Ingredient 20 - "Failing"

Twenty ingredients in, and we have "failing."  It's gotta come up somewhere on The List.  No way around it.

Failing is an interesting plot line, and by "interesting" I mean: a totally necessary ass-rape...until we step out of our own prison and can feel free to drop the soap anywhere we please, without consequence.

We are pretty much taught from infancy that failure should feel bad, but at the same time we are taught that failure is meant to do good things for our character.  Supposedly, it makes us stronger, smarter, more compassionate... YET, if this is true, I have to say, the world is filled beyond its firmament with successful people.  Not much failure here on Earth!  No sir.  Not based on those guidelines.

Forgive my pessimism (or not...whatever), but I just don't see a whole lot of people actually learning from their mistakes.  On the contrary, what I see (mostly) is a planet over-run with two-legged egocentric monstrosities so hell-bent on NOT failing that they are pretty much dropping the proverbial ball all over the place and blaming every one else when they inevitably trip over it.  We are a sad, hot mess.  And, I blame the concept of "failure" (I also blame "blame," but that's another blog-post).


I've done a lot of thinking about this, and while there are many trinkets I could pull out of my toy box and share, this is a blog, not a novel; so I will pull out only the toys with the most alluring shape, size, and battery power: Let's play with prehistoric tendencies and...GOD.  Didn't someone say "ass-rape?"

Yep, God and failure = toMAYtoe/toMOToe. 

I am pretty sure that our cycle of ridiculously passive-aggressive self-obliteration MIGHT (ironically) have something to do with the religions of the world.  I mean, shit: if god and his angels are going to smite me for not living up to whatever "plan" happens to be laid out before me, it's likely that I am going to suffer some severe acid reflux - at the very least - when failure looms as a constant "maybe" to Life's never-ending challenges.  That's the kind of thing that will make you run from yourself...in circles.



I understand that there was a time when people did not have the science and technology to explain seemingly wrathful acts of nature, so they did the figuring and could only come up with punishment as a plausible answer.  What else could they do but start going over all the ways that they - as individuals and/or communities - had FAILED the entities controlling such magnificent things as lightening and tornadoes and tidal waves and fire.  It makes perfect sense, really.


But C'MON!  We have meteorologists and iphones now.  We are only a couple of centuries away from putting God on speed-dial.  So, why does the concept of failure still have us so shamelessly corralled? 

Systematically (and again: ironically), fear resulting from a lack of basic comprehension lead to the inevitable human contemplation of failure, which created a whole lineage of god-concepts.  Yet when understanding began to abound, religion remained a source of power-lust, and so the use of fear resulting from the threat of failure's disciplinary tactics is what built "organized god-wrath," which turned out to be quite the efficient fencing of "the herd."  And, it was such an easy thing to do because...

CONCEPTUAL FAILURE IS A HUMAN CONDITION. 
There isn't much we can do about what is inherently built into our DNA.  We either kill the gazelle or die of hunger.  We either rule the food chain or become the food.  If we fail, we die.  Our very chromosomes DEMAND success.  Right?   Maybe.


Maybe not...


MAYBE, we learn to rise above the terms of the "human condition." MAYBE, "the terms" exist just to be denied. MAYBE, we choose will over primal instinct.


And MAYBE, we reconcile OurSelves with our opinion of what is and is not Divine.

Ingredient 19 - "Obsessing again..."

"Dreams and rivers and haunting addictions

Lovers and hypocrites and dwindling prescriptions

Turmoil and sunsets and purpose and pain

Oceans and graveyards and secrets and rain

Forever and children and Angels of Sin

Mother and mountains and OBSESSING AGAIN..."

I cannot believe I have only come this far on The List.  Damn.  At least I picked a seemingly endless source of blogspiration.

Alrighty, then:


"Obsessing again..."  The subject matter changes, but the habit (?) does not.  Is obsessing a habit?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Perhaps a sickness?  I don't know.  I'll obsess about it later.

For as long as I can remember, I have been an obsessive thinker.  It's not worry.  That's different.  It's more like the mental equivalent of having to flip a light switch a certain number of times: the thought being the switch.  But, the difference between my form of OCD and having to wash my hands ten and a half times or touch my pillow three times before taking a dump, or having to kick the neighbor's cat before pulling out of the driveway is: these are all OUTWARD manifestations of crazy.

