> On Jul 25, 2016 10:20 A 30 year old man named
> > > >> >
> Jenyon Middleton
> was killed by gunfire in the early hours of Sunday at a complex in our old neighborhood, at the corner of Roncesvalles and Howard park.
> Police would not confirm by days end whether the victim was armed at the time of the shooting, or even if police had fired any shots.
> An unidentified 25 yo woman was also taken to st Mike's, with a serious but non life threatening gunshot wound to her leg. The funk bands are heavy with thunderous summer mood down here. Around the backyard firepit, and beneath the strings of lights, the word revolution is spoken casually, with a dry, matter of fact, tone of serious acceptance.
> The band at the Local on Sunday was Tumako and they played quite solidly, anchored in tight time and riding a baritone sax/ electric guitar frontline over laid back frisky tempos. Some over-effected soloing towards the end. But great, well integrated sound and hella chops. I would have danced, but for all the things that me and Kate had to say. Same thing Wynton Marsalis is saying to Cornel West; Restoring Hope. An essential trope. Knowing people in your neighborhood. Not commuting. A Lighthouse for the arts, podcast go! Not an industry of trends and fashions, taste makers and schools of culture. The people who do the work in the places where things hahapn, till we parted ways, I wending went, at one am I ran into Adam Plant coming out of Gate 403. Beautiful people were with him of course. Because of him I met Sappho herself, she the one mother of all spondees, poetess with raven tress, she herself did manifest, told me a man had taken all her money to go out drinking. We shared a cigarette and I should have bought her breakfast, only asked if she'd be ok tonight. she looked so beautiful, tough. I held her for a moment. I looked over my shoulder all the way down Roncie, I had to post a missed connection to try and confirm if this had really happened, and in what sense. Two emails in response to my post, offering robotic pleasures.
> > > > Everyone's got a threshold. There's a limit to that threshold. > > so this is what it feels like to reach the end of your rope. Or maybe time slipped, and thelth progress we we thought was made was even the wool itself. Maybe the consequence of worldwide communication is a world consciousness, one that will naturally and out of a desire to do healing, confront the madness and pain that manifests itself as injustice, repression, and strife
> > >
> > > > Ah, here we are back at the table. It's that shame I'm trying to cure. It's the place where one of your floppy haired boys caught a touch of my anger: she witnessed, spoke out, and was perfectly prepared to keep you safe. Through trust and respect find friendship strong, the portrait mural of Phil Lynott awaited me at the back of the room. Imagine the progression, anticipate the healing conception. I have no greater purpose. Privileged children may pout over their freedom of choice and their lifestyle decisions, but ultimately the time will come when the middle class finds themselves pinched to pandemic proportions, and the end of an unsustainable lifestyle will loom large, with all of its dreams and promises spent, holding up a lie while promises were rent and fear became the constant undercurrent of life and of acceptable social behaviour. It's normal to be afraid of the police, my family taught me one thanksgiving when I described mistreatment by the 14 division before and while being held in the drunk tank. Dont stand out, don't attract negative attention. But assume for a minute that this fear is also the fear of our oppressors, that the yoke can only be pulled as tight as they know the need in their own necks, generations spanning centuries of privilege held over their heads like the hat of a doll, fly away! Land. There is much sense and magic here. Considerer that the ruling class may in fact be more mentally unstable and unhealthy than the lower classes whom they stigmatise in just such light: Paranoia is closing ranks and rationing info when shots are fired and lives are lost. Fear is putting guns against knives and toy trucks, the end is nigh those shots fired into Yatim's form downed on the 505.
> O, may I say: what in the world is happening? I know that we're scared and angry, and I believe we're all right to be so. Robbed enough of life's pleasures by pain and disappointment, let's live a little while. But where? And how? If I bring tape with me everyday, I could hang sigils in the subway. I desire to upset the tropes of advertising and replace it with the honest celebration of human beauty's truth, through a song I learned in part from you. My Dad didn't have many funk records but he rocked the Jam proper. Costellograms, then, my most Irish mode of making tongues. Call me Samozart, still weaving etudes out of Motown and Bop in the bar downstairs, with 300$ graffiti on the wall, in the old suburb at the heart of this awl, music good TVs bad. I should have gone out to the patio, but I have a persistent habit of embarrassing overtures. I have friends with couches and rooms for rent. I began my singing career performing King of the Road to charm young Caucasian wo(men). I am stabilising myself and preparing for the DMZ.