Breadcrumbs
How is it that so many seers of this infinite, indifferent mystery,
Generate so much absurdity, that morphs into so much painful misery?
How much better for the all, it might be, to stay silent, to say little or nothing.
Daito Kokushi, fourteenth century Japanese Zen master of the Rinzai school, wrote:
“Wishing to entice the blind, The Buddha has playfully let words escape his golden mouth.
Heaven and earth are ever since filled with entangling briars.”
Hopefully, these way too many cogitations,
Will find their way to oblivion,
Before wreaking too much mayhem.
One can never discern how noble intentions,
Will be warped and perverted in the theaters of mind.
* * * *
Really not even worth bothering about.
* * * *
I suppose I could be wrong about this, but I do not see how.
* * * *
What flower believes it will live forever?
* * * *
If you are looking for some deific character, ignore the man behind this curtain.
* * * *
Looking like my two cents is not worth very much.
* * * *
Yes, this is will probably be lost, as well, and it won’t even require a fire, given its digital nature.
* * * *
Drifting in bliss.
* * * *
What can I say, this babble-on is how this mind works.
* * * *
You disrespect me, I disrespect you, so much for that relationship.
* * * *
It's a third-tier ‘other-things’ kind of day.
* * * *
Got nothing better to do.
* * * *
An affinity for oblivion.
* * * *
There is something about an aphorism that catches a truth as no story can.
* * * *
The human species has been interesting, but is it really worth preserving?
* * * *
I am more than a little weary of this human paradigm,
And doubt I will be making any big effort to fend off the Reaper,
When this mind-body gets too bothersome to get through the given day.
* * * *
Doubt not that there would be more than a few,
Who would gladly slit my throat, or burn me alive at the stake,
For all the blasphemy, all the sacrilege, all the irreverence, I have said and written.
How fortunate I am to have been born in one of the freest times and places history has ever sanctioned.
But, as Jack Palance famously uttered in the movie, City Slickers, “The day ain’t over.”
* * * *
This could only be written by someone who had nothing better to do.
* * * *
All human beings are, is protoplasm playing out the delusionary pretenses of imagination.
That imagination has allowed me, and many others throughout the illusion of space and time,
The Self-deception, that we might somehow challenge its reign over this monkey-mind paradigm.
* * * *
This is how the English language uses me to hammer at its forge.
* * * *
Thing management.
* * * *
The only place I might lead you is to your doorstep.
Keep your treasure, hold the applause, rotsa ruck.
Obviously, my report to High Command will be recommending extinction.
* * * *
It would be a bottle of Jack Daniels,
And a two-pound box of See’s Candy,
Most every day, if my tongue had more say.
* * * *
It’s the monkey in me, sorry.
* * * *
The fire in this belly was more a candle in the wind.
* * * *
Oh boy, a new pile.
* * * *
The goal of any author is to plant something in other minds that will not be easily forgotten.
Who knows how many works are in used book stores and landfills,
And internet websites and burn piles,
And ancient libraries long ago fallen into ruin,
That never or barely even got a chance to be remembered.
* * * *
What more is there to say? And yet I yabber on.
* * * *
I came, I saw, I listened, I tasted, I smelled, I touched, I departed.
* * * *
Didn’t see that one coming.
* * * *
Experiences and things were always more interesting than a pile of gold.
* * * *
Haven’t quite figured out that one, Ollie.
* * * *
Yet another day of shaking the Magic Eight Ball to see what pithy notions float into mind.
* * * *
Yet another collector’s item.
* * * *
How many times has that been?
* * * *
Dying on the vine, pretending I am wine; though more likely a drying raisin.
* * * *
Had a thing for things this round; it was a way of tasting the illusion.
But it would likely be a zafu and bowl and wall, were there to be another.
* * * *
Have written far, far more than few will ever begin to read,
But the thoughts keep bubbling into mind, and I enjoyed playing with them.
However, from here on out, other than the occasional newbie, it is mostly editing old babble,
That has not seen the light of mind since it was written in the first post-1989 decade or so.
* * * *
Were I to do some rewinding in this since-1989 brainchild, section titles might instead be:
Leftovers, Aftershocks; Breadcrumbs, Leftovers; and Soundbites, perhaps Breadcrumbs.
