Showing posts with label emotion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label emotion. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 07, 2026

Restless Joy

Restless joy, unbridled at that
Skipping, ecstatic despite yourself
And a sound issues from primal depths

Elation then, loping and sinuous
Demanding fervently to be shared
Unbidden glee, always in motion

This frantic compulsion
Uncontrollable, effervescent
Restless joy, oh what a feeling


El Anatsui

Joy, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

Writing log. May 7, 2023

Tuesday, March 24, 2026

Unhappiness

Unhappiness is contagious, sadly
Wounds tend to expand in its wake
When you're too tired to even be angry
There's only palliative relief when the heart aches

So upset at this point, quite frankly, it's just sad.
The damage is done, there's no point getting mad
The preceding half hour of vitriol only added to the dismay
There's no comfort to be had, this is very far from okay

There's no prospect of breaking down the door
Resign yourself to this rupture, wallow in the sadness
Divided for no reason at all, this is your house
Probably best tonight to sleep on the couch

Relentless, the cloud, trouble seems to follow you
Even when you hold your tongue, others want to argue
This social disease is unfair, to be broaching loneliness
The path forward is unclear, such is the way of unhappiness


M.C. Escher stairs


Unhappiness, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version) File under: , , , , , ,

Writing log: November 14, 2022

Tuesday, January 20, 2026

A Last Request

If this interlude should come to an end
Let there not be any regret
If this moment passes and we should lose each other
Know that conversations like ours never end

We gave it our all
This much we know
For, even in the depths,
Together we bore witness

So tell, tell our story
That we should leave our mark
Inscribed in relief on this fleeting canvas

Tell, tell our story
The struggles to be considered
And joys to be relived

Tell, tell our story
Fixing a time and a place
And people too
The fragments to be discovered
For this is our story

Spoken like the griots of old
Written like those scribes
Drawn with delicacy
Or sung with abandon
Tell, tell our story
That we should not lose these memories

A last request:
With one breath, in one motion
Tell, tell our story


His and hers


A Last Request, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note.

A lush playlist that I've long luxuriated in, ballads of wist and yearning, nothing is left behind (spotify version)
See previously The Tale of the Lost Stories and The Fleeting Canvas

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Writing log: September 22, 2022

Tuesday, February 18, 2025

The Sense of Violation

A wrong has been done, there's no doubting it
It's hard to contain the sense of violation
The damage is done, there's no comfort to be found
Regret is all, it's proving hard to move on

Your cause is just, it goes without saying
Basic fairness should have made things go your way
Honor, decency, you've now run the gamut of emotions
To hear "wrong place, wrong time" is no consolation

It's only human to be subject to the vagaries of fate
We realize our place in the world and duly accommodate
But it's hard to bear the altogether capricious
Let alone the impact of the actively malicious

The hurt, the outrage in its wake is volcanic and all consuming
It's hard to control the righteous anger that you're feeling
It's probably wiser to keep a straight face and your own counsel
But, in this mood, the slightest thing could spark a conflagration

And we all know very well where this could be heading
How unproductive it will be, think of the recriminations
Indeed you can't understate the peril of this volatile situation
But, after this injury, there's no hope for reconciliation

greece stamp eaahnikh ahmokpatia


Sense of Violation, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note. (spotify version) File under: , , , , , , , , ,

Writing log. July 16, 2022

Tuesday, February 11, 2025

New Love

The breathlessness of new love
The quality of those early days
When, tentatively, you discover each other
The first time for everything
Butterflies, the newness of it all
The moment after the first touch
Embracing the rapture of infatuation
The first look, the first acquiescence
Reciprocating and mirroring, seeing anew
The light of a lover refracted in your eye
This is us. Together. This is our time.


monarch butterfly



New Love, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version) File under: , , , , , , ,

Writing log: July 3, 2022

Tuesday, January 28, 2025

Liquid Soul

Liquid soul, the very essence
Curves undulating altogether sensuous
Elliptical motion and melodious lines
A taste of paradise, a meeting of minds

Dreams, the undercurrent of these hypnotic grooves
Between comfortable exchanges and forlorn whispers
Sacred codes deciphered in nightly encounters
Bodies dissolve and insistently draw closer

