Tuesday, October 28, 2025

Intimate Legacies

The height of fulfillment for a Ghanaian woman
The measure of a life well lived
Is to be surrounded by loved ones
Sought out for consultation
And to leave a trunk of fabric
Packed almost full with cloth, new or barely worn
To be shared amongst those she leaves behind

Kente, Dutch wax prints, indigos and batiks
Some with Adinkra designs, and lace too; these are heirlooms
True, some would also cite the beads and the jewelry
Gold sovereigns as befits the site of the Gold Coast
And yes, monies and land, cars - modernity, are fitting contributions
But it is the cloth that is the prized intimate legacy

...

Daa left me some fabric, my inheritance was a sleep cloth
Dark green, a GTP wax print, lightly faded
So soft after years of use that the merest touch
Transports me to happy places
Skin to skin, in contact with her quiet ways
Remembering her voice and her laughter

She left a scarf for our daughter
White lace, a welcome present
She'd held out to meet her, her great granddaughter
The yearslong campaign on her granddaughter-in-law
Had borne a delicate fruit
She carried her with joy that day
And fussed, and gave advice, we listened well
Ineffable joy, she slept well that night
Remembering the long journey, the twists and the turns
Those who had walked along with her
Those now lost, and those who still remained
The happy times - for there were many like today
The reversals, and the times of privation
Internal exile and the hunger seasons
When some had had to sell, to empty their trunks
To empty their very souls to provide for their family
But she had made it, and could pass something on
She was ready. She passed it on and carried a glow
She eased through the few weeks that remained of life

...

In this meeting of minds
The foundations of identity
Home, the veins of belonging
Sleep cloths for the children
Memories rest on the fabric itself
Pieces of intimate legacies


Intimate Legacies


Intimate Legacies, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

dutch wax prints and afghan knits from her grandmothers and great-grandmothers


Let's place this under the banner of Social Living

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Writing log: September 22, 2022

Tuesday, October 21, 2025

Wrath is for the Weak

Wrath, unlike his elder sibling Outrage,
Doesn't bear the burden of permanent necessity
Rather he presents a signal test of character
Nay a temptation, of the allures of impunity
Oblivious to consequence, the bearer gives full sway to Anger
Single-minded, he seeks the imposition of selfishness
Forcing an unseemly rush to be the sole enforcer

But for good reason, social beasts, we live in community
Beholden to the workings of the Law whose wheels turn slowly
For human life is precious and ought to have sanctity
Hence all those quaint rules and regulations that serve to protect
Wrath, in all his disguises, remains a barbed weapon against life itself

And so, like Cain, Wrath would murder Outrage
The tawdry act betraying a signal lack of courage
With misplaced righteousness and indecent haste
All too often the damage is done, an irreversible mistake

In times past, Shame would leap at the opportunity
A rebound fling with Fate to correct the catastrophe
But sometimes it was too late, and Wrath would no longer be willing
Scent of blood in the sinews - Lust, he'd become enamored of killing

The gift of free will frees us from inhibition
Yet binds us also with the shackles of discretion
Albeit neither God nor mankind's History would ever absolve
The guillotines and firing squads, the wages of Thermidor

Wrath is for the weak, shower them with kindness
Kindness, even when wounded, for it was written
The good books advise to turn the other cheek
To resist the temptation of this mortal sin

True, there's undoubtedly been an injustice
Especially as you witnessed their glib insouciance
But even if pausing may seem like a temporary inconvenience
Hindsight guarantees that your act will only worsen the situation
Instead, revel in the powerful exercise of restraint
Change the perspective, change the rules of the game

This too shall pass, do not give in to the anger
Conflicted thoughts about revenge, self-appointed avenger
For any satisfaction of the wrathful impulse is ephemeral
Regret is all, sadly that is the occasion's sole promise
Rather, lasting strength derives from considered justice

