Embarssingly, I saw megalopolis immediately. I was so underwhelmed that, despite drafting this review on my way home from the theater, i forgot to post it. Now, into the void:

What must eric adams be thinking? the feds seized his phone. The standard corruption now receives higher scrutiny. No one in new york is surprised by a crooked cop. I feel like celebrating his downfall. Look what they’ve done to my beautiful boy! And what better way than w/ Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis

The old man has lost it. He sold off the vineyard; he’s widely derided as a creep (but, as wild card mayorial candidate andrew cuomo will tell you, he’s just being italian); he either used AI or fabricated negative quotes from critics himself; he wanted eitehr a live actor or an interactive ai to burst into each theater; he’s set for a disasterous opening weekend. The megalopolis lore can go on and on and on.

But, maybe like adams, coppola is a man out of step with time. A provacateur clinging to a way of transgression that no longer exists, like adams craving the corrupt mayorial lifestyle.

At the cold play concert.
35th st, lily’s crepe $13
I don’t think megalopolis was good enough or bad enough. It lingers, like a pervy old man, trading in women.

The central conflict between Caesar and Mayor Cicero is shallow. Should we let things be terrible like they are now or should we work together to make things better? For all his musings on time and consciousness, I’m not sure Coppola has more than an interconnected psychobabble. Am I for one love psychobabble, but his doesn’t feel lived in. Caesar is design, a revolutionary break, but not so much taht family structure or the institution of marriage would be uprooted. In fact, the film is predicated on the trafficking of women. Wow from Caesar to Cassius; Julia from Cicero to Caesar.

Julia’s characterization is particularly flat, morphing from party girl to muse/therapist. Wow, delishishly played by aubrey plaza, climbs to renown and riches through Caesar and Cassius. To her credit, Plaza gifts Wow with a trickster ambition. She’s hyper-sexualized and turning the performance up to 11.

But Driver’s Caesar, the genius revolutionary, is unconvincing. His charisma feels off, like someone selling their vision through how unhinged they are. He tries to present himself as an uncoverer of natural reality. Like the discovery of time and the conceptualization of consciousness, megalopolis is now a part of life itself. But when more of the movie revolves around the relationship between Caesar and Julia, the whole magic of his ideas is lost, replaced by a drab romance traingulating the death of Caesar’s previous muse/therapist/mother–wife.

Coppola’s depiction of sigificant otherness rehearses a tired script of male genius and female inspiration. The liveliness of gender, relationships, and identities–those things that would change if the megalopolis is to be–is never explored. Instead, we are presented with the megalopolis as an enormous macguffin, a magic make everything better, liveable, and just for free, for ever (?)

The supposed conflict of the film is between mayor Cicero’s preservation of the status quo and Caesar’s insurgent cosmopolis, the implications of either’s worldview beyond shallow mismanagement/corruption and untested explosive change isn’t made into interesting story beats, particularly because so much of the film circles Caesar and Julia.

The design of the world of New Rome is exiting. There is still a flash to Coppola’s worlds, even if they can swamped by rehashed psychadelia. The special effects are idiosyncratic, giving them a stylized feel that only has the edges of butgetary restrictions.

I think Eric Adams and Coppola suffer from similar problems. They are so convinced of their entitlement to the city, as an object of exploitation, that they trick themselves into thinking they own it. Adams delusional bid to trade favor internationally a reflection of his own ineptitude at being able to help the people of new york city. He can only enrich himself and his cop friends, turing the other way as they shoot off wildly in the subway.

Coppola’s delusional ownership over the city energizes his Caesar. Caesar’s genius of discovering a magic material that allows cooperation and a better quality of life is all framed around himself, his singular artistry and exceptionalism. Caesar is a stand in for how Coppola views the director, a revolutionary figure able to show a different way of living together. This humanism falls flat immediately because of the pervy old man, his flattened view of collaboration that emerges from a singular, authorial genius. Such self-indulgences can never understand how we can better world together.

a collection of poems from summer 2024

It’s hard to know what you mean when you say punk. So, I want to talk about hardcore. There’s hardcore and then there’s hardcore.

Recently, I was speaking with my mom. She’s been struggling to finish a novel. She faults a mixture of perfectionism and the as-yet-arrived intuition of how to finish the book. I’m trying to embrace intuition.

But I value structure. Creativity flows. It requires points of connection to smoothly move.

