Unatlassed in jeweled-shell      
&repainted nostalgias   you
ordain  me      alivegirl//   
        (nolonger) in   reach
for pennycandy dreaming&  
   deathbedweddingday
fears.        :We    miss    
the nineties    for different
     reasons: (a)drift between    
epicurean stewardship&
        halfsweet      oblivion.  
  Olivebrine baptist, 
instill   your goodness& 
    with un-tainted   hands I          
 will offer up   a saccharine
    post//built brutish
&corporeal     of notions 
too gossamer to put to 
    voice   
         or page//      &proffer
a phrase born from any-
  thing other than   feigned
     resurrection.  Through
poisonblood tak-ing games 
I expound  what is 
  yours        :mind, body&

Show me your starry-crowned Christ
  &I will swallow the skeptic.  I will
resurrect          the prayers 
       of a softeyed youth spent lying
beneath glass idols& I will wait

      for an answer       in earnest. 

We select our vices  before we have
seen enough 
                                     to know that

a burden shouldered
   in the kingdom of God    is not apt
   to be shed           in the living world 

      //yet    inside she still sits in be-
tween empty wooden pews; coral
      railroad tracks turned upward 
in reach of Elysium      //yes, stands
in the hot basement bedroombricks
blurringbefore
                    black,       empty of all
     but the Lord’s light while

      Sisyphus in rags   haunts
                         the City of Angels. 

OhbutI was so young so teach me
     of        your Technicolor Jesus&
 I will stumble into His light
like a fawn on fresh legs& I will 
  place your tired body at my feet&
I will tell you a story    from
                           the other side&
                  
     I will call it             poem
     I will call it       papercut
     I will call it microphone,
                                              Sisyphus, 

I could have taken the morning
shift on the mountain    Sisyphus,

I could have tied off your arm 
                                             Sisyphus,
I could have held 
her perfect little face in my hands
      for the next fifteen years&

if your word/my God     brought
me back     to the believer I'd just
exhaust every breath       in prayer

for all of the little lost darlings&
        what
                                could   have            
             couldhave
                         could have I 
 could have           but Sisyphus

 there is no use
                     in dwelling on it now.

Grief, in all of its persuasive absurdity, parades a 
    grand image:   my father’s failing body,   
             remade from the outcrop of my rib.
    Infinite plate-glass.   Endless lunch.   
I love you more     than
                    I want to disappear.  
  Seventy-eight floors up& there is nothing
         behind the door   but green light fantasies& 
hopes that somebody    
     might be waiting at the end    
        with a big bowl of twennyfifteen. Infinite 
      bender. Millennium Park for-ever.   I'll be
                 thirty-two 
        by the time Sharon’s medallion feels warm 
in my profligate hand again& yet I wear it round
   my neck as a liar’s trophy: 
       the only thing I have to show for those 
static years, after the last drop of Alamos 
                slithered like nectar down my throat 
           in a world       where
Strawberry still existed&       my father's heart
   thrummed frenzied& triumphant.
Formless and un-   
   knowing,         we danced on   into the night.

.

Saline supped    from the brow
   of an Iris rolls down cleaner 
 than 
          fire-sale wine, 
but there is nothing     quite
         so golden   
                        in this place.     
You     were a born forgiver    
       &my solitary glass 
 eye      still halfmeasures time
             in Californias:     
   sundrunk beachscene 
    depictions waltz-ing pitiless 
from 
     one side of the clockface 
to the next.     
         You   came of age    
  before the invention of fear,
when the unjaded   
                   could   still 
swing rent in the diner capital 
   of the world.   
Sanguinuity &wooded gaze;
   You, the mirror.     I, the fish. 

Four-and-a-half weeks worth of AA meetings and a lot of self reflection later, I’ve concluded that the urge to seek comfort in inebriety has always stemmed from a couple of fundamental and long-held beliefs:

A.) that my ability to exist within human relationships is contingent on the projection of strength and needlessness, and to allow anyone to witness me in a moment of weakness or vulnerability would either drive them away or let them in too closely for comfort, and

B.) that I am singularly and inherently rotten, and to break through the perceived glass wall between me and the rest of the world would be an impossibility.

