Conversations about work

damn, you don't KNOW busy. I know busy. I AM busy. Busy is me, and it is through me, and I am of it.

I KNOW busy. busy is where I begin. busy is where I never end. busy is the foundation I am built upon.

This busy loves me until I bleed, then it turns me round and gets busy on me all over again.

The busy is like a noisy disorder, strangling my chest. It fills every bead of sweat sliding from my anxious hands. It also smells like yesterday and the day before. The odor chokes me.

im so busy I don’t have the time to do the things that are supposed to be keeping me busy.

Me, I'm so busy i'm about to pee my pants, cause I do NOT have the time for the whole "get to bathroom, pull down pants" yada yada.

im so busy, ive had to transfer my "weekend" bedpan to my office chair so as I may continue on with my work without any interruptions from my overly active bowels.

I just eat my own shit - WHOSE got time to get to the snack machine, what with all this crap I gotta do?

the busy is the bogeyman under my bed that grabs my ankles and pulls me down into his cold cramped cave.

the busy wants me to read his screenplay, and he won't take a hint.

The busy is a nightmare monster, and I know I have to run from the busy but my legs are so heavy and the room is tilting up higher and higher and im falling back and the busy will consume me.

the busy has a large mouth with strong, retractable jaws. the busy is hungry. it is always hungry.

the busy is the first time you drank too much, and you don't want to vomit anymore, but the busy wants you to keep hurling. again. and again.

there is the busy, waiting for you. lurking. the busy is going to take your lunch money. the busy will poke you with stiff, surprisingly muscular fingers. poke poke poke. you try not to cry, but the busy taunts you. the busy likes it better when you look weak.

I owe the busy 700 dollars, and he's given me my last motherfucking chance.
[busy stands in corner, swinging large metal pipe repeatedly into his palms. looks at you and squints. points one finger]

the busy is my record label, and they just added 14 more dates in Asia cause the second single is doing really good in Thailand and I havent seen my new baby since she was 12 weeks old.

the busy is four turntables each with a copy of James Brown's 'Get on the Good Foot', and im in the Beat Juggling world semifinals against this really talented 14 year old from Amsterdam

the busy is going around town with a picture of you, asking questions, getting answers. the busy is closing in.

the busy made me a mixtape [its mostly phil collins era genesis] and sent me flowers. It left a message on my voicemail and it was all in song. I think the busy is trying to seduce me.

the busy isn’t even smiling today, it’s past pretending we are friends. the busy is barking orders in a scolding tone. it growls closely, practically in my ear, and its breath is hot and it spits when it talks. im afraid to turn around, I know it’s staring at me. It’s waiting for me to make a mistake.

Trouble

I was already drunk, slurring my words, watching television while all the lights were burning. It was around midnight when the phone rang and I knew it was a long shot but I hoped it was someone that had a load of drugs they wanted to share. I wasn’t even feeling picky. I’d have done whatever they were offering. There was no such luck to be had though; instead it was an unrecognizable female voice on the other line, offering me a job. It starts next Thursday. Figures, I thought, before begrudgingly accepting, I never get offered what I want at the exact moment I want it, it’s always slightly off.

I want drugs and I get work. I want sex and I get time alone to watch porno. I want inspiration and I get new shampoo. It’s always the same, just slightly different.

So I accepted the job, as a bartender at one of my local dives. I don’t know what the pay is yet, and I don’t even know if they’ll think I'm worth keeping, but at least for now I have a place to be that isn’t another room in my apartment. Thing is, I haven’t been behind a bar I years, so I need to practice my pours and do some brushing up on some recipes, especially these new fandangled drink concoctions that have erupted into our livers since I last served anything neat or on the rocks. I figure if nothing less, I’ll be drinking for free at least two nights this week, so there’s always that…

And I’ve changed the name to the party I’m throwing, which wasn’t a name I wanted to begin with. The name for the party was Le Frique, which my partner proposed and, because I wasn’t in the mood to argue and had nothing to offer myself, I agreed to, albeit hesitantly. The name chafed my head though. It brought up images of rich twenty somethings in leather coats, drinking martinis and bearing their teeth. Velvet lampshades and bad cocaine. Good looking bartenders and super expensive drinks. Bad sex with friends of friends and generic Viagra and high fives over reserved tables. Nothing I see at a party of mine. Nothing I want a in party I go to.

