- Vol. 05
- Chapter 09
On a green island,
The cassette frames two cyclones –
Time spinning away;
The black cassette spins,
And the room swells with static –
The storm’s ruthless roar;
The gutted, gaping houses –
The still bleeding wounds;
Its blades frozen in saltire –
A suspended god;
We are listening,
The cyclones spin, but we hear
Nothing but silence.
put a conch up to your ear you can hear the ocean
some say an organic recording of earth
breathing now earth’s heaving
but so it is with bones which I know to be true
for every woman harbors a chaos can wait for it straddling
a fever sloshes up a storm in my stomach I cough up shards
of limestone hands cupped in cove hurl up an ocean
which costs $11.98 +shipping and tax on Amazon to fall asleep to
which costs $500 a night to dip your toes into and keep other
toes out which costs the skeletons you sift through
your fingers marveling at the whiteness of this sand I
hurl up an ocean hands cupped in cove of limestone
I cough up shards a fever sloshes up a storm in my stomach
straddling can wait for it for every woman harbors a chaos
which I know to be true but so it is with bones now
earth’s heaving breathing
an organic recording of earth some say
you can hear the ocean put a conch up to your ear
hear me drown
Black cassette upon perfect greenery.
Borges, a writer who ate like a bird,
explained, screwing up his two opal casket lenses: Popular opinion
(which he lamented more than Maria looking up
a second time at her Son’s feet)
Misconceives the blind,
Believing those with snuffed out candles for eyes
inhabit a carbon darkness,
a world without birth-of-light.
More often, the blind see a thick stained-glass wall
Of one single colour, a light blue or amber, a certain Atlantean green,
That color might enter night-sleep, assume twisting form, birth an island.
the song of a bird—on the desert island Aruba, the orange-black
Troupial—might hold so much oases in it, that the man with eyes put out
By fire in the dry woods, eyes like two cactus fruit, in his day-lit séance
Upon hearing troupials
Might know the final oasis.
The alleged Bird of Paradise, a parakeet
Bears relation to a clown-faced lovebird,
Called Preekeechee, on Aruba.
flying over an even smaller, circa Venezuelan island called Cheecheereebeechee,
bugs nibbling at dun roots of his featherspines
its shadow fleeting over chaos of mankind
Until arrival upon the shack-roof
Of Aruba’s village fool, successor of an exeunt poet,
Who awakes without clockwork or cassettes--
only loud bird songs, definite A.M. gunfire
Dream landscape of childhood backroads squeezed between overgrown bushes,
tarmac covered in decomposed leaves and petals. Distant speakers
play a background soundtrack, stickiness of bass and rhythm guitar
exceeding humidity, hi hats like light rain, wisps of voice:
dub custom engineered by the maze of lanes alongside treefrogs
chatting all night. Some whistle love songs, others chirp threats and mark turf,
and some become possessed by the spirits of dead cell phones and ring,
activate some kind of deep response in humans trained to their tones.
An unknown entity caught on the recording whispers threats,
hints at its presence within the feedback and promptly vanishes.
They’re not the only things here to establish contact,
deliberate or not: formless others speak throughout these islands,
amplify with surf and birdsong, tune on the radio and the electric hum
made by everyday appliances. No wonder you heard voices
fading in and out of the empty yard, and thought they spoke to you.
No wonder the A/C warned you when the man was about to come through,
no wonder the distant singer told you just take all the damn pills
before cops could pull up, plan affirmed by backup-singer treefrogs.
No wonder. I don’t fault your mind for ticking over when car doors slam,
In those summers, we recorded Yo! MTV Raps
on neon colored VHS and used cassette
to tape R&B from the radio; stopping and starting
to avoid commercial breaks, we learned how fast
an index finger can move across a trigger. Nearby,
in the kitchen, our mothers stood over outdated women's
magazines they received from the houses they worked,
in bare feet, they applied relaxers to each other's hair and
found recipes for casseroles while talking about folks back home.
Mummy Charlotte visited the States in those summers.
In a floral moo moo gathered between her lap, her feet
covered in long tube socks, wads of tissue stuck out
from her brassiere as tufts of gray hair sprang from her scarf;
she readied tart and sweet bread on the coffee table, kneading dough
then passing coconut between the palm of her hand and the grater
as she sat beside the plastic American flags our fathers were handed
as our parents became citizens.
And when the music did not play, we watched her closely,
trying to connect the old woman to us, and we waited to hear her talk funny,
that coarse song fluctuating in a melody we did not understand.
I see the hottest June on record I see rolling news on the hour I see visitor visas USA
I see trees of green I see you on the radio I can see for miles and miles
DTK on TDK
Maxell’s Kansas City
I'm Sony All Alone
I C30 C60 C90 Go
I eagerly followed you down the seemingly endless yellow brick road Lagged behind as you manfully strode ahead; did you care?
My disjointed body aching for relief My anxiety rampant as I struggled to keep up
My desire to be with you overcoming all elseFlying monkeys – I brushed them aside like all my doubts
No fear stronger than my fear of losing you We'd played out this story so many times
Finally! Our destination – The Emerald City
Where you first promised your love Where we stood before the mighty Wizard who recorded our story for all to hear:
Proof of your love your love your love your love playing over and over and over
Tired of spite, what we hid is a gift, momentary mercy stretching into years. Here on this bus time is flooding back. The buzz of that kid’s earphone one seat ahead plays “Candle in the Wind”. You seem to live your life That valiantly, meaning: not at all, meaning: those were the days of wine & roses forsaken due to tenderness. Or so we wanted to think. Sure, fear was a thorn, the bad patch of past losses before we met & disclosed little.
What song is that your old stereo’s blaring now? Isn’t it the one I put on a cassette, (remember them?)— Walking after Midnight… Looking for you… How absurd to still be at it &— Send in the Clowns, (don't bother) not saying a thing.
The wheels of time of this emerald life mounted on the memories and dragged along by our days of gore; they are dragged pushed and pulled with scraped knees and bloodied knuckles we move a little bit more
You whimper cry, groan, with blood-curdling screams as these spokes dig deeper into your spine; and with the tape stuck on its reels you count the moments lost in the ethereal time
Everything has to be in unison every move has to be in lockstep; cause if you miss a beat or it gets stuck with the slightest of folds you can lose a lot more than you can forgetRead more >
You come across a box of them in plain sight but out of mind. Who made all these cassettes? You pick one up, place it on a bit of green matting, and wonder what voices this unmarked recording holds. Though it’s in good shape, even playable, it must be pretty old: you stopped recording tapes in the mid-80s. Was it a gift for Suzy—you had such a crush on her—or a bit later for Amin— you pined so for him at that time without understanding the meaning of your feelings? What songs would you have recorded? Perhaps Hendrix for Suze—she was into the greats of rock— or a soulful Aretha for Amin, who swayed each day to the notes the Queen of Detroit sent soaring over the airwaves. Suzy and I would lie on her bed staring at the miniature planets over us, wave upon wave of “All Along the Watchtower” buoying us up toward that little solar system. I would watch Amin’s sensuous movements and rise to dance slowly beside him, never daring to touch. Such memories are like this unplayable tape—they remind us of what has been but afford no access to it. To the moment when I leaned over Suze and kissed her once on each eye and once shyly on the lips. Or to that other when I looked longingly at Amin, his eyes closed, his lips parted, his stem-like body waving in my little room, so full of loss and yearning.
