Begin the Serene A sesquicentennial or so ago, The Prophet Walt Whitman-These States' capacious, indispensable Seer-sat still to watch an arachnid at work, at play, then divined in it's miraculous, natural actions one fit analogue for his ever-quest: A noiseless patient spider, I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself, Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them. And you O my soul where you stand, Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them, Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold, Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul. Squirm Orchestra defies it's listeners to sit still-very well-but if they will they'll be transported to The Realm. And audit there, in that timeless space, a music of connected spheres. Set out with this band of melody-makers, these richly rhythmic mischief-spinners; cross the bridges we all of us need, caper in their soundscapes, their escapades; attend, honed, to their extravagations. Do, you'll find your skeleton soon enough toned, it's tiniest bones turned to tuning forks. Go ahead. Explore. --SEAN FRANCIS.
Beast of Yucca Flats
When I Die You Can Have My Taxi
Tree Blind Mice
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