Memory Phase

Memory Phase

Inches above my best friend’s head and at thirty five miles per hour, I lose control of the four wheeler beyond the little mud ramp, but recover. I am responsible. I grew up in a town in New York’s Southern Tier called Horseheads, named for the row of horse skulls the natives were said to have lined up in what is now the town’s main square as a warning to the approaching colonists before they were pillaged. People in Horseheads love to race and crash their cars. The leading cause of death to my classmates while we were in high school was drag racing accidents (followed closely by accidents from hunting and recreational gun use), and the only suicide I remember was the result of a student intentionally crashing his car into the school’s facade. This is who I am. I remember camouflage-related hunting accidents, methamphetamine, military service-related disfigurement, mice being fed to pet boa constrictors, and tall custom spoilers on black Honda Civics. I remember pancake breakfast fundraisers for families with young children with leukemia, scratch-off lottery tickets, highway exit fast food restaurants, and deserted factories. Wait.

With my infant son strapped into his car seat, I stomped the gas pedal to the floor, hoping to outrun the memory of my threat still rattling in the frame of the driver’s side window, and to that threat’s response: motherfucker I got a gun. I am responsible. Wait.

When the little black bottle was empty, I remember snorting four yellow pills, instead of one or two white ones, and on the cold floor of my dorm room, dreamt of YMCA swim lessons and practicing my freestyle, remembering to slowly roll my body to its right side before the turn. I am responsible. Wait.

I remember the night we met my mother in law for dinner at a barbecue restaurant in New Jersey, when she gave my son a small stuffed bunny. He immediately smothered it in barbecue sauce, so Monika named the bunny Sauce, and asked our son if he would give Saucy a kiss. My son kissed Saucy, and then held him to Monika's face, and she kissed Sauce too. Then he held it to my mother in law's face, and she kissed the little bunny. When he held it up to me, I kissed Sauce and then I kissed my son's head. I remember that he kissed Sauce again and held it up to Monika for another kiss and it was so sweet it was almost too much to bear. Monika gave Sauce another big kiss and ruffled my son's hair, and he held the bunny up to my mother in law's face again and she kissed it too but now the game was getting old. After she kissed the bunny and he held Sauce up to me again, I told him Not now, sweetie. Daddy's trying to eat. The game was over. Wait.

When I try to recall the photos of poisoned children this is what I remember: …………..........................……………………..

Wait.

I regret allowing so much time to pass. I remember that Jesus was crucified at my age. I remember wearing a clothes hanger on my head during high school graduation because I had a hangover & thought it was funny, and later being asked if it was “about the war.” I remember inadvertently hiding the drummer of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra from the police in my mother’s basement. I remember “In Da Club” and the remix to ignition. I remember driving to the sketchiest place I could think of and asking the first person I encountered if they had weed, and they did. I remember my eighteenth birthday, when two strippers slowly removed my belt before beating me senseless with it. I remember The Stranger and The Metamorphosis. I remember cheetos crumbs on super nintendo controllers. I remember girl jeans and Converse. I remember “I like two kinds of music. Country, and western.” I remember Edward Fortyhands. I remember when we were driving, driving in your car. I remember wearing a Kansas City Chiefs baseball cap in honor of Kurt Cobain. I remember my father being surprised, after he bought me my first baseball glove, that I threw with my left hand (the first time I remember feeling special). I remember “Bombs over Baghdad,” the theme song to my senior prom, one month after the second invasion of Iraq. I remember “my dad has a bigger gun than your dad” & when it was fashionable to brag that your father had once been “technically” dead. I remember you was conflicted. I remember Hampsterdance. I remember my best AIM screenname: drinkspinefluid. I remember, in crowds--total isolation! I remember, at parties--naked! I remember “tobacco is whacko (if you’re a teen).” I remember my friend saying you can save a million dollars by saving a dollar a day. I remember under construction gifs and blink tags. I remember syrup sandwiches. I remember the first time I saw a dead body. I remember the second time I saw a dead body, a black turtleneck, and a chin hole from a 357 magnum. I remember flipping the lucky. I remember Raffi: All I really need is a song in my heart, food in my belly, and love in my family. I remember polo shirts with one broad, horizontal stripe. I remember being embarrassed of my penis, and then later too proud, and eventually ambivalent. Sometimes I worry I’m crazy. Really crazy. Wait.

