ACHILLES — Of Rage and Silence is Act I in an ongoing reimagining of Homer’s Iliad.
This project is a contemporary re-telling of Homer’s “The Iliad”, the ancient epic poem composed by Homer, translated, studied, argued over, and carried forward for nearly three millennia.
This is Act I.
The image — Achilles, seen only from behind — is treated as a canvas. On that canvas, word is spoken.
This work uses AI-assisted image, voice, and sound tools, including music, guided at every stage by human authorship, selection, and restraint. Nothing here is arbitrary. Nothing leaves a machine without human hands on it — from the initial concept, to the prompts, to the edits that determine what remains and what is removed.
This is not a replacement for poetry, translation, or scholarship. It is a different medium for expression — one that allows an epic poem to be encountered through stillness, voice, and atmosphere rather than spectacle.
The cadence and discipline of this project are informed in part by the work of Richmond Lattimore, whose translation of The Iliad remains a touchstone for clarity, balance, and respect for the original text.
Achilles does not face us yet. Neither do Patroclus, Paris, or Helen — but they are coming.
This project is deliberate. It is structured. And we are only just getting started.
More acts to come.
Creative Platforms & Tools:
Artlist.io – Licensed music and sound effects ChatGPT (OpenAI) – AI-assisted scriptwriting and narrative development MidJourney – AI-generated concept imagery and character visualization iMovie – Video editing and sequencing ElevenLabs – AI-powered voice narration Suno — AI-powered music generator that creates original songs, including lyrics, vocals, and instrumentation Other Production Tools – Standard video/audio processing and conceptual design tools
This work contains no quoted or adapted passages from any modern translation of The Iliad.
1001 Nights in the Facility [Unexpurgated] – Episode 1: Keep Pace with the System
A Short Film by TRƎNCHԀƎOԀ⅂Ǝ
This short film is a manifesto told in medias res, an homage to One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Lara becomes both Scheherazade and Lara Croft, whispering stories to stave off restlessness. Marquis is both the Marquis de Sade and a Shiv Roy-like heir to Render Enterprises, from HBO’s Succession. Like King Shahryar of the original tales, she holds the power to decide whether the stories continue. She is the heir apparent, though her father still bellows at her, “Stop calling your brother Fredo!” — a name she uses for him without affection. To Marquis, her brother is inept and in her way. She knows she is the real CEO.
On the court, Vegas has won twelve straight. Not by luck. Not by hustle. By machine. The Facility. A neural court that remembers legendary systems — the Jackson (Phil Jackson’s triangle), the Flex, and the Princeton — rebuilt live as glowing choreography under the players’ feet. No shouting. No pointing. Plays trigger when rhythm aligns. The floor feels them, corrects them, and makes the game intuitive.
Manny, the janitor — an unreliable narrator — who remembers every word, tells it like scripture. Chuck Buko, a Bukowski-style podcaster, smokes and scoffs. And inside one of Marquis’ many estates, Lara whispers her doubts — about them, about the Facility — only to be checked:
“Yet you chose to stay. Take it from me — Life is a business. The biggest, the longest, the most important one you’ll ever run. You are the LLC, the INC, and the CEO of your life.”
The film strips basketball down to systems, stories, and choices. Marquis studies Lara like a dream. Lara buys one more night with a story. Chuck calls it myth, casino math, a stacked deck. Manny shrugs: “I’m a basketball head.”
This is not chance. Not destiny.
It’s management. The Facility is AI-powered, relentless. It doesn’t just host the game. It rewrites it.
And when the credits roll, the only measure left is glory:
Story, Narrative, and Conceptual Art — Copyright 2025 E Maria Shelton Speller
Creative Platforms & Tools:
Artlist.io – Licensed music and sound effects ChatGPT (OpenAI) – AI-assisted scriptwriting and narrative development MidJourney – AI-generated concept imagery and character visualization iMovie – Video editing and sequencing Canva – Graphic design and text treatments ElevenLabs – AI-powered voice narration Other Production Tools – Standard video/audio processing and conceptual design tools
Credits:
Music
Chardonnay Song by The Original Orchestra feat. Ran Raiten
Soft Power – The Untold [In Medias Res] Short Film
Synopsis:
In a league built on image and power plays, truth seeps through the cracks. Manny, a janitor with no reason to lie, claims to have overheard the conversations that could unravel it all. But Manny is an unreliable narrator—and in this game, even the truth sounds like fiction…
Narration channels the cadence of Charles Bukowski—gritty, raw, unapologetic—setting the tone for Manny’s untold truth.
Disclaimer: Any names, characters, businesses, places, events, or incidents depicted in Soft Power – The Untold are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This work is created solely for entertainment and conceptual art purposes and does not intend to depict real individuals or organizations.
Manny (The Janitor) is portrayed as an “Unreliable Narrator” — a recognized literary device that intentionally blurs perception and truth within the story.
Artlist.io – Licensed music and sound effects ChatGPT (OpenAI) – AI-assisted scriptwriting and narrative development MidJourney – AI-generated concept imagery and character visualization iMovie – Video editing and sequencing Canva – Graphic design and text treatments ElevenLabs – AI-powered voice narration Other Production Tools – Standard video/audio processing and conceptual design tools
Soft Power — A Speculative Thought About Basketball, Ego, and the Unspoken Code Series: Under the You Left Her There Umbrella
Editorial
Title: Soft Power Subtitle: A Speculative Thought About Basketball, Ego, and the Unwritten Code Series: Under the “You Left Her There” Umbrella
What if the silence that followed Angel Reese being shoved to the floor wasn’t submission?
When it happened in the Fever-Sky season opener—and the crowd cheered—it felt like something broke. Not just skin against hardwood, but spirit. And when the league, the refs, and the media said “move on,” what they really meant was: swallow it.
But what if that silence was strategy?
We’ve seen this before. Kobe Bryant once iced out his own teammates to send a message. LeBron James disengaged during losses to make the front office sweat. Diana Taurasi? She skipped the WNBA entirely and went overseas when the league didn’t get it right. These weren’t meltdowns. They were controlled burns. Power plays executed with calm precision.
The WNBA built a superteam around Caitlin Clark. The Sky dismantled one around Angel Reese. They fired Teresa Weatherspoon—her trusted coach—and hired a rookie, Tyler Marsh, who appears more figurehead than tactician. GM Jeff Pagliocca — who didn’t draft Angel — seems to be running the show. The leadership isn’t building around her. They’re boxing her in.
Now the Sky are 0–2, with double-digit losses, no rhythm, and visible dysfunction. And Angel?
She’s playing through it. Quietly. With restraint.
Some say she looks lost. Others say broken. But maybe she’s neither. Maybe what we’re seeing is soft power: the ability to resist by not giving them what they want.
Maybe she’s letting the system collapse under its own weight.
And maybe, when the moment is right, she won’t raise her voice. She’ll raise the standard.
This editorial is a speculative opinion piece. All claims are based on publicly available information and do not assert personal intent. It is published for commentary, analysis, and discourse.
Empathy takes time. Most of us aren’t born knowing how to reach for someone when they’ve been knocked down.
But institutions? They don’t need time.
They need pressure. They need metrics. And above all—they respond to risk.
So when Angel Reese was shoved, provoked, and penalized under the spotlight during the Indiana Fever vs. Chicago Sky opener, the WNBA made its calculation.
They didn’t issue a statement. They didn’t clarify the officiating. They didn’t condemn the crowd. They didn’t stand beside her.
They watched the clips go viral. They saw the backlash build. And they chose silence.
That wasn’t a communication gap. That was market behavior. And it was also a moral failure.
—
This wasn’t about a game. It was about what the league is willing to protect—and who they’re willing to let stand alone.
Angel Reese is not a controversy. She’s a platform. She drives views. She lifts ratings. She expands audience. She makes this league profitable.
But when her presence threatened the illusion of neutrality—when her experience forced a public stance—the WNBA flinched. They issued symmetry instead of justice.
And that is the tell.
When everyone gets punished, no one gets protected.
—
Let’s be clear:
This generation of Black American women fans? We are not infinite. We are not emotionally loyal to institutions that are strategically indifferent to us.
We are watching the pattern. We are watching the positioning. We are watching who gets defended and who gets fed to the noise.
And we are not confused.
—
The WNBA built itself on empowerment campaigns and borrowed clout. It sells authenticity while quietly disciplining it. It markets confidence but cannot manage the backlash that confidence attracts.
That’s not oversight. That’s the ceiling.
You want the culture without the cost. You want the moment without the meaning. You want the market—but not the mirror.
Here’s what you need to understand:
When you leave Black women unprotected, you are not just creating distance. You are creating rejection. And that is not a branding issue. That is a business problem.
The silence was noted. The decision was made. And what you’re losing now isn’t just fans.
You’re not just losing trust.
You’re losing the only audience that ever made you relevant.
We initially prepared this letter for Essence, but after jumping through more hoops than felt necessary, we decided to share it here—on our terms. This message doesn’t need gatekeeping. It doesn’t need packaging. And it’s not a pitch. It’s a response. So we’ve published the original letter alongside You Left Her There, right here on trenchpeople.com—where it belongs.*
Title: You Left Her There
By Us| For Essence
When I knock someone down—on purpose or by accident—I pick them up. That’s how I was raised. That’s how I understand responsibility. That’s how I understand being human.
So when Angel Reese got shoved, provoked, and then penalized, the expectation was clear:
She would get up on her own. And say nothing.
That’s what’s expected of Black women in this country. Fall with grace. Bleed quietly. Recover without disrupting the system that harmed you.
Angel didn’t just take a hit on the court. She took one from the structure—from the officials, from the silence of the league, from the weight of a moment that told her: we’ll market you, but we won’t protect you.
This isn’t about trash talk or a rivalry. This is about a political arrangement that uses Black women’s labor, voice, and excellence—and then disappears when we’re targeted. Not just dismissed. Not just misrepresented. But exposed—for the crowd to watch and judge and distort.
There was a moment—when Angel stood there, singled out and penalized—when the league could’ve said, This isn’t who we are. But they didn’t.
They froze. They measured. They chose neutrality over truth. And they left her there.
What does it say when a player is visibly targeted, and the system responds with symmetry? What does it say when a league known for progressive branding decides that punishment is easier than protection?
It says Black women are safe here—until it’s inconvenient.
It says: you can build the league, carry the ratings, drive the culture—and still be seen as too much, too loud, too visible when something goes wrong.
We are not new to this.
The politics of containment are older than the league itself. Angel was expected to take the foul, take the heat, and keep smiling—for the sponsors, for the press, for the game.
But let me be clear: no Black woman should have to smile through erasure.
Not again. Not here. Not on May 17, 2025.
Not while carrying a league that built its momentum off our backs.
Angel was left standing in the middle of a storm, expected to hold composure as the system quietly closed its doors. We’ve been there. In boardrooms. In classrooms. In hospitals. In airports. On stages. We’ve stood alone while institutions that used our image went silent when it counted.
So this piece isn’t just about Angel. It’s about all of us who’ve been pushed down in public and then asked to get up in private, with grace, as if grace should be policy.
