It took me way too long to appreciate the nuance in that record, called April and released on April 1, 2008.
mark kozelek
Walking down the unlit hallway of life
Outside in the mid-afternoon there was just the sound of birds and kids and cars going by. It was too hot for anything, everyone hanging onto the edges by the shade. I’d gotten up when the church bells struck six… Read More ›
The number 4 airshaft seam to Primrose Mine
I woke at 4, fell back to sleep until 5, then dreamt again and got up. If dreams can be categorized the same as data (unstructured, structured, or semi-structured), then mine qualify as ‘semi-.’ I got to the trailhead early… Read More ›
Cord vs. chord, “ribbed fabric, especially corduroy”
I texted Lily a Spotify URL for a song while they were at dance lessons: my other favorite singer Mark (Kozelek), in hopes she’d find a connection with him. For a month I drove to work with the same playlist,… Read More ›
Trying on masks | Field notes from the Pacific Coast
It’s almost over! This is a series of posts I started in late May and have published daily for 35 days now. It’s inspired by a three-day solo trek on the Washington coast, with side-story memoir scenes wrapped by a few… Read More ›
Fugue in G Minor (“keep it like a secret”)
It was hard to understand my relationship with that CD. I remember the day I bought it in Portland my last visit to Loren before Germany. I knew the record but felt I should own it on CD, I only… Read More ›
The end of nostalgia (no, not really)
First I need to come clean and say I’ve got one more 90s piece I’m sharing tomorrow even though I said I wouldn’t. It’s told by a musician trying to make it in Seattle pre-grunge who left for New York… Read More ›
Reed College walk, Portland
Spooling around southeast Portland with my childhood friend Loren, the guys with beards pouring growlers and pints at the neighborhood bottle shop flipping records, preparing dishes with fresh oysters, grated horseradish, a bed of sea salt. Past the antique shops where… Read More ›
Not yet remembered
I sometimes wear Eberhard’s Stetson to get Charlotte at school, and stand outside with the other parents waiting for her to appear in the doorway — and when she does and sees me with the hat, she turns pink and walks ahead… Read More ›
The world of nameless birds
The cemetery birds sing a more soulful tune in the dark of the tree’s last leaves, like ghosts, most pass by unseen, real for just a moment, it seems. And the cemetery rocks look the same as any other stones, the… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 