Each time subtextually urging you to have an answer. Something for them to be impressed by. Not that it matters to them. You’re not their investment. You make decisions for nobody but you. You’re just keeping yourself afloat in the stream of time. It’s not on you to make them understand.

The potential they saw in you is still there. Anything can happen at any moment. Joe Biden graduated 76th in his class of 85. Just because he lived in a time with fewer people and obstacles doesn’t make him better than you. You’re no worse than a president.

Nobody is going to hand you anything. You don’t need them to. You don’t have to be a main character. The rent is due, and the bills, and the loans, and the internet. Platitudes from the walls of your elementary school classroom float around in your mind. Dream big, be yourself, etc. Well, we can’t all.

You walk, keys in hand, to the bar. Your head is filled with conversations you might have there. They all want to know how much you are maximizing your life. You run through the imaginary opinions on your life and practice not caring.

Soon you’re going home, living in the moment because it’s all you can remember. You greet the other you. All you got is that voice in your head that speaks to you when you’re out of your mind.

Among performers of the modern day, Hayley Williams is a paragon. She’s known for her powerful voice, though these tracks she just dropped under the pseudo-album Ego are raw, quiet, and intimate. I’m very interested in the perspective she shares through the lyrics on this project. Ms. Williams has ostensibly gone through a lot, not least for being a woman in a male-dominated genre of creeps. She’s been a symbol for female rock singers, with all that that entails. She’s been sexualized, underestimated, put on a pedestal and then torn down for twenty years.

It’s clear that she has a story to tell. This project spiritually reminds me of Fetch the Bolt Cutters. It’s sonically diverse, with Williams trying new beats and styles of singing than what she’s known for. It’s introspective, cracking open an inner world that seems so different than her rockstar image. This kind of songwriting perfect for late night emotions and solo listening. I look forward to listening more as we enter the dog days of 2025.

Subscribe now

Cameron Winter was introduced to me by my friend Melissa, and ever since she recommended him to me I’ve been convinced he’s on a track to stardom. After witnessing his concert tonight, I hope it isn’t soon, only for the selfish reason that I want to see him in this type of venue again.

From the second row, I watched this greasy-headed young man take the stage and captivate the audience in the pews for an hour. The decision to do a church tour was a clever one; the built-in respect the space commands makes it such a pleasant show. No talkers or filmers interrupted anyone else’s experience. It also grants the moment so much gravitas. I couldn’t think of anything else while the performance was happening. Though perhaps this should be entirely attributed to Cameron’s talents.

The first moment of true magic happened three songs in. Winter’s mic cut out. In the second it happened, his head jolted back from the microphone in surprise, but his hands continued playing, and slowly his head turned from the catty-corner piano mic to the pews of the church, his voice crescendoing to fill the space. It seemed we all were going back in time. This unifying moment showed professionalism, but also his humble beginnings as a performer, playing in any room and audience given to him. His mouth went from a mutter to a wide-open call, a cry that he will try as he may to still fight for you

In my sad, sad little rock-throwing way

The barrier between performer and audience was temporarily broken, but it was mended with absolute awe of the talent of this young performer.

A fan I met on line outside, Andy, told me he heard influence from Rough and Rowdy Ways in Cameron Winter’s debut Heavy Metal. The connections which sprung from my mind were lyrical, such as the mentions of self-comparison to Rolling Stones. But in performance I started to see similarities as well. Winter’s expressions were different than I expected from hearing the album alone. I’d imagined him more self-serious to justify the daring artistic vocal choices he makes. What surprised me was his humility and humanity. He started the set wordlessly, and sung with mouth small and eyebrows angled open like a choir boy or Christmas figurine. His innocence did remind me of a young Dylan, especially paired with the depth and complexity of his words. His delivery was very clear, with lung capacity almost impossible to believe. Once in a while he’d do something unexpected and funny on the piano and laugh at himself.

Some songs were contrastingly intense. A highlight was “Nina + Field of Cops,” a clamor of hammering piano and breathless vocals. I’m unable to tell how his mind could keep up with the words leaving his mouth. Yet each one was delivered with ferocity and delicious clarity.

Nina knows the reason, and she's seen into the mouth of

What it is to be a mountain, and she's seen all the good pigeon-like

People shot down and bones be kicked to powder

By the insane wild horses

Nina I'm not nothing but when you lie on the piano

I am reminded I am SO stupid, and in every upstairs room

The deep and smiling voices shushing, kicking everything to powder

Throwing music out the window

Winter’s encore took place in the balcony where he played “$0” on the church’s organ, one of my favorite songs in his oeuvre. I couldn’t really see him playing up there, so I bowed my head in meditation and took in the performance. I felt total sincerity in every word.