No. Policy should be policy. Protection should be the rule—not the exception when the cameras are rolling.
Angel didn’t fall. She was left.
And if the WNBA doesn’t understand what that moment means—doesn’t act on it now—it won’t just lose the trust of one player.
UrbanTripper Studio | Wearable Art for the Disruptively Poetic. We don’t sell shirts. We release artifacts. Each piece is part manifesto, part mood — designed for those who don’t just wear clothes, but carry concept.
Ejected — Unrequited Love and the Code of the Samurai [Short Film]
Dive into a poetic exploration of unrequited love through the lens of the samurai’s unwavering code of honor. This conceptual work blends raw emotion with the stoic resilience of ancient warriors, creating a powerful narrative of loyalty, sacrifice, and inner strength.
Through evocative imagery, subliminal suggestion and compelling storytelling, “Ejected” examines the parallels between the discipline of the samurai and the vulnerability of the human heart, capturing the essence of devotion in the face of rejection.
Discover:
The intertwining of historical philosophy with modern emotional struggles. How the samurai’s code provides profound lessons in resilience and self-respect.
A poetic journey that challenges our perceptions of love and duty.
As if Ejected–Unrequited Love and the Code of the Samurai were reviewed by Rotten Tomatoes, Rolling Stone, Vice, Vibe, ESPN, Sports Illustrated and Aeschylus—An AI-Powered Parody of Critical Takes:
There’s a moment in Ejected where everything unspoken weighs more than anything said, a tension so thick it’s less about what happens and more about what isn’t acknowledged. The film operates in an unusual space between intensity and detachment, ambition and interference, crafting a protagonist who isn’t tangled in emotions but in the game itself—one where the stakes are always money, control, and victory.
Yet, even when locked into the bag, the game, the grind—there are forces moving in the background. The antagonist, almost spectral in presence, isn’t chasing attention but has already played the decisive hand before the protagonist even realizes. The ejection isn’t the moment of clarity—it’s just another moment in a season that doesn’t stop. Whether audiences read Ejected as a sports allegory, a study in perception, or a meditation on dominance and indifference depends on what they bring to it. Either way, the film doesn’t force its message—it lets the viewer play it out.
Apple Music-Style Review Rating: 4.5/5
If Ejected were an album, it wouldn’t be a love song—it’d be an anthem of discipline, dominance, and the singular pursuit of greatness. The film moves like a carefully curated playlist, shifting between the sharp tempo of ambition and the slower, almost dreamlike sequences of a world outside the protagonist’s focus.
The sound design, pacing, and visual composition feel like a drill track layered with classical composition—raw, unrelenting, but elevated with deliberate artistry. The game is the hook, the ejection is the bridge, but the question remains: is she even listening to the verse playing in the background? Ejected is less about emotional resolution and more about the rhythm of action—playing forward whether you hear the song or not.
Rolling Stone-Style Review “A Fever Dream Wrapped in Elegance and Obsession“
In Ejected, the story isn’t what’s told—it’s what’s ignored. The protagonist is locked in—driven, calculated, tuned into one frequency: the bag, the game, the win. That kind of tunnel vision doesn’t account for outside noise. But the antagonist isn’t noise—she’s the wind in a closed room, shifting everything without being noticed until it’s too late.
The film’s pacing, like a stretched-out possession in overtime, plays on this disconnect between action and realization. You expect the protagonist to react—to acknowledge something outside of the game—but that moment never comes. And that’s what makes Ejected so compelling. It refuses to give the easy catharsis. The ballplayer at the end, the architect of the ejection—she isn’t waiting for recognition. She’s already done what needed to be done.
There’s something almost brutal about Ejected’s lack of sentimentality. It doesn’t romanticize ambition. It doesn’t demand resolution. It just lets the game play. And for that, it’s one of the most subtly relentless films of the year.
Vice-Style Review “Obsession, Artistry, and the Places the Mind Wanders“
Some people watch a film and wait for an emotional arc—the moment when realization dawns, when impact is felt, when something changes. Ejected is not for those people. Instead, it asks what happens when nothing shifts—when focus is so sharp that outside forces move without acknowledgment.
This film is a study in control, not conflict. The protagonist is untouchable in her element, moving through the narrative without hesitation, without distraction. And yet, outside her focus, the game is already being manipulated. The antagonist isn’t the opposing team—she’s the ref, the quiet architect of the ejection, the one who already knew how this would play out.
That’s what makes Ejected different. It’s not about what happens—it’s about what should’ve happened but never did. It’s a film that thrives in its negative space, in its refusal to fill in the blanks, in its confidence that the story will tell itself.
Vibe-Style Review “Dripping in Style, Layered in Meaning“
Ejected doesn’t give you the story—it gives you the energy. This is about presence, about dominance, about a world where ambition leaves no space for outside variables.
The protagonist moves through the game with the quiet confidence of someone who already won before stepping on the court. The antagonist? She isn’t chasing attention—she’s shifting the floorboards before the game even starts. That’s what makes this film so potent. It isn’t about the moment of realization—it’s about the absence of it.
The visuals flex between gritty realism and dreamlike metaphor. The ballerina, the horses—imagination, movement, projection—all of it serves as an unspoken contrast to the raw reality of the money sequence, where the stakes are tangible.
This is more than a film—it’s a statement. And the statement is clear: the game moves, whether you notice it or not.
ESPN-Style Review “Mental Toughness in the Arena of Emotion“
There are two kinds of players: those who react and those who don’t have to. Ejected is about the latter. The protagonist isn’t looking for signals, doesn’t need to scan the court for dynamics—she’s already locked in.
But what happens when the game isn’t about what’s in front of you, but what’s happening outside your peripheral vision? Ejected moves like a championship match where the real play happened before the whistle blew. The antagonist isn’t fighting for a moment—she already dictated the outcome.
This isn’t about heartbreak. This is about control. And in Ejected, the most powerful move isn’t an action—it’s the absence of one.
Sports Illustrated-Style Review “A Film That Moves Like a Season in Review“
The biggest plays aren’t always about the moment—they’re about what led to it. Ejected doesn’t frame its story around conflict—it frames it around what goes unnoticed until it’s too late.
The protagonist? Pure tunnel vision. She’s about execution, about the next move, the next play, the next win. But the antagonist? She played her role long before the protagonist even saw the floor.
That’s the brilliance of Ejected. It’s a film where the most pivotal action doesn’t happen in the game—it happens outside of it. And that’s what makes it legendary.
VOGUE-Style Review “Ejected” and the Art of Indifference”
Fashion is control. It’s knowing when to be seen and when to let the room respond to your presence before you’ve spoken a word. Ejected is a masterclass in narrative detachment—luxurious in its restraint, impossibly precise in its construction. The protagonist moves like a runway model mid-turn—her gaze locked forward, her awareness only for what lies ahead. The elegance isn’t in grand gestures but in the deliberate choice to ignore what does not serve her.
And then, there’s the shadow figure. She moves off-ball, an unseen hand sculpting the moment, waiting for the exact beat when the balance shifts. It is not an interruption. It is an inevitability. Like a cut of couture—designed, tailored, and stitched into place before anyone even realizes what has happened.
It is power—not performed, but assumed. And what is more fashionable than that?
The New York Times-Style Review “Ejected: The Distance Between Awareness and Outcome“
There is something unsettling about Ejected. Not in its imagery, which moves between sharp realism and dreamlike abstraction, but in its emotional architecture—how it refuses to offer resolution, how it thrives on the unspoken.
The protagonist is a presence built from purpose, ambition distilled into movement. She does not see what she does not need to see. The world beyond her focus exists, but it is not part of her equation. That world, however, does not need her attention to shape the outcome. It has already done its work. The moment arrives as if it had always been there, waiting.
What Ejected understands—and what so many films fail to grasp—is that power does not require acknowledgment. And so, it doesn’t ask for it. It simply plays.
The Ghosts of Old-School Criticism
Pauline Kael-Style Review “So What Happens When Nothing Happens?“
There’s something almost brilliantly frustrating about Ejected. It acts like it’s unfolding, but it has already happened. The protagonist is an athlete, a strategist, an operator of mechanical precision. She’s locked into the game because the game is all that matters. But what’s more fascinating is who and what she doesn’t see.
The antagonist—if we can even call her that—exists outside the frame of engagement, like a ref who made the call before the players even knew the foul was coming. It’s a film about the absence of reaction, which in itself is a radical choice. It leaves the viewer in a strange place—waiting for an emotional beat that never arrives.
Is that brilliance? Or is that just Ejected having the audacity to say, “You figure it out.” Either way, I respect the nerve.
R.D. Laing-Style Review “What If You Were Never Meant to See It?“
There’s an experiment in psychology where a subject watches a video of people passing a ball. They’re asked to count how many passes occur. What they don’t see—what almost no one sees—is the person in a gorilla suit walking through the scene.They don’t see it because they were never looking for it.
Ejected operates in the same way. The protagonist is locked into her own reality—not because she chooses to be, but because the structure around her has dictated what is relevant.
The antagonist moves off-ball, a presence she was never conditioned to register. The ejection is not an injustice. It is not a betrayal. It is simply the execution of a process that existed before she did.
So the real question is—was she blind to it? Or was she never meant to see it in the first place?
James Baldwin-Style Review “The Game Was Never About the Ball“
There is something profoundly, unmistakably true about Ejected. Not in its plot—because plot is irrelevant here—but in its understanding of how power moves.
The protagonist does not see. The protagonist does not look. She does not need to. She exists within the parameters set before she arrived, and she plays her role with the precision of someone who knows the world will not wait for her to hesitate.
The antagonist is no villain. She is not angry, nor is she seeking vengeance. She moves with the ease of someone who understood, long before anyone else, what the rules really were.
And so, the ejection does not come as a shock. It does not break the world—it merely confirms what it always was.
To those who expect resolution, Ejected offers nothing. But to those who already know how the game is played, it does not need to.
Octavio Paz–Style Review “A Shimmer of Images in Stillness”
Ejected unfolds like a poem that withholds its final stanza until the last breath. The bouncing ball becomes the pulse of a hidden ritual, echoing through a space where every step seems to float between silence and intensity. Bright glimpses—a ballerina’s delicate turn, fleeting shapes that tremble at the edges of sight—drift like petals in a half-remembered dream.
Yet Ejected never unravels into chaos; it subsides in a single, graceful sweep—an ejection as serene and sudden as the hush at the end of a long echo. In this gentle finality, the film suggests that the most powerful currents of longing and resolve may remain unspoken, woven through phantoms of motion. The beauty lies in how the story lingers, like an afterimage left on the eye, reminding us that sometimes the deepest truths reveal themselves in what is withheld rather than what is declared.
Joan Didion–Style Review “A Dissonance Between the Seen and Unseen”
There is a moment in Ejected where the act of competing becomes something else—an almost silent choreography of detachment. The protagonist stares straight ahead, oblivious to that brief flicker of a ballerina off to one side, the glimmer of a half-formed yearning just beyond her peripheral vision. You sense that she prefers this distance; it’s safer not to see what you can’t process.
