BY JAN HAAG
ESSAYS + MUSIC
33 ESSAYIC CONTEMPLATIONS OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT
THE 2001 POEMS
What seemed imminent, important, imperative, yesterday
(written on my
hand -- more reliable than my brain
these days) is a "civilization gone
with the wind"
Poof with urgency, necessity, time
in the spring blossoms weather it sunshines or
Interest peeks twenty times a day, clouds over
Zen it's called in youth. Focus.
Be here now.
Today: just wait. It comes inescapably:
this moment, this rug before
you, this utter emptiness
that is now.
I study archaeology,
sympathize with the knee-high brick walls,
that, in an aerial
photograph, I mistake for the "new writing system."
Grid like, I can
almost decipher it, sole survivors of human speech,
buried beneath the millennial sand, happened upon, dug,
as mute as me
at Mama's dugs, mute as me soon, soon:
dust, no more, no thought, no
pattern: molecules blown by the wind,
gardened by eternity.
As I grow older, I grow
less afraid of the didactic. O swift thought
winged creature, swifter than bird song, quicker than
the provoking gnat. Say it bald,
no tease, truth as
I see it, shapely, grid-like.
Never mind the newly revealed shapes
beneath the microscope.
who, my age, can
follow the rivers of thought, the blind,
-- but always the same -- patterns built into
Ca, 40:08, 20,
the sphere? I wander the maze of
spider-weaving, dew-coagulating hostra leaves,
grey-green, luminous drops vanishing with wind or rain
or sun. What
do we remember from yesterday? Chinese bronzes older
Dig, dig into the earth, dig into -- view --
pulsing nerves -- nervy impulses made visible. Dig, dig,
dig, O man until,
like the Hindu, you find that nothing is thought,
nothing is maya,
all is nothing.
Thou art that.
Well, this is the Intro. I
don't want to mess with eternity's time
even today's spent hours. I didn't think: "The
two poems in -- what's the shame
that? I looked up "essay" -- no such word
as "essayic" -- but what an
interesting world [misspelling] word!
many of the words we
young reveal, intrigue, ensorcel if we look them up
dotage! I was moaning, groaning, mourning late
bed that I've had no inspiration lately. But open
spit-cock (spigot? spitch-cock? -- hmm, the closest word is a cut-up
-- "to treat severely"*) and out it pours so fast, even the
grill it. Essay: "A testing... or experiment...;
specimen...; an effort to perform or accomplish...; a
tentative effort...; rough copy..."
"...put to the test...;" and,
halfway down: "also, a literary composition...of
no great length."**
*p 1799, Century Dictionary, 1933
**p 516, ibid
At times, I think it is
merely the obsessive reading of mysteries,
ordering the world,
making straight lines out of the chaos, sense
At times, I'm sure it's age,
simplifying things, letting the complexity go, dissolving
backwash of time, tabula rasa of nascent
wisdom? Learning sans
memory is an awesome salt desert
the brain if memory is gone? It's a well-bucket
cascades of liquid facts, facts of liquidity, the ocean
of Europa, between the ice and the rocks, sloshing clockwise,
while with constancy Io, Ganymede and
Mother Jupiter revolve. They hear sphere
sort itself to order in the silent
expanse, private interval, curved,
round like Earth's ball, thinking there is
no other, no reason. What
are we doing here? Walking Red Square
in the dusk.
What the kids don't know is
there will be time enough to make and break
a million habits -- all but the one (or possibly
will infest them throughout their
lives, grinding down wisdom,
feasting on energy, sapping moral
fiber -- leaving it for pith --
letting chance in. Prancing
There's no choice of
comes willy-nilly with being human, being had, being at
the mercy of. Trust me kid! Develop good habits
of mind and
body, lest the demon crawl in through a nostril,
folicles fall on fertile ground and independently raise a crop
havoc. Beware! Do not become too smart too soon: aware of
karma, destiny, inevitability, perniciousness. To be is to be
in pain. Keep that in mind as the devil dances on your
fingertips, taints the mind, using realgar for crimson. Poison is poison.
Dragonblood is dragonblood.
Vikram loves the towered grain elevator.
