Category Archives: Prose Poems

I CAN SEE MY APARTMENT FROM HERE

For the unearthed foundation photo? Three of coin. That’s no rose quartz, you know. Just pink sand. And that’s what you call a temporal oscillator.

My job? It’s documenting unknown trash scapes. It’s tiresome to scare the freight day after day, pore over non-followers. I see one’s still proud, says so, but there’s no market decree on noise. It’s just a standard suffocation, too long for brutalism’s retouch. That’s some beautiful concrete in the jungle right there.

Free time? Please see my works, you shall know me by my works. Some are styled so hard to look moody you could scream. But die wincing at their email thread, that spammed nostalgia? Come on, don’t check the radiant news feed before bed. It’s all gotta love the classics, I’m in love with this object, love love love it. If it’s in the past, forget it.

Feedback? Please direct all comments to the quartz articulate. Then I’ll coach you on spending time with friends & family, eating delicious healthy treats, breathing deep, starting your day off right, never giving up, being kind & compassionate, empowering those who don’t wish to be empowered, healing, crushing it, making every single day amazing, killing the competition.

Interested? This is no repugnant intimacy. I need you to understand this is a team effort to service the dream. Today’s cloudy and outsourced blaring with the big guns. Nothing more than a southern constable in a gas mask listening to our Yankee blather.

Happy? Right, the aesthetics are “corrupt.” Watching VHS, hiding Cool Ranch Doritos beneath your Indians cap, quietly mourning your loss of youth: all par for the course bruh. Skating, L.I.G.H.T, big t-shirt, X’ing up, ‘tallica, barbaric yawp, yawn: I feel you, I got you.

What have I got to do today? Slow-tech job-hunt, self-promotion failure, unacceptable amount of likes, absentee repost. Literally accelerationist: see the car & be all damn gotta get a pic, see the photo of the car and be all damn, killing it.

Happy? Today your mother is sitting at the laundromat reading a romance set in Kraków, wondering why there’s rust in the water. She messages you: I can see the house from here.

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REPETITION & PEOPLE PROCESSES

Take a seat in the canteen, one nods and another sits, ignores you, takes a pile of bread from a brown bag and starts chewing, staring a few degrees off your sight-line: you ask how the platform is going, he looks confused, the first throws up his hands, rage passes round the veins.

There is a fiction of community, of unusual objects (we define “objects” as those embroiled in the digital transformation encouraging each other to kill it, crush it, natch) that runs counter to the inner-heat of the lonely office worker: he dreams of Joshua Tree, of taking acid and shooting guns at the moon.

She gets tired of the photos of the old cars, the Buicks and Pontiacs rusting in the desert or shiny on the silicon hills, the vending machines and street honeys, the demands to make the gatekeepers see, to show some wisdom in her movements, so in Paris she snaps a photo of a small laundromat as a requisite contribution to the community: she’ll have to decide whether it goes in a series, see about the likes.

That old-world stone upon stone may have been worth up to $6,000, which reminds you that you too are a tourist, that hostile architecture is new in the popular vernacular of poseur ur-texts: yet here you are, telling us about the research and image-making, like a copperhead ready to snip at the heel.

It’s all guess work, like getting flipped by an unfamiliar wind, moving from memory to history: a ringing phone has to be answered, doesn’t it.

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SECTION I

You guys, that photo’s either apparency or materiality, not both but more human than ever, mysterious and round like an eighties pastel blouse, a chemical reckoning of independence from the digital, from muted IRL contacts, friends watching each other turn into ghosts, forecasting re-completion with the nineties looking more rational than ever.

Dry like a chilled Original New York Seltzer, full of changes to interface and built-in machine learning, reassemblage, non-binary events, seductions of a cyborg, sociological records from the southern Polish foothills, bored control and memories up in flames.

Reminds me of that time we planned a traversal from the no-coasts, let distance provide desire and vice versa, basked in all that land freedom around the crushing uniformity zones at the Indiana border, it was way more difficult to demand low-code configuration and automated testing from the proud back then, sent as we were packages of used clothes for our birthdays, selfies taken with tired middle-aged eyes (selfies on film, even), stuck in a vestibule of moderately satisfying labor, the work of contemporary textiles, the last time we saw a wetting rain.

