Found Music

I’ve been living in in-between land. In between a rock and a hard place, the darkness and the light, today and tomorrow, touch and feeling. For reasons of need and practicality, after maybe decades away from your great outdoors, love and she have driven me to graveyard sex. Who could ever have guessed the intricate undeniable joy amongst the tombstones?
We’d been there once before a few years back. During high summer we found respite, entwined in each other behind a stand of elder, a feast for mosquitoes, more focused on the top figure delivering the goods than the fuckee - bless her sweet heart. But recently the graveyard has served for our bed. The deep wooded dim back corners of old New England cemeteries afford the resourceful lover achingly lovely verdant pastoral privacy and solace, the better to recline on a cold stone slab.
So to sing praises; Old graveyards give tasteful peace and quiet. The Victorians spent lavishly on heady stones, mausoleums, and memorials to their parents and dead children, to their lost sons of that uncivil conflict. My love and I concurred recently, that bonin amongst recent graves would never do, all those short, uniform, unassuming, nearly military stones, like hopeless row houses for the departed, those could never host love. In the new cemetery, there seems to be a demand for too much sunshine, to help warm those ubiquitous cold markers. Economy demands a removal of every tree in a new graveyard. Give me the old, that sweet hereafter, a varied plot, so full of splendor, emotion, poetry and longing, clothed in old trees, and names so long gone even the visiting loved ones have too passed. They offer an embrace to our lust, hungry for the radiant life of each jarring hard thrust, each welt from my hand on her pretty bottom, and each pulsing jet of cum, dripping down to feed the flowers.
I don’t seek death or flirt with it as a silly fetish. I disagree with Freud you know. While sex and death may bear a psychic bond, I love and fuck for the exquisite now, squaring up glory on the sweet spot…. I long for a long haul, with many, much and often ahead of me. To lie so disposed near the bones of our elders, to spear the soil and taste her there, oh dear Christ give me life, please more, oh God more.
Townsend said, “I hope I die before I get old… to which my father responded, “Let me live until I die.” Let their perfect rest compel my stirring, my every step, and whisper the truth, the why I pull against the yoke. I know I’ll be with them soon enough;

(but damn don’t give me a shitty stone - You know she asked me just the other day, love’s sweat cooling in the September afternoon, how, upon my reward, I would have the living memorialize me: I’ve found my answer I believe. I want a spike, a main mast, a medieval lance, a true ziggurat, a concept cruise missile, in bronze or granite, a monolithic obelisk too crude for marble, a barely tasteful cock, hard as Chinese algebra, stiff against the winds of time, nestled betwixt two boulders, shamelessly happy in defiance, serving double time as a middle finger for those prudes who never fucking got me at all. If you, my dearest, can afford a spurting fountain in the pinnacle proud tip, all the better….)

I’ll die as sure as the sun shines, but till then God please hold me and give me the grace I’ve relished in this rare gift you granted me, to see you in these precious hours among those quiet souls you gathered back to you. I’ll be ready when you call, but until then I’ll till your fields, tend the stones, and I will reap.


Come, Thou fount of every blessing,

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;

Streams of mercy, never ceasing,

Call for songs of loudest praise.

While the hope of endless glory

Fills my heart with joy and love,

Teach me ever to adore Thee

May I still Thy goodness prove.


Here I raise my Ebenezer,

Hither by Thy help I’ve come;

And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,

Safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger,

Wandering from the fold of God;

He, to rescue me from danger,

Interposed His precious blood.


Oh, to grace how great a debtor

Daily I’m constrained to be;

Let that grace now like a fetter

Bind my wandering heart to Thee:

rone to wander, Lord, I feel it;

Prone to leave the God I love.

Here’s my heart, oh, take and seal it,

Seal it for Thy courts above.

Oh, that day when freed from sinning,

I shall see Thy lovely face;

Clothed then in the blood washed linen

How I’ll sing Thy wondrous grace!

Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;

Send Thine angels soon to carry

Me to realms of endless day.


Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing
By: Robert Robinson, 1735-90



I Will Follow You Into The Dark


Love of mine some day you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark

No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me
"Son fear is the heart of love"
So I never went back

If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

You and me have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It's nothing to cry about
Cause we'll hold each other soon
The blackest of rooms

If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
Then I'll follow you into the dark

Death Cab for Cutie

And so the yearning strong, with which the soul will long,
Shall far outpass the power of human telling;
For none can guess its grace, till he become the place
Wherein the Holy Spirit makes His dwelling.

Exerpt from Down Ampney, Ralph Vaughn Willimas
Bianco of Siena (?-1434) (Di scen di, Amor san to); ap peared in Laudi spirituali del Biaco da Siena; translated from Italian to English by Richard F. Littledale in The People’s Hymnal, 1867.

June by Julie Miller

The night that you left the sky started crying
The moon's face was hiding just like mine
When I was thirsty and lost
Like a true heaven's daughter
Darlin' you brought me water for my soul

There will never be another one for me
I know someday I will see you again
But the love you gave me will last until then

I never thought I'd lose you or that you'd go ahead of me
But now you rode instead of me on their angel wings
Did the lord call your name and did you take his hand
To join that family band once again

On a night in may all the sky cried for june
And an eclipse of the moon said that you were gone

Found Music

Music has been on my mind recently (now there's an obvious redundancy.) A few moments ago I had the sort of cellular memory event I would more often associate with my sense of smell, though music has always had a power in me, to return me to long past feelings and times. I was in my kitchen reading through a document with the early summer breeze blowing through open windows. As I read I found a sound tugging at the edges of my consciousness. Most sounds are not particularly confusing. This was. I puzzled and went to "okay ignore it" mode. The thing about me and such things is my ignore button loses it's resolve. I wondered again what the heck the sound was. It was random, manifold, sounding like wind blown through flutes or organ pipes, yet earthy, hectic, alive with undefined energy. It sounded strangely Indian and I had a Slumdog Millionaire flashback. I stepped out onto my back porch to see if I could hear it better. Indeed it was more distinct yet seemingly as if made by the breeze. All I could tell about direction was it seemed stronger on my right. I turned ninety degrees and focused again more deeply. Inside the cacophony of the sound I found something oddly familiar. I was staring across the neighbors home lot and the street at the old bastion of the one hundred year old elementary school building when finally the tumblers fell into place and I realized what I was hearing. If you're my age and grew up in the US the word you would use is Fluteophone. The fluteophone was a small black cigar shaped instrument, basically a bastard stepchild of the recorder, made from injection molded plastic which was used (due to it's rather insignificant cost) to teach children music in the 50s and 60s. It was a whistle with finger holes and tooth marks that tasted distinctly of poly vinyl chloride. The sound I was hearing was a classroom of children waiting for the teacher to call them to attention, warming up wildly, on their recorders (as I happen to know fluteophones are no longer used.... cheap low grade recorders are the tool these days.)
This stands as a pure music moment for me. These were the moments composer John Cage lived for. I felt a surge of longing and the ache for that pleasure of recognition; that palpable feeling that no experience is really lost in this universe... that those sounds are always out there, swirling through the cosmos someday to be picked up on the cosmic wind of everyday life. Fifth grade seems like yesterday for me, yet in no small sense, clearly, it's taking place today too.

And so the yearning strong, with which the soul will long,
Shall far outpass the power of human telling;
For none can guess its grace, till he become the place
Wherein the Holy Spirit makes His dwelling.

Exerpt from Down Ampney, Ralph Vaughn Willimas
Bianco of Siena (?-1434) (Di scen di, Amor san to); ap peared in Laudi spirituali del Biaco da Siena; translated from Italian to English by Richard F. Littledale in The People’s Hymnal, 1867.

