Monday, July 20, 2020

Black Ay Peace

VOGUE copyright Conde Nast
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com
© 2020 KM Fikes


Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.


serial radio broadcast, originally aired July 13 - July 16


"Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be..."

Richard II, Act IV, Scene 1

I know no I

Offer.  Gentlesoulfolk, that is what NY's Public Theatre does every summer, free of charge to the rarified few who manage tickets under the stars.  And in a BLM-COVID-conflated moment, the late Joe Papp's vision for Shakespeare in the Park was not failed.  One 'checks' oneself to avoid the trap: that of defaulting an 'inclusive' Shakespearean endeavor as worthy due to repazentation e'er ravenous.  Oblivious casting dangerously sacrifices intentionality, resulting in an unwitting bypassing of the violence of absence for oppressive presence.  Minus expansive interrogation, harms merely replicate themselves - inadvertently as insidiously.  Here, howe'er, one found oneself less inclined to mediate that incessant muck.  To an unrestricted nod.  Earned.  Richard II took to the socially-distanced radio waves, unmasking the work with no less than Professor Ayanna Thompson as a treat of a guide.  Pointing out the irony of the Act IV line, Thompson spoke of Richard's "unraveling". 

One wonders...and wondering being one's digression of choice...if one might have arrived on the porch of the following musing absent director, Saheem Ali's intentional casting of this Richard: André Holland in the titular role to Miriam A. Hyman's Bolingbroke. 

Richard II is supposed to be another (arguably one o' da betta) Bard takes on 'power'.  Finely tuned here yet no novel concept in Shakespeare's canon.  Still, this particular tour de force - as sho' 'twas - allowed one to gleam sum'in new as welcome.  This production brought one less to the alter...or back porch...of 'power' than its oft ulterior motive: 'privilege'.  Given the customary casting of the work, one hath not found herself thus compelled.  And so?  'Twas here - upon this issue of 'privilege' that one teetered to n' (A)fro.  Power, when beheld and bequeathed responsibly as critically, with at least some heir air of altruism?  Such holds, or rather, releases some modicum of merit.  Thaz at least the distant prospect of substantive power.

Yet 'privilege'?  As hath been sentenced since the social construction of whiteness?  Privilege is sum'in else.  Far from any conviction - remote or contrived.  A cultural quirk, disguised beyond the bounds of duplicitous, as some convenience.  Happens to rule the world.  And that allusion to white priv is sumi'in which the skilled Holland n' Hyman can conjure creatively.  All too well.  Alas, not to inhabit offstage.  That very incongruity, tho' - of performative 'reach' versus societal regressive positionality - proved fruitful, daresay, at the peek of summer 'produce'.  Holland's effective method in film projects is naturalistic.  On stage, and in particular, Shakespeare, his take - be it personal tenor and/or chosen technique - can be experienced as a subtlest 'withholding'.  There is a fine line 'twixt appreciatively thoughtful and appropriately studied.  That suggestive line becomes even finer - perhaps even risking 'snapping' - for thespians of color.  Whether his organic style, intention here, or both, Holland's approach works beyond well against and with a Bolingbroke full-bodied.  Hyman takes ownership of her role, seizing it no less than Bolingbroke within the text.  With score to settle, her offering thru 'him' is informed.  Both agent-artists rose to this rare occasion of cultural-collision-in-duel-plagues: that of some alleged 'reckoning' of our salient ism and that of literal physiological immunity.  Right at this time.  This Richard.  

On point.  Together, their voices embodied that unique tension when Shakespeare's quill tip is too damp to call dry while its squid piss spells out more pathological ink blot than iambic pentameter.  Darkest cloud expelled as oceanic 'smoke screen' - upon perceived threat.  
Ain't white priv thus - all but falsest of crowns?  E'en Renaissance-ed north as England/south as Italy, white priv be but a Venice Merchant's 'masque', if ye will, cockblocking bucolic plague whilst projecting the debauchery of Carnival: "All that glitters" far from "gold".  Once dethroned, what is left? 

Wiki Commons

I know no I

White Priv and its royal cousin, White Fragility - utilized by diversity consultant Robin DiAngeloare void of 'self'.  By design.  And how.  The insular identity is built upon the grains of the sandcastle of supremacy.  The 'self' is a citizen and that brand of citizenship or American 'right' is validated by the privilege of NOT being Ethnic Other-ed.  Sociologists and journalists and bloggers, that would be either, remain confounded as to why certain citizens "vote against their own interest".  One is most confounded by their confusion as to why.  How can one 'vote against their own interest' when their very comprehension of their existence 'centers' the futile protection of the fallacy of priv?  One need ne'er "know" the/a 'self' when priv is convinced that its 'I' is actual - sustained by generational inheritance to practice priving freely.  Priv fakes its pleasure even in masturbatory exercises of prescribed 'liberty'.  Life sans priv requires self-definition.  A core.  Whenst, alas, there may be none to be found.  Not once the "unraveling" lays such institutional illusion bare.  Not because 'fragile' self is not in there somewhere - shivering in a cultural curated corner.  But because priv is the seductive imposter.  Self never bothered to introduce itself to the conscience riding its velvet coattails.  At court.  

