[NH] NHC afternoon class: Hands-On Torah
Aug. 13th, 2007 12:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
magidAs always, if there are terms that aren't familiar, feel free to ask; I'm not up for major footnotery.
Also, there are verbal descriptions of things that might be uncomfortable reading for vegetarians.
My afternoon class was about the making of sifrei Torah (and, indirectly, the other things a sofer STaM writes, mezuzot and tefillin), taught by Linda Motzkin (At the institute, no one used their honorifics, which I found interesting. She's the rabbi of a congregation in Saratoga Springs, sharing the job with her husband, but since no one tended to call her 'rabbi', it feels more appropriate here to use her name without the title. She was also a calligrapher for years before learning sofrut from R. Eric Ray, who was niftar two years ago.).
Each day we had a bit of text to read about the process of making a sefer Torah, along with something active to do, plus thinking about her overarching question of what makes something holy.
Most of the texts were excerpts from Keset HaSofer (a compilation of the laws of sofrut), and always included translation, so people could learn no matter what their level of Hebrew. Interestingly, the Hebrew was the usual vowel-free kind, except for the dagesh marking shin/sin, so it wouldn't be easy for people working on their Hebrew. Other sources included Mishnat Sofrim and Masechet Gittin 45b.
The first day, we read about processing animal skins to make parchment. It must be done lishmah, with the intent of making a sefer Torah, from the time it is put into the lime, saying aloud that one is doing it for this purpose. And it can only be from animals that are kosher species, though they need not have been shechted for the skins to be kosher parchment. So cows, goats, sheep, or deer are all possible sources (also buffalo and giraffe, I suppose, but I don't think those are used on a regular basis). Bird skin doesn't work, and fish skin is ruled out no matter the species because it keeps the fishy smell even after processing.
Linda showed us photos from the beginning of the process, taking deer hides and getting the remaining meat off the inside, then the hair off the outside, which is done partly by soaking in lime first. It's a messy job; she wears garbage bags to minimize the mess. The smell, however, is harder to avoid. Interestingly, she's a vegetarian, so the only time she deals with anything like this is when she gets a call that there's a deerskin available, that would otherwise be thrown away by the hunter.
Once it's been cleaned off, it's soaked in running water for a day, then wrung out and stretched on a frame (if there isn't time to process it, it can be dried to use later, and we got to touch a dried one, which still had some shape to it). Linda brought a skin that had been soaked, and we went outside to wring it out then stretch it.
Some people had problems with the smell when she took it out of the bag; I didn't, and it made me wonder whether my sense of smell is duller than others' (and whether my sense of taste is concomitantly less sensitive as well).
After a statement of intent (required only before the soaking in lime, but permissible at many stages), two people held a long, thick dowel, and Linda draped the hide over it. She folded it towards the center, rather like folding a bandana, somehow turning it into a loop as she did so. Then someone took a smaller dowel, put it in the loop, and kept turning in one direction, to twist out as much liquid as possible. The next person turned the dowel in the other direction, then the whole loop was rotated a bit so it would all be wrung out as much as possible. I was one of the later people, and it wasn't easy turning, but I still got some water out of it.
Once everyone who wanted had a turn, the class got the portable stretching frame out. At first glance, it looked a bit like a square metal bed frame, with holes evenly spaced around the perimeter. Each hole had a kind of metal clamp on the inside, connected to a (Drat; blanking on the right word here. A metal doohickey that could be locked at any point along the rope that connected the two pieces.) by rope, each piece a couple of feet long.
Linda unfolded the skin, and it didn't look at all impressive: it wasn't large enough, and it was discolored in places, plus there were some holes (not bullet holes, apparently, because then there would be blood on the skin around them). First, two people on opposite sides attached clamps along the long axis of the hide and pulled it taut, and we saw how much it stretched. Then a second pair of clamps were attached along the other axis, and pulled taut. Or tried to pull it taut. As it turned out, the hide was too long for the frame (she had two wooden frames that might have worked better with this hide, but they aren't portable), so she cut some off each end (people with dogs were encouraged to take the bits as chew toys), and we started again. This time the two axes were pulled, then we affixed the rest of the clamps around the edge of the hide. We tightened them, and I was amazed at how much the hide stretched. The plan was to have everyone walk around the frame tightening each, but we were running out of time, so most only had half the class pull them (ie, about eight people). One or two clamps wouldn't stay on, and in a couple of places the edge of the hide had to be rolled under to avoid the clamp causing a hole.
