apropos a friend's remark on the strange 'lightness' of my books...

Books are like seeds: they come to life when you read them, and grow spines and leaves. I need trees around me as I need books around me, so building bookshelves is something like planting trees.

Roger Deakin, Notes from Walnut Tree Farm (London: Penguin, 2009), p. 24.


I too need trees around me when I read, but I also need water. Books are like seeds indeed and water brings them to life. I read in the water - or at least in the proximity of water - whenever I can: in the bath (at home or at the local onsen), in the sauna, in the rain, in the snow... All my books, except for library ones and those borrowed from friends, bear the imprint of the place where I read them. They are vital to my sense of place.

The books undergo amazing metamorphoses and get all creased and dog-eared - and strangely light. Some even develop fungi, like a living organism, a tree.

And so does my heart.

here

that you are still
what you are
immovable
a stone
bearing all the imprints
of wind & weather
yet
unchangeable
still I
I fly above the whole thing
grow younger everyday
crackless, forgetful perhaps
that you still hold my hand
& kiss & cuddle
despite the
all & everything
makes one, anyone wonder

Well, I don't -
I'm not

I need a hero... (2)

Devendra Banhart, I feel just like a child

Well, I feel just like a child
Yeah, I feel just like a child
Well, I feel just like a child
Well, I feel just like a child
From my womb to my tomb
I guess I'll always be a child

Well, some people try and treat me like a man
Yeah, some people try and treat me like a man
Well, I guess they just don't understand
Yeah, some people try and treat me like a man
They think I know shit
But that's just it
I'm a child

Well, I need you to tell me what to wear
I need you to help and comb my hair
Yeah I need you to come and tie my shoes
Yeah I need you to come and keep me amused
From my cave to my grave
I guess I'll always be a child

I need you to help me reach the door
And I need you to walk me to the store
And I need you to please explain the war
And I need you to heal me when I'm sore
You can tell by my smile
That I'm a child

And I need you to sit me on your lap
And I need you to make me take my nap
Could you first pull out a book and
Read me some of that
Cause I need you to make me take my nap

And I need you to recognize my friends
Cause they're there even though
You don't see them
They got their own chair, plate, and a seat
You know I won't touch my food
Unless they eat
From the roof to the floor
I crawl around some more
I'm a child

And I need you to help me blow my nose
And I need you to help me count my toes
And I need you to help me put on my clothes
And I need you to hide it when it shows
From being my daddy's sperm
To being packed in an urn
I'm a child

And when I steal you gotta
Slap me til I cry
Don't you stop til the tears run dry
See I was born thinking under the sky
I didn't belong to a couple of old wise guys
From sucking on my mama's breast
To when they lay my soul to rest
I'm a child

Well, I'm a little child
Well, I'm a little child
I guess I'll always be a little child

I need a hero... (1)

I often don't know whether to laugh or to cry at some guys who pout feminist rhetoric and all its abstractions & stereotypes, but deep down are scared to death of real, assertive, independent women. And who needs the phoney protection of these chaps, when their ingrained misogyny & bad faith come to the surface at the least provocation?

Mentally little boys still clinging to mommy's skirt, no wonder they prefer to stick to their own kind (and to mommy's skirt), with whom they can indulge in their little fits of temper and live in eternal childhood, amen.

Now, is it my impression or these little horrors are mushrooming everywhere  like sinister clones? O, masculinity, masculinity, where art thou going...? [sigh]

sois belle et tais-toi...

Some things haven't changed that much as far as being a woman is concerned. How very often, to make yourself lovable, gentle, graceful, sweet, dependable (and dependent), etc., in other people's eyes - both men and women - you feel compelled to camouflage your professional ambitions, desires, not to mention your brain. As if all these things were exclusive, incompatible.

My clinical experience and reading convince me that the repressed is gendered in the sense that women in our culture tend to repress distinctive aspects of the self which are bound up with autonomy and aggression. One dimension of what is repressed is women's non-object related ambition and interest in exerting various sorts of mastery: interpersonal, intellectual, or creative. Both men's and women's sense of gender and the self partially grow out of and are dependent upon the repression of women's desire and ambition. Both genders maintain an active interest in forestalling or prohibiting the return of this repressed material.

