Episode Transcript
Speaker 0 00:00:00 What gives a piece of writing, music, art, or an interaction, a life staying power? In today's episode, we share terrain.org, publish poetry as well as a story set to music that explore the staying power of experience, and of words, how it arises and why it matters. We'll start with a poem,
Speaker 1 00:00:23 A remnant. Once as a child playing in our attic, I found a small ceramic box forgotten in the dark corner of a desk drawer. I unlatched the lid, carefully lifted the white tissue inside to reveal the complete skeleton of a small seahorse, lying as if sleeping on a bed of cotton. It was more beautiful, more finely intricate than any ornament of lace. More entrancing than any diamond or ruby rock could be so far from the sea. I looked a long time, didn't touch, left it as it had been closed. The lid whispered a word. Lay the tiny casket away in the dark desk, shut the drawer to light, still hearing the cresting sea, still feeling the swell of its current.
Speaker 0 00:01:37 That was a remnant by Patty Ann Rogers. Next I'm joined by Alan Sinick, author of the Short Story Eva, a finalist in this year's terrain.org fiction contest. Alan set the story to music and I wondered why. I hope you enjoy listening to our conversation and that it helps you to listen to Eva with open ears. Thank you, Alan, for taking the time to talk to me. Really appreciate it. It's great to have you.
Speaker 2 00:02:03 Uh, thanks for inviting me.
Speaker 0 00:02:05 You shared just before we started recording that you actually have another story on to terrain.org that you also set to music called Mend. Can you tell me a little bit about what it is about setting these stories to music that's so appealing to you?
Speaker 2 00:02:22 That was so much fun to do. I've got a background as an actor, so, uh, you know, for many years I, I, I wrote and perform pieces of mine. I I also worked as an actor professionally in various plays. So I, I have a love for performance and that influences in the act of writing even I'll, I'll sit and I'll rewrite a sentence a dozen times and I kind of look like a madman. I'm at the coffee shop and I'm, and I'm repeating the line over and over in my head for the, the word music and for the, just the way it feels on the on, on the, on the lips and the tongue, you know, sentence by sentence. I build it and then the pieces themselves have their own kind of rhythm. So it seems natural then that you would try to find some sort of a, a soundscape that could go underneath the reading. And I'm not saying I'm particularly skilled at it or expert at it, but it was really interesting to look for, uh, music that didn't intrude upon or pull attention away from the words, but supported it.
Speaker 0 00:03:34 Wow. Yeah. And creating a really different experience. I read in a different interview with you, you were talking about the phenomenon of the silent reader. Is that something that's on your mind too, when you're trying to put these pieces to music?
Speaker 2 00:03:47 Yeah, I, I would say so. I mean, I'm not a cognitive psychologist or anything, but my instinct has always been when I read the the writers, I am drawn to almost lure you or wor woo you into to saying the words out loud. Or maybe even in your mind, you're, you're hearing the words out loud. And I mean, not every writer does that and they're really, they're good pieces of writing that don't rely on what I would call word music, but I've always been drawn to it. So that's, that's kind of my, my territory you might say.
Speaker 0 00:04:22 Right. I think it's really interesting. I mean, you used the word soundscape as well, which you may know is the title of this entire podcast. So that's something that,
Speaker 2 00:04:33 Oh, I didn't <laugh> I didn't realize that. Yeah,
Speaker 0 00:04:35 Yeah, yeah. So that idea is something that really appeals to us too, that three dimensionality of creativity as well and sharing through different mediums.
Speaker 2 00:04:45 It's, it's true. Even when you think about the silences in a story, when you, you leave a paragraph break or a dialogue, uh, a line and a dialogue tails off for breaks. There's breathing room.
Speaker 0 00:05:02 Right. And it's interesting to hear you talk about silence because I remember also reading something you said about not wanting people to just remember the events that you write about, but to remember the words. And now it turns out that maybe silence is a big part of remembering the words.
Speaker 2 00:05:22 I I think so. It, I do know when I think of the stories that stay in my mind, um, there, there's i, there, there's a story by William Sansone, I think the last name, I'm pronouncing it right. He's a British writer. And when I was, I don't know, must have been 14 in some anthology somewhere, I read this story about some boys who were, uh, playing in an industrial area and there's a water tower, rusty old water tower. And his friends challenged him to, to, to climb to the top. And they, in order to access it, they, they set up a little ladder and he climbed up on, on it. And then he got on the rungs on the side of this, this massive structure and started climbing and the friends below were mocking him, et cetera. Hmm. And they stole the ladder from underneath him so he couldn't go back down again.