Select edit pause, repeat then press play. It takes C90 minutes for a heart to sway. Pick songs to send messages you just can’t say. Select edit pause, repeat then press play. An eclectic magnetic tape bouquet – Will your skill in curation win the day? It takes C90 minutes for a heart to sway. Select edit pause, repeat then press play.
I slip the cassette into your coffin, feet end. My father has already scattered diamond rings across your chest and now he is weeping dramatically in the corner. The aunts are bringing him sweet things and bending to murmur in his ear as if he is a child.
I can’t find you in my body. My chest is all electricity and heat, like a domino of pylons fell across the English countryside and set the dry wheat alight for miles. You are not there and I can’t find you in my belly either which is a vast cave where the wind has dragged in crisp packets. I say all this on the tape and other things and imagine you smiling.
My baby’s first coos. How to capture the sounds that link your body and mine? I take a photo. Your open eyes stare at me, your lips part, and your tongue raises a bridge behind your gums. But the sounds that you are making—those gurgling bubbles of music that tell me of your pleasure, that you have found your toes, that you are mesmerized by my face, that your skin loves the soft folds of your blanket—where are they? I write your weight and height in the baby book that someone has given me when you were that stranger who abided inside me. I fix the photo and record, like a scientist, the momentous achievements of you holding your head up straight, of that first smile that wasn’t the result of an undigested bit of cracker. I sing nursery rhymes and nonsense and touch each finger, kiss your nose, rub a finger around the soft fold of an ear. Tracing the outlines of this body that will never be this way again.
I slip the cassette into the tape recorder and press the red button. Coo for me again, sweets, I croon and sing. The tape rolls from spindle to spindle, a narrow filament to mock time and to bring you back to me later. Later, when you climb the jungle gym and pretend to be a monkey. Later, when you play the violin in the eighth grade orchestra. Later, when you argue and storm out of the house without the car keys. Later, when you stand, smiling, between your grandparents, on the High School football field, diploma in hand, mortarboard cocked to one side. Later, when you hold your own child in your arms for the digital camera. As my memory, once green like the patchwork fields in early summer, dries and crumbles. As the folder of school projects—essays and drawings—mildews and warps. As even the spindle on the cassette—that once promised to preserve you always in that instant for eternity—grinds to a halt. The tape snags. It stretches, distorts. The film breaks or tangles in the gears. As these tethers to the past—these tricks of memory—wither and fail, I pick up the cellphone and call you, waiting to hear your voice again.
Maggie taped her note to the fridge and fetched the diaper herself. She passed the den, full of grown-ups dancing. She saw her father flipping the tape in the boom box, laughing back over his shoulder at a group of women, reaching out his hand for a drink and then gliding close to the woman who supplied it. No wonder Mummy wasn’t there—but she ought to change her own lousy monkey. The animal bit Maggie with its tiny sharp teeth and clung to her hand when she shook it back into its cage. All the guests loved the little rescued monkey. “Monkeys in Berkeley?” “Look at its bright eyes!” “I bet it’s happier here than at the University.” “But it belongs at the lab,” Maggie told them. “But it’s so cute.” “Its mother wanted to eat it,” Maggie said, looking away. “I wish she had.” Four months later, she would find herself living in Kenya where she would fit in about as well as a baby monkey in California. She’d see the end of her parents’ marriage as starting with that monkey, and hate the creature no less because she identified with it. Maggie finished with the monkey and went up to bed, away from the sweet marijuana smell and the thumping music. She hoped Mummy would return before morning, though she wasn’t betting on it. In her pajamas, she padded off to the bathroom—luckily empty—and back again with a glass of water for her droopy coleus. Then she sat on the bed. There was nothing else for her to do.
you gave me a retro gesture without a cassette player it was a symptom of our age your belief in that time under a half-converted attic roof instead of a Spotify playlist we could share you idolised me into a tape I could not hear
is all I have left I upped sticks and left without so much as a goodbye note your insistence we were from another age became your downfall or saviour next time I hope you find someone with a compatible stereo
Press Play at birth and all you ever do Is go forwards Crawling, walking, running Eventually to slow down again Feel the pull of the end As the tape of your life is used up The little left even now spooling itself away And you wish you had avoided those Fast Forward times Always looking to the future In makeup and high heels Longing to appear older until you were With chewed up ideals and tangled memories Finding you were all played out with no Rewind button Only Eject
Let me just...
Watch as the sky unfolds in a blizzard the colour of salt and spit:
a Marguerita sky, so cold his lips turn blue.
The glass cracks; he falls, finds himself snarled by brambles.
Leaves invade his mouth; shoots snake in, pierce his lungs.
You deserve this: every last snag of thorn raking those insistent fingers, every vine snaking down your throat.
I watch him still and stiffen, his face a bruise, its pale meth blue.
The engine's on; warm air blows. On the window, my breath blooms and fades.
Outside, a robin's song spills its berries in the freezing blur.
You wanted this.Read more >
Music wove threads through the cracks of our broken home. Mom took her time, did it right, dancing through rooms, shaking her body down to the ground under the eyes of Jupiter. Dad favored nights in Mozambique, fat chances that broke with the morning and lingered in the hands of a poetry man and a boxer. Winding up mountains in a blue sedan, there was always music playing in Dad’s car. We memorized the words to songs of the 70s and sang so loud, our voices echoed off the windows. We learned to recognize the rasp of a tambourine man, and absorbed the blues though our skin. On rainy days, Mom gathered us around the piano to sing the refrains of Siamese cats who did what they pleased and girls dressed in cinders, spinning in circles. Our tiny voices, saturated in the carefree pitch of youth, are trapped forever in the loop of a reel to reel, singing a song about looking for a home with all our family there.
Once, in the summer grass, he'd laboured to rouse me. His transistor caroused my innocent ears with tunes blown through, hot, across from Radio Luxembourg. I didn't join the dots, when he came. My outline changed, my belly filled in, like it was painted by numbers with his swift, intuitive strokes. When my pains came, he was long gone, like the song–
the one I hadn't heard about high aprons and boys walking by.
He's never seen his daughter, though she has his almond eyes. And they wander wide over all these years. Searching.
She cries to know him. All I can give her to explain, to ease the pain, is this tape without a player. Musical score strung out for her story. It fell on the mat, wrapped in grass-green silk, the day she turned eighteen, her spooled inheritance. Sender: No Address.
I had a taste once for the popular stuff but it's gone now and my cravings have turned to stranger things.
