December. I can see my smoky breath chugging it's way through empty trees, between the stark structures. I believe I am alive. And yes, here is the evidence.

Seasons are close cousins of album cycles... I'd conveniently forgotten the harmonious brutality of both, until now. Sweet promise and laughable pain. No matter how many times the 'play' is rehearsed, it will always feel new.

12/7/09. The producing process of the upcoming album, The Dark Leaves, is done. Now we expose ourselves to the final phase -- you and the rock n' roll wringer. Truth be told, I'm looking forward to all of it. March release? Spring tour? Less speculative, more certain -- the faith virus is on -- and strikingly catchy.

So here we go again, replete with repeating Viking rituals. Wherein each time I send a burning chunk of songs out to sea -- I say to those songs, "'You are the only ones for me."

Oh yes. My body is full of circular, fickle thoughts... But this go round, it's totally different. 

This can't be real. Two squirrels and a cardinal look like they're working together to prepare for the upcoming winter. Up and down the adjacent fire escape in a sideways sunlight, hustling as one against the celestial spin.

This last tour was like nothing else I've ever done. Yes, the window views and the late nights had the familiar sounds and smells of all those prior interlocking rings-around-a-country. But this time, I was not 'the man'. I was merely a cog of something much larger than myself. And I liked it. (If I may add -- The Great Lake Swimmers, Sharon Van Etten and rest of The Wooden Birds rule..I'm not only lucky to play with these people -- I'm lucky to consider them friends. Yes I am)

The good news. I've just finished paying off my student loans. A big old hunk of money that didn't really count for much in terms of life, love or the implied smarts. Not one bit.

The bad news. The free Threeeps never made it to any of The Wooden Birds shows. I'm truly sorry for being misleading. To anyone, for everything. (for all time)

In addition, it seems as though these Threeeps are limited in their numbers -- and in order to give any away, I'd have to personally pay for them. Yes, it would kick ass to say you can all come to see our shows for free -- or that the next album's on me -- but this would only be furthering my recently undone debt.

Labels are like philanthropic pimps. They love music, they also love money…Um. I didn't say that…Did I make it clear that I can be extremely clumsy?

From free-style bush flips in Norman, to throwing myself headlong into the Pacific -- where the sign so knowingly says 'Frequent Bluff Failure'. Once again, hurtling across the country.

No matter how many times it happens, this remains constantly new. Arms and legs assume the latest positions, ears and eyes never pause perceiving. I could've easily rolled the van yesterday, staring and lost out in the swirling Imperial Sand dunes.

Part sleep-deprived, part-starving, part nausea, party dance-party -- all rapture. Nothing else feels the same. And I'm gonna go until my bones give up on my body.

Stop me if you think you've heard this one before

Pardon. I believe I should clarify myself. These shows coming up... they're solely The Wooden Birds. No mpPA. My position is to backup another person's/band's music... Fortunately, just so happens to be one of me favorite bands out there to put a coordinated sequence of notes and words together.

Much like the unicorn, I'd like to think misinformation and mistakes are a fantastic form of charm. Especially in these ultra-edited days of ourselves, I'd like to believe in multitudes and miles beyond the truth.

Eight hours till everything begins again. Sleep quickly becomes an unnecessary luxury.

Only slightly, only slightly.

It's been a year since I was up here in Canada. The fog which used to rule the view has bowed out of sight. Somehow the sun does exactly what it wants. Somehow the sea seems far less sinister.

Deep green grass stains on my favorite t-shirt from diving for anything in bounds. My hair smells like smoke and my skin burns from sun and salt.

Last year was the first and last era of unrealistic expectations. This next could be the age of empty pockets. I'm open to anything. But as far as it stands, I've become firmly focused: songs, the natural world, and ignoring everything else. My manifestos tend to run light.

The first part of The Threeep goes to manufacturing today. And I'm once again into the concept of albums and rocking (softly). Summertime rolls the same way it used to do in songs.

The problem is that when I clear my throat to speak, it seems like I'm talking out of turn. Sometimes shorter sentences seem easier than a splattering of sound. Sometimes silence.

