The Overmind<\/a><\/em> (Broken Sleep Books, 2024)<\/p>\nTo praise a book of poems is not necessarily the same as giving a critique of it; for in that case, even the review itself, even if objectively written, would reveal an opinion that some readers might definitely not hold themselves; but in the case of Byrne\u2019s poems, it would seem there\u2019d be no need to review them, for they are themselves a critique, of both society at large and Byrne\u2019s role as author in that society. So, in light of this, why should a reviewer need to try? Because a poetry collection of this quality simply demands that someone should. That said, because no Homo sapiens can get inside the head of another, all that may really be accomplished when giving a \u2018literary\u2019 opinion is just that, an \u2018opinion\u2019, no matter how \u2018literary\u2019 or informed one person might think they are. Hence the reason why \u2018taste\u2019 has never been a barometer of anything other than one person\u2019s (potential) obtuseness; couple this with the possibility that all readings, of any text, are prone to be misconstrued and\/or perverted by what someone else thinks, then perhaps we should approach the (sometimes) insoluble complexity of these poems by beginning with the psychological doubts posed by Byrne himself, he who tells us that he is \u2018incapable of sustaining a fixed self\u2019, which, in light of my task of reviewing his poems, leaves me with only one act of solipsism left: to ask myself one question: do I feel \u2018fixed\u2019 and intellectually sturdy enough to believe that I can provide a reliable exegesis of this book? Probably not. But if we are to believe David Hume, who thought that there was no self, only \u2018a bundle or collection of different perceptions, which succeed each other with an inconceivable rapidity\u2019, then it seems that I am as stable an identity as any other to take on the task.<\/p>\n
A more modern addendum to Hume\u2019s \u2018bundle\u2019 theory would be to accept Hannah Arendt\u2019s view about the self and identity, she who, while talking of Descartes, spelt out the problems of anyone trying to pin down or \u2018fix\u2019 the issue of identity after philosophers had separated matter from the mind; for once separated, which of the two are we to most believe in? Cognition or empiricism, or both? Thus, Arendt outlines the dangers for any individual actually believing, from a perspectival standpoint, that consciousness is anything more than \u2018an evil spirit\u2019 which \u2018may rule the world and withhold truth forever from the mind of a being so manifestly subject to error\u2019. So, in the light of these two testimonies about the authenticity and non-authenticity of any individual seeking to ascertain their right to put forth an opinion that might or might not (either epistemologically or artistically) hold up, I will certainly, with no justification, attempt now to give mine.<\/p>\n
What is the first thing that strikes one when reading The Overmind<\/em>? Byrne\u2019s steely, yet tensile intelligence, for despite the urgent and delineated role that each word and image is meant to portray in these poems, they are replete with an always psychologically compelling underswell beneath the surface. That\u2019s the first impression; and the second? It is the style of the poems, which seems as if each subject-matter is only really the final terminus towards which all the psychological, spiritual, and political collisions in Byrne\u2019s own mind are converging. So that any uniformity in the language coincides also with that of the impulse behind the poems. For Byrne, urging us to use the cerebral cortex as much as the imaginative faculty of the brain, is a masterful progenitor of poetical questioning: of meaning, logocentrism, and metaphor, yet not in the same way that the linguists and stylisticians enquire about such things, prone as they are to always ask \u2018What is writing?\u2019 or worse \u2018Where does writing come from?\u2019, for Byrne questions by effectively subjugating meaning to the antiphonal bewitchment of his own voice.<\/p>\nWhat is ash, if not time spent? I will not sign the visitors\u2019 book.<\/p>\n
What is the sun to make fire? Tell me the names she would not<\/p>\n
speak.<\/p>\n
