ft will heel healers eternal club house ann millard alex archibald leighton griffin sarah
Georg Stejskal/emerge.of.attenuation.circuit , millards, lizzy, trish, ben chris
aly/flubber boiler uttrie

Cry Like Donna/ radio listed compilation, Miggs / Tape Leg Memory Leeks Will Erokan
crylikedonna.bandcamp.com
mercy kill
voicemail
blessing is always indecipherable
do not
diary
midnight light
written
return
etowah
to repent
bygones
remembering paw paw
read by lamplight
arctic dreaming
this am i not
for you
accept
through
holy ghost


I have some pictures of the pine. I was so often admiring the way the water unexpectedly ends in small islands, mere copses of trees nearly rising up from the berth of the lake. There was a mountain above, but maybe it was haunted: the junkyard was after all, like a beating heart exposed, and even within the house I suspected there lived an old man. Sometimes, to have a conversation, just one of us, to another, we sat on the lift. I measured a few spoken thoughts here.

Some days a walk down the way, among friends. There was this world, and there was the world outer. I did my hours of work on the computer. She often cooked, with the others. They were enamored with some terrible soap- but as a joke- there were arguments over the television. We played music from the speakers all day long.

I attempted to make homemade peanut butter. I was obsessed with gummy candy, and the bears were hidden around the house by my friends to tease me. A real bear came around back one night to mess with the trash bins. I think I was the only one who suspected such an intruder. I suspect we were happy here.

Once we discovered tadpoles in the water, but soon after it did freeze.

It was on this day that we drove in foggy weather from the pandemic New York City, those streets of Brooklyn where we had honeymooned so well in that tenuous and yet- do not mistake this- excitingly so- into the depths of New England, or past, where the snow yet gathered, and we came upon a little house in the hillside- of the mountain- the house where later, when walking upon the path- no, not the night of us alone under the full moon, or the one with my friends walking too, taking pictures of stones and stars- a different night, a different walk- I would say to you- 'I was lost, a traveler upon the road, when I saw you and you invited me in..'




