Friday, September 28, 2007

A Fertile Absence

Now and again I have been turning to the writings of Evagrius of Pontus who lived in the fourth century. He is credited for having collected or articulated the Eight Deadly Thoughts (long before the Seven Deadly Sins took prominence). I was intrigued by the opening lines for the first two "thoughts" Gluttony and Fornication.
He begins on Gluttony,

Abstinence is the origin of fruitfulness, the blossom and beginning of the practical life.

Then on Fornication he begins,
Abstinence gives birth to chastity.

These statements struck me first as counter-intuitive (at least to most contemporary sensibilities) and second as having a certain ontological importance. There are means and resources which the individual and social can draw on that are not easily perceptible. We show great admiration for those who can live a life of voluntary poverty but do not embrace the underlying ontology that informs it. The word "abstinence" in our vernacular evokes images barrenness, repression and sterility. It should be re-endowed with the fecundity that is latent in it.
In his treatise against "boredom" Kierkegaard writes of the principle of "limitation" as "the only saving principle in the world". In offering a variety of examples he comes clearly to the maxim that "the more you limit yourself, the more fertile you become in invention." We equate fertility with its "fruit" its end product and not so much its actuality which is ironically its potentiality, its ready absence.
This feeds into my overall thoughts on aesthetics as the sensing of possibility and the allowing of its birth and also the role that absence (often articulated as the sacred) plays in conception. This is of course part of a monastic culture only tangentially observable in our culture but worth greater consideration.


Thursday, September 27, 2007

Letter 10 - Rilke, Art and Life

This is the final paragraph in the last letter that Rilke wrote to Franz Kappus,

Art too is only a way of living, and, however one lives, one can, unwittingly, prepare oneself for it; in all that is real one is closer to it and more nearly neighbored than in the unreal half-artistic professions, which, while they pretend proximity to some art, in practice belie and assail the existence of all art, as for instance the whole of journalism does and almost all criticism and three-quarters of what is called and wants to be called literature. I am glad, in a word, that you have surmounted the danger of falling into this sort of thing and are somewhere in a rough reality being solitary and courageous. May the year that is at hand uphold and strengthen you in that.

I suspect that most of us with some appreciation towards the arts feel a little sting in Rilke's parting words. I also suspect that Rilke is not interested in criticizing professions as such but in criticizing those who "pretend proximity". Nature, reality and truth will not be fooled. Rilke believes that they can be trusted, but this in turn means that they must be trusted. We cannot fool or manipulate art and beauty. Proximity and presence is key both to the formation of identity and to the healthy relationships with others. Rilke's call inward demands that we begin analyzing or most primal walls, those interior walls that divide our passions, goals and compulsions. What have ghettoized in our self? What is it in us that remains hermetically sealed? This movement is necessary first because it in turn affects our external sensual reality. In greater self-understanding we develop courage and stability to allow ourselves to "presence" reality and not pretend proximity. There is no peer review here that can validate our interior and the movement is not natural. Much of Rilke's admonishing focuses around receiving the difficult. This can of course be reduced to pathology and veiled masochism, but this is not truly difficult. The relationship between presence and difficulty is key here. To experience presence we need identify particular dividing walls and either dismantle or at least gate them. Walls, however, are the very essence of our grasp for control and power. To take down a wall is contrary to the nature individual self-preservation, or at the very least it is an act of trust beyond one's self. The movement of difficulty is the movement of de-centralizing a personal position of power. This however, is also the movement and possibility of presence, even communion.


Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Letter 8 - Rilke on Solitude and Transformation

With respect to our place in the future Rilke concludes the preceding paragraph,

The future stands firm, dear Mr. Kappus, but we move in infinite space.

In an attempt to get my own head around Rilke’s thought in the following paragraphs I will quote in full with perhaps some brief comments clarifying what I am focusing on or perceiving.

And to speak of solitude again, it becomes always clearer that this at bottom not something that one can take or leave. We are solitary. We may delude ourselves and act as though this were not so. That is all. But how much better it is to realize that we are so, yes, even to begin by assuming it. We shall indeed turn dizzy then; for all points upon which our eye has been accustomed to rest are taken from us, there is nothing near any more and everything far is infinitely far. A person removed from his own room, almost without preparation and transition, and set upon the height of a great mountain range, would feel something of the sort: an unparalleled insecurity, an abandonment to something inexpressible would almost annihilate him. He would think himself falling or hurled into space, or exploded into a thousand pieces: what a monstrous lie his brain would have to invent to catch up with and explain the state of his senses!

