HELL

Libretto: Eileen Myles

Score: Michael Webster

Scene 1

(This scene occurs in a wordless musical introduction.)

Hell takes place in an unnamed future, in a time frame right next to ours. A poet is sitting at a manual typewriter. She keeps ripping pages out and balling them up and throwing them into a waste basket. It’s late. Maybe two or three AM. She stands up, stretches, looks at her watch. Stoops down and pats a dog. Checks her pockets for money. Puts her jacket on, closes the door behind her, runs down the stairs. Walking up the street a man asks her for a match. She digs into her pocket for her lighter and his buddy slugs her on the back of the head with a beer bottle. She collapses on the sidewalk.

Scene 2

She wakes up on the floor of the stage close to the audience in a smokey, sputtering and sparkling world— a giant planet is hovers overhead, above her and many seated people. It’s a globe, a huge disco ball, creakily turning-it also looks like an old battered baseball, with loose strings dangling.

Voices emanate dimly from the sphere. It’s a huge balloon covered in duct tape! The stage of this immense reality is like the smoky pit of hell itself. There’s a hole in the center of the stage with smoke gushing out. Some people are sitting on chairs onstage, near the hole. Cardboard mock-ups of tall buildings are looming, but the wreckage of one building, a spindly thing, like a ghoulish poplar is the most striking detail of the setting-it stands, a lonely sentinel at the smoking mouth. One voice from the globe grows louder than the rest. A youngish business man comes briskly stepping out of the rubble:

Man: (Yakking into his cell phone)

It’s called Horns of Joy.

It’s the first Goth poem

The first Goth poem

The first poem written

In 1500 years

Goth, Goth, Goth

Horns and trees

No we don’t-

No, no we don’t

Yes, he’s got a wife

He loves her

He doesn’t want to go

Ireland, Scotland

We can shoot it in New Zealand

ALL: New Zealand!

New Zealand!

Man: She’s a blonde

The wife is a blonde

This is so great

ALL: This is so great

Man: Well it’s not written yet

I said

it would be

the first Goth

It’s not written yet

ALL: In fifteen hundred years

I said

Man: The first Goth poem

written

fifteen hundred years

I wrote it

Godammit

a sentence or two

I will get someone

I’ve got someone

and we’ll get her right on it

I’ll give you one scene:

So he—

(A cardboard guy drops down, in sort of Barbarian-Goth garb.)

A Goth guy

Hunky hunky hunky

The girls like him

The guys like him

He’s hairy and horny and strong

Yes I like him

ALL: It wouldn’t be strange

Goth poem written

In fifteen hundred years

Man: It wouldn’t be strange at all.

I have a vision.

A vision

Yes that’s what I said.

So listen.

Blondie,

she goes:

ALL: It’s the first Goth poem in fifteen hundred years

Man: She goes. . .

We need a female voice

for this line

yeah, you’re fine

(Pointing to a woman in the audience)

yup, stand up

thank you

Honey

(Into phone) The hunk is leaving.

He’s got the armor on,

his skins

She hands him his lunch

She goes�

(Hands the woman his cell, points to a piece of paper.)

Read that:

Woman: A woman is fleeter

than a cow

take me with you!

ALL: Laughter

Man: (Into cell)

You like it.

Good

you like it.

you like it

Poet:

(Arising from her rumpled pallet on the stage. Wearing torn romantic flowing shirt. Stretches.)

Hey where are we?

(Walks closer to the action.)

You’re rehearsing?!

Ow! And what’s that?

Man: Don’t worry.

It’s just a bit of wax.

How do you do? My name is Brine.

And you are—?

Poet: Uh, Raphael.

Man: Well, Raphael,

In Constant, which is where you are,

wax which is what has struck you

wax is great for most purposes

but wax melts

when someone gets excited

or confused

which is you, Raphael

don’t get me wrong

we imported you for your

range

excitable and otherwise

we haven’t had a writer of any sort

for about eight hundred

years

ALL: About seven or eight

About seven or eight

About eight hundred

Man: Though you look kind of bad, whatever you are.

I guess you’re a female

Poet: I’m a poet

and I’m in tatters

I’m a wreck

cause that’s how the world looks.