Softly, slowly, quietly discerning the theme
Fleeting relief in the moment, tracing new patterns
Knowing that journey's end will bring new understanding
Together we write our own stories, we sing our own song


El Anatsui



Liquid Soul, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note. I'll admit that I was seriously questioned about my intentions the first time I played this playlist for someone, I hadn't quite realized its potency. Obsessions are many. (spotify version)


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Writing log: July 1, 2022

Tuesday, October 01, 2024

The Fleeting Canvas

While some record the imprint of history
Gathering impressions in weekly tallies
Others move forward without regret
The swinging doors closing behind them

Waiting chambers of yore become empty nests
Lines drawn with one stroke, resolute, with no makeovers
Passing murmurs, and no time for contemplation
The flowing streams wash over rough stones

Passengers in a season of migration
Pursuing the elusive gifts of time
Glimmers, flashes of the treasures of fate
Prospecting for liberation in the river bed

A glimpse of self with its fractured reflection
Instant love, living in the moment
A prelude to adoration and devotion
Swaying, rustling curves in motion

Recapturing sensations that once left you breathless
Luxuriating in the waning passions of seasoned flesh
To slow down, abide, and truly savor change
And in the aftermath, pause fitfully for reflection

Did you ever feel butterflies in your heart?
The lightness of the sensation, susurration
A whisper is ephemeral but love is lasting
And bold. To know its pathways. Recognition

Tracing patterns of exchange in coarse sand
The transient glow of bite-sized triumphs
Putting aside the slights and misunderstandings
A wave washes over the pebble beach

From silvery gray to deep black, gradations
Control measures, to master the brush stroke
Love again, weighed against disposable feelings
Love. The texture of a life, the fleeting canvas


a.k river scene



Liquid Soul, a playlist


A soundtrack for this grace note. Three hours of langourous, elliptical soul. Dissolve in the grooves, let them wash over you. (spotify version)

This note is part of a series: In a covidious time.


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Writing log: April 9, 2022

Tuesday, May 07, 2024

Sensualist

Sensualist by avocation
Every touch is significant
Leading, probing, teasing, lingering
Every look weighted with flirtation
Promises of escape and fulfillment
A prelude to restless joy

Paying close attention to the sounds
The sound of names, repeated
Names, again and again
Effortless this mantra
Then a high note punctuates the trance
So good, so good, repetition

Together, surrounded by pleasure
Together, covered by a blanket of soul
Singing softly, we compose a new song
Look, listen, feel, dream
Breathless, the sensations
A momentary taste of paradise
All that remains is the heat


kbaka waterfall



Sensualist, a playlist


A soundrack for this note (spotify version) File under: , , , , , , ,

Writing log. April 16, 2022

Wednesday, February 14, 2024

Safe Harbor

My hope is to disappear into you
Dissolving slowly as you forget my name
When our first encounter becomes a distant memory
And the phantom sensation is all that remains

Streams of thought, the quality of evanescence
Happy to be wrapped in a blanket of impermanence
Ephemeral traces, the comfort of a mood marker
It was in your very self that I found my safe harbor


sumi swirls


Safe Harbor, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

See previously I Daresay

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Writing log: March 10, 2022

Tuesday, March 15, 2022

Liminal

Liminal - subsurface unseen
Mythical - the great longing
Society - a garden in eternal need of tending
Tacit - the ellipses will be filled in
Understated - a strategy for quiet revolutions
Knowledge - I have heard and kept it
Retention - safekeeping in the depths of experience
Wisdom - the distillation of lived experience
Concealment - masks of civility
Revelation - truth telling to friendly eyes
Evasion - favored survival tactic
Deception - affinity bias for misdirection
Liberation - a confident awakening
Tolerance - elevating the least of us
Respect - between tradition and modernity

Liminal - in plain sight, but underneath
Pride - the temptations of inequality
Nationalism - favored refuge of rogues
Darkness - normalcy in the torrid zone
Anarchy - the indiscretions of gremlins
Parasites - nature's tax collectors on complexity
Grief - the eclipse of the soul
Comfort - the music of a smile
Greed - a combination missionary-hunting expedition
Rage - a flirtation with an unwieldy and fatal attraction
Nostalgia - an irresistible, high-functioning affliction
Love - even unrequited, a welcome seduction
Courage - an instinct that disdains denial
Freedom - journey on the road less traveled
Wist - the hope for paradise past
Shame - memories of the voiceless past

