Day 897
Hurricane twister, break the transmitter
The rave – to paraphrase Glenn Gould – is twelve bars of brilliance surrounded by three and a half minutes of sticky tedium (no gimmick is left untried: from a wandering rubber-twang guitar lead on loan from ‘La Vida Loca,’ to slatherings of futbol-arena organ, to a glib rhythm track so close and overproduced it might as well come in ones and zeroes). It’s the sort of fpv-drone-death soundtrack that makes your ass move the first and second time you hear it.
By the fifth, you want to slice your ears off.
Yesterday evening, with the goal of improving these tumbling deskbound hours I walked around downtown Kyiv taking pictures and bumping into at least three close relatives. The first was Stephanie, who is leaving Kyiv later this month.