corinthian

three sleeps

I've been spending a lot of time working on music and mixes for The Big Event after-party this Saturday, so I have tracks and playlists coming out of my ears — as opposed to going into them. Tonight's mix is a selection of my "loved" tracks from Last.fm, exposing me as the transparent 90s tragic I am. See you on the other side. TRACK 01 "Come as You are," Nirvana INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Cannonball," The Breeders INDEX: 03:38:22 TRACK 03 "Santa Monica," Everclear INDEX: 07:11:60 TRACK 04 "Penpals," Sloan INDEX: 10:23:30 TRACK 05 "The Day You Come," Powderfinger INDEX: 13:30:36 TRACK 06 "Phil Collins," In the Air Tonight INDEX: 17:29:13 TRACK 07 "Claire," Morphine INDEX: 21:14:00 TRACK 08 "Honey Steel's Gold," Ed Kuepper INDEX: 24:19:30 TRACK 09 "Brick," Ben Folds Five INDEX: 29:36:25 TRACK 10 "We Haven't Turned Around," Gomez INDEX: 34:17:70 TRACK 11 "Waterfall," The Stone Roses INDEX: 40:44:62 TRACK 12 "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight," The Postal Service INDEX: 45:19:50 TRACK 13 "Turn on, Tune in, Find Joy," Freakpower INDEX: 49:59:69

a selfish mystery

I've been selfish of late, neglecting you in favour of triking, XBox or other mundane pursuits. Motivation is in short supply. But I miss you, and promise to try harder to keep in touch. The mix tonight is a mystery theme. It's esoteric, but anyone listening could divine it without much effort. What is it?
TRACK 01 "Roundabout," Yes INDEX: 00:00:00 
TRACK 02 "Knights of Cydonia," Muse INDEX: 08:29:37 
TRACK 03 "Tom Sawyer," Rush INDEX: 14:34:57 
TRACK 04 "Oretes," A Perfect Circle INDEX: 19:08:38 
TRACK 05 "Mississippi," Paula Cole INDEX: 23:54:41 
TRACK 06 "Mockingbirds," Grant Lee Buffalo INDEX: 28:58:32 
TRACK 07 "Mojo Pin," Jeff Buckley INDEX: 33:33:70 
TRACK 08 "My Maudlin Career," Camera Obscura INDEX: 39:11:58 
TRACK 09 "Take the Long Way Home," Supertramp INDEX: 43:25:67 
TRACK 10 "The Cinema Show," Genesis INDEX: 48:32:42

repeat offender

I blame society. TRACK 01 "The Hives are the Law, You are Crime," The Hives INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Paranoid," I N Fused INDEX: 02:29:40 TRACK 03 "Bang Bang Bang," Mark Ronson & The Business Intl. INDEX: 05:50:33 TRACK 04 "Stupid Marriage," The Specials INDEX: 09:43:50 TRACK 05 "Caught, Can We Get a Witness?" Public Enemy INDEX: 13:34:13 TRACK 06 "The (Rockin') Courtroom," Judge Suds & The Soul Detergents INDEX: 18:10:59 TRACK 07 "Take a Ride," Luscious Jackson INDEX: 20:13:58 TRACK 08 "Not Worth Waiting For," Jack Ladder INDEX: 26:59:21 TRACK 09 "Dream Away Life," Dum Dum Girls INDEX: 30:45:09 TRACK 10 "Forty Years," Restroom Poets INDEX: 34:58:44 TRACK 11 "Wasted Time," Kings of Leon INDEX: 41:39:00 TRACK 12 "Nervous Breakdown," Whiskeytown INDEX: 44:24:31 TRACK 13 "Hello Conscience," The Zutons INDEX: 46:31:47 TRACK 14 "Breakout," Ash Grunwald INDEX: 50:20:57 TRACK 15 "Summertime Killer," Luis Bacalov INDEX: 54:47:58

refuge

I'm telling you this in confidence, because I think I can trust you. Strike that, I should say I feel like I ought to trust you. We've known each other for over a year now, and if I can't trust you, then I can't trust anyone, least of all myself. I'm impotent, of course. That was to be expected, according to the doctors. Not that such considerations have weighed on my mind since this whole thing started. To my surprise, sex doesn't matter. It hasn't really been a downside; in fact, I might say it's just another distraction I've shed, like so many others. I might say that, and a week ago or a month ago I might have believed it. Strike that. I would have been certain of it. I can't be certain of anything now. When I was a child, I used to build plastic models – aeroplanes, space ships, tanks, you name it. I would sit for hours in the basement, kneeling on the concrete, hunched over minuscule plastic pieces, carefully cut from their frames and glued with a solvent so toxic my nose ran and my eyes watered. I would work until my bladder was bursting. When I could bear the pressure no longer I would lurch to my feet with knees creaking and legs as dead as wood. Sorry, I'm trying to say that even as a child freakish concentration came naturally. I've always known how to shut out what didn't interest me: schoolwork, teachers, people in general. I miss that now, I miss being able to concentrate. Every medicine has its side effects. I could recite a laundry list of drugs, minor and major side effects and LDs 50. I don't know why I know that. I don't think it was part of my job. "LD" stands for "lethal dose", how much of a drug will kill fifty-percent of your experimental cohort. Don't write that down. I told you this was confidential. It's the details which matter. Just assembling my models wasn't enough. Each one had to have fragile decals applied by scalpel, and careful painting to achieve just the right level of detailed weathering. I could work for hours … I said that already. But I was never satisfied with the result. The olive drab paint would be too shiny, or the flecks of silver enamel – trying to make metal edges look worn by tiny feet — looked gaudy. Eventually, I would have to abandon my work, leaving it to gather dust on the shelf across from my bed, from which I could examine my flawed handiwork. There was a point to that story. When the medication started, I was told to expect changes in cognition, which was tautological considering that was the whole point. One takes a mind altering drug to alter one's mind. The psychiatrist told me that while my fear of what lay ahead was natural, healthy even, in my state of mind, I couldn't be relied upon to make rigorous decisions. That was before the medicine. Of course you remember that; you were the one who told me. In fact, you were the one who recommended me to the program. We must've known each other longer than a year, then. Not that I'm assigning blame. The decision was still mine, even if it wasn't trustworthy. Desperation burns away irrelevancies, and lends a certainty to the choices which remain. Joining the program was really the only option, and regardless of everything else, I should thank you. I seem to recall these conversations are recorded. So much for confidentiality. Still, I hope you can keep a secret. Not about my flaccid penis, that's already been well-documented, as has the numbness and the headaches. I assume it's been documented. I've done my best to be honest during our interviews. The acuity tests. They were fun at first. I've always been proud of my intelligence. Vain about the brain. The headaches were so bad at first, I thought there must have been a tumour in my head. I mustn't have been the only one; all the fMRIs and PET scans: more than the test protocol dictated. The radiologists were unreadable as they slid me into their torpedo tubes. I remember sitting in the control room once, after being wheeled out. I could see the scans, and when I closed my eyes, the shadows on screen resolved into a picture, a model of my brain. I knew without being told. No tumours. No tumours, but something was changing. Something interesting. I don't believe in hope. Getting sick in the first place taught me the futility of that emotion. So when the tests showed an arrest in the disease, I didn't feel excited, but it was intensely interesting. I did manage to feel proud. Foolishly proud that a head full of chemicals was not only halting the progressive neuronal degeneration, but possibly reversing it. As if hard work and force of will somehow determined the right constitution for being a successful guinea pig. The point of my story. From earlier, about the models. I destroyed them. Every one. The space shuttle burned up on reentry; the battleship sank; the tank took a direct hit. I had a chemistry set and a book explaining how to build fireworks from common household items. The imperfect models were obliterated. I remember the work. The occupational therapist suggested a job as part of my rehabilitation from the sickness and the treatment. It was obvious to me even then that this was no arbitrary job. The details are a little vague now, but I remember running a program to assemble protein chains — not exactly a sheltered workshop. The work was interesting, if not entirely engaging. The computer got in the way as much as it helped. I think we made some progress. We may have done some good. It was about then the tingling started. The pins and needles were distracting. I recall I was mostly relieved when the tingling turned to numbness. It was easier to concentrate on the proteins. By then it didn't matter whether I could type or hold a mouse. It was easier and faster to turn the molecules around in my head. I'm certain we made some progress; I must have eliminated at least 100 dead ends. I remember when mother visited. I think it's best she hasn't returned. I don't think I did her much good. I'm not much for conversation. I don't care about the weather; I don't go outside. Did you know I learned Hungarian? A bit of Portuguese too. Most of the cleaners in my wing are from Hungary. I learned their language by accident. Can't speak a word, but I could tell you every skerrick of gossip. Weddings have always bored me, but listening to them talk endlessly about their sons and daughters drives me to distraction. That's what I mean about concentration. It's gone. The brain works, you've seen enough of that already, but I can't stay focused. Nothing seems to matter. So mother doesn't visit, and no one calls. I infer that people feel insulted when I find them boring. It's not only my hands and feet which have gone numb. The term is “flat affect”. But you know that already. You're the psychiatrist. There was something I wanted to tell you, something secret. Perhaps you can erase the tape. There's only one copy. Even if not, I'm counting on you. You've been with me since the beginning. Without you, and the program, I'd be dead — or worse. Thank you. I'm alive, and thanks to the treatment, I'm smarter than your average cripple. And numb. Lean closer. I love you. I hate you. I don't care.
TRACK 01 "Atrophy," The Antlers INDEX: 00:00:00 
TRACK 02 "PTSD," Grails INDEX: 07:33:20 
TRACK 03 "Scatterheart," Björk INDEX: 14:15:57 
TRACK 04 "The Earthquake That Frees Prisoners," Gang Gang Dance INDEX: 20:51:27 
TRACK 05 "Tanned," Arab Strap INDEX: 31:58:67 
TRACK 06 "Providence," Godspeed You! Black Emperor INDEX: 38:30:59

