Get all 6 madestro releases available on Bandcamp and save 35%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Sónar 30, Van Dog, back in time, Alice, Music for Myself, and Nostalgia.
1. |
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We were taken from the ore-bed and the mine,
We were melted in the furnace and the pit—
We were cast and wrought and hammered to design,
We were cut and filed and tooled and gauged to fit.
Some water, coal, and oil is all we ask,
And a thousandth of an inch to give us play:
And now, if you will set us to our task,
We will serve you four and twenty hours a day!
We can pull and haul and push and lift and drive,
We can print and plough and weave and heat and light,
We can run and race and swim and fly and dive,
We can see and hear and count and read and write!
Would you call a friend from half across the world?
If you’ll let us have his name and town and state,
You shall see and hear your crackling question hurled
Across the arch of heaven while you wait.
Has he answered? Does he need you at his side?
You can start this very evening if you choose,
And take the Western Ocean in the stride
Of seventy thousand horses and some screws!
The boat-express is waiting your command!
You will find the Mauretania at the quay,
Till her captain turns the lever ’neath his hand,
And the monstrous nine-decked city goes to sea.
Do you wish to make the mountains bare their head
And lay their new-cut forests at your feet?
Do you want to turn a river in its bed,
Or plant a barren wilderness with wheat?
Shall we pipe aloft and bring you water down
From the never-failing cisterns of the snows,
To work the mills and tramways in your town,
And irrigate your orchards as it flows?
It is easy! Give us dynamite and drills!
Watch the iron-shouldered rocks lie down and quake
As the thirsty desert-level floods and fills,
And the valley we have dammed becomes a lake.
But remember, please, the Law by which we live,
We are not built to comprehend a lie,
We can neither love nor pity nor forgive.
If you make a slip in handling us you die!
We are greater than the Peoples or the Kings—
Be humble, as you crawl beneath our rods!-
Our touch can alter all created things,
We are everything on earth—except The Gods!
Though our smoke may hide the Heavens from your eyes,
It will vanish and the stars will shine again,
Because, for all our power and weight and size,
We are nothing more than children of your brain!
-- Rudyard Kipling
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2. |
Roy Batty
04:16
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3. |
62 Seconds of Solitude
01:01
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4. |
The Blade of Nostalgia
03:53
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When fed into the crude, imaginary
machine we call the memory,
the brain’s hard pictures
slide into the suggestive
waters of the counterfeit.
They come out glamorous and simplified,
even the violent ones,
even the ones that are snapshots of fear.
Maybe those costumed,
clung-to fragments are the first wedge
nostalgia drives into our dreaming.
Maybe our dreams are corrupted
right from the start: the weight
of apples in the blossoms overhead.
Even the two thin reddish dogs
nosing down the aisles of crippled trees,
digging in the weak shade
thrown by the first flowerers,
snuffle in the blackened leaves
for the scent of a dead year.
Childhood, first love, first loss of love--
the saying of their names
brings an ache to the teeth
like that of tears withheld.
What must happen now
is that the small funerals
celebrated in the left-behind life
for their black exotica, their high relief,
their candles and withered wreaths,
must be allowed to pass through
into the sleeping world,
there to be preserved and honored
in the fullness and color of their forms,
their past lives their coffins.
Goodbye then to all innocent surprise
at mortality’s panache,
and goodbye to the children fallen
ahead of me into the slow whirlpool
I conceal within myself, my death,
into its snow-froth and the green-black
muscle of its persuasion.
The spirits of children
must look like the spirits of animals,
though in the adult human
the vacancy left by the child
probably darkens the surviving form.
The apples drop their blossom-shadows
onto the still-brown grass.
Old selves, this is partly for you,
there at the edge of the woods
like a troop of boy soldiers.
You can go on living with the blade
of nostalgia in your hearts forever,
my pale darlings. It changes nothing.
Don’t you recognize me? I admit
I too am almost invisible now, almost.
Like everything else, I take on
light and color from outside myself,
but it is old light, old paint.
The first shadows are supple ones,
school of gray glimpses, insubstantial.
In children, the quality of darkness
changes inside the sleeping mouth,
and the ghost of child-grime--
that infinite smudge of no color--
blows off into the afterlife.
-- Chase Twichell. Lyrics by permission of the author. All rights reserved.
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5. |
Lights Out
03:26
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I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight,
Or winding, soon or late;
They cannot choose.
Many a road and track
That, since the dawn’s first crack,
Up to the forest brink,
Deceived the travellers,
Suddenly now blurs,
And in they sink.
Here love ends,
Despair, ambition ends;
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.
There is not any book
Or face of dearest look
That I would not turn from now
To go into the unknown
I must enter, and leave, alone,
I know not how.
The tall forest towers;
Its cloudy foliage lowers
Ahead, shelf above shelf;
Its silence I hear and obey
That I may lose my way
And myself.
-- Edward Thomas
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6. |
Under the Harvest Moon
03:53
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Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
-- Carl Sandburg
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7. |
Loneliness
02:49
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Being apart and lonely is like rain.
It climbs toward evening from the ocean plains;
from flat places, rolling and remote, it climbs
to heaven, which is its old abode.
And only when leaving heaven drops upon the city.
It rains down on us in those twittering
hours when the streets turn their faces to the dawn,
and when two bodies who have found nothing,
dissapointed and depressed, roll over;
and when two people who despise eachother
have to sleep together in one bed-
that is when loneliness receives the rivers...
-- Rainer Maria Rilke
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8. |
Waves
03:46
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9. |
A Ballad of Dreamland
05:00
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I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun’s way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow’s is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.
Lie still, I said, for the wind’s wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun’s dart;
Life still, for the wind of the warm sea dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn’s wound smart?
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lids of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird.
The green land’s name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller’s chart,
And sweet as the fruit on its tree that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant’s mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep’s are the tunes in its tree tops heard;
No hound’s note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.
ENVOI
In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love’s truth or of light love’s art,
Only the song of a secret bird.
-- Algernon Charles Swinburne
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