Linda said that it took a day or two to dry, depending on how much water had been wrung out and what the weather was like. As it turned out, 'our' hide was dry in a single day, but we didn't get back to it for two days.
The second day we focused on kulmus, the permissible kinds of pens for writing sifrei Torah. The two possibilities are quills (using feathers from kosher species of birds) or reeds, which can include phragmites australis (what we used, partly because it's very findable, and grows throughout the US), or papyrus, or other similar sorts of plants. We learned that the pen should be beautiful (though whether that means it writes well or is pleasing to look upon was left unclear in the original texts).
And then we played with Exacto knives. First we peeled the outer bark of the phragmites off, then cut the reed about 2 cm above one of the knobs in the shaft. This wasn't easy, since it's hollow and has a tendency to split. Then we made diagonal cuts, and trimmed more away to have a flat writing edge, then cut on the diagonal. Finally, the writing edge of the pen had to be split a little, so the ink would work its way in. It's not so difficult to describe (and we had detailed printed instructions with diagrams), but it was tricky to do. I had to start over a bunch of times when mine split too much, or I didn't get a good writing edge, or the final split split too much. One person got so frustrated she flung hers across the room (surprisingly, one of the adults; the teens in the class were much more even tempered). Which meant that most of the class didn't even start on cutting a feather pen, though we could take a feather or two and an Exacto knife to cut it if we wanted to. (I didn't want to take a knife; I don't know why I'm so paranoid about this kind of knife, but I am.)
The third day we started with the alphabet. There's a lot to know about the font that is used for writing sifrei Torah (and mezuzot, and tefillin, and megillot, and such), and it's traditionally used only for these purposes, so calligraphers who aren't sofrim aren't familiar with it either. Linda gave us two handouts showing all the letters, describing how important it is that they're precisely as shown... except that they're not completely the same, and these were Ashkenazi script; Sefardi letters have some differences from these as well. So it all has to follow the rules, but there are some different versions as well (like halachic Judaism as a whole :-).
Linda talked about the units used to measure letters, which is the width of the pen (aha! nonstandard units! perhaps I could write something about this for an elementary math class in a day school!). So having a smaller pen means smaller letters. Small means using less parchment, but it's harder to fix, too. And there are times that having big letters is better, such as for the names of Haman's sons in Megillat Esther, where each name takes up an entire line.
Unlike English writing, which sits 'on the line,' Hebrew sofrut hangs 'below the line,' with the line (actually a scored indent on the parchment, not an actual line) being the top of the letters. Most of the letters are three penwidths tall, ie, three penwidths below the line. The final forms of letters (kaf, nun, peh, tzade) and the kuf hang two more penwidths below that. The ayin and peh are four pens tall (a little below the rest of the letters), while the tall tall lamed reaches three pens above the line (one for the weight of the horizontal brushstroke, two for the vertical stroke).
Some letters haver targim, crowns of three little lines on top. They are shin, ayin, tet, nun, zayin, gimel, and tzade. At least one tradition says to do the (top) base stroke first, then the crown coming out of it, then the rest of the letter. A few letters have single line crownlets on top, including bet, dalet, hey, chet, yud, and kuf. I don't know why the crowns at all, but they're beautiful.
I decided to practice all the letters with a calligraphy pen on parchment paper first; they're very different from any other letters I've drawn. Some of them flowed fairly well after a couple of repetitions, while others are still not anything like as flowing as the sample letters. Doing this made me realize how the final letters really work in Hebrew, with the final forms having the bottom of the letters be vertical strokes rather than horizontal ones (the final forms in script are very different, and not related at all). I still don't know why some letters have final forms, but they're not just random other letter-forms after all. Cool.
About the scoring: lines are scored in the parchment six penwidths apart (side note: this means that when cutting a new pen in the middle of a project, it's important to make sure the new one is the same size as the old one). The implement used for scoring the parchment can't be made of base metal, as all other implements touching the final parchment can't be of base metal, since those metals are used for weapons (among other things). So scoring can be done with something plated in silver or gold, or using a bone of a kosher animal, or a piece of a plant (twig, etc), or a stone, or glass.
