Farmface: From the Dirt

The first day:

There’s a good piece of land by the green house. The road runs past. The lights are off but for one light on the left side of the house if you’re looking from the road. It’s a dim light, flickers like a fire light. It possibly is. It fades soon after midnight. Then there’s no light. Maybe moonlight. Depends what kind of night. Some nights there're all stars. They are far away but look close to each other. They look small but they’re not small at all. Just far away from the green house.

Come morning:

[Pick it up. Where is it?] [Pic k it up. Where is it?] [Pick i t up. Where is it?] It’s there! [Pick it up. Where is it?] [Pick it up. Where is it?] [P ic k it u p. Wh ere is it?] It’s there! [Pick it up. Where is it?] [Pick it u p. Wher e is it?] [P ick it up. Where is it?] It’s there! [Pic k it u p. Where is it?] [Pi ck it up. Where is it?] [Pick it u p. W he re is i t?] It’s there! [Pi ck it up. Wh ere is it?] [Pi ck it u p. Whe re i s it?] [Pi ck it up. W here is it?] It’s there! [Pi ck it up. W here is it?] [Pick i t up. Wh er e is it?] [Pick it up. Wher e i s it?] It’s there! [Pick it up. Where is it?] [Pick i t up. W he re i s it?] [Pic k it u p. W here is i t?] P ic k i t u p!

(Music by Marc Ribot without permission.)

Another day:

If you find this box I hope you like it. Please dont sell it. This box has never been sold. My grandfather made it and gave it to my dad and my dad gave it to me. You can give it to someone but please don’t sell it. It is meant to be a gift. Though you might be tempted to sell it. Please dont. I put it on the street cause I can’t think of anyone I know that would not sell it. Everybody is selling everything. Please dont sell this box.

Last Day:

A lady with cloudy hair sold me a sack of candy. I emptied it in the dirt for the orphans.

The blue moon chuckles. A red crab collects what little is left behind while the orphans digest and the bells rest. I leave them in the night so I can walk alone. I sleep on an out-of-tune piano. The orphans gather around me in the morning. They’ve returned to my side and make me promise never to leave them again. I climb down from the piano. Toes tap a little tune. Look for my hat but remember Uncle Dust. Not since the accident. The orphans found me a new hat. It fits a little big still just fine. When it’s time to go I go. The orphans follow. Only the dirt can say who follows the orphans.

Words by Brian Wask and videos by Gabriel Comrie Pepin.