The Hanged Man EP

by Chelsey Weber-Smith

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This album was written during and as a result a hitchhiking trip down the west coast.

When I lost my faith again it was like liquid was trickling out from both my ears in two single strands of silver water and as they poured I shriveled smaller and smaller like the drying of a fruit. And ever since I have been grazing but never breaking the fatness of the hanging apples, never using their juice to turn my body back into life, not even able to notice through train-tunnel eyes their sun-swooning redness. I was smaller than perhaps I had ever been falling asleep on a cliff blue with the shame of being belted over and over again by the anger-wrought waves. The tarot deck had shown me The Hanged Man, that little jester tied by one foot upside down, arms crossed behind his back in childish concealment. "Stuck in a stand-still," "In between phases," "at a loss for something," and the moon was not half, not quarter, but a swelled slice of crude melon and its shape conjured in me only a slight queasiness, a soil-crack of worry down the center of my very blood. The sky, out beyond the blue was a bed made by Einstein and a lonely prince and the sun was a snake-green pea under mattresses and blankets of impartial space-time; my skin was once soft enough to feel it. A boy to my right was gazing over the tide with the X-ray glasses given to him by the star-shaped slices of unripe cactus he was cutting off with a pocket knife and eating carefully. He barely spoke but I watched him watch himself dangle a dirty foot over the edge of the cliff and kick at something slightly and jump suddenly at the realization of his height. I wondered what it felt like to believe in anything; I had forgotten completely. All that remained was a weak echo still bouncing around the halls of my body, all that remained was the nostalgia of a feeling so potent that its slickness stayed after a thousands washes. I begged the sky to deliver me anything, a neat package tied up with a cross of white string containing the entrails of some promising god or a small omen that I could root all my metaphors in, something found along side a screaming highway or behind a small gray rock. I was stiff as a stone dreaming of my return to the ocean, a slow smoothing, looking out over the water and knowing, inevitably, that everything I had once loved and believed in was dropping down to the darkest dark reserved for the bottom of the deepest ocean and the farthest reaches of infinite space. There wasn't anything around me; I might as well have lost my sense of touch. The tarot cards, gold encrusted, gleamed their knowing and I felt suspended in air, arms behind the small of my back, separate enough to have no idea what, exactly, I was hiding.


released September 15, 2009



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Chelsey Weber-Smith Seattle, Washington

suburban sad sack outlaw country

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