Issuu

[american summer]

& mm aa r gy o x z

why did we make thie zine? [a phone transcript]

so at the time when we made it it was because we had a lot of stuff we’d written about our summers. basically we couldn’t get over 2 people. now when I think back on it I wonder if it was just a waste of time. but then again what’s a waste of time cuz I feel like our whole life is a waste of time in that sense. that’s true...this zine is our redemption in a sense. wow...this is just us trying to feel like we didn’t waste our time. literally my English professor was like, the way we redeem pain is by writing about it. i don’t mean to mock him, that sounded like i was mocking him, but it’s because I feel shy because i don't feel confident enough to be inspirational. i’m sweating balls rightnow holy shit. we should include that in our intro. agreed... also it’s crazy that it’s 2 summers later. omg i can’t believe it’s 2 summers later. wait cuz june is when i moved into my apartment in ny. this is around the time that i met… i’m deadass gonna use google photos to tell me the date. dude we met june 12. wow it’s almost your og american summer celebration. guess i’ll celebrate alone. what if you invited your exes for an american summer launch party? that’s kinda lit...let’s have a prelaunch where we invite only our exes, and then an actual launch. did i block

him? it’s not like he ever texted me after we broke up, so i think i just did it as an oh i’m over you thing. last night for some reason i thought of his instagram handle, i wonder if he’s moved on. dude….do you know anything that’s going on his life? no absolutely nothing. just curious. yeah how bout you? oh dude 0 but it’s cuz you and him were actually a thing. this guy and i were not a thing, i was just hung up on it for 500 years. i see memes that are like all millennials know how to do is blank blank blank and get back with their exes...we met a lot earlier than i realized, actually, i think it was saturday may 19. so i was freshly 19. dude i can’t believe 2 people i met that summer got married and have a baby now. dude especially if u were in a 2 couples context you know? i was thinking about that and the same summer i met this person, obviously you also met your person, and a friend of mine also met her person so i was like, just 3 people having summer flings. 2 years later the friend i’m talking about is still in a long distance relationship with her boyfriend. that’s a 33% survival rate. yo, pretty good! also bro the amount of creative content i've made about this person is so disproportionate to the amount that this realistically mattered. but dude those emotions came from somewhere so… yeah i know it doesn’t invalidate it, it’s just funny cuz like...this person probably never thinks about me and here i am 2 years later having made this whole zine about him, like why

summer in November

beginning of summer

4th of July

end of summer

[CONTENTS]

playlists - summer 2018

roll the credits

[summer in November]

A Teenage Fairytale It was early November – I know because I kept writing poems titled “summer in November,” and in a month nothing really can change, even with a breakup - he was twenty-one (I was eighteen and was impressed by the fact that he was twenty-one), and we were in an AirBnb in Koreatown of Los Angeles even though neither of us were Korean (that didn’t stop us from going to BCD Tofu House on the first and last nights though, once with the air of strangers and once with the air of people who were about to be strangers again). He and I were both Chinese – Chinese American, actually, because that makes a difference. Chinese is wearing expensive things while being beat by your parents to study, and being Chinese American is wearing things from the sales rack while being

beat by your parents to study; I always had thought that it was so cool that his mom did all the same things my mom did, things that none of my friendsâ€™ moms ever did, and so whenever my mom called that week while we were in the Koreatown AirBnb I had to leave the room, messy with whatever was his and then mine: some dispensary loot, some leftovers, my clothes from previous days that I planned on wearing again just so I didnâ€™t have to bring a carry-on on the plane, just a backpack, to lie about how much fun I was having at the music festival with all my friends when really, it was just me and my now monthlong ex-boyfriend, who was probably hitting his juul and checking himself out in his phone screen reflection.

[ had a dream the other day that was so vivid and startling that I wrote about it. there’s a distinct scene in the dream where I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car driven by someone I haven’t seen in a while (and probably won’t see again). at one point, we’re speeding down the highway, and everything feels open and bright. here, I try to recreate that surreal landscape I encountered. ]

MEMORY I KEEP MISREMEMBERING

It begins with a house. An appetite. The window & flushed stars looking after each other the way a bomb leaves an afterglow on any poacherâ€™s face. You are the bomb I want to poach. I dislocate the window, full of little stars, and shake. Sound of beads rattling in a box. A syringe undernight drains dry the stars until they are weapons, hanged from the frame. Begging to be tucked away. You among them.

