Artist: Norma Desmond
Title: a survey of the technopastoral
Release #: MIF326
Release Date: 08/15/2016
: Digital

01. first (it's you)
02. A.A. (santa monica, spring)
03. A.B. (a deeper view)
04. D.A. (saying hello)
05. A.C. (the going)
06. D.D. (visions joanna)
07. E.A. (if i go again)
08. D.B. (the void)
09. D.C. (full clarity)

Artist: Norma Desmond
Title: Fades Out
Release #: MIF309
Release Date: 10/30/2015
: Digital

01. Your Pink Moon
02. (4D)
03. If I Go
04. I'll Be in the Echo Chamber
05. Cosmic Geometry
06. Another Time, Another Place
07. Run
08. Moriah

guitars, pedals, loops, vocals, drum machine by n. rys

Artist: Norma Desmond
Release #: MIF276
Release Date: 03/01/2014
: Digital

01. raga
02. jesus
03. yesterday
04. river song (for jeff)
05. salome revisited

Norma Desmond plays all instruments used in the recording of FALL IS DEAD

Artist: Norma Desmond
Title: Gray Gardens
Release #: MIF247
Release Date: 01/07/2013
: Digital

01. No
02. Tangerine Daydream
03. Tugboat
04. (windchimes)
05. In The Afternoon
06. Getting Evens
07. Untitled Manuscript
08. New Tricks
09. I'll See You Soon
10. Rockets from Russia
11. Bombs to Brazil

Artist: Norma Desmond
Title: S/T EP
Release #: MIF193
Release Date: May 21, 2011
: Digital

01. candy
02. loaded gun
03. tv screens and tumbleweeds
04. yr dad's got the blues
05. undercover (lover)

Artist: Norma Desmond
Title: A Few Thoughts
Release #: MIF176
Year: 2011
Format: Digital

Download PDF


Artist: Norma Desmond
Title: Secondhand Pockets
Release #: MIF145
Year: 2010
Format: Book (Out of Print)

Wild Wolves
Once when wolves were wild
(Running, Naked
Tongues lapping in the wind.)
Nothing could stop us
We were kings
We were wolves, then.

We didn’t have to sharpen our teeth
They would fall out
And grow back new
Grow back stronger
Grow back sharper

Are you alive, or not?
Is there nothing in your head?

- T.S. Eliot

Sibyl and a pile of leaves
I decided to write you a note
A story told in plain speech
Without too many words
or big ones
That have too many syllables

It’s a story for the people;
I want its message to ring through the streets
To resonate in the hall,
Pollinate the ear drums

It’s a story by the people;
Chiseled from bone and steel
Dripping with sweat,
Coughing with black lungs,
Hiding its pride like a bruise

Birthed through the same dried up garden
From the same prickly cactus
same angry, trampled hole in the ground

Oh our mother.
Is she not at the heart of all our great tragedies?
Harmonizing over them like a wailing Siren?

She is blowing like the wind,
She is picking fruit off the tree,
She is changing the seasons,
She is coloring the leaves

She is moaning a cautionary tale

She is arranging the oak leaves
Forming constellations of our fates outside her cave

It tells of shattered glass
Of sea-foamed shores swallowing entire cities

Of bruised buildings collapsing at their heels
Toppling like a house of cards
Of slithering serpents sneaking through gates
Tempting young virgins with ripe fruits

They tell of people becoming pansies for the picking
No longer fit to survive
No longer quick as the carpenter
We are lined up
To be pinned down

And there we rest
Like ill-fated butterflies
Our perfect patterns resorted to collecting dust and awkward glances

Drowning in the waters
we swim against the current
Just to survive
Our scaly, limp bodies flailing wildly in the foaming rapids

But her call falls to deaf ears
as we shuffle along, dirtying our hands
working for a clock that bends, but never breaks
Working for a man that grins, but has no face

For the wind has blown away her leaves
And the pattern is lost

That old hag never gave us anything but a spider web to get tangled in
A jar to get old in
A river to drown in.

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

- T.S. Eliot

It’s all going to burn.
It came out more like a bashful yelp from a lone coyote than the rallying battle cry I had envisioned so many times in my head. I remember trying to peel my father’s eyes off the television set, but they wouldn’t move. They were reaching into the television, unable to look away like a car crash on the highway. The constant flashing graphics on the cluttered screen even seemed to resemble a car crash in a lot of ways. It was as if it was all being served to us on an expensive platter and there was nothing we could do about it but watch.

“Where do we go from here? What do we do now?
The leaves are changing but the season’s green.”

But his father’s eyes just remained glued to the television set, mesmerized by numbing tranquility of the white noise. I remember running out the backdoor to look for my mother. A loose thread from my red sweater got caught on the handle of the screen door that led to my backyard. I spun around and the sweater began to unravel up around my chest. In a hurried gesture I tore the sweater from my shoulders and headed for the garden to find my mother. As I walked down the stone path that led to my mothers garden, as I’ve done a million times before, the stones seemed unfamiliar this time, as if they were swaying like lily pads in a pool of water. Something about the familiar ritual seemed foreign. That same feeling became overwhelming seconds later when I realized my mother wasn’t tending to her garden as anticipated.

I had no idea where my mother could have been. Frantically I called for her while wandering the perimeter. That’s when I tripped on the tomato stake and fell in. Then the rain came. I tried picking myself up but the rain was making the earth damp and slick. I stopped trying to fight it after a short time, and instead allowed the rhythm of the rain against my skin calm my anxious nerves. The flooding thoughts of where to go and what to do didn’t seem so important while the rain was falling.

As it started getting worse I noticed the dirt was cleaned from my skin and I was beginning to get cold. I needed to get out of the garden. I remember running back through the house to try and get my father. It was obvious I couldn’t stay anymore. We had to go, I had to leave.

“We need to leave! Why are you just sitting there?”

But his eyes remained glued at the flashing images and talking heads. Before I left, I watched them for a moment with him; thinking maybe they held the answer that my father couldn’t articulate. But it was in vain, as expected. And I went.