Dirty Projectors - Not Having Found [mp3]
I sit staring at Frida Kahlo and she stares back at me too and speaks to me too and she looks past me too as she says to me too, “Show me respect.” She says it in Spanish though and though I don’t understand Spanish though I understand what she is saying though that though she is simply a picture of Frida Kahlo, she’s a living breathing Frida Kahlo capable of deep feelings and complex understanding of spatial relationships and she is not hanging from the wall. We stare at each other for some time unblinking, unspeaking, listening to Dirty Projectors sing rightly soaring from the computer speakers in anything but a blare the music just sort of swims in waves of pleasure from the computer speakers into our ears but neither of us smile, we just stare. Her present predicament is not unlike many similar predicaments she has had to endure since coming into my possession last winter. She lays against the wall in a corner, obscured slightly at certain angles by the bookshelf which holds her journal in full color, magazine glossed glory.
Frida Kahlo sits staring at me and I stare back at Frida Kahlo too with her birds perched painfully on each shoulder, two more flanking her neatly laid arms and a cigarette drips from her fingertips as she sits staring at me and I stare back at Frida Kahlo too attempting to penetrate her infinitely wise gaze her infinitely prolonged gaze her infinitely etched into the acid-free paper which her eyes were infinitely sketched onto with an ink jet printer and Frida Kahlo sits staring at me and I stare back at Frida Kahlo too and decide at that point that the painfully beautiful music of Dirty Projects is just too unbearably gorgeous that I am unbearably unable to continue sitting and staring at Frida Kahlo.
I arise from the couch and walk to the corner where Frida Kahlo sits and I hoist her into my arms. This is overstating things since she is simply a poster, essentially, printed nicely on acid-free card stock and slipped into a plastic slip, more accurately I lift her easily with my thumb and forefinger and I clutch her as if a football and suddenly I am a football player. I dart left and right out the door and Frida Kahlo and I take a walk together down the street. I wave at the neighbor, a gay man of considerable discretion and privacy and I hold Frida Kahlo proudly displaying her fine gaze to him and though she doesn’t wave also, he gets the drift and frowns. We walk further down the street, encountering no other people and I say to Frida Kahlo, “Isn’t it nice to get some fresh air?” She makes no comment in response and eventually we turn back to the house and return. The neighbor is no longer sitting on the porch and his blinds are now closed though it is quite bright outside. I put Frida Kahlo back in the corner and I imagine her saying, “Nobody puts Frida Kahlo in a corner,” but Dirty Dancing was not out yet so she couldn’t possibly conceive of such a joke. I explain to Frida Kahlo that I would like to put her in a frame first before hanging her from a wall but unfortunately I am far too poor to afford a frame now so she’ll just have to wait.
Dirty Projectors are still gloriously extolling the beautiful nature not having found something you were looking for and I nod my head in agreement. “See Frida Kahlo, it’s a difficult time finding things like money or picture frames. You should be quite happy to have found me at least. I will take you on another walk soon, I promise.”
Dirty Projectors are a rhythm and blues band from Brooklyn. The featured song is from the album The Getty Address. Purchase the music at Amazon | Insound | eMusic.
Elizabeth Anka Vajagic - Where You Wonder [mp3]
Two days ago I was preparing to shop for a Halloween costume, packing my bag with Borges and a notepad and pens, packing my wallet with Josephine’s money, affixing the U-Lock to the rack on the back of the Univega and her and I talked about the great bargains I should shop for at the costume store and that I should keep my eyes peeled for sales on pearl necklaces made of plastic made to resemble pearls and zombie makeup kits to make believe a biker zombie whose head was smashed and whose spine was smashed unceremoniously upon the hood of a large automobile traveling above the speed limit on Sunset Road right at the intersection of Avondale Drive where I was attempting to turn left and hanging out in the middle, little, gray section of the road, a ghost in the middle of the road, unknown in the center of it all, the only spot of cement along the cathedraled, tree-lined stretch of Sunset Road open to the sunlight and looking death in the face with each passing vehicle waiting patiently for a turn to turn, vehicles quickly moving in front and behind and really you can’t ask for a better costume especially if you get a good deal on the makeup.
