Bathtub music and drums played on the surface
of Davy Jones's mirror: the ceramic holds
the sea, the sea, and all within it: ***** me.

Scrubbed you off my skin again for
the umpteenth night in a row. Row
row row our boat away from the constant,
constant rows. Stormy arguments and
weathered mistrust. You'll break me,
won't you? I'll break you, won't I? Won't you
come drown with me Ariel? Won't you
come up with me to the kitchen and lock up
the door then lock up the oven then lock up
ourselves in carbon-monoxide poetry?

But then how does cooking gas end up as sass
in a library? How did sustenance turn into
asphyxiation?  Why are our hands on
each other's throats instead of being binded
by the absoluteness, the certainty, the assuredness
of palms within palms and fingers interlocked
and question marks dispelled.

Splash! as way in and over my head
is the bathtub music
and my absorbent curls are
drinking, drinking, drinking, thinking
about the why you only call me when
you're drinking, drinking, drinking; thinking
about the way I cannot suppress you when
the cellphone has long gone quiet and
your Hughes of blue are still loud but
your red is dead.

Ariel, Ariel,
I want to be your dark-haired prince.
Ariel, Ariel,
my country is landlocked but I still see you in the sink.
Ariel, Ariel,

gurgling away as the bathtub music fades
into ugly brown rings around the ceramic
pause button
that shows no hope of continuation
Ariel, Ariel, you are the final splash!
as the false sea drifts away, the final splash!
that scatters bathtub music past the drain
and into the air. Ariel, Ariel,

you are the false rain
that my landlocked country never prayed for.
Ariel, Ariel, toneless, begotten and forgotten
Ariel, Ariel. I cannot sing for you. I cannot.
You will not sing for me. You will not.

The final splash! past the drain and into the air
is you Ariel. The false rain.

The rain song of our endless games.

Musk. Wind

whispers mysteries in the form of it;
it thickens thin air until it turns black,
black enough to

hush. Wind,

being black, absorbs your thoughts,
makes violent curls of them; thickens,
thickens thin air until it

transmogrifies
into pages and pages
stained black with disaster-
as if a hurricane crumpled

those could-have been white aeroplanes, potential
papered to fly, and flung them
into the pit of your mind to
sink
             deeper
and
                            deeper
and
                                          deeper
until
your poems were written and the casualties numbered:
each line a suicide of a thought that could have been,
each syllable ink-stained and bloodied black
by artistic integrity, or madness: the same.

This wind is your hair.
This wind is your territory.
Not mine. Never could I have met you here,
in this place
of your solitary being: where real poets exist.

I am not a hurricane: and I am not your disaster.
I have learnt and re-learnt how useless it is to define you
in terms of myself; how useless it is to define you
at all. A rationalist like me can never truly understand
what it is to be part of your endlessness, the sheer
mountainous immensity that constitutes your thrill.
Yes,
your hair fascinates me as much as any ancient,
spiralling, far-away Andromeda- but the fact
that even now,  I've already tried to limit you
with words
shows the absoluteness, the solidity,
the density
of my misunderstanding of your... your...
And

real poets know that rationalists are fools.
You know

I am a fool.
I write these meagre verses
with unreachably cold computer technologies
thinking
that these words could somehow save us. Yet,
simultaneously,
I am some drunken nuisance knocking
vehemently
at your door, who turns and strolls
away
right before you finally
answer.
I am a fool

going home and seeing clouds
in the darkness. It is my first
time seeing them in the sky. First
time in nearly a month.
The moon illuminates the clouds,
and so do
the towers of highway lights in the middle of two roads.
One road leads forward, the other backwards.
As the car passes the towers,
the two lamps attached to each of their heads glow.
They streak on as the car speeds on homewards.
They leave fading tails like shooting stars, except they do not travel.
They are stagnant mind lights, peripheral memories; unmythical,
artificial.
They are not like you.

When I pass you,
You....
You...

You.

Please,
never believe-
for even a whisper of musk
to yourself;
for even a black hush,
to yourself;
for even one sliver, one strand
of Andromeda hair, falling
towards yourself-
that
Grahamstown
didn't mean anything less than Eternity to me.

It does.

