1. |
Talking in Tounges
09:08
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NARRATION
As Lady Melrose escaped through the front gate in her Jag
a large entourage spewed out of the festivities.
The glamorous drag queens, Pasha and Samantha led the revellers toward the archbishop’s rectory in their high-heels and beefeater fancy dress.
They were accompanied by the trans-gender darlings
Carmen, Summer and Gloria.
They’d costumed up and were about to go on stage
just moments before they were interrupted by the head
as it began to taunt the guests in strange voices.
Everyone was bewildered by the terrible madness that had beset it.
From their peepholes on the first floor of the rectory
Father Santamaria and Archdeacon Alfonso had been watching the swarm of costumed ball guests crossing the courtyard.
Anxious they ran down to the porch to greet them.
Santamaria took charge.
The technicians thrust the broken body of the statue gently at the feet of the priest.
They showed him the blasphemous head they had captured in a plastic laundry basket.
It was the head that belonged to the holy statue of The Prodigal Sinner.
Santamaria ordered his curate to hurry to the chapel, to fetch the large monstrance.
The porch began to fill with the rabble who were jostling to watch the head in the basket cry out.
Eat your beef… or is it horse or goat. Hah! Hah!
Oops—Arhh! The atomic genie is out, Oppenheimer.
You’re little genie is out!
A few that were too drunk to know better were giving the head as much cheek as it was throwing up at them.
The State-leader Royston Bustwick and Reg Thudmore the Attorney-general motioned for them to be pushed toward the back.
Ah! Yer stupid pretenders.
Look at yer—all costumed up. Hah!
The belligerent head had developed spongy moving lips and shifty eyes that rolled about.
Eh-Ah! The atomic genie is out. It’s got out of the lab!
Watch out citizens!
It got worse.
Much worse.
It started talking in different tongues.
As though it was channelling many entities in succession.
It cried out again in an anguished eerie voice which echoed around the porch:
One minute to target. Open bomb doors… over
Little Boy bomb away! Bomb awayyyy!
Great fireballs of fission!
Just saw the flash. It’s a big one baby!
What’s it babbling about?
Two minutes to target. Over
Roger that Fat Man. Over
Dropping the Fat Man now. Bomb away. Over
Eh-ah. The atomic genie is out. It’s got out of the lab.
Watch out citizens.
Oopps—sorry about that. Watch out little children below.
Better get inside or it’ll burn yer. Hah Ha ha-ha!
Some way off sets of footsteps could be heard.
Faint at first, they were at a march and becoming prominent.
This is the greatest thing.
On it went.
The head of The Prodigal Sinner would just not stop babbling flipping turning and cussing.
Don't ask, don’t tell eh? Nudge! nudge!
Mission accomplished! Mission accomplished! Hah-ha!
Order! Order! Order I say! Hah haha.
With the full force of ecumenical presence Archbishop Garibaldi and his group entered the dishevelled scene.
He was in his night vestments and cape, gripping his bishop’s staff tightly.
So what is the meaning of this State-leader? Father Santamaria?
Have you all gone mad waking me up at this time of night?
The archbishop’s cherry-jewelled night-mitre sat at a seventy-degree angle off his head.
He had hardly finished speaking, when The Prodigal Sinner in the basket sparked up, as though it had been waiting to interject.
I can see yer Archbish’p in yer big hat!
What is that awful sound Attorney-general?
State-leader?
Why that sounds like radiation Archbishop!
I’d recognize it anywhere.
Mme. So it’s trying to scare us with some atomic petulance.
Very well if this head is going to play it dirty
let’s see what we can do about it
eh Father Santamaria?
Like quick-draw crucifix warriors Garibaldi and Santamaria reached for the chains around their necks.
Then they flashed their metallic pectoral crosses out at the voice in the bucket in perfect unison.
We shall fight on our beaches
Bombs away
I am not an animal.
(Burp!)
Ah—that’s better
Then a barrel-chested balding figure came running down the outer colonnade into the side entrance of the rectory.
He rounded the corner as his big body skidded on the smooth tiles, halting precisely near enough to reach out to kiss Garibaldi’s ring.
It was the portly master-flagellant monk Proctor Wallace.
Well what is it Proctor?
What’s the matter, can’t you see we have our hands full here?
The proctor was overwrought.
Archbishop they’re back!
They’re back! I just saw a whole school of them up above the choir
loft. Big ones and little ones.
They were exquisite Your Ascendancy.
Some had a hue behind them!