“If silence causes hallucinations, then all deaf people would suffer from hallucinations. I’m profoundly deaf and can go days without hearing anything and I don’t suffer from hallucinations. So I’m curious as to why silence triggers hallucinations for hearing people and not for deaf people.” Wait.

On the train, riding over the East River, and pretending we’re racing the cars driving over the bridge, I think of our abundance of clean water and cheap fuel, the dwindling resources that are always expected to bring more war. I think of wealth, and objects, and full bellies. I think of what I lack, of what I want, and of what I would wage war in order to obtain. “Because they hear their scalp moving, eyes rolling, blood travelling, heart beating, they won’t be able to walk or stand up. It’d be very unnerving, I think I’d start crying, not because it’s frightening but because I’d be hearing the things that are keeping me alive, I’d be pretty grateful. Deaf people don’t hear any of that.” Wait.

Inches above my best friend’s head and at thirty five miles per hour, I lose control of the four wheeler beyond the little mud ramp, but recover. I am responsible. Wait.

I grew up in a town in New York’s Southern Tier called Horseheads, named for the row of horse skulls the natives were said to have lined up in what is now the town’s main square as a warning to the approaching colonists before they were pillaged. Wait.

I’ve never been arrested. I don’t currently hope to have another baby. I was once called an idiot in a job interview and then took the job anyway. I make an amount of money that I used to think would make me feel rich, but it doesn’t. I think I am generally better to other people than other people are to me, but I also believe that I benefit more from society than I contribute. I think about sex fewer times per day than the rumored male average, but I probably do so for longer and with more intensity. I once thought, Gentlemen, start your vape pens. My heart has been broken once. I’ve broken other hearts somewhere between zero and two times; you would have to ask those women. I’ve lived in poverty. When my son was twenty months old, he grabbed my shoulders and said I love you into my ear, and ever since, the internal standard I use to measure all beauty has been negatively skewed. When I leave New York to visit other American cities, I don’t experience them as being much smaller. I’ve never forced a woman to have sex with me. After a few drinks, tears can well in my eyes at the thought of a second line in New Orleans, or the surf off the coast of Montauk, so I’ve learned to excuse myself from conversations that might involve those places. I spent a night in the hospital after threatening to kill myself but never actually tried. I’ve taken doses of drugs I thought might be lethal and woken up the next morning without so much as a headache. I find it hard to believe that I could hate anyone I’ve had sex with, and yet I do. There are people who consider me to be their enemy. I’ve never been unfaithful to a woman, but at least one believes otherwise. I’m in love with my wife. I was surprised that having a child only made me more aggressively pro-choice. As I get older, I feel even more heterosexual, which is the opposite of what I expected. I think monogamy is difficult in theory but easy in practice. I tend to think of myself as a bad person, even with little supporting evidence. I have an investment portfolio, of which I’ve felt both proud and ashamed. I‘ve kissed other men but don’t plan to again.

When I try to recall the photos of poisoned children this is what I remember: …………..........................……………………..

I’ve spent eight hours a day for the past decade programming computers, but still don’t have the skills of a master. When asked which religion I am, I say antitheist. I’ve been an altar boy for a pedophile priest but I’ve never been molested. I no longer consume art that was made by a known rapist. This has only been difficult in the cases of CeeLo Green and Tupac. I consider my ear for music good, my palate discerning, my eye for design bad, and my manual dexterity terrible. I tell people fatherhood has been rewarding in ways I can’t even explain, even though I hate when other people say that, because it’s true. I believe the most important thing is to not be full of shit. I am not prone to jealousy, except when I read about a celebrity who has been hospitalized for exhaustion. I believe that knowing a good lawyer is more valuable than knowing karate. I think my hearing is getting worse but haven’t had it checked. I’ve never had a cavity. I broke my nose twice, and am always surprised when people notice and ask about it. I once jumped from a tree in hopes of getting a cast and being able to ask my classmates to sign it, but never broke a bone. I’ve never shot a gun. Receiving a blowjob makes me feel loved. I’ve always preferred aggressive subgenres of hip hop: gangsta rap and horrorcore as a teenager, drill and trap as an adult. I want to believe in astrology. I live on the block in Brooklyn where Do the Right Thing was filmed and think it’s funny that I have an analogous character in Clifton, the oblivious gentrifier. As far as I know, I’ve never impregnated a woman who then had an abortion. I’ve never had a bad cup of coffee at a diner but often do in cafes. I tend to be annoyed by other people who share my specific hobbies and interests. I worked at McDonald’s when I was seventeen. I’ve legally purchased cannabis. I hold strong opinions about programming languages. I’m suing my neighbor. I’m glad I no longer smoke cigarettes but often miss them. I’ve run a marathon. I block ads. I didn’t vote for Donald Trump. I feel guilty for eating meat but continue to eat it anyway. I have four tattoos, all black. There was a time when I thought I might become well-known for my industrial noise music, which now makes me laugh. I own my apartment. I’ve written a matching algorithm for a dating website. I haven’t felt negatively about living in New York ever since I started to make friends with the people who intimidate me. I think my fear of making others uncomfortable often manifests in an awkwardness that makes them uncomfortable anyway. I once gutted a deer. I remember pancake breakfast fundraisers for families with young children with leukemia, scratch-off lottery tickets, highway exit fast food restaurants, and deserted factories. Wait.

