It's a story!
I thought of adding synth, but I don't have time for that shit.
lyrics
Under the earth they bartered in soul, never in doubt about the wizard house. Never in doubt about the wizard house.
Radiant holes lined my mind on Sunday, I awoke with a start and pulled my clothes from the dryer. My whole life was a fearful lie, but the brutal work ahead saw me shivering in the threshold.
(Shy nights,
open nights,
dreams to find,
quiet life)
A six-pointed star, a five-pointed star, a four-pointed star, a three-pointed star, a two-pointed star, a one-pointed star, a no-pointed star stood in the heavens lighting million miles of nebulous ether - rocks and trees, and trees and rocks. I pulled on my clothes, cleaned my teeth and ears and nose and went about my day's business cutting gems into non-euclidean faceted stones. It's a troubling gig, and I sometimes have a dream where I'm chased by an angle of masonry and it opens impossibly wide to trap me deep within. I'm tired when I wake and tired again when I sleep... I have another dream where I enter a car and the stranger, by way of being in my mind, can intercept all that I think... it's just as disconcerting as knowing just what is not reality.
I don't have secrets - not now, not really. I speak too much, and what dreams may haunt the wizard house roll free through cracks in my old face... where lands their fancy in colored rains, confusion's feigned and draws forth more. It was for many years that they sat stagnating, and many years more that I lived in equilibrium. There is no cause left for either. Look out that window, here to my right, to the garden. There is the iris, blossomed in full, white flesh of its flower raised to the sun... and beside it are ferns, grass, clover, dandelions, a rose, thistle, wild strawberries, creeper, ivy, and a crumbling wall of brick. If you squint, you can barely see the iris at all... but it's there, somewhere, sometime, and do you feel any lesser if today it has vanished from the garden altogether?
Look further, beyond the empty, crowded soil. There is someone hammering up the hill. There are several men hammering something. There are many men hammering something, now its skeleton takes shape, and standing before it they wipe the sweat from their brow as it is made flesh. There it is at last -
the Iris!
Atop a colossal green stem, a great delicate flower of immaculate palour pricks the blue heavens. It is such a triumph of architecture, that standing there high its creators leave it to speak for itself... and so as I speak here to you, I recall that the Iris stood outside my window for many years with great renown being heaped upon it by five or six people until eventually the sustained weight of their enthusiasm took its toll and the great flower began to collapse in on itself. Its weakened stem snapped sharply in two places, fallen as three great green beams, while the fibers which connected the petals of the flower began to loosen at their base and pull apart, widening the flower at its neck into a sort of cone. Dismal, the remains of the flower lay there in the gray, dark days of the fall among leaflitter and pinestraw, being unsuccessfully bid upon by beetles, fungus, bacteria, and doddering flies until finally the ever-ready builder ants came upon it and sought to salvage the immense thing.
The ants cut through the insides of the fallen, cracked stem-beams, making from these many much smaller beams. Here, a second crew of ants came carrying stones, as the first crew assembled the many beams into an immense frame - a great, wide structure with high ceilings and about three floors. At the center was a vast ampitheatre, and around this on all floors were the outlines of many rooms and halls of various size.
The second crew of ants quickly lay the stones like bricks all around the structure, closing it off to the elements. At the top sat the flower of the Iris, now so separated at its base that its top had fused from the pressure of its petals falling inward.
(Shy nights,
open nights,
dreams to find,
quiet life)
The resulting sharp white cone looked not unlike a roof.
If you're reading this - Gods of the Dead is the good one. Listen to that first if you're going to listen to anything on here. It's actually pretty solid.
The second EP from Northern Irish singer-songwriter Bea Stewart runs from gentle folk to pillowy pop ballads, all perfectly executed. Bandcamp New & Notable Apr 15, 2024