from \u2018Eva at Cliveden\u2019<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nThus, it is no surprise to encounter poems which, without either a religious or metaphysical consolation, leave the reader on high mental alert: against the danger of having one\u2019s own judgements discontinued. Hence, we easily arrive at the opinion that each poem should be encased behind glass, and then only smashed and \u2018read\u2019 in a time of natural, personal, or political crisis. Because Byrne uses what I will call, for want of a better image, a kind of pressure-valve syntax, which in each compressed statement feels as if it could burst and let seep, at any moment, the hiss of any still unused imagination; for by imparting torque direct to every word and image, the poetic voice creates an immense repellent to any linguistic slack:<\/p>\n
Re-
\nverse your voice first, then wake up
\nplumping the pillow\u23af<\/p>\n
attunally sounded out like<\/p>\n
crystal
\ncut
\ndust.<\/p>\n
Cello funeraries. Burnt gristle on the hook.<\/p>\n
from \u2018Apparitions\u2019<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nWhile some poets write as if no one else is listening in, and\/or as if impervious to any outside interest in their writing, with Byrne it is the opposite: for here there are no ruminative asides, no overblown need for eloquence, only total focus, an unflagging sense of the author\u2019s exactitude in charting his whole experience of being alive, which, for the reader, has the effect of reading somebody who is tuned-in utterly to every experience, even if that experience is a near-death traumatic one: which is the subject of the title poem \u2018The Overmind\u2019, in which the spectre of death is also the spectre of birth:<\/p>\n
I imagine it was the same way I feel when my mother was pushed,
\nmy foetus six months gestational inside her. The sting made my skin<\/p>\n
feel like it was being flayed and when I opened my eyes, I saw
\nthe walls shudder, as if mid-quake. I asked the doctor, what is<\/p>\n
the distance between curse and symptom and she wrote out
\nher reply on a prescription pad: it\u2019s like trying to measure the smell<\/em><\/p>\nof death<\/em>.<\/p><\/blockquote>\nThe paralysis of facts suspended<\/em> by the paralysis of shock, of the car-crash, is recorded by Byrne with all of the immediacy and memory-scrap precision of Ginsberg in his equally factual, but equally memorable poem \u2018Mugging\u2019, for Byrne, like Ginsberg, has given us a transcript of the \u2018event\u2019 in all of its intrinsic and psychological detail, but also the almost transfiguring vertigo of mortality, as Byrne was dropped into the lift shaft of his own soul. But if the words themselves are comfortless, it is only because we are made to watch (in almost agonizing slow-motion) as each post-crash detail by Byrne, with mind-incisive tweezers, is being lifted out of his memory, to allow us to re-inspect each one ourselves. And as such, we find ourselves there, with him, by the roadside, while gripping ever tighter the cold steel railings of the void that suddenly and inexplicably begin to spring up all around us:<\/p>\nIn slow motion, wearing my jellyfish cape again, a tunnel of pixelated
\nshrapnel, the taxi driver\u2019s airbag an exploding green mushroom.<\/p>\n
Someone groans. Who are you<\/em>. Face pressed against the glass, blood
\non the dash. Turn off the ignition, turn it off<\/em>, then doing it myself, but<\/p>\nunable to pull him out. I emerged from the sky-tilted passenger side,
\nas if opening the escape hatch on a submarine, and jumped down.<\/p>\n
A fireman mummified my hands, and we stared at the battered cab,
\nthe driver cut from the windscreen before shock-vomiting onto the verge.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
Yet this is just one example of Byrne\u2019s multi-faceted ability to dredge up from his psyche whole swathes of (both past and present) reality. For this poet has realized that if poetry is to remain poetry, then it must also remain in a perpetual and repetitive cycle of transcendence, that is of personal poetic breakthroughs<\/em>. For he assumes the poet\u2019s role in society like a machine \u2018part\u2019 assumes its \u2018role\u2019 in a factory of larger, more overlooked machines; that said, there is nothing condescending or unsympathetic about Byrne\u2019s monologues, even if, at times, they make no apologies about knowing more<\/em> about his subjects than we do.<\/p>\nThis is true in the way that, for this poet, truth, because ever shifting, can never be the result of absolute historical reportage, but only a product of a perspectival mind, that which is itself always in the process of attaining no certainty. It is clear then that when reading Byrne you sense something of the ferocious zeitgeist intelligence, seriousness, and perspicacity of a Weldon Kees about him, the same distrust of our time as Kees had of his, he who, in the 1950s, wrote, \u2018our present atmosphere of distrust, violence and irrationality, with so many human beings murdering themselves, either literally or symbolically\u2019, words which could well have been spoken by Byrne today. For like Kees, Byrne is no careerist self-advancer, hates sloganizing, and shares the same lightning-quick eye for social incisiveness. Add to that the same amount of political sagacity to boot, and you can start to see why this collection accumulates its own sense of wisdom and perspicacity as it goes:<\/p>\n