So yay let’s weave strangeness and misdirection together in some foreign land with a buddy who’s never left the country, doesn’t know what to ask or how, suddenly we see a bird with one leg land on a carnivorous climbing plant, all air and nerve, shadow and martini, childhood trauma, thus all Brooklyn-based novel character, a room booked for two adults zero children, cerebrotonic the result of so many spectacles of Midwestern affection.

Recall the kind words spoken without a patronizing glint on the way to lunch at That’s a Wrap, say yes to strategies of refusal on the menu, to needing little while wanting less and trying more, to researching how to type “post/humanism,” deleting all accusations and completing educations, mornings spent with the Stoicism app, evenings spent saying yes to being incomplete.

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SPETSOBJEKT

Spend the better part of a decade incorporating the cartoon you can barely remember watching when you were four, the one with the trains. Where you live, with their laughing, levity, apparent lack of struggle. . .it also seems tiring. But any lie claiming a condition of life only reinforces your unwillingness to go over there and slip: you too see a beautiful fabric and want to be near it, feel its fiber. And at that point in the workflow, anger tears, scare quotes, bite occlusions: all coeval, born with a scar, the typical penumbra of an ultra-realistic series colored grey. To descant no more on what happens in other lands—the wound’s just down the road, after all—is to watch fruit fall shallow from the tree.

Do you see it, hear what is new through what can be purchased? Like a shadow always in ellipsis, mourning the sip of coffee, crawling up the wall to announce you as its sister, to question you about the qualia of such solitary and non-familial lifestyles, about the #1 problem of non-identity, the law of natures, this baize-muffled quiet time you seek when nothing suitable can be found in the bright afternoon. Is it all that different from paintings of shipwrecks, or firefighters kneeling for a photo in front of the house ablaze?

The word on people is that there is an ultimate scarcity of writing, but systemic silence is far from the default, judging by this index of gestures for each bedtime, this sequence of rain blowing, rapturous acclaim for correct comma positions. In other words, digital fanfare is drawn from a seemingly infinite well of posturing, our desire to be both in front of the lens and the lens itself. So when “what a relief” becomes “what a release” down at mile-marker one dot portrait-of-the-past, Cairo, Ohia, you know you’re in for more than a post-Soviet aesthetic.

We’re in the #1 Safe Space and this is how we do, how we market. Now: senior social strategist where we build awesome stuff, and then: thirty-first employee of social kittens plus avocado toast jokes. Super lucky to be part of this family, to feel appreciated pushing yourself every damn day: so lucky to live the #{branded}life, to be so excited you’re going to ugly-cry.

Only the best times in this firmament, we cannot imagine moving anywhere else. Want to lay down and read the continuous glissando? Check out these photobooks: refugees, water towers, stray dogs, bus stops. Want to watch a documentary? We got Vietnam, capitalism, environment, internet. Looking to enter a wilderness of machines at war the exact moment work becomes more noble than play? Observe these vapor trails delimiting u-topos: no memory at work, no thinking at all. Nice, huh??

Awaken to her double-marked questions, typewritten double-spaces on the screen, Sporto’s sweaters and swagger, the God of Taxes, evil defined then perpetuated in story after story. You feel alive, you feel supported, you feel depressed, you feel isolated, you are freelance, you speak out about it, you feel proud, you tell us how proud others are of you, you repeat how lucky you are. I am telling you all of this to elicit sympathy and emotion, fam.

No plan for quality
Off anchor spring
We are not
Well, here we are

Somewhere far away, stringed instruments pluck themselves for the last time, ready to pull apart just for the sake of it, to remember the sound their fibers felt, ached. To end it all for wont of words: that’s the language provided among the din when there is no din. The pause drops like a bedsheet off a clothes line onto the wetter part of the grass, marking not dirt nor earth, only the beginning of what will have to be washed again.

