GSP POETS RESPOND TO THE DEATH OF POET RENEE GOOD

KIRPAL GORDON: Every day of this present administration recalls memories of Chicago '68, Civil Rights, Kent State and anti-Nam demonstrations. With the killing of Renee Good by ICE agents in Minneapolis, I’m stunned. Jim, you have been involved in a unique form of poetry activism. I am referring to your own poetry as well as your curation and scholarship of Museum of American Poetics which celebrates poetry from across the world, across genres, across decades. What can poets do in response to her murder? And Bill, you have been a poetry activist and scholar from your time in San Francisco in the late Sixties to now. What advice on right action do you glean from our poetry tradition in responding to the ruptures in our democracy? 

JIM COHN: For myself, a person who generally refrains from using social media to express my own personal views on politics, the maniacal death by an ICE agent of Renee Nicole Good, with three close range bullets shot to her head, a Minneapolis poet and mother of three, and a US citizen, was a moment when I felt no choice but to see the current United States government acting in its own interest, with its own secret police, accountable to no citizen, and no laws, save the president's whims.
I also realized, in doing so, the common enough experience that a person will be shaken enough, at certain times or over certain events, to take such action as social media provides in self-expression. What is usually not discussed when taking to social media is one's motivation for so doing. For me, the murder of a community activist & poet by ICE in January 2026 exploited tactics I never thought I'd see on America's streets; tactics in which I felt the terror of a shock and awe domestic paramilitary force armed & acting with impunity roaming at will across our cities and neighborhoods, armed federal agents engaged in extreme lawlessness, violence & lack of concern for their fellow citizens.
What came over me was an utter sense of isolation that I felt in the face of this tragic incident. The heart of this feeling was the recognition of a shared identity with the victim through poetry and through the artistic vocation of the poet. Each time ICE agents detain, incarcerate, deport, and/or kill without any legal accountability within the domestic borders of the United States, each of us is less protected by the laws of our democracy. This feeling was not the result of any unacknowledged or acknowledged right or endowment upon a poet of any greater sense of freedom, including freedom of speech, and by no means limited only to that freedom, than to any other citizen, but an acknowledgment of others, and in that acknowledgment of the multiplicity of otherness as the history of this nation, its grand design by our founders, and the long march of freedom across the generations. We cannot allow for the federal government's projection that heavily armed & poorly trained ICE agents are in any greater need or right to protection from the domestic terrorism that they, not citizens, are waging on Americans of all walks of life as well as immigrants here legally and/or awaiting hearings on their immigration status.
As a result, I've written Colorado's governor's chief of staff requesting he invite & choose a
diverse group of Colorado poets to read poems in honor of Renee Nicole Good & in her
memory & against ICE's tactics and complete lack of accountability in the victimizing of
communities they invade. Such requests might also be done on the city level in conjunction with mayor offices.
These Readings would be part of the growing anti-ICE non-violent protests sweeping the nation.

WILLIAM SEATON: I certainly agree with you about the ugliness of the current regime and the need for all to combat it. I have always tried to do my part in demonstrations and organizing to try to further progressive movements: civil rights, anti-imperialism, feminism, labor, socialism. At times poetry has played a role. I attended what I think was the first poetry reading against the Vietnam War (December, 1967, Minneapolis) and I organized one myself when Bush invaded Iraq. My poems appear in half a dozen righteous politically-oriented anthologies. Etc.
Yet I see the duties of a good citizen, indeed of any moral person, as separate from the aesthetic goals of an artist. To me art is the work of making beautiful objects and politics the arena to construct ways of effectively cooperating. Both are important, but they acknowledge different value systems. People may have backward social views while producing great art and, on the other hand, they may espouse progressive views and produce nothing of aesthetic value to others. See my essay “Marxism’s Limits”. 
Just as one might be a skilled heart surgeon while being nasty to a partner, not every great painter or poet expresses love of community. I don’t mean to discount the tradition of poets as seers, as collective voices (like Whitman consciously assuming the mantle of American prophet or Shelley speaking of “unacknowledged legislators”), and I continue to evaluate the character (though not the poetic achievement) of writers by their politics. Everyone has multiple roles, and a poet is also a citizen with civic responsibilities and a human with moral obligations to others.
Poetry excels in ambiguity, mystery, ambivalence, and self-contradiction. Propaganda, while it may well be true and even sometimes beautiful as well, tends toward reductive simplicity. Shelley’s “England in 1819” is an example of agitprop that is at the same time most artful. Art can assist the people’s movements with persuasive speeches, songs, and posters, yes, even poetry, and in this way be the handmaiden of positive change, and a good person will manifest that goodness through concern for the community, but art works cannot be judged by non-aesthetic criteria. As Trotsky said in Literature and Revolution, we can have no idea of socialist poetry since we do not live under socialism. Let each artist be guided by imagination, and we will see what we come up with.

𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂, 𝑹𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅: 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝑫𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒚𝒔𝒖𝒔, 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂 & 𝑪𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝑾𝒂𝒓 — 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔?

Before Santa became a universal holiday icon, he had a career in politics. Even more than that, what if I told you that the jolly North Pole resident, always trailed by reindeer and elf groupies, is merely a product of propaganda?
Sounds too extreme? Let me take it further: 𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗻 propaganda. Scared? Boo.