foreign landmarks

There is a story inside me, but I can't tell you. I know what it's about, but I don't know how it goes. Perhaps you could use your imagination … mine seems to be broken. While you're daydreaming, here's some music.
TRACK 01 "Il Pleure (At the End of the Century)," Art of Noise INDEX: 00:00:00 
TRACK 02 "6p 6q ~ h4n (Lab 7)," Télépopmusik INDEX: 08:02:16 
TRACK 03 "Sportster," Steve Alexander INDEX: 13:50:47 
TRACK 04 "More Surgery," Matthew Dear INDEX: 17:11:11 
TRACK 05 "Young and Gay," Austra INDEX: 22:38:05 
TRACK 06 "Snowball," Elbow INDEX: 26:05:58 
TRACK 07 "Horny Hippies," The Dodos INDEX: 30:59:73 
TRACK 08 "Black Hole Blues," Jack Ladder INDEX: 33:59:05 
TRACK 09 "Meditation Song # 2 (Why, Oh Why)," Cloud Control INDEX: 37:29:17 
TRACK 10 "Gideon," My Morning Jacket INDEX: 41:42:00 
TRACK 11 "A Beautiful Sound," doublethink INDEX: 45:16:05 
TRACK 12 "My Mistakes were Made for You," The Last Shadow Puppets INDEX: 49:20:64 
TRACK 13 "Cash," The Panics INDEX: 52:22:74 
TRACK 14 "Bloods on Fire," Pinback INDEX: 56:25:17

get some

This mix contains adult themes. If you can't handle that, you shouldn't be on the internet. TRACK 01 "First of May," Jonathan Coulton INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Step into My Office, Baby," Belle and Sebastian INDEX: 04:08:09 TRACK 03 "Violent Love," Dr. Feelgood INDEX: 08:19:56 TRACK 04 "Just Like Betty Page," The Jazz Butcher INDEX: 10:38:14 TRACK 05 "Sweet Head," David Bowie INDEX: 13:32:43 TRACK 06 "Dinah Moe Humm," Frank Zappa INDEX: 17:46:45 TRACK 07 "Orgasm," Porno for Pyros INDEX: 23:47:68 TRACK 08 "H.W.C.," Liz Phair INDEX: 28:15:74 TRACK 09 "Susan Sleepwalking," The Pooh Sticks INDEX: 31:08:66 TRACK 10 "Strobe Light," The B-52's INDEX: 33:41:43 TRACK 11 "Naked Pictures (of Your Mother)," Electric Six INDEX: 37:41:49 TRACK 12 "Dressed in Dresden," The Hundred In The Hands INDEX: 39:52:26 TRACK 13 "Mona's Sister," Mark Sandman INDEX: 43:25:42 TRACK 14 "Milk & Honey," Beck INDEX: 46:46:08 TRACK 15 "Buddy," De La Soul INDEX: 52:03:28 TRACK 16 "Tired of Sex," Weezer INDEX: 56:56:73

bassline

I've been feeling uninspired lately, as if I haven't been keeping my side of our deal. I've the kernel of an idea for a new post. Hope to see you soon. In the meantime, enjoy the mix.
TRACK 01 "Beat Goes On," All Seeing I INDEX: 00:00:00 
TRACK 02 "I'm Good," DJ Format INDEX: 04:02:18 
TRACK 03 "Rodney Yates," David Holmes INDEX: 08:01:11 
TRACK 04 "Jamie, My Intentions are Bass," !!! INDEX: 14:02:20 
TRACK 05 "Archive," The Experimental Pop Band INDEX: 19:07:10 
TRACK 06 "$300," Soul Coughing INDEX: 22:36:22 
TRACK 07 "They Bent Me," Mark Sandman INDEX: 25:42:37 
TRACK 08 "Superfly," Curtis Mayfield INDEX: 31:23:30 
TRACK 09 "Heartbeats," The Knife INDEX: 35:15:67 
TRACK 10 "Lay It Down," General Fuzz INDEX: 39:06:66 
TRACK 11 "Afrika Shox," Leftfield INDEX: 48:18:24 
TRACK 12 "Superstition," Stevie Wonder INDEX: 53:55:09 
TRACK 13 "Back by Dope Demand," King Bee INDEX: 58:00:46