You touch me, please. I touch your neck, threadbare from the noose, still the only thing I know to be true. Downhill we ride, highway heavy as water, so endless the night erupts in bloom: color of a barred window, glass panes turned ghosts to open the room to the soft animals of summer. Dull summer that was, ripe as bones. Whiter than any dream. And without end like the space between your left knee and your neck, like this open turnpike. Like the shoreless river at which we met. You, I discovered in the aimless white. For weeks, we waded, waiting for a signal. You were in no hurry. Finally I understood that your body was a lifeboat, winding back the clock each time I drowned. A lifeboat can only do its job.

Tell me how to keep this white highway dream. In which the road devours its own tail: the window & flushed stars remembering they are made of the same god. Flight & asphyxiation learning to be synonyms again. Again and again. On the side of the road, a fence awaits us like a shore. Beyond it, water. Dead branches hanging onto the fence like old hands. You pull over to braid my hair. I give you the window I tucked away but you open it wrong side up and all the beads spill onto the grass, each an ouroboros, a weapon learning its own medicine. In the barbed wires, I locate our own palms, squirming like panic, white with youth and so far apart.

Spaceship 1 We met in the summer, when I was working my first internship in Manhattan and he had just graduated college. I could tell he was nervous—when I turned down his offer to smoke, he insisted we go to a nearby CVS to buy beer. We settled on a cheap, ultra-sweet wine, and, back at his apartment, I stood beside his desk for five full minutes as he blasted The Strokes before he thought to pull another chair from the living room. Eventually, he asked if I wanted to go lie down somewhere. In the morning, we woke up with our backs to each other, and I kissed him and left for work. Throughout summer, that became a routine—I’d pay him a visit after the sun had set, and, conversing about things that seemed important, we’d let ourselves become intoxicated before we moved to the bed, in which he was assertive and handsy, quite unlike his sober self. Our time became a source of lightness and euphoria—when I walked to work from his place, I was giggly, good-tempered, and in my own head. I’m sure it meant so much to me then because I was lonely.

At some point, I became so accustomed to the routine (and so clinically depressed) that a lingering emptiness would appear in my chest if he told me he was busy for the night, but I never revealed that to him. I didn’t want him to know I had started to want more from our arrangement than what it currently provided. Even though I spent the night regularly, I was scared to wrap my arms around him—it felt like I was imparting upon him a vulnerability and desire that he didn’t care to know. Once, after staying over, I asked him if he wanted to get breakfast, and he told me he had work to do. I didn’t ask again. 2 Months after that summer, I return to New York during Thanksgiving break to visit old places. In the back of my mind, I know that he is in this city, but for most of my time there, his existence feels like a memory: distant and safe, like a closed off entity, deceptively sterile and tucked away from harm. But by my second to last day there, his memory has burrowed its way to the forefront of my mind. I text him impulsively, and to my surprise, he responds with enthusiasm about seeing me. He brings me to his new apartment, newly bought beers in a plastic bag. “They’re renovating the place, so there are a ton of empty rooms on my floor,” he tells me. I meet

two of his roommates, who are friendly and who snicker to each other as we move a mattress and two pillows into the empty room next door. Trying to savor my time with him feels like trying to catch light with a jar of water—when the light is there, it illuminates the entire jar. But when the light source vanishes, the light just as easily leaves the water. Our reunion is like the reopening of a time capsule because in this small, compartmentalized world that includes only him and me, nothing has changed: we still talk for hours about music as we make our way through a six pack. We sit with our backs to the window of the highrise, and each time I look back, I feel like we’re in a spaceship, the lights of the city below glimmering like stars. I wake up before sunrise the next day to catch my bus back to university, and his groggy self gives me a sober kiss. “I’m sure we will see each other again,” he says, and it’s not a promise, or a certainty, and in this world, it barely even matters, but in another world, another reality, it means there is a spaceship in which time doesn’t exist. It is circling and circling the world, waiting patiently for our return. 3 The Japanese word for “love”—koi (today written as 恋)— was once written as 孤悲, or “lonely sadness.”

