Visibility as an Ouroboros: Switching Gears, Optics & Corporeality
with accompanying questions for the critical artist.
The destructive character has no interest in being understood. Attempts in this direction he regards as superficial. Being misunderstood cannot harm him. On the contrary, he provokes it, just as oracles, those destructive institutions of the state, provoked it… gossip comes about only because people do not wish to be misunderstood.
The destructive character tolerates misunderstanding.
The destructive character knows only one watchword: make room. And only one activity: clearing away. His need for fresh air and open space is stronger than any hatred. The destructive character is young and cheerful. For destroying rejuvenates, because it clears away the traces of our own age; it cheers, because everything cleared away means to the destroyer a complete reduction, indeed a rooting out, out of his own condition.
The Destructive Character by Walter Benjamin
The month is now August but I am writing from a July frame of mind.
In the wake of the season, I had been switching between reading ‘The Education of Little Tree’, ‘When Plants Dream’ and ‘The Delectable Negro.’ I positioned myself deep into a dizzying chamber of sweet knowing, anguish and remembrance.
By the end of the month, I was freshly finished with Ritual: Power, Healing and Community by Malidoma Patrice Somé and Glitch Feminism by Legacy Russell. The tormented questions began to deliver themselves onto the doorstep of my thoughts, promptly and with bare conviction they continue to ask:
What binds us together? What does community mean to me?
Is it the industries that I am apart of? Is it the oppression that I face? Do my intersections of identity automate me into kin with others who share the same cards I’ve been dealt? I shake my head, of course not.
I know that now more than I did this time last year. Again, I am faced to determine, what community truly signifies for me. What synapses does it fire in my own actions and what expectations of others does it construct inside of me? I watch my defintion become sharper, clearer and as it slices away— blocks of stone, friends, lovers and even family members, slather off.
My life is becoming a softly chiseled statue, some marbled reflection of my love, my priorities and most clearly, my boundaries. I sit at my work station, covered in soot with dust plastered across my face. I am submerged as much as I am dignified; I am swelling with pride.
Although the questions are haunting, they are welcomed. I continue to probe myself:
Well, what binds me to the communities I am in?
What binds us together? Is it the industries we are apart of? The oppressions we face? Is it the universal Net 30 experience that we all sit and wait for, for months on end? Is it how we show up to our struggles? Is it the way we organize Gofundme’s to help one another when a Net 30 becomes a Net 90? Is it the bump that we offer one another although we didn’t put down on the bag? If it is, is this enough for me?
Am I thankless for wanting more out of a community I pledge myself to?
Then the questioning takes on a more calculated tone: Who are my comrades? What does community mean for me, for you? No, honestly - take a moment to reflect, write it down if you can - what is your definition of community? Be as precise as possible.
Do it with a friend and then compare notes. Don’t be afraid to wonder.
Are our definitions of community compatible? Are they written on the same page? Are they even in the same book? Are we informed by nearing principles or do we only share biogenetic material? Do we only share our oppressions but not our ideas of liberation? Do you believe in liberation? Do you believe in revolutionary optimism?
Please answer honestly: Do you believe in faith?
[beat]
Is your life guided by the shape-shifting North Star, to accumulate capital? Do you find your life slyly directed by legacies of silence surrounding abuse, rape, exploitation, whiteness— maybe all of the above? Try your best to answer honestly. If you feel a hiccup where you thought you’d be able to answer right away there is where you can start to investigate.
The next question creeps in: How does someone exemplify wanting me dead?
Sinda Perry proposes “The whole concept of visibility assumes that you’re not in a system that wants you dead. I think a lot of people forget that many places we are inserted in want to kill us… We’re not supposed to be there.”1 Tyson Yunkaporta muses “These are the material conditions and you’re not allowed to campaign those, you’re allowed to campaign but you’re not allowed to actually change that.”2
The optics are shifting. Black people are on the cover of Vogue, ID-Mag, Dazed and so on and so on. Black people are the editors, contributors and tastemakers of these houses.
Black people are on the runway. Black people are even the billionaires—
but what else?
In the optic-sense, we’ve made strides. For what it’s worth, representation is a realm we are earnestly weaving shut; fastening unimaginable threaded gap. What if, though, the gap is expanding at the same rate as what is being woven? Does representation further the actual, substantial material conditions of our plights and if it does, is it not only in a way that replicates the hierarchies white supremacy initially introduced? Is it not only in a way to be a response, a reaction, a crooked seat at an insidious table?
