Bonaparte
1. Turning. 2. Tumbling. 3. Driving. Stop. Fumbling. Falsify. The circling. Fake. Circling back. Fantastic. Oh. Did you know? Did you? Once more. More. And more. More. Gripping. Silence. Circling. Stop. I stop. I stop.

The rooms were stacked one upon the other. The rooms? Rather the frames, the skeletons of rooms sitting on wooden pallets along the road. Highway 40. Bluff City. This patch of growth in the prairie. Below the bluff the fields stretched for miles, flying, leaping across small rivers and over sad decaying structures. The rooms, the frames, were stacked upon one another sitting in the middle of this tiny village, across from the house with the white picket fence and the sealed attic room. I was told that they were hotel rooms left over from a tornado. And every time we drove past them I could see the swirling air and hear the screeching train of storm pulling them apart. These thoughts were frightening and comforting at the same time. If this sort of horror happened to something so close by it would never happen to me. Yet it seemed that every spring and autumn, as the weather so drastically changed, we spent at least one evening sitting at a card table in our candle illumined basement listening to the battery operated radio. In that span of time, while waiting for the all clear, I imagined those shells of metal waiting to be swept away once more.



http://www.cocteautwins.com/

Neighboring Sparrow

ASTW Presents: Four In The Wild | Ruby Kato Attwood | Sparrow from A Story Told Well on Vimeo.

You were two, three, four steps in front of me. I could not stop staring at the backsides of your shoes, peaking out from the your frayed and darkened pant hem. I could not stop staring at your bobbing, careless gait. We trod, stumbling, stamping, tramping through small hills and valleys, through the thick trees on the backside of the creek, balancing on the banks, tiptoeing around darkened holes in the ground, jumping across fragmented portions where the rain had eaten away at muddy bliss. The roots were beginning to show. The undersides of the overgrown walls which lined this stream were stacked with stones and sediment. We'd wade into pools calf deep, rolled up jeans, feet steadfast in soil, toes wiggling and searching in the ancient, lovely, squishy sod.

Where was I?


Your shoes sat on the bank at this point. Socks rolled up, shoved in and forgotten. We took large sticks and made pictures in the sand. We skipped back and forth between flat rocks protruding between banks and stepped back into the water once more, proud of our Summer day balancing act.

Jordache Jump

Dear Dreary Monday,

I spin around in my chair. I cross my ankles and close my eyes. I try to imagine a periwinkle sky or the bright spectre of a Spring sunrise.

My headphones have become a headband, a musical, whimsical, and stylish work accessory.

SECRET: They are a portal.



When I walk down the hall, my heels twist out in a little dance. The taupe walls pulsate and the halogen lights flex and fumble along to the beat.

--------

Pat Jordache (whom James refers to as a drunk Canadian version of New Order. I would say more Orange Juice than New Order, but it's all relative...and it's all awesome.) has a new record (Future Songs) out on Constellation. Enjoy.


Pat Jordache - Phantom Limb from philip a karneef on Vimeo.

Cover

The morning starts as if a dream, with downed trees and misty silence.



Thoreau and I tramp down uneven cement and stone. We turn through brambles and glide over patches of green.

What is this day? Where did everyone hide during the storm? I spent late last night pacing the floor in my pajamas and peering out the window, watching the wind and rain sprint and then gust/gush down Jefferson Avenue. I waited for the end of the siren's piercing wail. I would not call this fearless moment. James checked the weather online and when the siren did stop, we calmed Thoreau and then slipped back into bed. As I dropped into slumber, I could hear the ever-fading voice of James telling me where one should go in case of a tornado. I dreamt of water pouring through a cracked window and the dark, musty corner of the basement of my childhood home. We sat at a card table with an emergency radio, playing cards by candlelight.

intention

For this small space in time, sitting, ankles crossed and toes curled, I feel the weight of those pints and cigarettes, that shoddy conversation, my fake smile.

