Cameron Jones

2 weeks ago | yale-herald.com | Cameron Jones

He wakes up at a masochistic 4:30 a.m.. He unloads the dishwasher then runs for an hour and a half before coming back for breakfast. He reads and eats and sits with himself. In these hours, he is unseen and unheard. At 8:15 a.m., he packs his lunch—the same thing every time:  a little over two dozen almonds, a turkey and lettuce sandwich on whole grain bread, and a single bunch of grapes. He knows every brand of cracked pepper turkey. He has a carefully curated ranking of all of them.

3 weeks ago | yale-herald.com | Cameron Jones

The Jonathan Edwards pressroom isn’t a time capsule or some historical diorama. The old art of letterpress printing doesn’t send you back, but roots you in the now. As students enter Yale, they confront daunting questions about their future. Who will I become? What will I do?But as they enter the pressroom, they leave these questions at the door.

1 month ago | onlinelibrary.wiley.com | Cameron Jones |Rahul Mondal |Matthew Evans |Joseph M. Parr

Supporting Information As a service to our authors and readers, this journal provides supporting information supplied by the authors. Such materials are peer reviewed and may be re-organized for online delivery, but are not copy-edited or typeset. Technical support issues arising from supporting information (other than missing files) should be addressed to the authors.

2 months ago | yale-herald.com | Cameron Jones

The Internet is the dumping ground for everything we find immoral or disgusting: extreme ideologies, strange obsessions, unspeakable regrets, and, especially, porn. Your prurient desires can’t stain you when they’re hidden in some server far from you and your perfectly normal life. Sometimes, in moments of transgression, behind a locked door and an incognito tab, blue-light bodies fuck on your screen before disappearing with a single tap. They are immaterial and placeless.

2 months ago | yale-herald.com | Cameron Jones

To live past the end of your relevance is a perilous thing. The noisy, crescendoing, and purely instrumental post-rock Mogwai peddled in the nineties with albums like Mogwai Young Team (1997) and Come On Die Young (1999) just doesn’t inspire the awe it used to. People like songs that don’t last a half hour and albums that don’t last an afternoon. People like music that doesn’t make everything cosmic and mystical.   Mogwai knows this. Over the past fifteen years, they’ve sanded down their sound.