A long weekend in five thousand words
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One of the few great albums of the ’80’s, Camper Van Beethoven’s “Key Lime Pie” is available from 
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Archive for the 'Dr. O'C' Category
This I Believe
Annie Savoy: What do you believe in, then?
Crash Davis: Well, I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days. Goodnight.
I had intended to start yesterday’s post with a kind of statement of things I believe strongly in, the point being that I did not want to argue about the merits of evolution again. A sort of personal manifesto. The post was getting fairly unwieldy, though, so I killed it.
But I’ve been coming back to the list since then and I actually like it a lot. NPR listeners may be familiar with one of my favorite of their programs, “This I Believe”, on which average people read an essay about their core beliefs. One of these days I’m going to write a proper “This I Believe” essay. But until then and with apologies to Edward R Murrow, Michael Stipe and Crash Davis, here is what I believe.
- I believe in Karma, The Golden Rule, reaping what you sow, however you label it. You get back what you give out.
- I believe that a civilized society has an obligation to look after its poor, its weak, its sick. I believe that, unfortunately, government is the only entity that is imparial enough to be capable of doing so.
- I believe that through some bizarre twist of fate I’ve ended up with the most wonderful woman on the planet as a life partner and the mother of my child.
- I believe that we can explain the incredible diversity of life on this planet without invoking the supernatural. I believe in Muller’s Ratchet, Mendel’s Laws, Occam’s Razor and Darwinian Evolution.
- I believe that I am as happy as I make up my mind to be.
- I believe that my son is as close to a perfect expression of humanity as you’re likely to find.
- I believe that a world without music would be a world in which I would rather not live.
- I believe in a personal god of my own understanding.
- I believe that every person has a fundamental right to choose their own path in life. To make their own choices about their bodies, about where, how and if they worship, about what they read and say, about what they do behind the four walls of their home. I believe that their right to choose their own destiny stops when their fist hits my face.
- I believe that it’s getting better all the time. A little better all the time.
And…
I believe in coyotes and time as an abstract
Explain the change, the difference between
What you want and what you need, there’s the key…I believe my humor’s wearing thin
And change is what I believe in
I believe my shirt is wearing thin
And change is what I believe in…I believe in example
I believe my throat hurts…
What do you believe?
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R.E.M.’s “Life’s Rich Pageant” is available from .
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This Week On The (Dr.) O’C: The “L” Word
You’ve got to love happy endings. In what could be Dr. O’C’s final post here on A Free Man, we get just that…
At some point my attitude to motherhood started to improve. I don’t know when that happened, but it did. I am a better mum than I thought I would be. For the first few months, I would tell Z that I loved him, over and over but I don’t really think I meant it. I said it more to convince myself of that fact. I know that I was meant to feel this unconditional love for him. Instead I didn’t really feel anything for him. Sure he was a cute baby and it was nice when he smiled, but it could have been any baby.
Initially we had planned that I would take 4-5 months off work, but when February loomed I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t put this helpless individual into day care 10 hours a day. I didn’t know how it would work. How would I get up, walk the dog, get Z and myself dressed and out the door. Plenty of people do it. I just didn’t know how it would work for me. It comes back to my fear of new things or a new way of doing things. A fear I never knew I had before Z was born. I walk the dog the same route every morning. I get up, walk dog, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, brush teeth, dry hair and leave for work. In that order, every morning. I don’t think I ever changed it. It was the most efficient way of starting my day. But looking back, was I inflexible and stuck in my ways? With Z, although it took a long time to establish, I was used to doing things a certain way and couldn’t imagine fitting work into it. I also couldn’t imagine that I would be comfortable leaving him with anyone else.
The irony of the situation is that before I got pregnant and even during my pregnancy I worried if I was capable of taking a whole 4 months off work. I thought that would be pushing the limits of my sanity. I am a social person, I love to talk, interact with people and find out about them. But mostly I knew that I would go insane if I stayed at home with a baby (and I kind of did). If Chris could have taken paternity leave, I think that we would have both jumped at the chance. And now here I was, not wanting to go back to work because I was both afraid of the logistics of doing what millions of people do every day, getting themselves and a baby ready and out the door in the morning and I was getting attached to this little person, whom I had had very little emotional connection with so far.
