metazine

Semiotically, it's detached from all these kinds of things that it was originally designed for. But this kind of sign was always part of the corporate blandification of the American travel experience. The idea of the app is funny, because it turns out that apps are all like these highway signs, really. Like you're traveling on the information superhighway when you're on your phone.

The poet Alice Notley died on May 17. But death was a place that she had visited before, a state with which she had long communed. Step into the uninvidious nonvoid inter alia especially be- Tween the live and dead for I have been there often and know it she writes in The Speak Angel Series, her. ..

A discussion of A Burdensome Experiment

A celebration of Free Gifts in Brooklyn

My weapon is better My weapon is organic It is an organ, a pulse, a history

The first round is often perversely the most fun. The heaviness of expectations and the levity of possibility warp spacetime, making every win feel both satisfying and insufficient, like candy, and every loss feel both nauseating and not quite dread-inducing, also like candy.

Too long, too hard, too loose, too crass: these are the problems that abridgment seeks to fix. They are only problems to a writer’s enemies: politicians, skimmers, benefactors, and prudes. Who, then, abridged The Obscene Bird of Night—and what were they trying to fix?

For at least a year, the mail room in Penguin’s New York headquarters utilized a bomb-sniffing dog—named, for some unknown reason, Yalta—to screen packages. On one especially unnerving Saturday the few employees in Penguin’s 23rd Street office that day looked out their windows to see thousands of New York–area Muslims who’d arrived to protest the publication of The Satanic Verses bowing to Mecca in unison. The management of the company behaved with disgraceful cowardice.

What was I trying to figure out? Beginnings, I think—what a beginning is, what one must do in order to start.

Each of these classification rooms was decorated with an astonishing density of Disney paraphernalia. Men with grief-lined faces sat in front of Mickey Mouse reliquaries, mini princess figurines arranged in rainbow tiers on top of metal cabinets. Inspirational wall art, printed on polyethylene panels, read P. S. You Got This and One Small Thought in the Morning Can Change Your Whole Day. The decor raised the possibility that the fixations of the Disney adult are a direct response to conditions of oppression—oppression in which the Disney adult is complicit.

The problem came on slowly, like delayed-onset tinnitus: one day I notice the whole world’s pitch is off, and in the moment of noticing I realize it’s been like that for a long time. Every opinion I have is someone else’s, baby bird food I suck down and turn around and spit into someone else’s throat. Every fact is flanked by a targeted ad. A scaly rash has bloomed around my eyelids.

You can tell men’s cycling isn’t a serious sport because the “Big Six” athletes come from four small nations—Belgium, Denmark, the Netherlands, and Slovenia—with a combined population of 38 million.

My students didn’t volunteer much about the intervening six weeks, except that they had been grateful for all the reading. Time in prison is always slow, counting down, and for the prisoners, the strike was primarily experienced as an excruciating further slowdown.

I think of the people I met on canvasses. The older Polish woman in Greenpoint who took a thick stack of Zohran flyers to give out to all her friends. The hijabi Indian American mother and daughter who drove in from Long Island to knock doors for Zohran so that, the mother said, life could be as affordable for others as it was when she was growing up in the Bronx. A mobility-impaired man in Bay Ridge who said he rarely got visitors and invited me into his apartment, where he talked about his frustration with inaccessible transit, and the hope Zohran’s platform held for him.