After we had spent some time working on the alphabet, we worked more on the hide from the first day. Before class, Linda had sanded it once, so when we went to bring it outside, it was already much whiter than it had been, also fuzzier. We carried the frame out, also the sander and a brush to get the dust off. Linda said that 3M brand sandpaper is without nonkosher glues and such, so it is kosher for using on the parchment (she also said that R. Ray had told her that, she'd forgotten, then had to rediscover it questioning people at the hardware store; she described how surprised the people at the hardware store were by her questions, and I thought of getting data for a work-thing that involved the same kind of thing.). I think the first grade of sandpaper is 60, then 100. Later on, when the parchment is being readied for actual writing, it's sanded with 200, then some finer grits, all the way to 1000, or even 1200.
Someone wielded the sander, and I brushed off as much of the dust as I could, using a brush that looked a little like a panpipe with brushes coming out of it (the brushes being goat hair; anything that touches the final parchment must be of a kosher species). The parchment could take some heavy brushing, and got cleaner. My clothes, on the other hand, were not being held taut, which made it pretty much impossible to use the brush to get the dust off. I ended up having to go back to my room and rinse my clothes out; I was covered in deer dust.
At the end of class, Linda measured the parchment, and said that it would likely be able to have five columns on it. Which is to say, that it would be usable for the sefer Torah she's writing, which wasn't a given, if it had been too small or holes had happened in some awkward spot. A single parchment has to be at least three columns wide, and can be a maximum of six columns wide, so a five-column parchment is pretty good. She cut the rough shape out of the middle (it would be trimmed to the precise shape later, so for this she could use a knife of base metal, borrowed from one of the teens). We got a class picture framed in the remaining parchment before undoing all the clamps and taking the edge piece out. We got the frame back to the pre-stretching format, ready for use again; Linda was taking the frame home that night.
The fourth and final day, like the others, felt like there wasn't nearly enough time to do everything in. There was talk about the act of writing, and the necessary intent. I tried cutting a turkey feather into a quill, which I got most of the way right, but not completely, so I ended up using my best reed pen instead (side note on quills: found feathers can be cut into pens immediately, but those from slaughtered animals must sit for a year, to emphasize the point that the animal was not slaughtered for its feathers). I practiced using the reed pen on parchment paper, then Linda let people choose pieces of parchment to write on. She had visited a parchment factory in Israel, and they'd given her some pieces of goat parchment, so there were pieces of that (with interesting colors on the 'wrong' side), pieces of deer parchment she'd made previously (a little coarser, but still thin and flexible), plus the edges of the parchment we'd processed, which was much, much thicker than the other pieces.
I wasn't totally happy with my reed pen, but it worked well enough, and I very much wanted to write something on actual parchment with it. I cut a small piece from the edge of 'our' parchment (not easy to cut with scissors, especially the edge), and took my time working on just one word, trying to get the letters and crowns just so, even without scoring a line. I chose the word 'neshama,' which felt auspicious for a first word. (OK, it was also the first word in the phrase I'd hoped to write, back when it seemed that there would be time for such things...) The letters ended up a bit fuzzy; I hadn't sanded the parchment, and I hadn't put on gum sandarac (to help the ink absorb), which was fine; I was using regular ink, not the kosher ink, after all (there was some kosher ink there, but I didn't want to use it yet, and yet turned into no time to use it later). Since it wasn't for ritual use, I also decorated the hide edge of the piece with some little dots (which would've been totally forbidden had I been writing a Torah; even the sofer's name is considered improper and extra, and would make a sefer Torah unfit for use).
If someone digitally camerically enabled would take a picture for me, I'll post a photo of what I wrote.
At the very end of class, Linda realized she hadn't talked much about ink, so she got out the different ingredients and gave a crash talk on it. I don't remember enough of it, though I do know that gall is one ingredient (but I think R. Eric Ray's book discusses it, and I have that somewhere at home).
The parchment we'd helped with is going into Linda's community sefer Torah, one that she's started and wants to have as many people as possible help with. I like the idea of the process becoming more accessible, though the writing will stay sofer-only, of course; that's not a job for amateurs. I got the merest taste of all the halachot involved, and there's quite a lot, ranging from always copying to saying the words out loud to the need to immerse ritually before writing any of the names of the Divine.
