To make community radio is to speak/listen/organise. This teaches me things:
1.    When I listen:

            to tune into a conversation is to bear witness to connection; the making and interweaving

            of relation. To listen in feels like an intrusion and a sacredness all at once; airwaves wash

            over me again and again and again, shattering any possibility that I could be alone, that I

            could be separate, that I could be atomised away from all of this breath.

2.    When I speak:

            to make conversation is an alchemy. I come in with parts of me, you with parts of you. We

            go under together and emerge dripping in story. In memory. In dust. When I speak, I

            remember that language was spoken before it was written; I remember the way words

            sound and stick and feel, travel through my body, how they so easily turn into cries, or

            into prayer.

3.    When I organise:

            radio has a rhythm, a circularity, a heartbeat; everything regenerates, turns around,

            comes back. Radio is a place. A place where we commune, fix, learn, weave. Where we

            sit together, observe rituals, and remember. There will be radio at the end of the world –

            under the dirt and shit and rubble.