From where I am standing and how I am beginning to view these industries, I see now, more clearly than before, that the entertainment industry is geared for a few (as is the basis of capitalism) and is a monopoly multiplying within itself and throwing a few token representatives for different identities. (Black, Brown, Asian, Latinx , Queer, etc,etc).
In other words, it is scraps.
Democratizing ‘it’ could only sully these industries as they thrive off of the concept of exclusivity and a small percentage of carefully selected individuals being a marker of status, power and success. The tokens selected must be complacent regarding the fact that they are trudging on the tracks of unspeakable crimes.
Let me break my interpretation down. I’ll use a crisis that affects us all: the climate crisis.
I quote Jason Hickel “As climate-related damages hit, remember that this crisis is not due to generic human activity: Excess emissions are due overwhelmingly to the core states of the global North, and the ruling classes that control the systems of production, energy and national legislation.”3 My mind begins to dissect Jason’s statement from the bottom up. I think about the implications of using the title “Anthropocene” which is a term coined to provide context re: the social era we find ourselves in where human-kind has had a substantial impact on the planet “causing mass extinctions of plant and animal species, polluting the oceans and altering the atmosphere, among other lasting impacts.”4 Rather than honing in and clarifying that this isn’t a human species problem, as anthropocene irresponsibly implies, but pointing at the direct source of our current climate ailments:
Capitalocene, which “posits that capitalism has been the West's determining ecological/social relation since capital relations became dominant during the “long sixteenth century” (ca. 1450-1650)”5
Chthulucene, a term coined by Donna Haraway to describe a tentacular interpretation, leaving room for all the ways we overlap and intersect with one another and of our current epoch (era) as an amalgamation of the responses we will soon be guided by because of environmental disaster.6 In simpler terms, we should all be preparing to be at the mercy of disaster at some point or another within our own intimate lives. We should all be privy to eventually becoming the refugees we scroll past on our digital devices.
And lastly, my most treasured clarification in response to the vague anthropogenic take, Plantationocene. Plantationocene attributes the devastating planetary conditions we have now to the introduction of plantation logic for the current treatment of our land, our labor forces and all multispecies relations.7 I’d like to take a pause here and insert a gentle interruption, as I know the material presented can be nerve shattering for all of us, the descendants of the subjugated as well as the descendants of the perpetrators. Here is a meditation from the Yoruba Indigenous thinker, Bayo Akomolafe:
“I feel led to offer a libation of thought, of spirit, of hope and pray of what we are doing together, digitally and spiritually in this space[…] This isn’t an invitation to find the truth or to arrive somewhere really at a final analysis of things. This is an invitation to respect decay and the limitations of sense making rituals. If you can put your body in the body of a fugitive escaping the trap and the capture of the slave plantation; there is no time for maps, there is no time for clarity about where this slave is heading. There is only the effort, the attempt. The imperative to get as far as possible away from the plantation.”
[This space is intentionally left blank]
To distill the happenings in a loosely-linear sense, I present the timeline as so:
The climate crisis is a direct consequence of colonialism & it’s birthed son, capitalism which was brought on by the plantation “an agro-industrial system of enterprise integral to the historic rise and growth of capitalism”8 After the abolishment of the transatlantic slave trade, the precedence created by the slave market needed an alternative to supplement the cancerous labour production that was ushered in by chattel slavery and thus, the Industrial Period was born. The Industrial Period is where the global fossil fuel economy was birthed. Fossil Fuels, Fast Fashion, Mass Food Harvesting, Pharmaceuticals and most all corporate activity share the same grandfather: White Supremacy.
When I think about these industries, I squirm as I collect context on the unfathomable blood shed introduced by colonialism. I also begin to contextualize the colonial matrix planted in our collective subconscious:
Coloniality of Being
Coloniality of Gender
Coloniality of Nature
Coloniality of Sexuality
Coloniality of Power
Coloniality of Knowledge
Coloniality of Community
Coloniality of the Afterlife
Everything in our lives is at the mercy of capital which could only mean everything in our lives is at the mercy of colonialism.
