Sander Roscoe Wolff

In the process of sorting through the detritus of my life I happened upon a cassette tape labeled “Sander’s Apology.” I had no specific recollection of recording an apology, but did remember making tapes of radio broadcasts when I was a kid living in Santa Monica. We lived in Santa Monica from about 1968-1971. The tape was full on both sides, and contained a few surprises. Here are some excerpts:

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When the organizers of Dung Mummy invited me to participate, I was told they would have a video projecter in the space and, if I chose to, I could provide them with video that they would project behind me as I performed. I’d never really had the opportunity to do this before, and the prospect was thrilling.

Over the course of several days, and in several locations in and around Long Beach, I shot video of water in a variety of settings. Moving water has always had a certain fascination to me, and also felt somehow appropriate for the gentle ebb and flow of the music I planned to do. Much of what I shot was taken at the Japanese Garden at CSULB. One bit was taken at the El Dorado Duck Pond. Another was taken at the beach.

Because posting and hosting streaming video of any quality is problematic, I decided to post some still images gleened from the video.

Here they are:

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With the kind assistance of a volunteer, I recorded my performance at Dung Mummy on my video camera. The performance, in its entirety, was about 25 minutes. This excerpt, about 11 minutes in length, comes from the middle, when I had switched from my gretsch to my Industrial Guitar Indy Rail.

Click here to hear audio. Note: the file is about 10 MB.

If you’re interested, you can see pix of the guitar effects I use and read about what they do.
Enjoy!

Although I had no idea at the time, Jason Savvy (aka Monkey Wrench) was snapping pix while I was performing. He was kind enough to post them, and share them with the performers.

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Forged
By Sander Roscoe Wolff
March 22, 2006 9:05 PM

Made inside this fire
Hammered, forged
Glowing from within
Beaten.

Coal and billows blows
Burning brightly
Nestled in the embers
So cold.

Any old iron
Melts into something new
What I was
Is gone.

Haikus for Yous.

Pluck the strings, my heart
Sings of Spring’s promise.
Love blooms everywhere.

Birch, slender and strong,
Sending shoots toward the sun,
Bending in the wind.

Leaves Fall at your feet.
Carpets of color guide you
To home and husband.

Wool socks, soft and warm,
Hug your feet beneath covers.
Winter’s cold forgotten.

Green light shines in my eyes
Running down the wall in all
I call to skies

Arms reach out like trees
Stretching out into the hall
To silver seas

Who knew the blue in you
I didn’t see the green in me

Grass grows inside my shoes
Reaching toward the silent call
From green to Blues

Who knew the blue in you
I didn’t see the green in me
We’ll still see it through
Until we are free
[We’ll see it through
Until you are me]

Dawn comes down to kiss my face
Dancing in the birth of All
A warm embrace

Who knew the blue in you
I didn’t see the green in me
We’ll still see it through
Until we are free
[We’ll see it through
Until you are me]

I didn’t know it but
You did
You didn’t know it but
I did

[Guitar Solo – Verse only?]

Who knew the blue in you
I didn’t see the green in me
We’ll still see it through
Until we are free
[We’ll see it through
Until you are me]

I didn’t know it but
You did
You didn’t know it but
I did
I didn’t know it but
You did
You didn’t know it but
I…

Transfigured Heart
By Sander Roscoe Wolff
3-9-06 3:22 PM

Carry my heart in both hands.
Walk slowly.
Sometimes it feels indestructible
but it isn’t.

Carry it all the way.
Don’t hand it off when it gets heavy.
Help me to lighten it.

Why am I afraid?
It has been bruised and broken,
torn apart, crushed.
My heart, so transfigured, still beats.
It’s rhythm a bit slower, unfamiliar,
but still my own.

Be still, my heart, and, in the silence, listen.
Hear the flutter of a thousand valves.
Each beats with scars, a history of trauma.

Why am I afraid?
I trust your hands, your heart.
Just don’t drop me again.

A Little Seed
By Sander Roscoe Wolff
3-10-06 7:17 AM

The little boy in footy pajamas,
a shock of curly black hair,
curled into a tight ball on the floor,
impossibly small.
A finger moves, unfolds, and another
followed by wrist, so slowly, so slowly
so smoothly unfolding, his small form flowering.

This performance is his, and we love it.
A little seed sprouting into a flower,
his little body stretched straight,
his fingers reaching for the ceiling.
In those moments, no judgment or doubt,
just the simple joy of blossoming.

Forty years have slipped away,
the flower faded, withered.
That sweet, bright child
so full of innocence and joy,
seems distant now, barely a memory.
His loss lingers in my heart,
but I know he’s a part of
my essential self,
as close as my breathing.

Wait
by Sander Roscoe Wolff
3/11/06 3:02 PM

Burn in amber language
Acidic sparks explode
Wonderment cracks a code
Bent by my desire

Burn the fire down
Round turns back again
Pens point and write
The brightness

Crackle snap crack
Don’t lay on my back
Look me in the eye
And say you love me.

Burn your clothes
Run naked through the grass
The sun shines on your skin
Lets begin!

Turn a phrase, a phase
Of endless expansion
Tension released
The beast slumbers
In the ashes.

In the morning
dewdrops glisten
on your eyelashes and nipples.
I wait for you to wake.