He/He.

Michael Jackson and the limit of transformation.

Thank you for continuing to subscribe to my newsletter, which might eventually be studied as the ramblings of a madman consumed with surfaces. I’m going to poach the language of polyamory and say that I have lapsed with my intended posting calendar because I have been attending to my “primary” work. Paraphernalia is “non-primary”? Paraphernalia is “the Lindy”? Not possible: everything and everyone I pay attention to is the most important thing in the world to me in that specific moment, and that includes this, and by virtue, you. I refuse to be one of those writers who makes apologies and excuses for not posting enough, so this is the first and last time it’s happening. If you ever notice I’ve gone dormant a few days too long, just assume the best, which is that I have a film or TV project taking up my time and that that is somehow, in an eventual sense, to your benefit, too.

Moving on: the Universal Pictures Michael Jackson movie is a phantasmagoric, multi-sensory, spectacular issue for me. And that’s fine. I’m simultaneously ecstatic that it’s happening, fascinated by the peculiar dimensions of its architecture, and cynical about its intentions. All of these feelings can and should coexist if we are watching movies in good faith, and if we care about films and pop iconography (and in my case, rifling through the personal debris of other people).