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Ẏ̴̢̮̓̑̈́͘o̵̻̠͋͛ṳ̷͖̟̏̐̒̽'̶̬̲̔r̶͎̗͂̃̕͝ē̷̤͓̓͘͝ ̶̳̊s̶̛̞̠̓̐ư̵͕̽p̶͙̗̝̹̰̑̏͆̽͝p̸̝̬̙͓̻̑̆͘o̷̧̯͔̭̅͊̃͘̚s̷̠͈̯͒̄͘ě̶̲̑́̐͛d̷͚͈̫͉̈́̄̇͝ ̴̧̣̲̯̺̅̏̇t̶̡̹͙͔͑̒̍̀͠ó̶̡̼̲̊̈́̃̏

T̴h̸e̶ ̴b̴o̸x̶ ̷i̸s̵ ̶s̶u̷p̴p̸. It into a plate T̵͉̼͉͎̗̻̉h̸̡̛̗́͛͗͂̿͒̃͑̊͝ē̴͉͖͔̼̥̟̥͇̳̠̺͗͌̃̔̉͂̑̽͐̓̍̑͠͝ͅ ̵̡̨̗͈̲̼̏̒ͅb̵̡͉̳̊̄̎̋̅́͊́́͝o̵̡̧̗͖̘͔̖͒̉͐͑̽̔͋͒̿̈́͐͛̂̀͝͠ͅx̷̥͓̻̜̘̺͆̉͂͑̆̿̆͛̏ ̶̬̠̱̻̘̞̭̟̟͇̖͉̭̪̰͇̀̊̂̇͜͝u̶͈̿̂̅̀͐̈́͌̊̃͑̊n̸̹̗̯͖̹̳̬̂̂̒̈͊̆̂́̿ͅf̶̲̯͚͉̮̦͕̭͕̘̺͐́͂̀̇͘͜o̶̡̲̙̹̜̱̙̯̾͊̀̔̌͐̚͝l̷̡̧̼̞͉̻̖͇̬̻͇̪͕͖̟̂̾̇͐̔͜͜͠d̴̨͖͈̝̲͓̞͚̘̳͓̞͇̒̾̓͗̎̈̆̕͠s̶͇̺̫͎̣͕̄́̃̊̄̆̑̍̊̽͆̔. Olds into a plate