A hue eh? Well that’s impressive!
But are you sure?
Are you really sure Proctor?
Yes Your Ascendancy.
Father take the proctor with you go to the laundry.
Ask Mrs Albertus to start up the kitchen then have the night-
duty hornsmen meet me in the cathedral.
Yes Your Ascendancy.
And light the incense.
Right away.
You know the routine.
Santamaria edged up to the State-leader and the Attorney-general.
They like the incense stops them from being shy.
Mmme I see Father
responded the Attorney-general politely not understanding what Santamaria meant.
Hah! They’ve come to visit yer Archbish! Hah-ha!
Oh shut up you stupid thing
spat Samantha at the head, as she strutted forward and turned to smile at the archbishop.
Samantha delivered the rebuke with such ferocity that the whole group was caught off-guard. Even the noisy head was temporarily silenced.
Oh hallo Samantha darling.
Hallo Pasha.
Oh yes and Carmen, Gloria, Summer how delightful!
How stunning you all are!
Oh hallo Archbish!
We haven’t seen you since the Fat Tuesday parade!
We’ve missed you so much haven’t we Carmen, Samantha.
Archbish you must come on our float this year you simply
must!
In their heels and with showbiz panache Carmen and the others stepped back two steps.
They extended their feathers out until they formed into a fully blossomed preen.
With their long willowy legs crossed atop their heels
they proceeded to jiggle their exotic feathered capes
so that the thousands of miniature bells attached to them made the most exquisite sound.
Garibaldi smiled in appreciation.
The gathering of superiors and inferiors watched gleefully
at the spontaneous affection directed at the archbishop
by his friends from the mardigras parade
showing off in his holy porch.
Writer: Kevin Karmalade / HRAF
Lyrics: © HR Arts Factory
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2. |
Smog Sirens
09:53
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NARRATION
Dusk, fifteenth June 2027
An ominous strange noise cut through Dirk van Ritter’s radio
which was on in the background.
It was the smog sirens wailing across the Capital.
To warn the young, the elderly and asthmatics
it was best to remain indoors.
Greetings fellow citizens.
Hail Regina to you all! Thanks for being with us tonight.
You’re with Radio Good Shepherd 91.8FM.
Stay with us for the next few hours won’t you.
We have a great show com’in up.
Dirk was seated on the floor of the porch enclosure inside his small tenement.
He was rummaging through a set of architectural drawings from the Infrastructure and Tourism Bureau where he worked.
He’d just finished putting up a new poster on his wall
a photo of the impressive tower-crane lit up at sunset.
Folks—can you hear the sirens? Ah! They’re right on time.
The Royal Docklands.
The Bureau announced it would be iconic.
A set of interconnected structures built along Holborne River.
It would allow citizens to reclaim the Capital’s waterfront
which had been left derelict and decayed decades before.
The Royal Docklands Centre would be a key building and social attraction.
It would be for superiors and inferiors of all ages to be amused and entertained said the Bureau’s media release.
Iconic.
It was the finest word for the party to use
- if one wanted to hype a major infrastructure development
- not yet designed or built.
For the drawings were delayed and in permanent revision.
The massive road and civil works the underground electricity the gas and drainage, were held up in red tape.
Local councillors were stabbing one another in the back as they tussled for position, glory and more pay.
Squabbling, greed and self-interest had taken hold.
But it was all inconsequential to the main problem:
the Royal Dockland’s construction budget had gone ballistic.
It had caused lower ranked inferiors like Dirk to be wrung out of late.
He was sleeping badly and eating on the run.
There was no tolerance left in the Bureau or within the Secular Party
for any more mistakes.
There had been many.
It triggered a purge.
An administrative enema that produced winners and losers.
Dirk achieved a small win by default.
He had begun to be known as a ping-pong champ
after he’d won a competition, in front of some superiors
at Sir Perceval Lamb’s gala-ball.
The rise in Dirk’s profile had earned him some higher duties.
It was like pouring sweet dessert onto his ambitions.
And it left him craving more.
Given the delicateness of whether Docklands would actually be built
Dirk was on edge.
He did have some help.
Two mentors Director-General Mandy Fagan and Sir Perceval Lamb.
Both had reputations as survival experts in their chosen profession
—bureaucracy.
Dirk’s partner called him from the next room.
Dirk—did you shop?
Um—yes
Dirk replied absently.
Have you done you’re elocution exercises?
Yep—this morning
Director-General will check up on you
I know… she can be so annoying
sighed Dirk.
