I feel better when you’re walking with me, as crazy as that might seem.
You grab my hand with your tiny hand, like sunlight cascading through a misty dawn.
Here we are, looking at the geese.

These days, I don’t know where I’m going.
That seems to be a theme with everyone I talk to —
we’re here, you’re there, who’s where?
My good friends, they might not make it.
My other good friends, they already lost it.
Some, a little older than us.
A little further ahead, maybe.
I see them make decisions,
I see them move into houses with staircases,
I see them disappear into something certain,
while I stay suspended in this half-light.

I’ve been having these crazy dreams lately.
I wish I wrote them down.
But I’ll try to remember something from somewhere.

Here’s one.

Luke and I were hiking, somewhere high,
where the air was thin and the trees whispered.
We climbed a ridge,
stood at the peak,
and the valley below was endless,
an ocean of green that stretched further than God.
He turned to me and said, You know, this was never real.
And I nodded, because I knew that too.

I’ve been dreaming of train stations, of platforms that stretch into the horizon,
but the doors never open, the destinations are written in languages I don’t recognize.
I watch people board, but my feet won’t move.
Too afraid to lean one way or another.
Too afraid of what that may do.

Then, there was that time.
She and I were tripping,
laughing under the streetlights of Nassau Avenue in Greenpoint,
watching the sidewalk crack open.
The sky pulsed blue and red and gold,
and I felt my heart beating everywhere at once as I felt the light shine on my skin.
She said, I think I just figured it out.
I asked what?
And she walked away.

Now, you and I were somewhere else.
Maybe a city. Maybe nowhere.
We were laughing, but I don’t know why.
I think we had just stolen something.
I think we were running.
The streetlights blinked behind us, more streetlights,
a slow, deliberate rhythm,
like something was counting down.

And then, I was driving a car, and you were still with me,
I made a wrong turn, and it launched off a ramp.
It flew high, and the wind whipped through the open windows.
My hand extended like an eagle’s wing.
We landed in the water and it rushed around us.
You said, If we want to live, we should get out.
The water rose and spun, but we could breathe,
and I could see the light breaking from underneath the surface.
Sunlight, again, sparkling like a misty dawn.

What if we ran towards the unknown?
I’ve seen this river before.
It’s the river I played next to as a child.
The river where I built a dam with my hands,
mud caked under my fingernails,
thinking I could stop something unstoppable.
Dig your fingers into the dirt.
Dig until you find springtime.
Maybe write that down.
Maybe it won’t make a difference.

These days, man, I don’t know.
Where were you when I needed you most?
I’ve been trying hard not to get into trouble,
but I’ve got a war in my mind.
Stuck by the river, you and I,
underneath a sky that keeps falling.
I’ll let you down, that’s a damn guarantee.
Years are just moments in a great big pile,
one tumbling over the next,
some sharp, some soft,
some impossible to pick up again.
My solipsistic view.
Plopped down, and I’m still coming round for you.

I remember attending that festival in Philadelphia.
Standing and waiting, waiting, and waiting,
I lifted you on my shoulders, you reached toward the stage,
bound to something, something neither of us could name.
The world was different then,
a place that seemed to make some sort of sense,
at least that’s how it feels now.
Or maybe that was the wisdom of youth.
Life ahead of me, life ahead of us, I knew all the answers.
And then shortly after you told me that it wasn’t working and included some emojis with your text message.
A week after that you told me you missed me.
I put on black Nike sneakers and walked with a bodega coffee, trying to make sense.
And now you’re married to a stand up comedian and I’m in these hills, wandering and wavering.
The air here is thinner.
Or maybe I just breathe differently now.

Sometimes the way windmills howl haunts my dreams.
I see the flickering red lights in the distance above the cornfields.
Sean and Jeff and I used to drive gravel roads.
Those Midwestern nights.
They’d smoke weed and I’d pass, not knowing I was making the wrong decision.
We’d stop the car, get out, and lean against my Oldsmobile Cutlass, listening to the Wu-Tang Clan as we tried to count the stars.
Miles of nothing, miles of everything.
It smelled like cut grass and diesel, like the storm was always just about to break.