In the moments before, it all felt so blank. A self-assuredness you’ve never experienced before. Your mind is constantly racing, something you didn’t realize was abnormal until well into adulthood. You didn’t realize until the fourth or fifth time you asked your boyfriend what he was thinking about and he had no answer. He wasn’t lying or stupid, he just had moments without thought. How lovely.

In the moment you made the decision, your body moved to the kitchen without any input from your brain. An elation and joy fluttered in your chest as you felt so confident about the end. Instead of the buzzing anxiety about how you would deal with it all, it was quiet. No responsibilities. You didn’t have to make any decisions after this one.

You realize now that wasn’t tranquil, it was stupid. You without your thoughts is stupid. Now you have to live in an awkward in-between, and your responsibility is greater than before. You have to deal with the grief of your parents who never did anything wrong. You have to figure out how to explain your decision, one made without thought. The burden is great, but you are more grateful to live with regret than the alternative.

Agony, you are filled with weary agony. You have no use for clocks, or mealtimes, or time. Time was the one thing you depended on. Your body is refusing any more of it. It’s all fading away because you are nearing the end. You laugh about it with your loved ones, which makes them uncomfortable. The hospital bed is stupid, but it won’t be of use for much longer. At least you can give them that back. You could have written a book, or done anything that would give them something to remember you by. Instead, you lived in the moment.

Then in the quiet, alone, you feel elation and joy. You feel certainty. It erupts throughout your body and makes you want to dance. The overwhelm is comforting. Your life feels complete.

Yeah, okay, this dude-written song hit me too hard for it me to ignore my fixation on it. I wish to study the mind of John Linnell of They Might Be Giants in all his beautiful weirdness. My appreciation of him may be something I share with the original Philosopher of Modern Song, Mr. Bob Dylan; TMBG’s song Bangs was included in Theme Time Radio Hour. I can see why he would be aware of them. Writing about every subject and from every POV imaginable, their songs are just a trove to get into lyrically. Though you probably know them as nerdy guys, they’ve always shirked classification and limitation.
I’m fascinated by what enables people to be artists. This sounds more accusatory than I intend: How do people find the audacity within themselves to think they have the right? I feel that I have to know something innately to speak it. I even found it hard to write about songs that are too good, like this one, for fear that I cheapen it with my art. How can Linnell write the perspective of a person’s final moments, something so uniquely intense and human? And then sing down the barrel of the camera with a smile? Is it a delusion in itself? Unrelated, he’s so attractive.

This time, with some distance from the last offense, things went wrong. You spoke up, and things fell apart. It’s what you always feared, and for some reason, it hurt. You thought you could finally express your feelings about how he hurt you, and then he handed them back to you, mangled at your feet. Even worse, you kept trying. Begging him to accept your side of things. Instead he beat down each offering, coldly. A mess of tears, you just wanted it to end. “Please, can we go back? Forget the whole thing?” He didn’t accept that either. And you realize why you hadn’t spoken up before. Not out of desire to keep it civil, but to protect your peace. You never could have known how violently it would be disrupted. Your heart was ripped a bit too far. Now you could never go back, even if he asked. It was always going to end this way. 

There’s so much fighting nowadays, predicated by how many people you can interact with every day. I’m not very good at it, just like I’m not very good at every other kind of social interaction. However, I ruminate a lot. I think a lot about my words, running simulations all day long. I always imagine myself showing it to someone.

The other day I let the hand of justice reach out on some old lady on the train. She was BLASTING this video about some silent film star. It was so egregious, I could see everyone around her making some show of annoyance about it. I thought, this is my moment to speak up. I went over to her and told her, “you can’t do this, it’s too loud.” She dismissed me and demanded I go away. Like I was the crazy person. Everyone around ignored me, of course. I couldn’t help but laugh at what I thought was going to happen. Was I expecting a revolution in the car? At least a little bit of support. The worst part was she started speaking to the lady next to her WHO WAS WEARING HEADPHONES, talking about how crazy I was for asking for some common courtesy. But what, I can’t practice some dissent with a nonthreatening old lady being a menace to society? If I can’t do that, how can I stand up to people who actually matter to me, like my friends and family? If you engage, you have to be prepared for it to go wrong. Which it always seems to, for me.

P.S. Demi Lovato is the vocalist of our time. Do NOT argue with me, I will be bad at it/cry.

You are barely keeping your head above water. You think of texting that girl who you’ve lost touch with, but you’re kind of mad at her still. Some years old shit. You know whenever you meet in person it’s fine, but…you can’t help but think of every time she left you out and cancelled on you every time you tried to reschedule. Fuck her. You’ve grown, but still hold onto childish things like that.

