ryan fitzpatrick
In before the thinkpieces
on the
aesthetics of Zoom calling,
the
parasociality of the Twitch stream,
and false
friendship.
According to Pitchfork,
pop music is
thirsty this summer:
There is
no
“horny on main”
anymore
because
everyone is horny,
everywhere,
on every
account.
Any relation
where
two things can
harmonize,
but mean
differently.
Maybe all I’m
wishing for
is the contact
high
of VHS
nostalgia.
Spooling a nest
of magnetic
tape
sounded against
the curb
back into its
casing.
Temporality’s
grimy like the
body
grinding
against itself.
Kathleen
Edwards
defining total
freedom
as a mutual
lack of dependency.
I don’t need
you
and you don’t
need me
except through
the glitched frieze
of shitty
download speeds.
Big Yeetus,
take the wheel.
Just don’t do
it
on my account.
All I can
do
is keep
writing
this project
book
even though
the oppressive
tone
of the project
book is
only something
that
The New York
Times
complains
about.
It’s still
tough
when the cold
vibes
of professional
courtesy
meet the clear
benefits
of writing
through a problem.
Unable to write
today,
I clean the
inside
of the bathtub.
How bad is it
that I deeply
relate
to this story
about
Japan’s 8050
problem?
I hear an
answer in
my favourite
Kinks’ song
“Kyoto Sunset”:
I am so lazy,
I don’t want to
wander,
I stay home at
night.
What will the
social scar
of this moment
be?
Probably
just
a string of
smug comments
misrecognizing
the learned
helplessness
of an economic freeze-out
as a failed
sexuality.
Thank god
for
this motorized
scrub brush,
as gender reveals
spark wildfires
across the
continent.
On Instagram,
the skies in
the Bay
are right out
of Blade Runner.
Watching the
time-lapse
informatic of
the smoke
over the
Pacific Northwest
on my phone.
Again,
it’s mediated information.
Like feeling
sick
when someone
cues up Vangelis
over some drone
footage.
Actual quote
from The New
York Times:
This has been
the busiest
two months I’ve
had
in 22 years of selling
islands.
In the trailer
for the new
version
of The Stand:
Baby, don’t
worry
about a thing,
‘cause every
little thing’s
gonna be
alright.
Walking down
the Glen
Stewart Ravine,
I didn’t expect
to read
a conspiracy
theory titled
Covid 1984,
suggesting I search Facebook
to see
Facebook’s the problem.
It’s easy to
point fingers
at the
superspreaders,
but tougher to
pin down
our structural
failures.
A bingo card
recording which
Calgary high
schools get Covid
followed by the
Principal of Bowness High
tweeting at
Jason Kenney
about Covid
hitting the quad
this early in
September.
I’ve watched
enough
Among Us on Twitch
to know that it
can be tough
to suss out the
saboteur
when they are
invisible
and randomly
selected.
Email from Cineplex:
Ryan,
Have you seen
Tenet yet?
All the little
details
out of joint
like a bullet
returning to a
gun.
I really don’t
want to write
about
Trump getting
Covid.
The
complexity
of the wind as
it
moves the
clouds
over the lake.
A story circulating
about an A.I.
reinventing
phrenology.
What’s the
over-under
on getting
Covid
from a
re-opened casino?
Right before
being ejected:
You’re going to
regret this.
The University
of Alberta
is laying off
1000 people.
Ontario reports
700 new cases
today.
No, that’s
900 new cases
with a caveat
that testing is
backlogged.
Something about
blaming young
people
who are
mandated into
close
proximity.
Make sure your
camera’s on
and it can see
your eyes.
ryan fitzpatrick is the author of three books and fifteen books of poetry including
Coast Mountain Foot (Talon, 2021), Fortified Castles (Talon, 2014), and Fake
Math (Snare/Invisible, 2007).
