Daniel Adler's Internet Warehouse is The Internet Warehouse

Guys, I moved. Blogger just doesn't get the respect from Google I need. When you Google search my name, you'll see that it's now at the bottom of the page, at number 9. I used to be number 6. This is one reason I'm moving to Wordpress.

Another is I want to change the format of my blog. I want you to be able to contribute and so it will now be The Internet Warehouse. Feel free to email me at danielryanadler@gmail.com if you want to submit. In the meanwhile, all of my content from Daniel Adler's Internet Warehouse is up on Wordpress at DanielRyanAdler.com. This will be better for my personal SEO and it will be more professional - cleaner and sexier. My personal site, DanielTheWriter.com is still up and running. Thanks for understanding and I'll see you soon.

Rembrandt and Classic Literature: Finnegan's Wake, The Unnamable

He painted this at 25.

Yesterday I went to the Frick to see the Rembrandt and School exhibit. Rembrandt was a master by the time he was 25. If I had to choose one painting from the Frick to have in my home, it would be the Hans Holbein of Sir Thomas More. The thing about this museum is that it has representative works by most of the masters of Western art.

Now I'm sitting at Barnes & Noble (an activity which will become historical within a few years after all the bricks and mortar bookstores close) reading Finnegan's Wake. Very unlike Rembrandt stylistically. It's like Joyce was just talking out loud for six hundred pages, messing around, and he wrote it all down. Except it took him seventeen years.

Meanwhile I'm almost done with Beckett's The Unnamable, from his prose contribution to classic literature, Three Novels. When you run across three page sentences, it's easy to see the influence of the elder on the younger. The intensity's there, but I tellya, it can get tiresome after a while. That doesn't mean I won't incorporate those stylistic tendencies, especially into a passage I call the big city feeling, which my old man has helped me with writing. I find these techniques very good for building tension, in the same way a Woody Allen joke does.

General Advice in the Manner of Kenneth Koch

I have an immense collection of tennis balls. I had misplaced them a couple of years ago and now my great uncle, fine man that he is, has returned them to me. All covered in the same wiry green hairs. Some have black marks from being beaten on the court, though they remain neon. I have thousands.

So my uncle believes. In reality, I am a terrible tennis player. I used to play when I was in sixth grade, but the best thing that came from that was my all white K-Swiss sneakers I wore throughout Middle School. 

Don't play tennis in the rain. And when you invest in a nice pair of tennis shoes with light soles, make sure that they are fashionable enough to wear off the tennis court. Tennis is a very difficult game, more athletic than golf, although in golf you can watch the trees bounce in the wind. 

I dreamed (which is the proper way to spell it, rather than the British version, dreamt, the  version I learned when  younger because my mother is Irish) that I went to a club filled with many people, many women. At eleven o' clock all of the people stopped to watch the latest TV show and I woke up before it ended. 

Today I seek a book of classic literature, poetry, from the late Kenneth Koch, my favorite poet of the second half of the 20th century. 

The Pale King and Post Postmodernism

We wait. Wait for moments where we’re no longer waiting, like when we’re having sex or are on vacation. And this goes on for about 80 years until we wait to die.

How do we combat self-imposed boredom? We think. And we feel. We think so much because we feel so deeply. And that’s how most people live. Waiting for about 95% and 5% living. There may  be occasional balances but for the most part it is skewed thusly.

A 50/50 balance is hard. Very hard. I can’t even imagine 100% living – maybe that’s what Buddha and Jesus did? It requires practice and meditation. When we find ourselves waiting and living in the waiting, this is called excitement. But excitement can quickly build expectations, which when disappointed mean that you lived maybe for a while, but prematurely returned to waiting.

This is what The Pale King seems to be about, according to Lev Grossman’s review. Which is why it sounds so good. DFW couldn’t deal with waiting anymore. But he knew about the imbalance. Infinite Jest documents it with the aid of postmodern gewgaws, which make it the postmodern novel, but which also detract from the human side of the novel. It aligns more closelywith the ironic farce postmodernism esteems. Perhaps The Pale King is one of first true forays into post postmodernism. I’ll let you know.

The O.G.s of Bushwick

Bushwick is cracking lately. Arancini Bros. has killer rice balls next to Wreck Room, The Morgan’s soft opening this weekend was a success, and Cafe Gia on Irving and a row of other little restaurants may make Irving St. the ideal walk in the neighborhood.

