ISSUE #310
I feel so hot. Hasn't it been so hot, sometimes? There is a heat outside that makes me feel—bad. The heat subsides, the heat returns. The heat returns, the heat returns. And when it returns? The heat—it, the heat. It the heat—goes so over the line.
When I was younger, with writing, I hated rhetorical questions. "It's our job to find the answer!" "We leave the prompt unspoken!" This, as a prick, was responsibility to me. You strive to say what your self would read; you respect the soul's mortal time and intellect.
I see that all as error now. In this, the writer (which is every thinking thing) is bullied into saying nothing. In truth, the outlaw (might be every thinking thing) is our only hope. Sorry—turns out each em dash I ever punched just fed an automated mirror.
Almost only the incorrect we can know are no longer generative? At least—the rules are truly dead; long live our rules.
I feel so hot. Hasn't it been so hot, sometimes? There is a heat outside that makes me feel—bad. The heat subsides, the heat returns. The heat returns, the heat returns. And when it returns? The heat—it, the heat. It the heat—goes so over the line.
This month, we’ve had a new song by Sufjan Stevens that harkens back to Carrie & Lowell; a Zach Bryan album that might sell stadiums and speak human at the same time; another fuzz-and-buzz single from MJ Lenderman; and a Julie Byrne masterpiece, the most cauterizing grief album since the aforementioned by Sufjan.
I call this sensibility Midwestern because it’s an attitude inherent to life on the plains, where you can see storms gather from miles away and can do nothing for hours but brace for the worst. The winters are some of the coldest in the country. There’s a reason some of the only immigrants who could bear it were Swedes, Russians, Norwegians, and Finns.
One afternoon three years ago, I was feeling that classic early-twenties feeling like I had never and would never do anything and everyone would hate me for it. I sat down and made a newsletter on a whim.
My Augusts are filled with the most dizzying mysteries. Faced with deducing what happened to the year, I play detective in my very own sun-drenched noir.
I've been looking at my roles, and hating what I’ve done with them. I just wanted to choose one that exercises my humanity, by sending you playlists made from my organic experience, even if I'll ultimately lose the battle to the machines.
About a month before I started cramming The Odyssey, I was halfway through a pocket-sized Macmillan Collector’s Edition of The Maltese Falcon. It was my first time reading it. I’ve actually never even seen it. But! I did study Hammett in a paperback class in college—he was the genesis of hard-boiled crime fiction, which was called noir when adapted to screen. His prose could be sharp as Hemingway’s, at his best.