[beginning of summer]

If you climb in through the window, there’s a truck stop - a one-shot hip-hop-b

pseudocode: leave a mess and the bed unmade - are we there yet, backseat timeskip daze -

late - it’s unglamorous to find another best friend when yours moves away - apple juice and m

stay - field trip, first time, dismissed, where to go? which way? - last off the bus now, birthdays

newoutfit hallways, gossip talk babes - friday night attention is all i want these days - money is

much - i shop til i drop and text til i cry - boys don’t like me enough, but neither do i - math doe

girls - i lost myself once, and i never knewwhat happened after that - graduation day velvet cha

dictorian was a girl i didn’t like but didn’t hate - diplomas are paper, and so are my old pokemo

Some

places to visit

blasting park it and change - climb into the minivan, visit sunscreen-melted arcades - hotel

- can I see your pokemon cards, ooh letâ€™s trade - suburban parents work two jobs and stay

marshmallows, hot chocolate school plays - invited over, ask momon the phone if you can

s make me act my age - home was the apartment across the grave - by high school, sanity became a place -

s green, and so is the eyeshadowi want - momwakes up at nine, donâ€™t ruffle her purse too

esnâ€™t make anyone horny, why do we learn - i thought the world revolved around instagram

hairs look nice, but will give you a sore ass - i sat up close, real close to the stage - the vale-

on decks- i never found them, but i knowthat the truck stop toilet seat is probably still wet.

ANTHEM LIPS SPLI T

GOOF Y GRIN

I HANDED YOU A BLUE SLUSHIE

THE FUN I LIKE TO HAVE

IN THE SUMMER DUMB BITCH EX BITCH TELL ME WHO YOU DATED FOR A MONTH BITCH

[4th of July]

Lana Del Rey Travels Back to the Summer of 2006 to Tell me Something About My First Love Remember this. How his old car wheezes down your block and how it always feels like a chariot. How he lures music out of your dusty guitar and you write down a metaphor for your body. Remember the parking lot. The pipe you carve out of an apple. How he looks at you. The boxed-wine of your purple mouth. Remember waiting in his passenger seat as you watch him buy condoms and a pint of ice cream. Remember shooting illegal fireworks at the end of the culde-sac at his drunk uncle’s barbecue, how they scratch the sky. You will lose this. No one ever thinks it’s possible. The chariot will shrink back into a 1986 civic and disappear around the corner. The guitar becomes a mute decoration. The high fades, the apple rots. He never looks at you. The condoms expire in his wallet. The fireworks scar into a new sky, for new lovers. And you’ll hurt worse than the songs say. And you’ll swear you won’t ever fall again. And you will. But never like this. Like the first. You won’t ride pegs. You’ll swear by seatbelts. And when another one says ’til the end of time, you’ll know. ~Megan Falley

Time Freeze // Dollar Store Aisle CUT TO: Orlando, Florida â€“ NIGHTTIME Scene Action: Entertainment is dynamic when real life is not. Flavor: Saccharine. Magenta. Neon lights type of night. Town: Frozen. Fourth of July Rocket Pop Ice Cream Shop. RED HONDA CIVIC pulls slowly into a parking spot. Fluorescent store lights and buzzing store sign is glossy and laid out on windshield wipers. INSIDE: HAWAIIAN BOBBLEHEAD GIRL on the dashboard, grass skirt fresh meadow on thighs and smile much better than I could ever imagine. COCA-COLA BOTTLE of SPF 50, flat-tire BANANA BOAT four-and-a-half inches away. CHARACTER enters an Everything Is 1.99 Dol-

