1. |
Alone at Waverly
05:24
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I live alone at Waverly. Have my own house with a big TV. Haven’t watched TV since the kids were young.
Lucinda passed three years ago. She was seventy. That sounds old, but it isn’t. Not really.
We had just moved here. Becky flew in from Arizona. Jenny drove from Tacoma. Brought the grandkids, brought the husbands. We bounced the babies on our knees, on our shoulders.
I still work, occasionally. Keeps me busy. Keeps me happy. And it’s something to do, anyway.
Oh, I miss Lucinda, miss teaching. Otherwise, I do just fine.
Say, John, could you hold a minute? Someone’s on the other line. Probably, Becky. She calls me every day.
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2. |
A Year Spent Floating
06:36
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I log on, see everyone in the group video chat. They can’t see me. “You see the camera with the line through it? Click that.” I click that, appear.
Seven of us in squares. Six squares in a row. One large square. Kendra explains, “Whoever’s talking moves to the large square.” She is, in fact, in the large square as she tells us this.
We begin. “Our help is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” During intercessions, Jason raises his hand, lets us know he’d like to speak. He exhales deeply. He says since his brother passed—“Gosh, was that a year ago, now?”—he’s felt as if he’s been floating, just above himself, as if one of the two strings that tether the soul to the body has been cut. He’s holding onto his conscious self as a child holds onto a balloon. He’s exhausted from the effort. He says he’s scared, if he lets go, he’ll lose himself, be carried away.
We say it’s OK to let go. He’s reluctant, shakes his head, then says, “Aw hell. I’ll give it a shot.”
We sit in silence for one, two, three minutes. Jason opens his eyes. He’s surprised he’s still with us, surprised he’s still in the large square. He says he was scared for his family, scared his daughters would grow up like their cousins, fatherless.
Jason rubs his eyes with his fingers. Lets out a “Woo.” We tell him we love him. We promise to check in again next week.
We finish the prayers, sit in silence, and, one by one, log off.
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3. |
Everything Slant
05:11
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The below is a free verse poem. To see it and the other album lyrics formatted correctly, you can view or download the following PDF: https://upenn.app.box.com/s/sj6mpdb6zoycws3wb440tgq1y4j580ql
--
Tired but restless
on your one day off from work,
you drive around, windows down.
Your suspension is bad—
the car veers
right, so you lean
left, see everything
til-
ted.
Taking the detour into Topton,
you idle in front of the old house.
The familiar, sharp smell of boxwood
surrounds you there. You close your eyes,
picture the living room,
the high table you used to play like a drum.
You sang into the light fixture
as if it were a microphone on a stand.
A truck driver lays on his horn. Startled,
you put the car in drive, pull away.
Tired but restless, you drive around,
windows down. Your suspension’s bad—
car veers right, you
lean left, see
everything
sl-
ant.
It’s
forty-three degrees.
The cold air keeps you going, keeps you
awake. Without thinking, you take
the detour, arrive outside the house.
Check the mirrors: rearview,
sideview.
You close your eyes, rest
your head against the steering wheel.
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4. |
Small Comforts
04:30
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The below is a free verse poem. To see it and the other album lyrics formatted correctly, you can view or download the following PDF: https://upenn.app.box.com/s/sj6mpdb6zoycws3wb440tgq1y4j580ql
--
A poor old woman buys a bag of plums.
A poor girl, a few feet away,
tends to colicky children.
She puts her hair back with a hair tie,
sits in her jeans on the sidewalk
and feeds them until,
the smell of ripe plums filling the air,
their screams suddenly
stop. Silence. The old woman’s lips
smack, she slurps. Juice drips
down her cheek, down
her arm. She grins. Dabs
the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief.
The children, tears in their eyes, howl
with new vigor, motion, kick
toward the old woman as she ambles out of
sight. Losing then regaining her balance,
the girl gets up, her own eyes filled
with tears. She disengages the stroller brake
and walks home, hungry for plums.
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5. |
Margaret
04:11
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117 on the door. Alex checks his slip of paper. It’s a match. He makes a fist, knocks. The door opens. Low voices inside. Margaret introduces her guests. “This is Tara, this is Esther.” Esther steps forward toward Alex.
“Don’t I know you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a singer.”
Esther snorts. “I mean, ‘What do you do for money?’”
Margaret rushes back to her guests, puts Alex’s hand in hers, leads him to the couch. “Pay her no mind. Truly, thank you for coming. He thanks you, too.” She points to the bump in her dress.
Esther shambles over, apologizes. Alex sees now she’s drunk.
“Betty Crocker cake, dollar store party hats… the most pathetic baby shower there ever was.”
Still, Margaret is happy. Esther, Tara and Alex put candles in the cake. They feel they should sing something, so they sing happy birthday. Margaret laughs. She closes her eyes, makes a wish—blows out the candles.
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6. |
The Day's Length
04:23
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Today—eternity
in a span!
Canyons cut
the deep, part
the land, pool
the seas. Open wounds
there
on the
hillsides, on the plains, in
the old-growth
forests.
All of time
in a span! The human
heart, a newborn’s plushy
hand. The implication
of a seed, of a blood
red berry.
Your own
calloused
hands, pliant
mind, straining
to know
all
it can.
Limits imposed
by the limitless, limits
imposed
by the span
of day, heart,
hand.
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7. |
Log Off
01:02
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Log off
|
The Chairman Dances Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Band/mystics (indie rock & folk from Philly)
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