Giant Steps Press

11/01/2025

𝓓𝓘𝓐 𝓓𝓔 𝓛𝓞𝓢 𝓜𝓤𝓔𝓡𝓣𝓞𝓢: 𝓛𝓞𝓢 𝓜𝓤𝓔𝓡𝓣𝓞𝓢 𝓝𝓞 𝓜𝓤𝓔𝓡𝓔𝓝

In Mexico, 𝗗𝗶𝗮 𝗱𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘀 𝗠𝘂𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗼𝘀 was never about ghosts returning from the grave. It arose from a long continuum of Mesoamerican cosmology; particularly the Mexica vision that death is not negation but transformation. The Aztec goddess 𝗠𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗰𝗮𝗰𝗶𝗵𝘂𝗮𝘁𝗹, guardian of the underworld, presided over rituals honoring the continuity of existence. When Catholicism arrived, these observances merged with All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days, creating the modern festival we know: syncretic, layered, and deeply philosophical.

𝗥𝗼𝘀𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗼 𝗖𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘀 (1925–1974) inherited this worldview through both history and intellect. A novelist, poet, and diplomat from Chiapas, she reframed the ritual of remembrance as a political and linguistic act. Her essays in 𝘔𝘶𝘫𝘦𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯 argued that erasure — of women, of Indigenous voices, of the poor — was a social death to be reversed through speech. In her poems, resurrection happened not in heaven but in articulation: to speak was to re-exist.

For Castellanos, language was an ofrenda — not a flower on an altar but a testimony of presence.

❝ 𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛; 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. ❞

Her legacy recasts Día de los Mu***os as something more radical: the insistence that no one, once named, can be erased again.

***os

10/31/2025

🎃 𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢: “𝔞 𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔫” 👻

On Halloween night, our series steps from the archives into the imagination. A Ghost in His Own Skin inhabits that liminal city-space where the spectral becomes flesh and the living turn translucent.

❝ 𝐼 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ. ❞

In this tale from 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, a man from Punim County hides beneath the floorboards of Death’s own home, clutching the arrow fated for him. As he listens to the footsteps above—those of the archer and his doomed wife—the story unfolds as a haunting meditation on fear, survival, and the ghost each of us carries within our skin.

📖 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵: 𝘚𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘮’𝘴 𝘞𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥 & 𝘌𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦 — 𝗔𝗩𝗔𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗡𝗢𝗪: https://tinyurl.com/4nr9a98h
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𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙿𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚖 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚈𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗: 𝙸 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑.

𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚞𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚅𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚊𝚔 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜, 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙸 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍.

𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚙. 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖, 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗, 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗, 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚜. 𝙻𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜, 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍.

𝚁𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝙸 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎, 𝚊 𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙. 𝚃𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛—𝚒𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢! 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚃𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎: 𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝙸 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔. 𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖, 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕.

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝, 𝙸 𝚜𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚎𝚊, 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝙸𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌, 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝, 𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚐 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎.

𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚜, 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜. 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑’𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛; 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜. 𝚃𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝚆𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍? 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝙸’𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛. 𝙸𝚏 𝙸’𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚜. 𝙰 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕’𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝚂𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.

𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝, 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗, 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚜.

𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛. 𝙴𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎! 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝? 𝙸’𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙿𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚖 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙸 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚊 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗, 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑.

10/28/2025

💀 𝙋𝙊𝙀’𝙎 𝙁𝙄𝙉𝘼𝙇 𝙈𝙔𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙔: 𝘼 𝘾𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙇𝙀 𝙄𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘿𝘼𝙍𝙆

❝ 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑣𝑎𝑔𝑢𝑒. 𝑊ℎ𝑜 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑠? ❞ 💭
— “𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝑩𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒍” (𝟏𝟖𝟒𝟒)

On an October night in 1849, Edgar Allan Poe was found wandering the streets of Baltimore, delirious and dressed in another man’s clothes. He was taken to Washington College Hospital, where he slipped in and out of consciousness, calling for a mysterious ‘Reynolds.’ Four days later, he died: alone, at 40 years old.

The cause? Still unknown. Perhaps, simply Death returning the favor to its most loyal chronicler.

Poe’s life was infused with the gothic, his mind haunted by beauty & ruin, its corridors echoing with obsession and dread, but his final act remains the most mysterious chapter of all. The man who gave us 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘭-𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘜𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳, and 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘷𝘦𝑛 became, in death, his own last unsolved tale.

As the veil thins this Halloween, we raise a candle to literature’s restless spirits: those who walked the boundary between art, life, and afterlife.

