Related Recs

🪞

“Self-portrait at 28”

being one of my favorite poems by David Berman, gave me the idea to paint a self-portrait in my last days as a 28 year old. It doesn’t look that much like me but I guess that doesn’t make it any less of a self-portrait. The poem ends like this: I walked out to the hill behind our house  which looks positively Alaskan today,  and it would be easier to explain this  if I had a picture to show you,  but I was with our young dog  and he was running through the tall grass  like running through the tall grass  is all of life together,  until a bird calls or he finds a beer can  and that thing fills all the space in his head.  You see,  his mind can only hold one thought at a time  and when he finally hears me call his name  he looks up and cocks his head.  For a single moment  my voice is everything:  Self-portrait at 28.

@slowdazzle

Mar 3, 2025

🌌

Reading ray young bear

This morning I read the second section of Ray Young Bear’s Winter Of The Salamander, “When We Assume Life Will Go Well For Us”. Ray’s work is dreamlike yet feels viscerally real. It helps me integrate the mental with the physical in my life. Anyways, I wanted to share a poem I read about ten times over this morning that evoked an indescribable feeling in me. From His Dream the air hadn’t changed  since she last saw her mother. the land was cover with frozen  rain. she knew a couple of days  ahead that the spring would disappear. she kept reminding to her husband,  it’ll have to come back.  i don’t think it’s really over with,  but he always seemed disinterested.  a look of worry in his eyes.  even as it was snowing,  thunder rolled across the roof  of their home and they couldn’t  help glancing at each other  with puzzled faces. bodies  of disemboweled animals flashed  in their minds,  the children ran about in play  but when they ran into their father’s  eyes, they could see the light  of their rooms, the changing contrast  of shadows, clothes that had to be buried, faces of death, a knife burning in  the figure of seals on a tree. the second time they ran,  the wind made sounds as if  there were people with their mouths  up against the house, talking. as it grew colder, the snow made  more noise against the plastics  coverings over the windows. when the children looked outside  they could see the clouds piling up  on top of each other, each group  darker than the other.  across the room where their mother sat they could distinctly visualize  the changing color of her lips.  teeth biting into her skin. they followed as she circled  the room, spitting the chewed willow  all around the windows. their son has been gone most  of the day. it wasn’t unusual for him  to hunt alone. he always seemed to know  what to do. old enough to be gifted  naturally to keep away from flowing women, he had spoken about sliding down hills  on his knees, picking up the snow  to his ears and hearing the thoughts  of deer, bringing packed bodies  of muskrat and duck, the different  crusts of blood on his shoulder bag. from a distance, his father  could see his tracks heading  into the thickets. small owls guided  their way through brush by the touch  in their wings. he remembered a dream  he had that morning of giant fish  and coral snakes submerged in the icy waters  of a river he had never seen.  he and his son cornering a small horse covered with fish scales, bearing  the head of a frightened man.  its thin legs and cracked hooves.  somewhere in this land he knew  there was a place where these creatures  existed. he had also been told of a hole where the spirits spent their days,  watching the people before they crawled  out, traveling through their arcs  in the sky towards evening like birds. on the way back home, thinking his son  had circled the forest, he crawled  across a section of river which was still  covered with ice and fish entrails,  previous spots where he had taught  his son to use a blanket to block  out the daylight to lie there  with his barbed spear, waiting  for catfish to lumber out from the roots  of fallen trees under the ice.  although he felt a desire to crawl  straight across without looking  down into the river bottom through  the clear ice, something caught his eye,  as he peered into the bubbling water,  he saw the severed head of his son,  the hoof from his dream,  bouncing along the sandy bottom.

@archibald

Jan 19, 2025

🌬

Hills

Running not away, not toward, just running. Up the hill, against the weight of gravity, against the pull of the world that says, stay still. But you don’t. You can’t. The earth soft beneath your feet, the sky stretching wide, the wind pressing its hands against your back as if it, too, wants you to keep going. And maybe this is all life really is a series of hills, a series of moments, where you forget to question why and simply let yourself move.

@sophiafone

Jan 28, 2025

Top Recs from @alexwarren

🌻

NPR Music Tiny Desk Mixtape

Recently added a tape deck to my hifi and have been having a blast making mix tapes. There’s something therapeutic about writing a track list and getting the recording just right. This mix is all my favourite Tiny Desk performances. Side A is more danceable and Side B is slightly more subdued. What’s great about recording live sets is you capture the artists chit chatting and the crowd. Perfect for Tiny Desks too as everyone seems to be having a lot of fun. I’ve also got a quick slice of Elmo introducing and closing each side with a few words from Bob Boilen about the impact of music and Tiny Desk.

@alexwarren

Jan 3, 2025

💍

The Detectorists

Easily one of my top shows of all time, 3 seasons of gold - absolutely hilarious. A real BBC comedy but not dry and deadpan like the office but beautiful and reflective.

@alexwarren

Nov 21, 2024

🐦

22 Degree Halo - Lilly of the Valley

Super mellow stuff defo worth checking out if you like Florist, Hello Shark or early Water From Your Eyes.

@alexwarren

Nov 22, 2024