Morgantown is like a college campus. It is literally a small town, except without a mayor, although we nominate Cat Agonis, for her vast knowledge of New York, and in order to help promote her forthcoming genre-blurring novel, Chicken on the Hudson.

All these people be coming outta the woodwork and new hordes of youngsters be moving in. Just wait till summer. Hell, just wait till next year. I’m going to be an O.G. of Bushwick pretty soon. 

All these new joints in town make it seem like we never have to leave. And we don’t, really. Because our thriving arts culture is at the heart of it all. Those who know about Bushwick have the vague idea that it is semi-desirable. Boy, they have no idea.

Portnoy's Complaint: A Review

This book is outrageously funny, obscene, and smart. I learned about twenty new Yiddish words. Roth most closely mirrors my techniques of post postmodernism. And he gets to the heart of human psychology.

It is a classic, a masterpiece of postmodern literature in its digressive, rambling style, a modern Tristram Shandy. And it is the same kind of novel I am writing. Except that mine is not going to be as Jewish, understandably. Nor will it be as ironic.

For irony was inimical to postmodernism, due to the sense of prevailing closure at the end of last century. Today things are a touch more Romantic, in the Shakespearean sense of fairy tale and magic, rather than the 19th century sense of childhood purity and sublimity (though that applies too). The self-deprecation in the story is part of why the self-consciousness is so effective. It isn't until the story's last few pages when Portnoy gets to hear the truth of what he and the society he grew up in really are about. And to compound the narrator's pathetic nature, his flaws are told by a Sabra.

So check it out, I'm sure you'll enjoy it, if not for the postmodern narrative style, then for the masturbation scenes.

I'm Gonna Love Like Jesus

 I've been thinking a lot about love lately. Both the personal microtial sense of man and woman, or friend and friend, and about the macro level of loving all of humanity. Like Jesus.

I'm gonna be like Jesus. If I can love like an ubermensch and give my love to everyone, let it flow from my arms when I walk down the street, or into a cafe, or when I encounter the stares of a full subway car, I will become incredibly powerful. Just letting everyone feel my energy, know that I love them, no matter their color, size or even how the look at me, just meet their energy with unconditional love, the way you'd love your parents or your best friend, shoot it at them, so that they know they can tell me their problems if they wanted to - that is how I will love.

I mean that's the way Jesus did and people still follow his practices two thousand years later. He was the best lover who ever was. As Matthew pointed out, that's what Christianity implies when they say that God is in you. That's why Catholics eat the body and drink the blood of their savior, to get closer to him.

It's going to take practice. Lots of practice. But like writing, I'll get better the more I do it.

Infinite Jest is The Postmodern Novel

Half of Daniel Adler's college thesis was that Gravity's Rainbow is the postmodern novel. In 1973, it epitomized a new form and style. Its allusiveness was sporadic and overwhelming and Pynchon's understanding of life and ability to form stories remains admirable.

But when all is said and done, Pynchon was born in 1937. He grew up during WWII and the end of the modernist movement. The War was of a different era.

DFW on the other hand, born in 1962, was raised during the mind-numbing suburban expansion of the 1970s. He saw the "Me generation" rise, flower, and die. And Infinite Jest is a tribute to the future of the world he knew.

With the publishing of The Pale King, DFW's career is over. We can begin to evaluate him with regard to the masters. Fifteen years have passed since the publishing of Infinite Jest, enough time to think about how its grandiose muscles have flexed even harder since his suicide.

The footnotes are what make this book representative of postmodernism. Gravity's Rainbow is dazzling, but easy to misunderstand and get lost in. Infinite Jest is incredibly dense and packed with information. All of the allusions are explained in incredible detail. With the existence of the internet, DFW was able to include all the research and simulate how future earthlings would acquire information.

How long until DFW shows up on college sylllabi?

Subjectivism

By now you should be familiar with all my different modernisms: postmodernism, post postmodernism, metamodernism, etc. And while these all have bearing upon my work, I think it's most important to articulate that my work is about one person. Hot Love on the Wing explores one subjectivity.

Whereas modernism was about exploring different subjectivities objectively, and postmodernism was all about rejecting the possibility of such a thing, this new movement is all about the individual.