Chris and I had been discussing a move to Australia for a while. Well to be honest, Chris was ready to go, but I loved my job and had negotiated a promotion for when I returned from maternity leave. Problem was this promotion almost certainly required me to travel internationally every month. Not something that was going to work with a small baby. I know my company would have worked with me and changed the job, but to be honest I was probably looking for an excuse not to go back. An excuse to not change my finely tuned routine and put Zach in the care of strangers. Pathetic I know. Instead of getting into a new routine of going back to work, I embark on a trans-continental move, involving two adults, a baby and a dog. What the hell was I thinking?
I was thinking that it would be nice to be home after 8 years spent overseas. It would be nice that Z has family around. A Nana whom he adores and who gives him sups of tea and biscuits, who he goes crawling half way across the house to when he hears her saying ‘Nana Nana Nana’. (She is determined that they be his first words). It would be nice to have someone to tell me how to do things. Simple things like when it is safe to give Z a piece of bread and not choke, when he is sick enough that he needs to see a doctor. Someone to baby sit so Chris and I could have a night out, go see a movie, have a meal. Someone who cares and loves him as much as we do. It would be nice to be around friends who are having babies who Zach will grow up alongside.
Don’t get me wrong, the move was incredibly stressful. I was moving home, but Chris was moving to a place he had never visited, a place where I grew up, knew people, had extended family. I didn’t really know what the job market was like for either of us. I didn’t know if Chris would like it. I felt like if it didn’t work out for us that it would be my fault, that we would have wasted the better part of $15K moving our life here and worse still, we wouldn’t be in the financial position to do anything about it. Dealing with importation of a dog into Australia is not an easy thing, not to mention importing Chris! It might actually have been easier in hindsight to stay in Oxford.
But things have worked out so far. Chris has got two jobs, both in areas he wanted to explore and on Monday I started a new job, a good job doing exactly what I had hoped I could do when I came back to Adelaide. The next few months aren’t going to be easy, getting up, walking the dog, getting myself and Z fed and dressed, and out the door. Not to mention establishing myself in a job that is challenging and WAY out of my comfort zone. But I have more confidence that it will be ok. That I can do it. That Z will adapt.
I really didn’t think that having a baby would teach me anything about myself, that it would reveal numerous faults. And in those early few months, I didn’t ever think I would get to the stage where I would look at my baby, my son and say I love you and actually mean it.
Now, about that final post thing. I can’t convince Dr. O’C of anything, not for lack of trying. But maybe you all can. I’ll leave it in your hands to persuade her to keep writing.
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Phantom Planet’s “The Guest” is available from and Amazon
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This Week on the (Dr.) OC: Nothing’s going to stop me now
Things didn’t get any immediately easier for Dr. O’C after Baby Z was born. On this weeks episode, bringing home baby…
So, I am a parent - a mum. I spend the first couple days at home wondering when I will be relieved of my babysitting duties. But apart from that it is happy family. Timmins, our Siberian Husky is behaving himself. Z sleeps 4-5 hours at a time and I start to think that the next 4 months of maternity leave are going to be a piece of cake. I am already planning my days of leisure.
Apart from the pain I am in, which the drugs are keeping under control, life is good. Then the jaundice that has been causing Z to sleep so much wears off and the 2 hourly feeds 24/7 start and pretty rapidly sleep deprivation hits. Now I know why it is such an effective form of torture. I have always loved to sleep. I love being in bed. I get panicky if I know I am going to get less than 8 hours sleep. Unfortunately it will be another 9 months before Z graces me with a full nights sleep. That, my friends, is a very long time.
Apart from the sleep deprivation, which leaves me exhausted, I am in a lot of pain and can barely move. A simple shopping expedition to the local Mothercare makes me realize that my body is going to take more than a couple of days to recover. Getting into and out of a car takes my breath away. I walk like I have just spent a year on a horse. I wasn’t prepared for the pain. I mean I knew that I wasn’t about to hop straight back on a bike after giving birth, but I never thought that a simple thing like getting your baby out of a cot would inflict pain. 
was I thinking? I am not cut out for this motherhood thing.” Now don’t get me wrong, I love kids. I have two nephews, whom I adore. I just don’t know if I want to be a mum. I haven’t felt this gushing ‘oh I love my baby soooo much’ rush of emotions that I think I should be feeling.Because I have chosen to breastfeed, the exhaustion is never relieved. Z takes close to an hour to get back to sleep when I feed him in the middle of the night. Chris offers to get up with him, but he has gone back to work and is teaching to earn extra money. Honestly I feel trapped in my situation and I know I am. When Z wakes up 3-4 times a night for a feed, I find myself crying. I remember one night crying so violently that I wake Chris up. I just keep saying to him ‘I can’t do this’. He tries to comfort me, but I think that he is disappointed in me. What I am too afraid to vocalize is that I don’t want to do this. I want my old life back. What new mum thinks and says this stuff?