Speaker 2 00:06:09 And so he kept climbing up and, and the description is very, very vivid of him hanging on and then looking down on the wind blowing and the rusty rungs of the ladder as he is climbing. And then he gets almost to the top, and then he sees that the top rungs are also rusted away and gone. So he can't go up and he can't go down. And there's a moment he hooks his arms over the rungs and just hangs there. And the story ends right there. There's no <inaudible>, there's no, there's no closure. Mm-hmm. There's no, I, I remember being at 14 just like, wow, you can do that in a story. You can just end it without tying up all the loose ends. Like what happened to him? I, I was so impressed by that. That's always stayed with me and it's, it's almost, it's not irrelevant the events of the story, but what dominated was the manner of the telling. And I, at least for me, the manner of the telling is as important as the tale itself. And
Speaker 0 00:07:08 When you say that that story stuck with you, and obviously that was decades ago that you read it and you can still describe it in great detail, do you mean that it stuck with you really from the perspective of craft as a writer of what you can do or has it meant something for your life as well?
Speaker 2 00:07:25 When at the time I read it, it was just, whoa, this is cool. And I didn't quite define what was so good about it, but it made me hungry to find other stories that would have the same kind of subverting the expectations of the reader. I did make the connection between that kind of narrative technique or game and really the way I think most of us experience life and time. The the world is not a tidy place. Rarely do the relationships or the events in our lives, you know, follow that little triangle of, you know, inciting incident and rising action and climax and resolution. And Dan Ma, the world lot of the time doesn't work that way. And so if you want to capture the flavor of what the real world is like, I think you have to allow for a lack of closure.
Speaker 0 00:08:18 Absolutely. I think listening to you speak and when you talked about how that story subverted reader expectations, that's exactly what I thought of that readers are also people and we do tend to have these expectations of things being tied up and neat subverting that expectation, not just for a reader, but for a person means something potentially for that person's life. You mentioned earlier the real flavor of life and wanting to share that through your work. And I'm curious why you think that matters if you would say that is your vision to share the real flavor of life or something else, but why that matters?
Speaker 2 00:08:57 It's not as if I consciously set out, here's the goal, but when I write a scene, for example, I will try to find what is essential that I can then communicate. I mean there's something magical about it, isn't it? You read a story or nonfiction even and it's your story, your imagining your experience in a sense. And if you get your words right, somebody 500 years from now could pick it up and read it and it's as if you have somehow projected your mind into theirs and it becomes not only your ex, it becomes their experience, which is really kind of weird. You know, we take it for granted because it's something we end up doing every day, but there's something kind of magical about that. You know, the writers that I admire might be 500 years ago, I feel like, wow, I'm in their skin for an instant. Yeah.
Speaker 0 00:09:48 It makes it sound like it's really understanding and connection that are at the heart of your motivation to create,
Speaker 2 00:09:57 I think. Yes.
Speaker 0 00:09:58 It's beautiful and I appreciate having that window. Well thank you for sharing Alan, and thanks for coming on soundscapes and then talking about soundscapes unknowingly. That's <laugh>.
Speaker 2 00:10:09 Yes. Well, thank you for inviting me to think about it.
Speaker 0 00:10:13 My pleasure. Next up, listen to Eva for yourself.
Speaker 2 00:10:20 Eva had eyes, Eva had eyes to see
Speaker 2 00:10:24 Along the fence with a bid. Wills 10 their cattle along the path that runs from the depot and across the field and onward through the woods, invisible now in the dark to the edge of town. Along the thread of the track, the cattle traveled. A single figure made its way. There was no mistaking to walk. Maggie wasn't drunk. Eva Bidwill have never seen her drunk unless you count that tip of hers. A type of drunkenness to depravity, that would be the word hitch of the step is good excuse as any to waggle the fanny waggle as if she didn't know full well what she was doing, as if any man would ever mount a, a flush went through with the thought of Maggie pitched upon to the flanks of a somebody's husband, no doubt signal in her yardman with a platter of the box cars cover the sound of there from the book and the parlor, the Buccaneer on the cover animal passion. She could just see it now from out of all the boys at the depot, the stud with a shock of hair across the brow. That's the one Maggie would choose the rue. That's what they call him in France. The rue with a shake of the tus old right tussled lock, like a tangle of sheets to shake it with a toss that gives the whole of him a shiver. Him with the hum in the voice and the T square, the shoulders, the twist of the hips. When he,
Speaker 2 00:11:43 Maggie moved by increments, one step at a time like a peg and abort of cribbage. She advanced across the dam paper and of dirt at the foot of the Bidwells drive swayed as she picked her way between the potholes and the cow patties lifted her skirt to clear the fist of sands Spurs at the hinge of the gate. She paused to catch her breath, gathered her hair up into a knot, and then with a lean on the rail of the fence, pinned it to the top of her head.