The box unfolds into a plate unfold the box and your e supposed to torn it intoT̴̛̪͖͎͉̱̫̰͎͔̪͗̄͑̍̓̅̊̄̀͗̓̀̎̈́̃̌̃͛͒̽͒̌̽̀̅̍̇̂̑͆̀͋͂͑̊̅̈́̇̈́͗́́́̈̐̐͛̿̌̾̓̉̀̈́͌́͑̊̈́̍͂͂̂͑̔̉̃͆́̍̊́̓̆̎̓̂͗̀̀̌͊̑̊̓̈́̊̚͘͘͘̕͘͘̚̕͠͝͝͠͝H̷̨̨̧̨̢̡̢̨̛̺̦͓͉̯̙̘̻͚̠̻̪̬͍̪̣͔̰̜̘̩̹̜̭̖͈͚͖̙͎̤̪̯͍̲̣̩̥͖̹̗̘͙̰͈̠̫̹͙̪̻̻̝͙͈͖͔̻̭̳̫̺͇̳̠̟̪̭̜̙̞̦͖͑̃̏̄̄̎̉̒̀̉̍̉̏̓̍͑̒̉̏̆́͛̌̽͛̈́̊̉́͒͊̌̀̄̉͗̈́̉͐͋̋̄̈́̈̏̉̕̚̕͘̕͜͜͠͠͠͝͠ͅͅİ̷̧̢̧͎͔̪͓͇̩̣̭̗̮͕͉̮̦̟͖͎̗̩̝͖͇͎͉̯̪̟͎͓̥̮̳̙̲̼̼̰͖̯̝̯̞̝̮̻̠͎̠͈͙͕̺̱͑̈́̂̆͌̽̀͌̀̂̊̓̈̇̂͐̉͛͘͜͝ͅͅS̵̨̛͎̩̭͙͙̹̯͍͚̞̟̩̖̭͚̯̺͍̞̺̖̹̲̮͖̬̮̪̙͕̗̤̻͍̓͐͂̀͑̃̇̽̿͊̔́̌̂͊̀̀̽̃̉̈́̌̿̉̃̋̒́̀̌̂̆͜͝͝͠ ̸̢̧̱̞̤̦̮͇̐̓̀̏̈́̎̈́̂͋̒̚͜͠͝B̵̡̨̢̧̢̡̧̧̛̛̛̛̖̭̫̻̜̼̞̦̰̦͕̞͉̣͈̘̣͉͉̫̠͉̰͍̲̙̥͉̪̻̦͈̰̝͍͙̗͍̣̤̜̬̙͉̲͕̗̦̤̥̮͚̦̩̩̖̙̻̘̬̪̗̣̫̘̲̣̪̙̼͚̦͇͕̰͓̮̋͌̃̇̔̓̀̋̂̓̈́̓̈́̔̋̾́̈́͌͐̽̄̽͐̓̈̐̋́̂͆͆́̅̽̅̃̓̽͗͗̓̓̽̿̀̔͂̎̈́̊͘̚̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅỚ̴̡̧̨̢̧̢̢̡̡̛͇̖̻̹̞̠̟̠͉̲̭̬̬̳̜͉̩͈͈̜̮͍͈̦̦̝̣̘͈̫͙̺̯̙̠͈̻̤̱͎͙͓͔̠̯̲͖̬̺̫̹͙͍͉͔͈̜̺̺͖̮̗̦̪̳̪̥͖͓̺̻͐̉͒̃̀̄̐͑͆̅̃̎̈́̀͗̓̔͊̽͒̀͊̔̂͐̈́̚̚͘͠͝X̶̧̢̢̧̨̛̮̭͍͖̣̰̞̖̹̪̫̖͎̳̙͍̯̬͙̻̪̳̥̜͔̺̣̱̼͖͈̪͇̻̯͔̣̝͇͉̻͔̩͍͍̠̭͍̠̳̖͎̠̙̻̥̤̙͚̱̭̻̭̮͚̰̪̫͖̦̪͓̹͖͒͐͌̒͛̆̾̓͗͒́͛̌̓͌͋͆̓̓̊͂̾̃̐͐̅̎̔͋̏̂͆̑͊̀̏̈͊̒̾̿͐̅̍̃̄̒͐̔̒̉͒̍̾̃͌͛͑͐̂͊̆͑͘̕̚̕͘͘̕͘̕͘̕͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ ̶̧̠̲̣̞͕̤͙̮̘͓̰̝̺̩̌̍̋̃̊́̌̄̈͌̍́͘̚̚͝͠͝Į̷̢̢̛̲̝̪̬̠̗̤̦͎̺̦͈̱͓͔̥͔̤̘͉̠̣̮̙̞̭͔̱͕̻̝̳͓̭̰̣̩̫͓̮͕͕̩̙͎̲̼̹͙̅̀͂̅́͋̇͐̐̀̔́̃̓̐̈̎̊̈̌͗̽̐̂̍̉͑̎̑̀͒́̑͛̉̀͑̀̈́̉͗̍͑̍̚̕̚͜͜͠͝͠͝ͅS̵̲̗̥̝͚͉̎́̌̈́̌͐̍͑̔̊͠ͅ ̵̧̡̢̧̨̩̪͚̰̘̝̜͓̝͖̪̲͍̟̞̝̗͔̰͓̱͙̹͓̗͓̔̓̒͋̑̾̂͜ͅA̴̡̛̼̱͙̙͉͂̑̌̀̆̔̀̐̾͛̂̉̅́͋͐́̊̒̐̉͊̀͊͆̔͐̾̃̈́͛̽͑̿̓̈͒͂͐̆̾̍̎̅̾̎͂̀̚͘͘͘̕͘͝͝͝͝͝͝ ̵̨̡̨̡̨̢̨̢̛̛̛̛̛̗̙̰̗̼̺̼͈̣̦̺̯̬͚͔̭̬͔̬̣͉͔̭͎͉̣̣̞̹͕̯͙̠̳̪̪̱̟͎̠͇͈̱̫̺̥̱͔̳̦̹̞̪̻̳͔̯̞̩̗̝̭͙͔̤̥̩͍̯͎̗͕̟̤̥͔̯̮̗̳̼̯̖̘̇̈̿̏̈͑̽̐̌̅̐͊̿̀̒̈́́̋̒͊̇͆̓̎̍̓̏̊̑̏̈́͐̋̓̀̈́̒͛̔̀̒̍͆̽̎͊̿͛̈͐̀̀̑͛̍͋̋̒͋̿̓̃̈́́͛̐̑͋̇̉̚̚͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅF̷̧̛̛̛͚̫͓̥̰͔̺̘̲̬̞̙̬̙̫̱͙͇̜͈̔̓͋̅̐̀̔̊̓͐̈́̍̑̈̓͛͋͐̓͛̀̐͌̆́̔͋̑̈́͑͋̏̌̍͋̐͊͑̌́̓̌̋͋̎̀̓̾̃̉̌̃͒̓́͆́̂̈́̆̓̋͋̒͒͗̄̇̀̿̎̂̍̋͌̑̿̔̓̂́̈́͗̂̊̆̾͌̆̚͘̕͘͘̕͜͝͠͠ͅU̷̡̡̧̡̝͎̭̣̗̪̺̦̬̝̹͇͚̦̮͖̫̰͉̦̮̝͈͖̖̰̺̒͑̅̂̈̍͆̂̂͊̓̆͒̍͒̃̕͝ͅͅC̶̡̡̡̜̘͈̹̫̠̳̱̲͚̼̜̩͖̻͙͎͕̯̟̙̦͖̮͇͚̖͕͓̜̰̞̠͇̹̹̮̣̣̘̤͇̙͔̜͕̹̱̦͙̱̖̺͓͚̙͍̦̲̯̞̥͍̠͙̲̟̪̫̣̖̝͔̥̤̠̆̉ͅͅͅK̷̡̨̡̨̨̡̢̢̨̛̛̛̖̠͚͇̙̯̖̹͖͎̜̖͙̪̪̖̫̥̜̞̫͓̭̱̺̮̯͉̜͔̫̮̙̳͚̱̗̝̖̯͙̪͖͙̩̙͚͎̱̪̖͉̤̲̪̻͈̘̰̝͕̰̠͉͚̹̱̞͚̣̙̩̘̞̺̲̹͍̦̺̹͙̲̻͖͈̩̳͗̿̉͋͒̽͆̌̓̓̊̓̊̽͌̿̐́͒̀͑͆̇̄̈̅͌̐̒̾̔͐̈́̊̑̒̃̑̌͂̒̋̔͊̾̅̂̍̄̾̊̏͊͋͑̍̂̍̾̂̎̓̐̕͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅḮ̷̡̧̩̝̯̠͙̩̯̺̠̭̼̯͉̮̻̠̹͓̳͕̰̠̠̲̞͙͍̖̻̫͚̘̰̣̀̄̌͂̉͐̆̍̽͒̍͑̐͂͂̑̽͑̔̉̀͌̈̽̏̇̏̈́͐̓̓̄̈́̅̂͗̿̃̓̾̚̚̕̕͜͝͠͝͝͝ͅN̵̛̛̗͎̹̘̮͙̲̪̩̦̾̆̄̉̄́̓̀̉̂̓̊̓̍̔̆̒̿͂̒͒̏͌̈́͐̐͋͐̊͋̈͆͒̊̇̐͛̃̐͊̽̇̉̀͐̄̔̏̒͐̿̓̃́̃͐́̄̍̎̑͑̒̾̆̎͂̒͑̓̏͛͑͐͛͌̊̇̃̕̚̕̚͘̕͝͝͝͝͠͠G̸̢̧̡̢̢̧̢̨̢̧̡̛̛̞̫̖̝̟̰͕͇̻̪̼̹͙̮̭͍̜̥͉̱̤̜̩͈͓̦̱̯͎̹̰̬͕̦̥̞̥̣͈̬̝̬͓̜̣̲̱̬̖̖̙̠͕̪͕̼̳̝̪̮̝̠̯̮̤̗͉͔̦̥̩̬̘̣͑͌̉̀͒̈́̓͊̿̾́̋̐̔͛̈́̄̓̓͋̓́̇̇̓̈́̀̔͌̋̃̅̈́͑͒̆̃̅͒̌̇̿̀̋̏͒̑̃̓̇̓́̃̾̑̀͛͊͐͒̑̀̽̎̈̄̋̍̓͛̇̓̇͒̑̆͆̂͆̇̆͌̈́́̀̍̅͆̑̐̕͘̕̕̚͘͜͜͝͝͠ ̴̧̧͕̖̻̙͉͎̫͚͉̪̜̦̩̬͖̦̖̯̺̮͐͌͂̓͛̎͆̾̔̆̄͒͛̐͊͘͜͝ͅP̷̧̡̢̢̨̢̢̨̨̨̛̤̭̩̯̘͍̻̟̥͖͕̰̰̙̙̯̣̫͓̱͉̝͍̫̜̠̠̜̼̜͉̱̟̼̮̫̻̥̱͈̭̦̗̼̞̞̥̬̳̖̼̣̙̼̤̺͓̬̥̫̗̫̝͓̰̮̺̬̮̣͔̥̫̠̮͉̘̺̍͛̓̾̂̆̾̉̄̓͂͛̏̎̑̀͗̊̈́̎̄̂̆͋͑̎̊̍̒̾̑̽̒̊̄͋̓̈́̈́̀̽̿̆̃̕͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅĻ̸̨̩͚̲͓̟̪̯̯͎̝̘̺͙͎̱̳̬̪̖̝̜̝̬̮̗̫̘̱̟̠̊͌͆̔̂̑̃͛̈́̊̐͑̍̍̈́̎̎̀̈́̄̈́͐̽̈́̄̋̽̔̆̿́̉́̐͋̍͑͛̈̓̏͛̂̀̍̀̑̀̆͗͘̕̚̕̚̕̕̚̚͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅĄ̴̡̡̢̡̧̛̺̙̟̥̬̯̯͈͖͕̬͕̳̫͓̳̙͚̟̩͇̟̯̙̠͚̝̟̭̜̘̮͔͈̰̣̯̱̺̻̩͎̙̬̳͇͈͎̻̮̱̬̯̺̰̋͐̓̋́͑̒̈̔̋̃̓̇̇̽̅͑̾̔̋̋̀̓̃̔̈͗̌̄̐̄͋̎͐͂̇̆͌͋̅̏̑͐͌̀̿͂̈͑́̽̂́͐̔͋̏̐̊̓̑͒̽̄͗̕̕̚̚͜͜͝͠͝͝͠ͅT̶̡̨̨̧̗̩̭̼̻͉͎̳̹̼̭̤͔̖̠̘̩͚͖͕̹̟̤͈̦̖̬̯̼̯̭̥̙̩̱̱̘͎̻͍̩̜̮͕͕̠̩͚͉̯̱̼̞̭̻̟̠̻̦̝̯͓̻̙̦̲͕͍̻̲̿̿͛͐͑̋̐̈́̊̔͗͑͆̀͑̊̾̄̓̆̅̐̽͂͒̑̾̀͛̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅE̶̡̢̨̨̢̢̛̦̘̗̠̟̮̲̟͚̹̘͉̹̻̭̫͚̩̲̻̦̘̪̲͍̥̮̫̠̼̟̥̱̜̺̪̱͇̰̲͇̞̳͇̍́͐̅͋̓́̆̌͋̆́̈̉̑̂̏̅̌̅̂̇͊̊̇͋̅̂̅̿͗͊̓̊́̀̅̔̈́̎̽̇͛́́̉̑̆͆̔̄̔̓̀̕̕̚̕͘̕͝͝

