
x-s
Anyone who creates knows there’s freedom in constraints.
Anyone who creates knows there’s freedom in constraints.
After a long winter, he emerges with a cryptic text.
The song is catchy and devastating, but instrumentally, it’s also overwhelmingly playful. It’s so good.
Normalcy was on the horizon, but staying safe still meant never getting my hopes up.
The moment where no one can explain the monster is crucial to the payoff—inexplicable, supernatural evil must remain forever believable, yet disprovable.
He described how eventually, sometimes you simply have to be a team player.
It’s supposed to be redemptive and inspiring, but I can’t help but think, that sucks.
Even when there’s a murderer in the doorway, teenage problems are still problems.
My brain shut off seeing “3-chloro-4-dichloromethyl5-hydroxy-2(5H)-furanone.”
I prefer everything with subtitles anyway.
I’m not totally saying those two weeks of my high school AP stats class caused a nationwide erosion of trust in authority and science.
Something like the Holga makes it impossible to forget that photos are made of light-affected chemicals on a roll of paper.
Under the Madison Street bridge, the tree that grows sideways suddenly popped flowers that smelled like corn tortillas.
There are no miscalculations or extraneous details—things are only borrowed or loaned between neighbors.
I’m angry that saying “Don’t tell me what to do” is more American than saying “Tell me how to help.”
At the risk of trivializing everything else, one of the things that scares me most about the president is his refusal to admit to tiny mistakes.
And I’ve realized I like wading into expansive subcultures very shyly.
I’d love to claim any of the righteous reasons I might use to defend the bus: environmentalism, patience, solidarity with my surroundings… but the truth is I just like it better.
As the instruments strain and build, the chorus is repeated again and again, and her intimate scene-setting folds into a recollection.
But the first time I stepped on the treadmill, I realized I don’t know how to run when I’m not moving myself forward.
As this year ends, so does the decade, and summarizers and list-makers are compelled by narratives and retrospectives, trying to explain away what’s changed.
Just a few examples of artists getting playful with neat possibilities afforded by music’s digital presentation.
I can never remember summer in the midst of a polar vortex, but I’m comforted and chastised that it comes.
“Con · ces · sion:
a thing that is granted, especially in response to demands;
a thing conceded.”
Not veering off into an oncoming car is just a social contract.
I’m also thankful, in a more shameful sense, that I got to leave when I planned to.
The camera hides nerves, and each friendly contestant really knows their podium space is fought for and fleeting.
Pop culture is the clearest image of the zeitgeist. It’s impossible to claim faith is holistic and not address that fixture.
That’s how I realized, or decided: the spoon rest is the pinnacle of kitchen goods.
But maybe ironically, I’m rarely in the mood for my “favorite” albums: fixtures of music I champion as satisfying or well-crafted artistic achievements, blah blah blah. Beauty like that can sap a lot of energy.