom wall. We wouldn’t visit for holidays for dinner. There wouldn’t be a puzzle in the kitchen half done. There wouldn’t be cook outs in the front yard. There wouldn’t be hidden rubber cockroaches around to scare my grandmother. There wouldn’t be any walks out in the woods. There wouldn’t be Omer and there wouldn’t be the trailer and nothing would ever be the same again.

There were the tears.

I thought about singing Jewel to a tape recorder for my gram. I remembered picking the wild strawberries in the yard. I thought about the truck my grandfather used to own. I thought about playing with the plastic food that they kept around for the youngsters. I thought about all of the dolls, the cuckoo clock, the bird wall clock, the garage filled with old oil cans, the wood stove, the intriguing tool shed in the backyard, the wild bunnies. I thought about all of the sleepless nights I had in their kitchen, in a sleeping bag, listening to the noises of the main road out front. Sometimes when a truck went by it would cause the trailer to tremble.

I thought about how for years I thought that Omer was just a quiet, stubborn man, set in his ways. And he was, of course, as we all are. But he loved my grandmother endlessly, relentlessly and he did everything he did for that reason. The more obvious this became to me, the more I couldn’t help but cry. He worked himself down to nothing for the sake of keeping my grandmother at home and not in a nursing home. He worked himself until he was whittled down to nothingness. Nothing but love and terribly strong devotion.

I didn’t feel guilty anymore. I felt cleansed, washed by my own tears. They wouldn’t stop. Nothing I did would stop them. I tried singing, I tried smoking a cigarette, I tried thinking of absolutely anything else. Nothing. Fucking. Worked.

Then, like every time before, I recognized the familiar feeling- this heavy, disgusting cloak of “nothing is fair”. My mind reeled. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. There is nothing more I hate than this dark, honest cloak because there is no fixing it. There’s no fixing it because its just the way it is. People live and people die and things just. Change.

I should end this here. I don’t have a proper ending, an even way to pull the strings together and tie the knot. So this will have to do.

Over and out.

“Let’s do it! Let’s make it happen!”

Originally this post was meant to be longer to make up for my absence but its been a bumpy spot in the road lately, as they say… Don’t worry i don’t know who actually says that either, but i hope this is good enough until i get the urge to write again.

I did it. I started putting the gears in motion for something pretty big this coming summer. Something that is exactly what I’ve been hoping to do this year. I’m planning a party. I’m going to ask. I’m going to flesh out a loose plan, get some input, and send out the invites. I’m going to get people together this year to create if its the only notable thing I do in the next  three hundred and fifty three days. Saturday morning I got the brilliant idea.

I’m going to throw a party.
A party?
Yes.
But you hate parties.
I do
So why would you do this to yourself?

He had a point. I wasn’t good at partying. In fact, I was a mess at most parties. But if I didn’t drink I could be one hell of a host and that’s what I was banking on. I already had a slew of ideas, plans, fun things kicking around in my noggin… And I knew also that I would have a lot of favors to ask. It wasn’t going to be easy and I was already scared of what kind of needy person this would make me out to look like. What if it went over people’s heads? What if they didn’t understand the sense of community I was trying to instill? What if it flopped? I was already anxious.

First thing first, I had to find a place to throw this shindig. I thought about the size of my backyard and cringed. It wouldn’t work, not in the way I would want it to. I have a decent yard but people would be tucked away in corners with their pieces and I didn’t like the thought of anyone being hidden. This was hopefully an event for everyone to be seen, heard and appreciated.

Do you think Kelly would allow me to throw a party in her backyard?
Kelly like Cody’s mom?
Yeah, Kelly like Cody’s mom.
I don’t know.
I’ll ask.

I spent twenty four hours deciding if it was worth a shot. I grew anxious again. What if she thought it was a strange concept or childish? What if she thought I was rude for asking? What if? What if? What fucking if? I could figure out how much it would cost to rent a park for the day… That thought was short and fleeting, I am not made of money. No amount of saving would help me in six months when there are other things to take care of.

I asked.

I feel a little rude, I’m excellent at cleaning up, please please please.
I think it would be a lot of fun! we have plenty of time to sit and plan

The tightness in my chest dissipated and my muscles untied themselves of the horrible knots they had twisted into. Kelly trusted me and she trusted my idea and! She wanted to help plan. I went to sleep smiling that night, my face the following morning honestly ached. I had to laugh.

