Get Used To Being Everything

by Michael Garfield

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I went out on a limb, grasping at all the pretty things I've seen in my time machine dream. And I fell asleep naïve, unaware that I might never find my way back to the tree. Here I lay, lost enchanted underneath the canopy of fantasy, and I won't ever come back. We are threaded through time by people we intuit we could be, mistranslating infinite peace. But when I recognize my higher nature peck the shell, I'll split this cell. I'll change, but stay, and in remaining meditate on gleaming grace that I don't ever come back.
Ride It 03:11
The sky was bronze bleeding. We sat waiting to watch the sun setting. But lord, our question's not in the sun. Nor is our answering. You scream and you shout. You pierce and you pout. You clear and you cloud but still you get yourself into these circumstances that knock you down. And until goal and ground, that poor ego will not surrender, cannot surrender... I knew you weren't asleep, just dying to more and more and more. One world at a time, sinking sight through levels of illusion. You scream and you shout. You flee and you flout. You shrine and you shroud but still you get yourself into these circumstances that knock you down. And until goal and ground, that poor ego will not surrender, cannot surrender. Even now, you fight it...
Outside, the moon was a dollar at arm’s length, so bright that while I stood there watching in captured quiet at the railroad crossing, you hid inside, under cover of closed blinds. But under the surface, moonlight spilled in. Like a deep sea fish, your outline filled in glaring up at the distant intrusion, so dark inside, but transparent where light shines. All you need to do is let it through you. All you need to say’s what you’re compelled to. Healing will come in time. You will put up a fight, but you are sweeping the tide. It’s not easy to win against the moon. Why hate the love that you’ve refused? Your darling life is not unused to it. But you hide like bugs in the kitchen, so dark inside until I come switching to find you’re locked so tight I cannot see in... So dark inside, I won’t know until you confide. All you need to do is let it through you. All you need to say’s what you’re compelled to. Healing will come in time. It will all soon be fine. Lord knows you think you're right, but you are losing your life. You are sweeping the tide, and it's not easy to win against the moon.
We ply in maps. We are certain that the world fits on a page, in a poem, and believe that what we see doesn’t slip into the discontinuities we use to lead our children through this quaint diorama. We are real people living in our imagination at simile speed, failing to keep up with a life led beyond a metaphor’s needs that sheds and reissues all that continues without seams. The dispersal of seeds. We are all sages and saints waiting to happen. We are real people living in our imagination. And it is more beautiful than can be expected. But we scratch and sniff at our books in attempts for the actual scent. Lord, we try to fade into the sky. But we come home alone. We come home small. Cuz no belief has any meat at all.
Bête Moiré 02:19
When love's first blush is gone, the fruit has fallen off, and we're left scratching heads – it hurts so we're not dead. When weariness sets in, and fame is wearing thin, so soon do we forget: it hurts so we're not dead. When we are disconnect; we don't feel, just expect; and we're not full, just hurts so. It hurts so. It hurts so we're not dead. When even pain is old and doesn't hurt as should, we're desperate to be bled. It hurts so we're not dead. We're not dead.


We are racing toward (or are we living in?) a singularity in which the world as we know it is transformed, the present reigns as its own purpose, and loneliness is unveiled as a lovely but mystifying sham.

Until then, my name is Michael Garfield, standard bearer of a musical renaissance, evolutionary biologist, professional illustrator, flawed fountain of light. I set off into songwriting at 15 and never looked back; now I live on the bridge between the drummer-guitarists of the acoustic avant garde and the whirling ecstatics of festival culture.

My music chronicles my first steps toward an ever-deepening integration of melody and percussion, the scientific method and centering prayer, left and right hemispheres, self and other, nouns and verbs, work and play. It's an aquarium for the strange creatures in my head; a call to listen intently to our humming world when the stereo shuts off; and a passionate testament to both the sacred and the profane, to searching sorrow and the bliss of union. It's a map of an unexplored continent: an attempt to describe the ineffable, succeeding in its failure like all acts of expression. It's sleek, dynamic music; but it seeps into you too, insinuating itself like wind into your crevices and shaping new things there.

Above all, it's a reminder of our nourishing commonality: the processes that destroy and rebuild us in this moment, and this moment, and this...

"Intoxicating, rejuvenating, and unapologetically spiritual work...entertaining songs that completely upend the stereotypes of what one may think of as intelligent music...instantly memorable and utterly magnetic tunes whose authenticity and sweetness is boundary breaking."
- Michael Richardson, aka Paul Lonely
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released June 11, 2006

Written, performed, and recorded by Michael Garfield: guitar, voice, electric bass, synths, drum programming, samples (bottles, ATM, soft drink dispenser, book on tantra, box of junk, tables, bells, wind chimes, conversation).





Michael Garfield Santa Fe, New Mexico

Singer-songwriter, avant-guitarist, and electronic live producer all at once, Michael's dynamic live shows and intricate albums takes listeners on emotional trips spanning folk tradition and the avant-garde.

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