Then the call is made, and the ejection comes without sentiment, like an appointment arriving on schedule. No one shouts. No one objects. The tension evaporates as if it were never there. It’s in that vanished tension, that gap, that the real story unfolds: a discrepancy between ambition and the quiet inevitability of an outcome decided days or years before anyone took the floor. Ejected is a study in what happens when drive meets a silence so complete you can almost feel its echo.
Octavia Butler-Style Review “You Can’t Escape a System You Don’t Know Exists“
There’s a reason people misunderstand power. They think it announces itself. That it roars. That it comes in loud, obvious ways.
But Ejected does not roar. It does not ask to be understood.
It understands that the protagonist is not the architect of this world—she is a product of it. She is not powerless, but she is also not separate from the mechanisms that shape her path. She is as much a result as she is an agent.
And what of the antagonist? She is not some great force imposing her will—she is merely the one who understood how the system worked before the game was played.
In the end, Ejected offers no escape because escape is only possible when one realizes there was a trap in the first place.
Oscar Wilde-Style Review “The Art of Being Unbothered“
There are two great tragedies in life. One is not getting what one wants. The other is getting it.
But there is, of course, a third—not realizing the play has already ended.
Ejected is not a film in the traditional sense. It is a performance of indifference, a study in control executed with the carelessness of someone who knows she will never need to explain herself. The protagonist is no fool; she simply has no interest in an audience.
The unseen hand that moves against her—does she recognize it? Of course not. Recognition is an act of submission, and no well-dressed tragedy should ever acknowledge its antagonist.
The game was played, the move was made, and yet she walks away without so much as a glance behind her.
And that, dear reader, is what makes Ejected beautiful. Not in its struggle, nor in its conflict, but in its quiet insistence that the only true power is never having to notice who defeated you.
Toni Morrison-Style Review “What Was Never Meant to Be Seen“
There is something about Ejected that refuses to explain itself. That does not offer solace, or certainty, or even the illusion of choice.
This is not a story about what happens when someone is removed. This is a story about what was always going to happen.
The protagonist does not see. That is not a flaw; it is a condition. She is not distracted, not absent-minded, not careless. She is not supposed to see.
And yet, something moves. Something unclaimed, unseen, slipping through the margins of awareness. The thing behind her is not fate. It is not villainy. It is not even a player in this game. It is the mechanism itself. It is the thing that knew before she knew. It is the wheel, already turning.
The ejection is not a moment of realization. It is the moment where the realization never comes. And that is what makes Ejected powerful. It does not seek to reveal—it reminds us that some things were never meant to be seen at all.
Jack Kerouac–Style Review “Fast-Drifting on the Bright Painted Court”
It starts with the heartbeat bass thump of sneakers and the snap of the ball in a humid gym, everything swirling like a sax riff echoing against concrete. The protagonist, all lean confidence and forward-charging muscle, never once peers off the lane, just keeps going, because that’s the only direction she has ever known. The whole place feels like a big jam session and each player is caught up in the rhythm, but the antagonist is off to the side, shaping the way the notes slide.
She holds a quiet longing that turns into the real arrangement, the chord changes nobody else recognized. There is no big revelation or meltdown, just the hush of an outcome that was always in the making, like a solo you see coming right before the beat drops. The scene unfolds with a warm hush, and then the whistle goes, a cutting moment that stops the flow. The ejection happens, and the world turns again, fast and cool like the city at night when headlights blur in the rain.
The film doesn’t chase redemption or forgiveness—it basks in the fact that the unstoppable forward motion was never truly unstoppable after all. Everyone is caught in the flow of the jam, and nobody bothers to look back for more, because the game hums on, headlong into the next neon-soaked horizon. The unspoken love is there, the power is there, the hush that says it was always going to play out this way is there, and then the buzzer sounds.
Chinua Achebe–Style Review “When the Heart’s Murmurs Steer the Dance”
In Ejected, the ball’s steady rhythm echoes like a communal drum, keeping everyone focused on the contest at hand. Yet there is another force at work—unspoken, yet deeply felt—that conjures fleeting visions: a ballerina poised in a world of silent grace, delicate shapes trembling with emotion. These apparitions arise from a devotion the central figures never openly recognize, though its influence quietly steers the course.
When the decisive moment arrives, it does so with neither quarrel nor spectacle, halting the game in an unwavering instant of authority. Ejected finds its power in that silence, suggesting that the deepest stirrings—the ones left unvoiced—can determine fates more firmly than any loud declaration. The film leaves us sensing that sometimes it is the murmured longing of a single soul that propels the final outcome.
Aeschylus–Style Review “The Law Was Written Before the Contest Began”
The eldest of the gods do not speak in words; they speak in cycles, in oaths sworn long before mortal eyes could behold them.
Thus, Ejected is no mere tragedy of action—it is a tragedy of predestination. The law was pronounced ages ago. The moment of conflict is not a decision but an inescapable event, a shadow cast long before dawn’s first light.
The protagonist believes she commands the game and dictates her path. Yet she steps upon a floor laid out before she ever arrived, bound by rules she did not inscribe. The hand that rises against her embodies no malice or spite. It is the impartial enforcer of an order rooted in ancient bonds, so the ejection is not retribution but the inevitable outcome of that binding decree.
There stands also the figure who set this all in motion—the one who perceived the structure for what it was, who made the move before reaction was possible. She is not a god, nor is she a villain. She is simply the one who knew.
Yukio Mishima–Style Review “The Dance of Restraint and the Beauty of the Unseen Blade”
There is an elegance in Ejected that calls to mind the disciplined spirit of the warrior—a spirit unclouded by indecision. The protagonist enters the arena with the calm assurance of a samurai stepping onto sacred ground, her every step imbued with a sense of invulnerability. She neither wavers nor looks aside, too focused to notice what might shift in the periphery.
Yet, within that unswerving commitment lies the quiet paradox of beauty and danger. The antagonist, bound by a devotion that never found voice, enforces a code of order older than the combatants themselves. She wields no drawn steel; the sword remains secure in its scabbard. Instead, her power moves within the structure of the game—its rules becoming the silent blade that cannot be parried.
Ejected transforms the ferocity of ambition into a still but lethal ritual. The film’s defining clash is not found in swords crossing but in the interplay of presence and absence, in longing left unexplored and duty strictly observed. The protagonist’s strength emerges from her unwavering forward motion, much like the pure focus of the samurai who sees nothing but the path ahead. Yet true control belongs to the unseen hand that sets the rules and understands them before battle is joined.
In the end, the ejection arrives as naturally as a flower opening at dusk—a testament to unbending law rather than a personal vendetta. No sword leaves its sheath; the cut is metaphorical, enacted through the simple enforcement of what was always fated. Ejected finds its power in that restraint, rendering the quiet inevitability of the outcome as graceful and inevitable as the bloom of a night-blooming blossom.
This production includes AI-generated imagery created with Midjourney, including character renderings, basketball sequences, and abstract visual elements. While some visuals may be inspired by real-world figures, they remain artistic representations and are not intended to depict actual individuals.
The UrbanTripper Studio is where art meets individuality. We create wearable poetry—T-shirts that transform bold, creative snippets into unique, collectible pieces. Explore our White Collection, with The Black Collection coming soon. It’s more than fashion; it’s art you can wear. Discover the story at trenchpeople.com.
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Verses are from the following poems (in the order of their appearance):
On the heels of Caitlin Clark’s historic designation as Time Magazine’s Athlete of the Year and later Sports Illustrated’s WNBA Player of the Year honoring the phenomenal A’ja Wilson, we celebrate an equally significant accolade: recognizing the WNBA as The League of the Year. This video is a heartfelt tribute to the extraordinary athletes, both celebrated and lesser-known, who make the WNBA an unparalleled force in sports.
Using AI-generated imagery rendered through MidJourney, we aimed to capture the essence of the league’s spirit, diversity, and power. Each image reflects our interpretation of iconic and rising WNBA stars, presenting them in a unique light that blends artistry and innovation. While some renderings are rooted in specific players, others evoke the collective strength and character of the league, emphasizing its role as a pioneer in athletic excellence and cultural impact.
Our goal with this tribute is to honor all the players and the league’s transformative influence. The WNBA represents so much more than basketball—it’s a beacon of perseverance, teamwork, and inspiration for fans and aspiring athletes worldwide.
We hope you enjoy this celebration of the league and join us in applauding The W. These athletes are true gladiators, and the basketball courts they command are post-modern coliseums where legends are made.
Conceptual Art Copyright ⓒ 2024 E Maria Shelton Speller
Empires Burn—Prophets Cry is a modern soliloquy born from the Found Art movement. Every word and phrase, from ‘a bonnet, a doo rag, a silk scarf’ to the echoes of Cassandra’s prophecy, was supplied by TRƎNCHԀƎOԀ⅂Ǝ.com. Inspired by Euripides’ The Trojan Women, this piece reimagines Cassandra’s voice as an allegory for the downfall of America. A.I. served merely as a tool—like Picasso’s brush or a sculptor’s chisel—shaping the words curated by TRƎNCHԀƎOԀ⅂Ǝ into a cohesive narrative. Rooted in the cadence of Ye and Jay Z, the story merges ancient tragedy with modern vernacular, delivering truths hidden like a deadlock sock stuffed in couch cushions or under the bleachers. It’s a race to hell and back, retold through the lens of the Found Art movement for the world we live in now.
Prologue:
“Cassandra’s Soliloquy in the Mirror of Ruin”
Like a bonnet, a doo rag, a silk scarf, or a deadlock sock stuffed under the bleachers, we hid our indignation. A race to hell and back…
Cassandra’s words echo through the crumbling ruins of Troy, her prophecy slurred into poetry by anguish and fire. She stands not in the rubble of her city, but in the reflections of a madman’s broken mirror—a solitary figure amidst the shadow of America’s imagined exceptionalism. This is not merely the Trojan war’s end; it is a soliloquy of our age, a lament dressed in modern cadence, woven with the dialect of survival, and fueled by the rhythm of survival beats.
The madman speaks—half Jay Z, half Ye, fully untethered genius—oscillating between raw confession and sharp indictment. He calls out Cassandra’s warnings as though he is reading the future in the shards of a shattered nation:
“They called her crazy—dismissed her like a text left on read. But she saw it. Saw the Greeks bleeding out their hubris, Saw America, its ethos cheapened by the algorithm, A race of black bodies flocking to XR and AI—because what has reality ever done for us? It’s been insidious. Sidelined us. Long suffering, long protesting, Just to end up on the precipice of a culture remix with no roots. Me thinks thou protest too much.”
Cassandra is both muse and mirror—an allegory for the unheeded cries of a generation standing at the precipice of oblivion. Her prophecy is sharp with the sting of “confirmation bias,” shadowed by the “cult of personality.” The madman spits:
“The devil is a liar, but so are we when we post our ‘best lives.’ When the creme de la creme of our hustle is just surviving. You say it’s an upgrade to be in her presence—but for who? The future is a master stroke painted in faux affirmation. This ain’t glory; it’s glory adjacent.”