The baffling thing is, these ideas don’t stem from a lack of support, or connection, or love- I can readily think of five or ten people that would have picked up the phone that night, and I could have said the same thing at any given point throughout my life.

This shame/masochism/otherness amalgam never seemed to have an identifiable beginning or a probable end; it simply always was. I think that’s why it always seemed like such a monolith. It’s the same concept that cinematographers use to draw in horror movie audiences: the monster is so effective because they never show it in direct light. Your mind fills in the blanks, and the images generated by an anxiety-and-adrenaline-fueled imagination are almost always scarier than anything a visual effects team could produce.

I’d spent my entire young life in half-blind operation from behind this curtain of phantasmagoria, until I had an experience that made me feel as if the breaker had finally been flipped on. It was Thursday, March 26th, and at the encouragement of someone very close to me, I walked alone into a room full of strangers. As the evening wore on, I heard person after person express the exact same thoughts and feelings- things that I had spent three decades believing that I alone experienced. All of these people, together behind the very same curtain. The frightening, esoteric, all-consuming thing had, at last, been identified. In that instant, it shrunk to the size of a silver coin.

For as long as I can remember, alcohol has been a highly romantic figure in my mind. From the accounts of writers and musicians that I’ve idolized, to the media that I’ve always gravitated toward, to my own interpersonal surroundings, I perceived intoxication to be the conduit for creativity, connection, and a full and interesting life even before I’d taken my first sip.

When I started drinking regularly in my late teens, alcohol seemed to fulfill all of my grandiose expectations immediately. I- a chronically self-conscious person- suddenly found that I could exist without inhibition. The nervousness, insecurity, and boredom that had always been an internal constant finally dulled, and this new, more outgoing version of me was readily embraced. Most impactfully, I soon realized that I liked myself better with a drink in-hand. I was fun. I was social. I was free from the pervasive weight of my own alien-ness, and I was actually, tangibly participating in my own narrative.

Alcohol was the gateway into excitement, human connection, and a persona that I wasn’t embarrassed of. It gave me permission to let go of the quiet, polished role that I’d felt trapped in and put my insecurities and pretenses down for the evening. Even through hours-long puke sessions, arguments with partners, and countless nights of forcing friends into the role of adult-babysitter, I cherished it as a close companion. My feelings remained unchanged as social substance use devolved into days spent alone in dorm rooms and apartments, double and triple dosing my SSRIs, weed-smoking and drinking away countless daylight hours. Not even a run-in with serotonin syndrome- which was hands-down the scariest experience of my life up to then- shifted my mentality in any immediate way; and when continually escalating health issues finally forced me into sobriety at the end of 2021, it was a path that I started down resentfully.

The social activities that I previously enjoyed became taxing reminders of the self that I felt I’d lost, and though I began to gain new hobbies and interests, few things seemed to hold a candle to the feeling that washed over me after a joint and a bottle of Malbec or Prosecco.

I proceeded to white-knuckle my way through several years of total abstinence, obsessing daily over how much I missed drinking and smoking without sparing a moment’s thought toward the reason(s) why I felt so dependent on substances, or the pursuit of a resolution.

Perception is a funny thing. When I look back at my personal entries from the peak of my substance use, anecdotes of increased fun, connection, or confidence are nowhere to be found. On the contrary, all I ever seemed to write about was how much I missed the climate of my life in years prior, and how empty I felt in comparison to my younger self.

Nothing humbles you quite like the realization that you’ve been running on different iterations of the same hamster wheel on repeat for… well, ever.

Ultimately, I have spent a lifetime trying to remove myself from my internal world and all of its enigmatic heaviness through any means of escapism that I could get my hands on. Intoxication, fiction, endless rumination on the past and future, starvation, limerence, incessant daydreaming- you name it. I became an Ouroboros. I stopped looking for the root of it all. I stopped looking for true sustenance. I numbly chewed at my own tail until I was forced to unravel.

I sat in the car and drank cheap chardonnay. I made my confession and waited for the world to end. Instead, I was met with an open door. I stayed long enough to see the absurdity of my perceived isolation. I saw that I was surrounded by others. I watched as they each displayed their burden. Many looked just like mine. Each time we spoke its name, it became less formidable; less obscured. “I’m Lua, and I’m an alcoholic.”

