#an old conjurer's memoirs

[ibethalantyr]

The Ledger’s Domain

The Readership of Home is an organization of wizards dedicated to the difficult work of preserving and transmitting knowledge - especially, though not exclusively, magical knowledge.  Where arcanists are commonly pictured either as (mad) scientists - pushing the boundaries of what magic can do and crossing boundaries mortals oughtn’t - or as (stuffy) archivists - hoarding what they already know and denying that knowledge to others - The Readership charts a course between.  They are students and teachers, preserving the old and creating the new always with an eye toward sharing.

But teachers are curators as well, and some things are too dangerous to be shared.  Which things?  Well, that can be a matter of controversy...

Once upon a time, a junior fellow of a highly respected Chapterhouse was on walkabout on another world.  He discovered, quite by accident, an ancient site of tremendous magical potential.  After freeing it from the clutches of a dark wizard, who had sought to turn its powers to personal gain, the young Reader sent home asking for instructions.  He was told to take up residence and learn as much as he could while his superiors settled on a course of action.

The Podium was sharply divided.  Said the Denier: “The temptation of such a place for unsavory members of our profession is too great, as the behavior of this creeping ‘spider’ makes clear.”  (With this both the Maker and the Chanter agreed).  The Channeler replied: “Power is potential, the potential for good as well as for evil.  Let us use our power to protect this place, and help to guide its use for good.”  (The Summoner and the Magician backed him).  The Seer had the last word: “Even without evil, there is potential for harm.  So powerful of a thing may be misused with the best of intentions.  And how great the consequences could be: mountains thrown down, towns reduced to blackened glass.  These things I have seen.  These things could be.”

The tie broken, the motion was carried.  The Denier, the Maker, and the Channeler (always gracious in defeat) together created a fearsome weapon, a rod of unmaking.  This was entrusted to a senior fellow (a student of the Maker), who was instructed to use it to dispel the enchantments of the site if possible, to disintegrate its apparatus if not, or, at the last need, to bury the whole with an earthquake.

But two matters escaped their reckoning.  One was the ancient magic at work there, which fought tooth and nail to defend itself.  The other was the junior fellow, who had stayed as instructed for months, not only studiously documenting how the place worked, but also learning much of its history.  He had lived with its new custodians, who had devoted their lives to its rediscovery.  He had spoken with some of its ancient guardians.  He had even found the bones of its builders, long lost in a forgotten cavern, and given them burial rites with his own hands.  In so doing he had come to love the place (a blindness, the Podium said), and to feel that its fate should not be decided by outsiders like them (a point which the Podium had more difficulty disputing).  In any case, when his dwarvish superior began to summon her earthquake, the force of his counterspell shattered both the spell and the rod from which it was cast.

This left the Readers in an uneasy stalemate.  One had a long and difficult journey Home to report on what had happened.  The other had a choice: to accompany her, account for his actions, and suffer the consequences; or to run, turning his back on the path and the life he had worked so hard to begin.

He ran.

He did more besides, it should be said.  He entrusted guardianship of the place to an ancient dragon he and his companions had befriended.  He also shielded the place from magical intrusion or observation (he had been a student of the Denier’s, when he was in good standing).  But then, he ran.

He threw himself into the life of a borrowed book, traveling with several sets of companions over the course of an adventuring career.  In that time, he came (as adventurers do) into possession of numerous powerful, dangerous items: dark old spellbooks, cursed mirrors and rings, keys to Doors long sealed, weapons of malevolent sentience.  And in these dark and dangerous things, he found his new calling.

Across half a dozen worlds, he hid what he had found.  Some things he entrusted to powerful guardians.  Others he secreted in forgotten ruins, surrounded by intricate defenses.  The most dangerous - mostly books, for a Reader knows the danger of knowledge - he locked away in a demiplane.  Among them was one book of his own: a ledger, listing all the dangerous things that had passed through his hands, and where he had hidden them, and how (in great need) they could be found again.

Now, he was a master at hiding.  He evaded the Readership for many years, after all.  (Some say he was eventually caught and called to account; others that he not only eluded capture but fought all who pursued him to a standstill; others that he turned himself in and was reconciled with the institution he never stopped loving; others that many things can be true at once).  But this ledger was almost the undoing of his work.  For as time went on and the story spread, it became a matter of legend, the type of thing that magic of the right sort can discover.

Resolved to undo the damage he had done, he called an old friend: the dwarf he had dueled many years ago, now not just a senior fellow, but the Crucible herself (having taken the Maker’s place when he retired).  She was an expert on the destruction of dangerous things.  And she offered to help him in the unmaking, but she also offered good advice.  He had worked so hard to preserve these dangerous things with the idea that in some desperate future time they might do good in the right hands.  Perhaps this was part of that work: that he not only hide, but help to bring to light again.

And so it was, or so the story goes, that the Ledger’s Domain was saved.  Perhaps it still floats in the astral sea: a doorless tower, unmoored, shrouded with every defense a paranoid abjurer and his many friends could conceive, and filled to the brim with cursed artifacts and forbidden knowledge.  And in the midst of all: a book, that these at need can still read, telling where many a chosen one may find her sword...

[1800titz]

LADYBUG MAN

“Hello.”

Jana twists her head over her chin and double-takes. There’s a tall man stood at the rear-passenger door of the sun-bleached corvette — presumably, the owner — and her six-year old is staring him down, fingertips mucked up in pollen and the hood of the car coated in naked evidence; trails of sticky fingerprints dragged in lines down the scarlet bonnet.

“I like your car,” she hears her say, and twists to see a twinge of a smile coat the man’s mouth.

“Thank you.”

The door creaks and clicks.

“—Sorry.”

The man glances in her direction as she approaches — lingers in the trail of emerald when she grasps onto Dixie’s hand, half-apologetic and half-amused, dusting the palm of her hand over the pads of the child’s fingers.

“Sorry, she — likes to …touch everything and talk to everyone.”

Jana spares another glance upward.

He doesn’t look like the image her mind had conjured as the owner of the vehicle. Maybe it’s because her brain wasn’t built to draw up a man of his stature from scratch, borrowing figments of stolen faces stowed away. That’s what a mind does, isn’t it? It borrows. Sculpts from what’s already stored and etched into folds of memory. She’d remember a man like him, memoir mirrored and tucked back behind her skull.

It’d go something like this:

Handsome, tall, wide; firm with muscle layered by cotton and denim. Good looking with his clean curls, haloed by the rays of the sun, jade like the evergreen foliage in the distance seated in his sockets. Good looking, despite the silvery knick under his eye, marred tissue sculpted across the cresting apple of his cheekbone. Good looking, despite a thin scar indenting over the slope of his nose. Pocks catch the sunlight and glint back. Most prominently, Jana notes his ear — the left one; swollen, injured cartilage that had been left untreated years ago and settled into a deformity that his tendrils tuck behind.

His mouth exposes nice teeth, straight and ivory, nearly unfitting with his brutishly visible ailments. His massive arm is cradling a crate of tomatoes, nonchalant like the one-handed feat of strength is a casual skill.

“S’alright.”

He’s santalum and cardamom musk, spuming seemingly from his pores — a clean scent that catches on the breeze and traverses, even through the void of empty space between them (a proper two feet, surpassing the respectful six-inches-for-Jesus rule. It wafts in the zephyr). Who are you, mystique. What is your little life?

She’d remember a man like him. Everyone knows every face in the poky expanse of her little county, and this man isn’t familiar.

He sets the crate into the backseat of his convertible, stretching over the boundary of the door, aided in the lack of its roofing.

“Does your car go fast?” Dixie chirps.

The rays bask on the inching of his simper, too, face downcast.

“Not really. It’s a little too old.”

Talc flickers from the bleached leather coating the interior, to the kid, and then up to her mother, where it stays. He peers at the bonnet, tipping his head as he nears it.

“You’ve done some artwork,” the man observes, using that voice utilized with kids — the kind that implies every half-assed attempt is an impressive feat. There’s a lopsided rendition of something decorating his hood, curved lines enclosing blotched stippling. “What’ve you drawn there?”

“A ladybug.”

“A ladybug,” and then, without missing a beat, “That’s quite good.”

Jana eyes him, and then glances down — Dixie beams up at the stranger like he’s hung the moon.

Slowly, he drags a pointed index through the sheath of pollen beside her artwork. His knuckles are firm, callused scarring stretching over every joint; hard like a rigid ballpoint pen coated in flesh. The tip of his forefinger circles and spots. Dots and drags. His eyes flick up, and then back down to the murky artwork. When he takes the pad of his digit away, vermillion shaping through the ragweed sculpts a pair. Two ladybugs, side by side, one to match the other. There’s a lip-sealed smile cresting at his mouth when the man nudges his chin toward the addition, thumbing at the residue over his callused index. Warm, like basking in sunshine.

“There. It’s got a friend now.”