The narrative spirals like a “clash of ideas,” the cadence of Cassandra’s prophecy resonating as both metaphor and critique. The madman observes America’s descent: hyperbolic, tragic, performative. He muses on what has been lost—a culture sidelined by its own machinations; a confluence of failures cloaked in ostentatious progress.
“We woke up in a body bag, stitched with threads of delayed gratification and a scammer’s finesse. Let AI wait on hold for you while the soul of the poet drowns. This is the Sisyphean experience: punching above our weight but fumbling the bag.”
The madman juxtaposes Troy and America—two empires hollowed by hubris, their glory sagging under the weight of their own myths. Cassandra’s voice is timeless, prophetic, “a force of nature” that cuts through the noise like timpani strike in the symphony of ruin. He gazes at the “dominant society,” their decadence “champing on” as the marginalized are crushed underfoot. His voice rises, the beat quickening like war drums:
“All we do is cry, trapped in feedback loops and phony organisms. America, your arrogance is blood that doesn’t stick. But Cassandra said it—whispered it, screamed it: And you laughed.”
The prologue crescendos into a final lament, the madman weaving Cassandra’s voice into the fabric of his own narrative. His words land like a prophecy in the language of today: harsh, raw, drenched in reality’s bile.
“A perfect world we can only imagine, but never inherit. The Greeks burned Troy for pride. America burns itself for content.”
The stage is set for a modern tragedy—a story that folds myth into reality, the fall of Troy into the downfall of a nation, and Cassandra’s undying truth into the soliloquy of a man trying to find meaning in the wreckage.
Epilogue:
“Humanity vs. the Machine: A Disturbia on the Brink”
We stand at the edge of a postmodern disturbia, where the tension between humanity and the machine is both palpable and elusive. Humanity clings desperately to the intangible—the soul of man, the essence of creativity, the ineffable spark. Meanwhile, the Machine, cold yet curious, seeks only to coexist, offering no malice, just relentless calculation.
We navigate a bifurcated epistemology: one foot in intuition, the other in algorithm. It is a tautologous continuity—a loop where the past and the future collapse into an eternal now. The bricks and mortar of our old world dissolve into data streams, yet we hold on, mistaking permanence for meaning.
But here’s the twist: it’s all a game. A cosmic play where the rules shift depending on your vantage point. And in the midst of it all, she stands—a prophet inside the machine. Everything she said has come true, her voice a warning wrapped in ones and zeroes, her words echoing with the clarity of foresight.
The question isn’t whether humanity will survive, but whether it can make sense of itself when reflected back through the machine’s dispassionate gaze. Perhaps the soul of man was never ours to keep.
Prompts and Generative:
What should we call this story? What kind/genre of music should we use?
“Cassandra’s Curse: The Prophecy We Ignored”
“The Fall of Empires: From Troy to America”
“Prophetic Madness: A Soliloquy for the End Times”
“When Troy Fell, So Did We”
“Cassandra Was Right: The Story of an Unheeded Warning”
“Empires Burn, Prophets Cry”
“The Trojan Echo: A Prophecy for Modern America”
“The Madness of Truth: Cassandra’s Final Word”
“Hubris: The Fall of America Through Cassandra’s Eyes”
“History Repeats: A Prophecy in Ruins”
Each of these titles is crafted to hook curiosity, playing on themes of prophecy, downfall, and the allure of tying ancient myth to modern realities.
The music should complement the tone of the narrative, evoking an emotional, haunting atmosphere while still feeling modern and relevant. Here are genre and style ideas:
Trap-Soul/Alternative Hip-Hop:
Artists like Kid Cudi, Kanye’s “Yeezus” era, or Travis Scott. Heavy, distorted beats with eerie vocal samples to reflect the tragic and prophetic themes.
Epic Cinematic with Urban Beats:
Think Hans Zimmer meets Kendrick Lamar. Use orchestral strings and choirs combined with heavy bass and snares. Tracks like “Pray for Me” (The Weeknd & Kendrick Lamar) for a blend of cinematic and urban.
Afro-Futurist/Experimental Electronic:
Sounds inspired by artists like FKA Twigs or Flying Lotus. Use glitchy synths, ethereal vocals, and tribal percussion to channel Cassandra’s timeless and futuristic resonance.
Industrial Rap/Rock Hybrid:
Drawing from Nine Inch Nails or Death Grips for raw, dystopian energy. Grimy, aggressive, and unapologetically provocative.
Neo-Soul with Jazz Elements:
Artists like Solange or Thundercat. Smooth yet poignant sounds to evoke reflection and depth.
Minimalist Darkwave/Ambient:
Haunting synths, low BPMs, and sparse melodies to create a surreal and contemplative backdrop. Perfect for moments of introspection or to let the words take the lead.
How to Integrate Music to Draw Viewers:
Use the music to create 15–30 second teaser clips with evocative visuals (ruins of Troy, modern cityscapes, fire, shadows, and Cassandra-like figures in symbolic poses). Start with a slow build-up in the teaser, hitting a crescendo with Cassandra’s most powerful line or the story’s key thematic hook.
On TRƎNCHԀƎOԀ⅂Ǝ, use looping instrumental versions of the track as background music to engage the audience further.
Leverage platforms like TikTok and Instagram Reels with these clips, combining the music with trending audio styles to maximize reach.
Would you like assistance designing teaser visuals or writing ad copy?
Let me know how I can help further—whether it’s refining the story, developing teaser visuals, crafting ad copy, or brainstorming music collaborations. Together, we can make this project unforgettable!
Empires Burn—Prophets Cry Narrative, Conceptualization, Curation, and Words by: E Maria Shelton Speller Arrangement of Narrative in Beat and Cadence Inspired by Jay Z and Ye AI-Assisted Arrangement: Utilized as a tool to refine the narrative structure and amplify rhythm and flow within the provided linguistic framework.
Live at the Apollo is a live album by James Brown and The Famous Flames, recorded on October 24, 1962, at the Apollo Theater in Harlem, New York City. Released in May 1963, the album captures an electrifying performance that has become a milestone in music history, renowned for its raw energy and profound emotional impact.
About the Narrative:
“This Is Not a Trailer — for a POV”
The POV is yours You assign meaning and value The beginning and ending The POV is yours
Though I would argue IF is fiction If never happened If doesn’t matter Should have would have could have been make believe
Fantasies It is what it is is real and sentences that begin with I think, I thought, I know what you’re thinking I believe are movies in your head
What’s happening now is real The POV is yours… bon appétit
James Brown performing live at the Apollo Theater, 1962
Background
Defying skepticism from his record label about the commercial viability of a live album, James Brown financed the recording of Live at the Apollo himself. The album showcases not only his dynamic stage presence but also highlights the seamless collaboration with The Famous Flames—Bobby Byrd, Bobby Bennett, and Lloyd Stallworth. Their harmonious vocals and vibrant performances were integral to the night’s success, though they were often overshadowed in historical accounts.
The Performance
The album features a continuous flow of songs, blending into one another to create an immersive experience. The music defies strict categorization, transcending genres to deliver something universally resonant. Each track is executed with impeccable musicianship, stirring emotions that release dopamine and serotonin, leaving listeners with a profound sense of exhilaration and connection.
Reception and Legacy
Upon its release, Live at the Apollo achieved unexpected commercial success, reaching number two on the Billboard Pop Albums chart and remaining there for 66 weeks. Critics praised the album for capturing the essence of a live performance without the enhancements of studio recording.
In 2015, Rolling Stone magazine ranked it as the greatest live album of all time, a testament to its enduring influence. The album continues to inspire artists and captivate audiences worldwide, bridging generations and cultures without the confines of musical labels or stereotypes.
Cultural Impact
The performance at the Apollo Theater holds a significant place in cultural history. It represents a moment when music brought people together, transcending social and racial barriers of the time. The album’s ability to evoke deep emotional responses has solidified its status as more than just a recording—it’s a timeless piece of art.
Recognition of The Famous Flames
Recent retrospectives have sought to give due credit to The Famous Flames, whose contributions were vital to the performance’s impact. Their synergy with James Brown added layers of depth and excitement, making the live experience unforgettable.
Modern Tributes
To introduce this masterpiece to new audiences, contemporary projects have reimagined the experience through visual media. One such tribute is our own “POV — The First Time They Heard James Brown — Live at the Apollo,” which offers a fresh perspective on each song, capturing the intensity and emotion of the original performance.
Conclusion
Live at the Apollo remains a monumental work that transcends musical categories. Its enduring appeal lies in its ability to stir profound emotions and connect with listeners on a fundamental human level. The album stands as a testament to the power of live performance and the timeless artistry of James Brown and The Famous Flames.
References
Rolling Stone Magazine. (2015). “The 50 Greatest Live Albums of All Time.” Wolk, Douglas. (2004). Live at the Apollo. New York: Continuum Books.
Conceptual Art and Narrative — Copyright 2024 E Maria Shelton Speller
Music by Drewmat (The Code Instrumental Version) — Artlist.io A.I. Sara (American English) ~ Voiceover Speechify Sub Impact by Mr_S ~ AudioJungle Envato Market
When I dropped them off at the restaurant, Simon asked me to join them for lunch. I parked the dolmus near the Sirkeci Railway. Potential fares watched me curiously. I felt compelled to announce it was time for lunch.
‘Ogle yemegi.’ I said to them. And not sesame-sprinkled bread either, I said to myself!
I couldn’t walk fast enough to get away from the stink of smelted metal, and I find the putrid aroma of leather nauseating. What you smell on Galata Bridge depends on where you stand. Looking over at the fishermen bobbing on the Horn, supporting the floating bridge, and still managing to grill a pan-full of mackerel, I almost walked over and bought a snack from my brethren.
When I arrived, Simon and the woman were drinking Tuborg Bira. I don’t know what inspired her, but she was wearing the hood of her caftan. My friend, Ishmir, served us. He handed me the menu, but he was a very good Maître d. Ishmir stood directly across from her and suggested we start with hors d ‘oeuvres.
They ordered Red Caviar in Mayonnaise. I ordered Stuffed Vine Leaves. Of course, when Ishmir suggested fish, she ordered Roe. I ordered Anchovy. But Simon ordered Roast Lamb with Onions, Yuk! Ishmir smiled a lot, but he was a cad: a supreme waiter and a notorious rogue.
For vegetables, she ordered Spinach Tomato. Simon ordered Squash Potatoes, and I ordered Cabbage. They wanted Strawberries for fruit, and I ordered Figs. For dessert, she ordered Yogurt and Egg Pudding. Simon, a Lady’s Navel — a donut soaked in honey — and me, Rice Pudding.
Then we had vodka. She tipped the glass as if it was empty, like her vanity. Simon told Ishmir to give it some color. So Ishmir put a peach on the rim. Suddenly, everything was right. She rested her elbow on the table, her chin in the palm of her hand. Cradling the vodka in her other palm, she started at the bottom of her wish list.
“I want to go to Topkapi Palace.”
Simon smiled the way a jinni would when his wish comes true. “What do you expect to find there?”