Or perhaps: Leftovers, Breadcrumbs; Soundbites, Leftovers, Breadcrumbs, Aftershocks.
But, as Jack Palance famously uttered in the movie, City Slickers, “The day ain’t over.”
* * * *
An errant sojourner’s soliloquy on a mystery beyond all pales.
* * * *
It was fun to write; what matter if it is never read.
* * * *
Oh my god, another small seed of a possible project, turns into a Banyan tree.
* * * *
You objectify me; why not I, you?
* * * *
This is an entirely original work … The Song of Michael
* * * *
Makes your head hurt.
* * * *
If that doesn’t make your head hurt.
* * * *
Whether or not all this time and effort will endure, depends entirely on those who save it and pass it on.
* * * *
If anyone out there has too many screws loose enough,
To imagine I am some sort of Jesus, or any other such balderdash,
Let us go find a swimming pool, and watch me take the first step, and drown.
Or let us kill him, let hm rot in a hot cave for a few days, and see if I can bring him back.
* * * *
From birth to death, the unborn-undying awareness that I am,
Is solitary witness to an ever-kaleidoscoping, mystery-ridden dreamtime.
There is nothing I need do, nothing I can do, but whatever the given moment beckons,
From the patterning of the mind-body, in which I am cloaked,
Upon the stage, which I impromptu play.
* * * *
Am I not something of an anarchist, taking on consciousness, taking on imagination,
With aphorisms the weapon, with which the dreamtime has equipped me.
Taking aim at intellects scouted in any given daily walkabout.
A reasonable pastime, for which I am well-suited.
A Johnny Appleseed strategy at the helm.
What future awakening they might inspire, if any,
Is well beyond this narrative, and well beyond any concern.
It is but the vanity, for which I have been, through happenstance, fated.
A mind-body, programmed by the given nature-nurture, with a truth-seeking inclination.
* * * *
If I must scratch, if I must claw, my way into and up the Ivory Tower of Philosophy,
May everything, I have ever written, ever said, ever done, ever anything, rest in peace.
* * * *
Things Which Mr. Just-in-Case Collects
Guns & Ammunition
Archery Equipment
Swords, Knives, Spears
Sundry Other Weapons
Martial Arts gear
Tools and Hardware
Chess & Other Strategy Games
Philosophy books
Military books
Weaponry books
History books
Political Science books
Science books
English language books
Spanish language books
Business books
Quote books
Gaming books
Health books
Cooking books
Exercise books
Resource books
Miscellaneous books
Exercise Gear
Kitchen paraphernalia
Coffee-making paraphernalia
The Great Courses DVD’s
Movie & Television DVD’s
Music CD’s
Camping gear
Office supplies
Hats
Dust collectors
Bags of every variety
Alcohol and Drugs
Informational websites
Blog posts
Facebook posts
Interesting article links
Non-followers
A material Peter Pan, to be sure.
* * * *
Why should I read yours if you will not read mine.
* * * *
Might change some of the book titles,
Were there a rewind button in the house,
But too much bother at this writing,
And am frankly not sure what to.
* * * *
Constructive criticism is not always welcome.
* * * *
I am actor; hear the snore.
* * * *
Just another day, hierophanting the obvious, that the blind may see, and the deaf, hear.
* * * *
I played out the idea of so many things, I no longer needed to do anything, but enjoy reflecting on it all.
* * * *
I can only offer what I have to offer.
* * * *
A fountain of nonduality.
* * * *
Why pay you, for what I can just as easily, and better, do myself?
* * * *
A one-man revolution.
* * * *
Die, mother fucker! Die!
* * * *
How many adventures might I have wandered?
How many movies might I have watched?
How many books might I have read?
Had I not taken on this aphoristic chore.
Yeesch and by golly, the things fate endures.
* * * *
Did nothing again today.
* * * *
This work could probably be edited for another entire lifetime,
And all the grammatical errors and change-ups, not be flushed out.
* * * *
Did enough of that to get my pain's worth.
* * * *
Got the call, took the hook, and am still on the line.
* * * *
It could be years after the initial casting, that many of these ditties are finally complete.
* * * *
You may think I am an idiot, but I know you are.
* * * *
My gift to the dystopian future-slash-debacle, that I envision, with a shudder.
Do with it whatever you will; do with it whatever you can.
Sadly, better you than me, is all I gotta say.