The elastic curve of my forehead draws up and my breath skims and shakes. Why do I even try to pretend? What brings this flourescent light to my eyes? What blocks out each corresponding memory?

people is place

Your thin lipped, toothy smile, surrounded by grizzled, tan pallor. Your Jeans, too short, hanging loosely around your minuscule frame. Your spindly fingers grasping the bar, cutting elbows jutting behind you. Bottles line the wall. Posters blanket the ceiling. We are enveloped in the smoke stale air. The fan turns and I am alone. This darkness, this dirty dreary edgy hole. No window. Light floods from the small stage. Light lingers around the bar. Light peeks from the top of the soundboard. Stacks of chairs line one wall, the wall covered in posters and shimmering spectres of the past, thousands of staples. Thousands.

I once had a dream that I was compelled to remove those staples one by one. Hours of bloodied knuckles and splintered wood rewarded with a tetanus shot and a cold Budweiser. As I drained the last drop from the bottle, the walls of the bar started to crack and then crumble. Each in turn fell backward...leaving only the roof above us and beyond it, the starry sky brilliant.

Would you?

Swing, swing, skip, step into the dusk.

no new enhancements

but so much more. I've not posted much over the past two years. Sporadic strange descriptions of cloudy, drowsy days, a few favorite videos, mentions of local activities, small bits of news. I plan to write more, Dear Hearts, for this small gathering of friends. No expectations. Just truth through the dusty frames. Just moments of here and there. Some music. Some memories. A few small hopes. And many plans.

10

I find myself surrounded by wrinkled, sad laundry and warm air and evening light. I am serenaded by Mark Kozelek's ACDC covers and the whirring hum of our new bronze toned vintage-looking oscillating fan. What is this time? What is the time? And where are you? Days and hours and minutes away, in a solemn room, in a neighboring country.

watch signs. keep right.

a lovely and odd bicycle safety video featuring the music of Jon Brion.

Impressions of the Past

Absolutely gorgeous video directed by photographer Tim Lytvinenko

Megafaun "Impressions of the Past"
Directed by: Tim Lytvinenko - http://luceoimages.com

Megafaun - Impressions of the Past from Hometapes on Vimeo.

Learn more about Megafaun

Buy "Gather, Form & Fly" on 2xLP or CD



My friend Leah and her Lil Leah puppet on her birthday with the boys from Megafaun at the Bottletree in Birmingham, Alabama. I love this picture. It's magic.

brookwood

2004 - Charla and Tom stood at the end of my hospital bed. I felt rather tired and under accessorized. A day of steroids can do this to a girl. The white patterned cotton gown and drab bedclothes. The plain striped walls and pale pictures. The exhausted looking television in the corner of my vision. Tom and Charla appraised the damaged/damage and smiled. They knew that I would eventually be okay, no matter what. It had been quite a scare, indeed. I would make it. I would find my way. Tom handed me a copy of Modest Mouse's newest record. And as he and Charla said their good byes and departed, I slipped the cd into my discman and reclined.



...everyone's a building burning
with no one to put the fire out
standing at the window looking out
waiting for time to burn us down
everyone's an ocean drowning
with no one really to show how
they might get a little better air
tf they turned themselves into a cloud

from blame it on the tetons by modest mouse

golden mouthed moments

I didn't expect it to be like this. Not now. Not during my first quarter back at school. Not in the midst of huge promising projects at work. Not now. But with the stress of it all came this, burning and bending, bashing in all plans.

FOALS // SPANISH SAHARA from dave ma on Vimeo.

I am on the tenth day of my MS relaps-a-cation. I've started a second round of steroids. With my trusty aluminum cane and a pair of padded slippers, I've overcome biting foot pain and an unbalanced gait to get from room to room. And the rest of the time...I lie here on the futon and wait. I rest. And hour after hour passes by. The light creeps up and down the windowsill. The snow keeps melting on the lawn, all traces of winter storms disappearing. And slowly, in their own achingly quiet way, my symptoms have started to melt away as well. Yes. I know it's going to take some time. Even so, I can feel strength returning and the smile returning to my face.

James has been a wonder. He has such patience, and has given me kind and unwavering encouragement. He has this incredible ability to make me burst out into laughter, just when I begin to feel like I'm held captive by the darkest and saddest of thoughts. Friends have rallied round, sending messages of love, stopping by to visit, bringing food and news from the outside world. I feel so loved and so lucky to have this amazing support system. Thank you.