The Golden Yam

I. Temptation

It was the week of my birthday, I must confess
That I came across the golden yam in a moment of weakness

Call me terrified about going to the grocery store
What with the new variant spreading inexorably next door

The Wife had long since banned me from the Ghana shop
Lest I bring back to the marital home a viral dollop

Our town's covidious alert level was now up to the fifth stage
Leaving me home as usual, trapped in my pandemic cage

I noted, with interest, the increasing bareness of my pantry
Having run out of supplies and other necessaries

Hmmm, these growing children actually needed to be fed
Who knew? I somehow felt that I was being misled

With a craving for comfort food, this exiled soul knew what was best
I promptly launched a browser and brought up Carry Go Market

Mechanically, I added the usual suspects to my cart
I stuck to the tried and trusted, power shopping is an art

Ga kenkey, of course, some gari and sardines, I kept it wholesome
The weekly special on palm oil and suya spice was quite welcome

I passed on the fufu powder, it pays to keep your eyes on the prize
But what's this? A temptation appeared right next to the mix for jollof rice

That's the moment I first saw the golden yam
Believe me, I was quite simply unmanned

I call it golden because, well, it cost an arm and a leg
The price was simply outrageous, it had to be said

But I hadn't eaten any yam for nigh eight months, lockdown you see
This taste of Africa, culinary nostalgia, had been denied to me

My attempts at planting yams in the backyard, my own Operation Feed Yourself
Had come to nought, I was left wishing for herd immunity if nothing else

I started to do the math, the conversion rate has almost six cedis to one dollar
Throw in shipping and handling and, well, you can guess the vertiginous number

I daresay it was a temporary madness what was about to unfold
To actually buy this tuber priced above its weight in gold

Some say the most precious material in the world is printer ink
It doesn't bear contemplating, the golden yam was the kitchen sink

But the flesh was weak, I'll freely admit to the sin of gluttony
By this stage of the pandemic, I needed relief from the monotony

In mitigation, give me leave Dear Reader, what you have to understand
Is that potatoes, even the sweet ones, are a poor cousin to puna yam

I rationalized the purchase, it was my birthday, remember
I've sometimes paid hundreds of dollars for unsatisfying dinners

It took a few more clicks to succumb to the madness
And so Dear Wife and Children, please forgive me my debts

I'd practice austerity for a few months, I'd later explain to my bank manager
Thus it was that, a week later, UPS delivered a glorious golden yam tuber

II. Redemption

It was on the fourth night of the Texas Freeze
That my eyes came to rest on the golden yam
The inside temperature had dipped to forty seven degrees
Fahrenheit, frostbite terrain, I had goosebumps on my arm
It's an understatement to say that my entire household was displeased
The February blizzard conditions had brought the entire state to its knees

Lockdown and now the storm, talk about social distancing
One thing after another, this life in Austin was proving daunting
I pride myself on a knack for surmounting challenges but this was confounding
Almost instinctively, I came to the realization that no one was coming

A frozen hellscape was the universal description
While unbearable angst was the prevailing emotion
Buyer's remorse underlay the fraught situation
And regret would tinge the sense of privation

We were truly stuck with the power restrictions
The outage would likely take days for resolution
The crisis management team had led with poor communication
Destroying, perhaps irreparably, the state's reputation

Rotating outages were the initial, hopeful prediction
The chastening reality was that permanence was our condition
Adding insult to injury is that this was eminently predictable
This was the very opposite of what was known as good trouble

"It stopped being fun real quick", the wages of deregulation were slim pickings
Such is the fate of the curious prevailing ideology: wishful thinking
When you have to be melting crushed snow to flush down your bathroom privy
The vaunted exceptionalism is now subject to worldwide concern, if not pity

"You welcome the U.S. to the fun of the Third World" was your mantra long ago
Don't call it prescience but, well, you reap what you sow

My spare battery charger had long since given up the crop
So I'd had to charge the phone using one of the kids' laptops
There would be time enough, if we survived, to reevaluate our emergency procedures
It is only in its absence that you recognize what is called infrastructure

The last bit I'd read was that Flying Ted had absconded on the daily news
Packed his bags and headed to Cancun Mexico, I see you Senator Cruz
I voted against the man but, stuck in a freezer, I still felt rather abused
But what of the clear majority that put him in power, were they now confused?

I'm used to lights out, dumsor comes naturally to a Ghanaian
But this was different, there was no heat, only snow and no trace of sun
Ice everywhere, and not the immigration agency folks on the prowl
God I missed Ghana, I was quite ready to throw in the towel

This was frankly uncomfortable, quiet as it's kept
Even indoors I could see the plumes of my vaporous breath
If I had electricity, I'd no doubt see on the telly
The rolling disaster unfold, the millions left in penury

Be prepared is what the ancients advise
Despite the single digit temperatures outside,
Our house luckily seemed to have reasonable bones
For want of a bolt, a house is not a home

But back to my tale, let's move on from the disabled electric furnace
Cometh the hour, cometh the yam, I had quite forgotten about this purchase
After all that I'd gone through earlier, this was a stroke of brilliance
It was written, I congratulated myself about my foresight and resilience