I imagine the work as a glass vase held in the dark. The shape is filled with water, but the form is lost in darkness. You can feel that it twirls and twists, but cannot know the spirals. You sense the shape is littered with holes, but you can’t know how close the lips are to the water.

Your hands move around the shape, cautiously stumbling toward the shape you already hold.

When writing, I approach the process through conceptualizing the work as a whole. Put all the documents into one file and read. Gaining a sense of the shape of the writing requires fumbling through the ways you’re failing to express yourself.

It is falling down to learn to dance.

Practically, reading everything you’ve written together as it gestures toward the finished work gives you a better sense of what the work wants to be. The successful and failing forms sit side by side. Together, they clarify the spirit brought forth. You find the spirit through editing, through cutting, through reassessing what you think the whole shape is.

I value structure because of its illusory quality. A vague faith in the whole makes communion more satisfying. The shape is a projection of my desires embodied in the work. These desires are realized through the menial task of trial and error, repeated failing experiments.

When a plan goes completely wrong, you become acquainted with your creativity in stretching it to the point of what you are capable of doing in the moment. When I write a song, it becomes all the skill, inspirations, and performances I possess in that moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

In tracing the limit of creativity, I become aware of my intuition. I can better balance the water within the vase of unknown shape.

Review

Review

This set of text emerged from a conversation with Adonis (@mercurysymbol) concerning grief, experimental and rave music, and land. In assembling these texts, I’m interested in sharing authors concerned with the staging of empathy.

empathy is not given

we are not given to empathy

empathy is not a given

empathy is cultivated

like any skill

like any form of knowledge

empathy is hard won

These texts move through psychological, historical, and aesthetic underpinnings of empathy. Generally, the reading list moves through first a question of how empathy emerges and what historical conditions complicate empathy. Second, it situates empathy as an element with community formation, considering how communities emerging within settler colonial and racial capitalist contexts can extend empathy to those harmed by historical and present injustices. Finally, these texts consider the conflicts within empathy, the ways in which communities fail us, and artistic/philosophical project of living through these contradictions.

I have organized these texts as a syllabus with an intentional order. The readings are kept to be 50-75 pages a week to make it accessible for someone studying them on their own. I’d like to thank my professors Audra Simpson and Catherine Fennell for exposing me to many of these texts. If anyone pursues these readings and has any questions, feel free to email me.

Week 1

Judith Butler, Frames of War (“Introduction: Precarious Life” and “Grievable Life and Survivability, Vulnerability, Affect”)

Week 2

Sadiya Hartman, Lose Your Mother (“Prologue: The Path of Strangers”, “So Many Dungeons”, and “The Dead Book”)

Week 3

Hil Milatano, Trans Care

Week 4

Christina Sharpe, In the Wake (“The Wake”)

Week 5

Billy-Ray Belcourt, This Wound Is a World

Week 6

Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, “Land as pedagogy: Nishnaabeg intelligence and rebellious transformation”

Joanne Barker, “Territory as Analytic: The Dispossession of Lenapehoking and the Subprime Crisis”

Week 7

Lauren Berland and Michael Warner, “Sex in Public”

Erin McElroy and Alex Werth, “Deracinated Dispossessions: On the Foreclosures of ‘Gentrification’ in Oakland, CA”

Week 8

Morgan Bassichis and Dean Space, “Queer politics and anti-blackness”

Jackie Wang, Carceral Capitalism (“‘Packing Guns Instead of Lunches’: Biopower and Juvenile Delinquency” including “Ripples in Time: An Update”)

Week 9

Ana María Ochoa Gautier, Aurality (“On Howls and Pitches”)

Sultana Isham, “Noise Is the N** of Sound” (suggested by Adonis)

Week 10

The Invisible Committee, Now (“Let’s Destitute the World”)

Gilles Deleuze, Nietzsche and Philosophy (“Thought and Life”, “Art”, and “New Image of Thought”)

Week 11

Theo Montoya, ANHELL69 (2022)

David Farrow, “Feeling Pain/Making Kin in the Brooklyn Noise Music Scene”

pt 1 pt 2

For months, I’ve struggled to feel inspired. I looked to art, performance, and philosophy, but all stranded me in the distance between idea and action.

Review

Institutional Space/Public Space

Driving through the Rosebud Indian Reservation, Alice and I were struggling to get a clear signal.

