The Things I Wish I Could Tell You


Every time Pride rolls around, there are a lot of things that I wish I could tell you. It doesn’t matter if you’re a stranger on the street or a family member, I wish I could tell you all about how I’m one of the happy, fully formed gays. I wish I could tell you how good it feels to be bi and non-binary and all the words along the rainbow that I am. I want to sell you the idea that each year I feel more me. I want you to believe, as much as I want me to believe, that each year is growth and that my life is like a Pride commercial – all rainbows and upbeat indie jams.

I wish I could tell you that I love my queerness all the time. I wish I could say it doesn’t hurt so bad that I don’t want it sometimes. I wish I could be brave like I was as a boy with scraped knees, pretending nothing happened. I wish I could tell you that it doesn’t scare me. I wish I could tell you that I’m not so afraid sometimes that I forget who I am and what the image of me means to people I love. I want you to believe that I’ve conquered my queerness, that I’m not repressed. I want you to see me free of shackles, living vibrant and fabulous everyday. I don’t want you to know how many pieces of women’s clothes I’ve bought only to not wear because the fear hangs heavier than the fabric. I don’t want you to know how hard it is to rep and how weak I feel when I finally do it.

I wish I could tell you I was a committal queer, one of the fierce ones that’s better than their fears. I wish I could be as flamboyant as Liberace so at least I wouldn’t get side-eyed by both sides. I wish I could tell you that my whole existence was set and strong as the stones of a fortress and not fluid and wild as a river. I wish I could tell you what I am, was, and will be in simple words. In the darkest moments, I wish I could tell you it was all a phase and that every man in my bed was a happy accident.

I wish I could say the sunny things young queers could use to hear. I wish I could tell you that there were no nights where I cried, no nights where I wished it away, no nights where I looked at the thin lines of myself in a dark mirror and wondered who was there.

I wish that I could say I picked up all the beautiful things in femininity and left behind the toxic masculinity, that I’m the clean figure of androgyny. I wish I could tell you that no bad things come out the closet door when you open it. I wish I could tell you that all the pictures of gayness won’t make you feel fat when you’re skinny, ugly when you’re beautiful, scared when you’re safe. I wish so much that I could tell you how we leave every single hang up behind us when we step out of the closet.

I wish that I could tell you that I don’t understand why people like me die early, suicide or otherwise. I wish I could tell you that the thought of suicide has never crossed my mind. I wish I could tell you that thought of suicide hasn’t stopped in my mind, laid down roots, built a home, and spoken to me like a neighbor. I wish that I loved myself enough to never want dissolve in the middle of the dark night, molecules reassembled into a different, happier person. I wish I could tell you about the nights where I wish I had disappeared and the mornings where I was so happy that I was still here.

I wish I could tell you that gayness is easy. Hell, I wish I could tell you that it’s hard, but in some beautiful, self-sacrificial way that you could respect – that makes your kids and their kids and their kids fear it less.

What I can tell you is it’s hard in an ugly, real way. It’s hard in the way crying over something at night, by yourself is. It’s hard in the small, consistent ways that age your skin and organs. It’s hard in the boring, bitchy way that most adult things are. It’s hard like taxes, hard like career changes, hard like job applications, hard like sitting in line for food stamps, hard like holding shit together, hard like getting extra shit thrown into your lap that you have to deal with no matter how much other shit is already there. It’s not hard in a pretty, glitter-coated way. It’s not chasing a rainbow, at least not for me.

What I can tell you is that I’m not the loud, beautiful, strong queer you want me to be. I never was and I never will be. I wake up with not half the strength to fight like an icon or carry myself like a martyr. I wake up with just enough to drag myself through the hot June sun long enough that I can get my day done. I don’t wake up with enough to tackle all my thoughts. I wake up with enough to tackle about half of them in the dark before I go to bed and let the rest run wild in my dreams. I don’t wake up with enough to tackle the worlds problems, I wake up with enough to think about one issue and write about it in a few months.

What I can tell you is that all this struggle is what pride is for me. I can tell you that pride isn’t a parade, it’s a riot. Internally, externally, it’s one continuous struggle that you hope to get better at. It’s a battle that you can’t always win but you can lose at any point. I can tell you that it’s not pride for the queerness your given, it’s pride for the living with it. I can tell you I’m not proud of being bi or non-binary or anything else I had no role in picking. I’m proud of how I find peace and fulfillment within it when there’s cultural war all around it. I’m proud for thinking about suicide and choosing to stay alive. I can tell you that I don’t have enough to make that kind of pride shine like a pageant in summer, but I do have enough to keep it alive.

~Austin R Ryan

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Lonely Men, Lonely Women


There are more people on Earth than ever before, so it’s natural that there are more lonely people on Earth than ever before.

It’s really an impossible statement to make, whether people are more or less lonely than in the past. Still, there’s a lot of talk about it because people like impossible statements. The world will end in 2012. I am the second coming of Christ. I am the Messiah. I’m just gonna have a few chips and then I’m gonna put the bag back in the pantry. Impossible statements like these are fun to make, and really give life a shake.

I’d like to give life a shake and make a few impossible statements about loneliness and gender. Cutting to the core, I’m going to tell you gendered behavior makes it so men have more of one type of friend and one type of loneliness and women have more of the other. I’m going to make an earnest request that all people should have both types of friends and minimize both types of loneliness.

Before all that, I’ve picked some cherries for you that demonstrate that there’s a narrative about loneliness that I’m building off of. Over nine million British adults are always or often lonely. 35 percent of (presumably British) men feel lonely at least once a week. The British have appointed a minister for loneliness to square the whole thing out, which seems terribly British of them.

Cigna, one of the feared giants of the American health insurance landscape, tell us Americans can also feel lonely. Nearly 50 percent of the Americans they surveyed sometimes or always feel lonely. We Americans are lonely too, but we aren’t going to appoint a minister to deal with it. We’re going to settle it like individuals and sabotage one another until we have to respond to each other with one to several thousand radical acts of violence.

There are, if you are one of those odd people that comprehends faces better than numbers, plenty of articles that take snapshots of the lonely person, giving them the voyeuristic respect adults give zoo animals. The focus of these articles often turn to friends, in particular, the adult male friendship. Many adult men struggle to find real, deep, meaningful friendships that will last a long time or can be picked up after long droughts.