Will you come and rap?
I know its still early but tell me you’re down to come play and hang out!
You helped me so much when I was getting back into drawing, tell me you’re down
If you think you’ll be home, will you come paint?
I don’t know what you do but you liked my status, let me pitch my idea to you!
I know you write, please come read with me so I don’t pee myself in front of lots of people!
I know your schedule is busy what with tattooing and all, but will you come and paint even though I’ve only met you twice?
Hey I know that you paint because sometimes I see you mention that you’re going to in statuses…. Am I a creep?
Will you ask your husband and son to come play music?
I miss you will you come jam on your guitar with some other people?
Hey so I’m throwing a party and you should come! Because. I said so. And you make things my friends would be into. Okay.
You should bring your guitar and get really really really drunk so you’ll actually play, alright?

And finally, my favorite yet-
Cody’s mom said I could totally do the party at her house! Time to start brainstorming. I need your help. Are you in?

To every single one I heard a resounding, beautiful chorus of yes. And if I didn’t hear a yes I heard northing at all which is far less discomforting than a solid blockade of fuck no. I felt amazing. I was excited for everyone already willing to be involved. Only a few people knew the majority of my plan and those that did wanted to be a part of it as much as humanly possible. The net I spoke about expanding not too long ago? It stretched, just like I hoped it would. A couple days later it stretched again.

Hey jean, I like to write! Always have. What’s up?
Hey so I know you asked me to read with you but can I also show some of my photography? And invite my sister?
I love this idea! We should do it annually.
I’m not creative, but I’d totally come and be your waitress.
I’d love to cook for you, can I also bring some of my artwork?
So I heard about this party, can I show some of my videos?
Have you talked to so-and-so, they make short films!
Do you need anything?
Do you need a stage? Microphones?
I’ve got your music gear!
Don’t worry, I’ll have all the blankets you’ll need. Freshly washed.
Can we do a drink and draw?
I have plenty of tables I can bring!
Can we bring anything?
What do you need?
How can we help?

And my favorite yet, my father-
Unless something we can’t control happens, we will be there.

Once I’ve talked to Kelly a bit more I’ll feel better about sharing my plans but this is great and I’m excited. So, so excited and I’m taking this completely serious. I’ve already started gathering things that will be necessary at work, upstairs, in a corner where no one knows I’m doing so. [Or didn’t anyway…] Because it is only January. And this party is in June.

AND HOLY SHIT I AM SO VERY EXCITED.
IF YOU WANT IN THEN MESSAGE ME ON FACEBOOK AHHHH
…i love you all. thank you.

over and out.

California.

[Bedford, NH.] Aj and I went into work the morning of our flight. For some reason I was under the impression that the excitement of the fast approaching trip across the country wouldn’t deter us from at least getting a solid four hours in before we took off to meet up with some friends before we took off. We left at nine forty-five, not the planned noon time. This is funny to me now because if we had left at noon time like we had planned then my back bumper probably wouldn’t have received the tiny love tap that it did from some older man in a older pick up truck. I was at a red light, he must have bumped me doing, uhm, five miles per hour tops. The thing is though, my Scion is made out of fiberglass and crap. So a puncture wound was made and the pressure in the specific spot caused the bumper to crack along the top. We exchanged information, I bitched, life went on, my car is now fixed, and I didn’t pay for any of it. Ta-da!

[Boston, MA.] We flew out of Logan because the tickets we purchased were cheap and there were zero stops involved, thus it made sense. For an airport, Logan really isn’t all that bad. Sure in places, in certain corners, it can kind of look like a dirty cluster fuck, but for the most part they have their shit together. I specifically found Logan to be a paradise once I experienced LAX. We sat at a table in Boston Beer Works and the dudes ordered a couple beers to occupy some time. I watched planes take off and land. I was anxious and still unsure of how I would feel once I was on the plane. For the most part I found myself trying not to think about the fact that I was in the air and very much fucked if something drastic and awful happened with our plane. I sat and I watched hours of South Park. I love Butters.

[Los Angelas, CA.] Blah, blah, blah picking up checked bags, finding Gina and Joey, packing ourselves tight into that same old jeep that I had grown to miss. Some babble about how great the first cigarette off of your plane ride tastes and feels as it’s clutching at your lungs and killing the little hairs in your sinuses. Mmmm. Speaking of mmm, the first thing we did (besides experience better herbage~ than most of New England has to offer) is head to In & Out Burger. I’m not a huge fast food person but I will stand by the fact that In & Out Burger is probably everything that so and so has told you it is. They put an entire fucking slice of an onion on your burger… Get the fuck out of here, oh my god. And! And those mother fuckers are all smiles and polite while doing it. We went back to Joey and Gina’s apartment and met some of their friends, who coincidentally were a lot like two of our dudes back home in Massachusetts. It was pleasant.

