jvc mini dv courtyard
corridor with the little tv
we still in front of that store
with the cartridges like babbage
not promotional giveaway
but she gon' let you have it
she call that ronald reg
she call that that trickle down effect
call that los angeles apparel
you fill in the blanks
gold reserves and tanks
like no limit banquet
progeny management
i know your job is thankless
like you only dropped down on embankment
she stay low on the joints like a anklet
retail sendoff tracking number
truly tracing
and we can already tell
that you paint by numbers
truly tracing
you can't get us on that road
we done heard all that before
you still gotta know the password
that blockchain can't be tampered
in the bergdorf posted
with a bernhardt
gap tooth jacquemus
covered up birth mark
shorty fine all nose
auntie that's aardvark
car club rooftop
gullwing car park
you in them starter apartments
elevator crib like joe jonas apartments
chelsea spear yea
the same building he is involved in
guest waitlist clearance
must have signature to be allowed in
oldhead phonespeak
nah we aint got no pagers
but the pack just touched down
like a coat hanger
on me i can't go
i'm in the slot sealed
dual tone vessel
bending corners off altgeld
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"Lake Shore Drive, Altgeld Gardens, and the Unspoken Ledger.
Nighttime drives stretch into something longer, something weightier.
Lake Shore Drive, its neon reflections rippling off the lake, the skyline a distant constellation—past to present, wealth to want, steel to silence.
The road curves south, the high-rises fade, the landscape shifts—Altgeld Gardens.
A place of memory, of history, of remnants of a Chicago that doesn't always make the postcards.
A reminder that Lakeview wasn't always the brunch spot, the transplant's playground.
There was a time when it had its own kind of dangerous.
Not the curated, aestheticized grittiness of now—but something real.
The JVC camcorder.
The mini TV.
Filming our own skate videos before we even had the words for what we were doing—before the city had words for what we were doing.
It was all documentation, all proof, all an archive before we knew it would matter.
And now, vyle.'s contributions are embedded in the city's history.
A blockchain of culture.
Not just in records or archives, but in the shape of things, the way things move, the way people talk, dress, create.
The architecture of influence.
But some things don't get preserved.
Thinking about women who go unthanked.
The ones who built things, who shaped things, who made space, but never got their flowers.
The ones who were always written out, left out, only referenced in footnotes—if even that.
The erasure is violent.
So is the replacement.
Because cartridges aren't just for video games anymore.
They're for ammo.
And people don't just borrow from vyle.
They facsimile him.
His image used, repurposed, re-skinned for their own narratives.
But there are always tells.
Being in Bergdorf Goodman, with a large-nosed indigenous woman—not just indigenous as a romanticized aesthetic, but indigenous to the land, to the region, to the history itself.
A woman who knows how to use her features.
How to wear them without apology.
How to carry herself through spaces designed to erase people like her.
The practitioners of subliminal speech, the ones who bait vyle. with half-truths, with careful omissions, with games of telephone designed to distort reality.
And still—Soho House, morning brunches.
Sitting across from Joe Jonas.
Watching how the industry moves, how it collects, how it digests and spits back out in new packaging.
A reminder that in some places, everything is a performance.
And in others, the truth is undeniable.