i was washing the dishes, lazy since i've been home: a dinner of burnt pot stickers and dolmades, and a movie whilst trying out a new pattern (crochet) to sell the product of in my etsy shop. barbara budd started talking about things that were ballardian so i turned off the water to listen to budd finish saying that jg ballard died yesterday.
and i choked and welled up. and feel such a terrible sense of loss. ballard's writing, environments, dystopias, and post-modern interactions between the machine and meat has inspired me, and pushed me to go into baudrillardian territory. and i'm sad. more at the new york times.