Why do we all Tweet whatever we're doing, update our Facebook status, let our friends know where we are on Foursquare, blog on Blogspot? To get noticed. To be understood and accepted.

We're all curating our online experience to each other. Whoever is most popular, has the most friends, followers, is the coolest. Even capitalism is in on it when businesses are vying for Twitter followers. But ultimately it's about you.

The number of memoirs published has blown up thanks to e-publishing. Why? Because everyone who has a story is now able to share it.

This technology is so new that the repercussions of this are difficult to fathom. But you can bet your bippy they're going to start showing over this decade. Don't believe me? In Egypt they joke that “Nasser was killed by poison, Sadat by a bullet and Mubarak by Facebook.” Just wait.

How to Get Back to Bushwick

Utica Ave., more than 3 miles of this.

Under a Florentine sky I saddle my beast and we ride into the early dusk. She is slow to get going but responsive to stop. I've had to take care of her often lately; I ride her hard.

Yesterday she had a broken spoke so I took her to Larry's Bike Shop down on Flatbush Ave. It took a while to fix and true the wheel, so that by the time I was ready to roll I had scoped the map and devised an alternate route home - up Utica Ave.

Lined with auto stores and flat fix shops, I was doing just fine when I heard a nasty hiss. Too good to be true. I laughed at what the fates had dealt, walked, tried to get on a bus, was denied.

I was the only white person on the streets, which is fine by me, but the closest subway was about a mile an a half east. How to get home to Bushwick? About to take a cab, I asked a nice woman and her son if they knew of a car service.

They told me to get my bike fixed at a shop right there, next to the yellow store. A dude who rode a teal fixie with a rainbow colored chain named Duiight, d-double-i-g-h-t,  laughed at me for not having a spare and said, you gonna learn ow to patcha tube today. But the tube wasn't all - the tire itself had popped too, and he cut a piece of rubber to brace the wheel to make it work "that much mo' bet-ta'." I thanked him, now I won't even have to get it fixed. He laughed, you will, he said.

I'm calling Duiight this weekend to get my baby remodeled - front free wheel fixed. Ooooeee!!

The Deviant

You lay coddled in her arms and she in yours. And when she tilted her chin back to expose her neck there it was, curled comfortable under her chin hanging a breeze-space below: a black hair. Half an inch long.

Imagine my disgust. To see that my woman, granted her left breast wasn't as good as her right, drooped a little and wasn't quite as perky as its sister, but that my woman should have an actual flaw - this was enough to make me think.

She had that hair under her chain. Like a gnat in the buttermilk. When I projected on my happiness with her in twenty years, the hair was a reminder that I could do better. This woman was not gorgeous. She was flawed. Added to her mental issues was this physical reminder. But if I could have taught myself to live with and love it, instead of being desiring and human... have you ever met an Enlightened person anyway? I've never been to Tibet, but I have a suspicion no one since Buddha has been perfectly happy and undesiring as an ascetic. Suppress and repress your unconscious (the wanting part of the self) to the point where you've convinced yourself that you're happy? Is that even possible?

I've tried not wanting, and it's just so...boring.

If variety is the spice of life won't we want to go through as many different kinds of happiness as possible? I wanted to go to Peru and Iran and taste all kinds of different flavored pussy. Just the possibility of being with other, more attractive women was enough to make me want to destroy relative happiness once I attained it. Or maybe I sought a reason to destroy it because I was scared I'd fuck it up eventually. Or maybe it was the hair I couldn't stand. Or the fact that she didn't seem to know about it (and Lord knows I couldn't tell her).

Because when we're young and there are so many possibilities to have what we haven't, to throw it all away on commitment is the ultimate.

April in Bushwick

La la la la. April Fool's. I'm staying here.

I just love Bushwick so much. In the McKibbin lofts there are glass entry doors. People are moving in - a new generation of hipsters who are able to mock their elders of two and three years ago. One of the repeated tags on the roof is "They exist. They gave me my iPad."

At 3rd Ward last night there were many attractive women at the Preyground exhibit. The art has a very animalistic feel and was filmed in different regions of our grand country. #Americuh.

And have the soote April raines yfallen. 

April Fools Day in Postmodernism

This is where I'm going to stay, maybe.