I am not a hurricane. I am not your disaster.
You are far too much of yourself
for me to be even a zephyr
to you.

you’ll never feel the bite of pain
that tears the skin from bone
nor the aching loneliness that
scares the heart from home
the absoluteness that leaves a hole
where nothing is able to hide
while driven by the loathing
birthing a life to the love inside
no matter what the circumstance
you can’t negate the absolute horror
of wanting what is begged for
there is no returning the honor
I’ll whip my self unmercifully
until the end of a perfect day
even while you subjugate me
my scars upon myself just say
how much you intended to deny me
all twisted parts upon me are a whole
crisscrossed upon my body are the marks
that give you access to my soul

the presence
of futility
an enduring antipathy
or dimensions
of the unresolved
emotions
of past lines
of the traveled

senses are damaged
from short lived
over applied
civilized

series was foreseen
long after
the desolate
unveiled
a raw reconvene

noumenon narrow
absoluteness
destined at zero

I

These are hard materials
Sharp edged, inflexible
To a degree
That unfolds the truth,
And one truth
Leads to the next
In linear sequence.


Each from the others, isolated
Yet dependent
On what has gone before,
And what follows for the confirmation of truth’s verity.


Various truths are the data set of probability,
Flexible to a degree
Because of the uncertainty of absolute verity
That only singularity allows.
The statistic of one
That even when wrong
Its absoluteness is unquestionable
Because to question is not to know
What has gone before.



To know is singular in its effect,
Its purpose sustained by the uncertainty of data sets
From which truth derives.
The metaphysics of it all
Betrays the conceit of knowledge
And those that claim knowledge
Such that they impose their understanding
On others do not know
And care even less,
Except when their ignorance
Results in what is cared for….
All suppressed by the singularity of knowing
By those who acknowledge a statistic of one.
Preferring the comfort of its certainty
Rather than the uncertainty
That arises form the truth of data sets.


II

Data sets determine league tables
Positions of football clubs
And universities
Where those learning to know
Know what they are learning
And rate it accordingly.
Because as customers
It is said that
They are entitled to know
Even if they are learning
The data sets that allow them to understand
What they are attempting to know
Perhaps without conscious thought of
The void of ignorance that learning attempts to fill.


Yet in their unknowing, the certainty of the learning
Determines the positions of institutions in league tables
In turn compiled from the data sets
Of incomplete knowledge
Asserted with conviction
Establishing what is said to be true
In ignorance of sure foundations.


I wish that I had the conviction of others
To be certain of what I know
Without doubt
Without hesitation
Untrammelled by thoughts of the uncertainty of data sets
Compiled by the compilation of singularities.


Which itself compels another thought
That we all derive from a single small point,
Infinitesimally small but infinitely massive
Exploding once or perhaps in series
Like the popping of a two-stroke petrol engine
That propelled motorbikes and lawn mowers
In yesteryear.


And yet we are saying the same thing
In different ways
Unrelenting in the stream of thought
And consciousness
But ….
Please allow the words’ meanings to breath.
Where is the pause
To allow the assimilation of meaning?

The punctuation of time and space
The meaning of words
Arises from their spacing
And timing.


David Applin August 23rd 8:00am-ish 2014


III

Yet the certainty of data sets
Give us comfort
Those who await the miracle of birth
Calculate the probability of certainty
From statistics derived from the accumulation
Of data
To give the certainty of a happy outcome
A statistic of one…. or at most two or three
To which we all cling and which data
Accumulated in sets allows to be certain…
Or at least to hope to be certain
That the outcome will be happy
And reinforce our faith in belief
Itself knowledge in the absence of evidence
Truth uncurled by those hard materials
Derived from numbers
Each in itself a number
And therefore a singularity
Which hard materials cannot uncurl
Only their interpretation
Can reveal the truth of data sets
Each consisting of the singular truths
That interpretation cannot uncurl,
Because to do so would give us a statistic of one
Which cannot be questioned
Because it stands alone
Inflexible, somewhat obtuse without the context
Of the other singularities that make up the data set.


Befriended of one another, the collective now represents a version of truth
Because each singularity gives context to its companions
So that collectively their truth is revealed
As a statistic.