no code

No words. No proper time of day.
TRACK 01 "Tender," Blur INDEX: 00:00:00 
TRACK 02 "I Need Love," Sam Phillips INDEX: 07:40:60 
TRACK 03 "Hell No, I Ain't Happy," Drive-By Truckers INDEX: 11:19:29 
TRACK 04 "I'll Play the Blues for You," The Mighty Houserockers INDEX: 15:40:65 
TRACK 05 "Back to Black," Amy Winehouse INDEX: 21:18:28 
TRACK 06 "Life Sentence," Epicure INDEX: 25:17:60 
TRACK 07 "Wild Horses," Rolling Stones INDEX: 30:05:17 
TRACK 08 "Shatter," Liz Phair INDEX: 35:46:51 
TRACK 09 "Eternal Flame," Joan As Police Woman INDEX: 41:15:48 
TRACK 10 "I Will Possess Your Heart," Death Cab For Cutie INDEX: 44:54:01

porcelain

Winter reluctantly surrendered its grip on the land, as spring made tentative inroads from the south. The ice floes were gone, but the water of the Great Lake remained deathly cold. Grey surf washed over the grey pebbles of the beach. Beyond the border of sodden stones, patches of snow hid in the shadows of the pine forest. The needles of the trees were silhouetted by the dawn, leaving the shore in semi-darkness. The villagers were already labouring in the quickening light of another morning. It was April now, probably, though no one knew for sure. The lengthening days were often obscured by clouds, making it hard to judge how near the equinox stood — for as much as anyone cared. There were no calendars in the village, with a single exception: an old advertiser, its curled pages a decade or more out of date, hung on the doorpost of the old greenhouse. Its pages depicted flowers which these days rarely bloomed. The pictures reminded the gardener of better times, so he kept it hanging, flipping its faded pages as the seasons turned and as his mood moved him. 
A short walk from the village, a young man plodded laboriously along the rough shore. Across his shoulders, he carried a yoke, from the ends of which dangled empty crates. As he trudged across the pebbles, he looked down the beach, and paused. The body must have washed up during the night. The child was nude, and lay neatly with her legs straight and her arms at her sides; her pale skin was luminescent in the rising dawn. The icy lake washed gently over her ankles and calves. 
Caleb Stone laid down his yoke. He knelt beside the body and touched its cheek with his palm. The flesh was as cold as the rocks beneath his rubber waders. He leaned closer, listening, feeling a faint breath. Caleb leaned back on his haunches. The child's pale skin and brown hair resembled no one from the village. She seemed only to be sleeping, but a firm shake on the shoulder would not rouse her. Caleb gently lifted the child and turned towards the village. 
Ruth Bowman had been tracking a buck when she noticed two feet protruding from a melting snow drift. Beneath the snow lay a boy, neatly arranged as if put to bed by a loving parent. When she dug free his face, the child exhaled deeply, as if he had been holding his breath. His thin arms were arranged across his chest, as if to keep warm. She lifted his chill body and lashed it to the travois she had stashed nearby, for hauling her kill back to the village. 
By midday more than a dozen ashen children lay swaddled in blankets and quilts in the old church house. Croatoan had never had its own doctor; back when the phone lines worked, the villagers would call the nearest town, and make their way along the narrow peninsula to see a physician. But it had been seven years since the last telephone rang. Since then, the village veterinarian had served as well as he could. He moved from child to child, checking temperature and respiration. The children seemed to have warmed since being brought indoors, but they remained far too cold. None had woken, or responded to his ministrations. Caleb entered through the side door with an armful of firewood and stoked the stoves. Moving with the doctor, the village reeve, Colt, watched him work, occasionally commenting. "First healthy children I've seen in at least ten years, and they're every one in a coma," he said. Doc Barber grunted and proceeded to the next frail form. "Still," said Colt, scratching his beard. "Half-dead's half-alive, which makes this lot better off than any child we've seen in quite some time." Barber scowled. "Don't be crude, Peter," he said over his shoulder. The number of people in the church house swelled, as those who had discovered the children were joined by other villagers, each leaving his or her own work to find something to do nearby. Colt saw through their pretense, but could hardly blame them. No village woman had been pregnant in perhaps six years — at least, none had progressed far enough along to show. Even in the days when a few women still fell pregnant, fewer still carried to term. No village child had reached its first birthday in nine years. Caleb, aged something more than 16, was the youngest living person in the shire, until today. 
Barber finished his rounds. Seven girls and six boys lay huddled in the aisles nearest the stoves, each attended by one or more villagers. Besides their frightening chill and eerie sleep, the children seemed otherwise healthy, almost unnervingly so. Although they were slim, Barber judged them well-nourished — surprising considering the villagers' own winter stores were running bare. Caleb finished with the stoves and made his way to Barber and Colt, brushing his hands on the sides of his trousers. "Where'd they all come from?" 
Colt spoke, "Every story is the same as yours. Found a little boy or little girl where none should be: on the beach, under the snow, in an old barn." Colt didn't need to add: There was nowhere for these young ones to have come from. The nearest settlement was 10 km south along the peninsula, then another 30 clicks inland. And anyway, the single track between them was impassable this early in the spring. Which left the next question, of what to do with the newcomers, already answered. 
The villagers spoke amongst themselves, making arrangements to shelter the children in their homes. Some went to fetch clothes or extra blankets to carry them home. Quietly, the old vet and the reeve discussed the wisdom of this, but the old church made a poor hospital — if there was, indeed, anything wrong with the children. Besides, Colt doubted he could convince anyone to surrender a living, breathing child to the cold sanctuary of God's house. Ruth Bowman was the first to make ready to leave. She cradled a bundle of blankets crowned with short brown hair. As she left, two more people entered, carrying yet another child. Barber directed them to the vacancy left by Bowman, and checked the boy's vital signs. By nightfall, only Barber and Caleb remained in the church. Caleb's mother had spirited away the girl he'd found on the beach, but he remained behind to try and help the doctor. As the stove fires turned to embers, Barber threw on his coat and packed his medicine bag. Caleb left him to close up. 
The windows of the village flickered with lantern light as dusk deepened into night. A cold breeze blew in from the Lake, and Caleb turned up his collar as he marched home to the top of the road. He only now remembered his crabbing crates, abandoned on the beach this morning. Caleb imagined that many other villagers had left their chores undone when they'd heard the news, or discovered their own pale enigmas. When he arrived home, there were no familiar smells of cooking, and the kitchen stove remained unlit. The lamp in his room glowed, and he found his mother sitting vigil over the child who now lay in his bed, quilts pulled snugly to her ivory chin. "I tried to get her to take some water," his mother said without looking up. 
"Maybe some soup," said Caleb, hoping it sounded like a suggestion. 
"It's in the kettle on the stove, you can have it cold tonight." Caleb nodded and turned back down the hall. After a brief meal of yesterday's cold soup, Caleb slept uneasily on the sofa. He rose before sunrise, still wearing his coat and trousers. With only a thin crocheted throw to cover with, he'd slept poorly, perpetually too cold. He crept to his room, finding his mother sitting beside the girl, dozing in the gloom. The child was invisible beneath a mound of blankets, but he could hear her gentle breathing between his mother's occasional snores. He breakfasted on stale sourdough and the last of the soup, then pulled on his boots as the stars faded. He looked in once again on his mother, but left her sleeping. 
The village paths were grey in the pre-dawn, and only the occasional lantern cast splashes of gold from scattered windows. Returning to the beach, Caleb recovered his crates, no worse for a night lakeside, and shouldered his yoke. His crab nest was a charnel house; without him to feed them, the largest had turned on their siblings and eaten them, leaving dismembered carapaces floating in the rock pool. Caleb scrambled over the stone walls of the nest and the three largest, each with shells as wide as his own forearm was long, raised their claws and hissed at him. He dispatched them with his baton and stacked them into two crates before the survivors devoured them. Then he gathered the four largest of the remainder into his other two crates, and collected the shredded remains of the cannibal feast into a pile, before sweeping the whole mess into the Lake. He netted clutches of small fish which came to pick over the carcasses, and dumped them into the nest. They would sate the smaller crabs for another day or two. 
The morning was gone by the time he started back. By now, there was usually at least one tin boat out fishing, but Caleb saw no one, and the tinnies all lay belly-up at the tree line. Bochier ran the mixed business shop where Caleb would bring his catch to hold or trade. By midday, the shopkeeper was normally busy tending to villagers looking to trade for salt, snares or other essentials, but today, he met Caleb as he laboured up the muddy trail. 
"Quiet today," Caleb said. "I guess people have other things on their minds." 
"Everyone's gone searching," Bochier said by way of greeting. Caleb blinked. Those who hadn't stayed in to tend the foundlings had quickly abandoned their own work before trekking into the fields and pines to search for more sleeping miracles. The few left in the village traded in unease and rumour. 
"Have any of them woke up?" Caleb asked. None had. Nor had any taken food or water, or even stirred in their sleep. From what Bochier had gathered, the children just slept, breathing, but otherwise inert. No one knew what it all meant, but the appearance of these children had to mean something, Bochier insisted. 
Caleb dropped his crabs into the icebox behind the shop and stowed his yoke. He thanked the shopkeep for his help. Then he continued uphill, and home. At the front door, Caleb turned the knob and listened. The house was silent. He stepped in cautiously, and as he rounded the corner, he saw his mother sitting on the sofa, with her back to him. He shut the door, and she looked up from her book. "I used to read this to you when you were a boy," she said. He walked in and saw a pale face resting peacefully in her lap. "You were such a blessing," she said, meeting his eyes for the first time in two days. "I opened that jar of apples I've been keeping back. Have some of that with your lunch." On the table beside her, a small bowl of apple preserve sat uneaten. She returned to her book, reading quietly aloud. 
The children slept. Barber shuttled between houses, feeling more useless and less welcome with each visit. There was nothing for him to do, and the faces which met him at the door gradually changed from welcoming to suspicious. He felt his years, and decided to surrender as Venus rose above the eastern tree line. He slogged home past the slumped shoulders of others returning from a day of fruitless searching. By nightfall, no more children had been uncovered. Barber sensed the change in mood of the village. After years of shared hardship and occasional success, a sudden divide had riven the families. The bitterness on the faces of the returning searchers was visible in the dusk. Tired and troubled, he ate a toasted crust, and fell into sleep without dreaming. 
Colt lay in bed, listening to his wife snore. He thought of her in summer, two score years ago. Flora had packed a lunch, and they'd laid a blanket on the grass of a fallow field. Her skin glowed in the sunshine, and they made love. The following spring, Nicky was born. Bringing him into the world had nearly killed Flora, but he was strong, and beautiful, and they loved him. He sprouted up like a weed. Flora started sitting for some of the other kids while their parents worked. The village was growing into a town. Nicky died on the Lake, in a storm. Colt didn't believe in omens, but he couldn't help but wonder. The power failed that winter, and the lines couldn't be raised again until spring. Two families froze to death. Two years later, the electricity stopped altogether, and villagers in outlying houses moved closer in or away altogether. Nicky's friends grew up, but their own children were sickly, or worse. Flora shuttered her babysitting trade. Colt was elected shire reeve, because he was well-respected, and because no one else wanted the job. There had never been another vote, but tonight, Colt was ready to retire. These silent, defenceless children frightened him. He rolled over and hugged Flora, who muttered something he couldn't make out. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. 
Caleb awoke in the night, and padded from his makeshift bed on the sofa to his bedroom. The lantern was snuffed, but he could hear the girl's gentle breathing. He crept to his mother's room, where a light still shone under the door. He quietly turned the knob, and found the room empty, his mother's bed undisturbed. The candle on her bedside stand had burned low, almost to a pool of wax. He stood with his hand on the knob, unsure of what to do, when the candle wick sputtered and flickered out. 
A squall blew in overnight, lashing the village with sheets of rain. The houses squatted sullenly beneath the clouds, and the only movement was a loose shutter, banging in the wind. When the sun finally broke through the following morning, the muddy village tracks lay undisturbed. On the beach, the windward wall of the crab nest had been washed out under heavy surf, and the freshies scuttled to freedom, their shells glistening in the morning light. On the far side of the village, the greenhouse glittered in the spring light. A pane of glass had blown out in the storm, and young buds shrivelled in the cold. The gardener's calendar parted at the spine, and pictures of flowers long-gone scattered across the floor. 