You need to feed Ivan he has licked me twice already.
He’s begging for a bone.
Ivan! Stop sucking up to Natascha. You won’t be fed any faster
he said annoyed he’d have to help clean Ivan’s slobber off her face and hands.
The smog sirens were just as confronting as when they had been used in the food riots
to coerce citizens to blackout their homes and burrow into shelters.
Re-conditioned and put back into service
they were electronically patched into the state Communications Grid.
Whenever they commenced their mournful droning
Radio Good Shepherd would play the same familiar tune.
It was a nocturnal anthem of curfew
imploring citizens to stay inside and turn on their oxygen-units
so they might sleep more comfortably.
Distracted Dirk failed to notice Ivan tottering past him onto the large printed drawings spread over the floor.
The dog sniffed each of them economically
until he took a liking to the hydraulics plan.
Dirk was waiting for the radio simulcast
to hear the choir he’d joined
until a few months back when the pressure had got too much for him to stay.
Now he had to satisfy himself instead
pulling ropes backstage with the other volunteers
for St. Dandy’s aerial choir.
It was a serious drop in status compared to being an active member of the choir itself.
Just com’in up to 6:50 p.m.
You’re with 91.8. Stay with us, we’ll be back after the break.
We’ve got the Priory choir for you at the top of the hour.
Stay tuned.
Five nights a week the Priory choir simulcast on 91.8 and out the top of the second and third broach-spires of St. Dandy’s Cathedral
across the Capital.
Ivaannn!
scolded Dirk as saw his spaniel licking the toilet-pipe schematic
Gget off my drawings! Out!
Ivan hurriedly retreated tail lowered from the rebuke.
Interrupted, Dirk got up from the floor and strolled into the kitchen.
He pressed the remote.
It aroused his companion’s attention enough to cause her to stop practising her chromatic scales.
She turned her head and blinked.
What is it Dirk?
Let me wash your feet?
Oh-hoh yes please
said Natascha, holding her music sticks, with the candy-coloured knobs
just above the keys.
Slosh my toes! Oohoo—of course
Dirk smiled.
I’ll run some water in the basin.
Finish your xylophone scales first though
he said like an adult urging a child to finish their homework
You’re sounding better each time you play it.
I’ve told you before Dirk—it’s a glockenspiel not a xylophone
Natascha offered which he wistfully ignored.
Dirk turned the kitchen tap as he glanced out the window.
He drifted into thinking about the new alternative-powered centre:
the state Pollution Bureau.
It had issued a forecast that was disappointing.
No wind or rain to reduce the noxious fumes and greenhouse gas
for forty more days and nights.
They would be starved for a downpour by then.
He was thinking ahead to when the heat would be broken by the fierce storm sets bringing with them the acidic downpours.
He was sure the feared construction official Warts McCatheter
and his gang of thugs would close the site for three days at a minimum.
And he’d probably take two extra for the act of god conditions on double time.
Dirk was concerned for Director-General Fagan.
Jack Spooner the Exchequer would be furious with the escalating cost and time blow-outs every delay caused.
Truth was the waterfront was still months off from being ready to be built on.
Fagan had been warned twice now that Spooner might try to pull the plug on the project
If he could get enough support in the Secular Party.
Damn it!
Dirk frowned shaking his head slightly.
This weather is enough to turn bread to stone
he said more loudly than he’d meant to.
Yes I know bread to stone
echoed Natascha, sensing his irritable mood.
Writer: Kevin Karmalade / HRAF
Lyrics: © HR Arts Factory
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3. |
Budget Blowout
09:02
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NARRATION
Like a paranormal phenomenon the smog had turned the ebbing sun to a creamy orange-brown.
It sank swiftly arching behind the tall cross, atop the spire of St. Dandy’s Cathedral.
And below the cragged tops of the buildings that formed the horizon.
In the distance Dirk glimpsed a stamp-size view of the tall city-towers and the aging monorail.
To the right lay Constitution Hill.
It was not a high hill but it was the most elevated piece of land with a flat even top.
It’s where the founders had chosen to position the Vivatrium and the cathedral to overlook the Capital.
To gift the state and the church the best views down through to the edge of Holborne River
which wound its way along to open out into Queen Victoria Harbour.
The waterfront.
It was where Dirk hoped the Royal Docklands Centre would rise out of the derelict building site he’d helped to fence off for Director-General Fagan.
The project had all the potential to elevate him from a low-ranked inferior to something much more he hoped.