One as a statistic cannot be
Because it lacks the context of its companions,


QED

David Applin
Queen Victoria
North Sea
Lying off Ostend
25th October (evening) 2014

Copyright David Applin 2015

The first love;
so deep the ocean filled with envy.
Its vastness and mystery had me venture off so fathomless,
there was no point of return.
A love so vast,
the tides couldn't pull me back to the shores of normality.
Yet, the deeper I swam in the sea of utopia,
the stronger the storm rode in,
tossing me back to a solitary world of black and white.
The rough landing - leaving scrapes on my wrists and gashes in my chest.
Back to black and white -
the simple reality that love compels you so far deep into bliss,
you'll never see the storm’s rage from afar.
That first love is casted deep into oblivion,
and sinks quickly to the bottomless abyss,
only to reel me back into the absoluteness that
you were never ready to sink with me.

Through dark anvenues- long adventures
Past fire escapes- elluding dark figures
Beyond there lies- a strong willed exhibitor

As we consider- all of the inhibitors
Consuming false minister's
In a race to penetrate the heard
Through our experiences- in a world so perturbed

Just turn on the TV
It can be depicted on almost every channel
Open a book
Flip through the pages it is not hard to find
Turn on the radio
Everyone has sang about it at one time or another
Love can be found everywhere
I don't mean where you can find that special someone
I'm talking about where you can go and hear stories of fictitious love
Things that Hollywood can only make happen
We all wish for it to happen that way
But it never dose
It gives us a deceitful hope of how things really are
They make it look so easy and fun
When in absoluteness it is not always fun
They make it look elementary
They leave out the heartache, the pain and struggle
They leave out the tangibility
How things really play out
Why can’t they depict real wholesome love?
And show us what we are really looking forward to
Show little girls the truth behind their favourite story
In real life the road to bona fide love is a long and hard journey
And nothing like the movies
But sometimes that is good
Not all couples Hollywood has created can make it
And that shows us that Hollywood should not meddle with love
Because no one should meddle with love
Love is unpredictable, stressful, a roller coaster, but if done correct amazing
I'm young and have yet to experience love
But I have experienced more heartache than one deserves

You know they say Accounts is boring
Full of rules and such.
But I see in it a beauty,
One that I miss so much.

Accounting is an art,
Not to be framed or praised.
You will never find it hung in galleries,
And most will not be amazed.

It has in its insipid placidity
A calmness, stillness of being
It prizes precision, stoic obedience
And an unquestioning routine.

In its so called predictability
Many are led to be jaded
To do something the same way over and over
They find that the  novelty has faded.

But to me it is a land
Where man rules with his mind and his hand
Where everything has a place to be
And a counter- part to keep it company.

I miss so much the process
Of allocating what needs to be.
I ache sometimes for that closure
The drawing of double lines, you see.

Because amidst the raging chaos
Of our bubbling minds
Accounts demands discipline
And control of some kind.

I don’t find this stifling
I find in it a peace
A closure most of life doesn’t offer
And with its balance sheets, a release.

It’s nice to make sense for a change
Of our haphazard world
Where everything belongs somewhere
And nothing is left unheard.

Accounts, you are well adjusted
Perhaps too much to a fault
People are tired of your perfection
The balance you bring, the halt.

But I in my maze of a mind
Love to do a few sums
That start of like puzzles
But end up being fun

Mostly because there are answers
That are arguably right
This absoluteness maybe a construct
But I’m willing to suspend my insight

And go along with something
For once that keeps me on track
Accounts you are meditation
You demand concentration that most people lack.

Poetry is applauded
Poetry is acclaimed
But in the real world, it is you who are useful
Although you don’t have any fame.

You are also a quiet achiever
That doesn’t boast of your strengths
Rarely a loud inspiration
That does not go to great extents.

You are not melodramatic
Nor do you lure peoples with guise
What you see is what you get.
No gimmicks and no lies.

You teach me of a denied truth
That reality is boring.
Your philosophy is order and balance
Your karmic world sends me soaring.

I never sought the simple.
Instead I chased the wild, winding uncertain path of youth.
Never wanting to reach the point where my well beaten, beatnik path
merged with the absoluteness of adulthood.
I mean where's the poetry in that?
There is something of strife that gives birth to beauty.
And so I lingered in the languish that is fumbling forward
with only the hope that nothing much will happen.
But the clock has conceded that the past has passed,
that the now never lasts and that the future has been forming
with a sort of quiet quickness that has slowly snuck up on me.
Without my conscious consent life has been lived,
and as I failed to flee it a new phase has found me.

