MARCH GUNK (I have so much beautiful time)
an incredible amount of march shows. a guest playlist. read to the end
I have so much beautiful time
By: Carolina Chauffe “hemlock”
committing to exploring nonlinear time (on a semi-strict schedule)
or, time as a liquid
memories surface as if from swampwater with sudden clarity and relative unpredictability, in a total lack of chronology —
tonight at 2 AM, for example:
recalling chocolate chip Star-Wars-shaped waffles, in the late morning, on a paper plate, among new friends in Travelers Rest, SC, a month ago
or yesterday, in Olympia:
River, 6 years before, calling White Claws “clams” at the quarry in the summer light in our swimsuits, on my first hemlock tour
or last friday, on the edge of the pacific:
when my boots are kissed wet by a gentle wave, I remember the lone, baby man-of-war washed up on the gulf shore of Galveston, TX after our first Little Mazarn show of the year, in early January
or two months ago, alone in homestate Louisiana:
the feeling of Egypt finally catches up to me and I am suddenly back on the 39th floor of a hotel in Cairo, looking out at the nighttime Nile, sparkling with the ceaseless movement and density of the late-September city. one ear on the pillow, the other half-listening to a loved one’s voice. he is reading me to sleep over the phone from an ocean away in Marshall. in the coming hours, western North Carolina will begin to flood, and Julie won’t be able to get in touch with her family for the majority of our trip, and we will all be worried sick, but we will play her music, and they will be okay.
or tomorrow:
___________
(insert treasure here)
. . .
as tour stretches on, beyond a year and three months, I am getting worse (heavier) at packing and worse (cloudier) at memory.
I am forgetting my dearest friends’ birthdays, but remembering learning how to shuck oysters on an island in maine with them, in what I think was last August, slurping salty sea.
I can see where I will be on the map for months at a time, but often not the bed I will sleep in two nights from now.
I know the name of the band sharing the bill tonight, but not what I had for lunch yesterday.
there is so much to hold onto. my shoulders are tight from the carrying.
I admittedly miss the stiller form of solitude, the kind that is found outside from time spent behind the wheel of a vehicle hurtling 80mph for a few hundred more miles.
I am happy, though, to report: the miracle is alive and well and always outweighing the exhaustion.
what I have spent on gas, I have saved on rent.
for everything that I have given up, I have been given to tenfold.
for all the forms of insecurity, for whatever freefall, an infinite safety net, always ready for the catching.
there were four, and now are five, of us sharing this February on the highway, and I am grateful to not be the sole keeper of this chapter of the story. to have been invited in.
memory as a communal experience.
makes it easier to bear rarely being in one place for as much as 24 hours.
our modus operandi lately has been to drive an hour or two after the show, into the thick of night, to fall asleep as soon as our heads hit the proverbial hay.
this new today, ramsey is in the middle row of the rental van, spitting sunflower seeds into a Taco Bell cup, somewhere in central California.
this old morning, I get into a hot tub with a cup of coffee before even brushing my teeth, at one of the boys’ middle school girlfriend’s parents’ house. this sort of thing isn’t atypical.
we drive away, all five, in a similar downpour to the one that we arrived through last night, well after midnight, with the nearly-full moon fully hidden from Half Moon Bay.
Josh, before noon, safely avoids the shovel in the middle of the road, quick as a blink, thrown from the truck that just spun out. we are always moving so fast.
just another close call, hardly worth mentioning. one of countless “almosts,” filed under: to forget soon.
this past year has been one of blindfolded trust. of secular prayer. of time as a liquid. of relying on the generosity of others without shame. of outstretched hands, with a willingness to receive what is being offered.
recently, the offering came in the form of an invitation that led (among other things) to my presence in Ojai, from where I write now, teary-eyed in awe, two weeks into one my fondest februarys, watching The Slaps publicly read each others’ minds on stage for another set, overwhelmed with gratitude at their including me. blessings abound, in the form of reunion, in the form of reciprocal inspiration.
I met them in the fall of 2023, on another tour - The Slaps + Merce Lemon - that partially served as my push off from the midwest, wings spread wide since.
the path of least resistance when I moved away from chicago quickly led to a seemingly infinite intersection, at the nexus of a delicately woven web of countless interconnected paths, all beautifully tangled. all glistening, golden gossamer and open doors.
they say pound for pound, spider silk is stronger than steel. the threads can be nearly invisible, but are unbelievably supportive.
DIY tour is like this.
last night was the only house show of this month of tour, and after a dozen perfectly pleasant venue shows, I was moved to the core, once again, by the alchemy that occurs when the magic of live music is returned to the comfort of the home.
with such intention and ease, mary claire and their beloveds brought sheepskins and chairs and string lights and foliage and turned maria’s ordinary garage into an unrecognizably inviting, magical den — a true respite from the San Francisco rain.
the worldbuilding of it all.
hope at the heart of it all.
I can taste tomorrow in these moments.
it is married to the now.
these gatherings of community that catalyze the building of the future that we wish to inhabit. one where all are free.
it tastes sweet, and tangled, like a knot in cherry stem, like a promise.
on an ordinarily miraculous Wednesday night, seated among the furs, we share songs and laughter and cigarettes and dreams, and tears, and presence, and silence, in a California carport full of singularly gorgeous people. the hand-stitched banner, hung last-minute, and draped among the greenery in the rafters reads:
“I have so much beautiful time”
«« and for your march playlist, we asked our friends at GRID to curate a guest playlist for us»»
GRID is a collective of creative minds transcending genres with its heart in the pulsing gridlock of NYC. From our DIY origins into an 8 Ball Radio residency you can come dance with us at events throughout this month at Mood Ring (March 6th), Piano’s (March 11th), and Jade (March 27th).
you can listen to the playlist on apple music:
https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/grid-x-gunk-winter-selections/pl.u-Ldbqel3T2pybxVA
youtube:
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLfBCeRYMVxVJOGatbt6VTFwly9rWFd8ai
& here:
march gunk is in the world today! you can find a physical copy at secret riso club (122 central ave), or you can secure your copy by becoming a paid subscriber to get it mailed to you every month. Our distro team is growing rapidly <3 so much so that we can’t even keep up with all the spots throughout the city you can find gunk every month (is that unhelpful… or perhaps endearing...)
we are incredibly grateful for those of yall who choose to donate on a monthly basis, which covers costs of printing, ink, and mail. gunk is a labor of love and, and you help us keep it free <3 if you’d like to make a one time donation, you can do that too! just reach out (thegunkyard@gmail.com)
*we are getting a few of your mailed GUNK returned to us, if you pay for GUNK and didn’t get Feb GUNK, please email us or dm on substack and we’ll send another right away. we’re sorry!!!**
love <3 always ceci and hannah
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