I love to float on my back in the ocean. I cry more easily and more often as I get older. I’ve been in many fist fights, but not as an adult. I am becoming more materialistic. When presented with two choices, my response is almost always it depends. I would wear a gold chain if I thought no one would comment on it. I think it is good for a work of art to be problematic. I hear the word predator in my head whenever I fixate on a woman. I don’t believe in copyright. I’ve persuaded 50 Cent, through intermediaries, to do something he didn’t want to do. Real pain for my sham friends is the most clever phrase I’ve ever heard. I like to dress my son in clothes designed to make him look like an animal. I think being an immigrant is in itself worth admiring, like being a mother. There are certain activities that depress me when I perform them alone, like masturbating, or reading the internet on my phone in the bathroom, or eating unhealthy food in front of the television, that bring me a sense of peace when I imagine them being performed at once by whole cities of people. I’ve never taken an unpaid internship, but I’ve worked jobs for which I was not paid. I thought a pint was a metric unit of measurement until recently. I don’t have a sweet tooth. I never have trouble sleeping. I’m more comfortable in complete silence or deafening noise than anywhere in between. I’ve ordered a fluffernutter sandwich as an excuse to say fluffernutter. I’ve never put my hair into a man bun. To me, Knee Play 5 is the most beautiful piece of music, and I agree that the night should be a time of peace and tranquility. I’ve seen it performed at Carnegie Hall and held my wife close to my side as we both sobbed and those nearby collected their programs and left us to be alone with each other. When I’m telling a story I’ll often cut it short by saying that was a boring story, I’m sorry. I believe a large proportion of the population is evil and simple. My dreams aren’t interesting. I believe everything would be fine if I only had a million dollars. I hate knowing that that is a song and that the song is corny. I find it strange that going off the grid would cost a lot of money. Sometimes I notice that my actions are misaligned with my goals and try to correct them. As a younger person I saw gossip as a poison, but now recognize it as useful for power redistribution. I am glad that mixed martial arts exists as a form of entertainment. I enjoy the way, when I drink, that my thoughts arrive as non-sequiturs, and with them the anticipation of being trapped inside a puzzle that is nearly complete. I don’t believe in the afterlife. I like that my beliefs don’t fit squarely into the current political spectrum. I have five tattoos, all black. I don’t always feel the need to see my friends. Sometimes I will do something unpleasant just to see what it’s like. I like to be reminded that I am a mammal. In the 1990s I wrote a program that repeatedly clicked the ads on my personal website and earned thousands of dollars. I regret allowing so much time to pass. Making art. In this economy? I remember you was conflicted. I remember Big Dog, Coed Naked, and No Fear t shirts. I remember that Jesus was crucified at my age. I remember my best AIM screenname: drinkspinefluid. I remember wearing a clothes hanger on my head during high school graduation because I had a hangover & thought it was funny, and later being asked if it was “about the war.” I remember Edward Fortyhands. I remember when we were driving, driving in your car. I remember wearing a Kansas City Chiefs baseball cap in honor of Kurt Cobain. This is what I remember: I remember my father being surprised, after he bought me my first baseball glove, that I threw with my left hand (the first time I remember feeling special). I remember “Bombs over Baghdad,” the theme song to my senior prom, one month after the second invasion of Iraq. I remember “my dad has a bigger gun than your dad” & when it was fashionable to brag that your father had once been “technically” dead. I remember Hampsterdance. I remember, in crowds--total isolation! I remember, at parties--naked! I remember “tobacco is whacko (if you’re a teen).” Wait.