Jane Flax, "Re-membering the Selves: Is the Repressed Gendered?" Michigan Quarterly Review (1987): 92.

like some everlastin' onion pulled by love...

Devendra Banhart, Baby

Baby
I finally know what I'm goin' after
I'm learnin to let in all the laughter
holy moly yer so funny
you crack me up you crack me up
look out for dreams that keep returnin'
cause magik ain't no hand me down yearnin'
you gotta feel it gotta want it
the way I want you babe
travellin' by choo choo train
we know where but we just don't know when
like some everlastin' onion pulled by love
never heard a better bad joke said out loud
you flipflop wild out
can you believe it? I can't believe it but its true!
You're givin 80 billion years of gigglin'
a whole new world to live in
but this one's real this one's real this one's real
like some bow tied kangaroo
you be one I'll be one too
play it goofy or play it cool
were on our minds
everything that happened
it don't mean a thing to us
cause so much is gonna happen
because
you showed me a sunset overflowin'
but who cares where its going
as long as you're next to me


(Lyrics by Devendra Banhart, transcribed from the album What We Will Be, 2009).

we all do too

Devendra Banhart, Little Yellow Spider

Little yellow spider, laughing at the snow
Ah, maybe that spider knows something that I don't know
'Cause I'm goddamn cold

Little white monkey, staring at the sand
Well, maybe that monkey figured out something I couldn't understand
Who knows?

Well, I came upon a dancing crab, and I stopped to watch it shake
I said, "Dance for me just one more time
Before you hibernate and you come out a crab cake"

Hey there, little snapping turtle, snapping at a shell
Ah, there's mysteries inside, I know
But what they are I just can't tell for sure

And hey ya, little baby crow, you're looking kinda mean
I think I outta spit before you start letting off your steam
For sure

And hey there, little sexy pig, you made it with a man
And you're got a little kid with hooves instead of hands

And oh, all the animals
All the animals

And hey there, little mockingbird, they sing about you in songs
Ah, where you been? Have you broke a wing?
I haven't heard you in so long

And hey there, little albatross, swimming in the air
Ah c'mon, you know I can't fly
And I, I think we really outta play fair

And hey there, Mr. happy squid, you move so psychadelically
You hypnotize with your magic dance all the animals in the sea
For sure

And oh, all the animals
All the animals

And hey there, Mr. morning sun, what kind of creature are you?
I can't stare, but I know you're there
Goddamn, how I wish I knew

And hey there, Mrs. lovely moon, you're lonely and you're blue
It's kinda strange, the way you change
But then again, we all do too

"to everything, everywhere"...

Superb, superlative concert by Devendra Banhart in Tokyo last Friday. I wasn't much of a fan, but gladly succumbed to the spell after this.

intimations of mortality

Ana Mendieta, Isla (Silueta series, 1981)

The Image

When I understood the terrible thing:
that her body had gone bad,
dry, spoiled, mutilated,
I made an image of my love;
not the comfortable image
that a poet would put on a shelf in a tower,
but one that would grow big in the Desert,
where blood would be water.


Sorley MacLean, From Wood to Ridge: Collected Poems in Gaelic and English Translation (Manchester: Carcanet, 1999), p. 191.

it is not the beauty...

It is not the beauty of your body,
the beauty shaped in your face,
the beauty blinding my eyes
though it has gone beyond thought;
but the beauty of the spirit
that took form in your face,
the beauty of the spirit,
the heart marrow of my love.

Sorley MacLean, From Wood to Ridge, p. 139.

small metal gods

The homemade videos of Manafon have begun appearing on YouTube - and I can't resist uploading some of them. Still awaiting my favourite tracks, though.





David Sylvian, Small metal Gods

It's the farthest place I've ever been
It's a new frontier for me
And you balance things
Like you wouldn't believe
When you should just let things be

Yes, you juggle things
Cause you can't lose sight
Of the wretched story-line
It's the narrative that must go on
Until the end of time

And you're guilty of some self neglect
And the mind unravels for days
I've told you once
Yes, a thousand times
I'm better off this way
I'm better off this way

Where's my queen of hearts
My royal flush
I have cleaned and scrubbed her decks
My suicide, my better days
There's nothing I regret

I've placed the Gods
In a zip-lok bag
I've put them in a drawer
They've refused my prayers
For the umpteenth time
So I'm evening up the score

Small metal Gods
From a casting line
From a factory in Mumbai
Some manual labourer's bread and butter
And a single-minded lie

Small metal Gods
Cheap souvenirs
You've abandoned me for sure
I'm dumping you, my childish things
I'm evening up the score.

