Here’s the song of the centuries you’ve all been waiting for… the old Mitchell living room / church clock, recorded at CD quality in near silence with a condenser microphone:

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/xf1b24fhou6wkei/AAAG1d040NcM2TT2_82Nwreia?ls=

Versions:

5 minute MP3 (2.8 MB)
34 minute MP3 (19 MB)
34 minute FLAC (159 MB, lossless compression for audiophiles)

History of the clock (from Jeanne Mitchell)

Daniel Brown Moore, who was a mason and county court clerk in Campbellsville, KY, donated this clock to (Bethel) First Presbyterian Church in that town at some time during the 1850s or 1860s. It is a non-striking clock, so that it would not disturb the church service. The clock stopped working in the 1950s or 1960s, so was given by the church’s Session to Daniel William (“Billy”) Mitchell, who was Mr. Moore’s great grandson, at his request. Mr. Mitchell had become an Elder in that church, after returning from World War II. He, in turn, donated a new electric clock to the church, and the old clock was repaired and hung on Mr. Mitchell’s wall at home. Many people who grew up in, and visited, that house spent hours listening to this old clock. Some people think of the clock’s rhythm as the heartbeat of our family. When Mr. Mitchell passed away in 2012, the clock was temporarily given to his grandson (me) who still has it.

About the clock

The clock is a Regulator, very much like this one: http://www.discoverclocks.com/images/what-clock-is-this-really-21316032.jpg.

Advertisements

rainy streets

rainy streets —
endless tires
run the
endless roads,
cannot be still,
as if cars
are like prayer,
and must be
done ceaselessly
somewhere.

smiling faces,
hidden agendas,
fatuous men
in elegant suits
working the crowd
with compliments,
like waiters
serving wine.
radiant lights,
shimmering glass,
and women
in sparkling gowns,
disperse views
around the room’s
elevations and angles.
your wry smile
was like dark crystal,
both shadow & light —
affecting, yet
deeply sombre —
both attractive
and repulsive.
loneliness is purer
than feeling conflicted.

where is home?
you all only
think of yourselves;
therefore, this
is not home.

yellowed brown the face of learning

yellowed brown
the face
of learning
trying honestly
and small
moving
to keep warm
rainy dry
green blue
leaves overhung
my spotted vision
once gone
once away
once fled
into rome
for a day
i paid the rent
once more
again sinned
to call it
that again
my watches
of water called
and my words
the words of all
the streets i’ve walked
the halls down i’ve called
sunlit white façade
bluelit lacking shy
i honestly know not why
you turn your head away
from my mind
all mine, oh that’s why,
to relearn one’s own voice,
the texture of black
writing your delusions
slow on a sack
of intellect spilled deep
and far, but not wide,
there is no more to hide
since we called
your home phone
and caught you at home
watching yourself
watching us all
the all-ready there
placate the mind bare
found walking on
shadows of gardens most fair
your hair was not
the fall of water i’d hoped
nor nose the right shape
nor mouth right hook
but who called the gods
those self-centered dogs
presiders o’er pagents
and moralless hogs
fogs creep their stage over
w wittely humid
their image their face
and that face a hood
don’t be so you
and i won’t be so me
but i’m just speaking
of my wants there to be
another me but better
a craving i watch
stroll down the halls
with eye-squinted clutch
of my throat of my eyes
of my arms and mouth
what wall did crash down
what words ring aloud
crying
crying sobbing
lurching
heaving
outpouring
years of long debt
i decay tomorrow today
it’ll all be alright
please let it all be ok.

platonic sickness

if i
only lived
before i live
i might
do right
the next
ten years
before falling
really in love,
living
really at home,
really
with my family;
i might look
at the million hers
with less purpose
and more ease
and she might
look the same,
not yet tired
or indebted
or worried
about
regretted unaccomplishments.
for a second
her image flickered
in my head
half unconscious
and I but shadows
remember
though I run
mental marathons
to re-paint
the picture
theorem in the fire
of consciousness;
i have dreamed
that face
for nearly ten years,
growing with me
yet unavailable
a message
a fantasy
or an ideal
at whom
with whom
i stare
through others
our minds
the same
inseparable knife
through
a fabric of mind
spacetime
i would
know you
even
if i didn’t
see you
feel you
as in of me
a mirror
within patterns
reorganized
and called
the life of me
my mind
you were
were you
but here
i gaze
at your face
in pieces.