That is if he continued to please Mandy Fagan and Perceval Lamb.
They had their own troubles navigating the planning politics and hurdles. Jack Spooner had openly declared his opposition.
He was sick of the budget forecast blowing out uncontrollably.
This cost model FLEM seems to have a mind of its own!
Dirk heard the Exchequer bark at Fagan at their last meeting.
It was true Dirk thought dreamily.
FLEM was one of the most sophisticated cost models on the market.
Dirk and a few others above him had a pass to talk to it
add input and cost data.
FLEM would thank the giver and provide feedback
Thankyou Dirk for your input.
The total cost of the RDC building is now
seven hundred and thirty one point two four million.
Refer to your printout
Even though FLEM knew the total cost at any point there was a dilemma.
Too many cooks feeding data in, that FLEM was not programmed to reject. The Bureau had lost the ability to accurately forecast what the project would cost.
Director-General Fagan demanded that confidence be restored.
FLEM was ordered to cut costs. Or else he would be disconnected
and the Bureau would revert back to old school manual cost accounting.
It’s why Dirk was left squatting on his floor
beside the radio his partner and dog
trying to understudy the Bureau’s budget manager
help bandage the forecast from haemorrhaging any further
before their next meeting in two days’ time.
In the transition from twilight to dark Dirk could just see the spotlight beams being fired up.
They projected their colourful rays back and forth from the night sky onto the Vivatrium’s imperial facade and gargoyles.
At evening its illumination was the most grandiose feature of the Capital.
The lights silhouetted the weeping statue of the Mother Regina.
The most venerated holy, imperial Regina.
Adorned by the gushing rose waters of the roof fountain
the Regina crowned the state in Her wet authoritarian marble.
A short way around Constitution Hill stood St. Dandy’s Cathedral.
Its facade had been re-painted in off-white—with a pale tone.
It accentuated the stained glass and ornaments which in the right light
would sparkle and enchant the tourists.
At night mood lights would spruce the cathedral up into all sorts of shades and textures.
Pink or violet was the most sought after.
Each day at precisely 10:00 a.m. gigantic synthetic feather-plumes would be re-hoisted and suspended over its grand entrance and side doors.
Each day members of St. Dandy’s social club would arrive early to prepare the feathers and dress the foyers and Altar in fresh floral arrangements.
Of course there were always the normal daily dramas and quarrels about what should be put up.
But when it was show-time
when the hornsmen guard marched up for their ritual knocking ceremony
to collect the feather plumes for the 10:00 a.m. hoist
there always descended a remarkable calm.
The cathedral the outer buildings and vicarage was simply known as the Loving Church of Saint Dandy.
Its weekly music programme, its special services
the brilliant funeral send-offs reflected a desire to include citizens of any rank faith fetish or gender.
St. Dandy’s Cathedral was a refuge of temperance and tolerance for all-comers.
Yet St. Dandy’s was still a fortress of religiosity
designed to protect its cloistered community behind the hard sandstone masonry walls and wrought-iron picket fencing.
Its gothic revival architecture towered over a cluster of monastic buildings
where in a small chapel in the farthest corner
a traditional Gregorian prayer service was underway.
Up in the bell tower the cathedral’s gargantuan bells cut through the siren noise with ease.
Within the cathedral itself the aerial choir was practising its flying routines. Up two more floors in the Hark the Herald tower-loft
the accessible parts of the carillon bells were being polished
by noviciates in white gloves.
Proctor Wallace the portly eccentric monk was supervising the fledgling carillonneurs.
I want those clapper-balls gleaming brighter than St. Dandy’s halo!
yelled Wallace.
There mustn’t be a speck of dust between each ball and the bell when it’s rung.
Do you hear me?
The principle being that only a dustless clapper-ball created perfect sound.
Yes Proctor, thankyou Proctor
squeaked a huddle of the bell-ringers as they intensified their chores in response.
No one dared to contest the proctor’s absurd coaching.
Except Archdeacon Alfonso who rather cowardly would roll his eyes behind the proctor’s back.
The magnificent St. Dandy’s Cathedral.
It was where the sins of state and church were purged.
And the worst of them were castrated...
The surgery was reserved exclusively for gross-abusers.
Like the rogue-clerics or a doomed state-convict sentenced to the punishment. It was performed underground.
In the soundproof flagellation Chapel number one.
Beneath where congregations worshipped baptisms were celebrated and altar bread consumed.
A place where traditional discipline was administered
to assist those that found themselves there to atone.
