I found out Cash was missing before the fire was extinguished and spent the weekend anxiously anticipating the worst – which is what happened (as evidenced by my last posts).
Cash’s parents wrote a touching/heartbreaking memorial in Rolling Stone and Kennedy released the last song they were able to record together.
I like the song so much. One specific layer of pain is that I can’t continue to look forward to hearing new releases, or to scheme about collaborating or touring together.
When I met Cash and Kennedy one of my first thoughts was “I can’t wait to be friends forever.”

There was this euphoric dance moment to the live version of “Bird” by The Knife and we were all so IN IT.  I was honored to facilitate that after party. I was honored to play my first show, opening for Them Are Us Too.I am happy that the specifics of favorites, aesthetics, references, politics and selves which make up our precious cultures have intertwined to the point where I got to briefly know the radiant and deeply intelligent Cash.

There is a lot of political/systems thinking that hinges on the fire and how it affects our cultures and futures, which I find myself thinking about a lot. But none of this approaches the intense grief surrounding the lives that were lost. I wasn’t friends with any of the 36 victims except Cash, and my base reaction is that there could be no greater tragedy because she was sublime and critical and going somewhere, and the world will never be as important or as beautiful without her.

I miss a future where we get to experience Cash’s new art. I miss a future where we get to be friends forever.


Finding the “@” symbol on the Italian keyboard became a sad action.

When you forget for a second and your body reminds you to be sad again.

Grief is my gut’s incessant proposal that the world and all its components are tragic.

It feels odd to sit in the same studio and walk through the same hallways as those around when I am so deeply in a different space.

I went outside with Quentin this morning and he gave me the best hug. So much compassion, it was like being embraced by a saint. He gave me one of his “real cigarettes.” we were talking about the fire and Monica Faggin called out the window:

“Is it sunny out there? Why are you wearing sunglasses?”
“I’m crying, my friend died.”
“But it doesn’t look sunny to me,  why are you wearing them?”
“Because my eyes are sensitive, because I’ve been crying, because my friend died in a fire.”
She said “Oh” and closed the window.

Quentin asked if I wanted another hug.

Ghost Ship

The worst feeling holds itself inside of me

But I can’t access it fully

Implying anything was ever real

Lurching nothing

Hurling it into the void

Greif as an object

Negative space of friends

Anything anyone has ever done has been wrong, because in the end bad cancelled out good.

What was it like to burn to death? Does one pass out before the pain is too intense? Did our friends realize they were going to die?

Dark heavy grief mass, horror, tragedy, meaninglessness. I’m sorry.