I had no words for myself in the late 1980s when I obsessed over Metroid in the basement, only ideas. Desires that questioned the body, how it might be broken down and rebuilt into something better, even when I was so young.
Hard, near impossible, to write so joyously about being so tired, and if you did not speak the language you would never know that these songs all feel so close to weary hearts.
Let the machine work and drain and sputter and purge, may we dance and clap at what meagre pleasures it can conjure.
I used to be on Google street view.
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I needed a pen. I’ve also been deep in a tiger pit of depression lately, and it seemed like a good idea to pit these two things against each other. Draw a cure from the blood of necessity.
It’s been years since they have touched my hands, but still I remember how it felt to hold them. The sensation, of dirt sliding along the palm as metal bars are moved and shifted in space, is pleasant in its own gritty kind of way. How the metal always
Essays
This is the nature of a tool, which is only ever just a thing and nothing more. An item that exists in the world, that you might hold in your hand and learn to master, with tricks and secrets to its nature.
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If you have ever felt self-destructive, and if your brain has ever spoken to you in words of flames, then you might hear memories of yourself in Cornell.
There’s a special kind of soap for hands that perform the kind of labour where dirt and grime and things soak into the skin. Fast Orange, as it's called, comes in an orange bottle, and smells accordingly of sweet and bitter citrus. And you would be right
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I learned that men don’t like how I write about music, or how I write at all. One wrote me to say that I don’t write about the chords when I write about music, it’s always just about feelings.
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I want each of these memories to be the first time I heard the Beastie Boys because I want their history to live on the delicate lines of a thousand possible futures.
When I was a kid, my sister and I raided the remains of my parent's once lavish record collection. My dad’s records had his name written on them, although sometimes they were crossed off and rewritten by his brother in a bout of playful sibling thievery. His
