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Deep in a Donut Dream

by Hussalonia

Maybe something good will come of this. If I didn’t dump the glass half full, I’d be remiss, remiss, remiss. If you want to understand, understand that it’s futile; The most dangerous things in life are also the most beautiful. And after all the subtractions what was left?
 Just the abstractions of the bereft. Can you tell me in ten items or fewer? Caught in the throes of a throwaway culture, Bottom feeder, heartbroken vulture. Pre-approved and predisposed. I’m sorry. Come again. We’re closed. Secret passageways always exist; I hope you find them. Maybe something good will come of this, of this, of this.
Can’t you see I’m deep in a donut dream? Don’t wake me up; I could be dangerous. I’m the error laureate. I’m all made up, pony up, farce poetica. I may deserve all the tennis balls you sent. ‘Cuz even the simplest pleasures can be downright tragic. Corporeal kissing catastrophe. This is not a conversation about the weather, though it raineth everyday. Tonight I’m gonna shoot the albatross. Observe how healthily I sing this song. Understand that I’m not interested in the answers, Just the audacity to go on in the absence of them.
Sometimes I feel like I’m standing on a ledge. And you try to talk me off. You say it’s for the best. You pull me through the window and this is what you say, “I didn’t drag you from the river so you can just sail away.” I now doth crazy go. I broke all the dishes while you were gone. I accidentally dropped them, baby, one by one. My hands just sort of slipped. I can’t explain. This is why you shouldn’t leave without me again. I now doth crazy go. Take a look at those lips, they’re not gonna kiss themselves. So it’s clear to me. We need each other’s help. I now doth crazy go.
Baby, where you be? ‘Cuz you isn’t here with me. My hair is on fire. My face is melting, can’t you see?
 Baby, where you be? Why ain’t you text me back? You straight up wrong, girl. You got me whack. I’m on all fours outside your door. Baby, where you be?
 ‘Cuz you isn’t here with me. My eyes have fallen out. I’m nearly paralyzed, can’t you see? Baby, where you be?
The children have stopped eating. Their faces gaunt, they stare adoringly. But things aren’t always as bad as they seem to be. They close their eyes, and yes, they wish for you. Their brains inventing new ways to dematerialized. Your ears and nose and throat — The crisis that they bring. The fall of everything. It’s the face that moved a thousand mice. Everyone’s getting euthanized because they can’t take it anymore. The elderly are handing over their pension checks ‘cuz you’ve given them eternal youth. And the gardens are all overgrown, And the trees won’t stop bearing fruit, And the floors have all given up, And so we just keep falling through, And our reproductive organs have seized, In accordance of His will, ‘Cuz there’ll never be another you. No, there will never be another you.
False Idol 02:00
What is futile to resist allows us to exist. The pulse in the wrist of two atheists finding god in a kiss. Let me be your false idol. Let me be your false idol. Let me walk up your arms. Let me twist through your hair. Let me save you from the wrath of everyone, everyone everywhere. Let me be your false idol. Let me be your false idol. To the losing gods whose stars are stillborn, still, still they perform, Like pagans suckled in a creed outworn. Let me be your false idol. Let me be your false idol. Let me be your false idol. Let me be your false idol.
You say I’m irrational. Well maybe that’s true, But I’m more of a prime number, divisible by only myself and you. I’m a neologist, obviously stating the obvious. I’m a celebrity in this room. I am the most famous guy to ever sing this tune. I’m a celebrity in this room. Every night it’s my funeral, every morning my wake. I want to see my name in frosting on every single cake. Maybe something good will come of this. Dreaming of ways to avoid the big sleep. I’m a celebrity in this room. I am the most famous guy to ever use this broom. I’m a celebrity in this room.
Stop the population. Put an end to civilization. We had a pretty good run. Say goodbye to everyone. Start the sterilization. No generations to inherit our dysfunctional nations. A falling plane in flight. Last one out, won’t you hit the lights? Stop the procreation. Leave it to the birds and the bees and the flowers and the vegetation. While we were so clever and self-aware, Won’t the world be better off without us here?
Three cheers for cheers everybody on the floor. Three cheers for cheers — scratch that you better make it four. I used to sleep the floors. I used to sweep the brooms. I used to fly like ping pong balls all around the room. Grow a beard and shave it. Sweep it up and save it. Throw it like confetti. Sacco and Vanzetti. Three cheers for cheers because everybody here’s alive. Three cheers for cheers — scratch that you better make it five. I got a letter in the mail the other day. I folded it into a boat and let it sail away. I’m crawling on my hands and knees, crawling for feet, ‘Cuz everything is meaningless, at least everything I see. Three cheers for cheers. Three cheers for cheers.
I want to live on an abstract plane. Don’t want my body. I just want my brain. Don’t want to eat or sleep or ever feel pain. Or pleasure. Whatever. It’s all the same. Think of all the things I do to ensure that I exist. A list of activities, all mindless and merciless. How many times will I eat this meal or wash this hair? I try to disappear but I’m always there. And so I was relieved to see that these were cards that I could match or beat. Displaced, replaced, and threatened, it’s you I would like to meet Again and again. Caught in an endless loop. A formula. A scientific proof. I pride myself on compassion and empathy, But it’s just impossible to live completely cruelty-free. Flesh betwixt their jaws, my detractors force feed me their pills. They say, “Everything, if it wants to live, must kill.”
But I want to live on an abstract plane.


