willstratton: This is a draft of a new song called “Do You Love Where You Live?” I guess the way to put the news I got this week is that I have had to do some revising of my own expectations about the process of transcending this disease. I went into my appointment for the CT scan thinking that I’d be in for a single surgery in January with a fairly quick recovery time—maybe a month. It turns out that the reality, as is so often the case, is more complex. The four cycles of chemotherapy likely took care of all or nearly all of the cancer. But that is only part of the problem—the disease that remains may not be malignant, but it is still growing and needs to be removed, and it is extensive. I will likely be going through three surgeries, possibly more, starting in February. In the meantime my “job” is to get as strong and healthy as possible. I don’t want to speculate any more about when I will be rid of all of this, given all of the variables that remain, but it will not be earlier than six months from now. I’m not going to lie—this is disappointing, and it is not always easy to be brave or optimistic or even positive right now. But I take heart in knowing the people I know, and knowing what may await me when the last scalpel has been put away and the last stitch has healed. I miss you guys. I saw a movie tonight, Flame & Citron, set in Denmark during the Second World War. It reminded me of how much I enjoyed my time in Denmark. I really hope I get to go back there in the next few years. Those men and women in the resistance were terribly brave.
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willstratton: This song is a draft, possibly the title track of my upcoming fifth album. It is called “Dreams of Big Sur.” The photograph is by Nika States. Will, you ought really to come back to California.
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red steppes - tenderness from a live set we played at Subterranean Arthouse in Berkeley a while back. you can download this and a couple other tracks over there on soundcloud, for free free free. lyrics are thus: which one is the rube? in the eggy light, two shuddering spoons when i’m not warm and you’re not soothed which hand holds the distance? which hand holds the hollow moon? you’re a fish in the road; the pickled gills go seizing at the stone. when they won’t swallow what won’t lead them home don’t make me your scavenger don’t call me your lucky crow there’s the summer’s pall at the cattle gate, at the rattling wall and you dog, you bark before you balk you shout at the cloudy bank you shy when that bank decides to walk but I go out in that soup, in the muddy bile and bruised chamomile bloom and I am sick with it, I am sick as you and that fog is a thicket that fog is a quiet, clicking womb from the cancerous month with your shallow chest and my shivering lung comes a bad bad joke, but a pious one: that hymn we both bellowed at the quarry’s rim, in the gloaming going gone Tenderness, you said - I need tenderness you said: for once, be bold be soft be close
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