The realization of our stories is that the costs are sunk
Histories are only written after the damage is done
Mythologies that celebrate the conquerors as victors
In the moment, we are not bystanders, we can choose to be actors
But the moral lesson is that we don't need further casualties
The collateral damage notwithstanding, wrath is for the weak


congo military africa report 1966-11-041 mobutu reign


Wrath, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)
See previously: The Sense of Violation

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Writing log. September 25, 2022

Wednesday, October 15, 2025

His and Hers

Funny how we slipped into those roles
The division of labor, his and hers
The separate spices, the separate shelves
But it was an organic process, there was no deliberation
No dilemmas really, we even finessed the dishwasher situation

As we stand, armed with toothbrushes, looking into the mirror
The back and forth of our morning rituals
The silver hairs that are now starting to adorn our heads
Wondering how we'd be viewed by our younger selves
We gather ourselves and pause briefly
Before we confront the day's agenda
Splash. How did we get here?
Children, mortgages, jobs, responsibility

Rinse with cold water, replace the dental weapons
A hug, a head nod, a kiss, a taste of peppermint
Those things to remember: the doctor's appointment
Missing a screw, the electrical outlet
The light bulb that needs to be replaced (buy L.E.D)
The part of the back fence that's now falling over
Pick up logistics for the kids, the parent teacher conference
Bureaucracy at work, the annual certification, compliance
Calls to make, and even holiday plans

Intertwined, entangled
Concentric, commingled
A small moment: we reach out simultaneously
Touch
A touch to give comfort
A touch again, tender
Care, reassurance
Forever

Side by side, we smile and stand together
And remember that we chose each other
His and hers, we turn away from the mirror and look
And remember why we chose each other


elephants flirting

His and Hers, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note, a few ballads of affirmation (spotify version) Bonus beats: The Lovers by Alexander O'Neal and The Spark by The Roots

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Writing log: September 18, 2022

Tuesday, October 07, 2025

Giant Checks

"The Prime Minister then handed out giant checks to the bereaved
A sign, he said, that the state would take care of those who have lost so much"

— Thailand nursery attack (BBC report, October 7, 2022)

Giant checks, devoid of meaning
Thoughts and prayers, the theater of grief
A parade of penance and ritual tributes

Giant checks, post-facto regret
Consolation payments, the language of impotence
The wages of acceptable loss

Giant checks, base calculations of uniformed men
Seasoned with blood, whither the monopoly of violence?
Witness the performance of authority

Giant checks to the bereaved, a duty of care
Not to mention the provision of little urns and coffins
A fine display, the toll unbearable, the final indignities

Giant checks, props for a national calamity
The sobbing and shrieks, a symphony of despair
An unending stillness in others, more worrying are these vacant stares

Giant checks, empty gestures
Roused by tragedy, the coup maker's show of concern
Balm for communal numbness

Giant checks, strictly by the numbers
Effigies erected to solace, pain underwritten in large print
Sorrow in sans-serif and block letters

Giant checks disbursed in the aftermath of death
Survivor's guilt by way of comfort and healing
Mandatory compensation for those still breathing

Giant checks, lottery winners
A failure to protect, pageantry in the wake of slaughter
This too could happen to you


Giant checks



Giant Checks, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)
Bonus beats: Sorry ain't enough by Sault

See previously: Ritual Tributes and Action Items

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Writing log. October 7, 2022

Tuesday, September 30, 2025

Very Reverend

Holier than thou, words like uplift and sanctify
Fingertips outstretched and touching, mist in the eye
Apt at any stage to tear up, so caught up, as he is, with devotion
He takes a few moments to collect himself, overcome with emotion

A full plate of sanctimony embodied in his very person
The righteous testimony he shares, those enduring lessons
The earnestness of his commitment cannot be denied
That apt word again resurfaces: he is sanctified

White handkerchief out, he mops his brow when in a state of beatitude
In a trance, or is it a rapture, the care of his religious attitude
The justness of his cause goes without saying, the certitude
Be thankful for what we've got from the most high, the gratitude

Praise be, he's ever prone to alliteration
Acceptance, adjudication, alacrity, anticipation
Sanctity, sacraments, sanctuary, salutations
Concern, contemplation, corruptions, conjugation

