Name: I am filled with affection but too shy to convey by Po Win in Dream
Duration: 3 min 25 s
Description: “Oh look, Po. There are two magpies… One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret never to be told…”

Dream

7 years went under a bridge like time standing still.m4a

“Oh look, Po. There are two magpies… One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret never to be told…”

I am filled with affection but too shy to convey

Lyrics: 
I wrote your name in the corner of a song Where no one else would ever sing along
Tucked between the words I never said Like folded notes beside my bed
You were never good at staying still But you live in every line I fill
I don't say much, but I feel inverse And you show up in every chorus first

I don't have your voice I don't have your face
But I've got ink in your shape Ink doesn't lie
It spills when the heart is too full to cry You left me paper cuts I couldn't erase
So I turned your silence into grace You're not here, but you're in the lines I

Think Love never fades, it just stains in ink
I trace your laugh in the notebook margins Like trying to cage a ghost in garden
Your goodbye was short, but it stayed so long So I made it rhyme and made it wrong
You're the metaphor I can't outrun The draft I swore was the final one

And even when I tried to write you out You'd bleed back in like Doubt
I gave you poems You gave me poems
But I still sign your name in my flaws Ink doesn't lie
It stains when the heart forgets how to try You left me poems I can't complete

So I hum your name in half a beat You're not here, but you're in the lines I
Think Love never fades, it just stains in ink
I kept the pen you used that day I ran dry, but I couldn't throw it away
It's just plastic in memory But somehow it still writes me

Ink doesn't lie It stays long after all reasons die
You walked away, but the words stood still And I've been rewriting you until
I don't feel you in every trait But love like ours, it lives in ink

Road Trip

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real-k-pop .mp3

Proverbs 31 - V2

She took me to gather sorrel along a 5,000 year old stone wall.

Along that chilly road, she pointed to the shimmering reflection of light upon the waves.

She said something to this effect, “That’s the sun walking on the water.” 

I’d said to her that it looked like these were wise old walls. 

In the distance, ahead of her beloved car which she’d referred to as “She,” I could see a woman steadily jogging like a thoroughbred.

Without affectation, but wielding a bewitching expression like the inescapable draw of a calm blue sky, she’d matter of factly replied, “That’s my cousin.” 

I’ll have yet to try the nettle she gathered.

Perhaps tonight in a teacup of searing water I’ll steep the nettle she’d imparted me as I was leaving her home. 

One must mind himself as the nettle can sting.

 “Seven for a secret never to be told…” indeed.

this is not a victory march

She was lovely.

I wasn’t able to handle my shyness with her smiling, her delicate tousling of her dark brown hair as she tilted her head, or her piercing eye contact (these Irish women are very different than people at home). 

I thanked her and boarded our bus to Carrigaline.

shes just like a dream

Mats off to you

“It’s a disturbing story. The origins of the band, for one thing, are disturbing. Bob Stinson got out of state care for delinquent children and moved back home with his mom. He knew some guitar licks and wanted to start a band, so he forced his half-brother Tommy Stinson, still a child, to play bass. Bob was a mess, in large part because his stepfather—Tommy’s dad—sexually abused him, with no one else knowing but his sister, who suffered the same abuse. According to Chris Mars, the neighborhood kid they recruited to play drums, Bob would punch Tommy in the face when he made mistakes. Somehow this forced labor in the family basement made for a rock band so good that a janitor walking past the Stinson family home would crawl into the bushes to listen to their rehearsals through a basement window well.

Paul Westerberg was that meandering janitor. He crashed the Stinson basement, joined the band, deceived another singer so he wouldn’t join, and took over. Chris Mars, who had been writing songs for the band, would no longer have his songs played. Bob Stinson, who formed the band (as “Dog Breath”), would eventually be forced to leave it. Mars would be the next to go, after being castigated for his failure to learn the drum machine parts that Westerberg began to program for his home demos. Yet before Westerberg drove them away, they would make a series of remarkable rock ‘n’ roll records that merit this serious, unsentimental investigation into how it happened and what it meant and what it cost.”

https://youtu.be/-NBfCgW-qMw

pageantry for bob stinson

all about the girl who came to stay

there’s a dream that strings the road with broken glass for us to hold

I got so sick of having sleepless nights I went and told my dad

In an addendum to this letter, I must tell you that I encountered an Irish bus driver who very compassionately drove me so far from his destination to simply make certain that I reached my accommodations that I could not have otherwise reached on foot.

I congregated with two kind gentlemen who invited me to sit with them, two perfect strangers who treated me as though I was a dignitary and had held a position of honour based solely upon my quiet deportment and conservative dress.

I convened and conversed with a very congenial and rather captivating young woman on a bus who later proceeded to make sure that I would find my footing towards my accommodation for that evening.

From the fundamental difference between Americans and Irish people altogether, the disorienting effect of experiencing people who treat you with the utmost dignity was truly my first culture shock — nowhere in the United States or elsewhere do people behave quite like this.

While I would like to report that the people here are all very kind, generous, and good natured, that would be only partly true — most of its people are exceptionally kind (but not all Irish people are kindhearted).

Another papercut from London

Just American without tears

song from Pennsylvania

Po Win is an American musician from Long Beach. Aside from his live performances, for songs with multiple instruments he used a Tascam digital four track recorder (DP004). James Trace mixed numerous of those home demos.

I am filled with affection but too shy to convey

Po Win

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