We all stood in a circle and joined hands. I didn’t pray with them, but I softened to the idea of something greater than myself. As we returned to formlessness, I thought, maybe God is just connection. Just something to be shared.

Someone said, “welcome home.” Someone said, “you never have to feel this way again.” I believed them. So far, it’s held true.

redpawed& clutch       ing your
starry crown be/tween crossed
    fingers         the          air
congeals with             recidivist
croon&christens me     liar//     
         straw-         berry I       
still bleed   salton city&    
       infinite 
           derelict corridor// blue-
diamond mausoleum& look for
   me ba-by:
            you can go     back 
   to that burnt-black
   meridian       &I, some
             by-gone    cascadia but
no/one will be there  to meet
         us      &can you
    still feel the halcyon dusk   
as it settles soft over tinsel-
    town         &tell me of verse
unbridled by flesh &straw-
         berry I'm still   lost     
&strawberry      it's still you

Fill me with your virtue 
  &I will search
   for the land   between 
abstinence &devourment.
    Ask not of this secret 
sickness, for there can
   be no crime  
        without spectacle. 
 Revered//recession. 
       Love is earned 
through faultlessness. 
  Aqua vitae
       down the drain-pipe.    
They all looked like
 ants    from atop the 
tightrope: one foot /in
     front of the other.
Aqua vitae   in the hand. 
There is so much
  I want/ed to tell you but
I am far too tired 
   for the killing of any-
more darlings tonight. 

As a relative outsider, the first thing that strikes me about the heavy metal community is just that- community. Looking out into the energetic sea of bodies that packed Ferris Wheelers last night, I saw enthusiastic fans of every age and walk of life, all united in celebration of the brilliant and forceful Chaos A.D. Given that the album originally hit the shelves in 1993, it was my expectation that most of the show’s attendees would be those who experienced the height of thrash metal firsthand, but I was delighted to find that many of the most fervent headbangers were school aged children; eager recipients of the seemingly eternal torch that is the metalhead identity. In an age of trends that fade out as quickly as they appear, it’s clear that metal fans continue to remain steadfastly loyal to the music that they love- steady pillars in a sea of ephemeral and ever-changing modern subculture. 

It doesn’t take a connoisseur of the genre to recognize the beauty in that image; though as the night went on, I found myself deeply engaged not only by the electric energy of the fans, but by the songs themselves. Upon watching Cavalera’s set, a newcomer might never assume that many of these songs have been routinely performed for over three decades. Each vocal line, riff, and drum hit was delivered with a freshness and tenacity that made one fact abundantly clear: this is a band that approaches their material with the same level of enthusiasm and commitment to excellence whether it be the first or thousandth performance of a song. 

The moment that the pummeling drumbeat of “Refuse/Resist” rolled out across the lawn at Ferris Wheelers, the air came alive with the sort of electric energy that can only be felt when in the presence of musical greatness. There’s a reason why the Cavalera brothers have maintained such revered status among fans and peers alike- every note was administered with such brutality and precision that it was impossible not to join in the spirited movement of the crowd. Siblings Max and Igor weren’t the only members which commanded attention, however. Bassist Igor Amadeus Cavalera and guitarist Travis Stone held equal dominion over the stage, wielding their instruments with such accuracy and zeal that I found myself frequently lamenting the fact that I had to pull my camera away from any one artist in order to capture the next. 

Coming away from the experience, I not only hold a new appreciation for the camaraderie and atmosphere that surrounds the metal genre, but for the music itself; and for Max and Igor Cavalera’s brilliant work in both Cavalera and its predecessor, Sepultura. As I write out the last of my thoughts, the space around me is once again filled with the brutal soundscape of Chaos A.D., though this time, it is the result of my request to borrow my metal-enthusiast husband’s timeworn copy of the record. Though I claim no authority on the subject of heavy music, you don’t have to be a seasoned metalhead to know when you’ve witnessed an incredible performance, and what I witnessed last night was just that. And, who knows- after the interest that this record has sparked in me, the next time a Cavalera show comes through Dallas, you may even catch me at the barricade instead of the photo pit. 

