Handwriting I: Does Handwriting Matter

by The Cradle

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Vol I in the handwriting series

1 yellow and then silver 0-2:52

2 snake or cicada 2:53-4:43

3 that wasn't it 4:44-8:18

4 I shouldn't leave this in 8:19-10:25

5 talking was done 10:26-13:00

6 fourth pit dub 13:01-14:23

7 fog in the room 14:24-16:06

8 the clang of it 16:07-19:56

recorded at 1278 prospect place, spring 2015


released May 17, 2015




The Cradle Brooklyn, New York

i'm paco. the cradle is my music. currently live in brooklyn ny.

for booking/whatever: pkcathcart@yahoo.com or
646 220 3328

i also engineer for other people/bands. hit me up for that analog natural jank.
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Track Name: Does Handwriting Matter?
yellow and then silver the noise of the breaks or is that really what it was? decompressing or is that really what they’re
doing? -comes on too strong and with depth like something that is also surprising three-dimensional and self-evident like s
but not like a letter like hiss but not like a word let alone a snake or a cicada it comes out of the machine like it should
and also from beneath a rock or a manhole- in my ears my right especially these things that are always stopping and
unceasing like anything else but tangled like sound with bits of television and the wisdom of our parents
my way of thinking is scarred obviously only platitudes are true there is only one right way of saying
something if there is one at all but to go back to the silver and yellow you might think that wasn’t what it was
I agree with you the people look sharp and strange I don’t know why anyone talks to each other he’s done talking now
he’s done talking and talking to the one who gave him a buck after he was done talking he was drab and in the middle in
every way he looked the man with the smile and the money and the face had a sprawl of acne across his face his skin
rippled as his face turned in my vision after he gave the drab one money he sat and had his face and he smiled there
he sat there smiling after the talking was done I thought that he was self-satisfied but in retrospect it really could have been
anything I do not remember the face of the other at all but before I was trying to do something with the issue
of the memory of the yellow warning strip and the silver facade of the train but the only thought that comes is actually only
another memory out of the warm it comes but I would prefer not to say this one it might make me look bad also there are
problems with saying it there are some things that are easier said with your eyes closed only platitudes are true
and maybe shit you say in your sleep I shouldn’t leave this in
have I been laying it on a little heavy lately or are there really no bottom to the words now?
does handwriting matter? could my mind be different? the question that is not these questions it’s like its being amongst
the ones that ride the trains as if it was one of them it looks at me through the one slumping in the corner seat in the well
known light doze until your stop and its all you can see and there’s something you need to do but you can’t figure out
how to care enough the folds of everyone’s jacket, though beautiful, and their voices, though various, carry no interest
for you as you try vigorously to remember what it meant that that is what you saw and that it was seeing you do the noises in your ears make it not matter? I don’t have to tell you it doesn’t matter anyway not with that thing sitting there and looking and sitting’s not the word anyway
sitting in the sweatshirt folds that are so beautiful that you always love how your mom paints fabric
and the sheen sitting in the sight that gets rid of you were going to ask yourself questions
without hoping for answers but the questions aren’t even there you get out of the folds along with the one that you
thought you’d seen peering out from them not from under the hood that would just be a person I guess dozing or doing
something that might mean something in some other formulation that might have something said of it in a world where
things have certain things that should be said of them but certainly not in our systems you tell yourself I’m laying it on too
heavy these days I’ve got to take it slower so that people have time to grow their faces back and learn
english again the one who’d seen was there in the whole of it and in the folds of the sweatshirt and if you go deeper
they were there in the way that nothing would ever look just like that again in the way that they were randomly arranged
which is seemingly oxymoronic you blink and wonder how the oxymoron will fit into all of this you know when you think
about it that the folds hid the shape of the chest and stomach but that thought which should be the key to the question
peering out of the slumped one in the corner goes under something like when a body takes on water and slowly sinks
beneath the surface of a body of water you think it’s not really a question at all you picture a room full of fog and
grow frustrated at your lack of imagination as something makes you want to close your eyes while also imparting the full
knowledge that doing so will bring no relief until certain situations are placated until you’ve heard the right sound
or right combination of words or seen the right arrangement of features on a face but that’s too specific a word
you look around for something specific and you can see only the direction that everyone is looking when you follow the
gazes they only lead to a bewildering paucity of color the folds have cut their gaze if that means anything and what if it does
the gazing goes into the eyes that you can’t help not looking at and the diversity would be devastating if not for what
you imagined to be the fog in the room you can feel your own skin watching you it’s not as bad as it sounds though
it just is but without feeling like it you breathe and it’s in the sensations that lie in between hearing and feeling

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