This is a surprise to me because this is a problem I don’t have.

It may seem like I’m bragging – that’s because I am. I understand bragging isn’t a pretty thing to do, but I’ll celebrate my victories so life doesn’t feel like it’s all defeats. Plus, I’m not bragging just to brag, I’m bragging to talk about how important deep friendships are and how we build them.

In fact, last week I was sustained by deep friendships. Creatively, I was stymied all week. I spent the week fearing writing much more than actually writing. When you’re working part-time and taking on less money with the deliberate goal to write, this feels like a solid failure – because it is a solid failure. During the week, three different long-lasting friendships from different points of life pushed me out of feeling like a waste of space.

A college friend got me working on a podcast, and editing it actively gave me a creative, productive break from main projects. A childhood friend and I shared jokes and exchanged music and art we found. I got a keyboard to monkey around on and he gave me helpful advice on how to get started with a new instrument. I got the basis for this whole damn article by spending five hours talking with a friend I’ve had since ninth grade.

Without friends, I don’t know if I would’ve done a damn thing with the week and I can’t imagine the emotional lows I would’ve reached. It wasn’t like this week was an outlier or exception, either. I’ve had depressive episodes. I came into the stressful world of bisexuality rough and rollicked. I tumbled through queerness while working emotionally draining jobs and living off of small paychecks. I’ve gotten the shit beat out of me by adulthood. Plenty of people can live through this, but if I didn’t have a cast of close friends, I don’t think I would’ve.

So, celebrating the success that’s kept me kicking, I’ve been digging into this “friendship” business. To truly dig at the ideas, you’ve gotta start with the words.

What is lonely? What is friend?

 

Lonely is a lot of things to a lot of people, but it isn’t being alone. Being alone could even be “alone time,” which is a good thing in this culture where the word “introvert” is used as a cudgel to beat things to death.

Merriam-webster calls loneliness, “being without company” or “cut off from others.” That is generally accurate but not deeply accurate.

Lonely is, deeply speaking, feeling a want for call-and-response but feeling the call part won’t work. Maybe the call will echo into a void and disappear. Maybe there isn’t enough mental strength to make a call in the first place. Maybe there is so much mental movement that any call made would feel strange, desperate, totally alien to the flesh-things that cohabitate your space and all responses would be negative. Lonely is reaching out and not touching anything. It’s fucking terrifying. It’s a thing you can feel lightly or heavily, with a part of yourself or with your whole self.

Friend is a general thing. For most people, it is a wide, messy word that hides an even wider, messier spectrum. There are many different kinds of friends and there’s been a lot of ink spilled on defining the kinds and labeling the parts that put them at their point on the friend spectrum. Even the ends of the friend spectrum vary. For some, one end is “close” and the other is “distant.” For others, the ends are “deep” and “shallow” or “everyday” and “infrequent” or “supportive” and “challenging.”

Friend is so deep a thing that you can drown in it. So, here is what’s at the surface of it for me:

Inside the immense pool of friend, I see two clear distinctions in buds and besties. You may have fished more distinctions out of the pool of friend – I have too. I don’t doubt they’re there and as real as the ones I’ve found. Right now, it’s best to keep things honed to a binary, since we Americans have great trouble thinking outside of one.

Anyways, buds are people I meet for activities, clubs, careers, and interests. Buds are bound together through actions of some sort – games, sports, faith, yelling. Like with friends, buds can be good or best or close or whatever else. Buds can be run into or invited in. Buds can light up your room and your night and can mean a lot. Buds can become besties or stay buds, as besties can become buds or stay besties. A friend could be both at once. All things in life are fluid until proven otherwise.

Besties, on the other hand, come together over feelings. Besties bond over talks that stir up from wells of emotion. Besties hash out things like identity, sexuality, romance, politics, religion, and much more. Besties can have boundaries and don’t need to rip their souls out and share them at every interaction, but what’s important is that they can usually do this with each other on the drop of a dime. If one bestie is really struggling, they can expect to call out to another and get a response – maybe not immediately, but somewhat soon.

Now we’ve circled back to lonely. See, buds are great but they won’t stop lonely. Buds can’t be guaranteed to respond to a call because the call is an action and they might not feel like playing a game, or going running, or hopping in bed with you (there are fuck buddies, but a fuck bestie is just a significant other). Besties can respond to that call. Friends that you might not have talked to in months could still qualify as besties, and friends you see every week could be buds. I have both.

There are besties I have brought deep shit to after months, maybe even a year of silence, and they take it in stride. There have been other times I’ve done that and not gotten a response, letting me know that person may not be a bestie anymore. That’s not a bad thing, and not even on them as much as it could be on me, it just is what it is. There are buds I’ve bonded past action with and become besties with, too.

“But bro,” a loud, perpetually flexing voice in my head says, “why’d you have to use a girly mouth sound like bestie? Why not a strong, masculine term like Punch Brethren?” Because everything is gendered, including loneliness.

Men have buds. Women have besties.

 

I was raised by a wild pack of women, and also my dad. I learned a lot from both parties.

In education and development, there’s a simple idea called modeling. Your actions set a model for children, which the child then builds a version of for themselves. I model how to say a word, the child builds the word along that model. My sisters model how to build a friendship, I build a friendship along that model.

I grew up with both the masculine and feminine models – the bud and bestie – put right in front of me. Without thinking, I’ve modeled both and it’s been why my social life has stayed solid. Growing up, I felt no shame calling up a bestie or getting called by one just to talk. This idea of talking just to talk gets coded feminine for whatever reason. It ‘s an idea at the core of being a bestie because, through course of long conversation, deep feelings will be broached.

In my house, I regularly saw these kinds of long conversations. My sisters had them over the phone with friends and in-person with each other, and my mom had them with her own friends and coworkers. I am lucky that I consider all of my sisters besties. I’m both lucky and unlucky that they weren’t the type to let me disengage totally from the feminine as a young boy would like to. I was unlucky in that they did terrible things to my hair. I was lucky in that I learned valuable lessons about friendship. The end result was that I came away not feeling so uncomfortable with feelings that I couldn’t express them to friends and get those besties.