It was a swift decision, "I'll make us yam and stew for dinner"
I ignored the complaints of the 7 year old at the food on offer
Every man for himself, "Good luck, young man if you want to be picky"
Survival of the fittest, the palaver sauce needed to be eaten quickly
For everything in the thawing fridge was about to be spoiled
On the large burner, the golden yam would take ten minutes to boil
The cigar matches we'd obtained from the neighbors were pressed into service
One strike was all it took (truth in advertising) to light things up in earnest

I wondered whether I could last through the weekend, or just admit defeat
At this point, I would even forgo food for a few days, in exchange for heat
Throw caution to the wind and expand my support bubble
Brave the treacherous icy roads and assume the risk of covidious trouble
But from what we'd heard, some of our friends that had made earlier offers
Of support were now keeping mum, after their houses too had lost power

The boil water notice had come through when I'd switched off airplane mode
To find out if relief would be forthcoming - the bill of goods we'd been sold
Hotels in town had started charging usurious rates, call it a disaster premium
Cold comfort, that is, if only you could get to them in this inclement weather
The alternative was to throw yourself at the mercy of fate, and head for the gymnasium
The children's elementary school had now been repurposed as, get this, a warming shelter

Forty six degrees is as low a temperature as the young ones could tolerate without panic
The Missus was reaching breaking point, was threatening to become catatonic
I daresay this freezing business, on top of the pandemic was getting rather old
Need I remind you that, by this stage, we were sixty five hours deep in this bitter cold
Those fateful words, the kindness of strangers were just a mirage
I kept wondering if the old man who lives in the park had found a garage

The palaver sauce heated up, the palm oil simply glistened
I daresay there was mist in my eyes, you don't know what you were missing
The water boiled and the slices of the golden yam emerged, what a rush
I quickly made to set the table, there was no need to fuss

The combination of hunger, fright and cold was quite auspicious
The serendipity of having this comfort food was rather fortuitous
All I can say is that the golden yam tasted delicious
At breaking point, I was soul sanctified, it was like magic
Thus fortified, I told myself "I could deal with this for another week"

Narrator: that night's temperature drop put paid to this premature optimism
Thankfully this story has a happy ending, put aside your skepticism

Oh the cheer that went through the neighborhood at 5 am when electricity was restored
The sheer relief at this turn of events - these 75 hours, could not be ignored
Quick, we all got up, charged everything; everyone took a shower
Who knew if this would last, we made sure to boil extra water

...

At the outset of the pandemic, as it were, before the storm
A traveling salesman accosted me as I was mowing my lawn
Rent was due, desperate, he showed me a shiny nugget and made me an offer
I'd laugh later at the memory of this hungry man and my golden encounter

And now, after this bout of winter adversity, I was stuck in my home
Freezing and starving, yet I was pondering a poem
The light was fading, at a loss, yours truly was the desperate man
Thankfully, my hunger was sated by an encounter with a golden yam

...

I might as well go with The Golden Encounter playlist as a soundtrack for this note.

This folktale is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: humour, whimsy, food, nostalgia, culture, observation, perception, USA, Ghana, Africa, failure, poetry, disaster, Texas, family, folktale, coronavirus, pandemic, covidious, Observers are worried, toli

Writing log: Part I January 15 2021, Part II. February 21, 2021

Reverse Ferret

"We don't want to be forced into any kind of retreat or reverse ferret," the prime minister added.

— The Observer, February 2021

The reverse ferret is a tough maneuver to perform
It requires fleetness of foot and delicate balance
While the deft footwork is executed as a whirling dervish dance,
Ideally the audience will not detect your changed public stance

A discreet volte-face is essential for the presentation
The change of plans should remain unadvertised upon completion
The impetus is an imminent reversal of fortune
When legal liability and the threat of punishment looms

Whether defamation or criminal contempt,
   the prospect is of much damage
Public reaction to exposure and revelation would likely be savage
The knives would be out, votes of confidence,
   resignation or electoral defeat
Contra the golden rule: a politician's first duty is to preserve his seat

On etymology, the phrase was originally journalistic fodder
A pet remark of Rupert Murdoch's agent, The Sun's editor
Orwell would have known about the tendency
   when he wrote of Big Brother
After all, "Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia"

And so we heard the unguarded remark of the British Prime Minister
A man so allergic to truth he was badged as a congenital dissembler
He viewed theater as politics and politics as theater
Delivering his slapstick lines with a knowing, churlish patter
As Curtis Mayfield once sang, "they're all political actors"
Everything was transactional for this Magic Johnson
Yet everything he touched was subject to potential legal action

Ferrets, those winsome beasts, are much needed in human ecology
They play a handsome role even in today's concrete modernity
They say that every complex ecosystem has parasites
Caution, however, take heed of their insatiable appetites

The general public, generally bemused, found it hard to understand
With so much whiplash, it seemed as if everything was written in sand.
For even as the Prime Minister hastened to loot with a smile
Confronted with a pandemic, he could only deal death and denial
He would leave a legacy of so many u-turns in policy,
   his mark was a demerit
That despite himself, this Prime Minister's self coinage
   was the reverse ferret

Reverse Ferret, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note to cover our retreat. (spotify version)

• Same Song by Digital Underground
  Shock G is sorely missed
• Ain't Nut'in' Changed by Bell Biv Devoe
• Retreat! by Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings
• Reverse Faults by Sampha
  Sampha's brilliant album is all about bewilderment
• U-turn by Joe Sample
  The album is Spellbound, one wonders how much longer the British will remain spellbound by their ruling reverse ferret.

