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Quen (plus 5 by 10) | Poem
I am posting this on Nov 8, 2024, but Burke and I first recorded it five years ago. We went out with a camera and a shotgun mic one cool, fall day. This audio file was long ago archived, never to be posted — another project whose ambitions exceeded the will to ship. But as I looked through my window today to see cirrocumulus clouds above, I thought to myself, “What ever happened to that Stone Mountain recording?” This is what happened to it. Unearthed some five years later. (Don’t say I never saved anything, Burke! 😉)
Quentin: I think the camera would have been better than the sound. What do you think, Burke?
Burke: Don’t doubt yourself, Q.
Quentin: Alright.
Burke: Welcome to this week’s NPR. (NPR.) At the Confederacy.
You know, that actually would be the funniest podcast ever, of like, unedited podcast. (Yeah.) So all the outtake, all of like, ooh, I get a recording of my footsteps so we can add it into the background.
Quentin: Yeah. But hey, there’s that tin metal trash can over there. Go give it a thumb.
Burke: Go give it a nice wallop.
Sep 23, 2019 | Burke Swanson | Poem
Today's forecast: Cirrocumulus.
This essence of who I am,
Quen plus five by ten.
All this circling 'round,
Yet I just look To the ground.
Noise of ignorance.
This essence of who I am,
Quen plus five by ten.
Phone always in hand,
Forgot to take in the land.
Noise of the paragon.
How can I begin to remedy
The Self within
When I can't even express this dust,
On the hill,
In the sun?
Take me in.
Absolve my sins.
Let me cry
Into the wind.
Look up,
Look down,
Look left,
Look right,
And let's begin again.
They were the pedestrian caravan
of enthusiastic pagans
creeping upwards to
a pivoting spire of
a Confederate church.
Some African,
most non identified white.
But each with a steadfast insistence
to finish what each reluctantly began.
We were just there to observe.
They were the children
who ran and ran.
They ran right up,
crashing through the puddles,
through the brush,
and the peoples.
Toddlers and teens
alike in their freedoms,
carefree and careless
of lungs ever tiring.
Yet father,
yet mother,
yet elder and wife
bore canes
and packs
and bottles
and stripes.
With munitions to
stay for a while
prattling, discounting tongues
warning, "Slow down, slow down.
We've only just begun."
I’m filming a deer.
We were just there to observe,
to observe.
They were the four
and we were the two.
Else were the children who ran,
and else were the pagans who planned,
and neither knew the other,
not sought, never found.
We were just there to observe,
to observe.
Two observed.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit substack.qntns.com
*GPS Signal Lost.*
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit substack.qntns.com
View all episodes
By Poems, Writings, Essays, and Lessons by QNTNI am posting this on Nov 8, 2024, but Burke and I first recorded it five years ago. We went out with a camera and a shotgun mic one cool, fall day. This audio file was long ago archived, never to be posted — another project whose ambitions exceeded the will to ship. But as I looked through my window today to see cirrocumulus clouds above, I thought to myself, “What ever happened to that Stone Mountain recording?” This is what happened to it. Unearthed some five years later. (Don’t say I never saved anything, Burke! 😉)
Quentin: I think the camera would have been better than the sound. What do you think, Burke?
Burke: Don’t doubt yourself, Q.
Quentin: Alright.
Burke: Welcome to this week’s NPR. (NPR.) At the Confederacy.
You know, that actually would be the funniest podcast ever, of like, unedited podcast. (Yeah.) So all the outtake, all of like, ooh, I get a recording of my footsteps so we can add it into the background.
Quentin: Yeah. But hey, there’s that tin metal trash can over there. Go give it a thumb.
Burke: Go give it a nice wallop.
Sep 23, 2019 | Burke Swanson | Poem
Today's forecast: Cirrocumulus.
This essence of who I am,
Quen plus five by ten.
All this circling 'round,
Yet I just look To the ground.
Noise of ignorance.
This essence of who I am,
Quen plus five by ten.
Phone always in hand,
Forgot to take in the land.
Noise of the paragon.
How can I begin to remedy
The Self within
When I can't even express this dust,
On the hill,
In the sun?
Take me in.
Absolve my sins.
Let me cry
Into the wind.
Look up,
Look down,
Look left,
Look right,
And let's begin again.
They were the pedestrian caravan
of enthusiastic pagans
creeping upwards to
a pivoting spire of
a Confederate church.
Some African,
most non identified white.
But each with a steadfast insistence
to finish what each reluctantly began.
We were just there to observe.
They were the children
who ran and ran.
They ran right up,
crashing through the puddles,
through the brush,
and the peoples.
Toddlers and teens
alike in their freedoms,
carefree and careless
of lungs ever tiring.
Yet father,
yet mother,
yet elder and wife
bore canes
and packs
and bottles
and stripes.
With munitions to
stay for a while
prattling, discounting tongues
warning, "Slow down, slow down.
We've only just begun."
I’m filming a deer.
We were just there to observe,
to observe.
They were the four
and we were the two.
Else were the children who ran,
and else were the pagans who planned,
and neither knew the other,
not sought, never found.
We were just there to observe,
to observe.
Two observed.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit substack.qntns.com
*GPS Signal Lost.*
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit substack.qntns.com