Will you please help me out

I mean I don’t know what time we’re in

I went out to get dog food

I’m totally lost

It’s dark for morning

And it’s too bright for night

Time is how I know myself

I work its silent tune

But this is weird

It’s like immutable

And blurry

A California time

And Ow!

why do I keep getting hit by wax?

Man: Nothing to worry about.

The place is Constant.

That’s what it’s called.

Believe me, I’m trying

to answer your

questions.

Constant.

That’s the time of day we’re in.

We have a joke here:

Man: Got the time.

ALL: Yeah.

Man: Constant time.

Constant temperature.

It’s always time

to sell

(They are walking through a crowded market place. ALL are chattering constantly among themselves. Murmuring in a pulsating way back and forth, handing articles back and forth over counters.)

ALL: And sell and sell and sell.

It’s always time to sell.

And sell

Man: See everybody’s working here in Constant.

Everyone’s got a job.

And everyone wants a job.

Plenty of wanting

No waiting.

Not even a bit of waiting here.

(Visual waiting wanting song. That means the �singing action� in the market place continues, silently.)

Man: And I’ve got a job for you.

a commission

I need your help on this script.

It’s called Horns of Joy

(Barbarian guy drops down)

It’s the first Goth poem in 1500 years

And I think you can write it.

ALL: And we think you can write it!

And we think you can write it!

Man: Are you ready to work?

Poet: I still don’t understand my place in this scene.

You want me to write something.

Maybe I should get a little familiar. . .

Man: Don’t get familiar, it won’t help

I will give you the groundwork:

We don’t hope,

we don’t sleep

ALL: We don’t dream, we don’t eat

We don’t fight, we don’t groom,

We don’t grow, we don’t lose

We don’t owe, we don’t muse,

We don’t forget

We don’t sweat, we don’t race,

We don’t fret, we don’t pace

Poet: I’m not listening.

Sorry, but. . . .

there’s some trees coming towards us.

Can trees walk here?

Man: Yeah, trees can always walk

That’s a very common situation

Just sit down.

(She parks herself on a white glowing gumdrop about the size of a stool. For the duration of �Hell� there’s a random bombardment of wax, and screaming bomb sounds and white.)

Poet: What is this

Man: What is what?

Poet: This, This,

That I’m sitting on?

Man: I don’t know.

They’re sort of all over the place.

Okay.

We can start with trees

Let’s put them in

the script.

Trees always look

good and surely

in Goth time

there were lots and lots

of them.

They’re wood.

People love wood.

Poet: No, I’m serious. There’s a group of trees coming

right towards us.

Man: And I’m telling you

don’t even think about it.

It’s Father Tree.

People love him.

He’s our leader.

And he doesn’t do a thing

He’s the President of the World.

Poet: Well, shouldn’t we greet him, or something?

Maybe he wants to meet me?

Man: No, that’s what’s so great about

him. He doesn’t care.

He has absolutely no curiosity.

He’s famous for that.

Someone I mean

this might be a myth

It seems extremely unlikely

Someone it has been told

suggested he make some changes

in Constant.

And of course that’s ridiculous

because we don’t make changes here

and he said

This is a very famous remark

Why would I

care what you think?

Why would I

care what you think?

What makes you think

I care at all!

ALL: What makes you think

I care at all!

Man: People love that.

He’s made out of wood

He can’t hear you

He really can’t see you

And he looks great

We love him because he

looks real, he looks like

a real leader

He comes from generations

of wooden leadership.

His father was king before

him. And his father

before that.

That’s him standing right

there. Maybe one of his

useless little fraud

daughters will be King after him.

Poet: Women can be kings here?

Man: Tree’s a tree. It’s part of our

freedom and our heritage.

Any tree can become

President of Constant

Everyone is free here

but only

a tree can lead.

Poet: But I thought you said they do nothing.

Man: Nothing is what the trees

have given us.

Nothing can’t burn.

We’re safe now.

ALL: And nothing can’t burn!

We’re safe now.

Man: And nothing can’t burn.

Though lots of things were burning a long time

ago.

That’s when the trees bought hell�

Poet: Father Tree owns hell? Ouch!

Man Well all the trees do.

You kids get up there and explain.

(Dorothy and Thomas, a girl and boy in their best Sunday clothes come forward smiling.)

Kids: Hell burned in eternity

and on Earth there was time and women

and

men lived and died in a situation called

Earth. And there were constant wars

on Earth, so many wars.