Deep into the idea of home, staring at the sinner, you’ve been followed cross continents for so long: no need to work when working with no need is a crutch. Imagine if you fought fires, your only real possession a skull, smart enough to horse around.

Butterflies may drink blood when given the chance: they tunnel round the light, form a tunnel around the light. A litany of problems is only one kind of litany, not the problems themselves. Beneath those in need is a series of contemporary tapestries: there’s the usual structure full of people, they keep returning to a locked attic, someone sends us a mirror in the mail. In addition to our stones & diamonds, the formant stays the spectral peak, the identity suck. Who doesn’t like watching people watch people? Observe as a monolinguist and stay quiet, do not speak as a failure. You will see only a few incapable of desiring to plant an apricot tree.

Un-extinction brings two impossible things together. What will death be like: piano teacher, mountains, disaster recovery, dead mall? Eternity as that rare find heretofore ignored, meanwhile all the white we can conceive is there: looking inward with a momentum of compassion beyond distaste, middle-aged with few middle-aged preoccupations.

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VERITIES FROM WHEN I WAS GOOD

1.

My cousin is the closest I’ve had to a brother. I see in him every trace of Columbia Station and remember each similarity and divergence. Nintendo games, cutting the golf course grass, flat-top haircuts, water slides, BMX biking off the dock into the pond, tobogganing behind the 1947 Ford tractor. When I returned from the other countries he knew first we would see each other less, even though I was only an hour south on 77. Haven’t talked to him in years.

Great-Uncle Béla died of pneumonia after a bicycle race in Budapest right after World War I. And Great-Uncle Ben used to stay up all night reading – I think about him when I’m in bed with a Cioran volume at 4:00 AM.

I’ve considered becoming the lokator and saying a temporary goodbye to language. All we do is take photos so we are remembered anyway. But I also need someone and am unable to quit them.

In the seams between the three countries is an unknown precept: I see she has read, and I see she is writing. It’s taken my whole life to be in love with a machine.

I remember the Circuit City on Whipple Avenue, that feeling of landing in one utopia and searching for another.

I’ve seen enough nightmare photos of abandoned Midwestern malls for my Rust Belt melancholy. As if there’s some border—don’t know where, in the east or south most likely—and once you cross it, there’s more forgetting than memory of you.

If we’re really being honest, we each of us want to be the Dictator of Vibes – we want to bring the vibes to all situations.

My best friend says I dress like a second-class passenger on the Titanic.

And then there’s the forgotten bombardment, something permanent but loose with the truth, a few short walks in Ravenna, playacting the stranger seeing only what s/he (humyn) knows.

In familiar haunts beneath the salt mountains of Chile, I talked about the Polish car thieves, Polish plumbers, and Polish nationalists. How we’ve all encountered them, or at least heard about them. How when I say I lived in Poland, the Syrian refugee gave me a shocked look and wanted to know how it was.

I needed my bike fixed after an attempted theft, so I balanced my anticipatory anxiety and potential regret with the media elites and fact-checking experts telling me what I should want and have.

Thinking a lot nowadays about right-wing hybridization with otherworldliness, gaudy psychedelia, grotesque theater, melting LSD-tinged textures, bubbling eyes and monstrous tentacles, sub-scanned physical objects, wire manipulations, cross-bred neon tints, 90s video game emulators, garish cartoon tarot cards, and just wanting somebody to arrive and stay.

I think a lot about expensive pink marble. And quartz.

I think a lot about who woodworking reminds me of.

I think a lot about the names I still love, all the names from the past.

There’s always someone close to help my machine run smoothly. But if I sit incorrectly and almost get run over by commuters in the central station, was I disturbing the comfortable, or comforting the disturbed?

At the book fair I knew how to buy and sell. And it was easy to contemplate all my mistakes, the bad ideas, potential for failure, and how communication breaks down when there are not enough women around me.

I’m being sincere when I say sometimes I really need to listen to the cimbalom. It’s like an ancestor from the Puszta is calling out to me.