Yet in prison?  Holland can speak directly thru his Richard's self-reflection in Act V, Scene 5:

"I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world:
And for because the world is populous
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer it out."

Holland - Richard-retreated, priv-peeled - elaborates.  Picking up said "hammer":

                    "...Sometimes just walking down the street, I would just say it, you know, 
                     to myself. And it's not until the end of the play, that he finds the time to 
                     be alone, to really sit with himSELF, and reflect.  And in doing so, he 
                     comes to understand that he is a human being.  And before your very
                     eyes, you see a person become a person."

Here, Jimmy can have his say; Prince Jimmy's pen was nuttin' but scepter.  And Hammer.  One applauds Holland n' Hyman for their Willy Shhh...ache...shakes n' spearing to prod free the knot of priv from power.  Their theatrical deliveries, left entangling the specificity of their respective identities, sifted Bard sediment, evoking Baldwin.  Such insight of luminaries - four-hundred years cozy - constitutes hem hymn more than haw within Crenshaw's intersection.  At the height of their individual prowess, then, where relevance ain't some rarity, should not Baldwin n' Bard be engaged in tandem?  Pray, Baldwin, alongside 'Will', take thy bow: 

                    "What white people have to do, is try and find out in their own hearts...
                     ["ay"/ I]...why
                     it was necessary to have a nigger in the first placeBecause I'm 
                     not a nigger; I'm a man. But if you think I'm a nigger, it means you need
                     it. And the question you’ve got to ask yourself - the white population of 
                     this country - North and South...If I'm not the nigger here and if you, the
                     white people, invented him, then you've got to find out...
                     ["ay"/ I]...why. 
                     And the future of the country...[Richard's imperialist England 
                     long ere 'New World' Indigenous-exterminating-n'-African-enslaving- 
                     colonist 'upstarts']...depends on that: Whether it's able to ask...
                       ["to be or not"]
                     ...that question."

Baldwin in Kenneth Clark interview, 1963
Richard II - "ay/I" (IV. 1), 1595
 Hamlet - "to be/not" soliloquy (III. 1), 1603


a clever as compassionate critique 
on the implausibility 
of POSTness

Til our next 'post', feast upon produce in season...

© 2020 KM Fikes 
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com 


Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.

Tuesday, June 30, 2020

Elijah-io for (melon) seeds


VOGUE copyright Conde Nast
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com
© 2020 KM Fikes


Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.

Samuel Barber's 
Adagio for Strings

*copyright may apply*



"I'm different"


a clever as compassionate critique 
on the implausibility 
of POSTness


© 2020 KM Fikes 
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.

Friday, June 5, 2020

doughnut CRUMBS with H2Omelon seed sprinkles



VOGUE copyright Conde Nast
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com
© 2020 KM Fikes


Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.


Image Credit: mellomelon.co.uk/watermelon-doughnuts



Ambiguity abounds RE: whether or not the protests = a societal reformation.  Been here before.  Too oft.  What is required for substantial structural change would upend America's very idea of itself.  The pipe of privilege is an addiction and no protesting 'intervention' can save an addict until they hit their own bottom.  With the stock market rebounding - the pulse o' the US 'body' politic?  'Bottom', it ain't.  Only at bottom, where privilege is a peril, can the addict own its addiction.  Amy Cooper - dog-less, jobless - is one social-mediated anomaly.  A peek at the possibility of bottom.  But not one minute before a collective bottom - a visceral communal reckoning where privilege is released to convulsing, sweating, heart-palpitating withdrawal, can America show up in the otherwise-abandoned church basement - terrified for the moment when they must introduce themself to the other chain-smoking colonizers formally from some G-Numbered Summit: 


PALE SPRINKLES:
A Scene Sans An Act

U. S.:      "Hi. My name is United S."  

WORLD: "Hi, United S."

U. S.:      "When I was 'using', they called me YOU...S.  So uh...please call me: 'YOU...My 
                name is YOU S.  And I'm complicit/compliant with white supremacy.  I've been 
               'sober' now for uh...ten days and two hours (May 25, Memorial Day, i. e., George 
                Floyd's documented murder.  Not the murder now, but the documentation of it 
                that no longer allows me the rush n' crash of empty-calorie 'allyship' nor the 
                sugar-coated lenses of rose melon-colored glasses tinting my 'white gaze')."

Followed by awkward masked nods, seated in a socially-distanced round.  Behind them, a wobbly-legged card table that would normally host doughnuts dry as stale. With sprinkles pale.


