To Carrie Brownstein (first letter)

Dear Ms. Brownstein,
Since the band broke up I’ve found it all the more engrossing.
Despite the strange staccatto musings and dark spaces, the DIY excitement and vocal freshness, the inherent libertarian politics, it’s really this new foothold in nostalgic projection that’s become the most arresting dynamic around the group and its music.
Sometimes it seems as though most things that are enjoyed, cherished, fretted about and analyzed, must arrive in ruins, with parts missing, inaccessible, seemingly before or outside of our lived experience (as if each of us can never have any time of our own to begin with, as if we wander around shut out from any future or past).
I’ve wanted to write to you about your approach to guitar, your biography and your presence as a performer – but when push comes to shove I must admit that I can’t do this with any integrity. I can’t provide the social context.
I’ve always wanted to go to Portland (it’s so close by) but I don’t want to bump into you. This would probably never happen of course, but the thought is there. All this stuff so beyond me would suddenly be now.