It stands on the shore of the
It's loading and unloading bridge stalks across the
feet high. Barefoot on the grass,
wondering: plucked, winnowed, shipped, sucked, stored, re-spewed,
re-shipped, packaged, cooked -- when it reaches a plate,
can it be? Odd thought: it
will grow again,
provide nutrients, last practically forever in
a dry climate. Tucked
into its genes, if not
destroyed by man,
are its instructions
to grow again, bloom, head, drop
its progeny, feed the life forms
unimagined today being invited splice by
splice into what humans
enjoyed thinking of as "our world." Even without
interference, we promise to be but a transitory
in the earth's evolution, one bright earth flare on the sun's
then darkness, lightening striking, volcanoes spewing, earth
quaking, its architectural tendencies molding
remolding the land.
On my way to the library
I heard a cat fall from a sixth story
window, yesterday, on a quiet, Sunday, sunny tree-lined
A dull frightening dead plop sound --
around, across the street a cat curled
on the sidewalk -- no other
reason for the sound.
I crossed the street, the grey-white
cat, soft and shiny and cared for, betrayed, stayed
in the middle
of the concrete sidewalk rigid, trembling.
I moved closer.
cat limped behind the bushes edging the cement.
Crouching, she turned
to face me, one crimson drop at her mouth,
a smudge of blood at her
nose, her right leg twisted. From
a young man asked
me to stay. I murmured
to the cat until he arrived. His love, the
cat's owner, came
crying. The startled, injured, mute cat flashed
through my mind again and
again that night.
A vision last night before sleep:
Leaves and leaves and leaves, leaves
curling like shadows,
awareness floating through, dream-like in
chiaroscuro, golden-brown, parting darkness;
still into jungle, like roots
over stones/crumbled buildings. Where am
I? Angkor? I
see jungle, no buildings. Still moving, I can't get
I stand at an edge of
giant formations, twisted,
obscured by my vision. Dim light
glows from the horizon. It might even
but, though faint,
it seems too bright for dawn in the
Does tropical dawn come up brilliant? Is it candlelight? A
candles rimming earth's edge. I open my eyes again.
I am awake,
fear. I feel I could have visions often, if
I wanted, if I waited quietly for them. I question its meaning.
Was it a prophecy, a remembrance, another life -- or just the
beauty of living?
As if oaring into the sea,
I shove my needle into the sheet, snatch,
three times jerking, then with teeth, I pull
Another stitch, a repeated pattern
impossibility, fingers stiff, like swollen knees, except they
familiar, act familiar, are familiar until I ask
do things they have always done
before. Now, not talented, recalcitrant, they can't
be reasoned with.
They don't bear talking to. They
don't hear. Ears
perfect, as far as sound goes, but they
can't make out the words. They
can't distinguish syllable from similar syllable.
Sheeting used to be
an easy mend, O gliding needle, now it
my shroud I stitch
as if oaring into sea
waters, deep. My hands tingle, my wrists are
like bark holding up
a tree. Word by word I try to paint pictures I
but can't feel.
Poetry seems to have flown away
on the wings of doves and other darker
Is it comfort? Is it boredom? Is it a
the greenhouse to see how
busy I can be? I catch a glimpse of
incremental dendrite building via multitudinous lectures. Here at my
and only fingertips, I know everything.
is to express, I can do so.
There is no secret to the universe but
Lots of it.
So what is this low-grade mewling of the
Habit? Orneriness? A life wish? A death wish? A longing for
Explosions in abandoned minds? Methane? Bauxite? Tiny wee
glimmerings of little elses?
will put up with it? And for
Tendrils creep beyond clouding windows, quano must be scraped
from the door.
All parts of nature request inclusion. Our delusion we
can do anything
about it -- lies.
I used to feel that I
must choose a destiny. Now I feel that I'll
let a destiny choose me. I've given up judging
given up being things. I've
become content that all things are
different from me.
I'm neither fish nor fauna, moral or immoral.
day I find that Buddha held
the views of an old
woman who sees old
age, sickness and death everywhere, and comes to
with it, who
sees desire evaporate and wonders what to
with, who mediates, lives in the moment and cannot remember
before, can no longer defend a point of view because she
point of view. How easily one slips toward death,
finds the slowness of reality dissolving, becoming unremembered
dreams, sadness unfulfilled, bearable.
I no longer have to argue or
believe, listen, recall, instruct nor
breathe to live.