Speaker 2 00:12:09 Maggie wondered if it had been a mistake to bend the air and for another visit to the chapel long enough to walk without a stop for what would be the word, private satisfaction. If she'd simply bribed the baker's boy and brought the flour and headed home, she'd already be home. Home in a hot bath. But the flour was business. The chapel was personal. You could say it was church, church without the people to help with the choir, the preacher, the people. God's the one got a answer in the flesh. They got it right. The Catholics on the money, they got the trophy. They got imp pinned in the flesh. So as he can't evaporate, see, gotta answer face to face, got answer for what he'd done. Best of all it was life size, the crucifix, the size of life and reliable, the reliable enemy. And he'd be there. There he'd be like always in the chapel. That was where when you have a piece to say, you say it. When you got a thing to do, you do it. Eva backed away from the window. Shameless that woman
Speaker 2 00:13:15 From her lookout in the shade of the pie safe, she tilted ever so slightly to center Maggie. In the frame of the glass, there was no telling. One could only imagine outside under the naked stars like a beast of the field, a woman like that, and one man as good as another to her. And whoever the hym, it was him there with his hands and into the ark. Two by two, the male and the female. He bathed them, come the animals. Animals. But how could you, where would you that pair them pinned to the rough of the shed like that? The shoes on, but the clothes all a household. That would be the word lordy. The splinters or imaginative Jesus. Imaginative, barefoot senders. Chis gunpowder in the lungs. Hornets in the rafters. Maggie turned with both hands to grasp the top of the fence. Then took a step backward, one foot and then the other as if to square off with a partner with her hands anchored. Now she straightened her legs and bent forward at the waist, stretched her arms and shoulders and then side to side the small of her back to lean into it. That's the only way you loosen the pain
Speaker 2 00:14:29 Firm. Against the frame of the door in the dark of the kitchen, Eva shut her eyes, shut them on the picture that rode the ripple of glass. The woman, that woman. And wondered how it would be of which of the men, of all of the men, how much better it would be to choose the fellow in the Ticketmaster's office, the cedar floor with a sweep in the glow of the green of the lamp across the mahogany counter. And such a fresh ling, such a dapper little flirt of a man cocked up into the frame of the window as if the docket were the strings of a musical instrument, the stops and the frets for the fingers to play the slender fingers. He folded, clasped together the one hand to the other when he spoke, when his eyes wandered up, the slope of her shoulder gathered in the skin above the cut of her blouse and she pictured the play of his hand on the curve of her flesh.
Speaker 2 00:15:22 And she looked away and allowed herself to be seen and surrendered and pictured the soft of the cotton duvet at the foot of the cott. Well tucked up onto the bench for a whisper and a wicked smile. Emergencies he told her and how it would be the heat, the hideaway and thin as a whisper in the den sound of the radio, the grand old Opry, a maiden fair to see the pearl of minstrel sea, A but a blushing beauty bee. He would be to be sure the one, the hymn with the scarlet handkerchief in the palm of the hand, that like a flame. As he such clean nails folds it pats the heat from his brow, jams it down his pocket, the brute, the curve of the pocket at the butt of the jeans. He would be the one to gaff the skirt up over the hips.
Speaker 2 00:16:14 Oh, take her from behind my lift her off her feet with a single thrust of his goodness as if you meet with more than air alone. She moved. Eva, Eva bidwell. Mrs. Bidwell beneath the fabric of the nighty with the print of the flamingo skinned the tender finger, the flame out across the dark. Maggie launched herself again, followed the eggshell white of the fence to the split in the timber ahead. The print of a hoof hard as a cobble tripped her. But here the ground was dry. Here you follow. Not the easement and the trodden bed, but the flash of sand in the afterlight of the moon. Single the figure, single, the walk, the spill of the milk that marks the border of the trail. The steeple glowed at the fringe of the wood. The moonlight struck the bell as they neared the chapel. Eva bid them.