Looking back now, I don’t think it was as straight-forward as post-natal depression. I wasn’t ready to be a mum. I didn’t want to give up the life I had which was easy and uncomplicated. Where I didn’t have to think of anyone but myself. I also realize now (although it has always been glaringly obvious to most people around me) that I am a control freak. I like to do things well. I thought I was adaptable and easy going. Z quickly taught me that I was not adaptable and although I have spent my life as a scientist performing new experiments, I actually would rather do experiments that I know will work, that I have done before. A health visitor points out that some people like to learn through trying and others like to be shown what to do and then do it. I disappointingly fell solidly into the last category.
Chris, fearful that I am at serious risk of sliding into a depression, goes to great lengths to force me out of the house. He emails my antenatal group on my behalf arranging meet ups. He insists I visit him at work during the 
week. He searches the internet for things for me to do. I resisted initially. I didn’t want to meet up with a bunch of people and just talk about sore tits, baby shit and vomiting. I have a PhD dammit, I am a career women. I have nothing else in common with them apart from having the same hippy lady tell us all about birthing. In the end though, they were saviours. Sure we talked about tits, shit and vomit, but so what, for the next couple of months (I thought at the time) that would be my life. I slowly, very slowly, learn that Z is adaptable.
I take him grocery shopping, and instead of him screaming his way around the supermarket he is fascinated until the rows and rows of tinned goods sent him to sleep. We take him to our favorite Asian restaurant and he falls asleep in his pram staring out the window. I think I had become afraid of Z. Afraid of his tolerance for sitting in a pram, afraid to test him out, to see if he would actually be happy sitting and staring out a window. I became afraid to let him whinge or cry. When tested he passes with flying colours.
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This Week on the (Dr.) OC: No joy but lacks salt
I know that I’m about as far from objective as I am from my homeland, but this week’s installment of Dr. O’C’s recounting of pregnancy and childbirth struck me to the quick. I’m not one to be quoting poetry, but her post this week made me think of a Robert Frost poem that I must have read in college:
I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.Now no joy but lacks salt,
That is not dashed with pain…
The green light to push. SHIT! Now comes the hard and painful part right? Not so much. I can’t feel anything with the epidural and am completely reliant on the midwife to tell me when I am in the middle of a contraction and when to push. So I push for a bit, rest, push etc. I remember doing the breathing thing like they teach you in antenatal class and Chris doing it in my ear with me. So far so good. All very calm. But then in come the doctors, they chat with the midwife over in the corner. I (naively) assume that they are talking about someone else. A doctor had been in previously to examine me. But then they explain that because I had been in labour so long the baby’s heart rate wasn’t recovering at the end of every contraction. They said it very calmly. Explained that they were just going to help out a bit with a plunger! (Proper term is a Ventouse). Turn the babies head or something and hopefully that would do it. Chris started to get a bit panicky and so did I when I saw the size of the toilet plunger that was about to enter me. Chris assured me later it wasn’t really THAT big, but at the time it looked bloody enormous. Then things got a bit scary. It is all a bit of a blur now, but I remember the panic in Chris’s face when a pediatrician came in pushing an elaborate life support cart. I tried to reassure him, but was a bit frightened myself. We later found out this was completely normal procedure. A few more pushes and out came the baby, it was a boy - Z. He was whipped onto my stomach for some skin-to-skin contact and then whisked away to the cart for some tests. He was fine, but I wasn’t.
The long labour took its toll and I was (to put it bluntly) torn to bits. I lost a litre of blood and knew that things weren’t great when several doctors spent time arguing about whether or not we could get access to an operating theatre. All that kept going through my head was ‘But the baby is born, why would I need to be in an operating theatre?’ The lovely Irish obstetrician spent the next 55 minutes stitching me up. I knew how long it took because I could see the clock ticking by. I remember talking about Ireland, about my Nana who played camogie for Ireland (the OB played as well) and about other mundane things. I remember Chris asking if I wanted to hold Z. I mentally 
couldn’t. This wasn’t the happy but exhausted holding the baby scenario I had imagined it would be after he was born. Mostly I remember the OB telling me that it would only take 20 or so minutes and getting scared when it went much longer. I remember all the bloody gauze that she seemed to be going through. I tried to stay calm but 45 minutes into this ordeal I couldn’t. I started to cry. She finished up, I begged Chris to get me a private room (which you could pay for if available). Finally I was able to hold Z, but to be honest I don’t even remember it now. I don’t remember the first time I held my baby.