Here is where I don’t undersell my dad and masculinity. There is toxicity to masculinity, but one thing it gets right is community through hobby. I saw my dad move through several communities centered around sports, religion, yelling, and more. This was hugely important to me. I have valued memories of watching the Pacers and of chanting at the Gohonzon in a community center full of old Japanese people. Both of these things carried into my adult life and formed up parts of my identity. I’m not a Buddhist, but it’s still the basis of a lot of my morality; I’m still a Pacers fan, and it’s also the basis of a lot of my morality. My dad had a lot of buds, which helped me learn how to make them myself and find new corners of the world to squirrel into.

Let me try and dodge some hot water here and say that these gendered dynamics aren’t set in stone. They can reverse and change, and they do. They also do not mean that men couldn’t do something emotionally available like social work and women couldn’t do something like lead communities. Men and women do both things, yet, search your culture and ask yourself, which gender gets stereotyped as community leaders and which gender gets stereotyped as community supporters?

The gentleman lonely and the lady lonely

 

The fact that men and women have these gendered differences in how friendships form also means that they have differences in how they feel lonely. Men tend to have more buds and women tend to have more besties. The terrible truth is, you need both. It takes a village to raise an adult… or something like that.

I’ve given besties a lot of props, so now I have to tear them down. Besties are great, and while I do think they’re better for deep loneliness than buds, they aren’t always what a person needs. There will be times where you might not realize you’re lonely, or where a bestie can’t be called on, or where a distracting, fun activity is better for loneliness than a deep talk. This is where buds come in.

That board game night, that video game session, that dungeons and dragons group are all things where socialization happens but, pleasantly, it isn’t about anybody. It’s about the activity and so it’s about everybody. This can be super socially cohesive. Anthropologists study games at length and discuss them plenty because of that social weight they carry. Think about every human you know. Getting even five of those fuckers to come into a room and not think primarily about themselves for hours at a time is an actual accomplishment. Actions and activities do that. Buds do that.

There is so much more to be said for buds beyond that. Buds surprise you, showing sudden depth or skill or virtue through a game or activity. Buds don’t need you to be emotionally available like besties. Buds let you express things totally unattached to emotions, feelings, and maybe even the core of yourself, letting you blossom into all sorts of wild nonsense. These kinds of circles can, despite often being deliberately less deep, be fertile ground for growing an entirely new part of an identity.

So, the lady lonely often comes from lacking this. I’ve known it to happen to friends and family and I’ve seen it in discourse. If you’ve been on Tumblr, there are a lot of posts defending what are essentially bud building zones for women. Posts step up to defend fandoms, fanart, K pop, Harry Potter, and traditionally feminine things like makeup or biddy-hoards at bars (yes, I know bro-hoards exist and are just as obnoxious). This is women pushing for spaces where they can have buds, and that’s important because a lot of traditional bud-zones are masculine. Sports, comics, video games, and so on are all coded masculine and women have written at length about their troubles earning respect in these spaces.

It’s really gonna put a damper on your quest for a bud if you’re constantly fighting for equality and respect while inside the bud-zone. Your buds might involuntarily become besties through that because difficult conversations are forced, and you’re actually a little bit disappointed because a bud would’ve been nice. Being bisexual, I partially understand the feeling.

Women often have those important besties that keep them afloat but they don’t as often have simple communities to access where they can get some hassle-free buds. Studies won’t indicate women as lonely as often as they will men, but I do think a lady lonely exists. I’ve seen women in my life have to look and work harder for hobbies and to get buds. My sisters would often wonder why sometimes my friends and I could just sit and play the same or different video games near each other, rarely talking, not having been taught the bud dynamic.

I’ve also seen women I know lose friends more quickly because the bestie dynamic can be more fragile and prone to explosion than the bud dynamic. If someone stops coming to trivia, you may miss them but you probably won’t blow up on them. If someone violates your trust by revealing a deep thing you told them, or by taking that deep anxiety you revealed and crapping all over it, or by putting too much emotional stress on you, then there may be an explosion.

There are so many jokes of two women being furious at each other and petty for years and two men reconciling immediately. In my eyes, some of this comes from that dynamic where women are raised expecting besties and men are raised expecting buds. It’s not that big a deal if a bud is frustrating, but it can be a really big deal if a bestie is. I think there’s an expectation for women to be vulnerable and emotionally available all the time, and that’s bad for breeding buds, and out and out bad in general.

Men have the exact reverse expectation, expected to be invulnerable and emotionally controlled most of the time – bad for breeding besties and out and out bad in general.

The gentleman lonely may be less wide, but it is deeper. I don’t think men are as fenced in by their loneliness, being able to reach out and to find social clubs and communities and not worrying much about drama or problems in them. Yet, the problem for a lot of men is this is a shallow pool. How would your pool partner, your dungeon master, or your basketball buddies feel at you opening up about money problems? Or about depression? Or about how so many dreams feature the same the gnarled, bone-white figure approaching you and how each dream, it gets closer and closer, and how you are at once so afraid and so excited for it to reach you; for it to undo what it has come to undo and leave you in peace; for even if it undoes you by your every fiber, there must be peace in the undoing; there must be a peace that you don’t have now and will never have while you wait for it to reach you.

The deeper stuff might be off-limits, or it might not be, but it’s not comfortable enough to everyone involved to feel worth expressing. It’s more fun to just drink and play pool. Growing up, I was taught that emotions, anxieties, and the Pale Walker Named Dread were all things you talked about. A lot of men don’t have that same experience and can have trouble creating relationships that go to that deeper level.

We talk about the gentleman lonely more because we see it as more dangerous. To lay out as flat as possible, the lonely, nervous man is the potential shooter – in America, anyways. The world over, they’re still potential perpetrators of other crimes or violence. I don’t think people view the lonely woman in the same light. Instead, people see her as a potential victim, probably of the potential crime the lonely man would do. They also might see her as undesirable, or in some way deficient.

A lot of this, on either side, isn’t real. Lonely people are much more depressed and self-destructive than dangerous or undeserving. It’s all too easy to write off lonely people as deserving of it and unfit to socialize. Men feel this pressure intensely since they’re identified as dangers, not in danger. The gentleman lonely can dig at the roots of the self, tearing at identity and confidence, putting lonely men in a downward spiral where anxiety ramps up, confidence collapses, and socializing becomes harder.