lars! store – one of three in strip mall, furthest back from entrance. BELIEVE-OR-NOT MUSEUM across the street, cover of GOOSEBUMPS, shoved under cardboard library book box in apartment living room. CHARACTER tries to make eye contact with GIRL WITH HOOP EARRINGS as she walks out with plastic bags swallowing gummy vodka microwave-meal. The store bell dings BUTLER in. A BLACK TOYOTA CAMRY settles beside RED HONDA CIVIC. PAN TO: Keychains and postcards (unapologetically loyal to their time) CHARACTER’s face distorts south in viscous pool. The pool is stale blue. CASH REGISTER sings a Beach Boys song, sporting icy bleached tips. No need to tip during retail exchanges. CHARACTER sees FAMILY on POST CARD and cries. SISTER is pretty, with jeans fitting knobby and scalp pulled tight. MOM is full of messy, messy, messy but sweet cheekbones save her. She is wedged between the clouds above CHARACTER and SISTER. DAD’s shoulders are almost touching security gates where costume mice and ducks sell cookies and pretzels and movies. CHARACTER does not remember those shoes. Green-yellow spikey speech bubble sign taped above the postcard rack fucks in Sharpie: $1.99! DAD gives five dollars in quarters to shoot targets by WILD WEST FRONTIER. CHARACTER shoots well, SISTER does not. SISTER watches

CHARACTER shoot down plastic tin can apocalypse, it saves them. Everyone lives. Later, CHARACTER waits in line with earbuds for HOLLYWOOD HAUNTED HOTEL. Everyone is with someone else. The wait time is 2 hours. They watch a show in front of the MAGIC CASTLE. MOM says it’s okay, popcorn is $11.99, it is VACATION. KIDS shovel handfuls, considerately greedy, useless for more than feeding. HOTEL POOL filled with LITTLE LOBSTERS. Aerosol-coated aquamarine. HOTEL ELEVATOR full of stairs and coke water spilling out of pink foam pool noodles, pasta party strippers with alligator meat between their thighs and tater tots, drinking - washing down – calcite stalagmite stalactite beer drips through high heels on streets. SISTERS tell PARENTS they’ll buy water, walk past SMOOTHIES and GATOR MINI GOLF, $1 an hour, 99 holes, Dunkin Donuts glazed for DAD tomorrow morning. SUBURBS are drunk. SISTER wants to run away. Unknown problems are fine. PARENTS do not know they are unkind. CHARACTER turns to leave the Everything $1.99! store. BACK TO: The parking lot, Everything 1.99 exterior The store bell dings electronically. CHARACTER climbs into the RED HONDA CIVIC and the door falls off. The BLACK TOYATO CAMERY grins. The RED HONDA CIVIC blushes.

Theory of Worth

I don’t think of the faces in the soil, or the oranges in my pockets, ripe and bright as the storm. Or how eventually, when your glasses began to look like paintings (eye-colored) morphing on your face, we ducked into an ice cream shop and realized that the thunder sounded like ka-boom and the fireworks like ka-pow, basically the same thing, and I wondered why I hadn’t looked up at the sky in awe all those other nights. I don’t think of how alone I knew myself to be, passing through East Village like a foghorn, loud and intangible, calling attention to everything but my being. That whole summer, I had this theory that a person’s worth was inversely proportional to the length of silence they endured before someone went looking for them. When you called, I thought finally. When you called, I thought, this must be my worth, the inverse of three months, but at least the waiting was over, just in time for the 4th of July. Two blocks from your apartment, so deep in the crowd we could’ve been any pair of friends, too tired from silence for silence, we stared up at the colors, like balloons in the middle of bursting. Skin electrified by all the breath they could not keep. I don’t think of how you kept wishing yourself to California because all your real friends were there, or how, when we walked onto the highway at last, we found everyone leaving because the night was over. I think of us front of the crowd, ascending the highway: something like a bridge to the beginning of my life. And there I saw you, and me, still 6th graders who didn’t know how to look at each other—and when I asked if we would be friends in a decade, you said Yes, because we’re special, even though I knew we weren’t. Even though we could’ve been anyone else.