Dear Martin: I need your help
again -- in several things. The
proportional working out of
the twenty-two srutis . I have the
placement, et al, but I need
some human communication to bounce the count about with
me. Also I
need to know, in the twelve
scale, if each note, say
contains all the harmonics -- which I suspect not -- but
if not, what are the harmonics each note contains?
Can you tell
me that? Sa contains... Re contains... Ga
contains... Pa contains... Dha
contains... Ni contains... And if they are sharped,
tivra or komal , flatted, do they then contain different
harmonics? i.e. Tivra
contains... and Komal
re contains... Komal ga contains... Komal
contains... Komal ni contains... I have to work these out in
reds, oranges and golds, proportions and placements. Lets get together
Help! Love, Jan
Out. Wandering in the world. Through
memories. Street corners that
remind me of earthquakes, romance,
domiciles, roommates, poems, changes
in the world at the
Street Station -- long ago gone seedy,
its grand promenade concealed, juxtaposed to Chinatown's edge scraped
up into sheer edifices gleaming with glass, beaming anonymity
Chinese -- whether its modesty or steel.
I wander on up
into Little Saigon (so posted)
-- where it says, on a Vietnamese
shack, in among
its curlicue, works-of-art
lettering, I can
get French Coffee. Beyond its small
malls transformed to Southeast
Asian vitality, litter, I spy one ancient house
stripped of its paint-over-stucco by the Northwest "monsoons." Is it
Is its jungle-garden occupied? Inspection yields no
I'm allowed is a graft to wandering memories, a reminder
have trod other worlds, seen prototypes, wandered twisting,
ever evolving, side walks
of the mind.
MEXICAN LUNCH WITH NANCY: I eat
my breakfast taco alone, whole wheat
filled with all
sorts of good things, bean sprouts and broccoli,
peppers, salsa verde, pork (I didn't
was perfect) and Udo's Choice, both oil
and grains, but I miss the
soaring laughter, the
the plunges into philosophy and
I miss my Buddha, who sits on Boards, is
loved and loving,
and happily lives to eat lunch
places. But together (mostly my choice, her
bill) we ate in a low-brow
Mexican restaurant in Sonoma's Historic District,
had margaritas (I
never drink), guffaws, cheese, hot sauce, tortilla chips. I
her everything -- as far as I could remember it --
always-anguished soul. Between us everything winged like a gleeful
toward sunshine. She told me wild tales I'd never excavate
on my own.
I've had the priviledge and the
pain of walking alone on this earth --
melancholy mood on a grey afternoon, late, nodding
the chanting of a Christian service
in a Vietnamese
church, wandering the gardens of a
Buddhist temple where small cut
stones simulate a great
acres of deserted lawn in a
park, a vast night market of unknown fruits, unknown
Little Saigon, steep hills, deep valleys covered
with houses, new
and ancient, the cool wind kicking up on the
Sound, the gulls
crying, my heart empty, relentlessly anguished and blank and
shopping cautiously, buying eatables I have never bought before, catching
home through the intricate streets of Route 60, past
the hospitals, the view of downtown's edifices, our 100 story building
two blocks to walk, swinging my groceries, eager for night to
to stop walking.
Another walk, another thought, like fog
hanging in my brain, summer
won't come and, under
the grey sky, the weather remains cold, windy,
I continue to take my Vitamin
D in pill form,
walk the arboretum only on
the upper path where leafed-out trees
shelter the gravel
the rain. We live in a
Not everyone objects. Nonetheless, happiness wells up
from time to
time in that sexual way, permeating
my limbs, enervating
relaxation. Do the cedars feel it as well?
Do fragile maples suffer
from bliss in the cold dawn -- turn red,
purple and shiver? Defend your
choice of the nomad's life, the
Ask the seagulls what
they do for dinner, entertainment.
Is riding the wind, feeling the
scent of the salt from sea
and the Sound enough? "Ah, bright wings!"
Yes, some days, enough, other days,
discipline will do.
Fooling around with words in a
language, any language, is almost as
foolish as fooling
around with greed, with wealth, with passions of
and other men's passions -- noticeable until
proximity to death quiets one down, lets one peer
into the well's
echoing, flashing, ebony depths which swallow
intention. My quarrel is not
with God, but with Buddha. Having
achieved desirelessness, what
did he think one was going to do?
You are gone!
