One of the (if not categorically ‘the’) greatest rapper/producer hybrids to ever grace my ears is dead. I suppose it’s debatable whether he ever was mine to lose, but I am fixating on a quote, perhaps inappropriately but nonetheless, from one of my favourite white-woman ethnographic fiction pieces* regardless. “This…

Walking reminds me of both my weight and my weightlessness. It initially tends to feel like lugging pure reluctance across sludge, but is then followed by euphoria, equally defiant in its insistence that my feet aren’t entirely mine. The mind becomes the sun in its centrality and presumptuousness. …

It’s probable that a single hand could account for the number of times I’ve left my house for more than an hour or two over the last three or four months. …

I wasn’t older than 10 when I learned that Michael Jackson had a sister — around the time that I discovered he’d already gone through puberty, ditched the afro, and had his own monument. My graduation from The Jackson Five’s ‘Ultimate Collection’ to MJ’s ’95 ‘History: Past, Present and Future’…