[samwisethewitch]

REVIEW: Old Style Conjure by Starr Casas

There's some controversy around this book, mostly because Starr Casas is a white woman writing about hoodoo. (Or at least white passing -- Casas does not disclose her ancestry in this book, and I never want to assume based on appearances. Some of the memoir content in this book makes me think she may be from a mixed family.) I avoided this book for a long time because of that controversy, so I want to address it before I move into pros and cons.

When people accuse Casas of cultural appropriation, if they're not talking about her appearance they'll typically bring up this line from a FAQ section in this book: "Q. Can white folks do conjure work? Yes, they can, as long as they honor the ancestors of this work. Those ancestors are the folks who were kidnapped and sold into slavery. They brought this work here and deserve to be honored. And who better to honor them than the white folks who at one time enslaved them?"

I think this line is phrased poorly in a way that makes it easy to take it out of context as giving blanket permission for cultural appropriation. But after reading the entire book, I feel confident that wasn't what Casas was trying to communicate here. Casas is very aware of the legacy of slavery in the South, and she seems to believe very firmly that white folks need to reckon with the atrocity of the slave trade. It's our responsibility to do what we can to make amends for the evils of our ancestors. It's basically the same message other authors, like Aaron Oberon, have phrased better and been praised for.

It is also important to note that Casas isn't claiming to speak for all hoodoo practitioners -- this book is about her family's folk magic tradition, which is influenced by African American practices. She's very clear that other practitioners may do things a different way. She's also very clear about the importance of acknowledging and honoring the African roots of many Southern folk practices, something I personally agree with. The reality is, you'd be hard pressed to find a folk magic tradition in the South with NO African influences, and I appreciate what Casas is trying to do here by explicitly honoring those influences.

(On personal note, struggling to navigate the legacy of white supremacy while honoring Black and indigenous ancestors is something I personally relate to as a white person from a mixed-race family. There are no easy answers here.)

This book, its tone, and the language it uses reminds me a lot of my grandparents. They mean well, and they're remarkably antiracist for older folks in the rural south, but they aren't familiar with all the language and terminology activists use today. They're imperfect in their allyship, but they ARE trying to be allies. It's up to you whether that's a deal breaker for you.

Anyways, with that out of the way, here are my thoughts on the actual book and its content:

Pros:

This is definitely "old style conjure." Everything here feels very authentic and traditional.

I liked the emphasis on using what you have and working with what is available to you. This is not a book that will have you running out to buy that one specific crystal you just have to have for a spell.

I also liked the emphasis on doing things yourself, including making your own oils and powders instead of buying from someone else. This DIY spirit is a big part of southern folk magic as I was taught.

Casas gives very clear, easily followed instructions and does her best to explain the "why" behind what's included in a work.

Great section on throwing bones!

The most comprehensive breakdown of the uses of dirt of any book I've found so far.

This book genuinely contains information I had learned from oral traditions but had not seen written down anywhere.

This book reminded me so much of the women who have taught me what I know of a Southern folk magic. It took me back to sitting at the kitchen table, watching my mentor do an egg cleanse for someone with holy water she had blessed herself.

Cons:

Like I said, reading this book is a lot like a conversation with a Southern grandparent. That wasn't off-putting for me, but I can see how it might bother some readers.

I think Casas is from a slightly warmer climate than where I currently live. Some of the ingredients she uses in works, like olive leaves, are much harder to find in Southern Appalachia. Again, not a huge issue, but just know you'll have to make substitutions if you're not from a very warm climate.

Casas's practice is very heavily focused on working with ancestors and saints, which is not true for every Southern folk magic practitioner. I think she does sometimes give the impression that everyone has to work as closely with ancestors and saints as she does. You don't.

There's definitely a generational difference here with regards to how things like race, class, gender, etc. are discussed. I'm a younger millenial/elder Gen Z, and some of the language used in this book made me cringe a bit. Nothing as bad as slurs or open racism, but more like using outdated language that is considered poor manners but not quite offensive by younger generations.

Overall Rating: 3/5 stars

Would I recommend it?

Despite everything, yes I would. I think there really is some excellent information here, including things that are in danger of being lost. Casas says she wrote this book as a response to the rise of Internet witchcraft and that her goal is to preserve old style folk practices, and she absolutely accomplishes that goal.

This is definitely one I'd recommend checking out from the library before you decide whether to spend money on it, and it isn't without its flaws, but books about pure Southern folk magic with no New Age or neopagan influences are hard to find, so I wanted to spotlight this one. I got this from the library and am glad I did.

(And of course, if you're interested in African American folk magic, you should read books by African American authors. Luisah Teish and Stephanie Rose Bird are two of my personal favs.)

[eddie-redmayne-italian-blog]

'Cabaret' comes back to Broadway starring Eddie Redmayne and Gayle Rankin

APRIL 20, 20248:00 AM ET

HEARD ON WEEKEND EDITION SATURDAY

NPR's Scott Simon speaks to Eddie Redmayne and Gayle Rankin, who star in the new Broadway revival of "Cabaret."

SCOTT SIMON, HOST: You probably recognize the music from the first notes. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "WILLKOMMEN") EDDIE REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome. Fremde, etranger, stranger. SIMON: "Cabaret," the 1966 Broadway musical by Joe Masteroff, John Kander and Fred Ebb. It's drawn from Christopher Isherwood's memoir of high times and hot jazz and is set in a fictional Berlin nightspot called the Kit Kat Club. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "WILLKOMMEN") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) Im Cabaret, au Cabaret, to Cabaret. SIMON: At a time when sequins, high-stepping flappers and forbidden love gives way to goose-stepping and beating Jews on the street. A new revival of "Cabaret" has opened on Broadway after winning seven Olivier Awards in London. Eddie Redmayne plays the Emcee, and he joins us from New York. May I say willkommen to you? REDMAYNE: You may indeed. Hi.

SIMON: And Gayle Rankin the British chanteuse who comes to Berlin. I get to say fraulein Sally Bowles. (LAUGHTER) GAYLE RANKIN: Hello, darling (laughter). I had to (laughter). SIMON: Oh, my gosh. Wait. Sorry. Let me just catch my heart for a moment. Thanks so much. (LAUGHTER) SIMON: Eddie Redmayne, you've played the Emcee before. I was about to say early in your career, but really, before you started your career. REDMAYNE: That's absolutely true. Yes, I was a kid. I was at high school when I - we did a little school production. I think I was about 14, 15 years old. It was one of those moments in my life where I would say really I fell in love with theater. It thrilled me, and it made me think, and it moved me. And so I always sort of credit it weirdly as being the thing that that got me into acting full and proper. SIMON: What does the Emcee do for the audience?

REDMAYNE: I think one of the reasons the Emcee is such a iconic role and one that so many actors lean into is he's so enigmatic. He was conjured by Hal Prince and Joel Grey as a way of connecting the Sally Bowles story, and so he almost lives in an abstract place. And so for an actor, that is joyous because there are sort of no limitations on the one hand, and it's also quite daunting. He sort of starts as a puppeteer almost, the kind of the Shakespearian fool, perhaps... (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "TWO LADIES") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee) Come on, my little ones. UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #1: (As character, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, dee. UNIDENTIFIED ACTORS: (As characters, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, dee. REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, beedle dee, deedle dee. UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #2: (As character, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, dee. REDMAYNE: (Singing) Two ladies. UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #2: (As characters, singing) Beedle dee, dee dee dee.

REDMAYNE: ...Who then, over the course of the piece, rises to the all-knowing king or the sort of from puppeteer to conductor, and he becomes rather than the victim, he's almost the perpetrator. And so this person that's hopefully pulled you in at the beginning of the evening and seduced you and made you laugh, you realize is actually conducting the entire piece. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "IF YOU COULD SEE HER") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) If could see her through my eyes, she wouldn't look Jewish at all. SIMON: And Gayle Rankin, you have played other roles in "Cabaret" before Sally Bowles, haven't you? RANKIN: I have. I made my Broadway debut, actually, playing Fraulein Kost in the Sam Mendes revival 10 years ago with Alan and Michelle and Emma Stone. Eddie and I were just talking about it just the other day, and he was like, is this so weird? Is it so weird? And I was like, you know what? It's not weird. It's not weird. And it doesn't - I feel like a new person and in a new world 'cause that's - you know, "Cabaret," it comes back, and the world is new a decade later. It's new, and it's also the same.

SIMON: Help us look inside of Sally's mind and heart. What brings her to Berlin in the early '30s? RANKIN: You know, there's not a lot that's given to us, you know, about Sally. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "MEIN HERR")

RANKIN: (As Sally Bowles, singing) But I do what I can, inch by inch, step by step, mile by mile. For me, it was very important for me to kind of figure out Sally's relationship to artistry and creativity and why she ended up at the club. And there's a huge, you know, kind of cultural discussion about whether Sally has talent or whether she does not have talent. And that's a really fascinating thing, I think, to me. And I think it's amazing how people think they can decide or that they know that she's not - quote-unquote, "not talented" or is talented. It's just wild to me. SIMON: I have to ask. There are so many famous names who have played the two parts into which you two step now - Dame Judi Dench, Natasha Richardson, Michelle Williams. Alan Cumming, Joel Grey have played the Emcee. I didn't even mention the film with Liza Minnelli and Joel Grey, now, did I? So do previous productions inspire you, or do you just have to, you know, leave them in the fridge? REDMAYNE: I've been such a passionate fan of "Cabaret" since I was a kid that I've seen everything in the sense that I've - you can see some of Sam's production on YouTube. I saw Sam's production with Emma and Alan. I've watched the film. I even saw a random Spanish version when I was... RANKIN: Oh.