Lately I’ve had trouble sleeping. I remember my friend saying you can save a million dollars by saving a dollar a day. I remember under construction gifs and blink tags. I remember syrup sandwiches. I remember the first time I saw a dead body. I remember the second time I saw a dead body, a black turtleneck, and a chin hole from a 357 magnum. I remember flipping the lucky. I remember Raffi: All I really need is a song in my heart, food in my belly, and love in my family. I remember polo shirts with one broad, horizontal stripe. I remember being embarrassed of my penis, and then later too proud, and eventually ambivalent. Sometimes I worry I’m crazy. Really crazy. Sometimes I believe everyone’s just doing their best, but other times I do not. I believe there is beauty in rough drafts, and in polished, finished products, but that too much art is released in between. I regret nothing. So far, this essay infringes at least four copyrights. I was once called an idiot in a job interview and then took the job anyway. I think about sex fewer times per day than the rumored male average, but I probably do so for longer and with more intensity. I don’t follow sports but I have a favorite team. Sometimes I believe everyone’s just doing their best, but other times I do not. I believe the most important thing is to not be full of shit. I’ve lived in poverty. I think I am generally better to other people than other people are to me, but I also believe that I benefit more from society than I contribute. I sued my neighbor and won. Receiving a blowjob makes me feel loved. I’ve never forced a woman to have sex with me. There are certain activities that depress me when I perform them alone, like masturbating, or reading the internet on my phone in the bathroom, or eating unhealthy food in front of the television, that bring me a sense of peace when I imagine them being performed at once by whole cities of people. I believe in repetition, and recursion. I’ve never had a bad cup of coffee at a diner but often do in cafes. I think my hearing is getting worse but haven’t had it checked. I remember my eighteenth birthday, when two strippers slowly removed my belt before beating me senseless with it. So far, this essay infringes at least six copyrights. After a few drinks, tears can well in my eyes at the thought of a second line in New Orleans, or the surf off the coast of Montauk, so I’ve learned to excuse myself from conversations that might involve those places. I remember “I like two kinds of music.” I think it is good for a work of art to be problematic. I remember that Jesus was crucified at my age. I’ve always preferred aggressive subgenres of hip hop: gangsta rap and horrorcore as a teenager, drill and trap as an adult. I have tattoos, all black.

I’ve been to Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Kentucky, Georgia, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Florida, Louisiana, and Texas.

I’ve never shot a gun. I believe that knowing a good lawyer is more valuable than knowing karate. I worked at McDonald’s when I was seventeen. I remember “Bombs over Baghdad,” the theme song to my senior prom, one month after the second invasion of Iraq. I’ve been to Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Kentucky, Georgia, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Florida, Louisiana, and Texas. I believe everything would be fine if I only had a million dollars. I’m glad I no longer smoke cigarettes but often miss them. I remember the first time I saw a dead body. I’ve spent eight hours a day for the past decade programming computers, and am beginning to feel like a master. I remember when we were driving, driving in your car. As I get older, I feel even more heterosexual, which is the opposite of what I expected. I don’t currently hope to have another baby. I like to be reminded that I am a mammal. I have five tattoos, all black. I don’t believe in copyright. I remember under construction gifs and blink tags. I am glad that mixed martial arts exists as a form of entertainment. I like to dress my son in clothes designed to make him look like an animal. When I’m telling a story I’ll often cut it short by saying that was a boring story, I’m sorry. Wait.