Cultivate your own epiphanies, I suppose.
The other night, we sat by the fire.
You told me about this and about that.
I told you about that and about this.
The bush rustled and we jumped.
A deer bounded by.
Later, I asked ChatGPT what this deer meant.
It told me to pay attention to what’s ahead.
Look, sometimes I talk to the computer, all right?
I ask it to solve my problems.
I sit, and I type, and I hope.
We have more information than ever, and it’s never been harder to understand.
I watch the cursor blink like I watch the rain collect in the street outside.
I watch headlights skim across the ceiling of my house.
I watch my hands and wonder if they are different hands than the ones I had before.
I reread my dreams and wonder why I keep forgetting them.
The train never leaves. The car never lands.
The streetlights keep pulsing.
The water keeps rushing.
I wake up before we get to where we are going.

Maybe it sounds stupid, but I just thought this would be easier.

Let me learn the hard way, I suppose.
They say nature rewards bravery.
How lucky are we?
There was this Saturday in the springtime a few years ago,
next to the reservoir, high up in these hills.
The snowpack had just started melting, but it was still bare.
We sat in the bed of the lake next to the lapping water,
drinking beer and eating cheese.
Above us, two eagles soared,
spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning,
Every few moments, one would dive, reaching into the abyss.
Hours floated by.
The air was still.
The light was golden.
Everything hummed in its own quiet rhythm.
Nothing needed to happen unless it wanted to.
And then one of them dove so deep, we lost sight, and the other kept circling.
Higher and higher.
Until we weren’t sure if it was still there at all.
I don’t know where I am, but I know exactly where I am —
If you could only stop your heart beat for one heart beat.

A man wearing a New Zealand themed shirt is tuning his guitar. We’re in Austin. Not that one. The one in Colorado. It’s a tiny town that disappears if you blink. Dusty and dusty and dusty. There’s a wind warning today. I like walking around here and standing in front of the big wall of colorful barrels. Now he’s playing scales on a Martin. His New Zealand themed shirt is tucked into his jeans. He has a black belt. There’s another man reading in the booth with a cowboy hat on. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a pair of Asics. There’s a tattoo of a peacock on his arm and he’s drinking a dark beer. The walls are green and white and yellow and the chairs are orange and red and the tables are black. A man with dyed blonde hair whom I know walked in. His name starts with an A but I can’t remember it exactly. It’s 4:33 in the afternoon. Friday is emerging from the mountains. A man with a pon tail stands outside waiting at the food truck. This week it’s called Southern Belle and they sell a lot of different types of macaroni and cheese. You can get it with bacon. I don’t get anything, but I think a lot about it. I guess this is how you lose weight. Or maintain it. Or whatever. Now the man in the New Zealand shirt is waiting at the Southern Belle. He’s got a green cap on, too. A maroon truck drives by. The flag in front of the bar flaps aggressively in the wind. I notice another man in the gravel parking lot across the street walking around in sandals. I’m sorry but why are we wearing sandals? It’s no disrespect but I don’t think men should show their toes. Just one of those things. Now a CrossTrek drives by and I think about how everyone in Colorado drives a Subaru. Everyone in Colorado makes jokes about how they all drive Subarus. I fucking hate this joke. The woman I love sits in the window typing on her computer. Now I’m wondering about the book the man with the peacock tattoo is reading. It’s thick. I’m guessing some sort of fantasy. Only fantasy books are that thick. I eye my keys sitting on the black table. There’s a tiny key on the chain that was for a mailbox at an apartment in Brooklyn I haven’t lived in in 10 years. Good for cocaine. That’s why I keep it around. I don’t do cocaine anymore. Except sometimes when I do. You get it. Anyway this beer is nice and I’m enjoying the light floating through the big windows and I’m wondering about what will happen tonight. Friday at Linda’s. There’s a big show in town but I don’t want to go. I don’t really know why. Everyone in town is excited for it but I think that’s just because everyone in town likes music a lot. Like, a lot. Maybe even a little too much if you ask me. But that’s not the point right now. The point right now is, well, fuck man, it’s Friday afternoon. A big dude in a tie-dye fishing shirt just walked in. He has sleeve tattoos and gray hair. I like his trucker hat and I like the way he waddles. Now there’s an older blonde woman outside who is waiting for her Southern Belle. Her hair whips in the wind and she looks like she’s smoked 12,000 cigarettes this year alone. I like it a lot. I like this place a lot. I like the west. The hills are full of wonder and I like to wonder. Now my New Zealand friend is back inside and he’s got his food. It’s in one of those little cardboard boxes you can compost. The fork is plastic though. It will last for the next 10,000 years. He digs in. I dig the fish on his hat.

