Calendars

by Benjamin Mueller

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1.
(free) 04:16
2.
(free) 03:49
3.
(free) 03:52
4.
(free) 06:28
5.
(free) 02:46
6.
(free) 00:23
7.
(free) 03:56
8.
(free) 03:47
9.
(free) 05:22
10.
(free) 04:41

about

A collection of home recordings about lovey dovey love stuff.

credits

released June 11, 2014

All tracks written, performed, recorded, and edited by Benjamin Mueller, except track 8, lyrics and tuba by Marissa Greene.

Special thanks to the incomparable Evan Debevec-Mckenney for all of the feedback and the lovely Marissa Greene for the support and for allowing me to put music to her very nice poem.

tags

license

all rights reserved

about

Low Ceilings Boston, Massachusetts

Bringing acoustaprog freaky folk to a living room near you.

Contact us: ben77q05@gmail.com

SHOWS
7/6 Hennessy's, Boston MA
7/13 Hosteling International, Boston MA

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Track Name: Sweet Little Screen
Well my best friend lived in my best friend's house,
and she sat upon my best friend's porch.
I figured out the way she talked about
the way I talk about
the way she talks about.

"Not ready to go"
She doesn't live there anymore.
"Not ready to go"
She doesn't live there anymore.

Well you might not have figured this out yet,
but what I hold in the palm of my hand
counts to nine and wishes me "goodnight"
and calls me out for the fool that I am.

Well my best friend lives in a castle now,
in the city where my best friend lives.
I like to think about the way she talks about
the way I talk about
the way she talks about.

"Not ready to go"
She doesn't live there anymore.
"Not ready to go"
She doesn't live there anymore.

When it's cold and it's dark and it's scary
in my tomb, when I'm closing my eyes,
I look around with the light from my bedside;
It makes me smile, makes me laugh, makes me cry.

When the wind is covered in kisses
and the sense of touch is all in your mind,
there's a sweet little screen in my pocket;
it'll help me to pass the time.
Track Name: Letters
You sleep like a baby,
you swallow my sins like a priest.
I'm no good with directions,
but I'm feeling a breeze to the east.
You speak like a woman,
you stand up to me like a man,
but you try to break the mold
of societal gender roles when you can.

And I love you with every bone
in my body, as far as I know.
If I found one that didn't conform
I'd pull it out and let it go.
I'm writing to let you know
that as long as my blood still flows,
I'll be sending you letters
talking about my blood.

Your mind's like a skewer,
you act like there's something to lose.
You've got intellect spilling all out
from your brain to your shoes.
You cry like a child
who's mad at what's wrong with the world:
a self aware "diva"
who strips all the glitz from the term.

University of South Vietnam
School of Getting Your Ass Kicked by the Viet Cong.
School on the pavement, school by the sea,
the schools we attend both teach the same things.

You do what you want
and you want when you feel like it, too.
You talk like you know what you're talking
about, and you do.
You feel what it is
the particular moment allows;
you sing like you're nervous,
you think with your head in the clouds.
Track Name: What's Real?
They're not real, real,
those spirits aren't real.
Now honey take my hand
and you will see.
They're not real, real,
those spirits aren't real;
it's just my brain a-botherin' me.

Well I try to be patient,
and I try not to drive.
Will you take me to that sushi place?
Will you make me feel alive?

They're all gone, gone,
those nerves all gone,
and honey now we know
just what to do.
They're all gone, gone,
those nerves are all gone;
it's just your brain a-botherin' you.

Well we talk about tomorrow
and we talk about today.
Will you try not to fall asleep
as we talk the weeks away?
Track Name: What's In Your Head
Feel your breath
Smell your hair
Eyes are wide
Toes are curled

Look outside
Hide behind
We're one mind
Where's my mind?

I'm in the backseat of the van.
Four-door suburban eyesight,
I see what I can.
I'm in the backseat of the van.
Please, little wheels, we've got to go.
We're late again and
my new friend will not forgive us so
easily, we've got to go.

So if you think while I blab,
I'll never let you go
to the back of the line all alone.
And by the way,
I like what's in your head
in the least suggestive way that I know.

I don't know what you want me to do.
I've got a decent
vocabulary and a point of view.
I don't know what you want me to do.
"If you can hear me, raise your hand.
Talk out of turn and
I'll be happy to help you understand
how we all like it. Raise your hand."

And if you talk out of turn,
I'll never let you go
to the back of the line all alone.
And by the way,
I like what's in your head
in the least suggestive way that I know.