Wars that competed with the fires

of Hell. Competition is good.

It builds character.

Some people win

And some people lose.

We call that story history.

And in that time

It was Hell on earth

ALL: It was Hell on earth

Thomas: and naturally

it was Hell on Hell.

Dorothy: It was hell in hell.

Hell was inside the earth.

Thomas: Oh yeah.

ALL: It was hell in hell in hell in hell

Poet: Where are we now?

Ow!

Kids: It came to pass

that there were more fires on Earth

than in Hell, and Hell

took a nosedive. So the trees

in their infinite wisdom

determined

that Hell

could be

replaced by an inexpensive wax model

with video toasters. . .

Poet: And what about the Earth?

Kids: We think something happened.

Man: Hold on, my browser’s stuck.

(Adjusting remote browser. Click.)

So that’s kind of where we are.

And here they come

Hey Father Tree.

ALL Trees: Hello Hello Hello Hello

Yeah we’re all feeling good.

We’re twenty-seven point

thirty centimeters tall

fourteen point

forty-three centimeters wide

gettin in shape and feelin

sorta growin’, not too much

drawin some sap up into our bark

Ruff-Ruff. Heh-Heh.

My surgeon nipped a coupla branches off.

Says I’m looking good

(Big breath,)

I say

stand tall and de-liver.

Be proud

Everyone!

buy some stuff

keep it up.

We like that,

lookin normal

the regular thing

God made me

I’m a gosh darn tree

Like my teeth? pretty good, got em all,

Dentist said, hey you got your Dad’s teeth,

Well hell whose teeth he got?

Heh Heh Heh-you like me? sell sell sell!

I’m not too smart cause I’m almost

Dumb, I’m the tree of kingdom

come. Oh come ye

see me in the

West, in the blazing eyes

of the babe at your breast.

Hold on baby to the Family Tree

We’re free of the prison

of history

So you gotta love me

for my guts

you gotta love

me cause I’m nuts

love me cause I own the world.

The only backbone

known is mine

get behind me

you gotta love my stupid

trunk.

How do you like me?

Poet: That guy’s an idiot!

(Father Tree and his cohorts pass by. . .)

Man: It doesn’t matter.

Poet: What do you mean?

Man: I mean you’re right

He is an idiot.

But the trees

bought the world

fair ’n square

I mean yes

at the time some people

were pretty sour grapes

about it

like the Gnome

Poet: Who’s he?

Man: If the Gnome mattered at all he’d be Father

Tree’s enemy.

Here I’ll click on him

(Drags down Gnome icon)

He insisted it was a takeover

He called it . . . a cootie tart?

ALL: Har Har Har Har

Cootie Tart, Cootie Tart

Man: But it was just a sale. No big deal.

Point is, we’re in a safe place.

Constant is a very safe place

Poet: Safe from what.

Man: Exactly my point.

Safe from what.

It’s hard to say who matters less

(Click. Click. Click.)

Nope that’s still Father Tree.

Father Tree stays on. He’s like the news.

Now the Gnome.

No one can hear him unless you click

So maybe he does matter more

Than Father Tree

But nobody hears

Him, so what.

Here we go.

Okay, introducing the Gnome. Here he comes.

Sometimes

it’s

slow. I think he’s made out of

numbers

He’s a druid. Damn.

I’m not thinking!

We could use him.

he would be great

for Horns.

Some Gandalf character

guy, you know?!

Gnome:

(Seated at a table, facing an auditorium full of shoppers.)

Uh-hum. Thank you all for coming. A quick note

Before I begin my remarks

I’m sitting

at a table. It is made out

Of trees. (Grim smile.)

(Hollow canned laughter)

This is called

�Cootie Tart�

In the eighties the U.S. fought

A major war in central bought

leaving some two hundred thousand torture

Moo corpses, millions and

orphans and refugees countries mum-

bum Catholic Church bun

committed the grievous sin spore

preferential doption the poor

even the timing of the bombing was Joe’s

and Boaz to making

to launch a whore crime against Iraq

Back Dad at that time I

in fact call for a lawless world

a shingle word in the main purl

Poet: Is he trying to say something, it sounds—

Man: I know. It sounds great. It’s

exactly the sound we need. It’s ancient,

that rhythm, I think it’s Welsh or

something

you can feel a time of struggle:

Angry suffering man with dirt under his nails

(Let the Gnome continue silently maybe with music over�like Michael Moore.)

