...Most of these songs are from albums I listened to in repeated, concentrated doses at one time or another: my mom cleaned house to the Tammy Wynette, I tried to learn to sing them on key, others I flipped on tape over and over on my walkman while at college and writing in Jittery Joes at a red Formica top table (my favorite one). So they are deep inside me, and they occur to me to call out and up when I try to think about Branwell walking around and longing, long before such rock, such rolls, such, what, expressive loves and tones. I think something might happen, something like an emotional arc, if you put these songs in this order and listened to them. Bjork getting me up out of bed for Summer Italian II, the Smith while showering and waiting for someone to come home, the Morrissey some (tall) boy I brought into my dorm room stole from me when I left him in it to sleep in and I never got it back. I heard the Coldplay just recently in the cafeteria during my week to teach up at the Goddard College residency; I was getting coffee, boys were cooking in the kitchen, I thought: I can't believe I forgot about this song; then found it there again in my head.