I would argue that - while outward crazy creates a lot more room for judgement - INWARD crazy is more difficult to live with.  If a friend and I are going out to dinner, for instance, and I feel the need to count a hundred and twenty-six carpet fibers before I can walk out the door, at least my friend is totally aware of my crazy and can sit silently by while I engage in ritualistic insanity.  BUT, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to first find the correct sequence of thought-wording (which can only be accomplished by having the same semblance of said thought over and over again until the correct arrangement is stumbled upon), and THEN have to complete the sequence WITHOUT interruption when nobody even knows that such complete and utter craziness is afoot?  It feels kind of like this:

And also like this:

So, I take meds with the full understanding that I cannot expect anything close to full understanding from anyone that has not endured this kind of torment.  The meds make me forget just how bad it can get; then I start feeling brave - like I can exist without chemical realignment. But, my reality quickly puts "baby in the corner," again.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Ingredient 18 - Mountains

Ah, yes...Mountains.  The sight of them has always quickened my pulse and opened my heart.  It was, in fact, nothing but my love for the majesty of a mountain that earned it a place on The List of my life's "ingredients."  So what more is there really to say about the matter?

Then, I thought about my approach to the "Sunset" post, and I considered accepting the same self-challenge in composing the lyrical wonder that is the mountain...except, under the weight of one major difference.  With "Sunsets," I endeavored to imagine which words I would use - for someone that had never beheld the gift of sight - to describe the immense beauty and inspired vision of our sun dropping below the watery edge of our world.  With "mountains," I will attempt to do the same, only this time I will challenge myself further by seeking a way to bring the colossal dream scape that is a mountain into reality for someone that has neither beheld sight...nor sound. 

Unable to hear my words; unable to see my gestures?  How could I possibly deliver the proverbial package to this one? 

After much thought, I think I have figured out the perfect way to effectively portray the inspiration bequeathed to us by the mountain.  I believe I have uncovered a profound reactionary design that lends itself to the majesty and metaphor of the mountain. 


And it goes like this... 


I would take the person - let's call her Helen Schmeller for all intents and purposes - by the hand and lead her up the long and steep mountain path...on foot.  We would take periodical rests against the evergreens that would surely excite her sense of smell. 


We would take the time to lightly tumble and play, as the feel of the soft snow in contrast to the hard rock beneath would undoubtedly bring life to her sense of touch, as it changed from smooth to jagged and everything in between. 


We would make our way up the mountain in this fashion; taking it one slow, steady, and comfortable step at a time...moving in and out of shadow and sunlight, absorbing the differential sensation of cold and warmth in a matter of mere moments.  Ah, such is life.


Finally, we would find ourselves on the precipice, where I would encourage her to take all the time she desired to breath the clean, thin air.  I'm almost certain she would feel inclined to spread her arms - recognizing them as the wings they are - in acceptance of the moment, humbly accepting an embrace by Mother Earth and Father Sky...a Family reunion. 


As it is with the ocean, the mountain brings us closer to god, and there isn't a need for sight or sound to feel that kind of wonder.

But, also - as it is with the ocean - the mountain is a testament to life: unrelinquishing in its sermon.  So, it is at this point - shortly after her slow dance with majestic peace and  spiritual validation - that I would push her.  Yes.  I would shove her off of certain ground, knowing that as she tumbled head over ass, stumbling and clamoring her way back down, she would do so with the skill imparted to her by the gift of other heightened senses, and by faith.  By the time she reached the mountain's base, she would have a complete understanding of its size, its sanctimonious beauty, and its paradox. 

As for me, I would take the lift back down and wait for her as I sipped a nice cup of java...knowing, of course, that my days of being pushed down "the mountain" are far from over...but neither are my days of dancing at its summit.

Ingredient 17- Mother

During the month of April this year, I interrupted the flow of my listed ingredients to participate in the A to Z Blog Challenge, which was a gosh darn hoot.  However, try as I did not to duplicate any of my List items whilst in the throes of my alphabetical hoorah, I failed.  Inadvertantly, I wrote about my inspiration for "mother" in A to Z: Letter K (it's a real ray of sunshine; you should check it out).

