A CENTURY WITHOUT

A hundred years ago, on 𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟴, 𝟭𝟵𝟮𝟱, 𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒚 𝒀𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏 was found dead at Saint Petersburg’s Hotel Angleterre. Beside him lay blood on paper – his final poem, “𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎, 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎” – its eight lines to be engraved inside the Russian mind, just forty-four words holding all the tragedy & fatalism of the Russian soul.

Earlier in October, the poet celebrated his thirtieth birthday. On the last day of the year, his funeral gathered two hundred thousand attendants.

We’re posting this on 𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟯𝟭 — the centennial day of his funeral — because this week isn’t an abstract anniversary: it’s a live, calendar-perfect window where history still feels like a pulse.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗮 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗻𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲

Yesenin came from the village, not the salons: a self-taught “peasant poet” whose lines keep the smell of soil and horses, even when he’s dressed in the city’s chaos. That’s part of why he was adored — and part of why he became politically inconvenient. A lyric voice that won’t behave is always dangerous to a system that wants tidy feelings.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀: 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗺, 𝗮 𝗳𝗮𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝗺, 𝗮 𝗱𝗲𝗯𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗲

December 1925 reads like noir. The official version says suicide. But almost immediately, the story split into arguments: about the room, the logistics, the politics, the surveillance atmosphere of the era, and why so many records and details stayed contested. That uncertainty is exactly what makes it “fun” in the darkest sense: it reads like a murder mystery because it never stopped being argued as one.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹: 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘂𝗽, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻’𝘁 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴

What is certain: the grief went enormous. On December 31, 1925, Moscow turned out in a way that made it impossible to pretend Yesenin was just a “hooligan” footnote. And then came the long tug-of-war over his legacy: admiration on the street, suspicion in official culture, suppression and revival, memorized lines surviving any ban.

𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝘄𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲

Yesenin remains a cultural pressure point: the poet of tenderness and self-destruction, peasant memory and metropolitan ruin — proof that lyric truth doesn’t always align with political usefulness.

𝗦𝗼: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦?

Open-and-shut tragedy — or a century-old case file that still feels unfinished?

𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜.𝘚. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭/𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝟫𝟪𝟪. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜.𝘚., 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴.

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𝙍𝙊𝙐𝙉𝘿 𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙃, 𝙊𝙋𝙀𝙉 𝙎𝙆𝙔 𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗡𝗦 𝗔 𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗧 𝗥𝗢𝗔𝗗 𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗣 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗢 𝗔 𝗠𝗘𝗧𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗬𝗦𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗥𝗜𝗗𝗘

 

IMMORTAL “SKY MAN” INHABITS A DEAD BODY, SPEAKS IN “PICTURE-TALK,” AND DRAWS A SKEPTICAL NYC PHOTOGRAPHER INTO A HIGH-SPEED ODYSSEY OF HEALING, MIND-READING, DANGER, AND MORAL REPAIR

NEW YORK CITY, New York, December 21, 2025 — 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉, 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒌𝒚 by 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐩𝐚𝐥 𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐧 begins with a cosmic misfire: an immortal being from another dimension is tricked by sorcery into the body of a dead man. Calling himself 𝗦𝗸𝘆 𝗠𝗮𝗻, he moves through the Sonoran Desert healing ills, reading minds, and speaking in “picture-talk,” an ESP-like language that bends time and exposes hidden motives.

Moses, a New York City photographer haunted by his past, pulls over to photograph the ragged stranger and rejects his story. Yet at every stop, the supernatural breaks through: uncanny healings, buried histories surfacing, and clues tightening around the dead man’s origins and Sky Man’s destination. The result is a fast, genre-crossing ride that shifts from speculative road novel into psychological and metaphysical suspense, driving toward a sky-opening climax.