There is a body of music so old and so queer as to sound made by creatures we would not recognize as human but perhaps some species that dragged itself from caves or from deep in the sea and just began to wail a song that was later taken up by billy goats who rose upon their hind legs and sang like men, their songs later embraced by toads chanting like monksRead more >
I missed the chance to make a second copy When I still had that boombox With the double ports Perhaps the newer one Would have recorded to CD – or maybe Not – it was cheap and broke down quickly (the radio Staticy) – but someone I’d known would’ve Had the right equipment At the time
It will be harder now to find a way to listen If I can even find where I stored it ... I remember you laughed ... And that we meant to continue
Dad lived in a time capsule because Mom wouldn’t let him in the house. It was an old Buick station wagon, the kind with a rear-facing backseat so that you could ride face-to-face with the other drivers and wave at them, then flip the bird if they didn’t wave back. Only a handful of seatbelts still worked, and you had to crank the windows down yourself. He kept polaroids of us in the glove compartment, outdated maps of old family trips on the dash, a box of cassettes in the middle row. He had no concept of obsolete.
One night in the summer, he dropped by just after dark and honked until Mom stormed through the screen door and sniped him dead with her one good eye. I flew past her across the lawn, wet with sprinkler dew, and dove through the passenger seat window, not even bothering with the door handle. We went for soft serve, then found a hotdog stand and ordered two with everything on them. He asked how school was going and I just said, “It sure is going,” and he nodded. I asked how work was, though I knew by the piles of dirty clothes in cardboard boxes in the trunk of the station wagon that it wasn’t going well. I asked when he would come home, and he said he was home right now, wasn’t he? I said permanently. When are you home permanently? And he said when your mom wants me permanently.
Then we just drove. Through the neon of the city and onto the empty eight lane highway and eventually into the mountains where the station wagon sputtered along the moonlit switchbacks. When the radio signal cut out, I dragged the box of cassettes into my lap and flicked through them the same way Mom flicked through her card-box of recipes, written in swooping cursive on index cards. The Eagles, Fettuccine Carbonara, Springsteen, Bacon-wrapped Scallops. My finger landed on a tape without any markings cradled in a fluorescent green plastic case. What’s this one? I asked.Read more >
Listen to Green. Birds in the boughs, Squirrels silhouetted against the sky. Life in the treetops, Nests and cavities, Leaves that leave no trace of autumn days When green becomes gold.
Listen to Green. Place your ear against the color, Let it speak of spring and summer, Let it waft from the branches over the street, Into gardens and lawns, Let the lawns and gardens reciprocate.
You can hear the Green whirl Of the tape in the cassette, Green music rolling past from cars Painted the color of chlorophyll, Driven by Green teenagers on Independence Day, Exploding patriotic supernovas of Green brilliance.
Listen to Green. It will tell you about Faith, Hope and Charity, But mostly about Change— How nothing is transformed, But everything is changed, Wafting down upon us in all the hues of the rainbow. Listen to Green.
Blank verse; like blank tape, empty page or screen. No words, no tunes, the canvas is bare. Let’s paint a musical night-time scene of darkness, horror, death and destruction then lighten the mood with traditional jazz.
An awkward sound, a misspelt word; spellcheck is advising me. I press delete and use a pencil; hover over the page.
Unravelled tape snaking out; a screwed up ball of A4. Both are thrown towards a bin; it’s always the same situation.
I was pleased with my reel to reel recorder. It was four tracks which was good, as tapes were expensive. More tracks, less tapes needed, that was my reasoning. My source of music was the radio. Radio Luxembourg fading in and out with lots of crackles. Or Forces Requests on the BBC. Or occasional Pop programmes. Very occasional. I hadn't thought it through, the source of my recordings, so the quality was poor. But I didn't mind, It was music, my music and I stuck with my reel to reel enlivened by a transistor radio and pirate stations until the age of relative affluence caught up with me. Eventually it became an amp for my boyfriend's guitar. But I never bought a cassette.
You took Willie Colon from me. You took Lauryn Hill from me. You took El Gran Varon from me. You took Peace of Mind from me.
You took the silly smile of reminiscing, the excitement of something brand new the youthfulness of sin... You took it all.
Everyday, you take street signs with your name plastered across them from me.
You took the moment, I remember so dear, your smile and your freckles as you rapped "all Philly hoes" over Biggie as we rode on the freeway, away from me.
You could have taken Philly from me... You took away the mediocrity, the monotony left me with alchemy. And now I'm not feeling like me…
But this too shall pass.
He glanced furiously at the clock hanging right above the bed. Only an hour to spare and so much to say and clear.
On his tip toes, he walked slowly towards the chest of drawers. The drawer creaked as he gently drew it out.
There was a sound behind him, a soft murmur and a sigh. He turned around and stood still. It was as if time had come to a standstill. A soft tear trickled down his cheeks. The boy was 14 now but still looked like the gurgling baby in his arms. He sat staring lovingly and longingly.
It was almost an hour hence. He quickly turned his attention to the drawer and did what he did everyday, dug out the age old cassette and put it on top of the dresser. Maybe today, his boy will find it, play it, hear it and understand it. Maybe today he will hear his dad’s voice explaining how he loved his baby but couldn’t take the chemotherapy any longer, how he had to move on.
An hour had almost passed. He knew he had to leave soon but he would come again tomorrow, hoping his son had found the tape and played it. If not, he would always have an hour and a hope of tomorrow.
1. Stilted landscape: a pool of ink ringed by walls of mulberry silk and a burnished cliffside to repel the blade-laden breeze. Pluck hairs like guitar strings. Bleed in staccato. Sing a song of vanishing beneath a mask of greasepaint and highlight the eyes in green.
2. We press diamonds into coal, vomit chlorine across sequinned windowpanes, splatter ink on silk and sketch a portrait made of grass stains: a symphony of red and orange, wildfire hurtling through stiletto forests, translating leaves of lace to the language of ash. We become the breeze and our tongues are the blades
You gave me a cassette – a compilation. You said it was a taste of your soul: a sip of vivid green splashed with monochrome. It was in my car stereo for years. Every day, it bled into my ears, your soul whispered to me, replayed on a loop until the tape was chewed up. When I sold the car, the cassette and the soundtrack to our beginning was still in it.
Not made of wood or from a tree But genuine plastic through and through Its plastic ribbon magically contains Dance music, wild and free But I sleep amid the Great Divide Count troubles instead of sheep Munch scarlet seeds, I'm land based With a full throttled mind Recalling life's thousand sounds Wild music played in all directions A boardwalk of sounds spanning Canyons and a rushing brook Back way recording, depatterning The mind with new punitive Abundant sound patterns.
I can’t bear to listen. But your voice is the only voice I want to hear.
In your letter you say you’ve said things on the tape that you should have said more often. Things that really matter. But I don’t know if I can bear to hear them now that I can’t apologise, now that I can’t tell you the truth, let alone kiss you, make love to you, thank you for your courage and your unconditional love. Now that we can’t even be in the same room.
Green is the colour of life and regeneration, you once said. It’s also the colour of jealousy. I said I didn’t like symbols. Thought you were telling me one of those quirky little things you liked discovering and squirrelling away. But now I know you were trying to get me to open up. Offering me a way in. By talking about all things green. And what they mean.
