DeYarmond Edison: Silent Signs

blogging, music February 16, 2020
Bones

“You won’t fiiiiind me.” It doesn’t matter how many times i’ve listened to Silent Signs I will always automatically chime in with the harmonies that pop out of nowhere on the third track, ‘love long gone’. Not soon after ‘bones’ is playing and i’m chanting “I’m so far from not caring!” while drumming the strum of the guitar on whatever’s next to me. Then, finally, I try to touch each of the imaginary piano keys from ‘Time to Know’ before I ultimately listen to the whole album again.

This is my perfect album. There isn’t a song that feels out of place. Its lyrical themes bounce between subjects that ultimately allude to distorted feelings of hope, regret, and sometimes even despair. These are all themes Justin Vernon, lead of DeYarmond Edison, comfortably tackles in whatever project he’s a part of. Having such a strong vocal presence can often overshadow the members of the band that bring the idea to a whole. Silent Signs, however, feels like a true team effort. There’s so much happening in each song with very little sign of production which ends up giving the whole album a rich feeling of authenticity. I’ve listened to this album for over a decade and now, living far from home, Silent Signs feels like an incredible collection of memories I get to keep with me.

the curtain

Poetry & Prose February 7, 2020

illusion, please comfort me,
satisfy everything,
i can live peacefully
if you curtain the window
that i had flung carelessly
on the day i was sure
that i had seen everything
plainly in front of me
heaven and hell were divided
unevenly
but there i saw certainty
standing across the street
crossing was heresy
‘if only’, i told myself,
‘i hadn’t seen anything.
the curtain i’d drawn
were a wall to stay stuck between’
sure, i’d lose purpose
and with it gain apathy
but apposed to uncertainty
purposeless living is
sort of like being free
where heaven and hell
are divided by you and me

GHOST

Poetry & Prose February 1, 2020

GHOST

About ghosts, I said, it seems we’re at a bit of an impasse. It’s less about what I believe and more about what I claim to understand. STOP! For gods sakes, speak plainly. Honestly, i’m sick of the way you talk. Well, sure. I mean, yes, I am sure. Sure that you are. Truly, unremarkably, I am an unsure person. However, while you tediously, perpetually, seemingly inscrutably, constantly remind me of this fact, it has no bearing on our friendship. Much less our conversation about ghosts. Listen. Do you believe in ghosts or not? … Well first, I — NO! NO! SHUT UP. SHUT UP. NO. I don’t need your history. I know your history. Quit dancing around the question and answer it, do you believe in ghosts or don’t you! … I’m

sorry, he said. No. I understand. If it’s clarity you need then I will try my utmost. I breathed a deep sigh.

No.

Such a simple word; ‘no’. But as it spilled out of my mouth i felt an array of history. Rich, true, and honest, history. Untenably my own. No, I continued, I cannot bring myself to believe in ghosts. I do however– please, allow me to entertain my own thoughts … I do however recognize a ghost’s existence as necessary. And it is because I see its existence as necessary that I choose to live in unity with the ghost that I may not see, may not know, and may not believe.

the ghost in the corner of the room,

untethered,

unlimited,

rich in history,

withdrew.

writing ‘Child.’

blogging, poetry January 28, 2020

Child.

‘An honest man is always a child’ is a sourceless quote often attributed to either Socrates or Plato. I really don’t know. I had a notebook made of limestone paper and the quote was written on the front. I’ve seen this quote before, maybe you have too, and whenever I see it it’s connected to the faith or understanding of a child being something of a purity you should try to attain. Maybe.

Child. instead compares, contrasts, and pokes fun at the process of growing old. Child. was one of the things that I needed to write. There’s no creative structure, no real aesthetic, and it’s mostly void of any clear line that you could call poetry. It’s more like four thoughts that share some similarity with each other. But these four thoughts are interesting to me because there’s no honest beginning or end. To me, this reflects the journey of understanding anything. The first line is the first line but it may as well be the third or second. The same goes for any other line; understanding is an endless journey. The natural conclusion at any age is that to be man you must be honest. To be honest you must accept your own limited understanding and begin again as a child.

read Child. here