Liminal - the quiet revolution before it's seen
House - the comfort suite of material shelter
Home - return of the internally displaced
Sensual - the taste of tomorrow's promise
Emotion - the trials of feelings in upheaval
Ecstasy - inhibitions temporarily discarded
Kiss - to dissolve in another
Desire - a present of no restrictions
Lust - the body's ache for a touch
Solace - finding home in an embrace
Resolution - restraint from a shadow's burden
Clarity - the soul's agenda unraveled
Dignity - the soul's liberation
Absurdity - the theater of modernity
Joy - to eat a pineapple in the gardens of Aburi
Interplay - the cement of society

Liminal - the undercurrents of a dream
Absence - a temporary inconvenience
Presence - a permanent imposition
Opacity - a belief in the weakness of exposure
Transparency - a belief in the strength in sharing
Restraint - unrecognized prescience
Impulse - preempted prescience
Displacement - a season of migration
Exile - the fraught journey to the land of concern
Comprehension - beholding the contours of daily mysteries
Education - the impulse for discovery and sharing
Remembering - summoning, as if from a dream
Forgetting - misplacing in a dreamscape
Alienation - the spirit's rhythm of loss
Whimsy - the joy of small things
Mystical - the pieces of a dream

Liminal - underlying condition
Mandate - the determination to bear witness
Principle - social living is the best
Constraint - the necessity of permanent outrage
Perception - the gaze of the modern traveler
Observation - the compulsion for storytelling

Liminal - subsurface unseen

kbaka-water-huts-night

...

Mate Masie, the Adinkra symbol from the Akan saying about knowledge, wisdom and prudence, "Nyansa bon mu ne mate masie", literally rendered in English as "I have heard and kept it". The saying emphasizes the Akan love of learning and understanding of the world. There are many different variations of this symbol. Conventional readings focus on the comprehension, acquisition and retention aspects, but there are other takes that focus on disclosure, opacity and revelation. The tension that exists between concealment and evasion on the one hand and revelation and transparency on the other. As a child of the web, I favor sharing but wear my own mask, and am happy to navigate the torrid zone in a liminal mode, subsurface unseen. Such is my asylum.

Soundtrack for this note


A liminal playlist as befits pieces of a dream. Subsurface unseen is how this toli monger moves. (spotify version) See also Hypertext Dreams

Timing is everything
Observers are worried

I nominate this internal displacement for the Things Fall Apart series under the banner of Social Living.

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Writing log: March 28, 2021

Tuesday, July 21, 2020

Touch

There is a hunger that recognizes no shame
An ache that only a touch can satisfy
Muscle memory engineers a fond homecoming
Togetherness can salve the great longing
Bonds throughout time leave one sated

Relieving distancing by invoking storytelling
Of narratives of separation and rediscovery
While innocents lie sleeping in nearby chambers
Imposters are left tracing the contours of responsibility
Anxieties their close companions in the nightly search

Mami Wata's siren call is African electronics
The temptation to escape into twilight frolics
Writing books of laughter and forgetting
Embracing the rapture, wide awake yet still dreaming
Curvilinear investigations and material science
The fluid dynamics of conversational lines
Performance untethered from the desire for applause
Sensation the remedy for previous and impending loss

Tied together in close consonance
The end of the affair rests in the balance
The arguments forgotten in the brief encounter
Listen to the sounds: the self-isolating heart murmurs
This. This, right here, is where you belong
Momentarily you forget your mother tongue
The solitude of a stifled scream is about all you can manage
Touch is a conversation in another language

Trees of life


aburi tree 15 years old


Mulberry tree

Touch, A Playlist


As always a soundtrack to this note. Obsessions are many. (Youtube, Spotify)




This was the first poem-like thing that was gifted to me at the onset of this covidious interlude (Friday March 20 per my notes). It felt entirely too raw to publish and a departure from my usual practice. I have since gone on a tear in other directions with my gestures towards poetics, enough that any misgivings are assuaged by the distance of time.