Into a plate

[howdytherepardner]

The Conundrum of Change

is not a phrase that describes the change taking place. It instead articulates a conundrum - not a puzzle, but the puzzling. How one engages with a particular shifting of tides, whether embracing the erosion or building faulted levies, will probably follow their efforts to solve that puzzle - come to some understanding that gives them an operating theory aligned with their ethics. Occasionally, it may transform that feeling of ethics. But I’ve found myself trying to broach more on whether those are just feelings of transformation, self-satisfaction of anesthetic sort. How to disentangle personal temporal disillusionment from more urgent material truths…

~

Briefly, it may be relevant to note that Jens Lekman’s Night Falls Over Kortedala is no longer available for “legitimate” consumption. Despite my frequent consumption of his work and my reasonably longstanding enjoyment of that record in particular, I did not strive to purchase it before it was taken off of streaming services in March of 2022.

It took me off guard, but didn’t surprise me. His first LP release, 2004′s When I Said I Wanted To Be Your Dog, had some limited sampling (permission granted for “A Higher Power”), but Lekman took strong inspiration from groups like The Avalanches. Oh You’re So Silent Jens, a compilation album of 3 EPs from 2003-2004, had tracks a lot more liberal with existing works and a little more conservative with getting permissions released. It’s been commercially unavailable since 2011, 6 years before I became acquainted with Lekman via Life Will See You Now.

But this post? Blog? Tangent? Thought? isn’t a comprehensive history of the work of Jens Lekman. For some decent dives, I’d recommend This, This, or as always, Wikipedia.

~

(X) Hazy windows have impacted NJ Transit’s newest trains, which were built between 2006 and 2012. The opaque windows aboard the multilevel rail cars make it difficult for riders to locate their stops, especially if they have trouble hearing the train’s announcer. Ali Maher, the director of Rutgers CAIT and a professor in the Department of Civil & Environmental Engineering, said the New Jersey Department of Transportation contracted his research team to study the issue. While window haze may not pose significant dangers, Maher said it does impact the riders’ commuting experience.“It’s just not pleasant when you are sitting in the train, and you cannot see outside. Part of riding a train, and the experience you want to have, is to be able to sit, relax and observe the view,” he said.

I was like many (most?) for a while, under an impression that the obscured views of the NJ take on the NEC was something that could simply be cleaned or cleared. My bad! Still, what a silly thing that the newest models have the windows degrading fastest. A lot of rides back in college felt like an annoyance, but one in July 2023 on the upper level was a blur akin to cataracts. There was a window across the aisle had an okay right eye, but it was too late to move - I could only stare longingly through for a glimpse of the garden state swimming by.

~

I have not sought to listen to the many YouTube uploads of the original Kortedala. I do enjoy the remastered and not illegal versions of the tracks on The Linden Trees Are Still In Blossom, also the newly added like the eponymous single. But it is peculiar, the tracks especially changed by the loss of samples. “Sipping On The Sweet Nectar” is a skeleton slightly askew, but with an instrumental break that feels so lacking from the original’s intensity. “Kanske Är Jag Kär i Dig” has to rebuild a hook from scratch, which makes the new track a bit more dynamic, intentional than maybe more of the standard pop in the original. I feel that some of the changes are for the musical better and worse, but that is only how I’m experiencing them. 

My conundrum to manage. For a long time I pushed off listening to Linden Trees, to add those songs to playlists while their unplayable, slightly transparent ghosts hung around on older ones. At a time that was based on a belief that they would someday be restored. But I never tried to find the versions elsewhere, and only pursued one recommendation of a fan animation. It is an arbitrary fervency I feel in sticking with the new release, something that feels almost kin to a religious commitment. What within myself would I be indulging, to try and revive that which is dead?

~

Glasses landed in the package room early January, 2021. Later in my life than the rest of the family, but necessary regardless. It was a peculiar thing, to go back to places known with a vision clearer, but more focused. I feel my gaze could not capture things with the same broadness that I once had.

But that summer brought me to a new place and new spaces. Something that I couldn’t focus in on until I understood it more wholly (perhaps a false framework). But that wholeness came with some kind of detail in a new way. The glasses accounted for a near-sightedness that I believe was intensely exacerbated by screen-based nature of 2020, and a restored-farness was perfect for experiencing the desert, etc for the first time. Vast expanses between places, that defined space.

I love the (US)American southwest. Pinus ponderosa is so brilliant to me, as are other things. While a hint of blurriness is an inherent part of my truth to certain lecture halls and dimly-lit spaces of my early college years, every crevice in a plateau is such a vital component of its enormity.

~

The Cherry Trees Are Still In Blossom does not hold a conundrum for me. Despite the changes that those songs have seen over years, the versions present there are the only versions I know. And they move me like how Lekman always can - with a clear voice, sincere words, and strong dedication to craft.

The first time I ever wrote anything about any music, after all, was writing about “How Can I Tell Him” for an assignment long ago (discussion on musical depictions of non-traditional masculinity, juxtaposed with “Predatory Wasp of the Palisades”). 

You’ll never be moved by the same thing for the first time, but you can forget how minute the context can be to make any repeated experience feel just as strong.

~

I guess you’ll have a lot of time without change. Look inward - see how that confounds you.

[bingus-ah-um]

practical issues aside i find the hazy njt windows so charming. the way they blur the scenery into various sepia-tinted blobs; industrial-then-suburban new jersey distilled down to its impressionistic essence. would've included a picture but it's buried too deep in my camera roll & also i "tweeted" it once but can't find it there either (thank you "twitter" shadowban & whatever other fuckery is going on with data on that site). but maybe you know what picture i'm talking about.

i guess what i'm trying to say is something that i say relatively frequently in one form or another, which is that the sensed failure of infrastructure (a hazy window, a bout of tendonitis, a corrupted image, a life-crisis, etc.) is a site of potentiality. these sites might invite a reframing of things that are "ugly" in a way that's curious, or even [wretchedly] beautiful. or they might gesture towards better, more resilient ways of being in the world, ways of organizing your identification with life around more than/something other than a job, a nuclear family, or wealth accumulation. it's all alternative to (or even refuses) nihilist, uncaring, anesthetic (linking again bc it's a great read 🫡), pessimistic, or cruelly optimistic ways of adapting or becoming stoic to a damaged form of existing.

(image corruption as potentiality. while i'm not certain this is glitch art—to call it that would imply i know the process behind this image—its aesthetic is certainly glitch-inspired. u/misterjip, r/blackholedmemes (sorry for the r*ddit reference))

anyways, i get it. you don't want to miss your stop because that would be pretty damn inconvenient for you and for whoever expects your presence. however, sovereignty is an illusion, and the ways we tangibly perceive and respond to Change in its many manifest forms—train windows becoming hazy, a deceased scholar's blog going down (because the deceased don't continue to pay for domain names), a song disappearing on spotify for DMCA reasons, wildfire smoke in new places, glute activation routines becoming necessary before runs, that which used to be twitter—make that fact a little more apparent.

do also consider that you're probably worth waiting extra for :)

[wendylianmartin]

Do blankets exist in the CS universe?

