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Literary Mixtape Vol. 12

Side A:

Side B:

March 31, 2024

Happy long weekend, wherever this finds ya. I hope you're coasting on a sugar high and if you've got kiddos, I hope you're coasting on a decent amount of sleep (those eggs aren't going to hide themselves).

It's especially exciting to feature a mixtape with Neil Young on his return to Spotify. Whatever you think of his decision to leave in 2022, or his decision to return these past few weeks, I'm glad to have an unbroken streak of songs for the M7 Master Playlist. Some of the songs have been hard to find; some are temporarily removed. But I haven't yet come across an M7 song which I haven't been able to find and add to the playlist, and that feels pretty good after six months of publishing.

Speaking of – six months! I'm reeling a bit. I'm going to keep this little project up as long as I'm able, thank you for supporting it as it grows. I hope you get a bit of time between egg hunts and dinners and church services and family to catch up on this latest volume.

t.r. san's "This House" treads delicately on heavy subject matter. The piece, in t.r.'s own words, "explores memory, (my fear around my inherited risk of) dementia, names, and my relationship to names as a transfeminine person." Please note a content warning of implied sexual assault.

M.M. Kaufman follows suit in exploring the rolling waves of grief in "Impossible Year". At once heartbreaking and hilarious, Kaufman's elegy recounts the unthinkable task of celebrating life in the shadow of death.

Aarik Danielson summons the strange tempest of a relationship weathering its seasons in "Head Over Heels", moving from rain-soaked baptisms to whispers of snow, parting cloudbursts and tracing sun-kissed freckles.

Sheldon Birnie's "Don't Cry No Tears" follows a slow canoe trip on a glassy lake made a little less lonely with an unexpected passenger belting Neil Young for the ride. No talk, just tunes. Sometimes that's all we need.

Aubri Kaufman's "Title and Registration" is a study in contrasts, tempering the sharp sting of an accident with a smoke-laden song bond, softening harsh sirens with the romance of runaways.

Emily Costa's "Never Meant" is a letter to a lost friend, a lament for the conversations that hang heavy on our tongues and ominous in last messages after someone passes away.

Thanks for listening, as always.




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