REDMAYNE: ...Younger. And they've been so brilliant, the productions before, that I hope we come sort of standing on their shoulders and with great respect for them, but also trying to do something new and fresh. And one of the things that was important for me was that idea - one of the Emcee's first lines is leave your troubles outside, and that for audience members coming to see this in New York, you enter via a sort of back alley. You get taken down into the underbelly of the theater, where there is an entire cast of performers playing in these really beautiful spaces, and you get a bit discombobulated. It's labyrinthine, and you get sort of lost, so that by the time you are taken actually into the theater itself, which sits in the round, hopefully, you have genuinely left all memory of 52nd Street outside. SIMON: I got to say, your production reached through to me with something I hadn't quite realized before. Things are terrible and getting worse on the streets. They're beating Jews and putting them into ghettos. There's a refuge in the club. There's also a refuge in Fraulein Schneider's boardinghouse, where she, for the first time in her life, really has a relationship with a man who happens to be a fruit seller and a Jewish man. Both your characters have that refuge in the club, and they have their characters in the boardinghouse. But, you know, refuges - well, real life can bring them down, can't they?

REDMAYNE: Absolutely. And I feel like the play, in its essence, is a warning in some ways. It serves as a warning about when hate can take over humanity and when humanity is lost to hate. And that feels so relevant at this moment. There are so many examples of that throughout the world today, but I hope that the brilliance of what Kander, Ebb and Masteroff created was that it seduces you in and in a way that feels really sort of magnificent but then begins to touch on these - this repetition of history that resounds and serves as a warning. RANKIN: And it kind of - what's so scary about it is how the refuge is created, and then you slowly realize that actually, there's a poison inside of your refuge. SIMON: What do you take in from the audience every night? REDMAYNE: Well, I mean, one of the joys for me as a performer is the intimacy of the space. So there's not really a sort of a bad seat in the house at the August Wilson, and the other character in the room with the Emcee is the audience. And what I have loved about our experience in New York is people because it's an event almost, the evening, from the second you pass the threshold. The theater's been redesigned and reconfigured in a way. People are getting dressed up. So you have people in black tie next to people in fetish gear next to people in jeans and a T-shirt, and you get all sorts of characters.

RANKIN: And to have a relationship with the audience, you know, and to enjoy how fun... REDMAYNE: Yeah. RANKIN: ...This is and can be throughout the show till the very end - what is written in this piece, there's - we're still laughing through tears at a certain point toward - for the very end of the show, and that's what's so kind of timeless and important about this space, that there's something that doesn't die inside of our club. SIMON: Gayle Rankin and Eddie Redmayne star in the new production of "Cabaret" on Broadway. Thank you both so much for being with us. REDMAYNE: Thanks for having us. RANKIN: Thank you so much. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "TOMORROW BELONGS TO ME") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) The sun on the meadow is summery warm. The stag in the forest runs free.

https://www.npr.org/2024/04/20/1246083026/cabaret-comes-back-to-broadway-starring-eddie-redmayne-and-gayle-rankin

[girljeremystrong]

25 favorite books of mine for @kerrycastellabate ❤️ 

1.       WE RIDE UPON STICKS by quan barry

about a girl’s high school field hockey team from salem, massachussetts which in 1989 is on a mega winning streak. might it be because the team members have pledged themselves to the dark forces in order to get to state? it’s so fun and the characters are all incredible.

2.       WE BEGIN AT THE END by chris whitaker

the plot isn’t easy to summarize but this is a thriller and a very very good one at that. it’s goto ne of the best characters ever: duchess “the outlaw”. there’s a murder and a murderer on the loose and old friends and sweet siblings and it’s truly a great book.

3.       THE INDEX OF SELF DESTRUCTIVE ACTS by christopher beha

this as close to succession as a book can get. Sam is a sport statician, he gets involved with a rich new york city family. this book is amazing, so much happens and all the characters are great.

4.       THE GIRL WITH THE LOUDING VOICE by abi daré

adunni is a fourteen-year-old nigerian girl who knows what she wants: an education. she’s determined to find her voice. incredible story and so sweet and uplifting and beautiful. i have gifted this book time and time again. i love it.

5.       THE ART OF FIELDING by chad harbach

about henry who gets recruited by mike to play baseball at college and they become very good pals while henry becomes better and better and mike understands his life less and less. great team antics great plot great characters not too much baseball.

6.       DOMINICANA by angie cruz

ana is a fifteen year old girl living in the dominican republic who dreams of moving to america. again this is a very sweet and powerful story. ana is an incredible character that i love so much.

7.       I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS by maya angelou

a wonderful memoir about her childhood in a southern town. this is a classic and i love it. It’s joyful and sad and wonderful.

8.       NOTHING TO SEE HERE by kevin wilson

moving and uproarious novel about a woman who finds meaning in her life when she begins caring for two children with remarkable and disturbing abilities (they spontaneously combust when they get agitated). great and fun and very sweet.

9.       CONJURE WOMEN by afia atakora

a sweeping story that brings the world of the south before and after the civil war vividly to life. spanning eras and generations, it tells of the lives of three unforgettable women. “magnificently written, brilliantly researched, richly imagined.”

10.   A PRAYER FOR OWEN MEANY by john irving

eleven-year-old owen meany, playing in a Little League baseball game in gravesend, new hampshire, hits a foul ball and kills his best friend's mother. owen doesn't believe in accidents. wonderful story about friendship and destiny. i love this book.

11.   HOMEGOING by yaa gyasi

this book follows generation after generation of descendants of two half sisters born in different villages in 18th century ghana. they go on to having very different fates and so do their children and their children's children. it’s a modern classic! it’s perfect.

12.   BRIDESHEAD REVISITED by evelyn waugh

tells the story of charles ryder's infatuation with the marchmains and the rapidly-disappearing world of privilege they inhabit. enchanted first by sebastian, then by his doomed catholic family. it’s wonderful and wistful and beautifully written.

13.   BELOVED by toni morrison

sethe was born a slave and escaped, but eighteen years later she is still not free. she has borne the unthinkable and not gone mad, yet she is still held captive by memories of sweet home, the beautiful farm where so many hideous things happened. it’s perfect it won every big award because it’s incredible.

14.   ALL THE KING'S MEN by robert penn warren

tells the story of charismatic populist governor willie stark and his political machinations in the depression-era deep south. i don’t know but i love this book. it’s a classic and it’s written so well and the story is compelling and i keep recommending it.

15.   SALVAGE THE BONES by jesmyn ward

hurricane katrina is building over the gulf of mexico, threatening the coastal town of bois sauvage, mississippi, and esch's father is growing concerned. this all takes place across 12 days before, during and after hurricane katrina and it is a truly amazing book. a must read! a modern classic.

16.   EVERYWHERE YOU DON'T BELONG by gabriel bump

claude, a black boy from the south side of chicago whose parents both left when he was a child, so he was raised by his grandmother and her friend paul. love this book, its characters and the way it’s written, and especially its dialogues.

17.   THE PROPHETS by robert jones jr.

bout the forbidden union between two enslaved young men on a deep south plantation. isaiah was samuel’s and samuel was isaiah’s. very sad and very maddening, but beautiful.

18.   THE FUNNY THING ABOUT NORMAN FOREMAN by julietta henderson

when 12-year-old norman’s best friend jax dies, he decides the only fitting tribute is to perform at the edinburgh fringe festival as a comedian. his mum sadie will do anything to help him. ooh this is so sweet, it’s adorable and so fun and delightful!

19.   INFINITE COUNTRY by patricia engel

elena and mauro are teenagers when they meet, their blooming love an antidote to the mounting brutality of life in bogotá. once their first daughter is born, and facing grim economic prospects, they set their sights on the united states. beautiful story and very well written.

20.   THE SWEETNESS OF WATER by nathan harris

in the waning days of the civil war, brothers prentiss and landry—freed by the emancipation proclamation—seek refuge on the homestead of george walker and his wife, isabelle. the walkers, wracked by the loss of their only son to the war, hire the brothers. so unexpectedy gorgeous.

21.   BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY by quan julie wang

a beautiful memoir about an undocumented childhood. my favorite book of 2022. magnificent, perfect, sweet, sad, joyful. i love it with all myself.

22.   REAL LIFE by brandon taylor

almost everything about wallace is at odds with the midwestern university town. but over the course of a weekend, a series of confrontations with colleagues, and an unexpected encounter with a straight, white classmate, conspire to fracture his defenses. i love this. this author is so good at building up characters.

23.   MILK BLOOD HEAT by dantiel w. monitz

incredible collection of short stories. left me wanting more but at the same time they are perfectly crafted and beautiful.