Source: http://www.davidsylvian.com/texts/lyrics_and_poetry/manafon_lyrics.html

the mild mad dogs of poetry

Photo: Jim Brandenburg

Across eternity, across its snows,
I see my unwritten poems,
I see the spoor of their paws dappling
the untroubled whiteness of the snow:
bristles raging, bloody-tongued,
lean greyhounds and wolves
leaping over the tops of the dykes,
running under the shade of the trees of the wilderness,
taking the defile of narrow glens,
making for the steepness of windy mountains;
their baying yell shrieking
across the hard bareness of the terrible times,
their everlasting barking in my ears,
their onrush seizing my mind:
career of wolves and eerie dogs
swift in pursuit of the quarry,
through the forest without veering,
over the mountain tops without sheering;
the mild mad dogs of poetry,
beauty of soul and face,
a white deer over hills and plains,
the deer of your gentle beloved beauty,
a hunt without halt, without respite.


Sorley MacLean, 'Dogs and Wolves' in From Wood to Ridge: Collected Poems (Manchester: Carcanet, 1999), p. 135.

happy scientists

A brief, beautiful respite from the daily drudgery.
And can you wish yourself and your beloved anything else? Kites of red, feather beds, moments without sadness - all that really matters at the end of the day.

Joy Maker Machinery

© Tim Elsenburg (Copyright Control)

We will wake as light is draped
Like ribbons on the trees
With woven tongues and fingers spun
Between these dusty knees

The branches crack beneath my back
We sigh like sleeping tigers
The forest stirs and shrugs the birds
From shoulders stooped in silence

And they sing for joy

We are engineers and we are architects
Making better guesses and empty threats
It was all for something, and there’s nothing wrong
We know what is coming and what is to be done

Bones will arc and cradle sparks
From circuits smudged in bliss
The newborn blush that makes us drunk
On every little kiss

We are happy scientists
Our theories long abandoned
For kites of red and feather beds
For moments without sadness

We will jump for joy

And I’m helpless darling
Cause you turn me on


(Source: http://www.sweetbillypilgrim.com/lyrics/joy_maker_machinery.html)

yonderhead

Well, I certainly wouldn't define this as a 'sunny' musical landscape, but it isn't gloomy or somber either. I guess it exists, alongside the most interesting things in life, somewhere in the interstices, between (or beyond?) darkness and light, a sort of chiaroscuro - or 明暗 (meian), as you'd put it in Japanese. Yonderhead, yonderhead...





Yonderhead (Thomas Feiner)


My spine and leverage
Were not mine
Some items borrowed
And now gone

Pick me up, animate me, render me
Take me back, to the ghosts
Of the day

Lend me a life
Put me on a loop again
Define, define me ‘yonderhead’

My plots and purposes
Were not mine
Just items borrowed
And now gone

Hook me up and ignite me, play the coarse
Bring me back, to the ghosts
Of the day

Lend me a life
Put me on a loop again
Define, define me ‘yonderhead’

Lend me a life
Put me on a loop again
Just spine me up for liberty and hopes
Liberties and hopes, and liberties and hopes
Define me
And bind me
And I’ll crawl the pretty path
I’ll crawl the pretty path...

grievances...

To those friends fed-up-with-the-smiths who have kindly suggested that I vent my grievances through sunnier musical landscapes, here you go...





Queixa / Grievance (Caetano Veloso)

Um amor assim delicado
Você pega e despreza
Não o devia ter despertado

Ajoelha e não reza
Dessa coisa que mete medo
Pela sua grandeza
Não sou o único culpado
Disso eu tenho a certeza

Princesa, surpresa, você me arrasou
Serpente, nem sente que me envenenou
Senhora, e agora me diga onde eu vou
Senhora, serpente, princesa

Um amor assim violento
Quando torna-se mágoa
É o avesso de um sentimento
Oceano sem água
Ondas, desejos de vingança
Nessa desnatureza
Batem forte sem esperança
Contra a tua dureza