Poet: He doesn’t look dirty.

(Audience starts flinging mud at him)

Man: (leading him away laughs)

Now he is!

He’s very dirty.

C’mon,

I want to show you a few more of my ideas.

Nobody, nobody, nobody. . .

(Various faces going by)

Here’s a guy. . .

He’s just a symbol . . .

Nah...

I’m just noodling . . .

I’m just thinking . . .

Here click click click

Iceland

is my idea of successful culture

(White Icelandic band icon appears)

In terms of uniting the ancient,

the human,

the popular and

and and

the capacity of humans to wait

forever if need be

the people of Iceland have been speaking

and singing and telling stories

in their very very very obscure language

for thousands of years

you never heard them complaining

Iceland’s like a gas-station

full of white people

in the

Middle of the Irish Sea

and now they are

Iceland is a constant success story

what everyone is singing

and listening to

(Points to the ball, turning with words)

that’s not English. . .

Listen. . .

Hold on, Hold on . . .

(A pure white Knight with white hair appears Holding a guitar and another knight Joins him and another and another And some of them are girls. The song is sung in Icelandic with English subtitles appearing on an LED moving around the disco globe. )

Yes we were pissed

The Russians landed and the Americans landed

and the Nazis and the Vikings landed

and the Norwegians took over

even some Irish monks in a curragh

had a time with us

but we stood strong and now we are famous and

rich

Bjork is the world’s brightest star

Better than Beck

stronger than Madonna

Now without ever having to become dumb

Inside the well of our very great and ancient

language we laugh at the current situation

You think we are sad and melancholy

You think we are stable and irrelevant

You think it is always terribly dark where we are

No it is female, it is young, it is rich

It is old.

We are not frozen, we are not murmuring

Silence, we are guy geyser, we are volcanic

We are old like planet itself; and yes you are right

we are cold,

cold,

cold

(Screaming sound of a falling star.)

Poet: What was that.

Man: Nothing.

Poet: And that.

Man: Nothing.

Man: We need to get to work.

Poet: But what are these falling stars.

and these white dots

all over the place. It’s cold here.

I only have a rumpled shirt on.

I thought you said it was

Constant.

Man: It’s pretty constant. Hold on:

(Hits cell phone. Speaks into it:).

Man: Heat it up. They’re jamming the thermostat again.

(To Poet) You like frogs.

Poet: Sure I like frogs.

Man: You like nature, right?

Poets like nature.

It’s the great source

of poetic inspiration

Poet: True. Of course

there are

many

kinds of

Nature. . .

Man: I’ll put the frog on. I’ve got to fix

I mean it’s getting too cold.

Sit here

(Screaming star. Man clicking.)

(Frog comes on, with lusty female voice)

Frog: O frog as me singing

I been roaming the earth for one million years

Watch me display my

Am-phabulous powers

I hear my mate’s grunt

(River of mechanical rivets)

up to one mile away

the circular night is flooded with us

skipping around in our wet shirts

peeling em off

every couple of days

(Click. Newscaster frog now.)

Frogs are dying

everywhere now�..

(Click.) we were always undressing

our skin’s a perfect

test. What poison the world

has become

the world flows in

the world flows out

we’re just con-skin-uous

We got nowhere to go

and neither do you—

(Man: Click. Click. Re-wind. Whirrr.)

Man: I was thinking we could return

to about the point at which

we met.

Poet: Which was when?

Man: We have place

We don’t have time,

It was here.

No it was about here.

Poet: Was it here?

Man: Yeah. . . excuse me. . .

(into cell)

. . . and it is warming up.

Thanks for the heat.

Let’s bring

out the Hunk

Poet: Kay. He’s a working boy

Man: He’s a soldier boy

Poet: Look’s like he’s fought a few battles

Man: Hey buddy what’s your name.

Hunk: Lewis

Man: How do you do, Lewis.

Lewis: (Smirking.) I do okay.

Man: This is Raphael, she is a poet

And she’s helping

me with the

script.

Hunk: Sounds good.

Man: And my name is Brine.

Hunk: Hi, Brine.

Man: (After slightly long silence.) Okay.

Hunk: Can you cue me.

Poet: �Looks like he’s fought a few battles.�

Hunk: I have.

