We near the zero-hour on the election, the genocide enters its second year, and Broken Hands moves locations. But, at the very least, October brings a break in the heat.
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This is explicitly a function of nostalgia, but it is nostalgia had second-hand, where the original object is eerily absent, decontextualized and beginning to run down like William Basinski’s Disintegration Loops, where the original recordings were physically destroyed in the process of transferring them over.
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It’s hot, and we have affordable air conditioning in one room that doesn’t feature a place to put my computer or set up a television, so it’s the season to lie in a sweaty pile, stare at squiggles on paper, and try to hallucinate someplace more interesting to be.
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