See previously

• The New Epicenter
• The New Variant

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

File under: poetry, satire, humour, rogues, opportunists, England, huhudious, language, misdirection, culture, observation, lies, politics, perception, covidious, hatchet job, Observers are worried, shell game, The Rough Beast, toli

Writing log: February 17, 2021

Cooking Session

Stomach infrastructure they called it
As they prepared the gravy train
The new procedures thickened a stew of no bid contracts
The compliance regulations were taken with a grain of salt

Everything was on the menu, advance fee appetizers
Intricate patterns of exchange, they favored mob lawyers
And accountants cooking books as their waiters
Private bankers their sommeliers and kitchen managers

All you can eat buffets were their favored configuration
The restaurant served as chef's special an awoof conception
The nubile hostesses made sure to procure golden mangos
Presentation is all, they danced the corruption tango

The Cayman Island cocktail umbrellas were made of Panama Papers
Elaborate Swiss cheese accounts and other stylized confections
Tax sheltering strategies, ever heard of Bahamian thyme leaves?
Divert this way and and that, there is no honor among thieves

Some had bland taste, they didn't care for exotic spices
They simply laid on the pork and summoned greasy bribes
Others went for prime cuts of steak and sometimes jive turkey
They liked their portions wrapped in bacon or beef jerky

Still others in their tribe preferred things medium rare
They hid old wine in new bottles in offshore tax havens
And for desert they loaded on mints and chocolate candy
The back end of any transaction with a confirmed sugar daddy

After dinner they would pass the Courvoisier, Schnapps and brandy
A few had low taste and chose Bucks Fizz and Drambuie
Those at the high table went with choice liquor and aged port
To nosy squares they had the ready retort, "See you in the courts"

Later, they would steam open the overstuffed cash envelopes
Punch drunk on money, their elixir of life, that champagne bubble
They were secure in the knowledge that they would enjoy the bezzle
At the very least until the first untainted auditor's report

As the cooking session ended they would sing together with soul
That old favorite blues song, I want a little sugar in my bowl
Mouth watering profits the fruits of their shell games
For these grifters had herd immunity to shame

"Pot belly democracy" is the Ghanaian expression. "Stomach infrastructure" is the Kenyan term. African politicians know the deal.

— Shell Games

Further listening and reading:

• Comfort Food and Rare Groove
• A Hungry Playlist
• An Awoof Conception
• A Dictionary of African Politics by Nic Cheeseman, Eloïse Bertrand, and Sa’eed Husaini.

Timing is everthing
Observers are worried

File under: humour, satire, culture, language, corruption, food, rogues, crime, fraud, observation, hatchet job, shell game, Observers are worried, poetry, metaphor, toli

Writing log: February 14, 2021

Disturbing Tranquility

I practiced the coup drill for we already had our lost decades
Marked by tanks in the streets and the military men's arrival
When so many failed to stand up and be counted
And displayed an altogether impressive passivity
I dissent from that brand of disturbing tranquility
That culture of silence, that philosophy of survival
I'm not inclined to continue as the Ghanaian Sphinx

God knows, I'd rather be proved wrong at this stage
Even after living as an exiled soul, on the losing side
I'm part of a loud minority — tribes, vibes and scribes
My chosen soundtrack is that of the urban griots
Firm believers in the necessity of permanent outrage
Unleashing wistful zingers, satire deployed as a weapon
Irony as the key register even in impassioned conversation
Let it not be said that defiant stares are our only aggression
Voices inside, soul singing, we march on the road to freedom

Now they want us to turn back the clock
And return to the autumn of the patriarchs
When conquerors partied until the break of dawn
While the rest of us dealt with curfews, chits and laissez-passers
Subject to daily confrontations at arbitrary roadblocks
The fear of being caught out on the streets after dark
And to think that the foreign press counsels us to "accept reality"
I daresay it's an affront, intolerable this rogue civility
I'm therefore proud to be accused of disturbing tranquility

The coup leaders in Myanmar have released the names of seven opposition activists they want arrested. They were accused of disturbing tranquility, a rarely used charge.

— BBC, February 13, 2021

Disturbing Tranquility, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note. (spotify version)

• Sea of Tranquility by Kool & The Gang
• Loud Minority by United Future Organization
• You Will Be Moved by Mavis Staples
• Tranquility by Ahmad Jamal
• Putting Up Resistance by Beres Hammond
• I Shall Not be Moved by Stanley Clarke
  Oprah's reading of Maya Angelou's defiant poem set to Stanley Clarke's bass

I nominate this pièce de résistance for the Things Fall Apart series under the banner of Social Living. Trapped in my pandemic cage, thousands of miles away from the kind of danger so many are facing in Myanmar, I could only contribute these words and a defiant stare.

An Afterthought a few months later

Obliquely, the above was born of a thought experiment. What if the men in khaki stepped back into the frame in today's Ghana? And the counterfactual: what should/could have been the response when they did step back into the frame almost 40 years ago? If more had been prone to disturbing tranquility rather than the masks of civility that we wore, would we be debating cultures of silence today? Ain't that peculiar? as Marvin would sing.

