Transcript
Health Expert (0:00)
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Jamal (0:32)
Amazon presents Jamal vs. The Shih Tzu Descending from the Gray Wolf Shih tzus live by their own untamed primal code of not giving a single shih tzu. But Jamal shopped on Amazon and bought dog treats, chew toys, and 32 ounces of carpet cleaner. Hey, Jamal, you've been promoted to pack leader. Save the everyday with deals from Amazon.
Major Jackson (1:02)
Hey, it's me, Major Jackson. We're reaching into the archive to bring you some of our favorites. Here's one from Ada Limone's tenure as host. Her thoughtfulness and deep love of poetry made her time on the show very special. I hope you enjoy this selection from the Archives.
Ada Limon (1:29)
I'm Ada Limon, and this is the Slowdown. When I was a kid, I loved falling asleep to the sound of the television in the living room. I liked it most because it meant something. Someone was up watching the world, so I didn't have to. The trouble of the world was unfolding on the news, and I could sleep through it. There was something both comforting and eerie about it. A world that never shuts off. As I've aged, I find myself reaching for the remote to constantly push, mute, or turn the TV off when the news gets too loud and terrible. I wonder now how it changes us, the images, the sounds, all that obsessive watching. In today's tender poem, we see how the TV becomes almost another character in a multi generational family. This poem explores how the events of the news and the way we let the world into our homes can define not just who we are, but how we love. Golden Age by Chris Santiago it used to embarrass me when my father talked back to the TV since my mother died. He doesn't talk anymore, but falls asleep in wombed by voices, anchors, procedurals, the invisible labor of Foley artists. My teacher gasped when the Challenger exploded on live tv. We had to wait for the set to warm up from a white hot pinprick of light. It was so heavy, the librarian warned it could crush us. We watched as a column of smoke split in two gasp comes from Old Norse geispa and shares a base with brag, bluster and babble. My second week of teaching kindergarten, a girl came in and said she saw a plane on TV fly into a tower. By the end of the day, a colleague had rushed in and announced that we started to bomb Afghanistan. We are still bombing Afghanistan. My father turns the volume up to 77, 78 each morning. I have to crank the volume back down. His hearing loss could be described as severe to profound. Still, he must feel bathed in those shifting backdrops, those faces, profound from the Latin for before the bottom, in order to remember what to capitalize in McAuliffe. I think of how it contains the chemical symbol for gold. The noise of the television soothes everyone on the other side of the house. It tells us someone is watching, but not watching us, not the room where we can finally make love undetected. I was taught to be silent when praying. She was taught to pray out loud, the way our sons threw up their hands. When we could solve any unhappiness by lifting them up, they would say, up. The crew of the Challenger were likely conscious the whole way down. I want to lay like this a little longer before getting up, before erasing all traces of intimacy. Sometimes I go back out and pour my father a finger of Jura and he pretends he hasn't been sleeping. I've been doing this since I was a boy, sneaking out after bedtime and over my father's shoulder, watching the Cold War unfold. The atomic number for gold is 79. God, he says, when there is a protest, a wildfire, a shooting God, as though there were someone else in the room.
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