JOJI PHOTOSHOPS O FROM A BLURRY PIC EXCEPT HE PASTES IT ONTO A N LATER. HE SHOTGUNS A CHERRY

OUT OF HIS MOUTH AND INSTANT

TEACHER POURS LIQUID NITROG

WATCH IT FLY, AS IF TO SAY TO T WORTH A SECOND LOOK. WHEN ES ONTO MY EXâ€™S TEETH. IN THIS

HEAD, SHE LOOKS HOW I LOOKED

OF TWELVE YEAR OLD THAT WANT

GET THE ANGLES OF HER MOTHE

TO BE A HEAD AND NOTHING ELS 40

OUT MY EX’S FACE CTURE IN THAILAND EW CANVAS. SAYS, I’LL EXPLAIN COKE, AND THE RED SPLINTERS

TLY EVAPORATES, HOW A SCIENCE

GEN ONTO THE CARPET JUST TO

THE CLASS, STAY, THE WORLD IS I LOOK, JOJI HAS PASTED BRACNEW IMAGE WHERE SHE IS ONLY

D IN SEVENTH GRADE, THE KIND

TED TO LEARN CONTOUR TO FOR-

ER’S FACE. SHE SEEMS CONTENT

SE, HOW A DISEMBODIED FING-..

ER LEAVES THE VIOLENCE FOR ONLY THE BODY TO REMEMBER. I THINK ABOUT MY FIRST KISS IN THE BOY’S BATHROOM, NOT URGENT ENOUGH, TOO MANY WIRES. I’D BROUGHT MOUTHWASH. THEN, I SNEEZED, AND HE HAD TO GET STITCHES IN HIS FOREHEAD. THERE MUST BE A METAPHOR IN THAT TOO. JOJI REVISITS THE CANVAS WITH THAILAND STILL IN IT. TELL ME WHAT YOU REMEMBER. HOW THE BACK OF HER NECK SMELLED LIKE LEMONGRASS AND MOONCAKE, I SAY. NO YOU DON’T, TRY AGAIN. HOW STRANGERS LIKED TO ASK IF WE WERE SISTERS, AND SOMETIMES I WISHED WE WERE, I SAY. NO, NO, THAT’S ALL WRONG. I’LL TELL YOU WHAT YOU REMEMBER. A HOTEL BAR WITH ONLY RED WINE. A SAD GUITAR, HOLLOWED OUT LIKE AN APPLE PIPE. TWO WHITE STREAKS ACROSS THE SKY ON SEPARATE OCCASIONS, BOTH MOVING TOO FAST TO BE PRAYERS. A BEARDED MAN, 42

EXORCISED TO SONG. A WINDOW TRANSLUCENT WITH FORGIVING, CITY LIGHTS SO FAR AWAY THEY COULD BE STARS. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, HE SAYS, DROPPING A GROCERY BAG INTO MY LAP. I LOOK BACK AT PHOTOSHOP: WHERE MY EX’S HEAD ONCE SAT IS NOW THE WINDOW. ALL THE SNOW-CHOKED LIGHTS BLURRY WITH MOVING, STILL SLOW ENOUGH TO BE WISHED UPON. I OPEN THE BAG WHEN I GET HOME AND FIND MY OLD BRACES TO TRY ON. IN THE MIRROR, IT IS HER DISEMBODIED HEAD THAT STARES BACK, LIKE A SISTER. HOW EASILY I CAN SAY IT WITHOUT LYING: YES, THE NIGHT UNMADE ME, YES, YOU ARE THE BEST FRIEND I EVER HAD, AND YES, WHEN THE LAKE FREEZES, I WILL CRACK OPEN THE ICE AND FIND YOUR MOUTH IN THE SHAPE OF YOUR BEHEADING, THROATLESS AND FULL OF SONGS I’VE NEVER HEARD. *

[end of summer]

Postmoder I think often about Shibuyaâ€” your face shifting in and out of focus among the vespers of the camera lens like two states of matter. Tokyo was blue, not how a porcelain teacup ripens in the thrift shop, or how a set of worn drapes teases open the light, or how dust settles over the porch like a summer fever, but how a whisked sky never forgets its naked body. On the bridge, your face rather than Tokyo in focus for the first time, we couldâ€™ve been standing on any of the identical bridges reflected in the secret entrances of the water. In that moment, all of our history was erased, blown away like the peony blossoms that had settled in your hair like snow in the summertime. Nemeses, beloveds, two stones in the sandâ€” standing on the thousands of bridges in the water, we were everything at once.

rnism

A trip to the Orlando Art Museum Was where I found Things that help me understand myself And why I like things Like The idea of an empty high school at night And The beckoning of a 1.99 tourist souvenir shop, Keychains and postcards with images Unapologetically loyal to their time

Curtis Mann - Olive Harvest: [Olive Harvest] is a nearly abstract landscape with ghostlike fragments of the terrain and people scattered throughout ... I am mostly emphasizing this bodily connection to the trees themselves and the surreal nature of how this simple act is now so loaded and complex. Also mixed with the irony is that the olive tree was once a symbol of peace but now serves as a symbol of conflict and ownership.

