Snowstorm Sessions

by Mick E. Ashlyn

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A birthday gift for a friend.


released February 7, 2014

Mikayla McGoff, Laura Brogan




Mick E. Ashlyn Boston, Massachusetts

I study English.
I love art.
I'm not a good singer.

Hopefully this bandcamp doesn't stay awful forever?

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Track Name: Not Today
I'm gonna die someday
I'm gonna die someday

Who's to know what will build me
or let me break?
I've never been one to survive by
being fake.
My regrets are filled with the chances
I didn't take.


I'm gonna die someday
I'm gonna die someday
Oh, I'm gonna die someday

I'm gonna die someday

Just not today,
No, not today
Track Name: I am a Backward Puzzle
I collect myself.

I find the left-behinds or the want-to-be’s,

And I collect myself.

I take jigsaws and fill in the crowded closet,

I fit in the storage boxes in the second drawer of your bedroom.

You are a peice of me, quite literally.

I never check the rearview mirror,

Even when I back out of my drive way.

I wondered what day

You would say the words “I’ll miss you.”

I think I collect pieces of people.

I took your adventure,

Your laughter, and your will to create it,

I took your tough bitch attitude

(Maybe it needed taking away),

I took your shovel,

And you took mine.

I collect pieces of people,

I am a collection: an assembly of relative means.

I collect pieces of people to make less room for myself.

I am a collection, a backward puzzle.
Track Name: Munich Mannequins (Sylvia Plath, 1963)
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb

Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life

Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,

The absolute sacrifice.
It means no more idols but me,

Me and you.
So, in their sulphur loveliness, in their smiles

These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,

Naked and bald in their turs,
Orange lollies on silver sacks.

Intolerable, without mind.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,

Nobody’s about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting

Down shoes for a polish of carbon
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.

O the domesticity of these windows,
The baby lace, the green leaved confectionary,

The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stoiz.
And the black phones on hooks

Glittering and digesting

Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.
Track Name: 3:47 a.m.
I found your dark moss knit hanging on a hook today.
It reminded me of the spring time,
and when you used to calling me "darling"
And your hair would get frizzy from the humidity,
so we'd stay locked to the air conditioner
in apartment 14, floor 3.

I often wonder where you are now,
and if you still laugh the same,
or cry,
or scream,
or not at all.

I tried writing you a letter,
but somehow the candle's flame caught it.

I went to that Salvation Army you used to love so much.
I tried on everything you would've.
Then I went to the counter,
I asked for a pricecall,
I handed the woman your sweater
and took a crisp bill from her hand.

I went back home
to apartment 14, floor 3.
I sat in front of the air conditioner;
I let my face freeze.
I thought about your laugh
and the way you used to call me darling.
Track Name: The Mathematician
“Count in the bathroom,” they told me. How ironic, I think. I’ve been counting all my life and it’s never before been asked of me. But I get it.
“Don’t play with your food,” they say. My food’s been playing with my mind–with my life–for as long as I can remember. But I stop arranging by size and color, trying to understand which part of me is choosing this. It’s difficult to tell which thoughts belong to me, and which belong to her.
Do you ever picture her? Really picture her? I hear her sometimes through those perfect bleached teeth surrounded by soft red lips; her voice is smooth and warming, like the first sip of chamomile tea. She lures you in when you least expect it. She slowly creeps up changing small things at a time that eventually re-navigate the entirety of your mind’s map. And soon enough I forget what it was like without her advice, before she began speaking for me, making all the decisions that would radically change the course of my future. How did I manage? She’s been right all along, I think. But not for too long before everything is black and starry; my ears have gone silent, leaving just me and my mind in the dark. This is not mindful, nor peaceful.
“What’s happening?” I begin to panic and sit back down. Why’s this chair so damn cold. I’m dizzy. “You’ll get used to it. It means you’re doing well and following my instructions,” she says proud. I think nothing of it and smile for the apparent accomplishment I’ve overcome. Still blind, I mentally reward myself. “Gold medal for blacking out” the trophy reads. Who the hell celebrates that? None other than the evil red-lipped-lady who’s followed me around for far too long.
My stomach cries in anger and confusion, begging for the remains of unfinished plates at dinner. I try to ignore them, but now my head is aching. She might as well say “let them eat cake!”
“This isn’t helping!” I cry to her.
“These are temporary feelings, you’ll get used to them and they’ll go away.”
She puts my fork back down, drinks the rest of my water, says “phew,” and pushes the plate forward. “That was great but I’m so full.” I’ve never been a good liar. “May I be excused?”
As seasons change so does my face. I used to have pink cherry cheeks; now my skin is dry and grey; my throat is swollen and itchy; my stomach feels like a balloon that is inflated /deflated /inflated /DEFLATED /INFLATED––
How much longer? I ask her for the third, maybe fourth time.
“You’re so close!” She says, just like before.
How close? I demand.
“I’ll let you know.”
But maybe for once I need to be in charge. I’m done lying on the bathroom floor with small pieces of Kraft stuck in my nose while I clean up the mess she forced me to create, while simultaneously manufacturing a more catastrophic one. It’s ironic how something you start doing to feel in control ends up controlling you. Thirteen years with her destroying me, and I still can’t seem to let go… Stockholm Syndrome, I suppose. I want to stop this, because I know it’s doing nothing for me. I want to stop this so I can interact with those who love me without feeling judged. I want to stop this so I can read and write again, rather than being the mathematician I was never meant to be. I hate numbers. NO. I hate the way I’ve looked at numbers. I hate how she changed my perspective on numbers, on food, on my body, on the scale’s importance in my life on time on colors on size on everything I hate her.
For once, maybe I’ll be the one telling her how much longer. I’m done with her games. I’ve never once won.
Track Name: klarm farm demo
the night the stars fell–I remember it too well
we were touching the crystals on the grass in the dark
we were laying there counting the stars
wondering how far we'd get
the journey that we're on and where they'll lead us to
will you be there when I get to the finish line?

where are you now? are you back at school?
are you doing what you used to, everything...
I hope your parents keep the cake batter around now
I hope your parents leave you alone in your stalls when you go out with them fucking anywhere
I wonder where you are now and if you're doing okay
are you doing okay for now?

this is a road that we'll always be on I can't emphasize that enough
please reach out to me when you need a hand
I'm here to help
where are you? (x3)

the night the stars fell changed it all
we all changed the night the stars fell
I'll never forget it then
we were huddled all together in this blanket meant for two
thank you
you watched me grow
and I watched you