Maybe!

[bingus-ah-um]

obsessed with how tender this ask is

[bingus-ah-um]

noooo babe don't create an account on threads,,, you're so sexy ahaha

but no fr babe don't do it. i know what twitter once meant to you—the platform held pwitter, a close community of mostly queer people who you went to school with but didn't necessarily know super well in person (so like pwitter was not so much a gc and more of a forum). they helped you fend off loneliness during Trying Times, first during covid and then also after moving to a new city for work reasons. you felt free in their "presence", no longer suffocating under the social pressure of accurately performing and reproducing various normativities. this proximity to freedom changed you as a person (as did the experience of said Trying Times).

but presently, el*n's ongoing destruction of twitter has fomented a collectively held sense that the platform is glitching, that something's been lost. like how you don't see a lot of the tweets from pwitter mutuals, or how some things get deboosted/don't show up at all because they're inconvenient to el*n's desire for the platform to be a propagator of cisheteropatriarchical vitriol. as such, it makes it really hard to maintain conversations and hold onto a sense of community.

except, the thing is, what we're sensing as "glitch" is entirely by design. probably like 3 or 4 people care about, say, what new coffee adzookiebean on pwitter is currently brewing (an anaerobic colombian coffee grown by jhoan vergara and roasted by elm coffee roasters & a washed honduran grown by jorge benitez and roasted by heart coffee roasters. normally adzookiebean won't brew two beans from similar origins, but the colombian from elm was too special to pass on), and so showing that on ppl's tl's won't make twitter as much money as showing the most braindead takes ever (people love an easy dunk), or tiktoks recycled by big engagement-optimizing accounts like NO CONTEXT HUMANS, or tweets from Brands, or twitter blue bootlickers, etc. so because of capitalist aims, people's feeds become less intimate and more driven by profitable Content, which gives us the sense that the platform's community-building/sustaining infrastructure is failing. (which is basically also kinda true in the non-virtual world. "lol".)

so in the same vein, i'm not hopeful about threads becoming a thing that delivers a platform that serves as a hangout spot and not something that's co-opted by brands and influencers. the mass exodus there feels kinda... cruelly optimistic and bound to end in disappointment over promises of community that are broken by design.

maybe the prevailing thought is that threads has got to be better than twitter since el*n isn't at the helm. but it's not just twitter that's glitching—a sense of failure seems like an ordinary feeling about the late capitalist internet as a whole. search engine optimization is making google/search products less usable, at least without adding "reddit" to the end of queries. speaking of reddit, its new api pricing renders that site less usable as well, certainly for blind/low vision people who rely on third-party apps for accessibility features, but also for the site's volunteer moderators who rely on third-party mod tools to keep subreddits as spam-free as possible. spotify's recommendation engine has, at this point, overfit a very specific local maximum in my music utility function to the point where its recommendations leave me feeling flat and fatigued from their sameness. at one point, amidst a depressive episode, the homogeneity of what spotify was feeding me had me convinced that i'd never be able to derive the same awe and enjoyment from music that i once could. instagram posts from ordinary folk seem all the more rare; instead, the platform seems to dish up more and more Content nowadays. in such a context, the crisis of pwitter's loss was not actually an exceptional event at all.

and so what about threads? it does nothing that i'm aware of that disrupts the present-day role of capital in curating feeds, and as long as that continues to be reproduced, threads probably also will not sufficiently support community-building.

at least tumblr users have a vested interest in keeping the platform's valuation low. its perception of and/or identification with alterity and cringe might be another reason for hope (and actually a pretty big reason why i joined). but in any case, i am not expecting tumblr to save the internet. tumblr just feels like what this particular long meanwhile needed, at least for me. a means-without-end kind of ordeal, if you will.

edit (10 july 2023): lol. let's see what happens. this long meanwhile might not be that long after all

[aschenblumen]

Kaija Saariaho, ... à la fumée (1990). Esa-Pekka Salonen, director

Ayer, 2 de junio de 2023, murió Kaija Saariaho en Francia.

[bingus-ah-um]

uhhhh happy mermay . hehe

[sawasawako-archived]

the most liberating thing to me about everything everywhere all at once is the idea that even if you have settled, you can still find joy and inherent worth in the life you have chosen and the people you have chosen to live it with. that’s counter-hegemonic in so many ways and deeply affirming

[sawasawako-archived]

when evelyn told joy “it’s okay to be a mess.”

how many people don’t get to live the life they want to live. how many people don’t ever become their best or “ideal” selves, or achieve so-called success and high regard. how many people’s dreams don’t come true, how many people are seen as a failure bc they couldn’t “make something of themselves.” are their stories not worth telling? do they not matter? this is already a profound message in a general sense, but in the context of the lives of immigrant families in the us, it’s especially radical, i think. when evelyn told her father she knows he’s not proud of her, but it’s okay bc she’s finally proud of herself. that even in the universe where she becomes rich, well-loved and famous, she still wonders about the “what if” she could’ve had with waymond, and wants to give their relationship another try.

it just reminds me of that ursula k. le guin quote from the dispossessed, “free your mind of the idea of deserving, the idea of earning, and you will begin to be able to think.”

[bingus-ah-um]

hometown racin'

december 2022

home n. 1 : one's place of residence

...is presently a seattle apartment that i am still rather hesitant to refer to in everyday conversation as "home"—"my place" or "my apartment" or "the crib", perhaps—but not quite yet "home".

in either case, race morning starts here at 3am.

2 : the social unit formed by a family living together 3 : a place of origin

as soon as i crawl out of bed, i prepare a bagel with honey and peanut butter, a pre-race breakfast tested and proven back from your time back in pton. the bagel came from "seattle bagel bakery", supposedly one of the better new york/east coast style bagels you can get in the seattle area. i also brew half of my usual dose of coffee, a costa rican microlot from my favorite roaster in ohio. call it penance for not "heading home" for thanksgiving because you signed up for a "hometown marathon". gosh, all these attachments to all these places that largely move on without you. all these places that you come back to as a tourist of your own past. how parasocial!

4 : a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment

i take a rental scooter down to the race. despite it being my first time using the city's scooter rentals, i have no problem figuring that out and finding my way to uw's husky stadium where the race started and finished. i get there in time for a blurry, dark picture with folks from the seattle green lake running group (sglrg), the club i've been running with here. like in the many other photos of the group that contain myself, i'm on the very edge, one of the least willing to squeeze into the middle of the photo. my left arm rests atop N.'s shoulder. on a few occasions, we shared some saturday morning long run miles. today, he happened to be pacing the first half of the marathon, targeting a 3:10 finish, which was my own "A" goal. i ask him about the splits he's looking to hit, and it looks like he had a slower start programmed into the splits, taking you through the hillier first half in about 1:35:50. sounds like a plan.

trip to the bathroom. part ways with the warmth of a fleece and a thermal layer shirt and sweatpants. bag-check that. shiver, because it's a hair under 40F (but not raining at least, and not really windy either). trip to the bathroom again. all of a sudden, it's 5:54am and they're already singing the national anthem. jog to the start line and hop a fence to insert oneself right behind the 3:10 pacers in the starting corral. say hi to G., another sglrg saturday morning long run regular, who's pacing 3:20. i double knot my shoes, purposefully tying the left one a looser than usual in order to maximize the chance that the extensor tendonitis that's been bothering me the past couple weeks stays at bay.

