Conner lee Carey

Writer. Actor. Singer. Poet; in no particular order. Lover of coffee and cool mornings. Writer of folklore and singer of blues. ☕️🐈👽

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https://soundcloud.com/conner-carey/take-a-load-off

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https://soundcloud.com/conner-carey/end-of-the-seas

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https://soundcloud.com/conner-carey/dont-say-i-didnt-warn-you-reprise

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https://soundcloud.com/conner-carey/in-a-moment

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https://soundcloud.com/conner-carey/oh-time-and-other-fables

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Pretty cool to see your words on paper. #appreciation #published #magazine #writing @iphonelifemagazine

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Bird's could nest in my hair today 😂😂 #holdbacktheriver #jamesbay I may have had wine last night... #singing #vocals a lot of wine. #15secondcover #15secondsong 🎶💃🏼🍷

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Now’a Days These Songs on the Radio Drive Me Crazy

Love is like your favorite song:  If you hear one you really like  and play it over and over and over  eventually, you can't stand to listen. But if you hear a song you like  and you play the song when the mood  strikes you and you listen for the subtle  nuances because tomorrow you'll hear  lots of songs (music is so readily accessible),  but this song you like most of all. And years later,  when someone plays that song at a party,  you'll sing along and remember how beautiful  to discover that melody and memorize those words  yet, since you know that song so well,  it won't get stuck in your head;  it will only play when the mood  strikes and you will listen  for the subtle nuances.

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Signed a 22 Year Old (Letters by Age)

Dear 21 year old, you’ll get over him.

Dear 20 year old, the hospital is the beginning, not the end. You are strong, and you will feel good again.

Dear 19 year old, hold onto something - it’s about to get crazy like a Plath novel.

Dear 18 year old, love is amazing; enjoy the fall, but land on your feet.

Dear 17 year old, stop counting calories and checking the scale obsessively; you’re beautiful and lovable.

Dear 16 year old, ouh child; here comes the cornfields.

Dear 15 year old, you and Mom will leave him; it’s going to be alright.

Dear 14 year old, keep writing and singing. Don’t worry about boys.

Dear 13 year old, fuck those girls; they was mean. 

Dear 12 year old, Father doesn’t know he is cruel, try to forgive it sooner, and don’t believe Mom when she says boys will only use you for sex(even if it is sometimes true, it’s not a life motto).

Dear 11 year old, wear those short-shorts girl! Thunder thighs make Mama Earth shake.

Dear 10 year old, no prayer is too small; I know you’re afraid of asking for too much or for the wrong things, but keep asking and keep questioning.

Dear 9 year old, go to Church with Mom more; yeah they’re bigots, but you sing those choir songs real good.

Dear 8 year old, enjoy the forest and your cows; you won’t live here long. (p.s. Mom finds Buddy!)

Dear 7 year old, stop listening from your door; don’t train your ears to hear conflict.

Dear 6 year old, it’s gunna be a great life; I believe in you.

Dear 5 year old, remember to always have fun!

Dear 4 year old, Mamma really will always be there.

Dear 3 year old, hydrogenated oils in cereal are bad; Mom was right.

Dear 2 year old, you’ll never stop watching the Wizard of Oz.

Signed, a 22 year old.

*prompt inspired by CBC’s WireTap How to Age Gracefully.

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Going to a Party

I am many things living under this roof-body. Many things collected and prized as though a child in her grandmother’s attic where cobwebs spin over old trunks; within which are picture albums and the waxing of a waning life. The sorts of things people don’t usually look at until the person has left the building. 

I am the strange one because I sit in the cast light of a dim evening and brush away the spider’s home to plunge into history before it’s too late to ask the right questions - whatsoever they are. I cannot know unless I set about to investigate and so sit until the yellow glow is overcome by distant stars.

I am too late to this party; this culture which heavily breathes smog. I am too late to the party because I chose to stop and observe a man I saw crying from his cardboard box. He wasn’t crying tears but crying out to the swollen nimbus clouds threatening to ruin his new abode of condensed paper. “I just found this one!” He yelled, fist to the heavy air; as though all he asks for in this world is to keep his head dry and the sky could be persuaded to change its mind.

We tell ourselves stories all day long. Like children who refuse to go to sleep, we continue to tell ourself the story of who we are and how we’re doing. Then we ask about someone else’s story or, they tell us about what they’re writing, and suddenly we doubt every word. We make huge edits to the paragraphs of personality to better align with theirs. Maybe because wielding our own pen carries too much responsibility, or perhaps we think the pen is writing us.

Sometimes I stop to take notes, and when I look up from my journal to observe the madness - wonder if there is something to fear. The great ‘out-there’ which corrodes our understanding of ourself yet, too, allows us to expand what that understanding is.