I told Josephine before I left that she should listen to Elizabeth Anka Vajagic, that Vajagic is part of that Godspeed school of music and that she’d like Vajagic’s voice and the drawn out nature of the tunes. She loaded Lala and after convincing her that she should listen to Elizabeth Anka Vajagic before the new Devendra Banhart album which advertised itself at the top of Lala, she played the first song and I deliberately elongated my preparations so that I could gauge her reaction to the first song or two. I attached the pump to the front tire of the Mercx and inflated it to 100 PSI, then the back tire and then I also inflated the tires on the Univega even though I wasn’t going to ride that bicycle. I made myself a large glass of water, sipping irregularly with my bicycle helmet unsecured and wobbling each time I tilted my head back. I washed my hands and heard from the living room Elizabeth Anka Vajagic wailing, “Let it go now, before your hopes get lost. Let it go now, they’ll hate you more.” Josephine was reading about the vast and complicated nature of hurricanes on Wikipedia because the PowerPoint presentation about the vast and complicated nature of hurricanes which Professor Subra supplied was useless. I noticed that Josephine had a pained expression on her face as Elizabeth Anka Vajagic sang and that it couldn’t possibly be because of a Wikipedia article. I asked her what she thought of Vajagic and she said her voice was very deep. I agreed and told her the third song was best and then I left with “Where You Wonder” in my head.
Later that night, “Where You Wonder” again began looping in my head as I sat with Emily on the back porch of a house where a Halloween party was occurring. The zombie makeup kits were sold out so I sat as Jerry Seinfeld in a puffy shirt explaining to Emily the wonder of a red lantern illuminating softly the cheeks and bodies of those people standing in the backyard conversing. The porch was screened in and through the infinitesimal tiny gray windows, a grainy red scene was unfolding before us in the most asinine fashion. Nevertheless, the gathered ones were dead and hungry for something else in this cinematic rendering of the standard back and forth, Emily saw it and I said it for the benefit of the two of us, the people on the backyard nodded unwittingly and Emily and I just had to laugh. We laughed and laughed, even after death flashed across our faces. A slight slip slapped across our faces. And we just had to laugh.
Elizabeth Anka Vajagic is a rhythm and blues band from Montreal. The featured song is from the album Stand with the Stillness of this Day. Purchase the music at Amazon | Insound | eMusic.
Brendan Murray - Tangerine Tree [mp3]
An abandoned sentence lingers on the page, erased and scratched out it echoes in the repeating motif of a Brendan Murray guitar riff. A fractal repeating, each second growing larger and larger until a moment later, the sentence deletes. The sentence is lost for the time being but it repeats. The deleted sentence repeats at the tail end of the maddening composition repeating and repeating the sentence begins and ends, starts with a stop and dies. In resurrection it builds in strength, repeating always with a repeat. The sentence dies a death and repeats resurrection dead and repeating. I listen for a moment to the drone drifting behind the repeat. I listen closely to Brendan Murray and try to write the sentence again and it repeats. I think to myself about the repeat, “I know this sentence and how it goes after that,” I think, I write the sentence out and it repeats. I write the next sentence and again it repeats. The same sentence written under twenty different mindsets repeated it repeats. “I have a story to tell,” I say I repeat. I can’t tell the story it just keeps repeating and it repeats. I want to write the tale of the Montgomery Park parking garage but it repeats. The same sentence it repeats, in sync with the repeat of a rather lovely guitar riff. It merely tickled before, the rip of a guitar but now it repeats. I write my sentences on a sheet of paper, repeating the motions. I listen more closely in my headphones to the repeat. I listen more closely to the drone but the guitar repeats. It keeps repeating and I try to tell my story again but it just keeps repeating repeats. The story is a repeat. The story just repeats. These are the risks with a repeat. The song it repeats and soon I find a line repeating into the ether. There’s a story about the Montgomery Park parking garage in PDX but the sentence just keeps repeating, a repeat of a repeat of a repeat of a repeat. Repeating with the song within the song it repeats within the song a repeat. I am repeating myself in this story too, repeating repeat* endlessly until I stop. Stop.