Writer: Kevin Karmalade / HRAF
Lyrics: © HR Arts Factory
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4. |
Foot Washing Mania
09:52
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NARRATION
Inside his flat Dirk checked the voucher for the new boots
he’d ordered to celebrate
the third anniversary of hooking up with Natascha.
The boots were being crafted by Argus Calwell
the leather-smith and second-hand manikin repairer.
He kept a modest shop on Purana Lane, in the old part of the Capital.
As he hummed along to 91.8FM Dirk began to brush Natascha’s hair
which he routinely did most evenings after work.
Hold still I want to get a few knots and tangles out for you.
I am Dirk. You’re the one that’s moving.
It was a little strange perhaps that he had never thought to ask if she enjoyed his fussing.
He just assumed she did.
Dirk’s manner who he was could be traced to his childhood.
By the age of six he had been deeply moved by the story of when Jesus knew that his hour had come.
Dirk learnt Jesus had got a basin to wash the feet
and lacquer the dusty toenails of his disciples.
According that is to his stepfather’s home-gospel ranting.
Young Dirk was so captured by the story, he had tried to emulate the charitable habit ever since.
Even after he was told much later that his stepfather had embellished somewhat.
In those early years Dirk had practised washing the feet of fellow children dolls and toys.
He would sneakily paint others’ toes whenever he could find them.
It confused those adults who chided him for attempting to take their socks off especially when they were trying to eat.
Over the years Dirk created disturbances under various tables despite being punished for his juvenile obsession.
The machinations of adults their lack of faith in his want to cleanse
hurt him acutely.
For Dirk the counselling of his peers arrived too late.
By his mid-teens he had already converted as a heel and toe compulsive
so washing the feet of others was a calling not a chore.
He knew Jesus and St. Dandy the martyr saint understood
even if others could not.
Dirk did not recognise how much the rejections of his childhood
the put-downs and jibes over his caring nature
had shaped him psychologically.
Or why his yearnings for rank and acknowledgement were almost wholly
a product of those rebukes; not much else.
Nor had he any idea that some oligarchs also participated in the washing ritual.
But only on special occasions.
Usually on the eve of the flagellation of State-leaders.
Such things were kept from inferiors.
Dirk had endured more than the occasional jibe that the practice was no longer politically correct.
That he just could not accept.
Neither did some of the oligarchs
when they dangled their feet for some pampering.
Natascha—hold still. Let me have your feet
he said softly.
I am holding still. The water is too hot
Sorry—I’ll cool it down for you
Dirk kneeled to pour some cold water into the basin. He checked the temperature as he let her feet—and his hands, splash around together.
Orrhh! Arrh-ha!
Stop it Dirk—that tickles.
Arrh— that’s gorgeous! Arrh—you good boy!
Dirk looked into her face as he knelt to finish up.
Natascha unless I wash your feet and paint your nails, they will not be perfect—will they?
In the confines of his small tenement Dirk could pretend to be Natascha’s king and custodian.
Whereas outside he was aware of just how inferior he was.
At least he was in paid servitude manning the front counter of the Infrastructure and Tourism Bureau’s information desk.
Working part-time doing private errands to and from the site
and around the state bureaucracy for Fagan.
And acting as an underling to the Dockland’s budget manager.
He was required to check the arithmetic and accuracy of the numbers before any major meeting
and distribute the papers, to the various working committees that were engaged in the planning.
Fagan had positioned him well. In a few short months
he had access to forums that allowed Fagan to peer through Dirk’s eyes
into corners and crannies of the Bureau and the budget committee meetings he attended.
He’d got on exceptionally well with Warrin Fitz Gerald, the crane contractor who was the brother-in-law to Reg Thudmore, the Attorney-general.
Fagan wanted Fitz Gerald to have the crane contract that Dirk was helping with.
It was to Dirk’s advantage then
if others began to see him as Fagan’s information spy.
It signalled his informal elevation; having her and Lamb support him as their inferior they were prepared to patronise.
Mandy Fagan had told Dirk, that the front counter was no longer where he would toil in civil service.
She told him in more precious moments she had much grander plans for him.
He’d observed others that had moved up the state Ranking Register. Especially those that had joined the Secular Party beforehand.
Fagan had encouraged him to go to night school with Jock Cory and Kimberly Palmer
to learn building project cost-administration.
He was doing well and passing his exams.
And he was on a serious path
getting to study the plans and cost models at Fagan’s insistence, so that he could learn the project from the ground up.
