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Suitcase
Geert Veneklaas
Some time ago I downloaded a percussionloop and a vocal melody.
I made them fit and added some sort of orchestral chordprogression.
And that was that.
A few weeks later I heard some poems, read by Anchor Mejans.
One of them, a poem by Emily Carmen, made me think of the little arrangement I’d set up weeks ago. And it just seemd right for it.
So here it is:
Poem: Emily Carmen
Loop: audiotechnica
Narrator: Anchor Mejans
Vocal: innabar
Strings & Mix: Geert Veneklaas
SUITCASE
I live from myself like a suitcase,
withdrawing my accessories each day.
When I was younger I used to be less careful: I’d swing from rope
to rope, a regular at the circus;
I didn’t mind the stumbles,
without a net, the ride was more
exciting.
The crowd would howl with glee
to watch me lose my grip,
then I would somersault backwards,
into the arms of
Death, but he would never catch me.
I’d get up and pack myself back
into my vinyl case,
all ten thousand of me; no
one ever understood, but
my tiny house still stirred
with voices.
I am the center of the earth,
a seed thrust
downward into the dark.
Tomorrow, I’ll be a rusty branch, or
a filament of string woven into some
Love bird’s nest.
It’s all the same to me
I made them fit and added some sort of orchestral chordprogression.
And that was that.
A few weeks later I heard some poems, read by Anchor Mejans.
One of them, a poem by Emily Carmen, made me think of the little arrangement I’d set up weeks ago. And it just seemd right for it.
So here it is:
Poem: Emily Carmen
Loop: audiotechnica
Narrator: Anchor Mejans
Vocal: innabar
Strings & Mix: Geert Veneklaas
SUITCASE
I live from myself like a suitcase,
withdrawing my accessories each day.
When I was younger I used to be less careful: I’d swing from rope
to rope, a regular at the circus;
I didn’t mind the stumbles,
without a net, the ride was more
exciting.
The crowd would howl with glee
to watch me lose my grip,
then I would somersault backwards,
into the arms of
Death, but he would never catch me.
I’d get up and pack myself back
into my vinyl case,
all ten thousand of me; no
one ever understood, but
my tiny house still stirred
with voices.
I am the center of the earth,
a seed thrust
downward into the dark.
Tomorrow, I’ll be a rusty branch, or
a filament of string woven into some
Love bird’s nest.
It’s all the same to me