The muse wills what she wants, I dare not question her.

club lager


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Thursday, January 01, 2009

The Wound Part I (Ghana Elections 2008)

Let's start with this: they almost killed my uncle.

I really can't write much more than that. When I look at what was done to him, when I look at the pictures, there really isn't much more that can be said: they tried to kill my uncle, they almost killed my uncle.

For an election.

My mother was the one who received the phone call from her brother telling her to come quickly, that they were killing him, that she should bring help.

I was back in Accra at a remove of 200 kilometers. I only saw the text message that read

"Dr Ohene beaten to pulp at Dededo polling station, Ho West. He has been sent to Trafalgar hospital. It's time to stop these gung ho moves"
True I heard the almost primal sound that my cousin had raised when she received that message, a terrifying sound that had made me stop whatever I was doing on this, my dad's birthday, and rush her way. I felt the same wound. I still feel it.

My mother had been talking to my grandmother and grand-aunts when she received that frantic phone call. I can't imagine what those women must have felt in that instant and in the subsequent fraught hours. Is it possible to wound anyone more?

I don't know what my 10 year old cousin, my uncle's son, who was in that house with those women, must have felt. He had been arguing throughout the previous day that he should accompany his father to watch him be a polling agent. Would they have killed his father in front of him? Is it possible to wound anyone more?

The threat had been raised in 2000 and 2004 that "There will be blood on the ground". There was certainly violence and intimidation back then but we have seen things this time in 2008 and now 2009 that are chillingly close to what transpired in places that no one should ever emulate, in countries that people use as cautionary tales.

The cynical people who incited, who fomented, who organized the political violence are as much to blame as those who attacked, who beat, who kicked, who threw stones, who threw planks, who sprayed acid and sundry powders, who held people hostage until they signed, who chased people off, who surrounded cars that arrived in their villages and towns, who shook cars, who spat, who came with cudgels and cutlasses, who threatened to burn down our family home and many others, who stole watches from bleeding men, who searched for cement blocks to take lives, who heeded the call to slaughter the strangers in their midst.

I had promised myself that I wouldn't write during my holiday in Ghana. I knew that I would have prime material with these runoff elections and indeed my home has been plum center of the election strategizing and campaign. Sociologists, historians and political scientists would die for what I've witnessed.

Since 10am on election day when I heard that awful news, things have been clarified for me. The deeply political animal that many of you who read me know is simply in pain.

I have written about my uncle before in these pages, noting that he was one of three psychiatrists tending to the mental health of 20 million Ghanaians. These days he might well be the only psychiatrist in Ghana since almost everyone who trains in his discipline seems to leave the country. My favourite uncle, I don't know a gentler man.

I will write more later on this and other topics and more in my customary style. I will share two things now, I hesitate with the first but I recall having written on the necessity of permanent outrage and certainly there has been outrageous behaviour here.
  • Photos of my uncle after the attack on him that my mother somehow thought to take (warning these are graphic).
  • My mother is more sober perhaps, and certainly calmer when emergencies arise. I don't know where she has found the time given the tremendous pressures of the past few days but she has written an account of things.

    Look On At Your Handiwork
I hope these wounds will heal and that I'll forget these things. But for now I'll end with this: they tried to kill my uncle; they almost killed my uncle.

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Saturday, August 25, 2007

Wist

We the people, having survived for so long on so little, and done so much for so long, are now qualified to do anything... for nothing.
I found the above musing in an old notebook of writings circa 1992. Spring cleaning, even if delayed until summer, does turn up the occasional nugget. It put me in mind of wist, hence some further musings on indigo moods.

effah-sakyi water bowls 1998


The above painting reminded me of the following photo from the African Futurist of fishwives in the morning in Elmina, Ghana.

Fishwives in the morning


The stories they have to tell, the perspectives they could share. I want to have a conversation with them, simply sit with them in the middle of the day - in the brief moment before they get back to the important things on their plate. We the people indeed.

It also brought to mind the women who were dyeing cloths in those courtyards in Bamako, Abderrahmane Sissako's film that is, while the World Bank and international institutions were being put on mock trial in the foreground. The women and their work were meant to be the background and yet, from my standpoint, their stories and experiences were the foreground.