I'm going to Europe. I just received my Irish citizenship so that I can be a Euro Zone member and work wherever I want. Like in a month or two. I'm up and leaving. London, Paris, Barcelona, Madrid, I don't quite know yet. But I will and I'll keep you posted. Blog posted.

Meanwhile, I've been thinking about metafiction. I've been reading Portnoy's Complaint which is really great. Alexander digressively works back and forth, building suspense, dropping tidbits about his sex life and we can't wait to read more of the juicy stuff. And he very self-consciously makes note that his memories may be misconstrued:

"...Now, whether the words I hear are the words spoken is something else again. And whether what I hear I hear out of compassion for him, out of my agony over the inevitability of this horrific occurrence, his death, or out of my eager anticipation of that event, is also something else again."

Roy showed me a book by some writer whose name I can't remember but there was a metafictional part where he tells the reader that he's going to write about these characters reading a newspaper because he finds that interesting. And so the characters, both bad poets, are supposed to reflect him and things get all metamodern.

But see what I'm going to do is allow the protagonist to look out of the page and talk to the author. And that ain't no April Fools. You smell me?

Live for a Thousand Years in an Instant. Try It.

From the most recent female ephemera, remember the spirit children, the essences that united from all of our physical union and they whisper, what about us. But they drift into the atmosphere and I have done all I can.
  
Sometimes I remind myself that it doesn't matter whether you live for another three days or twenty years. For the mystic lover, three hours could be a hundred years. Remember this; I can tell you no more about it.

Repress desires and you become a hypocrite. Rumi said that.

All we have is to give and to hurry. But when we act with abandon, surrender to the life we pass through and become spirit, the way people do in love, we can be happy. Which is why people like falling in love: they are able to live a thousand years in a single instant. And most come crashing back to earth in jealousy and carnal lust. "What should we do next?" The spell is broken.

After practice you can eventually surrender to death and each life frame you live passes in slow motion.

I still can't do it, but I'm getting better. Classic literature helps.

Quixotic or Panzaic? Both in Post Postmodernism.

The great duality: the body and the mind. The ethereal and the ephemeral. High and low. I've been thinking a lot about the low recently, especially while reading a certain postmodern piece of classic literature, Molloy. Meanwhile, Portnoy's Complaint has led me to start thinking about the parent-child dynamic, and I realized that in Hot Love on the Wing poor Gabriel is trapped in the middle. Read on.

Like Sancho Panza she rebutted his criticism with the body. She ate, she laughed, and her bromides were saturated with undeniable truth. “You like what you like.” “Bad things come in threes.” And when the old man droned, they’re taking steps to preserve Bach’s original manuscripts in Leipzig, she listened interested and let him go on.

But his lean figure betrayed an inability to see things from her side. He ate like a bird and his health suffered. After a long day he was neurasthenic. He used Preparation H the way an 8-year-old used whip cream. She guffawed at sitcoms while he lined the bathroom floor with magazines. Bracelets jingling like a small animal's bell, she poured wine through the gap in her incisors. The blue TV glow cast reels in her chinked eyes. Her back hurt sometimes so she sat on the floor flushed, while he chased windmills and dreamed of glory.

Metamodernism in a New York Moment

 Imagine being in a garden terrace where American ‘90s jazz plays and the art that hangs on the walls is a menagerie of midcentury color-swerving, obviously Picasso inspired. One particular painting strikes you, this one more Fauvist: a purple blonde clutches a pearl necklace as she emerges, orange-nippled and open-mouthed, from a parlor with sitting chair. Now imagine yourself as the painter, or voyeur or whoever, sitting comfortably in another chair watching self-satisfied. This is how I felt as I ate the steak au poivre avec pomme frites. This reminded me what it was like to be in love.

And I wish I could transmit the same feeling to you – it is so luxurious, so serene. So I looked up to the sky through the swinging beech branches that clamber over the black fire escapes and brown brick apartments and stored in my memory what New York was like.

Maybe I would do better to show you in a story of my own, how it feels to be in love. But that’s so 20th century, not metamodern at all. Or is it?

Tazmanian Devilish vs. Hurricanal

Sometimes in an attempt to express myself I invent neologisms like “hurricanal,” meaning to feel like being trapped in a whirlwind. But as a colleague has pointed out, you can’t get away with just adding the suffix “al” der. Latin to any noun to make it an adjective. What would you say then I asked.