TRACK 01 "Blue Calx," Aphex Twin INDEX: 00:00:00 
TRACK 02 "Lost Child," Susumu Yokota INDEX: 07:12:52 
TRACK 03 "Vidrar Vel Til Loftarasa," Sigur Rós INDEX: 10:36:14 
TRACK 04 "Spirit of Peace (Parts 1-3)," Popol Vuh INDEX: 20:49:70 
TRACK 05 "The Horse and the Hand Grenade," Decoder Ring INDEX: 41:28:58 
TRACK 06 "Chimeras," Tim Hecker INDEX: 46:24:46 
TRACK 07 "Meeting in the Aisle," Radiohead INDEX: 49:34:35 
TRACK 08 "Kaskaskia River," Sufjan Stevens INDEX: 52:36:45 
TRACK 09 "Sons & Daughters," The Decemberists INDEX: 54:47:08

a misdirection

This is not the post you're looking for. I haven't been able to achieve what I want with my longer post. It may never see the light of day. Here's something to distract us. TRACK 01 "United Future Airlines (Astral Highjack mix)," United Future Organization INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Beat Goes On," All Seeing I INDEX: 05:28:42 TRACK 03 "I Don't Know," Wax Tailor INDEX: 09:29:64 TRACK 04 "Sweet Musik," Mocky INDEX: 13:09:41 TRACK 05 "Drop," Cornelius INDEX: 17:11:31 TRACK 06 "Rain (Where Do I Begin_)," Si*Sé INDEX: 22:04:47 TRACK 07 "The Audience," Herbert INDEX: 26:40:11 TRACK 08 "Concrete in My Jungle," Professor Stanislavsky INDEX: 32:56:13 TRACK 09 "Porno 3003," Pizzicato 5 INDEX: 38:55:10 TRACK 10 "En'ness," The 19.5 Collective INDEX: 43:14:74

