This house has stories. Many, many stories. Some of them have been stolen and then trapped here, I think. Some of them died, became the earth, and now have nowhere else to go.
They preside, vibrating, low and powerful, a collaborative magnet in the soul of the ground. They make the air here heavy, the temperature cold. They make bodies strain and shuffle, like a roof wishing for collapse.
They slow time, heighten gravity, offering cup after cup of warm, muddy tea; a fresh one combatting each mention that it’s high time you ought to leave.
They are here and they are talking, in silent parallel tongues. Without the password, each muddy sip becomes a prison. They move in shadows out of the corner of your eye. Like delicate, lethargic wasps, on the brink of their demise.
They make you want to stay, maybe for always. Become one in their fold, another wire-wrapped bone, ever again dusting the salt from your boots on this stoop alone. As if to do so would be fateful, would be resting upon the rising torso of a trusted love, having already curled nearly completely into your own mindsick heart.
This house has stories. Many, many stories.
They are undigested butterflies, lonely for the touch of listening. They are claw-mouthed arachnids, mourning the taste of being seen. They are stories, lonely, for someone who can read.
For someone who knows, then, how to step inside, and sing them to sleep.
I’m working on transitions and improvisations, and chose songs that I can be expressive in singing without messing up too badly — which meant mostly my ancient Not Applicable/Point of Origin stuff, which is available on the 2012 re-release Autochthon.
I started with a new cover that was a bit too rough to share, but you’ll get to hear the tail end of it, and I tie the lyric into the improvisation that happens after. Access a downloadable 26-minute mp3 complete with a few human quibbles by signing up at a $5 or more at http://patreon.com/courtnee