Still, you'll note a deliberateness to his every utterance
The obvious corollary to the seriousness of his countenance
A curious otherness even with the pose of the man of the people
For it is clear that in God's presence every sinner is equal

"We stand here, pious servants, on these hallowed grounds
We greet the occasion with keen reflection and sober sounds
Look no further, my brethren, as we embrace the promises of healing"
Said as if he was the sole one in this audience in touch with his feelings

Authoritative in demeanor, keywords: calm and steady
Serenity now, humorless yet always a smile at the ready
Judge not however, he'll shower you with grace, blessings and kindness
But do know he'll never let you forget that you're in the presence of holiness

Small mercies and hosannas, a focus on morning glories
The full suite of values imparted in his salutary stories
The Very Reverend - get the title right, this righteous teacher
Don't ever mistake him for your garden variety preacher


Good father! Confidence

Preacher, a playlist


I'm a little conflicted about the soundtrack for this note, the long piece I've been mulling on a country preacher was diverted into this hatchet job on a Very Reverend One. Pardon the imprecision, but I can't pass up an opportunity to share a playlist with Cannonball and Jimmy Smith. (spotify version) Bonus beats: The Preacher's Tune by Jimmy Mcgriff and two versions of Son of a Preacher Man by Dusty Springfield and Aretha Franklin

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Writing log: September 9, 2022

Tuesday, September 23, 2025

Morning

Morning thoughts, of birdsong and optimism
Mist and dew drops collecting as the sun rises
Overnight, the mulberry tree is laden with fruit
Dispensing morning glory in bite-sized increments
Settle down, be thankful for these small mercies

A light breeze courses through - refreshing, a revival
Crepuscular beasts vaguely going about their routines
Before humanity's predatory imposition visits these lands
Sensible, these early adaptations and background activities
Triumphant foraging, observe the contours of these proceedings

For if, for mankind, morning is a time of beginnings
To perceive the reverse of the coin, on coming to an end
For our counterparts, it is the dawn of our modernity
A stillness in time, a weighted pause for deliberation
We make to savor these quiet sparkling moments
Full of careless comfort and fleeting joy
Before, like them, we fall back down to earth


mulberry tree view

Morning, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note, one of my favorite playlists - there's something about the theme. (spotify version)

This note is part of a series: In a covidious time.

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Writing log: September 17, 2022

Tuesday, September 16, 2025

Drop, Chain and Accordion

Harbingers of malnutrition
The Four Horsemen of hunger season
While the first three duly entered our vocabulary
The fourth, left to shame, was pushed to the recesses of memory

The drop was the most embarrasing of these musketeers
Because, when first encountered, he caught you unawares
The sudden drop of your clothing - you were now half your size
Exposing your nether regions to the fresh air and curious eyes

By the time you got to the chain or the accordion, you'd find yourself spent
Having long made your peace with this state of affairs: eternal Lent
Accustomed as you were to - call it by its name, starvation
After all, you were living through a proper People's Revolution

Marking the spot on your belt where you would pierce the extra notch
Or wearing belts where you previously had none - acceptable loss
Improvised contraptions for your skirts and trousers hopefully holding
Under military rule, we were at a remove from skirt-and-blouse voting

The second horseman, the chain, spoke to tears and sorrow
A cynical description of a neckline that was now hollow
Jewelry of a sort, a macabre, if fashionable, decoration
Thriftiness embodied in your very person, a celebration

The third horseman, the equal opportunity composer, the accordion
Orchestrated skinny rib cages visibly appealing to both old and young
A skeletal music of fatigue, unmet needs and quiet exhaustion
He devised a twelve bar blues, if you will, of quotidian suffering

As to the fourth, rickety, he mainly dealt with little children
Confounding in his physicality as should be readily apparent
Kwashiorkor, quite a mouthful, the dreadful disease
The characteristic bloating, the ironic mark of the beast

Weight loss, hair loss, failure to thrive, and apathy
And then we come to those now-distended extremities
And even with the outrage and the sense of violation
The question still remains, why were these men laughing?