Why is it that the movement towards the solitary is so disorientating? I stated earlier that I cannot conceive of a non-relational reality. While that may be true I wonder if what Rilke is getting at is that our notion of connection or relationship is more often the connection to ourselves which we see in others. We love in others what we love in ourselves and therefore do not love others at all. We are disorientated in solitude because we have lost the self-perceived affirmation we find in others.

So for him who becomes solitary all distances, all measures change; of these changes many take place suddenly, and then, as with the man on the mountaintop, extraordinary imaginings and singular sensations arise that seem to grow out beyond all bearing. But is necessary for us to experience that too. We must assume our existence as broadly as we in any way can; everything, even the unheard-of, must be possible in it.

This is where my sense of Rilke’s transcendence emerges. By transcendence I mean openness.

That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter. That mankind has in this sense been cowardly has done life endless harm; the experiences that are called “visions,” the who so-called “spirit-world,” death, all those things that are so closely akin to us, have by daily parrying been crowded out of life that the senses with which we could have grasped them are atrophied. [emphasis mine]

Then of this in connection to human relationships.

For it is not inertia alone that is responsible for human relationships repeating themselves from case to case, indescribably monotonous and unrenewed; it is shyness before any sort of new, unforeseeable experience with which one does not think oneself able to cope. But only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, not even the most enigmatical, will live the relation to another as something alive and will himself draw exhaustively from his own experience. [emphasis mine]

Rilke goes on to encourage Mr. Kappus to explore the contours of his world criticizing humanity for becoming to accommodating to their environment. He continues,

We have no reason to mistrust our world, for it is not against us. Has it terrors, they are our terrors; has it abysses, those abysses belong to us; are dangers at hand, we must try to love them. And if only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must always hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful. How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.

Far from being an attempt to view the world through rose colored glasses Rilke here advocates a “narrow path” recognizing that we cannot trust the smooth and the easy. This path is both unstable and promises no fruit. Rather, this perspective opens wide the embrace of terror and abyss with the knowledge that they are not embedded or foundational in the created order. They too will be dissolved or as Rilke sees it transformed as we approach them in beauty and bravery.


Friday, September 21, 2007

Dead Man Walking

In my previous post I ended with the statement that, “theory and moral formation is only as good as it postures the individual towards what I can only describe at this point as death.” This is one of the only viable options I can see in the hope of genuine movement or what should be better characterized as transformation. That is, if we want to discard magical or mechanistic appeals to the Big Other or flaccid hopes of the “power within”. It should be stated at the outset that murder and suicide do not have a monopoly on the social and existential importance of “death” as I am conceiving it. More often than not murder and suicide carry with them a sense of fierce preservation or control that does not allow the movement of death.
Death is of course the ultimate movement. Because of this artists and scientists alike give it much attention. Though it should be noted their pursuits often diverge in almost opposite directions. Scientists like Ray Kurzweil pursue, with hope and substantial funding, the possibility of immortal biological life. I make no critique here of modern medicine only the observation of its relationship to the artists engagement with death. Without the aid of technology or significant capital the artist reflects on the reality of life’s movement which is the movement towards death. The Russian novelist Boris Pasternak says that art “always meditates on death and thus always creates life.” What is significant is that consistently in history artists have found currency and in fact excess in their reflection on death. It has not taken it has repaid ten-fold. It is in these spaces that openings occur and with it the possibility of transformation.
In his reflections on art Rowan Williams looks to Flannery O’Connor as one who understands death as “getting somewhere”. This notion must be treated with some care so as not to fall into a vague nihilism. The artist points to death because it is the only perspective that maintains integrity (that is not falling into one of the “false options” noted at the beginning). In a recent seminar that I sat in on we were asked to bring for the first class images of transformation. Invariably there was a point of “death” in each one that preceded some sort of qualitative shift in life (Raskolnikov’s transformation at the end of Crime and Punishment). There is no great life that does not engage death. Otherwise death always holds the upper hand in any given “system”.
Unless true dispossession of self is accounted for in theory and reflection I would hold little hope transformation. If the entirety of a particular theory remains strictly within the movement of human reason or perhaps more specifically of logic, without so much a hint as to the immanent external (and perhaps beyond), then movement remains a reshuffling.