It’s a Tuesday morning and I’m supposed to be writing something about something just like you’re supposed to be doing something about something. But I’m avoiding responsibilities for the moment, choosing to live my best September cliche life — staring out the back, sipping freshly made coffee from a clay cup, feeling the crispness of fall leak through a cracked window. You know what I mean? Sometimes it’s just good to be the cliche you want to see in the world. Nonetheless, I’m here to tell you that Charles Wesley Godwin released a new album last week. It’s called Family Ties and it’s a big, sweeping record that checks all the Americana points — a whimsical blend of 19 songs featuring high hopes, deep regrets, and butterflies. Charles is from West Virginia and only 30 years old, but his voice sounds twice his age and he brings a perspective that’s three times. This is only his second album and he hasn’t been at this kinda thing for a very long time, but something tells me that he’ll be at this kinda thing for a very long time.

Listen: SPOTIFY | APPLE | YOUTUBE

There’s no particular reason I’ve been listening to music from the ‘90s lately, at least not a conscious one I can figure out. I suppose it’s a combination of general malaise towards modern culture while trying to understand what it felt like to be mad at the existence of late capitalism before the internet turned into a big dumb stupid mall. Nonetheless, during my runs along the canal, walks to coffee shops, and writing endless content about this and that and that and this — I’ve been cranking soundtracks by the Mount Rushmore of it’s-the-90s-and-I’m-not-giving-a-fuck-and-can-you-believe-the-world-is-the-way-it-is-god-damnit-what-are-we-doing-man type bands. You know the ones… Pavement, Silver Jews, Sonic Youth, Red House Painters, and, most recently, Modest Mouse. When’s the last time you listened to The Lonesome Crowded West, anyway? Just one of the best albums of all time. A friend of mine recently confirmed: It might’ve been recorded while staring through the misty distance of the Pacific NW, but the album sure does sounds meaningful while driving between Midwestern cornfields as your mind wonders if the road will suddenly end and your car will fall off the edge of the earth. Or maybe that’s just the feeling of any horizon. Or maybe that’s just what it means when you don’t know what it means. Or maybe that’s just what it is, if that’s all there is. Or maybe that’s all it ever was, dreams of something greater lost over an edge, and all the people you knew — they were actors.

Mid-August. I never know what to call this time of year. Is it the dog days? The air feels like football. The sun’s a bit lower. Some days, with that soft, light breeze, even a hot coffee seems like the right choice. Time spins forward, like it always does. But there’s more meaning to it now. We’re not lost on the boat anymore. The finishing line of our endless summer is in the distance. It’s still far away, but you can see it, right there, just over the horizon. Change is afoot. Something will be different soon. New beginnings. Back to school, back to school…

On this Saturday morning, I’m currently lost on Variable Happiness, a heady and meditative blast of psychedelia by Edsel Axle — better known as Rosali. At six tracks, it’s a brief and expansive school in guitar work, exhuding a profound sense of longing without singing a single word. There’s no desperation here, either. No attempt at a high score or perfection. The guitar playing is fluid and beautiful and confident and brilliant, like a ballerina dancing effortlessly through pain.