In my sacred remoteness, there is 
nothing but to turn the story 
over&over.     An echo, soft& resolute
from the vacant aperture of my mind: 
how this woolen shell     
once housed life interminable. 
Billions of tiny atoms. Syrup& soil. 
I consider reaching out for it, 
but I won’t.   While playing spectator 
from somewhere outside of my body, 
the breath of some limp& rough-hewn 
thing fills the blackness with its carrion 
stench. Housed in that sordid chrysalis, 
    you could never have cared 
for something alive; dappled tender   
in delicate snowball hairs.
Laid end-to-end, they’d likely span 
the distance from here to eternity& 
     then what? 
We’d rebuild my childhood livingroom
from the wreckage of the blue house?  
Comb porcelain shards 
                  from each other’s hair?
I doubt I could feel at home in a place 
where nothing depended on me to fill
its little glass food bowl each morning,
    but I’ve watched ages pass 
in geographies less tenantable& you 
    know 
       better than anyone
how little a person can get by on&
          still christen it living.

This is one that I literally finished today and it could be the most on-the-nose, sad and self pitying thing that I’ve ever written, but it was extremely cathartic to work on. It’s kind of an offshoot / part two to the poem “Pink Elephant.”

My guitar is egregiously out of tune.

STRAWBERRY

blind at the core of amber sunburst

wishing the astral weeks away

wrapped in the sleeves your bloodstained t-shirt

too weary now to meet the day

strawberry, I’m empty

can I hide?

strawberry, who don’t ask for much

what was painted as strength-

baby, it’s just disappearing

strawberry, I’m not drunk

but I miss the feeling

don’t reach from my hand

you know I don’t have the answers

& god damn, won’t you learn to hold your own?

is this all that there is:

poisoned womb to bear the feeble?

if you loved me, you’d all leave me alone

strawberry, I’m empty

can I hide?

strawberry, does it turn around?

I steal from myself

& they say it looks like healing

strawberry, they’re all drunk

& I think I’ll die missing the feeling

I crave what can’t take

it’s an easier ache

than a glint of expectation in the eye

the steady mask of Atlas is a lie

strawberry, I’m empty

can I hide?

Thanks for coming to my TED talk; love y’all <3

Joanie on the turntable& greathungerhips: 
you know Sharon had a nice, strong Gaelic 
name      before the boy who worked 
at the station. Cracked feet& Copperopolis: 
can’t you see that I’m not really here? 
Gone back to Chicago          to search 
for my electric. A pale imitation. 
A wishing well. Afraid of disappearing, 
I saddled up my Time Machine.   
Snake's teeth deep on the floor 
spinning Galaxie, baby, thatgoodshit 
that we both like, baby,     come pick 
me up, baby, I can’t see my own
reflection anymore.    Just when you think
there’s nothing left to give, they’ll ask you    
to turn out your pockets.      
Hold a dollar.       Open your mouth.  
Is it that we only turn toward belief 
in the afterlife        once we feel   
that we’ve run out of do-overs in this one?   
I’m sorry, okay? I get it now. I’ll wait 
for you in the pews. Cross my heart. 
Front row.      It feels like only yesterday
I was prowling around your neighborhood, 
pinkskinned& blind-drunk, baby, 
I called out, baby, over&over& 
where were you?   Ohwell, maybe
next time. Maybe in the next one.

The transition from April into May has been a bit of a rough one- though thankfully still smoother than the best moments of 2024 (it’s all about perspective, right)? After several months of luxuriously smooth sailing, my brain has finally found an opening for a bit of a dip, owing mostly to the extreme and unrelenting level of busyness that Spring has brought upon my life. As someone who tends to fall dead in the middle of the introversion-extroversion spectrum, I don’t handle total idleness or a packed-out calendar very well, and after a solid month of the latter, I can safely say that I’ve passed the point of complete burnout. Most of these plans have been positive ones, though there have been moments of interpersonal heaviness, especially in recent weeks, that have helped to close the gap between me and the wall that I’ve now hit a little bit faster. 

SCA Expo was kind of the beginning of the end, and I guess enough time has elapsed now where I can start to put some of it down on (virtual) paper without immediately being launched into weird-grief-land. After roughly a year of chasing down a friendship that had, in hindsight, started to present itself as pretty imbalanced a long time ago, I finally had to admit that it was time to call it. Like any prideful Avoidant who only attaches themselves to a new person once every few blue moons, this admission was no easy task, and my proverbial “last straw” was followed by a painful, hours-long rapid-cycle through all of the stages of grief that I should have started working through months ago.