June by Julie Miller

The night that you left the sky started crying
The moon's face was hiding just like mine
When I was thirsty and lost
Like a true heaven's daughter
Darlin' you brought me water for my soul

There will never be another one for me
I know someday I will see you again
But the love you gave me will last until then

I never thought I'd lose you or that you'd go ahead of me
But now you rode instead of me on their angel wings
Did the lord call your name and did you take his hand
To join that family band once again

On a night in may all the sky cried for june
And an eclipse of the moon said that you were gone

please Cmon spring

I love that word. It generally means one has chosen in an organized manner, to step away from some aspect of life previously engaged in. The French pronounce it Y Ah Tuse. I'm not so sure what I've been in is an hiatus as much a a period of reconnoitering. I've been mired in an ocean of hard passionate work of all kinds. Most days I check in here, look at my angry journal on the creepy Phish virus, mutter and look away. I guess it's time for a happier journal. Just because I've not been updating here doesn't mean I havn't been working. I've actually been very active and the results please me. I've shot in many circumstances since the New year and with many varied and wonderful people. I hope you guys enjoy it and I'll look forward to any feedback you might send.

Samson And Delilah


If I had my way
If I had my way
If I had my way
I would tear this old building down

Well Delilah, she was a woman fine and fair
She had good looks, God knows and coal black hair
Delilah, she came to Samson's mind
The first he saw this woman that looked so fine
Delilah, she set down on Samson's knee
Said tell me where your strength lies if you please
She spoke so kind, God knows, she talked so fair
'til Samson said "Delilah, you can cut off my hair
You can shave my head, clean as my hand
And my strength 'come as natural as any a man"

If I had my way
If I had my way
In this wicked world
If I had my way
I would tear this old building down

Talk, Yeah
Yeah, Talk to me
Yeah, Yeah, talk to me
Yeah, what happened then?

If I had my way
If I had my way
If I had my way
I would tear this old building down

Yeah you read about old Samson, told from his birth
He was the strongest man that ever had lived on Earth
So one day while Samson was-a-walkin' along
He looked on the ground and saw an old jawbone
He stretched out his arm, God knows, it broke like flint
When he got to movin' ten-thousand was dead, Mmm

If I had my way
If I had my way in this wicked world
If I had my way
I would tear this old building down

Well old Samson and the lion got attacked
Samson he jumped up on the lion's back
So you read about this lion had killed a man with his paws
But Samson got his hand in the lion's jaws
He rid that beast until he killed him dead
And the bees made honey in the lion's head

Good God!

If I had my way
If I had my way
If I had my way
I would tear this old building down

If I had my way
If I had my way in this wicked world
If I had my way
I would tear this old building down

Good God!

The Reverend Gary Davis

Yes Dad this is why you paid for all that college tuition

I received a message saying someone I didn't know had seen a picture of mine in a blog, (click link). I only found out later it was a virus designed to send itself to all my friends, and thusly toa ll the friends of whoever else clicks the link. I can't see that it's done more harm, beyond annoying the crap out of people I care about. If you got it from me I'm so sorry. If you've gotten it from me and not yet tried it DON'T. I will never understand the sort of geek waste of air who can waste brain cells and oxygen thinking up such ways to fuck with people. It's sad sick shite.

XMas, Yuletide, HanuMaKwanzmaka?



ps so if you wonder just what in the heck I’m on about, musically speaking, I’ve included a 20th century anglican choir anthem to demonstrate. Lets just say it’s no Winter Wonderland…. whew! I wanted you to have an example of what I mean and only hope you might feel why it so moves me. The poetry of this is chilling… both incredibly worshipful of the infant Christ… yet fully appraised of the looming suffering and death to come… I’m attaching a link to the King’s College Lessons and Carols recording seen on Youtube.

[link]


Bethlehem Down
by Peter Warlock, Lyrics by Bruce Blunt

When he is King we will give him the Kings’ gifts,
Myrrh for its sweetness, and gold for a crown,
Beautiful robes,” said the young girl to Joseph,
Fair with her first-born on Bethlehem Down.

Bethlehem Down is full of the starlight —
Winds for the spices, and stars for the gold,
Mary for sleep, and for lullaby music
Songs of a shepherd by Bethlehem fold.

When he is King they will clothe him in grave-sheets,
Myrrh for embalming, and wood for a crown,
He that lies now in the white arms of Mary,
Sleeping so lightly on Bethlehem Down.

Here he has peace and a short while for dreaming,
Close-huddled oxen to keep him from cold,
Mary for love, and for lullaby music
Songs of a shepherd by Bethlehem fold.