Brendan Murray is a rhythm and blues band from Boston. The featured song is from the album Brendan Murray. Purchase the music at Intransitive Records | Sedimental Records | eMusic.
Scratch Acid - Owner’s Lament [mp3]
Enoch had just started smoking when a man approached. The man said in an English accent some things about cigarette smoking and drugs. Enoch thought the man funny and enjoyed using an English accent himself so he responded to the man with an atrocious attempt at sounding English. The man laughed and tilted his accent more toward terrible and the two of them held a conversation about cigarette smoking and drugs. Jason occasionally interjected using words that were easy to say in an English accent and he too spoke with an awful English accent. The CC Club had just closed and some of the employees were leaving by the time the man, Enoch and Jason had formulated a plan for the evening. It was nearing 2:30 AM when it was decided that Jason would return home with his bicycle and Enoch would join the man for a late night ride to a building purported to contain drugs. Jason bid farewell to the man and Enoch in a rapidly improving English accent and departed.
Due to the late hour and the large quantity of alcohol consumed that evening, Jason deemed it unnecessary to go to into the office the next day. This feat of absence was accomplished without punishment thanks to the fact that Jason’s employers had two Twin Cities office locations that he could conceivably report to on any given day and an exceedingly uninterested management. He simply had to tell his manager at the primary office that he was at the other office and since the managers at the other office don’t really notice him anyway, they would unwittingly answer if asked that, “Yes, I think I did see Jason in the break room at one point.”
At 10 AM, Jason awoke to find his drinking partner and roommate still missing. There was no worry however and Jason proceeded to pour a cup of coffee and join his other roommate on the porch for a cigarette. The day was bright and spring was just starting to have a restorative effect on the Minneapolis environs. The leaves on the tree were almost the same color as the sunlight and the shadows cast by the large apartment complexes could do nothing to shield the brightness of the light. Anton asked Jason where Enoch was at about the time Enoch returned without his bicycle. Anton asked him where his bicycle was and Enoch responded that he did not know, that he wasn’t sure even what happened last night, that he rode his bicycle (which really wasn’t his bicycle, it was more of a group bicycle that was used often by drifters and the homeless who occasionally stayed at our apartment) with a pretend English man to do drugs, that he did drugs and that this morning he awoke laying in the grass along the Greenway under a tree apparently foiled thickly enough to protect his eyes from the blinding bright, that the drugs he did were nice and he would perhaps do them again but under different circumstances probably. He asked for a cigarette and I asked him if he had ever heard Scratch Acid. He said, “Scratch Acid are fucking rad man. Kurt Cobain really liked them.”
Scratch Acid are a rhythm and blues band from Austin. The featured song is from the album The Greatest Gift (which is a compilation of all three of their albums, the song appeared specifically on their self-titled debut). Purchase the music at Amazon | Insound | eMusic.
Michael O’Shea - Anfa Dasachtach [mp3]
It began by a lake. Failed attempts skipping briefly until sinking into the murk, we withstood only three lurches before finding chain link success. This day was sunny and bright, a filterless sky casting it’s gaze on our forgotten, unprotected cells. Orion had brought along a gift for our adventures and we discussed in surprising detail the journey laid out before us. This particular journey was thanks to an oblong disc and the stumbling hills of blissed out Jones Park. Near still to the lake, we aligned for another time. An ess floated dramatically, flailing only briefly with a gust and at third we found protection in the trees. This approach afforded a more private setting for burning fires full of flight and we found ourselves cast down staring up the length of a mountain. Orion said, “This is going to take a long time.”