You look around at the crowded subway and reluctantly take the available seat. You make the concession that you deserve it this time, your throbbing feet and all. The old man next you leans over. “Can I penalize you with a joke?” You look at him, at the subway around you, the closing doors. “Sure.”

“What do you call it when you eat too much  alphabet soup?”

“What?”

“A Vowel movement.”

“Good one,” you say, grateful that that’s the worst the subway has served to you today. You consider yourself adequacy penalized for being alive and you sit in silence for the next four stops.

You think of how hard you’ve worked to get here and how many people you’ve left behind. How many people have left you behind?

You get a text from your mom and smile.

Someone named Gavin Creel passed away today. He was very young and it was unexpected. He was a really amazing performer and person. The theater community has been sharing so many beautiful videos of his performances and this one from Waitress made me feel so much. One thing therapy taught me to be grateful for is my own capacity for musical appreciation, and I’m sure as shit grateful for that. It’s something that hasn’t changed my whole life, the feeling I get when listening to someone talented sing like this. I’m so proud to be a witness.

The coffee sits on their desk, barely given a glance. Not knowing what to do with your hands, you fiddle with your fingernails, feeling naked and uncomfortable. 

Just stop! your inner monologue protests. You let your arms hang and try to stand a bit taller. If you communicate confidence, you won’t be overlooked. You go about your day oscillating between feeling out of place and faking it. How do people interact here? How can I fit in while also standing out? You don’t want to bother the busy people, but you want to be noticed. 

Can I make it here while still being who I am?

Some days, you spend hours laying out your outfit for the next day, waking up early to do makeup and make yourself beautiful. Some days, waking up is all your can muster. People treat you nicer when you put in effort, but you don’t think it’s the right kind of attention. 

You see the women at the top. They are demanding, they are loud. They are unlikable. What were they like when they started? How did they get people to see them as a boss? You can’t see yourself becoming that. You are too accommodating. 

It seems like no matter what you do, everyone is too caught up in their own world to notice. It’s freeing, because you can get away with doing your own thing. It’s terrifying, because you feel expendable. You wait for the day when you’ll shake with fear being called into an office. Until then, you’ll live out your day inside your head, never feeling enough. 

Feeling like I missed the boat with this song’s popularity, but of course, it’s evergreen. Before being a Tik Tok trend in 2023, it prominently featured in Lost. All acclaim is totally deserved. But Cass Elliot was never satisfied with her musical output, as she felt limited by what her voice could convey. It’s a great irony that this song is the lasting message she gave the world. The outlook she had is much more easy to feel, that you aren’t capable of living to your fullest potential, or that you aren’t the kind of person you wan to be. I always wonder about artists who have inspirations that are so different than the kind of art they make.

I wish she could see that this kind of pop is deep and meaningful, especially with 55 years of distance. While the message of the song is difficult to believe, it makes it worth it.

The last train left without you, filled with bodies packed tight. You can’t afford the minutes they steal from your paycheck.

You’re sweaty and freezing. You regret these socks, slipping down uselessly. You regret the bra, too tight. You regret these pants; you wanted to be comfortable, but on day three of wear, they’re too loose to be flattering. You wish it didn’t matter. But you know the rule of womanhood: if they like your body, they’ll give your mind a chance.

Every feeling is an unforgiving push: the abrasive sound of a voice on speakerphone, the email notification, the clock ticking further and further right, the train’s ETA along with it. It’s all happening to you, and you wish you weren’t there to be punished like this.

Rancid smells, tobacco smells, indescribable smells. You actually can’t really describe any smell, only what you presume it comes from. The source: America’s most neglected. It’s not their fault, it’s not your fault, but who am I to blame when the car fills with smoke?

The album Dance Fever explores anxiety and being alive in this moment, and in doing so, references to the “dancing plague” of 1518. If you haven’t heard of it, it was an unexplained phenomena where a bunch of people literally danced in the street until they died. Was it a disease? Was it mass hallucination? Was life just so shitty in 1518 that this was the only escape? It’s impossible to know. It sometimes feels like the only escape now. In addition to this banger, Florence includes a song on the album called “Choreomania” that has some incredible lyrics as well. She might be a genius for this one, because a study was just released this year that dancing beats any other method of depression treatment by a mile.

I think dancing is the best thing in the world. I think it would be a beautiful way to go.

Instead, they land on trash, beer cans, shoes, plates, underwear, crumpled-up amazon packaging, hair clumps, laundry, coffee-mold mugs, fruit flies, and a sedentary man.