Full disclosure- I think the ego hit of accepting that I am not, in fact, above the experience of doggedly pursuing a connection with someone who seems thoroughly indifferent to my existence was almost as painful as the decision to let go of the connection itself.

At the end of the weekend, I came away from Expo not only about $400 poorer, but also deeply, deeply humbled… however, all of this is not to say that the event itself wasn’t amazing. The SCA did a phenomenal job of curating a fun, educational, and community-driven experience. I’ve never seen so many coffee products or coffee people in one space before, and I’m greatly looking forward to future iterations of the event that aren’t overshadowed by my own inability to know when to admit defeat. 

On top of a myriad of other time demands that haven’t been taxing or transformative enough to make the cut for this post, I’ve been in what is probably the most obsessive phase of music making that I’ve experienced in my adult life. I’ve been practicing bass daily for three months now, and I’m finally starting to see enough improvement that I might consider filming and posting some progress updates on here soon. The bass playing has been my pillar of sanity throughout this whole period of time, and I’m grateful to have a grounding, gratifying activity that I can turn to every night. I’ve developed a routine of, as a precursor to learning new songs, playing along with the same set of Screaming Trees videos every day- a ritual that I’ve jokingly started to call my “baby sensory video time-” but as absurd as it probably looks, I think my continued access to “All I Know (Live on 2 Meter Sessions)” has been the only thing standing between me and a Menty B of epic proportions for at least a week or two now. 

I’m also in the middle of tracking a new song, which I intend to be both a single and the first contribution to an EP that I’d like to release at the end of the summer. Due to an unfortunate combination of perfectionism and lack of experience, tracking is an absurdly long process for me, so I can pretty much count on this collection of songs fully taking over my life for the next few months. Luckily, my sweet and talented husband has agreed to track guitars for me, but bass and vocals are still a daunting undertaking that will require a lot of time, practice, and the easing up of expectations. It’s exciting and energizing to finally be in the process of recording the songs that I’ve spent years of my life writing, but I’ve already decided that recording will be relegated to the summer in the future, because summer is the only season that can pretty much always be counted on for relative calm, both at work and in life. Thank God for the tranquilizing effects of extreme Texas heat.

I guess that’s mostly it for now. Overall, I would still say that I’m in a pretty happy + fulfilled era of life, but I am desperately hoping that the a-lot-ness of recent weeks calms Way The Fuck Down very, very soon. 

Allow me to close this off with a list of my current Ins and Outs: 

IN: unfettered access to 90’s music media, impulse instrument buying, Vyvanse, the gym, Logic Pro, road tripping, being left on delivered by Grant Lee Phillips, ambient lighting, the snails that live on our front porch, NA IPAs, peace and quiet. 

OUT: being overbooked, eight hours of sleep, begging for crumbs, chronic fatigue, dropping your iPhone in the toilet. 

VERSE // On bloodied feet I trod the length
of the Salton Sea Desert,              drowned 
between white tiles               for forty days& 
forty nights              in pursuit of your light.   
CHORUS // Burned inferno-colored icons 
into the television set, cut teeth& finger-
prints           on holy ancient devotionals         
in pursuit of your light.  VERSE // Adorned
plum-knees with Rorschach ornamentals,
christened ascending vapors stout&syrupy    
with recitations      in pursuit of your light.
CHORUS // With a cherried body,     I was 
reckless with my confessions: sang hymns& 
supplicated               from sea to shining sea, 
published sins& ciphers, 
rewrote histories& folded chronologies
in pursuit of your light.        BRIDGE // 
There it is, that  goldenyellowmomentthat
veneratedrelicthat time when archangels 
could be heard prophesying       through 
the radio ohcouldntyoujust reach out and 
graspitoh howcanitbethat you were right
there: right there! sowarmandaliveso 
prettyandsickso          full to the brim with
rot-gut& truth?       CHORUS // Here I offer 
this solitary communion, shuteyed& un-
furled, lamblike on your alter, openpalmed
&desolate, devoid& asking, 
devoid& 
                                                          asking. 