You leave a hint of glory in your absence.
You really don't know, do you?
You shine with a aura bright like the sun
Leaving in your wake the darkness of night
Like the longing the night does to become day, I need you to soothe my longing for your warm breath on my neck
Like the certainty that is involved with the changing of the winter winds, I need the absoluteness of your fingers intertwined in mine
You are a star, glowing bright and vibrant
I am the cold winter night,  the darkness is what nightmares are made of.
Please let me bear your absence for I am willing to endure the night to watch it turn to day.

Life has a tendency to flow from a state of order and predictability, towards a more chaotic and unpredictable state. This is the basis of the concept of entropy.

They say before the universe began, it started as an unimaginably small point of infinite mass and density, that suddenly exploded forth in all directions, giving way to a wide variety of different atoms. These primary atoms slowly morphed into heavier atoms, later forming molecules, then more complex compounds, eventually forming stars, planets, and then waaaaay down the line, humanity.

When we die, our bodies go from our structured and familiar human form, towards a mash of organic compounds that decay and mix into the ground, fertilizing the earth, giving life to a multitude of new organisms.

Alone wind doesn't make much of an interesting sound, but when it is passed through an elaborate labyrinth of wind chimes, or makes it's way through a variety of differently spaced holes, we get a complex and melodic tune that is pleasing to the ear.

All of these are examples of entropy; creating something that is equally complex as it is beautiful, from a simple and less dynamic former state. It is the truest nature of life to change and to grow, to expand, and to evolve. Life is one giant organism that is ever morphing and multiplying, becoming more intricate with every passing second.

Be that as it may, humans waste so much effort from day to day chasing a life of static existence, a disposition completely opposite of our most simplistic selves. Against our nature, we fight for consistency, struggle for comfortability, and willingly slave to achieve a constant state of normalcy around us. By suppressing our innate desire to flow through life with random ease, we are sacrificing that which connects us to this crazy thing called life in the first place. We are purposely severing our ties to the infinite, the unknown, a more confusing yet truer nature of reality.

We have become disharmonic. We are no longer peacefully drifting with the safe and familiar waves of reality, we are fighting hard against the current, too caught up in a struggle to notice we are quickly sinking. But I choose to drown no longer.

I have accepted my call to greatness, and acknowledged that my path is one of unpredictability and disorder; and most importantly, I have come to peace with the fact that I don't have all the answers. For the first time in my life, I reached a point along my journey where I have the opportunity to make a drastic change in my current absoluteness. I have reached a small peak; and I can either slide gently down these slopes towards a life of mediocrity and continuity, or I can choose an alternate, more difficult path that will take me to higher peaks, although shrouded in mystery and uncertainty. I have the opportunity to allow myself to expand into a state of increased disorder, to feel the rhythm of the universe pulsing through my veins as I drift into oblivion.

Scared is an understatement. But I will not allow fear to block me from attaining a destiny I know was meant for me. I will not continue to swim against the currents of life, thinking that I, a mere human in this vast sea of existence, could try to direct the waves. I no longer wish to control, I wish to let go and become infinite.

The more you tap into naturally occurring disorder, the more you become open to the divine, the greater the spark of existence you will feel within you. It starts slow, but soon it picks up like a snowball effect, gathering weight and momentum, propelling you through the twists and turns of life, taking you to grander heights and crazier adventures than you could ever have dreamed of!

So I'm ready. I will no longer fight this force that pulls me towards a state seemingly composed of nothing but chaos; for when you view it through the right lens, there's beauty to be found in the random bubbling reality that envelops us.

I am at peace as I accept a future of uncertainty; I have become one, as we fade into entropy.

Be careful with me...
I'm sensitive and I'd like to stay that way.
I remember every word you say to me...
I absorb your words and that look in your eyes when you look at me.
One look at your face and I'm gone....
all drowned in the meaning of you,
of what you say with your eyes.
The way my heart pounds
and my world spins out of control when you are near.
I had thought that the anger and hurt of you..
would lessen that feeling of utter absoluteness.
I trust you instinctively, completely
I fear getting lost in you again.....
I fear losing you again despite that you are not mine to lose.....
I still carry your heart in my heart...
I still embrace it everyday...
If I never see you or hear from you again
I will still love you forever....