Take away the gun, he said, and you
\ntake away the history of this country.<\/p>\n
The gun of this country pointed
\nat everyone- from neighbour<\/p>\n
to state, at the head of my son. Inside
\nthe gun of this country is another gun.<\/p>\n
from \u2018Americans Talking About Guns\u2019<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nOnly a poet of innate distrust, like Byrne, can write a poem like this, for within its lines, he seems to weigh up the self-doubt of all<\/em> American thought, while distrusting (as anyone must do) the evidence even of his own rationality to depict how he feels about such a polarizing subject. Indeed, for any poet wanting to portray a worldview it is imperative that he or she remains shut off from the heterogenous struggles of all other<\/em> voices trying, in their own way, to homogenize the truth for themselves. For whether the Homo sapiens is born with an innate truth or whether with John Locke\u2019s tabula rasa<\/em>, one thing is clear: to make an artistic, political, or religious mark on this world requires, especially for a poet, a mistrust of our human\/cognitive faculties. Then, if we agree that the birth of modern thought (science?) was, as Hannah Arendt said, \u2018born when attention shifted from the search after the \u201cwhat\u201d to the investigation of \u201chow\u201d\u2019, then it wouldn\u2019t be too much of a stretch to suggest that the real search for truth can only begin when the \u2018attention\u2019 of the Homo sapiens shifts again: to the investigation of \u2018why\u2019, and only<\/em> \u2018why\u2019; which is where the poet comes in, and maybe also, the mystic.<\/p>\nFor once poets admit that they cannot<\/em> know what they themselves did not create, only then can a significant break be made by humans from rationality. Once the mistrust of the senses has occurred, and the mind no longer believes everything outside of it is contrary to what goes on inside, then any truth and knowledge received<\/em>, as Descartes and Kant concluded, would have to be accepted as man-made. In poetic terms, it is simply the natural development of Keats and his \u2018negative capability\u2019, he who sought to search for truth himself<\/em>, outside of the framework of logic and science. For in the future, we will see the results of the poet willing the mind to ignorance as much as truth, that is \u2018truth\u2019 which, by poetry alone, can only be turned into more mystifying forms of truth, outside of cognition. This of course was exploited to the full by Nietzsche\u2019s acute sense of perspectivism, his bulldozing use of scepticism which, after Descartes\u2019 methods had been set in philosophical stone, would, in the future, by French philosopher Paul Ric\u0153ur, be renamed the \u2018school of suspicion\u2019; a school that Byrne, due to his distrustful intelligence, can be considered a part of. That said, this sense of doubt turned into truth and then doubt again is the rhythm of a poem by Byrne, as if he has realized his job is only to convey what Walter Benjamin described as the \u2018maturing process\u2019 of consciousness itself, which is the real \u2018progress\u2019 charted by Byrne throughout this brilliant book.<\/p>\nThat said, if Henri Bergson was right and that we are bound to consciousness only \u2018by the continuous string of memory, an uninterrupted series of instantaneous visions which are parts of things, rather than ourselves\u2019 then what part of the Homo sapiens should the poet pay heed to? In Byrne\u2019s poems it is only what, of desire, language can resurrect from the desire for memory itself:<\/p>\n
How what resurrects, refashions the dead. How I tried
\nto build a mosaic out of his absence. In the rest chapel,
\nI held his hand, blood-drained, and noticed how his eyes,
\nonce so vivid, had sunken back into their skeleton. I
\nwanted to view him more starkly, as if more complete,
\nbut turned away and wept onto the pages of scripture.
