Owing to an interest in keeping a low profile during her stay in the “plates,” as we called the expanse of sand and wet salt that served as a highway to east blowing wind, Ekin Fil only ever came to the general store once or twice a week, only bought essentials, and didn’t say much. Fil was from Turkey, Istanbul, as I understood. But I didn’t find that out from her. I got curious one day, and spent about an hour and a half waiting for the dialup modem to load one of her songs on soundcloud. Not many folks made such an effort to remain anonymous, as a vein of dust might, spreading its identity finely, “going flat,” as some say. Spreading their flatness between a person and their bedsheets, chafing and rustling.
Well I itched, and after a whole lot of cussing and tapping, I finally hit play on Fil’s soundcloud page, which she had hinted to me when she had answered “How’s your work going?” – a deliberately banal question anyone with a sap of self could answer – with a little mutterings about the tendency of the air. The smell of the heat. All things I had become so familiar with, tending the general store out on the plates, yet it had never occurred to me that such a place could inspire music.
“Branches Never Remember”
“Branches Never Remember:” a somber sentiment, one I can’t take too seriously, too grave a thought, too heavy, not light like a falling leaf; it’d be a curse for a limb to fall and not linger afterwards as a phantom. We have pictures, not photographs, of one another, as we fall away, landing on the green lawn, soon brown or soon flooded. As the flood’s current takes the branches from the tree, one by one, they wave and we wave back. Atom bombs of ash black the Sun; the sunburn peels; ash does away with our homes and branches. From the afterlife, “Go bury my heart;” branches at Chickamauga. Maybe we have a photograph, folded up gnawed in our pockets, at the early onset of dementia. Our faculties slip, and still there’s the scrap book on the coffee table, before the robbery.
Don’t play “Branches Never Remember” at my funeral.
Maybe “When Johnny comes marching home…”
Or “When Josie comes home…”
But not this somber crawl.
• Preserved Sound: http://www.preservedsound.com
For anybody on that night shift grind, hats off to you. I’m sure plenty is missed out on while living this lifestyle. Going to shows must be off the table, catching up with friends and family surely becomes a choir, and I bet the sun transforms into some sort of furious yellow monster, keeping you from getting your rest.
Thankfully, ewonee .’s masterfully crafted Nitee.shift_eep is here to offer some soundful alleviation. Now, creating beats is what ewonee . is referring to as his night shift, but, while you watch the front desk at that lonely motel off the interstate you work at, take a short, ear’d stroll through Nitee.shift_eep. I think you’ll like what you find. And if you don’t, buzz off and get back to work!
• ewonee .: https://ewonee.bandcamp.com
So many things right now. Dream lover up on Match, though. And if QT starting her Boiler Room x SXSW ‘15 DJ set with “Honey” wasn’t enough Mariah for you this year, yet. Think again. Because not only is Mariah auctioning herself to the internet now on Match, but she just pimped Infinity, a collection of her greats throughout the years, including the newest single “Infinity.” Now, Infinity is pretty much #1’s Vol. 2, but fuck-shit, I have like two cassette versions of #1’s and three (now) of her MTV UNPLUGGED EP (IT’S AN EP!!!!)… so what’s more Mariah in my life? A little thing called happiness.
Also, I whistle to distress my agita, so “Infinity” is about to get my wedding called off. No, I’m not sexually attracted to the goddess that is Mariah Carey, but she’s on Match, and her bat-shit pile of a psyche is exactly what I’m hot for, personally. Thus, the moment I whistle “Infinity” into its literalness, my fiancee will be walking out the front door, and I’ll be getting a move going via the live DVD of hers I borrowed from the library before coming home and playing it. Good bye, Savannah. Hello, [“Infinity” video above by Mariah Carey, because REALITY].
Also, while everyone has quit reading my nonsense, MOTHER FUCK, NICK CANNON. Every time I see the fuck-face, like. He ain’t SHIT. He ain’t even SHIT!!!! TELL MARIAH I’M CUSSIN’ IN THE HOUSE!!!!!! I WILL SNAP YOU IF YOU FUCK ON MY GURLS EMOTIONS!!!!!!!!!!hi, tho. hi!!!!! *Sends Match DM to Mariah*
• Mariah Carey: http://mariahcarey.com
ＹＯＳＥＭＥＴＩ ＦＡＩＬ EP
Michael Green is ultimately the image he’s trying to produce through the music he makes. And as TMT has been on the DIY▲PYЯΛMID game for a minute now, it comes at great heartbreak to mention the last two albums were lost in an unfortunate computer/hardware crash. But if ＹＯＳＥＭＥＴＩ ＦＡＩＬ EP says anything about Green’s ability of pick up all the pieces, beginning anew is practically the project’s M.O. I mean, not only is Green deeply entrenched in Second Life pursuits, but DIY▲PYЯΛMID is never ending in terms of self, emotion, and digital projection, especially at it’s ground level. Now, don’t get me wrong, ＹＯＳＥＭＥＴＩ ＦＡＩＬ EP is purely thought out and brush stroked over, but intentionally elongated and ethereal as the trails in every bit of art Green streaks. Flaws are what the entirety of DIY▲PYЯΛMID is built upon. Shit, I’d be surprised if the abortion of his last two full-length babies were intentional, and Green personally needed the next bit of computer-life inspiration to move forward.
DIY▲PYЯΛMID’s ＹＯＳＥＭＥＴＩ ＦＡＩＬ EP will not only repeat itself endlessly in your echoing skull, but you’ll probably start thinking of a conceptualization within yourself that will reoccur in your dreams. Michael Green will enter your dreams below:
• DIY▲PYЯΛMID: http://metadiamonds.tumblr.com