Aaaaaanyhoo, rather than go down that dark path again - with its dank over-hanging vegetation just waiting for the chance to suck my soul dry - I'm going to address "ingredient 17" another way.  A whole other way... 

Today, I'm acknowledging a mother of another kind: Mother Earth.

A hot, fiery center determining polarity-
Synchronous movement
with an emotional satellite
that changes with every sunset.

Do you doubt it?
We are made in her image.

A river of magnetism & turbulent odds
Set valleys at rest
between dueling fault lines
and pressure points of swift change.

Do you doubt it?
We are made in her image.

A vast layer atop seething vulnerability-
A course of destruction
only sometimes denied by way
of the cracks sealed of water and ice.

Do you doubt it?

The smallest part of her foundation
is all we ever see...

We are made in her image.


And,

Lingering fools in love
with reflective surfaces
forget why they linger at all
under stars that could crush them
even before burning them;
but instead, the stars:
they choose to shine, and light the way.

Pray child, pray...
and usurp your usurpers,
leaving left only the clues placed
just where The Mother birthed you;
Ever in labor she is, on your behalf-
where every good mother stays.

Though she, too, is born to
a womb, guarded.

The living Center and the Glory of Siblings past
await you, but still, beware the poisoned arrow...
the poison and the archer having not yet met.

Do you doubt it?
Made in her Image,
we shall see it with her Eyes.

Ingredient 16 - Angels of Sin

If I am being completely honest (and why be anything else unless screaming with delight upon hearing Milli Vanilli's Girl, You Know It's True), I have absolutely no idea what was on my mind when "angels of sin" made it onto The List more than ten years ago. 

Was I thinking of the government?  Was I thinking of my mother's eighteen personalities?  Perhaps I was considering the mere three or four pebble-sized fecal drops that are rendered after an hour of vein-popping straining?  Maybe the mysterious words, "angels of sin," were inspired by the sleep-farts that my husband blasts against my leg every night: he, the angel...the ass-blastations, the sin? 

I just don't know.


Truth be told, I was a different person a decade ago...different, but the same.  I am the same in that I have always had a sense of humor that runs the full spectrum: from mildly dry drippings of sarcasm to inappropriately assembled satirical collages made up of overlapping (and hardly distinguishable) bits of anger, intrigue, skepticism, fear, cheer, cynicism, and good ole mockery.  AND my general disposition of finding most human beings foul underlings that have recently wriggled their way out from the cosmic anus and right into the arms of meglomania is also still fully intact.  A decade later, I am still desperatley trying to reconcile my heart and soul with my surroundings.  So, "angels of sin" could very well have been a three-word tribute to the alluring creatures that sit on opposing shoulders, posing as my conscience's posted sentinels. 


I cringe to make the angel/devil analogy here, because if life has taught me anything, it's that their stations are interchangeable; so, I have an "angel of compassion" and an "angel of sin." Both angels.  Both required to help me navigate the terrain of life without completely losing my sanity.

"I am but an angel in human form: Becoming the More that I am by contrast of the Less that I am not." -Aubree Luke

However, as interesting as this may sound (to me, anyway), I seriously doubt that I had anything of the sort in mind when I made The List of "ingredients" over ten years ago.  I just wasn't that poetic in my self-examination at the time...which serves well as a transition point into the many ways I am different after a decade of life's soft encouragements and hard shoves...


I am not the same person in a whole lot of ways - most attributed to my daily medications.  The main difference is that I can tolerate a bit more dumb-assery than the me I used to be.  Though I do not trust or like most people, I recognize a certain connection between us.  I am also VERY different in that I am more accepting of myself and the immense amount of work that is involved as I continue to get to know me.


When I consider the short but mysterious euphemism, "angels of sin," now - in this moment - I am inclined to first consider a personal and inter-personal sort of sanctifying field trip for the soul.  Are we not ANGELS of sin: beginning the trek as silent spectators, absorbing the surrounding details so as to grow in courage and shrink in resignation as we make our way to center stage?  As we strive to discover what awaits us on the other side of the tight-rope to which we have already committed our forward motion...are we not Angels of Sin?  With each uncertain step we teeter and cry out, but the glare from the light that blinds us to our destination somehow - ironically - gives us focus.  We regain our balance and hush our profanities.  And in all of this, are we not Angels of Sin: perfect in, through, and by our very imperfections within this traveling circus?