I’ve fallen into this spiral before. Whenever I socialized I felt like shit, like I wasn’t totally me, and like it was a wonder why anyone hung out with me at all. I could openly tell friends about this struggle, and hearing that they had my back, that I was still who I thought I was, helped me pull out of the spiral. It’s not so hard to confide in a bestie, but it is tough to walk up to a bud and say, “I had the dream again. This time the Pale Walker Named Dread was so close that I could see the lines tracing its face like rivers cutting gorges into valleys.” My buds can draw me away from these thoughts for a bit, or remind me of my social value, but only my besties really bring me out of them.

A lot of men need a significant other to be the bestie, which is part of why men freak out so damn much about the idea of not having one. It’s part of why incels exist. When someone says and does things as embarrassing as incels do, it’s out of no small desperation and a pretty small sense of self. I’d put money down on the fact that plenty of incels have a few buddies, but besties are rarer. The language, the training, the modeling, all of it isn’t there for plenty of men and so the deeper things remain hidden. The gentleman lonely can be a steady force saddled right on the shoulders wearing downward, pushing and pushing towards the dirt. For men, loneliness is a deep well that they can fall into. They can pull themselves out with distractions but they could fall back into the well the very next day.

Non-binary finale

 

We’ve looked at lady lonely, looked at gentleman lonely, so what about non-binary lonely? I’m fairly genderqueer. I’ve been diagnosed by a licensed psychiatrist with gender dysphoria. I’ve known and spoken with plenty of transgender and genderqueer people. I’ve messed with my pronouns in the right environments. I rarely talk about this because I’m a teacher and I want to appear as an upstanding young man, and because I feel reluctant to claim a lot of identities when it seems like no one is having any fun with any of them. Gender is not the cross I’ll die on, if I can help it, but I’d be remiss not to hit on the non-binary element when it’s important.

I don’t think the uterus or balls push someone as hard in the direction of bud or bestie as upbringing, societal expectations, and pure personality do. If you’re a fanatic for wider communities and for hobbies and doing things in groups, then I bet you’ll get a lot of buds. If you’re all about long, deep conversations for the sake of it, then likely you’ll get besties. In my experience of the non-binary world, it varies based on personality first, gender identity second.

Gay or lesbian people will have more buds or besties based on preference too. I think being LGBT+ pushes a person towards besties since besties better help you survive against the heavy emotional damage that can come from queerness. That said, in adulthood, there is so much community in the LGBT+ world that a person can reorient towards buds.

I favor the middle, walking the surprisingly large line of androgyny in between, and lean lightly towards getting besties. Given the weird, often depressing interplay between creativity and queerness, I need besties more. If I didn’t have so much to hash out, I think I’d be much closer to the middle because they scratch different itches.

When you get a bunch of comfortable buds around, beautifully absurd things happen. Grown folk pretend to be dwarves, elves, gnomes, and orcs. People scream so loud for the tall man to dunk the dark orange ball through the bright orange rim. Friends get hot around the ears over plastic pieces on wooden boards, betraying and allying with one another. The world is at its weirdest and most mystifying when you’ve got a bunch of upright, linguistic simians in a room spitting threats and alliances at each other over a set of dice or a bowl of chips.

Yet, once the dust settles around an event, it’s lost to me. The conversations about life with my best friends stay with me for weeks or me, pulling me up as dark thoughts drag me down. To me, it becomes a balance. I need both for different things and if I were allowed to, I’d seek a complete equilibrium. I think most people, given the tools, stripped away of the coding, stripped away of the shame, would seek something close to an equilibrium.

Yes, there are some people who naturally make buds, not besties, and vice-versa. I’ve met both types. Still, there are more I’ve met that are much closer to the middle, wanting to have both much more than they show.

Right now, we’re hashing out the toxicity inside gender identities that have rapidly become too absurd to ignore. Gendered behaviors are at once so far removed from the environments that (maybe) provoked them and so intensely reinforced by marketing messages wanting to sell shades that are pinker than pink and bluer than blue, that they’re past the boiling point and mostly steam by now. Because of that, I see a lot more tendencies to tear down than to celebrate – as much in myself as in others. It can be healthy to tear down, but if you’re not careful, you lose some things you may need later.

If there’s something I’d celebrate from my masculinity, it’s bringing people together to do something with the day. Fuck it, let’s let Monday’s problems sit inside Monday and let’s spend Sunday screaming at people we don’t know, who also can’t hear us. Let’s bond, let’s surprise each other, let’s build on each other.

If there’s something I’d celebrate from my femininity, it’s being there for someone on their worst day, talking over the hardest parts of the world with them. Hell yeah, let’s talk about how wild a ride life is and maybe cry a bit while we’re at it. Let’s see what feelings look like on the faces of other people, let’s feel what they do to our own faces, let’s build each other up.

If there’s something I’d argue, it’s that these don’t need to be separated. You don’t have to pick one and you never had to. In fact, it’s probably better you didn’t. Redefining gender shouldn’t be loss alone, it should also be gain. Men aren’t from Mars, women aren’t from Venus, we’re all earthlings similarly awful at cohabitation. We might as well start learning from each other and, who knows? Maybe we’ll get better at living with each other too.

~Austin R Ryan

February Reads


My March just got a little bit busy and my mind got a little flighty but I didn’t forget the reads posts. Here’s all I’ve done for February 2018. I’m gonna put up the March Reads a little after this and try to be more on top of things come April.

Khruangbin brings the mellow funk with “Con Todo El Mundo”

I reviewed Khruangbin’s newest album. Khruangbin is a band like you’ve never heard that makes a unique sound using elements from things you’ve probably heard, like funk and 60’s psychedelic music. Their new album, “Con Todo El Mundo”, has a nice blend of mellow and funky but falters when it mellows out too much.

Rhye masters a smooth and sensual style with “Blood”

Rhye’s new album “Blood” is long-awaited and masterfully crafted. It’s emotive, sensual, and interesting throughout mostly due to very smart compositions that build in fluid and complex ways. The album lulls too much at times but mostly sticks to its strengths well.

AWOLNATION hits and misses with “Here Come the Runts”

A rare negative review of mine. AWOLNATION is a pretty bipolar band in general for me and this album was no different. There were tracks I really enjoyed and felt had a White Stripes or The Hives-esque energy to them – fun, short, and driven by a distinct lead rhythm. Yet, more tracks than not were mediocre and phoned-in.