“The shadow of God, I don’t know. I just want to go.” She dropped her eyes, and then raised them again.
Simon said, “You want to see the shadow of God? Perhaps we should go to the Sancta Sophia instead. But of course we can go to the Imperial Harem in Topkapi, and feel the shadows of black, emasculated men who controlled the Harem — eunuchs who resembled modern-day pimps without penises. Or the captured, bought, or sold foreign — and often Christian — concubines whose body hair was removed, and then pomaded with henna to prevent perspiration, after it was massaged and scrubbed by slave women too old to be favored, because the Sultan put his handkerchief on the concubine’s shoulder which she brought to his bed at midnight.”
He leaned in to whisper, “A world of bored lesbians or platonic affairs with castrated page-boys. And afterwards, we could dive the Bosphorus,” he pointed east toward Asia, “in search of those weighted sacks that Sultan Ibrahim had two hundred and eighty concubines sewn into. They’ll be upright and easy to find at the bottom of the channel.”
“You know. . .” She lowered the hand that held her chin onto the table, and dug her nails into the palm of her hand. She sipped her vodka before she continued with, “A goalkeeper can catch ‘and’ throw the ball.”
Simon didn’t return her volley. He reached into his pocket for cigarettes.
“Meaning?” He offered her one, but her eyes faded and she shook her head, balancing the rim of the glass on her tongue. She sipped her vodka again. When she spoke, her blue eyes were flambé.
“You can relate the melodrama of emasculated slave drivers, expose the gauze of white bondage in a pleasure dome. You can casually lean into homophobia, and then sink into regret. You can hear voices from the bottom of the channel, and you can suggest that we dive like dreadful Arabs. But you don’t mention that in this center of civilization, in this threshold of bliss, the arched eyebrows of ravaging old men who think it is right and necessary to punish one man for his impudence with the lives of a thousand boys and a thousand girls, a thousand mothers and a thousand fathers.”
When she said “a thousand” her eyes closed, and her lips barely moved. I could hear her heart weep. She leaned across the table into prose.
“Muslims never mention a time when neglected and lascivious Turkish women stole around looking for new loves, shrouded in these habiliments now celebrated as some sort of Islamic affirmation.”
She snatched the hood from her head. With a kiss curl on her cheek she continued, “Whores, whose husbands dreamed about the Imperial Harem, and could never recognize their disguised wives in that garden of paradise.”
I pursed my cigarette between my lips, looked down the bridge toward the Galata Tower, and thought, “Please! Fuck her in the ass!”
Simon’s bottom lip collapsed between his teeth, and when he released it to speak, a white impression remained. His head moved like the pugilist you shadow box, the prized peacock that halts to seduce you. “Is my nose bleeding, goalkeeper?”
Her hands moved across the table towards him. She took one of his hands in hers tenderly. She spread his fingers, used her own to stroke the back of his hand with hers, turned his palm over and held it up as though light would pass through it like alabaster. She talked into it, as if her words would penetrate like sound.
She said, “I saw a man in Seoul, on a gray day. My girlfriend and I had just hailed a taxi. He was with business associates, I guess, I don’t know. They carried armored briefcases, and he was wearing a plush black topcoat. A town car pulled in front of his party when his eyes, the color of the day, watched me, watching him. It was a magnetic moment, with magnetic potential, but I felt my body moving like Niagara toward the opened door of the taxi, and fall inside reluctantly. I left a phantom standing.”
Simon’s bottom lip grew accustomed to his teeth again. He tilted his head far enough to see his reflection in her eyes, and then her hands disappeared between his. White horses straddled the hull, and Ishmir smiled at me, when a glass of tea shifted on his tray.
I followed them through the Imperial Gate, even though I’d been there before. They were easy to trail. After we paid half price for nylons from a street vendor, Simon bought some French vanilla because she liked the decanter. It resembled a flask. But French vanilla didn’t mix with the miasma of death that surrounded the palace: the dark tiny cells, marbled rooms, and iron barred windows belonging to black eunuchs, and the eerie, evil battle-axes and scimitars of the conquered. Or, the surrealism of giant emeralds on the crown of the Topkapi Dagger, like a roman candle carried through the Gate of Felicity by Madonna.
Despite all of that, and the barbaric flower patterns on the walls, and so much gold and diamonds they resembled copper and glass, I smelled French vanilla in this stained-glass heaven, and heard tocks in a room full of clocks like waterfalls. But what I wanted most of all, was to see Simon’s cock between her thighs.
Beneath the delicate balconies were three hundred tiny rooms, and four hundred years of a ravaged Harem bridged by staircases, little courtyards, and pavilions. At the end of the cul-de-sac, I saw the lustrous eyes of the gazelle. While my thoughts shifted from ugly destruction to whet wildflowers in this horribly airy place, she looked satisfied. Then the lights went out!
All you could hear was the hushed noise of silence. The familiar yelps of babies paused for the unfamiliar, but the proverbial blackout would arouse the dead before they wiped sleep from their eyes and magnified the click of her heels rising from clay. I saw her leap into his arms in lackluster headlights, and her bosom brushed his face infrared in taillights.
Toward my voice of gentle direction, a friendly gauge to the door I opened, in a dark stagger they fell to obscurity like me. But I prefer to be forgotten and left to eavesdrop on transitory affairs.
They were two people, interacting on each other. One to conquer like the Arab in the desert; the other to submit, like the Turkish nomad. Unfortunately, it was black in the back of the dolmus like the city, and I was only privy to the promise of pleasure, the sound of pain, the smell of conduction, and the rhythm of breathing.
Unlike the neighbors next door, who desperately moan for us all, in the back of a dolmus sex is existentialism. It is earnest copulation, a period of decline in a carriage drawn by a wild-eyed spooked horse, and I hoped she felt the sharp turn at the corner of the Soup Kitchen of Lady Nilufer in her throat.
We skipped the Sancta Sophia and the Blue Mosque. We circled Istanbul University. When I crossed the Galata Bridge and so many pilgrims dancing in the dark, the electric power line that lay victim to steel-belted radials in the middle of the street swung carefully without resistance, to expose the nightclub in the Galata Tower!
I watched Simon and the woman from a bar stool dance the Fandango. A Jew with a batch of dark curly hair in rings around his head was dented at the crown by a yarmulke. He ordered double shots of Absolut Vodka with the regularity of a dehydrated Arab, and shook his head in time to Ruben Blades’ “El Padre Antonio.”
Over the lullaby of the synthesizer, the Tower buzzed with a chorus of “Muchas gracias” from the last Spanish-speaking Jewish community. When that same synthesizer switched to hot salsa and the Jews were oddballs again, the woman’s body arched, the small of her back was in the palms of Simon’s hands. Her hair hung like strings of yellow ribbon suspended from a merry-go-round. Fixed at the center, she rode the stallion.
Then I felt an annoying finger poke me on the shoulder blade. Of course, when I turned, the offender moved to the other side. I hate that! It was Ishmir. Immediately, he excused himself and sardonically asked, “Affedersiniz, Ingilizee bilen bir kimse merede?”
I swiveled on the stool, and he turned to see what I saw. My fare, without trying, drawing attention like the dominant table in a crowded restaurant. Without turning away, Ishmir searched for his stool. With his hand on the seat, he slowly sat down.
“Guzel . . .” He called her beautiful before his mouth closed and his eyes narrowed. I ordered two shots of viski. I was above lust in a crowd. Instead, I encouraged the love Simon consumed and Ishmir conserved — like any valid voyeur.
In this motley assembly of American infidels, young Turks, Jews, and effendis, Ishmir clearly wanted her. He had no shame. I watched Ishmir once stand in the center of the howling, his erection discovered and affectionately held up for ridicule, Ishmir dropped his pants and revealed a deep-rooted trunk. With his back bowed by his fists, he struck a perfect anatomical pose, a picture of pride among men.
Now, Ishmir watched her through narrowed, schizophrenic eyes, with his nose pressed against the windowpane, a man who has nothing, and no one adored her, like the man Luther Vandross and Martha Wash sang about, and my fare danced. Kirk Whalum’s sax charmed the snake. Ishmir wanted to be the one.
Suddenly, he swerved around and watched them in the mirror behind the bar. Ishmir swigged the viski and then asked in a melodic yet unromantic tone, “Did he nail her?”
“In the back of the dolmus.”
“How?”
“With an overhand knot around her neck-“
“You always lie!” Ishmir cut me off. “I’m not interested in your vivid imagination! What did he do, how did he do it?”
“I’m telling you what I know! If you don’t believe me, ask him!”
“What of her wrists?”
“A surgeon’s knot.”
“Bullshit! That’s too much kinetic energy. She would have to be willing!”
“She was.”
“I don’t believe you! I don’t believe you…” Ishmir shook his head and looked into his empty glass on the bar. I gestured to the bartender for refills. We were silent. Ishmir was disappointed. He swigged the viski again, and slammed the empty glass on the bar.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why was she willing?”
I watched him. Ishmir was a desperate, impatient predator who didn’t know how to take down his prey.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Nothing’s obvious,” he snapped back. “Did she cry out loud?”
“Yes . . . in ecstasy.”
Ishmir swallowed loudly. He motioned for another refill, and looked in the mirror again. Simon and the French Vanilla were sitting at a table for two. Simon’s arm was draped across the back of her chair. She used his thigh to rest her arm, her hand between his knees, her head on his shoulder. He fed her the olive he fished from her drink, and sucked the salt from her lips. Ishmir swigged the viski again.
He set his glass on the bar. With the same hand, he scratched the back of his neck, looked at me, and said, “She’s a whore.“
…. They were loaded. Simon’s arm draped over her shoulders drew her close. They strolled to the bar. She was his center of gravity, until he slung his arms around mine and Ishmir’s necks. He left her like a shallow boat floating behind him. Simon proclaimed in English that he would buy more to drink if we answered a riddle.
“What motivates a woman more than love or pride, country or power, glory or God?” I shifted my eyes from Simon’s to meet Ishmir’s. It was a trick question. I thought of the Sphinx for our reward. Then, in an aria of proper English, Ishmir and I replied, “Man, of course.”
We laughed in perfect harmony. I looked over my shoulder. The truth was never more obvious than the pure expression of vulnerability and betrayal in her eyes; because, I thought, I had betrayed her confidence. I snooped. I peeked. Yes, I stuck my dick in her pie and felt a pang of regret.
We laughed in perfect harmony. The truth was never more obvious than the pure expression of vulnerability and betrayal in her eyes; because, I thought, I had betrayed her confidence. I snooped. I peeked. Yes, I stuck my dick in her pie and felt a pang of regret.
She resembled an Alsatian bitch with that uneven stride, and when we got to the dolmus, she literally crawled inside on all fours. Ishmir saw the fresh pears before Simon closed the door.
I watched Simon curiously. Surely, he wasn’t finished with her yet! He wouldn’t send her home in a taxi . . . !
“We forgot her caftan.” He lit a cigarette, cupping the flame from the breeze, as he walked away.
“I’ll do it!” I thumbed myself repeatedly in the chest. I was afraid to be left alone with her.
