Each morning in KL begins with the songs of the cranes. Not the organic ones, but those mechanistic beasts which perch upon the numerous towers which make up the city’s skyline that has the sort of elegance and style of Boris Johnson’s hair.

It is difficult to imagine the now alternate universe where our lives proceeded uninterrupted by Covid-19.

Don McLean’s American Pie was the 1971 song that everyone knows, but few know all the lyrics to. Except for my dad, who knew every word.

A truly heart-breaking display of the tragedy of the commons plays out on the centralised table displays of your local book shops and across the entirety of airport bookstores.

Climate change. Truly this is the fundamental struggle of our age, whether or not we are willing to accept it. Yet here I sit, before my laptop. My brain is racked. I am defeated. What more can I say of global warming that the healthily grown tome of postnormal times writing hasn’t already touched upon. What cleaver path remains uncharted?

Like a film, Afrofuturism itself began in sound – music. To this day, it still remains a staple of many black musicians, even if not as overt as in the case of Sun Ra.

It is such a strange word. Even by English standards. Swastika. This odd combination of consonants and vowels makes for something almost as startling as the symbol itself.

My seat was in Iraq. It sounded like as good a place as any for me to colonise my Made in the US of A posterior for the evening’s performance. I cannot believe this act of irony was the product of chance alone.

How do we navigate these turbulent postnormal times of contradictions, complexity and chaos, of uncertainty and ignorance? What values do we need to pilot our way to a sane and humane new paradigm?