Anyway, some would say better Myanmar than Ghana (God forbid). But injustice anywhere is an outrage, and we should all stand in solidarity. The heart aches at the damage past and ongoing, and the things that we've lost.

File under: coup, outrage, defiance, protest, resistance, Myanmar, Ghana, military, culture, observation, strategy, poetry, language, politics, power, Africa, Things Fall Apart, Social Living, toli

Writing log: February 13, 2021

Taste

Of the senses that cruel nature can decide to deny
Taste is apparently the ugly stepchild
Likely to be easily dismissed without a thought
Or simply sacrificed as in a pact with Faust

Its function can even be subsumed by its siblings
Harken to the ancients of the Epicurean tribe
Who claimed that we eat first with our eyes
For even as visual appetites can be further whetted
By the alluring smells of culinary anticipation
I'm minded that even the sounds of food preparation
Can occasionally climb to the most flavorful heights

The hunger for touch and tangible connection
The music of comfort suites and aural pleasures
The sight of delightful contours elicit recognition
The familiar smell of home remains a welcome perception

True, there are magical feasts in fairy tales
And secret recipes are oft highlighted
The storytellers of yore emphasized poisonous potions
But far more of their plot points hinge on glorious visions
Suffice to say that the gustatory is underrated

The plague announces itself with the theft of taste
A sensual covidious casualty even before smell
Superfluous perhaps, this robbery, for food is fuel
But the pandemic's effect on the tongue means all is gruel

What a life, to be resigned to the bitterness of disappointment
To no longer know the meaning of a grain of salt
Or that the sweetness of a smile could be lost in appreciation
And sour moods could remain mere shadows rather than viscerally appall

No more folktales, what about the princess and the brown sugar?
What is the spice of life when everything now requires a food taster?
You can have all the riches in the world, all that money
But without comfort food, would the prince still savor the honey?

What circle of hell is this, with no easy excuses to forgo your broccoli?
Sustenance perhaps, but might as well go for feeding tubes really
Everything is pap, utter undifferentiated banality
This poisoned chalice that has become your new normalcy

A paradox, the sensory organ continues to exist
Still soft, warm and lush, this vestigial proboscis
This invisible disability remains a dark matter
Even as you sit ruing the loss of your taste receptors

The body compensates, they say, and refines the other textures
Enhanced smell might give you an entrée
   as a great nose in the perfume industry
But it's no consolation when you can no longer detect
   a wine that's merely ordinary
A subprime foreclosure on your mooted career as a fine wine buyer

We've been reading the tale of the lost stories
Narratives of control; this paradise from which we’ve been severed
Social distancing with so many unable to walk in glory
Pity the survivor however, at a remove from a taste of heaven

The heart leaps at the mention of Auntie Becky's kelewele
Roadside excellence, the comfort food of Labone childhood reveries
The intense longing, an almost physical vibration
Synesthesia, I can picture the plantain with such acuity
But to have these flavors foregone would be agony
To be left with only the color of memory
Would a kiss of life even be extraordinary?
Taste, a lack of sensation, to no longer be at ease
It is said that nostalgia can be a fatal disease

After learning of my sister's covidious condition and a friend stuck in Texas trying to summon the memory of the taste of plantain

Taste, a Playlist

A tasty soundtrack for this grace note. (spotify version)

• A Taste of Honey by Lizz Wright
  It melts on your tongue
• Just a Taste of Lovin' by Al B Sure
  It's all you need
• Your Love - So Good I Can Taste It by Barry White
  He takes his time but once he gets going, well...

  "You ever hear a three-hundred-pound black man with sweat dripping out of his process get so overcome by the goodness of his woman's "love" that he stops forming actual syllables and instead just goes to rolling his tongue around and making "brrrrrr" sounds like a baby? Welcome to Barryland."

• 65 Bars and a Taste of Soul by Charles Wright & The Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band
• A Little Taste by Cannonball Adderley
• A Little Taste of Soul by Sugar Pie DeSanto
• Taste Your Love by Horace Brown
• Mr Pitiful by Big Daddy Kane
  The album is titled Taste of Chocolate after all
• Kiss of Life by Sade
  Wist and extraordinary comfort are to be found here.

See previously: Touch

This sensory process is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: poetry, taste, sensory, culture, observation, perception, loss, coronavirus, pandemic, disease, nostalgia, food, covidious, Observers are worried, toli

Writing log: February 12, 2021

The Book Is Done

The book is done.

The book is done. As conceived, you've written what you wanted. No more fiddling.

The book is done. God knows, you thought this time would never come, it's a good feeling.

The book is done. You remember that you've said the same thing four times previously, that you've felt the same way with this one, felt the same confidence that you have a new creation.

The book is done. Of the pleasures of taking up one's pen, much has been written, but what about that other moment that you've just reached: the act of completion?

The book is done. You try to recall the original conception, but it's lost to you by this point. The muse wills what she wants, it was she that mandated the direction.

The book is done. Be it resolved, you'll ignore your inner editor, ignore those other gatekeepers, those interlopers on the journey to publication.