E.J.M

I romantically excused myself for not writing much of anything anymore while on a walk the other day. I was slinking through the wood—if you could call it that (truthfully, I felt as if I was clad with only a meager shroud of pine against the bare commanding sky) when I stumbled over the difference between capturing something and letting it go- captivity and freedom? Or do the connotations become too bristly to bear? Mere semantics, you say- and yet perhaps the crux of my dilemma- or the key! “To capture” (rooted in the Latin “capere”) in addition to its standard use, can be placed in the creative context: to capture the essence of something—a far more palatable choice, but rooted all the same. Though- when speaking of art- is ‘capturing’ not analogous to ‘expressing,’ insofar as I “capture” and “express” a mood? Perhaps one is used more with visual as opposed to verbal art, but interchangeable nonetheless. Is this an oxymoron, and so a truth—a beautiful phenomenon- where only in the act of creation can you let something out by reining it in? Where “capture” itself dries up and flakes off its last layer of meaning, revealing its new skin of freedom, pinkish and pruned? Or is it a transference (transcendence?), transformation from non-stuff to stuff, a metamorphosis in which some external intangible item is snatched, internalized and then processed, attributed to or assimilated with some known feeling- given meaning- and then released back into the social cytoplasm, portrayed in some metaphorical way? Or is it a coalescence, where captivity and freedom intermingle and create something wholly new…it would be nice, wouldn’t it- to reconcile the shackles in art?

And it was this meddling that let me forgive myself for forgetting the metallic shock of briny sea that interrupted the mellowed sand. It was this train of thought that allowed me to dismiss the arching boughs that cradled the air above my head. I watched content as their essences swirled about my conscience, even prattled against the back walls of my brain, and I gleefully danced amidst the potent smoke, knowing that within every crevice of the universe lurked the very same wonderment, for what would the possibility of this life be without it? And to capture that or express it was no matter, for ‘it’ is given, ‘it’ is necessary. Even when you find yourself at a moment where ‘it’ culminates to become the true fabric of magnificence might you accept the normalcy and absoluteness of the instance, realizing that your attunement and alignment is natural and undeniable- it need not be bottled up and contained like pretty sands- though a reminder at times is welcomed. Much like the way we do not- sometimes cannot- grasp the fibers of dreams, but yet can feel their energies gliding between our fingers, does the life force vibrate continually about all things, regardless of our interpretation.

from the top
of your head to the tips of your hairy toes,
you exude an unquestionable
brilliance

the theories
streaming forth from your noggin
leave a trail of droplets wherever you wander, and i,
skedaddling behind
you,
wait for the remnants
to fade into me

i yearn for your beautiful mind to be infused into my own,
to see what you see
to ponder your thoughts,
vanishing away from what had been
and pursue the absoluteness
of a sitting duck

I need to be saved
And wake up in someone else's arms
Feeling the absoluteness of security and love
Whether be covered in tattoos or scars
I'll accept you wholeheartedly
You're every embrace and flaw
Every feature I fall in love with
And everything else in between

I promise you this

But in return would you accept
Someone in need of saving?
Someone as ****** up as me?
Someone covered in detailed flaws
And darkened scars
From thighs to wrists?

n.j.

There I was, there was I, sojourning... so journeying to seek absoluteness with absolute certainty like a true voyager; a sojourner of Truth, when immediately upon my arrival, I realized, Aye, there was I, and my, oh my! I made ingress to a cloud floating upon a whisper in the eye of Nature, in Nature's eye; and she said to me with interest, in all her splendour, in that whisper that kills me so, "I was there." but where was I? Was I there when there I was, wandering in Wonderment by the by?  For where e'er I go, it seems, there am I.

Grievous is the sight of a wilted rose
Fallen pedals lay at root’s feet
A graveyard of beauty faded,
headstones upon rows and rows.
Waning memories sprawled across Earth’s canvas
An army of life left to bear the weight.

No soul can escape the cycle we see
Paper doves fold into themselves,
left to sit flat and bare.

Yet before the loss settles,
Angels dive from the heavens
and hitch a ride on momentary whirlwinds
Conjured up by hearts of days gone.

On single saved breaths,
they whisper words of reassurance
With lips pressed to ear
So that their message will resonate
with booming notes of song,
reflective of their gravity.

Alluding to a plane of existence beyond the cycle
An existence not to be seen but felt
and known in absoluteness.

For tomorrow and the day next,
I forecast hoards of gray clouds,
intent on conquest of light.

