III/MMXXVI

Hey y'all

Welcome back to Club Yme! If you're new here, curated playlists are our monthly entrée. I'm already breaking my promise to "pair" the tunes with "appetizing book excerpts." It's not that there isn't more of where that came from; I just happen to be in a selfish mood, so all the writing's from my dome, savory or not.

ENCOUNTERS IN OAHU

Chef Eichi, who nodded approvingly of our decision to pair his 13-course omakase with chilled plum wine. I will never forget that chawan mushi.

Leah’s nameless admirer, who pleaded for forgiveness for her fixed gaze. The thing is, she needed to confirm her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her and Leah was in fact not Malia. Malia Obama, that is. A compliment that we returned in the most deserving manner: chortles, caws, squawks, every other disrespectful way to laugh, followed by immediate silence. A reprimand that this old white lady sat with for a good half-hour before returning, tail between her legs, to once again plead for forgiveness, but this time for the temerity to suggest something so nonsensical.

Summer, who traded North America’s Great Lakes for the island’s salty seas. I hope they don’t send your man to war.

Victoria, a master of entrapment, who demands conversation in exchange for access to her store’s restroom, the only one along a remote mile-long stretch. In truth, what she sought was a moment to brag about meeting two former presidents, warn of the responsibility that comes with the power of the pen (honestly, I could never do her tall tales justice, so who's to say I’m handling this authority properly), and a new son, in the Lord, to be clear. 11 children and 11 grandchildren apparently do not take up enough of her time. “You’re welcome to call me anytime,” she said to me after saving her name as “Mom.” “What we discuss will stay between us,” she added cryptically as she looked coolly at Leah.

Our Brazilian counterpart, who named his daughters Isla and Breeza. You will never island that hard. Accept defeat.

LIVING IN EXILE

Almost every day I think about my life in exile. Some friends tell me I’m exaggerating. You chose to be here. I know. I am reminded of that decision daily, practically each time I open my mouth, and my ears are greeted by a voice unsure of where it’s from, an accent still settling on a home. Language is expression, and I’m losing mine. I don’t think I’m ever going to get it back. It’s all I could think about as I ran through the gamut of emotions watching My Father’s Shadow, well not all, but enough to summon the streams from my twin ducts. 

That’s my no spoiler review of a brilliant portrayal of a home that was never mine, maybe because it was robbed from me, or maybe because I chose to be here. 

Time to tune into the main event, "where we got all rhythm and no algorithm."

March's Listening Notes

1. https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8bPbEJM/
2. Yea that cali shit dey break 
3. So all your cana gotta come from the west 
4. No bootleg shit, no bootleg love 
5. You gotta show you mean it (do you hear those drums?)
6. Or we’re gonna see right through you (Again, do you hear those drums?)
7. (I think I like these drums too) 
8. (And what he does with his guitar) 
9. You better be clapping at home too 
10. Reckon you’re now familiar with the kinda shit that gets you there 
11. *whispers* Mad explosive spontaneity, mad explosive spontaneity, mad explosive spontaneity, mad explosive spontaneity ad infinitum  
12. So light, so delicate, ready to be washed away. (Anyway, give it to me? Timbaland?) 
13. This is how I felt as the waves of the pacific pushed me to shore, then returned me to the blue. There’s a beauty in knowing the water never stops moving. An enduring peace when confronted with the horizon, a certain acceptance of human tenderness, a foreboding feeling.