In answer to your question, I think her name was Missy, from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

Nobody’s too interested in comparing any “exotic destination” to Cleveland, let alone in how the seasons reverse between the two countries.

Domestic scandals, statues attacked by lions, panic in the pink jungle: now that we’re on the same platform, I can do some ignoring.

2.

The only things I know to keep in the icebox are Polish vodka, peanut-butter ice cream, and my Levi’s.

Weak messages create bad situations, of which there is no shortage now, as if to be American is to be truly blank.

Many are advocating peace is death, that we should give violence a chance, all empowering and all you need. Get ready for the state to disagree.

Ancestors wanted to stay put or move, who knows. But as new fears get old, we’re always disappointing, all deserving and undeserved.

Born a data mine, yesterday not tomorrow, she left the continent without reaching out, savoring one last beer beneath the Berlin scythes. Once again, feeling foreign is a luxurious and lonely habit some just don’t have the privilege of experiencing.

He never talked about anything except love is worry and dented pride, so when I saw him mugging for the camera amidst the heavy collective, his levity as irresistible as a black prism, his tremendous effort made with the most subtle of results, his choice of desire over horror but not necessarily desire for the new, I felt ______.

If I’ve ever found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time, I’ve forgotten the details. You?

I realize I wasn’t really born there, so there’s little left to argue against. But down on Szív Utca, we’re all waiting to hear the good news.

The vegetable world just continues lording it over the mineral.

I miss the villages of Eastern Poland, but I haven’t had to use my bike-riding mantras for six months.

One should never forget how Jesus has been crowned king of the country. And how I’m too far away to make a joke.

Remember to water the succulents.

My mother told me my friends have not stuck by me. She sees things I do not, even with nationality doubtful, not just a comfortable sofa to fall asleep on.

Until recently, food was monotonous and unhealthy, life was boring.

Imaginary relationships are a haunting, whether voluntary or not.

Do you ever dream of community? Some have communities in the comments and the fake news. Maybe you do, too.

3.

Don’t pretend you’re unable to distinguish incessant visual notation from surveillance, it’s not really that hard.

I too need images to frame my losses.

I too need a love of other eyes on the perimeter to prove I exist.

Her face seems unforgettable, but I was bothered by the photo of the book in the grass, how it’s way too washed out. Should have used the Ludwig filter.

Yesterday I listened to The Cure and daydreamed of black-and-white photos in the basement of the North Branch of the Stark County District Library.

Now I am clutching my phone, which has been nicknamed, “The Coffin of My Isolation.”

She says she can’t stop taking photos of sunsets. Are those boots vegan?

Our photos form a bridge of sighs that is high in the middle and nothing at both ends, bordered by an extinction of the consciousness mechanism.

No unsound this year, but some attention paid to famine and the third-world, a few worries about taking a troubling tack in the west, living it up in not-vital ways. There is, after all, hypernormalisation in addition to the normalization always occurring, friends.

A year ago I was going home in October, because everyone goes home in October. But not this year. Instead, I spent a lot of time deciphering their mixed-media messages from across the ocean.

He loves stained glass by Gerhard Richter, synonym studies, and tandem fusion. She sways where the dusk and candlelight meet, reads Merleau-Ponty on the reg, and has a tattoo of some kind of counter-chasm.

This disorientation is leading me to wonder, do you still feel the trees are watching you on certain days, the balsam and hemlock ones, especially?

I was trying hard to prophesy for an aesthetics of dirtiness, but the closed system was making victims of outsiders. And thus, that system was making a victim of my health.

Tune in to writing as bricolage, a method for stealing and celebrating commonalities, deleting and representing at the same time, expressing sympathy with the lives of objects, these objects that are always taking note of us.

“Oh that was good, I’m going to write that down. What’d I say?”

4.

A few failed memoirs: I may be lost in the lowlands, getting older to a soundtrack of shock-exiled guitar and weatherboard synth riffs updated late-to-never, but one more tactless comment on her cosmic sunburn and I’m leaving.