I am walking barefoot on concrete slabs and the people in business suits have brought their pity to my party. I must look like a tramp, in the classical definition, or too young to be ‘in this situation’ but too old to call for help. I would love to make eye contact and laugh in their face as they furl eyebrows and shuffle past but then police calls are warranted and ‘psychotic’ histories made known. The city seals the Earth in mortar like bodies in caskets, but I’m the woeful one with feet touching the ground. Surely the irony strikes even the densest skulls like a high pitch shattering glassware.

I have never understood why we bury the dead in boxes. We neither conserve them nor let them decompose. We withhold nutrients from soil for the sole purpose of large parks with gravestones. I have never seen a swing in a graveyard and yet many children dancing as adults fuss over their wistful attitudes in the face of - what?

I live at the crossways of leave me alone to my thoughts and whisk me away to a jazz club. Where every breath seeks to empower but every exhale asks to be the last. There are many things I want to do and many different people I must be to do them, or so it seems when I finally arrive to the party.

People are dancing but most are stumbling and all are asking questions in a room too loud to listen for words. Why do we congregate here? I postulate whilst the dragon-blaze heart in me imagines casting off soliloquies and barreling back distillation until the room is my very best friend and this moment is the very best place to be. Then another opinion with a beard and long hand stroking says, “Ah this is no way to meet your true self. Take to the dance floor as you are.” Yet another jumps into a corner and pops a book in front her nose, “Who me? No. There is nothing here for me. We should just go.” Until a friend calls my name and pulls me from the board meeting of unnecessary decisions.

I am too many people to worry over the concerns of others, particularly when regarding me. It is an erroneous waste of energy and a damn shame we take so personally the passing disregard of another. We write whole tales of our history, trudging up misgivings like badges of honor: “I survived this suckage.” It says in bright red letters. Screaming “I did it by myself” while fellow warriors dangle like footnotes falling from the page, as though a single thing in this life is accomplished on our own. The stork did not drop you upon any door; someone’s body stretched to accommodate your growing cranium. I am awash with confessions of the people I used to be and awe-struck by who I have envisioned. It is never either/or in this life but “yes, and” with every second in technicolor improvisation.

I am no gender, no race or sexual orientation. I don’t understand the lumping of physical traits and desires into synonymous groups, and I am not so certain of the eyes. We rely upon them far too much for sight, disregarding the moving, vibrating rhythm and jive making this and that stable enough to touch. I am too many people to be a man or woman; to be this way or that way. To be this thing or that thing. To be labeled anything at all when I am it all. Our forgetfulness is painful and propagating. Our savagery is in our bloodline but we are not who we once were, as individuals or as a species.

I am not attached to any which way you are showing up, because you are here. Welcome to the party darling; I’m so glad you came.

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https://soundcloud.com/conner-carey/sky-is-falling-from-the-end-of-the-world

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https://soundcloud.com/conner-carey/now-love-we-say-goodbye

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#appleevent #liveblog #apple #keynote #sept9

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#ifthelordswilling #ifthelordswillingandthecreekdontrise #thecreekdontrise #countryslang #singing #15secondsong #originalsong #vocals #original #driving #mammasays 🚬🌚🎶

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#catipillar on the windshield #fairfield #saturday

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You will love, but you do not have to fall.

Dear Daughter, one day, you will discover how good it feels to love a man(or woman or anyone in-between or out-of-binary) and you will want to pour your entire heart - nay, your entire being - life itself, into this person. For awhile, I suppose we all try to do it, but it never works: two people trying to live as one body. We weren’t made to live that way; they have a heart, a brain and you, your own.

Dear Daughter, I do not say this to warn you. Nothing is sweeter than to love and be loved, but do decide. Choose the person you are with. Do not leave it up-to fate’s wispy hands; she will lead you on detour after detour. Together, you’ll go looking for a heart outside your chest while a perfectly good one beats inside your ribcage - which I promise was in-no-way fashioned from his.

Dear Daughter, the love stories will always end at the beginning. You cannot illustrate such complexity in romance. Diversify your interests and your reading list. Learn what brings you alive and chase it like a dog for their tail. Be open, receptive, but lend no ear to disrespect. 

Know your worth Daughter; your head deserves the finest jewels, but you will purchase them yourself. 

Your love can marvel, but find yourself in no position wherein your crown is dependent upon his(her/their) standing.

Dear Daughter, I promise there is more good in this world than there is pain. We cannot always decide the pain we are dealt, but we always choose what to do thereafter. When life surprises you Daughter, take it by the horns and lead. You are powerful and every person state-wide will feel the ripples where you walk when you walk in love.

Dear Daughter, one day you will discover how good it feels to love; on that day, let it be you. 

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#killingmesoftly #thefugees #laurynhill #15secondsong #singing #vocals #singer #instasing