Starting a series where I can document pieces of media that transform me, even for a bit. This year, I made a decision to log the music I’ve been listening to per month. Nothing too intentional: just dumping the music that I would listen to, on repeat. I feel like someone who is very much shaped by the things I love — aren’t we all? I want to start doing the same for the things I consume, in turn, hopefully making me more cognizant of why I love them and why I am drawn. If there’s something that has meant something to you, I would love to hear what it is, too. Nicole Kidman / Anne Hathaway – Hana Vu Very much digging soft, groovy songs — especially when their music videos are recorded with dreamy California visuals reminiscent of what I wished my high school film projects looked like. Hana Vu is 19 (I am also 19) and has built this cohesive, wispy sound, toured across America, and titled an album the exact way I’d imagine a nineteen-year-old would name something. There’s themes about identity and displacement that I can’t stop thinking about. There’s screaming that kicks in right where I want it to The band’s Audiotree Live session is also wonderful. I’m in love with both their live and recorded versions, and am looking forward to more lives just because they’re cleanly different. Hereditary (2018) I was swamped in this weird headspace of uncertainty and quiet during the two-week stretch around halloween — just forcing myself to go out, experience things, but also not really absorbing anything. It was paralyzing and I don’t remember truly thinking. One night, I settled in alone with a bottle of vodka and just watched Hereditary the whole way through (as much as I could) for the first time; I’m the type of person who can only stomach horror when I’m in a very specific type of mood. (I can’t even read the SCP Wiki, something I love and used to contribute to a lot, unless I’m feeling that sort of energy.) That night, I feel like I got a deeper understanding of why we sometimes must be sickening to live. Ari Aster’s brutal, ritualism that did not decimate for the sake of it but to tell of something deeper; the last 20 minutes of the film pieced like a writer wrapping everythingMore?
Alone on the New Haven green at 4AM on a Sunday morning. In this moment of time I wonder why I am and all I ever will be. I wonder what it must feel like to be rich and have the ability to throw everything away into a sabbatical, pray myself a meaning. I’ve been praying for sixteen years and it brought me nowhere. What does it feel like to have everything and want to reduce yourself to nothing? What must it feel like to have the liberty of finding yourself and doing the right thing when you have the liberty of freedom and choice? __ Finished two midterms. Thinking ridiculously deeply about the bigger picture: what I’m working for, why I’m here. How much time is left there? I can’t say I’m alone — I never really am. The whole world is there with me, but I haven’t been with it. Reading about protests in Hong Kong. The LRT on fire. Figuring out how I can structure words better after I think about code all day. Thinking about fucking pre-incrementing pointers to pointers and the shifting of papers and how I was sitting in a lecture hall amidst flasks and hoodies thinking only about the fire and the fire and the time I was losing. This is not right. When do I get to be in this space of learning? Nowhere else — but so am I deeply enclosed in thinking about hypotheticals and bubbles. Maybe this is just crisis because I’ve been looped out of school for weeks and I don’t have a job. Maybe this is just crisis because I’ve touched upon so many of these things in this world and I have no desire to do any of them. Remembering everything vividly. The two-hour bus ride home, leaning and falling into the empty aisle in front of everyone. That smile dog picture that I accidentally opened in a forum post when I was 9. My self-harm keloids that still won’t fucking fade. About who I will die with matters upon every conversation I’m in. The mascara that accidentally got on my eyelids. My professor telling me I look like I’m so fucking tired with eyes of pity and the other who talks to me like an old friend. Revealing my traumas in English class and never crying for an entire semester. The spreadsheet I open inMore?