I want to be comfortable with you not liking it, I’m not sure I like it myself.

I want to remember all of it and for everyone to see it, to be forced to reckon with it. Your envy can become my forgetting.

Which new differences are making a difference? We spent Friday evening asking and answering the question, “Where are you from?” But no one really meant, “Why don’t you go back there?”

Does the art of forgetting incorporate all that is forgotten alongside each memory, or does it filter selectively, in the end asking you to pay attention to elements that are absent instead of all that is present?

To write the presence of absence; the flip-side, inverse, and eater of memory; that which is not just the opposite of memory but which can barely be defined on its own. To understand a part and name the whole of the vacancy. Is this possible?

What more do you want: to stay married to her fragile hands; to sacrifice understanding of no fun for uprooting the city of champions; to defend the land, its luxurious potatoes, reflective materiality, and hard-working barbers?

They shed their coats in the Katshoek Building, sniffling and hawking obliviousness. But even with so much dust, I’ve never once found solitude agonizing. You?

They want the energy of their stolen crystal back. For there is a constant preoccupation demanding—with a clear mind, no less—that you remain little more than part of the average.

Is it tangerines, clementines, or mandarin oranges spilled across the table alongside the half-dry laundry left to air?

Yet another photo’ing, and all the while we increasingly admire fashions that double as paramilitary gear.

What’s missing from my still life is a clock, the seconds synchronized with your beating heart: awwww.

Some casualties of peace: my west is now your east, a certain silence defined by days in which pleasure is not the only release.

Something keeps me real quiet: I cannot want your Friday afternoon beer, finish cracking my knuckles, stop tapping my foot to the kick, pause this aging, respond to you expecting a lot from me on a bike ride in Belgium, or agree to your use of “I” over “we.”

What I will do is eat the burned food, watch the crushing waves, act despite knowing I am doomed, and inch forward against air unmoving.

This, as long as I can wear the Danish poncho, get my bike seat stolen, and end my days carrying a backpack full of books. All the books on failure, dressing well, crypto-fascists, blessed initiatives, and the violence of Naples and New Jersey must remain at my fingertips.

5.

That year there were all these voters saying, “Carpe fucking diem for my American condition.”

I have had enough of the push of forgetting. Enough of migration. I turn again to memory, because eventually I will turn 40.

Who can be simultaneously as violent and sensitive? As if there is an inner violence, a neo-violence, that takes the form of pity.

All this synthetic pop from the East: melting geometrics, black overalls, white t-shirt, crescent tattoo. How kjut.

I am no longer young and they can tell. They move away and eye me suspiciously but that’s okay, I will unfollow them soon.

Not fashionable, hip, normcore,  or sleek. Do not wear new neutrals. Do not like to stay out late. Like the early mornings, when it’s easier to stay unseen.

Every imitation disappoints when you want to own the image.

The fog rolls in quickly after I get out of bed and have breakfast. Goodbye, terrible youth.

A vertical continuity I have not accessed and maybe never will.

Look at the photo of them in costume, playing with lightsabers, smiling. Then take a photo of an old black Porsche, slicked with rain at dawn.

Maybe he’s alright. Maybe I’ll see him again. Who cares.

Someone laughs at me. They are so western and knowledgeable. They say, “Everyone else is dumb.”

He says with a sly smile, “I lived in other countries too, ooooh.” Like, nothing special. Like, I could talk about that if I really wanted to. But listen, bro-hammer, sounds like what you really want is some hot money. Your attempt at mocking goes against the spirit of the laboratory, and you’re dressed like a collapsing market.

A fair bit of nausea recently over the Community, Team, Openness, Collaboration, and Tolerance. Because sometimes, Rich Inspiring moments with Fabulous, Empowered, Fun, Sexy, Creative, Brilliant people leave me queasy.

When you move, you can keep, sell, donate, or trash stuff. Best to get rid of as much as possible.

From now on, frontier narratives are reserved for experimental music and emotional labor.