So I made a call and a voiced my opinion and the name is changed. It is no longer Le Frique.

It is Trouble.

See, I think Trouble works better because for one, if you have seen the place were it is, and the regulars that frequent it, you would not think: “Oh, I’m going to bring a date here, maybe after a few Cosmo’s they will think I’m charming.” No, the spot is dark, with dingy corners. Sure, there are tables lining the walls, and they do have nice tablecloths made of a remarkably soft material, but they are all in the shade, somewhat hidden, almost in their own quiet. You do not want to take a date here, you might lose them. For two, the drinks are cheap and the bathrooms are large and private. So that means when one gets drunk enough to call their cocaine dealer, there are bathrooms that allow an undisturbed ingestion of said vice, and if they have split the bag with a buddy, their friend can join them in the same stall without looking too weird. For three, from what I saw, there were a lot of drugs circulating the bar and its regular flies, lots of jaws twisting and noses sniffling. Really fast conversations that veered into nowhere. Eyes, that wouldn’t keep focus.

So Trouble seems to work. Fuck Le Frique. I don’t even know what that means.

So I will be getting into Trouble Thursday, and starting Trouble Wednesday, and hurting from Trouble on Friday, and aching for Trouble by Saturday.

I'm ready for it though. What else is there to do?

Llorando in the city

Here is the score, and I will have a proper update for you very soon, just give me a few more drinks:

I started a Wednesday night weekly party in the lower east side. We play house music because in 2007 its all about dropping pretensions and getting down to what you really love. its at 87 Ludlow, right off Delancy, deep inside the arteries of the city. Wednesday night. if you are in new york city and you like shaking your hips and getting liquored up for cheap, come on down. I'll be the guy playing records with a scotch and soda in his hand.

i also picked up a bartending gig at a nice local spot not too far from my neighborhood. This works with not only with my desperate alcohlic nature, but my appreciation for cash in hand after a hard nights drinking as well. It also frees my day for that other thing i've been up to. The Company.

My company is definitely growing. We have a pretty full roster of quality music coming out the first quarter of the new year, plus a few head turning propects for the future. Its starting to come together folks. In a years time i will either be draped in expensive jewelry or addicted to crack. If things work out to my favor, it'll be both [and since i dont care much for jewelry i'll eventually just sell that for more crack].

In any case, i will be updating regularly. Watch me.

below is one of the reasons it was so cool for my girlfriend to bump into David Lynch. enjoy.

lost and found

The stock kid at my corner bodega sells $20 bags of weed. It’s a pretty good shade of green but the weight is kind of light. Still, it does the trick. I copped one earlier tonight; it was twenty more dollars than I really had. Now I'm broke and stoned, this feeling is too familiar.

Anyway, a few nights ago I was in the middle of all that had gone mad in the city. The sky was falling. The streets were exploding beneath my feet. At least that’s what it felt like. I was sitting in my office, smoking a cigarette and looking at my untied shoe. It was early afternoon and I had a million things to do.

Fast forward a few hours and I was weaving down forth avenue on my bike. The air was wet and unseasonably warm. I was on the way to the post office to pick up some stamps and mail out a few packages. I’d just come from an electronics store where I had returned some unused speaker wire and instead of the standard credit card charge back, had received cash in hand for my troubles. Now that cash was burning a hole in my front pocket and I was pumping my legs hypnotically, keeping pace with traffic while dodging potholes. I would look down the side streets as I passed them and marvel at how large and lonely they appeared, and how it seemed even the cars had no use for them in that part of Brooklyn.

The line at the post office was insufferably long; it always is, so I opted to use their automatic stamp machine instead of braving the wait. It was my first time using one so I fumbled a bit with the buttons and had to re-enter some information twice, but eventually I got my packages stamped and in the outbox. Then it was off to an office supply store to check out a new desk. It is on that desk that I am typing this right now. My new desk is awesome, you can be jealous if your so inclined.

On the way home I picked up a bottle of wine and when I got to the cash register I paid with the money in my pocket instead of my debit card, like I usually would.

Back at the palace I sat on the couch with a glass of red in my hand, smiling and enjoying the fruits of my labors. Then the doorbell rang and startled me out of a post workday trance. I had no idea who it could be, and so before actually going downstairs and blindly answering the door, I peeked out from a window to see who it was.