Speaker 2 00:17:04 Wait, so not to make a scene, that was the plan. So not to as it were, catch them in the act. No. But to capture the act and in the afterwards and the telling, multiply the moment over and over again. And who better than even to bear witness Eva, the one to see as in a vision, the sin. Eva, the one to hear from miles away the thump, thump, thump of the flesh. You keep a lookout is what you do, said Eva. Nothing magical about it. Send a boy to mark the two in the fro who went and wear for the price of a nickel, a season of gossip. And so she knew of a certain the time. Every second Thursday or so, the boy told her Maggie would make the trek through the woods, up the bank to the bed of the railway and over the bridge to Gothe in person. Maggie paid the bakkers boy off the books, a sleigh of hand, half the price for a pallet of flower. And then, but for the one detour back, the way she came in, the shade of the pine, the clapboard smoldered, a chalky white. Through the gap in the hedge, the trio appeared. Shh.
Speaker 2 00:18:06 The sack of Maggie shifted off her shoulder. It rolled thump into the bed of the pine needles at the foot of the tree. She felt lighter for a second or so. But then there you go. Here it comes. The pull of the earth down the embankment. She limped at the door of the chapel, she paused, pressed with her back to the doorpost, the blade of the shoulder into the curve of the stone. That's the spot there. The cord of muscle loosened. The pain softened to an A as she applied the pressure. A genia Flexions what? It was the ritual at the door, an affirmation of the flesh. She jimmied the door with a knife, stepped inside, let the service begin. The only congregate in the church of Maggie. Maggie, the floorboards carried the sound of her entry, the tremor up the aisle and into the dark.
Speaker 2 00:18:53 At the far end of the chapel, the ribs of wood rose to a hollow over her head, a private sky. She thought about the day the polio clipped her. The look on his face when he told her, considering the circumstances, he said the wedding was off. She told herself Animal spirits is what it was, is all it was. That made her so keen to be near him. Gb, but she knew it wasn't true. She had a will. God gave her a will and somehow in some way unknowable to herself, she'd wield herself into loving him. A hateful thing. This notion of love. Better to be a dog, a doer. That's what a dog is. Deepen the blood, the voice of the maker whispers and the vital the maker moves and the dog hears. And the dog does. Happy, dog happy. The dog dumb, the dog innocent of what it means to be a thing apart from the hand of the maker.
Speaker 2 00:19:50 When the bird sings or the gator bites or the typist nibbles, they're doing what the maker decreed, obedient to their nature's what they are innocent of sin. Not the person. No, not us. We got us a commandment. Gotta master. The nature of the maker gave us bludge and the lust. Temper the rage. Bully the beast within. You gotta be good. Say the godly gotta want the good of the one you love. Kiss the bride, throw the rice, celebrate the traitor. Simple, right? Live the whole of your life at odds with the temper you got. And in the end you get what? What do you get? What's the verdict from the squall at the snip of the umbilicus to the rattle at the last of all the rights. Guilty, but it's only fair. He says. God says the bastard fair. How fair would it be to ask of any dog or horse or bird or beast?
Speaker 2 00:20:47 You tell a fella, mind your manners. Take your hands off of that girl or the gal with a poison in the dropper. You tell her By the love of God, don't you say to the kid with a beetle in the palm of the hand. Gentle. Gentle. But how gentle is the maker who made the people in the first place, made 'em all vengeful and horny and it eat with yds to crush in the little God lit of a fist. The weak, ain't he? The one got a answer for what he'd done From the wires anchored to the cross beam, hidden in the dark of the vault over head, the crucifix hung in the space above the altar. Hovered she'd had her fill of words to hell with confession. Let him of his own auger out the shape of that heart or hers in the dark like a diver feel for it here.
Speaker 2 00:21:32 Deep under the lip of the reef reed with his finger, the crust, the crest, the rubble from out the unseeable conjure the shape of a soul. Have at it. She didn't say it, but she thought it. Do your best. She carried within her a hatred, hearty as a burl and so close to the heart. She could hardly tell what part of it she toad it like a parcel. And what of all the parts, like a limb or a bone or a vital was a part of her. So be it. So be it. The whole of a life to go. And he would leave his mark and she would leave hers same as any other soul in the shipwreck of the season herself. The print of what she had to say, how she would move what she would do, the mark she would make take the sound of ice when off the glacier calves the report, they call it report without a word, the thing itself.