Frank Hallam Day - HR RV: Images of RVâ€™s - glowing life support pods - suggest a humanity isolated from a dark, unpredictable and ominous nature. The powerful sense of displacement and alienation from the natural world conveys a relationship in nature in which something has gone very wrong. The occupants of these pods are hermetically sealed off from the natural world looming darkly just beyond.

Will Mentor - Growing an Onion: â€œIn my lithographs, I attempt to find a new pictorial and psychological space by locating it at an intersection between botanical illustrations, things-todo-lists, phone message pads, and diaries.â€? What is seemingly mundane actually produces a contemplation on the part of the viewer, who must reconsider the meaning of these cryptic images and text when they are layered over each other

Robert von Sternberg - Ventura & Wigman Motel: Robe transform mundane roadside subjects into eerie dreaml American highway a rich source of startling and poignan 56

ert von Sternbergâ€™s photographs often like visions ... he finds the landscape of the nt imagery.

Nick Cave - Architectural Archway: he wants his art to create similar transformative experiences where viewers can cultivate their own dreams and aspirations Architectural forest - as visitors walk around the work, their visual perception of its architecture repeatedly shifts, an action that forms an interactive relationship and sense of discovery

Blythe Bohnen - she concentrated on creating photographs that centered on a specific idea, rather than documenting an event or respond to a scene

Carlos Betancourt - Let Them Feel Pink: “My work is so personal … Everything is informed by my own experiences, my own memory ... My obsession to honor things that are personal to me ... and people also find traces of their own memories in my work.”

Robin Winters - Nature Shadow: Drawing much of his subject matter from dream imagery, his works seem to be a mixture of caricature and cartoon . . . which nevertheless are both universal and personal in nature

Johann Hermann Carmiencke - the Hudson River at Hyde Park: ... a uniquely American style of landscape painting that favored sweeping panoramic vistas and luminescent atmospheres

Zackary Drucker - Relationship: She portrays herself in visual narratives that challenge the established binaries of male and female, fiction and reality, viewer and subject ... the photographs present an intimate voyeuristic view into the private relationship of these two individuals ... the portraits convey a specific time and place - the sexuality of two people in love at a momentous time in their lives

It was a golden year. Sadness returned that summer like water in a paper bag. Entering the house was like returning to the other side of the road. Or like returning to a previous life, one in which you still called after me. In this one, you never did. But I like to pretend, for if you did, then maybe it really was a golden year. Iâ€™d find you kneeling next to your bed, arms pre-amputated from a war too far away to be mine. Asleep on the Brooklyn

train with your severed body: you never held me. Uptown: I loved to watch you swallow. Earbuds in so deep you had no ears at all. I watched as song trickled into your body: cough syrup, bagged water. Song— how we use it again and again to color the pavement familiar. You colored it brushfire, so bright and heavy your girl’s monochrome coat began to exist again in splotchy red. And you watched me, I tell myself— though I was really just watching myself—color it pastel pink, the same soft shade of his room, the same pigment of skin—tired, untouched, turned inside out and stretched over a water hose like a limp sock. Does the windmill remember the wind that simultaneously ends it and brings it back to life? Mornings, I’d leave your home for the buzz of everything else, knowing the entrance to your home—the frame, the door, the threshold itself—would be amputated when I returned.

