Radio Chthulucene 87.9 FM

Week 8 Journal Entry:

I have finished my piece, and will spend the rest of this week compiling the audio to turn the words into sound. Here is my final piece:

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. And one final note:

(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.]

(Cela fonctionne-t-il?)

90.3:

Mondays at 8:

[[A frame with floral tiles, mounted on the wall. Untouched beauty like all those cathedrals. I watch from my perch inside, alone. Even with beckonings, I do not get down. Such is the lesson I learned, a long time ago.

Will you have me?

Or watch me fall?

The birds chirp above in languages I cannot speak. Leaves are soft and wet between my fingers. Dirty underneath.]]

91.1

[[[The seaweed follows me in the blue of Lake Garda. I remain above water, sunglasses perched on my nose. I try to flick it away, but beside me it remains. My father calls me the seaweed goddess, the way it comes to me; onde bleu e vendi. 

The lake nestled between mountains, and me, 

Called to the shore, with each burning day.

Tiny flecks that make me stay;

Immediate dive, to it I pray,

And it hears me. Onde bleu e vendi.]]]

89.5

[Over and over announcing your place / in the family of things.]