It's fascinating, all of it.
Also, there are verbal descriptions of things that might be uncomfortable reading for vegetarians.
My afternoon class was about the making of sifrei Torah (and, indirectly, the other things a sofer STaM writes, mezuzot and tefillin), taught by Linda Motzkin (At the institute, no one used their honorifics, which I found interesting. She's the rabbi of a congregation in Saratoga Springs, sharing the job with her husband, but since no one tended to call her 'rabbi', it feels more appropriate here to use her name without the title. She was also a calligrapher for years before learning sofrut from R. Eric Ray, who was niftar two years ago.).
Each day we had a bit of text to read about the process of making a sefer Torah, along with something active to do, plus thinking about her overarching question of what makes something holy.
Most of the texts were excerpts from Keset HaSofer (a compilation of the laws of sofrut), and always included translation, so people could learn no matter what their level of Hebrew. Interestingly, the Hebrew was the usual vowel-free kind, except for the dagesh marking shin/sin, so it wouldn't be easy for people working on their Hebrew. Other sources included Mishnat Sofrim and Masechet Gittin 45b.
The first day, we read about processing animal skins to make parchment. It must be done lishmah, with the intent of making a sefer Torah, from the time it is put into the lime, saying aloud that one is doing it for this purpose. And it can only be from animals that are kosher species, though they need not have been shechted for the skins to be kosher parchment. So cows, goats, sheep, or deer are all possible sources (also buffalo and giraffe, I suppose, but I don't think those are used on a regular basis). Bird skin doesn't work, and fish skin is ruled out no matter the species because it keeps the fishy smell even after processing.
Linda showed us photos from the beginning of the process, taking deer hides and getting the remaining meat off the inside, then the hair off the outside, which is done partly by soaking in lime first. It's a messy job; she wears garbage bags to minimize the mess. The smell, however, is harder to avoid. Interestingly, she's a vegetarian, so the only time she deals with anything like this is when she gets a call that there's a deerskin available, that would otherwise be thrown away by the hunter.
Once it's been cleaned off, it's soaked in running water for a day, then wrung out and stretched on a frame (if there isn't time to process it, it can be dried to use later, and we got to touch a dried one, which still had some shape to it). Linda brought a skin that had been soaked, and we went outside to wring it out then stretch it.
Some people had problems with the smell when she took it out of the bag; I didn't, and it made me wonder whether my sense of smell is duller than others' (and whether my sense of taste is concomitantly less sensitive as well).
After a statement of intent (required only before the soaking in lime, but permissible at many stages), two people held a long, thick dowel, and Linda draped the hide over it. She folded it towards the center, rather like folding a bandana, somehow turning it into a loop as she did so. Then someone took a smaller dowel, put it in the loop, and kept turning in one direction, to twist out as much liquid as possible. The next person turned the dowel in the other direction, then the whole loop was rotated a bit so it would all be wrung out as much as possible. I was one of the later people, and it wasn't easy turning, but I still got some water out of it.
Once everyone who wanted had a turn, the class got the portable stretching frame out. At first glance, it looked a bit like a square metal bed frame, with holes evenly spaced around the perimeter. Each hole had a kind of metal clamp on the inside, connected to a (Drat; blanking on the right word here. A metal doohickey that could be locked at any point along the rope that connected the two pieces.) by rope, each piece a couple of feet long.
Linda unfolded the skin, and it didn't look at all impressive: it wasn't large enough, and it was discolored in places, plus there were some holes (not bullet holes, apparently, because then there would be blood on the skin around them). First, two people on opposite sides attached clamps along the long axis of the hide and pulled it taut, and we saw how much it stretched. Then a second pair of clamps were attached along the other axis, and pulled taut. Or tried to pull it taut. As it turned out, the hide was too long for the frame (she had two wooden frames that might have worked better with this hide, but they aren't portable), so she cut some off each end (people with dogs were encouraged to take the bits as chew toys), and we started again. This time the two axes were pulled, then we affixed the rest of the clamps around the edge of the hide. We tightened them, and I was amazed at how much the hide stretched. The plan was to have everyone walk around the frame tightening each, but we were running out of time, so most only had half the class pull them (ie, about eight people). One or two clamps wouldn't stay on, and in a couple of places the edge of the hide had to be rolled under to avoid the clamp causing a hole.