Speaker 2 00:22:27 True is true can be even the dead. The dead got a voice. Pompe got a voice under the crust of print of the people who've been there. The shape of what happened. The hollow where the body says, here's what I got to say, my say for myself, the whole of it here she took a knee, the one good knee on the red, plush of the alter rail. It was a comfort to her to see him sow. She took a special delight in the spectacle of God, the God of the cosmos. Omniscient is air. The God of the glacier and the breaker and the galaxy cut down to a size you could hold in the hand, A figure in the flesh. Maggie, the hammer, every hammer needs an anvil. No shush Eva. Bit them weight into the litter of leaf along the flank of the chapel.
Speaker 2 00:23:18 She gently so as not to stir the air made her way at the window she found a gap, a crack with a casing, swollen with a season of rain crowbarred up at the window itself, a slit, a finger of air, turpentine the smell and lichen, and pulled her with the view primo like peering through the slats of a Venetian blind. There she was, Maggie squared off at the foot of the altar, slowmo the zipper. Lighter tumbled as if Maggie were polishing it in the palm of her hand on either side of the altar or candle glowed Eva straightened, leaned backwards. The chapel door dark, a sign of movement. Where was the priest above her In the stained glass. Behold the hand of God pitching the earth like you pitch a bocce ball up into a heaven of spans. Something stirred in Eva. A shock at the brass of it. All the thought of a coupling here in the place of prayer, but shot through with a shiver of, was it delight? The very thought of it in the candlelight, in the cross hatchery. A shadow that quivers in the high pitch of the rafter and the steeple in the bell to be taken, to be shaken, to be ravished by a savage. How? What would be the word? Delicious. And by of all people, a priest,
Speaker 2 00:24:44 Them Catholics in their starchy collars. But it figures, you gotta chain them. Know the dog with the streep of the wild. Long before she said it to herself as a matter of faith. Eva had a feeling about it. That confessional box, the mumbling peg of the holy host, the color frock, the color of soot and and the pepper. Shaker, vicar, bobblehead, bishop pope up there with the trembly mitts and the marzipan topper and the nuns. Such a loss. Pluck 'em in the pink. That's what they do stuff 'em in a habit in black. They bury the body, snuff the hair and hide the head. The whole of it all. But the cupcake of the face, the thought of it. The very thought to hide the happy flesh dressed like a funeral. Bury the broad of the shoulder, slope of the bosom, the slim of the hip and the leg and the saddle. A sin is what it was. A scandal below the crucifix, an old timey lamp, brazier with a wick. Maggie snapped the lighter open, ruddy the flame. She looked up at the figure, the man there pitched up with his arms out spread.
Speaker 2 00:25:49 You could have fixed it. She whispered. You could have done something down the aisle. She limped, stopped, turned. Look at you, you happy? Now in the light of the torch, it sied the face of the Christ. Is this what makes you happy? She limped again, exaggerated. This time, this onward, she rolled in a broken pirouette. You walk on water, her voice re remodeled it off the walls. You raise the dead, you wave a finger in the mountain, falls and all for nothing. Nothing. Eva shifted her hands on the sill. What sort of a prayer was this? And where was the priest?
Speaker 2 00:26:38 Maggie circled back round to the crucifix in pictures, mostly is how Eva reckoned not. But a nichols worth a vista in that Nickelodeon brain of hers. But she knew what she knew. She could see it. Nobody wants to see a naked fella. Okay, it's a God. Okay, but really now pinned up top the place of a prayer, like a side of beef in a butcher's mercy. God had mercy and God had mercy on the regular folk who steamed the dress, ironed the shirt, hitch up the stocking and slap on the aqua. Ve and all for the sake of a, a, give it a cadry, a spectacle, a flesh bloody Catholics. She pictured herself with a fire hose cab bland, it blows up onto the altar, blasts away at the trapper, scrubs the flesh clean off of the cross. There you go. The simple and the true blunt is a branding iron. Here you are, you are here. X marks the spot. And is that too much? Is that too much to ask? Keep the blood on the inside. Right on the inside where it belongs. Maggie stood with her boots on the silk red of the kneeling rail out over the altar. She leaned close enough to cast a breath across the broken feet. The spike of iron, the blackened timber.
