I very rarely feel a need to archive my own history, but it fits an on-again, off-again theme of the blog, and it's on my mind because of a research project I picked up: archiving sex worker websites, zines, pamphlets, facebook chats (like the impromptu playlist-building i blogged a few months back -- that's going to be a tricky one re: intellectual property *and* ethics), posters, blogs etc. 

Also: I cleaned my office. Decided indiscriminately boxing up mum's crap and losing use of my closet was worth gaining use of my office. In doing so, I found an empty CD case that belongs to me.

[Edited to allow for lower privacy settings. You're not missing much, just a less than flattering description of the fellow who gave me the "mixtape."]

The CD is long gone, but this is the playlist and poem that came with it (the picture on the front is of two stone columns, with the title, "Bliss", engaved in the space between them):

dusted - if i had a child

galaxie 500 - strange

grandaddy - weeping willow

bauhaus - who killed mr. moonlight?

cocteau twins - lorelei

replacements - skyway

dead can dance - in the kingdom of the blind

everything but the girl - mirrorball

moby - why does my heart feel so bad

tragically hip - scared

twilight singers - black love

over the rhine - latter days

lisa gerrard - sanvean

east river pipe - windows

king crimson - trio (the nightwatch)

martin sexton - glory bound

Dream Song 385
John Berryman

My daughter's heavier.  Light leaves are flying.
Everywhere in enormous numbers turkeys will be dying
and other birds, all their wings.
They never greatly flew.  Did they wish to?

I should know.  Off away somewhere once I knew
such things.

Or good Ralph Hodgson back then did, or does.
The man is dead whom Eliot praised.  My praise
follows and flows too late.
Fall is grievy, brisk.  Tears behind the eyes

almost fall.  Fall comes to us as a prize
to rouse us toward our fate.

My house is made of wood and it's made well,
unlike us.  My house is older than Henry;
that's fairly old.
If there were a middle    ground between things and the soul

or if the sky resembled more the sea,
I wouldn't have to scold.
                                                 my heavy daughter.

I've no idea what, if any, message I was supposed to get out of the compilation. (If I provided a response to the CD, I don't remember it, but I'm fond of the Replacements and Over The Rhine tunes on it.)