Variable Happiness was released yesterday by a cool indie label out of the UK called Worried Songs. It was recorded last August by Rosali directly to a four-track cassette in her own home in North Carolina. That might be why it sounds so good right now, eh? A sprawling, psychedelic sigh let out from the couch.

Trust me. Flip on “Some Answer” and see what happens to your brain. (And buy an LP, why not?)

It’s also worth noting that one of my most played albums over the last few years is Rosali’s No Medium, a riff-heavy, introspective record that wants to be played loud. She sings on this one, bringing a hearty, guttural voice rooted in wisdom.

In particular, the album’s opener “Mouth” slyly kicks ass, the kind of slow-grooving, quietly confident song that punches forward while channeling nostalgia. I love to listen to this album while driving. Sometimes I stick my head out of the window like a dog.

Music is an escape, to run from the things that chase you, to push pause on life’s responsibilities. Beyond that, an actual tool to transform ourselves and our minds. Why do we think that things need to be one way? Or the other way? Why can’t they be all the ways? The path I’ve chosen has gotten me here, sitting in a kitchen I never would’ve dreamed of sitting. Where did yours take you? What do your shoes look like today? Hit decline on that incoming call. Keep the song going. Look out the window. A cloud dissipates. The day is young and what’s coming for you is still to be written. Adventures are meant to be had and magic is meant to be real.

I’ve been trying to write about the end of things but it’s impossible. The words I have tried to craft about seeing Dead & Company rip through “Althea” and “Help on the Way” and “Morning Dew” and “Brokedown Palace” and “Uncle John’s Band” and everything else they did at Wrigley Field on a perfect Saturday night in June… well, they’ve all been bad. And that’s why you haven’t heard from me in awhile.

But here we are in early August, once again, and I’m wondering about what it all means, once again.

Last weekend, I saw a 36 year old tribute band cover music from a band that’s 58 years old. What is Dead will never die, right? The show took place in a tiny venue on the outskirts of a city not in America. There were 30, maybe 40 people there. Lots of tie dye. Lots of long hair. Lots of that headshop smell. The works. When we arrived, an old guy at the bar named Brian bought us a round. Later, we got his. At one point, Brian told us that a member of the original Grateful Dead — he couldn’t remember exactly who — once told him that this particular cover band was “one of the best.” He didn’t have any more details about when, where, or why that happened — but I believed him. Why not? Then we ate two frozen pepperoni pizzas as the band opened with “Loser.” At one point, we got a “Dark Star.” Then a “Drums / Space.” Then a “Ramble on Rose” and a “Bertha” and, well, you get it. A couple of guys sat in the back of the room taping the show. I wish I could find that recording now.

Deadheads are seekers. What is the future if not the past? My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. Of course he died. That’s all that ever made sense. So it goes.

It's something you need and yet it's not something you know. Nothing here to care about; that's what they say. That's what I say! That's what they say! What's that sound? I am thinking about what it means. To be nostalgic. Sometimes I think I put too much meaning on things. What's that song about? Nothing. It's not about anything because it's not anything at all. I'm thinking about that feeling about the feeling about the feeling about the feeling. You know the one. It's different now. My name is lost. Goodbye. But it's not a big deal. Not one at all. Stop trying to make it make sense. Stop trying to make it impactful. Stop trying to make it by trying. How far can you go? I think about the days in the midwest and how humid it was and how much I did not like it. I think about the days in the mountains and how pleasant it was and how much I did not like it. Is that all there is? I wonder about where to go from here, to what, to where? Need 2. It's all over, I suppose. Until it begins again. Smile at what is about to happen. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? I didn't write a book and never will but that's okay because no one reads anyway. The point is that here's a song I hope you like. It's called "Need 2" by a band I love called Pinegrove and now it's a TikTok trend. Here's to going viral. Here's to going nowhere. Here's to going now.