Stay strong; rotsa ruck.
* * * *
If it is your calling to wake up to your Self, great; if not, no worries, carry on.
Somebody gotta keep the Ponzi Scheme up and running, for whatever I got left.
* * * *
You just threatened to send me to Hell, for not believing in your absurd bullshit, thanks.
Yup, yup, yup, we sure know what kind of supreme-deity horror show you would paint.
* * * *
I am my version of normal.
* * * *
Do with it whatever you will; do with it whatever you can.
* * * *
Sadly, better you than me, is all I gotta say.
* * * *
Why do I appear to be so pessimistic?
First and foremost, I am obviously weary of the human paradigm.
And then there is waking up day after day, to all the injuries I have sustained in this span of seventy years.
There is nothing left that I need to do or see or be in this sorry-ass play of consciousness.
Why would I not be happy if the Reaper showed up anytime right now?
* * * *
Stay strong, rotsa ruck.
* * * *
I can hardly give it away; how would I sell it?
* * * *
Sitting here, sitting there, sitting who knows where, waiting for the guillotine to fall.
* * * *
Another memory I have already forgotten.
* * * *
I should be reviled for taking away your pacifier.
* * * *
I generally serve all as the moment calls,
But sometimes you just gotta take little breaks.
Besides which, this asylum is far too broken to save it.
* * * *
My gift to the dystopian future-slash-debacle, that I envision, with a shudder.
* * * *
Bokononism: A religion built on lies and absurdity and irony.
Finally, a no-card-no-dogma-no-congregation faith, I can go for.
scratches made in a black, gummy impasto
[o]ne of the oldest games there is.
It means whatever it means.
'See the cat? […] See the cradle?'
~ Newt Hoenikker ~
~ Bokonon ~
Cat’s Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut
* * * *
Do not feel like you must spend a lot of time deciphering all these thoughts.
Have used my website and Facebook and Blogger and other online tools and toys,
As scrapbooks to record all the wanders and thoughts, and other creations and memories.
Way too much, for anyone with anything better to do, with any sort of life, to even bother about.
* * * *
Have always had a relativistic aptitude for relishing process.
For accepting things as they are, for accepting things as they come.
Perhaps because I was raised in a rural setting, in tune with nature’s fluidity.
Came from modest roots that never really expected or wanted that much out of life.
Tried to fan the fire in the belly as a business major out of college, but the spark never took.
The path of least resistance blew into my sail, and here I am, pondering the show.
Attentively writing down the so-many thoughts that bubble into mind.
* * * *
I seem to have been chosen by the Fates to pen this aphoristic work.
And without thought, without hesitation, I accepted the task.
And have kaleidoscoped this imaginary dreamtime,
Ever soaking up, the reference to scribe it.
This vocation, is a very ubiquitous,
Long ‘n wearing ‘n slogging,
Ever-on-and-on-and-on,
Nature-nurtured,
Very laid-back,
Damn the torpedoes,
Full speed ahead, approach.
All just to fathom the mystery in all.
* * * *
Have had more than plethora of adventures.
Plenty of fine dining and sundry other.
Much easier to stay home anymore.
Have far more things than I need, debt-free.
Contentment is the brass ring, and it is on the mantle.
* * * *
This is this lifetime’s contribution to the human paradigm.
Take it or leave it; please try not to hurt or kill anyone over it.
Please do not make it into some creed, it was never meant to be.
You can thank me, or scourge me, as befits the endgame’s narration.
* * * *
Tread carefully, lest the seeds of dogma sprout, from this austere message you convey.
* * * *
Got a good roll out of my little window of illusion.
And what happens after I am departed, after I am ashes and dust,
Is nothing I can do anything about, any more than I could while in the flesh.
* * * *
Too much bother, keeping this imaginary character playing the game, to go on stage to do any others.
* * * *
What a rebel I am, passing out, freely, such eternally subversive craft.
* * * *
All the mistakes, all the blunders, that I have many times made! How is it, that I am still alive?
How is it, that none seem to have had raison d'être enough, to pursue revenge?
To walk freely, without dread of the knife twisting in the back,
Is surely the triumph of any wily chameleon.
* * * *
How I wish I could tell the younger self, to slow down or hold off, on some of the choices he was making.