Princesa, surpresa, você me arrasou
Serpente, nem sente que me envenenou
Senhora, e agora me diga onde eu vou
Senhora, serpente, princesa

Um amor assim delicado
Nenhum homem daria
Talvez tenha sido pecado
Apostar na alegria
Você pensa que eu tenho tudo
E vazio me deixa
Mas Deus não quer que eu fique mudo
E eu te grito essa queixa

Princesa, surpresa, você me arrasou
Serpente, nem sente que me envenenou
Senhora, e agora me diga onde eu vou
Amiga, me diga...

being a tree

If you want to know what it's like to be a tree, sleep with a cat on your bed and feel it manoeuvering and exploring your curves and hollows for the most comfortable nest.

Roger Deakin, Notes from Walnut Tree Farm (London: Penguin, 2009), p. 136.

"I'll never make that mistake again..."

... not until the next one, of course.





Girl Afraid

Girl afraid
Where do his intentions lay?
Or does he even have any?

She said :
"He never really looks at me
I give him every opportunity..."
In the room downstairs
She sat and stared...
In the room downstairs
She sat and stared...
"I'll never make that mistake again !"

I'll never make that mistake again...
I'll never make that mistake again...

Boy afraid
Prudence never pays
And everything she wants costs money

"But she doesn't even like me !
And I know because she said so..."
In the room downstairs
She sat and stared...
In the room downstairs
She sat and stared...
"I'll never make that mistake again!"


The Smiths, Morrisson/Marr

sake in the snow...

Old sake brewery

Imai, Nagano

3 January 2010

apple in the snow...

Imai, Nagano

3 January 2010

almost gone

My friend who loves owls
Has been with me all day
Walking at my ear
And speaking of old summers
When to speak was easy.
His eyes are almost gone
Which made him hear well.
Under our feet the great
Glacier drove its keel.
What is to read there
Scored out in the dark?
Later the north-west distance
Thickened towards us.
The blizzard grew and proved
Too filled with other voices
High and desperate
For me to hear him more.
I turned to see him go
Becoming shapeless into
The shrill swerving snow.

W.S. Graham, from "Malcom Mooney's Land."

Imai, Kawanakajima

Nagano

1 January 2010

The struggle to communicate, to reach beyond yourself and your ghosts. The ice slowly melting, the promise of warmth, proximity. The entailing sense of loss when the ice returns, unexpected, and distance wins again the upper hand.

It is between the two territories that friendship & love are negotiated and eventually flourish, I guess. But not when through neglect or inertia or insecurity you let the ice insidiously accumulate.

Negotiating with the snow has never been easy and there are some painful lessons to learn - just ask the dwellers of the snow country, observe them in their daily struggle.

note from a far country

Postcards and emails from friends land softly on my mailbox like long travelled dry leaves. Letters from a far country.

I'm in a familiar snow country now, at last, painstakingly tracing the smallest footsteps, shadows, patterns on the snow.

Birdwatching, birdlistening. Amidst the silence.

Kagamiike, Togakushi

Nagano

30 December 2009

away

"Once I wanted to prove the world was sick. Now I want to prove it healthy. The detection of sickness means that death has established itself as an element of the timetable; it has come within the range of the measurable. Where there is no time there is no sickness."

Roy Fisher, from "City" in The Dow Low Drop: New and Collected Poems (Newcastle: Bloodaxe, 1996), p. 27.

So do I, so do I. That's why this winter vacation, after having cursorily dispatched the season's greetings, I made a vow of (temporary) timelessness. No emails, phone calls, and let alone facebooks, twitters & other such follies: dear friends & colleagues and, above all, dearest arse-lickers planning to pester me with selfish requests, I'll be incommunicado till further notice.

Not away from the world, but more fully immersed in it, hopefully, among the snow and the trees, in the shadows, away from the crude light that separates and divides everything into watertight compartments, into senseless schedules.

Away to think, to see, to hear - not to escape.

Voilá!

nightwalking

'The nightwalker, on a terrace in the garden, unaccompanied, hardly aware of it, half hopes to overhear - that haunting thing. Something that hovers, maybe hovers only just beyond the rim. A thing that he has not thought of yet, that no one ever heard.'

David Gascoyne, 'Night Thoughts', in Selected Poems (Enitharmon: London, 1994), p. 230.


