from one flightless bird to another.
kiwi!
a mellifluous cacophony
“You can’t have one.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a contradiction in terms, it’s an oxymoron.”
“Whatever, it’ll be my band name.”
“Yeah? What do you play?”
“I’m learning the guitar.”
“Is that right.”
“That’s right.”
“You and everybody else.”
“Yeah. Well, at least I’ll have a good name.”
“God you’re annoying. You’re not starting a band.”
“So what.”
“You barely know three chords on the guitar.”
“That’s true.”
“You’re just being stupid, none of this is real.”
“Is that important?”
“You can’t have a mellifluous cacophony, it’s literally impossible.”
“Watch me.”
“Do you want another drink?”
“You just watch me.”
banshee beat
“You have your fits, I have my fits, but feeling is good.”
Animal Collective is a difficult band to talk about. Even in their heyday they were often unsettling, discordant, abrasive. They were also amazing musicians, but it took some time to parse that out. The path generally went what is this noise? Is he screaming? Then, ah, wait, there’s something happening here. Then oh shit, it’s something rocking.
Banshee Beat, for me, is them at the height of their powers. It’s not the best audio quality, that chick in the audience keeps screaming over the chorus, but still I always come back to this specific performance. The time of day, the way it comes together, the color of the sky, I don’t know. I don’t have a favorite song, but I do have songs that would be in the discussion. This. This makes me calm.
wasted
To the first drink of the evening — a love song.
“When I have nothing left, I’ll have you
to myself.”
Give Me Everything
I was tired of everything and I think she was too. We were sitting on a park bench drinking, sometime in the late afternoon. My old nemesis the sun was still too bright but fading. She handed me the little pint bottle and I finished it.
“It’s too bad you’re such a selfish bastard,” she said as she leaned back. Her heart wasn’t in it though. I looked down at the empty bottle then back at her and shrugged.
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. You’re very beautiful, you know that?” Her head was back against the bench and her eyes were closed. She barely moved. Just slow breaths.
“Shut up with that.”
I left her there and went to the shop. When I got back she was asleep on the grass. I lay down next to her, opened the bottle and lit a cigarette. One arm behind my head, feet crossed on the grass, I listened to her breathing. The sun was setting and the sky was changing colors. Not too bad, I thought. Not too bad at all.
be kind, and i will tell you
be kind and i will tell you
of the breaking place
where strong legs buckle
and stitches start to burst
touch my face and i will tell you
of the breaking place
where you clutch your boulder
with shaking hands and kick
to keep from drowning
kiss my cheek and i will tell you
of the breaking place
where the whole weight
of the world is not enough
where the world itself
looks down
and away
take me home
and i will show you
we do it to ourselves.
what are you doing the rest of your life?
Composer, innovator, addict, legend. Bill Evans.
christmas card from a hooker in minneapolis
Tell it again, Tom.
I’m getting another beer, I’m finally feeling drunk; tell it one more time.
the softest lights
to surge and burn into the turn
you eat the past, you drink the urn
then retch and fill the empty places
to the brim with frowning faces
there amidst the countless heads, the sad remains
of joy gone dead,
a seeking eye
on moonless nights
can just make out
the softest lights.
unattainable
I went looking for live versions of old favorites a few weeks ago and stumbled upon this gem. I had no idea she was gorgeous. This kills me. That woman, that voice, that lovely little melody, those lyrics that break my bandaged heart.
Mm.
Beautiful.
notes at a wine tasting
when she tipped back and sipped
the red wine she looked down
at the ripples in the glass fanning
back as it flowed in and down
through her throat all the warmth
spreading up into the space
behind her eyes where her brain
peeked up arcing and beyond
the sun bursting and beyond
the stars and beyond them the rim
of the darkness stretching huge
fanning rippled forever then down
down into burgundy wine down into
her stomach into molecules beyond
them the darkness stretching tiny
forever towards an infinite point
from her middle where she sat
herself like a liquid now flowing
in a flesh colored glass she closed
her eyes she closed her eyes she
closed her eyes and she drained
her glass let it linger in drops there
suspended in a time before time
started once more with a knocking
on the door of the stall come to find
her in there alone all disheveled.
the big ship
Brian Eno came to me at the nadir of one of my darkest times. Something precious had cracked and broken in my hands, and all inside was rot and darkness. I put this on, my breathing slowed, and every night I somehow fell asleep. To this day it always makes me feel better. Like everything is only and exactly how it ever could have been. Like this, just this, is enough.
The Great Dragonfly Migration
The dragonfly hovered, then settled on the snowy railing. He watched it sit and stretch its wings, graceful, full of dignity. It was night and dark and soft snowflakes fell in silence. It was a perfect little thing, he thought, this dragonfly. The deck shook under steps and a shadow fell across them both.
“Fuck you, Carver.” He looked up at the face, cast in shadow by the porch light behind it.
“What?” He was very drunk.