I was with Caesar at Alesia

I was with Frederick the Great at Leuthen

I was on the boat with Ali Pasha at Lepanto

I landed on the beach at Normandy

I have died approximately 5,276 times

fighting for Christianity

Put a cross on my chest

Pretty much invented the uniform

with that small gesture

always I fight for God

except for when I’m a slave

I was fighting for the Ottoman Empire

I rode across the tundra with Genghis Khan

I defended the pass at Thermopylae

I remember the Bismarck

I fought for the reich

Battle of New Orleans

In 1814

I capitulated in the Argonne Forest

The Tet offensive

Da Nang

Little big Horn

Poet: Which side?

Hunk: Both

(Returns to his speech)

. . . the Confederacy

I slaughtered a humongous number of Tutsis. . .

Poet: Hold on, Hold on

I get the idea

Lewis is the sacrificial victim

of war,

the murderous sacrifice

the not so innocent

young man

What about the wife?

Man: Now you hold on. He’s got a moment coming:

Hunk: Do you know the pale dawn?

The morning of war

The sky is chilly, empty

The smell of the outdoor blankets

Scratchin and shit

a world of just other guys

Clankin

The mess people getting up

Getting the coffee going

The cracklin morning fires

You get a sick feeling in your stomach

a guy does

You’re going out to kill today

Or someone’s gonna to kill me

Again

Poet: See I don’t think this is

a new story

not exactly

Man: What’s a new story.

Poet: Maybe this guy should go to college.

I don’t know.

I mean, I doubt if he’s rich.

Man: Well . . .

let’s return to the scene with the blonde.

That felt strong.

We can work out the message

Thing later.

Poet: Okay.

Man: Do you mind reading for the Blonde this time.

Poet: (Huff.) Okay.

Man: I’ll read it.

Poet: No, it’s okay.

I’ll read it.

It’s no big deal.

Man: Put on the wig.

Poet: (Puts it on.)

A woman is fleeter than a cow

Take me with you.

Hunk: Okay.

Poet: Okay? Like I can come.

Hunk: Uh huh.

Blonde: Fantastic.

But we need to bring some stuff.

Hunk: A man needs some matches and a sword

Blonde: Maybe you should bring a book

Hunk: A book

Blonde: Just something light:

A historical novel or a book of poetry

Hunk: Okay

Blonde: And maybe an extra blanket

Hunk: Okay

Blonde: The green one

I like the green one

because it’s big enough for both

of us but you can wash it easily

and it doesn’t show dirt

Hunk: Okay

Blonde: Our bills won’t get paid.

I’ll ask them to

take it

out automatically

Hunk: Good idea

Blonde: I’m not so sure I’m going to like

the cooking

Hunk: You won’t.

Blonde: I’ll pack something

I have an idea.

Hunk: What’s that

Blonde: I think I should write something:

a sidebar.

You know a different

position on war.

Oh you’ve seen this.

Men’s stuff often has like

a female academic

write some silly spin

to leech the horror

away

I wouldn’t do that

But I wouldn’t mind

writing the different

thing

next to the thing.

Blonde: I’m going to bring my computer.

Hunk: Mine’s lighter

Blonde: Okay let’s bring yours.

Do you still like this hat?

Hunk: Yeah, you look cute.

Poet: (Takes off wig.)

I don’t like this story.

(pause... To Man.)

Did you really import me?

Man: Sure, absolutely

We were

looking around

for a writer

and we saw that you had a lot

of energy

and anger.

Poet: But you knew my work.

Man: Nooo, but we liked the �We, the poets� piece a lot

Poet: You read �We, the poets�

How could that be possible

Nobody read �We, the poets�

How could—

Man: I did a search of the NY Times

It was already

fairly late in

�the situation.�

and their email files

were way

juicier than

the paper.

Poet: Wow, so you read me in their email.

Man: Yup.

Poet: You read her too?

Man: Who?

Poet: Judith Shulevitz.

(Cardboard cut-out of Judith Shulevitz comes down)

Man: I don’t read the Times.

Poet On November 24, 2002

back page of the book review section

Judith Shulevitz

wrote a column

called

�Sing Muse�or Maybe Not�

in which she took the brilliant position

that recordings of

poets are better than live

readings cause

you can just

turn them off.