* * * *
This work is a very ubiquitous, long and wearing, trudging, ever-on-and-on-and-on, campaign.
* * * *
What a shame, this offering, shall probably be lost, before it was ever, for-all-practical-purposes, found.
* * * *
Of course, I will eat you if there is no chicken in the fridge, my love,
And I will remember you all that much more affectionately,
For your contribution to my continued existence.
My love, indeed, knows no bounds.
* * * *
How it all seems to moi, is what these many thoughts, these many titles, are about.
Whether or not, they are anything the dreamtime’s future, will be in any way interested,
Is nothing this mind’s vanity, can more than pipe-smoking speculate, in its dystopian musings.
* * * *
Yes, I want her child, too.
Tasty on the spit; tasty in the soup; tasty, scrambled; tasty, raw; tasty, screaming.
Crunchy-chewy-gooey, seasoned to perfection, or not.
Mmmm-mmmm, good.
* * * *
Old age is a very large collection of pleasurable and painful – and increasingly vague – memories.
* * * *
Why write this?
Why put all this out there?
Just the fate, that calls, the only answer.
To be a Basho of aphoristic nihilism, feels about right.
* * * *
There are a great number of these aphorisms that have run their own way down the neural matrix.
And not serendipitously been – captured, hijacked, liberated – by this daily-declining elderly scribe.
* * * *
The sands of time have no memory.
* * * *
Nothing is real to me.
* * * *
Wandering to and from on the spectrum of irony and paradox.
* * * *
You thank me by being your true Self.
* * * *
This voice in this head; it just will not stop sharing its vision.
* * * *
Broke every rule, the dreamtime could come up with.
* * * *
Nobody will ever read everything I have written, much less comprehend all it took to get it to them.
* * * *
I have done my best with this work,
To leave something that is as great a vision,
As this mind-body and linguistic aptitude can muster.
As great a revelation as technology and times for a time allow.
Attempting in so many ways to fashion it nondualistically all-inclusive.
Something that will worm its way through the harsh age ahead,
Into a more rational, equitable, notion of humankind,
And its relationship with the natural world,
And the mystery that is source to all.
And to always try to remember,
That it is not at all about,
The little me who put it into play.
Rather, the big me, who is the You in all.
Best wishes, rotsa ruck, and apologies for the world we left You.
* * * *
* * * *
Coulda-shoulda-woulda, have brought to a halt, to all this nonsense long ago.
So much absurdity, over an elephant that can never been seen.
Coulda-shoulda-woulda, sought out a little cave.
Kept to my Self, Kept my peace,
Lived existence, rationally, serenely.
Free from all the mundanity, all the temporality.
Wait, I have done that! Here I am, ensconced right here now.
In my zennish, collector-hoarder hollow: Studio 101, Lakeside Apartments,
Turlock, California 93382-1016, United States, Gaia, Milky Way, Universe … Mystery …
* * * *
What will be the future of our kind, and life on this pale blue dot, I often wonder.
It is challenging to wrap this timebound mind around the dystopian horror I see coming.
How much longer will the human paradigm persevere after this cadaver is a dusty pile of bones?
Ahh, but that is indeed a narcissistic-egocentric question, if there ever was one.
So, I will toss it into the passing wind, and expect no answer.
And someday quietly depart, ever agnostic.
* * * *
The show must go on; easier to ignore me, for vanity and greed’s sake.
* * * *
Pretty sure I am dead, and keep waking up in the same hell.
* * * *
Alas, that I often forget many times a day,
And sometimes do not even once remember,
Until the rooster crows at the next day’s sunrise.
* * * *
Thank the gods it is not my world to bother about much longer.
* * * *
Though I am very much alone in this vision quest,
I offer you, and all others, these many thoughts, on the off chance,
That all things are more than imaginary illusions ghosting about this delusional mind.
* * * *
Seems obvious to this eye.
* * * *
I am a Daniel Boone helping you down your Wilderness Trail
* * * *
A slow-burn, under-the-radar, revolutionary mein-kampf; very likely to go entirely unnoticed.
* * * *
The wonder! The wonder!
* * * *
Vote NO! on climate change; let Mother Nature know what you think.
* * * *
I count my followers on a single hand, minus four fingers and a thumb.
* * * *
Pretty sure I'm dead, and just keep waking up in the same hell.