Wednesday, September 19, 2007


I came across a curious phrase from St. Paul in the book of Ephesians. Paul is making reference to the grace and gifts extended to all when he makes mention of the Messiah ascending leading "the captives in his train" (Ps 68:18). Then my translation has the following phrase bracketed.

What does "he ascended" mean except that he also descended to the lower, earthly regions? He who descended is the very one who ascended higher than all the heavens, in order to fill the whole universe.

Sorry no time to look into the Greek or other inter-textual allusions.


Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Stuck In The Middle

If you haven't been reading it yet check out In The Middle. What could be an obscure specialist blog continually proves to be contemporary and engaging on a number of levels.


The End of Theory (as the Goal of its Beginning)

In my second year of college likely in winter (though seasons held little relevance in my basement apartment with its single subterranean window funneling indirect light) I sat at my study table in my bedroom. The memory now is void of my initial purposes. I remember simply looking forward when out of the corner of my eye I saw something fall. Perhaps it was something hanging on the wall or leaning somewhere on my desk. Nothing immediately perceptible caused that object to fall. In my mind it just fell. The only sense I could make of it at the time was the phrase, "everything is moving". This was long before I understood the significance of movement in the work of theory and philosophy.

Of course from an atomic level this statement makes perfect sense as even a dead or inanimate object continues to "move". Orthodox theology (as well as deists I suppose) also has had no difficulty in its positing of an Unmoved Mover who has set the world in motion. I am encountering more and more discussion around the question of movement and source, particularly in terms of the theoretical explanation of or impact on society. How has change happened and how can change happen. Hollywood has resolved this in much the same manner that most theoretical or religious thought has. The change comes from the miraculous "outside" source or from some hitherto unknown "inside" source. Appealing to any "outside" source remains highly prone to suspicion. What good is rigorous critique if the impassible "outside" knocks our house of cards down with a single stroke.
Very well, let's remain on the inside. I am tempted to ask where the currency and origins of the immanent sources being applied to are from in posts at Rough Theory and Now-Times but that tends to lead towards an impasse. I suppose it can remain un-addressed in many contexts. I proceed with some hesitation given a recent comment NP made on her own post. I am not an expert in their field of study but I enter in as someone concerned with the questions being asked and a belief that truly inter-disciplinary discussion (as should reflect the best of blogging) would be helpful.
What troubles me in their posts is the notion that substantive social change, transformation (group or individual), can come as the reslut of public awareness or the formation of "critical thinking". These are not insignificant pursuits, do not get me wrong (why else am I carrying the illusion that someone may be reading this). I am also not reaching for the miraculous "outside" though I also have no essential problem with it. And I can most certainly sympathize with talk about a "moral, first person reflection" if I understand that correctly. And while I am qualifying myself here I should also mention that I can recognize that "change" certainly occurs through the process I just criticized. However, I would be careful before I viewed these changes as being qualitatively different than a recent advertisement I saw. Turn your change into cash. It was pasted on a machine in which you dumped your spare change in a grate in order to receive your money back in higher denominations (at a cost of course). The end result is positive but not substantively different in the larger play of relations.

I am moving towards the position that theory and moral formation is only as good as it postures the individual towards what I can only describe at this point as death. As I observed in my early college days their is movement to be observed and engaged but our participation in it remains elusive to much theoretical grasping. Stay tuned for more on "death" (see Ralph Stanley on IndieVision for now).


Monday, September 17, 2007

Writing Life

I just found out that a friend of mine is working towards publishing her own works of fiction. I have my own presently modest ambitions in writing and what frustrates me is that when ever I talk to writers they always refer to characters and stories running around in their head. So in response to this recent revelation and the discussion I had with her afterward I jotted this down,

I do not find characters in my mind. They do not exist and I am doubtful they ever will. There remains too much of myself or at least too much from my eyes. In my writing when I do not see myself then I only see something false.