Nature may be a cruel companion, what with droughts and brush fires
Yet it was a man-made disaster, preventable, and caused by these liars
With limited food resources, this had all the makings of a tragedy
Worse, they were warned well in advance at the time yet they carried on stubbornly

Quite bewildering though, and damaging to the psyche
To be branded as requiring all the world's charity
Stalking horses of hunger seasons past, harrowing and dubious legacies
Ancestral memories passed across the ages, fear and survival strategies

The fourth horseman, although it must be said, was rather solicitous,
Didn't lend himself to a coinage that was quite so felicitous
The lived experience was stark and dispiriting, disturbing in its dismay
Awful enough that even that angel Euphemism couldn't summon an uneasy phrase

Drop, chain and accordion, then, were the fateful entries
Albeit History gave unkind placement in the dictionaries
They would be prefixed in the lexicon by his name
To the Flight Lieutenant's great and everlasting shame

Such however is the way of privation, the nature of its exigency
That, even in the darkest hours, in the depths of an emergency
Gallows humor reigns, it calls forth linguistic innovation and whimsy
Proverbial zingers, sharp aphorisms, etched forever in memory

...

Basket cases
Tiny coffins
Circling vultures
Calmly watching

Weeping mothers
Hunger pangs
And the crowds
Scrambling for crumbs

...

Starving children don't cry
Tears waste too many calories
Shame, that so many had to die
Shame, again, their swollen bellies


the soldier politician and the people kodjo crobsen - the taste of power

Hunger, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version) Bonus beats: Hungry Belly by Frankie Paul & Pinchers, mainly for the title for this is a story about girl from Flatbush named Aisha. And of course, three live versions of Sade's Pearls, a show stopper ever since she composed it.


...

After Hunger for Sale (Talking Drums, October 3, 1983)

And also for that friend who startled me with the vehemence of his reaction when I teased him about his short stature. "Some of us didn't have our growth spurt during those years, we had Rawlings chains instead". A brief, damning silence ensued before joviality made its return. With my vaunted exile meshed with his explicit denial, our friendship, perhaps, was salved by the balm of the musical imagery. But the bitterness lingered.

And if archeologists can detect the evidence of famines and stunted growth like tree rings, etched in human bones, linguists and social historians can similarly escavate matters. Both earthquakes and man-made disasters leave their marks. Dzorwulu becomes 'the place that dropped', the valley of urban remembrance. Drop, chain and accordion as pointed modes of resistance in our hunger season.

Poetry as cultural memory then. Coinages bear the tide marks of social distress. In any case, this one's for you.

See previously Identification Haircut and, retrospectively, AFRC Member

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Writing log: September 18, 2022

Tuesday, September 09, 2025

They Don't See You

He started muttering to himself in French
Because that's what you do at such times - sigh
Then switch to your native tongue or thereabouts

"They don't see me
... Again ...
They don't see me"
The tiredness of an immigrant
The tiredness of an African
The tiredness of an older black man
The face of someone who has seen too much
"No, they saw you. I think they'll serve you... eventually"
Surprised that someone had understood what he'd said
Someone from the old country or thereabouts was here
Speaking his language
The hint of a smile began to broach his weary face - well-lined
"I know. They saw me but they didn't see me.
That's how they are.
They don't see you in this country. They don't see you.
If you only knew what it takes for them to see you..."
He was getting into it, winding up, getting ready to make a scene
"Well I see you, my uncle. I see you. Have faith. I see you"
Tonton, he appreciated that. That I named him. That I saw him
"They don't see you. Ils sont impolis dans ce pays. Impolis..."
Raised voice
"Well now they've heard us. They know we are waiting. Now they see us"
He chuckled.
"They don't see you. Really...
They don't see you.
They hear you, but they don't see you"
There was movement
The young man roused himself
Slowly making his way from behind the counter
To attend to this foreign crew now chatting away at the front
The old man was purposeful when he was finally addressed
And deliberate. He made him wait
He finished telling me his story before he turned
Then he cleared his throat,
And tried to summon up the English words
He started to explain whatever it was that had brought him to this place
As I went my way moments later, he again interrupted himself
"Au revoir, mon fils"
Then, loudly again, in English this time
"They don't see you"



The African Nation and The American Dream!


