I didn't really know you very well, maybe not at all but that doesn't mean I don't care.
It's beginning to look doomy all over this many-textured globe, extracted & ailing.
Mustard gaseous skies & hourly hail. Soon none of this will exist or will become
unrecognizable. Eyes will look out but mind will go blank. Who are we? What have we done?
Even if you could come back you wouldn't know where to go to begin your new journey.
That blown over stand of hills, ridges gone, ripple of sand, shaking hands.
I wander like a wobbly clock in an irregular circle in the landscape of identity.
Buildings falling, rising, ponds filled, trees felled, concrete poured, concrete broken.
Look at the lone wild weed proudly vertical shooting through the crack in the side-walk.
You again? Here? Why?
I'd like to revert to the old century and finish the poem I was writing in the California redwoods.
I'd like them to have all their lands back and let the leaves close the curtains on my tracks.
I'd take one step back and say, hello, is anybody at home?
All my life I've been traveling backward in time. The numbers add up, true. There's accumulation, yes, from a certain point. But even beyond that there is no beginning.
What on earth are you talking about?
The trees way of walking was to slowly send out roots and branches.
There was a secret being shared with everyone who would keep the secret.
Eventually our marriage became a caravan. It took ages to grow the wheels which at first
made so much noise the deer fled. Then they got used to it. Mere movement meant them no harm.
In the eyes of the fawn I saw my own selfless self. Eating flowers.
Why do you want to be so unconcealed? So unconcealing?
In the city down there somewhere already one heard murmurs, rumors, hisses, muffled voices, slamming doors, sirens, trains, trucks, tirades. Chains of reasons people made.
I check the box but I never read the user's agreement. I've gotten used to triple, quadruple-takes.
And I still don't know what I am or what I am seeing. Only that I see.
This new album was recorded spontaneously a few days ago and in part responds to the passing of Marc Orleans, a guitarist I barely knew. I play prepared acoustic guitar. There is a juxtaposition between the inside of the music and the environmental sounds and this is why you should listen in a quiet environment. There are some deliberately harsh sounds that function as signs of the situation of human crisis with and within the natural world, as the title suggests. Thank you for your support.