10/25/2025

𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐒, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒: 𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 & 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 (𝗡𝗬𝗖):
With the final debate behind us, the real act begins. 𝙀𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙮 (Sat, Oct 25) and runs through Sun, Nov 2. 𝙀𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝘿𝙖𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙏𝙪𝙚, 𝙉𝙤𝙫 𝟰.

𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲: We just published “𝘍𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘳𝘴, 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘵,” a compact mini-syllabus on power, image, and the role the city & those running it play in it. Give it a quick read now; then take that lens with you to the booth.

𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝗶𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀:
The last mayoral general (2021) drew about 1.15 million ballots: roughly 23.39% turnout of registered voters. That’s 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑟 New Yorkers deciding the city’s storyline for everyone else. We can write a better chapter.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲:
This is your chance to set the city’s next four years: on housing affordability, migrant services, climate resilience, transit reliability, and public safety. Of course, the decisions made now shape core urban life, but they also decide whether libraries stay open on Sundays, small presses get funded, school book budgets grow, arts grants are given, and cultural spaces survive enough to host the next launch / poetry slam night.

𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲:
📆 𝑉𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑁𝑜𝑣 4⃣. Make a plan, bring a friend.
🗳️ 𝐹𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑒 via this link: https://vote.nyc/page/find-your-poll-site

10/24/2025

𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐒, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Cities are governed by policy, but imagined through stories. In the run-up to NYC’s mayoral vote, this mini-syllabus pairs fiction and nonfiction to examine power, image, turnout, and the institutions that make culture possible. Not a pitch, a prism: lenses to read the city more clearly before you help write its next chapter.

𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗:

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑽𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔 — 𝑇𝑜𝑚 𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓𝑒
🖍️ Money–media–law collide in 1980s NYC; politics becomes theater with citywide consequences.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒓: 𝑹𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝑴𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝑵𝒆𝒘 𝒀𝒐𝒓𝒌 — 𝑅𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑡 𝐴. 𝐶𝑎𝑟𝑜
🖌️ A definitive anatomy of how unelected power, wielded through authorities and bonds, remade NYC’s parks, bridges, and highways, often at the expense of neighborhoods.

𝑹𝒂𝒈𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 — 𝐸. 𝐿. 𝐷𝑜𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑤
🖍️ NYC/New Rochelle, early-1900s: a collage of real and invented lives—Houdini, Emma Goldman, J. P. Morgan, Henry Ford—where race, class, immigration, and celebrity capitalism collide; history rendered as sharp, unsentimental montage rather than nostalgia.

𝑩𝒊𝒈 𝑩𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒔𝒐𝒏, 𝑪𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒈𝒐, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑰𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆 — 𝐷𝑜𝑢𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑠 𝐵𝑢𝑘𝑜𝑤𝑠𝑘𝑖
🖌️ Chicago as a case study in spectacle-first populism, where ethnic-bloc politics and media manipulation show how branding can eclipse governance.

𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒍 𝑩. 𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑷𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝑷𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 — 𝐿𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑁. 𝑀𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑒
🖍️ Cleveland, 1967: the first elected Black mayor of a major U.S. city and the coalitions that shifted urban power.

𝑩𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑨𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆 — 𝑅𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑡 𝐷. 𝑃𝑢𝑡𝑛𝑎𝑚
🖌️ The classic on declining social capital and civic association; essential for understanding turnout gaps, trust, and why institutions like libraries and neighborhood groups are the scaffolding of democracy.

𝑨 𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 — 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑜𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝐷𝑟𝑒𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑟
🖍️ A candid look at big-city governance as a bargain between machine politics and public virtue, showing how private appetites warp public duty.

10/20/2025

𝓗𝓞𝓦𝓛 𝒂𝒕 𝟕𝟎: 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑷𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅

Seventy years ago this month (October 7, 1955), in a converted auto-repair shop on Fillmore Street, something wild and uncontainable broke loose.

Allen Ginsberg stepped up to the mic at the Six Gallery in San Francisco, clutching his typewritten pages, looking more like a schoolteacher than a rebel poet.

Then he began:
“𝐼 𝑠𝑎𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑦𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠…”

Jack Kerouac shouted “Go!” and Ginsberg did, his voice a storm that refused to stop. The audience sat stunned as the words came like thunderclaps: raw, unapologetic, loud.

That night, 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘭 cracked open the American psyche. It tore through the lacquer of postwar perfection, exposing the machinery beneath: minds eroded by madness, beauty stifled under the weight of order. It wasn’t rebellion for its own sake; it was the sound of truth finding its lungs.

