A way of happening, a mouth.

Reading Auden again tonight. Feeling the shaping of his phrasing, breath and heft of the lines. Auden is a late but constant love, an odd & fitful comfort. He dwells so beautifully in sorrow, so unsentimentally in muck. And when he is happy (which is more rare), he is unparralleled.

I recorded "Museé des Beaux Arts" with a friend in Baton Rouge (in the beautifully sound-proofed closet/booth belonging to another friend, who engineered this cut & a finished one with non-creative commons music, alas). It's a bit rough at the beginning, as we settle into the piece, but I felt like posting it tonight, in the midst of re-discovering what I am still learning from Auden. 

It brought me joy to make this, and some sadness to hear it. I hope what you need finds you in this, too.