That's as simple and simple-minded as old
and death being the problem. The problem is time and the
Not the river Styx, but the river of time, of flowing
once having cleared out the debris, hangs heavy on
one's hands, mind, footsteps. With no desire and no goal, and not
favoring being a fund-raiser for the preaching of inaccurate doctrines
lonely before Nirvana.
The golden building, the grey sky,
the brilliance of scarlet geraniums
on the terrace, lobelia,
the fine strike of raindrops on the window
the coming day. Sirens and horns,
train, a plane, lobelia and geraniums on
the window sill, little
lychees starting from seed bought
a Chinese market, and
eaten, a California fern -- revolving from daughter
to daughter, sending up new shoots from bare earth --
the morning's poem shapes itself in a language not
native to America -- genes in Sumeria, India. The poem form, my own,
my heritage from ten generations on this continent -- how many in
confident, my years assuring me that what is
what comes into being exists, what happens is the record, the
the geraniums, the white lilies, the sunset roses, the
parsley, the rosemary,
and the thyme.
In the University quad, Yoshiro cherries
bloom and, among other
fountaining, cascading, exuberant blossoms cherries
flow through the
arboretum and dance on Seattle's city
They inhabit the
Olmstead gardens necklacing
the Emerald City, in Ballard and to the
behind the church on 9th and in a photograph
desk. To look up through
blossoms into the blue sky and breathe the
stillness is to know that tomorrow the leaves will
will fall. The cool shade of cool summer will
their place. Rain-forest green everywhere shrouding the memory of white,
blossoms growing from branches, from gnarled trunks,
bouquets, nosegays, a billion fragilities
on one's head,
flaking one's shoulders, defining one's stance
on the lawn shared by
trunks of cherries, some striped sensual copper-maroon, iridescent,
ringed, peeling, supporting the blossoms, remaining through
summer the same,
but growing larger.
With sunshine so bright it might
be California, I sit bemused. What is
write about? For the feet have already walked miles,
Dreams have been dreamt in hypnogogic
Fruit eaten to satiety. Chapters read in three
books, and several
library pamphlets. I wait to exercise.
the meantime, I have
my plants for moisture, watered one lobelia, exulted over
the two lychee, and noted two -- who knows what?
As a matter
of principle, I throw most of my seeds -- avocado,
cherry, peach, apricots, nectarine, papaya, lemon -- into the next pot to
be planted. Who knows what has the courage to come up, or
to fight the irradiation, the killing involved in
terminator seeds, the greed to own all the foodstuffs of the
Indeed, what is there to write about in this cornucopious world,
with human greed.
Kitsch, Korn and Komic Book Art --
Academia grabbed the art scene by
the short and
curlies. No curators now without doctorates, indeed, few
all busily at work justifying
Previous profundities declared: "Scholars are not artists."
can't do, teach." But now everything's changed, scholars do
they do, they post-modern, they deconstruct,
kitsch, korn and komic book art, and,
since it ain't art, they've
conscientiously re-defined art to
be, kitsch, korn
book art. See it in museums, see
it in galleries. Academics choose
the educated untalented, dub Dr.'s artists. Art,
once cherished by
humans as human's truth-beauty-wisdom, is egalitarianized out of
help us to admire the distasteful, the
shit, shock, stupidity, clap-trap, all clothed in
jargon-rich justifications: "If you don't
comprehend-iality the art,
stupid..." "An artist, as any entrepreneur, is defined, stupid,
by his lucre."
The water ran perfectly yellow, perfectly
clear and so real that, when
I remembered it,
I couldn't recall if it were reality or dream,
Yellow River, the Yangtze, lychee-stem dye
after thought, pee. It was clear, it
was bright. It sheeted from the
white, wide spout,
from sheer, shining, stele cliffs.
was sunshine, high and bright, in a white sky.
Did it have
meaning? Was it just present? I
live in a
dote on sunshine. Saffron fabric from India
covers my computer. Saris,
tiles, other oddments, Shiva, bones and Kuan Yin
sit about my room,
protect me from crucifixions of the brain. Number
pencils, felt tipped markers, usually jarred and unused,
and a heart
like a tear-drop, pale purple, very pale purple, against
yellow, bright white, sent by Laurel, stand behind another Shiva,
bottled heena, mother-bones.