miles 1 to 9 7:28, 7:34, 7:11, 7:30, 7:03, 7:03, 6:54, 6:53, 7:09

the race starts on time and i'm out of the corral pretty smoothly. i record a shaky, blurry, ten-second fragment of video on my phone that i'll probably never watch again (although you only get one first marathon in your life after all so you might as well memorialize every little bit and piece of it). i then spend the next couple minutes trying to stuff my phone back into the small back zipper pocket of my running shorts.

i guess while we're at it, let's talk race kit. five spring energy awesome sauce gels. the plan was to take four gels total, each at miles 4, 10, 16, and 21, with an extra in case one of them refused to tear open or smth. brought along an 11oz bottle of nuun in my flipbelt as well to sip on after taking gels so that they'd go down without wreaking havoc on my stomach.

after a mostly flat, very relaxed first mile, the course takes you on a ~7 mi out-and-back on a highway express lane that they close down for the marathon. it's why the race starts so early, because the city opens it back up at 8:30am. topographically, the highway is a series of several swooping rollers, accumulating almost 500' of climbing after you're off the highway at mile 8. you're about 200' above lake union for part of the out-and-back, providing for a dark view of the sleepy hillsides that rise from the lake, dotted sporadically with specks of light.

i latched onto the 3:10 pace pack, letting myself fall behind a bit on some of the uphills to conserve energy and used the downhills to catch back up (but only if i wanted to). i've never run another marathon so i don't really have a basis for the level of hype to expect, but since this part of the course basically wasn't accessible at all to spectators, the vibe was quite... sleepy too. not a ton of conversation between folks in the pack. ah, seattle. a selection of words and cheers that i recall exchanging in this time:

mile 0.5ish: "i better be careful around you!" to a self-identified iron-man triathlete and the winner of this race on the women's side in some past year

mile 2.5ish: "hometown race, baby" to N., who might not have realized that i was briefly marveling at the nightscape. i am in a pton running club singlet. N. has a university of cincinnati gaiter around his neck.

mile 4.4ish: "wooo!" to the 3:00 pack

mile 4.5ish: "wooo!" to the 3:05 pack

mile 4.7ish: "wooo! oh hi G.!" to the 3:20 pack (no one was pacing 3:15)

you get the point

mile 5ish: "wait you said beer?" to N., who had stopped by the drink station for a couple extra drinks to offer up to the folks in our pack and who i misheard proclaiming he got beer from the station. N. quips back with something along the lines of "i'm not sure you want to be thinking about beer with more than 20 miles left to go my guy" lol. i respond with something about how beer has carbs. we are also somehow both reminded of that guy that ran a 3:28 marathon while smoking cigarettes. "he would've run 3:48 without the cigarettes!"

at this point, for whatever reason, N. was falling behind from the other 3:10 pacer (whose name i unfortunately don't remember) who was the one holding the pacer's sign. unconsciously, i find myself also pulling ahead of N., and i think most people in this pack also ended up sticking with the guy with the sign, not so surprisingly. i couldn't tell if N. was letting up the effort or if i was pushing, especially with the hills and just assuming that your effort should be increasing as a race progresses when you maintain an even pace. aided by a long descent from the highway, i tick off my two fastest miles of the race and stay with the pack through mile 9.

miles 10 to 15 7:50, 6:57, 6:56, 7:05, 7:09, 7:00

the adjective i used to describe the impending hill at the beginning of the tenth mile to the 3:10 pack was "spicy". the last part of the ascent exceeds 20% grade for a bit. (fun fact: the first medical tent on the course was at the top of this hill. i can't imagine that placement was not strategic.)

the pack stretches out a bit up the hill—everyone has a slightly different idea for tackling it. despite very obviously increasing my effort up the hill, i end up drift back a bit from the back and make the distance back up soon after the course flattens back out pretty easily, recovering from the spike in effort. in fact, not even a half mile later, a few of us pull ahead of the pack, and i kinda mindlessly followed, not knowing how these folks were looking to run the rest of the race, but feeling that the effort was still pretty easy at the time. i cruise through interlaken park with them, taking in the park's silence, its windy road, the wet fallen leaves, the sun slowly starting to rise, and the city awakening with the sunlight. like,, i got the chills running through this segment of the course. a visceral, unrationalizable euphoria, at least in the moment. maybe it was being in awe at experiencing such rare and cathartic harmony between body and mind. in any case, moments of being present during a marathon >>>>

gel #2 goes down at some point in interlaken.

exiting interlaken, the course has a nice descent into the arb (or, less locally-colloquially, the washington park arboretum), which then climbs moderately at first but you turn right back around and head downhill. during the climb, i decide to fall back from two of the folks i split off with earlier. i maintain a small gap ahead of the other brave pacer pack defector. two more sub-7 miles in the books, which i felt was justified by their being net downhill.

there was a sglrg cheer squad somewhat past mile 12. i saw several familiar faces and gave them a nice little "let's go green lake!" spirits were high.

the next part of the course is an out-and-back on a very long bridge. it's mostly flat, with a drop in the middle headed and then a pretty significant rise at the turn around point heading out. the halfway mark is a bit past the start of the bridge, which i came through around 1:33:30, more than two minutes ahead of schedule. in retrospect, there was no way i made up two minutes in the last ~3 miles after i pulled ahead of the 3:10 pace pack. so N. had probably been running the right pace all along!

a half marathon with more than 700' of climbing at such a pace with another half marathon left to go probably should've set off alarms in my head, but it didn't. i felt so strong and confident at this point and was fully convinced that my 3:10 goal was actually a sandbag lol. not long after, i pass someone (a 3:00 or 3:05 pacer who finished their duties and slowed down?) who mentioned that the 3:05 group was just a minute in front. and so for a very small half-mile window around mile 14, i thought that if i was lucky enough to not hit the wall hard, i had a pipe dream shot at going under 3:05 and getting that chicago qualifier.

mile 15 feels pretty good, and i split a strong 7:00, but it was also at this point that i started to feel like i had to push a bit. the longest i've held at marathon pace during training, however, was also 15 miles, and i was pretty toast at the end of that effort, so i didn't think much of the relatively mild oncoming fatigue at the time. what bothered me a bit more, however, was that i also started to feel slight discomfort in my shins and was running a tiny bit wonkily to avoid increasing the discomfort. this was starting to mess with me mentally a bit. after 940 miles of meticulously planned and executed training, a damn loosely tied left shoe that i started trying out just a week before the race out of desperation over not letting one injury get too out of hand during the race was going to be the thing to bite me in the ass after all.

miles 16 to 20 7:40, 7:07, 7:49, 7:01, 7:03

i felt so slow going up the long hill at the end of this bridge but noticed that pushing the pace was causing me to breathe harder than i wanted with 11 miles to go. i clock a 7:40, which, in retrospect, is faster than what i thought i was running and more or less the correct effort for a mile that climbs about 100'. i say hi to D., a fellow monday evening track attendee who was pacing the second half of 3:00. despite never having formally met her, i see I. pacing 3:05, a middle-aged lady with a personality so fiery and unfiltered and her unparalleled ability to run sub-3 hour marathons while badly injured or with food poisoning that it was impossible for me to have not heard about this storied sglrg legend. it was then my turn to make the bridge turnaround and take advantage of the downhill to recover a bit and also to take in gel #3. here, i pass sglrg's supreme leader still headed out on the bridge who took the 3:10 pacer baton for the second half, and then G., who finished his 3:20 pacing duties but wanted to finish the entire race (he did and ended up running a personal best), and so on.

coming up on 17 miles, however, i finally decided that there was no way i was going to finish this race (certainly not without hurting myself) if i continued running in a left shoe tied so loosely. the shins were getting exponentially more painful, and i started to feel some tension in my left IT band and kneecap. an executive decision was made. i stop in the middle of a race i think for the first time ever to retie my left shoe, losing about 40 seconds in doing so. immediately as i start running again, the shoe feels way too tight. i wondered how quickly i was going to regret my decision. i wondered if i was going to have to drop out of the race. with nine miles to go.