Four holes later, a reach around the back and a sudden glimpse of cigar toking, club wielding men of the world on manicured carpets of artificial green. We stood silently at first, at the edge of the stream flowing from the previously described lake. Stood silently staring and smoking. They wore orange polo shirts and had orange skin accentuated richly by the bright white of their heads. Orion began the shouting, yelling “Hey you fuckers. We’re in Iraq for your baby!” I think I yelled some things too, maybe about “baby killing” or “baby eating” or “baby murder.” They seemed like the type.
Our ascent in the standings continued for some time with regular references to the “biblical nature” of our trails traversed throwing frisbees at targets hundreds of feet away. We climbed still more steep steps stupidly stumbling and bumbling, sometimes mispeaking words out of frustration with the complexity of language and other times out of ignorance for the true meaning of exuding sounds. Each opportunity of alone was rewarded rightly so, just so, it was so we would play better probably and so instead of cigarettes we smoked and smoked finding behind and ahead the journey undertaken to be of serious consequence.
At some point, Orion remarked, “We are at the top of the hill,” and I agreed with a nod. Shortly thereafter, we completed our round of eighteen and departed the glorified fields of Jones Park with a handshake and a hug.
Michael O’Shea is a rhythm and blues band from Ireland. The featured song is from the album Michael O’Shea. Download the music at Killed in Cars.
Preslav Literary School - Ohrid Must Die [mp3]
This man next door has drilled a hole through the wall separating my kitchen from his hallway. He stands at the other side of the wall, his eye peering into my kitchen at all hours of the day and he waits for me to engage him in a bit of conversation. We speak through the hole in the wall, our communication compressed into tidy bits of regurgitated information. Sometimes he asks me about the stars in the sky, he says he’s never seen them before. I tell him it’s daylight right now and you can’t see something that isn’t there. In the light, the stars are hidden or else they don’t exist anymore. Besides, I tell him, you only just drilled the hole in the wall and surely you’ve seen the stars before that. He doesn’t answer but he does ask that I relay a few questions to the stars on his behalf.
Later, I come to the hole in the wall and find him gazing silently at the blender on the counter. I tell him that I spoke to the stars and that they wanted to know more about the grass that shifts so slightly in the evening breeze. He says he thought they might be interested in the grass and “What did you tell the stars?” I tell him about the conversation I had with the stars about grass and about how in the daytime when the stars are hidden or no longer exist, the grass is green and it sways lightly then too in the morning breeze or the afternoon breeze. In the daytime the grass buzzes with the activity of insects and rodents and other larger animals some of which eat the grass for sustenance. Then I tell him that the stars had no interest in his proposal and he blinks.
One day while eating breakfast at the kitchen table directly below the hole in the wall, the man next door coughs a little. It isn’t very loud but he usually doesn’t make noise unless we are in direct eye contact. I finish eating my cereal and then I wash the dishes. In order to delay the inevitable, I even dry the dishes and place them in their proper place before confronting the man next door at the hole in the wall. I ask him if he is alright and pass a cough drop through the cough drop-sized hole in the wall. He thanks me and asks about the stars. I tell him I haven’t talked to them much lately and besides, there are more important things to spend time thinking about. “Like what?” he asks. I tell him about nuclear weapons because it’s the first thing that comes to mind. I tell him about the difference between fusion/fission nuclear weapons and the new pure fusion nuclear weapons that are currently under development in the unknown deserts and forgotten islands of the world. He says the stars might know something about that. I listen to his over-wrought explanation about the technical aspects of a star and even though his description is wordy and sometimes beyond my comprehension, I have to admit that he might be onto something.