They Don't See You, A Playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

See previously Defensive Accounting and Normalcy Prohibition

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Writing log: September 20, 2022

Saturday, September 06, 2025

The Synthetic Shadows of Marvin Huxley

Apropos simulations and simulacra... I am catnip for the blues and, for the past few weeks, have been simmering in a thick stew of female blues singers - because, well, that's what one can do these days... Which leads me to the curious case of Marvin Huxley.

Or should I italicize "Marvin Huxley", a music producer who, like me, is enamored of 1930's Delta style blues and has now, at length (and perhaps controversially augmented with AI), delivered an album-length blues fascinator, Shadows of the South

Branded as an "Independent Lo-fi Blues and Jazz Funk Music producer" from Adelaide, Australia, I see and hear what gets him off, it's an aesthetic I am deeply sympathetic with. It's also an aesthetic just out of an uncanny valley, leaving me deeply conflicted.

My introduction to Marvin Huxley was Suits Stitched in Shadows and Lies, which was somehow recommended by YouTube after I'd exhausted my go-to playlists of Etta James, Big Mama Thornton and Memphis Minnie. And, well, listen for yourself.

(Putting aside the visuals - which were a later discovery and par for the course in this our generative timeline), I didn't know where to start with the music, I was confounded.

Then, one click later, there was A Dollar's Worth of Skin, which was similarly disconcerting to the ear. Synthesis, compression, homage at once, and fruit of a strange alchemy.

Then, there were also the earlier experiments, say Goodbye America Blues, which is more evidently artificial with its vocal sampling of an unknown singer and filtered guitar. Still, I kept listening, eventually casting the effort as a blues fascinator despite the synthetic content.

Sidenote: The Sister-in-law has written at length about the real thing. We should all listen to them. The emotional labor and the craft:
Blues Mamas and Broadway Belters: Black Women, Voice, and the Musical Stage (Refiguring American Music) #CiteBlackWomen

In any case, here is an album that is soaked in this aesthetic, devoted even. A studio creation, perhaps, but it is a creation nevertheless. A high-tech creation of lo-fi blues.

Or more precisely, it is a recreation from someone "who loves trying to recreate those old sounds using vintage style instruments, samples, compressors and effects". Homage and chimera, then.

When I read "The guitar recording was degraded to evoke the brittle warmth of a 1930s field recording", I couldn't help but think of Pete Rock or DJ Shadow crate-digging and similarly jacking for beats.

Or say Q-Tip on the needle drop.

There's a racial angle perhaps (or a cultural appropriation take, some might say), but I won't venture in that direction, only the music matters to me.

Still, who gets to write "a love letter to the lost ghosts of American blues music"? Not for nothing do many bluesmen sing that Blues is a Feeling. (see Lightnin' Hopkins, for example)

And in a year where the movie Sinners has dominated the cultural zeitgeist, it is worth asking whether you can have a Delta blues revival, with full-on lyrics, gritty vocals and all, that is synthetic rather than authentic.

(Sidenote: to that point, Buddy Guy's new album Ain't done with the blues is also out)

Still, the music nerd in me wants to deconstruct the work. Where do the voices in Shadows of the South come from? What studio trickery was used? What equipment? Or, perhaps more tellingly, what prompts were crafted, if some of it is indeed AI-infused?

But then, stepping back, I also want to ask: who made the field recordings that we all venerate? Who was documenting the blues back then? Who was promoting it? And who now basks in the sounds of earthy blues?

But that's me. I can listen to a blues mama merely humming for hours on end. Further, the stakes are low. To add or not to add to the playlist, that is the question.

It seems to me that the visuals highlight the artifice and perhaps even detract from the music they are intended to support. At the same time, they do underscore the mood and point to the story of the clever lyrics. Also: they are great conversation pieces.