I’d give anything to go back to that conversation. Anything. You were willing to hear things I don’t think I could have borne if you’d done what I did. But I never did tell you, never did admit to my affair. You died without knowing what a terrible mistake I made, without knowing that my affair showed me how much I loved you.
But I must find your courage, your compassion, your forgiveness, your willingness to listen, in myself. Otherwise the days left to me will erode in the green bile of my guilt.
I fall in love the spring before my 17th birthday.
Ich liebe dich. The words are much harsher than the sentiment. I taste their corners, sip on the beer from the plastic cup you’ve handed me. I am new to all this. Green. You are older. My teacher. We’re in the old airport hangar in Munich. No planes here now though. Just you and me. At least that’s how it feels. I taste the kiss. It lingers in the hot air and I close my eyes, trying to remember its scent, your scent. Sweat glides down my back.
Just you and me. And The Beautiful South. They’re from 'oop nawth, don’t you know?' You mimic my accent but I’d rather you teased me with your twang that tickles my tummy, takes me back to that moment when I first saw you on the banks of the Ammersee.
We’re both a long way from home.
‘Apparently, it’s something to do with what you Brits say about it being grim up north,’ you whisper. 'But I don’t believe that for an instant. You’re beautiful and I’d say your city is too’. Davidoff, Cool Water. I inhale memories that will draw me to the counters of every airport Duty Free for a decade, scanning the departures board wishing that Leeds was closer to Los Angeles.
This is their 'best of' album.
I know that because you taught me the lyrics as we lay on a blanket on the edge of the lake. There you stroked my belly with blades of green grass and handed me your Walkman. You’d brought me down here on your afternoon off. I was the exchange student, you the student teacher. Rules fluid like the water of the lake that lapped beneath the Walkman’s words.Read more >
between the LP and the CD was the cassette, before I bought a CD player, and when they stopped putting albums out - some of them I ended up buying twice if the band was just too good for the clunky, dolby-butch sound, and anyway my hi-fi is designed for both CDs and LPs and I’ve still got my vinyl - now that it’s back in fashion Climax Blues Band albums go for £30
the cassette got tangled in the machine so you were afraid to play it, stretched into elongated chords, as if the Beatles were still messing about on four track trying to turn Echo and the Bunnymen into Sergeant Pepper, which they weren’t, of course, because John Lennon was dead, shot through the heart by someone who hadn’t got into i-players yet and probably didn’t keep hold of his vinyl
I suppose it’s ironic that when I went to see the Table Scraps (or they came to see me supporting Son of Dave) they had brought out a record exclusively on cassette tape which they thought was wonderful and the best sound you could achieve, distorted the way bass speakers do when you turn them up too loud in a pub which is hardly big enough for amplificationRead more >
Pull me like string, and willingly wrap me around your fingers.
Let this heartbeat of mine be the music to your breath, as my kisses cement themselves upon your lips.
Love, and be silent, let this texture ignite the fire within you.
You are a word that has stagnated through time, fading into the background through dust and grit.
I stumbled into your trove of misery, to bring light to a darkness that had been blinding itself for far too long.
Pull me like string, and willingly love this body you have adored.
I will drown into your lungs, to give you the air you have longed to grasp with your teeth.
Love, and be silent, unwinding, unravelling, pieces of me that belong to the pieces of you.
You pick up the bud The head has collected dust You look for the solution
Time steps back You close your eyes You look forward?
Where is the bottle Containing the solution? You look behind
You stretch your hand You touch your father He was standing nearby
He was looking out The window, at the Garden, where jasmine bloomed
You could hear the birds chip You could sense the cold Afternoon breeze that Was blowing that day.
You turn towards The bottle...
Father died four years ago The afternoon breeze Years beforeRead more >
testing testing one two three testing testing testing me pressing play to rewind spools all beat band bound for Liverpool over the border B side unknown grassy green and full of wind The bet all Welsh, all cwtch and brimmed Top twenty mixed dial a disc sown Pencil twisted kinked bubble singed
The spikes are small, but they hurt. You put your finger in and twist. This is how you move the story. Sometimes, the story moves on its own. But sometimes, its life comes from inside you. Your pain is momentary but it gives the push. But does it have to be so cliche? Not really. You could have just used a pencil.
Lizzie sits, cross legged on the carpet with Grandad’s Philips tape recorder in front of her. Beneath the pop-up slot’s brown perspex window, Lizzie can see the two neon eyes of the brand new cassette and its chubby brown nose, made of tape, ready to record.
Today, Lizzie will read The Animals of Farthing Wood, and she will do it with expression, just like the readers on Jackanory. Lizzie wants this tape to be very professional for Laura and uses special voices for Fox, Badger, Toad, Owl and the other characters. Badger has the deepest voice, like Mr Shaw’s at school, who’s voice Lizzie thinks most sounds like Daddy’s used to. She lowers her chin to touch her chest when she makes Badger’s voice.
If she accidentally muddles the voices during the recording, she can press pause, rewind a little, press play to check where to restart, then pause again, before firmly and definitively pressing record and play at the same time, (queue vocals). Sometimes that makes the tape all messy and Grandad has to wind a pencil in the cassette's eye until all the saggy tape is tight again.
So sometimes, Lizzie just pretends that the author had meant it to be read like she did, with the muddled bits. Lizzie knows her sister wouldn’t mind. In fact, Lizzie adds her own little bits of story because Laura would be looking at the pictures too, if she weren’t at the hospital.
After lights out, when Mummy is properly asleep next to Lizzie in her bed, Lizzie creeps up the ladder to Laura’s bunk. With her felt tip pens, careful not to mark the duvet cover, and wishing they weren’t so scratchy, she decorates each side of the cassette with love hearts, like the ones Mummy used to do on the family notice board.
I remember you. I fumbled with clasps As much as I fumbled with words. My words. Not theirs. Theirs were easy to pick And to place in a line A purposeful chain of tunes. For you. From me. Hours spent combing for each. Meaning mixed with meaning Expressed in a musical tribute To the explosion in my heart. For this is the mix tape Of my youthful love.
She pressed PLAY and watched him sit back casually, dreaming of better days. Her hair, pinned up, her eyes– faithful to his stare. She was a golden arc, welcoming his entrance. FAST FORWARD to their wedding day and the two of them had no reason to STOP Every dream was finally coming true.
Or so they thought. Her first attempt at making him a father, her, a mother, failed. That's what the doctor called it, "a failed attempt." And the second, and the third. And every breath she took felt like the last. He wanted to REWIND the time, take her back to a different period where heartache had not shown its face.Read more >
15 shades of green – classics, cool, ironic, left-field:– Al Green – 'Take Me To The River' Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac – 'Albatross' 'Green, Green Grass Of Home' – Tom Jones Green album – REM Professor Green/Lily Allen – 'Just Be Good To Green' 'Blue In Green' – Miles Davis 'The Grass Is Green' – Nelly Furtado 'Green Eyes' – Coldplay 'Green Manalishi' – Fleetwood Mac 'Green Onions' – Booker T And The M.G.'s 'Greensleeves' – King Henry VIII (allegedly) 'Little Green Bag' – George Baker Selection 'When Green Eyes Turn Blue' – Elvis Costello 'Green Door' – Shakin' Stevens Green Day – 'American Idiot'
Next week, featuring 'Pink' Mixtape:– Pink – 'Get The Party Started' Pink Floyd – 'Dark Side Of The Moon' 'Pink' – Aerosmith And that's about all – another colour, maybe?