Wist is perhaps the attitude that best suits these unsettled times, we are all holding our breath and tightening our belts, bracing ourselves for who knows what.

In the USA especially, I sense a lot of wist in the air. Conveniently timed gut feelings abound all round, we have banned liquids and have to resort to zip-loc containers and long lines. Americans now need visa stamps and even passports. Heck, you can't even get out of the country if you want to without bribing passport expeditors or calling your congressman. When you take that trip to Brazil, you'll need to give up your biometric data, the reciprocal wages of bureaucracy and inconvenience, just like those visitors to the States have had to since it became a matter of Homelands and Security. If you stay in the country who knows who will be watching you or listening to your conversations. When you're on the subway, you need to be mindful of recent non-specific general threats. Suspicious people are everywhere - they could even be (gasp) next door! I think a lot of wist is in order.

There is a danger however: when wist devolves into nostalgia it becomes reactionary. Too much wist and you start dwelling on those good old days that never really were. Your thinking will get woolly and, without moderation, you are liable to be bamboozled into who knows what and then be left picking up the pieces, singing the inflation calypso as the chickens come home to roost. You really don't want your entire society to start behaving like actors in B-movies. The director may not cut the scene.

Hold on to wist I say. Wist is clear-eyed and lyrical. Wist is wary, wist is weary, yet while being realistic, wist embraces the here and now, the tense present and a better tomorrow. At heart then, wist is an optimistic sentiment.

The dictionaries present the word wist as obsolete and would direct us to its adjectival compere, wistful. Of the latter I prefer the meditative, pensive and forlorn senses, but of the former, it is that still small voice of wist that attracts me, that quiet and attentive outlook.

In my book, wist is stoic and, at its best, eschews melancholy. When wistful, one is pragmatic yet hopeful. The British and the French know a lot about wist as their empires have seen better days. Others however are still seeking the black gold of the sun. Would they take a moment to be wistful? Wist is about humility, about acknowledging the small steps towards the wonders that are still to come.

Wist presents an opportunity for resolve, it is a brief respite in that moment as you gather yourself up for the next task, the next struggle. Wist is a flight to quality, a premium bond for these subprime times. Wist is soul insurance that actually pays you back when you file your later claims.

I'll prognosticate here. Those in the developing world are actually at an advantage in these wistful times. Of necessity, we are aficionados of wist, world-weariness has long been our lot. A lifetime of almost always expecting the blows coming your way will leave you better equipped to deal with this harsh world. The school of hard knocks is our neighbourhood and our response is communal not unilateral. Sissoko would say "we are all responsible". One shouldn't strike out on one's own just because one can, rather we find strength in community. Burning Spear would add: social living is the best.

A Wistful Soundtrack


A playlist full of wist

Musically, the quality of wist is a step up from the blues however the blues tend to get more love since they are more dramatic and keenly felt - wist is merely transitional. In compiling a wistful playlist for this note, I initially thought to songs about holding on. To "hold on" is indeed the most resolute response to wist and I have many songs on that theme (Lisa Stansfield, Dennis Brown, Ann Nesby, Dwele and others can school you for a good hour about holding on). Shuffle serendipity struck however and instead I found my wistfulness encapsulated in the following songs.