Linda said that it took a day or two to dry, depending on how much water had been wrung out and what the weather was like. As it turned out, 'our' hide was dry in a single day, but we didn't get back to it for two days.
The second day we focused on kulmus, the permissible kinds of pens for writing sifrei Torah. The two possibilities are quills (using feathers from kosher species of birds) or reeds, which can include phragmites australis (what we used, partly because it's very findable, and grows throughout the US), or papyrus, or other similar sorts of plants. We learned that the pen should be beautiful (though whether that means it writes well or is pleasing to look upon was left unclear in the original texts).
And then we played with Exacto knives. First we peeled the outer bark of the phragmites off, then cut the reed about 2 cm above one of the knobs in the shaft. This wasn't easy, since it's hollow and has a tendency to split. Then we made diagonal cuts, and trimmed more away to have a flat writing edge, then cut on the diagonal. Finally, the writing edge of the pen had to be split a little, so the ink would work its way in. It's not so difficult to describe (and we had detailed printed instructions with diagrams), but it was tricky to do. I had to start over a bunch of times when mine split too much, or I didn't get a good writing edge, or the final split split too much. One person got so frustrated she flung hers across the room (surprisingly, one of the adults; the teens in the class were much more even tempered). Which meant that most of the class didn't even start on cutting a feather pen, though we could take a feather or two and an Exacto knife to cut it if we wanted to. (I didn't want to take a knife; I don't know why I'm so paranoid about this kind of knife, but I am.)
The third day we started with the alphabet. There's a lot to know about the font that is used for writing sifrei Torah (and mezuzot, and tefillin, and megillot, and such), and it's traditionally used only for these purposes, so calligraphers who aren't sofrim aren't familiar with it either. Linda gave us two handouts showing all the letters, describing how important it is that they're precisely as shown... except that they're not completely the same, and these were Ashkenazi script; Sefardi letters have some differences from these as well. So it all has to follow the rules, but there are some different versions as well (like halachic Judaism as a whole :-).
Linda talked about the units used to measure letters, which is the width of the pen (aha! nonstandard units! perhaps I could write something about this for an elementary math class in a day school!). So having a smaller pen means smaller letters. Small means using less parchment, but it's harder to fix, too. And there are times that having big letters is better, such as for the names of Haman's sons in Megillat Esther, where each name takes up an entire line.
Unlike English writing, which sits 'on the line,' Hebrew sofrut hangs 'below the line,' with the line (actually a scored indent on the parchment, not an actual line) being the top of the letters. Most of the letters are three penwidths tall, ie, three penwidths below the line. The final forms of letters (kaf, nun, peh, tzade) and the kuf hang two more penwidths below that. The ayin and peh are four pens tall (a little below the rest of the letters), while the tall tall lamed reaches three pens above the line (one for the weight of the horizontal brushstroke, two for the vertical stroke).
Some letters haver targim, crowns of three little lines on top. They are shin, ayin, tet, nun, zayin, gimel, and tzade. At least one tradition says to do the (top) base stroke first, then the crown coming out of it, then the rest of the letter. A few letters have single line crownlets on top, including bet, dalet, hey, chet, yud, and kuf. I don't know why the crowns at all, but they're beautiful.
I decided to practice all the letters with a calligraphy pen on parchment paper first; they're very different from any other letters I've drawn. Some of them flowed fairly well after a couple of repetitions, while others are still not anything like as flowing as the sample letters. Doing this made me realize how the final letters really work in Hebrew, with the final forms having the bottom of the letters be vertical strokes rather than horizontal ones (the final forms in script are very different, and not related at all). I still don't know why some letters have final forms, but they're not just random other letter-forms after all. Cool.
About the scoring: lines are scored in the parchment six penwidths apart (side note: this means that when cutting a new pen in the middle of a project, it's important to make sure the new one is the same size as the old one). The implement used for scoring the parchment can't be made of base metal, as all other implements touching the final parchment can't be of base metal, since those metals are used for weapons (among other things). So scoring can be done with something plated in silver or gold, or using a bone of a kosher animal, or a piece of a plant (twig, etc), or a stone, or glass.
