The other night I dreamt that Martin Bladh and I were siblings. We were forced to labor under my mother, portrayed as a petty bureaucratic tyrant; we were outfitted in the white-collared, buttoned-down uniform of teenage missionaries and marched through a placid American suburb. I was tasked with pushing a shopping cart full of evidence while Martin had the worse burden, slung over his shoulder: he had to carry a pine bookshelf with the approximate dimensions of a pauper's coffin.
Martin Bladh has a piece in Mass Culture Vol. 3. More of his work is available here.