september eighteen one year ago your open arms at bwi,
full cloudless night, moon:
september eighteen today no pause above kissimmee or detroit.
no staying at your mother's house, either. i walked the tiered streets that time
to take pictures of stray cats, painting your absence,
oil is a transparent fluid,
though i had been forewarned at the skate park that ultimately
you had decided you couldn't care for me and wasn't i just a cold night anyway,
someone just wishing the moon or that which heralds nothing
but rises faintly and then moves through and through
the dream of many cities beginning and ending. tonight
the mission is her deathbed: she asked if i might visit sometime;
now she is learning there is no time and therefore
concurrent all moving in different directions all place, the same.
a special relationship, i guess like the thrift store visit in your old toyota.
i drove with great ease, new ill-fitting jeans, just to put them on in front of you,
or to lift you into bed in the middle of the night as i, in my two am spite,
i used to have this wondrous invincibility and the parrot used to talk
when jimmy picked up the phone
to ask her especially about c------- with whom she was so close,
growing up. the children were each of the muses born in a different country during his
tour of duty and the ancestor your mother was to me,
privileged in our undoing though they say i will not last as long as her disease
we used to talk in the spring stream running dark of the house in that hudson river village
i call home mistakenly,
near where i hallucinated the saxophonist and my drunken friend
hallucinated a whole bridge that we would walk over
after the autumnal floods brought out all the locals for some small conversation (i don't know why you left bottlecaps all over my house-
is it because alcohol is thought of as a more acceptable drug? i miss your hours, even now
that they feel less original and true somehow. maybe i have more faith in adolescence,
or maybe i want what is raw, as if that means undiminished)
that we all happily depart from as though life has tucked us in its folds, just
can we even wish for anything more? i like to be in your house whether you are in it or away
the air, which is right/ i admire your simple life, that you have a job, and a bed, and a room to put it in,
which around eleven becomes very still and quiet though in fact it is nearly always this way,
even in the middle of the day
and her, who is still learning herself, as well as
an established sense of normalcy, without that parking lot instinct i had a few times:
when we walk, we walk to the top of the hill. we appraise the fire tower,
and look out. here is an acceptable skyline- dim and blue with a good rain coming-
and you are not so addicted to the news. my
shaman of los angeles says ,i will stay at your house,. she eats the whole
hotdog of griffin's market on the mothball main street of goodbye coxsackie,
gives good advice: ,don't buy the dress that you must convince yourself
of,, and tells two sad stories of lovers that killed themselves (like me),
so i sell the house. let me give you a ride in my new fast car
i already lost the promise for.
but i worry i have killed someone in my sleep,
or in my dreams i am, running away, but then i wake one day
closer to death. am my own imagination on the stair. where is
that ride from the airport, that goodnight kiss,
that goodbye, goodbye, that fall into my arms into the morning-
what remains of ephemera, the wonderful storm? no, age also
has been taken from me. never again, i know
you only want to kill me, and i only want to kill me
(indeed i am so ready, bare as five o'clock
on the cloud that has taken up all of the coast, remember that fool note that you
wrote me, water carton on the seat opposite the t, as if all the world in violation,
you, in violation, of you, there is no boy left, the angel overtook him,
in some orpheus moment turned round and looked back at yourself- such as
my friends on their way to buy a house in maine-
will the lake there help you unburden yourself?- whenever i see a lake i think i will die there
because it has no bottom- or do you find yourself, like an act in remembering,
no phone no shoes no house no car, off and away, cheap flight,
she tells me ad nauseam that she has nothing to say:
fitting oneself into and against the offered couch
foreign i am, and in the end i build no empire that will not turn,
to dust, forgive me? you are the innocent, i am the-
where is she, the madonna, i miss her-
sinner. i will grow my hair long.) here i am, latest member of someone else's family,
i would say, give it one day
and i must be gone before they begin to worry through the knots of my hair
with the comb that god sent them. as we are really so close to the ocean
and my moments of oblivion feel more inoperable than perhaps before,
you might look at me to open the jar. she says my friends are giving, generous
where i am inattentive. suddenly, i know all my failings
hearken back to no fixed tide but the one i will
sail out on, hoping to absolve myself of my own freedoms,
and to cause no harm is to set a fire and run. i was going to embrace her.
she later says the dream when she dreamt she loved me so much she died was in fact,
mistranslated,
unfortunate. what would i do if i cannot tell of humorous incidents? he would ask me
'have you been writing?' so seriously. i have nowhere to winter:
half the birds fly south, and the others? bend their little bones into the keep.
as for my youngest lover i suppose there is no mentioning your
virginia house now, and if you have any more love notes to disambiguate, you can always try me by email
perhaps edinburgh, or wherever, treats you well. i wish there had been
a few more sunny days in the blue truck, though i was then and now
entranced by this bright wound. it was better when i worshipped most audibly
the hills. i wish i could give him also my sacraments, for this includes
nearly all objects in his room. yes, i've been wearing it, sometimes,
around my neck like i'm all yours. my hand in your hand in my hand in yours- how can you not know it?
maybe because the moment no longer allows for it, the snow has melted, i don't know what
you prayed for when you lit your candles but you never moved towards it, and so your care has come to nothing,
whatever will we do?
i don't know if you had any thought of me as i,
for ten days and ten nights, gazed out that tower to the river of all things, my river,
still there, still, thank god, ungraspable, but i,
need to be free, want to see her- just as i cannot answer for the brave and implacable
sun moon and stars i cannot, you don't understand,
you have taken all my blood and now i have no language. speak perhaps with the corpse that i have created.
i will go down and sit by the river to remember
that last mark of gold on the frozen, ice-boats all milling,
the view from the stone station, jettisoned into. my milk feet bitten by the golden fishes
and the sound which all-engulfing, means here comes the train (a--- and i used to
count the barges from the haunted room my mother hopes to reserve soon
to visit who?). i have no use for philadelphia or brooklyn,
none at all for worcester, boston, or d.c. i forgo richmond and maine every day
and albany has since been lifted into the air by mere thinking. do you know what i see when i see you?
you, in your good-hearted shame. you, beautiful, and forgotten,
by you, i am, well-written. you shouldn't take me so seriously my friend.
i wish you would care about someone or something, and so much beyond imagining.
i wish i had given over to some sacrifice as was worthwhile, but there is no knowing,
just him and i standing over some stone in the wood, puzzled and contrite.
in a sense, the mission is going home.
it is the surrender that the sun makes nightly, going down over the mountain,
no need to even think of.

arctic dreaming
A thick snow settled over the landscape. I did not ever want to leave here. It was always midnight, I think. I waited for a clear day to take a video. I worried over physicality, but mostly slept. I worried over sanity, but mostly did. I worried over my doings but mostly stayed put. I could buy the house but I did not ever want to return. I wanted to remain in the polar, alien world, where all was a ringing color, every shade on the horizon like a bell, and the stillness absolute, magic in its own right. I considered what there was to do with my life. Could I not remain here, adjusting the radio and radiator, with my friend who spoke of the strange moss on the rocks growing at this temperature down by the harbor, or frequenting the little shop. Could I not? Here life and death seemed not so dissimilar, the beauty rendered the individual senseless.