He comes up to you to give you a kiss. The visual stimulation overloads your brain and explodes out your body. With a low growl, you push him away. His hurt puppy-dog face drives you out of your mind. There’s nothing he could say or do right now to stop what’s coming.

You rip off your shoes and fling them across the room. “Is this how you live, huh?” you yell, hoping it hurts. “Is this how you treat my house? Is this how you treat me?” accentuating each question by picking up some shit and throwing it on the ground. It was almost there anyway!

Too many nights you come home and can’t find an inch of room on the ground to walk, and you huffily clear the space. The era of passive is done. The era of aggression has begun. You allow your energy to erupt, screaming and throwing. He reaches past you to throw out a can, and you pick up the entire receptacle and dump it on the ground.

The shame comes quickly during your tirade. You’re terrible. You should be grateful he’s not worse. It’s not his fault. You’ll still have to clean this up anyway. The rage snaps back. It’s the consequences of his actions. He should love you enough to make your life comfortable. You deserve that.

Your internal argument escalates as he stupidly stands there not saying anything. You’ll make him talk. You pick up his mug and raise it high. “No!” he cries, as it smashes to the ground in a stunning explosion. He’ll probably never forgive you for that.

Having sufficiently expressed yourself, you feel good. Breathing heavy with tears flowing, you sink into the lumpy pile of laundry. The shame and rage have dissolved into weariness. It wasn’t even you who did that. It was the apartment itself come to life to seek its own justice. Trash flew around, dishes met their end on the wall. You were the vessel to rebel against its mistreatment.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T. Find out what it means to ME, JAY-Z!

Feminine rage is awesome. This expression is so natural to me, and I think is a natural consequence of being alive. I often have the desire to burn it all down and fuck it all up.

I often feel like a receptacle myself. It’s almost impossible to get out of the negativity cycle flowing between us all. If your job is to serve people, you’re on the receiving end of it every day. Sass, passive aggressiveness, unreasonable requests, demands, entitlement. When we clock out it gets passed to other servers, to strangers in our vicinity, to those we love. Those of us who try really hard to not let the hate loose just end up like emotional trash cans. But even the most calm and collected of us reach a point when we think, okay, it’s my turn to lose it. And it feels so good.

I just saw a video of a couple of young girls mid-breakdown after collectively quitting their serving jobs. I feel so much love and solidarity with these screaming and crying girls. Because if you treat us bad, you’ll only hurt yourself in the end. I hope the owners of that restaurant go broke.

sound warning!

@skunkprincess23The entire staff has quit if you were wondering #iquitmyjob #server #serverproblems #serverlife #serviceindustry #quitserving #ihatethisplace #ragequitter

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

You’ve been trying to stay off social media, for your mental health. There’s been some major changes in your life and you find yourself changing your tune a bit. What once was your only place to express yourself is now mostly algorithms you’ve outgrown. You think of all the old people who complained about the world changing, and you think seriously about their lives. You think the craziest lifetime must have been between 1890-1990. You think about how 1950s-2000 are the canon decades, and you’ve only known life in their shadow. You think about the women who lived through great social advancement across their whole life but never progressed past age 20.

You must come from a long line of loneliness. You see names in your ancestry that are foreign but know that DNA is living in you. You feel less lonely.

You think of all the ways you could have been part of history. You’re doing your best, trying to overcome your fear of being on the wrong side.

You open Instagram and see old friends, gathered to celebrate the new year. They’re grinning in the mirror you’ll probably never be invited into. Smiling along with them, you think of your resolution to find and practice peace. You delete the app.

When I was little, my mom would play this song off a CD player in the laundry room. I was maybe 3 or 4, making core connections between her and Sheryl’s voice. I loved the feeling of sunlight. I enjoyed the safety and warmth of laundry and my mother being close to me.

This is apparently a post 9-11 number, but it has more of a “let’s go back to the 90s!” feel to it than the desire to create something new. I always wonder what people’s reaction to songs were when they first came out. Maybe it has always been nostalgic, I’m too young to know.

P.S. Soccer Mommy did a cover, which to me expresses how prophetic this song is. Young people are extremely struggling! For the Indie pop rock girlies:

Subscribe now

This is the worst part of your job, the petty feelings aspect. At least you’re not in customer service anymore. You’re no good at pretending. At least with customers, they generally go away. Coworkers are indefinite. You tell yourself, it’s okay to like some people more than others. That’s okay, that’s adult. But really, she bothers you and you haven’t been too private about it. If Charlie had been confronted about talking shit, you were absolutely next.

As she speaks, her face is blank, unreadable as ever. Her eyebrows are slightly furrowed and her mouth neutral, but her tone is unexpectedly animated. She feels disrespected, like you don’t like her. Ughhhh, got me there.