24.   HOMELAND ELEGIES by ayad akhtar

truly incredible book, one of the best i’ve ever read. part family drama, part social essay, part picaresque adventure — at its heart, it is the story of a father, a son, and the country they both call home.

25.    THE LOVE SONGS OF W.E.B. DU BOIS  by honorée fanonne jeffers

this is the story of ailey and her ancestor’s journey in america through centuries, from the colonial slave trade to our days. we meet ailey when she is a child and watch her grow up, until the moment when, as a college graduate, she embarks on a journey to uncover her family’s past. a wonderful epic story spanning centuries. loved the character of ailey.

[rangeminmax]

Title: "Cradled in Chaos: A pain in the 'keister' Memoir"

Chapter 1: "Shadowplay Shuffle: Mob's Midnight Mysteria"

Nestled on Fern Street, footscray Melbourne Victoria our abode loomed like a colossal relic from a forgotten era--an ancient sentinel guarding secrets of the Melbourne underworld. Its timeworn window shades, tattered and weather-beaten, would come alive on windy nights, their eerie cacophony echoing through the darkness. The ceaseless chatter of those shades, though vexing, bestowed an unsettling sense of solace, a disquieting reassurance that we were never truly alone.

Within the aged walls of this enigmatic dwelling, concealed behind layers of history, lay secrets and mysteries waiting to be unveiled. An imposing staircase, once regal, now bore the scars of time and neglect, reaching its tragic demise when our family eventually departed. This majestic stairwell, a once-proud centerpiece, ascended towards the front door--a threshold adorned with an unsettling relic. There, nestled on the doorstep, lay a pair of forsaken wedding rings, their presence shrouded in inexplicable foreboding.

In the depths of my imagination, I often conjured visions of shattering the stoic concrete steps, as if attempting to liberate the trapped wedding rings from their ominous resting place within the staircase's dark recesses. These fantasies were born of darker times, moments when our family wrestled with the relentless grip of financial hardship.

The house harbored an enigmatic shed, perched aloft its aging rooftop. This structure, unassuming in appearance, concealed secrets of its own--a clandestine party venue that I came to cherish. The allure lay in the fact that partygoers, seeking access to the rooftop revelry or the backyard, were compelled to traverse my room, inadvertently making it the nucleus of these nocturnal gatherings.

While my youthful curiosity often drew me into the adult world, there existed a sinister aspect to these late-night soirées. The inebriated merrymakers, driven to heedless excess, would, with alarming regularity, subject me to terrifying ordeals. They would taunt and torment me, dangling my trembling form over the precipice of the shed's rooftop. The cold, stinging gusts of wind clawed at my senses as I teetered on the edge, my heart pounding with dread. The height may not have been considerable, yet to my youthful perception, it felt like a treacherous abyss.

The entire property exuded an aura of unsavory history--an ancient brothel repurposed into something more inscrutable. Clues were scattered like phantoms of the past--those forsaken wedding rings and the majestic yet mournful staircase. Across the desolate road sprawled a lawn bowls field, a stark contrast to the sinister ambiance of our residence. An apple tree, a forlorn sentinel, stood sentinel at the front of the house.

Inexplicably drawn to the dark allure of this place, I would roll apples along the road, their impending doom inevitable as they met the unforgiving metal of passing cars. An eerie satisfaction enveloped me, an unsettling resonance with the shadows that seemed to dominate our lives. This peculiar pastime was passed down to me by enigmatic mentors, and I continued to indulge until an encounter with an officer of the law. He cast a shadow over my childhood transgressions, admonishing me for my involvement with the enigmatic figures within our house.

Fearing retribution, I locked this eerie secret within the depths of my conscience, an unspoken covenant with the shadows that danced around our unsettling existence. And so, our tale begins with the approach to the old car, an artifact of a bygone era that, like our house, exuded an aura of enigmatic and malevolent history.

The midnight hour draped the world in an eerie shroud as the clock's hands etched their way to 11:30 PM. Shadows, like restless spirits, wove intricate and ghostly tapestries around the car. They danced with malevolence, engaged in an eternal waltz, forever competing with the fleeting beams of light cast by passing cars on the main road. Melbourne's once-silent night carried an unsettling chill, biting into our bones as we dared to step into its ominous embrace.

The car door groaned open, echoing a somber invitation into the cryptic depths of the city's streets. Exhausted from the late hour, my eyelids drooped, threatening to surrender me to the clutches of sleep. However, John's voice, a siren in the night, tore me from the brink of slumber.

His words unfurled a chilling narrative--our destination, the market, ruled by the merciless Mafia. The Melbourne underworld. John had regaled me with sinister stories of this place, recounting them upon his return from work. But this night marked my initiation, and the tales he wove painted a dire panorama of the market--a place where individuals vanished into the abyss, where sinister happenings festered, and shadowy deals thrived. I teetered on the precipice between consciousness and dreams as his words reverberated in the cold, still air.

Our journey led us to the foreboding threshold, marked by a sign bearing the foreboding words, M.M. standing for"Melbourne Market, footscray .Wholesaler Fruit and Veg." John's voice deepened with trepidation as he declared, "We're entering hell right now, the gateway to hell itself the underworld.turning down the volume of the radio." Doubt gnawed at the edges of my young mind. Could this be real? As we descended the sloping driveway into the market's depths, John's repeated insistence that we were descending into a veritable hell sent a shiver cascading down my spine.

Amid the encroaching darkness, John unearthed a peculiar possession--an old pair of sunglasses. He urged me to don them, promising they would shield me from the impending assault of light. I obeyed, a decision that would later prove providential, for the transition from the car's obscurity to the market's blazing illumination was a harsh shock to my senses.

We navigated the dimly lit labyrinth of the car park, passing through a guarded checkpoint, and proceeded toward the rear, where petrol pumps stood sentinel, encircled by menacing forklifts. John gestured toward the Don's imposing four-wheel drive, but then, his demeanor shifting, he scrutinized the back seat, lamenting the absence of his high-visibility gear.

Inwardly, I laughed and questioned the relevance of rules in a realm ruled by the iron fist of the Mafia. John chided me for not possessing high-visibility clothing, stressing its importance as protection against the forklifts' mechanical giants. I cast a furtive glance at my nondescript jumper, far from the prescribed attire, and kept my dissenting thoughts to myself.

My gaze drifted to the Don's enigmatic vehicle, and an electrifying thought surged through my young mind--what if I could harness the power of the Mafia to reach my estranged father? My mother had always veiled this subject in ambiguity, offering no clear answers. In a market dominated by criminals, my father's past crime--a payroll robbery executed under duress--the mafia being the best criminals could even break him out or they could possibly know him suddenly appeared almost justifiable.

I voiced my hunger to John, and he suggested acquiring an apple. Together, we ventured deeper into the bustling heart of the market, passing the pastor petrol pumps and breaching the monumental roller doors that guarded the market's secrets. The market unfolded before us--a bewildering juxtaposition of light and shadow. Yellow lines etched into the ground demarcated safe paths for pedestrians, though the operators of forklifts remained heedless of these precautions.

Every 20 meters, a yellow forklift symbol, painted on the ground, competed with the ever-shifting interplay of shadows and dancing light.

As we ventured deeper into the foreboding heart of the Melbourne underworld, the eerie atmosphere of the market only intensified. The place seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, as if it were a living, breathing entity, watching our every move with unseen eyes.

As we entered, my eyes were immediately drawn to a scene that sent a shiver down my spine. A man, much like any other worker in the market, stooped to pick up a wooden crate. It was an ordinary act, but what unfolded beneath that crate was far from ordinary.

I watched in wide-eyed horror as the man lifted the crate, revealing a hidden world beneath it. Coiled within the shadows, a snake, its scales shimmering with an eerie luminescence, lay in wait. Its eyes, two tiny orbs of malevolence, locked onto the man's hand as he reached down. I expected a scream, a frantic retreat, but to my astonishment, the man didn't even bat an eyelid.

With an almost casual nonchalance, he simply flicked the snake away with a deft movement of his hand. The serpent, sensing that it had lost the element of surprise, made a hasty retreat into the inky darkness that permeated the market. It slithered away with a speed and grace that sent shivers down my spine, vanishing into the depths of the underworld.

I couldn't fathom it. Why had the snake not struck? Was it afraid of this man, or was there some unspoken understanding between them? Questions swirled in my mind like a turbulent whirlpool, each one more unsettling than the last.

I turned to John, my voice trembling as I recounted the surreal encounter with the serpent. His response was a dismissive shrug, as if such occurrences were par for the course in this shadowy realm. He continued to lead me through the market, his steps unwavering, as if oblivious to the eerie underbelly that surrounded us.

The market itself was a maze of narrow pathways and dimly lit stalls. Shapes and shadows combined and wove intricate dances that played tricks on my young eyes. It was as if the very air was thick with secrets, and I, an unwitting observer, was caught in the midst of a sinister ballet.

I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone around me, every worker and every passerby, was part of this enigmatic world. Maybe they were all mobsters, like the man who had casually brushed aside the snake. Maybe John himself was part of this hidden tapestry, a thought that sent a chill through my already trembling frame.