(A reminder that my favorite video accompanying a Funkadelic song is a juxtaposition with a Russ Meyer film, You Scared the Lovin' Outta Me by Funkadelic)

But I wonder what Marvin Huxley would come up with, with say a Lizz Wright in the flesh, after hours in the recording booth. Or maybe, to push the racial angle, what would a project with Alice Russell on vocals sound like in comparison?

In the same vein, one wonders if people want to listen to the blues or if blues-adjacent or blues-influenced will suffice. Certainly in these streaming days, there are many for which the simulacra will suffice as background music. Reserving the experience of the real thing for live settings. One wonders...

Anyway, the album is not all fetishized retro action. The rest features more modern beats, albeit still blues-inflected on the surface, even when veering into trip-hop territory. That growl in the vocals is a constant, and those guitar licks. Sounds of nostalgia.

I can see the twinkle in the eye as the album was released. But who knows how it will be received? I do know that this listener was left chasing shadows tying to decipher this conversation piece. Let me know what you think.

austin sunset 4



Shadows of the South by Marvin Huxley


The album on YouTube (spotify version) and a few highlights. For the first three, I suggest a blind listen before venturing to the videos.

P.S. Hey Marvin, tell me more about the makings of this album.

P.P.S. Pardon the title of this piece, I'm a sucker for such things.

This note is part of a series, One Track Mind. See previously:

Tuesday, September 02, 2025

Mercurial, They Call Him

Portrait of a narcissist, a few essential traits
A slight never forgotten, don't you make that mistake
A double heart filled with unspoken threats
He wears the mask the audience deserves

Portrait of an opportunist, moral flexibility in abundance
Reversals galore but he rolls with the punches
His interests always trump friendships, let's call it expedience
For survival beyond the day's end is his sole allegiance

Portrait of the vain, hollow on the inside
Entitlement in stiff competition with pride
His secret weapon, a genuine sense of self importance
Chock full of certainty about the rightness of his cause
To call him self centered is to merely state the obvious

Portrait of a deceiver, all things to all men
Lying with a straight face, his enduring strength
Pitch perfect delivery, you could swear he believes every untruth
Surely, to impugn the purity of his motives? What are you, uncouth?

Carried Fanon's book around for a full year - wretched
Still occasionally tries to read it (practice makes perfect)
But underneath everything is a fundamental insecurity
Mommy and Daddy issues, the bitter roots of his immaturity

The need for speed, horses his first love
But anything with an engine would do
Nights out with the running partners
Booze, the hard stuff, ladies of easy virtue
After dark, how exciting, and all in the same room

It's fair to say that there are multitudes inside of this man
Characterized, everyone says, by his tremendous charm
Unrestrained, unfiltered, half baked, half-cocked
Empty but empowered, half truths, half thought

Absolved, then, of the burden of any sense of responsibility
Free to be a political actor altogether allergic to empathy
A chameleon - mercurial, they call him, the luckiest man alive
Just your luck that you're stuck with him, the best years of your life

the-modern-traveller-09

Bad, a playlist


For what it's worth, this playlist was intended to stand alone but seeing as I haven't written up the liner notes in the 17 years since I made it, I suppose I can repurpose it as the soundtrack for this note. A couple of hours on a bad man (spotify version)

...

Timing is everything
Observers are worried

...

See previously The Conqueror's Catechism


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Writing log: September 18, 2022

Friday, August 29, 2025

At the Africarib Market

Late afternoon at the Africarib market,
The brothers in the know were picking up some yam
Man cannot live on bread alone
(A fresh shipment of puna yam had just arrived from the motherland)

I was more interested in the kenkey
 that had also arrived that Wednesday,
Driven up from Houston by an ex-military man in a jeep;
His wife was the one who prepared the kenkey
The Nigerians were out in force -
Yam for their swallow obviously, and much more:
Stockfish, herring and even snails.
The shop was well stocked today