With “Little Dark Age” MGMT makes an album where every song fits

Reviewing “Little Dark Age” was like taking a trip through a distorted version of 80’s pop. Thing is, parts of 80’s pop aren’t that great and MGMT takes those on as well. “Little Dark Age” has the underwhelming ballads of the 80’s as well as its super fun synth melodies. Overall, it’s a super consistent and fun album with a few standout songs.

London brings together its best young jazz bands in “We Out Here”

One of the better compilation albums I’ve heard, “We Out Here” captures the sounds of many of London’s best young jazz bands. The bands all made unique songs for the album so there’s a pleasant cohesion to the album that compilations usually lack. The album blends together very well and because of the distinct sounds each band has it’s an album that stays remarkably fresh.

BoA shows she still has her K-Pop chops with “One Shot, Two Shot”

I reviewed BoA’s new album “One Shot, Two Shot” and felt that it was a very solid k-pop album. It had a few really strong songs and pretty much no bad ones though it didn’t necessarily wow me as a whole product.

BoA’s new music video has a refreshingly real take on age

I enjoyed BoA’s new music video more than her album. Many k-pop videos focus on youth and making stars look young to a point where it knocks me out of the music. BoA, a 30-year-old musician, acts and looks more her age in her video for “One Shot, Two Shot” and I absolutely loved seeing an older pop star not made to look like she was 18.

“Marbled” is a thoughtful and strong labor of love

“Marbled” was one of my favorite albums I reviewed in 2018. Abhi The Nomad is an indie hip-hop artist with some serious soul and groove, capable of creating great bars that convey some seriously deep sentiment about family, depression, and life in general. While there are times where Abhi gets overly sentimental, the album should get most people moving and thinking.

~Austin R Ryan

December Reads


I’m gonna drop everything I’ve written and publicly published (under my name) in December here! The links are the titles and the titles are the links. Check them out if you like. I’d certainly like it if you did!

Review: Snail’s House’s “Alien☆Pop”

A review of electronic artist Snail House’s EP “Alien☆Pop.” It’s a fun EP that delivers on what you expect from Snail’s House but not much more.

Hyuna (현아) releases a new, surprisingly clever single and music video

A look at the clever subtext of a new video from K-Pop Idol Hyuna, which takes on the somewhat illusory body goals of K-Pop idols.

President Trump wins the latest round in the travel ban fight

A news article on an injunction to allow President Trump’s travel ban to go into effect while the courts decide on it.

The Dear Hunter’s “All Is As All Should Be” rewards fans in the best way

A review of the December The Dear Hunter EP. It’s a great tribute to fans done in a unique way that only a band as creative as The Dear Hunter could have thought of.

Why you should listen to (and watch) Louie Zong: King of the short and sweet

A dive into the animation and music of Louie Zong, a master of short and sweet media with a wonderfully colorful and cute aesthetic.

Grime godfather Wiley drops a new single, “Bar”

A simple and short report and review on Grime legend Wiley’s new track “Bar.”

Democrat Doug Jones pulls off a shocking win in Alabama

A news and analysis article on Doug Jones’s victory over Roy Moore in Alabama that explains why the victory is historic and how it happened.

MGMT makes a beautiful nightmare aesthetic for “When You Die”

An exploration of MGMT’s absolutely gorgeous and haunting music video for their new single “When You Die.”

“Star Wars: The Last Jedi” is enjoyable but not good

A review of “The Last Jedi” that explains in detail the movie’s worldbuilding and plot failings that make it a mediocre film even if it is a fun film to watch.

Thanks for reading! This month was a fun one where I got to explore some of my favorite artists’ works, got to write about some of the best music videos I’ve seen in a while, and wrote my first movie review. Happy 2018.

~Austin R Ryan

November Reads


I’m gonna drop everything I’ve written and publicly published (under my name) in November here! The links are the titles and the titles are the links. Check them out if you like. I’d certainly like it if you did!

Why you should listen to Wang Wen: Mainland China’s premier post-rock 

A deep dive into the music of Wang Wen, one of China’s oldest and most accomplished post-rock bands.

Dan Terminus’s “Automated Refrains” is a step into a new synthwave world

A review of Dan Terminus’s new album Automated Refrains. It’s a synthwave epic that creates its own world and story using lighter tones than is normal for the genre.

“Montage” shows a mix of effort from Block B 

A review of K-Pop act Block B’s new mini-album Montage. Montage is entertaining, fun, and breaks new ground in most spots but it has some disappointingly uncreative slow jams.

Australia votes a strong “yes” in same-sex marriage referendum 

A short news article on Australia’s referendum on gay marriage. In it, I touch on some demographics behind the referendum vote and what it means politically.

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard creates a psych-rock fantasy land in “Polygondwanaland”

A review of King Gizz’s 4th album of 2015, Polygondwanaland. It’s a progressive rock styled epic that knows what it’s doing and nails it.

“Perfect Velvet” is Red Velvet at their most and least interesting 

A review of Red Velvet’s bipolar new album. This album has some of the best girl-group songs in K-Pop, but also some of the staidest and least interesting ones too.

Thanks for reading and sorry for the silence!

~Austin R. Ryan

Instant Ramen


Instant ramen is like the heat that drips up from a fresh cup of coffee or tea. Instant ramen is chicken flavored sodium packets that smell like home. Instant ramen is my most unhealthy healing potion.

When I was really young I got stomach bugs pretty frequently. They may not have come around much more than for a normal kid, but I feel them heavy on my memory like parental hands on my back; I feel them thick like retches over cold toilet seats. When my stomach was a mad sea we’d send it ramen because the square noodle packet was like a full empty: nothing but sodium and noodles all laced up in tame flavors. Things would calm enough and fill enough to not have hunger pains churn under nausea like earthquakes inside storms. Older, nursing hangovers, it was the same deal – but much less dramatic.

As I got older I thought ramen might drop out of my home and head but it kept up with me. About two or three years ago I started getting sleep problems and when I’d stay up until I was too hungry to pass out I’d rip the orange packet half open and eat the noodles like a candy bar. Sitting up at 5 AM grinding dry noodles into paste feels a bit weird and desperate at first but after it works a few times it is all pleasant; it is all pleasant to break up the cool night with the tactile feeling of teeth churning.