But they can only hope to cover heaven’s beams for a time
For light is everlasting,
As echoes of love ones passed scatter
across the sky in loving luminescence.

Driven by an undying connection,
Souls of the departed lock arms
to hug and shield.

under my eyes you see the infinite allure of time,
millions, billions of years,
so much you can’t even comprehend,
I told you time is a continuous illusion,
a figment of smouldering history,
time has no trace when envisioned in its fullness,
capacity of great proportions and its limit,
it can no longer portray the absoluteness,
it is painted by the incomprehensible allure and charm,
touch it with senses and desires and it will reveal its secrets,
the fruit of sensuality and grace,
death of the Universe, rebirth after rebirth,
I catch the trace of time,
a kiss of thought in the divine,
me and the mind to rule a world beyond the infinite.

I was afraid I won’t succeed in life,
I was burdened with aloofness and I couldn’t see my pure self,
but I had hope within my essence,
I am unique the way I am,
sometimes afraid, sometimes so brave,
if I don’t love my own beauty nobody will,
I see through myself here and beyond,
and I see you too, you are afraid and think life’s hard,
listen to your mind and search for the truth inside yourself,
you have something nobody has,
the way you are is unique and perfect,
a world of love and great virtues to govern your mind,
from now on you live within the grace of the allure of time,
the life you have on Earth is the beginning,
beings of joy and happiness,
come to the shore of great allure,
your mind is a burning ocean of knowledge,
open your fear in the face of the infinite absoluteness,
you’re vanished from evil now and for forever.

I was doubt; you were joy.
I was dark; and you, serene.
I was night; you were day.
I was the impala; you were the big cat
Or so it appeared.

It seems our roles were always interchangeable
As I preyed on you
You were vulnerable and weak in my arms
As vulnerable as man could be.

I could see it in your eyes
Eyes which led into your endless depth within.
Cat eyes, predatory eyes
That weakened me
That melted me
Hypnotized me
Out of reason.

Reason must have dripped away liquidly through my ears
On both sides of the pillow
When I lay down under your predatory gaze of love
All there would be left was the utmost feeling of belonging
Husband of my soul.
So strong was this feeling
So real was this feeling
So warm and true and endless
So encompassing
Subjecting human nature
To its' absoluteness.

In truth, you are the night.
And I am the light.
Though there is no joy in being the light of reason
The murderer of hopes and dreams
The enemy of happiness
The warden of aching hearts.

There is no joy in reason.
But it is reason that reigns.

Celestial vivacity; a common misconception.
We write odes and sonnets to glorify the speckled sky.
It's not the romanticized effervescent glow that consumes me, it's the preceding invisible chaos.

When I say you remind me of the stars, I'm not referring to a sublte glow, one the same as the next, soft and graceful. That's not you.

You are infinite, scorching luminosity, passionate hearth with a vindication of incandescent eternity.

You see, you saw the stars for the story they told and appreciate each particle of gas and dust that gave us the option for passive freedom to glance at these historical records of meticulous detail and chance, in our ever changing interstellar medium.

My ode is this-- do not glance passively at the night sky. Instead reach for each piece of the collapsing core of our stars, clasp it into your palms and appreciate holding both creation and destruction in all absoluteness.

For death of conflicts,
and conflicts of death,
the coming of cessation, I was waiting.
Tomorrow must come
before eternity,
that inness, I will come to terms with one day.

The absoluteness of certainties
creates a danger of half-truths.
An intelligent mind suffers _
in ther era of hoaxes and contradictions.
The happenings of existence
continue without dignity.

Hand-picked rainbow is dumped
face down in shallow creek,
drugged, ***** and abandoned
to lose colours in water.
When the sky hangs on the shore
the blue sea sends the condolence.

The sharp cleavage of silicon *******
weeps for a failed performance.

I have failed myself with such absoluteness
That not even death
Would be of any use

But no!
There can’t be absolute truths they cry
That is beyond your mind
In absoluteness there is no delight of the kind
One who hungers for truths tries to find
Ah yes, you are quite right
Fellows we don’t need to have another fight
We just see it from a different light
So pick your truth without hesitation
It’s beyond evil and good
It’s really only an observation

See we are but small talking here, outside the world of emotions. Are you brave?  And mark my words, this is the real talk. Brave enough for the world of evaluations?