Split with Meet Me In The Middle

by I Was Given Feet To Follow You

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1.
07:03
2.
03:35
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.

about

This is a split I did with a great friend of mine, John-Paul Carrillo, who also happens to be the old bassist of my previous band, Capistrano. We decided sometime early on in 2014 that we wanted to put out a digital split together, so here it is.

credits

released July 2, 2014

All songs (tracks 1 to 4) written, performed, engineered, and produced by Dylan Andersen (I Was Given Feet To Follow You).

All songs (tracks 5 to 8) written, performed, engineered, and produced by John-Paul Carrillo (Meet Me In The Middle).

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I Was Given Feet To Follow You Long Beach, California

Hi there, my name is Dylan. This is a project I've been working on since 2007 called I Was Given Feet To Follow You. It is the collection of songs and ideas and movements that were recorded and pieced together at various times in my life. Please enjoy these songs, and feel free to share them. Thank you. ... more

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Track Name: Sophie W.
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art
Track Name: Mary Park
Does this mean anything to you? Or to me?
I guess I was sitting there, when everyone else was gone.
I spend most of my life, sitting around here, trying to figure out.
I rarely stop to let the waves crash on rocks next to me.
I want to feel the spray of water on my legs.
Listening to that same song...

The music that pours out my car speakers,
Is great for the meantime, but when the engine quits,
It's up to me to continue that constant conversation,
That I have with myself.
And I'm trying to answer all my questions.

And, the only thing I know is you...
Track Name: Hoffman Street
The last time I saw you, you were drunk out of your mind.
I know that's how you like it, but I am tired of being there for you when you're alone on the floor of my best friend's car.
I still have the whiskey smell in the bathroom of my house.

You were on the couch, posting about wine and chocolate, on a Friday night.
Who's fault is that but yours?
You wanted to move out of San Francisco because "it got boring".

But trust me, I know the feeling all the same.
And it sucks.
But I'm here on my own.
Track Name: Willow Heights
I am watching a girl dressed in a
light green sweater, blue shorts, long black stockings;
there is a necklace of some sort
but her breasts are small, poor thing,
and she watches her nails
as her dirty white dog sniffs the grass
in erratic circles;
a pigeon is there too, circling,
half dead with a tick of a brain
and I am upstairs in my underwear,
3 day beard, pouring another beer and waiting
for something literary or symphonic to happen;
but they keep circling, circling, and a thin old man
in his last winter rolls by pushed by a girl
in a catholic school dress;
somewhere there are Alps, and ships
are now crossing the sea;
there are piles and piles of H- and A-bombs,
enough to blow up fifty worlds and Mars thrown in,
but they keep circling,
the girl shifts buttocks,
and the Hollywood Hills stand there, stand there
full of drunks and insane people and
much kissing in automobiles,
but it's no good: che sera, sera:
her dirty white dog simply will not shit,
and with a last look at her nails
she, with much whirling of buttocks
walks to her downstairs court
trailed by her constipated dog (simply not worried),
leaving me looking at a most unsymphonic pigeon.
well, from the looks of things, relax:
the bombs will never go off.