I didn’t have any time for solicitation from god’s followers or, even worse, pseudo hippies trying to get my money for some rain forest across the planet. I’ve got no faith and no funds, leave me alone with that crap.

I didn’t recognize who it was, but noticed they weren’t holding a book or clipboard, so hollered down to them to state their business. They looked up at me, it was a middle-aged woman, she smiled then asked if I was who I was, saying my full name with middle initial. I confirmed I was, but eyed her suspiciously. She held up an envelope I hadn’t seen before.

Did you leave something at the post office? She asked, a strange smirk spreading on her face.

I looked down at her dumbly. As far as I knew, no, I hadn’t, but there had to be a good reason she was here, holding the mysterious envelope and grinning like a schoolgirl with a delicious bit of gossip. I told her to hold on and went downstairs, racking my brain on just what it could be that I’d left at the post office. When I opened the door she stood there, leaning against the frame, gleaming at me, letting the curious package in her hand flop back and forth on her wrist.

You lose something? She asked again. Now that I was closer I saw she was probably in her 40’s and of some Spanish speaking descent. She was short and plump, probably a mother of 2, and she had one gold cap in her front row of teeth.

I stammered and smiled a dumb and innocent smile. Her face fell a bit and her eyes frowned at the edges, but she opened the envelope and took out my wallet. My eyes squeezed from their sockets and I gasped once, then twice.

My wallet, I said weakly.

Her smile came back, rising on her face like a sudden sun. She opened it up and took out my driver’s license then made me tell her my birth date, just to be sure it was me. I’m pretty sure just looking at the picture would have sufficed, but I could tell she was cherishing the moment and wanted to ride it for as long as she could.

You’re lucky, she said, Delores found it on the stamp machine and handed it in. It could have been anyone that found it.

She opened it up and pointed to the money inside.

There was forty dollars in there, nobody touched it. Everything should be fine.

I'm sure the overwhelming waves of shock and gratitude I felt would bring a lot of people to their knees, and I could tell she wanted that satisfaction, of someone that was so thankful they couldn’t even bear to stand under the weight of it, but I have pretty sturdy composure, even in the most alarming situations, so what she got was me repeating thank you thank you thank you over and over again and offering up half of the money that was in my wallet as a reward. She wouldn’t take it though. She would just throw her hands in the air.

No papi, you work hard for your money, I'm just glad you were here when I dropped the wallet off. Then she smiled again, this time genuinely happy, with nothing mischievous about it at all. I smiled back, still stuck in a quiet stupor. She waved good-bye to me and walked down my steps into the streets. I waved back thanking her under my breath.

To be fair, had I of known my wallet was missing, I'm sure I would have been reduced to weeping when she rang my bell and told me she had found it. It had been a good 3 hours since I left the post office, and because it is, admittedly, extremely rare that I lose my wallet, I would have never assumed I’d just left it on a counter in the middle of a crowded station. If anything, I would have assumed it fell out of my pocket while riding my bike, or stolen from my backpack when I wasn’t looking. But since I hadn’t known it was gone, my reaction was more stunned silence as opposed to a roaring flood of appreciation.

Later that night though, the miracle of it hit me. In the great big city I’d dropped a small, insignificant item that meant the world to me and nothing to anyone else, and a few civil servants recognized this and went out of their way to return it. It made me think there was room for faith in 2007. Maybe it was going to be a decent year after all.

star crossed

Seeing famous people in New York is, as we new Yorkers say, no big deal. Unlike every other city in the country, save maybe Los Angeles, seeing even the most reclusive megastar is just par for the course to us, so getting excited about sitting across from say, Sarah Jessica Parker on the L train, or standing in line behind Mary J Blige at the local ghetto chicken spot is considered, to us, a huge waste of energy. There are subway fare hikes to bitch about, clearance sales at designer fashion houses to scramble for, black outs to worry over, and a myriad of other, much more important matters for us to get all wound up about. We really don’t have the time to go into a frenzy just because 2 time academy award winner Hillary Swank takes pilates lessons from our girlfriend, a more substantial concern would be that the perfect couch we finally found on craigslist is all the way in queens and going to queens is like going to jury duty, for some reason we dread it.