A room full of ghosts

staring at the blood dried on my beige tote bag, left behind by the J train from myrtle-broadway, i finger my ear. The silent echo of the Dunkin’ Donuts’s web page reverberating within my mind. Cory Arcangel’s So shines a good deed in a weary world (dunkindonuts.com) screened at a gallery occupying a former Dunkin’ Donuts in the financial district. Composed of shots of the artist browsing the Dunkin’ Donuts website, the company’s vine and youtube channels, unaccompanied by a soundtrack beyond the diegetic sounds of these sites, the piece left me cackling in the hallowed out backroom. Next to Krispy Kreme donut boxes, I watched 30 minutes of Rob Gronkowsky answering questions about his favorite donut, the endless scroll of topping options, the silent dance of plastic coffee cups, and the triumph of one man’s culinary concoction over false claims to the donut throne.

Over the past month, I’ve been thinking back to Michael Warner and the late Lauren Berlant’s essay “Sex in Public.” One of the central questions of the essay is how intimate spaces ground community within particular property relations. The club, the public park, the subway, the sex shop—any space unfolds a particular set of intimacies, allowing certain forms of closeness to flourish and others to perish. The relation between intimacy and space is a political question as policy, the economy, and the police shape which intimate spaces are able to exist, particularly in cities where property values are exceedingly high.

what is a scene?

january is the warmest month

heat eminating from the exploding birds in my back garden

one day, the cigarette ash lingering between the miss-matched pebbles, inside the pet cemetery where he buried the pigeon who died on the fire escape, but only after the momentous blizzard bled out into a slurry of mud and piss, was a fire finally lit.

another day, the cigarette butt blossoming within the windswept sand, where their body became a shield from the gusts gnawing at her slight frame, before the chocolate truffles were tucked away between plastic wrapped delicacies and glass tubes, they kissed before christ.

august is the coldest month

i wait to warm up

I heard ray, the building manager of my old apartment on 13th street, squeaking out the speakers. new years eve, i’d been tasked with opening the show and decided to do something more ambient than my usual performance. my patience for soft sound disappeared as I found opportunity in absence. pivoting, I began adding compression and distortion to the dreamy synth loops, layering 808s under skittering insects, and pulling stray field recordings from my computer.

From Rapid City to Missoula

Rapid city, South Dakota

11:11 pm

Driving back from Sally O’Mallie’s Pub and Casino, the weight of our decision to drive thousands of miles fell heavy on us. The early mourning enthusiasm accompanying our departure from Rochester, Minnesota had dissipated. In its place hung the smell of cows and manure, the open sky untouched by city lights, and the dread of another 9 hour drive.

Earlier in the day, passing the frozen Minnesota fields, the wind gathered snow into streams that flowed across the highway. The continuous gusts intensified the white river, obfuscating the road entirely. It was beautiful and threatening. An alien ground emerging from the asphalt. We drove suspended yet fixed to the ground, relying on the unchanging straight line of the road.

Alice gazed out the window. She remarked on the beauty of the windmills that populated the landscape. Their tenacious rotation the elevated compliment to what flowed beneath us. The windmills offered a welcome break from the icy fields. A verticality that dwarfed the grain silos and barns. Soon enough, there would only be the horizon slipping into darkness, a flat drive for hour and hours.

Some of our listening:

Sun Ra - Sleeping Beauty

Albert Ayler - Love Cry

XTC - Black Sea

Minutemen - Double Nickels on the Dime

New Order - Power, Corruption & Lies

Lucretia Dalt - ¡Ay!

TrueAnon - Bush Did 9/11 (part 1)

last christmas before our divorced sorority christianity between triffles and the holiday after i lost my license still don’t have a credit card we fell asleep in my absent grandparents’ twin bed why do you make me feel like it was a mistake to love you? when you snapped about the return date i left unspecified. a year later carving holiday designs into my damaged sexuality publicly on the northeast corridor i closed the door. tofurky daze mom needs space dad’s from outer space emotional management left me with the bill principle debt: fascist fiancés hollywood dreams cleaning cost for piss-stained floors hugging pillows under gnawing green snow shaped dollar slices thirty dollar tickets to half-baked ambition. now i need to pay. last christmas last thanksgiving last holiday i think i need some space

I lost my mind a bit this year. not that that is an unusual occurrence. everyone lost their mind a bit in 2020. 2021 embodied the reverberations of collective destabilization. this year, my off-kilter mental state started with a strike. my co-workers and I had been striking for ten weeks, reaching an agreement with our employer only after a nerve-wracking winter filled with insults and threats. the strike was a heartening display of a solidarity; it demonstrated material webs of support that subsist social and professional life.

