Cud Eastbound

“I met cud about four years ago in halifax. he was sitting in the corner of my kitchen, looking slightly odd & playing a tiny guitar. he weirded me out. he didn’t say much. several years later, he still weirds me out, but I really love him now. I’m glad his spaceship crashed on this planet.”

The following is a draft-telling of the making of a lost boy who wasn’t really lost at all.

It was before becoming Eastbound that Cud sunk into music in a place where sound met wave and courage met constraint. Like most who are exceptional and disproportionally vibrant, the suburbs stifled his heart. Though he would never leave behind his love for purity and sylvan contemplation, Cud needed first to face the intraurban poison, following its stench which seeped even deep within holy ground at the borders of the forest. As the world learned of Cud, so did he of the world, in a city full of people and disease. But the sadness parted for the friends he made and loves today still, some of which he gutted to better crawl inside and suck out the marrow of their crushed bones. Not really, though.

An inherited hand for string, Cud found the guitar to construct for us daydream fantasies he had been living through in the wild of the woods where he was raised, not likely by wolves. His words express immediacy in the fragile living of interpersonal exploration.