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Not at Home

by rat dreams

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  • 5x5" booklet with album art and lyrics. photos and design by RIMS (wearerims@gmail.com).

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1.
for a long time i went to bed early and slept all through the night. but now i lie awake, chasing lights with my eyes. for a long time i'd wake up early with the first light through the blinds. but now when i wake up there are tears in my eyes. isn’t it strange what a kiss can do? you were surprised it could happen to you, too. you made your peace with the ghosts on the dark side of your room. i made my peace with an arm asleep, the sheets all wrapped round you. i guess i’m an adult now: nothing can stay the same what is can’t remain.
2.
In a Condo 07:58
in a condo at the edge of town you moved in with your debts and your girlfriend but she stayed up listening to the ties that bind— running water, the walls still white. and the rent always gets paid on time. and the rent-man always gets paid. in an apartment, solo, you bought a dog. in new york city, it’ll follow you home— hear the tin bowl ring in the sink draped in vines, hear him howling off fire escapes and into the night. and the rent always gets paid on time. and the rent-man always gets paid. above a coffee shop you lived in a cult. and how’d you get out? was it the things your parents said? or the things you recorded and played back by your bed? well you left home, now your name is ringing someone else’s phone. at the end of the block you lost a lot, a lot of blood. in the shower, your beer tipped over— did you see it all go down the drain? did you watch it go down the drain? i was here before. i knew it the moment i opened that door and walked up the stairs to the second story, basket in my hand, as if if i didn’t keep moving, as if, for a moment, i wasn’t always moving i would be frozen and then i would start slipping backwards down the stairs, around the corner, into my car, driving in reverse, all the way back, down the street, over highway exits crossing state lines, tolls returned to me, back to your door. — tell me i was here before. i knew it when i saw my mess on the counters, a signature only i can read. old shopping bags, rinds, progresso soup cans, a pile of salt, a receipt: the things i leave behind. and my name still rolling in the trash behind your house: bills and letters, credit card offers. you could dig it up if you’d like, it would serve you. — tell me something i was here before. i knew it when you left your message to be played in my room, on my phone. you said, and i remember it well, the sound of your mouth opening and closing, a soft sound in between words, you said, “you can’t leave me.” and you said, “you can’t leave.” ah. and i am still here. i am still here. so — tell me something i don’t already know.
3.
maybe if we go down, we can make it with a civil service job, like harvey. but for now we’re the ones who are living in american splendor with american jobs—i thought too big to bust. but time, i need more time. what will the president decide? i’m going down to washington but sometimes i wish i was never born at all. maybe if we break the banks we can still get paid if we call up the right guy like george bailey, and get bailed out by the goodwill of mama and daddy dollar. so work through the night. and your house is cold tonight. but time, i need more time. what will the president decide? “—just meet me in the lobby by the laminate wings and try not to cry as you hop in the limousine.” i’m going down to washington but sometimes i wish i was never born at all. when i look in your eyes, st. stephen, i think i’m gonna be one of those guys. when i look in your eyes, st. stephen, i think i’m gonna try. i got money in the bank, and years rolling by. i got money in the bank, and tears rolling down my face. i’m going down to washington. i guess i made mistakes before, but when i open up the door he smiles and says “son, welcome home.” after the crash an inflating slide blew up right beside my window, and i took the plunge with my nightcap on. a silent night, no creature stirring, no one is home. no one is home.
4.
i’m living in smaller and smaller slivers of white bread you left out on the counter. i’ll get to things in the morning— to my surprise, it was molding. is that gonna be your lunch today? i’m waiting for a new kind of money, one that always comes back to me when i’m hungry— check the balance twice a day, then you spend it all away. you say, “is that gonna be your lunch today?” well, jesse, i had the time to think twice. but now you’re dizzy with a frozen pizza, blacking out in the checkout line. did you sum the price of an ambulance ride? and if i find you in that white room with the angels by your side, praying the doctors they find something or else that you are fine— and when they slip that IV tube in your arm you can feel that water move like the day that you were born. but is that gonna be your lunch today?
5.