Friday, September 14, 2007

Bearing Life

Having read the recent post at Rough Theory I am offering this for consideration. I tend not to work in the specific arena of gender but I was editing a earlier post and was reflecting on the usefulness or value of gender specific (though perhaps not biologically specific) language in the service of theory and reflection.

Please comment and criticize as needed. I understand that for some of you my initial "religious" context may already be an issue (though I would continue to contend for its conceptual significance).
Nathaniel Hawthorn’s The Scarlet Letter traces the movements of conception, gestation and birth. The setting of the story is the seventeenth century in a Puritan community in New England. A newcomer, Hester Prynne has an affair with the local minister Arthur Dimmesdale. Only Hester is charged with adultery because she becomes pregnant before her husband arrives from Europe (the townspeople put two and two together). The identity of her lover, however, remains unknown to the community. In judgment on Hester the community orders that she wear a scarlet letter “A” on her chest.

In Hester Prynne the physical body carries and births their act of passion. In Rev. Dimmesdale, however, their action finds no transformative womb as is found for Hester in the birth of Pearl. In the man all remains buried and cancerous in the heart. Hester continues to live with her act through her child and on her chest. And here too the judgment of the Scarlet Letter ultimately finds fertile soil. She is drawn inward judged by the world and by herself for seven years. In those seven years we read about a “new purity” that replaces what was lost. Hester emerges, made strong by the “stern and wild” teachers of shame, despair and solitude.

Arthur is only weakened. Though he finds greater communion with the sin of the world with no child and no letter Arthur remains the model of fierce righteous preservation. Arthur has no space for conception. Historically men have received or accepted few spaces for their “sin” to be transformed, to conceive new life. Men have worked externally entrenching laws and erecting towers. What women have not already naturally bore in their bodies men have imposed on their bodies. They have carried for many the long road of transformation and new birth. It is perhaps only the monks in their cells who have hoped to find a womb from which to heal their soul.

Is more attention needed towards the historically feminine aspect of bearing?
Mother Mary bore the Messiah within her womb and she also pondered within her heart. Hester and Mary are structurally made with cells that monks seek to reside. Intellectually this carried into a reflective nature which growth and substantive expression. We find the spiritual dimension of this perhaps most fully developed in Teresa of Avila’s exploration of her Interior Castle.
In her opening discourse she writes,

I thought of the soul as resembling a castle, formed of a single diamond or a very transparent crystal, and containing many rooms, just as in heaven there are many mansions. If we reflect, sisters, we shall see that the soul of the just man is but a paradise, in which, God tells us, He takes His delight.
Let us imagine, as I said, that there are many rooms in this castle, of which some are above, some below, others at the side; in the centre, in the very midst of them all, is the principal chamber in which God and the soul hold their most secret intercourse.

Listen then to how a man, St. John of the Cross in his Ascent of Mount Carmel, sets out on his path of communion with God.

Wherein the soul sings of the happy chance which it had in passing through the dark night of faith, in detachment and purgation of itself, to union with the Beloved.

On a dark night, Kindled in love with yearnings — oh, happy chance! —
I went forth without being observed, My house being now at rest.

In darkness and secure, By the secret ladder, disguised — oh, happy chance! —
In darkness and in concealment, My house being now at rest.

In the happy night, In secret, when none saw me,
Nor I beheld aught, Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart.

There is of course much that overlaps the two writers but the initial images are striking. Teresa understands implicitly that she carries a space to bear communion with God and life. John of the Cross must flee in the night to find his lover. The imagery is darkness, dislocation and passion. Though John experiences this as joy it is often not a well understood and potentially dangerous combination. There is a type of homelessness that many struggle with. This is perhaps a historically masculine experience (though of course unprejudiced in its specific expression). As I just alluded to there remains a volatile and often violent intersection of love and hate in the masculine desire for the feminine (or however one might characterize that communion). This is the rage against not having a home and not knowing how to be received as a guest (or lover). So there remains the siege of borders and staking claims though internally (and existentially) all remains in strife (I am thinking now of my recent viewing of Platoon and the internal vs. external strife explored there). There must first be a peace, and intimate communion apart from (and perhaps sometimes in response to) the judgment of the world. As Hester understood we cannot overcome the world in judgment. There must first be an acknowledgement of the home that is us and acceptance that we may be received as guests. And possibly the hope that new life is possible.


Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Mother Teresa

See here for a great reflection on the life of Mother Teresa.
(Thanks for the tip-off Blade)


Tuesday, September 11, 2007

10 years later

After all the publicity of acknowledging the ten year anniversary of Princess Diana's death (Aug 31) let's not forget Mother Teresa died September 5th 1997. I guess she never quite had the same glamour.


Monday, September 10, 2007

Remains a Traction

If we are fortunate we will encounter still, quiet thoughts; thoughts unadorned or at least modestly dressed. Much of life loses its traction in these spaces. Almost all becomes small and space expands and breath moves naturally like the sea. These times exist but most often come after humbling.

In our waking and clamoring thoughts we are at the work of tower building and border fighting. We have not taken time to see what is past the first wave of thistles in fallow ground. They too have their season and are not eternal. There is a moment of trust in taking your hand off the plow.
And trust is what it comes to. Trust is all of nothing. Trust is the hole in the middle (but it is and must be the middle); the delicate space between two people. This is a space we long to secure with law or force but as we clutch at the other in need or aggression the space dissolves yields itself without resistance.

But recall the quiet awful strength in that absence. Remember that moment of lonely self-truth. Is there something that finds traction in such absence? Let it linger.


Saturday, September 08, 2007

The Great Dead-End in the Sky (revised)

After taking my crash course in transcendence and immanence via Blog U I finally gave myself just enough time to reflect a little on what I was talking about. I came quickly and securely to the conclusion that there is no "outside" but of course many outsides. There are many boundaries to cross and many mysteries of many more boundaries.
I always wondered as a kid whether some astronaut would travel so far into outer space that they would encounter a wall. I pictured this wall overwhelmingly black and monolithic. The problem was that there was always an unconscious question of perspective when imagining this wall. If it was indeed a wall in the grand sense of dead-ends then to what extent did it spread out and how it could not have already been visible from every perspective in every place? It seemed to me that if you encounter this wall of immanence than you will at once be surrounded by it forced into the realization that there never really was any space. But if there is no immanence and no wall to encounter then we remain exploring the outsides of this great inside and the question of God sheds it coat and stretches its arms . . . outward.

And then of course there was the more pressing question for me as a child. If I encountered this wall was there anything with which I could dig through it?

To finally get back to one comment made by N.Pepperell from Rough Theory made below.

The debate then comes down to whether meaning can be grounded only by a reach "outside", or whether something immanent and relational is instead possible.

I can't imagine a non-relational possibility.


Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Responding to Immanence: Part II

To continue my response to the following post Larval Subjects wrote,

To complicate matters more, we can have ontological forms of immanence and epistemological forms of immanence, and various combinations of the two. An account is epistemically immanent if it rejects any form of appeal in establishing a conclusion that cannot be arrived at through reason or some form of experience. That is, epistemological immanence rejects any appeals to privileged esoteric experiences, revelation, etc. Ontological immanence would be the principle that there are no causes outside of natural causes.

I am again troubled with the language used here, especially regarding epistemological immanence. In order to qualify for this category one must “reject” appeals that cannot be arrived at through reason and “some form of experience”. This is further qualified as referring to “privileged esoteric experiences.” Is there an assumption that contemporary philosophy, as engaged by LS, is non-esoteric? Should the moves and arguments made be self-evident? Are those for whom this is not the case defective or simply ignorant? To my understanding reason and experience actually disqualifies such a position.
I am more appreciative of the statement on ontological immanence. Is nature purely a matter of machinery, an (infinitely?) complex interplay of cause and effect? Or does something else “break in” (transcend) this order outside of this system. I would need to have a greater clarity of what is being understood as “natural causes”. If these are of an absolute “material” nature then I would reject ontological immanence as a framework for understanding reality. If however, ontological immanence is simply a reference to all that is always at work (in some manner) in reality then I do not necessarily reject it from a theological perspective.

