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Vo l . 7 N o . 1 And what would be left to believe?

Marc Janssen

Windsong Come on out of the dark Where you’ve kept your treasure heart too long That is a line from a Blue Yonder tune. This past Tuesday we drove away from an aging dorm leaving Kate behind in a haze of cool excitement, and bravely slumped home where we dispersed to our “regular” activities. Thursday night I had a tune in my head. Friday morning I searched the garage for an ancient blank BASF tape filled over twenty years ago in the darkened womb of KRCL’s production studio, a shelter from CLU’s lonely summer heat, amid the scent of decomposing record sleeves, semi-exposed wires, turntables, and old carpet. It could not be a coincidence that Kate goes to college and I suddenly have a hankering to hear an album that probably, in a way, symbolized my own independence at the time. Blue Yonder, that Berlin knock-off that probably never made it to CD, can’t find on you-tube, and today that 12” vinyl is the casualty of time and disinterest, like so many in that half-lit music library, who cut records Lace before CDs were popular and could never make the jump to electronic and simply evaporated: Fee Waybill, The City Section, The New Dance Orchestra, Schonhertz and Scott, Alien, others. They, like a groove in the vinyl they were pressed in, made a slight impression and are now gone. Spread your dreams out in the sun Keep the ones that keep you young Anything more is more than you need Anything less

The trajectory of my career is such that I am afforded the use of transportation with a semi-working cassette that reads “clean” whenever in use. The minor keys, smoky vocal, dramatic lyrics of unrequited love are what moved me at twenty-one; a story about a wind that rips things apart, only the wind is emotion or passion and so many other things that I am not. Sitting in the dusk of the production studio, in its creaky office chair, and listening; for a while really listening, to the words, the music. Now it seems a song is something that happens between the driveway and the grocery store parking lot; a background to other activity, the menial made less menial by the addition of noise; how tragic that is. This morning I sat in my car, its motor grumbling, single yellow warning light glaring at me “Washer Fluid” while Windsong played between the perfectly preserved pops and the hiss of years sustained on magnetic tape. Things are lost, things are found In the wind, with the towers blowing down We’re going to let it breathe Over you Over me I suppose I should wrap this up coherently, bring it all together… I get old, and on the surface I am OK with that. But underneath it all I have been changed, worn, inalterably weathered; I suppose I see myself like the Blue Yonder album filled with dramatic and minor Clif Bates chords, rhythms, faded with age and disappearing; my moment in the sun gone, now I am a faded record moldering in a library that was thrown out when the station changed format. Nah, I don’t think that does it, maybe it’s the other way around. Some will leave some will stay In the wind, when the stars all spin away We’re going to let it breathe Over you Over me

Cirque, Vol. 7 No. 1  

A Literary Journal for the North Pacific Rim

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