I regret being so selfish, sexually, with my second girlfriend. I remember that the two instruments gradually shift out of unison, creating first a slight echo as one instrument plays a little behind the other, then a doubling effect with each note heard twice, then a complex ringing effect, and eventually coming back through doubling and echo into unison. I regret asking my mother to stop drinking. I don’t regret playing in a grunge band called Conformity but regret being the lead singer. I regret threatening suicide and being forced to spend a night in the hospital. I regret wearing a t-shirt that showed Eric Cartman saying “beefcake” when I had never seen an episode of South Park. I regret not making stronger attempts at building a relationship with my father. I regret only taking a month off work for paternity leave when my son was born, and regret living in a country in which I’m supposed to feel lucky for the month I took. I still regret stealing a toy truck from the children’s barbershop and lying to my grandfather about where I had gotten it. I regret helping to clean a deer. I regret writing a poem in French and selecting it to be run in the literary magazine I edited. I regret having been such a heavy smoker. I regret not having group sex. I regret not wearing my retainer. I regret not running track my senior year. I regret every minute of time I spent with the man who was once best man in my wedding. I regret not knowing I could make money as a freelance web developer while I lived in poverty. I regret the times I could have stood up for someone but didn’t. I regret the times I’ve snuck away to fall asleep at parties I’ve hosted. I believe in repetition. Thus, the two instruments gradually shift out of unison, creating first a slight echo as one instrument plays a little behind the other, then a doubling effect with each note heard twice, then a complex ringing effect, and eventually coming back through doubling and echo into unison. I regret taking LSD the first time, and I regret taking it again when I knew better. I regret not being exposed to spicier foods as a child. I regret saying, ugh, that’s so gay. I regret enrolling at SUNY Fredonia. I regret not being more kind to my sister. I regret moving in with my third girlfriend, and I regret hiding at my friend’s house instead of helping her to move out. I regret producing so little art when it is so important to me. Making art. In this economy? I regret not sending a review copy of my album to the Pitchfork editor who requested it. I regret letting time pass without a fight. I sued my neighbor twice. I regret beating up Andy in fourth grade because I only did it for my own amusement. I wouldn’t regret beating up Brandon in ninth grade if he hadn’t died in a drag racing accident a few years later, but he did and so I do. I regret my love for beer, which adds another few pounds each year. I regret losing touch with my best friends. I regret allowing so much time to pass. I regret nothing. I regret not knowing what “do you want to come over and take a nap” meant in college. I regret having watched Garden State. I regret allowing my taste to define me. I regret writing experimental poems in the International Phonetic Alphabet. I regret writing poems in French, reading them in public, and allowing video to be taken of my performance. I regret every moment I’ve ever spent in church. I regret punching my little sister. I regret having been so obsessed with Nirvana. I regret not having group sex. I regret being ashamed of my body. I regret having so few tattoos. I regret nothing. Wait.

This is who I am. I remember camouflage-related hunting accidents, methamphetamine, military service-related disfigurement, mice being fed to pet boa constrictors, and tall custom spoilers on black Honda Civics. Wait.

I regret having been so obsessed with Nirvana. I believe everything would be fine if I only had a million dollars. I regret not having group sex. As far as I know, I’ve never impregnated a woman who then had an abortion. I regret being ashamed of my body. I would wear a gold chain if I thought no one would comment on it. I regret having so few tattoos. My dreams aren’t interesting. I regret being so selfish, sexually, with my second girlfriend. I don’t always feel the need to see my friends. I regret asking my mother to stop drinking. I remember “Bombs over Baghdad,” the theme song to my senior prom, one month after the second invasion of Iraq. I don’t regret playing in a grunge band called Conformity but regret being the lead singer. I remember The Stranger and The Metamorphosis. I regret threatening suicide and being forced to spend a night in the hospital. I’ve put my hair into a man bun. I regret wearing a t-shirt that showed Eric Cartman saying “beefcake” when I had never seen an episode of South Park. I hear the word predator when I think of my father. I think I am generally better to other people than other people are to me, but I also believe that I benefit more from society than I contribute. I believe in recursion. I regret only taking a month off work for paternity leave when my son was born, and regret living in a country in which I’m supposed to feel lucky for the month I took. I hold strong opinions about programming languages. I still regret stealing a toy truck from the children’s barbershop and lying to my grandfather about where I had gotten it. I want to believe in astrology. I regret helping to clean a deer. When I’m telling a story I’ll often cut it short by saying that was a boring story, I’m sorry. I regret writing a poem in French and selecting it to be run in the literary magazine I edited. I believe that knowing a good lawyer is more valuable than knowing karate.