\nIt only ends with us. Only in death is the end of desire.<\/p>\n
from \u2018Of Desire\u2019<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nMaybe, Byrne has realized, as Simone Weil did, that \u2018if we go down into ourselves, we find that we possess exactly what we desire\u2019 as if desire itself is not dependent on any one teleological goal, but is simply what, on being born, we spend a lifetime wheeling the indeterminate mannequin of our own bodies towards?<\/p>\n
I have written about this. A desire to communicate,
\nto obfuscate. Desire: transitive verb. What I want \/
\nlong for \/ crave is in a state of constant change.<\/p>\n
One question is continually asked by Byrne, and from a variety of angles: if each of us is unique and unrepeatable, then can we believe in our memory as a \u2018separate\u2019 reality? i.e., as a \u2018past\u2019 that we can still (somehow) access? And if it is possible to do so, in what holographic guise would we re-enter memory? In what disembodied state? Henri Bergson did, from time to time, certainly hint at the possibility of us being able to access our memory as a form of reality. In his seminal book Matter and Memor<\/em>y, he states his belief that the past is<\/em> real, and while not in the same sense as the present is, at least \u2018real\u2019 in the virtual sense, which if accessed (again?) would allow us some form of a reality outside both the mind and body.<\/p>\nWhich brings us back to Byrne and his own poetic quest which is a) to traipse the non-ontological terrains of desire and memory, and b) once there, locate the fracture, the integral fault at the heart of the soon-to-be shattered glass pane of modern man\u2019s soul; for in the poem \u2018Of Desire\u2019, we find him almost disembodied, or at least splintering at the pen-tip before our very eyes:<\/p>\n
Fissured,
\npolyvocal, cameo, transindividual, occasioned. Fissured, multifocal.
\nI, I. Selving, cast into the inevitable shattering of the sea.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
Yet unlike much of contemporary poetry, i.e., that which is called (for want of anything better) \u2018experimental\u2019 and\/or \u2018visual\u2019 poetry, Byrne\u2019s shape-shifting ability means that not one poem can be considered experimental, not unless we consider reality itself to be so. For in Byrne\u2019s work, there is no handed-down lazy reference to a popular experimenter like say Charles Olson, or other figures connected to the 1960s Black Mountain school of poets, or even any tangible sniff of high modernism that he does not own himself. Indeed, he may agree with Freud who said, \u2018The only person with whom you have to compare yourself to is you in the past\u2019, for if Byrne\u2019s poems reveal anything about him as a person, then it is only this: I am what I remember<\/em>. For in each poem he includes the whole weight of the past in the present, which, in a mnemonic sense, preserves or holds intact his every \u2018now\u2019. Hence, the reason why each poem, no matter its subject, feels as much an exploration of authorship as it does about the society his own personality inhabits. So, what exactly does it mean to be an author? Especially an original one like Byrne? Is it how Foucault once described writing [l\u2019\u00e9criture<\/em>] \u2018like a game that invariably goes beyond its own rules and transgresses its limits?\u2019 Possibly, but first the poet has to break through the writing process itself, before he can utilize the necessary amount of indeterminacy and freedom beyond<\/em> it, required to write a poem in the first place.<\/p>\nFor the visionary poet, when picking up the pen, it is simply enough to faint<\/em> into his or her own mind, and then on waking, care little if any one opinion or theory about writing are still true when the writing stops. Thus, no wonder a poet like Byrne asks, \u2018Who cuts the caesura of voice?\u2019 ( in \u2018Eva at Cliveden\u2019), which, while profoundly elusive as a question, is as beguiling and as beautiful as asking who first cuts the umbilical between a god and its species? For both propositions are cognitively insoluble, and because of this fact, capable only of being understood by the power of the imagination alone. Indeed, Byrne, a natural-born questioner, is not afraid to state: \u2018To be remade, or increasingly fractured\u2019.<\/p>\nFor it is clear, even from this one phrase, that Byrne, like Derrida, does \u2018demand a reason for reasonableness\u2019 that is, a reason to believe in reason as a truthteller, even he only ends up being a doubter of doubt; if poetry has any advantage over say, philosophy, then is this: everything is allowed<\/em> to remain senseless, even from the vantage-point of absolute idealism, or empirical realism. To attain pure vision by making the self extinct is the goal of objectivity, but only for the scientist, not the poet. For even the greatest poetry, whether by H\u00f6lderlin, Rimbaud or Yeats, has only ended up echoing both the pre- and<\/em> post-theological narratives about creation that first entered God\u2019s head; he who, most probably, only started creating the universe because somewhere else, some other god had already begun to go about the task better.