The ramen got older too; it grew up with me. When the plainness of it wasn’t enough anymore I’d throw in new spices and learn what I liked on top of the bland noodle base. When noodles and broth stopped filling me up I’d dice up meat and veggies too. It was still a half-assed attempt at a meal – never the best I could make for myself – but it’d keep me running. Sometimes it even felt rejuvenating, breathing the scent in like distant incense, feeling the powder on the tips of fingers like sidewalk chalk, absorbing the odd magic of my ugly instant food. That magic could walk me back through time to when I was feeding friends while parents were out working; to when Dad would drop an egg or a cut up hot dog into the soup so that “it would at least have protein;” to when Mom put ice cubes in the soup so my sisters or I wouldn’t burn our tongues.

Instant ramen was healing in the way returning to home and wholeness is healing. This food has been there nearly as long as I can remember. When adulthood and identity shifts rattle my mind until I feel scattered I drain the noodles and the broth from the bowl and feel like all the fractals and bits of me fit tight together into one whole.

~Austin R Ryan

American Plain Views


I currently live and work in Minneapolis as an educator in an Americorps program and freelance writer. Sometimes it is peculiarly pretty here. It is pretty in a way that’s as much a sensation as a view. These little snippets will hopefully let you in on some of those American plain views.

View Heading Down Penn from Olson:

Olson Memorial Highway pushes out in both directions like big tar rivers and the grey-black backs of big straight serpents swimming into and out of center city. If the light allows, you can ford it all at once and if it doesn’t you are in an island in the middle watching the rust and the shine of cars sprint like metallic fish up and down stream. It is dirt, mud clot, and trash spotted right by Olson but further on past is the Harrison neighborhood where things get cleaner, greener, squarer and on with lawns and their houses. A little black girl cast in bronze statue welcomes you. Here the hills rise and sink slowly as the gentle undulation of a half-urban half-suburban dragon. The way the road stretches, the way there are no trees to block the skies or the hills as they rise, you can see right down Penn as it weaves up and down and up until it is too high to see past; just from seeing how the sky goes and goes and the earth goes and goes you’d guess there wasn’t any end to it. But then, eventually, you’d hit the highways and the interstates.

View From the Back of the 19:

Metro Transit buses have big windows to soothe you that bit they delayed you when they came late. Metro Transit buses are blood capillaries that pump in and out of the downtown heart where folks are moving but not wanting to be seen. Uptown, Northeast, by lakes and by campuses and by dive bars on rise is where people tell me you want to be seen. Metro Transit buses have big windows where these thoughts float out of sight and mind like clouds in the wide sky.

On the good days it feels like a Venice high in the sky. Your four wheeled gondola shared with a smattering of other people goes sailing down the light blue sky; your four wheeled gondola gliding on heaven to get you to the next earthly mess. The 19 – my four wheeled gondola – goes under the dark arches that connect concrete block buildings stretching out over two streets, making Hennepin Medical Center. Sunlight peaks out from the Hospital’s shadow until the 19 plunges fully into the bright light. It weaves up to the long and grassy green lawn in front of the Government Center. That building splits into two dark pillars wrapped together by a glass midsection and pulled tight by heavy black cross-lines so it looks like the corseted back of a boxy, cartoon-ish dominatrix.

After that the 19 comes through downtown where things look new and glassy and the construction turns everything to congestion and tightness. When it pops out into Hennepin it looks like one of those true downtown stretches full of bars and avante-garde buildings twisted up into modernist shapes. When breezes by the stadium, passes the brown and flat Transit Center, and leaks into Olson, it is just apartments and peaks down long and short residential roads.

On the bus a woman – White or Latina – sits and babbles brightly to her child. Another mom – Black – comes on and her toddler rushes up to the other kid and they seem to just stare before the parents direct them away, smiling and managing awkwardly. People come and people go. The driver lets a man know where to get off. The child leaves and the toddler cries for bit. Another mother and her kid – elementary age – comes on and picks up the transparent green binky the toddler dropped. The two mothers talk about the wide blue sky and the hot sun and the children all wrapped up in it; they talk on and past when my stop comes and I go.

~Austin R Ryan

The 5 Up and the 5 Down


I am in a new town so I am on new transit. For job training I have to go to up and up to the north end of Minneapolis so I am riding the 5 up and the 5 down. It is early and chilly and dry here. September is ending and everyone is huddled tight and small into jackets. When I left without one I doubled back so I could slink into it too.

The 5 stop is a few blocks down, on an intersection of two large streets. Where I am couchsurfing there are a lot of Somalian stores just on the near corner, and on the far corner where that street ends there is a hip record store called The Electric Fetus; in between all that there is a Wendy’s. About mid-way through the walk there is an overpass that looks through a rusted iron fence at the Minneapolis skyline. The buildings are tall and wide and glassy, mostly new but for some odd eggs like the Foshay. The sky is very wide and very open. The wide and blue of it is caught and pushed out a second time by the reflective skyscrapers so that looking at the cars all pour seamlessly inward feels like slipping into an undertow. It stops me for a minute and I let myself fall in and get washed around in the noise and the scenery.

It strikes me walking down the sidewalk that everyone here is unfamiliar, but it starts to matter less after each new city. At first it seems strange and indecipherable to be in a new brand of hectic city but after a while the elements bleed together. Nothing is so like Beijing or D.C. but nothing is so unlike them either. That feels very refreshing to me – akin to relapsing into a Jones soda or catching up with a friend from a while ago; familiar and unfamiliar. It scares me to imagine rural living because I don’t even have a frame of reference – wholly unfamiliar.

There are only a few people waiting at the same 5 stop as I am and even fewer that I can remember the look and bearing of. It takes a little while for the bus to get there, but it does and the man in front lets me know, friendly and folksy, where to swipe the bus pass I am borrowing. I am not feeling fine and out enough to reflect that energy well.

