Further evidence that you have to have really narrow tastes to believe that there is no interesting music being made anywhere in the world. Tired Tape Machine is only from Sweden so it’s not that far. Other groups from Sweden have made it here and… oh wait… those other groups generally fit into narrower columns. Nevermind. Just listen to the fucking music. I don’t really care if you like it or not. It’s here because I like it. I’m not really much of a people-pleaser, as much as I enjoy sharing. Whatever. I hope you like it, but it doesn’t matter if you do.

Here’s a tip while I’m still sharing: If you’re going to choose to work from home, try picking days that the tree services isn’t removing a 100 year old goliath outside your bedroom window. I’m just saying… hell, what I’m saying is that I’m really going to miss that tree. Everything about it. The shade, the shelter and the fresh air. I’m going to miss the way it broke the evening light into shadows and flickers of orange fire on the walls and ceiling. It was like living inside a kaleidoscope, come around sunset. Sure, now there’s a clear, unobstructed view of… well, there’s just a few of the ramp where the Prospect Expressway feeds into Ocean Parkway. There’s nothing to see. The tree was the view.

Oh well. So long, old friend. It was painful to watch you being pared down, piece by piece. It hurt to watch your limbs being dragged off to the chipper. They said you were very sick.

They said…

People say a lot of shit. I don’t know what to believe. Maybe it’s true, or not. I’m going to miss the tree though. I’m not going to miss the sound of chainsaws outside my bedroom window. I shit you not, I think I’m shellshocked, or maybe struck dumb by the oily exhaust. Or maybe it’s still just dehydration from sweating through the last few weeks. It just hurt to watch that fucking tree come down. There’s… I don’t know. It feels symbolic of something that I can’t put a finger on. It felt really personal. It felt like a sign of some sort.

I could almost hear it scream. That tree bore witness to generations of comings and goings here at the top of the Parkway. The stories it could tell, if only.

If only.

We’re not given much time here to tell our stories. Most of us will take it all with us, like the old tree. We’ll be dragged off to the chipper with so much unsaid. The whole time all the wrong people, the people who never sat still and quiet long enough to see anything important, will be the ones talking. Everything those people say will be lies. Don’t be fooled. If you’ve sat still and quiet long enough yourself you’ll be able to discern truth from falsehood. Spend more time like my old tree. Just sit still. But don’t wait long enough that they’re coming for you to start telling everyone what you’ve seen.

Yeah, watching that old tree go felt personal. Or maybe I’m the one just talking shit now.