Within a year, 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘖𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴 would be published by City Lights Books in San Francisco, sparking an obscenity trial that ultimately expanded the boundaries of free expression in the United States. The court declared the poem “of redeeming social importance;” and with that, poetry itself regained its right to be dangerous.

“𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑥 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑢𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑚 𝑏𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑠𝑘𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑢𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛?” — Ginsberg’s cry against conformity, repression & spiritual starvation still resonates, echoes today.

Seventy years on, the echo hasn’t faded. It’s only changed frequency. From coffeehouses to open mics, from mimeographed zines to pixel screens, the howl keeps morphing, keeps breaking form. It’s every voice that refuses to go quiet. Every artist who still believes that words can rattle walls, unmask gods, and set a heart on fire.

⚡️Read the full poem via this link: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49303/howl

10/17/2025

𝗦𝗨𝗕𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗢𝗣𝗘𝗡

🍂ᴄᴏᴏʟ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ: ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ-ɢᴏ & ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ🍂

♦️ 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩:
Fall does not end the story; it changes its state. Trees release their leaves. That does not mean the leaves are dead; it means they are becoming something else—mulch, dye, tannin, paper, soil, memory. Create into that passage. Offer a moment in which letting-go begins a becoming. Your “leaf” may be literal or metaphorical: a habit, a mask, a city block, a language, a photograph, a promise. Show the downstream life of what falls: how it stains, feeds, composts, or seeds what comes next.

This is an open call for voices exploring change, release, and renewal — in any form your work takes.
Poetry, prose, song, image, or reflection — all are welcome.

📩 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙤 𝙎𝙪𝙗𝙢𝙞𝙩:
• 𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘭: [email protected]
• 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦: COOL FRONT — [Your Name]
• 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦: October 31

10/12/2025

check GSP's new website:

Words That Strike. Pages That Transform.

09/11/2025

“𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟗/𝟏𝟏 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐬”

Today, Giants Steps Press turns the spotlight to the unseen honor of maintenance. In “The Pool Cleaner: Cleaning the Reflecting Pools at the 9/11…,” you’ll meet James Maroon, whose nightly routine is an essential act of respect.

​​In this touching and quietly powerful video, a dedicated custodian cleans the reflecting pools at the 9/11 Memorial — labor that might feel invisible but is incredibly symbolistic. These pools, positioned precisely where the Twin Towers once stood, embody both absence and remembrance.

Every night, Maroon ensures the surfaces remain pristine, enabling visitors to find stillness, even in the city that never sleeps. The reflecting pools, designed by architect Michael Arad, bring profound meaning to that stillness: water flows into deep voids that, by design, can never be filled; reminding us of the lives lost, the emptiness that remains.

Beneath the calm, a sophisticated engineering system recirculates tens of thousands of gallons of water, filtering and returning it, even as freeze-resistant systems keep it flowing through winter. In this convergence of care, design, and symbolism, we’re reminded that memorials aren’t just about what’s built. They’re about what’s preserved, day in and day out.

▶️ 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞:

James Maroon is part of a crew that cleans the two square reflecting pools which stand on the site of the Twin Towers as part of the 9/11 Memorial.Read more ...

09/07/2025

🌧️📚 𝚁𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝 📚🌧️

The sky is gray, the streets are wet, and it’s the perfect day to curl up with words that carry you elsewhere in your favorite reading nook. A few ideas for your rainy-day stack:

☂︎ 𝘊𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 by Fyodor Dostoevsky — guilt, rain, and redemption.

☁︎ 𝘔𝘳𝘴. 𝘋𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘺 by Virginia Woolf — a single day, layered with memory and rain-soaked London streets.

☂︎ 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘈𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘺𝘴 by Ivan Bunin — a collection of short stories by a Nobel Prize-winning author. A meditation on love, longing, and fleeting beauty. Every single piece is a short masterpiece, guaranteed to elevate you spiritually.

☁︎ 𝘓𝘦𝘴 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 by Victor Hugo — sweeping, rain-drenched drama of justice and mercy. If the classic seems like too much of a stretch for today, read the story of 𝘎𝘢𝘷𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘩𝘦 in it.

Rain slows the city down — maybe that’s its gift. What’s the book you’ll reach for today? ☕✨

09/04/2025

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞 · 𝐍𝐨. 𝟕: 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐄

🎭 𝑨𝒓𝒕𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌: 𝑫𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒚 𝑷𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒐𝒏

𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘸𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵.