After we had spent some time working on the alphabet, we worked more on the hide from the first day. Before class, Linda had sanded it once, so when we went to bring it outside, it was already much whiter than it had been, also fuzzier. We carried the frame out, also the sander and a brush to get the dust off. Linda said that 3M brand sandpaper is without nonkosher glues and such, so it is kosher for using on the parchment (she also said that R. Ray had told her that, she'd forgotten, then had to rediscover it questioning people at the hardware store; she described how surprised the people at the hardware store were by her questions, and I thought of getting data for a work-thing that involved the same kind of thing.). I think the first grade of sandpaper is 60, then 100. Later on, when the parchment is being readied for actual writing, it's sanded with 200, then some finer grits, all the way to 1000, or even 1200.
Someone wielded the sander, and I brushed off as much of the dust as I could, using a brush that looked a little like a panpipe with brushes coming out of it (the brushes being goat hair; anything that touches the final parchment must be of a kosher species). The parchment could take some heavy brushing, and got cleaner. My clothes, on the other hand, were not being held taut, which made it pretty much impossible to use the brush to get the dust off. I ended up having to go back to my room and rinse my clothes out; I was covered in deer dust.
At the end of class, Linda measured the parchment, and said that it would likely be able to have five columns on it. Which is to say, that it would be usable for the sefer Torah she's writing, which wasn't a given, if it had been too small or holes had happened in some awkward spot. A single parchment has to be at least three columns wide, and can be a maximum of six columns wide, so a five-column parchment is pretty good. She cut the rough shape out of the middle (it would be trimmed to the precise shape later, so for this she could use a knife of base metal, borrowed from one of the teens). We got a class picture framed in the remaining parchment before undoing all the clamps and taking the edge piece out. We got the frame back to the pre-stretching format, ready for use again; Linda was taking the frame home that night.
The fourth and final day, like the others, felt like there wasn't nearly enough time to do everything in. There was talk about the act of writing, and the necessary intent. I tried cutting a turkey feather into a quill, which I got most of the way right, but not completely, so I ended up using my best reed pen instead (side note on quills: found feathers can be cut into pens immediately, but those from slaughtered animals must sit for a year, to emphasize the point that the animal was not slaughtered for its feathers). I practiced using the reed pen on parchment paper, then Linda let people choose pieces of parchment to write on. She had visited a parchment factory in Israel, and they'd given her some pieces of goat parchment, so there were pieces of that (with interesting colors on the 'wrong' side), pieces of deer parchment she'd made previously (a little coarser, but still thin and flexible), plus the edges of the parchment we'd processed, which was much, much thicker than the other pieces.
I wasn't totally happy with my reed pen, but it worked well enough, and I very much wanted to write something on actual parchment with it. I cut a small piece from the edge of 'our' parchment (not easy to cut with scissors, especially the edge), and took my time working on just one word, trying to get the letters and crowns just so, even without scoring a line. I chose the word 'neshama,' which felt auspicious for a first word. (OK, it was also the first word in the phrase I'd hoped to write, back when it seemed that there would be time for such things...) The letters ended up a bit fuzzy; I hadn't sanded the parchment, and I hadn't put on gum sandarac (to help the ink absorb), which was fine; I was using regular ink, not the kosher ink, after all (there was some kosher ink there, but I didn't want to use it yet, and yet turned into no time to use it later). Since it wasn't for ritual use, I also decorated the hide edge of the piece with some little dots (which would've been totally forbidden had I been writing a Torah; even the sofer's name is considered improper and extra, and would make a sefer Torah unfit for use).
If someone digitally camerically enabled would take a picture for me, I'll post a photo of what I wrote.
At the very end of class, Linda realized she hadn't talked much about ink, so she got out the different ingredients and gave a crash talk on it. I don't remember enough of it, though I do know that gall is one ingredient (but I think R. Eric Ray's book discusses it, and I have that somewhere at home).
The parchment we'd helped with is going into Linda's community sefer Torah, one that she's started and wants to have as many people as possible help with. I like the idea of the process becoming more accessible, though the writing will stay sofer-only, of course; that's not a job for amateurs. I got the merest taste of all the halachot involved, and there's quite a lot, ranging from always copying to saying the words out loud to the need to immerse ritually before writing any of the names of the Divine.
It's fascinating, all of it.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-08-28 07:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-03 07:23 pm (UTC)(Nice userpic, btw.)