Do You Feel At Home? #16
Foremost, I believe I should articulate my absence and its accompanying mainsprings, as well as, y'know, apologize, as I certainly didn't foresee myself being withdrawn from all of this for such a prolonged period! Of course, if you'd prefer to, understandably, do without my typical diary-esque introductory spillage, scroll down this weblog a tad (once you've passed the first italicized passages, that's when you'll know you've made it). On the contrary, though, if you're keen to trudge through all this meticulously composed mumbo-jumbo, that's equitably lovely.
I've been hastily enveloped and anxiously lost amidst a maelstrom of change in my life, and, as such, have payed little mind to any endeavors outside of the one known as my mere survival. Train cabs are hellish, and the stations they and I depart from tenfold. Moreover, a nigh-fatal combination of poor ventilation and sweltering heat could and has transformed even the most leisurely of expeditions, long or short, into a trudging crawl through a mire of stickiness and stinging sweat... that, or I'm just weak... which I am. Regardless, all is to say, I've not been home, nor am I as of me typing all this jargon out, so, briefly; my apologies for my unprompted recess, but, in honest, that's nothing new. It is a shame I missed the month o' May, as that's my birth month, but, I suppose I'm still here, and, what's more, the artifacts I've to share have been clawing at my cranium for months, and I'm well certain that there'll be a few pin-balls that fall for it as catastrophically as I have (the weight lifted off my shoulders once this post is published will be tremendous)... or, at least, that's what I hope for the most whenever I finally plop down in my seat to write one of these things.
Now, to compact in a laconic summary; I traveled across my home state this summer, and, succinctly, it's been painful. So, so very painful. I've since moved from my aforementioned home and am, understandably, struggling to adjust to some semblance of adequacy. At the very least (directed towards myself), my absence did not occur without ample reason.
My most sincere and histrionic gratefulness to those sparing the unnecessary courtesy of even marginally skimming through such a morose mess as the one above. My heart beats for you, and I hope you feel at home here... in some infinitesimal way. Now, absconding continual baited prologues and introductory waffling, I'm exhausted yet overjoyed to return to sharing and archiving recondite music anew. Below is where that begins.
I routinely attempt to
relate many an intimate conceit, and, given ample time, they always
reveal themselves to be no more than superfluous dramatics, of which I
positively adore sharing, and, perforce this obsession, helps me keep a
firm grip on my passion... and, while I may be staunchly passionate, I
am also, admittedly, rather cloying... This saccharine
stampede of mine simply cannot be quelled once its horns blare, as with
each march, I cordially adorn my most pulchritudinous gown and
haphazardly sling across my shoulder an indelible pageant sash of love.
Indefatigably, I parade it all atop my gaudily ornamented chariot whilst
I conduct the cavalcade that careens through the city... In the end, I
suppose I'm a tad over-sentimental, and, yes, it is, on occasion,
difficult to chew through... but, regardless, the strange oddities that
pluck at my heartstrings are some that I unabashedly cherish heretofore,
and, furthermore (I've noticed a handful of rhymes thus far), I would
not wish to have it any other way. Once more, apologies for my absence, but, the sooner I begin to blather, the better, yes? Alrighty!
From the scorned cesspool of littered streets and scathing eclecticism, recognized by the general populous as "Florida", a young man would bide his drudging time in placid solidarity. Amidst lonesome hours of solace, Boyd Shropshire, donning the moniker "Man Holding Briefcase", would earnestly cobble simple soliloquies of somber recollections, poignant anecdotes, as well as many a fictional retelling, of which he would share amongst those whom he was immediately surrounded by, both in performance and, of course, in small copied quantities. Initially surfacing from the accursed Bermuda waters in Pompano Beach, and soon relocating to Parkland, a nearby suburb, one relatively cursory chapter hidden amongst the profusion of Boyd's solo flourishes catalogued throughout his lifelong musical portfolio has, unbeknownst to the artist hereof, since been asphyxiated beneath a saline sea of dust and execrable sand. Man Holding Briefcase (whom I'll henceforth abbreviate to "MHB" as a lousy attempt at brevity) was a sorely ephemeral project birthed from the smoldering pyre of both unsurprising band dissolution (that band being Falter), as well as mere leisure, and, while unremembered and disregarded as it has laid dormant, MHB's timeworn innocence, restless outcropping of charm, melancholia, and lachrymose allure fastened the strings of my heart into slimy knots, and I'd be unscrupulously remiss not to exclaim that Boyd's young adult blandishments have pierced my maudlin heart like an arrow... as if puncturing the varnished skin of an apple.