We played to death that soundtrack to our lives, your blank-faced decoction of moods and moments, journeys across a mean unpleasant land during which even the silence ending the first side took on a familiar shape, became an interval between the beats, and siblings behaved like long-lived opponents merely at the mention of changing sides, that tragic modulation, joy disbanding as innocence attained its usual end, and catchy tunes with many moving parts gave way to something else, and muted hope –
We played moods and moments, across the silence the first beats, behaved changing joy usual parts muted –
Their brows raise in response to the rectangle on the whiteboard, Heads tilted like curious cockatoos, Thirty pairs of eyes glazed over with a mix of boredom and curiosity. I hear myself nervously giggle and then ask: “Not even in your cars?” Answering shrugs– Their shoulders transporting me to that Pause. Listen. Wait. Play. Hours upon hours spent curating the perfect soundtrack For beach days, car rides, your best friends. Lyrics easily become embedded in our heads as the carefully plucked tracks play on repeat. Until at last we find ourselves at Pause. Rewind. Wait. Play. But thirty faces tell me, “No, Miss” And so I make a note to delete that slide and we move on. Later, I’ll retell the story to old friends and as our jaws meet the floor, Our long forgotten tracks play and we remember just once more to Pause. Listen. Wait. Repeat.
Sent hunting by the picture, something is found in the back of the drawer. Must be… twenty five years since it was played; and, as with my memory, there is a little distortion and some notes blur at the edges.
Life has changed; you no longer wear Miami Vice pastels, but it’s not all jazz, brass bands and ol’ rag blues.
I could be dancing now, but you were never taught to let go, and even now my love, the things you don’t show are frequently more telling than those you do.Read more >
Listening to Handel, I hear nothing of liquid: no sea lines up against my ear,
no river washes through this hour. only catching echoes of helicopters and police sirens;
shores full of air raids landing with the tide, a houseguest uninvited, whose calling card
explodes through your letterbox then expects you to make room at the table for their elbows, aflame.
Mamá sings her favorite bolero as she sweeps the living room every swish of the broom in sync with the drum beats she places her hands on the stick and swirls the tape reeling over and over there are no carpets here no secrets to be swept under and yet as I ask her about her loves mamá sings o me over and over me importas tu y tú y tú y solamente tú
Papa comes home after work another patient gone mamá serves the table her voice a murmur now the bolero tape replaced by an angry Mozart violins and oboes grating on my tongue undoing my questions before they form papa’s voice drowns the instruments a bass out of tune with the symphony I drum my fingers on my legs …. tu y tú y tú y solamente tú
In the attic, she picked it up. With two fingers, afraid it might bite.
"What is this?" And it took only a glance.
"That is a cassette tape." I was met with bemusement; confusion.
"Is that what was used in..." "...the old days? Yes."
"How exactly?" She looked at me, expecting an explanation, a demonstration.
Having nothing to play it on. No choice but to resort to memories, to nostalgia.
"Imagine a time before The Internet. Before websites. Before downloads and drones. Sometime before the birth of CD players, but after gramophones.
The Summer of 1986. Try to picture a teenage girl. Alone, but content in her bedroom. Her first radio cassette player. The luxury of being able to record whatever she wanted. Relentless radio play. Music all day. Ladies in red. Papas being told not to preach. Red skies out of reach." Read more >
It was a tiny suitcase.
Approximately 50cm in length, 30cm in width and 20cm in depth, each Sunday I would gently open its latch to reveal a wonderland of memories and music.
My mum had owned this tape box since the 80s. After I was born, her selections (Luthor Vandross, Salt n Pepa, Marvin Gaye) had made way for mine; 1001 Nursery Rhymes, Animal Magic Songs, and as I got older; STEPS, B*Witched, and lest we forget, Aqua's 'Barbie Girl’.
It was most certainly, the 90s.
Summer 1991. This tape was different from the others. Without a case, without an explanation. Just ‘Summer 1991’. Handwritten on the label. I asked my mum what was special about it. She said, “You.” I said, “But I was born in 1992.” She said, “Exactly.”
pencil list 45 into 3 or 4 minutes index fingers what number is this nothing romantic till track 5 no birdsong best handwriting nothing with love in it till track 9 over old top tens and me reading from a magazine “Libra has so much style, you’d think Donna Karan comes to her house each morning to dress her for school”
to play in your room
Just a plain plastic case Holding my life's melodies Memories in plastic The music of my life The technology of the 60s 60 minutes on one side 60 on the other All you needed was a player To hear the music of your life A player could be portable Small and easily carried Or part of a larger stereo system For a sound that was larger than life It held the songs I wanted And I still have them all For whenever I want to listen to The playlists of my life
The snips of felt and macaroni, cut out words from magazines; the q-tips, wool, and plastic straws glued around blue crayon marks, affixed to green construction paper, would serve her purpose well. Evidence delivered wrapped in found material to sow confusion with eventual detectives on the case. The latex gloves had pulled the child's artwork from the dumpster right outside the side door to the school. The baseball cap had hidden her face in shadow. Her jacket was reversible from white to gray. A subway ride to Queens and back would be enough to cover any tracks and she had picked this cloudy day with cunning purpose. The drones would have to scan and hover low enough for anything to be seen.
And now the tape cassette she found in basement boxes stored for years, which slowly had absorbed the sound of whispers from the nearby router would prove the truth to all the doubters. After wrapping it in child's craft, she’d vanish. They would have to save the world without her.
Will my alternative mix tape bowl all of my cool friends over? I'm hoping so with all of my soul. Things that seem like nothing to adults, mean everything to a sixteen-year-old. You're either In or Out. No in-between. What could mean the death sentence of your social standing is riding on this. Hours of taping and editing without breaks make me dizzy. When the tape is finally dropped, We'll see if I am too
I think we thought it would be something to kill time. She could talk into the microphone, tell memories (ones we had already heard), fill empty strips with sound, capture the past, not us.
Last week we found the old tape recorder, record of an idea.
The batteries had left green on its insides like sea like leaves like the littered grass that lined the path.
What she really wanted is anybody’s guess, but what she didn’t want was to talk for hours with only the machine listening.Read more >
Tom’s wife has asked him to clear some space in the loft. They need more room to store the baby equipment apparently. There’s no point getting rid of it just yet, we might need it again she says. Tom isn’t sure what he thinks about this. His life has not been his own since Millie was born. However, agreeing to move the cot and baby clothes into the loft seems like a good way of delaying any decision-making, and so he agrees.