Beneath the page-turning momentum is the novel’s moral charge: spiritual experience arrives with responsibility; revelation with confrontation; perception with choice. Sky Man’s presence sets off a chain reaction—old grief, buried motives, guarded egos—and leaves no one untouched—and no one untested: will they repair what is torn, or hide behind proof, pride, and suspicion? The only way forward is 𝐭𝐢𝐤𝐤𝐮𝐧 𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐦—repair through justice and loving kindness—even when answers keep slipping the frame.

“𝑊𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑦, 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝, 𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 & 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙… 𝐿𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑒 𝑢𝑝 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟…”
— Cheryl A Townsend

“𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑐 𝑗𝑜𝑘𝑒…𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑎𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑤𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤…”
— Stephen-Paul Martin

⚡️ ⚡️ 𝑳𝑰𝑴𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑫-𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑶𝑭𝑭𝑬𝑹: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇ-ʙᴏᴏᴋ ᴇᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ ɪs 𝑭𝑹𝑬𝑬 ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏᴡɴʟᴏᴀᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ 𝗗𝗘𝗖𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝟯𝟭, 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟱

𝘛𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰: giantsteps.submissions@gmail.com

𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉, 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒌𝒚 is now available for purchase on Amazon

Available on Amazon

Round Earth, Open Sky

Kirpal Gordon

A mytho-poetic road novel through desert and dream—Sky Man, Moses, and a journey that keeps opening into stranger terrain.

View on Amazon →

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𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢: “𝔞 𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔫”

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑣𝑎𝑔𝑢𝑒. 𝑊ℎ𝑜 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑠?

On Halloween night, our series steps from the archives into the imagination. A Ghost in His Own Skin inhabits that liminal city-space where the spectral becomes flesh and the living turn translucent.

❝ 𝐼 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ

In this tale from 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, a man from Punim County hides beneath the floorboards of Death’s own home, clutching the arrow fated for him. As he listens to the footsteps above—those of the archer and his doomed wife—the story unfolds as a haunting meditation on fear, survival, and the ghost each of us carries within our skin.

𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵: 𝘚𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘮’𝘴 𝘞𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥 & 𝘌𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦 — 𝗔𝗩𝗔𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗡𝗢𝗪

𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙿𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚖 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚈𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗: 𝙸 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑.

𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚞𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚅𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚊𝚔 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜, 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙸 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍.

𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚙. 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖, 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗, 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗, 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚜. 𝙻𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜, 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍.

𝚁𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝙸 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎, 𝚊 𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙. 𝚃𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛—𝚒𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢! 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚃𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎: 𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝙸 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔. 𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖, 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕.

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝, 𝙸 𝚜𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚎𝚊, 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝙸𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌, 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝, 𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚐 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎.

𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚜, 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜. 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑’𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛; 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜. 𝚃𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝚆𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍? 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝙸’𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛. 𝙸𝚏 𝙸’𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚜. 𝙰 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕’𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝚂𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.

𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝, 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗, 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚜.

𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛. 𝙴𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎! 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝? 𝙸’𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙿𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚖 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙸 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚊 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗, 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑.

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞 · 𝐍𝐨. 𝟕: 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐄

𝑨𝒓𝒕𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌: 𝑫𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒚 𝑷𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒐𝒏

𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘸𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵.

Texas Hill Country visual artist Dusty Pendelton captures a lone cowboy wiping his brow, heat shimmering off the land as he scans the horizon for a lost horse. It’s a fitting close to our It’s Hot Where I Live series—an image of endurance, humility, and the stubborn hope to keep looking.

Our hearts go out to everyone in the Texas Hill Country still searching and recovering from the heat-driven flooding of the Guadalupe River. May repair come quickly, and may neighbors keep showing up for one another.

🅃🄷🄰🄽🄺 🅈🄾🅄 to all the writers, artists, and musicians who made this series burn bright. Stay tuned—new GSP series ahead.

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞 · 𝐍𝐨. 6

"New York Summer Heat" — Tony Adamo (spoken-word)

Our heat series keeps asking what heat does to memory and music. Here’s the sixth feature – a selected submission from the community. 