around 18 miles was when i felt that my form was starting to deteriorate exponentially. i was starting to really feel the onset of The Wall. usually, people talk about hitting The Wall when they run out of glycogen, which is a feeling i thought i was familiar with; what i felt at the end of that 22.5 mile 8-min pace long run with less carb intake before and during the run. like how you feel like you're running on fumes, even if the legs could in theory continue at 7-minute pace. this Wall felt different. i wasn't breathing particularly hard at all, but instead, my muscles were fatiguing fast. i don't think my body was prepared to handle the skeletomuscular stress of running 18 consecutive low-7-minute miles up and down some formidable hills. also not very helpful about this part of the course is how it merges with the half marathon runners, who are going at like 9-minute pace or so at this point in the race and packed very densely on the course. trying to weave through them felt like i was wasting a lot of energy, and i also lost a sense for how fast i was running. as it turns out, i had sped up with a 7:01 19th mile during a point in the race where i felt like i should have slowed down to simply make it to the end in one piece.

i choke on the water that i get from the water station a bit before the 19 mile mark in front of one of the most spectator-heavy sections of the course which was cool and totally not embarrassing at all :) lol

one more hill up to a drawbridge back into north seattle that i feel like i'm literally just bopping up. like 10-minute miles. the end of the drawbridge occurs 19.16 mi into the course, which i split 2:17:41 for. 7:11 pace, which didn't matter at all at that point. i just wanted to finish. 7 more miles of this death march. less than an hour to go, alam. hold it together.

at least at this point, the stop to tie my shoes has proven to be prudent and not disastrous, with the shin, IT band, and knee pain having actually subsided somewhat. a surprisingly quick 7:03 20th mile. my running was very clunky at this point, however. you know that one song about legs being weak, arms being heavy? anyways, i didn't care how fast or slow i was running; i just wanted to make it to the finish at this point. sub-3:10 be damned.

miles 21 to 26.2 7:19, 7:23, 7:36, 7:26, 7:48, 7:42, (last .22) 1:26

this part of the race through the UW botanic gardens is basically a fkn cross country course!!! i find myself becoming angry at every little thing. the stupid fourth gel that i take that feels pointless given how i was increasingly losing my grasp on my goal pace and the race distance in general. how i had to hang onto the stupid wrapper for 2.5 miles since no one could be bothered to put a single trash can down this stretch of the course. the audacity!! to route the course over a trail that's so persistently flooded that there are wooden planks set up on it so you don't completely soak your shoes. i do try to keep composure in front of the few spectators on that part of the course and walkers on the path. a total of two (small groups of) spectators cheer me on between miles 20 and 22 i think. i respond to one with meaningless, vaguely human noise. i try to get the other to take my stupid gel wrapper that i'm tired of holding. they didn't understand my ask, either because it was too bizarre a request for someone not currently undergoing marathon bonk brain fog to comprehend or i was inadvertently speaking in chinese or something. how the body and mind remained in harmony after all this time, even if the harmony's developed into something incomprehensible and utterly repulsive. 7:19 and 7:23 over miles 21 and 22, yet again, less of a slowdown than expected.

mile 23 starts with a few stairs!!! and then a steep ramp up to the good ol' burke-gilman trail. a generally flat bike path (it's very gently graded, around 1%), the trail is a long run staple for seattle's hill-averse runners and heads all the way into bothell and connects up with other trail systems that take you even farther out of seattle. unfortunately, the trail is quite narrow, and this part of the course is also shared with the half runners, who are now slower yet because they don't do that silly little XC course add on lol. at this point i feel much better about my chances of finishing, but nevertheless i'm straight up not having a good time. i am not typically a very emotionally intense runner. here, that was not the case. i was grunting and making a fool of myself in front of presumably petrified hobby joggers. i hear the voice of sglrg's supreme leader (again, pacer of the 3:10 pack) growing closer. he and his pack catches up to me at about 23 mi, now only two (2) strong (down from about 15 at the beginning of the race). he recognizes me and encourages me to draft off him. i quip back somehow, saying that i want his glycogen instead. was that funny? i don't think it got a reaction from anyone. i was honestly barely perceiving reality at this point. was i still racing a marathon? i didn't even know. case in point, at the water station about a quarter mile later, he stops briefly for reasons that i will never know. but my dumbass also stopped with him for that brief moment until he ushered me to go ahead, only to pass me a moment later. there was no way i was holding 7:10-15 pace to the end with him. but i might have gotten a few extra seconds back from being pulled along for 1/3 mi or so. mile 24 clicks in with a nice 7:26, once more faster than i thought i was capable running in such a battered condition.

mile 25 holds the last climb on the course. i do not know how i made it up that hill. slowly, certainly, and also probably on the brink of literal collapse. at least this slowest mile was still under 8 minutes. one more small flat out-and-back on the burke, then it's all downhill to the finish. passing mile marker 26, my gasps for air morph into the beginnings of... an ugly cry. crossing the finish line, i break down completely. i am still scared to look at my finish line photo lol. i am not immediately handed a medal, unlike the other finishers. while ugly-crying at the finish line, several of my sglrg training buddies come by to congratulate/hug/assist me, which only causes me to bawl harder loool. a pton running club friend who's home in seattle for thanksgiving has also awaited my finish and congratulates me in the midst of my emotional dramatics. looooooooool! what a state to see someone in for the first time in half a year :)))))

(yes, i did go back and get that finishers' medal. i finished in 3:10:20, technically 20 seconds behind what i wanted to run, but i left everything and then some on that course. maybe if i paced the first half better. but i'm super happy with such a debut in either case, especially on a course with 1100+ feet of elevation gain!)

home adv. 1 : to a vital sensitive core (ex.: the truth struck home)

last time i sat down to gather my thoughts about seeking a sense of respite from isolation post-graduation, i felt that i had people to meet up with here in seattle, but my interactions in so many occasions were lacking a sort of intimacy that i tried to tease out and define. the experience i reached for was actually my time on pwitter & thinking with the interactions and friendships i built there. twitter is very much a hellsite in many ways, but at least within pwitter, the platform enabled a sort of high-shared-knowledge, layered, performative humor that i think really brought a fledgling in-group closer together. a lot of the content i enjoy on the site is funny-bordering-on-incomprehensible. incomprehensible, because in order to pack as much meaning as we can into 280 characters, unspoken shared knowledge, be they inside jokes or alignment of political/social/cultural values, often has to be assumed of the reader. how, to laugh at/with something, you have to "get" the humor, but also, you have to agree with the political/social/cultural purpose of the humor. in the end, this pwitter in-group gave me a space where i'd be able to be understood as appreciated as myself, instead of compromising my behavior in someway to feel more palatable to the people i'm around. (there is of course a direct analogue here to a critique of respectability politics lol.)

i think back to that euphoric moment on the course in interlaken park, and i can't help but want to figure out what all that meant. i think the most sensible post facto interpretation was gratitude for being able to engage with a sport whose community has allowed for the beginnings of the vital, sensitive process of homemaking in a new locale, made especially difficult in this so-called Real World where home- and community-building infrastructure is not really reliably afforded. it's kinda cool how the folks pacing this so-called hometown race are also your neighbors: the folks who you can count on ripping some intervals with at the woodland park dirt track on monday evenings. the folks that'll grab a coffee with you at milstead after your friday morning lap around lake union. the folks that don't mind tacking on some extra miles with you after the wednesday evening brooks store runs and then offered to pay for your dinner that one time because it was your birthday week. the folks that you'll road-trip with for a whole day into the mountains and still have more running to talk about after ten hours together.

how that one time you pulled up to a dark 5:30am workout without a headlamp and worrying the sweetest lady (she's in her 50s if i were to guess) enough to the point where she says "i'm gonna be your mom for a sec here and tell you to be careful... please no tripping today!" (alex if you're reading this, you met this lady and talked to her quite a bit i think at the friday morning lake union run you joined me for lol) how you now feel empowered to... be a Weird Little Guy on your training buddies' strava feeds lmao. how you now feel like you've found a space where the "you" you portray doesn't exhaust you or give you an identity crisis.

the usual question to end race reports with... where next? on the topic of exhaustion, the race and also very importantly the long and demanding training cycle left me with some pain points in my feet, as well as my left knee. so i'll be resting for a bit. no running/minimal cross training and strength training for 10 days and no structured training/nothing but easy pace runs until probably mid-january. then i'll start a training block that should lead me to tracktown, usa (targeting the eugene half marathon)!!

