(Part 2 of 2) SOTT’s many collisions show how things come together. Or don't come together. The ways our best efforts inevitably get misinterpreted, shuffled, or just plain fail—quite a series of signs to receive, no?

(Part 1 of 2) Prince’s 1987 album was once my northern star. A rare asteroid that had been excavated in snowy Minneapolis. And now, as I missed my third chance in ten years to contemplate it, I wondered: did I really love this album? Writing, as expected, brought answers clumsily, if at all.

Diane Arbus’ pictures are almost antidotes to the psychedelic sixties in which they originated. They can sober a person up. Why? Are they too intimate? Exploitative and therefore uneasy? Cruel, even?

Shrouded in the summer darkness, on a strange computer, emanating from the same place where the vampires paginated: I found a website that taught me how to catch the Pokémon Mew. A method called the Mew Glitch.

Somewhere between the absurdity of these gags and the labor they depict is where I hope to find my groove for this month of June. Over the next 30 days I’ll be writing and posting here daily. The aim here is not epiphany, which is always elusive. Instead I seek discipline.