Texas Hill Country visual artist Dusty Pendelton captures a lone cowboy wiping his brow, heat shimmering off the land as he scans the horizon for a lost horse. It’s a fitting close to our It’s Hot Where I Live series—an image of endurance, humility, and the stubborn hope to keep looking.

Our hearts go out to everyone in the Texas Hill Country still searching and recovering from the heat-driven flooding of the Guadalupe River. May repair come quickly, and may neighbors keep showing up for one another.

🅃🄷🄰🄽🄺 🅈🄾🅄 to all the writers, artists, and musicians who made this series burn bright. Stay tuned—new GSP series ahead.

09/03/2025

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞 · 𝐍𝐨. 6

“𝙉𝙚𝙬 𝙔𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙩” — 𝙏𝙤𝙣𝙮 𝘼𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙤 (𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣-𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙)

Our heat series keeps asking what heat does to memory and music. Here’s the sixth feature – a selected 🅢🅤🅑🅜🅘🅢🅢🅘🅞🅝 from the community.

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞
Bronx, 1970s: hydrants misting into the sky, stoops thumping bass, stickball in fever air, subways with no breeze. Tony Adamo’s spoken-word ode runs the boroughs—Harlem to Jones Beach, stadium lights to fire escapes—then lands on a genesis moment: a hot summer when block parties, basements, and a DJ named Kool Herc helped set Hip-Hop in motion. It’s a city heat index scored to jazz, boombox, and memory.

𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮
🔹“Yo brother, it’s hot out here!”
🔸 “Man, let’s breathe together—this is it.”

𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤.
—

𝙉𝙚𝙬 𝙔𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙩
Yo, listen up, I’m painting a picture in the heat of the day,
’70s in the Bronx had many special days—
·
Blocks slick with summer heat, where the sun holds high,
kids spill laughter like water from a hydrant’s misting high in the air,
and they all yell each other’s name:
𝘠𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦!
·
Happy fantasies of spray and play,
tagging walls with chalk lines, dreams in bright array.
New York stoops hum with basslines, a boom box plays on the corner—
you don’t mind the heat from your dancin’ feet.
𝘔𝘢𝘯, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦… 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘦.
·
Jazz and Hip Hop collide like thunder on hot pavement in Harlem’s way.
In New York, the stoops of summer hold love, pain, and secrets.
𝘔𝘢𝘯, 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘈𝘊 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺.
·
Shade trees whisper history as pigeons learn to fly,
dominos clack in the shade of an old oak’s spine.
Playing the numbers, dancing on a slate—OTB money won,
now you have the bread for that hot date.
·
𝘔𝘢𝘯, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘵, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺,
but a six-pack of Black Label buried in ice
will cool you off when you be throwin’ street dice.
·
Lovin’ Spoonful memories flow on the breeze—
𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘪𝘵𝘺, a rhythm you feel with ease.
It’s summer hot in the city building, which holds the heat.
Sleeping on the fire escape at night might cool you down,
but the street noise keeps you awake.
·
A gypsy cab hums by, painted blur in the glare.
City kids having fun at summer camp,
and some cool off at Jones Beach.
·
Stay cool, keep movin’
—stickball on, keep the fever alive:
hit after hit, swing after swing, dreams survive.
No air in the subway lines 1, 2, 4, 5, and 6—
Bronx to Manhattan, where the stories mix.
·
Sweat beads drip in the train tunnels’ bowels,
people on their way to somewhere and nowhere
on a smokin’ red hot summer day in NYC in the 1970s.
·
A cold chocolate Yoo-hoo to quiet the thirst
that remains in your throat all day.
Night games glow under stadium lights’ electric kiss—
Yankees and Mets fans feeling the summer nights’ heat in the stands.
·
Italian ices melt on tongues, red and bright.
Bronx summer memories flicker in the neon night.
So let’s hear it for the five boroughs—
Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, and Staten Island.
·
And how ’bout Mayor Lindsay’s and Beame’s hot summer headlines
that grabbed you in the heat as 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 had its say.
·
The hot burnin’ summer brought Hip-Hop to the streets—
so dig, the party Bronx basements where Hip-Hop was born
on August 11, 1973.
·
DJ Kool Herc, the Father of Hip-Hop,
who pioneered the sound and techniques of Hip-Hop of today—
he was the first to spin the music of Hip-Hop
on a summer night’s heat.
·
𝘔𝘢𝘯, 𝘭𝘦𝘵’𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳—𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵.
I need a hot tub full of ice on Arthur Ave
so the Block Party can jam on this wet, humid New York Night.