I don’t know, Tasmanian Devilish?

Of course! Because the Tasmanian Devil is so engrained into our cultural unconscious that we all know he arrives a flurry of dust from his rapid spinning.

But. What happens if I write this phrase in a certain post postmodern work of fiction, which I believe will be more closely aligned with classical styles of writing and postmodern styles of narrative than a continuation of postmodern stylization, then what will people who read it in two hundred years think? Will the image of Taz resonate as loudly with them? Or will they view it as an arcane 21st century allusion? And we all know Daniel Adler, the unpretentious does not want to seem arcane nor esoteric. 

So I will continue to use my poetic license however I deem necessary, and if an allusion to popular culture strikes me, you can bet your tootsie that people in a couple of hundred years will be able to identify. What do you think?

War: What It Is Good For

For thousands of years young men entered battle as a rite of passage. Those who lived had tempted fate and prevailed. Those who died didn’t want it badly enough.

But after WWII, in Vietnam for example, modern society made war out to be background noise, unwanted, (gasp!) dishonorable. And so today we don’t have wars, at least the way we used to. That’s why so many soldiers return with post-traumatic stress disorder – their experience is out of place with our world of Whole Foods and text messages. And this is to be lamented. In a way.

How I wish I could go to war, to fight for my country and myself and prevail and be honored. Alas, war has changed so that it is rarely face to face combat, and the horror of watching your best friend’s leg blown off by a nameless opponent is not the same as striking down a man who attempts to kill you with a lance.

The best thing about war is that it makes you happy to be alive; it allows you to further enjoy peace. And when peace is constant, or at least relatively so, in post postmodernism, many become malcontent.

Which is why I say to myself, even on rainy days, in the language of a quondam enemy: Ich bin glücklich.

Union Pool and the Reverend

Union Pool is arguably the best bar in Brooklyn. It is too crowded to really enjoy on the weekends, but every Monday the Reverend and his Love Choir break it down. Here's a little sample:

Daniel Adler's Survival Project

The smell of campfires is pleasant and if I were a woman, Matthew said, I'd be attracted to that natural smell. I agree.

Last night we went to 3rd Ward for Steven Brahms' The Survival Project. My favorites, and the centerpiece of the show were the 21 interesting photographs of all different long haired Asian men running away. I met Masa, Steven's friend, whose favorite was the one of him.

Fire is elemental to our survival. We watch it and we focus and appreciate it. Like a drug it acts on us. Immediate and instinctual, atavistic.

In the vein of the avant garde art theme, fire is survival and the warmth it provides is part of what allows humans to live, so we watch it and feel that it is a part of us and we a part of it. And toss in some corned beef with mustard and cabbage and boiled carrots and turnips and Italian sausage with red peppers over pasta with St. Andre cheese and spinach. And Jameson 12 year.  

London Recap

Daniel Adler in Claridge's Hotel.

I just created my London album on Facebook which is supposed to give you an idea of what we saw and did. Overall I was ambivalent about being home when I returned last night and saw the rats in the sewer and the loud rude Americans. On one hand this is what makes America Amurrica - the high culture and the low, but London is simply more refined. Let me try to describe it another way: in London people pass by, in New York they are next to you. Everyone wants to stand out here, there they want to be recognized. The difference is subtle and plays out in our country's love for individualism and theirs for class.

We saw an interesting play about race called Clyborne Park. It was two acts. The first was about a Chicago family that sells their house to a black family in the late '50s. The next act was about a white family moving back into the now black neighborhood and wanting to build a big house. It was uproarious. This was the climax, told by the black woman, when all the Brits, three thousand miles safe from slavery's remnants were able to think about what it means to be politically correct w/r/t blacks: What do white women and tampons have in common?
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They're both stuck up cunts.

Of course, the white male was the one saying that he's not offended by any of it, privileged bastard that he is. But then his experience may be the most relatable, because it hasn't been clouded with the experience of prejudice. Relatable, boring. Make it interesting and universal, something even the Brits can relate to.

JMW Turner and Walkabout

The Tate Britain is often overshadowed by its younger brother the Tate Modern, but JMW Turner, arguably the best British painter of the 19th century bequeathed his entire collection to this neoclassical building, which gives the Modern a run for its money.