<\/p>\nLikewise, a poet always writes (subconsiously) in response to the first poetic word spoken, the first poetic thought thought<\/em>, and so can never be, like the rational man, afraid of, and prey to, rhetorical disruption; for he has no such restrictions, especially if, like Byrne, he possesses the enviable ability to concentrate on only those proximations of reality which rid oneself of the endowment of what Foucault called the \u2018author function\u2019, for it is never required of this poet to repeat to himself that he is one; thus, in Byrne\u2019s case it is simply about getting on with the task of being one: addictively, endlessly, to simply confess through his mesh or soul-grille to us, the readers; until all that we receive on the page has been sieved of literary affectation:<\/p>\nTo think what is lost might yet be returned.<\/p>\n
To think what is returned could be fixed
\n\/fixed up?<\/p>\n
(think again)<\/p>\n
from \u2018Meditation on Mediation\u2019<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nThis is to write without (fake) poetical status, or a classificatory function of any kind. Even if that means not calling oneself a poet while quite obviously being one. Janos Pilinszky, when discussing the neutrality of authorship, wrote, \u2018that a perfect poem would be one whose author could not be detected, but which made everybody feel that it was written about him, or that he too could have written it\u2019. It dredges up once again the question of authorial ownership, which, in a digital age like ours, is especially prevalent, for it has made literary anonymity almost impossible: it has been a triumph for the egotist, while for the true poet, it has been a catastrophe. Which makes the authenticity of a poet like Byrne even more startling and impressive, and something of a much needed antidote to the modern \u2018public\u2019 poet whose writing and its (supposed) importance is more often than not the result of a (mistaken) off-shoot of Roland Barthes\u2019 prediction for the future of literary criticism: that only interpretation of a work, rather than a \u2018definitive or absolutist viewpoint\u2019 will depict a work\u2019s importance; which, in the wrong hands, ends up popularizing what, by true critical insightfulness, should already have been discarded.<\/p>\n
Indeed, it comes as no surprise to see Byrne using a quote by Barthes himself: \u2018How does meaning get into the image? Where does it end? And if it ends, what is there beyond<\/em> it?\u2019; for all of his poems, while being about aspects of the poet\u2019s own life, are always offering the reader something more, as if each metaphor was indeed merely a sign directed towards the vanishing points in the dictionary of the poet\u2019s own mind, likewise, every pronoun, adverb and verb conjugation are more like signposts already in the process of being uprooted from the sediment of his always shifting syntax, for in the same way that a man might use a theodolite to measure the angles between the horizontal and vertical points on a horizon, Byrne uses his pen to show us his mind from every syntactical and semantical angle, something akin to the \u2018truth\u2019 that Borges\u2019 Aleph<\/em> reveals, in which everything, no matter what space it inhabits, no matter what angle, contains all spaces in one place:<\/p>\nOnce, I saw your face inside a mirror,
\nlooked back,
\nswallowed myself
\nin the glass.<\/p>\n
from \u2018Apparitions\u2019<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nWhen you encounter a poet like Byrne you should at least do him the service of allowing his poems to shift your own focus: from composition to decomposition, and back again, which, in itself, is an inversion of meaning and the ultimate function of it. Thus, one thing is clear after reading this important book: a finished poem cannot<\/em> (ever) be the result of the always unrealizable attempt by a poet to relate the words they themselves are writing with whatever disproportionate idea they first had for the poem before<\/em> starting to write it. Any poet who believes the contrary is a poetaster, a dilettante, or worse, a poet by reputation alone, so not, in any meaningful sense of the word, a poet at all.<\/p>\nAnd so, it is important to state then, that on the evidence of reading these poems, that Byrne allows no serviceable attribute of poetry, or reality, to escape him. Indeed, a true poetical mind like Byrne\u2019s is in opposition to a rational one such as that of a scientist, who only searches for answers if they are reliant<\/em> on questions being asked first<\/em> in order to unveil them; the poet, unlike the scientist, holds no \u2018answer\u2019 hostage, not even \u2018meaning\u2019 itself; hence the reason why Byrne, in this book as in his previous collections, continues to profoundly unnerve us, and why his poetry seems always ready to undermine the truth by replacing it with the fundament of an untruth:<\/p>\nHow is it we are
\nborn before skin,
\nlike some magic trick<\/p>\n
gasping into hope?