I watched him go to the passenger side of his old Tacoma. He reached in the window and grabbed a lighter from the door. Then he leaned against the side of the truck and sparked a bowl. Gray hair slipped out from underneath his old US Marines hat. I wouldn’t call him old, but he wasn’t young — probably 60, or so, or whatever. Is 60 old? We made eye contact as he blew the smoke out his mouth and he grinned a big, silly grin. I want to say he was missing a tooth or two, but I can’t remember. He appeared settled and content. Maybe it was because of the sweet light that shined over the mountains on the edge of town. The snowcaps glistened like golden ice cream. I followed him into the brew pub and found my Coors Light at a table in the back as he went to the front and grabbed his guitar. Open mic night. His turn. A young man in dreadlocks walked onto the makeshift stage and sat down next to him with a mandolin on his lap. There were nine, maybe twelve people in the room. Then, he played. Familiar chords jumped from his Martin. An old Robert Earl Keen song. The mandolin began to dance. His voice was scraggly and worn; the sound of living and enduring, of wisdom gained through regret. “I wanted you to see 'em all,” he crooned. “I wished that you were there.” As he hit the climax of the song, the man in dreadlocks harmonized, a sweet and soulful duet in the clean mountain air. “It feels so good feelin’ good again.” I suppose I agreed.

The snow fell quietly on the trees as I thought about what I wanted to think about and that wasn’t really much at all. The mind can be greedy and inspiring. And trapping. But it’s nice to not think about much at all, if you can do it. Can you? Try it. Close your eyes. Cruise through time. Listen to a song. Or seven. Or this entire playlist. Rest. Come back to reality. Next thing you know it’s nine o’clock and you’ve got three new ideas for a book. Funny how turning off the light brings illumination.

The first time I smoked pot I threw up.

It wasn’t because it was laced with peyote or some other foreign substance. It was because I didn’t inhale, and instead swallowed the smoke like a big fat piece of meat. We were sitting on a rooftop in a small town somewhere in the midwest. It was one of those legendary summers between college in the late aughts. Maybe you have your own version. Mine was built around a couple of high school buddies who rented a shitty little house in town as they tried to figure out their life. We’d party there, doing dumb Workaholics type shit, thinking those few months would last forever. (At one point or another, someone broke their hand due to punching a wall out of anger during a pickup basketball game.) There was too much Busch Light and just enough cheap whiskey. We’d play music loud and have lengthy discussions about whether or not we agreed with the career direction of Kings of Leon. Sometimes, late night, we’d walk to the main strip and climb the fire escape of the tallest building in town. This might sound dangerous, but the tallest building in town was four stories high. Or maybe six. Does it really matter? Anyway, up there, you could see infinity. One night, probably around midnight, staring out through foggy humidity at the town’s street lights, my buddy passed me a colorful pipe for the first time. I remember admiring the bright yellow glass. No one gets stoned on their first time, they said. Whatever, I said. Then ripped it, swallowed, and puked. Everyone laughed. I can’t remember if I got stoned.

Anyway, do you know about this guy named Ted Lucas? That’s him up above with the side burns, looking the right level of suave. He made an amazing self-titled album that released in 1975. It didn’t really make a significant splash, but who knows if he really cared much. That’s the beauty of it. Lucas was a staple in the Detroit music scene throughout the ‘60s and ‘70s. He was a founding member of cult bands like the Horny Toads, Spike-Drivers, the Misty Wizards, the Boogie Disease (all of these are worth looking up, btw…) He was a guitar wizard who played his instrument with a delicate touch. He also worked as a studio musician for Motown, and played strings on a bunch of classic records by the Temptations, the Supremes, and other fine folks. (He was apparently known as their “string specialist.”) After his solo release, he continued to tour here and there until his death in 1992, but never received much recognition.

He never released another record, but his estate did a reissue of Ted Lucas back in 2019. Go buy it. A phenomenal album to have on vinyl. Not to mention the great album art.