The stepladder creaks as he climbs up and pushes open the overhead hatch. The strip light blinks into life, illuminating the task ahead. Along with the suitcases and Christmas decorations, there are rows and rows of cardboard boxes crowding the loft space, stacked two or three high in places. Some have marker pen words scrawled across them like, ‘old photos’, ‘files’, ‘misc kitchen’ and confusingly, ‘Tom – stuff’. Some have no clues at all as to their contents.
Tom picks a box at random and pulls it open. It is filled with old cassette tapes. He smiles, and begins to look through them. Old albums by Michael Jackson, A-Ha, Nik Kershaw and the like clamour for his attention like old friends at a reunion. More interesting still are the homemade mix-tapes and compilations. A catalogue of his youth. There are copies of all the ‘NOW That’s What I Call Music!’ albums going from number 9 up to 21. He must have gotten a CD player after that.
Tom looks in a few more boxes and finds what he is looking for; his old portable Panasonic cassette player. Ellie won’t be back from work for a few hours yet. A bit of self-indulgence over a tea break won’t hurt, he decides. He hauls his finds back down the ladder and sets up the cassette player in the lounge.Read more >
The tape that broke Stopped Snapped. Wheels spilling Tape not turning. Silence Memories not heard Silence Then patience The tape is repaired A joining of ends Stuck Happy memories Once more. A child's happy face Grins with pleasure Once again The wheels turn The tape plays. Thanks Mummy. It's green for go.
How we listen betrays us: Am I tired or excited? Were you born in the wrong era? If there are stacks against the wall to consult, set to it; if there are not, you have your answer.
How we listen betrays us: Do I respond with anecdotes or ideal visions that do not withdraw but flame more intensely in the presence of impossibility? Are her eyes angry or hopeful? Do they look down or away?
How we listen betrays us.
Do I unravel in the face of violence? Is there a constant scratching that accents my reception?
Can we be re-written?
How we listen betrays us.
If at night I do not stir at the sound of rain tapping un-domesticated rhythms against the windows that testify to the triumph of human frailty, please, would you wake me?Read more >
With a line from Kiki Petrosino
Journal, mixtape, leather coat. Car key clink in a thrift store purse. Lighter, ticket stub, someone’s backyard. Moonrise, nose ring, The Cranberries.
Car key clink, a thrift store, my purse heavy with make-up, a bottle of coke. Moonrise, nose ring, cranberry and vodka, the night air taste, clarity.
Heavy make-up, rum and coke on the lawn. His hands, my hair, and vodka all night. Cold air, clarity, everything green—we were spinning
on the lawn, his hands everywhere and mine, too. Cartwheels, everything green, everything spinning and loud. I loved him that night:
mine. We circled each other for weeks. Rewind, press play, same songs so loud. I thought I loved him, wrapped around his finger.
Rewound. Pressed play. Same song: lighter, ticket stub, same backyard. Same wrapped around his finger: journal, mixtape, lead, choke.
She places the cassette in the recorder, and the sound of music fills the room.
She sways to rhythm, eyes closed.
Their song from long ago, when they danced together.
Tears trickle down her cheek, thinking of his brown eyes focused on her.
The feel of his touch, gives her chills.
The cassette stops, and so, does she.
Lost in memories, she replays the cassette.
One needs a quick dose of nostalgia To use “Cripes” or “Good Morrow” or “Wowser” But after one fix The centuries mix And a Walkman just brings on neuralgia.
The colour of envy’s well known Those who suffer all seem to be prone To excess of bile Which after a while Grows gripping—so grim that they groan.
It was with rising dismay and, yes, distress, that I read Dr Andeea Hairspliiter’s article in the last issue, ‘The Final Days of Vinyl: How CDs Killed the Single and LP’. Dr Hairspliiter’s contention that it was the compac disc format that finally ended the days of the vinyl record is, frankly, laughalicious. Dr Hairspliiter wholly ignores the widely-known music formats that were interim between vinyl records and the compac disc. Dr Hairspliiter’s argument is simplistic in the xtreme. Popular formats between vinyl and CD included the lazer disk and mini discette. But, of course and obvs, the foremost among interim formats was the cassette tape, and it was this format more than any other that led to the rapido demise of long players and singles.
Thanks for the tape you sent.
It made me think back on
all those good times we shared
last year, here in town and
then up at the lake house.
But I have to tell you,
I leant it to a friend,
and when she gave it back
there was a bit that was
horribly mangled, where
those tracks start that you liked
to play while we made love.
There are some things that you can take a hammer to, and others which you can’t. Swinging a crowbar at the head of every white supremacist/misogynist/-ist she meets has long been a fantasy, but to deconstruct one’s way out of jail would be somewhat difficult. This is no longer the age of spoons and tunnels.
But this task at hand would be the emotional equivalent at swinging said crowbar at said misogynist. Even the look of the thing was perfect; cassette against green worktable, screwdrivers and Stanley knives and everything one could possibly need to take years of her life apart.
A more appropriate way of going about this would be to SMASH THE WHOLE BLOODY BOX TO SMITHEREENS, throwing it down concrete stairs and claiming that it had walked into a door. But cassette tapes don’t get bruises, and despite the stereotypes associated with her gender, she would do this properly.
with all your report cards
and your first communion
you kept everything
all the little scraps and odd objects
that might have once
now only husks
that echo the shape
of your life
like the feel of a stone
smoothed by water–
you left me
one unmarked cassette tape
that could have held anything--
music, the messages from
your answering machine,
a hissing silence,
or your voice–
I haven’t played it
but I carry it in my pocket
keeping all potentials open
a wedge in the door
whose cousin was a DJ,
gave me a mix tape
before he left.
It was Hip-Hop.
It was storytelling.
I listened when I practiced
I sang in the mirror of my room.
Brushed my flattop.
Pretended that a comb
was a gold microphone.
In classical song
your voice soared -
a baritone angel
swooping through cathedral arches
wings lit red blue green by glass
lulled a fretful baby to sleep
stroking silken skin
watching eyelids flutter
into baby dreams.
Sometimes you led a Rugby team
in bawdy song
filling a beer-fumed coach
with full-blown sound
or took a karaoke song
to unexpected heights
for sunburned tourists.
And once you recorded
ballads for your love
to keep your voice alive
when you were not.
is not enough.
[124 seconds of silence]
-hypnotic trance. Now, we will begin.
Welcome to Part 3 of the Finnis-Blackburn Anxiety Management Guide: Tearing Down the Walls Between You and Sanity. In Part 1, we talked about why anxiety has chosen you, and why it makes you different to everyone else. In Part 2, we learned about how to handle panic attacks and avoid drawing attention to them. Now, in Part 3, we will ask the question ‘What causes this anxiety?”
Everybody has triggers that cause them to suffer stress. Some people struggle with work, or other people, or their loveless spouse, or their spouse’s children. In an ideal world, all triggers for anxiety should be eliminated as soon as possible, but it is understood that this is often not possible, or desired. You cannot remove everybody who resists you, or looks at you without a smile, or corrects your pronunciation of the names of coffees.
I took it with me,
a winter of wanting you.
I carried it,
through the narrow streets
and up to the
As I played it,
I half expected
you to walk through the door,
drink in hand,
and that smile you wore,
the one I only saw
in the dark.