march 2021 i’m selling my bedframe on craigslist. a buyer offers to mail me a check to pay for the movers. I accept. bounced checks, scams averted by cash app, my bedframe thrown out on the street.

maybe i’m too trusting, gullible, or naïve. but, in the moment, I just wanted to believe it would be that easy to get rid of the bedframe. but instead i abandoned it on 9th street, with whatever other objects i refused to carry to 13th.

a year later, much of what I did carry filled the 13th. i regret leaving behind a lamp from when i was a child, but it had been reduced to a broken pole connecting a colorful trio of bulbous lights. on 9th, still standing, it slanted over the steeped floor.

5:45pm nyc
12:55am richmond
3:55am raleigh

i told myself i would never take the greyhound again. The previous times had been terrible times in my life. Moments of disconnection from life, from the love i thought i held. i’m not a season greyound rider. But it only takes one ride to detest the company. They treat their riders like shit.

Orlando. Build that relationship with yourself. Be able to ask yourself the questions you need to grow. Spend time alone to gather your thoughts.

On the greyound terminal at 4:51am, a mixture of fluorescents and cylindrical fixutres fill the semi-arched room. The grey-brown tile a color primed to absorb dirt. The urinal roped off, the rest holding a backwashed slush. A broken television glitches through attempts to display the day’s itinerary.

I stare at the hound. He runs through the air. Body extended to the maximum distance. Stretch the speed. I don’t know the history of greyhound, nor do I give a shit. When I sit in the terminal of discarded people, the hound mocks me. His grace and agility a reminder of my stuckedness. The greyhound will always breakdown, run late, lack a driver, refuse to transport you in the manner you paid them too much money to.

When you’re stuck in the greyhound terminal, you have to ask yourself how you got into this situation. There is usually a series of mistakes that precede the moment of being fucked over by the greyhound, that almost make you fell worthy of being fucked over, as if your poor descision-making is being rewarded. I want to be worthy of the greyhound.

The greyhound is not fun. The bus and the terminals all feel vaguely unsafe. At 520, the tweaker couple is having a hard time. They’re shaking and crying, fighting and hugging. There’s a frenetic energy that’s collapsing in on itself. They use their too-big white t-shirts to wipe away their tears. I think the greyhound experience is inescapable from voyuerism. The terminal and the bus are public stages. Whatever misfortune and difficulty is being played out in such promximity to others. Everyone’s been awake too long, mixing together in this dingy dystopia.

Years ago, i was at this same terminal, stuck because the driver left and greyhound was unable to find another driver. I had left new york near midnight. The better part of two weeks had been spent bouncing between friends’ couches, waiting for the moment i became an inconvenience. The three weeks before that hadd been spent on tour on the east coast and the midwest.

a collection of poems written from fall-winter 2024

who are they the children of?


My absence of discipline
Reflects
My difficulties with self-love.
I need to recontextualize discipline
as an act of self-love.

Modulation

Appreciation. A discipline of self-love.


a candle at the vigil

Hear the ringing
in your ears
as the grief
of the world.

Feel the string
of autumn
air

Everything moves
at its
proper
pace.


Kicking Glass

Bloom Stains
Dog Hair
Cream Tile
Caked Dirt
Onion Peel
Walk Walk
Cover Toe
BLood Stains
Paper Towel
Foot Steps
Black Plastic
Trash Bag
Walk Back
Drop Hay
Fumble


A prayer for headphones

May I walk down the street
Ensconsced in sound
So I may hear
My own thoughts
My own taste
My own love with the world
I have created for myself

May I ignore my neighbor
Put plastic, rubber, and foam
Between the conversation
The interaction
The exchange
On my way out the door


Nowadays

Sitting on the wooden platform
I hear a voice in my head
the one that finds
in each movement
an affirmation
love
for
myself
I think about the cycle of breath and self, that each momement I breathe in, I bring into being my self.
“That’s waht its for,” a dancer remarks,
as if mocking my need
to put into words
what can be expressed in movement.
A trickster trans girl
mocking in that way that good clowns do,
where you find what’s already known.

And maybe I feel the pull of someone
who feels in a similar way to me.
I feel clumsy and excited, the giddy
of knowing I might slip.
And how far to fall
between becoming a girl
falling in love
or falling in love
with myself
as a girl
in love.

