<div style= »font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100; »><a href= »https://soundcloud.com/glasshorse » title= »CINDERCONE » target= »_blank » style= »color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none; »>CINDERCONE</a> · <a href= »https://soundcloud.com/glasshorse/turpentine-hole-cover » title= »TURPENTINE (hole Cover) » target= »_blank » style= »color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none; »>TURPENTINE (hole Cover)</a></div>
An old vision o’mine
<div style= »font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100; »><a href= »https://soundcloud.com/glasshorse » title= »CINDERCONE » target= »_blank » style= »color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none; »>CINDERCONE</a> · <a href= »https://soundcloud.com/glasshorse/charons-lullabye » title= »Charon's Lullabye » target= »_blank » style= »color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none; »>Charon's Lullabye</a></div>
I recorded this 10 years ago
<div style= »font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100; »><a href= »https://soundcloud.com/glasshorse » title= »CINDERCONE » target= »_blank » style= »color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none; »>CINDERCONE</a> · <a href= »https://soundcloud.com/glasshorse/rat-king » title= »Rat King » target= »_blank » style= »color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none; »>Rat King</a></div>
Oaxaca in February
From the moment I got in the shuttle from Oaxaca airport and slid open the window so I could smell the sulfur and gasoline and just blooming Jacaranda on the night air, I started feeling something that’s been caught un-catch, something that’s been strangling, loosen.
I was in Oaxaca for my baby cousin’s wedding. Of course, she’s not a baby anymore at 34, but I still remember when she and her parents lived in my house in Boston and she would follow me around asking me to play with her. I was 12 and she was 2. She mostly grew up a couple hours north of here in Cholula-Puebla. Her dad, my Tio, was originally from from Mexico City, but taught for years at the University there, in the shadow of the sleeping volcano.
The cracked sidewalks and paste-up woodcut graffiti of Oaxaca. The storefronts open for business with not a single electric light on, just pools of diffused and refracted light from the fierce sun somewhere overhead pooling in front of a counter behind which someone sits or stands waiting for a customer.
A man holding a fat flushed baby in his arms in the doorway.
Abuelas in variations of their special Ropa tipica- a polka dot or floral or solid colored dress that hits 3 or 4 inches below the knee, stockings or high socks, loafers, a cardigan or a large shawl wrapped around the shoulders, maybe a hat or scarf tied over graying black or whitening hair either neatly braided or wrapped up into some kind of elegant bun or chignon, often gold earrings, or drops with gemstones. The striking beauty of furrowed Aztec features, black eyes lively or serene, bethroned by the colors and textures of their humble and lovely adornments… you encounter them everywhere throughout Ciudad Oaxaca like walking deities.
In the Molino machines wait to grind your corn or chilis or chocolate for your mole. You will walk away with the fruit of the earth warm and pliant in your hands.
It is almost the festival of the Good Samaritan. The school children will put out Agua Fresca to offer free to anyone who is thirsty.
At night in Ciudad Oaxaca there are always fireworks
Because in this world of trouble, tests, sorrow, and love
every day you’re still alive
Is a day worth celebrating.
Make them irrelevant.
I’ve been reading Epstein’s inbox (jmail.world) by just randomly searching words, locations and first names (sounding the depths), and the most amazing thing is the completeness of their detachment from the real world of hardship, privation, exploitation and abuse that their extremely comfortable, leisurely and self satisfied lives are built on top of. They’re jetsetting around the world to their many homes, estates and yachts, all of which run on small armies of working class and often immigrant labor, preying on, trafficking, sexually, emotionally, verbally and physically abusing poor and working class girls, and there is not a single mention of any working class person AS a person and not an exploitable commodity in there (aside from Epstein and his brother, other day 1s, exhibiting nostalgia for their Brooklyn upbringing- another strange topic for another day)- and YET, the collective ego of these people so clearly requires that they see and experience themselves as being the producers, pushers, movers, and perennial commentators of Culture, writ large. Culture, which is, ultimately, what the majority who are NOT part of this ruling class, choose to give our money, time, attention and loyalty to. The ultimate takeaway from me is that the Revolutionary imperative of the GLOBAL working class (they are a global class- but we are too)- is DIVESTMENT FROM THE EPSTEIN CLASS. By which I mean divestment of our money, but also of our time, attention, respect, engagement, emotional energy and ASPIRATIONAL LIFE FORCE. I was raised by a classic white 1st gen college grad boomer who told me I should aspire to be part of this class. Fortunately, even as a young teenager, these people viscerally repulsed me (always had a good sniffer for hypocrites and bigots of all stripes) and I chose a path of solidarity with other working class people. And thank fucking god, because now here we are, and I was right. We and our children must understand the parasitic nature of this class and radically divest from what they are and what they have been selling us. When en masse we leave their artificial fire for the raging communal bonfire of our own true cultural and intellectual life, when we stop taking on lifelong debt burdens in order to gain proximity to their synthetic hearth so we can beg them for scraps (the best of us begging the worst of us for scraps), when we stop buying what they’re selling and their markets and fortunes crater, the most incredible and amazing thing will happen. Even if they’re financially fine, and considering the dragon hoards they’re sitting on they most likely will be materially fine- They will suffer ego death, and that- THAT- even in the absence of adequate criminal penalties for their very real crimes-is a consequence they deserve, and one that, unlike short stints in cushy white collar prison facilities- they truly can not handle. Pariah status. Isolation. Irrelevance.
We will suck up all fresh water and pump the atmosphere full to bursting with carbon to make a world in which no new ideas are permitted to emerge- only old ideas stolen, massaged, shredded, reconfigured, packaged and sold to profit a ruling class of boring, greedy, stupid thieves
« What Altman is describing is a world of creativity without craft. Will Manidis, a start-up founder and investor, convincingly argued in a Substack post earlier this year that “slop emerges when we eliminate not just toil (the burdensome aspects of work) but labor itself (the meaningful human engagement with creation).” It is, in other words, the removal of all friction, all agency, and, in turn, all humanity. In the case of a social network, like these SlopTok clones, frictionlessness is highly desirable. Human posters are the node of friction in any social network—they fight, behave erratically, produce content irregularly, and, once they develop enough of an audience, expect a cut of ad revenue. People are the asset, but also the liability. »
-Charlie Warzel in The Atlantic 10/21/25
PANDORA'S CUNT 