I carried it all that week,
to the public houses
and down to the beach;
and when it slowed,
the song became distorted...
and I knew then it was hopeless.
You'd gone: gone forever.
And there were only memories
coming from the cassette player.
I carried it home,
across the grey Irish Sea,
sitting on the top deck, in the rain,
hoping you'd come back
Long enough for the dials to stop their mechanical spinning.
But not long enough.
We wanted more.
I cried first.
We took turns.
Fat tears splashing on our hands.
Red eyes dripping. Like leaking faucets, uncontrolled and regular.
Like something was broken.
We didn't hold each other.
Instead our fingers touched.
Reaching across the white space of the table.
Our skin reacting imperceptibly to the familiarity of shared DNA.
Our ears still alive with the sounds that had died.
“It brings it all back.” You said.
“Hearing her voice.”
“You think you won’t forget.” I say.
(But you do).
We take a moment to think about that.
“Let’s turn it over.”
The tape snaps into place.
We press the button.
In magnetic tape whirr,
After synchronised fingers
One left hand one right
Clunk green arrowed play and red spotted record
Buttons feel physical lift
Of inserted cassette, see black plastic rolls
Register numbers as it rolled
To record tracks on John Peel
Between ten and eleven at night.
Always anxious tape would not end
before the track, or become rammelled up.
Later, in Sunderland for a month,
I press those buttons again
To see the wheels turn
tape Uncle Jimmy's memories
of our family's old milk delivery business,
Stables and farm life in a courtyard
of rented buildings beside a duck pond.
Amid tales of favourite horses
who pulled the churn laden cart
clattered hooves down town streets
where folk ran up with empty porcelain jugs
can be heard his wife, my Aunty Winny's
chuckles. I told them I was vegetarian,
So they gave me two slices of thin cut ham.
All they could afford on a small pension.
it is one
only one with bulbous
eyes, hiding a ghastly truth
I swear it is one
it has left the pages of a book
it wants to be used, scribbled
with the word floppy
what does it mean
who flops, the disc
or those bulbous eyes
I swear it is a floppy
but it doesn't exist any more
Why O why is it here?
how to punch it up
when we heard the songs
and thought real to real
instead of ache, more fake.
We heard old songs
that were new
when we were the world
and the women said I am
with the people getting ready
to be everyday people
born in the U.S.A.
on paved paradise,
to show the unions lived
That revolution was not on TV,
and the what’s that sound
we could imagine as what
was going on with lyrics
blowing in the wind up
of reel to reel,
real to real.
I knew I loved you.
I can’t help myself -
You take my breath away
You are the sunshine of my life,
The first, the last, my everything.
I only have eyes for you -
You are so beautiful
Can’t take my eyes off of you -
You’re the one that I want.
I finally found someone,
I’m crazy for you
Reach out and I’ll be there.
We belong together -
Come away with me,
I wanna hold your hand
You stay with me till dawn,
I’ll make love to you -
Tonight’s the night
These arms of mine
Need you now.
Say something -
the green-eyed monster unwinds the fettered sound.
With the stab of a pencil he spins the wheel to slacken
the flow making snakes to to fill the window, to be seen.
With the sharpened point he punctures, making choices
In the yard the favoured one rides the wheel, hares along
the dirt track singing to be heard.
New music that taunts and tears at the monster's wound,
on the bicycle he has painted green.
with a Thumbelina 45 record.
I danced in the basement,
where the old toys and dolls were kept.
A haven of sound, texture, storytelling, and color—
this was my world, where things made sense.
A song could make me happy.
Having the stuffed animal monkey
talk to the plastic farm animals made me happy.
Feeling my bare feet on the carpet made me happy.
Hearing the model train whistle blow,
in the other room, made me happy.
When do we lose the easy,
slow motion feeling of wonder?
When do we forget to dance with bare feet?
Part of the reel was spat out long ago. Chewed, saved, but never wound up again. I poke a pencil through the cog and spin, until the tape draws taut. Faded letters possess loops of your silk-spun cursive, half shaped across the yellowed insert card.
Jess disagrees. We are twins in all but this.
'Could be anyone's writing,' she says. 'It's likely a blank tape. When did he treasure anything?'
I don't know why she imagines treasure: crammed in a cracked, plastic case, tucked in a mouldy trunk.
She refuses to call him "Dad", hasn't for years. At least, not since Mum died. Now he's assigned to the care home, and we'll escape from part of the burden of how he made us respond.
I feed it into the player and pause. Jess doesn't want to hear it, looks off. I press play. The cogs grind. No sound. No recording of anything. Nothing.
'Fast forward,' Jess insists. 'Stop!'
Play. Nothing. Fast forward. Stop. Play. Hissing, hissing, hissed.
'Press stop,' Jess says.
We left the music playing as we drove to the side of the lake, moved from front seats to back - with some awkward difficulty, the headrests getting caught up in all sorts of uncomfortable places as our bodies twisted through the gaps.
The cassette whirred as we fumbled, not quite knowing what to do, the clouds gathering overhead and rain dripping through the open sunroof onto the back of our heads. The magnetic strip within its plastic case flicking like our tongues - your tongue, mostly - and then finally the silence as it whirred quietly in the machine, but the music seemed to play on in our heads.
I sold that old car for scrap last summer. The green paint half peeled away at the sides, but in the sun the way the metal caught the light was kind of beautiful, in the way that all broken things almost are. Before I dropped the keys off, I shoved the front half of my body through the driver's door and punched at that old cassette player, pulling and pushing and nudging, until finally it came away, and I was able to jemmy the cassette out.
The Nixon tapes, the smoking gun, as it were, of the Watergate scandal, were in our possession during this time. My father engaged Mark Felt, associate director of the FBI, to speak at the college and he attended a reception at our house. This event may or may not have been marked by the collapse of our blue velvet sofa. The reel-to-reel tape deck sat on the floor to the left of our piano. It caught my first words as well as my first memories: Nixon. Tapes. Impeach. The word impeach was as problematic to me as our possession of the tapes. Peaches were good. But Nixon was a bad bad man. Were we going to get in trouble for having the tapes? No one could explain these contradictions to a toddler. My mother got a cassette deck and a few years later we moved to Maine. Our reel-to-reel tapes were expunged and we settled into the slow grind of the 80’s.
Her grandmother used to turn on the tape, on the same recorder and listen to an array of voices, speaking a strange tongue, everyday.
A frail, quiet woman.
It was the same tape that she heard, each day.
She is gone.
The grand daughter, turns on the tape like her grandmother did long ago.
Every day. Staring at the collage of pictures in her room.
All this ribbon tamed, cassette gun-cock clicked, neon soundscapes can begin: slowly at first, building with pattered drums, until the synthesiser announces its arrival. All of a sudden: movement. The act of losing your memory. Replaced with something else: an aspirational life.
For three whole minutes the sounds solidify. The world is a spinning pillar, backgrounded by light. Light of luscious green, ivory, white.
As the fadeout fades, out into hiss - the bubbling bed of noise that scratches out silence - you slow, slump, pant. Tongue lolls like a dog. Flip the cassette, rewind, push play again.
