Radio Chthulucene 87.9 FM

For this week’s journal entry, I thought it would be best to share what I have begun to work on. I was inspired by last week’s workshops, as it gave me a clue into what these radio messages are going to look like. As I continue to chip away at my piece this week, I want to implement a more journalistic perspective after listening to Marco Werman’s lecture today. I seek to eventually create a combination between journalism and experiment:

[You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be good.]

-Mary Oliver

-Simone de Beauvoir

(Peut-être que si j’ai commencé avec une ligne d’un poème de Mary Oliver, avec une combinaison du style de Simone de Beauvoir de La Femme Détruite,  je semblerai intelligente.)

[Will I show you the birds one day on their wires? Or the dogs behind fences? There is one that stares. He follows with his head. He watches, tired eyes. Come wintertime, raindrops on the eucalyptus, and maybe you will see. 

And sometimes, in the pouring rain

He’ll fall in the mud and get back up again

Maybe I will be able to scrub you clean. Until you’re new again. Until you’re you again.]

[Tutto il mondo paese. All the world’s a village. 

We wait for our driver to pick us up from the airport in Bangalore, India. Streams of people are coming in and out of the doors. Luggages are stacked on carts children run amok the screen changes above listing flights and flights. Here and in Europe and in America it’s all the same.

“Tout al maundo paese,” my father says. “My dad always said that. All the world’s a village.”

Only then did I feel some sense of connection to the generations before me. My nonno, whom I never met, experienced something like me. He saw difference, and knew it was all the same.

How watermelons hang low to the ground,

But I still lost myself. How even in villages,

I cannot find the world.]