Throughout my twenties, my life has revolved around careers that directly deal with quite a bit of attention. I feel at ease, if not downright indifferent, in these spaces as I have had much social practice being a child highly active in sports, on many stages, ballet recitals, basketballs games, audience heavy track meets etc etc. When I wasn’t moving my body, I stirred up a lot of attention for being very, very quiet. I was selectively mute for a lot of my childhood. My mother took me to a few doctors, worried about my non-verbal expression. The doctors wrote it off as me being extremely shy and suggested putting me in activities. Thus, I was placed in every sport or whimsical hobby imaginable. My interests were priority for my mother to nurture, regardless of the sacrifice on her schedule or wallet. Throughout my childhood I had weekly practices for ballet, gymnastics, tennis, track and field, basketball, karate, guitar lessons, acting lessons, anything I could think of, that I wanted to try - my mother made happen for her one and only child. In the hobbies I chose, I fell into them and fell deeply.
I liked jumping, swimming laps around the pool, climbing trees, using my hands to push pistachio shells on glued surfaces. I liked to feel purple slime ooze out of the burrowed crevices of my fingers. I loved science. I loved drawing, coloring, humming and most of all, reading. I think back to it and my inner world was consistently bubbling. The outer world was what felt exhausting and foreign but with my prized hobbies, I felt at peace. The silliest contradiction of my life so far is how I’ve played out a lot of it in front of others, simply because of the interests that I’ve held since youth. Many of these interests go hand in hand to an audience (arts, music, writing, science, body movement etc etc).
My mother says she can’t remember my voice before I was around the age of 10 but in my hobbies, on the field, I could feel myself drift down into my child body and the selective mutism would transmute itself into something mystifying. The gunfire would go off and I was rock hard, present in little Zoé’s skin, racing— baton in hand, focused on the finish line. The curtains would lift and I would zone in quite precociously on the feat at hand: my left toe en pointe, with sweat-inducing concentration, moving along to the strings playing on the classical score. During tennis practice, dreary noises would zip into themselves and I could finally hear my own breath. I remember feeling giddy in anticipation to hear the sound of the speeding tennis ball bouncing off of my racket as I smacked it with a backhand stroke. Where the world was uncertain, my hobbies were predictable sources of information; of noises and body movements that I looked forward to perfecting each week. I look back fondly at my first interests for they provided me structure, introducing me to an embodied expression of living. These hobbies became cathedrals for me and I’ve knelt on bended knees for the current they carry in and out of me all the way into adulthood. I didn’t have the language for it back then, none of us did, but I know now that what I was experiencing is an element of Monotropism, a type of flow state: heavily guided by all consuming hyperfocus and reliant on the non-pathologizing understanding that “at any one moment, the amount of attention an individual can give is limited.”9
When I did start speaking up it was because I had more to say and a new set of sparkling peers to mimic. Fresh from living back home in my district in Jamaican countryside, I returned to south Florida invigorated from being around little black children like me. The dark-skinned, red-copper-skinned, brown-skinned Jamaican black girls with hair parted and braided like mine, moved with spirit and confidence that I couldn’t pick up in the eerie suburbs of Central and South Florida. My fourth grade class tucked in the stony mountains of St. Elizabeth taught me not only how to speak but more importantly, how to jest. In a way, I was as much a serious child as I was curious. I was coming into an understanding of the world around me but only after years of serious observation and curiosity -driven play. I merely needed to be coaxed by the right group of girls who had bubbles neatly wrapped around their plaited hair, just like me.
I grew into my joviality well after learning that seriousness attracted a lot of unsafe attention. Adults could become touchy if they deemed you interesting enough for your watchful disposition. I did not like to be called pretty or reminded that I was as beautiful as my Grandmother Rachel, who some deemed the prettiest dark skin woman in our district. If adults weren’t commenting on my quietness, they were sure to comment on my desirability or how my hair did not match the darkness of my skin. As a child, I mostly wanted to read or be left alone if I wasn’t with a trusted loved one or at practice. Attention, and beauty, mostly felt like an inconvenience and sometimes, a hazard.
After spending the fourth grade (and half of fifth grade) in Jamaica, I began to train myself to make friends and to tell at least three jokes a day. If I didn’t meet my quota by the end of class, I’d beat myself up about it and promise to try harder the next day. I enjoyed the humour of my Jamaican classmates and I had never felt so arrested by charm and laughter until attending Munro Preparatory. So, I decided I wanted to be like them.