singalong song

When I left for the Marshalls after joining Peace Corps, nearly half my weight allotment was CDs, a portable Discman, and some shitty little battery-powered speakers. While we were on the capital island, where there was electricity, I roomed with a hippie Dead-head -- a great guy named Matt, who was teaching himself guitar. Our room was very musical, and quite popular. When we shipped out to Arno, where electricity in the local village was four hours of diesel power for refrigeration at the village shop, the CDs stayed on Majuro, and I contented myself with singing. These are some of the songs to which I knew enough words to sing while walking along the beach, with my little host brothers and sister tagging along behind me. TRACK 01 "Frank Mills," The Lemonheads INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "That's How It Goes," Meat Puppets INDEX: 01:43:09 TRACK 03 "I'm Free Now," Morphine INDEX: 05:05:34 TRACK 04 "Brass in Pocket," The Pretenders INDEX: 08:29:13 TRACK 05 "Good Thing," Fine Young Cannibals INDEX: 11:32:30 TRACK 06 "Rudie Can't Fail," The Clash INDEX: 14:52:58 TRACK 07 "Don't Fuck Me Up (with Peace and Love)," Cracker INDEX: 18:23:49 TRACK 08 "I am the Cancer," Sloan INDEX: 21:32:51 TRACK 09 "Bastards of Young," The Replacements INDEX: 25:13:17 TRACK 10 "Ana Ng," They Might Be Giants INDEX: 28:49:65 TRACK 11 "This Charming Man," The Smiths INDEX: 32:08:65 TRACK 12 "Driver 8," R.E.M. INDEX: 34:50:62 TRACK 13 "Record Body Count," Rheostatics INDEX: 38:14:14 TRACK 14 "This Must be the Place (Naive Melody)," Talking Heads INDEX: 40:08:37

my finest hour

He had known her for a long time, or imagined he had. He couldn't be sure. He looked across the table at her face, framed in light brown hair. "I love you," she said, setting down a glass of red wine. "What?" "What? 'What?'! What did you think? How could you do this?" He stared back at her. She was beautiful. Her name came to him. "Tess," he said. "You lied to me," she answered, and sobbed. He reached across the linoleum tabletop and took her hand. It sat limply in his palm for a moment, then she pushed him away and took the bottle and topped up her glass, spilling burgundy drops down the side to pool at the base. She took another drink and lay her head on her crossed arms, resting on the table. As she cried, he looked around the cramped kitchen. He'd cooked their first meal on the tiny stovetop, a disastrous lemon chicken which she'd gracefully choked down with a genuine smile. They'd met two years ago in the lounge room behind him, at a party she'd thrown with her housemate. He couldn't remember how he'd been invited, but he remembered seeing her for the first time, dressed as a Bond girl. She had glowed in the dark room, and he introduced himself, danced with her, but had gone home with someone else. She looked up at him, cheeks flush, "I told you we could only be together if there was nobody else, and you promised." Her tears were turning to anger. "And now this!" She rolled her eyes in disgust. He struggled to remember what he'd done. Incongruously, his right foot itched. "Get out," she said, anger now crystallised into fury. "Get out of here," she hissed. He rose. "I'm sorry," he said, tripping over the chair as he stepped back into the lounge room. "Do you even know what that means?" He passed through the narrow terrace to the front door. "What are you apologising for?" She was yelling now. "You bastard!" He opened the door. "Hello," said Nicolle. He blinked at her, and shut the door behind him, stepping into the apartment. She kissed him, flinging an arm around his neck. She pressed her breasts against his chest and bit his upper lip. "You're late," she said, her blue eyes sparkling. He raised his right hand, offered her a bottle wrapped in brown paper. "I had some trouble finding what I was looking for," he said, and handed her the bottle. She slipped off the bag. "Ooh, Australian! How exotic." She winked at him and turned toward the kitchen. "Have a seat. I hope you like spaghetti." "It smells delicious," he said, and walked over to the sofa. He steadied himself. The itch in his foot had become more intense, almost painful. He squirmed in his shoes, trying to scratch it while Nicolle called to him from the kitchen. "The sauce still needs a little longer." She peeked around the corner of the kitchen doorway. "Even though you're late," she admonished, "we still have some time before dinner. I could turn the sauce down low...." He heard something in the tone of her voice, something as inviting as her greeting kiss, but fraught, laden with danger. He pressed his lips together, feeling the slight swelling from her bite. "Okay," he said, trying to sound amiable. Nicolle ducked back into the kitchen and he walked over to the living room window. The apartment was too warm, and he pressed his forehead against the glass. Fifteen storeys below, in the fading sunlight, workers streamed out of the office tower into the vast parking lot to their cars. Old snow drifts, black with city filth, buttressed leafless trees sprouting from islands of dead grass, brown oases in the pavement. "I think you'd like these people," said a woman behind him. "They're really interesting." He recognised the voice, but didn't turn. He looked down, fifteen storeys stretching perspective into a thousand-foot drop. He remembered jumping, falling, landing in water. "Are you asking me out?" he said, turning after a moment. Even from across the office, an enormous diamond glittered on her slim finger. She looked at him slyly. "It's not like that at all. With your philosophy, you'd have a lot share with the group." Her eyes glittered. "It's a coffee club." "My philosophy?" He had no idea what this woman was talking about. "You don't fit in with the people here, same as me." "Will your husband be at the coffee club?" "He's in Europe." The pain in his foot had spread up his calf. "Excuse me," said, and limped past her into the corridor. He needed the toilet. "Go ahead and walk off," Denise growled at him. He turned to see her leaning at the bar, glaring at him. Her full lips were compressed into a frown. A phone rang; he reached in his pocket and pressed to answer. "How about you coming down for a little pre-party party," said the voice on the line. "What?" "We're just up the road from where you're staying. What're you doing now?" Denise was marching up to him from the bar. He hung up. "Who was that?" she asked, brows knitted under her blonde fringe. Before he could answer, her eyes widened. "Oh, my god! Are you okay?" "My leg hurts." "Your pants!" He felt a spreading warmth at his groin, looked down, and watched urine stream down his right leg, over his shoe and onto the wooden floor. The air in the pub was stifling, and sweat rolled down his forehead to join tears as he realised he was crying. "I have to leave," he mumbled, and staggered to the door. As he pushed it open, his right leg gave way, and he fell into a heap on the sand. He tasted brine and felt grit between his teeth. He rolled onto his back. The surf washed over his legs, as warm as blood. The midday sun broke through a passing cloud and he squeezed his eyes against the glare. His right leg was a distant thudding ache, frighteningly more numb than painful. He raised himself on his elbows and looked around as another wave rolled in. To his right, the skiff was beached on the white sand which stretched away on either side as far as he could see. Its rigging fluttered in the salt air. He looked down at his leg. As the surf retreated, swirls of red formed around his right foot, from which extended two vicious-looking spines. Beside his knee, a stonefish flopped in the shallows, dying, half-crushed when he'd jumped from the skiff. His leg was swollen against the cuff of his shorts, turning purple with sunburn and poison. His elbows slipped in the shifting sand and he fell back as another wave broke over his chest. Some metres behind him stood the tree-line, and shade. The tide was rising. TRACK 01 "When You Come," Crowded House INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Reptile," The Church INDEX: 04:43:15 TRACK 03 "Wash Off," Deerhunter INDEX: 09:37:63 TRACK 04 "Cocoon," Mark Sandman INDEX: 15:23:57 TRACK 05 "Everyday is Like Sunday," Morrissey INDEX: 19:32:71 TRACK 06 "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road," Keane INDEX: 23:05:47 TRACK 07 "A Day in the Life," The Beatles INDEX: 26:57:64 TRACK 08 "Big Log," Robert Plant INDEX: 31:51:05 TRACK 09 "Everywhen," Massive Attack INDEX: 36:53:39 TRACK 10 "Alphaville," Bryan Ferry INDEX: 44:29:59 TRACK 11 "Leave It Alone," Moist INDEX: 48:54:15 TRACK 12 "Pressed in a Book," The Shins INDEX: 53:19:14