Speaker 2 00:27:51 You should be ashamed. She whispered. One, two. She snuffed out the candles with the clap of the hands, snatched up the lamp, cocked the arm as if to pitch it the flame. And all up at the pulpit or out the window, or a smash at the cedar ribbing that holds the roof. Made as if to speak. But no, she let the arm drop, blew out the flame in the dark. Careful like blind. Step by step. She made her way to the door. A pause, a parting shot. Do me a favor, pal. Don't be looking for pity for me. Eva gripped the raw wood or the sill. She drew her breath and held like you hold a thing to weigh it. The scent of wax and wick and lacquer.
Speaker 2 00:28:43 What would she tell the girls? She tried to picture the scene. Picture how she would picture it to them. Maggie and Durango with a ridiculous is what it was. And brazen. An insult. A betrayal is what it was to the faith, to the followers everywhere. Especially Eva and the girls who followed, who braved the damp air. The dark wood followed over hill and Dale, her every move. You would think a woman in her position would be grateful to God for whatever blessing, a roof, a meal, a deputation of regular folk to shepherd her home. But no, not for Maggie. No. Not good enough for her. She should be grateful. It was Eva come along and not Sally the tatler or Bev with the tongue of the rap era. But would she be grateful? So what now, Eva? She could tell them nothing. All for nothing. The two mile trek in the moonlight up the gravel path into the prickly hedge. Or she could tell them it was dark. One could only imagine in the dark. What sort of what flavor of shameful or no, she could tell them. She saw with the eyes of faith, with her own eyes. Deep in the wicker window of the confessional, in the shadow, in the seat of the sinner, the priest
Speaker 2 00:29:59 Out of the shadows. Now they sailed up the road in a convoy home. Eva, in the lead, Sally gathered up her skirts and scurry to keep paste. The gals babbled on. We seen her go that walker. Hers. Sure enough, she, you could tell it got her ashes. Hauled. They laughed. Talk about a sachet Ali. Man left. They've been drinking. No, the communion wine snacking on the host. I bet you stop it. Don't talk like that. What'd he do? What? Lift the robe. A defrocking. That's what they call it. I love a hairy chest. Shut up now. Shut. What a thing to say. Such a boost, an injection of vigor and such a melody in the voice caper in the step you'd think the tris belonged to them and not to Maggie. That it was them. Their delicate bones, all a buzz with the shock of a coupling when they reached the edge of town, you could take it no more.
Speaker 2 00:30:50 They stopped her latched onto her sleeves. So Eva, tell us, what'd you see? What happened? Eva looked up at the moon when you got a melon. There's a moment spoon in hand. The innards flung aside. You see the shape of the empty, how the solids are hollow now and no longer a thing in its own right. A vessel, a container at the ready. Imagine that said Eva. Just imagine you gather up a stack of bolsters, you know, from off of the pews. Said Eva got all the ingredients. She broke away, continued walking, called back over her shoulder, make a mattress right there in the aisle. I knew it. What did they say? Could you hear? You can imagine the sound <inaudible>. Think of it. And in a church, animals and so on into the night. So goes the tale. Quite a fellow, this Italian priest to RAVs, a trio, a bitties from the comfort of a leather recliner and out of the depths of an ecclesiastical dream, a dream of ovens made of ice and hummingbirds with wings of iron. So goes the world.
Speaker 0 00:32:22 I hope you enjoyed the experience of Eva. We've got one more poem for today. Next up, phonology by Jory Mickelson.
Speaker 4 00:32:32 Phonology, the study of seasons by Jory Mickelson. No lies, just my life lived, wrong, headed. Perhaps the yard. Lamb with grass. Every spring there, a cottontail in a bush, a crow along the wall, a dough bedded down. And though I've never seen one pregnant each year, a fawn or two, once even three. All caution ling and spotted every year the seasons passed at the empty lot. Next to the four-way stop, the signs proclaiming gun show, mud boat show, manure, car show pollen, county fair hay craft, fair frost. This was my life though perhaps unremarkable and only self evidenced a window to look out, a patch of grass where something will eventually lay itself. Come to rest.
Speaker 0 00:33:45 That was phonology by Jory Mickelson. We hope you enjoyed today's episode and are grateful that you're a part of our soundscapes and terrain.org community. I hope you'll join us next time. In the meantime, enjoy exploring the staying power of your own life.
