The Digitals series focuses on overlooked blips in pop-culture then unraveling the moment with short prose. The third episode reviews a snippet of Kanye’s verse in No More Parties In L.A., a fever pitched single released on his SoundCloud this time last year. The song eventually made it onto his seventh studio album, The Life Of Pablo. TLOP instantly received critical acclaim for its sincerity through fragmentation, revealing all of the jagged edges of his life through candid art. Below is a fragment observed for insight:
The scratch of her pen reminded him of a soft hum, the tip rubbing against paper like a needle grazing over a Jackson vinyl.
“You should get a new notebook,” he said, chiming in between moments of her documentation and pauses in his confession.
“I’ll get you one, It’ll have a brown leather binding, a little bit more compact so it fits in your tote bag, I can even get my assistant to order the one with the silk string so you can bookmark your—“
“Mr. West, I suggest we keep things on course.”
“Oh, true…true” He shifted from his languid position on the couch and reached for the bottled water on the ebony coffee table, washing away dried saliva from the corner of his mouth. His bottom grills stuck against the inner linings of his bottom lip.
“Last week you mentioned how you haven’t been sleeping much. Has that changed at all?”
This to him felt like a rhetorical question, or a trite one, considering the 12mg of Xanax that she prescribed him last week to cure said insomnia. He replied in a lazy affirmative, his speech curtailed by bouts of dreariness that arose when his natural adrenaline left him. As he settled himself in the couch she began to speak, offering words of clinical wisdom and forcing his brain to wander, his eyes skimming around an office decorated with photos of celebrities (mostly men) clinging to her like a dear friend they couldn’t go without. Here he felt safe. The fears and anxieties trapped within the confines of a psychiatrist’s office and her notebook. She was never suspected of taking bribes from paparazzi or gossip-johns, garnering a unique prestige of impartiality.
“Mr. West, are you okay with that?”
His eyes flung open and he again reiterated consent amongst the haze of his daydreams.
She began jotting off a flurry of notes in her black notebook then slammed it close and headed towards her desk to write another prescription so that her client could glide through the snake road of Mulholland Drive without agitation. Ye, observing her legs as she bent over the desk, diverted his eyes back to the celebrity photos.
“Yo, you still got all these clients?”
Ripping the paper off the pad and handing him the slip, she joked dryly, “except the ones that are dead.” Her hand still gripped the prescription as Ye softly pulled the scribbled sheet. “I think it’s necessary to maintain a consistent client relationship in order to maintain privacy, which in turn leads to trust. Don’t you agree?” Her eyes were aligned with his, her cheeks pinched by a smile.
“True,” he replied, battling the sudden occurrence of butterflies in his stomach.
“Let me walk you out.” Gathering her stuff, she kept the black notepad in her hand and lead Mr. West out of the office. As they stepped out into the lounge area there were five 20 something’s, disheveled in dress but eager in face all gazing up at Ye.
“Mr. West, this is my adorable son and his band! I told them that you’d love to listen to their music. They are so-so-so talented!” she assured. Taken off guard, he looked back and saw that he was trapped between a locked door and fanatics. “Aw come one, it wouldn’t hurt to listen to just one song, right?”
“Uh-umm,” he stuttered. His eyes returned to the black notebook glimmering in the grip of her hands, “Why not?”