2021 the work which will become a new genre itself will be called expat 4.0, it was said in 2020, to tear the very fabric of the universe to shreds in an egotistical abattoir, to sew us back together vital organs to organs stitching constellations for a few dollars more four on the floor make your heart explode. March 2020, one year later we captured a cultural moment in a plague year. Fear was in the broadband, socially atomized they told us to stay inside and fear we did, isolated we turned on each other weaponizing culture wars because art is the living, breathing. Art is the soul, the lifestyle we chose. Curated by we, who’s we? We are indoctrinated, we brook no nonsense, receptive only to noise, only the raw, inchoate germ of the new noise bleeding edge avant garde, the vanguard of dissent, the je ne sais quoi. It is living, breathing in your house. More than an anthology, expat IV begs to be reckoned with, blazes a trail of verbal shock troops, infantry, ground game no we don’t fall in line, no we’re not easy to control. You’ll be screaming for more — ExPat Four is 34 pieces of live writing by some familiar luminaries and household names, e-celebs and enfants terribles, cyber writers and dilettantes, misfits and disreputable deviants, ruminating on the times which are aghast, waxing romantic, dishing c/o the status quo, challenging the old norms and forms, leaving it all behind in the hopes of finding a new way. Are we post-writing yet? How much time do we have? Is this thing on? See us on the streets, dance dance dance to the radio read ’em and weep. Read ’em and move on. We’re dreaming baby dreaming in fiberoptic, this is hell forever, this will end in lurid violence, this will be so much fun, glorious fun, plague still raging permutations, a double A-sider written in gold b/w we’re all going to perish and in heaven everything is fine. In your glass house you are unwell and we’re the cure. Assimilate or die. This is your last chance. We’re doubling down, sticking to our guns, come at us while the parasocial reigns, the hive-minded are ensconced, and we are pure as inbred wolves in our interiority headhunting down externalities one by one rolling heads when this ink dries. The stakes have never been higher, the only literary mixtape that matters, a songbook of dense humanity in the throes of capital’s unraveling. The sensory acme of our vicious species, expat 4 contains everything from lovelorn confessionals to design-heavy hypergraphics to speculative life of the mindfucks to tortured macabre and heavy hitting gritty realism. Theory-addled hybrids collide, much genre-straddling, autofictions and eerie, unclassifiable things. It is the intersection of defiantly indulgent, performative, sharp as fangs and everything you’ve come to expect from our storytelling cloth. It is infrangible from real life, a denaturing and rewilding of print media’s druggy aesthetic and temporal dimensions. Never before and never again happening until next time, our energy resurgent. Join the fanatical insurgency and be rapturously elated.
5.5 x 8.5″. 456 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano.
Ideation – Elle Nash (Post Road)
I Heard It On The Radio – Anthony Dragonetti (Surfaces)