                                    I.
                                            anesthetized &
half-floating I wonder 
if this is some watered-down version 
of what the boys felt like            twenty
milliliters every four hours until symptoms
     subside                    discontinue
use after seven days                 why 
would anyone enjoy this     sortofaddled 
couchmeltingfeeling     this prescription 
affords me some semblance of normalcy 
                                               thank God but
it’s ill-advised     to take it in conjunction
with most over-the-counter  
                                           coughsyrupsyeah 
okay I can see why // 

                                  II.
girlwhatiswrongwithyou  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
it’s the kind of technicolor spring day
that may only exist for another week-or-so 
            before the earth’s crust breaks open
and I’m sitting inside like an asshole 
                                                     hey ,man
give yourself some grace you can barely
                                                    yeah yeah but
if I keep sitting here what’s stopping me
from spending like another    seven years in
a state of idle igiveupagain:|| 
                   rinse(bed) (twist) (pack) repeat ? 

                               III.
it’s not a fear of aging; more a
                                       thereissomuchtodo  
and to my great disappointment
upon reaching the mouth of the cave
there stood no exit agent
                               handing out time vouchers

I stole your three-year souvenir
from it’s dusty retirement, still and 
settled among its peers. Now it sits 
in my woven wallet, moon-bright and 
       solitary-     
a tether, a testament, the first 
      of its kind.       Time 
only amplifies the truth 
of what we’ve all known from the days 
of taking refuge on back porches 
while the adults argued over what-ever &
Highway 61 nearly wore itself smooth on
your ancient wooden turntable:   we
really did have everything in common;        
the ugly        and admirable         and all
of those little realms in-between-
the places from which all of the best 
stories are born. It’s a pity that you left 
during the height of it. We would have 
so much to discuss on the other side, 
        like
is your other side anything 
        like my other side and 
good God, is the other side 
going to feel more like a tempest 
        than a starry crown forever?   
Correction: 
       it’s a pity that you left at all. 
We would have so much to discuss 
       about everything, like
why do I feel most myself while
in bed with my vices and 
was that you at the last Dylan show;
that overwhelming yourhousesmell 
that washed over me for a second 
during Ballad of a Thin Man and 
Mom and I are doing so well,      watch, 
she’ll be one of the first to read this and
eight years have gone by and

the chasm of your absence 
still swallows everything
             
                             in its wake. 

Turning a small metallic beacon in hand, the feeling
bubbles up    a leviathan     but     the words
never come.  I think of the anointed translators, and 
how they’ve all gone under to sleep.        I carry
some invisible  torch / string / sickness / maybe
in the next life I’ll be your confidante;        we’ll 
trade books, medallions, stories          of our Befores 
over coffee and a shared cigarette. Maybe
in the next life I’ll be your mother,  hold 
your sweaty little palm on our walk to the park; we’ll 
eat berries from a wicker basket, stick 
our purple tongues out at each other, laugh 
until our bellies ache. We’ll have a house full 
of music and a Christmas tree adorned 
with endless iterations  
of your ceramic handprint              and you’ll never 
think to ask if you are worthy / loved / good / you’ll 
probably grow up         without much to write about;
get some office job, sing only in your car 
on the drive home, or sometimes for me-     
if I’m especially lucky. 
We’ll play host to a library of the greats, 
hand-delivered by the famed poet Belle Starr 
who will often stay for tea      
                                      and likely outlive us all.
In the life thereafter, we’ll return to our homes
beneath the land of light, under the earth’s mantle-
      the place
where diamonds are formed     and beauty is born                              
out of burning.       We’ll turn ourselves inside-out, 
rot and viscera laid bare        for all of the tourists 
to ogle. We’ll document the wonders of a world 
we cannot touch, 
interpreting / translating / immortalizing / all
                 of the precious things that evade us. Yes,    
in that life, we will return 
to our preordained places    
            on the other side of the glass; but                                        
in this one, 
the sun will warm our faces as we throw 
our leftover blueberries into the lake
for the ducks to eat. You’ll fall asleep 
in the backseat at dusk. I’ll carry you upstairs in my arms.
I'll lay you down         
                     
                                                to rest.    