That night, I lay in the grass on my back staring at the sky until dawn breaks. I ask the stars questions that the man next door told me to ask. I wrote down the questions on a small notepad, transcribed as best I could. The hole in the wall sometimes leaves artifacts in our speech though so I had to guess which words and sounds were extraneous. The stars knew things beyond our basic understandings of nuclear physics and certainly beyond my basic understandings of science and no matter how quickly I wrote, the words strung together on my notepad only added to nonsense. I spent the whole night like this. I spoke my disjointed findings from the stars to the man next door through the hole he drilled into our wall and even in his eyeball I could see him nodding. After I finished speaking my notes to him, he filled the hole with Spackle and left the hole in the wall. For weeks there were loud noises that I could hear through the wall and then one day he left.
Preslav Literary School is a rhythm and blues band from Europe, generally (maybe Bulgaria, specifically). The featured song is from the album Beautiful was the Time. Purchase the music at Bandcamp.
Real Quiet - Mechanically Separated Chicken Parts [mp3]
*This was not written in traditional such loud noise manner. Indeed, this is a simple concert review exhibiting fairly mainstream journalistic tendencies. Please excuse the total sense of logic, I will return to absurdity on Wednesday.
The 2009-2010 season of Southern Exposure opened with a spectacular performance by New York-based trio Real Quiet. The series is in its eighth year of bringing the bleeding edge of 20th-century classical music south to Columbia. This season touts as strong a schedule as ever and you can thank the artistic director of Southern Exposure for that. Guest composer Marc Mellits said of University of South Carolina School of Music professor John Fitz Rogers that it was “an honor to even be in the same room as John.” It is largely on the strength of Fitz Rogers standing in the 20th-century classical music scene that Southern Exposure is able to attract musicians of the caliber of Real Quiet. Performing a variety of compositions, including two by Mellits, cellist Felix Fan, percussionist Daivid Cossin and pianist Andrew Russo delighted the crowd with an aural cornucopia of music suggestive of something altogether the opposite of the trios moniker. Relying mostly on minimalist compositions (with a few chamber pieces sprinkled in for good measure), Real Quiet deftly showed their impressive musical skills and even managed to strum a couple downright groovy tunes.
The performance opened with three selections from the Marc Mellits composed “Tight Sweater.” Any concert goers feeling uncertain about a band with a name like Real Quiet were immediately satisfied by the loud, energetic notes Cossin banged out on the xylophone to start the first piece from “Tight Sweater,” a song called “Exposed Zipper.” From there, each of the three members fell quickly into character. Fan was left rapidly strumming and plucking alternately in a remarkably successful attempt to keep up with Cossin, his head whipping from left to right under the intoxication of the music. Russo entered the fray in dramatic, Schroeder-like fashion, his mouth agape and his entire body swaying with each stroke of the key. Turning the page on a particular sheet of music was accomplished in a variety of ways, but most often an almost-violent toss was employed. All three musicians showed a level of precision throughout the performance unseen in most contemporary music. Each note played exactly as prescribed and watching from below the stage, despite each artists intriguing physical quirks and ticks, one couldn’t help but stare at their hands as they played, so exact in their artistry.
The Mellits compositions dripped in minimalism reminiscent of Steve Reich. From there the trio proceeded to the Phil Kline composed “The Last Buffalo,” a piece inspired by the writings of Hunter S. Thompson. In the songs “Fear and Trembling” and “Loathing” a sense of Thompson’s writings was communicated effervescently and all manner of song making was employed as the artists began to show real signs of their experimentalist bent. You could practically hear some absurd argument between Raoul and Dr. Gonzo amidst the clamor and chaos Real Quiet were summoning. The first half of the concert was concluded with “Wild Pitch,” a composition written by Annie Gosfield and apparently inspired by the 2004 World Series. Given the drama of the piece, it seemed clear that it was more likely describing the events preceding the four-game World Series sweep of the Cardinals by the Red Sox. “Wild Pitch” also happened to be the climax of Real Quiet’s experimentation with Russo taking a mallet directly to his piano strings, Cossin scratching his drumstick across a cymbal and Fan doing all manner of unusual things to his cello, Real Quiet showed themselves capable of playing beautiful music in the most unconventional ways.
