how it was

 Journal Dressing, Carol Ann Carter.  Burns, stitching, tea, mixed media on linen, 20 x 31".

Dear The Future,

I wrote all this out for you, so you'd know how it was back then.  But, it was lost, misplaced, and so it has remained, missing for three years.  I am going to start again, from the beginning.

Here is how it really was:  I was put into the care of two nice people, as a baby.  My real parents' were a raven and a rainstorm.  For a long time it confused me that the two nice people would tell me to 'be quiet' and not to be 'bossy,' because these words made no sense in my language.  Still, we got on well enough.  

I spent an enormous amount of time waiting; in cars, in parking lots.  It's funny though, because I like sitting in cars, and I like parking lots too; even though there was so much time spent in them.   I used to look up at the cream colored headliner of the car's backseat, and focus beyond it; the perforations in the vinyl would move towards me; I tried to get the pattern of dark holes to descend close enough to touch my nose.

When the car was moving, the moon was always with me, following for hours, never overtaking, never slipping behind, always right there.

When moving, in this way, there were so many wonderful intersections!  The airplane going crosswise, just over the tip of the pine, the train on the overpass just when I was under; all these amazing nodes of space and time.  Anyway, that's what I saw, and that is how I began to think.

you were right

 

Dear Y'all,

This is your song of the day!  It's a beauty.  Let it grow on you, by playing it 6 or 7 times.  For me, it has all the things I love in a David Bowie song.  A kind of strange inner space that the lyricist is coming from, and all kinds of changes in intensity.  I think you are going to love it!

painted pastilles

 

it was like this

 

Dear Reader,

A sort of a story for you today, which I hope will amuse you.  I hope it will be a nepenthe for your weariness and sorrow.

part one:

There was a concrete driveway that sloped away from the garage- it met a large pool of macadam.

It was not a lone Victorian with lace curtains.

part two:

I was not an orphan, in a high garret.  

I lived on a high plain, far from everyone; and I had a radio.  A large, 1950's one, with a lot of beguiling veneer.  Late one night, listening close, and secretly, I heard pilots and static.  Another time, I heard Language is a Virus, and it opened a wide space of possibility.

part three: 

This is maybe not yet written.  It might go like this:  They moved away.  They packed up a big, black automobile, and they moved.  They left a lot of broken dishes and a rusted screwdriver.  They left a worn down broom and a broken umbrella.  They left a hole where a camellia bush had grown.  They left a sprinkler.  They left some bent wire hangers.  They left two receipts and a torn photograph of a woman on a horse.  They left a photo of a man waving from an ocean liner.  They left a cassette tape and a bottle opener.  They moved.  Away.  They packed up.

More mesa.

 

tiny curtains

 

Dear Radio-Dodo Heads,

Here is a great song for you, for today.  If you will permit me the suggestion, I hope you will listen to it once, with closed eyes & monitors; and then, listen while watching, because it is a very enjoyable music video.

PS

Dry Cleaning is a pretty great band; try Leafy, which the one my DJ played for me last week.  Knackering drinks with close friends indeed!  Are there llama plushies here?!

blue hats

 

Dear October,

If your memory serves you well, this is your song of the day, and you are a lucky month, because I have more versions for you!  Try this one.  

Or this.  

This one, and that one.  

Also this one.  

Plus this one.

This one, too!

And this!  

Another one!  

One from TV! 

Another!  

One from June!  

No vocals!  

Lastly!