  • Sam Cooke - A Change is Gonna Come
    This song is perhaps the definition of soul music - the point at which the genre coalesced and departed from gospel and the blues. It is fitting that wist was the first vein in which Sam Cooke made out his soulful sound. There is both a spiritual and a bluesy feel to the song. Watching Talk to Me last night, that wonderful film about the life of Petey Greene, that ex-convict turned radio disc jockey, it was no surprise that A change is gonna come was the song that he played to sooth the soul on the airwaves in Washington D.C. that night after Martin Luther King Jnr. was assassinated. It speaks about optimism even in the face of setbacks. The vocal performance is one that few can equal although many have tried. A few sublime minutes of yearning and longing.
  • Duke Ellington - Mood Indigo
    The Indigos album is one of my favourites in the Ellington catalog, featuring wistful tunes throughout. The only vocal track on the album is of course Autumn Leaves that paragon of remembrance (see also the autumn soundtrack). Prelude to a Kiss is all about the lyricism of Johnny Hodges, as is the old faithful, Solitude. The song I'll highlight however is the title track, Mood Indigo. An economy of emotion, it features a perfect trumpet solo full of whimsy and reflection by Shorty Baker. That wondrous portion when the rest of the band join in is ecstatic. An earlier performance is on youtube with Jimmy Hamilton Willie Cook (see corrections) doing the deed on trumpet and with a more prominent piano solo by Ellington. Indigos are not quite the blues and the Duke's band prove that indigo is the colour of wist.
    You can listen to the mp3 for the next week: Duke Ellington - Mood Indigo
  • D'Angelo - The Line
    The crown prince of soul put it on the line seven years ago. The elements of the song are simple: Questlove's steady drums, James Poyser and D'Angelo's keyboards and Rhodes, a little boom bap from the bassist and above all the vocals. I hear Sam Cooke, I hear Al Green, I hear Prince, Curtis, Donnie, Marvin and more. It is a tour of the sounds of his favourite vocalists wrapped in his own stylings. It's the moment of truth, the stakes are high ("Will I fall off or will it be banging?"), he steels himself: "all I got to do is hold on". He'll stick to his guns, resolute to the challenge ahead.
  • James Carter - The Intimacy of My Woman's Beautiful Eyes
    Perhaps the hungriest of the young lions of jazz, James Carter can also be the most tender when he want to. The musical scion of Coleman Hawkins and Ben Webster, he isn't afraid to engage in matters of the heart, albeit with a wink and a certain swagger. Hence this song is a study in contrasts: the wistful tone of the music set against the premise of the overwrought title. After a fairly subdued opening solo, the piano takes over and the bassist prods him along and what a piano solo. When Carter's saxophone returns wailing, or rather growling, the notes are urgent, longing and attentive — wistful in short. One hopes his woman forgave his missteps, the music is a plea for a renewed intimacy.
  • Duke Ellington and Coleman Hawkins - Mood Indigo
    Apropos tenor saxophonists, there is another version of Mood Indigo that I'm very fond of: this intimate meeting of jazz giants. Ellington introduces the theme on piano and the band step in smooth as usual. After a while Coleman Hawkins steps up and delivers the goods. His solo is discursive, breathy and virtuosic. This is someone who has lived body and soul. Duke's accompaniment is subtle, encouraging Bean to find the emotional depth in the melody. Simply magic.
  • Charles Mingus - Goodbye Pork Pie Hat
    Mingus recorded Mood Indigo twice, recognizing as he did, the genius of Ellington's composition. Each occasion elicited typically sensitive bass solos from him. I'll focus here on his own composition, Goodbye Pork Pie Hat, his tribute to Lester Young, written right after he learned of Pres's death. It captures the mournful and elegiac tone of loss, Mingus' great band remembering the arch tones and oblique art of their friend who paved the way for them. In the hip-hop vein, I suppose the closest would be Pete Rock and C.L. Smooth's They Reminisce Over You (T.R.O.Y.) although that arguably leans more towards nostalgia than wist.
  • Amel Larrieux - Weary
    The lead single of last year's opus, Morning, this song takes on the notion of hard experience in life. She takes her time to warm up as the song progresses and only really starts letting her hair down vocally at the midpoint. She's in control throughout observing the vagaries of the mood, a midtempo soul excursion. Watching the video (slightly lower quality on youtube), you see that she has a lot on her mind ("A woman is getting weary"). Ultimately she finds comfort around her friends and family as it should be. The song ends as it starts with Amel walking down the road. Perhaps the weariness has been lifted, in any cases she has given us music for a long walk.
  • Cannonball Adderley Quintet - Walk Tall
    Like the country preacher declaimed:
    The most important thing of all is that no matter how dreary the situation is, and how difficult it may be, that the song really doesn't matter until the song begins to get you down.

    So our advice to you, the message that the Cannonball Adderley Quintet brings to us, is that it's rough and tough in this ghetto, a lot of funny stuff going down. But you've got to walk tall.

    Walk tall. Walk tall.
Wist, the ineffable sentiment for our times.

See also: Indigos, a playlist

Next: Resisting Nostalgia

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