[Hollywood, CA.] We ventured out to Hollywood to walk around and see what there was to see, I guess. There wasn’t much of a plan other than to just get our fill of the area while we were there. We went to Amoeba, apparently a really well known record store on the west coast that everyone had heard of except me. Which is fine. I was thrilled to be seeing something so great, in size and inventory, that I didn’t know existed. I loved it. I found the entire Daria series, the two movies, with bonus material for under twenty dollars, as well as a couple Jawbreaker albums I didn’t have hard copies of. I wanted to buy so much vinyl but it didn’t make sense, I would have managed to break it or fuck it up before getting back home. That and I knew what my money situation would be like as the end of the week grew near and it looked pretty tight. I kept my spending under control.

We walked along for a bit, checking out stars on the ground (found George Takei’s!), looking through some head shops (skip them, they’re lame here), and just absorbing the street art. Outside of that, Hollywood is meant for tourists with money. We decided to eat at this place called Stout. If you’re ever in the area (it’s not too far from Amoeba) I would suggest stuffing your face there and drinking all of the beer. It was pretty relaxed, the atmosphere was interesting (pretty much all open, lacking real walls for half the building, it was different- I imagine it must be nice not having to deal with snow and much rain). We sat in a nice booth, mostly tucked away from everyone else that was dining. The lighting above our heads was a chandelier made of green, brown, and clear beer bottles. We ordered drinks, Gina and I went to the bathroom together in between making petty remarks about the attire that the restaurant allowed their female employees work in around food, the night was good. It felt like home, familiar. Gina and I talked the whole ride back to the apartment, I don’t remember much of a lull anywhere and I enjoyed every nonstop second of it.

[San Diego, CA.] We stayed in a pretty sweet hotel that wasn’t far from the zoo at all. In ground pool, hot tub, ice machines, grills, ya know~. I am easily satisfied, I guess it wasn’t the nicest hotel some of my friends had experienced. I enjoyed it. To the extent that I wanted to take the pillows with me. The night we arrived we went out to pick up alcohol and snacks, invited our friend Aaron over from his military base, and carried on with our evening. As always, I was the first one ready for bed. I get overwhelmed easily and I try to take control of situation when people don’t know how to do so. Looking to me for help in these situations isn’t a bad idea, I will get the job done. I’m just not sure I will do it the nicest way possible.

The next day we went to the zoo and saw all sorts of fuzzy, adorable animals. Also, we went completely baked out of our minds due to the “love bites” (marijuana edibles, yay) we were able to get our hands on. I’ve never witnessed an elephant get a bath until this day and it was probably the best thing of my life. Have you heard an elephant purr? Or fart even? I’m so immature that I’m laughing about it now even as I type this. You will never hear a cuter, funnier fart in your life, jesus christ… I promise you that.

We saw Red pandas, all sorts of large cats, birds, monkeys, we posed with animal statues, I took too many pictures (I promise you’ll see them one day), we rode a gondola across the park, everything was hilarious, everything was fun. We stayed for hours, right up until closing time and it was amazing. I can’t think of something else I would rather do with my best friend that I’ve been missing so immensely.

[Venice, CA.] Everything you have heard about this place is more than likely that it is very awesome or it is very awful. Both of these are true. For as awesome as I thought it was, it made me equally sad and confused. I am not complaining, it is just one of the few times in my life that I’ve been faced with what I tend to love about movies, about music, about art- it was perfectly beautiful and sad all at once and it left me feeling very, very lonely. That being said, the art in Venice is beautiful and if you have it in you to make yourself vulnerable enough to enjoy everything for what it is- go for the experience. Go for every single bit of it. Go simply to watch someone make something with their hands on the sidewalk in hopes that you or another person with the time, will purchase it. Go and drink it in.

There was a man playing piano right there. Right in front of me. Just a few steps from sand, a piano. In the middle of everything and everyone rushing around; dogs on chain leashes, people on bikes, on skateboards, on roller blades, on bicycles, people running, walking, moving around everything in their way. Among everything, there was a man directly in front of me, playing a piano. His hair was a mess all around his face, shielding it from me and anyone else that cared to stare. I imagined his life. I wondered if it were sad and lonely, maybe that was why he pounded the keys so feverishly.Such perfectly heart breaking every string of notes seemed to be. The last time I had heard someone play an actual piano in person before this was when I was in elementary school. It felt like every push of a key, the clang of a hammer, was a note stuck in the back of my throat. Before I had a minute longer to think, we were moving again and I was forced to give up on this man that I felt I had, had some odd intimate connection with. He doesn’t know my name or my face, but when I heard his music I felt like I fell in love again and had my heart broken in moments. There was an ache and my head was tumbling.