Not to get
Too caught
Crushed
But to feel
Like the sidewalks
Stumbled between
Writhing bodies
At the electric distance
Where I am far enough
To lose the space
Between our feet.
Laugh, Trip, Stumble


Drunk

Jade Refracts
Kisses fall
Uncovered sleave
Dance once a week
What if I want to fuck you
And figure out our connection later
I’d dream
In nights spent
Dancing
Losing myself
In your breadth

Drunk on the B Train
Crushing Orange Line Beers
Grand Street Bound
Too Slutty
Too Smart
My words caught in my mouth
Fell asleep
So long ago
Erica on the train
My concrete brain
Everyone at Columbia
Looks at me
Like I’m a faggot
They must be So Smart
To Notice.

My biggest flaw
Is that I don’t
See
My own
Beauty

Drunk on the B train
Writing poetry to find
The rush of my glance
Meeting yours

Drunk on the B train
I refuse to leave
I kick my feet up
Spit My Beer
Fuck You
I am a faggot
Fucking women
Fucking men
I’m the shallow pool of spit
We bathe in
We breathe in


Pull-ups
On the railing
The J train rattles by
Yawning autumn
Against the Williamsburg high rise
Nourish the cramped kitchen
Let the smoke flow
From the haunted toaster
Spitting flames
Half past
My forgetful face
Pressed against the grimy scene
Bike by
Stop
But turn around


Your Polaroid

A photo of us
From an Ashville bar
Fell out from my journal
I hadn’t noticed it
Tucked between the unwritten pages
Long past my structured notes
About why we couldn’t be together
But I remember wanting nothing more
Than moments alone in the booth
Than the timer ticking toward flash
Then the press of your lips as the shuttered closed
On a photo of us


A mouse
curled up
on my kitchen floor
writhing
almost like a dog
rolling on his back
almost, but not.
The pained spasms
of an unsure foot
and me
with a broom
trying to help him outside
or at least
remove him
from my sight
compassion
or my selfish desire
to let live
what will die


A score for four ppl
1) Think of your name
2) Now think of another name
3) Discard the first and second for a third.
4) Introduce yourself
5) Take your partners name.
6) Go through your day with a new name.


scratch, jest, ride, drink, advance

This is of a place, spiraling through the circuit party at market, maybe too many drinks and joints along the east river

This is the movement in and out of the ID card to track my movement in and out of campus

This is the cash register being chased, the pursuit of some things or experiences that might make me feel like I’m moving

And I am caught in the movement of modulation, cycles, pusling tangled webs, root systems stretching underground, relations and relationships, vibrations and ethics, qualia, sense and sensation, the interwoven web of things that maybe in the last instance cohere into a structure-in-totality.

I do not have the language of freedom.


How do you hear a place?
Take out a sheet of paper
close your eyes
select a place that matters to you
try to focus on the sounds of the place
Can you hear them?
Where does the sound exist?
Pan
Echo


Dancing, an image

The carpet gave too much
with my step
not quite finding
the rhythm
of interlacing hands
of jumps and crashes
“i thought about dancing with you”
what a terrible thought
to betray in hushed confidence
after your friends passed the bottle that smelled of biting and pins
i took your hands
that drifted through the air
like a ribbon, twirling and unfurling
set free into a ruin of thread
Unearthed, Unearned Confidence


There’s something funny
To seeing your ex
In other people.
At first,
The Fear
of an unplanned encounter
of a flood of emotions
from hands gliding through a mullet
from plucking the matrix hat off to find their face
the fading ache
of nights grasping each other’s form
of finding the momentary embrace of a bathroom stall
a handheld walk home
among the snowflake shadows
But now,
the resignation
of dyed haircuts stretching down into braids
of electronics recycled into sigils, wrought iron, and moss
from the fumbled assemblage of self
From youth becoming a whisper of presence
Among the faces in the crowd


“Mansions”
There was a moment of truth
In the afterglow of spurned affection
“Don’t try to make it work
If its not your end goal”
Children of divorce, drinking and dancing
In the after glow


Liminal notes
lost between
the devil and the cloud
a pretzel and a carrot
my classroom or my desk.

Before Sunset,
a name escapes
falling asleep
on the benadryl periphery.

I’d walk in the cold
I’d bike in the snow
I’d sweat in the greyhound
my skin
pricked by frost
wet by snow
sticky by seats
all to curl up
in the space
in between.