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about
I wrote the lyrics and recorded the initial bits of this song on March 5th, and have been adding little bits and bobs to it ever since. I love opening a project and just tweaking the mix a little bit and then moving onto something else. It's like a little world I get to visit.
Anyway, this started because I was looking for goth band cassettes on Bandcamp and realized a lot of them felt too similar. So I decided to be the change I wished to see in the world and do something new: a goth song about how some of Idaho's suburbs creep me out. I'm not sure I succeeded. It became it's own weird thing but I like that, too. A lot of the images in this song are pulled from my life. Yes, that includes calliope organ music blasting from someone's house at 3AM. I thought I was crazy until I was out with friends at 3 AM on a different night and we all heard it. Same with the man in a lawn chair openly weeping while listening to opera. There's a rural David Lynch vibe to parts of Boise that sticks with you.
Anyway, I had a lot of fun making this. The title's a reflection of master-planned gated communities. It's the word I think the developers wanted to convey. I find it eerie.
lyrics
Cul-de-sacs in mazes
that snake
along the neighborhood.
Spinning in circles on a bike.
Ouroboros dreaming,
a dog is in the yard,
trying to swallow his own tail.
Hastate gables
in triads 'bove the lawn.
Sidewalks meet a sea of even green.
Developments gestate
at the edge of desert brush,
trying to swallow its own host.
Man, I don't feel so good...
Maybe it's heat stroke.
Maybe...nah, forget it.
I once saw a man
sobbing in his hands
in the garage.
Sitting in a lawn chair,
listening to opera.
I once saw somebody
run into my house from the garage.
When I checked no one was there.
No one was there at all.
Spirits whisper when your mouth is closed.
On days this quiet, you can hear the ghosts.
I don't need to know
the rules here to follow them:
just past the gate they carve themselves
into your soul.
This place was built to quell its residents' anxiety.
This place was built to exercise control.
Project an air that you're deserving.
Project an air that you are tame.
Project an air that you're professional.
Project an air that you are sane.
Cultivated friendly ignorance
absolves you of all sin.
Always take the middle-ground
when trust is paper-thin.
Those that choose to deviate
must be
invaders from within.
Silent and invisible:
That's the way we handle problems.
At night the people change,
and everyone's a total stranger.
Anyone outside at night
presumed to be an active danger.
Cops called on insomniacs
by eyes trapped in Venetian blinds,
Their privacy's just fine for them,
but hoodies make them loose their minds.
A van rolls by from house to house,
makes sure criteria is met
for proper lawn care,
trash disposal,
notes made for alleged threats.
My friends thought it was in my head,
how it would follow me for blocks,
and only move when I would move,
and only stop when I would stop.
At 3AM I hear calliope leak from the walls.
A scent of laundry mixed with burning leaves and alcohol.
On a transformer box a cup and saucer wait for me,
but in the hour both were moved from where they used to be.
Spirits gather when your eyes are closed.
On nights this dark, you can feel the ghosts.
Perforated views in streetlights.
Canals flow
with their wordless ink.
Spinning in circles in my mind.
A silhouette and ember:
a man is in the yard,
smoking and talking to no one.
Corpses waiting,
still buckled in their cars,
on sidewalks while the mortal world sleeps.
Voices slither in the static.
Your imagination runs,
trying to swallow its own host.
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