END of Act-less Scene



a clever as compassionate critique 
on the implausibility 
of POSTness


© 2020 KM Fikes 
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.

Sunday, May 31, 2020

One Thousand & One H2Omelon-Seedy Nights

VOGUE copyright Conde Nast
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com
© 2020 KM Fikes


Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.


Warning: 
The following image may be deemed unsuitable for most audiences; this blog categorizes it as privileged perversion of both Black Trauma Porn & child exploitation.

Democratic U.S. presidential candidate and former U.S. Vice President Joe Biden visits a site of the protest over the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis police custody, in Wilmington.
Image Credit: Reuters via Biden Campaign


SHYLOCK: ('Looted') MERCHANT of MINNEAPOLIS 
          {neck...knees...last breath...}














Enter a {Public}Servant {in the guise of CAMPAIGN PHOTO OP *}
Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice,  Act III, Scene 1


* Too soon after Breakfast Club condescension and frankly:
- '05 credit card co. cozying 
- '02 Iraq vote
'94 Crime Bill  
- '91 Hill hearing/Thomas confirmation
- '75 Busing vote  
Just too soon, Joe.  One thousand AND ONE nights.  That night lands on Tuesday, November 3, '20.  Not a day before tho'.  Not ONE.  We shall vote, aye.  We shall vote fo' the survival of this species.  Now, howeva, we rage.  We grieve.  We insist upon our grief free from thy gaffe. * 



a clever as compassionate critique 
on the implausibility 
of POSTness


© 2020 KM Fikes 
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.

Wednesday, May 27, 2020

that wears the crown

VOGUE copyright Conde Nast
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com
© 2020 KM Fikes


Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.


Corona defined: Latin for "crown" or garland of 'supremacy'.

Under a microscope, the 'spikes' of Corona virus reminded some scientist of a crown.  Hence the name.

ShakespeareHenry IV, Part 2, Act 3, scene 1: 
uneasy lies the head that wears the crown"

Coronavirus surviver describes the acute respiratory distress thus: "an anvil on your chest".


Please, please, please...I can't breathe, please, sir.

George Floyd's final words upon death by anvil on your chest knee upon his neck. One (unmasked) officer's knee that does not release until the ambulance arrives minutes after the paramedic's assessment.  Knee choking Floyd, the officer's hands remain in his pockets with sunglasses unflappably poised or 'crowning' his head. Three other (unmasked) police stand by, passing nine and a half minutes, as 'audience' - or Afro-Greek tragedian chorus - pleads for any form of 'ventilating' intervention on a Minneapolis street. 

May 25(Memorial Day), 2020: 
upon the week that the US begins to...'open up'...again...for bidness as usual.

I can't breathe...I can't breathe...

July 14(French Bastille or 'Freedom' Day), 2014.  Eric Garner's last utterance.  A street in Verona on Staton Island. 


*Shakespeare, Romeo & JulietAct 3, scene 1

Ramsey Orta filmed Garner's death.





a clever as compassionate critique 
on the implausibility 
of POSTness


© 2020 KM Fikes 
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.


Wednesday, March 4, 2020

catching H2Omelon seeds with teeth

VOGUE copyright Conde Nast
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com
© 2020 KM Fikes


Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.

The following is an absurdist exercise in film criticism.  The reader - ever an appreciated accomplice in this perpetual surrealist e-performance art 'action' - is asked to read in the same vein that one might peruse a movie review.


© 1985  Motown

Suddenly dawns on one - lo these years passed - that the singular most revolutionary art piece that one hath e'er beheld is the B movie, camp classic, daresay, cult status-ed, Berry Gordy's The Last Dragon.

Note: Left brain; right brain.  Then that amorphous region scraping remnant scales from our reptilian ‘tale’.  Last Dragon is a Pandora-ean box-ed ‘treasure’ trove of cultural appropriation —  pirated, sunk, waterlogged looted.  Avoiding decompression ills, one should pen that critique once present absurdity ascends slowly up, breaking REM’s surface to press its snooze button.  Still, lest one be derelict in Asian allyship, any filmic fawning here is surrealistically sardonic at best.  Or worst.  Whilst reading, if teeth begin to clinch or a jaw lock, may chompers at least remain rooted.  Or as safe as responsible firearms.  Ah, conscientious violence.

To it, shall we?

C. Columbus had the navigation skills of that friend who drinks too much so one is vigilant to grab their car keys.  Erstwhile, Pacific Islanders 'explored' the high seas - traveling vast distances that Columbum could scant imagine - thru their intimacy with astronomy and impeccable observance of waves' moods.  Voyages of Hōkūleʻa ("Happy Star") have recently relied upon this traditional Polynesian 'wayfinding'. The organic predecessor to GPS manages to avoid any cellular radiation.

All's well.  Until a certain man's bullet.  Not the man, now.  But his bullet.