After the intermission, Russo performed solo the night’s most “entertaining” piece. The Jacob ter Veldhuis composed “The Body of your Dreams” is a piano solo with infomercial accompaniment. The piano is set to a tape loop featuring synthesizers, drum machines and snippets from an ad for a fitness system the purports to help you lose weight without even breaking a sweat. The product in question is a vibrating belt and the pitch from the endorser as well as the customer testimonials offer a hilarious contrast to the finely composed piece.
The final two compositions brought Real Quiet full circle to their roots as experimental minimalists. The Lou Harrison composed “Varied Trio” showcased tender melodies. The Asian-influenced tunes had a level of grace and beauty not heard in some of the other pieces and looking around at the crowd, most people were completely awe struck and transfixed by the music as if transported by each musical note to a utopia full of wonder. The drifting songs never ventured near contradiction or abrasion, tending instead to find tranquil harmony in the three musicians. The show closed with another Mellits composition, this one called “5 Quiet Machines.” This piece was designed, as the name would suggest, for five musicians but it’s a testament to Real Quiet’s skills that they were able to bring it to life with just three. As Mellits explained before the piece began, the idea with this composition is that it is performed by some sort of gigantic music machine and each of the instruments are a single part of that machine. To listen to the cello of Fan alone, for instance, would be totally useless because it would make no sense. Whether true or not, the composition was certainly a raucous finale as the trio worked overtime to replicate the electric guitar and bass sounds missing from the machine. For their efforts, the trio and Marc Mellits were rewarded with a standing ovation.
Real Quiet are a rhythm and blues band from New York City. The featured song is from the album Tight Sweater: Real Quiet Plays the Music of Marc Mellits . Purchase the music at Amazon | Insound | eMusic.
Child’s View - The Cradle of the Light [mp3]
Certain discoveries are indeed too great to comprehend. Sitting at a desk in a cubicle for eight, nine, ten hours a day to suddenly realize that you could leave, if you wanted.
But…
Looking at the Internet, an obsession with text scrolling smoothly and the music made by others. A stumble upon a world unknown and previously impossible, entire albums of music full of fancy posted to devour.
But…
A collective of like minded poets armed with weapons imported, a certain revolution of mass scale Columbia politics with a goofy name instead. We could meet them all and sleep in each others beds.
But…
An idea, a sliver of brain crack, wetting your lips at the anticipation of hypothetical reception and accolades rains showers on your head. Refinement to the point of perfection, ready to explode, prepared for judgement, a submission.
But…
A lonesome walk in the uncrowded streets thinking thoughts that I always tell you I won’t bother to think. Would it be different with a different girl?
But…
A motherless Brooklyn finds truth and fiction to be unlearned. She sits upon the very seat occupied only moments before. After many years without a mom, we could change the course of future.
But…
Each discovery growing and growing inside of your head is like those things better thought unsaid, a realization of limitations brings forth the procrastination in us all and I have found it a rather comforting fact to ignore my ideas to scrunch my nose and squint farsightedly at the brilliance of my mind. Perhaps another time, I will be right for the picking, ripe for selecting love instead.
Child’s View is a rhythm and blues band from Japan. The featured song is from the album Funfair. Purchase the music at Amazon | Insound | eMusic.