Jamaicans are a mingling assortment of things— being unconsciously rib-tickling is among them.
To avoid the question ‘Why are you so quiet?’ I learned very young how to sink into any social situation and be very, very observant on the inside even if I had to perform jest for those around me on the outside. It was easy to disarm others with humor and I did like making people laugh as I myself liked having friends around who could make me giggle uncontrollably. At around the age of 10 years old, humour became a special interest of mine. I studied it the same way I studied my ballet techniques or practiced my backhand and eventually, friends would remark that I was their funniest friend. I’d beam and make sure to not lose my title with the sneaky aloofness that could slither in if I followed my thoughts or a distant sound or a shimmering leaf. Humour helped me to stay engage with the world around me and pinned down my wandering attention span. It was also a sure way to get the attention off of my ‘oddities’ that I now understand were a reflection of undiagnosed autism. In other words, I was living on the spectrum. See, ADHD. See monotropism. See me now, a late-diagnosed AuDHD10 adult. :)
A lot of my understanding comes from me watching the world around me in cicada-imbued humid wetlands and rural countrysides. I spent many days with no choice but to watch animals or gaze at how sunlight hit seawater. I was prone to getting stuck under trees for hours, entranced by the way leaves would shimmer when the wind and light would hit them just right. During my undergrad years, there were these massive tree’s near the heart of my campus. I’d sit under them between lectures, watching the leaves glisten as I listened to my most prized playlists. My first tattoo was a small tree on my left ring finger that I got out of the garage of some local Coconut Creek tattoo artist when I was 15. It was in honor of the hours I was spending smoking weed, watching leaves and listening to Nostalgia Ultra by Frank Ocean. My mother spotted it in church not even a week later as it peaked through my poorly constructed plan to hide with a series of rings until I reached 18. I was grounded but delighted by the concept of permanence. The tattoo placement was inspired by a lyric from American Wedding off of Nostalgia Ultra:
Well you can have my mustang
That's all I've got in my name
But Jesus Christ don't break my heart
This wedding ring won't ever wipe off
I wanted ink on me that could never wipe off and so, I was introduced to a new hyperfixation: permanent ink on the body. Over 20 tattoos later, the interest has engraved itself onto me, I have tattoos that signify chapters of my short life— deaths, new life born, break ups, special interests, names memorializing the dead, portraits of animal companions I’ve loved and lost and the flora that has gifted me understanding after each era of life.
I am extremely dedicated to specific forms of information and mostly enraptured by anything that touched my senses in an ephemeral way. Through my Autism diagnosis I now understand why something will capture my attention and hold it for years, as it is common for many of us living on the spectrum to become engrossed by our special interests. I love trees, leaves, summer phosphenes, and cacophonous symphonies. There was a MMPORG11 I was heavily into as a kid called RuneScape. We played it for years, my cousins and I, all strengthening our skills. I worked diligently tending to the skill sets in the game, fishing for hours on end, caught in the same hyperfocus rhythms that overtook me when I read or went to practice. It’s sort of like the chicken and the egg concept. When I think back to it, I could’ve been really good at this game because of my dedication to skill at a very young age or maybe RuneScape was one of the things I loved in my formative years and geared me to be patient concerning hours of practicing in front of a digital screen. I don’t think it matters much as I’m here now with careers that resound my childhood days, editing and splicing digital files for hours on end, in front of a warm, buzzing screen. I look at my compounded practices and interests over the years, both the physical ones and cerebral, as permanent ink on the allegorical skin of my existence; all apart of me, willing me towards whom I exercise my autonomy to be.
Who I’ve been is who I was and who I’ll always become
Instagram Caption by Ishwara Grant Harrison
I don’t feel pigeonholed by a community or by a craft or an abusive ex-lover. I feel more sure of my ability to go from solid to liquid to gas or to whatever else needed for my livelihood, my joy and my life. I think that’s what the most ordinary people of the past have always done; finding ways to subverse and ridicule these hierarchies. It’s why we have the infamous hilarity of Black Twitter at our beck and call with each new tragedy presented to us. I feel very confident in my ability to move and shape-shift just as capitalism, racism, transphobia and homophobia have shape-shifted throughout the centuries. I carry a torch for the ways these archaic atrocities morph. I think you can always learn a thing or two from whatever (or whomever) you stand against. I’ve learned how to mirror, humiliate and condescend white supremacy.
