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So if “manufactured” is unfair, what is the right metaphor for Britney’s relationship to the pop machine? Scanning the pop culture of the late 90s gives us a better possibility: mecha, the Japanese anime genre where beautiful, tragic youth fuse themselves to sublime, state of the art machines. Britney is not the machine’s puppet; she’s its pilot.

Tom Ewing, “Popular: Britney Spears - “…Baby One More Time”

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R.E.M.: “Tongue” (Monster, 1994)

Throughout Monster, Michael Stipe deliberately inhabits queer spaces, particularly on this song which flows unbrokenly from a woman’s perspective. “I’ve always felt that sexuality is a really slippery thing,” he told Newsweek at the time. “I like fucking around with gender. I like writing songs that aren’t gender specific.” I remember around the same time the kids’ magazine Disney Adventures extracted the necessary information from the record, the interviews around it, and how Stipe’s face had become recently armored in glossy paints: Michael Stipe was queer! Awesome. They congratulated him on navigating a combustible sexual space, then lamented it, as his sexuality mysteriously destabilized the staff’s crush on him.

Reading this at age 8 introduced me to several bottomless concepts at once.

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It seemed a melodramatic way of phrasing it at the time but he felt he could only describe himself as having lost control of his body. A pain constantly radiated from the area of his kidneys and stomach, like cracks spidering through a pane of glass. The geography of the body grows obscure when one is locked inside the boundless center of a pretty routine pain, even as the pain itself appears to shatter through its environment and leave whole radioactive blooms of damage. When he thought of his midsection he thought of a crater on the moon through which slow fractures wove.

His perspective on reality adjusted in order to absorb this pain, and he found his focus had detached considerably. It was impossible to inhabit a minute, at least without also having to inhabit and reflect upon innumerable microseconds of pain, cresting within him reliably as the waves on a beach. In order to forget it, he would force himself to go out, and there he would inevitably remember it harder. The detachment cultivated in him by the shapeless flares in his abdomen would cause him to separate the flood of reality into individual threads. Experience, memory, projection, once useful unconscious processes that kept the flow of his existence rich and coherent, were now like severed electrical wires convulsing sparks. No focus or direction to the current of his life, just anxious volcanic eclipses, collapsing into a darkness he now nearly always felt vibrating at the edges of his body.

He had spent considerable amounts of money on doctors, compromising what he had set aside for rent and groceries, which seemed to him more important than an ulcerating ambience in the core of his body. The doctors took blood, scanned yards of his skin, but could not isolate a single source of the pain. Each of their foreheads marbled with uncomprehending veins like leaves in sunlight.

He would try as often as he could to see the bands he liked, the pain having not entirely reduced his ability to lose himself—his body—in music. It was his favorite thing as a kid, and he heard it in the flutter and pulse of James Brown records especially, almost rising from the glowing whorls of its surface—how someone could completely dissolve in a song. How a song could travel all the way through them, head to toe. James Brown did not create the groove, the groove created and recreated James Brown, cell by frenzied cell.

In the minutes before anyone walked on stage, he would look at the other people gathered in the room, gently decrypting what pain they might have to live with, which they carried around like a bag they had forgotten the contents or purpose of. He wondered how they translated this music through their own illnesses, or how they might tune it precisely to the music and feel a warm and evocative symmetry there. Later, all the notes in the songs would appear to him like flares in a life monitor, gorgeous skeletal pyramids that leap out of an unrelenting flatness.

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I had been looking out at the dawn, at the soft, uncertain pinks which pulse faintly in the sky like muffled satellites. When I settled back into bed, I discovered a bruise gathering on the eastern wall of my room. I had just woken up, and felt myself being drawn out of the whirlpool of sleep into a faint production of consciousness. I realized the texture of the bruise was gradually unfolding into regular, ambivalent sunlight, the kind that lends shape to things but assumes no definite shape itself, mere weightlessly sifted infinity. I grabbed around absently for my phone with the intention of photographing the burnt orange ripening across the wall, merging pleasantly with a shadow that echoed it like a dark mirror. The camera on my phone ordinarily fails to draw soft invertebrate blooms into focus so there’s a bit of a gauzy drift to the final picture, as if the walls and corners of my room had, like the light, been gently flowed onto the surface of life, like water moving over a bank of sand.

I had been looking out at the dawn, at the soft, uncertain pinks which pulse faintly in the sky like muffled satellites. When I settled back into bed, I discovered a bruise gathering on the eastern wall of my room. I had just woken up, and felt myself being drawn out of the whirlpool of sleep into a faint production of consciousness. I realized the texture of the bruise was gradually unfolding into regular, ambivalent sunlight, the kind that lends shape to things but assumes no definite shape itself, mere weightlessly sifted infinity. I grabbed around absently for my phone with the intention of photographing the burnt orange ripening across the wall, merging pleasantly with a shadow that echoed it like a dark mirror. The camera on my phone ordinarily fails to draw soft invertebrate blooms into focus so there’s a bit of a gauzy drift to the final picture, as if the walls and corners of my room had, like the light, been gently flowed onto the surface of life, like water moving over a bank of sand.

Tags: light photos
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staybehindtheyellowline:

Here you are, in all your cartoon glory, unbornwhiskey!

Incidentally in real life I am composed of vectors and wreathed in squares.

staybehindtheyellowline:

Here you are, in all your cartoon glory, unbornwhiskey!

Incidentally in real life I am composed of vectors and wreathed in squares.