Over the IPR comes the science fiction of our lives that we know as fact, intermittent impossible broadcasts detailing (and peopling) the apocalypse.
A person keeping logs doesn’t want to write too fancy.
What we hear when we tune our tuners is any kind of thing; there are so many different kinds of radios now.
IPR broadcasts never come from just one place; the Intuitive Public Radio is about how we tune and what we tune to — more than any central broadcasting source or particular content.
If we are the Intuitive Public, we are listening intuitively.
Our radio goes out over all radios (including the radios we don’t usually think of as radios). Any minute, we can say something meaningful to one another.
Every platform might be the one, tonight, syndicating our IPR.
Where did our tuner land most lately? This last week, I listened to Medicine for the Resistance and Supporting Families Impacted by Incarceration with Aisha Francis. It was precise, important nourishment. Books we read as kids pop into our heads; if we choose to share the experience, that’s our radio, too. This one thought has been gracing you over and over, saving your life, and you keep thinking about telling it to someone. You walked past a painting on the wall, and it moved you. You had a brief exchange with a stranger on the street. I was stilled and awoken by The Outsiders podcast, about homelessness on the West Coast United States, produced by KNKX Public Radio and The Seattle Times’ Project Homeless. (I listened from beginning to end, unable to tune away.)
“I was a science fiction writer…” is the echo through the space that the person exists in, if that’s what we are — people? People, I think. “Imagine what you think you might be looking at,” she (or he or they continues). “It feels like a story someone’s telling you to entertain you, and then it turns out to be true. You don’t know how deep the truth of it goes — it seems dangerous to assume — and at the same time, you can’t help but assume. Knowing that you are making assumptions that steer you zig-zag and awry — that’s how you must navigate. Upside-down, inside out, sidewise.”
There are spectacles, long on a nose, and a longer gaze across them. “Writing science fiction,” the voice repeats. “But specifically, food. I seemed to notice, more and more, and in this decidedly science fiction world… I needed to write about food.
“Not food only, and not food in the usual way, but digestion and the nature of food.
“Who is our food, and who are we food for?”
The voice has paused, now.
You’re not sure what to do, but you realize there is something going on. If you wait it out, perhaps it will reveal itself?
“Neonosh is a creative tea nosh with a focus on safe meals, emergent culture, and social music. Neonosh Pittsburgh promotes community food security through co-created communications, resilience support for families, and artfully sustainable food systems.
Neonosh Pittsburgh host Max Morris shares her notes each week via digital publication or Internet radio broadcast, with support from Gut Media, Intuitive Public Radio, and Bridge Family Group.
Neonosh itself is a mezze meal offering many different small plates — ambient audio samples, community commentary, bitesize PDF zines.
Neonosh gatherings (shared meals) are pre-recorded with collaboratively produced multimedia content, sometimes broadcast live. Contact email@example.com to share your thoughts, creations, food, art, or music; taste a little something new; discover what nourishes you.”
“Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start writing!” Do you remember this, too?
The first “Hello world!” and then the second, twenty-second, or hundred-and-second repetition for an explorer learning to set up WordPress installations is meaningfully ambient. The ambient meaning exudes: This is a world in which you can build something — say something — change something — become something new.
How long did we ever pause to wonder if this were true?
As we have digested our lives, we’ve found the components we’re digesting to be something frequently different from what we thought we’d be digesting, Sometimes we have eaten one another’s lives and never knew we were doing it. (Sometimes, we did know. What was the difference? How could a person tell?)
In our digests, we want to be kinder. We notice the ingredients that strip our souls out through brittle bones of aching chests and we notice when food, family, and community make us stronger. We feel when there is healing amidst us; we feel when we are being wasted away.
Meeting challenges with courage, creating resilience together, more than ever, we get to choose.