Essays begin to lose their interest
for me. I've said enough. What's
step? Flight into darkness -- and beyond -- into darker
Devayani, you once wrote, "Emptiness is
the beginning of love." But you don't recognize it
as your path.
You've lost your path, all is
as you look around. It
was. Now it is darker. The irreversibleness of
strikes such recoupable sadness in your heart, the
of the earth
by your countrymen. They got here
in plenty of time to carry the infectious diseases, like
dysentery and greed. Looking for their own freedom,
they did not mind
all others. In the north and in
your English ancestors ravaged the earth, killed its
peoples, destroyed its civilizations --
partly in jealousy, for
Americans were more advanced than the living squalor
of marauding Europeans.
I walk the streets of Seattle,
projects invading my mind like
nuthatches, little brown-grey, round
fat birds, pecking bits of
experience from the city's
Walk the streets, write a
for each. Write a poem for the municipal buildings,
passing at 5:33, the last of
street-people are rising from
sleep. Tomorrow has begun. Watch the sun
upper flanks of the tallest buildings, illuminate the
strike West Seattle.
Cruise along the empty rivers of
concrete, some flowing
north, some flowing south, all deserted, and
the fresh wind blowing one
more morning up for delectation. The old
library's empty, but not yet
drink their coffee, read their books
and newspapers. Every street from
the east to the west ends in
the Sound, the gull's sound, circling. A
ferry slips past the pier-d
end of Union.
Allow ecstasy to reign. In blankness,
in boredom, in the aloneness of
age and uncertainty,
the brain tangos through the tangle of memory.
dance. Fear not. Walk on. Cool
wind. Ode the
city. Memorialize your grief. The parks
are emptier now, the
geraniums redder. Count the grungy
trees along a
chain-linked fence, handsome
really, better than only chain-link,
asphalt, white-lined parking troughs.
It's all down hill in Seattle,
squared off between-building-clips
of a watery
and squat, sunlit condos terminate the west,
the frontier of
roller-coasters down from First Hill. Very strange end pieces,
abandoned abbey walls, truncate the ends of The Rainier Club, its
under reconstruction -- probably from the earthquake,
Richter scale 8.2,
which rolled through the February city, or from the
upheaval of greed
and foment of protest. Seattle's throes, passion,
extravaganza of construction will make
a nice ruin.
Secret walks in the dawn. No
one knowing I'm gone, or abroad. Even
the streets met face to face -- I do not
they don't know me. We
pass in silence or with a smile. Fortunately,
the most part, I have resisted the training in
the big seller of American Media.
Like Lawrence's Arabs of the
desert, "I go where
I please and strike where I please." And you
could too, but
don't come out to clutter my mystical, naked
of the dawn. Let quiet, let desertion, abandonment rule, let
of what it will be like, an Angkor Wat of the future.
Columbia Tower, how they will marvel. The two pancakes
full of seats, decorative ridges rising, just to the south, one black,
one white -- like the fulfilled plans for the Taj Mahal. That will
puzzle them, too.
Happy Birthday, U.S.A., today.
Is this two-twenty-five? Imagine that,
another quarter century gone --
or accomplished -- depending on your
point-of-view. Not an awful
having just been reading a
of pre-history, B.C. or B.P.E. or
whatever of those half dozen
designations scholars are trying --
make sure Christian
counting WILL BE
adopted by the whole scholar's world -- and some
those cave sites include habitation spanning 5,000 years.
are feeling our oats, perhaps at the pinnacle of
civilization, galloping fiercely into the future! -- unheeding,
challenging, snubbing nature,
jumping the traces -- into
the future we go. Where? Machu Picchu, Chaco
-- you name them, though skeleton remains, the
flesh is gone, and so's
the spirit. We're arrogant enough to think
we'll escape, but we won't.
What magnificient ruins "Delirious New York" will
make, Dear Koolhaas.
Mukti Bhavan charges no rent, accommodates
no luggage, serves no food,
allows no medicine, each
cell is as bare and comfortless as the
is a place for dying. It
is in Banares, Varanasi,
Kashi, The City of Light,
the Forest of Bliss. To die there, is
receive the boon of liberation, never
having to return
to this earth. It ends the
turning of the wheel of samsara,
all debts. Mukti
Bhavan, this "hospice,"
endowed by an industrialist, stands near
Dashashvamdedha Ghat, near
Gadauli intersection. If you want to get well,
you cannot stay. You
must go to a hospital. This house is
dying. No other
activity is condoned. Fifteen days are
allowed. Extensions are rare.