I regret having been so obsessed with Nirvana. I believe everything would be fine if I only had a million dollars. I regret not having group sex. As far as I know, I’ve never impregnated a woman who then had an abortion. I regret being ashamed of my body. I would wear a gold chain if I thought no one would comment on it. I regret having so few tattoos. My dreams aren’t interesting. I regret being so selfish, sexually, with my second girlfriend. I remember my father being surprised, after he bought me my first baseball glove, that I threw with my left hand (the first time I remember feeling special). I regret allowing so much time to pass. I remember “In Da Club” and the remix to ignition. I regret not knowing what “do you want to come over and take a nap” meant in college. I remember Raffi: All I really need is a song in my heart, food in my belly, and love in my family. I’ve run a marathon. I’ve run two marathons. I’ve run two marathons and seven half marathons. I regret allowing my taste to define me. I remember “I like two kinds of music.” I regret writing experimental poems in the International Phonetic Alphabet. I regret saying, ugh, that’s so gay. I regret enrolling at SUNY Fredonia. I regret not being more kind to my sister. I regret moving in with my third girlfriend, and I regret hiding at my friend’s house instead of helping her to move out. I regret producing so little art when it is so important to me. Making art. In this economy? I regret not sending a review copy of my album to the Pitchfork editor who requested it. I regret letting time pass without a fight. I sued my neighbor twice. I regret beating up Andy in fourth grade because I only did it for my own amusement. I wouldn’t regret beating up Brandon in ninth grade if he hadn’t died in a drag racing accident a few years later, but he did and so I do. I regret my love for beer, which adds another few pounds each year. I regret losing touch with my best friends. I regret allowing so much time to pass. I regret nothing. I regret not knowing what “do you want to come over and take a nap” meant in college. I regret having watched Garden State. I regret allowing my taste to define me. I regret writing experimental poems in the International Phonetic Alphabet. I regret writing poems in French, reading them in public, and allowing video to be taken of my performance. I regret every moment I’ve ever spent in church. I regret punching my little sister. I regret having been so obsessed with Nirvana. I regret not having group sex.

I regret taking LSD the first time, and I regret taking it again when I knew better. I enjoy the way, when I drink, that my thoughts arrive as non-sequiturs, and with them the anticipation of being trapped inside a puzzle that is nearly complete. I regret not being exposed to spicier foods as a child. I broke my nose twice, and am always surprised when people notice and ask about it. I regret saying, ugh, that’s so gay. Sometimes I worry I’m crazy. I regret enrolling at SUNY Fredonia. I’ve never forced a woman to have sex with me. I regret not being more kind to my sister. I was once called an idiot in a job interview and then took the job anyway. I regret moving in with my third girlfriend, and I regret hiding at my friend’s house instead of helping her to move out. Really crazy. I’ve written a matching algorithm for a dating website. I regret producing so little art when it is so important to me. I regret letting time pass without a fight. I don’t believe in the afterlife. I regret beating up Andy in fourth grade because I only did it for my own amusement. Real pain for my sham friends is the most clever phrase I’ve ever heard. I wouldn’t regret beating up Brandon in ninth grade if he hadn’t died in a drag racing accident a couple years later, but he did and so I do. I remember that Jesus was crucified when he was younger than me. I regret my love for beer, which adds another few pounds each year. I tried to shoot a gun but lacked the proper temporary license. I regret losing touch with my best friends. I remember my father being surprised, after he bought me my first baseball glove, that I threw with my left hand (the first time I remember feeling special). I regret allowing so much time to pass. I remember “In Da Club” and the remix to ignition. I remember my best AIM screenname: drinkspinefluid. I regret not knowing what “do you want to come over and take a nap” meant in college. I remember Raffi: All I really need is a song in my heart, food in my belly, and love in my family. I’ve run a marathon. I’ve run two marathons. I’ve run two marathons and seven half marathons. I regret allowing my taste to define me. I remember “I like two kinds of music.” I regret writing experimental poems in the International Phonetic Alphabet. This essay infringed at least twelve copyrights. Parts of this essay were programmatically generated. I regret writing poems in French, reading them in public, and allowing video to be taken of my performance. I didn’t vote for Donald Trump. I regret every moment I’ve ever spent in church. I think my hearing is getting worse but haven’t had it checked. I regret punching my little sister. I regret allowing so much time to pass. I regret having been so obsessed with Nirvana.


Bryan Woods  is an essayist, technologist, musician, and co-founder of Triangle House.

Bryan Woods is an essayist, technologist, musician, and co-founder of Triangle House.

All the Images will Disappear

All the Images will Disappear

Commodity Fetish

Commodity Fetish