“I said fuck you, Carver, you little bitch, why are you even here?” He couldn’t remember what he had done. His whole body felt numb and he lifted his cup to his mouth. The shadow reached out and knocked the cup from his hand. It hit his lip on the way down and spilled beer all over his shirt. He stood there, dripping and rubbing his lip.
“Well…”
“Well, get the fuck out of my house, how about that? Stop drinking my beer, stop trying to talk to my girl, just get the fuck out of here. Why are you even here?”
Oh right, the girl. He wished he weren’t so drunk. There was another shadow behind the shadow, this one smaller, with long hair. “Hey.” He lifted a hand and sort of waved.
The fist came quickly, but he was calm. He figured there were a number of ways this could go. It seemed strange that the punch hadn’t connected yet, so he ducked. It whistled over his head, but he had ducked so far down, he now found himself in a sort of awkward crouch. It was strange, he wanted to giggle.
He was at shoe level now, and there were two right in front of him. They were slipping in the light dusting of snow, sliding away from him. As he rose up from his crouch he felt a great weight press down on his back, then it was gone. He heard a shout and a crash. Rubbing an eye, he turned to look over the railing and saw a fresh black hole in the bushes below the deck. There was much shaking down there and what sounded like crying. He sort of felt like crying himself.
“Bye,” he said to the little long-haired shadow.
“Don’t talk to me,” the shadow said. “Why are you even here?”
He left. As he walked through the crowded party nobody noticed his beer-soaked shirt, in fact nobody noticed him at all. He wondered about dragonflies. Did they migrate? Hibernate? He couldn’t remember ever seeing one in the winter before. They couldn’t all just die when it got cold, could they? No, that was crazy, he thought, there must be some place they go.
butterfly
Something soaring for the morning. I have a real weakness for slide guitar, and for bands who clearly love what they’ve created. Watch the rhythm guitarist. Call yourselves whatever you want, fellas, you’ve earned that terrible name. Delicate Steve? Whatever. I’m all in.
can’t leave the night
When I first found this band it felt like almost. Not quite. It was jazz at heart, and it rocked, and the drums were on point, but something was missing, some kind of hook. After trawling through three albums, I finally found it. Them spectral, ethereal keys. Them drums. Mm.
a little light with which to work
grant me this for now i beg
desperate grant me nothing else
if only this a little light the faith
in this the work here let me toil
lonely lonely i don’t mind
just grant me this i beg you
grant me faith the strength to lift
and wield it like a weapon
lonely lonely i will drill
down here in the deep to raise
it shouting filthy still and shining
from my fist it will come dripping
squirming wet and running
to my workshop in the fires
lonely lonely i will craft it
fine and fragile grant me this
the faith the strength to work
the bellows blow the flames
to bend it in the fires smooth
the shape to craft it beauty inset
into beauty grant me this
if nothing else for then i will
have lived and through me it
will shine and be the reason
if i find it here and make it
to the surface all the set-backs
all the cave-ins and explosions
will be nothing grant me this
i swear if nothing else the faith
to work here in the darkness lonely
just a little light enough to make it
someday shouting filthy climbing
rising laughing up and shining
from the deep to swell the clouds
and burst across the sky.
buriedfed
He only ever put out two albums, and Pitchfork slit the second one’s throat. Last I heard he was doing carpentry for Urban Outfitters. I saw him play once, years ago, on my birthday– It was glorious. His name is Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson.
water damage
Filmed off a dock on Cayuga Lake, then edited in my bedroom. For a while my computer was just a machine for playing this on repeat.
Joshua Clark Orkin
to live as you are able
the little housefly tried to warn
me of the grinding gears of time
and the spider turned as well
to me and spoke of years
of wind and water wearing
down the world as the cat
behind him said in muted purrs,
“this is just the way of things”
and looked up at the window
of our bedroom where the crow
saw his own reflection and inside
we said the words and fell away
ripping shards and shreds of skin
and then the spider spun the fly
and the cat leapt clawing
and the deserts spread to eat
the falling earth as it degraded
in its ending orbit as the crow
frantic at our window banged
and banged at his reflection
and the little housefly said to me
from his last embrace, “it’s time
to go and live as you are able.”
wait for the moment
A little sweet childhood reminiscence funk, to set the mood. One of my favorite songs in a very long time.
Ladies and gentlemen, Antwaun Stanley:
B-Side: 1612 // Sky Mall // Beastly
Bindle (n.) – a bundle, usually of bedding and other possessions, carried by a hobo.
It’s time.
I’ve been wandering this world for nearly a decade now– Four continents, no career, no money, and a growing bindle of beautiful things. So I’m putting together something, a collection of somethings. Some will be mine, the rest will be what I love. I expect it will largely be music and writing. Stick around, spend some time with me, roll your eyes at my self-indulgence. Anything could happen. This life is wild and full of wonder. I hope to reflect that, here, with you.
Joshua.
handkerchief tied to stick 