The first leg of the trip is through the city proper, us going underneath big buildings and near large malls. People really come and go around here. Once we clear into the north that’s when people quit their coming and going for settling and sitting. North Minneapolis has its troubles from what I am told and I believe all that, but in the daytime it does not matter so much. Walking to a specific destination down a big street during the day isn’t asking for trouble or anything else. It is odd to me that people feel keenly otherwise – imagining maybe rioting streets or lawless gang rule – but my worries over rural areas are as irrational – imagining horror movie sequences and serial killers. It is just difficult to get a frame of reference – planted wholly in the familiar.

As we get out of downtown and more towards the near north a woman gets on and starts to talk on the phone with some kind of legal counsel. It becomes clear she is prosecuting a case against someone as she reads out a list of charges in a perfectly flat and casual voice. It is hard not to eavesdrop because of how her casual and informal flow grinds against the seriousness of the various charges. After a while, overhearing her just becomes hearing her and it starts to feel zen to listen to the manifold charges wind out calmly – almost in procedure. I feel less worried; that might be a backwards response. I figure you could read her words backwards or forwards but what you should do was not read them at all and let them just be hers. It was already too late for me, and now it is too late for you too.

When I get off the 5 I actually missed my stop by a bit and pulled the wire before we had even reached a cross street. The bus driver stops right away anyways and I get back headed the right way. Coincidentally the right way has a cool look and a load of interesting stores – including what I think was a gas station painted entirely over with this somewhat abstract mural that my mind grasps more for the colors and swirls than the shapes and substance. I think there might be a Wendy’s up here too – in between everything else.

 

On the way back down the bus is at first empty of any other passengers. I am feeling fine and out enough to squeeze a small conversation from quiet bus driver while we figure out if my transit card has enough money on it. A really trendy and smartly dressed young woman comes on and graciously waits for me to sort myself out. For a while there is barely anyone on the bus but as we near downtown, it gets more crowded. A pretty drunk or just bizarrely enthusiastic and loud man swaggers on board and instantly tries to befriend the quiet bus driver. After a minimal interaction he declares success, screaming, “This is my man! This is my brother!” about the bus driver to the rest of the bus. He eventually saunters over to the middle of the bus and his thoughts spill audibly out – about half the full portion of his head tumbling out in accidental volume spikes. When another man comes on and is taking his time to pay at the front, the (presumably) drunk man offers to cover the charge. The whole bus, he declares, is family. The man paying upfront, maybe not feeling like family or too much like family, refuses the drunk man’s help once, then twice, and then sternly. The drunk man returns to his seat but he still holds on to the family point for a bit.

In what feels like just an instant we get downtown and people pour the bus back up to full. A girl who sounds about high school age sitting behind me. A bit later another man comes onto the bus and makes some kind of loud noise for some reason – I had stopped paying attention. I had stopped paying attention at a bad time because the girl behind me says, “damn son!” so loudly and resolutely and naturally that a good chunk of the bus chuckles; a middle aged woman even giggles herself into tears. She laughs and laughs, gearing up so much that a second wind sweeps over me and the rest of the bus and we all laugh and chuckle and smile again.

“Oh thank you.” She says to the girl, “I needed that.” Afterwards the laughing woman reassures the man too, “we are laughing with you not at you.” Being a good sport about the whole thing, he agrees that it was pretty funny. I still don’t know if it was pretty funny, or if it was even a comedy at all, but it might have been better that way.

A few stops down the line another girl who knew the first one comes in and they both settle quickly into a conversation. The one tells the other how she got the bus to laugh – seeming as surprised by the whole thing as I was – and the other tells the one how she just got done with a fight.

“Well, you look pretty good for just getting out of a fight.”

“Yeah she didn’t even have time to hit me.”

It all feels very nonchalant, but energetic and excited at the brims and edges.

They both sound pretty young, but I don’t really know how young they are. They go on for a bit back and forth about how some neighborhood folk gave the second girl’s pregnant sister some trouble. The first girl notes how that should be out of line while an old woman in a pink overcoat, with thick black sunglasses sits down next to me. She smells faintly like cigarettes in a surprisingly pleasant way and we both make eye contact and smile at each other for a moment. This woman is the stereotypical picture of the urban old woman – covered in fuzzy pink, clutching a cane and a plastic bag, big hat and big glasses that leave only her little grin showing – but I don’t really know how old she is.

Not long after that the drunk man stumbles off the bus angered and with others around him encouraging him to get gone. In a little bit I’ll leave too and so I get up and stand by the exit door. A man gives me a hello so warm that you’d think we knew each other. He thinks we do; he asks if we had talked to each other earlier and I say no, because we haven’t. When we get off he wraps an arm around my shoulders and tells me that he’s a homeless vet named Lorenzo and ask for three dollars for a bite to eat and I say I used up the last of my cash on the bus fare, because I had. His lips knit into a tight and small frown and his arm falls limply off of me. I apologize and wish him good luck before slipping off, away from the bus stop.

Public transit can be one of the most interesting sights in a city but also one of the most dull. The lottery of it is as much part of the city character as anything. Flitting moments of realities far outside of all my self-obsession drift into orbit for a second. It draws me out like a spectacle but it isn’t one. The moments are not mine and so I don’t have to chase them down for completion or explanation or plainly owe them or have them owe me anything at all. The moments apply like a texture on top of the smooth, simple, scheduled rhythm of city transit and blend in with the other sensory memories on top of other buses and subways and characters of other cities until it is all this familiar and unfamiliar thing I feel like I’ve seen and never seen.

Malka


Malka is Hebrew for queen – some people know that. What most don’t know is that Malka is the best name for fat tabby cats. This is not just because most fat tabby cats look like they have fine black crowns on the top of their heads. In the mind of a fat tabby cat, she is and has always been a great grey queen with a domain of human subjects grateful to witness her royal mouse hunts; so that fat tabby cat is as much a queen as Elizabeth, Victoria, and Golda (Meir, of course).

This is the story of two fat tabby queens and the kitty kingdoms they had. Malka the first, Malka 1, just plain Malka did not accept many of the subjects that came and went through her country. The original empress, she ruled over a small domain – an apartment in Chicago not far from the lake – with just two old folks named Carol and Sheldon as true subjects. During many Hanukkahs and many Passovers all sorts of other big, furless cats would come and go but she did not know or trust them. They would get no dead mice and no affectionate purrs from her. Many of them truly did not deserve it; young and greedy, they grabbed at her with hungry palms that pulled and tugged; she – a proper Malka – deserved nothing less than the best and softest pets and she would come claim them at her own leisure!