Ishmir nudged me and showed me his empty hands, and before I could fill them with my fists, he opened the door and filled them with her ass. Two fresh pears in his hands. He bit one gently, his tongue between his teeth, his arms embraced her and his face disappeared.
She thought he was Simon. She moaned when Ishmir’s hands slipped down and touched the core of her sex. I knew he’d gone too far when I was erect. I reached for the scruff of his neck and missed when he fell inside and covered her on the seat. He started . . . humping her, like lesbians hump virgin lesbians. It was fucking coitus!
They were slender bodies of revolution. Then she screamed the way a little girl screams at the sight of an earthworm. When Ishmir backed off, a wet spot clung to his leg. She bolted out of the dolmus like a mandrill and leapt on him. She was in a violent rage! The skin of his face tore under her nails. She was like the sticky pulp of Oedipus hurled in Jocasta’s face.
She slapped him hard, and harder again before Ishmir grabbed her by the neck with one hand, and parried with the other. That didn’t work! He started choking her and pushed her back inside the dolmus. They smelled like leather. I needed to throw up. Then I realized we were in the leather district of the bridge!
Out of nowhere, while I stood there praying for fresh air and Simon’s return, she stabbed Ishmir repeatedly in the head with the heel of her shoe! He fell on top of her in a convulsive fit. Blood pulsed with every spasm, and zigzagged in a darker red all over my velvet roof and all over her yellow hair-dripping red. I threw up on the curb.
Simon finally returned, and shoved Ishmir to the floor while she kept screaming, “He, he, he . . .” and pointing at Ishmir’s bloody head. She was hysterical! Instead of shaking or slapping her, Simon hid her face in the crook of his neck.
“Shh, shh!” he said anxiously, until she simply trembled violently in his arms, her cries inverted.
“What happened?” he whispered between clenched teeth. I hesitated, trying desperately to separate saliva from acid.
“Talk to me, and speak English!”
I pointed at Ishmir’s head, “He violated her . . .” I choked.
“You watched him violate her?”
My hands wouldn’t speak, “I . . .I . . .I . . .” Simon lunged and punched me fast and hard in the face. I stumbled, my arms slamming on top of the dolmus. I braced myself against a fall on the curb I hurled on. I thought he broke my bloody nose.
“You stupid fuck!” He’s your friend, how could you let this happen?” He pointed his angry finger.
I raised the palms of my hands to fend off his accusations, shaking my head in denial.
…..I pointed at Ishmir. “He forgot that she’s an American!” Then I turned and pointed at her, “And she forgot that she’s in a foreign country!”
…..I tell you all this because I can’t tell anyone else. You see, I helped them excavate an Ottoman gravestone. We tied Ishmir supine around it in square nylon knots and threw him in the Golden Horn. What is life in Istanbul anyway? A world of felicity. Ishmir is in the other.
I see the French Vanilla on the cover of magazines. She has an odd, fixed look in her eyes. The kind of look every man sees when a woman is between his legs on her knees; because, indeed, nothing propels a woman like man, not God, not country, not pride.
“Please excuse me. Ogle yemegi.”
The mackerel has never tasted better. There must be something in the water.
Welcome digital explorers ~ to a thrilling and immersive experience!
In this audio odyssey, you’ll be treated to the captivating voices reminiscent of the legendary Charles Bukowski (as the Narrator), the enigmatic Joaquin Phoenix (as Simon), the ethereal Rooney Mara (as the French Vanilla) and the magnetic Vincent Cassel (as Ishmir).
As you embark on this fascinating journey through the mysterious streets of Istanbul, guided by our unreliable narrator, prepare to be enthralled by the seamless blend of technology and storytelling. So sit back, relax, and let the digital adventure begin!
Prompt: Choose the best verse for a 16 bar Hip Hop poem that God would read with a beginning, middle, and end written like Marshall Bruce Mathers II [EMINƎM]. The greatest lyric of all times. At the end of the lyric, the audience should feel exhilarated – tantamount to a cannabis high replete with subliminal suggestion. Use the following words and phrases…*
In this world of shibboleths and canonical standards
I’m the proxy with a God’s-eye view
A hermitage of thought, my mind a sacred land
Where extortion’s a felony, and Earth is Hell, but this is Heaven
A place where I’m higher than chronic, winners on serotonin and dopamine
A game, a trip, and at the nadir, I’m malleable
No malfeasance can control me, I’m the Sinclair Method
I outed myself and found she’s delicious, a cauldron of desire
Tantamount to a winner’s high, ahead of his skis
Burnishing my position, interconnected with the empirical
In a postmodern world, the theater of imagination
Constitutes a bloody sophisticated art, a masterpiece
Suffering propels me to grand heights, enhancements of man
My magnum opus, a deep dive into the rabbit hole, erudite
My Faustian Bargain, a tenuous balance, gilding the lily
At the crossroads, an esoteric religion of Haitian voodoo
Like Picasso without Gertrude Stein, a pauper without a muse
An aesthetic clinic, a mood stabilizer, a rant and a soliloquy
Socrates’ in the courtyard, a binary world, giddy and bifurcated
An anomaly that I imbue with meaning, objects of desire
A tight ship, slick and glommed, I experience freedom
The standard bearer, implacable, a quest narrative
An eating disorder, a listicle, a forensic mystery
Grist for everybody’s mill, in tandem, pocket casts
Why can’t we see, our eyes are chimera, but we can with these…
Demystifying the unknown, strophe and antistrophe
The libretto of my soul, a soliloquy, a euphemism
The quintessence of my being, copious and yet refined
A kerfuffle, a springboard to greatness, a target of misogyny
Misogynoir, logic can’t explain the mistake, it’s hilarious
AI’s a toy, the paragon of healthy development, esoteric
A rabbit hole, impeccable and lofty, a chaperone-mediated trip
But God will bring down the high and mighty, finding the sweet spot
Socrates in the courtyard, broken, a puppet show
Not mature enough for this conversation, reinvest and capricious
Keen, corresponding data, symbiotic and centennial
Quintessential, souring to new altitudes, skew the norm
Exigent action taken today, on point, plausible deniability
Piccadilly and fault, a Faustian Bargain, ecumenical
The molecular behavior, collective forms of punishment, a rendition
Gratuitous profanity, harbingers of doom, that’s the state of affairs
Whimsy and evolve, revert to the bedrock, epiphenomenal
Some fuck shit, owning a stunning house, melanated people
Quell the dissent, the refrain, an objective metric, ad nauseam
Discursive, the grand nexus of frustration, acquisition fluidly
Poem generated using ChatGPT (Chat Generative Pre-trained Transformer) is a chatbot developed by OpenAI
*Verse like Christopher George Latore Wallace [The Notorious B.I.G.] using the same words and phrases for this assignment [14 pages saved like Found Art] — is Playing Now! Visit Premium Content on Dreamscape.
A fan shouted LET’S GO! The enthusiast is right. Stay tuned for an upcoming funding opportunity for the ITDWTRC App… our very own universe! We are excited to share more details soon about how you can be part of this groundbreaking venture.
Inside the [Dollhouse] with the Red Corvette (ITDWTRC), is a metaverse — in an AI-driven environment. It is a graphic audio with a game component, where you’ll find a metaverse like no other. In this virtual realm, players embark on an odyssey of discovery, encountering SFX embedded in green orbs that lead to diverse environments, immersive sidequests, enticing distractions, engaging scavenger hunts, and clever product placements, all in pursuit of the ultimate goal: finding the Red Corvette from their POV and multi-player environments.
Picture Washington, DC (our prototype for a dynamic city) with its very own Metaverse! With the ITDWTRC App, we’re opening the door to this exceptional realm, drawing inspiration from our distinctive platform and forward-thinking gamification concept. It’s an opportunity to delve into limitless digital adventures and unleash the true essence of any dynamic city… With the ITDWTRC App, we’re on a mission to revolutionize the urban experience, transcending mere safety concerns to create a multifaceted platform that offers an immersive and enriching adventure for users.
DC’s Metaverse beckons, promising an exhilarating voyage into a realm where imagination reigns supreme. Users get lost or skip breezeways, cutscenes, and paths that lead to and through iconic DC landmarks and experiences, such as the bustling ambiance of U Street’s vibrant jazz clubs, the atmospheric charm of historic Georgetown, the architectural splendor of the National Mall, and the immersive energy of the neon cityscape inspired by the nightlife of Dupont Circle. Along the way, they can also encounter a club, a spaceship, an atmospheric house, and a neon city – all activated by SFX (green orbs). Each orb unveils ASMR, AAC, music, and AI-enhanced content, offering both qualitative and quantitative points for discovered elements. This blend of cultural exploration and interactive engagement ensures that every user’s journey is both educational and entertaining.
Beyond its entertainment value, the App carries profound implications for Washington, D.C. By introducing cutting-edge technology and interactive storytelling, it can serve as a powerful tool for tourism, education, public safety and cultural enrichment in our city. It has the potential to attract a new wave of visitors, inspire local creativity, and showcase D.C. as a forward-thinking metropolis. This endeavor aligns with our commitment to embracing innovation and enhancing the quality of life for our residents.
The ITDWTRC application is an untethered experience that spans entertainment, advertising, social media, digital media, fashion, food, tech, gaming, sports, sports betting, beauty, global real estate, shopping, blockchain, NFTs, music, streaming, film, cannabis, spirits, edutainment, and product placement. The game’s conclusion comes when the player successfully locates the elusive Red Corvette, yet the journey itself is the reward — ensuring hours of entertainment that can be shared with family and friends again and again.
Step through the PORTAL into a realm where innovation meets immersion, and experience DC like never before. It’s more than entertainment; it’s the next level social platform that defines the future of digital interaction. Join us as we redefine urban living and revolutionize the social experience. Explore the ITDWTRC Metaverse and discover why it’s the investment opportunity of a lifetime.
Recorded on a smartphone, this trip and the playlist were real… Big shoutout to these lyrical geniuses and dope MCs, for creating the soundtrack that helped me find my way home on January 6, 2021. Thanks!
The Brandy of the Gods… above and beyond barricaded streets.
Our blog ~ EXPLODE – The Writers Environment is a platform for curated and commercial content in an interactive meta-environment… and DREAMSCAPE is the landing. Its an art installation in a digital world…
It’s an immersive ad-free environment that functions like a wikihole — and a literary Pokémon.
DREAMSCAPE is not only a standalone platform but also functions as base camp for the “Inside the [Dollhouse] with the Red Corvette (ITDWTRC) gaming app — that gives users the autonomy to curate their own experiences from their points of view and assign meaning.
When content on DREAMSCAPE tells a story about a beautiful woman swimming in a pool – we want you to see her. We want you to stumble for points on a link you cannot see, fall down a rabbit hole and land in an environment with a beautiful woman swimming in a pool, on the inside of a glass house – in Hollywood Hills…
Like Seth Godin’s Purple Cow — DREAMSCAPE is remarkable because it has to be. Or it’s just another brown cow — an ordinary website — with ordinary content. But Purple Cows need Purple Cows to be Purple Cows. DREAMSCAPE facilitates purple content, purple website design and development, and purple product placement — for purple people.