Have a Nice Life - Earthmover [mp3]
We would sit together outside of your place, on cement blocks just talking about the past like it was the long forgotten missed opportunity. Smoking cigarettes that were meant for other mouths, trading stories and truth about the nature of our experience, I would feel a warmth rising in my chest and you would too maybe because we’d light up another in a chain of smoking lasting far too long for the cold. Together we were neglected, unappreciated, barely acknowledged enough to be ignored, an invisible class but we could have changed the face of history, you and I we could have made a difference in perceptions. I would sometimes watch you at the podium, giving a speech about whatever, your thought process transparent while discussing the inherent impacts and topical technicalities. You were off thinking otherwise and maybe we were meant to be, our mindsets so similar in distraction, unable to even consider the here and now. We would sit and reminisce out of a dearth of subjects to speak of but then occasionally there would be a spark, a poem recited and I would share with you the words of my ways. And in those moments, I reflect now, an art was born in the each of us, an often indescribable feeling and desire for creation. I think again about seemingly insignificant times spent doing drugs and smoking cigarettes, stooping for a better view, finding our voice together, one realization at a time.
Have a Nice Life are a rhythm and blues band from Connecticut. The featured song is from the album Voids. Purchase the music at Enemieslist Home Recordings.
Tall Dwarfs - Starry Eyed & Wooly Brained [mp3]
One of my roommates at the Dupont apartment, Kat, she agreed to dogsit for one of her friends. I didn’t know about it beforehand, just came home from work and “Hey, dog.” The dog was a pit bull. I don’t remember her name really, something human probably. I feel like it was a memorable and appropriate name. Anyway, the dog was unfortunate. As per pit bull breeding standards, her nose was scrunched into her face, flattened broadly across her sagging cheeks. I think also she had asthma or some similar such dog condition. Whenever she would get excited, she would start breathing terribly, a high pitched hissing screaming through her nostrils. She was easy to excite.
One evening, I came home and the dog was alone, sitting underneath the naked lower half of our man mannequin. Immediately she started to freak out, rapidly wagging her stub of a tail as she seized into a fit of terror. Really she was just happy to see me. I had the feeling that I would be alone most of the night, that all four of my roommates were going to be occupied and that all of my friends were busy otherwise. I felt depressed to be by myself with this dog dying, making sounds of death at least. I called three girls that I had been slowly wooing in succession. There names were Kate, Katie and Kaitlyn. I wasn’t wooing Kat, but I considered it briefly after meeting the third of this Ka- trifecta. I called each of the three girls and asked if they would like to eat ice cream and walk up and down Hennepin Avenue. None of the three wanted to do that but Kate said she would come over after playing ultimate frisbee.
The apartment was kind of messy probably because four college girls lived there. Kate was coming over in two hours and I wanted to impress her with cleanliness and order. The dog was making things difficult though, making it hard to think about how to clean a dish or pickup some trash from the floor. She was following me everywhere, breathing all over the fucking place. I would try to perform some basic task, like folding a blanket, and her breathing at the excitement folding a blanket would cause me to keep folding it over lengthwise, over and over again until it was impossible to folder it width wise. I folded the blanket into a long rectangle before resolving to solve this problem.
I closed her into Kat’s room at one point, but that caused her a great deal of excitement and I became worried for her life, the noise coming from underneath the door so terrible and loud. Maybe she was anxious too, to be confined while excitement lingered. Eventually, driven mad by the ghastly sounds of her breathing, I simply turned up the volume on my computer playing Tall Dwarfs. In the sonic bubble of Tall Dwarfs, I managed to tidy the apartment and completely re-arrange the living room so as to appear more aesthetically pleasing on first glance. At one point, Starry Eyed & Wooly Brained was playing and I thought, “I would like for this to be the song that is playing when Kate arrives.” I thought probably she would be impressed with my taste in obscure, New Zealand music when I explained who the Tall Dwarfs were after she asked about the song. When the doorbell rang, I first went into my bedroom where the computer was and re-started Starry Eyed & Wooly Brained.
She said something about the apartment being nice and made some nice comments about the cute dog. I tried to excuse her breathing problems but she didn’t seem to notice. Maybe she has a pitbull. She didn’t notice the Tall Dwarfs song.
Tall Dwarfs are a rhythm and blues band from New Zealand. The featured song is from the album 3 EPs. Purchase the music at Amazon | Insound | eMusic.