As I come closer to the end of my 20’s, I find myself doing a lot of reflection regarding who I want to grow into, and who I’ve left behind. Though there are many elements of my younger self that I’ve been relieved to move on from, there are others that I’ve felt an acute sense of loss from the shedding of- namely the lack of self-consciousness that allowed me to spend much of my time on stage in various capacities. Somewhere in my transition into adulthood, a major shift happened, and I found myself letting years slip by while I stood behind a new and seemingly impenetrable curtain of fear; a fear that has informed nearly every decision I’ve made for the better part of the decade. 

The launching of this project signifies an end to that era; a stepping out from behind the curtain that has impeded my participation in the world around me, and a shedding of the walled-off, muted caricature that I’ve been presenting in my own stead. It’s a re-embracing of emotion, authenticity, and vulnerability. The songs are raw and personal and thoroughly lacking in technical proficiency, but they’re a representation of me that I feel deeply connected to.

After weeks of trying to record these songs the “right” way- each element tracked separately to a click, often line by line- and hating the results, I decided to try recording the way that most of my classic folk heroes did. I set my mic up on my computer desk, placed roughly halfway between my guitar and I, and started putting down one-take versions of some of my songs. I found that, though they were less dynamic and technically competent, the emotion came through much more effectively, and I was getting results that I liked better overall. 

This song was written in less than 10 minutes toward the end of a near-all nighter, and this take was recorded the night after, following a long and sleep deprived work day. At the potential detriment of my sleep schedule, I discovered that recording in a tired, somewhat out-of-it state took away a lot of the self-consciousness that had made most of my past sessions so fruitless. Of course there are a thousand things that I’d change about this take, but I think it carries the mood of the song well, and if I wait until I achieve the “perfect” take to release anything, I fear I never will. So this is it- both my first demo, and the scariest post I think I’ve ever made. Icarus Awry is now out on Bandcamp. 

(Link to Icarus Awry)

(The my boy frankie Instagram page)

Each time I’ve stepped into the shower since they began their minuscule invasion, all of the things that I wish I could ask you tumble through my mind. I scroll through a social media page that has laid untouched for several years. I think of clicking the “direct message” button in the top corner. I picture the message sitting unseen in your inbox for all time; a flower planted on the gravesite of someone who will never witness its bloom. Or worse yet, I picture some unknown relative reading what was meant for your long-gone eyes, the aftershock of your absence driving through their chest like a knife. “Who does this stranger think she is,” they’ll think, “to reach for the hand of my ghost?” 

I think of what I would have said if I’d been in the right place at the right time; if I hadn’t so stubbornly ignored the call of connection all those years ago. Or what I would say now, in some alternate timeline where my words could travel the distance between our two alive bodies and set off a bell in your warm denim pocket. Music, of course, is a topic that would exhaust any allotted word count. Which comes first, lyrics, or melody? Poetry or song? Do you draw from a past that hardly feels real, or does your pen run red with ichor siphoned from wounds still raw? Isn’t it funny that our first loves were the same? Isn’t it funny that, in all our lives, neither of us have found a place to put any of this down? Here, see my open palms, let me take some of your burden. I will lift it from your shoulders and carry it on mine; I am younger, my body unmarred by a lifetime of self-punishment, and you have been weighed down for far too long. 

Have you heard this song? It kind of reminds me of the not-you that I’ve created in my head. A phantasmal companion. A melancholic genius. A grief-monolith. I think not-you would like it. I think not-you would understand. 

Let’s get a coffee. Let’s trade first drafts. Let’s write the next great American record.

Let’s send each other beat-up copies of the books that created us. Please highlight your favorite lines. Please tell me your story from start to finish. Please give me your confession; let me absolve you of your most unspeakable sins. Let me tell you that you’ve done good. Let yourself believe it. Let yourself forgive yourself. Hurry now, before it’s too late. 

Come out from wherever you’re hiding and tell me, where do all of our atoms go? 

“To the stars, my love.” 

To the stars.

   on the come-up, 

sanitizing the door knobs 

to Alice 

        In Chains

      warm laundry, dirty chai, 

   snow 

covers the ground, the

mythological boys

                         those

storied old gods of chaos 

would have been bored 

to tears 

            but 

It is Wednesday, 

the dogs are fast asleep

on the green

             shag rug,  

and  I love you.