* * * *
‘The Stillness Before Time’ or ‘A Stillness Before Time,’
As good and awakened friend, Glynda Lee Hoffmann, once suggested.
Coulda-shoulda-woulda, maybe, but so-it-goes, too late now.
* * * *
A Text to Bruce
America invited the world's masses, and they have arrived.
That is rough on the losers, rough on the haters, and Trump became their führer.
My prevailing who-gives-a-fuck-where's-the-popcorn line: So it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.
It is all ultimately just another epoch in history's the-horror-the-horror-planet-of-the-apes stagecraft.
You and I have lived in the most incredible window of history this world has ever experienced.
Tough for all the kids in the day care centers and playgrounds who are going to pay for it.
Seven billion people and a changing climate in a little over 200 years – Hope is dead.
(Bruce: This started out as one of our many back-and-forth texts, and worked itself into an aphorism.
Some guy named Bruce will be lionized in Breadcrumbs 2023 & Beyond and Michael's Rabbit Hole)
The children's book by Shel Silverstein – The Giving Tree – says it all about the human paradigm.
The Giving Tree
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Giving_Tree
(P.S. Hey, just occurred to me to say – while we are still here – that I have always enjoyed our practically lifetime friendship. Forklifting at Joan of Arc was one of my all-time favorite jobs. Sorry about the toe. That moment, the calmness with which you told me the forklift was on your foot, still rings clear in this otherwise vague, aged memory. Never realized what you had endured until you told me years later.)
* * * *
And just to be steadfastly, beyond-all-doubts transparent – I do not much care for the word, prophet.
A little too loaded with historical undertones, to which I do not readily extend my Self.
Seer, mystic, sage, guru, maybe even augur or oracle, are tolerable fits.
If there must be any sound-concept ascribed to it, that is.
Deep, resonate Om-ing might be acceptable.
But try to put a crimp on any and all idolatries.
Ixnay on worshipping garden statues and crucifixes.
* * * *
The Anthropocene and a changing climate – a pitiless dragon – unfolding its wings upon all earthlings.
And alas for we post-war boomers, we elders, who bask in our unenviable senior moment,
Hoping to somehow evade the consequences of all our narcissistic hedonism,
Our little window of time, and all the consumption it allowed.
We are in for a taste, a whiff, of the future past.
* * * *
In this work, is written whatever comes to mind.
Audience or no, agreement or no, approval or no, applause or no.
For naught matters to the great emptiness, the great abyss, the great nothingness,
From whence all appearances, all illusions, kaleidoscope however they will.
How unlikely, that more than a relative few, will ever even hear of it,
Much less imbibe more than a few lines here and there, at best.
For anyone to peruse it all, would be an improbable feat.
One which would be, but another mirage of mind.
* * * *
This aphoristic opus was the last narcissistic-hedonistic vanity, that I could be enticed to orchestrate.
These writings, all extemporaneous, seem intent on stirring the potential of consciousness, of imagination,
To another echelon of intrigue in its Darwinian progression, if such a thing is even tenuously possible.
* * * *
The most candid, most sincere, most authentic answer, as to why have I bothered to scribe this opus,
Is the lucidity, the detachment, the hubris, the absurdity, of this nature-nurtured mind’s quixotic meander.
It is the reckoning, the revelation, of a happenstance-happenchance-contemplative-meditative amble.
It is the nothing-more-nothing-less, of this mind’s imaginary perception of an ineffable mystery.
* * * *
The human paradigm has long since become a friggin' insane-beyond-all-insanes asylum.
The engineers and all their minions have enticed us down a dead-end road.
How happy, how content I am, to be almost done with it.
* * * *
Regarding titles in this opus,
There is the ‘me’ voice, and there is the ‘Me’ voice.
Leftovers and Soundbites are the ‘Me’ and ‘My Self’ and ‘I’ rabbit dens.
Breadcrumbs lurk in the imaginary, more-likely-illusionary ‘me-and-myself-and-I’ wormhole.
It is a most challenging thing to walkabout this mortal quantum dreamtime,
And not be drawn willy-nilly into its distracting nature,
Same as all the other dreamers.
* * * *
There is likely something somewhere herein, for just about everyone.
This mystic wandering opus is not bound by the boundlessness of Eternity.
This mind’s penchant for living and dying, wanders easily afield in every manner.