decibel

Surrender to the volume war. Ride the beats and surf the epic guitars. TRACK 01 "Prelude," The Bird INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Stereo Phase Test," Man or Astro-Man? INDEX: 02:31:64 TRACK 03 "Born Free," M.I.A. INDEX: 03:35:44 TRACK 04 "Disciplinarian," Eternal Summers INDEX: 07:42:43 TRACK 05 "Damaged Goods," Gang Of Four INDEX: 09:28:64 TRACK 06 "Ninja," Concord Dawn INDEX: 12:55:25 TRACK 07 "3 Birds," The Dead Weather INDEX: 19:11:00 TRACK 08 "Aisha," Death In Vegas INDEX: 22:55:34 TRACK 09 "Look to the Orb for Your Warning," Monster Magnet INDEX: 28:47:57 TRACK 10 "The Tooth Fairy and the Princess," Hüsker Dü INDEX: 33:30:24 TRACK 11 "Three Days," Jane's Addiction INDEX: 36:10:04 TRACK 12 "My Wave," Soundgarden INDEX: 46:56:10 TRACK 13 "Hello Tiger," Urusei Yatsura INDEX: 52:07:26 TRACK 14 "Trouble," The Ross Orbit Stack INDEX: 55:24:13 TRACK 15 "The Truth is No Words," The Music INDEX: 58:48:72 TRACK 16 "Strike 2," DJ Shadow INDEX: 63:21:49

seeing through

There was no kissing; she would not permit it. She knelt over him, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her black hair tickled his ears, and he could smell frangipani. He crossed his arms around her back, pressing her against his chest. Her hips moved, and she pulled free. As she straightened, her hair fell away from her face, revealing green eyes set amidst heavy scars. She gasped, and her shoulders rolled back as her spine arched. He slid his hands down her back and along the curve of her waist. He squeezed her hips. She relaxed, exhaled and rolled off of him, collapsing into the mattress, deflated. She began to doze. He reached over, touched the lamp, and lay in the darkness, listening. His eyes were open, but the darkness was complete. His brain conjured shapes, aqua squares and green triangles. He remembered a night adrift. In his mind's eye, he saw himself lying on the deck of the 30-footer, watching satellites cross the starry canopy. There had been no moon, and the only sound was the gentle wash of the lagoon waters against the hull. He stood, carefully balancing against the swaying deck, and followed the rail to the gangway. Where the rail ended, he sat on the gunwale, gently bumping his heels against the side of the vessel. Bracing his hands against the gunwale, he lowered his feet into the lukewarm water. As the swell broke over his calves, he continued downward. His chin broke the water, and the sea swallowed his outstretched arms. Looking up, he could not see the stars, and he sank into the welcoming darkness. He woke, feeling rested, although it was still dark. His eyes had adjusted, and he could see the hint of dawn through the blinds. She lay beside him, still out cold. The sheets swaddled her thighs, and her left arm covered her brow. His eyes traced the swell of her breast from her ribcage to the hollow of her armpit. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the half-light, but the scars, individually invisible, cast her face in shadow. Taking his chance, he gently kissed the exposed inside of her arm. Barely brushing his lips against her skin, he took care not to exhale. Then he rolled away, and sat up on the edge of the bed. He slid quietly to the floor, and felt around for his clothes. On the train, she sat beside him, her hand on his thigh. She stared straight ahead, watching the suburbs pass through the opposite window. She wore her hair back, and her ravaged cheeks and split lips were exposed. She gave away no hint of self-consciousness. The carriage smelled faintly of sweat. It was half-full of people each studiously ignoring the others. Each person found a window to stare out of, as the houses and streets unwound around them. He imagined a carriage full of monsters: burned, disfigured, with amputated limbs, lipless, toothless mouths or weeping sores. He could hear them, bags of bones rattling along with the train on its tracks, the smell of sick mingling with the pungent iron of dripping blood. Every single one ignored the rest, safe in the conceit that every one of them was fine, unremarkable. The train lurched, and a recorded voice announced the approaching stop. She withdrew her hand from his lap and stood. He rose behind her, gripping a handhold as the train slowed. He wrapped his free arm around her, making to keep her steady. The doors opened, and they stepped onto the platform. She stopped in front of him and turned around. People flowed past them, exiting and boarding the train. A voice warned travellers to stand clear. She stood on her toes, flung her arms around him, squeezed him with surprising strength. She pressed her ear to his chest, as if listening for his heart. Then she released him, and ducked between the closing doors, back onto the carriage. He saw her resume her seat in the carriage as the train pulled away. She sat up, looking straight ahead. TRACK 01 "The Human Game," Lisa Gerrard & Pieter Bourke INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "The Heart's a Lonely Hunter," David Byrne INDEX: 06:50:03 TRACK 03 "Little Fluffy Clouds," The Orb INDEX: 10:55:36 TRACK 04 "The Sun Rising," The Beloved INDEX: 14:57:33 TRACK 05 "Overcome," Tricky INDEX: 20:08:13 TRACK 06 "Hong Kong," Gorillaz INDEX: 24:36:66 TRACK 07 "This Fine Social Scene," Zero 7 INDEX: 31:46:62 TRACK 08 "Human Being," The Beta Band INDEX: 36:11:27 TRACK 09 "Breathe," Télépopmusik INDEX: 40:40:51 TRACK 10 "Old Artist," Archive INDEX: 45:17:62 TRACK 11 "Azo Azo," Métisse INDEX: 49:21:73 TRACK 12 "Bloodstain," UNKLE INDEX: 53:04:72