[bingus-ah-um]

23 retrospective to-dos for a 23rd birthday

7 october 2022

ONE. …microdose the ennui of temporary unemployment? there are differences abound, of course, between a mostly solo birthday celebration and unemployment, but it’s a microdose after all.

TWO. …be fully present in your current relation to your current reality. think through which things you want to keep around in your life, which things you want to change, which things you want to cherish more than you do, which things you want to ditch. the way that planning out what to do for your birthday—creating an ideal day-that-sets-itself-apart-from-routine for yourself—forces you to come to terms with the things you put up with through the usual day-to-day, and grant yourself the opportunity to not put up with these things, be it for this one special day, or for good if at all possible.

THREE. …understand that you spent a good part of a day spread across a few days prior to plan out today, and having the accompanying awareness of how this massive friction generated by breaking from routine may allow for the incorporation of significant displeasure into routine that ends up going unquestioned.

FOUR. …wonder how much of this extensive planning was a coping mechanism for a relatively lonely birthday celebration, for one that occurs in a time/place where there are not yet people in your presence who each want to celebrate you fully as much as you want/deserve to celebrate yourself, whose joy and values and love you share and mutually contribute towards, whose presence is comforting rather than socially draining.

FIVE. …wake up (on time!) for the friday lake union run (flur), which stops for no occasion. to propel your body forward in space at speeds in excess of five or six miles per hour at six a.m. is a tall order after a few days in a row of sleeping in because (i) there was no good reason for you to wake up any earlier than you did and (ii) you got the covid booster on monday which has been responsible for an amount of fatigue that requires managing. but at the same time, this morning’s slog, and the Bad Run in general, is to be kept and cherished. because when your relationship to running is precarious and highly inconsistent, any chance to run is a good run. you are in a good place if you're running enough to have Bad Runs. (so long as your runs are not exclusively bad.)

SIX. …feel a bit disappointed (in the ensuing situation rather than at anyone in particular) when the one regular who would've known it was your birthday did not show up at flur. so you don't mention it to anyone, at least not explicitly, because you feel weird about being paid any sort of attention. you talk about how your own marathon training is going with the group like the attention whore that you are. oh, the eternal mood of perceive-me-not. unless 😳

SEVEN. …imbibe in the usual post-flur milstead macchiato. beans from colombia, packing notes of pear, went into this one. i chat it off with a fellow flur attendee who’s also a Coffee Guy. at some point, i try to pick his brain about the “slow bar” at seattle coffee works; see if he’s experienced it. he scoffs a bit at the concept, finding it to be somewhat of a faux pas to talk to baristas as they prepare your drink, due to some combination of his own unwillingness to engage in these sorts of interactions, as well as a result of perceived courtesy on behalf of the barista, who is paid to make you drinks, rather than to be personable. “but maybe that's just me”, he adds, proceeding to talk about how he feels more comfortable with his job in tech because the sector provides space for (certain manifestations of) neurodivergence. i clarify that the allure of the slow bar for me was certainly not small talk, but rather, an outlet for what one might consider to be one of my own hyperfixative neurodivergentisms.

EIGHT. …overhear small talk later on. be amused at the morsels of slapsticky drama that emerge when one small-talks too mindlessly.

“what are your hobbies?”

“...baking,”

“but you said you were low-carb, so what do you bake?”

“...uhhhh”

at this point, sufficiently far from the source of the small talk, the city traffic drowns out the conversation’s denouement. but because the drama exists within the context of small talk, no one holds a stake in how it ends, including the participants in the small talk themselves.

NINE. …take a morning nap of the 8-12 minute variety. so absolutely clutch after any <7 hour night of sleep when at least this amount of time afk is afforded to you & you have your bed nearby.

TEN. …let the birthday wishes from people thousands of miles away trickle in. how each of these people you've shared joy with at some point chooses to deviate from the normal “happy birthday!” in a way that captures some aspect of how you've bonded. such as “happy alam / adzookiebean / a_landing / bingusahum etc. day [to those who observe]”. or “happy 🅱️irthday”. or being referred to as “ohioman” or “sweater king”.

ELEVEN. …observe how,  all at once, an overwhelming number of folks also want to check in with you after they wish you happy birthday. the weird simultaneity of appreciating their care for me on this day & wanting to express this appreciation and the loss of words that a simple “how have you been” tends to induce. a prompt approachable in so overwhelming a number of ways, not all of them equally “valid”. small talk is one way to proceed, certainly, but being unable to stand ten simultaneous threads of small talk, i try to respond slightly more vulnerably, hoping to resonate with others in similar recently-graduated points in their lives.

TWELVE. …leave extremely crowded spaces (pike place market) before you had planned to do so. especially when you’re there alone and don’t have others to distract you from your present sensory overload. sometimes, the discomfort of deviating from a plan is worth it if it’s necessary for self-preservation. today is no day for shutting down and suddenly forgetting how to interact with reality with an etiology (namely, crowds) whose avoidance is completely within your control! (but then again, is any day?)

THIRTEEN. …deviate, also, from your meticulous food intake plans for the day to hold off hunger for a couple extra hours (you started your city-frolicking somewhat late to rest up after flur). i briefly stop by a store selling empanadas in pike place and opt for salmon, a distinctly seattleite take on the dish. a curiously difficult thing to pull off, methinks, and i don’t feel this particular salmon empanada quite hit the spot. something about a general preference for salmon to have a melt-in-your-mouth quality while also wanting empanada filling to be “substantial”, which might be more easily achieved with something with a bit more textural heft when taken to an ideal level of doneness than salmon.

FOURTEEN. …try new coffee shops. as foreshadowed, i hit up seattle coffee works, but their slow bar was not running because they were short-staffed. good ol’ slowness continuing to be precarious, perpetually incompatible with the Hustle demanded by capitalism. i hurry to type as much of this up as possible on my phone in the coffee shop, instinctively viewing my own slowness as a violation of the permissible use of the coffeeshop’s space, despite having ordered a drink. a cortado made with an indonesian single-origin, something that isn't as widely offered in the third-wave world i don't think, because beans from that part of the world tend to have earthy notes, antithetical to the acidity/fruitiness/sweetness that permeate the third-wave meta as well as my own preferences. but the indonesian single-origin piqued my curiosity for the sole reason of its being uncommonly offered, and so i tried it out. idk what else i was expecting. it was fine, certainly of good quality. but yeah. earthy, low acidity. don't know what else i was expecting. guess natural process central american beans shall continue to be in my rotation. my relative rush to leave the store proves mildly consequential later.

FIFTEEN. …try out biang biang noodles. you opt to have them to go then instantly realizing it might not be so easy to find a place to eat them, but not bothering with mentioning that to the wait staff. classic non-confrontational alam behavior lol. i took the noodles to cal anderson, the aromatics emanating from which attracted no fewer than two reasonably docile dogs, one of whom i had the privilege of petting.

