It is exemplary of Curtis Eggleston’s own journey to the limits of himself, a midsummer oceanic plunge. An exploration of the self as soul refracted in the duplicitous status quo while never relenting to challenge it. It will reverberate through history as either the narrative singularity that swallows all invention in a feat of rigorous manifesto or the advent of new offspring. Eros in a keyed up tempo, Psyche in a desultory trance slurring euphonious seductions. Listen to this song and start a band. A call to arms for the metaphysical expat, the forlorn mounting a cultural reclamation. A cause for evangelism and fervor. A renaissance.
openness, loneliness, vulnerability and resilience through mindscapes. “lemniscate law” as if life is just as a dream as a dream is life’s form of unapologetic purity, free rein. then the angel’s trumpet, all along, preparing the world to fall. a wish that never ended.
“[…] is blood a big deal if it’s released in a state of ecstasy?” This book will have you asking many such questions throughout. It lives in a state of limbo and exultation, with promises and possibilities that depend on the reader to be fulfilled.
I think it’s alright to give it 4 stars — I’m too much of a coward to give it less — in that I wish I were cool — or perhaps understood the post-Tao Lin world better — or that I could parse out what I imagine to be ludicrous from my envy. exemplifies in this sense what is exciting and also blah about that writing scene on twitter
the Amtrak up north made for a dull warmth which knicked up the score, most likely.
Thank u Devin, who divides the NYC writers into two categories: the sex poets and the false-WASPs. If she has to choose, she prefers the former. I’ll give the book back now
this book is chaotic, dreamy, vapid, hopeful, downtrodden, addictive, repulsive--at times, a mess. The italicized sections are very "look mom, no hands," which fortunately seem to lessen as the book goes on. It's by no means a perfect book, but I was there in lock-step with wherever it wished to go. There's obvious, surface-level criticisms about social compulsions for fame and validation, but it never gets too ham-handed.
A wonderful read that beautifully blurs the lines between reality and dreamlike delusion. The author conveys the contrast of love and loss, humility and ego, and the pursuit of simple contentment versus massive success and recognition. Every reread provides entertainment, and new perspectives on characters' inner motivations, desires, and interwoven relationships. I love this book.
I’ve never had an experience quite like this reading a book before. I simply couldn’t put it down until the final page reached. Chills once I had. In love, no doubt. Thanks Curtis. <3
An enigmatic book from an enigmatic author, featuring oneiric shuffling of chronologies and perspectives, with a sensuously technical and poetic lexicon. Readers are sleeping on Curtis Eggleston.
Effectively lit me on fire. I don’t have the writing skills to really express anything with literature jargon but this book felt like I was growing up along side it on my bed stand or in a girls backseat or in Mexico. Whatever it is it has a life of its own. One of my favorites
Not bad That's the title alright. It's extremely accurate to how I think of the album. It's fine. Sometimes fun. But that's about it.
It's got some nice grooves and dance beats with bit-crunched and poppy tunes. It's got the energy and it's really clean and crisp.
And that's it. It's a fine album, I like it. Nothing spectacular, but fun for what it is. Maybe they could've benefited from a slightly less clean production, but other than that I've got no other problems.
Though I've read some complaints about the vocals. I don't get it personally, but I can kinda see where their coming from. If you don't like the emo rap vocals of say, Lil Peep, then you probably won't like them either.