The book is done. For this moment at least, forget imposter syndrome and all those other inhibitions.

The book is done. Any typos and implausible scenarios are beside the point. Let's call them intentional misdirections, music to your fiction.

The book is done. Enough already, 45 poems and folktales should be enough, resist the temptation.

The book is done. You're the son of an editor, so you're always wary when someone presents what they believe is the finished article. "I'm done, here it is", they might say proudly and expectantly, and for good reason.

The book is done. You smile sympathetically but immediately start to consider how to break it to them that, yes, there has been an act of creation, but that creation is not completion.

The book is done. You're a hard editor of others, occasionally savage in your cuts and suggestions.

The book is done. You have a soft spot for yourself, you never have the same severity with your material. Oh no, could you lose this heaven? Is this sensitivity a delusion?

The book is done. As a writer too, you recognize that the moment when you think "I'm done" is not an end, but really just a beginning. Still, for now, you celebrate that feeling.

The book is done. This fixation on the book, the physical object even though there's electronic editions and, these days, more listening than reading.

The book is done. You're beyond the draft, you've printed it out with your concept cover, apt to be discarded. No more deletions.

The book is done. You've been consumed by it. Now you can get back to reading.

The book is done. Now you can catch up on the world. Time to put out some feelers.

The book is done. Steel yourself for the shadow of the naysayers. Also the inevitable mystery: will there be any readers?

The book is done. Hold on to the feeling even as you realize the moment is fleeting.

The book is done. Recognize that it is only an opening act, proofs loom, the fact checker and copy writer will undoubtedly be taking you to task.

The book is done. If you're lucky, you'll soon move beyond words and be discussing types and faces, artwork, and the book's mask.

The book is done. You're soul satisfied, more than a little exultant, that you cannot deny.

The book is done. Truth be told, you hadn't been planning this one. A detour from your arch concepts, funny how it crept up on you, the realization, on the sly.

The book is done. Writing starts with solitude, detachment perhaps, and a splinter of ice.

The book is done. Now you can repair those relationships neglected for the book, and try to make nice.

The book is done. You can't help yourself: you've started thinking about the next one.

The book is done. That's ridiculous. Focus on your wife, daughter and son.

The book is done. As in your hypertext dreams, you built out your world, threw in some Easter eggs, a few traps, and many erasures; and now you're spent.

The book is done. You turn the page over, close the notebook, and put down the pen.

The book is done. You name it final-final, click the Save button, compose the email, and then hit Send.

The book is done. You've reached the end, a moment of clarity, a brief pause for reflection.

The book is done. The moment passes. Enter the specter of The Editor, now come the complications.

Books, however much their lingering, books also must Come to an End. It is abhorrent to their nature as to the life of man. They must be sharply cut off. Let it be done at once and fixed as by a spell and the power of a Word; the word:

Finis

— On Coming to an End by Hilaire Belloc

Feeling Good, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note. Music, as ever, is my comfort suite; it certainly feels good. (spotify version)

• It Feels So Good by Grover Washington Jnr.
• Feeling Good by Nina Simone
• I Got You (I Feel Good) by James Brown
• Dr Feelgood (Love is Serious Business) by Aretha Franklin
• Feels Good by Tony Toni Tone
• Love Never Felt so Good by Michael Jackson
• Feels so Good by José James (ft. Cecily)
• Feels so Good by Dwele
• I Can Make You Feel Good by Shalamar
• I Feel Good All Over by Stephanie Mills
• The Feeling's Good by Hank Mobley
• That Good Old Feeling by Lou Donaldson
• Feel so Good by Sault
• Oh What a Feeling by Gregory Isaacs
• I Feel Good with You (Baby) by William Smith
• Feeling Good by Quantic Soul Orchestra ft. Alice Russell
• Feeling Good by Meshell NdegeOcello

Postscript

After writing the foregoing, I delayed publication as is my custom, and found myself fiddling further. I must confess that I wrote a few more things for "the book" as if to thicken the stew further. Physician, heal thyself, or rather, Dear Reader, send me an editor, I might warrant an intervention.

Postscript to the Postscript

I fear I am afflicted. I finished another book, this one written with furious intent over the past six weeks, I feel positively Dickensian. For fear of flooding the zone while I shop the previous one, I'll serialize the latter. We'll call it Toli Tuesdays - see if you can discern the theme in the coming weeks and months.

File under: Creative Process, book, writing, satisfaction, happiness, craft, poetry, publishing, culture, observation, perception, humour, Observers are worried, toli

Dust

Everything is written in sand
The virus sets the timeline
While the plague's evolution is orthogonal,
Humanity's horizon is measured in lifetimes
From dust we came, and we shall surely return
Nature's impositions become the harsh lessons learned

Everything is written in sand, at least that's how things stand
We need flexibility to accomodate the change of plans
For our budgets have the same shelf life as our tiers
Ad hoc policies were manufactured as flimsy protective barriers
And regulations were inconsistently applied - no common carrier
Squalid tales of queue jumping, the rule of diverted supplies
Chains of inequality revealed in lieu of shared sacrifice

