Gillian Anderson

by Edward Lasher

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04:49
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03:05
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03:18
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03:49
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credits

released February 11, 2017

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Edward Lasher Delaware

In a broad sense, Edward Lasher makes folk music.

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Track Name: 27
All these college textbooks. All this scrap paper. All these cover letter drafts left on the floor. All these chicken scratch notes I wrote that I can't even read. This is the bedroom I used to never sleep in, just a place to store the shit I didn't need. Just a place I used to go when I had to bleed. And all of this means less than academic papers. Photocopied Derrida passages. And deconstructionism isn't really all that different from destruction. They both leave left over pieces, all of this scrap paper on the floor. My God, I tried, but I don't know what it means to be twenty-seven. I just want to be used by someone.

After coming back home, after broken bottles, after sleeping on a bike path down the street, I decided on a pantomime of someone who's okay. It had kind of worked once, back when I was wearing long-sleeved oxfords in the summer every day. Back when I was so alone, back when I was far away. And all of this means less than academic papers. Dogeared Bakhtin on the epic and the novel. And I'm not sure if there is really anything new to be said that's still worth saying. It might all be useless fragments scribbled on scrap paper.
Track Name: Storm Chaser
I don’t see anything wrong
I don’t see anything, I don’t see anything
What a burden I’ve become

And I followed like a
And I followed like a storm chaser
Follows the trail of destruction

All our promises were kept
All our promises were kept unspoken
And I watched myself become broken

And I walked downstairs to
And I walked downstairs to the garage
The floor was stained orange from cast iron and rain

It suddenly got dark
It suddenly got darker outside
I could smell the petrichor and hear the hurricane
Track Name: George Jones Song
There are a lot of things I don’t properly understand
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Sometimes I feel like a stillborn fawn spilled over the duff
Left in the unforgiving wild

Now I am roughly the age that my father was when I was born
Maybe he should have known better
Earlier the radio played that George Jones song about holding on
And the man who had to die to forget her
And I almost had to pull over

And suddenly I forgot how to get home
Track Name: Fern
I’d assumed that we’d become a fern
Basic and ancient and wild growing
But in the end it’s not worth knowing
Whether nothing ever happens
Or it happens too slow.

I’m aware that this is fucked up.
The garden is overgrown with weeds
And covered in ferns and dead tree branches.
Whatever may have happened here, it’s home.

Baby, when the winter comes, it snows.
Maybe when the winter comes the frozen roads will break.
Baby, when the winter comes.

In this moment I’ve stopped growing.
My roots are torn out and I’m blowing away.
Baby, when the winter comes
Baby, when the winter comes I’ll go.
Track Name: Dead Eagle
When the reservoir overflows
Water lands on the hot plate.
I’m still waiting for
the Vyvanse to kick in

The ceiling resonates
with sounds of upstairs neighbors
getting ready for work.
Through the window, a car door, an ignition.

Rainwater rolls downhill
and empties into the storm drain.
An empty DART bus softly idles
in the park-and-ride, warming up her engine.

An eagle lays along
the fog line on the interstate,
a dirty crumbled up umbrella
trembling feathers, frayed tendons.

Little rhinestone pieces
of somebody’s windshield
sparkle in the dawn light.
Dragonflies bang their heads thinking that it’s water.

How unshakable
the stomach of a scavenger.
How pliable the guardrail.
How absurd and precious the morning air feels.
Track Name: Blankets and Dirt
Why are you shaking?
We’ll bury this problem in the great backyard.
When no one’s watching
I’ll scatter grass seed over the scar.

I’ll light a fire
And we’ll burn the records and drown the ash.
I’ll boil the lye, and I will make soap.
Wash away our tracks.

Everything we rinse away or burn
Or hide beneath our feet
We will forget about in time
And all the unrelenting noises
Will be children laughing
Music playing, our own voices
Full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

We’ll keep our secrets
All of our shames wrapped in blankets and dirt
And we’ll keep on going
Over our story till it sounds unrehearsed.