sybil in the waste land

Motion outside the window caught his eye and he looked up, but there was nothing to see through the hardened glass bricks. He sat for a moment longer as the music played, forgotten, then rose and climbed the stairs. He unbolted the door at the top, drew the torch from his back pocket, and made his way through the empty ground level to the front door. He released the latches, remembering to press his shoulder into the doorframe so they wouldn't rattle, and pulled the door back halfway. The parking lot was a monochrome tableau in the moonlight, deserted except for his own dilapidated vehicle. He padded barefoot across the cold grass to the rough pavement, which was strangely warm. He imagined he could smell ozone as if from a freshly discharged battery. Overhead, thin clouds scudded across the faint stars. He returned to the front door and locked it, and set off across the field which bordered his building. He could see clearly enough, even with the full moon partially obscured, and pocketed his torch. Gravel from the remnants of an old baseball diamond stuck in the balls of his feet. The ancient backstop was half collapsed, rusted through by a score of winters. It reminded him of a radio telescope like those he'd seen in old television shows. There was no one listening now, no one transmitting. He crossed the field slowly, watching. Although he was exposed here, his line of sight was unobscured in all directions, and no one could set upon him unseen. This night though, the knee-high grass was as empty as the lot behind him. He approached the edge of the field and slowed further, looking carefully up and down the street. The un-mown lawns which formed a straggly verge between the dark houses and the empty street were shadowed from the moonlight by trees lining the pavement. To his right, two-hundred metres up the road, a traffic light blinked red and amber, but no headlights moved on the street before him. He waited a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness beneath the trees, then turned toward the intersection. Along the uneven footpath stood the rusted posts of a hurricane fence. The links which had once joined them had long ago been stolen for scrap, and the surviving posts now served to turn the footpath into a giant measuring stick, with each post measuring his stride as he approached the corner and the blind blinking eyes of the traffic light. At the corner, across the main road, stood the 7-11 store, and he realised he was thirsty. He hadn't brought brought any money with him, and anyway, the store wouldn't let him in at this hour unless he flashed his bank card at its door. He turned left. As he walked along the four-lane road, an occasional car or box truck would hum past, gliding through the indifferent traffic lights without slowing. They moved too quickly for him to see the drivers — or even whether they were occupied at all. The cuffs of his trousers were damp from the frost of the grassy field, and looking back, he saw his spotted footprints on the footpath, disappearing as they dried. He walked on, past the empty shop windows. Here had been a hardware store, there a 24-hour restaurant. As he passed them, he scanned the broken doors and building corners, but he continued unmolested. He counted two thousand paces, then crossed the main road and turned off into another subdivision. Aged trees guarded the streets here as well, and he squinted intently for hints of motion, but all was still. He rounded a corner into a cul-de-sac and spied a house with a lighted window upstairs. A vehicle was parked at the curb in front of the house. He bent down and pressed his palm against the hub motor of one of its wheels. The motor was still warm, and he recognised the smell of ozone. He stood beside the car and looked up at the lighted window. A shadow moved against the ceiling of the room, but he could make out no other sign of the house's occupant. The moon had vanished, and it was beginning to rain. He blinked twice, contemplated climbing the wooden stairs and knocking on the metal door. He was cold, and his naked feet were numb. He drew his torch, and headed home. It was late, and he would need to be up early to return to this place for the ride to the clinic. TRACK 01 "Moon in Ice," Yello INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Old Artist," Archive INDEX: 04:13:50 TRACK 03 "Gounmiere," The 19.5 Collective INDEX: 08:17:55 TRACK 04 "Faktura," Bill Laswell INDEX: 13:04:52 TRACK 05 "The Things You Notice," Marnie Stern INDEX: 19:13:59 TRACK 06 "Rotary," Lino INDEX: 22:45:47 TRACK 07 "Alien Groove Sensation," Naked Funk INDEX: 25:13:25 TRACK 08 "Untitled," Interpol INDEX: 31:49:63 TRACK 09 "Worms," Yeasayer INDEX: 35:46:25 TRACK 10 "Busy Lives," Adam Fielding INDEX: 39:53:38 TRACK 11 "Everything in its Right Place," Radiohead INDEX: 46:41:02 TRACK 12 "Iamundernodisguise," School of Seven Bells INDEX: 50:51:62

the great dog in the sky

Everything will be OK. TRACK 01 "Constellations," Balmorhea INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "The Past is a Grotesque Animal," of Montreal INDEX: 03:49:67 TRACK 03 "Run Like Hell," Pink Floyd INDEX: 15:33:36 TRACK 04 "No Compassion," Talking Heads INDEX: 19:54:68 TRACK 05 "The Throning," Hype Williams INDEX: 24:42:07 TRACK 06 "Safe at Home," Eternal Summers INDEX: 28:47:41 TRACK 07 "Disconnection Notice," Sonic Youth INDEX: 30:50:47 TRACK 08 "War Buddies," Harvey Danger INDEX: 37:12:47 TRACK 09 "Bad Sign," Brad Sucks INDEX: 41:34:06 TRACK 10 "Save Me," Frankie Rose and The Outs INDEX: 45:21:46

nine days a week

It's been a long, hard week, and it's only Thursday night. Fortunately for me, these tracks pretty much mix themselves. TRACK 01 "Weekend Song," Freestylers INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Sunday's Bells," Chad's Tree INDEX: 05:15:04 TRACK 03 "If Monday were Mine," American Mars INDEX: 08:45:53 TRACK 04 "Tuesday Afternoon," The Moody Blues INDEX: 13:31:50 TRACK 05 "Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting," Charles Mingus INDEX: 18:20:21 TRACK 06 "Thursday," Morphine INDEX: 23:59:38 TRACK 07 "Friday's Blue Cheer / Libertines of Oxley," Ed Kuepper INDEX: 27:24:12 TRACK 08 "It's Saturday," King Missile INDEX: 35:24:35 TRACK 09 "Wild Weekend," Psycho Surgeons INDEX: 37:57:08

conjunction

From my late teens through my mid-twenties, is would fast in observance of the solstice. It wasn't a pagan thing, just an acknowledgement of the nature of the world around me. I don't do that anymore. TRACK 01 "Sea Groove," Big Boss Man INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Earthcrosser," Veruca Salt INDEX: 03:43:35 TRACK 03 "Humans from Earth," T-Bone Burnett INDEX: 09:10:16 TRACK 04 "Hollow Earth," Shiva in Exile INDEX: 12:14:48 TRACK 05 "Moon Palace," Icarus INDEX: 17:02:11 TRACK 06 "Me, You & The Moon," Quark Kent INDEX: 20:04:62 TRACK 07 "Moon Mist," Out-Islanders INDEX: 26:10:73 TRACK 08 "Old Devil Moon," Kippie Moeketsi, John Mehegan, Hugh Masakela, John Gwangwa, Claude Shange & Gene Latimore INDEX: 29:15:12 TRACK 09 "Sunrise in Juhu," The Bird INDEX: 34:48:72 TRACK 10 "Sunday," Cargo Cult INDEX: 39:51:54 TRACK 11 "Big Sunnies," Telemetry Orchestra INDEX: 43:50:26 TRACK 12 "Sunworshipper," Mylo INDEX: 48:03:26 TRACK 13 "The Sea," Morcheeba INDEX: 51:26:63

Lilly’s dream

"Can you take her?" 

The surgical stocking on Lilly's left wrist itched. The dressing beneath pulled her skin, and she was aware of the fine hairs on her forearm being gradually extracted by the bandage's adhesive edges. Her feet tingled, and the wheelchair's metal frame felt cold, even through her flannel pyjamas. Outside, the sun shone from a blue sky, through green leaves. 

The nurse looked up, glanced over his shoulder at the orderly, then returned to his task. The orderly repeated himself, his thick, vaguely Mediterranean accent clipping the words, "Can you take her?" 

The nurse looked up from the prep cart, turning his full attention to the orderly and his young charge. "We're full up just this moment. Park her over there and we'll free up a chair in a minute." The orderly turned Lilly's chair, and gently backed her against the admissions desk. "It should be only a few minutes," he told her. He gestured toward the nurses' station. "They'll make room for you," he said, and was off. 

She'd been clenching the vinyl arms of the wheelchair since leaving her bed, two floors up. She forced herself to let go, and dropped her hands loosely in her lap. The room before her was a moving canvas of double shapes; she closed her right eye and the clinic resolved into two rows of green reclining chairs, each occupied by a person with an intravenous drip, or attended by a nurse drawing blood. One of the patients stood, pressing some gauze against the hollow of his elbow. The woman with him stretched a length of tape across the gauze, pinning it into place. In spite of being seated, Lilly felt lightheaded. She opened her recalcitrant right eye, and the conflicting images returned the world to a swimming blur. She looked at her hands, trying to force her right eye to cooperate. 