I’ve learned how to hock spit and laugh in the face of these structures.
Back when I had it, I felt like I was playing with my food when I poked at Instagram’s algorithm. It was the same way I watched my kitten, Raven, play with her catch before striking the poor reptile, cold.
Dead.
The more I feel silenced about transgressions, the more creative the spirit gets. Adeniji, a former lover, often poked fun that Elegua, an Orisha deity known for his trickster capacity, lived in and around me. The creativity and play that springs up when I see disaster naturally feels emblematic, an archetypal allegory of sorts, that I’ve devoted myself to travel this timeline of love and death. I look up to anyone who can do it, but more importantly word it, and like the Jamaican school kids, I mimic the ones I admire. Toni, James, Frank, Bell and the countless others who’ve taught me to simultaneously hold pain and pleasure with firmness, where trembling hands use to be, in the dead center of faithful palms.
Banned off of Instagram? Nice— I think it’s the ideal time to get curious about what my practice can look like off the internet. Shadowbanned for my support of Palestine as a free state? No problem, I can only assume that many of my stances won’t mull over well with a conglomerate social media ring. I made my IG on my 17th birthday: March 29, 2012. A decade and some change later and I know how to advocate for myself, and for others, concerning sexual violations, oppression and exploitation.
I’d say I had a good run.
Maybe I should throw a party for my recent exit off of the app? Maybe my closest friends and I should take a trip? I can always leave my page up and put it on my private so when I’m 37, if I’m gifted the privilege to draw breath for that long, I can go through the posts like a graveyard of my youth. Or maybe I can keep it public and architect it like a forgotten art exhibition leaving others to see the rolling dust bunnies if they come across the handle. The possibilities consume me. I revert my handle from @fka_TWEAKS to @wheresfrankocean, the handle where my niche social media fame began to grow. I look forward to one day dusting off the cobwebs spun around the building blocks of my art practice. I also look forward to leaving it all behind.
As I figure out how I’d like to present my work for the next chapter of my life, I return to my first love, books. I read the words of the ones before me, knowing I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to hold the itchy inquiry: How can I subverse all these structures, these destructive legacies and ethically share my gifts?
As someone who has been going viral for a myriad of reasons since I was a teenager, taking up less space on the web feels refreshing in the chambers where my micro niche social media fame felt stifling and exhaustive. I have been apart of these niched communities and have held much visibility within them since before I felt comfortable calling myself an artist. No doubt, my positioning has been ridden with desirability politics in fluttering combination with my talents. No doubt that featurism, texturism and a body that is thin, makes up a large part of my experience, and how others experience me, on the internet.
Ancestor Malidoma Patrice Somé (may he rest in power) suggests that power and visibility are intrinsically tied together in a Western frame of mind. In the Dagara tribe and in a ritualistic context, visibility threatens because visibility enslaves.12 He explains sternly, yet gently, that power gained is also a power that must be maintained; it will need to be fed and nourished. Inadvertently, we eventually become a servant to the powers and visibilities we hold. Our lives become an ouroboros, feeding the insatiable loop that is gaining more traction, more visibility, expanding our reach, competing with our past numbers, whether it be our social media engagements, our yearly incomes, or our generalized sphere of influences; we all have to decide who we pledge our service to, our life’s work, our breath.
I don’t want to pledge my breath to be in service of any industry. I don’t want my life’s work to be dependant on the music or fashion world. I want my art to stand vertically, grounding itself deeply in the roots where I lay my feet and where my ancestors have laid theirs. I want my expression to transcend the morphing legacies around me.
I want something that can’t be wiped off.
It feels special to hold a little over 100 subscribers on this newsletter, to have a twitter following that lends me a more intimate web experience. My chartless YouTube page with 4 music videos and around a thousand views is pleasantly quaint. My work is unshrinking, brimming with the dark room of my inner world. I watch numbers, charts, engagement go up into mischievous smoke as it dawns on me, the numbers do not signify the quality. The earnest of the work shared stands independent of the numbers gathered.
“I aspire for this space to be the quietest corner on the internet…”
reads my YouTube bio. I am figuring out how I’d like to present myself and it feels special to have the time and space to draw new meaning.