Ted Lucas lived a quiet artistic life — private, impactful, and elegant. It’s aspirational, really. He wrote lyrics in a sly, observational style full of unintentional earworms. It’s not too uncommon that you’ll find me walking down the sidewalk, singing to myself: “It’s so easy when you know what you’re doing…” He’s not wrong.

A friend of mine introduced me to Ted Lucas a few years ago when he sent me “It Is So Nice To Get Stoned.” I believe he said he was “listening to this cool and weird song.” I couldn’t describe it any other way.

Last week it was snowy and this week it was sunny and today it is rainy and there’s not much more to it than that and yet here I am wondering about what there is to wonder about, waiting to wait more, scrambling to push pause in the face of reality. There’s not much music out there that’s doing it for me right now, not much at all; is it because I feel behind? Slipping, chasing, doomscrolling. Ever stare directly at the sun while listening to Danzig? It’s a weird feeling. But a good one. The other day I saw a guy skiing in cut off jeans and a cut off Pantera shirt and I took his picture because he’s the kind of guy I know I gotta be more like in my life. Then a group walks by as I’m thinking about the guy in the Pantera shirt while staring at the sun listening to Danzig and I notice how these men have very large beards. They all wear oversized sweatshirts on their oversized bodies. Meanwhile, my deadlines still exist and the large bearded men don’t know it and I wonder if I’ll ever hit my deadlines and then, later today, I’ll hit my deadlines and it’s all okay. It’s all okay. It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay. Who cares, anyway? Spring is here. That still means something. Time moves fast. Except when it doesn’t.

Here, the floor is carpeted. A man named Steve sits next to me. His long blonde hair should’ve been cut a long time ago. He works construction. “It’s Sunday, you know?” He tells me, unprompted. “Tomorrow, it all begins.” He emphasizes the word “all.” But then assures me this week won’t be too bad; after all, he’s between jobs. Behind him, I notice a Denver Broncos calendar from 2015. The last season they won the Super Bowl. The walls are lined with memorabilia. Elvis mirrors hang next to fake Beatles autographs. Lots of baseball caps on the patrons. March Madness on the TVs. Nobody’s watching. Through a small window, the sun passes just behind the mountains. It’s a party in here. There’s a Nate and there’s a Tina and there’s a Skinny. Every dive needs a Skinny — at least that’s what Skinny told me between his cigarette drags in the parking lot. Trixie, the bartender, is loopy and smiley as she pours whiskey for her friends. She tells me she’d kick my ass on the mountain. I don’t deny it. Why would I? Stare at the Coors draft before me, getting lost in the thought of nothing. Do you ever want to push pause? Stop it all, just for a little bit. You can’t. Still, everyone knows everyone. They didn’t know me before now. But now they do. Tomorrow, who knows. But it’s not about tomorrow. It’s about now. Stretching the time before it all begins.

There’s a vision I have of myself, riding on a motorcycle into the sunset towards somewhere that doesn’t matter, flying on a road that doesn’t matter, over hills that don’t matter, to a place far away that doesn’t matter. A song plays in the background as I embrace the open space in front of me. Hope. Unknown. Something. I cruise through valleys and mountaintops and horizons. The clouds vanish. A motel whips by. The concrete eats itself. There’s that thing and this thing and another thing. It’s all cinematic and beautiful, a sprawling and transformative connection to the wild. I can taste it, fleeting. You know what it is. The freedom. For something. That’s not too far away. Not too far away at all. Nothing feels far away, except whatever is.

This month Magnolia Electric Co. turns 20. An all time album. RIP Jason Molina. I miss you and I know I’m not the only one.