Ten songs of desperation. Drums everywhere.


released February 9, 2011

Featuring the talents of...

Rob Lynch:
Percussion and laughter

Jonathan Hughes:
Bass, laughter, recording magic, ambient solo on "Deep," and Moog on “Abstract”

Remaining instrumentation: The Hussalonia founder

Cover artwork by Rob Lynch

Complete download comes with a lyric sheet.

A very special thanks to Rob and Jonathan whose contributions to this record cannot be overstated.

Deep in a Donut Dream was recorded using a process the Hussalonia founder calls “ghost-tracking.” It involves erasing the foundational guitar and vocal track after the basic overdubs have been completed, leaving a void at the center of the song. The effect is that the remaining basic tracks respond to cues that no longer exist. New vocals and ornamental overdubs are then recorded on top of this new arrangement, pulling the song into an unintended direction. It is a technique that the founder has used before, but not to this degree. Here, drums were repeatedly improvised over the original demo track, creating a random cacophony that, after enough overdubs, started to make sense. Consequently, each song on Deep in a Donut Dream contains no less than ten percussion tracks (all played by Hussalonia veteran Rob Lynch) with most of the song’ s chordal structure implied by Jonathan Hughes’ s bass. The mood cast is unsettling, at once desperate and celebratory. But like all Hussalonia projects, the album ultimately adheres to many of the conventions of pop music – short melodic refrains sung over a repetitive and formulaic chord structure. It is so that, after a few listens, the fog clears, and through the clutter, you see an old friend.

Additional Notes:
Both the best and worst part of working the overnight at a copy shop is that you are all alone. It's great because you can put the ragtime station on and walk around as if you're in a Charlie Chaplin film, all sped up like. You can spend hours making things like fake books or elaborate mix CD covers for friends. You can howl in a public space and there is no one around to think you're crazy. It has a kind of after-the-ball feeling. You vacuum up the paper hole punch pieces like you'd sweep up confetti. The piped-in music, once background to the din of voices and industry, now resonates through the empty, fluorescent-lit space, background to nothing at all. But it's also awful because you can never leave or truly take a break without the worry of someone coming in. Once you're there, you're stuck there. And if you didn't bring a lunch, you're not having lunch because no one delivers in the middle of the night.

Invariably, I'd forget to bring a lunch at least once a week. It was during these nights that I would stand behind a retail counter dreaming about Paula's Donuts.

Every night on my way to work, I’d bike past Paula’s Donuts, and man, if it didn't smell good. A sort of hot jelly smell. But I never left early enough to be able to stop at Paula’s. I'd only be able to admire that sweet donut air, my olfactory glands harbingers of frustration and longing. I swear, you could almost smell those donuts all the way on the Boulevard.

I no longer work at a copy shop, but I was recently reminded of a fake book that I made on the overnight when my wife and I were visiting her brother in Cambridge. We were in his living room and there it was on his coffee table, a fake anthology of stories that he allegedly wrote. Having forgotten all about it, I was delighted to pick it up and read through my fake titles and fake blurbs. It was like reading something written by someone else, but with the exact same sense of humor as you. When I came to a story titled "Deep in a Donut Dream," I was reminded of that strange desperation, being stuck in a store in the middle of the night, wishing you could have something that was so close you could smell it. And what a nice sounding string of words, I thought: Deep in a donut dream.

I couldn't help but think of the cruel cyclical symbolism of the donut itself. To be deep in a donut dream is to be stuck in a circle of obsessive thought, sweet thoughts, indulgent thoughts, but unhealthy nonetheless. And how perfect that my job called for me to be constantly duplicating, taking one document and making stacks of replicas with no real sense of completion or resolution. Once you were down to the last copy, with a push of button, more were on their way. It all seemed to tie together, the hopelessness, the strangeness, the desperation, the absurdity, the mind-boggling endlessness of it all. I decided that I would make a record that tried to capture that moment of time. The nights of temporary insanity, staring off into a blackened parking lot, a name tag on my chest, hungry and desperate, thinking about love and donuts.




Hussalonia Buffalo, New York

Hussalonia is largely the work of a multi-instrumentalist known only as The Hussalonia Founder.

Founded in 1997, Hussalonia is a "pop music cult" and claims to be owned by Nefarico™, a fictional soap company.

The Hussalonia Founder lives and works in Buffalo, New York.
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