The market's eerie atmosphere pressed down on me like a heavy shroud, and I clung to John like a lifeline. In the flickering lights and shifting shadows, the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurred, and I couldn't help but wonder what other horrors lay hidden in the depths of this underworld.

As we continued to navigate the labyrinthine market, I couldn't escape the feeling that I had crossed a threshold into a realm where ordinary rules no longer applied. It was a world where danger and intrigue intertwined, and where the line between predator and prey was eternally blurred.

The Melbourne underworld had opened its arms to me, a child in awe and fear, and I could only hold on tight as it pulled me deeper into its chilling embrace. The mob's midnight mysteria had only just begun, and I was a reluctant participant in this surreal and terrifying dance.

Our journey led us to the enigmatic Don's office, a peculiar enclave amidst the segmented sections of the market. It bore the semblance of a diminutive shack, adorned with a door and a solitary fridge. Adjacent to the door, a curious cutout window, bereft of glass, displayed crates laden with produce. On the rooftop, a chaotic mosaic of market paraphernalia littered the scene, casting eerie and disquieting silhouettes. An archaic bug zapper hung suspended in front of the fridge, sporadically crackling as it vanquished hapless insects.

Within this surreal setting, forklifts roared and John engaged in a conversation with the enigmatic Don. Their exchange delved into the depths of the Don's occupation, and John gleaned invaluable insights. The Don, casting a watchful eye on me, instructed me to remain perched upon an apple crate as he departed on a forklift, its horn blaring a dissonant note. From my vantage point, I watched the forklifts zip by like thundering chariots on a mythical racetrack, while rodents, animals, and even rabbits, bandicoots, and other enigmatic creatures, emerged from the shadows. They darted with reckless abandon, narrowly evading the relentless advance of the forklifts. Occasionally, misfortune befell one of these creatures, meeting a gruesome end beneath the unfeeling wheels of the mechanical beasts.

As I observed this macabre ballet of light

As the night progressed, the lights within the market shed took on a surreal quality, casting eerie shadows that danced with a life of their own. These shadows would occasionally merge, forming larger, more ominous shapes before abruptly parting ways, mirroring the chaotic underworld that thrived in the heart of Melbourne.

My gaze became transfixed on the bats, their silhouettes weaving intricate patterns through the dimly lit canopy. In that moment, an inexplicable connection blossomed in my mind--a connection between the Don and these nocturnal creatures. I couldn't help but recall the Count from Sesame Street, with his mathematical prowess, and I drew parallels between his enigmatic persona and the Don's own mysterious demeanor, manifested in his speech and attire.

The bats, like shadowy wraiths, descended upon the feast of bugs that congregated in front of the glaring lights. It was a macabre ballet, the creatures of the night devouring the silhouettes of insects with ruthless efficiency. The eerie communion between bats and shadows seemed symbolic, an eerie reflection of the clandestine dealings within the Melbourne underworld.

I remained seated, entranced by this unsettling spectacle, the enigmatic connection between the mob and these creatures etched in my young mind. It was a connection that would continue to haunt my thoughts in the years to come.

Amidst my drowsiness, I felt an undeniable chill. The relentless cold of the night was seeping into my bones, lulling me into a drowsy stupor. It was then that the Don, like a phantom emerging from the shadows, approached me. He gently draped a blanket over my shivering form, providing an unexpected warmth that sent a shiver down my spine.

In that moment, I couldn't help but reconsider my perceptions of these gangsters. The Don's seemingly small act of kindness cast a different light on his character, and I couldn't deny a growing sense that perhaps, beneath their menacing exterior, these mobsters possessed a flicker of humanity.

With the blanket wrapped around me, I allowed myself to drift into a fitful slumber, my thoughts swirling in the darkness, entwined with shadows and the enigma of the Melbourne underworld

[mas-alla-blog]

On Border Hauntology

“Ghosts or phantoms can mark the death of the ideas from the old world, as well as announcing a new principle of life.”

-Bruno Bosteels

The haunted dreamscape of the borderland unconscious comes to the surface in quematrasgos, the new release by experimental-electronic-Tejano duo Nudo. Listening to the seven tracks that make up the album, one feels as if they’re drifting across the histories of cultural lost futures, repressed political memories, and the communal desires that were once vibrantly alive along the US/Mexico border. Desires which manifested and materialized in multiple ways through the cultural expressions of the region.

By conjuring the sounds of corridos, norteño, and cumbia sonidera, the alien-like factory noises of the hellscape known as maquiladora city, as well as the vernacular folklore and jokes dealing with the violence permeating everyday life in the border, they effectively create a noise-sound-collage (in the style of Luigi Russolo’s Art of Noises) resembling the utopia of “hallucinatory visions in desperate times” described by Fredric Jameson in Archeologies of the Future. This striving for utopia evident in their futurist use of sampled regional music mixed with cosmic and weird sound effects (a practice originated in sonidero culture) places Nudo in the tendency of hauntology within the borderlands.

Hauntology as an aesthetic sensibility first emerged in Britain in order to deal with a cultural impasse defined by an inability to collectively imagine new futures at the so-called end of history. As the theorist Mark Fisher says, “the failure of the future is what defines hauntology more than anything.”

For Fisher, this ‘failure of the future’ had two interconnected effects: First, on a political level, it resulted in the loss of the radical imaginaries and aspirations launched by the revolutionary movements of the last century, by the students of ‘68, the anti-colonial struggle, and the movement for socialism that sprung across the Americas. Second, on an aesthetic level, electronic music ceased to be experimental and stopped pursuing the new, instead becoming mesmerized with the old forms and styles of times past. As Fisher argues, “by 2005, electronica was no longer capable of evoking a future that felt strange or dissonant.” These historic defeats suffered by emancipatory movements led us to an era “characterized by its inability to find aesthetic forms adequate to the present, still less to anticipate new socio-political futures.” (Jameson)

Hauntology represents an aesthetic response to the cancelation of the future, to the collective inability to think of a world radically different from our own, whether through music or our political imaginaries. Hauntological artists turn nostalgically towards the the past not in order to mourn and idealize it in relation to our present, but rather to actively reinterpret and remobilize half-forgotten cultural memories that promised alternative forms of futurity.

The ghosts, specters, and lost futures sought out by hauntology are emblematic of historical events that serve as reminders that capitalism is neither natural nor eternal, that there are other ways to organize society based on principles of solidarity and collectivity. They serve as aide-memoires of the times when struggles against capitalism, along with counter-cultures experimenting with new ways of being and seeing, were alive and ever-growing. Bruno Bosteels writes: “An event appears as a ghost both for what it no longer is and for what it has yet to be.” The aim of the hauntologist is to trace these ghosts haunting our present in order to reactivate the alternative futures “that have yet to be”.

To think about the nature of border hauntology, some questions arise: How does border hauntology deal with this failure of the future? What are the ghosts and lost futures haunting the borderlands today? What do the radical elements found in marginal cultural expressions tell us about the possibility to imagine alternative futures? What forms of futurity existed in the border which were foreclosed by capitalist forms of “progress”? Are there forms of a vernacular modernism found in border culture and art?

Nudo offers us an opportunity to deal with these questions as they take us across the simultaneously utopian and nightmare logic of the contemporary borderland unconscious. By way of a sonic dérive we trek alongside contemporary migrants-turned-psychogeographers stalking the ruins of a decaying civilization along the Rio Grande. T hey guide us through its sonic landscapes composed of cyber-sonideros, ghosts singing corridos, and cholombianos dancing chuntaro-style to deconstructed 3ball beats.

The mixing of traditional musical styles of the border with haunting soundscapes, which end up transforming the music into something alien and estranged, is characteristic of their aesthetic. This approach could be seen as serving a dual purpose: while the samples of corridos and sonideros function to invoke the lost futures they contain, the phantasmagoric sound effects layering the music allow for the return of the repressed histories of the region, namely the grinding conditions of life and work confronted by workers, farmers, migrant travelers, and so-called “illegal aliens”.

These repressed elements alluded to in the release point to the horrors capitalism requires to sustain and reproduce itself, requirements which are met in the margins of the system while perpetuating remnants of colonialism. Writing about the British colonization of India, Karl Marx touched on the reality of the borderlands of capitalism: “The profound hypocrisy and inherent barbarism of bourgeois civilization lies unveiled before our eyes, turning from its home, where it assumes respectable forms, to the colonies, where it goes naked.”

Doesn’t the brutality of labor experienced in maquiladoras, the never-ending work of immigrant farmers, the constant harassment and persecution of “illegal aliens” by the militarized border patrol, as well as the narco and State violence endured in everyday life, represent situations that reveal the truth, or essence, of capitalism? To paraphrase Marx, the inherent barbarism of capitalism is unveiled before our eyes at the US/Mexico border.

