On listening to Bon Iver’s eponymous record

I’ve been spinning Bon Iver, the good winter, and I skip the needle back to Holocene a few times. I miss a few beginnings and listen through to the end. It charts an epoch – for miles and miles, the existence of humanity or of the one – and the epoch seems to return on itself.

It’s all so short. And I am not magnificent.

You fucked it friend; it burnt away; we learned to celebrate; now to know it in my memory. There’s something there, something about the things that are gone from us. I can’t quite seem to grasp it though.

I’ll let the record play. Don’t want to wear it out, this musing. It doesn’t lead anywhere. Have to get to rest.

 

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