therapist raze years ago, she shared one of my albums with her therapist. he told her there was something wrong with me. something even psychiatric care might not make right. i guess i can see how someone with no real understanding of creative energy and the curious shapes it takes could absorb a series of songs about grieving trees, sadistic figure skaters, and the nudists who live in our hearts, and think: this young man has lost his mind. the thing is, that was a happy album for me. at no point was i processing trauma or doing anything more than immersing myself in the inexhaustible joy of rediscovering a voice i was sure had fled too far from me to be called back. what on earth would he have thought if he was subjected to the music i made when i really was struggling to make sense of something awful? what madness might he have heard in my private pain repurposed as a bunch of ballads and danceable ditties shot through with wordless whoops and mutilated melodies? or would that all have sounded so much saner to him? 260611 what's it to you? who go blather from