Radio Chthulucene 87.9 FM

Last week, I was able to meet with my collaborator and we were able to discuss our classes and the production of the radio. It was very insightful to hear what they were doing, and also receive some feedback on what I have been working on so far. They said that they enjoyed my piece, and I let them know that I plan to incorporate the voice of Mary Oliver for that aspect of my radio station that includes her poem Wild Geese, along with other voices. Below I have included the current state of my piece, in all its workshopping glory:

The Most Annoying Girl in the World’s Radio Specials

89.5:

[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

More of this on Sundays, 4-6pm. One statement from the author:

(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.)

90.3:

Mondays at 8: 

[[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.]]

91.1: 

[[[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.

“Tutto il mondo paese,” my father says. “My dad always said that. All the world’s a village.”

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.]]]

More mediocre poetry on Fridays at 10.

89.5:

[Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. 

Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the world goes on.]

(Cela fonctionne-t-il?)