at the bottom of this story I’ve placed a small basket of songs. they are a collection of works made by musicians who risk prison, violence, or exile for their art. may their voices persist here.
***for backstory of my flea market booth, click here***
Under the fuggy corn leaves of the tamales, my opossum showed its pink nose and underbite. It’s been cockier lately, wandering out of its shadows and sticking its tufts of fur into disarmed pockets of peace. Maybe it’s the growing contrast between the hot sun and the frigid ocean, how the overcast thickens above us and stews everyone into a giddy chowder. I wish I could fall in line and obey the weather’s subscription, but my opossum keeps feeling more outgoing.
I ordered two pollo tamales while Mace insisted on nopales, which required the tamale lady to abandon her post for a moment. As we waited, a plump woman beside us ate off her styrofoam plate. Between bites she asked if we’d found anything good at the flea market. Mace’s tale wagged as he happily announced that we actually operate booths in the markets. Mace told her the whole story of what he used to sell, what he sells now, and what he plans to sell. The plump lady ate that as well. As she opened up the corn leaves of her next tamale, she turned to me and asked what I sell at my booth. That’s when my opossum slowly climbed up my trunk and poked its ugly head out from my shirt. Grabbing its scruffy body, I pulled it out and handed it to her.
My opossum is evasive and unglamorous. Its claws make stick on pavement noises. It knows what it is. If people have problems with its ugliness, it’s only problems of their own. She didn’t know what to do when I handed it to her. She held still (smart, because any false or especially reaching move makes it play dead). Then, with the thud of a soaked sponge, my opossum plopped into her tamale plate.
I told her I sell shelves of acid and cadavers and sight, that I have crates of secret extractors, filled with things capable of quartering bodies as well as reforming them, that I have treasures cached away in chests, things never to be bartered for.
She still looked down, staring at my opossum in her plate. That is when Mace asked me why I’m such an asshole. And that is when I took my opossum off her plate and placed it back inside my shirt.
When we received our tamales, Mace and I walked back to my booth. We ate them on the back couch, letting the steam of the cooked masa and corn leaves fill up the spaces between the trinkets.
I wanted to tell the plump lady that I sell and present art, that I use my booth to promote and celebrate various forms of expression, but I could see how she would project my booth in her mind, and it disgraced my little fractal square. I had no choice but to fight ugly with ugly and unleash my opossum on her.
I took the wax paper wrappers and our paper bag and tossed it behind the couch. Mace doesn’t understand the use of my critters yet so he still sat silently. Somebody came in and picked out some math rock albums. I lit an incense. Manny poked his head in and gave us a quick hello.
After the market calmed, I eventually retrieved a weave basket from one of my chests. I cradled it in my arms as I carried it over to Mace. He waited a long time after I handed it to him. In the silence, I heard seagull’s wings splash through the thick overcast skies above. When he caved and asked me what it was, my opossum crawled back from underneath my shirt and slowly slinked out onto our laps and laid its ugly head over our knees.
I told Mace what this basket holds. I told him it contains sight, eyeballs, the ability to discern the complex world. Mace thumbed through the basket and the various songs and looked back at my opossum. Its tongue flicked between its small yellow teeth.
I told Mace it’s the type of sight that gets people killed or imprisoned. Stroking the straw fur of my opossum, I told him its music that refuses to hide truth for charm. And I feel compelled to protect it just in case the evil succeeds.
Mace kept thumbing through them. My opossum slinked down off the couch and crawled. He asked me if he could guard them for a little while, give the sight a listen. I nodded. He stood up, cradling the basket as he left.
A pink tail stuck from out behind the bookshelf. I watched as it flickered and slapped gently against the rug. It then curled and traced the bookshelf’s edge before slowly retreating into the darkness. As it disappeared, the red ring around the incense glowed.
Below are the contents of the basket.
Myanmar traditional folk music
This is an example from before the dictatorship. It is currently illegal in Myanmar to play or publish this type of music. The artist keep it alive by either performing in exile or by playing in secret.
Russian Anti-war music
Making this type of music in Russia today risks imprisonment or disappearance
example of another Russian artist, Naoko, singing anti-war songs and getting arrested:
A freedom/anti-government song from China by the artist lowsOn
Artists creating this type of music risk imprisonment and often disappear altogether.
Traditional folk music from Afghanistan
Music of any kind is no longer permitted in the Taliban led Afghanistan. Traditional folk music like this is under threat. Only artists in exile and in secret still perform.