SIXTEEN. …ponder cal anderson park and political/politicized space. the park is a prop in many an op-ed about everything wrong about cities “destroyed” by the leadership of the american liberal left, well before it’s a place of refuge from the surrounding concrete jungle, a place for folks to engage in various sports, or a place for a picnic and a book. oh, how we are obsessed with damage-centered accounts of reality. i settle down after finishing lunch to chew through a few pages out of berlant’s cruel optimism (yep i’m finally getting around to actually reading the Source Material instead of basing my knowledge of berlant’s thought on what was talked about in a single 80-minute “race, gender, and the urban environment” seminar on a different piece from them lol). as tiffany smiley struggles to find coffee in a neighborhood that houses several seattle coffee staples within the confines of a single square kilometer or so (presumably to prove a point about the area’s purported crime and lawlessness) a school cross country practice passes through, the kids generally looking worn down by the prescribed distance and pace and seattle’s october… heat and wildfire smoke.

SEVENTEEN. …ponder the cultural phenomenon of foodies (certainly, the sort of crowd that biang biang noodles the restaurant attracts). that markedly cosmopolitan, college-educated bunch interested in “authentic” flavors from around the world but are the first to complain about “poor” (as perceived through western/american norms) customer service at first-gen-immigrant-run places on yelp. although to be fair, the biang biang noodles were actually really good—3 or 4 cm wide and chewy as one tends to desire from fresh hand-cut noodles, doused in sauce/toppings that did taste pretty authentically sichuanese, even if the particular dish i got (mapo tofu biang biang noodles) isn’t an authentic concoction.

EIGHTEEN. …partake in retail therapy at standard goods. honestly, one of the best places anywhere for that sort of thing. they have various trinkets/mugs/giftable items, as well as a nice selection of mostly gender-neutral clothing that is priced quite reasonably, actually. the trinkets, in general, are probably most attractive to a younger, queer clientele, which makes sense given the store's capitol hill location. something for your favorite schitt’s creek-enjoying millennial. for your favorite liberal/leftie activist whose preferred mode of praxis is consumerism. for your favorite cynical absurdist who fucks with things like dad hats with a (dad hat with a dad hat embroidered on it) embroidered on it, or buttons that say “i express my individuality through mass-produced buttons”. will these trinkets become our generation’s Live, Laugh, Love? how we are deceived to claim so many experiences and things we are drawn to as individuals until time exposes them to be more collective, more basic than you thought. how at some point that 20/20 hindsight kicks off the era-ification of what once seemed like a messy, variegated present. how we remember pasts in a more distinctly homogeneous, coherent way than how they felt in the moment.

NINETEEN. …feel kinda bad after the fact about not sticking around in lifelong (a thrift store) to look for someone’s lost blue fjallraven wallet after the loss had been announced by the store’s staff. in your defense you were planning to head out and had already gathered everything you wished to purchase and were a bit thirsty since you didn’t want to take your mask off in the store to take a swig of the water you were running out of anyways. but did everyone else also have these various silly little reasons? a tragedy of the commons for the particular moment, one which you hope did not actually end tragically but will never know. (you don’t come across the wallet on your way out.)

TWENTY. …enjoy your time in capitol hill in general. vow to yourself to visit the neighborhood more often. think again about discursive framings of the demise of the gayborhood as a good thing (because, as these people argue, that means queer people feel safe living elsewhere in the city), about what bullshit that argument is. about how the queer right to safety in a city is not a desirable endgame in the fight for queer people’s rights to the city in general. because that endgame doesn’t guarantee the right and structural ability for queer people to change the built and cultural environment of a place to better enable their own pursuit of joy, a luxury otherwise afforded almost exclusively to straight people in the commons even nowadays.

TWENTY-ONE. …walk fast. fear perception in public. or perhaps also: give into that ingrained runner desire to maintain pace. all the way from pike place to the top of the water tower—about 500 feet higher than where you started—at the top of capitol hill in volunteer park then to the central district where you are set to have your birthday dinner, a mere block from an apartment that you and your roommate were considering but ditched for one in an area somewhat more amenable to running. how drastically different life would be on this day if you and your roommate had signed the lease for that central district apartment. different running routes and groups. a different 15-minute neighborhood to establish routines and relationships with. an urban fabric that reveals a different past and forces a different sort of reckoning with Your Role In The System. while fremont/wallingford were centers of a white bohemian counterculture at some point, the central district is a historically black neighborhood harmed by the systematic disinvestment made possible by segregation, de jure and de facto. and then more recently, investment has poured into the neighborhood as it’s rapidly gentrified. today, in the central district, white-owned pot shops sit atop the same land where black people were put in prison for dealing.

TWENTY-TWO. …make difficult decisions over who to invite to dinner. featuring: (i) the tension between having control over your own wants and needs and wanting the love and affirmation from friends who think you’re worth celebrating, (ii) apprehension over what will happen if you mix friend groups (will they feel comfortable with being in each others’ presence? do you fully become the center of attention? are you comfortable with that? you don’t want to feel guilty about taking up too much space in others’ minds, now do you?), and (iii) feeling weird about the present state of the world’s hyper-individualized approach to the pandemic as experienced through being unwilling to invite friends who you know regularly partake in high-covid risk activities. adey abeba ethiopian restaurant is empty when you walk in at 6pm. you ask for a table for a mere three: yourself, your roommate, and O. whom you met at a summer program in high school and found out before both of our moves to seattle that i was headed there too.

TWENTY-THREE. …order a veggie combo, lamb tibs, and doro wat for the table. the dishes came with plenty of injera, which we used to scoop up the food. the veggies consisted of a few different types of lentils, beets, collard greens, cabbage, and salad. all ranging from decent to great. spiced but not spicy. the injera had a sour kick that didn’t become unbearable until you were too full to eat any more. in the end, i enjoyed the tibs the most, especially digging the pairing with jalapeno pepper. (although if i were to go back i’d get the combo for the sheer variety and quantity of stuff you get for under $20.) anyways, the conversation honestly was kinda forgettable, but it flowed, and we were having a really good time. i found out i had missed O. at seattle coffee works by around 15 minutes. you order traditional ethiopian coffee for the table out of curiosity and also to rectify your betrayal of slowness at seattle coffee works. it is past 8pm. the coffee comes in a pretty kettle, to be poured into small saucer-cups-sans-saucers and consumed with sugar. it is past 8pm. it makes no sense to taste this coffee like third-wave coffee. its preparation probably involved directly pouring boiling water over extremely fine grounds, which give the drink a heavy, sooty mouthfeel & accordingly, a fairly strong body and essentially no acidity. it is past 8pm. “cheers, O.,” i proclaim after i pour him the last of the coffee, comically aware of the irresponsibility of drinking this much coffee so late, especially with a 5am alarm the next morning for a group long run (23 km for 23 years). we clink our little cups together nevertheless, sipping on the rainy city’s signature beverage (it certainly feels quite disingenuous to call it that here, however, given coffee was first prepared in ethiopia) to ring in another lap around the sun in (purportedly) cloudy seattle.

———

one crucial retrospective didn't-do: leave room (time, stomach space, etc.) for cake after dinner. because it takes a lot of foresight to plan for the consumption of cake, even on your birthday.

but nevertheless, i owe myself cake, and all else which i deserve but have failed to muster up the sufficient foresight to obtain.

[gearsphere]

Immensely powerful thrift shop find, google drive to follow

(edit: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1wWwTMS9LxWI1etYJGxDQIhjtuR895si3?usp=sharing )