remembering paw paw
I am so sorry if I've been too much or too little or not in the ways you needed. I especially hope you never felt obligated by me. I want to hear you so you feel listened to and can let out whatever you need to if you have that need and because I do not want to continue any harm I am responsible for. I have experimented with ends to honor this doubt, this love, but I am sorry for this too; in the end there is no sure place for me, I guess all one can do is give, lose and wander on, not knowing any better, though seeking to learn. At the same time these days all certainty is broken for me and I am hardly here at all enough that I don't want to be seen or heard especially by you who I'll always love because I hope you have greater joy ahead. I don't know what to do anymore but I thought I would at least explain so that you know I still want to honor you and your feelings.

lamplit
Your letter is all that I wanted to know so long ago, but I am grateful for the doubt that I have carried in its stead as there is no greater blessing than the freedom that not knowing sanctifies. I have been in the midst of some destructive forms of doubt I think also, and guilt, to carry me to the end and back again but somehow now I feel it is no matter, I know nothing. I am in a beautiful place, and awe is akin to just being and looking and yes even mourning. You're right that many have passed me in this walk but I think it right and understandable, it is a fool's walk and besides we have each our own ways, and often I have an intense view others need not mirror- as with anything I can be both harmful and not, even though I wish not to others, I am trying too. I am open to your apologies if you find these are what bring you forward, if it is love that you are seeking, yes I always forgive but I know this too can be unbearable to receive, we are always contending with ourselves and what this makes for the other. If you want to give I am not sure what it means to me except that I think the principle is beautiful. I have always wanted to be your friend, even your family in some sense, whatever that means, loved one makes sense; I have no idea what form that would take. Right now I am fairly absent but don't think that means I am less steadfast in my feeling for you, especially that you be well, and that you are treasured by me- maybe I am more. Maybe our love is not okay, and maybe that is okay with me. It is a good winter.



Holy ghost vid
In the next part of the story, the narrator arrives in some godforsaken middle of nowhere coal country town by the great great New River, himself foresaken and at once at home, comforted only by barren hills and the blue yonder in this farflung autumn of nothing, nothing, nothing- he walks to the station to wave goodbye to his last true friend. He is in fact, homeless, destitute, and yet too worn for the road. They say his health is gone, that of the body which perhaps is the mind. He has no job to fill the days but the circular neurosis of a lifetime of failed ambitions. The school has cut ties, and his mother wails and calls but he has no time for her. He has so much time but cannot bear the repitition. He is figuring out methods of staying alive and yet there is the illusion of scarity. He has told his life story so many times it is unanswerable, complete, a long map with the arrows all drawn back to the beginning. He thinks of the baby only, its deep impenetrable focus on the absolute dawn of all things. He has no one to see, indeed- nor a thing to do, only the light on the hills as it rises and fades. There is one chain gas station after another. The house is bought and sold, the car and all of his possessions. There is no sanctifying this retreat- he is as ominous as the self can be, awful to his core- pathologically diseased indeed in every movement and pattern. He loves and now does not love. He is tired, and when the lover calls he cannot answer for he is not here, on the earth, any longer, and cannot testify to anyone except to say that he is as crazy as they say- and so why malinger? He walks to the bridge to admire the currents, the leaves as they fall. Another day dawns and he is excited by the profusion of smells, sights, sounds. He is thoughtless and unmoved and totally taken by the world. He that is, gives himself up.

--
Cry Like Donna/ radio listed compilation, Miggs / Tape Leg Memory Leeks Will Erokan
crylikedonna.bandcamp.com
ft Georg Stejskal/emerge.of.attenuation.circuit/vekks, all listed nomad
www.attenuationcircuit.de
www.discogs.com/label/Attenuation+Circuit
emerge.bandcamp.com
emergeac.wordpress.com
in vids leighton griffin sarah
"""
will heel @shhhanthemum alex archibald
alexarchibald.bandcamp.com
release by histamine tapes & all compilation listed there
histaminetapes.bandcamp.com
healerscompany.bandcamp.com
eternalclubhouse.bandcamp.com/album/ambient-music-for-cash
ann millardhttps://sites.google.com/view/annmillard

millards elizabethharris60.tripod.com trish lizzy ben chris