Sin, in its purest rite, does not condemn us.  Sin, in form of Divine Design, teaches us through doing...and re-doing...until what's Right is no longer of subjective origin.

Ingredient 15 - Children

Now, there is little doubt that I was thinking of that damned Whitney Houston song when I decided to add "children" to my LONG-ass "List."  But, quite frankly, I'm in the sort of mood today that has me washed ashore, laying lackadaisical-like in the shallow surf of life.  In other words, if you are wanting to read all about how children are a gift from god, and how they are the only sure element that makes up our collective future, you are going to be disappointed...and probably a little appalled by this post (it's blog-posts like this one that make so many people follow me "anonymously," no doubt).

Anyhoo, I think children are annoying and needy.  Sure, they are cute...well, SOME of them are cute...which brings me to a quick point of detour: I'd like to take a moment to thank baby jesus and all the saints in the sandbox for Facebook!  I don't wear my emotions on my sleeve; I wear them on MY FACE, and this can present quite the problem when seeing a newly ejected vaginalworm for the first time; however, thanks to Facebook, I can see pics of the bug-eyed beast before I meet it in person, so I can aptly practice and perform my "aw, it's adorable" expression in preparation for the day that the new mother (SEVERELY blinded by love) shoves the drooling, wrinkled, shit-machine into my arms.

Technology is truly a gift...that will eventually destroy us all, but in the meantime: a gift.

Thank you, Facebook, for making me seem much nicer than I really am.

So, where was I?  Oh yes.  Children are annoying and needy...even the cute ones, and ESPECIALLY the ugly ones.

 Let us begin with the newborn stage:  FIRST of all, how is the ratio of food-intake to shit-output even possible with these little fuckers?  They drink milk (or formula)...that's all.  So, please explain to me how LIQUID produces diapers filled with turds that a grown man would envy. 
Seriously...once, my infant son made a diaper-deuce that was an exact, true-to-scale replica of the Vatican (true story), and he rendered this monster marvel from an intake of breast-milk!  WTF?

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**NOTE: From this point forward, everything I say applies to most children, with the immense exception of my awesome son, who pretty much launched into full sentences with a tinge of a British accent when he was eight months old.  At six months old he was performing the Electric Slide and The Running Man without missing a beat.  At four months, he had a better understanding than I did of the universal remote control that worked a series of half a dozen electronic devices, and I'm pretty sure he had just about worked out Einstein's Theory of Relativity right before his first birthday.**

Rather than bore you with a list of all the things that pretty much prove that children are a result of questionable decision-making, I have compiled a couple of descriptive examples, apropos of this post's purpose as set forth by my current apathetic mood.  They go like this:

When I am at the grocery store, and I catch a small child staring me down from its comfy little buggy seat (lazy little shits), I always do one of two things (if the mother isn't looking): 1) I make a scary face, or 2) I quickly divert my gaze and do my best to pretend I don't notice the turd jockey (cause you KNOW that it is steady sitting on one) before the mother can force an interaction between me and her annoying offspring.  Please note: I have only made one child cry with my scary faces, and I have never made that particular face again.  The minute I saw the baby's lips curl down and begin to quiver, I ditched the Ben and Jerry's and high-tailed it outta there.  I heard her wailing from the next aisle over.  I felt bad...for leaving my ice cream behind.

I still think that kid was a bit of a drama queen cry-baby, but whatevs.

Most of the time, pretending not to notice the wet and sticky sounding coos and gagas emitting from the child is sufficient, and I can go about my business without interruption.  BUT, every now and then, there is a mother so proud of her slobbering, blathering DNA recipient that she says something like, "Oh.  Who do you see, Susie?  Is that a nice lady?"  Ha!  No.  No it's not.  At this point I pretend to be in a bit of a hurry and intensely focused on my high-calorie, high-fat snack of choice.  But, these kinds of mothers NEVER give up: "Oh.  I bet she would love to see your sweet smile...just as soon as she's done gathering her boxes of cookies." 

So now I'm obligated to turn, smile, and act surprised.  "Oh my goodness!  Where did YOU come from?  Aren't you just adorably...small."

"Yes.  She's small for her age, but she is so smart, aren't you Honey-Bear?  Show the nice lady how you can say 'mama'..."  A long pause while the child just sits there looking slightly retarded and shitting herself. 