Like a customer, eventually she leaves, satisfied by speaking her mind. You realize, with a tinge of humor, that she doesn’t know you at all. It doesn’t matter what say now. Every conversation with her was like talking to a hedgehog. You’d wanted her to speak, but she always seemed too nervous and it was socially contagious. You’ve heard other people spew facts about her life, and you are always shocked that anyone’s been able to get more than a brief acknowledgement out of her. She’s just one of those people you’ll never connect with. She doesn’t get you, and you’ll never get her. You feel proud that you have come to this conclusion, and she clearly hasn’t yet. It’s not personal, it’s just good business.

Your face is red, breath shallow. After months of begrudgingly talking about it with your therapist, you have to follow through. It’s humiliating. But if you never shed your limitations, you’re never going to grow.

And you never know if these limitations are her or you. You have trouble with small talk, but you always do your work. Maybe if you spoke up more you wouldn’t feel so isolated. You don’t know that she doesn’t like you. It could be all coming from your head. But then you see her laughing and smiling with Charlie, and the cringe muscle inside you squeezes. You’re back to being 8 years old and playing alone at recess. You’ve obviously been rejected.

When you first started, you mentioned a fact about climate change to a group discussion. “…yeah…” she replied, as if what you said made no sense at all. You sent her an article. She never responded. You tried! Which is why, actually, you know that she doesn’t like you, which is why you stopped trying in the first place. You know that whatever you say will be dismissed because she’s an unfeeling, brutish tortoise. She’s slow and already made up her mind about you.

But you’ve done enough thinking. Now is the time for action. Heart racing too fast to process, you reach out for the door to her office and turn the handle.

One of the most exciting things that happened to me this year was on my friend Laura’s podcast, when we uncovered the meaning to a song together. That song was “Sweetheart Like You.” An hour and a half into our discussion of women in Dylan songs, Laura brought up a new idea on the song. In 1983, a huge shifting gender dynamic was the circumstances of women entering the workplace. The song has often been read as sexist, telling women to stay at home, but we posited that Bob could actually be warning about the abusive and slimy nature of corporate success. He was standing from the highest mountain and telling people, you can't achieve this and keep your soul.

While 9 to 5 is certainly more upbeat, it also acknowledges the reality of chasing the American Dream. The concrete challenges of getting through the day are soul-crushing, especially with prejudice keeping you back. She gives a voice to women who know they are more capable than the structures allow them to be. The corporate ladder seems ever Sisyphean these days. With these two songs in conversation, it paints a pretty clear picture of the hells of capitalism women have to contend with while trying to better themselves. One is of foreboding caution and the other with a cup of ambition, but both coming from sobering lived experience. While Dylan warns like an apparition, Dolly looks with her subject toward a hopeful day when the struggle ceases, when her “ship comes in.” A younger Dylan could relate.

These days, there isn’t any other option. Can’t just Not have a job. Warning or no, many women (and others) yearn for the option to stay at home and not compete in a losing world. When I’m feeling pessimistic about it, I’ll have a drink of Heaven’s Door and listen to Sweetheart Like You. When I still need to pay the bills, I’ll have a coffee and hype myself up to 9 to 5. A perfect pairing; Yin and Yang.

and your bonus song this week:

Shoutout to my bob bestie Definitely Dylan.

It’s hard to conjure up perseverance. It’s an unending string of Sundays; you’re technically in control of your time but inevitably beholden to obligation. On the long nights stolen from the day, you just want to isolate and think. Thinking is freedom, until the thoughts are taken out of your control too. You’re beholden to the darkness. You have to do whatever you can to elevate your mind so you don’t lose yourself completely.

People in charge are always saying “no excuses” as if they actually have any idea what it’s like to be you. In some ways I’ve never been good enough. I can say society’s sick and everything’s unfair, but the fact is there always seems to be people who are doing fine. Things are easy & natural for them. And I don’t really know why, despite my desperate efforts, I’m not in the same positions as them.

This is me trying: I speak infrequently and then I get mad when people don’t know I’m struggling. I put on a show so well that no one seems to notice the details. It’s so stupid. But it’s the worst thing to not be seen. I’m still mad at my teachers.

Almost immediately, you can tell who’s interested. Not the one you have your eye on, though. As an aside, you make a comment to the stranger next to you that the object of your fancy looks like Mackenzie Davis. Tall girl sees you looking and talking about her. She leans in. Hook. “You look like Mackenzie Davis!” “Oh, I don’t know who that is!” Damn, dropped the bait. You start explaining she’s in an episode of Black Mirror, and the new Terminator but by that point you know she’s a lost cause. If she doesn’t know “San Junipero,”1 she’s not going to be into the fish.