One of the elders recounted a long tale
 about how hard things were back home - believe him
We learned about the three year old child who was suffering,
  crying when he'd last called home
The story was that two ears of corn had been prepared in the morning -
 his share for the day
But that before it could be given out, a fowl -
  unclear whether it was a chicken or guinea fowl,
Had gone behind him - poor thing,
  and absconded with the corn

And the child had set about on the chase,
  and duly tripped and fell,
And was now disconsolate,
  bleeding, and still crying hours after the deed
And hungry too, for the corn was long gone
There was an object lesson in the tale
 about the hardships that our people were facing,
Inflation, poverty and worse - how for do? Na wow
Now even little ones have to compete with fowls for their daily corn

Just then we saw the headlines
On the screen above the check out counter
Breaking news, school shooting... CNN...
Two children killed... many injured... More to follow
"So these people...
School don open just this week and they go shoot am...
America..." Shaking heads all around.

Our laments about the continent were cut short - these people
I quickly settled with Walter. And made my excuses to the circle:
"I need to pick up the kids from school"
Head nods. We all sobered up promptly,
The expected banter postponed for another time
I'll admit, I drove rather fast to the school


kola nuts



Defensive Posture, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note. Musical protection. (spotify version)

Bonus beats: Immigrant by Sade

See previously Silt and Sediment, Action Items, Prone and Defensive Accounting

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Writing log: August 28, 2025

Tuesday, August 26, 2025

Lines

Pink lines are the new shape of dread
The weary anticipation of the so-called rapid test
Faint traces of the untimely failures of our defenses
Or an unwelcome rejoinder to our wilful recklessness

Red lines that bellicose nations brandish
Their diplomats echoing aggressive rhetoric
Not to be crossed or we'll give you the "or else" treatment
The new warfare, like the old, is said to be indecent
By design, it's hard to trace the contours of these boundaries
Seeing as they are drawn up essentially to support a casus belli

White lines that crackle with the powder of addiction
Just say no, resist the temptation, said the erstwhile First Lady
"No Dope, No Drugs", for good measure, chimed in Mr T
For white lines mark the streets with broken dreams

Yellow lines outline a zone, never cross the double ones
Symbolic, indicating waiting or parking restrictions
The DC Metro one tends to shut down for up to eight months
The price of deferred maintenance, repairs and rehabilitation
Safety first, passing is forbidden in both directions
Prohibition, as inconveniences grow, try to avoid obstructions

Power lines, careful around them, electricity
The skeletal frame of our modernity
Infrastructure, what you realize in its absence that you miss
Prime candidate for what went wrong in the root cause analysis

Don't leave anything behind, always put it all on the line
Read the room, be forever mindful of the party line
Embrace euphemism, ambiguity and blurred lines
Careful as you go, tread warily, walk a thin line
Lines in the sand, drawing up lessons learned
Histories remade by the storyteller and promptly unlearned
Comfort suites of ephemera, until such time
Caution, take heed, where you end up down the line
For if the front line is where names are made
It is also where most of the bodies are laid


wiring

electricity

electrical wiring

intersection wiring for muni

wires

Lines, a playlist


A funky soundtrack for this note (spotify version) File under: , , , , , , , ,

Writing log: September 14, 2022

Wednesday, August 20, 2025

Blast Radius

Ground zero
The moon tower marks the spot
Not too far from the state cemetery
At the intersection where cable cars used to stop
A block away from the offices of the N.A.A.C.P.
The mural is being restored as a kind of testimony

The blast radius
Gentrification spreads outwards
Progress, as viewed from one perspective
For many parts, indeed, had fallen into disrepair
But what is the fabric of communities?
And how much hollowing can a place bear
Before it loses its identity?

Change is turbulence
For the reverse is also true
Things - and places, are to be used
The inexorable logic of our economy
The foundation of land use theories
Displacement, a shedding of skin
The debates are about the nature of this new molting
Prosperity's impact on demography


Aziel Garcia restoring East Austin mural


Soundtrack for this note


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Writing log: September 22, 2022