As we pulled up to our ninth small tan house of the day, “American Woman” rocked the block.
As we consider each room, there is much discussion of orientation.
The Pacific Time Zone is turning me into a morning person, and I do not like it.
There’s something so tranquil about an illuminated palm tree. It’s a science-fictional kind of calm.
Warm Leatherette on repeat as we drive into Vegas.
Heavy art followed by a fingernail moon over the Rockies as we crossed the Continental Divide.
A lone tree becomes exciting. A sign for the National Agro-Defense Facility fires the imagination.
At Cracker Barrel, C. and I discussed Tristan Tzara, Model 500, Basic Channel, and vaporwave over Grandpa’s Country Fried Breakfast.
Making an oldies playlist like it’s 1995 and I’m smoking clove cigarettes while speeding down I-75 to the Packard Plant or Saint Andrew’s Hall.
Overpass graffiti, institutional fuckery, and a solid Joy Division cover.
The strike against nefariousness continues. Mastodon feels wholesome. Veronica Vasicka delivers another top-shelf playlist.
Cold running. Twitter might be dying. The Menu was an okay movie. Digital ghosts.
Five days until we drive into the desert. Illinois and Indiana look like fangs. I should go to bed.
Repetition on a grey November day.
It’s nice to have a new place on the map to romanticize. And William Gibson has nothing on the Catholics.
Good news: Wolf’s Kompaktkiste is still around. Bad news: I’m on strike.
Maybe one day we’ll reach a point when all possible frequencies have been recorded, every combination of words written.
Hopefully there won’t be too many outages on this station while I untangle my nameservers.
For weeks I’ve been grinding through histories of medieval Europe in search of a point of inspiration.
The pulse of distant highway traffic in the rain is the most soothing sound I know.
