Ate something regrettable on the plane and:

• Dreamed our new York apartment needed extensive repairs. What new York apartment? The real owners came home and were very nice about my delusion
• Dreamed my new bff Gwyneth Paltrow came back from a shallow grave in the woods, writhing and sweating out a strange clear gel as she transformed into an anime ninetail fox
• Dreamed my ex-wife (what ex-wife?) came by the beach house trick-or-treating, wearing a horse’s head quite cleverly fashioned from a steel bucket and flowerpot

I may not be cut out for business travel after all.

Flying to Tokyo again to teach a new class of startup founders. Looking forward to it. Highly anomalous. There was a decade and a half when business travel was grinding, career-building toil. Now at last I reap the rewards, by squatting like a goblin at my laptop and only venturing out of the house when the spirit moves me.

All of which is to say there was a corgi! In the airport! A flying corgi! Mirabile dictu.

…just as people in colonized India and Africa often created ways of communicating that remained unintelligible to their European occupiers, so Jesus often hid from outsiders, especially from the Roman occupiers, what he wanted to reveal only to those who, he said, “had eyes to see, and ears to hear.”

Trust me that I had no other plans. Outside of my immediate family, the only people who were nice to me were people who went to my church.

I had one trajectory and that was to get out.

You can never make that crossing that she made, for such Great Voyages in this world do not any more exist. But every day of your lives the miles that voyage between that place and this one you cross. Every day. You understand me? In you that journey is.

to this unforgettable exchange

Sold the Prius to a friend and got an all-electric car, which I may be enjoying a little too much. I have already driven it to Los Angeles and Portland, and am heading up to Seattle next week. In between there was a quick trip to Detroit and Toronto. Charlie and I spent a good part of the summer following American rock band My Chemical Romance around for a while, just to see what they would do. Interesting things, it turned out, at least to me and Charlie and a few hundred thousand like-minded souls.

My dear friend Yarnivore asked me to tell her a little bit about My Chem and why it matters to me, which prompted a lengthy monologue, and I’ve been fretting ever since that I failed by saying both too much and not enough. For example, I forgot to say that you can get a fair sense of what the band is like by watching six of their music videos. There’s the one that’s like all of Wes Anderson’s Rushmore condensed into three shouty minutes that end with a kiss; the one where they bury their beloved grandmother, who raised them to be artists; the one where the bassist is killed on the beach during the invasion of Normandy; the one where the band itself is become death, destroyer of worlds (of all their songs, this is the one you probably already know); the one where they burn it all down; and a personal favorite, the post-apocalyptic one shot in the desert, drenched in color like a Saturday morning cartoon, with a cameo from my beloved comic book writer Grant Morrison.

Each video is a perfect little jewel of a story about beauty and love and fear and grief and hope, not necessarily in that order. They riff on gender and queerness and mental illness and loss and guilt and complicity and rayguns, all things that I spend a lot of time thinking about, you may not be surprised to hear. These narratives are embedded in the larger narratives of three truly excellent albums, themselves embedded in the fucked-up and transcendent narrative of the band itself, or at least what we know of it, which is a great deal and also almost nothing in the grand scheme of things. My Chem is the kind of phenomenon Anne Helen Petersen calls a rich text. Pull on any thread and you’ll find yourself talking about socioeconomic class or ghosts or Joan of Arc. There’s so much to say about it that Charlie and I have listened to fourteen hours of an excellent podcast exploring the discography through a critical theory lens, and we’re only sorry it isn’t longer.

I’ve talked before about My Chem as a map out of hell, but that’s only half of it. I’m drawn to the band when I’m in terrible pain, suffering loss or rejection or the banal horror of another fascist presidency, but their music also spurs me into trying to make sense of things, trying to make stuff of my own, silly little stories about love and grief and rayguns. I’m an agoraphobic misanthrope but this band can get me out on the road and onto a dancefloor. Thanks to them I’ve seen the Getty Villa and the Detroit Industry Murals and been reminded that art matters to me so, so much.

On this current tour My Chem are wrapping their existing narratives into another grand and mysterious and operatic story that is being revealed a little at a time, in teasing and affectionate interactions with an audience they trust to figure things out. What a gift to see them live at all (this band broke up, not very amicably, in 2013, and it turns out has only reformed because the rhythm guitarist had a particularly vivid dream). What a gift to be in this relationship with them and the other fans. What a gift to be weird and queer and arty and to hear the voices of the dead as they travel through time. It’s not just a map out of hell. It’s a reason to live.

…one cheats oneself, as a human being, if one has respect only for the style of high culture…

“You have to understand that most people at the executive level at a label, they’re usually rich kids who don’t need the job,” Israel explains. “You’re talking about a boys’ club and a history of a record label signing 50 to 150 bands and focusing on one or two.”

…creeping suspicion that I am not a person but a card catalog of the books that I’ve read.

…all was well. Well enough. The world still ached with beauty. The birds kept chirping, leaves clattered in a breeze, the late-afternoon sunlight, thick and pale, slanted in from the south.

…she was struck by how private American forces of mercy were straining to offset America’s public agents of cruelty.

Looking at the bright light on the horizon, your first thought was: well, that’s it then. Nuclear war. Sydney’s gone.

I have neglected my algebra and watercolors and learned that I don’t like beans. Jeremy came off his bike on Inauguration Day and exploded his ACL, so it’ll be August before we go riding again. But my new foundation of tragic hope has proved surprisingly durable. I found a gay church and a gay gym because it turned out what I really need at the end of the world is strength and (gay) Jesus.

The City, the locals call it, as if it’s the only one.

Whatever we think of the historicity of the orthodox account, we can admire its ingenuity. For this theory—that all authority derives from certain apostles’ experience of the resurrected Christ, an experience now closed forever—bears enormous implications for the political structure of the community.

…the ‘ancestors’ and the ‘communities’ we believe we have shucked off (where I come from, at least) are still present. They haunt us, not least because they make it possible for us to be alive.

British colonisation was the beginning of the end for natural Australia.

The plunders and even the occupation of earth by the Europeans violated the land. Bennelong hoped they could be taught that fact. It might have been one of the reasons he stayed so long in Sydney Cove, and risked his soul.