I listened to DPCD’s Good Visions several times one night before bed, allowed the lyrics and sonic ideas to inhabit my mind, and woke up to explore how they were embodied in me. I hope you, too, have an opportunity to make personal these Good Visions.





I wake to a sound.


A car drives past outside my third floor bedroom window. I’ve yet to open my eyes, but I know from the mark of the wheel’s prolonged hiss it is raining. The sky must be grey. The air must be cold. The dead leaves must be weighed by wetness that nullifies the chance of their working with the wind.


The album begins by giving voice to the quiet musicality of the wind, of a passing through, in “Open Window”. Its chime rings throughout the album in sound and in lyric, becoming the break in the world in “Fifty-One Place” and the object of sight in “Served Breath Made in Old Moves”: I saw the air move like a curtain.


I know, too, that the cars heard below must be passing between my front door and a 2005 eggplant purple PT Cruiser. The vehicle has been fixed on the opposite side of the street since I first moved in. Its four flat tires and immobility make it a geographical fact of the neighborhood. Today, like all days, it must be standing by, watching like a disciplined sentinel in the storm. In my head, I have made a picture of the world.


The response to this break in the world? To slowly piece together thought and melody. To grow a memory so wild and true into an image (“Images of No Use”). The simple meditative articulations of the guitar give way and find agency in a spell of seemingly self-sustained patterning and rhythm.


I have these three points: the sound, the purple, my self. Can I, through a trigonometric positioning of symbols, measure the cycle of the day without entering it? Will I remain convinced by my image of the world outside? It’s an approximation assembled from what I’ve gathered on the table of my memory, the things I tell myself I know. It’s raining. It’s overcast. No need to know more. Stay in bed.


In pictures I have seen nothing change. In the morning there is grey light coming with the day (“In Evening”). Is the spell, the grey, the memory, necessary for rest? It seems that comfort, in its making of worlds, is its own type of enduring music, as heard in the perpetuated ambulatory bounce of “Grey Man”.


A warmth troubles this closed arrangement of my mind. Eyes open: I’m touched by a color, not grey. Looking to the window to reground my thinking, I’m held by a vision. Thought gives way to sense as my eyes brighten. The air is sunny. So is the sky. Leaves are blowing, albeit slowly. People are walking, as people do. Somehow I’d forgotten to think of people. The whish of the passing cars softens with each iteration. One of my points is fading away. I look to see another already gone. Across the street is a shadow composed of dirt, empty water bottles, and shopping bags. A woman begins to sweep up the stain of the purple car’s absence. Unlike everything else I see, the spot is dry. What was once a set fact is now a memory, an image, a capture of a once materialized presence, a truism negated sometime between the halt of a storm I can still smell and the beholding of this vision.


A world is not closed if a window is open; it can be disturbed. Nothing stands up in this world I have made, “Fifty-One Place” declares as that familiar chime passes through the song. It is a call to reformulate the image in light of a vision’s sensory vitality. Out of rest and into work.


What other unfettered symbols and imaginings do I hold so I can sleep? What other work could the day have for me? I need to know more. I get out of bed.


And yet, rest pulls a person back in. There is yearning for work, though my work is all rest, and this day is gone (“In Evening”). Is there still a use for these images? Is there any end to work? Can I return to the break in the world? Vision’s fading, open window staying open, looking through (“Good Visions”).


In evening, I’ll return with many moving things. I’ll will them to rest, or try, as DPCD is trying. Then we, in the absence where we are looking, may find rest.