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We’ve updated our Terms of Use. You can review the changes here.

Becoming

by Energetic Action

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1.
Becoming 07:01
Becoming ) Speak plainly: try again to speak the line you’re thinking. Thoughts: inflections off the tongue of the mind – tinge of blue within a gossamer sky – hand of Christ on one’s head – arms pulling nets in – ( Believing not in Christ, but in his serious hands, transparent and empty having no bones or blood, whose implication held my shoulders tightly if I could not feel Jesus gently. And I believe not in coercion, but in its serious hands of which I am – but I am becoming as the body of Christ meditating on high peaking suns; I am head of sunflower; the vision of John, a prosody; an articulation of soul and destination; the first seeing eye, the stiff arms unfolded; the distance between bridges, flooded and joining; the star within the sunrise, shining bare into existence; can be as everything, trees now are trees becoming. I am the red monk and the gray one; I set fires and put them out. I am create dust from nothing. I am from dust to mountains raise. ) Thoughts: Spring from silent corners of winter
2.
Yellow 02:17
Yellow I thought I saw two meadowlarks among the grasses in our yard their song was only breeze, a plastic bag their yellow bellies That’s not to say that’s not sacred There are the boxcars on the day of the eclipse not one looks up; they all just sit As there were the anemone by yellow lady’s slippered feet so to her sheet she will recede, that yellow lady in the leaves The world of dew, the world of dew, and yet… The world of dew, the world of dew, and yet the summer dress That’s not to say that’s not sacred That’s not to say anything
3.
Laura Riding on the Bus Laura Riding on the bus, she wants to talk with us. She asks the driver to stop with the shutting of the back door. And all along the way ladies take two seats. How come nobody wants to sit with me? There’s your purse, but it has no pulse! Everybody’s got a phone. Who are you talking to? You’re always alone. Who do you think you’re escaping inside of? Laura Riding on the bus, she wants to talk with us, she invites you to take a seat at the front but in time your attention slides. Laura Riding took your clothes, she took your newspaper notes, she took your headphones. Now how will you abide? We stop at every light. We stop at every sign. We stop to watch the ducks begin their flight. And there’s a man on my side, he is reading a book. I say, Can I take a look? but he just laughs and then he hides.
4.
Nightwood 08:58
Nightwood “Watchman, what of the night?” What’s the night but scrambling in the darkness for the light as silhouettes scratching at a wall to dig a shape? Don’t threads grow wild nearing the fringes? Have you seen the earth eclipse the sun? Isn’t that death long? Morning comes, but late, anew against revelers of the night who’ve pissed again upon day’s short flowers; and as spring must always be the painful stitch over winter wounds, so day comes in, chagrined between daylight-fed cyprian trees who with sultry ghosts conspire to shade the moistened nightwood floor. But withhold the moon that drives us dogs from out our kennels to tear the heart out of a man, or tear the throat out of a bitch, and see that in a windowless room confined we become a mirror unto ourselves – and there we talk of what we know, and commonalities combine to say that, yes, it would be fun to go and rage into the night. Oh, but to you who sleep: where do you say you go in dreams? What little precious secrets do your lips keep? Is it not black where your heart resides? Is it not dark under the lid of your eye? I’ll tell you, it is in mine. “…all the windows, great and small, from which love and fear have peered, shining and in tears. Put those windows from end to end and it would be a casement that would reach around the world; and put those thousand eyes into one eye and you would have the night combed with the great blind searchlight of the heart.” Djuna Barnes, Nightwood
5.
In the Hour Before I Sleep In the hour before I sleep I can hear my body breathe – Up, you body! I nearly shout, but shouting with a tight-closed mouth The bright old door is closing now as I think myself to dreaming In the shade before the night I warm my hands in final breaths Holding fingers soft with blood I hold as best as soft flesh can – In the hour before I sleep I feel my body breathing! Shadows wax across the land that I have tilled all of my life I watch as fences, houses, sand, all wash into a common black The bright old door is closing in upon myself as I dream Pulling up the grass that’s gone I wonder where it could have went When my feet have been here so long. Now I walk on a faceless wind In this the hour before I sleep. The shoreline’s steady breathing Blows trees that line my memory, each lungless, waterless and gray Adorned with cups that are too small, they drink themselves to wash away The bright old door is closing now upon me. (And I dream the night that is for want of day plucks tiniest flower
6.
Wounds 04:55
Wounds I lock the door and windows when I’m alone I watch the door and windows when no one’s around I look before I answer the door so you know I see you before you see me I keep a gun in the closet by the door I keep a bullet in the chamber of the gun I don’t put my hands in my pockets so you know I am ready when you come for me I have a freezer filled with eyes that I’ve plucked from my skull I keep them in darkness so they can’t say what they’ve seen so I’ll tell you I know my body better than you know
7.
The Lapping Sea To say goodbye again beneath the window, resonant as with the day, so too the bed: steeped to fullness in your dress. Into the wind I wave a hand to all that’s blowing by: I have yesterday on these palms. I have yesterday imprinted on these palms. There is a life of lingering, prolonged and stuttering between the lapping sea and two wanting feet, two wanting feet in leaving. But what can stay on this sinking beach? Will these each not be made sleek then missing sediments, sentiments? Your unswept hair… a tidy bed… my buttoned shirt… your summer dress… moments alone: our unturned stones… There is an indelible mascara mark upon my sheet. You were so beautiful that night so soft beneath me. And I won’t wash it. I won’t try. Everything that comes will leave, does come to leave. The seasons change: I’ll go – I’ll come their way. The seasons change without you. But there is a life of lingering, prolonged and stuttering between the lapping sea and two wanting feet, two wanting feet remembering. There is an indelible mascara mark upon my sheet. You were so beautiful that night so soft beneath me. And every hour I have leaned over, so stretching for your cheek, toward that morning of our hearts opening.
8.
In the Morning In the morning there’ll be snow patiently melting and today I breathe as snow patiently melts not caring much that it is leaving In June there will be girls I’ve never met and on some future date from that one I will still never have met them Far from now is not the same as far from here where every room is but one empty room in eternity but every inch cut thinly to fill up the little seconds as they come undone – the bows in hair on feet with shoelace tied just once and then In the morning there’ll be snow patiently melting and last night I dreamt of waking just to watch it in its leaving Packing bags I had unpacked yet unpacking all I had not, tomorrow I will still move objects laying But tomorrow is not the same as yesterday’s tomorrow where I pulsate blood between me draw my breath and feel some fingers write the last word then the last word and some things are never done – the goodbye – so long

credits

released June 1, 2013

Recorded September 2011 at Westudios, engineered by Wes Sontag, produced by Energetic Action and Wes Sontag.

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Energetic Action Edmonton, Alberta

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