The workload verges on madness at this time of the year - I seldom leave the office before midnight. Never in a hurry, I live up to the (bad) reputation of being a 'my pace' person, existing in the interstices, oblivious to the stringent routines of clock time and of other people.

Walking the deserted streets after the last train has this eerie but strangely appeasing effect. In limbo, when real silence and the nothingness of the world dawn on you and everything falls into place. You fear nothing, can fear nothing, because all the chitter-chatter of the day and its petty concerns weigh nothing, nothing against the immensity of this silence, against this indifference of the stars.

Of the silence that most fear and muffle with all sorts of noise and errands, I have made a home. Between worlds, nor day nor night, nowhere - everywhere. A most uncomfortable place to be, but a home. Where you can hear your own footsteps on the ground, your own small, very small heartbeat - and the earth's. Incommensurable.

lest one forgets...

It happens more often than you'd like to, especially in places where people have been moulded into a mask of phoneyness that becomes their very face.

Where you'd hope to see candour, feelings, flesh & blood, you quickly realise you're just seeing dried-out, amorphous things through a carefully crafted veil of ice. Translucent, but beyond reach.

What they don't realise is that some keen observers can actually see through the 'mystery' pose - and the sight is seldom pretty.

Nothing, nothing is more disappointing than banality and narrow-mindedness disguised as aloofness.

the free man

Has just arrived from the other side of the world (thanks, Papa!), and I can hardly wait to bury myself in it.

An eye-opener, a friend tells me, reminding us how far, far removed from any form of freedom we are - and how sadly repressed. Too high a price for 'civilization'?...



From the blurb (original Portuguese version here):

Men are what they are by their nature. While one might say this is too vague a definition, it actually contains a precise, raw and true meaning. Nature is, as the English term indicates, drive, impulse, compulsion and the omnipotence of desire, what stems from that which is before reflection and judgement, what is and exists as necessity - to breathe, to eat, to have sex, and sometimes to be aggressive. Always, everywhere, all this is necessary as the condition of life, and all this is desired, and it is desired because it is good, because it quenches necessity, and quenching necessity gives pleasure. And what the Bororo teach us is precisely this: the more man is capable of overcoming nature, the more he is capable of recognizing himself as part of it.


Filipe Verde, O Homem Livre: Mito, Moral e Carácter numa Sociedade Ameríndia (Coimbra: Angelus Novus, 2009). [The Free Man: Myth, Morals and Character in an Amerindian Society; my translation]

sweetness, sweetness...

to all the phoneys, sweet talkers who pamper you
when they need you
and constantly pester you with requests
but deep down don't really give a damn
and are never there for you
when you need them
(and in fact don't even know you)
and all of a sudden are full of fake wounded feelings
when you tell them to buzz off
and have the nerve to call you 'bitchy' and 'difficult' -
here's a little song, in dedication - and in response...
Enjoy!





Bigmouth Strikes Again

Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking
When I said I’d like to smash every tooth
In your head

Oh ... sweetness, sweetness, I was only joking
When I said by rights you should be
Bludgeoned in your bed

And now I know how Joan of Arc felt
Now I know how Joan of Arc felt, oh
As the flames rose to a Roman nose
And her walkman started to melt
Oh ...

Bigmouth, la ... bigmouth, la ...
Bigmouth strikes again
I’ve got no right to take my place
In the human race

Oh, bigmouth, ha ha ... bigmouth, la
Bigmouth strikes again
I’ve got no right to take my place
In the human race

And now I know how Joan of Arc felt
Now I know how Joan of Arc felt, oh
As the flames rose to a Roman nose
And her hearing aid started to melt
Eek!

Oh, bigmouth, la ... bigmouth, la ...
Bigmouth strikes again
I’ve got no right to take my place
With the human race
Oh ...

Bigmouth, oh ... bigmouth, la ...
Bigmouth strikes again
I’ve got no right to take my place
In the human race

And now I know how Joan of Arc felt
Now I know how Joan of Arc felt, oh
As the flames rose to a Roman nose
And her hearing aid started to melt
Oh !

Oh, bigmouth, oh ... bigmouth, la ...
Bigmouth strikes again
I’ve got no right to take my place
In the human race
Oh ...