“The dark side ain’t dark to me,” is a first and foremost go-to meme for this waggish mind.
* * * *
So many ditties that need editing,
And that editing shared with all the other creations.
All the derivative titles, and all their ‘under construction’ segments.
So many things to tie together, into an agreeable, concise, elegant, philosophical opus.
Which so relatively few will ever know of, much less bother to peruse.
So much to do, and so little time remaining to do it.
Such is likely the fate of all creators.
* * * *
Somehow, I have been allowed by the Fates to be a seer, a sage, a mystic.
What tales I could tell, how it all came to be, were anyone all that interested.
* * * *
Sometimes it seems to take years to fully realize the profundity of some of these many ditties,
That digitalized helter-skelter via one keyboard or another, in one way back when or another.
* * * *
Would that I could program this mind the same way I would a computer.
It might well make the day-to-day much less bothersome were I a machine.
* * * *
“One of these squirmy little seeds could be our child,”
I mighta-coulda-shoulda-woulda said, as a gooey collection of mine,
Erupted with infectious joy and inordinate gratitude, into her orifice-with-a-tongue.
“Which makes you a cannibal of the infanticidal sort.”
* * * *
Many writings, many experiences, many adventures, have been influential,
But none have ever bound me, when it has been time push on to new intrigues.
* * * *
Just playing out the part that was set in motion since the eternity ago genesis of this manifest illusion.
All the who’s, all the what’s, all the where’s, all the when’s, all the why’s, all the how’s, matter not.
* * * *
If it is fated for these way-too-many thoughts to be discovered, I would prefer it be after I am rootbound.
Have never sought the weight of power, the rattle of gold, or the bother of groupthink.
Scribing all this has peaceably filled a great deal of this existence.
A pleasant pastime, to be channel for this mystery.
Being rewarded for such a gift, is given its due, with a nod of a head.
* * * *
The weariness I feel with my take on the human paradigm,
Is beyond measure, many times, in so many situations, in any given day.
How tempting to just pull the plug on everything, to discard all this esoteric commentary,
Back into the oblivion, into the abyss, into the void, from whence it came,
And spend whatever remains of this dreamtime existence,
As quietly, as anonymously, as possible.
But no, I drudge on, as another ditty Magic-8-Ball’s into mind.
* * * *
Which sucks better? The unexamined life, or the examined one?
To spend your life playing out every sort of distraction?
Or siting alone in dark corners scribbling silliness,
Relatively few will ever bother to examine?
* * * *
All these notions are straight-up how I see it.
No regurgitations, no mimicking, no mendacities, no fanatisms.
Just the matter-of-fact, straight-thinking, no-nonsense, down-to-earth, the-way-it-is,
As seen through these older-than-the-stars-younger-than-the-moment eyes.
* * * *
The scars from the traces, of a lifetime of every variety of work, can still whip me with their call to duty.
* * * *
It is my pride, my vanity, my generosity, my hope, that has written this opus.
* * * *
And what will I waste my moment on this fine day?
* * * *
Another ditty, none but these eyes shall likely ever read.
* * * *
What will be the last thing I ever write? Or say? Or do? Well, obviously not this.
* * * *
About some things, I am exceedingly frugal.
And in others, am content to watch the moths run free.
As always, irony and paradox manage to pervade the daily show.
* * * *
Already have enough silliness to waste my moment on, thanks anyway.
* * * *
I am worm, hear me roar.
* * * *
How sorry I feel for the future's children whenever I pass a playground.
* * * *
No one can ever more than speculate, what it takes any given creator, to create.
* * * *
Jesus, save me from all the absurdity!
* * * *
It has been interesting, but I am long over believing there is anything but exceedingly harsh times ahead.
* * * *
A very original work about a very original mystery.
* * * *
I speak from ignorance.
* * * *
I be a born-again existentialist
* * * *
Will we still be around in four years to find out, he wondered, and not for the first time that day.
* * * *
Well, I tried.
* * * *
Trust me, that all these thoughts came from a lot of hard knocks.
* * * *
I leave it for imagination to decide its fate.
* * * *
I dodged, I hid, I ran.
* * * *
Yet another shoulda- coulda-woulda moment passes into oblivion.
* * * *
Nothing to do, and all day to do it.
* * * *
It was a good dream.