Our polite society is limned with flicking halogens, ecosystems of excess, triangles of white and black magic, and less-than-lethal weapons. Without that, there’s no church, community, family, virtues, nation, or work ethic.

It’s a wobbly affair, destination Earth, then always delving back into the city.

It is here that the ship will either rescue me or pass by.

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SOME LISTS

These are the photographers we like:

Robert Frank
Josef Koudelka
Brassaï
Robert Capa
Bernd and Hilla Becher
Daido Moriyama
Miron Zownir
Ansel Adams
Luigi Ghirri
Cindy Sherman
Vivian Maier
Eugène Atget
André Kertész
William Eggleston
Walker Evans
Missy Prince
Garry Winogrand
Otto Snoek
Jan Brykczynski
Wolfgang Tillmans
August Sander

These are the photographers we kind of like:

Nan Goldin
Peter Lindbergh
Joachim Brohm
Helmut Newton
Hiroshi Sugimoto
Man Ray
Diane Arbus

We like these photographers on Instagram:

Chad Bilyeau
Sandra Cattaneo Adorno
Teju Cole
Jack Sommer
Thomas Albdorf
Lethatechnique
Tag Christof
Ludwig Danner
Trevor H. Trevor
Deanna Templeton
Ed Templeton
Nicholas Mehedin
Valerie Timmermans
Signe Pierce

There is one Russian photographer we like whose name we forget. He photographed Russia in the early 1990s. He took most of his photos in Moscow, we think, though it may have been St. Petersburg. They are photos of utter desperation.

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WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT PROSE-POEMS

New analogies with the 1990s in neon and concrete, flannel and hair flips, castles in the sky.

Music to miss the last train to and the internal exile’s navigation towards the Omega Point (your 7th grade brain bleeding over dance parties).

How you’re the one for me, or so it seems, and how we can live our lives in health side by side, discussing which countries do not resuscitate and why.

Emerging market equities that have been over-performing those of the developed world in the past three months.

Windmills of the Subcarpathian and Kuyavian-Pomeranian voivodeships.

Whether anyone you know has train tracks in their backyard, and how you also want to run into the hills alongside some Midwestern highway.

If you touch the lives of many but will leave few crying, and the peaks and valleys you have happened upon versus the flat lands you are approaching.

Compressed cardboard suitcases holding circular saw blades, and which parameters of comfortable environments work best as predicates for teaching.

Neo-reaction, neo-violence, and the compassionate way forward along with the suburb of Seoul that is planning on building an invisible skyscraper.

All the ravens of Tokyo, particularly those in Shinagawa (van de geboorte tot de dood).

The root vegetable intractability of tribe and culture, the delicacy of the truffle order, the inevitable return of a barbecued meat hierarchy, the ease of aesthetic decline in the composition of sauces, and the poverty of modern substitutes for family, patria, and religion.

Preserving, erasing, and destructing the unorthodox interspersion of the Pax Americana.

That perhaps Africa is not the be-all end-all to China after all, and those feels when cycling past a cemetery built in 1979 on your way to Ojców.

When it is appropriate to say, “Well done, sir, well done” versus how hard it is to pull off intriguing photos of garbage.

Radiophobia in the Zone as a false response to something real and how to make sense of the sarcophagus as a 20th century pyramid.

When to welcome novelty and when to declare, “what we enjoy you may enjoy.”

The inability to face up to the past (because facing up to the past is literally impossible, natch).

Finding yourself in the middle of a dark forest at midlife when the possessor possesses nothing (especially if we’re speaking of facsimile firearms).

Riding the Berlin-Warsaw-Moscow express, all that death and glamor dressed in Central European grey.

Speed limits enforced by sniper (als ik zou willen dat je het begreep, zou ik het wel beter uitleggen).

Cultivating and exploiting regrets versus burning bridges to light the way.

Fathers, non-fathers, masculinity, femininity, and whether what we are imprinted with is something we are not to be victimized by.

When an attraction to Eastern Europe is to a zone in which the expectations of western consumerism have not totally infiltrated, which supports an illusion of independence because reality seems to move more slowly.