“Farewell Transmission” by Songs: Ohia

The whole place is dark
Every light on this side of the town
Suddenly it all went down
Now we'll all be brothers of the fossil fire of the sun
Now we will all be sisters of the fossil blood of the moon

Someone must have set them up
Now they'll be working in the cold grey rock
Now they'll be working in the hot mill steam
Now they'll be working in the concrete
In the sirens and the silences now
All the great set up hearts
All at once start to beat

After tonight if you don't want this to be
A secret out of the past
I will resurrect it, I'll have a good go at it
I'll streak his blood across my beak
Dust my feathers with his ashes
Feel his ghost breathing down my back

I will try and know whatever I try
I will be gone but not forever
I will try and know whatever I try
I will be gone but not forever

The real truth about it is no one gets it right
The real truth about it is we're all supposed to try
There ain't no end to the sands I've been trying to cross
The real truth about it is my kind of life's no better off
If it's got the map or if it's lost

We will try and know whatever we will try
We will be gone but not forever
Come on let's try and know whatever we will try
We will be gone but not forever

The real truth about it is there ain't no end to the desert I'll cross
I've really known it all along
Mama here comes midnight with the dead moon in its jaws
Must be the big star about to fall
Mama here comes midnight with the dead moon in its jaws
Must be the big star about to fall

Long dark blues
Will-o'-the-wisp
Long dark blues
The big star is falling
Long dark blues
Will-o'-the-wisp
The big star is falling
Long dark blues
Through the static and distance
Long dark blues
A farewell transmission
Long dark blues
Listen
Long dark blues
Listen
Long dark blues
Listen

The last few nights I’ve had a recurring dream. There I am, ready to play football again, but I can’t find my helmet. I’m with all my high school friends and we’re in our high school clothes, but we’re our current age — at least the age of the last time I’d seen any of them. Everyone is ready to play, except me, because, again, I can’t find my helmet. I left it in my apartment. No. I left it in my house. No. I left it in my parents’ house. No. Where am I now? On the field without a helmet, getting knocked around, missing tackles, getting flagged for holding. I guess we gotta be careful with the attics of our minds. Shake the dust enough and who knows what you’ll unlock.

Dougie Poole is a cool artist from Brooklyn who makes music I’d consider timeless. It’s a cosmic blend of upbeat country and everday malaise. He’s signed to Wharf Cat Records and he’s got a new album out later this week called The Rainbow Wheel of Death. I haven’t heard it yet, but I know it’ll be perfect. The singles he’s released are casually heartbreaking, tapping that universal feeling of longing for… something… Or whatever. Sometimes I have to remind myself to not put too much meaning on things.

I’ve been listening to “High School Gym” and “Beth David Cemetery” on repeat over the last few weeks, two songs about seeing old friends and family in dreams or at funerals. Take a bus. Walk through your past. Who knows what will happen? Maybe this is why I keep dreaming about playing football.

“The Wild Kindness” by Silver Jews (David Berman)

I wrote a letter to a wildflower
On a classic nitrogen afternoon
Some power that hardly looked like power
Said I'm only perfect in an empty room

Four dogs in the distance
Each stands for a kindness
Bluebirds lodged in an evergreen altar

I'm gonna shine out in the wild silence
I'm gonna shine out in the wild silence
I'm gonna shine out in the wild silence
And spurn the sin of giving in

Oil paintings of x-rated picnics
Behind the walls of medication I'm free
Every leaf in a compact mirror
Hits a target that we can't see

Grass grows in the icebox
The year ends in the next room
It is autumn and my camouflage is dying

Instead of time there will be lateness
Instead of time there will be lateness
Instead of time there will be lateness
And let forever be delayed

I dyed my hair in a motel void
Met the coroner at the Dreamgate Frontier
He took my hand, said "I'll help you, boy
If you really want to disappear"

Four dogs in the distance
Each stands for a kindness
Bluebirds lodged in an evergreen altar

I'm gonna shine out in the wild kindness
I'm gonna shine out in the wild kindness
I'm gonna shine out in the wild kindness
And hold the world to its word

“Would You Lay with Me (In a Field of Stone)” by David Allan Coe

Would you lay with me in a field of stone
If my needs were strong would you lay with me
Should my lips grow dry would you wet them dear
In the midnight hour if my lips were dry
Would you go away to another land walk a thousand miles through the burning sand
Wipe the blood away from my dying hand
If I give my self to you
Will you bathe with me in the stream of life
When the moon is full will you bathe with me
Will you still love me when I am down and out
In my time of trials will you stand by me
Would you go away to another land walk a thousand miles through the burning sand
Wipe the blood away from my dying hand
If I give my self to you
Would you lay with me in field of stone
Should my lips grow dry, would you wet them dear
Would you wet them dear
In the stream of life?

