D.L. Mayfield

living in the upside-down kingdom

Filtering by Tag: orange fanta

Colder Than Mars

My husband wrote this song last winter (which was a hard and good one for us). I love how he weaves in so much (references to The Abyss, an obscure McSweeney's book called Giraffes? Giraffes! and all of our favorite snacks). I also love how it showcases his deeply earnest yet totally goofy personality. As my friend Nate Allen describes it: this is the kind of music a therapist records in his basement. Because it totally is. Anyways, it seems like creativity has been a key component of mental health for us, balancing the weight of the world we find ourselves in and getting lost in words and beats. To all of you who, like myself, the winters can be hard on, this song is for you.




[bandcamp width=100% height=120 album=2571148603 size=large bgcol=ffffff linkcol=0687f5 tracklist=false artwork=small track=3321551353]  



Colder Than Mars

by The Maiden Name


we go to malls when it snows and we don’t buy a thing and hold keys to cars we don’t own on our rings and when we lie down, I can feel the oxytocin flow like the Mississippi runs in the spring if we'd stuck to applied sciences, we might have ended up with better appliances but anthills pop up through the carpet, yeah our apartment’s kind of an armpit, yeah no pork at our parties, chicken is safest, and in minneapolis sambusas are the greatest orange fanta, sans-ice goat, basta, injeera, ricemy wife swears the vikings are a hockey team because of the ice I correct her, "that's a basketball team, you know" but I try to say it nice

we shop at the co-op, pick up some supplements at the food-shelf we buy what we can from the farmers, and then get what we can where we can wherever else. pita or pancake? why is everyone snacking on my sidewalk? spiced with ginger and mandrake! I’m not gonna pick it up and put in my pocket we drink what it see, drain it down, even up to the dregs let it sit deep within us, like fruit juices in giraffe’s legs

what if to submerge is like the Abyss? I mean the film from 1989 that I watched in 7th grade, with horror, as that rat’s eyes met mine he shrieked and tried not to drown, but he couldn’t resist, such a struggle in the brine his lungs filled with water and he survived with clenched fists [I mean paws, clenched paws]

its colder than mars here, and we import snow by the pounds and doors are locked and closed, from the first snow til the thaw of the ground we’re all gonna die of loneliness, cozy with just ourselves, only ourselves and a bottle of vodka taken down off the shelf across the hall, paper thin walls, our salvation is bound up together it’s not what we saw, but we heard the falls, as we waited day and night through the weather and if the sun ever comes out to greet us, we’ll beat it with a brick and threaten, "if you ever try to defect again, it’s over, we’ll finish the job, and this time we mean it."


from Colder Than Mars Demos, released 15 March 2015
Be sure to go check out his bandcamp page. He is the best boy.



Worlds within Worlds

Yesterday morning, we woke up to the most snow my child has ever seen. Nearly record-breaking, we went from brown earth to mountains of white in one glorious day. We suited up as best as we could and went out to play, the novelty still strong, the snow tasting cold and sharp, our hands stinging, our noses red. The husband, as a part of our caretaking duties, shoveled and snowplowed and chip chip chipped away at ice for hours and hours. Our neighbors sat on the stoop and gave him advice, lent him ear muffs, shook their heads in sympathy. I engaged in a flurry of domestic activity, baking and cooking and organizing and crafting, taking frequent breaks to gaze out at the snow in rapture. We took more walks outside, happy for the first 15 minutes, then dissolving into shivers (me) and tears (the child). Our Oregon bones do not know what to do with this ten-degrees business.

We looked around at the white piled high, on trees and historic houses and run-down low-income apartments alike, and we thought: where are we?


Yesterday afternoon I met a friend at her auntie's shop in a nearby Somali mall. The husband drove like a little old lady a mile or two through many grand-looking homes, covered in snow with Christmas wreaths on their doors. We came to the street where cars were parked almost on top of each other, people laughing and spilling into the street, shops selling mobile phones and bracelets and dresses and head scarves. The husband went to the coffee shop and drank orange fanta and ate sambusa, watching the soccer game on TV. The child and I wandered the stalls (hundreds, it seemed, all selling the same items, crammed in one next to each other in a meandering, indoor strip mall). We found my friend, and we sat in her stall on folding chairs, chatting about life and the world for an hour.

I drank chai with so much sugar my teeth hurt; the child sucked on a grape-flavored juice box. We talked about Somalia, English class, Norway, wealth inequality, where the desire for justice comes from. We sat, huddled together in the tiny stall, surrounded by blankets and skirts and tea sets and henna dye, a small heater blasting on us. And then we got down to business and I got most of my Christmas shopping done, with my new friend.

We eventually left the maze, warm and smelling faintly of sandalwood and ginger, heading out into the winter world outside. And we blinked, shielding our eyes from the glare, seeing the skyscrapers of downtown rising high just a mile away. As we trudged back to our car, walking through 16 inches of snow, I felt giddy, I felt confused. Where are we, again?

I can't believe we live here, I told my husband.

He looked at me, looked at our surroundings.

I know, he said.

And he smiled.

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