Handwriting III: Whales Riding the Rain [an Old Table Reference]

by The Cradle

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about

vol III in the handwriting series.

credits

released June 16, 2015

title is lifted from a line in the old table song "future world"

painting in the album cover picture by james cathcart

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about

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: Cooking in the Dark
dreamed for the first time in nine days just now
but i still don't know if the ticking sounds behind my left ear
are dripping water or the movements of insects

when i'm getting up to go twist-face versions of fathers
and old lovers come out of the corners to make up an instant in the
periphery.
my mind puts it on the table
and considers the impossibility of it.
by the time i really look at the person they've grown a face of their own
and yes
there was a resemblance
but it's nothing uncanny really

don't worry everything is normal and gleaming with habitude

the back door of the dark house we've been stumbling through
has been shown to not exist.
the hallway behind the kitchen where it should be turns back every time to the living room where you hear a knock on the door.
the knock is always different but its always a secret knock

and every time it's the same person

because at some point in the past the color with people
was in secret handshakes
Track Name: Cry on Command
i don't wanna fight the war of boys and girls anymore
the war of girls and boys doesn't turn me on anymore

i'll play jim if you play huckleberry finn

the sun comes down and no one talks to me
the perfect bodies of the children run again and again through the sprinkler for reasons you forgot
their nipples are two more beads of water on translucent chests
the girls have not gotten breasts but the boys already imitate
their belligerent dads
you see the tiny waving arms and instantly
picture the snap of the young bones
this is not cruelty
just an instinct.


i grow tired of the war between girls and boys
the war of girls and boys doesn't turn me on like before

i'll play jim if you play huck finn

choke me of the air i don't deserve- i'll take mine when you've got yours.
Track Name: The Rian
..
Track Name: A Dry Room
one of the breastless ones watches the antics of the other sex and notices the violence of the rest of her life
she walks back to the middle class hypocrisy of her mother's love with the carnal images boiling quietly in her reptilian brain.
a motorcycle screams insanely by and no one looks up. surprises do not exist.
the identity of the one behind the door in the dark house has always been known.
the perpetuity of your father's hated aspects in yourself appears inevitable as the slow displacement of a glass of water into the air of a dry room.

the kids throw little explosives at the ground and squeal because destruction without consequence is bliss
they burn the crawling ants with their glasses and squeal at their own strength
they know they manifest the power of nature
they know
there is no difference between curiosity and pleasure
Track Name: Can't Run in That Dream
...so you go into the other room to turn off the television. nude women ride horses across the screen, their parts covered by stray leaves. in their alien pose there is the intimation of a question about our own dementia.

you know this is your first time seeing this but you know the woman's name and wish you could say it aloud
instead your at the bus stop one more time. women condemn their clocks (ptsst!) and say "nothin" . when the bus comes she throws up her hands to the driver and wears a leopard print dress. I can see myself in her sunglasses and these days that dream of ambulatory distress has infected my waking body.
I tell myself some bullshit line about non-doing and put another fake starting point into my life like a blank street sign
i recall that lack is a language itself but know that when i've learned it
i'll still have to choose left or right which i could have done a long time ago

one way always led to nauseous memory
and the other to the short time of year when the lightening bugs come out.
you would gather them in a jelly jar the way any other kid would you could kill them when they glowed to paint your face with their golden blood. inside you grandparents are shooting the shit with friends whose names you've forgotten. they remember yours because you looked at them until you didn't want to anymore and then stopped, as any kid would and they felt ashamed as i always do for having grown up.

you go outside and back to the dreaming about hiding spots
and the breach over and over of the little purple corner that you've found and stowed yourself away in.

(I don't remember my childhood because i never left it, i don't remember how i got here because i've always been warm like now)

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