That was a bit of a tangent, but back to the main idea of this post. Famous people = big fucking deal. It’s to the point now where my girlfriend and I only mention the artist that we genuinely have respect for, the others are just taxpayers like the rest of us. So if she were to see Barbara Walters buying a latte and a dozen fudge brownies at Dunkin Donuts, that would hardly even register in her head. Hell, she might not even notice her. And if I were to share the same elevator as Matt Damon on the way up to an urologist, I probably wouldn’t bother telling her when I got home.

There are though, the cool people sightings that we absolutely flip out over. Here is a list of the stars we have spotted that made our blood rush a little bit faster.

Bjork- we saw her in Soho walking with her kid in a stroller. I was inclined to say something to the effect of, "you complete me," but I know how violent she can get when people approach her, especially while she’s with her offspring and decided to spare myself I brutal Icelandic beat down. She was with some friend of hers, who was dressed almost as bizarrely as she was. Their outfits looked as if they were on the way to perform in cirque de soleil but on the way to the tent got into a wicked brawl with a gang of lions. Either way, my girlfriend squealed when she noticed her and I made an awkward attempt at getting a second look by walking past Bjork and pretending to be interested in some strange amethyst bracelets in a shop window while she passed me again.

Jeffery Wright - we actually saw him during last thanksgiving, shopping with his son at the uber expensive health food store by our house. I think my girlfriend pooed her pants when she noticed it was him because at first her eyes got really wide and then a small squeak escaped from the back of her throat as her hand went up to point [and mine went up to pull hers down] and then a pained look befell her face and she said softly, "uh.. Ill meet you at home," then sort of waddled out. We brag about this to all our friends, its not every day one of the greatest actors of your generation shops at the same health food store as you, we leave out the poo part though.

We see John Turtorro all the time. He lives in the same neighborhood as us. At first it was exciting, because we love John Turturro, but now when we see him at the cafe down the block its sort of like, "dude, just order your damn green tea and move it along, we have places to go."

I saw spike lee in Chelsea on his cell phone. He was talking about the knicks and overseeing the purchase of what looked like a jungle of plastic plants. I would have tapped him on the shoulder and told him Girl 6 sucked, but he was on the phone and I didn’t want to seem rude.

And just today my girlfriend had a brief exchange with director David Lynch, which is almost too awesome to bear. She called me immediately afterward, which is a big thing for her considering between having been a waitress at multiple fine dining establishments in Manhattan and now teaching pilates to the uber rich [literally, one of her clients rents his penthouse in the time warner building to jay z and beyonce when he’s out of town], she has seen or even met pretty much every person that’s ever been mentioned on Mtv.

Apparently she walked up to him and, when she realized who he was and her words got caught in her throat, he smiled and said hi, then she said she let out this really loud and exaggerated hello, which was long and breathy and made her voice sound like a cross between a sick transvestite and a lifelong smoker with a mouthful of jellybeans. He then, seeming genuinely pleased with this reaction, waved good-bye and went along his way.

David Lynch is awesome and i'm sick of writing about stars. Ill tell you what, you should all check out pedro's broadcasting basement. Its basically Laurent Garniers record collection playing over the internet all day long. Pretty sweet eh?

the history of mornings

A few days ago a friend gives me a call and ask if I want to grab a bite to eat that evening. My pockets are pretty skint so I politely decline and suggest we meet up for drinks afterward. This sounds like a plan and we make loose arrangements to hook up somewhere in the city later that night.

He’s from Chicago and owns a record label I’m distributing. I’ve known him for a few years. Met him over the phone when I was selling records back in San Francisco. Hung out with him one windy night on a stop through while traveling across the country on the way to Manhattan. He’s a cool cat, I dig his kind.

We met up in Soho at a tiny Irish bar that’s known for pulling proper pints of Guinness. It was me, him, his girlfriend, and her friend, a nice Japanese gal that was a budding fashion designer. We warmed up over some spirits, he and I speaking intently over glasses of scotch and vodka about the state of the music industry, the girls still leaning into each other, mouths over their cocktails, sharing secrets it seemed about god knows what. Then headed back out, towards the village.

We end up at Max Fish, a bar slash art gallery in the lower east side. It’s about 2am at this time. The place is surprisingly not packed for a Friday night. We slid up to the bar and I ordered us a round. Every few minutes I sneak out and smoke a cigarette. The street is noisy and boisterous and the security keeps telling people to move out from in front of the bar. People keep saying yeah yeah and waving their hands and letting their smoke fall from their lips into the gutter. Sometime my friend joins me, usually when he does I bum a smoke from him instead of rolling one of my own.

