Mallsoft

Is the musical genre “mallsoft” the genre of the blackpilled? How internets is that question? Mallsoft, loved ironically, echoes all the troll’s ironies; it is the sound of Wojak’s weeping. A subgenre of vaporwave, the vaporware of music (that sounds informative, but isn’t), re-wombed with the 80s-90s nostalgia of the indoor mall (think: Mallrats, et al.), the song of soulless commercialism forced to dance with our soul (how we make the ugly beautiful, the horror cinematic, the sad cathartic, etc.). We revivify the kipple. We dance with mannequins. A Sam-Goody animism, under a Pacific Sun, pretzel’d out with Hot Julius and Orange Topic. 

Nostalgia is a pain, say the etymological prescriptivists. A pain for home. A pang that cries: Volver, Volver! Nostalgia for indoor malls, food courts, commercials—isn’t that pain perverse? It feels perverse (that may be one of its attractions). For some latchkey kids, perhaps it isn’t so perverse; the mall-home had it all: food, clothing, bathrooms, entertainment, friends, and, of course, an absolutely perfect climate: that unnoticeably perfect temperature. Mallsoft, music of the tiled-and-neon hearth (and wishing fountain). 

To survey an emptied mall, today—liquidated, abandoned, becoming our ruins—isn’t that the deceleration and derealization of mallsoft? The haunted home. Here dies Main Street, once more. Everything dies too fast, so let’s slow it way down—make all voices deep, like the unhurried moan of humpbacks. Some of us, lost in our living rooms, have become neon humpbacks swimming backwards through ruins coming back online. The internetz is its own meta, and can make a heaven of mall, a mall of heaven. 

The Last Good Thought

I’m overwhelmed by life. I don’t know why, though I sometimes think I do. For the last two years, I’ve been on a daily dose of 20mg escitalopram, an antidepressant. But, let me stop there; I don’t want to write about myself; I don’t think I’ve been helped by others writing about themselves. Let’s assume you’re over it too. The medicine works, or doesn’t, and the memoirs inspire, or don’t; in any case, you’re overwhelmed too, and you don’t know why, though you sometimes think you do. 

Yet something lives down there in your lowest with you; the last good thought, sickly and stripped down. Without it, your enamel would scrape against a gun barrel. Your last good thought is extremely weak, and may vanish any day now, but while it’s there, you’re there; in that respect, the last good thought is like Descartes’ I think, therefore I am, but the last good thought is infinitely more important.

If anything is religious, the last good thought is. Perhaps your true religion is your last good thought. Perhaps not. That question is irrelevant to you, isn’t it. What would it help you if the word “religion” were always strictly used this way or that way? Who says or thinks anything strictly? All that dies off down there in the lowest, like a botched joke.