Peregrinations drifting atop tempestuous waters, parceled, consigned, and perplexingly emigrated, such illustrious and flummoxing voyages for homespun media so
shopworn (of which one would presume to be exclusively confined to their white trash panhandle)
never cease to befuddle n' bedazzle me. It's seemingly inexplicable, this projects physical material and its globetrotting journeys, withstanding unremitting scrutiny, yet, contrarily, is conscionably, and very well most likely, entirely anodyne. How derelict art and young creative expressions such as MHB terminates its oceanic back-and-forth into the beams of my shelf is something I struggle to apperceive on a routine basis. It is just, how do I say... astonishing, and leaves me in awe. Utterly starstruck, I ought to decree. Jaunts over the Atlantic abyss, all culminating to the relegation of its final resting place, back in the arms of a Florida resident... well, a former resident, anyhow. It's a gift amongst a love-struck bouquet of dozens that mere cherishing simply proves insufficient for my hearts liking, and the parables of which serve to chronicle every piece are diffident and dolorous. It's scarring... utterly scarring. This summer nearly brought things to a close, and MHB is the torch of which was lit until the solemn end of the seasons passing.
MHB was a project audibly akin to few contemporaneously (though such similar projects I equally adore), with its very place in history being the often fabled tail-end of the 20th century, which will unquestionably dumbfound a small number of listeners. The 1990s was and still certainly is a boundless realm of serendipity and mind-alteration, continually peerless in its uninhibited eclecticism, whether endearingly impetuous or consummated through unbridled ardor. MHB's peculiarity careens over the precipice of warming, wistful charm, notwithstanding embellishments of which creations as low fidelity as itself forbear, without concern, in simple pursuit of uncomplicated expression. Merely two arms as bassinet to the guitar, caressing open ears with a berceuse of pained, amateur instrumentation and rending whispers of stories inciting a drained, sore-eyed slumber.
Though primarily confined to ponderous indoor solitude, MHB, fettered to its panhandle, did occasionally entertain an audience of willing witnesses, of whom were bestowed with quite the endearing auditory experience. So pungently bittersweet those performances surely were, and, when stealing eared glances at projects akin to MHB, I'm left lazily spinning amidst spiraling afternoon fantasies... though, once the whirling begins to wain, I'm reeled back in by the safety line fixed to the arrow... the anchor nestled betwixt my ribs. It's a bittersweet comfort; Pertinently fitting appendages shaped with proliferating grace, and my squishy, sickeningly vascular heart delicately cradled amidst the creeping entanglement in the grasp of poison oak arms. It's the sting... the burning, searing affliction that accompanies those plaintively sweet yearnings of days slipped by. So distinct in every incarnation, such longing, yet MHB possesses particular qualities that I deem titanic in difficulty to glean from many others akin, at least via my personal perception.
Preceding any further progression, here's a rough timeline on this projects "releases":
1998 or 1999 saw a cassette EP (unknown title) followed by a CDr EP titled "We Were Planning To Stay Away From Civilization For A While", though I can't be entirely certain on the dates. The CDr EP would see a 7" reissue with an additional track on side-B in the year 2000, and, following those three, the projects efforts would subsequently be compiled onto a CDr with unreleased recordings, as well as an outlying compilation contribution.
Now, onto the aforementioned releases!
The main course is to follow, so, in another attempt at some semblance of brevity, I'll keep this passage succinct. Now, humble is an apt descriptor for the Answering My Own Question 7" EP (let alone this entire project (and the litany of other D.I.Y. projects that have and continue to exist)), I'd readily remark, though, frivolous may also be accurate to some. Regardless, asserting my internal adoration for this project merely begins to blossom for this release, and, in effusive honesty, I cannot help myself from slowly melting into tears when I take in this 7"s bizarre yet aesthetically winsome artwork. An impassioned booklet of far too many pages to begin consideration of its reasonable inclusion here, however, all is readily available to view on this records corresponding Discogs entry, as usual (do note, however, that the pictures on Discogs that are featured below are not mine, as my scanner actually kicked the bucket long before I got the chance to scan the ole thing! At the veriest leastest, I've made an Instagram post you could take a glance at.). It positively steals the show for me, these inserts... goodness, the poster makes me sob in a moments notice. To those in search, bestest of luck!
