You discover  something that is already there, something that has existed but is generally unknown – but you invent something that has never existed before.

I Found is discovering something great and new. I Lost is remembering something forgotten, that deserves to be remembered. This blog is an ode to the all those who invent something that never existed before.

My name is Kai. I was dropped in a cauldron of serotonin when I was young and forever doomed to fall in love with discarded relics of pop culture, old books and new bands with female bass players. I counter this with a paradoxical seam of huffing and puffing cynicism that embarrassingly contradicts itself when faced with a  hungry bassline, a cheeky grin and a chorus to hell and back.

I write for some things and I like to find bars in old cities where the old people go. And I’ll argue forever that Judy Garland is up there with John Coltrane and Joe Strummer.

Drop by for a cup of tea.

The long version: I remember bass guitars slung low, the eerie smell of the mud in front of the main stage at Reading festival, sitting on a Lunachick’s lap on my 18th birthday and then meeting Dave Grohl’s mum; week-long vodka binges in ankle-length fake fur coats with my nails painted purple and Yes by Manic Street Preachers on repeat in my mind; watching old Judy Garland films and playing Dead Embryonic Cells by Sepultura before going out and dancing to Happy Shopper by 60ft Dolls on a greasy TJ’s floor; staring at Miss Kittin’s death-fringe whilst she played Blue Monday on top of a pile of forklift truck pallets in a warehouse in Brooklyn; summer mornings building sand castles on Tenby’s harbour beach and reading Whizzer and Chips; Ian Rush’s second goal at Wembly 86 and Kenny Dalglish’s smile; screaming along to We Are Scientists on the M4 at 3am during the best indie journey in the world ever; the moment I first watched John Coltrane performing My Favourite Things; and the exact moment I first heard Smells Like Teen Spirit; and Silent All These Years; the sound of nothing in Auschwitz in Poland; and Sobibor; and Majdanek; and Treblinka; but secret bars in Brussels and New York called Kafka and Single Room Occupancy; and Jimmy Stewart’s drunken charm in Harvey; and Robert Donat in Goodbye Mr Chips; the reflection off the early morning sun off the sea between Kefalonia and Ithaka; the look of books when they’re all crumpled and well-read/looked-after; the Girl; the Girl; the Girl

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