I look at my art practice for the spinned iridescent thread it is. To transcribe pain into proverb— I know is a gift, as my longtime friend, Adri, reminds me often. I am happy to be the loom in whom spirit feeds it’s experience to. I am happy to know the textile churning out of me is inalienable, unbreakable and perpetually en route. My ancestors believe time is in the shape of a circle, it is their belief and mine that life and death is an endless sphere and we are circling an eternal loop.
Here is what the Kongolese Cosmology taught me: I am going-and-coming-back-being around the center of vital forces. I am because I was and re-was before, and that I will be and re-be again.
Diâdi nza-Kôngo kandongila: Mono i kadi kia dingo-dingo (kwènda-vutukisa) kinzungidila ye didi dia ngolo zanzîngila. Ngiena, kadi yateka kala ye kalulula ye ngina vutuka kala ye kalulula.13
My dedication to representation and identity politics have all but vanished. I often wonder how many of us will fall into the ornamented gamaka traps and become the same conservative gatekeepers of colonial powers we rally against now. I am praying that I travel through this life with the centre of it all; prioritized and held close to my heart. I no longer want representation as much as I want breath. Representation feels like a lazy bandage for the spurting wound caused by white supremacy. In the month of July alone, two queer people have died. A transwoman of color, Mary Mora, at the tender age of 26, found dead in her apartment and O’shae Sibly, 28 years old like me, fatally stabbed as he vogued while Beyonce’s ode to ballroom played from the car speakers. A group of my peers, 11 in count, were maced and temporarily blinded following a hateful interaction at Papasitos, NYC. The victims: Ebon, Mimi, Mahogany, Yahaira, Josie, Mossi, Nana, Velvet, Sydney, Sadé and Jaira. It is a renaissance of murderous stakes against my community. Now more than ever, I’m starting to see that visibility does the exact opposite of protection. I am watching a familiar backlash that the majority will lash onto it’s marginalized citizens. I am watching queer people, just like me, being murdered and attacked in the streets.
I’d like for us to take a pause here and say a prayer for both Mary and O’shae.
[This space is intentionally left blank]
Thank you all for journeying with me through this piece; I’ll end my line of thinking here for now with some selected questions for the critical artist.
with love,
always
TWEAKS
What gaps are you bridging in your art? - Mario Alfonso Gates II
Who are you calling into conversation with your work? - Adeniji Asabi-Shakur
The senses are very important in your work. What do the senses mean for you? How does this relate to intuition? - Danielle Bruggerman
What parts of your life are you in delusion about at this very moment? There’s sure to be something. Investigate. - Zoé TWEAKS Denessa
Are you hiding mediocrity behind your dense language? - Adeniji Asabi-Shakur
I do genuinely believe all resistance is needed and with that being said, who are we doing it for when we perform joy or exploit our pain while falling prey to tokenism? If the consensus at the core of these industries is that black people are inherently subhuman, then who wins when one of us becomes a token for representation? - Zoé TWEAKS Denessa
Sinda Perry, Glitch Feminism: A Manifesto by Legacy Russell
Tyson Yunkaporta on Unbranding Our Mind: For The Wild Podcast Ep. 235
Compensation for Atmospheric Appropriation by Andrew L. Fanning & Jason Hickel
What is the Anthropocene and why does it matter? By Katie Pavid
The Shock of the Anthropocene: The Earth, History and US by Jean Baptiste Fressoz and Christophe Bonneuil (Reviewed by Steve Knight on Marx & Philosophy Review of Books)
Tentacular Thinking: Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Chthulucene by Donna Haraway
Introduction: Plantationocene From The Series: Plantationocene by Maan Barua, Rebeca Ibáñez Martín and Marthe Achtnith via journal.culanth.org
Sidney Mintz, Plantation Legacies via edgeeffects.net
Me and Monotropism: A unified theory of autism by Fergus Murray via The British Psychological Society
AuDHD is a term coined by many of us living on the spectrum who have both traits of ADHD and Autism.
MMPORPG stands for multiplayer online role-playing game.
Ritual: Power, Healing and Community by Malidoma Patrice Somé Pages 44-45
African Cosmology of The Bântu-Kongo: Principles of Life & Living by Kimbwandende Kia Bunseki Fu-Kiau, PH D.