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞
Bronx, 1970s: hydrants misting into the sky, stoops thumping bass, stickball in fever air, subways with no breeze. Tony Adamo’s spoken-word ode runs the boroughs—Harlem to Jones Beach, stadium lights to fire escapes—then lands on a genesis moment: a hot summer when block parties, basements, and a DJ named Kool Herc helped set Hip-Hop in motion. It’s a city heat index scored to jazz, boombox, and memory.

𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮

🪡 “Yo brother, it’s hot out here!”

🪡 “Man, let’s breathe together—this is it.”

𝙉𝙚𝙬 𝙔𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙩

Yo, listen up, I’m painting a picture in the heat of the day,
’70s in the Bronx had many special days—
·
Blocks slick with summer heat, where the sun holds high,
kids spill laughter like water from a hydrant’s misting high in the air,
and they all yell each other’s name:
𝘠𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦!
·
Happy fantasies of spray and play,
tagging walls with chalk lines, dreams in bright array.
New York stoops hum with basslines, a boom box plays on the corner—
you don’t mind the heat from your dancin’ feet.
𝘔𝘢𝘯, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦… 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘦.
·
Jazz and Hip Hop collide like thunder on hot pavement in Harlem’s way.
In New York, the stoops of summer hold love, pain, and secrets.
𝘔𝘢𝘯, 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘈𝘊 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺.
·
Shade trees whisper history as pigeons learn to fly,
dominos clack in the shade of an old oak’s spine.
Playing the numbers, dancing on a slate—OTB money won,
now you have the bread for that hot date.
·
𝘔𝘢𝘯, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘵, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺,
but a six-pack of Black Label buried in ice
will cool you off when you be throwin’ street dice.
·
Lovin’ Spoonful memories flow on the breeze—
𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘪𝘵𝘺, a rhythm you feel with ease.
It’s summer hot in the city building, which holds the heat.
Sleeping on the fire escape at night might cool you down,
but the street noise keeps you awake.
·
A gypsy cab hums by, painted blur in the glare.
City kids having fun at summer camp,
and some cool off at Jones Beach.
·
Stay cool, keep movin’
—stickball on, keep the fever alive:
hit after hit, swing after swing, dreams survive.
No air in the subway lines 1, 2, 4, 5, and 6—
Bronx to Manhattan, where the stories mix.
·
Sweat beads drip in the train tunnels’ bowels,
people on their way to somewhere and nowhere
on a smokin’ red hot summer day in NYC in the 1970s.
·
A cold chocolate Yoo-hoo to quiet the thirst
that remains in your throat all day.
Night games glow under stadium lights’ electric kiss—
Yankees and Mets fans feeling the summer nights’ heat in the stands.
·
Italian ices melt on tongues, red and bright.
Bronx summer memories flicker in the neon night.
So let’s hear it for the five boroughs—
Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, and Staten Island.
·
And how ’bout Mayor Lindsay’s and Beame’s hot summer headlines
that grabbed you in the heat as 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 had its say.
·
The hot burnin’ summer brought Hip-Hop to the streets—
so dig, the party Bronx basements where Hip-Hop was born
on August 11, 1973.
·
DJ Kool Herc, the Father of Hip-Hop,
who pioneered the sound and techniques of Hip-Hop of today—
he was the first to spin the music of Hip-Hop
on a summer night’s heat.
·
𝘔𝘢𝘯, 𝘭𝘦𝘵’𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳—𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵.
I need a hot tub full of ice on Arthur Ave
so the Block Party can jam on this wet, humid New York Night.

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞 · 𝐍𝐨. 𝟓

By This Time — John Rullo (song)

Our summer series keeps asking what heat does to tempo, breath, and attention. Here’s the fifth feature.

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞
“By This Time” is an original track by songwriter John Rullo—a street-level meditation where small, ordinary moments turn fever-bright. The song sits in the pocket and lets time stretch: heat as meter, memory as echo, patience as pulse. Listen for the way stillness gathers pressure, then releases it.

𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮
“You would think by this time 
We could separate fact from fiction”

🎶 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧

• Watch/listen on YouTube: “By This Time” — John Rullo
• More from John’s channel here

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞 · 𝐍𝐨. 𝟒

heat: selections — Steven Hirsch

Our summer series keeps asking what heat exposes at home, in the body, and in the body politic. Here’s the fourth feature.

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦𝐬:
Steven Hirsch’s poem cycle moves like a July thunderhead—across clay studios and wasp nests, Medicare forms and metadata, street politics and island air. These poems track how a person keeps making, caring, raging, laughing, and grieving through scorching times: from kiln-fire craft notes and cat elegies to apocalyptic news cycles, from Tibetan windhorse invocations to a Key West sweat-and-salt itinerary.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞:

• “𝘊𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘶𝘮” — Trees as teachers; wheel-thrown vessels; “time is the blues”; lists that toggle between house paint, JSON for Adobe Experience Manager, and saying goodbye to a cat named Neko.
• “𝘛𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘕𝘶𝘮𝘣 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘺” — Prepping, seagrass, Port Protection, Copilot AI summarizing a DAM migration, and a stark memory of finding a father gone.
• “𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘖𝘶𝘳 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦?” — A vow against fascism and forgetfulness, calling on dragons, snow lions, and the bodhisattva reflex to “rescue your momma from hell.”
• 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘔𝘳. 𝘝𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦” — Unflinching political invective that refuses euphemism. (Content note: strong language.)
• “𝘒𝘦𝘺 𝘞𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦” — Jet skis and iguanas, pelicans training their young, seaweed gas-smell, a guitarist on Duval Street, a rooster in rain—ending on the soft/sharp discipline of a heart that still cares.

𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮:

“The trees teach you all you need to learn.” 
“Time is the blues and it passes too.”

𝑪𝒖𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒖𝒎

The trees teach you all you need to learn.
That being said, clay whispers like crisp silk
as you slip the spin side into a flare 
smooth the edge with a sponge
and fire the kiln.
Contact distant narcolepts with black opal flashes and burning feathers.
Stir the suspension with a touch of acid and moon glass
phased to melt at Mercury’s passing.
Time is the blues and it passes too.
Trees whisper and we are hard of hearing.
·
Impermanence lecture via spray jet to clear deck-railing wasp nest.
Flow chart of spigot to lawn valve to hose coil to hot tub to drainage ditch.
Register for Medicare A and book tickets for the Keys.
100 ways to burst an egg yolk, melt cheese against meat.
Review top ten paw support protocols, throw pasta at the wall.
Clean out 2 decades of old t-shirts and size 42s I’ll never get into.
·
Paint the closet, paint the parging, paint the spindles and railing.
Paint the lake and the spillway, paint a week or two away in October.
Paint the last crickets chewing Indian summer sprouts.
Like grandma said, you’ll be a painter and then so what.
Sing a Jon Anderson song in full voice at top volume for grandma.
·
Refuse to be ripped off by Empire Today in a last minute bait and switch on vinyl flooring.
Learn how to build a JSON data structure for a metadata import to Adobe Experience Manager.
Refuse to be ripped off by National Floors Direct in a last minute no credit cards shocker.
Learn that the path to taxonomical glory is named Anastasia, Anastasia Metadata.
·
Sit and rap your own knuckles with a ruler for fun; pluck an eyelash for your box of cat whiskers.
Stick them all on a canvas with a glue gun; paint a cat, paint a dozen cats running
pouches swinging in the hot summer sun.
Paint an old man pushing a grocery cart with a yellowtail tuna saku block
and a hundred pounds of cat litter.
Say goodbye to my sweet friend Neko, put to sleep way too young.
·
Cats teach you all you need to learn.
That being said, rain sours like warm milk
as you make avocado toast naked off the grid.
Wrap up a long, painful career as a technologist in a plaid suit.
Fine tune your meat processing units with lysine treats.
Class is seated with cardboard notebooks open to boot
to categorize eyebat messaging that gives you an A.
Raise a hand extended in sleep to send a root down deeper
bring the rain back up to catalyze these lessons of age
from chapters revealed in the glaze of sun that remains.
·
·
·
𝑻𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑵𝒖𝒎𝒃 𝑵𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒄𝒚
A prepper’s irradiated Captain Crunch
would last about 2 months I’d say
with no sun to charge the solar generator.
·
A svelte elephant from Gatunga Kenya
tracked by a bracelet and a QR code
got a tarot reading from the hanging vines —
The fool card told her to go to Garatula.
·
Electric cable of survival; deep transmission urge
Get there or die; one way ticket to oasis of twilight ease.
Pissing in the wind actually
like yelling at the cashier at Walgreens.
·
Tied into a fabric, we are a fashion show
draped across Time’s slick shoulders
dying to be naked.
·
I’d chew grass and piss milk
If I could drive you to the beach and see your
pale skin glisten with coconut oil
your freckles on a sunbeam.
·
Where is the deep state when you really need them?
Like reading the wind’s intent, we freeze, alert, listening.
You must take care of the world, tolerate numb normalcy
ache every morning the sun chimes across the window sill.
·
Speak softly to the cat as he bats his eyes upside down
on warm brick tile.
Sip your eyebright and mullein in apple juice
and let it all out.
·
Stay tuned to Port Protection, not CNN or worse.
Stomp through seagrass to get your crab claw
in sriracha mayonnaise.
·
Precocious but inept, the wild acolyte shuddered
as the last zoom call on DAM migration strategy
was summarized by Copilot AI.
·
Smooth as mushroom white chocolate deep recall:
waking to a loud TV, only to find
my father dead on the sofa
the morning he was to fly back to the Bahamas
for immuno-therapy.
·
Desert migration restores blood flow to the extremities.
Come out from your bomb shelters and stretch.
New normal makes you double and triple take on
what is and what is not reality.