Border hauntology, then, can be seen as a means to invoke the ghosts of lost futures while creating a sonic phantasmagoria that brings to the surface the everyday violence - whether in the maquiladoras or the immigrant detention centers - visible in the borderlands. These repressed histories are explored aesthetically in quematrasgos along with a search for the traces of lost futures available to us in certain cultural expressions of the border. Expressions which are grounded in communal forms of enjoyment and other possible modernities, as is the case in the sonidero movement.

The specter of sonidero culture appears in the first two tracks of the release, FFA and roundUP (irrigated dessert). FFA submerges us into the distorted ambient soundscape of cyberspace while the pitched-down voice of a cyber-sonidero informs us he’s performing from a youtube streaming channel. The heavily eviscerated pop song serving as background noise resembles the pastiche mode hauntology seeks to transcend. The cyber-sonidero informs us we are also located in the borderlands by using expressions particular to the region (What the hell are we doing? Vamos a prender el bote!)

In roundUp (irrigated dessert), the cyber-sonidero drops a cumbia rebajada track (a style of mixing cumbia in which the music is pitched lower in order to create a haunting effect) while, like Virgil guiding Dante across the gates of hell and its labyrinthine structure, he announces our descent and crossing into the hellish side of the borderlands, into lo real: la frontera del alma, the real: the border of the soul. In the process, he recites its memories and spaces of terror over a cumbia rebajada:

“Dios. Maquiladoras. Angeles. Ciudad Juarez, Chihuahua. La Frontera. Eagle Pass, Texas. Lo Real. Estado. La Frontera del Alma. Tiempo. El Mezquite. Occurencia Vertical. El Paso del Águila. Estudio Esotérico. Estudio Prehispánico. Tormenta. Lo Verdadero, Lo Real, Lo Mítico. Desencarnado. Milagro. Dios del Charco. Dioses Castrados.”

“It is true that the old world belongs to the philistine. But one should not treat the latter as a ghost from which to recoil in fear. On the contrary, we ought to stare the ghosts in the eye!”

-Karl Marx

The sonidero culture invoked throughout the release point to the lost future being traced, offering an utopian vision in conflict with the underworld of the borderlands. Remnants of the sonidero movement still survive in the margins, whether amongst immigrant communities in the U.S. or in Tepito, albeit under constant attack by the repressive apparatuses of the State.

The futurist aesthetic and modernist ethos of sonideros are sometimes neglected by critics and musicologists. Sonideros are reduced to an exotic curiosity. They are viewed as traditional relics of some pastoral past, or as a form of resistance against the intrusion of western, or rather American, culture, due to their age-old Latin American and Caribbean music selection. In consequence, the potential futures they contain are ignored. Without a doubt, far from dealing with reality, these perspectives reflect the critics deep-rooted and erroneous belief that the modern and the new could never emerge from the margins of world capitalism.

Sonideros are better understood as modernist future rhythm machines that build bridges of solidarity within and across borders, while enforcing the right to the city. According to the musicologist Dario Blanco, “sonideros are heirs, upgraders, and transformers of a deep tradition of collective rituals.” In her essay Alternative Bodies on Streets, Cathy Raglan points to their transmodernist nature: “Sonideros present an idiosyncratic fusion of tradition and modernity in which the roots oriented sounds of rural vallenato-style cumbia are combined with the sonidero’s space-age sound effects.” Another feature they inherent from modernism is the strategy of turning the familiar strange and the strange familiar. As Cathy Raglan explains, “sonideros employ technology to alter their voice through filters, to alter the pitch, to create voices which are deep, grandiose and booming through the streets as if coming from another dimension.”

Ruben Lopez Cano, editor of Sonideros en las aceras, vengase la gozadera, writes about the sonideros approach to the city and public spaces: “The sonideros ability to close the street for public use makes people feel the power to partake in body expressions that deviate from the norm.”

These are some of the lost futures mourned and remobilized in border hauntology: the radicality of modernism, as well as the the right to the city and public spaces. These dreams and political aspirations can be traced through the actions and demands raised by the students of 1968. Describing the cultural effects of 1968 in Mexico, in his essay “The Melancholy Left”, Bruno Bosteels writes: “One of the lasting consequences of the events of 1968 consists precisely in displacing the borders of the political so as to include the everydayness - the infra-ordinariness, so to speak - of those who are the subjects of struggles for justice.”

By taking over the streets to create public spaces where joyous collective energies can emerge, where people can begin to sense what having control over our lives and cities could truly mean, sonideros remind us that alternative futures continue to exist in the margins, not only virtually but in concrete terms. As the surrealist poet Paul Eluard wrote, “there is another world but it is in this one.” The task is one of theorizing and acting in ways which expand such worlds which point towards a communist modernity.

In essence, the sonidero movement is a reverberation of modernism. In effect, the specters of modernism and its promise of the new are today roaming the margins of the so-called underdeveloped world, persisting in the aesthetic and political strategies of sonidero street culture. They allow us to contemplate an alternative modernity where technology and machines become means of creativity and joy rather than infernal machines of exploitation.

“Have you heard the cry of the dead?”

Doña Eduviges Dyada

Aside from the lost future of sonidero culture and its vernacular modernism there are other hauntings occurring in the borderlands. Sinister ghosts also appear in a region whose history has been defined by endless violence and necroeconomics. What does Nudo’s phantasmagoria of repressed border histories reveal? What forms do the central affects of hauntology, those of nostalgia and melancholia, manifest in the border?

Given the savagery and dispossession that continue to permeate the region, the other form of haunting that appears deals with the victims of the social horrors encountered in the region. It deals with the countless deaths of migrants risking their lives to cross over the Rio Grande, a space which today has been turned into a war-zone, as well as with the plague of femicides continuing to grow along border, or historical events like the massacres of students fighting for a better world, whether those of Tlatelolco in 1968 or Ayotzinapa in 2014.

These ghosts of these victims are spectrally present in the last track of the release, eCorrido. The track begins with a dubbed narco-corrido playing softly in the background, invoking the “war on drugs” and the senseless deaths of its 85 thousand victims (according to the dubious official figures of the government). A corrido begins playing amidst alien-like sci-fi effects insidiously dominating the atmosphere, while the singer struggles to be heard as he drifts into a cloud of impenetrable smog. The muffled singing leaves one wondering whose voice we are listening to and what message they are attempting to convey. The voice could very well be that of a ghost of one of the victims of narco wars, one of the massacred students of 1968, or a migrant that died under the brutal heat of the Arizona dessert, attempting to narrate the realities of Mexico’s repressed history. Throughout the corrido, they persist in their attempt to overpower the alien forces - symbolic of the maquiladoras, narcos, and corrupt politicians - that have taken over the border and our lives.

Border hauntology isn’t just dealing with lost futures, ghosts of by-gone eras, or with the “specter of a world that could be free.” The presence of ghosts belonging to contemporary history is precisely the result of the necropolitics shaping the lives of the oppressed in the border. As Bruno Bosteels writes in his study on “Politics, Psychoanalysis, and Religion in Times of Terror,” “In Latin America, ghosts don’t only appear to its inheritors; but also at the time of the events themselves.” The importance of present-day histories of violence to be heard in order to grasp the truths of capitalism explains the apparitions of these specters in border hauntology. The phantasmal voice in eCorrido is the voice of those being currently condemned to death by the logic of the system, voices demanding their presence in our collective imaginary. Put differently, in contrast to its British version, border hauntology goes beyond nostalgically mourning lost futures by dealing with the contemporary invisible ghost-like migrants that continue to die at the altar of capital accumulation.

The track Acequia also raises the question of giving voice to the dead whose histories uncover the systemic horrors surrounding us. On an aesthetic level, the track resembles Brian Eno’s Ambient 4: On Land in the way it shapes an ambience of simultaneously eerie and ethereal soundscapes composed of gentle guitar strums, distant voices that disappear as soon as they appear, along with, in the words of Mark Fisher, “a susurrating suggestion of nonorganic sentience”. What the sonic atmosphere of Acequia ultimately invokes through the incapacity of the impervious voices to express a single word, or the guitars to compose any kind of persistent melody, is a desire to give ontological presence to the uncomfortable dead.

The track is also reminiscent of Juan Rulfo’s Pedro Paramo, a novel which, like Nudo, employs the method of phantasmagoria to conjure the ghosts whose stories allow us access to the real of capitalism. The ambient soundscape riddled with glimpses of dead souls unable to narrate their stories found in Acequia feels very much like Juan Preciado’s experience as he descents into Rulfo’s Comala, a ghost town symbolic of the land of violence and death that is Mexico. Juan’s first encounter in Comala is with Doña Eduviges Dyada, who asks him: “Have you heard the cry of the dead?” As Juan continues wandering through the crumbling and deserted buildings of a by-gone era, unable to find a living soul, he suddenly feels the presence of ghosts attempting to speak all around him:

“I saw there was no one, although I kept hearing what sounded like the murmur of many people in a market. A constant buzz without rhyme or reason, similar to that which is made by the wind rustling the branches of a tree in the night, when neither the tree nor the branches can be seen though their whispers can be heard. I didn’t dare take another step. I began to feel that the murmuring was getting closer and circling me like a swarm until I was able to make out a few wards, almost void of sound: ‘Pray to God for us.’ That’s what I heard them telling me.”