From the Incan to the Egyptian - pyramids!

All's well.  Until a certain man's bullet.  Not the man, now.  But his bullet.

Indigenous tribes of North America sipped tea that was the preventative for a 'host' of illnesses (other than C. C.'s syphilis or smallpox).  Responsibly stewarding this medicinal plant within the bosom of Mama Earth's resilience, Her abundance was honored rather than assumed.  Seven Generations eschewing pharmaceutical cooperate boon...doggles, First Peoples naturally harvested Medicare for All. No leaf nor branch was incidental — whether cultivated directly for healing human form or extending traditional Native ethos to Earth's body — intentionally as intuitively practicing cultural burning to seasonally relate to 'wild' fire as restorative rather than destructive.  

All's well.  Until a certain man's bullet.  Not the man, now.  But his bullet.

Whilst a certain man emerged from his cave, rubbing two sticks for fire, technology abounded on continents yet colonized.  In some of these civilizations, women were warriors and men could inhabit/exhibit both genders.  The untold had been contemplated and/or invented and implemented.  Except a cohesive instrument of annihilation.  Otherwise 'advanced', a specific apparatus to exterminate kin just wasn't on the radar.  The Mayan preferred gathering around mugs of thick as fragrant liquefied cocoa, holding late night oral poetic 'slams' in what would become the first unrevised drafts of Popol Vuh.  

All's well.  Until a certain man's bullet.  Not the man, now.  But his bullet.  These aforementioned societies are not to be eroticized-idealized nor were they utopian or romantic archetypes under smoothest egalitarian 'groove'.  Still, their warfare had yet to conceive of mechanisms optimizing carnage, ensuring mass fatalities.  Like double-barrel bayonet pistols.  Cannon balls.  Atomic bombs.  Or Facebook.

This brings us to the cheesy as cherished eighties' motion picture, Last Dragon, produced by Motown's founder, Berry Gordy, and written by Louis Venosta.  Venosta's 'journeying hero' is ('Bruce') Leroy Green who trains - with only the utmost dedication/discipline - his whole life.  It is not, however, Sho' 'Nuff that he must conquer.  Acquiring "The Glow" will not save him.  All is for naught in that moment that Kew Garden's gangster, Eddie Arkadian, shoots his gun.  Might it be argued that martial arts encouraged sum'in essential within Leroy, laying the foundation upon which he develops the miraculous skill of bullet-catching-via-incisors?  Granted.  The film opens to a scene in progress.  Unaware of his own mastery, Leroy instinctively identifies the blue arrow.  How?

"Leroy, you KNEW without knowing."  


Again though, it is neither the finale's Sho' 'Nuff show-down nor gift of 'glowing' that measures the protagonist's craft.  These aspired accomplishments - in isolation - oddly beckon certain death.  No matter how sincere the sanctuary we diligently create, our insular quest, albeit sacred, is surrounded by a panoramic view of an oft polluted reality.

© 1985  Motown 
[thelastdragontribute.com]

In the end?  All about the bullet.

Silicon Valley's anemic idea of a commerce 'disruptor' pales miserably in comparison to ('Bruce') Leroy's swift act of Liberation.  A cultural coup, universal service, and millisecond-ed rebellion.  What qualifies as more disruptive to supremacist (metastasized capitalist) order than halting the lethal tool of 'the man's' trajectory, i. e., implied historical systemic dynamics of oppression - glaring - in the critically current gulf of inequality?  Smoking gun clocked in its structural tracks.  With Master Green's teeth. 

All's not at all well.  Until teeth catch that bullet.  Now is the time for a (hu)man.

We can educate ourselves at the highest levels, achieve human feats unparalleled, and we can meditate our way to some notion of enlightenment.  We can nobly endeavor and charitably inspire - birthing movements.  Momentum can build, carrying us towards the ideal experience: a semblance of fruition thru success.  But if we cannot "catch bullets with our teeth", there is an inevitability to our demise.  And yet, pray, dear reader, lower not thy head with downcast discouraged eye.  Perchance a quote - dōjō advice to Leroy - from that blue arrow opening scene in Last Dragon shall betta suffice to lift thy chin:

"What you seek is not written on the floor." 

Leroy Green or Bruce Leroy? Which Leroy Are YOU? | #IAMTHEMASTER | The Last Dragon Tribute
© 1985  Motown 
[thelastdragontribute.com]


Thence?  "Eye on" inferred as elusive "prize".  Ay, onwards.  Past the thickest fog obscuring some promise of a horizon.  Albeit Sisyphean bouldered (or bulleted), quest on...quest eva.  For it is in the great quest that we...well, we...keep close...to...sum'in...and...yada, yada, yada...


a clever as compassionate critique 
on the implausibility 
of POSTness

© 2020 KM Fikes 
© 2020 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.