Bigmouth, oh ... bigmouth, la ...
Bigmouth strikes again
I’ve got no right to take my place
In the human race
Oh ...

Bigmouth...

Goodbye, and thank you! Goodbye!


The Smiths / Morrissey & Marr

variations on koi, ki & kôyô...

Wakabacho, Tokyo
6 December 2009

a little paradise on my doorstep (late autumn version)

This year, with all the hustle and bustle of work, work, work, I've almost criminally lost my beloved momiji at their most beautiful. I still managed to capture them today, flaming crimson in the late afternoon sun, preparing for death. Resplendent, in extremis.

Wakabacho, Tokyo
6 December 2009

that smile, once again

You disappeared in the four lines
that preceded this one;
or else your smile left, for you
always lived in your smile,
green rain on the leaves, your smile,
a flutter of wings at the wrist, your smile,
and that taste, that burning of light
on the lips, when the lips are
the murmur of sun in the streets, your smile.


Eugénio de Andrade, Close to Speech, trans. Alexis Levitin (Lancaster, CA: Red Dancefloor, 2000).

Photos: Erika K

I've seen this happen in other people's lives...

Another all-time fave, with same implicit dedication.
Yes, it's now happening in mine too.





That joke isn't funny anymore

Park the car at the side of the road
You should know
Time's tide will smother you
And I will too...
When you laugh about people who feel so
Very lonely
Their only desire is to die
Well, I'm afraid
It doesn't make me smile
I wish I could laugh...

But that joke isn't funny anymore
It's too close to home
And it's too near the bone
It's too close to home
And it's too near the bone
More than you'll ever know ...

Kick them when they fall down
Kick them when they fall down
You kick them when they fall down
Kick them when they fall down
You kick them when they fall down
Kick them when they fall down
You kick them when they fall down
Kick them when they fall down...

It was dark as I drove the point home
And on cold leather seats
Well, it suddenly struck me
I just might die with a smile on my
Face after all

I've seen this happen in other people's
Lives
And now it's happening in mine...

I've seen this happen in other people's
Lives
And now it's happening in mine...

I've seen this happen in other people's
Lives
And now it's happening in mine...

I've seen this happen in other people's
Lives
And now it's happening in mine

I've seen this happen in other people's
Lives
And now it's happening in mine...
Happening in mine
Happening in mine
Happening in mine
Happening in mine...

I've seen this happen in other people's
Lives
And now, now, now it's happening in mine
(I've seen this happen)
Happening in mine
Now, now...


The Smiths / Morrissey & Marr

a cubicle with a view

My beautiful, faithful companions. I couldn't possibly conceive of working at my lonely desk without them anymore.

Ginkgos at Komaba, Tokyo
November 2009

how soon is now?...

Call me an anachronism - and I certainly am one, more and more - but the Smiths are still one of those bands whose songs still say '[something] to me about my life', to parapharase another great song of theirs.

Here goes an eternal fave, with implicit dedication.


HOW SOON IS NOW?

I am the son
and the heir
of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and heir
of nothing in particular

You shut your mouth
how can you say
I go about things the wrong way?
I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does

I am the son
and the heir
of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and the heir
Of nothing in particular

You shut your mouth
how can you say
I go about things the wrong way?
I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does

There's a club, if you'd like to go
you could meet somebody who really loves you
so you go, and you stand on your own
and you leave on your own
and you go home
and you cry
and you want to die

When you say it's gonna happen 'now',
well, when exactly do you mean?
See, I've already waited too long
and all my hope is gone

I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does


The Smiths / Morrissey and Marr

waiting

The mouth

where the flame
of an ancient
summer

flickers,

the mouth is waiting

(what could a mouth
await
if not another mouth?)

waiting for the ardor
of the wind
so it can turn to bird,

and sing.


Eugénio de Andrade, Dark Domain, trans. Alexis Levitin (Toronto: Guernica, 2000).

absence

This is the kingdom
of an exasperated tongue,
one without shape or form,

where words burst
from a withered heart
of straw,

this is a kingdom
hostile to the countless
hairs of water,

a diadem
missing all the gems
of your teeth,

kingdom abandoned
to the dogs of autumn,
to the milk of nettles,

to the roots of sleep.


Eugénio de Andrade, Dark Domain, trans. Alexis Levitin (Toronto: Guernica, 2000).