This desire to give voice to the uncomfortable dead whose histories convey the realities of our world is essential to Nudo’s border hauntology. By invoking the ghosts of such necropolitical events of past and present in a sonic register, Nudo converts Gayatri Spivak’s question “Can the subaltern speak?” into “Can the dead speak?”

[jhavelikes]

No writer’s body of work is more densely connected yet sparely wrought than Alan Garner’s – connected not just to himself and the land, through stories of a long-rooted Cheshire family who “knew their place”, but to myth and folklore, flowing through the children’s fantasies that made his name. In the 1970s, Red Shift and The Stone Book Quartet were boundary markers between his children’s and adult books (though Garner wouldn’t recognise a distinction). Over the following decades he honed his clipped, enigmatic style, and, with the exception of Strandloper, a foray into Indigenous Australian dreamtime, stayed in the environs of his beloved Alderley Edge, digging and deepening. In 2012, half a century after the first two volumes, Boneland was an unexpected conclusion to his Weirdstone trilogy; the source material transfigured into an adult novel about loss, pain, knowledge and madness that reached not only across the chasm of a human lifetime, but back millennia into the stone age. Garner is now 87; in 2018, a fragmentary memoir, Where Shall We Run to?, conjured his early years with an extraordinary immediacy, as though stepping again into the river of childhood. Few people expected another novel – and yet, like all his books, Treacle Walker feels as inevitable as it does surprising. Garner’s work has always been hard to classify, here more than ever: this tiny fable, hewn from elements of children’s story, myth, alchemical texts, old rhymes and cartoons, has an implacable directness, as though still channelling the childlike viewpoint of his memoir. Joe Coppock, a convalescent boy, is alone in the house when Treacle Walker comes calling. We have heard his cry before, in Where Shall We Run to?, when the rag and bone man passes by: “Ragbone! Ragbone! Any rags? Pots for rags! Donkey stone!” Garner heard it from his childhood sickroom, after the illnesses that nearly killed him. But now the donkey stone – a scouring block used to shine the front steps – becomes a talismanic object in a fairytale exchange, along with an empty medicine pot, which helps Joe to realise his visionary potential.

Treacle Walker by Alan Garner review – a phenomenal late fable | Fiction | The Guardian

[sadbitchpictures]

Film goals 2024:

See Dune in theaters NUMBER ONE GOAL!!!

Rewatch old horror movies I considered favorites to see how I rate them now (Conjuring, Evil Dead o.g and new, Midsommar, The Thing, The Mist)

Catch up on old horror (70s and 90s) and new horror from the last couple of years (2020-2023)

Watch more foreign films this year to add to rotation when I'm sad (Crouching Tiger, Memoirs, Busan, Bride & Pred..etc)

Stay objective when watching documentaries

Log more films and stay consistent

Review review reviews 🙃

I know some of these won't be too hard. I think I'll set an event reminder for the end of the week to make sure I've logged any movies I watched. If anything I could do it daily. Cheers to more films and popcorn.

[ihatetbrlists]

The Reading Diaries #15

Dreams From My Father, by Barack Obama (1995)

From my TBR? Yes, the physical one.

Disclaimer: I'm not American

I decided to read this autobiography (memoir?) because I wanted to learn more about Obama's pre-politics life, especially after reading Michelle Obama's perspective in her amazing Becoming.

But while I highly recommend reading Becoming to everyone I meet, unfortunately, I can't say the same for Dreams from my father.

It's divided into 3 parts: Hawaii, Chicago and Kenya.

The theme of the book is supposedly how Barack Obama came to terms with being the son of a white mother and a Kenyan father in America. How to balance these two identities? How to create his own? But also, how to imagine his absent father and how to see his legacy?

I feel like the first and last parts dealt with this pretty well. Hawaii sees Obama's childhood in Hawaii and other places, struggling to come to terms with the concept of race and what it means to be black in the US and to conjure the image of his absent father (who went back to Kenya soon after his birth). Kenya instead sees him traveling for the first time to Kenya and listening to stories about his now deceased father from the side of the family that lives there and that he is also meeting for the first time. It's beautiful and they are the parts that I enjoyed the most.

But the central part, Chicago, is just a drag. I swear that every other scene could be summarized thus: Barack Obama goes to talk to someone about community organizing; the conversation sparks in him some sort of profound question, generally along the lines of "How can we all live together in this country?"; he meditates upon this while leaning against his car and smoking a cigarette; he never reaches a conclusion.

Which is FINE, but gets old very quickly. That section should have been edited down bad, imho.

.

All in all, I'm glad to have read this book. I feel like I understand an important figure of our time a little better. I did take The Audacity of Hope off my Goodreads TBR, tho. Even I have limits.

[ibethalantyr]

I used to write on here.  Weird.

[wyldtrees]

Simultaneity Memoirs #40 "I ran into a Junker. It had one of those creepy grins of white teeth somehow connected to a smooth metal blank face. I didn't know if they were real or false. "It was holding hands with a 3 or 4 year old human boy child. They stood before the fractaled remains of a bus buried in the sand. "This was very uncommon. And I demanded several times where the human child's patents were. What had he/she done with them, what was it doing with the child, etc. "The child was afraid of me and clung to it. The Junker told me there were no parents. The child and he were companions. "They'd been at that bus for days. There had been another Junker, but it had been mortally wounded and was dead in the back of the bus. They were alone now, trying to decide their next step. "I stayed with them late into the night. I watched the boy play and dance around the fire, pretending that he was some wizard or magician controlling it's blaze. "Every now and again he'd stop and contemplate the stars. I knew as little about them as he. Maybe as anyone left out here. But how did he see them? "My life's experience had shaped and twisted my every thought. But this boy had not had years of experience weighing him down and holding his beliefs into place. He was alive and open to do many possibilities. "Where had mine gone? Had they been false? Had they fallen away with choices I'd made? Or were they still present before me, but I'd just trained myself to not see them. "That wonder the both of them held, the boy for everything, the Junker for this new circumstance in life, made me want to sluff off my personality and become a child full of wonder again. "I played with him then. We danced around the fire, we conjured the flames, we slew dragons, and for awhile, as I left them in the dark, I was alive with that same wonder. I watched the stars whisper their stories to the universe, and I conversed with them..." #simultaneitymemoirs #Simultaneity #story #scifi #fantasy #horror #robot #junker #wonder #clintongbowers #wyldtrees #fiction #fractal #bus #desert #night #stars (at Chandler, Arizona) https://www.instagram.com/p/Ckec1_xv3o_/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[in0dtp]

Read Pig Years BY Ellyn Gaydos

EPUB & PDF Ebook Pig Years | EBOOK ONLINE DOWNLOAD

by Ellyn Gaydos.

Download Link : DOWNLOAD Pig Years

Read More : READ Pig Years

Ebook PDF Pig Years | EBOOK ONLINE DOWNLOAD Hello Book lovers, If you want to download free Ebook, you are in the right place to download Ebook. Ebook Pig Years EBOOK ONLINE DOWNLOAD in English is available for free here, Click on the download LINK below to download Ebook Pig Years 2020 PDF Download in English by Ellyn Gaydos (Author).

Description

This captivating memoir is a "startling testimony to the glories and sorrows of raising and harvesting plants and animals" (Anthony Doerr, best-selling author of All the Light We Cannot See), as an itinerant farmhand chronicles the wonders hidden within the ever-blooming seasons of life, death, and rebirth.Pig Years catapults American nature writing into the 21st century, and has been hailed by Lydia Davis and Aimee Nezhukumatathil as "engrossing" and "a marvel." As a farmer in Upstate New York and Vermont, Ellyn Gaydos lives on the knife edge between loss and gain. Her debut memoir draws us into this precarious world, conjuring with stark simplicity the lifeblood of the farm: its livestock and stark full moons, the sharp cold days lives near to the land. Joy and tragedy are frequent bedfellows. Fields go barren and animals meet their end too soon, but then their bodies become food in a time-old human ritual. Seasonal hands are ground down by the hard work, but new relationships are

[unahemmingsbook]

[PDF Download] Pig Years - Ellyn Gaydos

Download Or Read PDF Pig Years - Ellyn Gaydos Free Full Pages Online With Audiobook.

  [*] Download PDF Visit Here => https://forsharedpdf.site/58988403

[*] Read PDF Visit Here => https://forsharedpdf.site/58988403

This captivating memoir is a "startling testimony to the glories and sorrows of raising and harvesting plants and animals" (Anthony Doerr, best-selling author of All the Light We Cannot See), as an itinerant farmhand chronicles the wonders hidden within the ever-blooming seasons of life, death, and rebirth.Pig Years catapults American nature writing into the 21st century, and has been hailed by Lydia Davis and Aimee Nezhukumatathil as "engrossing" and "a marvel." As a farmer in Upstate New York and Vermont, Ellyn Gaydos lives on the knife edge between loss and gain. Her debut memoir draws us into this precarious world, conjuring with stark simplicity the lifeblood of the farm: its livestock and stark full moons, the sharp cold days lives near to the land. Joy and tragedy are frequent bedfellows. Fields go barren and animals meet their end too soon, but then their bodies become food in a time-old human ritual. Seasonal hands are ground down by the hard work, but new relationships are

[literarygoon]

So,

I had the perfect spot picked out for her.

