So, the part of this song that gets stuck in my head is the refrain of “Most of All” at 1:22. Don’t know what it is, but it just plays in a loop in my head. Not a complaint because I love this song.
“Flash Light” is the song I think of when someone says Parliament or George Clinton, or Bootsy Collins (even though Bootys doesn’t play in this song,) or funk music in general.
See, I made a friend, a best friend, in 9th grade and as all best friends do, he introduced me to the wonderful world of funk. I think I had seen Parliament an SNL rerun, but I knew nothing about them. That’s when my friend stepped in and filled that gap I didn’t know I had. He helped me understand what the “Great Rock n’ Roll Swindle” was, how funk influenced hip hop and rap, and the importance of “on the one.”
Today at school, the kid could wear a sports team jersey if she so desired. Being that she is in middle school, and the school has sports teams, sports are now a bigger part of her academic experience. Funny thing is that the kid doesn’t own any team jerseys. She asked me if I had a jersey that she could borrow for today, and sadly, I also don’t own any team jerseys. What I do own happens to be a Dallas Cowboys (Let me get to that in a bit), and a Tottenham Hotspur t-shirts. I was hesistant to give her the Cowboy shirt because clearly, the Cowboys aren’t a well respected team here in New York City. So that left the Tottenham shirt, which I offered to her. She declined the shirt, stating that the people who know who Tottenham is will only end up making fun of her, and it wasn’t worth it to her. I tried to explain that Frank is taking the team in a new direction, but the kid wouldn’t hear it.
(Best if you read this part in a very thick Texas accent, which I have after drink several Shiner Bocks and getting all rilled up.) I jus’ wanna say this to Mr. Jerry Jones, which is that I think he is bein’ a damn fool when it comes to Micah Parsons. Now, Mr. Parsons is a franchise super star caliber player, a type of player who can change the momentum of a game, and if the Dallas Cowboys have any intention of reclaimin’ a Super Bow’ – they need Mr Parsons. To that end, Mr. Jones should’a paid Mr. Parsons what he wanted. Now, this whole idea that Mr. Jones is puttin’ out there that, this is all part of some “master plan to win a championship” is what is known in the civilized world as a damn lie! Y’ain’t foolin’ anyone Jerry! You gone and screwed up the team again! What is this, like our 30th rebuilding year?!?! Could you possibly get the cart outta the way of the horse for a change so we might have a chance of just winning the Division? Good lord man! You takin’ years off my life…
I’m pulling out my sweaters and sweatshirts. Might have to wash my flannel shirts this week. I know it’s 78 degrees today, I don’t care. I want Autumn
(The short story “Project” by Rachel Cusk appeared in the September 1st & 8th, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)
Photo illustration by Stephen Doyle
I am a big fan of Rachel Cusk; have been for some time now. There are a great number of reasons why I enjoy her work, and when I read anything by her, such as “Project” in this week’s New Yorker, my fandom evolves into admiration, and even a little jealously. I am not jealous of her talent as a writer, envious might be the better word for that, but when I read her work, I wish I was the type of writer that had time. Cusk’s fictional version of herself, though narrator might be a fairer description, possess the greatest gift of all; time. Time to observe and contemplate.
In “Project,” the narrator contemplates how who we are gets created. This contemplation leads to a path that bends and turns and takes us to people in the narrator’s life. First we meet M, a movie star and model. The narrator is thinking of writing M’s autobiography, which M’s response is to “…just make it up.” In this first section of the story, the narrator intertwines her interactions with M, while also speaking of a book she is reading by a woman who details the horrid abuse she suffered at the hands of her stepfather. It is a strange comparison, if not a juxtaposition. In Cusk’s assured hands, we see how these woman took their situations, fought back and went forth to create better versions of themselves, yet both spoke of a moment where their childhoods were lost… But even as I try to describe this, I am not doing this story justice. The story moves on the narrator’s partner, and his bout with an aliment and the need to a brief stay in a hospital. Then there are questions of the time we have and how we share it. Why we live the way we live and where we live…. See, not doing this justice.
This story falls into my favorite Cusk style of writing – It just flows. Maybe this type of writing is like stream-of-consciousness-lite. These thoughts and ideas have depth and weight to them, but they don’t get tangled up in minutia and tangents. All of these disparate ideas roll across the page, with observations of the life the narrator lives, but also how some of these truth and universal; Or at least there is a hope that they are. This is a story seems to be celebrating the existential gift of being able to create our self, and chose how to live out that creation. And to do all of this, to have a life that can be observed, we need time for reflection.
And through all of it, the ins and outs of this story, Cusk has a wonderful melancholic final paragraph. Not so much an observation, or a contemplation, but a memory of raising her children; when trust was tangible and innocent. That taking the time, to remember and re-experience, is a continuous step in the project of self creation.
The one thing I know for a fact is that my wife is the one who introduced this song to our family during the Pandemic. It got put on a playlist that we listened to all the time; out driving, taking a hike, having a picnic, dance party at home, whatever we were doing this song would pop up. I put it on a playlist, and the kid even added it to one of her first playlists she created. So when I hear it, not only does it get stuck in my head, but it reminds me of a very specific two year period of my life.