Most of the time, I don’t know what to do. There’s an inability I have to think beyond the next three hours of my life. If even that. Catch me in the right moment and I’m staring out the window for any length of time. Staring at what? Couldn’t tell you. But hey, there’s something about the way that snow bank looks. I guess? Or maybe I’m wondering when they’re gonna replace the pot hole down the street. MJ Lenderman writes songs about the space between bullshit, tapping those fleeting moments between our thoughts that “matter.” You know, stuff like family, friendships, careers, and personal growth. But linear spaces weave together the fabric of our lives. Waiting for the next train. Listening to shoes crunching against the snow. Taking an extra 30 seconds to close your eyes in the shower. Floating onward. “Precious memories are the ones that suck.” I just can’t get enough. Sometimes I simply want to think about why the desk chair is painted white instead of cream. I want to think about that instead of the other thing. The goddamn other thing.

Suck that air into your lungs. It makes you feel alive, maybe because you’re closer to death. The tip of the cigarette freezes between drags. Wait, are eyelids supposed to crunch? Inside, it’s a new world. One blonde ale, please. A loud couple has been drinking Hot Toddy’s since noon. Can’t blame ‘em. “What else are you going to do but party?” he says. She laughs. He might be charming. Or maybe he’s just a musician. It’s -40. That’s the same temperature in both Celsius and Fahrenheit. Nothing makes sense. An old man with shaggy hair and a long beard eats a cheeseburger. Mustard squirts onto his hands. His green sweater looks itchy, but warm. You notice anything that looks warm. His wife has gray hair and wears a striped black and gray sweater. It also looks warm. She eats a pile of cheesy potatoes. They drink glasses full of red wine. Weird combo. Elsewhere, there’s flannel. Lots and lots of flannel. Cool haircuts. Cool jackets. Some puffers arrive. The North Face! Smile like you mean it. Knit hats hang over there, on a sign that says Duluth. Twinkle lights behind the bar. Other lights outside the bar. “Charlotte’s Thong” plays quietly on the speakers. You sing along. Dah, dah, dah dah dah… The phone rings. Hey Mom. Nice day. Cold everywhere? Yup. More snow tomorrow. Blue skies now. A foggy window. A cold window. Another couple scarfs down cheese. Ski goggles on the street. Who needs a stroller when you can pull your kid on a sled? Nostalgia strikes! What are you missing today? Read some David Berman lyrics. Think a little bit. Remember some more. Stare at brick floors. Candles lit on each table. A wall of old photographs. A puppet devil hangs from the ceiling. He looks friendly. He always looks friendly, though. The matriarch smiles from beyond the grave. So this is it, I suppose.

“Brokedown Palace” by The Grateful Dead

Fare you well my honey
Fare you well my only true one
All the birds that were singing
Have flown except you alone

Going to leave this brokedown palace
On my hands and my knees I will roll, roll, roll
Make myself a bed by the waterside
In my time, in my time, I will roll, roll, roll

In a bed, in a bed
By the waterside I will lay my head
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
To rock my soul

River gonna take me
Sing me sweet and sleepy
Sing me sweet and sleepy
All the way back back home
It's a far gone lullaby
Sung many years ago
Mama, mama, many worlds I've come
Since I first left home

Going home, going home
By the waterside I will rest my bones
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
To rock my soul

Going to plant a weeping willow
On the banks green edge it will grow, grow, grow
Sing a lullaby beside the water
Lovers come and go, the river roll, roll, roll

Fare you well, fare you well
I love you more than words can tell
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
To rock my soul