Why old guys smiling and wearing good Wigens are worth learning from.

Remembering there is nothing to fear and nothing to doubt (regardless of whether you are trapped in the dream of the Other and fucked accordingly). #Deleuze

Multi-Image City versus Deathless City.

As we were saying, if there are three people singing at the same time and perhaps a senior dog nearby, weeping shall follow.

How anything but full ownership does not have the same landing power, and now, the blue one comes in black!

The cost of our protection in crystal guts when human lives are reduced to coordinates on a grid.

Whether it’s worth purchasing some crystals to carry around, for example, an amethyst geode with quartz elestial inclusions from Brazil and some rough mookaite jasper.

The many making and taking a literal hex with a masculine sense-of-self that considers itself separate from the world (whereas a feminine sense sees itself as fundamentally interconnected?), and thus how all incidents of violence and ecological crises come from the failure to make connections.

When you beg to be seen and watched even though you know they love you, so in the end, you are just surveilling yourself.

How to be profoundly fooled by the fantasy of the American experiment and/or a united Europe.

A dungeon with great natural light, or how it feels to be hungover and about to go swimming (so tragic and broken but enduring, ageless).

How to appropriate the appropriators while understanding crisis as a characteristic of everyday life (which is exactly what salutary estrangement is and suggests).

The value of wearing a mint-colored floral shirt with birds on it when there are two kinds of memory (and then there is memory itself).

Bulgaria providing free bus rides for a week to folks who could prove they were reading a book for the entirety of their journey.

Whether Žižek is not beyond passé by now.

How to keep the cinnamon and skeletons, or, why not just enjoy the sad spice spectacles of life?

How to remember that it doesn’t matter where you take things from, it matters where you take them (most dreamers never learn beyond the point of no return).

Getting out of bed on a Monday morning when you cannot wait until you can take a bath a good eleven hours later.

Why there may be no escaping what is most obvious about your situation.

Learning to impersonate the rich and famous before learning to be the person you have always wanted to impersonate.

Modern nostalgic fantasies like glaciers forming a moving border.

What it means to live, what it means to kill time (and why the word “impactful” is grating).

How to use both “yes” and “no” in the same sentence.

Lingering ghosts, narcissistic cities, and being American without an American identity.

How you understand the exilium and that the early 2000s were a lawless wasteland.

Melancholy as a speculative yet contemplative utopia, which in turn sheds light on how difficult it is to pull off the 2nd person.

Architecture without content, places of accumulation, and living a long time on the love of a dog.

When the options seem gone, how to relieve men of their roles as protectors and predators.

The fallout after feeling like you’ve talked too much when the internet no longer seems to exist.

Speaking in your own language, writing in a foreign language, and regretting the chances you did not take.

How to cherish vulnerability while staring out the window at raw California fault land.

The state of Cleveland industry and pollution in 1992, and up next, how best to forest bathe in Northern Kentucky.

The futurity of past things, American cassette culture, D-league basketball across the country, and the death of beautiful subjects.

That quarter of the story you always leave out.

That Evansville, Indiana is equidistant from Chicago and Tupelo, Mississippi.

All the places in the world to which you want to return and how you don’t have to hate a place to want to leave it.

Living in the Capitalocene era in a state in which waste does not exist.

How it’s not owning the table that’s important but owning the books that you put on any table.

People doing things to other people and if things were ever better when they were bad.

The market value of cultural difference, relationship temporality, and how maybe you should have just moved to Chicago.

The dreariness of real manliness without stunning good looks (learning how to leave the mountain).

Parameters of cowardice compared with the ways water defines landscape.

How often it rains in São Paulo and the smell of Pantene Pro-V in 1998.

Whether you yourself can be a “safe space” within the ultimate multi-qlti.

Those Americans to whom you can no longer just say “thank you,” it must be “thank you so much.”

The specimen of Europa.

When it’s mostly sunny there, rainy here, and sunny everywhere else, or, highway anxiety.

The investigations of Sans Soleil into animism and the sacred.

Tell me something. Tell me.

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