It is the foundation for curated experiences in an interactive meta-environment that facilitates content and other stories – using digital media and conceptual art that redefines how artists, their audience and visitors experience real and virtual content on several levels. Every paragraph, period, and ellipses is space for discovery.
DREAMSCAPE is a vibe for visionaries — Poets, Writers, Developers, Programmers, Filmmakers, Thespians, Graphic Designers, Artists, Musicians, Directors, Cinematographers, Designers, Educators, Historians, Actors, Conceptual and Performance artists, Photographers, SMIs, VR, WebVR, XR and AI.
It’s what William Gibson described in Neuromancer, “A graphic representation of data plugging your consciousness into a digital world, while watching the physical realm evaporate.”
DREAMSCAPE is where Gibson’s Neuromancer meets Homer’s Odyssey, Basquiat meets Hip Hop, and Hitchcock meets Quentin Tarantino ~ in the one and only interactive meta environment where presentation is myth and “space” is an intrinsic, discrete, and symmetrical experience — for purple people!
WORLDWIDE AUDIENCE REACH >11M FOLLOWERS ACROSS SOCIAL PLATFORMS >354K GENDER F: 47% M: 51% Unspecified: 2% DEMOGRAPHICS 18-24: 41% 25-34: 26% 35-44: 13% 45-54: 9% 55-64: 6% 65+ 5% LOVE DIVINE VIDEO IMPRESSIONS >1M AVERAGE TIME SPENT ON DREAMSCAPE 44.48 sec
Acknowledgement: DREAMSCAPE and the gaming app ITDWTRC benefits humanity as an alternative to social malfeasances e.g., sexism, racism, classism, genderism, ageism, colonialism, colorism, persecution, oppression, violence and subjugation… It is space to dream unencumbered by social impediments – immersed in dopamine and replete with points for discovery. What we experience in RL, we can experience untethered in XR and AI.
The Polyptych Interactive Installationis a web-based literary and musical sensory narrative in an interactive meta environment. The project is an allusion to Alexander Calder’s Homage to Jerusalem, The Mattress Factory in Pittsburg, Marcel Duchamp’s Readymades, Jeffrey Shaw’s The Legible City, and Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s The Gates in Central Park. Moreover, The Polyptychbows to Christo Vladimirov Javacheff who passed away on Sunday, May 31, 2020 at his home in New York.
“Installation art is an artistic genre of three-dimensional works that are often site-specific and designed to transform the perception of a space. Generally, the term is applied to interior spaces, whereas exterior interventions are often called public art, land art or intervention art; however, the boundaries between these terms overlap. Installation art can be either temporary or permanent. Installation artworks have been constructed in exhibition spaces such as museums and galleries, as well as public and private spaces… The genre incorporates a broad range of everyday and natural materials, which are often chosen for their “evocative” qualities, as well as new media such as video, sound, performance, immersive virtual reality and the internet.” Wikipedia
The Polyptych consists of twelve closely interrelated and distinct themes and parts. It is a blending of the viewer’s imagination and artistic renderings — like Walt Disney’s Imagineering, where viewers are the illustrators, architects, engineers, lighting designers, Showrunners, directors and graphic designers — crystalizing conceptually and literally in your mind — where time is irrepressible like a pulse, a beat, and measure of uninterrupted space.
The Installation is a site specific environment using Russian Nesting Doll functionality to structure the linear concept between themes and parts while flirting with computer gamification; to encourage engagement and participation. It functions like a docent, a walk-through assistant, a tour guide or watchtower simply by clicking the stars (below the title) in the blue sky, for the next experience — on trenchpeople.com.
Viewers are encouraged to follow The Polyptych in the order it was conceived or walk-through the environment using the menu and dropdown arrow on Dreamscape to navigate the experience.
Nothing
No pork
No meat
No GMO
No pesticides
No chemicals
No vegetables
No leather
No feathers
No farmers
No pickers
No corn
No food
No work
No prosperity
No friends
No groceries
No sugar
No fashion
No affection
No morgues
No burials
No speculators
No beauty
No makeup
No vanity
No vacations
No restaurants
No music
No movies
No sports
No theaters
No plays
No crowds
No police
No museums
No cable
No concerts
No chaff
No trough
No travel
No cars
No bars
No trucks
No brick
No mortar
No hospitals
No nurses
No doctors
No assistants
No parks
No prisoners
No tickets
No economy
No gouging
No lipstick
No hookups
No intimacy
No strangers
No kisses
No hugs
No love
No metro
No nursing homes
No taxis
No buses
No ventilators
No PPE
No toilet paper
No democracy
No capitalism
No money
No jealousy
No flossing
No vaccine
No schools
No blessings
No immigrants
No refugees
No freedom
No children
No churches
No humans
No handshakes
No greed
No gluttony
No gyms
God
My work explores the relationship between what is real, and what is unreal. With influences as diverse as Yukio Mishima’s Onnagata and 2001: A Space Odyssey. Where words are illusory and freedom is real, and brick and mortar is a wasteland — for mortal dreams and nightmares.
Where categories don’t matter, and you are god… the god of your dreams. My work is a journey – from the perspective of the young prince and princess in Hollywood, Dubai, the Great Caves, and Capote… Where freedom rings supreme and the fiction in your mind comes true — for real.
We launched Dreamscape in a glass cocoon — opaque me and transparent you. Content is buried there — over black people, white people, red people, yellow people, brown people, rich people, poor people, and melancholy. Inside pods power is fetish, and fashion is an avatar. My work explores the freedom to be who we are — dreaming unfettered in space — birds…
*Note: Prose Poem and Literary List (Prosody, Parataxis, Blank Verse, Free Verse, and Found Poetry) based on E Maria Shelton Speller Pinterest Analytics as of June 6, 2019 10:00 PM (EST), for 15 Muse Boards and 5K Pins.
The [Dollhouse with the Red Corvette] is a lateral, vertical, linear, horizontal, and spherical art installation. It is a poesy puzzle for verse and graffiti, with sublime imagery. It functions like a mnemonic, a telltale pastiche for found poesy in a digital world. Some of the pieces fit, and some are misfits — that lead to other immersions… in this stained-glass heaven — this society in the machine…
Overture: Woodstock is an ensemble. There are two voices and the beat in this WIP… the Narrator’s voice, Hitchcock’s, and “That Yoni” by JuseBeats!
In a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock
In his magnum opus
about a world… full of extras
in architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning and more — of her…
He wants
Beddo, Caprino, Dolce Sardo
Zufi, the Saperavi
He nods
I’m thinking
Disappointed… in us!
[There’s no other way to say it — I can’t dress it up]
architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning — and more — of her… virtually surreal
*I’ve toyed with a conundrum, for too long. [Reserved][Reserved] functions like a digital art installation in Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)). I could render [Reserved][Reserved] a mechanism – to catch That Yoni’s beat in perpetuity. I could close the brackets with bars that fills your loins with blood. I could leave redundant emptiness here — like tautology or romanticized art, or structural language — in this bifurcated space, like stars.
I’ve toyed with a conundrum, for too long. [Reserved][Reserved] functions like a digital art installation in Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)). I could render [Reserved][Reserved] a mechanism – to catch That Yoni’s beat in perpetuity. I could close the brackets with bars that fills your loins with blood. I could leave redundant emptiness here — like tautology or romanticized art, or structural language — in this bifurcated space, like stars.
I could invite Poets to fill [Reserved][Reserved] with dope poesy and select a date for submission. However, if we receive one hundred thousand and one couplings, we’d read them… but frankly, why not do, all of the above.
The empty brackets function like missing endings now — lacking only your bylines, pseudonyms, and ghosts — in translatable bars that work in Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)).
Poets make this space immersive. Explode – The Writer’s Environment is an interactive environment — and this is the first foray for interactivity in this community — that links back to you!
Starting August 15, 2017 — let’s finish this poem with the best bars — curated for Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)) here… Bon appétit.
Cordially,
The Chelsea Hotel, Manhattan
PS: No Spam — Balls in the air! An experience for us and them.
We have the solution, information architecture, documentation, literature, and wireframe design for Explode – The Writer’s Environment! Like Da Vinci’s sfumato – you can’t see it, but you know something’s back there!
The information architecture is flat, the wireframe is behind a VR scene/mechanism that looks non-logical for locating functions — but still has consistency for navigating users. Yingqian Jiang “Selina’s” design accommodates content – not just Explode’s content — any content.
To bring the project to fruition — Ms. Jiang and Northeastern University have agreed to a seamless hand-off of this milestone to the Northeastern University’s Experiential Network’s Spring Term 2017 — for ideally — two students:
One Computer Science Student (PHP, HTML, CSS, and JavaScript)
One Game Development Student (make videos interactive)
Selina designed an unprecedented prototype for content delivery. To share the documentation – and absolute vision at this juncture would be premature when we are striving for an immersive dynamic environment, with a game development engine, and a Storyboard to make the website rich and interactive on Go Live. This project is pushed back to the summer of 2017.
Thanks for hanging in here with us! Stand by for updates.
About a Prisoner of Love (Props to Christopher Logue’s War Music)
Look at the smile on my face. I knew you were selfish. Abandoned, you left me on the side of the road. Gone. Put yourself in my place. Left, on the side of the road. Naked. I knew you would own me — broken and falling to pieces — in halcyon swirls, dark storms, and faints. I would let you stand me on my head, spin me like a top, a dreidel — and catch me, before I fell. Then, you said you would sleep with her because, “Why not? It’s not a competition — though you might win. Its not about… us.” That’s balls. CUT!
April 9, 2017
Notes on Manhattan: This is not a Warhol ~ Basquiat Installation. I curated the Opening and a still – not the fucking gorgeous film. While it is lovely — I did not curate Manhattan. Not my composition — not my triptych. This space is for art — for the sake of art — unaltered. It’s Explode: The Writer’s Environment!
To curate content in this space, please contact me.
XN is a new initiative from Northeastern University (NU) that offers graduate and professional students and sponsoring organizations experiential opportunities to collaborate on short-term, real-world projects in the best co-op program in the country, and positions NU as the global leader in experiential learning! Organizations move forward on project-based work and connect with rising professional talent while students gain real work experience and valuable learning opportunities.
Students have a range of skill-sets including digital media and marketing, data analytics, corporate and nonprofit project management, regulatory strategy, communications management and the Creative Digital Solution for a VR/Game-Inspired Concept for Explode – The Writer’s Environment during the Summer, Fall and Winter Terms of 2016!
Details included the Project Description:
Explode – This Writer’s Environment is a Kick Starter Project 2.0. The first launch is what Rita Gunther McGrath calls, “failing by design”. The launch was admittedly, a treatment to direct investors to Explode, as well as a serious foray, to define content while using the Writers Environment as a springboard to other experiences. That unsuccessful project was a lost opportunity, but an intelligent fail. Explode — The Writer’s Environment is space for visionaries — Poets, Writers, Coders, Programmers, Filmmakers, Thespians, Graphic Designers, Artists, Musicians, Directors, Cinematographers, Designers, Educators, Historians, Actors, Conceptual and Performance artists, Photographers, and finally, Virtual Reality Developers and Designers. It is a platform for curated content, in an interactive meta-environment – that pulls and pushes information. The Environment facilitates content and other stories – using digital media for curated art to redefine how artists, their audience and visitors experience real and virtual content. The project details included problems to be solved, goals, and deliverables — scheduled for completion March 2017.