Well, let’s rewind a bit. This is the story of how Santa became a tool of ideology: a salesman for American identity, as well as a cuddly emblem of national unity.

Until the mid-1800s, Christmas hadn’t yet solidified (especially in the U.S. and Britain) into the intimate, home-filled, family-centered tradition we now picture: awash in love, care for one another, magic & miracle. The familiar “sparkle script” wasn’t the norm. No glow of lights, no bright-red ribbons on presents, no Christmas tree in every living room with gifts tucked underneath. Consequently, there also was no Santa as we know him today.

Earlier “holiday spirit” could look less like a cozy domestic postcard and more like public revelry & drunken frenzies, licentious feasts and general wintertime debauchery. Call it a vestige of the pagan past and solstice celebrations. This helps explain one of Santa’s early cousins, 𝗦𝗶𝗿 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗺𝗮𝘀/ 𝗙𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗺𝗮𝘀, sometimes carrying visual parallels to 𝑫𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒚𝒔𝒖𝒔, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗲𝗰𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, the flower-crowned type rather than the chimney-crawling moral accountant.

In fact, early Christmas could be so far from God that Puritans abolished it in the 1600s as unholy indulgence and profligacy. Only by the mid-1800s did American & British culture begin to clothe the holiday in merciful, conventionally moral undertones, with domestic warmth and charity pushed to the forefront. 𝗗𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗻𝘀’s 𝘈 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘭 (1843) amplified the shift.

As Christianity spread and shaped European life, the holiday came to carry primarily sectarian meaning, and the earliest prototypes of the modern-day Santa were modeled on 𝗦𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗡𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗮𝘀, a fourth-century Christian bishop revered as a protector of children. Church-tied, his visual form was far from today’s plush red monarch: more ecclesiastical than magical, more skinny old man in cassock than belly-laughing chimney-climber. He was also famous for generosity: this is where the gift-giving lineage comes from.

On the other side of the globe, in mid-19th-century America, Christmas was popular but still unstandardized: a patchwork of regional and immigrant customs.

You’re probably thinking by now: cool, congratulations. Where is the 𝑨𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂 (meant to be read in an elevated, grotesque tone) story advertised at the beginning?
*𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘰*

Okay-okay, here comes the juicy part.
𝟭𝟴𝟲𝟯. The Civil War is raging in its full bloody swing. It ripped the country open, and suddenly the idea of a shared national feeling became urgent.

Insert a German-American caricaturist working for a widely read magazine of the day, 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘞𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘭𝘺. An ardent champion of abolition and civil rights, 𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝑵𝒂𝒔𝒕 is eager to make his graphics a tool of political influence — and a weapon in support of the Union cause.

And what better way to boost a soldier’s morale than to bring the why —what they’re fighting for— right to the forefront? Family. Stability. Someone waiting for you at home. Nast layers his wartime politics onto that newly domesticated Christmas mood… and hits the jackpot.

In one of his early depictions of what would become the main symbol of Christmas, Santa Claus wears a jacket adorned with stars & striped pants and distributes gifts to soldiers stationed at a Union army camp — while the American flag waves proudly above him.

Instead of an old-world saint or a vague winter spirit, Santa becomes a distinctly American presence: one who visits soldiers, blesses the home front and stitches “family,” “morale” & “nation” into one emotional package. Another jackpot for Nast and the Union: they can now claim the holiday, along with all the “good” attached to it. The implication is powerful and persuasive: warmth, goodness, abundance, and childhood joy — these belong to 𝒖𝒔. And so does Santa.

Nast didn’t wave the flag at Santa once & move on. He standardized the message across 33 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘞𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘭𝘺 Santas (1863–1886): Santa has a side, and it’s recruitable. In that first 1863 image, he shows up in Union kit, handing gifts to Union troops, and even brandishes a toy that turns Confederate president 𝗝𝗲𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝗗𝗮𝘃𝗶𝘀 into the villain-in-miniature.

Then Nast bureaucratizes the magic: he pins Santa to an “official” address (the North Pole) and sketches the workshop logic that makes him feel less like folklore and more like an institution you can recruit into. Once the machinery exists, it’s endlessly reusable. Coca-Cola locks in the warm, realistic Santa in 1931; by WWII, the state drafts him for war-bond drives. Same beard, new orders.

Santa’s story works because it runs on 𝗺𝘆𝘁𝗵 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝘆𝗰𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴: take an emotionally powerful archetype, clean it up for the era, and repurpose it to carry messages about virtue, belonging & “who we are.” The names and costumes change, but the mechanism stays the same.

That same mechanism —how a culture manufactures meaning by stitching old gods into new costumes— is one of the questions driving 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉, 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒌𝒚 by 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐩𝐚𝐥 𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐧. 𝑹𝑬𝑶𝑺 doesn’t treat myth as trivia; it treats it as circuitry: the way identities (personal and collective) get built, sold, defended, and made to feel like “home.” Publishing this right after 𝘖𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘹 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴 (𝘑𝘢𝘯 𝟩) feels fitting: a second Christmas on the calendar, a second reminder that traditions don’t merely “continue” — they’re continually authored.

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.

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.