"Go ahead, Honey-Bear.  Say, 'maaa-maaa.'"   More silence as I watch the disgusting creature blow bubbles from her mouth and nose.  The mother, now feeling as if she needs to prove something says, "Oh, you're just being shy...you silly little thing." 

I think to myself: Bitch, your child just looked me dead in the eye while mashing a turd out.  She is now smiling at me as she jams a finger into each nostril and lets loose a boorish kind of grunt, all the while, still making eye contact.  This child is a lot of things, but SHY ain't one of them.

So, I offer a crooked smile - constructed of half fake-nicety and half-disgust - and begin to roll my buggy away.  "Have a nice day," I say.  And just as I am almost home-free in making the turn from the end of the aisle, I hear the mother exclaim with what is obviously an exaggerated volume.

"She said it!  Good girl, Honey-Bear.  You're going to be the smartest First Grader in school this year!"

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When I visit the home of a friend or relative that is "blessed" with the presence of a small child, I will do one of two things - depending upon my mood: 1) I will happily engage the child in play and things of a silly nature, or 2) I will give them the evil-eye which serves to warn them that they better not so much as look at me.  I admit that most of the time, I partake in option one...until my superior intellect grows bored of the dummy.  Regardless of my mood, though, the parents almost always want to put their child's language skills on display, and just like every other visitor, I reluctantly play along:

"Tell everyone what you did today, Bobby," instructs Mom.

Bobby says, " Izwintedatwelendidapoo."  And the little bastard is looking directly at me, which lets everyone else off the hook and means that I am the chosen one to decipher and respond to the gibberish.

I think to myself, Thank God I caught the word "poo," and I respond, "Oh my goodness! Did you go poo-poo like a big boy?"

Bobby looks confused, and his mom looks at me as if I am the village idiot.  She says, "Um, no.  We went to the pool today."  And the bitch scoffs at me!  Then - as if to prove that I am the dumbass, rather than her stupid, stupid kid that obviously has no language skills at all - she commands Bobby to tell me about "what he's going to do with paw-paw later that evening."

Bobby says, "Pawdawnatasamebitedatweteneyesdawntomaseabibooenit."

Here's some free advice to new parents: when your child says something to someone, and that same someone looks to you in a questioning manner, this is a clear indication that only YOU can understand the little fucktard, and therefore translation IS REQUIRED.  Also, if you think other people cannot smell the load that your kid is toting in his pants, you are INcorrect.  Perhaps because "Bobby" is of your gene pool, you do not find his body's waste product to be offensive.  But IT IS SHIT, and as such: IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT to the rest of us.  Just FYI.

Two-Take Exchange - Swap 3

Hello Basement visitors: Jenn again...back with the third Blog-Swap.  I chose the image this week, and my "take" on it is posted below.  Aubree (creator and author of Akashic Aisles: The Basement View) has - in turn - placed her interpretation of the same image over on my blog, Embrace Your Crazy.

Please feel free to leave comments on either (or both) post's perspective(s) to let us know how you were (or were not) moved by the images chosen for each swap. 
And now, number three:

One % - "The Gang and government are No Different" -Jane's Addiction

 

Take a look, folks!  This is what has become of the world and also what some are teaching their children.  The latest generations seem to be getting lazier, more self indulgent and greedy beyond comprehensible belief.  And, don’t even get me started on their feelings of entitlement. 

I am consistently blown away at the product of our future leaders:  born merely for the purpose of consuming.  When is enough, enough? 

There are people striving to make ends meet, and then there are rich, fat bastards...oh let’s say the government...who do nothing except take up immeasurable space, dribbling crumbs on their chests, and holding remote controls in their hands, just pushing peoples buttons.  Never once will it cross this blob's mind to get off his lazy ass - to do anything.  Why should he?  It’s too much of an inconvenience, because he’s been waited on hand and foot by his family...hell, the world.

The media and government are perpetuating consumerism, slothfulness, and ill-mannered spawn.

Pretty soon, the lard-ass (big brother) will suffocate the poor soul he is crushing…us.   Don’t you notice, or are you too busy watching American Idol to see what’s really happening in our beautiful nation?