A shorty with big, watery eyes looks up at you expectantly. She’s followed you to the corner of the roof, where you were hanging out with the smokers. You don’t smoke, but you like the vibes away from the music. Well, you might as well kiss her. She’s not really your type and seems too desperate, but who knows when you’ll get this opportunity again. It’s nice, but too wet and clumsy. She says she’ll be going soon, and you let her return to your friends. I bet they’ll all be teasing her about this out of your earshot.

On the cold and breezy walk home, you listen to music and smile. Your own company is really the best thing you have. The biggest pleasure isn’t physical, it’s mental. It’s figuring things out. Some people are just too easy to. The night didn’t mean much, but it was fun.

Being a young queer is like a really isolating experience. Not just in the sappy, nobody understands me way, but if you’re not like a really specific type of person, it doesn’t give you any clout at all. It’s not an automatic cool factor that gets you a lot of friends unless you’re a fun gay guy. You’re just different and unrelatable.

Being visibly queer is definitely a superpower among other queers though. ESPECIALLY ones that aren’t out of the closet. Under the right circumstances, you have an insight into them that they don’t have themselves. And they are somehow able to tell about you. The knowledge is powerful and sacred. Here, let me help you figure it out.

You experience discomfort more than most. When something doesn’t fit right, or scratches at the nape of your neck, it occupies 40% of your mental state all day. Forget about a papercut. When you get one, the pain in the moment is looped into the upcoming inconvenience of your next few days. Washing dishes with a bandaid? Sensory nightmare. Your most useful appendage requires delicate use. When your nose is stuffed up, you long for the days when you can breathe freely again. You feel like a dripping faucet. You curse your nose for making you its tissue slave. It’s like your body doesn’t want you to be happy.

Everyone else dons their coats and buttons with ease. You sweat and wince every time you have to leave the house. You think of all you have accomplished and how much more you could if this stupid finger was healed. Look at all the people with perfect bodies and faculties. All the skin they need. They don’t know how good they have it.

This dark and whimsical deep cut could have been in Labyrinth, complete with Muppet choir. Kate’s gotten her due from the 80s nostalgia of Stranger Things, but mild fans of hers may not remember this one. The oft-forgot sister isn’t about any canon literature, but just getting through the fucking day. It’s a hype-up as well as a breakdown. It’s another request to God: can I navigate life without burning out?

When women entered the business world, there wasn’t a huge shift in domestic responsibility. To this day, women do the majority of housework, even when both work full time. We have to ”bounce back” because the world doesn’t slow down for us. It begs the question, what if we didn’t HAVE to stretch ourselves in every possible direction? Is becoming a super-mom a better solution than asking the world to improve? “A rubberband girl, she!” the world responds, encouragingly. Keep pushing yourself, queen!

eeeeooowweeeeowww….

The light is low. No, let’s not watch TV, I need to sleep, you told him. Let’s play a game. Blankets and the chess board on the floor. Not much room anywhere else. Your eyes get heavier as he takes forever to make his move. Occasionally you startle at the chess piece clattering to the wooden floor. They keep falling through your unfocused fingers. You pass jokes about “gambits” back and forth and realize, like always, neither of you are very good. A few Checks go by unnoticed. It’s okay, you laugh. It’s not about that. When one of you decides it’s a draw, you go snuggle. Though it’s just the two of you, in the last sleepy moments of consciousness, you feel like a family.

https://spotify.link/25t9W55EpDb

Time is a weird thing. At one point, you could only be aware of the present. There was no past or future, only feelings of recognition, comfort and fear. The moment never ended except in sleep. A day is so long, then suddenly, it’s not. As you age, does your experience of time grow, or shrink? Each temporal unit is a smaller percentage of your life, but you can account for them better as you age. Monday and Tuesday. You live through it all, one lunch to the next. (This is getting dangerously close to “Seasons of Love” from Rent.) Are you fast forward-ing through it when you know what to expect? Does your anticipation separate you from the current moment, rushing you along to the future? Do you notice the motion of your feet? Perhaps you just feel the ache.

You can become more conscious of time by watching a movie, or listening to a song. The time is felt. You watch it pass. (Uh oh, now I’m Lydia Tar.) Sometimes I think I painfully experience every second by thinking too much. That time is spent much more inside my head than outside of it. It’s a lot of effort-per-moment, each one including hundreds of thoughts. I do get weary.