Everything is written in sand, for this take a bow
For we’re all amateur epidemiologists now
Who wax eloquent about the nature of spike proteins
Droplets, aerosols, and the occasional red herring
The security theater of overly fastidious hygiene
Debates about vaccine efficacy and mask protection
This uncertainty, our close confidant and companion
An ambiguous adventure this gospel of germs
The season of migration to the land of concern

Everything is written in sand, it's hard to fill in the gaps
A temporary inconvenience this global narrative collapse
Requiring gymnastics from leaders who simply aren't up to the task
That I reassured you "absolutely" of school safety on Saturday
Is no guarantee that we'll be able to avoid a lockdown come Monday
Yes, the tough rules that I suggested might be necessary "later",
As the science has evolved, have had to be imposed "rather sooner"

"Cases are rising almost everywhere"
Driven by the new variant, it appears.
"And without further action, there is a material risk of being overwhelmed"
Still, "with a fair wind in our sails", the ordeal could well be over by half term

Clarity foregone, contrast their statements with their inaction
Even as they assure you that this is the best course of action
A duty of care, "Further steps must now be taken to arrest this rise"
The confused messages from your leader are in abundant supply

In the background, a torrent of common lies
Beastly evasions launched with shrinking half lives
Slothful neglect and responsibility shirking
Malice aforethought and depraved direction

Declarations of intent are suspect
In the torrid zone, you must understand
As my lament stated at the outset,
Everything is written in sand

Touch briefly, the fleeting canvas slips away from your grasp
What remains are the sands of time, the memories that last
Sorrow and tears, a symphony of labored breathing
A closing ceremony of unfathomable grieving
Worse, it was unnecessary, so many unforced errors
Human beings reduced to a handful of dust. Ephemera.

Everything is written in sand
The arc of a human lifetime
To dust we shall return
Shallow breaths as lifelines

Ephemera

Everything is written in sand
What paradise have we lost?

Everything
Sand
Wind
Dust

Dust, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note to lighten the mood. Some soul food. I excised Gil Scott-Heron's Angel Dust from the playlist to keep things grounded, your mileage might vary. (spotify version)

• Dust by Van Hunt
• Dust in the Wind by Eric Benet
• To Dust by Alice Russell
• Sands of Time by Vinia Mojica
• The Sands of Time and Change by Donny Hathaway
• Sands of Time by S.O.S. Band

This internal displacement is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: culture, observation, perception, hatchet job, coronavirus, pandemic, outrage, disaster, rogues, politics, USA, England, Buyer's Remorse, covidious, Observers are worried, pandemic, poetry, toli

Writing log: January 19, 2021

No One Is Coming

No one is coming to help you is the bitter lesson
A signal moment of clarity in this your time of need

No one is coming to save you from this mess
The painful rule of thumb in the midst of your distress

No one is coming, there'll be no cavalry
The loudmouthed white hats trumpeting action are no sanctuary
Indeed, these days, those in the wild west have their own quandaries
In the frantic struggle for survival, some died with their boots on
It's best to solve your own problems, not rely on other persons

No one is coming, there's no need to ask
You might as well face up to the facts
Deferred maintenance leads to deferred dreams
Your own hands will have to repair the frayed seams

No one is coming, get it into your head
There's no saving grace, you've clearly lost that bet
Change makes you want to hustle, it is often said
Focus on resilience and adaptability instead

No one is coming, rise up to the test
In prior times, they could easily pay lip service
Indeed, some made it their self-appointed business
Truth be told, before the reversal of fortune, it was manifest
Your destiny was once removed, it was always clear they'd lose interest

No one is coming, there are no pat solutions
It may feel good to rely on international organizations
True, we all sink or swim together, embrace solidarity
Yet with the new variants, you may face your own mutations.
Buyer beware, some of the same ones who are now so vocal
Will soon remind you that, at heart, everything is local

In the Anglosphere, we saw the callousness of the response.
Once Wall Street was protected, the rulers lost all interest
Leaving the rest of us to plaintively wonder: whither survival checks?
In England, getting the Tory party to do more than the barest minimum
Was like pulling teeth in extremis, impossible in a timely fashion

The world over, elites are forced to confront crippled healthcare systems
No exfiltration, nor Medivacs, we all use the same hospitals
Those bearer bonds, those bank accounts, those offshore vessels
And digital blockchains are no protection, all that cybersecurity
Counts for nought when we haven't reached herd immunity
The Swiss now require vaccination certificates, newly-minted attestations
Quarantine even in the Cayman Islands, new procedures, rules and regulations

Accordingly, support bubbles of affluence are being pierced
Private jets navigate narrow, restricted travel corridors
Previous greed and privilege distilled, in short order, as if cursed
Now's the moment of reckoning, if not of buyer's remorse

"No one is coming to save you, it's up to us", goes the chant
Yes, well, it's the daily news even if it seems like a taunt
It was the purest folly to expect as much, is the insight
That others would forgo their insatiable appetites
Every man for himself, goes the conqueror's catechism
It takes behavior to get along, let's keep on singing.

Oh the humanity, "We have no place to bring our dead"
The overwhelmed owner of the funeral home plaintively said.
Air quality standards had to be relaxed to enable robust cremation
Such are the dilemmas of all public health interventions.