Everyone's "reading"
but none of us know how to read.
Walls of our houses,
domestic accord in our streets.
Hold the door open
and wait until I can
bring my sorry self
to come talking to you.

And if you teach me how to read,
I'll never let you go
to the back of the line all alone.
And by the way,
I like what's in your head
in the least suggestive way that I know.
Track Name: We Agree
I like to think about
what you are thinking about
when I am telling you
I'm thinking about you.
I like to try to guess
what you are thinking about
but that quite often doesn't
work so well for me.

And as we talk,
we lose our ages,
and what you say is what I say
and we agree.
And I could light
100 candles
but that'd be awfully hard to do
without your help.

It's in the hardwood floors,
it's in the alphabet,
it's in the walls and in the roof,
and in your skin.
It's in the words you say,
it's in the clothes you wear,
and I am still not sure
exactly what it is.

And as we talk,
we lose our ages,
and what you say is what I say
and we agree.
And you could break
one thousand faces
if only you had no one else
who shared your views.

I like to call you up
and on a weekday night,
I'l babble on until you yawn
and fall asleep.
And then I'll smile a bit,
and then I'll tell my self
that what we have is not a thing
easily found.

And as we talk,
we lose our ages,
and what you say is what I say
and we agree.
And I could write
one thousand pages,
and I would bet that most of them
would mention you.
Track Name: Outfits
Let me roll up your sleeves for you
Let me roll up your jeans for you
(I want you to)
Let me pick out all your outfits
Walk with me in the sun
Let me know that I'm the only one
Track Name: Things To Do
We’ve got twelve cents worth of things to do with our heartbeats.
Three coins that are drops in the bucket,
like fingernails on a linoleum floor.
If you think hard, you can still feel your feet on the carpet.
If you breathe deep you can unearth the feelings we had
when you and I were just driving around.

“Don’t cry”, “don’t play so loud”, “you’ll wake the neighbors up”.
“It’s just us now.”

Our list will slowly become
a calendar of our thoughts.
We had no criteria,
but we found them once on a walk.
We’re thinking so that we can feel.

Speed dial was still phasing out when we started. All the
live wires would kiss you goodnight
as electrical discharge ran from my head. We used to
thank God for their insulator-y components, but now we try hard to consider the person who
made the device that will keep us alive.

“Keep up”, “Open the car door”, “it’s getting late, I’ll walk you home.”

When it’s three hours till the caravan leaves on a Sunday, will you
stop by? Can we dance to the hum of the car
with our mouths, as we’re strapped in our seats?
“To pack bags” is a relative phrase when you’re leaving. It’s more like “lay still till your heart almost stops, then
realize you’re alive and go pick up your clothes.”

“Drive safely.” “I’ll be fine.” “What time should I wake up?” “How about nine?”
Track Name: Stay
Salt-streaked windows
Watch the gravel road
Evacuation signs
But we stay
Rhubarb withers
In October chill
Gray skies loom
But we stay

It’s a sign
Pointing to higher ground
Kenyon, Carolina

Black sea threatens
To wash us all away
But we sit by the fire
And we stay
Track Name: Heaven Forbid
We were not made to meet our maker,
as conventional nonsense suggests.
We were made to find people we love
and people we loathe.
Loathing and loving together in
dystopian harmony,
we’ll find those who we feel are worth
sharing the air that we breathe.

When we find one of those people,
we start to feel different inside.
Those people we put up above
everyone that we know.
They’ll tell you that love is eternal,
but you can’t love the one that you love
when your life is still going
and theirs has been carried away.

So Heaven forbid
that Heaven exist,
because I want to rot
in the ground with you.
Or we’ll donate our bodies
to science and be taken
apart by medical residents.
Heaven forbid
that Heaven exist,
because I’d like to stay
in my urn on the shelf.
Heaven forbid
that Heaven exist
because I want to be with you.

We are all so disgustingly human
with black in our heads and our hearts,
which makes it impressive enough
that we search the whole world
for someone to spend all our time with,
to share in our sorrow and joy,
to make the good better
and all the bad spirit away.

When our lives are over and done with,
how will we know where we will all go?
There are rumors of up
there are rumors of us going down.
If we’re to go different directions,
is Heaven the place up above,
or are both ends the hells
that would tear such a union to shreds?

(We were not made to meet our maker.)
Track Name: Control, Alt, Delete
Drive down the shoreline, hatchbacks and all,
pale, skinny fingers in hand.
No matter how many times you hit control, alt, delete,
you’re gonna have to hand over your plans.
You’re lying face-down
with your chest on the bed
right next to light from a screen.
No matter how many times
you hit control, alt, delete,
your new windows will continue to freeze.