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Let the Sun Take the Blame

by Blind Pelican

/
1.
Reuptake 04:00
Let the sun take the blame. The freedom of thermal gain. And freedom to remember without fear of suffering for what I remember. Those infant years of liberation, free from knowing who we were or what we’d become. No one yet strung out or disappeared or runaway. No one yet denied this low-grade ecstasy of light. The freedom of thermal gain. Let the sun take the blame. Is this freedom to not remember the basic bruise of missing my friends? Or is it selective serotonin reuptake inhibition or lazy thinking or vitamin D or microdoses of LSD? Enclosure of light sets me free to remember. The freedom of being invited. The freedom of never having to leave. No one dead and no one gone. No one yet denied the freedom of thermal gain. Let the sun take the blame.
2.
Right of Way 02:35
Pay attention. The signal’s changing. The pulse. The breath. One’s sense of being. Pay attention. Your gramma’s A-frame is being bulldozed to expand the drive-way. (one pulse. one breath.) So pay attention: being in one’s own senses. The signal’s changed.
3.
Let’s call it avalanche. Let’s call it something grey like fear. Let’s call it what it is. Or maybe it’s a sulfur burn. Maybe it’s a sour belch of wine. Either/or. Is survival too strong a word? Is this mountain pass too long? Is anywhere anywhere you want to be? Let’s call it coming clean without having to say anything to anyone. Because survival’s too strong a word And this mountain pass is way too long. ‘Cause everywhere isn’t anywhere we want to be. And that’s giving up.
4.
it’s spread again bloated face smiles on our backs sweet green grass the carolinas the last three years a starlit dim sun shines always brighter the day before
5.
Something dreamlike and lovely, how the IV’s hollow tip submerges so purposefully into the back of T’s right hand. “Time was, I’d see a group of boys on the street, any boys, really, with their hands and their laughter, enjoying themselves real loud, claiming as theirs the whole sidewalk, and I’d look at them coming and wonder, Is this it? Is this the time?” T smiles at the nurse, teeth white and straight. “Never know, is it more foolish to be afraid or not be afraid?” Or anyway, what teeth are left. “Like, TV violence is still violence, you know? It being cliché don’t make it any less real.” But the nurse is already gone, moved on, replaced by somebody else. The dreamish needle burnishing all edges: “Never thought it’d ever actually be the time.”

about

Conceived in the months leading up to the COVID-19 pandemic, these inadvertently prescient songs reflect on the sorrow and loss (and joy and hope) incumbent to a life lived in isolation. Friends far removed in other cities and other countries. Friends miles away who won't ever pick up their phones. Friends gone missing and maybe never to be found. Friends committed to earth or to ash. Who can say if and when we'll ever meet again, embrace or just wave, share a glass of whiskey or share the same air? Yet, as Tim Kinsella correctly states in *The Karaoke Singer's Guide to Self-Defense*:

"Never seeing someone again, never touching them or smelling them or hearing their laugh again, meaningless really, compared to having ever known them."

These songs are for those we miss, be they denied or just waylaid from sharing in the warmth of another day burning bright upon our necks. Your presence in our lives was a gift. It's a gift of which we're greedy for more.

credits

released February 5, 2021

Douglas: voice, guitar, bass
Dead Charlie: drums, clarinet, tenor saxophone, baritone saxophone, bassoon, recorder
Pella: piano, keys, violin, percussion
Ants: trumpet, trombone, percussion, vibraphone

Additional vocals by Genevieve Johnson, Dean C. Thornton (aportraitwithsmiles.bandcamp.com), and Ben Trickey (bentrickey.bandcamp.com)

Recorded November 2019 through January 2021 in Valatie, NY, Saco, ME, Atlanta, GA, Potsdam, NY, and The b.l.a.c.k. Lodge.

All songs written by Douglas W. Milliken except "The Carolinas," written by Dean C. Thornton and released as "fri(end)" on *hello and goodbye* by aportraitwithsmiles (2002). Lyrics to "Woundwood's Exit" adapted from conversations with Mike Murphy (1975-2019).

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Blind Pelican Portland, Maine

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