Which was an important

point to make when we’re

going

to war—poets of course

should shut up.

Hey Judith!

I mean what about theater,

opera,

performance art, live

sports, sex, nature,

travel . . .

I mean why

direct

a 3000-word

tut-tut at a vital and ultimately populist art

form?

All: I mean

why direct

a 3000-word

tut-tut

Poet: It occurs to me

that Judith Shulevitz’s discomfort

at these �speech acts�

must have to do

with an unexamined

Man: inability to experience

another’s experience

of language without

a score-card

Poet: There is

so much out there

(Hops on a mound)

To hear any speech live

but particularly

rhythmic speech

is unstoppable

ALL: Judith people just like it

Man: So who is Judith?

Poet: Judith Shulevitz, a poetry cop

Man: Poetry had cops

Poet: Well, the White House did

All: Laura Bush

Poet: Well the congress did

All: Dick Armey

Poet: Well the Guggenheim did

All: Helen Vendler

Poet: And of course the New York Times. . .

They would like review any stupid bio of the

president that

hit the deck.

And they reviewed lots of British poets

’n dead poets

and poets like Richard Howard

ALL: Is Richard Howard dead?

Poet: Nobody knows.

ALL: Is Billy Collins dead?

Poet: Who could tell?

ALL: Is J.D. McClatchy dead?

Poet: Does it matter?

These guys were practically statues

on the outside of the post office

literary virtues

institutionalized

figurines

suburbanites

holding foxes

men of power

fun guys.

And in Judith Shulevitz

dead poetry

and dead men

found their champion

she likes Orwell

and Byron

they’re all fine

she just loves

the way you can turn dead poetry

off

click

and write about it

again and again

naturally

Judith prefers recorded poetry over live

Man: What’s live?

Poet: Well it’s like

the person stands in their body

breathing

their heart beating

(Thunderous sound of heart beating)

at a podium

ALL: That’s a latin word.

What does it mean, foot?

Poet: No it’s like a high table a poet stands at

and other people sit around

and listen

Man: And people like it?

Poet: They really do

They like to sit communally

And hear messages that

Aren’t tinkered

With by the government

Or intended to sell a product

gauged to spin

some denatured piece

of information that’s already

stripped of dangerous

and alarming content

Brine: That’s bad?

Poet: Well, sometimes people like

existing

without having to fill a need

plug a hole

Citizenship, Brine

the right to hear stuff

that maybe has small purposes

or mixed purposes

you don’t even know

what I’m talking about

do you?

Man: You could be totally hot.

you could be so hot

here in Constant

In Constant

people

love Joan of Arc

without having to burn

alive.

Sure you love

Her, Raphael,

but do you really

have to feel

what she felt?

She probably felt her skin peeling off

like a hot dog

You want to be standing

there in front of everyone

in your skeleton?

Poet: Ow! I would like to die collectively.

Man: Point is you don’t have

To ever burn alive

again

You can write Horns of Joy

You can be our poet laureate

You seemed pivotal to us.

you just seemed ripe.

And I believed I could save you.

Poet: Is that why you imported me?

Man: I thought I like that spunk

I like that heat.

But you were going to vanish

Poet: Just like the frog.

Brine: Just like Iceland

Just like the trees

Just like everything,

BLACKOUT

Scene 3

(Two night watchmen come center stage and wave lights around. We can’t see them. Just the lights. )

Watchman 1: (sings)

Whisky you’re my darling

You’re leading me astray

Over hills and mountains

Watchman 2: Joe is that you

Watchman 1: Sure is

Watchman 2: Nice night

Watchman 1: Pretty nice night

Watchman 2: How’s it going with you

ALL: Good.

ALL: How’s it going with you?

ALL: Pretty good.

Watchman 1: Hey!

ALL: Yeah?

Watchman 1: Turn your light on

ALL: Okay

(Spotlight on Raphael’s sprawled body downstage right.)

Watchman 1: Who’s that

or what’s that?

ALL: Har har

Watchman 1: Yeah what’s that

ALL: Bum

ALL: Yeah bum

ALL: Guess it’s a bum

ALL: Goodnight bum

ALL: See you Joe

ALL: Hey�!

ALL: Yeah?

ALL: Get ready for World War III!

ALL: Ready as I can.

ALL: OOOOOOOWWWWW!

(BLACKOUT)