The rules are painted on the wall. Continuous
chanting, Ganga water,
tulasi leaves are free and available. Mukti Bhavan means
House of Salvation.
Eleanor arrived today, a Norfolk Pine,
tapering, capable of curtseying gracefully, her skirts
dark green --
not terribly old. Aside from 55 +
to gaze at her,
a small plant of her own species, a daughter
who stands in
the ante-room. Lynn raised Eleanor, and
provided transport. No doubt, Eleanor will like
it here, the rest of
us do -- looking out on sunny gardens,
muted yellow walls, light,
delight, where people talk and walk and weed,
water flowers, share
the herbs. Though young, she's used to stasis, patience.
room is spacious, couches and tellys and tables. Distinctive, noble
will not feel captive. Never having known her homeland, we
nourished, moved about by company, she
will no doubt
flourish for us -- away from the wind -- as she did for
Some older humans talk to plants, some younger ones play the
Time passes daily.
Dinner, last night, with Tom V.
Reeling drunk, a sugar-high, from
grape-apple juice. Dining elegant,
downtown, Italian, we talked and
talked and talked, like
haven't talked for a year. He
told me his life-story, I told him (partially) mine.
He a young
man, 40, more interesting than most,
good friend's son. He
a widow-walk house with 360 degrees of view.
wearing evening sun, Rainier was out for our delectation.
We talked about
life-immensities I had forgotten, life-vistas,
now shaded, receding. Neutrality
welled from volcanoes. Munching
slowly, Pele* laved my soul. The vast experience
of another human
tunneled in passionate and neutral. Ah, the middle way!
the widow-walker, danced above the city, cavorted among embers,
ate little, should have drunk less, avoided acquiring new cravings,
new unsatisfiable addictions. Last to leave the
virgin-white-topped tables, the help had
already gone home.
*Pelehonuamea, the Fire Goddess
The gold and red India shawl
that protects my computer is laid aside.
is turned on. It hums. We two, it and
patiently for poems to be
born, images to appear, remembrances to be
Each recycling of memory, produces new holograms,
crevices of incandescence. We are
cooperative: my fingers, its fonts -- we share the spelling
times, extend participation to various dictionaries, reference
written notes, jotted imaginings, ancient envelopes, recently
read books --
any writ surface. Who, 'til now, could conceive such
binary, vertical luminescence,
such humming, shining, brilliant colored
-- or grey -- horizontal shimmer where thoughts become visible,
where words are! But aren't really! Illusions accumulate in
air -- via chips, bytes, mice and the help of angels -- they
words, vie for attention, presume to be meaningful, are, with
a stroke, deleted.
Adversity is the cause of change.
Caffeine, to large extent, is the
cause of creativity.
If everything were perfectly adapted and
stimulating we'd be
we were. Caffeine is like meditation.
From the quietude of sitting, who knows what's wrought.
might say, were meant to be jangled.
is a part of
Human compassion is, perhaps, a mutation, a
What is is. What must be must be.
Let it happen.
Surely a tiger mauling, and serving as
is no worse than mauling by Western Civilization, painful,
extended and fatal.
Education is to take never-ending lessons in
misplacement of virtue from what
natural, what is normal. If
Western humans have their
way, we will fill up earth with the
incapacitated, the dying, pig-hearted
people. There'll be no room
left for the new, for change or
caffeine's remarkable creativity.
Last poem. Last Essay. Number thirty-three
I've thought a lot and a
little and, for
the most part, I think humanity sees itself
misinterprets the evidence. Even as a
child, the idea that people are supposed to be
supposed to like/want to be social
struck me as
absurd, with the
terror of falsehood, a sop to the way things
nothing to do with preferences. Man protesteth too
Deep in my own heart, it is self-evident that
aloneness -- and I think I am not unusual. Did anyone
ever get rich
and want to move into closer proximity to his
weren't so terrified, constantly anxiety ridden, didn't
other so desperately for protection, indeed, if we didn't fear
loath each other so much, we'd admit to Vanting, like Garbo,
More of The 2001 Poems
Copyright © 2002 through 2015 Jan Haag
Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
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BY JAN HAAG
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