While writing my memoir This is how you talk to strangers, I’d embodied a number of characters — including Tony Soprano, as my mental illness progressed throughout the narrative. I’d also been Chris Moltisanti, in a way, but I’d never been Silvio. Owner of the Bada Bing, he would forever be known to me as the killer of Adriana La Cerva. Her death, and the rape of Dr. Melfi, were the two most unforgivable crimes in the show. The greatest tragedy in my book was that of Kessa, an 18-year-old who didn’t deserve to be taken out of the game young. If this was Baltimore, she would be Snoop — but white.

This morning I drove out to Beacon Hill Park with her, and chatted with some friendly people that were collecting and distributing community resources to the many homeless people living there. It made my day. Kessa tried on a couple different hoodies, just for shits and giggles, and then we drove out towards Thetis Lake listening to the original “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. She didn’t realize it, but I’d brought Andrew Stevenson’s shotgun with me. We slalomed through the streets listening to Mick Jagger introduce myself while I tried to concoct the perfect place to bring this narrative to a close.

I’d been listening to Eminem’s Volume 2 of Music to be Murdered By.

The thing was, I couldn’t bring Kessa to Duncan with me. She was a murder victim, an undead pseudo-daughter, an embarrassing apparition who I never actually met in real life. For years now she’d been the misguided force behind my rage, behind my vision to conjure Nelson on the page with my book. But unlike Ryan Tapp, whose story was already public knowledge, the details of her death were a secret. Though her Godfather had shared his eulogy with me, I didn’t have the family’s blessing to tell her story.

So I left her alone. On the nights when I felt I had imaginary friends riding with me through the streets of Baltimore, she would often sit in the back-left corner and just listen to the music with me. I didn’t even know what her voice sounded like. Sometimes she would cry, and sometimes she would crack the window to smoke. I never saw her smile. This wasn’t the sort of presence I wanted haunting my RAV long-term, and I knew I would have to come up with some sort of ritual to convince her to leave. There needed to be a symbolic gesture of some sort, one that respected her privacy while acknowledging the primal rage I felt at whoever the fuck killed her.

Because that was very real.

“I can’t believe Eminem’s still going. You think he’s done it, he’s reached he’s zenith, and then he just keeps producing,” I said, drawing on a cannabis vape pen. I was alone with her.

“He’s the only person that can get away with saying anything he wants.”

Lately I’d been wearing black because of my sister Kathryn’s death, so I had my hoodie up around my face while I drove. I was beginning to channel Silvio, trying to feel what it would be like to be the type of guy who could kill a woman. I still remember what I felt the first time he slapped a woman onscreen. My entire understanding of him as a character shifted. This piece of shit may play for Bruce Springsteen in real life, but in the Sopranos he was a fucking abomination of a human being. He deserved his coma. Now I was resurrecting him just to kill somebody else.

“How come we’re going to Thetis Lake?” Kessa asked.

“I have this spot I picked out, where I used to hang with my friend Angela. It’s on the opposite side of the lake from where the main tourist beach is, and sometimes people swim nude over the. It’s like a safe like Narnia where you can smoke pot and go cliff-jumping.”

“Sounds dope.”

I think Kessa was already aware of my scheme, but I thought I’d kept it under wraps pretty well. My book was my weapon, and then I was done with her. I couldn’t do the rest of the leg-work because it wasn’t my job. That’s what Police Chief Paul Burkart told me, and that’s what I was sticking to. So I had to find a nice place to drop her off.

“The locals say this is a hiding place for the souls of lost children,” I said, with a smirk — putting it on Twitter so she really knew it was coming. That was all she paid attention to anymore, was Twitter.

“If you ever talk to your Mom, I want you to tell her that I tried to respect your privacy as best I could. And I’m sorry if I made things harder for her. Please make it clear that my apology is legit, that I really mean it.”

Kessa bit her lip, nodded.

We were just flying down Douglas with the windows down, so I changed the CD to the Airborne Toxic Event. There was a particular song, track 7, that I thought would resonate with her. It conjured the feelings I’m sure she was going through in those final days. Sgt. Nate Holt had caught her drunk driving, but he understood enough about the situation to handle her with kid gloves. The gentle treatment wasn’t enough to keep her alive.

“You know, my marriage counsellor Grant said this thing at Kathryn’s funeral about how people look for someone to blame when somebody dies. I think that was my whole issue, is I wanted to catch somebody,” I said.

“But there was nobody to catch.”

By this point the song was going, and I wanted her to appreciate the lyrics. And it starts, some time around midnight... 

The Literary Goon

[eretzyisrael]

This refugee’s heart still belongs in Egypt

Viviane Bowell used her free time during the coronavirus lockdown in 2020 to write her memoirs of her country of birth, Egypt. From Egypt with love is a deeply personal, thoughtful work with not a trace of bitterness. Lyn Julius reviews the book in Times of Israel:

In 1956, one of the famous hit songs of the time was ‘Que será será. The song is indelibly associated with the Suez crisis in a 14-year old Jewish girl’s memory.  It may have been a footnote in most history books, but the  crisis of 1956 turned Viviane Bowell’s life upside down.

Viviane  was a shy and awkward teenager, cocooned from the outside world by her parents. She  only spoke French and Arabic. Within a month of the Franco-British-Israeli attack on the Suez Canal,  the family was forced to leave their native Cairo. Jews of British and French nationality were punished as  ‘collateral damage’ in politics. Viviane’s mother was British, and it soon appeared that any Jew (Viviane’s father was stateless) was fair game for expulsion. Viviane’s parents signed a ‘voluntary’ paper ‘donating’ their property to the Egyptian state. They left with 20 kg and 20 Egyptian pounds in their pockets while their tearful servants bid them goodbye. From a warm, dusty and bustling metropolis they were catapulted in the bleak British midwinter into a Gloucestershire hostel serving pork sausages and boiled cabbage. Resettled  in London,  her parents never spoke about Egypt, yet only socialised with other Egyptian Jews.

It was during the coronavirus lockdown that Viviane decided to set down what he remembered of Egypt. The manuscript was originally intended for her grandson but then became a popular self-published memoir.

There has been an explosion of memoirs by Jews from Egypt, mostly middle class Jews  displaced by the Suez crisis. Viviane Bowell appears to have read most of them. She conjures up a rich picture of the Cairo of her youth, the fellucas on the Nile, the grand avenues, the department stores, the famous tea room Groppi, where her parents met for the first time, the languid summers on the beach in Alexandria. She includes some important historical context, as well as interesting diversions into superstitions and the popular songs and films of the time.

Viviane’s family on her father’s side, the Chouchans,  was Ladino-speaking Sephardi, originally from Toledo via Istanbul. Her mother’s family, the Gubbays, were Arabic-speakers from Aleppo in Syria. They typified the Jews of Egypt, drawn from disparate corners of the Ottoman empire, most relatively recent arrivals attracted by the opening of the Suez canal in 1869. But the Jews lived in Egypt, says Viviane,  ‘like a grafted limb’ – of Egypt, yet  apart from it.

In charting the gathering storm leading up to her uprooting Viviane dwells on the events of 25 January 1952. The Free Officers’ Revolution does not largely figure in Jewish memoirs  – but it was a seminal moment. It began as a reaction to 40 policemen killed by the British. Viviane watched from her apartment balcony as a furious crowd  swept down her street, setting  fire to large sections of Cairo –  including Groppi, the Cicurel and Orosdi Bak department stores, Barclays Bank, cinemas, cafes, banks, and the Shepheard Hotel – where British officers used to sip their gin slings. The red tarboush worn by effendi(gentlemen) was abolished overnight and substantial sectors of the economy nationalised. Five thousand Jews left between 1952 and 1956. But Viviane’s family would not have left had they not have been forced to.

Unlike many other  memoirs, Viviane’s  examines the psychological effects of uprooting on her later life. ‘From Egypt with love’ tries to make sense of how her ambivalent relationship with her parents impacted on her. In many ways  she was a repressed feminist.  Her failure to  break free of traditional ties resulted in a  succession of missed opportunities,  a broken marriage and a nervous breakdown.

Visiting Cairo 40 years later, Viviane hardly recognises her home city, yet acknowledges that ‘the past defines us and makes us who we are today.’ Her story is that of 850,000 Jews driven from Arab countries. There is an irrepressible optimism about the book – The refugees were survivors, not victims.. ‘A calamity is only a calamity when your response to it is to accept victimhood,’ she writes.  Although her family lived in a social bubble,  her heart still belongs in Egypt. In this thoughtful, deeply personal  and well-researched memoir,  there is no trace of bitterness,  just an acceptance, and a certain cheerful fatalism: ‘Que será será’.

To Egypt with love : memories of a bygone age by Viviane Bowell (2021)