This flashing back and forth from lived experience to its abstracted digital shape is one of the characteristic rhythms of contemporary consciousness.
The best work occurred when engineers and artists were allowed to pursue their specialties rather than work poorly in between them.
Life's white machine has been replaced by one in technicolor.
And yet the title suggests she is doxxing herself, just not "like that."
The effort is longstanding, and we toil together.
Their emotional lives are snow globes, these women, perpetually watching the dust settle.
But what they do demand, as Hero does of Ivy, is "someplace where every time we turn around we don't see that damn machine staring at us."
Whereas hope gloms onto a time, witness is timeless.
Narrative threads are less linear than they are synaptic.
Me and the other jerks scrolling on the train, we're not summoning anything.
Here is Woolf at her most unvarnished, obsessed, her most playful and silly and unpolished and free.
In the effort of poetry to communicate, it must always deal in the dirty commodity of the word.