Tramps Like Us

There should be a German word for having never wanted something, but needing it to feel good all the same.

Fix The Tracking

We can never ask AI to generate the past we want to hold onto, or the perfect world we believe was promised to us and I guess for some it is easier to hope that someday a computer will make this world perfect for you than to accept that real perfect will always be broken

The road from home

I’m home, and I did not plan to be here

To recreate us

I love a song about the earnest failings of youth, because these are the years it is safest to fail.

Reachering a Mystery

I have spent the last week searching for something I know is always going to be lost. Not a physical object, but a memory. An idea of a face, warped and faded in time. The smell of an old living room, the one across the street from my childhood, where

Laundry tumbling in the drum

It’s frustrating to look for the news within the story, as if the facts are immaterial to the clicks and the rage of it all. Today, of all days, there is news of a record from the Arcade Fire, but the facts are buried below the promise of a

Light bulbs for the wicker man

I abided by my promise. Six years ago I drank my very last drink, woke up suicidal and tired. Swore off all my bad habits. Then I walked down to a tattoo shop, listening to Dwight Yoakam in the shitty headphones paired to my phone. Drank a perfect latte and smoked three (four) cigarettes on the way.

No blood in any of this

I remember green feeling different. Green that was more than just a shade reserved for grass slowly emerging through the melting snow in the not-winter seasons of my youth. Green that hummed on a monitor, green with sharp corners and dull edges. Pixelated and cold, but teeming with life and

Duct-tape and soldered wires

Last night I had a dream that I was at a friend’s funeral, and this morning I had to wake up and check the obituaries to make sure it wasn’t real.

Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the severance turns the minutes to hours

I’m thinking about “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” this morning. Partially because I always am, and partially because of three seconds in the opening minutes of the latest episode of Severance.

Seabirds singing like doves

For months I thought there was an owl outside.

Draw us into your picture

The Grammy’s were last night, which feels like a very funny break to have in the midst of an eternal barrage of doomer news, but maybe it's just the kind of aside people need. Let us post about something else for a while. Give the Grammy for