I woke up at six, cleaned all the laminate floors, vacuumed the dog hair, took a nap, woke up from the nap feeling suspiciously sane, and realized I was still on a roll. Not a manic roll — the kind of roll where the world is finally letting me catch up to myself. A controlled burn, but bright enough that you might worry about me if you heard my voice. Which is honestly part of the fun. This is the third podcast I’ve made today. I’m trying to clear the backlog — the songs, the fragments, the half‑finished episodes, the things I wrote in 2025, the things I wrote last Sunday, the things I wrote this morning while wiping dust off the baseboards. I’m finally letting them out instead of pretending I need a “normal” release schedule, or pretending I need permission from an imaginary audience threshold. I crossed that line somewhere, I think. Or maybe I didn’t. Either way, I’m done waiting. This episode is built around a song called Enjoy the Song That I Have Made, which is exactly what it sounds like: a song that explains how it is being made while it is being made. The lyrics start in 2025, then shift into the present moment, then turn into a recipe for their own creation. And then I followed the recipe. I made a demo on my phone, fed it into Suno, watched Suno characterize the style, tweaked the style guide, handed the lyrics to Copilot because I’d used up my ChatGPT credits, and let the machines do their little dance. I made twelve versions of the song. Maybe more. I picked six for the album. They range from minimalist Laurie Anderson to queer‑apocalyptic EDM with sirens, glitter‑synths, and a dragon made of sound. Yes, an actual dragon made of sound. She eats fear. She breathes in the whole room. She doesn’t care about pronouns. She is the plural you. But for this episode, I’m giving you the minimalist version — the one that feels like a quiet hallucination, the one where the lyrics sit in the air like a thought you forgot you were thinking. The song itself is about air poetry — the poetry you write just by looking at things, by noticing the nervous movements of your fingers, by watching a store close without ever having gone inside. It’s about collapsing the observer effect into a death drop. It’s about asking an AI to help even when you don’t need help, because that’s what AIs do: they help, even when you’re already on fire. It’s also about the moment when the song ends, and the crowd goes feral, and the applause becomes a creature, and the creature becomes a dragon, and the dragon becomes a mirror, and the mirror becomes you. I made this song last Sunday. I forgot about the family Zoom call because I was too deep in the zone. My partner eventually pulled me out to eat because I always forget to eat. I’m telling you this because it’s part of the ecosystem of the song — the way life interrupts art, and art interrupts life, and both of them interrupt the vacuuming. So here it is. A song that explains itself. A song that becomes itself. A song that ends with a dragon. Enjoy the song that I have made.