·
·
·
𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝑾𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒆?
Where is our Windhorse?
Where is our King Gesar of Ling?
Who will champion our freedom
preserve our right to individually be
without fear of fascist or nazi?
·
Will we once again turn a deaf ear and a blind eye
allow ourselves to die at the hands of demons
burn in a fire of our own clothes and teeth and bones
moaning in suffocation for the crime of being born?
·
Who will turn the pages of their hymnal
while children are cut down with their bowls held high
toward eyes that deny their right to grow?
How can we limit our defeat and retain
our right to sing in a hallowed space and hold
our souls high toward any source of grace?
Who will fail to resist the iron fist, track the war to its very source?
O the shame of this crippled vehicle! O shame the lame Windhorse!
·
The Dalai Lama won’t claim his next life in a Chinese Tibet but he will be born.
Would we all be strong enough to resist birth into a prison
birth that comes with threads already worn, hair shorn and crusted
with blood and dust and ashes of their parents mixed with rocket fuel?
·
Who will sit on their sofa with their pet on their lap watching reality TV
eating Lactaid ice cream?
Who will respond to the CTA of a Chinese website selling fake gold chains
but not to their own cousins dying in dark basements in Ukraine?
Who will fail to think, fail to consider, fail to feel the pain they inflict
until the whip is turned on their own shoulders, until they turn to cement
in range of the blast, sick standing stones weeping shadow tears?
·
When every moment is a deja vu that verifies the persistence of the illusion
Will we once again turn a deaf ear and a blind eye
turn the pages of our bibles and hide behind our government’s lies?
Turn turn turn our country to shreds
Turn turn turn toward democracy’s end.
With no Washington or Gesar to bear the burden of the sword
flame of future hope for all dims, scarred scales tip with the weight of fear and ignorance.
·
How can we increase our Windhorse in all directions?
Dragons, white tigers and snow lions roar 
Garudas scream our intention to the growing moon
a wish-fulfilling gem that vanquishes all enemies of the dharma.
All beings are your mother. Go rescue your momma from hell.
Your soul will fly like Windhorse to the celestial realm.