I saw a man painting John Lennon with nothing but straight lines and globs of orange, brown, and gray. The little globules would run down the canvas and in a great way they added to the piece, they seemed to be right where they belonged. I wanted to buy all of his work and surround myself with it until I passed away from old age with my ten billion cats and of course, Aj. (Providing his allergies don’t kill him, what with being around ten billion cats.) I wanted all of his work for myself. I wanted a house and I wanted him to pain every wall however he pleased. Even his pants were something else, perhaps once denim, they were now nothing but colorful splatters and his story.

On the the beach bums slept in the sand. Or they were blacked out. Either way, they didn’t seem to bother with anyone. I tried to not let my head wander to what it must be like and focused more on the sunset or the music. There seemed to be some kind of music everywhere and it made it easy to forget some of the things around me. On the beach there was the largest (and only) drum circle I’ve ever witnessed. From the other side of the beach you could hear and see it. Hands were in the air, the crowd seemed to pulse, and the drums never stopped. At dusk three police SUV’s came barreling down the beach, sirens blaring and lights flashing, in a sad attempt to break up the circle. In response, the drum circle played louder, harder. It put a smile on my face.

We ended our day smoking on the beach sitting in the sand. The sky was unbelievable. Those paintings you see in hotels and other fancy establishments where the clouds form a circle around the sun and the rays burst through, washed over with pinks and purples, blues you’ve never even seen if you haven’t left New England. I can’t explain it well enough. I’m not doing it justice. I’ve overused the word perfect, otherwise it would be used here as well.

Venice is also where: I saw an old man in sad clown make up and matching garb on, I saw a bong taller than me (banana for scale: I’m about five feet, six inches- this was a big deal to me, ok?), I saw two homeless people having a dance off on roller blades, I thought my eyeballs were deceiving me, but there was a woman in a belly shirt with a boombox, muscle beach is a real thing, muscle beach is a real thing that they make t-shirts for and sell at the surrounding shops, muscle beach is a real thing and there are bleachers for you to sit on and watch the nerds get their sand gym on, and finally many people arguing with what I can only assume was- themselves.

[Gina.] This is not a place. I’m sure you have realized the on going theme here. I was going to fill you in on the flight home and how I thought we were going down at one point, but it isn’t nearly as important (plus we weren’t really “going down”, we were just going down in elevation quickly). Gina has been a big part of my life for quite some time. I have lost family members, pets, and experienced a landslide of emotions. But nothing will ever compare to the way I have learned to miss my lady friend over the years. She can’t stay still for very long and I’ve come to terms with that because I know she’ll always come home when she’s ready. That all being said, the very best part of my entire trip was getting to see my best friend and the worst was very obviously, having to say see you later, again.

I have never met a person quite like the girl and I am very, very convinced that I never will- she is truly unique. There are things that even after being friends for as long as we have, I still don’t know about her. I have spent years around her and still she is able to open her mouth and surprise me with something else. There is never a dull moment, there are never ill feelings, there is always something to talk about, and she will always have questions for you. Because she cares. Because she’s interested. And because she truly, honestly wants to know. Not just because she wants to have an even sided conversation. She wants to know everything.

The night we were driving back to the apartment from Stout and Gina and I were in the backseat of her jeep talking and she surprised me again. First, a tiny bit of background info (I love you, don’t hate me): Gina cannot reply to most texts in a timely fashion, through out high school you would have to call her about three times before she ever answered, she is on facebook but she only really lurks, she’s on instagram but only sometimes, she’s here and she’s there, but not really. She doesn’t need to be attached to everyone as openly as the rest of us and I’ve always been pretty on board with it.

After drinking a few beers, sitting in her backseat, Gina told me that she read my blog. And I don’t think it really set in at the time just how much that meant to me. It took coming back home and realizing how much I was neglecting this silly thing to realize just how much that simple statement meant to me. Because I didn’t ask her if she had, I didn’t even bring it up. She did on her own because she could. Because she cares. Because she wants to know.

These are links to some photos:
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8

Over and out.