I came to you in hope that in 10 days, we would cover up 10 years of absence from your life, and you from mine. It has been difficult, to see your face and feel sadness in the same breadth I feel gratitude, a tepid longing and cold loneliness. Sadness is slathering everywhere and sealing our lips with a black thread. We can not even mourn aloud. The words, they take violent flight, they elude me. I can grasp none, not one. And so I watch silence winning the war. A threatening pulse underneath all the unsaid words like we will never be strong enough to uproot our words.
Do you remember when I said I love you? I wonder how you did not object. It is not that I don’t love you but this love thing shifts, it changes and sometimes all I feel is anger. I want to yell in your face and then cry on your shoulder afterwards.
One night, I held you by your waist, and it felt like a whole planet stood between you and me. This is not the first time I have felt a nameless chasm. I was scared my arms would crush the bone in your hip. Feigning a proximity that wasn’t there was pointless so I gave up, I took my arms from your body. Before I went to sleep, I watched your face and imagined what it will look like in death, when your chest seizes to rise like it does now.
Tell me. Do you feel the silence too? Do you see the sputtering fire in my eyes? Do you know too, what I really mean when I ask you how you are feeling and if you are hungry?
I want to tell you that I love you again, to cast the silence but how, how do I love you?
I can’t recall its name
or the lyrics, except that
there’s something about
or maybe it’s blue.blue
dahdahdoo blue, or something
kinda like that, and
I first heard it when we were
driving through the valleys
and hills of mid-Wales, and
the newborn lambs were all
wobbly on their pin-thin-legs,
and the April air was syrupy
sweet with purple heather,
and I remember that you
cursed the car’s radio
for eating your favourite
ABBA cassette, chewed up
right between notes,
in the middle of Waterloo,
and I pulled the tape from
its tangled innards, and
rewound it with a hairpin.
I sure wish I could remember
the name of that song.
A year, then two. Then home.
Read more >
in a box of our son's high school things.
No note on it, but I was pretty sure
it was his high school theater project.
He recorded himself and then
listened to it over and over in his room,
re-recording it when he thought of places
to modulate his tone, to give more emphasis to certain lines
to bolster shaky points.
I listened in at his closed door,
but I knew he did not want input
from me, so I never asked to listen with him
neither to the tape nor to the re-speaking
of the part onto that used and reused plastic tape.
I remember how excited he was when
he came home from giving the presentation
on stage in front of his teacher and the other students.
I can hear him even now...
"Mom, they gave me a standing O!"
I gave him a hug.
Read more >
detol, j cloth and marigolds-
no one will know your name
and now I'll sing over what you said
and make you speak anew
I've been humming it on the train
and when I get home and hit record
there will be nothing you can do
you were mangled when I found you
had to gnaw soy sauce off chopstick
so I could begin the cryptic twisting
a tape séance to delicately
restore your innards
it felt right to gut you at the time
you'd been asking for it
your glitches no longer endearing
scuffing my foxtrot
tangling my waltz
but our first song still echoes
in the silence
even as I wind you on
Before Brexit became a tiresome word – meaning what?
Simplistic arguments – Scare Tactics – Scurrilous actions.
Knowing me – knowing you – what would we do now?.
Fast forward to when the silence runs from the tape
Place it in an old tacky box and take it to the Charity Shop.
Rewind to a simpler time and place – chill to the music.
Bridge over our troubled country – soothing and calm.
Please take me there now before I placed my cross.
Or was it an air kiss – not knowing it was goodbye for ever.
Or a hard cross – biting off the end of the innocent pencil.
Certainty/doubt in a small airless booth - panicking.
The dye is cast and we can't rewind – just untangle the tape.
As it whirs and whirs and whirs – never stopping for us to get
off that damned bus while politicians do and leave the tape
running on its endless loop of fear, hope and pragmatism.
Fast forward me to the end, when the tape finally runs out
of road, traction and Joni Mitchell’s big yellow taxi take us
home - singing - “That you don’t know what you’ve got till its gone”..
the swirl of your definitive cowlick,
all piss on the trunk of a tree,
sharing yourself with me.
Vulnerable and forceful.
Vulgar and needy, taste.
If I like these tracks,
I may well inhale your scent.
I may let your mix blend
with me. Your earworms become
keloid brands upon my brain.
Will I pretend to like them?
Attempt to listen and hope,
based on your pheromones,
I will grow to love the order and flow
of your jams, like an appreciation for cheeses
or cultivating a fondness for one
particular vine over another.
And that's only Side A. Good compilations
kick off with a corker, and carry me to the end.
Will I make it through?
So full of potential.
If I leave it on the seat
to melt, that's telling.
the songs we both enjoyed
on three hour trips to Portsmouth,
to the Isle of Wight, from Heathrow
dropping me off, dropping my mother off
(thank you again for that), to Wolvercote,
to Oxford. to Amsterdam.
these compositions dripped
our kisses along
each new street you took me to,
and I'm lonely searching
for music, we didn't bond over.
hip hop and ambient folk
will play for at least 9 months,
how's that to consummate our separation
how's that for real?
As if it’s on a postcard?
Wish you were here.
And at the same time, I wish you wasn’t and I could moan about feelings I’m not comfortable sharing with you.
Wish you could see me here.
Maybe one time we could philosophise the perfect first encounter.
I sit here on the flooded bench, full of ciggie burns and dirt,
You drop your something and I pick it up and say something like, ‘uh, slippery fingers my love’,
You nod and wander through the path with your rebel piercings and headphones.
Am I the only one who wants to be seen with something splendid, something such as a sun flower in my hair?
Do I just go on here and make mixtapes like a petulant child and scour any opportunity to share them with somebody who wants to share something meaningful to themselves?
You don’t really know me, but I pretend I know you to some capacity.
I wonder, is there something that makes you proofread your entire existence.
Maybe you walked in on your folks doing it one time.
It still sends shivers down your spine.
Wondering why mother was grimacing in a sigh that wasn’t soothing.
Dad just gets the chills and carries on.
Is this really it for us.
Surrounded by uncertainties and reincarnations of other people’s mistakes.
Or is it all just catalogued and labelled ‘Nancy’s best hits’?
The first time we met, when I wasn't supposed to be meeting you
But my friend who wasn't there, so it was you
Opening the door, smiling; the way things start.
You invited me in, and
I served you the martini I'd brought along.
The red liquid shimmering, on the rocks,
We kicked our DMs off, sitting down on the futon,
Feeling the soft Indian bedspread beneath our hands,
Resting our backs against the wall,
And I lost myself in your eyes,
As Joni sang 'a case of you'.
Another evening in your room, Transvision Vamp was playing as I arrived,
You served me vodka, the transparent liquid echoing
The unadorned fluorescent lights above our heads, until you turned them off.
Then it was just us two, in the dark,
And those words, 'baby I don't care',
Loud and harsh, screaming music filling the air, as you reached out
And soon we were a tangle of brown limbs, by the time the tape stopped.
You paused, pressed play once more.