No one is coming to save you, we'll just have to endure the lockdown
In 1918, my grandmother recalled walking the streets of Jamestown
Skipping over dead bodies on her way through High Street to Trinity Church
A century later, many others are being similarly left in the lurch
She was ten years old when the influenza pandemic hit Ghana
Brought in by sea men visiting Accra, everyone suffered
Sorrowful, the scars endure and resonate as mood markers
The tale of the lost stories, these indelible chapters
Such, I suppose, is the conflicted legacy of my upbringing
The keen sense of outrage and the knowledge that no one is coming

No
No one
No one is coming
No one is coming to save you
No one is coming to help you
No one is coming
No one
No

No One Is Coming, A Playlist

A soundtrack for this lament, taking a few liberties to add some sweet to this grief concoction (spotify version).

• Nobody's Fault But Mine by Nina Simone
• My Man's Gone Now by Bill Evans Trio
• If You Think You're Lonely Now by Bobby Womack
• No One Else by Amel Larrieux
• It's You Or No One by Ahmad Jamal Trio
• Time Waits For No One by Mavis Staples
• My Man's Gone Now by Miles Davis
• It's You Or No One by Dexter Gordon
• Nobody's Fault But Mine by Meshell NdgegeOcello ft. Lizz Wright
• My Man's Gone Now by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
• It's You Or No One by Lou Donaldson
• My Man's Gone Now by Nina Simone

This uplifting folktale is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: culture, observation, development, perception, Africa, strategy, coronavirus, pandemic, history, power, family, memory, politics, Ghana, hatchet job, Buyer's Remorse, Observers are worried, covidious, toli

Writing log: January 31, 2021

Empire State of Mind

A memory. An open day at the Electrical Engineering department at Imperial College for accepted candidates, the professors wanted to demonstrate their new face recognition software to the group. I demurred (shyness), but they insisted that I be the volunteer.

So I sat and watched for 15 minutes as nothing worked. "Smile", asked the graduate students. "Frown", asked the professors. Same result: no detection. Others were summoned. Invisible man.

It's a minor point, but I can't forget the sheepish grins. As I told the professors and their harried students: "You probably didn't train your algorithms much with many faces like mine."

Cultural sensitivity in technology is one of my perennial themes. And it's hard work even if you acknowledge your blind spots. The anecdotal failures continue to pile up. What was true back in 1991 is much the same in 2021, software and hardware are far more sophisticated and performant but face the same blindspots (provenance of training data, applicability to real world scenarios, ethical framing etc.)

The challenge for software engineering - which is still a craft, is to move beyond curve-fitting phrenology (and Deadwood) into its industrial revolution.

Sidenote: recruiters these days are all "big data, machine learning, cloud yada yada". Buzzword fatigue is an occupational hazard.

I miss the great mass amateurization and view source ethic of early web development and yet the developer tools and frameworks these days almost feel like a golden age is within grasp.

Obligatory citations:

• Planning the Software Industrial Revolution by Brad Cox
• Shop Class as Soulcraft by Matthew B. Crawford
• Commodifying AI, or, Some Half-baked Thinking on Services As Middle-men by Coté

Incidentally, Imperial College was the venue of my worst interviewing experience (and there have been many) - the low point of which was walking past the open door as I left the interview, and walking straight into the wall. This was after having flubbed almost every question I'd been asked.

The laughs and looks exchanged by the professor and the secretary as I turned around, shuffled back muttering an apology (why?) as I rubbed my sore head and headed out the door. Even English reserve and politeness could not deal with my Buster Keaton imitation.

I was admitted to Imperial College a week later.

I occasionally regret not having gone to Imperial or Cambridge for university. Without a doubt, I would be a stronger engineer and yet I suspect the eclectic toli monger you see before you would be repressed.

Imperial Visions, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version).

• You Don't See Me by Amel Larrieux
• Invisible by Alison Moyet
• Empire Ants by Gorillaz featuring Little Dragon
• Sensitivity by Ralph Tresvant

I've been neglecting the Toli Technology Series for years now, albeit I occasionally make a few gnomic pronouncements on Twitter, consider this some throat clearing to prompt a reboot.

File under: culture, technology, algorithms, software, race, sensitivity, toli, life, best practices, design, data

Widget Consultants of Austin

Dear valued customers,

We hope you and your loved ones are remaining healthy and safe during these uncertain times.

New Office Space

We at Widget Consultants of Austin (WCA) would like to update you on some exciting news for our practice. In July 2020, a state-of-the art renovation for our central office was completed. Now Widget Consultants of Austin is located in Suite 419 on the same floor as before but to the left of the elevator.

Austin Research Center for Widgets

In addition to this beautiful upgrade, WCA's current and future research endeavors will be conducted through WCA's research arm: Austin Research Center for Widgets. WCA and its consultants have chosen to part ways with Widget Research Center of Austin. However we remain evermore committed to providing ethical, high quality, specialized widget research to the greater Austin community.

With over a decade of combined research experience, we continue to provide first class widgets at WCA. As always, we remain dedicated to providing compassionate and skilled care to you. We look forward to continuing our valued relationship with you.