“of who have i been dreaming?”, deborah sighs to the wall. “every night i disappear, just to make out on that hill, just to fall down with some ghost, right back here.” and the sheets are soaking. “for whose hand am i reaching when i hold yours? in a hot apartment morning, with our pictures on the wall. ‘last night i heard you whisper’ you said, ’last night i saw you pour water out the window and you didn’t know my name,’ with a look on your face like you’ve never seen a ghost before.” and the sheets are soaking. deborah’s visions miss beginnings, preferring to start at the finish. but they leave such strange impressions, like she’s holding up some new manual trying to read the spanish. ven aqui. don’t wait. and the dogs they’re all barking, cause she knows what she’s wanting. she goes to sleep so she can watch it, to slip through her bed and into her coffin. and she’ll meet her in the middle, where the earth is still cool. and she thinks about this riddle: “if till death do we part, then of whom have i been dreaming?”
6.
The Moth 04:52
i awoke outside. crumpled leaves, fruit bruising on its side. look around and check the lights: is there something else in the night? i awoke outside. the smell of the rain burns like fire on my right thigh. and for a moment, hopeful i’m falling out of windows, not getting pushed from behind. do you know what it means to find leaves in between your teeth? i awoke outside. hands shaking hard in the sunlight of my life. if parents buy you the things you like, where's your alibi? say the south side is dangerous. say that witch house is vacant. say that liquor makes you brainless. "cut grass and pavement": i dare you to say it. sara can you find me, like a moth to the light? sara can you remind me how to speak into the night?
7.
The Jaunt 08:26
i spent a day in my room; when i got out i was older. i spent a day in my room— dead flowers drop out of view. how old are you? (i heard what they put you through.) there’s a daisy chain round your ankle, braid the stems cause your mom cut the cable. pray, be brief and vague while texting rachel on break with marco’s number under the table. you write, “alone again tonight, same cemetery gate,” while outside the assigned driver waits to take you back to a room that you despise— nighttime knocking against the blinds. high school eyes wide open, a prison’s a prison, nobody is listening. high school eyes wide open from prison to prison, everybody is missing. you’re seventeen, or twenty four hours old, waking up every day in the room where you were born. you’re seventeen, or twenty four hours old, waiting every day for the jaunt that will take you home. jansport backpack with the floral print up against the gravestone: when you were walking there one night she wondered how to douse for the unmarked and the uncovered. you put your bag down to hold her hand out— such a silly thing, the petals you left out there in the rain! did you leave one out for julian assange? did you leave one out for mumia abu-jamal? did you leave one out there for berta cáceres? the lost souls of the restaurant raids? did i mention them already? did i mention that—the night of the living dead, you watch the tapes as you lay in your bed. they want you a million miles away, but the jaunt that will take you will break you with infinity. you’re locked up in your own house, with cereal to eat. so tell me: how old are you? three four-tops and the undercover cops the body’s always somebody’s two number threes, and the secret police but a waiter waits—waits till it’s all ready
8.
Summer 2k16 04:00
summer means the end of all things: an ant climbed across your tangerine. so we watched july rot it from your back porch by the fire pit, making out between cigarettes. and i would leave with you, if you wanted me to. summer means the end of all things: the rat died by the bathroom sink. he drank the poison till thirsty; i guess it got him out of the august heat. yeah maybe i’m cruel but i'm shaking and i'm sweating on the attic floor. yeah maybe i’m cruel but the smell is coming up through the door, now. cause it’s the hottest on record and we’re still drinking blue planets. i guess there’s always next year. the hottest summer on record and we’re still drinking blue planets. we used to pray for the weather, do you remember? summer always leaves us too soon. remember when your dog ran outside? we hit the block with flashlights and called her name into the night, and found her under the SUV. patient and waiting. back inside, before we go to sleep, you say to me “will, no one ever leaves just voluntarily”

credits

released July 20, 2018

performed by (in order of appearance):

will myers - voice (1-8), guitar (1-8), synthesizers (1, 3-8), bass (2, 4, 6), piano (1), drum machine (2, 6)
andrea gutmann fuentes - violin (1-3, 7)
dan seibert - percussion (1-4, 7)
carrie stratton - voice (1, 2, 4, 7)
jack doran - piano (2, 7)
BXTCH - spoken word (2)
ian bojalad - piano (3)
laura cook - bass (3)
matt ciani - bass (7), drum machine (6)

songs and words by will myers.

recorded by matt ciani at the sweat lodge, chicago, illinois and by will myers at hellmouth, columbus, ohio.
mixed by will myers.
mastered by matt ciani.

album booklet design by RIMS.
photography by RIMS.
wearerims@gmail.com

special thanks to kyle kerley.

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about

rat dreams Columbus, Ohio

ohio valley folk/art rock.

andrea, carrie, dan, jack, laura, and will.

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