Dedicated to the memory of Eric Cardeno, a.k.a. DJ Wundrkut
In the stillness of departure
A stone’s throw from unravelling into dust
I reflect on two things:
Wundrkut;
To Wundr, as in, to dream. To imagine a world better than this.
And to Kut, as in, to scratch. To chop, like our ancestors swinging bolos back in the day
beating back conquistadors.
Wundrkut, is the name of someone who knows he’s champion.
Looking life straight in the eye,
Hit it with a 1, 2 when he’s on the 1, 2’s
Best check your P’s and Q’s.
Mic check, 1, 2
Check hook when the record scratch
Uppercut when the beat breaks —
You know it’s Wundrkut
When he makes his mark like he’s here to stay
And make your mark, you did.
If there’s 1, 2 things you know how to do
It’s to do it well and to do it wondrous.
We — We broadcasted your face over the Queensborough Bridge
Knowing that somewhere, someone would be chin-lifted into recognizing that opening salvo blast of a smile that stretches for miles on end
And if not that: then the Sacred Spirit Ink engraved into your skin like ancestral patchwork.
A resounding no, no, no you are not gone.
Look at how you brought us together today.
Look at how we wear W’s on our chests like emblems.
Look at Kaya and Tala and this whole new generation of Filipinx scratching in your honour.
What is in a name? But a commitment toward forever?
The way we forever chant “Wundrkut forever,”
When we Kut through all else sometimes all we’re left with is Wundr;
Dreams and divine visions, the process of constructing a better tomorrow. Constructing forever.
What is in the name, Wundrkut, but 1, 2 love letters to the people Scratched into our hearts,
Reminding us
Reminding us,
Reminding us what is possible.
Tattoos on your fingers, scorpions and stars
old as our children’s names in sky
when we search for you. When we ask why
you left, the answer plays in dark
behind your pogi smile, the cross-fade spark
your hands put into records. We scry
in dreams, in tawas, in every city nook our eyes
can grasp. You’re part of the music now, the bars
you looped are your return. Scratch that
now part: you’ve always been the music. Your reach,
thanks to your humility, wider than we could know. Wider
since you got called home. Memories of you unfurl
in stories we tell at your altar on the beach,
in dreams, the moth that follows me, in spider-
webs of sound. Wonder cuts the keys to doors between the worlds.
There is no time to match Pantone colour swatches
No time to obsess over which typeface
Just make sure people know your face
Height. Weight. Age.
Detailed description —
It’s not about the kerning
Between the letters M to the I
To the S S I
N …
Fuck. me.
Could this really be?
Take a moment
Wipe a tear
Then back to work
It’s not about the kerning
Check the margins
Make the layout clear
Cut nothing off — keep what’s essential
Now Save. Print. Check the margins.
We checked the margins
Walked the water’s edges
Of this queen’s borough and beyond
Your queen’s army mobilized for days ’til dawn
We had to let the world know.
… In the moments when doubt whispers
That you didn’t do enough
Know that we did everything we could
And if asked to find the strength
To do more, we would.
Reminding us,
Reminding us
Reminding me when we were two introverts
just driving in a car
Conversations didn’t travel far
But together in silence we contemplate our craft
Beyond windows grey cityscapes blur past
These moments, once fleeting
Now precious memories
Now, never, not for granted
We drove the town
Examined wood and stone
Stood at the foot of metal giants
Asking what it meant to hold space of our own
Memories of you unfurl
There were few words to speak
Break beats were your speech
Only after did we witness the breadth of your reach
Blessed with the sign of the cross-fader, preach
Preach about the old school techniques that you teach
To the new,
You knew the importance of embracing the next generation
Fostered care to peers and pupils
You kept good vibes on heavy rotation
Memories of you unfurl,
Reminding us, Reminding us.
When we spoke of settlement, of community
You provided the soundtrack
After all, what are we?
But products of cuts and scratches
Survival stories walking immigrant paths
carved before us in wood and stone
Markings beneath our skin
Cultural remixes spin
Lost in the diaspora
In wonder for a place of our own.
Wundr kuts the keys to doors between the worlds
Reminding us, what is possible.