Though Malka I was not always a kind queen, she sometimes showed a softer side. Yes, she scratched and she bit and all the vagabonds and trespassers knew to fear her claws; yes, she hissed and howled at clumsy but friendly hands too; but when a child cried on her couches and bedsides she would retract her razors and paw them condolences. Malka I was a strong and mean ruler but she was soft and kind especially to her closest subjects. When she went she was mourned deeply and she left her subjects with a fat tabby cat shaped hole in their hearts.

However a proper queen always has a lineage. Not so long later, another tabby cat – young and without a kingdom – was busy stepping across a dark road. Many other nights she had darted across street and field, deftly dodging coyotes and cars, hawks and Hondas, but this night was different. Small and agile, a natural hunter, she leaped and bounded across that dark road again, but got struck by a passing car and dropped one life of nine. Left along on the road she mewed and cried until some strange set of hands carried her off to a vet before the other eight could slip away. The vet labored on this tabby – hardly even a cat yet – until by the end of the night it was stitched up and saved. However, it was still homeless. The fine folk that saved her could not keep her and instead of a kingdom she found a cage.

Shaved and small, set in a kennel full of bigger cats, she was a queen with no kingdom, an empress in exile. Little did she know, Malka I had come as a spirit to find another tabby cat to grow fat and continue her line. Malka I found the little tabby and told her to keep her shaved side hidden against the kennel wall and mew sweetly for the next old lady that came in. Sure enough, the next visitor to her cage was an old woman named Carol, who had a fat tabby cat shaped hole in her heart.

When the handlers took the kitten to Carol, the kitten she was skeptical at first. Who was this human? Could she be trusted? She shied away but Carol, even seeing her shaved side with all its scars, knew another Malka when she saw one. Carol sat for a while and talked with the little tabby.

“You look so pretty!” She said to give the queen compliment.

“It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.” She said, and kept her distance to give the queen respect.

“We’ll feed you and you’ll have a great big place where you can chase birds and mice.” She said to give the queen a true kingdom.

This little tabby kitten decided to step over and let Carol carefully lift her up and cradle her in palanquin arms. At that moment they both knew she was not just a Malka, but Malka II, Malka the second, Malka two. Carol brought the cat back to Sheldon, who smiled and said,
“Gee well, couldn’t you have got a healthy one?”

All the same they came to love the new Malka. Her fur grew in again, just as lush and beautiful as before she was hurt and before long she was a cat with a kingdom of wetlands out in the country, complete with birdbaths to stalk and gardens to weave through. Malka II had surpassed her predecessor; she had more not just in land, but in kind subjects too. By now the once young subjects had grown and learned how to keep their fingers from tugging and their palms from pulling so Malka II was generous with her affection and let many who came into her kingdom pet her. Perhaps Malka II became kind through being grateful. Her fortunes had turned sharply as she went overnight from losing a life to gaining a kingdom. Whatever the cause was, Malka II became even more beloved and bequeathed than her namesake and in no time at all she had filled fat tabby cat shaped holes in hearts that didn’t even know they had one.

~Austin R Ryan

Mulberries


The walk to the nearest grocery store is about 20 minutes in whatever weather Changzhou has for me – usually rain and wind. I call this local Tesco the fish market and if you went in I think it would be clear why. All along the way up to Tesco there’re a lot of things happening but in Tesco there’s even more going on. There are two floors to it, the first having clothes and shampoos and anything else you shouldn’t eat if you can’t help it. My little fish market isn’t so packed on the first floor but ‘packed’ is relative even past the normal standards for most adjectives and it’d be too crowded for a lot of folks I know back home. Up top where the food is it gets truly hot and hectic.

A kind of low-sloped escalator walkway leads slowly up to the top floor where all the heat has risen and sticks around in glops. Right out front are the bread, fruit, and fish sections where most people crowd around to inspect the fresh food for the freshest food. Kids are clamoring and people are talking up more hot air to feed into the already hot and healthy glops. The glops crowd around with the smell of fish and bread and fruit until eventually things yield into pre-packaged things such as Oreos and other big cookie and snack brands. All of the checkout stations wrap around in an L at the front – the smaller side of the L being quick shop stations that are rarely open. After a normal ten to fifteen minute wait with my red bag bloated up with daily things I step out of the whole place back into the relative cold.

Along the way a friend says she’s nearby so I go looking a little bit and after not catching her come into a chain bakery called Bread Talk. In China most folk don’t have ovens or like to bake so there are bakeries everywhere. In the back of the warm and orange tinted Bread Talk there’s a row of drinks packaged with deep primary colors that stir me. I go to the one with blue so dark it nearly seems like velvet. It’s shaped like a little jug and the top is wrapped off with a cloth on top like homemade jam. It’s mulberry juice.

It feels cold on the edges of my hot fingers just recently roughly wrought by the hard and heavy pull of my red bag full up with food for the week. It’s not competing on price but I am buying on feeling so that doesn’t matter. As soon as it’s sold I peel the cloth wrapping off and twist it open. It is cold and deep and rich.

My best childhood friends live down the block and a little ways away from a mulberry tree whose sweet fruit hangs its branches low. We were lower stooped back then but reached up enough to pull the mulberries down and I remember my friends introducing that kind of taste to me. It was sort of like a blueberry in taste, without the sweet bite of sugary juice. Blueberries are tense capillary fruits with thin skins full to burst with juice and flavor, but mulberries have a more mellow grind – like a less intense raspberry.

It is cold and deep and rich. I am ambling back to my home in Changzhou on muscle memory-based navigation because my head’s back underneath that mulberry tree; I am clinging onto branch like those rich little berries. That day the skies were gray in China but I was looking up and feeling the light blue of humid Indianapolis summers. There were white clouds above me, white clouds as fluffy as my thick sighs after each greedy glug of the deep blue – almost purple – juice. I am home in Indy now and walked the family dog underneath that mulberry tree. I had forgotten how all the berries fall and stain the concrete sidewalks with smatters of purplish blue and bluish purple. I had forgotten how small it really is now. Despite all that the sky is really just as wide and just as blue; the clouds are still fluffed up as Midwestern sighs.

~Austin R Ryan