This is where I would begin to speak of the poetic/sacred as it relates to ontology and immanence. “Reason and experience” would lead us to suspect that there are aspects of reality that are more expansive than materialist readings would account for. This is more than the aesthetic equivalent of nuclear energy. These openings and encounters are not formulaic but are no less real. In matters of aesthetics I will appeal not to the critic but the artist and cite Annie Dillard who introduces the aesthetic into the ontological and takes seriously the movement of entropy described in the Second Law of Thermodynamics. She says that things fall apart at alarming rate and that we humans scurry around trying to put them back together. Dillard takes this in a direction (self-described as “insane”) that she understands it may never have meant to go and suggests that “imaginative acts actually weigh in the balance of physical processes.” Dillard continues,
Imaginative acts – even purely mental combinations, like the thought that a certain cloud resembles a top hat – carry real weight in the universe. . . . A completed novel in a trunk in the attic is an order added to the sum of the universe’s order. It remakes its share of undoing. It counteracts the decaying systems, the breakdown of stars and cultures and molecules, the fraying of forms. It works.

This also reminds me of an actual conversation I once heard. The question was asked, “How big is the universe?” The response came in the form of another question, “Are you including memory and imagination?”


Sunday, September 02, 2007

Further Thoughts on Immanence in Response

In the world of high-stakes blogging there are the quick and the dead. I am amazed at the speed and depth of post discussions that I have come across. I am beginning to realize that much of what is written feeds directly into or out of published or taught material. I thought I would pace myself and respond to helpful comments directed towards my questions and observations. The firs series of responses comes from the discussion that I directed you to earlier (see here).

Following this I will address the comments made directly in the below post.

The first quote is from Larval Subjects who responded sharply to my thoughts that perhaps notions of the sacred (or at least theologically sensitive aesthetics) may be helpful navigating some the issues being raised.
LS responded by saying that,

Philosophy has abdicated itself when it follows this path [of assuming or requiring transcendence] or ends up in a pious crypto-theology suitable to the needs of priests, despots, and demagogues– immanence, which is philosophy’s vocation since Thales’ declaration that the world is sufficient to itself, requiring no mythological explanation or transcendent beyond, always rejecting any sort of obfuscatory and hypnotic sacred.

I find it difficult to respond to this quote. I also find it hard to be defensible. Either position (assuming or defending either immanence or transcendence) desires a superior perspective; an ability to see behind the assumptions of the other. I will leave further commentary until later.

In a number of respects, I draw my distinction between theology and philosophy from Jean-Luc Marion who rigorously tries to define the limit of philosophy. I differ from Marion in holding that theologies that posit transcendence ought to be left behind. I read the history of philosophy as the history of attempts to think immanence. These attempts can be deployed in a variety of ways, can be more or less successful, and the question of whether or not immanence has ever been fully thought is entirely open. By immanence I understand the thesis that we don’t need to refer to anything beyond, or to any intervention outside the world, to explain the world or to account for value. Consequently, when Thales says “all is water”, he is appealing to a principle of explanation that is strictly immanent to the world and is breaking with mythos or narrative explanations of the world such as those found in Greek mythology.

LS desires to discard reference to anything "beyond" the world. This is a very problematic statement. Again, I can't help notice such a position assuming an indefensible perspective; a seeing of the other side of immanence. I appreciate the example of Thales saying that "all is water". But is the Christian doctrine "God is love" any less a statement of immanence? Or conversely is water the "strictly immanent" principle LS takes it to be? Certainly the use of "water" as ontologically basic differs from speaking of there being "turtles all the way down" though perhaps not by much.
What I hope to clarify in my own articulation is that my using words such as transcendence and sacred are not to be pictured as portals to another dimension. Though I do not have a clear concept of a personal God I also do not consider God and spirit to be somehow "outside" of reality. Speaking of the sacred refers to the relational nature of truth and our inability to control or manipulate it. Transcendence refers to the movements and possibilities of "presence". We are boundaried people but that does not exclude the possibility of communion (and also the transgression of boundary).
What I am wondering is if LS's notion of immanence requires "truth" to always be clean, clinical and reproducible. To be scientific in the most modern sense of the word. I would find this much more frightening that the subscription to fairies and goblins as clinical dissection always requires the death or manipulation of the object and not a relationship with her.

Stay tuned LS had much more to say on the matter.