Best Wishes,


WCA

The above letter is reproduced with only two substitutions, widget and customer. Inquiring minds would like to know what prompted the split in widget land such that Widget Consultants of Austin are now affiliated with the Austin Research Center for Widgets, having severed ties with the Widget Research Center of Austin. All this upheaval took place in the middle of a pandemic, no less. Especially titillating is the pointed comment about ethical standards, things must have really soured. What breach of ethics in widget research might the practice have witnessed that shocked the conscience? The human drama behind those few words is intriguing and deserves attention.

Further confusing things is that it appears that the offices of both organizations are on either side of an elevator. Those rides up to work must be fraught. Printing out the acronym soup only deepened the puzzle for WCA has now split from WRCA to go to ARCW, it's all Greek to me. I have postponed my annual appointment to check up on my widgets during these uncertain times, but look forward, with no small amount of trepidation, to my next encounter. I pray that I exit the elevator in the right direction.

See previously:

• Recent Non-Specific General Threats
• Duty of Care

Also: Naming, a playlist

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

File under: language, culture, odd, absurd, confusion, bureaucracy, conflict, humour, satire, Observers are worried, pandemic, covidious, toli

The Tale of the Lost Stories

Masks of civility fortify the immune response to aggression
We wear satire as personal protective equipment
Irony as antibodies primed in bloodbaths, these memory cells,
And cultivated in experimental batches for later activation

A coup drill, oft practiced by exiled souls
Dismal legacies discussed amidst internal displacement
Rendered on a gory canvas, functional defenestration
The balm presents itself, choose your desired flavor
This human marketplace serves aloe vera or, my preference, shea butter

Shell games duly fomented by cheerful tricksters
They're desperately counting on atrophied shame cultures
Badged as grifters, unrepentant gremlins and parasites
Caution, take heed of their insatiable appetites

The stage is set, the world enmeshed in mournful contemplation
Affinity for doubt deserves affirmative action
Embrace the skeptic's credo contra these miseries
Global narrative collapse, the tale of the lost stories

II.

The usual currencies were no longer accepted
Neither black gold nor conflict diamonds and pearls
Strategic reserves were tapped to no avail
Sovereign wealth funds rendered worthless

Helicopter money unloaded didn't even move the needle
The oracles were consulted but silence prevailed, a global pause
Explanations were mooted, the chattering classes suddenly idled
Ideologies and articles of faith sidelined. Force majeure clauses.

What profit a man, these paper profits? Perplexion.
Even royalty these days faces the dishwasher situation
For when the maid and cook's boarding houses become viral vectors
For shame, protection must now extend beyond the banking sector

III.

There were a few stragglers who hadn't read the script
These traveling salesmen kept selling their idées fixes
They hadn't signed on to the new warfare
And preferred easy fictions and wishful thinking
Weaponizing mischief as usual, their duty of care

But the evidence made their audience harsh critics
That the whole world was watching prompted an identity crisis
Social interplay became fraught, some brought up matters of justice
Storytellers at the ground level wrote new narratives

For want of a bolt, they were unmanned those peddlers of dreams
The new variants of their certainties were being contested
The message of the urban griots now crystal clear after being neglected
Living in the new epicenter, we reconsidered what really mattered
In this dislocation, social studies provided new avenues of inquiry
A sneak preview of the report of the truth and reconciliation committee:
Everything is written in sand is the new code of the streets

The Tale of the Lost Stories, a Playlist

A soulful soundtrack for this note; I'm especially proud of the way the music flows. The pied piper, Corona, took the stories away, out of Wiase. After this collapse, who is left to write today's script? (spotify version)

• This is my Story, This is my Song by Thelonious Monk
• Dealing by Eric Roberson and Lalah Hathaway
• Stories by Carleen Anderson
• Tell me a Tale by Michael Kiwanuka
• This is the Lost Generation by The Lost Generation
• Sorry Ain't Enough by SAULT

Bonus beats: Tell me a tale (live) by Michael Kiwanuka, an exquisite performance

What paradise have we lost?

This folktale is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: poetry, folktale, culture, observation, perception, storytelling, coronavirus, pandemic, collapse, social, rogues, Buyer's Remorse, Observers are worried, covidious, toli

The Traveling Salesman

The traveling salesman problem is long studied in computer science
But now it's epidemiology that's behind the headlines
His mission was selling products that make you healthier
But sadly his tainted breath made him a superspreader

The virus keeps causing sheer pandemonium
By changing humanity's curriculum
Asymptomatic transmission is a tough problem to solve, on its face
In retrospect, they searched for close contacts to track and trace

Remember, the postman always rings twice
Opening your door is a roll of the dice
Wear a mask, it's your duty of care
The moral of the story: buyer beware


After: Covid-19 'superspreader' in northeast China linked to 102 infections

The Traveling Salesman, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Travelin' Girl by Dwele
  The live versions are essential, that tour where the horns were featured made this essential.
• Traveling Miles by Cassandra Wilson
• Buyer Beware by Jorrel & Bekka
• Beware by Punjabi MC ft. Jay-Z
  I'm quite partial to the original version, Beware of the Boys featuring Twista, but no one has ever won an argument over commerce where Jay-Z was involved

See previously:

• The Prince and The Honey
• The Prime Minister's Coinage

This folktale is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: humour, poetry, public health, satire, disease, folktale, coronavirus, pandemic, covidious, culture, observation, covidious, toli