Looking back, this moment may be forgotten entirely. Anomalies are often excluded from data sets. Time buries all extremities, high and low, under a thick snowy blanket. But that energy doesn’t go away. That moment plugged you into the eternal flow of the universe. It forever exists between and among you all. It’s in the bonds. It’s molecular, in the cells. And then one day someone else could recall, tell the story and remind you of the bleeding joy you felt. The time you felt so happy you could die.

Woof, here it is. The scariest PhilosopHer I’ve had to write yet, as I feel too young in so many ways to say anything meaningful about this song. But listen to THIS: Not only did Nyro write this when she was 17, it was also THE FIRST SONG SHE EVER WROTE. I’ve listened and grown with this song for years, and it’s undeniable that it is one of the greatest songs of all time. Taking from folk, gospel & rock, this song hits deep in the roots of humankind. It feels eternal, in a way. Divine and blasphemous at the same time. Like an Ancient Greek play, or an interlude in Dante’s Inferno. I guess it came naturally.

There’s this scene from a play I think about often in relation to Bob Dylan, and also this song. In The Book of Will, Shakespeare’s friends and colleagues work to put together the First Folio. Ben Jonson, in a drunken craze, bursts into a scene after collecting and reading Shakespeare’s texts. “How could he have known?” he cries. “How could he have known so young?” This incredulity overpowers my soul when contemplating art such as this song.

You really don’t understand what people mean when they say “be yourself, don’t rely on other people.” You LIKE doing nice things for other people. You don’t really feel as much just by yourself. Isn’t that the point, to find meaning in human connection? When you do nice things, people like it! It makes them say out loud that they love you! You give them things, you do things for them. You’re never a problem, you never complain. They still only really talk to each other, laugh with each other. You try to laugh along, in harmony. They are so funny. It is thrilling to be included! You hear everything they complain about and try really hard to never ever do those things. You like being useful and around. You are set and you are good because you are the best at being a friend. 

The centrifugal force of trying to fit in tumbles you right into their lap. 

When it tumbles you and tumbles you and when you fall out of the group, you realize you never fit in. They didn’t understand your expressions. You have no shape. You don’t fit in anywhere, in fact. Smoothed and weathered, you slipped right out of their hearts. You now have no friends and no identity. You fantasize of them ever thinking of you again, but it’s unlikely. You never had anything real to offer in the first place. That’s why everyone abandons you, no matter how hard you try. 

Damn. Miss Carlton, queen of the piano hook, taught so much about deep emotion to my prepubescent understanding. The line that really stood out to me was “and you, maybe you’ll remember me. What I gave you is yours to keep.” Far from making the connection that this song is about virginity, I took it to mean someone would eventually care about me like I cared about them, if only after I was gone. Like anyone would gaze out a car window on a long trip and reminisce about me. I felt like a ghost sometimes. At least people try to figure stuff out about a ghost! I had so much going on in my tween head that no one will ever know. Still do! That’s why I write this newsletter. To try to get the ghost out.

TW SA

Your older male coworker brought in a book today. Woody Allen’s “Apropros of Nothing.” It stares at you, font big as hell. His brain is fried, he hasn’t learned anything new in this century, you think. You overhear coworkers joke about him, recounting something he said about male director. “Yeah, I remember he leaned in and said,” *doing a wide mouth impression* “"‘wasn’t she kind of asking for it?’” “and I was like, Sean!” The men standing around are clearly trying to distance themselves from him, but you can tell they aren’t exactly reacting with the shock you are. There’s a light laughter, an incredulousness. They probably didn’t say anything to him. You now have to re-evaluate every encounter you’ve had with Sean.

One time, a guy came to you extremely distraught that another customer inappropriately touched him. You are horrified. He had the misfortune of talking to Sean about it first, and now you have to answer for his insensitive response.

Guys are always trying to prove themselves. They love to posture being feminists. It’s very exhausting. But when you bring up something serious, they get reaaaal quiet. Turns out not everyone thinks about the implications of lived experience. And calling out worse behavior does not absolve you of your own. How much art relies on the suspense of sexual violence against women? They probably don’t notice until a woman close to them is one-in-three.

When I was 15 some guy in his twenties tried to get with my friend. My friend was basically floating on a cloud of male validation. I still have the texts! I hoped maybe he’d think I was God, or his conscience, or something.

I recently binged this show “Undercover Underage”. When I tell you it’s about catching men who prey on young girls, you might conjure the discourse of child sex-trafficking rings and Q. “The children” is a powerful political talking point, often used adversely against things that aren’t real problems. We’d rather believe a shadowy organization than people and institutions we trust. We’d rather blame it on a demographic that’s not our own. In actuality, it’s about about regular men online who groom girls and aim to rape them. It’s very real, and very scary. Every girl I knew growing up saw and did things online that no adults knew about. It was all extremely normal. Congress is now trying to legislate the internet, got bless ‘em. They’re also trying to legislate the women. They have just no idea.

