blood, feet, surgery, house-razing
While cutting at my feet, my surgeon mentioned that her house had just burned. The details echoed, startlingly closely, those of the house-fire I narrowly escaped as a child, but I was too preoccupied with bleeding & being sympathetic to worry that I might be a carrier for a curse.
Image from page 21 of "Character and treatment of swamp or muck soils [microform]" (1909)
My album of the year so far is Moor Jewelry's True Opera. A way through useless bitter fugs of dread, over&over. Punk, I guess, jagged, I guess, but every instrument unavoidable & infinitely textured always like a comforting weight of sea-eroded concrete.
My album of the year so far is the new Kaatayra, Só Quem Viu o Relâmpago à Sua Direita Sabe. Woven sunshower-metal roar about dissolving into the trees.
Scarp scree clatter.
Within 30 miles of Philadelphia, because of a curse.
Une instance se voulant accueillante pour les personnes queers, féministes et anarchistes ainsi que pour leurs sympathisant·e·s. Nous sommes principalement francophones, mais vous êtes les bienvenu·e·s quelle que soit votre langue.
A welcoming instance for queer, feminist and anarchist people as well as their sympathizers. We are mainly French-speaking people, but you are welcome whatever your language might be.