"Okay, dear," said the male nurse, and walked over to her. He took her chart from between her limp hands and leafed through it. "We'll just put you right here," he said, steering her chair towards the unoccupied recliner. He flipped the brakes on the wheelchair. "Do you need a hand getting up?" 

"I'm okay," Lilly said, and squinted to better see where she was going. She stood, momentarily surprised that she'd done so, then shifted her weight and lowered herself into the recliner. It was soft and comfortable, and still warm from the last patient. She didn't like that, and wished for the hundredth time that she was at home, away from this place. She thought of the rain from last weekend's storm running down her window as she lay in bed, trying to read through increasingly unsteady vision. Her mother had raised the window enough to let the breeze pass, but keeping out the raindrops, and Lilly could smell the cool, fresh air blowing in from the spring shower. Lilly squinted again, and made out the approaching outline of her mother. She was tanned, and thin — too thin, Lilly decided. Gaunt, she thought, for the first time, and was slightly ashamed at the idea. Her mother stopped beside the recliner, and produced from her oversize handbag a floppy shape. Lilly silently took the gingerbread man, knitted by her grandmother, and rested it on her left shoulder. Its blue button eyes stared up at the fluorescent lights overhead. 

Lilly's mother spoke while the nurse laid out his IV kit, but the words didn't fully register. After a few sentences, Lilly interrupted. "What?" The word sounded like a grunt in her ears. "I'm going down to the café," her mother said. "Do you want anything?" Lilly shook her head. "It may take me a few minutes. I need to get money for parking." Lilly nodded, and her mother was gone. 

The nurse looked up from his work. "Your mother said you got dizzy when you had your last infusion. How're you feeling now?" 

"Okay," she sighed, feeling anything but. 

"You look a little pale, I think," said the nurse. "You might be more comfortable if we put you in one of our consulting rooms. You can lie down and rest, and if you feel a little wobbly, we can look after you without worrying about you falling down and hurting something." 

Lilly closed her right eye again and looked at the nurse. "Okay," she said. Her left hand rose and pressed the knitted gingerbread man against her collarbone. "Can you walk it, or do you want me to get the chair?" Lilly stood in answer, and shuffled the five meters to the consulting room. The nurse followed her in. She stretched out on the bed without being told. The nurse reached behind her and pressed a button to elevate her into a semi-reclining position. He propped her right arm on a pillow, pushed up her sleeve, and laid an elastic tourniquet beside her elbow. He stepped outside and retrieved the shiny metal cart with the IV kit still arrayed and ready. "I just have to sort out your medicine," he told her. "Won't be a moment." 

Besides the bed and the cart, the little room contained a single chair. There were windows on two sides. The window facing into the clinic had its blinds drawn, though the door was still wide open. Opposite the door, another window looked into the trees of the hospital garden. The sunlight cast shifting shadows across the bed, and Lilly's face. She closed her eyes, and wept silently, squeezing her eyes against the tears which ran down her cheeks. The gingerbread man looked up at her blotchy face as a sob escaped her lips like a cough. She rolled onto her left shoulder, careful of the bandages on her wrist, and still keeping her right arm extended for the coming needle. She dug her chin into the hollow beneath her collarbone, and breathed deeply. Within a few moments, Lilly was asleep. 

She dreamt of clouds. 

TRACK 01 "Up, Up, Up," Givers INDEX: 00:00:00 
TRACK 02 "Deus Ibi Est," Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan INDEX: 04:13:09 
TRACK 03 "Little Eyes," Yo La Tengo INDEX: 07:02:30 
TRACK 04 "Burnt Popcorn," General Fuzz INDEX: 11:20:50 
TRACK 05 "Heartfelt," Figurine INDEX: 20:12:04 
TRACK 06 "Sit in the Middle of Three Galloping Dogs," A Silver Mount Zion INDEX: 25:15:32 
TRACK 07 "Love-Love," Popol Vuh INDEX: 30:47:61 
TRACK 08 "Wandering Star," Portishead INDEX: 36:04:55 
TRACK 09 "The Time We Lost Our Way," Loulou INDEX: 40:56:03 
TRACK 10 "Tears for Affairs," Camera Obscura INDEX: 45:04:34 
TRACK 11 "Clouds," The Long Winters INDEX: 49:05:74

funeral music

Last week's mix featured a precis of everything wrong with the world. This week, I'd like to play you songs which celebrate life. The live version of "Learnalilgivinanlovin" not only showcases Gotye's voice (and drumming skills), it summarises an admirable approach to life. The same goes for Bluejuice, handing out some "Vitriol" when the world tries to pull them down. (By the way, the video for this song is brilliant, featuring cute dancing girls and a bunch of freaked out bystanders in Sydney's Pitt Street Mall.) Fatboy Slim, a.k.a. Norman Cook, celebrates a long, long time together. Flies don't live very long but Les Négresses Vertes know one named Zobi who's having a hell of a time. The Seldon Plan's track reminds me of a 40th birthday party in Adelaide, which was the last time I danced, and I had a hell of a time myself. Stereo MC's similarly invite us to step up and get excited. Camille sings about a girl who realises she doesn't need someone to sail her away. She's the captain of her own destiny, and it's time she left port. Jonathan Mann has been writing a song a day for a few years now, and number 197 is the longest love song in history. And you should know that this mix missed number 72, "Penguins Having a Party," by the slimmest of margins. I've decided that Bobby Darin is singing my theme song. I can't think of a better way to take on the world. Mr. Brown, on the other hand is already on top of the world, and he feels good. Karma County have been through some tough times, but they're ready for their reward. Before he was Fatboy Slim, Cook was half of Freakpower. And speaking of tough times, things aren't always so sunny. Sometimes one needs to retreat to the safety of loving arms, and put aside worries for another day. Even your loved ones will be gone, probably sooner than you think. Of course I do not look forward to a heavenly reward or life after death, but I cling to the thought that after any of us goes, the seed of our spirit lives on in those we loved. And as bad as the world looks (pretty fucking bad), I hope that even after each of us is gone, the ones who come after will be slightly less fearful, and eventually our descendants will be brave enough to march the Hate Machines into the Sun. TRACK 01 "Learnalilgivinanlovin," Gotye INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Vitriol," Bluejuice INDEX: 02:59:59 TRACK 03 "Praise You," Fatboy Slim INDEX: 05:32:24 TRACK 04 "Zobi La Mouche," Les Négresses Vertes INDEX: 10:54:28 TRACK 05 "Dance Despite the Obvious," The Seldon Plan INDEX: 14:18:57 TRACK 06 "Step It Up," Stereo MC's INDEX: 17:55:35 TRACK 07 "Au Port," Camille INDEX: 22:54:41 TRACK 08 "Baby, It All Led to You (#197)," Jonathan Mann INDEX: 25:50:61 TRACK 09 "Don't Rain on My Parade," Bobby Darin INDEX: 30:28:01 TRACK 10 "I Got You (I Feel Good)," James Brown INDEX: 33:22:07 TRACK 11 "Good Things Come to Me Now," Karma County INDEX: 36:08:43 TRACK 12 "Song #6," Freakpower INDEX: 39:34:05 TRACK 13 "Love is Stronger Than Death," The The INDEX: 44:07:16 TRACK 14 "Marching the Hate Machines (Into the Sun)," The Flaming Lips INDEX: 48:43:04