I actually got chased down the street last week by a homeless guy who wanted me to be his “city girl.” I don’t really blame him. He had nothing. Someone told him there was something he could take for free.

P.S. I didn’t feel like I had to explain the merit of this song. It’s incredible. Just try to follow the rhythm and you’ll be hypnotized.

Eyes closed, hands raised in exaltation, you allow your soul to communicate. With each pose struck by flashing light, your joy is present in a vibrating aura all around you. They can’t see it, you can’t see it, but it is detected in goosebumps and heartbeats. You are feeling. 

Your brain, heart, and soul are all inhabiting a vessel. They don’t want you to know that you have complete control of it. Play, explore! Does it matter how you choose to adorn it? Adornment is simply used to attract souls like your own. Don’t be a fucking cop about it. Just seek out your good time with your limited use of the body. Explore your limits.

Online, our bodies are meaningless. We are words, ideas, images. Post-post-modernity is freedom. Knowing you are more than your body is freedom. It’s freedom from each other’s mental cages, it’s freedom to change. 

Once you are released from your body, you lose that forever. So why aren’t you dancing?

SOPHIE tragically passed away at the age of 34. She was a poet in a way normie society would never understand. A lot of people think electronic music is shallow. To many queer people, Sophie’s music is like church. It’s a radical celebration of the power you have over your life and your image. It’s trans joy. It’s a reclamation of the self, escaping from self-hatred and judgment. Aware of how you are expected to exist, this music is a political defiance of it. Dance is both a grounding and elative act. I hope you partake in it soon.

What is a child’s value? Unless you’re talking to Ebenezer Scrooge, no one thinks your value is dictated by your work. It may seem that way when you’re forced to get good grades, have perfect attendance, or do hours of homework. Your purpose, adults tell you, is to learn. And maybe the implication is that if you learn enough, one day you will work. Whether that’s manual labor, service, or meetings, work is your destiny. And then, work will be your value.

Just kidding. It’s to play, to experience the world, to grow. Why does that stop? Because in our capitalist nightmare, we are threatened with death and suffering if we don’t work. We are robbed of our health, our time, our family. We have no room for error. Don’t you think that if our conveniences increase, we should be rewarded as humanity? Shouldn’t we all benefit in our advanced state of technology?

Maybe that’s enough Manifesto. I’ll let Natasha tell it from here.

I think if you lived by the meaning this song, you’d never be without faith. You are more than whatever you produce. It’s okay to try and fail. You are more than your past. Your purpose here is to experience life from your own perspective. You are valuable because you’re here.

It’s such a beautiful thing to be young, because all that I discover is untainted by the culture’s opinion. I remember this song growing up, and I’ve always loved it. Many songs such as this one are despised simply they are overplayed on the radio. Bedingfield’s other hit is the subject of this playful mocking in Easy A, but the character quickly realizes “Pocketful of Sunshine” is fantastic.

The song’s a rollercoaster; while singing it at karaoke, you might learn the hard lesson that from Staring to Unwritten, you don’t get a breath. It just doesn’t cease to be uplifting. It even has a gospel choir!

RELEASE YOUR INHIBITIONS!!!!

The echoes of a breakdown reverberate in my memory. Somewhere in the past, I’m bashing and breaking. But please, don’t worry about it. 

I was fine before you so rudely interrupted me getting over you. 

And here you are again. With your fistful of flesh. Why are you telling yourself this is mercy? It hurt. It still hurts.

You say you coddled me. You tried to rescue me. But that would have required you to put in some goddamn effort. What you’re doing is trying to rewrite history. I’m sure it would make you feel better. And her. But this last-ditch attempt to look like the good guy isn’t working. I remember everything. I remember the nothing. And I have the pen. I’m the judge, you’re the defendant. 

This song hit my ear extremely weird when I first heard it, and that’s what keeps me coming back. The weird British accent in the chorus. The lyrics coming in fits and starts. The 5/4 time emulates stumbling, like the speaker keeps failing to complete something. She doesn’t have closure, and she doesn’t want it. She’s not ready. The repetition in the chorus reads like the other person is treating her like a child, and she’s falling back into a familiarly toxic dynamic:

Yes, I’ll be home by 10. Yes, I’ll be fine. Why do I have to keep explaining? Just let me be!

When we’re young, we hurt each other so frequently without realizing it. These memories last to the victim but not always the perpetrator. You have no idea what version of you is cast in amber. 

P.S. Taylor pleeeease be in a band with Aaron Dessner and Justin Vernon!