H2Omeloncholy: August 2020

VOGUE copyright Conde Nast

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ANNOUNCER: "Your word is WhitePrivilege."

15-YEAR-OLD: "Pardon...did you say 'privilege'?

ANNOUNCER: "No. Your word is WhitePrivilege."

15-YEAR-OLD: "Would you please use it in a sentence?"

ANNOUNCER: white privilege...\ˈ(h)wīt priv-lij \

"According to witness accounts AND video footage, police apparently let the gunman walk past them and leave the scene with a rifle over his shoulder and his hands in the air as members of the crowd were yelling for him to be arrested because he had shot people."

15-YEAR-OLD: "Part of speech?"

ANNOUNCER: "There is no part of speech; it is a part of existence. I read not from

Merriam Webster nor Oxford Dictionaries. Associated Press is a not-for-

profit with a Board of Directors. On that board sits the head of Scripps.

Just a disclaimer there. The AP inadvertently quintessentially defined

WhitePriv thru one sentence, eerily ironically embedded in Groves' and

Bauer's article today titled:

17-year-old arrested after 2 killed during unrest in Kenosha

15-YEAR-OLD: [pausing long betwixt each letter]

"...doubleYOU...H...I..."

EndLESS Act

a clever as compassionate critique

on the implausibility

of POSTness

VOGUE copyright Conde Nast

Love's Labour's Won. Lost play of Willy Sh-- or yet another myth-morsel, a gingerly crumb to send Bard devotee-detectives deeper into the forest?

The fact that Won's existence cannot be confirmed registers as more metaphorical than mythological.

Can we 'win'? Is ethno-existential triumph possible?

According to the musical, The Wiz, its Scarecrow croons an emphatic, "No."

The H2Omeloncholic™ set, howe'er, prefer the question. Ay, eva, sooth, yon quest.

Can the Labour Party rule Empire? Can reparations - promised - atone for the forced labour that built a 'super' power? Can labour unions resurrect to defend/embolden the working class? Can the labour of sheltering wives/mothers be equal to their male counterparts - during plague - on the domestic front? Is the 'gig' economy a labour protected under the law? What labour is 'essential' and if it be so, where are its essential benefits? How is the worth of labour determined, who is tasked with such demarcation, and is their impetus ethical exchange thru conscientious compensation? Within labouring, does the demos collectively rekanize equitable 'efforting' - with means of correction when such dynamics become distorted? Does such consideration suggest labour's impact is fiscal as much as psychic? Can the arguable additional emotional labour of peops of color, exhaustively balancing their Du Bois-ian 'doubling' or "twoness", result in qualifiable reward?

One's queries seem to stand not alone. And nay, one refers not to Marx or other economic theoreticians. Albeit both red n' pinko-pink scarves are oft artfully tied round one's throat in a Hoxton knot. Preferring philosophers who masquerade as poets, one does not stand as much as kneel: humbled to keep illustrious company from Langston to Lorraine to PRINCESS of Da Bard's L. L. Lost. To be lost is generally experienced in isolation of some sort - standing alone. Less concerned with Western concepts of 'win', one chooses 'found' as the optimum opposite of 'lost' - imagining community. Thus, one conjures a conversation - as intimate as of mythic proportion - at a back booth in a bar at the height of 'happy' hour...

LANGSTON: What Happens to a Dream Deferred?

Does it dry up...

LORRAINE: ...like a raisin in the sun?

LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST (V.2)

PRINCESS:

Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed

[maybe it just sags]
To some forlorn and naked hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
There stay until the twelve celestial signs

[crest and sugar-over]
Have brought about the annual reckoning.
If this austere insociable life
Change not your offer made in heat of blood;
If frosts and fasts,

[fester like a sore]

hard lodging and thin weeds

Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,
But that it bear this trial and last love;
Then, at the expiration of the year,

[explode]
Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts,
And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine
I will be thine; and till that instant shut
My woeful self up in a mourning house,