\nInside the mirror, I
\nbreak shape, form, re-
\nform. I cannot be fixed.<\/p>\n
from \u2018Fractalised, How do we Pick up the Pieces?\u2019<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nByrne reminds us that poetry, ever since its incipience, has never been merely a deconstructive program designed to break down reality into its emotional and imaginative engine-parts, but an occupation that has (always) been based on one of two things: either to treat God as if he was the result of the imagination, or as if he resided outside of it.<\/p>\n
To quantify the sense of abandonment felt by the Homo sapiens in the universe depends on which option is chosen: the former can only result in atheism, humanism, or mysticism, with the poet working somewhere<\/em> between the two. While the latter can result only in belief, that is in the power of something beyond the human ability to understand or imagine it. So where do those options leave the poet? Well, simply as one free to continually cut reality out from the ground beneath us. After all, only a true poet can stir the readers from the rational fixity of their sediment, for unlike say philosophy, where the absence of any \u2018upshot\u2019, or \u2018result\u2019 or, conclusion\u2019 to thought heralds the failure of the philosopher\u2019s own project, poetry is, and should always remain opposite<\/em> to reason, as Byrne himself has clearly concluded:<\/p>\nSinging out of \/ into the body.<\/p>\n
This is where the imagination unhoods.<\/p>\n
from \u2018Emanation\u2019<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nBut \u2018unhoods\u2019 who? The one who is so free, so \u2018unfixed\u2019, that he or she can afford to never prioritize speech over writing, belief over unbelief, truth over untruth, for it is for the visionary poet, as superfluous as a god prioritizing space over time, energy over matter, as each dualism, in the most creative hands, is integrally the same thing: creation<\/em> concealed or revealed by the gravity of an original idea, whether the one that began the universe or the one that begins the poem. For only in this constantly shifting state of belief and non-belief can mystery cut meaning out from under itself, which is nearly always the catalyst for a poem by Byrne. Reason enough it seems to read this collection, for amid Byrne\u2019s subversion of the written word and the masterful way in which he keeps language in a state of almost aporetic equilibrium, the readers will realize, almost at once, that they are encountering one of the least ponderous minds in contemporary poetry, and one of its most Promethean voices.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
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<\/p>\n
ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>
\nPaul Stubbs<\/a>, born in 1969 in Norwich, is a British poet who lives in Chartres, France. He is the author of several poetry collections and books of poetical and philosophical essays. His work has appeared in various magazines and anthologies. With Blandine Longre, Stubbs has translated texts by Victor Segalen, Arthur Rimbaud, Jos Roy, and Pierre Cendors. He also co-founded the publishing house Black Herald Press in 2010. His most recent books are The Carbonized Earth<\/em>, a Study of Arthur Rimbaud (Black herald Press, 2024) and Beast: The Lost Chronicles<\/em> (Broken Sleep Books, 2024).<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"For only in this constantly shifting state of belief and non-belief can mystery cut meaning out from under itself, which is nearly always the catalyst for a poem by Byrne. Reason enough it seems to read this collection, for amid Byrne\u2019s subversion of the written word and the masterful way in which he keeps language in a state of almost aporetic equilibrium, the readers will realize, almost at once, that they are encountering one of the least ponderous minds in contemporary poetry, and one of its most Promethean voices.<\/p>\n
Paul Stubbs<\/strong> reviews The Overmind<\/em> by James Byrne<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":116380,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-116373","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-criticism"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/116373","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=116373"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/116373\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":116390,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/116373\/revisions\/116390"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/116380"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=116373"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=116373"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=116373"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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<\/p>\n