Speaking of our poor souls: we can barely move, and we remain ashamed of our emaciated brethren.   Is it our choice or circumstance that brought us to this point?   Perhaps some of us come from different cultures - some that are banished from the worlds’ riches and are forced to endure war, pain and suffering.  Each will never fathom the other's point of view, and the glutton would never choose to care.

When will humanity wake up and understand that we cannot continue the ravishing path we’re creating and realize that we are all one?  God help us all.

“Greed is the gift for the sons of the sons, hear this prayer of the Wampum- this is the tie that will bind us”… Tori Amos

                           

Ingredient 14 - Forever

Note: If you are new to this blog, pls start at the bottom (blog #1 is on a previous page) or use the 'archives' section on the right of the page to navigate to the oldest blog first, and work your way up to this one. You will likely find the flow of descriptive language and metaphorical purpose easier to follow and more meaningful. OR, you can just throw caution to the wind, and do whatever the hell you want: begin here, pick something random, or hang out back in the April-archive with the A to Z Blog Challenge. Despite your method of entry, thanks for stopping by the Basement. Please excuse the mess...

Forever.  Well, well, well.

As I frequently refer back to The List to find which ingredient is ready to be tossed around in the ole mental mixing bowl along with long-winded phrasing, overly embellished metaphors, and a gluttonous amount of over-worked adjectives and punctuation, I can't help but see how much is left to write about (which, I venture, makes the last line of The List most succinctly applicable).  AND SO...I have to be honest about my "brilliant" blogspiration: this shit is going to take FOREVER!

My eyes keep wandering up to the last line of my Blog's description regarding its own purpose: "...unless I grow bored of it before then; in which case, it will be just another crumpled idea left to litter the antigravity of cyberspace." 


Damn it.

I'm a lazy writer.  I don't know why this is, but it is.  What's really crazy is that I have a special gift that most writers would kill to have: I do not get writer's block.  If you are a writer, you understand that this is nothing less than a super-power, and you are also nodding in agreement that, yes, you would indeed kill to have it.  My point is: I have no sound excuse for my complete lack of ambition.

I currently have a four book series in the works.  A lot of research has gone into this project.  I have written a decent portion of the first book, but the ugly truth of it is that I should have finished Book One and at least be halfway through Book Two by now.

I have these whole other worlds living inside of me; worlds filled with people that I love and others that I loathe, and they are all depending on me to not only bring them into full existence, but to tell their stories with grace and honor.  I can feel them getting impatient, and god knows they have every right to be.  Even the persons that have yet to be born - in fact, especially those that have yet to be born - are squirming and scratching on the walls of my mind, yet I continue to skillfully circumvent their demands.  Why?!  It certainly isn't because I don't want to bring these people and their surrounding worlds to life.  I do.  I think.


But not enough, it seems; in fact, as I type this, I am understanding that my problem begins and ends with a bout between want and need.  There is truly a NEED to record the fates of these other "fictional" worlds deeply fitted into my soul and psyche, but the truth is: I lack THE WANT, because if more of the want was there, the ambition would be, too. Right?


But - unfortunately for the inhabitants of these other worlds relying on my ambition for their survival - Need just doesn't quite present as passionate an adventure as the seductive taunts of Want.  In this way, humans can be so stupid.


I am human.

Even as I write this, my mind's groping fingers fondle "forever" as if it is a real thing.  It's not...certainly not if one fully considers the limitations placed on the human condition by the fabled account of time we keep.  Sure, my soul may be a glittering speck of Forever, but my soul can't write a fucking book. 

Even still, I tempt Forever's mere notion by placing it in the hands of the moment and arrogantly assuming that there will be more moments from whence this moment came.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.



Time is a tricky (and wholly human) thing.  It gives and gives, until it's ready to stop giving, and it has no obligation to warn us when we are about to be checked off of its "recipient list."  Forever does not exist for humans.  It is a cold concept that warms us with unrealistic flames of a promised future.  The one thing we all KNOW is an illusion, is the one thing in which we find the most complacency. 

Tomorrow won't be shocked when it doesn't come, my friends, because Tomorrow knows nothing of itself.  This is a truth that makes complete sense, right?

Wanna hear a riddle that is an absolute ass-curdling truth?  Here it is: we know less about tomorrow than we know of anything else...yet we continue to feel entitled to it.  

"The Mayan's 2012 ain't got nothin' on Tomorrow." -Aubree