these are the dog days of the summer of '22 and this is the last of them, probably. so you might as well be out in it sweating your tits off on the way to the hospital with your mother.
every man my age who made a 'success' of their life has compromised their soul and, of course benefitted from patriarchy, and the ones that are white from not being a different colour, and if they are dutch from the unspeakable things that were done in the colonies.
the delicate power structures and psychogeographies that evolved over hundreds and thousands of years in the dutch east indies were erased by their forefathers and rearranged to maximise profits.
somehow i crept through the cracks, i hid in in-between spaces and licked up the honey that accidentally but inevitably leaked from their beige flowers despite their best attempts to keep it all for themselves and theirs.
but i am an alien to them, not that it matters because i am not in the slightest bit interested in them. to drown out their voices in the train i have my not-forgotten airpods and i have joanna newsom and i have her early self-released songs and i weep.
it is like some freak hippie child that no one has ever seen before just walked into town from the mountains with her harp and when they ask what her name is, she sings this :
Cassiopeia — Joanna Newsom (from Walnut Whales)
this music is everything those smug smirking old men hate and it lacks everything they purport to love — but they don't know what love is and it just so happens that i do, or i did, once, or i believed i did.