This gift of fragments we are given resonates deeply. They border the whole within each of us. Touching, yes, but also penetrating in the way a whale might slip the w of the ocean or a great ship might cut the softness with its keel, a finger slipping slowly through a seam of warm, wet silk, resonance, presence, connection, there is a union here that is sacred in Nature.

Another iteration of Carlson's mystic western soundtracks, expansive in it's mantric phrases, lyric in it's spare yet emotive detailed variances, it echoes the void, acts as eyes . . . there is grit and dust here, wild and wavering vistas, perseverance and glory . . . his unique structures resemble esoteric geometrics unfolding from the quest through the ancient channelings of the North American west . . . He manages to, again, encompass closure within a sacred endlessness . . .