Turner was a true Romantic. He wrote verses to accompany his paintings, didn't care  much for public opinion and ultimately prefigured modern painting with his impressionistic style. Monet was an ardent admirer, and even Cezanne's achievement of textural depth likely found its roots in the work of JMW.

I would say that if we're talking about avant-garde artists of the 19th century, Turner would have to be in the top five.

Then we biked home to our blue-doored hostel beside the British Museum to freshen up. And walked down High Holborn St. and asked where we could find good Indian. And it was.

We bought Indian beer and drank it as we walked and discovered the neoclassical Somerset house that used to house all the births and deaths and now looks good and is home to the galleries that I will blog about tomorrow.

The Spaniards at Walkabout were plenty and we danced and drank and smoked and took the tube back. I told a young man from Birmingham that I'm a writer and he said 'fair fucks' which means 'well played.'

Stonehenge, Bath, Shakespeare's Home

The cottage at Stratford-upon-Avon.

Matthew and I bought paninis and he bought a cheese and onion pasty at Victoria station. Paul the hairy-eared Irish tour guide took the head count and yelled at us for having "malodorous" food and was stern about speaking loudly but he was pleased that we were attentive to his Stonehenge and Bath lectures and softened and befriended us by day's end.

Stonehenge's sky was low and the rolling green plain spread before the north wind. There was a sense of the sacred and the artistic and the epic and the journeying nature of primitive man in the 5,000 year old megaton stones. The audio guide had a quote from the last lines of classic literature master Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Urbervilles describing the sullen stones. It is silly to go to world famous sites and pose in front of them so I decided to turn this idea on its head - literally (photos on Facebook to come).

The Georgian architecture of Bath surrounded us as we spotted the locals. Matthew sought out dogs and an old couple warned him that their grey Jack Russell bit but he thought it would not and we all had a laugh when the animal snapped at his too-close fingers.

Then the Bard's home and O my brothers it was like a Meccan pilgrimmage. The Tudor cottage was still intact after years of refurbishment and Matty asked a young blonde guide whether Shakespeare had written all his plays. She said we know that he didn't write all of the later stuff including Henry VIII and I interjected - but no one reads that play anyway - and she said but we know he wrote all of the major works, i.e. Hamlet, of which the soliloquies alone are enough to guarantee a man eternal fame. And she mentioned how he took these stories from sources and reinvented them and we said yes, interesting how art is all about borrowing and reinvention and this reminds me of a certain post postmodern blog.

London and Avant Garde Art

Yesterday was our first full day in London. We took the Tube, which is very convenient and indeed rivals its New York counterpart to the South Bank. One thing about Londoners is that momentary subterranean delays don't seem to cause as much agitation as for New Yorkers.

Bourough Market gave us lunch: we shared Thai seafood green curry from one stand  and fresh arugula salad, prosciutto, tomato and bufalo muzzarella for our greens. Down the South Bank the Tate Modern holds representative works from most of the famous avant garde artists of the 20th century, including the $106 million Picasso Nude, Green Leaves, and Bust, Braque, Twombly, Bacon, Serra and many more.

We rode bikes to the hep Shoreditch neighborhood after crossing the Thames on the Millennium Bridge. Our country is late on adopting this program of park and ride, unfortunately. At Brick Lane I had lamb vindaloo and almond cream naan (pleasure shudder). Then we walked and drank, walked and drank.

Thing is London sleeps. And that changes the energy of the city slightly. But today after the National Gallery, Friday night will be crazy.

Boat Shoes Are One Step Closer

So because I'm on that grown man train, I need to ditch my Nike Dunks and get some boat shoes for the summer. That's cool, especially because not only do I not want to wear heavy black sneakers in mid-July but I don't want to wear sandals either and expose my feet to the filth of New York City streets. To achieve these boat shoes I am blogging about a company that offered them to me at a discounted rate. Now because I am young and poor and need to look good, I must do everything I can to get what I want, including selling blog posts for shoes. This helped me clean up my room back in December with a new bureau, upon which currently rests my classic literature.

I've also been thinking about track lighting which will provide me with more light in my bedroom because if you don't have sufficient lighting while reading classic literature you can strain your eyes which eventually may mean glasses.

Here's another site you can follow if you want to be in on deals about furnishings and whatnot that will allow you to live less like a starving artist and more like the normal people in society: http://www.jossandmain.com/store/myinvite/bil