·
·
·

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍, 𝑴𝒓. 𝑽𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆
Never believe the devil when he puts his hand on your shoulder
and whispers into your ear the secret formula for turning sin into gold.
Chicago pope draws a red line with his red shoe and dares you to cross.
“JD Vance is wrong: Jesus doesn’t ask us to rank our love for others.”
You hem and haw and backtrack before god
never leaving your salvation or retirement fund to chance.
Nevertheless, you are going to hell Mr. Vance.
·
Midterms will show your tenuous hold on the levers of power
plunges in a spiral tailspin, collapses the orange tower of lies
In a judicial maelstrom.
Saw your picture in the sistine chapel holding your son.
Pants on fire you did not know photos weren’t allowed.
You learn fast the rules don’t apply to you somehow.
Tell that to the red face of Satan as he swallows your head.
You are going straight to hell Mr. Vance.
·
You once described your boss as a ‘cynical asshole’; ‘America’s Hitler’.
You didn’t even vote for him, and now you wash his dirty laundry
expecting it to get clean; you dream of succession by being a mean shit.
Kill the writ of Habeas Corpus and you fall into the pit.
When everyone can be captured and unfairly harassed
deported for a critical post, or misinterpreted tattoo
when the Supreme Court can’t even sway your chainsaw trance
you are going to hell Mr. Vance, straight to everlasting hell.
·
In hell there are no couches to fuck
No false hypocrisies to muck up your dignity.
In hell, the devil’s cock burns in your gut
pounds your eyes out of your skull with bizarre, insatiable gore
and shoots a molten cum that incinerates your heart.
In hell the nightmare continues even when you scream ‘no more!’
In hell you run for weeks to gain refuge in the biggest free country on earth
only to be turned away, or have your children torn from your arms
never to be seen again.
In hell there is no ‘happenstance’ karma, it’s all very deliberate payback
for the pain you have caused and are causing with every day that passes.
You have earned your place there JD, strategery be damned.
·
You believed the devil when he put his hand on your shoulder and whispered in your ear.
Now you have no voice to complain when the ground falls away beneath you.
I doubt Jesus will rank you high enough to travel through the pearly gates
bearing the indelible mark of the prime minister of hate himself
the enemy of diversity, equity and inclusion — wolf in wolf’s clothing
hell hound pretending to be a wolf pacing in oval strides
like a skater on thin ice over a river of fire.
·
·
·
𝑲𝒆𝒚 𝑾𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑳𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆
Corn kernels spill from
Cornholio sacks
litter the grass and
bleached coral sand
Rattan day bed covered
In iguanas 
Surprise diamond-infused Durban 
wrapped in Cuban leaf
soothes and smooths
as I cough like a maniac
on our peeling white terrace
overlooking the Gulf of Mexico
after first jet ski tour.
Still amazed how the water turns
from green to blue
as we cross the gulf ledge.
Ski slaps the waves
and my nuts take the brunt
of ocean force
always downward.
·
Seaweed in hot sun
smells like natural gas
awaits pelican wing spark to blow.
Momma dives to catch small fish
her chick chases her to steal it.
She keeps dropping it into the surf for him
in a teaching game.
·
Everything is atremble
hungry for brunch.
Geodesic Doppler domes
track floating bales of coke from Cuba.
Local Duval St. bar guitarist
plays In A Gadda Da Vida solo
as I eat croque madame in the sweltering sauna.
“Honey, grab my inhaler and the Lactaid
I’ll be right out.”
Walk past Hemingway’s house
swarming with tourists in pastels.
Rooster in the rain dances across hot pavement.
·
Heart be soft, mind be sharp
lemon squeezed over conch.
I need oxygen on the flight home
‘cause my lungs are half-collapsed.
Having a genuine heart for the world
costs far more than the grouper piccata at Square Grouper
so I go all in and replace the old floors with vinyl

cackle like my grampa at the silliest things.