PYTHIAS BRASWELL || NOTES FROM THE FIELD
MISCELLANEOUS OBJECTS
FOUND UPON THE GROUND OF BEING
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8/25/15 at BSP in Kingston, NY (From Left, Otto Hauser, Gwen Siegal, John Rosenthal, Michael Hays)
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MOTIONLESS WAVE, INFINITE DOT
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Dear Everyone,
There's so much to tell you. Each day holds an infinite array of material that goes unreported; even more goes uninterpreted:
1. A blue jay breaks twigs from a Cypress tree in St. Martinville, LA
2. Laundry dries out on a trash-flooded lawn in Las Cruces, NM
3. Beavers slap the swamp water in Arkansas
4. Strange whirring noises issue from a distant hot sauce factory
5. A weathered book lays on a table covered in lime-green tree pollen
6. Coffee grounds form portentous images in the bottom of a ceramic cup
7. Vague dreams leave only the barest trace of a feeling that has no name...
Each day, I try to make sense of all these events and often fail. Each day, I try to be a good person, I try to figure out what it means to be good, I fail to meet my own expectations, I wonder about God, I go to bed confused, I spend a huge amount of time eating.
Somewhere in the midst of all this I sometimes manage to accomplish the odd feat of assimilation. The new Pythias Braswell album is one these such moments of solidity. It was recorded by Kenny Siegal at the wonderful and haunted Old Soul Studios in Catskill, NY. It's called Thy Merciful Teeth.
The album has not been released yet - and the cover, which I am still in the process of drawing, is sitting in a dusty box I've been hauling all over the Southern states. [Breaking news: I recently resumed working on the drawing, indoors, thanks to the graciousness of some new friends.]
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The drawing would have been finished faster, except I don't really know how to draw. Like Icarus, I once thought I could fly to the sun where all mediums are combined. Instead, I have been melted, without mercy, on the altar of illustration.
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My lady and I are touring, on a tour that evolves one show at a time. We are doing this by talking to people, by asking people, by getting directions from tourism centers and random strangers, or by following the land itself. This approach gets mixed results. Some times people seem to say with their eyes, "Kind sir, will you please return home and speak to me through your computer?" Other times you are joyfully reminded that there is still a deep and arcane magic coursing through the veins of this giant mini-mall of a country we call home.
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We met Girard at a park in Lafayette. He toured with us for a while and we formed a band called "Girard and the Humans." One day he met a farm girl and that was the end of that. I hope he realizes that Cajuns have a recipe for almost every species.
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I have fallen off the edge of the internet and into the United States. I am spiraling deep into some kind of Luddite fantasy. Help Everyone! I'm pretty sure a donkey or some oxen are on the horizon! Seriously!
We found ourselves in the Bayou for a while, and spent a long time listening to the wild boars and armadillos digging around at night. A new song was born there, amidst the shotgun shells and mosquitoes, a song that will always belong to Louisiana. Here's a line:
Up on the levee, with the stars burning into my mind
You cannot see me, that's how I know that I must be going blind
A wise person once told me that some songs can be found, floating around, out in the world. Having mostly found them within me, I didn't believe her until I found, To Those Who Are Free, floating down the road from the Hudson Correctional Facility.
Please have a listen! This is the first preview of Thy Merciful Teeth, I have offered anywhere, to anyone, appearing here, exclusively for you, dearest reader. Click on the link below to hear.
To Those Who Are Free
The city of Hudson is, at least for now, at least for us, receding into the distance as we head further and further West. It joins the many homes that have so kindly sheltered Pythias Braswell over the years. The time there was ripe, however, and many illuminating things happened.
Nearly every day I would walk down to the wide Hudson river and pray in my own somewhat secular way. In the winter, giant, low thuds and cracks would resound as the ice shifted. In the summer, cicadas and lightning bugs thickened the air.
Hudson is a beautiful place, but hurry if you're thinking of moving there. It's growing fast and soon only the very wealthy will remain. Why not move to Louisiana? Or Clarksdale, Mississippi? They might not trust you at first, but if your heart is pure, it won't matter whether you're loved or crucified.
Our country is large! There is music everywhere. The soul of our nation is alive, even in Wal-Mart parking lots. We could all be singing there. Come sing with me there!
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