At some point the ladies struck up a conversation with this guy at the bar. He had a twitchy nose and his jaw wouldn’t stop moving and he had his hair pulled back into a small ponytail like I imagine an Italian tourist would do. When I snuck out to burn another my friends girlfriend followed along, outside under the street lamps I noticed she had a soft, humble beauty about her that was at once sexy while being wildly innocent. She told me the guy at the bar said he was an art dealer. She said he sold Jackson Pollack’s and Mark Rothko’s to the rich. She said he also chartered private planes to the even richer. She said she thought it was all bullshit. I said I don’t know. You never can tell in New York. Then we went back inside.

After last call we all huddled on the corner out in front of the bar. The art dealing private jet chartering guy with the Italian tourist pony tale comes up to us, his nose twitchier then ever and his jaw absolutely manic. He asks if we want to go back to his place. He has a studio around the corner. He pays two thousand a month for it. Its small, but it has wine and beer and alcohol. We fall in line and head to his place. Its just 3 of us now, 4 all together, the Japanese fashion designer bailed out after the second shot.

At his place the cocaine is revealed, but I'm the only taker, as my friend and his girlfriend, as they put it, don’t party like that. This somewhat embarrasses the art dealing private jet chartering Italian tourist hairdo guy but after a couple lines with me he forgets what he was nervous about and his jaw goes into overdrive.

I chime into conversation, which is moving at a rapid pace from topic to topic, while taking large gulps of Spanish wine and standing on a deck that overlooks downtown. I catch only snatches of what he’s saying, and piece together that he lived for a while in Beverley Hills, was raised in Santa Fe, and has a best friend named Shian that fronts a rock band in Hollywood. This all sounds familiar so I ask a stupid question.

Does Shian have a brother named Nevada?

The art dealing dude loses it. See, one of my best friends is Nevada, I met him way back when. While was heavy into raving, still in my teens. And I met his brother Shian a few years later, while he was visiting San Frandisco, when I was still less innocent. So it turns out that one of my best friends is the brother of his best friend. The coincidence is remarkable. I would actually be stunned with the news if crazy jaw jet charterer weren’t freaking out enough for the both of us. He immediately gets on the phone and starts calling people out west, screaming into the receiver at whoever would answer that they WOULD NEVER GUESS WHO HE WAS STANDING THERE WITH. It was about six in the morning at this time. Most people didn’t pick up the phone.

After the initial fervor of that realization died down, which wasn’t for another hour or so, we all decided to go home. Or in my friends case, to their hotel. When I left I didn’t get art dealing ponytail guys contact info. I don’t know why. But the next morning when I woke up I felt that the world was a lot smaller.

*****************************

there are some very strange products available. this one i find sort of clever, while being funny and completely absurd. this one i find kind sort of funny, while being bizarre and kind of cruel. thank defective yeti for the links.

Unwashed Entertainment

I haven't changed from my pajamas all day. I haven't needed too. I've shuffled across my hardwood floors in soft, backless slippers since morning. My feet made a dull, scraping sound as I went from room to room checking emails and smoking cigarettes and pacing nervously, on the phone. From my laptop I've been listening to random episodes of Fresh Air, with Terry Gross (the Charlie Rose of radio) on NPR. Particularly, shows with Sacha Baron Cohen, the creators of The Wire, and selective movie reviews. Its been my "thing" today, talk radio is the new hip hop.

Here are some links for you to enjoy:

Stones Throw is so nice! They have offered up a free full length album of collaboration between Talib Kweli and Madlib, complete with artwork! What an awesome bunch of guys, right? Seriously. Stones Throw is one of the worlds better record labels, you should support them.

Well here we have the winner of the Best Tribute Band Award (or the BaTBA). I don't know, they are cool I guess. But Lez Zepplin and REO Speeddealer (who may not actually be a tribute band, but just a band with a colon shiveringly good name), are still pretty sweet in my book.

do you like youtube? Sure you do. You live and breathe, correct?

this is what some would call "amazing," and probably want to "marry it," and have all its "babies." it is of a guy that doesn't know how to play instruments. you should watch it.