Yet there was a deep itch of malcontent inside that he couldn’t help: ‘Why had he not been promoted?’ he thought.
He’d been patient.
He knew he was as worthy as some of the inferiors in the tourism shop, and the accounts office, that had moved up in the Bureau’s ranks.
Dirk van Ritter was thirty-nine and disappointed with himself.
He’d become envious slowly
until he manifested a painful distress within.
At the core was the fixation over how other inferiors had ascended way above him.
It left him feeling empty and almost useless
irrespective of whether that was rational or not.
He would be forty soon.
As ready as he could be for his mid-life crisis
when that was due.
Surely it was not far off he supposed.
Promotion.
He’d been in the Bureau for six years going on for seven.
His job his life had become stale.
And his time had come, according to his self-improvement coach whose audio-recordings he assiduously followed...
Writer: Kevin Karmalade/HRAF
Lyrics: © HR Arts Factory
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5. |
Oh Yes We Can
05:46
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NARRATION
"Its my time...
I am whole
My time is at hand
Its time
I deserve to be promoted
Its my time
I deserve it
I deserve it. I've earned it
Yes I... "
- he'd repeat over and over...
Unwittingly Sir Percy and Mandy Fagan had opened an emotional gate for Dirk
They asked him in one of their quiet moments
sitting in the lounge of Lamb’s RV, what he really strived for
Sir Percy, Director-General
I want to be the Prebendary-Provost of the Docklands Centre
by the day it’s opened
Dirk was so certain about it
Lamb believed him at once
Although he was somewhat surprised with Dirk’s intense ambition
Mandy Fagan nearly buckled up trying to supress her amusement
She tried to stop herself from laughing too much
Oh— Hah Hah! Dirk! How mendacious of you!
I mean, that’s—that’s amazing
It really is
Oh gosh
I never knew
Feeling he was being made fun of by Fagan
Dirk had thrown his papers on the floor in a moment of upset.
As he did Perceval Lamb heard the bells of St. Dandy’s Cathedral strike the second quarter.
Raising his Panama hat to the voice of his conscience
Lamb looked intently at Fagan. Lamb acknowledged Dirk
for having the courage to be so candid with them.
Mandy let us think charitably through this.
The Prebendary—head of the Docklands Centre.
Mme a prized role for sure Dirk and it pays well—yes
It does.
We’d have to win over Jock Cory, the recruiter then.
And we’d need your support of course Mandy.
It would be quite an elevation Dirk
from where you’ve been serving on the souvenir and information desk.
Hah! you don’t say so Percy
Dirk! It’s more than an elevation.
Mandy! Please!
Surely you can see how serious our young Dirk is here
he chided Fagan.
Yes, yeah—I’m sorry Dirk it’s a bit of a surprise that’s all
Yes Sir Percy, Director-General
I, I know but I want to at least try
Yes—you’ll need some more elocution lessons
replied Lamb
Night school of course; grooming up at Whitehall’s Salon
Oh and tutoring in cost accounting
Thankfully you’ll have FLEM to help
Dirk nodded but had hardly listened to Percy’s detailed advice at the time.
The favours that he’d have to pull.
The work that was ahead of Dirk to transform himself from the low-inferior rank he presently occupied.
Dirk was too busy daydreaming of what it would be like to walk around the Centre as its Prebendary and leader backed by Fagan and Lamb
Despite all the striving Natascha would stir when she heard Dirk muttering some of the disappointments of his current reality
as a counter-assistant in his sleep.
It was as though he was always grieving for a better life
than the one he had made for them both thus far.
It’s your time Dirk. It’s your turn to move on up
she’d affirm supportively, as her soothing voice would nurture her partner back to sleep
You can be the Prebendary, head of the Docklands Centre
yes you can
Oh yes you can
Yes! Yes! Yes you can
Oh yes you can
Yes, yes yes you can
Writer: Kevin Karmalade / HRAF
Lyrics: © HR Arts Factory
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HR Arts Factory Australia
WELCOME
HR Arts Factory is an experimental arts-audio studio workshop. It was set up to produce AV content for futuristic drama & stage concepts.
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New Words For Old Wounds
by William Ryan Fritch
William Ryan Fritch's enthralling, doomy new CD comes housed in a gorgeous, panoramic gatefold sleeve with bewitching original artwork.
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On “Spirit Breeze,” Dylan Gilbert starts from folk roots, but gradually adorns his songs with rich textural elements.
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