Any hammer you can hold

This is the nature of a tool, which is only ever just a thing and nothing more. An item that exists in the world, that you might hold in your hand and learn to master, with tricks and secrets to its nature.

They say if you look hard enough, you find your way back home

If you have ever felt self-destructive, and if your brain has ever spoken to you in words of flames, then you might hear memories of yourself in Cornell.

Imitations of Life

There’s a special kind of soap for hands that perform the kind of labour where dirt and grime and things soak into the skin. Fast Orange, as it's called, comes in an orange bottle, and smells accordingly of sweet and bitter citrus. And you would be right

Cool Rocks on the beach when the water has retreated

I learned that men don’t like how I write about music, or how I write at all. One wrote me to say that I don’t write about the chords when I write about music, it’s always just about feelings.

Like an emcee at the fever in the dJ booth

I want each of these memories to be the first time I heard the Beastie Boys because I want their history to live on the delicate lines of a thousand possible futures.

Memory Tape

When I was a kid, my sister and I raided the remains of my parent's once lavish record collection. My dad’s records had his name written on them, although sometimes they were crossed off and rewritten by his brother in a bout of playful sibling thievery. His

Solve for work

There is no written word without a weary hand wielding the pen.

Any light in any storm

The veneer of visibility as a performance is nice, and it is also nothing.

Bitter Melodies, Turning Your Orbit Around

My first coffee was poured from the spout of a steel urn into a styrofoam cup, the kind that squeaks and crunches in your hand when you touch it that I’m certain was a little toxic.

The lost memory of a perfect McPizza

I can tell you that McPizza was salty and sweet, with perfectly melted cheese that tasted a little like an old ninja turtle fresh from 2 minutes in the microwave, all melted plastic and nostalgia.

Hobbies in big letters

I don’t really have any hobbies, having fallen into the class trap of the working creative that is essentially a pile of bills and immediate needs placed gently over a hastily piled patch of grass. Most things I do, I do because I need to eat and other annoying

Heart as hard as nails

I worry that we have let Sad Song mean too many things, that it’s too easy a phrase to describe such a deep well, and it’s time to find new words for the walls we hit on the way down.