A Teenage Fairytale - the sequel We went to a party in West Hollywood because we went to an illusion museum - a place where people take those photos for instagram where it looks like youâ€™re jumping across a giant volcanoâ€™s ass crack and you might fall into the lava while your friend Nina stands on the other side looking at the camera with her mouth open and hands on the sides of her face. But we had initially thought it was a place with some pretty cool trippy stuff, illusions and art, you know? So we asked the two guys at the front desk what this place was all about and they told us all of that, and the conversation kept going in that not-in-any-particular-way that they do when no one cares to stop talking, and we found out that Cammie has a matching soulmates tattoo on his finger with his boyfriend, and tomorrow night, Jack and his girlfriend Em who works down the

street from the illusion museum are gonna have a party at their apartment not far from here. They’re moving to higher latitude on the American Map, safety-scissor cut half sheet filled in with 2B pencils and the classroom window open years and years ago, and little do they know now but Jack is going to start a velvety grunge band there. On Sunday night, we Uber from an evening walking around Santa Monica to Jack’s apartment and ring the bell twice to get into the building, though we could already see rainbow lights and a bong on one of the balconies, some people wavering between the sliding glass doors. The hallway was so bright, so bright white and then their room, Jack at the doorway greeting us with big I’m So Glad You’re Here Hugs, Thanks Guys for Coming!!, and I met Em who is so lovely and her big sister who loves her dearly. We talk to

some guys who moved here to LA to make music or sing or act, and It’s So Fake Here, they say, You Don’t Have To Come Here To Make Your Dreams Come True. They sing for us, Jack plays some guitar, and a disposable camera is passed around, and we crowd around the couch to all take a picture before Jack and Em Move To A New State. At one point I think they do ket or some shrooms, and we leave the party giggling and pacing up and down the street, like Can You Believe We Actually Went To A Stranger’s Going Away Party That Was - and by the end of the weekend, we are back at the Koreatown BCD Tofu House

that we went to on the first night, exhausted from wading the fairgrounds, Dodger Stadium that was someone else’s dream tonight, for something to fill our ears, maybe the stomach, and when he said, “Xiao Mei,” as our waiter put down a stone pot in front of one of us, “Wo Hui Xiang Ni,”I couldn’t understand it the first few times he said it until I finally realized Ohhh, You’re Speaking In Chinese (we both have shitty American accents with Chinese) and we ate, words like steam and the sticky flair of a summer night in Los Angeles.

MARGOâ€™S SUMMER PLAYLIST REBORN - KIDS SEE GHOSTS OPERA HOUSE - CIGARETTES AFTER SEX TRUTH - KAMASI WASHINGTON CONTINUE? - CHON SEX MONEY FEELINGS DIE - LYKKE LI PERFECT PLACES - LORDE BACK ON ME - ELECTRIC GUEST WAY TO GO - EMPIRE OF THE SUN TO KELLY LEE - THE SPEED OF SOUND IN SEAWATER NIGHTCALL - KAVINSKY, LOVEFOXXX PARTY NIGHTS - STRAWBERRY GIRLS, ANDRES SPRING FORWARD - HIKES WEEKEND - LAST DINOSAURS

MAYâ€™S SUMMER PLAYLIST LOVER IS A DAY - CUCO BROKEN CLOCKS - SZA FUCKING YOUNG / PERFECT - TYLER, THE CREATOR SUMMER - BROCKHAMPTON RIVER - UMI BIKING - FRANK OCEAN WASTE - BROCKHAMPTON AMOR DE SIEMPRE - CUCO NICE TO SEE YOU - VANSIRE, FLOOR CRY THE MEMORY JUNKIE - CLUB KURU

roll the credits cover - may x phone transcript - may x & margo z ;) summer in November title page - margo z a teenage fairytale - may x a teenage fairytale bg - bojack horseman spaceship - margo z dream visual - margo z memory i keep misremembering - margo z beginning of summer title page - margo z some places to visit - may x mountain playground - may x anthem - may x comic - may x 4th of july title page - margo z lana del rey poem - megan falley sand dunes and snowscapes - margo z time freeze // dollar store aisle - may x theory of worth - margo z theory of worth bg - wong kar wai joji photoshops - margo z end of summer title page - margo z

& may x maysw iao @ orld.o nline

rgaret @ catch ma ang.com tzh margare

postmodernism - margo z moon blueprint - margo z bridge visual - margo z orlando art museum - may x & artists amputation visual & poem - margo z a teenage fairytale sequel - may x a teenage fairytale sequel bg - bojack horseman playlist header visuals - red strings club photo - natalie barch back cover - may x

<3 <3 <3