A1. Hole In Chest Marked "Heart"
A2. Newton Shoots An Apple
B1. Manipulator (You're A)
B2. I Built A Monster
(Very much enjoyed the shortening aspect of the tracklist)
Main course is piping for the table. All charcuterie boards have been disposed of, and all cheap liquors have been banished to the freezer. Tissues should be in order, at least for me.
Calendar months of silence nigh-absolute, a summer baring down without pause, rendering the remaining stability I clutched onto with irreparable tremors incorrigibly fractured, with recovery seemingly absconded into discontinuance... collapse of tenuous bonds, hearts punctured, cauterized, and incised cyclically. A circuit of infallible sybaritic injury with the strings snapping against the skin from all perceptible angles, and the checkered flag logging elliptic consummation thereof serving as the catalyst, introduced to commence this desperate decomposition. Man Holding Briefcase is the proverbial flag; the forerunner to a summers catering of poison cheese and crackers, the kindling of embers rapidly proliferating, intensifying into a blackbody of sweltered pain. Sobbing and bleeding, splitting the ribbon of hopelessness with brass scissors. Insidious connection and effulgent hedonism. For all that's occurred or been given forth, I can't stave off repeated reminiscence, even if unendurable. It's the architecture of this summer slipped by, conjoined with torrential floods of sudden change and newfound ambiguity. It's an oxidized trail of blood blithely embellishing hypothetical innocuous progress, and, despite all exclaimed, Man Holding Briefcase has been a solemn point of respite and refuge, while, simultaneously, the sorest. An ache of disheartening proportions, yet a net of commiseration and repose. A dichotomy few others possessing such developed sentimentality share. The warmth, the effervescence it smothers me with... it's acoustic stridence par excellence that I cannot nor will experience identically otherwhere emplaced in any rationally conceivable locus. Its strung as ornament across my heart, and though it expends no concern for fidelity, its clarity disambiguates this impenetrable melancholia enshrouding the sun.
For any intrigued, I sincerely assure that you will be endeared.
2. Oh Beautiful
3. My Brother Listens To Pop Songs
4. Kentucky Swingset
5. The Shark That Hated Me
6. Hole In Chest Marked 'Heart'
7. Newton Shoots An Apple
8. I Built A Monster
9. Newton Shoots An Apple (4 Track Version)
10. Sharks And Amusement Parks
11. The Test Of Time
12. Untitled
13. Downtown Disappeared
14. Somehow I Still See It (Boring Instrumental)
15. Tom Jefferson
16. That Blue Shore
(The first copy made of 10, as well as the denouement of this post. I still think about you.)
Suppose I'm home again, though, such feelings posses a hapless tendency to shift around rather dramatically. Anyhoodles. My absence this summer was unprecedented, and the month by month transpiration of events commenced prior to me even stepping one foot out of my previous home. All is to say, there was a noticeable possibility of this post remaining unpublished indefinitely, but, I'll shy away from the explicit, and, in lieu of excessively morose blithering, express my unfeigned love for those who've expressed their own, likewise. Any phrase selected off the charcuterie board of thanks and pleasantries would be unquestionably insufficient at adequately expressing the emotions I'm positively teeming with. If I could extend an all-encompassing hug and embrace to those who have accompanied me throughout these dire months, I'd perform that elastic freak-show in a single beat of my heart, though it does occasionally skip once or twice. I believe there's but one feasible way to display my love and appreciation, and that is through all of this. Possessing the luxury to string together these passages of excessive exuberance and have people be receptive and, above all, intrigued. To share, and provide a space where I and anyone else can feel at home. It's painfully ironic to the point of inducing a grimace, but, for how many layers of fancy cheeses its submerged beneath, it is wholly true, and remarkably delectable, I'd hope!
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| A farewell to this glorious table. A backdrop to be remembered. |
Much love and well-wishes,
Samantha Ruthmarie (Do You Feel At Home?)
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