(yes)

Laughing too loud, endless non sequiturs, spilling your drink as I gracelessly sidle on by -- these are not a few of my favorite things. No. My communications are infrequent frequencies, falling under the echo-y canopy of whispering pines -- to the rankled turkeys, the riled bears (right now! ran into one outside the cabin door, flipping rocks for insect treats, flying off from the crunch of my feet)

In the absolute darkness of the early morning, I slammed into the closet door and crashed over some stupidly set up cymbals. Lost in a few hundred square feet... I guess I've been perfectly pleased/disappointed enough with a lifetime of not knowing where I'm going, what I'm doing(?) And still around the edges, songs keep popping out -- like infestations harboring infestations -- at least 150 tracks on each fur-faced tune.

I don't know how these messes make themselves. Honestly and for real. They are 'there', like prints of animals impossible to track... Yet the tracks keep on coming.

Honestly and for real. I don't think I know anything earth-shattering. (I am not the person to tell you your "blank" from your "blank") Maybe I've found the small, noisy corner of the world I'm supposed to be occupying. In the equation of satisfaction vs. disappointment, maybe worrying might help write songs. Perhaps all I could use is a sweeter spigot -- a way to turn it on and and blessed way to turn it off.

Facts, facts, facts. Some people only want what's tangible to tear into. Here:

* The Threeep is coming along nicely. Just don't know when the Fiiirst installment will be. Sooon?
* Chris and I have been toiling through our own tracks, as well as a soundtrack to a film. We do know it's not anything similar to any of the smashing summertime blockbusters.
* Tours are elusive these days. From a detailed survey of the landscape, it seems like spending hard earned money on electrified cello might not be the easiest fun to afford. (on this matter, I continue to know very little)
* This Mind Raft EP by Angel Deradoorian is better than Thriller. But not better than Double-Thriller by The Glands. Which was obviously twice as good as Thriller.
* The Dark Leaves is an album and not a band. Contradicting myself is an unbreakable habit. Pardon... Still. what I wouldn't do for a sweet Utopian musical society... next life.
*The cold air in the Catskills is making for some chilling swimming. Regardless, I keep diving on in and mouthing wordless, watery howls... this life.

The overcasting clouds and dense tree cover are making for a deep green darkness in the daylight. I've opened the doors. Any creatures that want to come in are welcome.

Before our next album, we're going to put out three three-song ep's. You've invited to guess what they're called before I write out the answer.

Yes. You are correct -- The Threeep.

As previously mentioned, we plan on touring in the fall. In the winter, the larger proper clump of songs. If you have a certain special talent and would like to go on the road as a member of our band, please let us know.

Until things start rolling, I believe I'll be winding myself up. Chris, Dan and I, grinding these songs into their eventual shape. Hooves and paws seem to prevent any proper accompaniment of the spoons.

In the middle of the night a pack of coyotes surrounded the cabin.
The jarring yelps sounded more like screaming children than wild dogs.
I scrambled through my bedfellow papers, found the mini-recorder and
ran to the door for some proper documentation.

Screen slamming open -- the yellow-eyed critters were faster than my
handful of thumbs. When I press play, there's only one faint fading cry.

Reckless stumbles must mean something. Given no warning or way out,
I believe we are all prone to action. Unguarded and undressed, I
believe there's no way to betray the desire for more. And I truly
figure there is nothing to be afraid of.

No. I will not grasp the coyote's call. I will not learn their
language and find a way to tag along with them in their deep woods
wanderings. They will not teach me to hunt. Neither will I teach them
easy open tunings on a reissued ES335.

But I tried. With one eye open and with one hand on the tape's
trigger, I'm going to keep trying until I permanently knock myself out.

Which leads to our next album, our tours and everything: The next
is called The Dark Leaves -- by the band matt pond PA. Get it?

It's coming out in January. But that doesn't mean we're not going to
somehow put songs forward before then. Can anyone say 45? Can anyone
say cassingle? There could even be an album in between now and then. We
have been talking about addressing the time between the Last Light and
The Dark Leaves. The time between dusk and dawn... We were thinking of
having *you* participate in this recording. (for example. I would definitely
swap my poor coyote recordings for your good ones)

We'll start playing shows in the late summer/fall and continue through the following year.

All these things are as close as I'm capable of getting to the absolute truth.
The rest is blather.