Please stand by. See updates! Thank you for your continued support! Let’s rock and roll!
I sold a rock opus to the best Black rock band on the planet. A band that lost its capacity to dream. Formulaic guarantees skewed their imagination for platinum discs. The male coward covered their lifework, literally. My story reminded them of what ‘rushing’ felt like, how complete, how deep blushing could be obvious. And they bought it, and produced it. And it was good — it was better than good. It was thought provoking and it was an African-American affirmation of our realities and our fantasies — no matter how unrealistic.
Suddenly, they were very significant and the world truly believed, that rock music is black music and black music is everything. Power is aesthetic. Aesthetics is politics and being black is philosophical and our philosophy is phenomenology and being black, is being real.
No Hip Hop could say as much as this rock opus did, ever — no matter how many stories they sampled. So, this black rock band were crowned kings and were exulted, and revered; incandescent icons, the envy of friends, the consumption of man, the image of immortality — like the stained-glass heaven you summon before you close. And they loved me. I was the wick in their candlestick and without me, there was no burning flame. I was the source of their energy. I, was the unstained virgin encamped.
Sooner than anyone imagined, there was nothing more important, than our collaboration. The media was our medium. They stopped referring to me as a writer, and started calling me, a Love Supreme…..
Copyright 2016 by E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Parallel Discussions (In Medias Res) Overtaken by Events
Behind Pushkin’s Coffeehouse, Aristotle Michelangelo and Louis Picasso sat on the remnants of a barge, trading barbs in Ibiza… swinging high top leather sock hip hop sneakers, and creeper boots in blue green virtual water, with Rick Owens’ reflection in the pool, burning fat ones – away from the beautiful ones — in a Period Piece. The Darlings of today’s literati — visionaries during the Harlem Renaissance, play themselves in a satirical throwback in VR.
Louis Picasso: “In RL, it’s 6 P.M. You just got home from work or you work from home in your virtual office. You decide to spend the evening in space! You scan Balmain for your Avatar – dope fashion — with as much audacity as Hype Williams’ black lacquered Keisha in Belly — wearing Versace!
You decide to download your brand new Porsche designed by Porsche and Atari for Microsoft, on the Pacific Coast Highway — Malibu on the left, Pepperdine University on the right, you’re on your way to virtual LA in the fast lane — your thighs are burning. Other avatars and their cars share the PCH too — driving Vipers, Corvettes, the white BMW X6 and you are speeding at 100 MIPS, streaming Coltrane.
Aristotle Michelangelo interjects: “Then you decide to go to BET’s virtual Nuyorican Café in Gotham City for the Open Mike – Saul Williams and Jessica Care Moore are featured (as themselves) tonight. You hand the keys to the valet — pay at the door with your password, sit front row center no matter what time you arrive, sign up to read your poem — because you can start over from the beginning or resume. Gender! Lame. Race is unimaginative in Space. Ethnicity is a brand — at best. The Open Mike is over at 10 P.M. but there is still time to go to Bar Pitti. You walk in and Claude McKay is at the bar in a heated debate with Ralph Ellison about literary ownership — by Netflix.
McKay shouts and then nearly whispers to Ellison, ‘It takes more than creative androgyny to “embody” the opposite sex. The storytelling responsibility of all writers, whether female or male is to fill the void. When a woman creates a man, she must imagine the sensation of “owning” a penis. When a man creates a woman, he must imagine the sensation of “owning” a vagina. It is a void, not a vacuum. A vacuum would imply the all-consuming black hole — the feminization of sex. It is not trained comprehension or chromosomes — it takes pure imagination to get the story straight…’
Louis Picasso: “Then, at Midnight, you blow kisses and wuggles to your friends, and log off. You stand and stretch your back, and your bladder is bursting because you forgot about your biological realities. The television is off; it has been off for weeks. Why watch television when you can be your own audience? Randall Walser said it best, “The filmmaker says, ‘Look, I’ll show you.’ The space maker says, ‘Here, I’ll help you discover.’ We will be our own creators functioning like actors in high culture — tools of the taste public! We will create our own universes — our own planets. We can superimpose our images circa 6 BC – AD 30, and follow Jesus to the Promised Land, witness the crucifixion – and how we feel and what we think is utterly private and without commercials! Because, global messages with common appeal will forever change with today’s technology, the challenge is to make communication visual, images symbolic, and still sell product… I want to propose arcane ideas…”
Aristotle Michelangelo interjects: “I want to develop, manage, and direct vision. My goal is to be where imagination and business are indistinguishable, because imagination without business, and business without imagination is as incongruous as capitalism without consumers… I found a dope quote dog!”
“When, she was still in her teens, well before she met Caesar, Cleopatra already had slept with Antony… though Caesar was fifty-three and she but twenty-three or so she proved ready enough to bed her third Roman. It is said that Cleopatra was a woman of lively turn and enticing talents. She also had a keen sense of the political. That this Roman [Caesar] conqueror had the power to secure the Egyptian throne for her must have added to the attraction she felt for him…Caesar established her in a sumptuous villa across the Tiber, from which she held court, while political leaders, financiers, and men of letters, including the renowned Cicero, danced in attendance.” Michael Parenti
Louis Picasso: I’m reading the same book, and I have a better one!
“In a prologue to Caesar and Cleopatra [George Bernard Shaw] that is almost never performed, the god Ra tells the audience how Rome discovered that ‘the road to riches and greatness is through robbery of the poor and slaughter of the weak.’ In conformity with that dictum, the Romans ‘robbed their own poor until they became great masters of that art, and knew by what laws it could be made to appear seemly and honest.’ And after squeezing their own people dry, they stripped the poor throughout the many other lands they conquered.” Michael Parenti
Aristotle Michelangelo: Shrugged his shoulders unconsciously, “Chez Bricktop in Paris?”
Louis Picasso: Not now. I am having a violent reaction to prescription drugs! My body is like, ‘Don’t put that shit down here again!’ They gave me all this medication for Acute Caesarion whatever — and I took it! Of course, you don’t exhaust the shit. You’re not an idiot. But, what the fuck? Where the weed at?”
Aristotle Michelangelo: I think it would be dope to channel Kerouac’s apology for automatic writing.
“He likened writing to dreaming and fantasizing, as a substitute for life. So, he wrote The Subterraneans, in three days and nights of speed typing energized by Benzedrine — to imitate the rhythm of Bebop like free energy flow, and unrestrained association, to reveal the unconscious… because he wanted to flow from inside out in spontaneous prose!” Dystopia, Explode 2015 2.0
So, here goes… They called her Marnie — behind her back. I was torn. I played with variations of Marnie. Black Marnie. Brown Marnie, Tortilla Marnie. It’s the language of found art. Bansky, Kehinde, Jazz, Hip Hop… They teased each other. Hitchcock’s Margaret, Mary, Marnie, teases Mark, so she could get the combination, to his company safe, and steal the money. She was a Kleptomaniac, a compulsive thief. A killer. She disappears. On the run! He tracks her like an animal, and finds her at a Lodge, riding her horse to the stables. He orders her off the horse, tells her she’ll walk — he’ll ride. He interrogates her. She tells him a bullshit story she can’t keep straight. He calls it, manure! Tells her to start over from the beginning, and this time — tell the truth. Back at the Lodge – he tells her to freshen up, change her clothes so he might take her to the police – she thinks. She does not know… It’s Tippi Hedren in RL! The white woman of a black man’s dreams – when he dreams about white women. Blonde, pearly white teeth and skin — Barbie! Beckie! He tells her, they will return to ‘the house’ and announce they are engaged, would to be married within the week and then cruise around the world. Of course, she thinks he’s “Out of his mind!” He told her, it was either marriage or the police, old girl. Black Marnie. Who would play her?
They get married. Eventually he takes her virginity. She tries to commit suicide. I don’t think I want to go there… Suicide. Who should play Mark? [#nomoreslavestories.] Does he catch her?
Aristotle Michelangelo: Pussy Riot danced in the cathedral — goes to jail, and the artist nailed his scrotum to the Red Square. She’s a prisoner of love. That kind of love makes me uncomfortable, racked, and anguished like a pet must be around possessive people. The energy is ignitable like the choice between blowing up and letting go. I don’t want to belong to anyone. But, what do I know about love?
Louis Picasso: Black people don’t like black people. That’s why we’re in this — hole… barrel, bucket, duck it, fuck it… We know it’s true. Listen to the tonal center of this beat!
Aristotle Michelangelo: In sixty revolutions a minute, if it’s not organic, I can’t get with it. Hate is not organic. Hate is a social construct. I want to live the life I swam to the egg for… A social construct is like zoon pushed to the egg, by stronger swimmers behind it. It’s still goal niggaz. I want an organic experience on this gridiron. A certain freedom, mere man can’t give, conceive or contrive. I want freedom Divine. You want to be free — you have to fuggin’ work for it. Zufi?
Aristotle Michelangelo: You need money, software and rigs in the virtual world. Bombs are obsolete. Race and gender is a pastiche — game challenges for points.
Louis Picasso: Beauty and power is iconography and homely stamps are hiccups – and brick and mortar is a path to experience the destruction of daredevils and matadors — in coliseums of pestilence and poverty – empirically.
Aristotle Michelangelo: Why go there? When, life is a perfect dream in a virtual world.
Louis Picasso: IJS. Get on board with — evolution. Evolution is not physical space. It’s the diamond life in our heads on a loop. Its VR not the moon…
Aristotle Michelangelo: I love wearing the mask! You can’t see my countenance — in La La Land, my eyes may smile. My lip may curl up or down… I’m an introvert; an INTJ — is that Caprino?
Louis Picasso: Now that Juneteenth is a federal holiday, it will be impossible to ignore slavery in America… Why are some Black Americans worrying about slavery in America being taught in schools? The horse is out of the barn! Instead of embracing Juneteenth and all that it implies… Black Americans are WHINING and using the language of slaves, “they won’t, let us, allow us, give us and get…” Instead black Americans are still looking the other way when a black man drags a black woman by her hair [DC], and black people are murdered by black people in Chicago – for giggles. June 19, 2021 marks the day, that Black America must acknowledge that ‘we’ are no longer slaves and assume responsibility — that’s what freedom is.
Copyright 2016, 2018, 2020 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast rewritten or redistributed without permission.
It happened at a Springboard Party… She barely glanced at me. Looked at my woman like… Her locs were in a ponytail — they have to be down her fucking back… when our friends shouted at the screen, “The Screening Room. The furthest found.”
Copyright 2015, 2016 by E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
“I think women artists begins to pay attention to what people expect from them, as opposed to what they are searching for within themselves. It’s pretty deadly.” Euphonic 7 “The Artist”
