August and Everything After

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. So much of the art we love is really just about our loyalty to and softness toward our own memories; so often loving an album or a book or a song is really just a way to love an obsolete version of ourselves.
If you want to talk about how much you love something, start by explaining why it’s embarrassing. Start with the worst thing about whatever it is you love
perfect album is different from a great album, and lots of great albums are better than lots of perfect albums. It’s not just that it’s all bangers and no skips, although it is that. It’s a vibe, but a perfect album is always a vibe. Perfect is a particular flavor, like sad or divorced or extremely online.
The particular feeling of the ‘90s was about the long anxious wasteful moment before. It was like Sunday and it was like August. Here we are in the last month before the fall comes in, before the cold turns around and fills in the spaces we left open, before all the consequences arrive, after the party, hovering in the three am before the workday, the glee and the dread of having stayed up too late on a school night. It’s the end of the summer; it’s the end of the world. The whole thing of August, the lounge-y half-naked dinosaur-green nihilist do-nothing swamp of it, is everything after.

rw-book-cover

. So much of the art we love is really just about our loyalty to and softness toward our own memories; so often loving an album or a book or a song is really just a way to love an obsolete version of ourselves.
If you want to talk about how much you love something, start by explaining why it’s embarrassing. Start with the worst thing about whatever it is you love
perfect album is different from a great album, and lots of great albums are better than lots of perfect albums. It’s not just that it’s all bangers and no skips, although it is that. It’s a vibe, but a perfect album is always a vibe. Perfect is a particular flavor, like sad or divorced or extremely online.
The particular feeling of the ‘90s was about the long anxious wasteful moment before. It was like Sunday and it was like August. Here we are in the last month before the fall comes in, before the cold turns around and fills in the spaces we left open, before all the consequences arrive, after the party, hovering in the three am before the workday, the glee and the dread of having stayed up too late on a school night. It’s the end of the summer; it’s the end of the world. The whole thing of August, the lounge-y half-naked dinosaur-green nihilist do-nothing swamp of it, is everything after.