I don't know what to make of this. Is it wrong that it made me frightened? what about that I also cried a little? Ok, well is it wrong that got a boner? That's wrong, right?

I really and truly wanted a beer after watching this, that is how impressed I was.

I hope you enjoyed the links. I got them from my grandmother.

last nights party

I said I was going to post tonight so I am. Not as an obligation to you, dear reader, but as an obligation to yours truely. And don’t let that comment sway you into feeling that I’ve distanced myself- for this is still an intimate affair- I just want to establish, between the very few of us, that I'm taking this thing* seriously. Now onward.

I will just begin. The year is new in Brooklyn, USA, where I reside and drink from a bottle. And eat with my hands. And smoke cigarettes out the window. I was born in San Francisco, but I left there about five years ago to come here to work for a record company that folded about 4 years later. I live with my girlfriend. We moved here together. She has long hair and likes to bat her eyelashes and work her hips when she walks through a crowded room.

Now, since the company I moved out here for went under, I've started my own with a couple friends. It’s in the music industry, which, as an industry, appears to be failing, but we have faith in our model and feel there is a strong chance we’ll succeed as a business. As it is, and how all businesses collectively experience, we are starting off slowly, so haven’t made much of a profit. This was expected (and we aren’t doing poorly at all considering the haste in which this venture was realized), but what profit we are bringing in has ultimately just gone back into the company, which leaves little to none for its small list of dedicated employees.

So I’ve had to hustle for money.

Hustling is a very New York frame of mind, if you were to ask me, a proud San Franciscan. The determination to just go out and find not necessarily a job, but a “gig,” is beyond my laidback west coast nature. I have friends that will go for years at a time just bouncing from one gig to another, and they all have the money for their rent and bills and rounds at the bar. This is all new to me, though. I’d gone from one job to another, sure. But eventually I found a desk and I was quite comfortable behind it. It was a good place to clear my thoughts and drink my coffee. A pleasant place to contemplate trends while chewing on a chicken salad sandwich. Plus the long distance was free.

But that’s beside the point. What I'm here to post is what helped me get to here and now.

I Djed a Christmas party at these swanky offices in the West Village. I played Christmas carols and downtempo and people in suits drank champagne and didn’t notice. There was finger food on small plates and three bars and waiters holding trays with glasses of wine on them. I kept grabbing one each time they passed by. I must have drunk two bottles to myself. They had a very strict play list, which I couldn’t deviate from. So even when I knew it was the wrong time to play a song, I had to play it. I got paid a good chunk of money for the gig, so I didn’t care. They didn’t even want me to mix; I just went from song to song, fading in and out like an expensive jukebox in a fancy shirt. At the end of the night, by request, I played Madonna. But nobody really danced.

Then I completed a final at school, which was less a final than a celebration for the end of the semester.

Then I bartended an underground warehouse party right here in Brooklyn. The best DJ’s in New York City were playing the songs you want to hear, all night long at an illegal gathering in the Gowanus Canal. It was epic. The night was cool but not cold and I would sneak out every now and then to burn my lungs. The doorman was large and overweight and had a really kind, disarming voice. He would light my cigarettes and smile a knowing smile and I would let the smoke curl from my mouth up into the crisp winter morning.

Then I completed another final at school, this one a little more grueling.

Then it was Christmas and I got a million texts from people saying merry Christmas. I guess the day of the mass text wishes are upon us.

Then I Djed at a bar on New Years Eve. And I played whatever I wanted, from deep Afro beat to heavy James brown funk to mainstream pop songs to weird dancehall bootlegs. Drinks were free and I got paid enough to cover my bills. It was a sweet scent filling the warm air that evening. The year had finally ended. Another twelve months in the past. People beamed into the dawn of oh seven and I let out a small sigh of relief.

*And what is “this thing”? You may ask. Well I guess it’s this blog. This site on the internet. Where I write words and we, the very few, read them. I guess it’s this writing, which I do and still can’t figure out why. Maybe writing is cathartic; maybe it’s like a therapy, maybe its just another way of unraveling, of having life spun out of you in a long string of words. I'm not sure. Maybe this thing is my way of exercising discipline. A game I play, to keep me on my toes. You have to post, it will keep you regular. Maybe it’s just another thing iv'e collected, and that I wont give up, because I'm afraid of feeling the sensation of loss.