Hey! Good news!
Showed up in my email box yesterday morning. The above's the email in it's entirety, when I click the PRE-SAVE UPCOMING MUSIC NOW it links to spotify and youtube and other shitty vendors I don't use, no link to bandcamp, and there's nothing at bandcamp yet though all previous studio albums plus more are there so presumably, hopefully, the UPCOMING MUSIC will be there next week *before* I drive to Michigan to see my daughter this coming Wednesday so I can listen to it on the drive there, on the drives once there to disc golf courses in the mornings, and on the drive home
The two of us see Destroyer in Ann Arbor a week from today, both Lambchop and Destroyer vacation-listening staples, I've told you this before. This will tie the score, as of today I've seen Lambchop seven times, Destroyer six. I can find no news of a US tour in support of whatever Lambchop releases next week, I would love for Lambchop to retake the lead this summer
As is now vacation policy, I have no plans to post here and I have no plans to not post here, so I may or not react to the two fake assassination attempts on Trump tentatively scheduled for next Thursday and Saturday. and may or not collect and post evidence that we are ruled by motherfucking sociopaths and may or not post photos from the Destroyer show along with youtubes of songs they played. My dam is holding but my damn is, if not ebbing, changing hue. If I play Renegade's Trail I may post a photo of the island hole but only if I birdie it
EVERYTHING'S A FAKE
Fanny Howe
Coyote scruff in canyons off Mulholland Drive. Fragrance of sage and rosemary, now it’s spring. At night the mockingbirds ring their warnings of cats coming across the neighborhoods. Like castanets in the palms of a dancer, the palm trees clack. The HOLLYWOOD sign has a white skin of fog across it where erotic canyons hump, moisten, slide, dry up, swell, and shift. They appear impatient—to make such powerful contact with pleasure that they will toss back the entire cover of earth. She walks for days around brown trails, threading sometimes under the low branches of bay and acacia. Bitter flowers will catch her eye: pink and thin honeysuckle, or mock orange. They coat the branches like lace in the back of a mystical store. Other deviant men and women live at the base of these canyons, closer to the city however. Her mouth is often dry, her chest tight, but she is filled to the brim with excess idolatry. It was like a flat mouse—the whole of Los Angeles she could hold in the circle formed by her thumb and forefinger. Tires were planted to stop the flow of mud at her feet. But she could see all the way to Long Beach through a tunnel made in her fist. Her quest for the perfect place was only a symptom of the same infection that was out there, a mild one, but a symptom nonetheless.
The Peace of Wild Things
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Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives might be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
From The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry (Counterpoint, 1999)
The Arrow and the Song
ReplyDeleteI shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
---Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1845
a performance of a musical setting of this, from fall of 2021
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJcEXU9ipYE