A lovely midwifery assistant brought me toast and yoghurt and washed me down and got me into some PJs. She helped me feed Z, which was a very strange sensation. I was wheeled upstairs to a private room thankfully and we just sat and stared at Z. I could barely move, Chris had to go home and here I was left with a baby who was big and swollen and surprisingly clean.
Chris came in the next morning with bundles of blue clothes. Clearly excited and besotted and a little better rested than I. Nurses, Doctors and Physiotherapists came by and checked up on us both. They garbled a bunch of instructions at me but I was too exhausted to take much in. We went off to the pediatrician to have him checked over and he peed on the intern. We registered his birth and I begged to be let go home. I didn’t want to stay in the hospital any longer than I needed. In retrospect I probably should have. I was weak, battered and probably in a bit of shock from the trauma of the birth. I thought if I went home everything would be normal. I finally convinced them and left with a bag of drugs to take over the coming weeks, and a kid! I also left with explicit instructions not to lift anything heavier than the baby for 6 weeks. I think in retrospect they should have told me to consider my wound as serious as a c-section because then maybe I wouldn’t have been so blasé about the whole thing and maybe it wouldn’t have gotten worse.
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Phantom Planet’s “The Guest” is available from and Amazon
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Faded from the winter
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More About Wordless Wednesday
Iron & Wine’s “The Creek Drank the Cradle” is available from .
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Went out swimming, got hit by a jet-ski.
“She’s got eyes of deepest blue
He’s got hair that’s green
Everybody’s got nice stuff but me
I wish I had the kind of cash
To make heads turn when I walk past
I wish I could live in luxury
Everybody’s got nice stuff but me…”
-The Dead Milkmen - “Everybody’s Got Nice Stuff But Me”
As our bus pulled away from Oxford on a cold late-March morning, Dr. O’C uttered the phrase that I knew would define the next month or so of our lives:
“We’re homeless with too much luggage.”
And that was the case as we trundled our way down to Oz, via family visits on the way. Living out of a few suitcases, going places but nowhere fast. It wasn’t easy, but it was manageable - especially with an end date, a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe I was delusional, but I figured most of the stuff that we shipped from Britain would get to Oz shortly after we did. I assumed that I’d be reunited with my computer, the bulk of my clothes, my books, my kitchen knives, and so on. If you had told me that four months after leaving Britain we would still be living out of the same suitcases, well, I certainly would have packed more socks.
But, nearly four months to the day that Simpsons Removal and Storage came and collected our worldly possessions I’m still cycling through the same handful of underwear, still staring at blank walls in our new home, still cursing at the creaky old Mac laptop. I’m still shivering my way to the bus stop in the morning in a completely unsuitable jacket (that I nearly threw away when we left Sweden). And Z has grown out of all the Georgia Bulldogs clothing that we brought with us. At least that’s what Dr. O’C tells me.
Now, you’re probably thinking to yourself, how long does it take for a container full of personal itemes to get from England to Australia? Is four months a long time? Average cargo ship takes 32 -40 days - less than six weeks - to make that voyage, which begs the question - where has our stuff been?
Well for the first two months, it sat in the Simpsons Removals and Storage* warehouse in Kent. You see, when Dr. O’C negotiated the deal with Simpsons (this was during her “Don’t Get Done, Get Dom” phase) they neglected to point out that despite being a moving company, they actually suck quite badly at moving things. This lapse in providing us with accurate information sort of foreshadowed the remainder of our experience with them. Customer service is not Simpsons Removal and Storage’s strong point. They neglected to let us know anything about our shipment, they neglected to let us know when we owed them money, they neglected to let us know when payments didn’t clear properly. 
To be fair to Simpsons**, as uninspired I am to do so, it’s not all their fault. They finally got our container to Melbourne in late June. For the last month it has been sitting in Customs in Melbourne waiting for inspection. It was inspected and contraband was found in the form of a stupid little wooden seagull, common in seafood restaurants all over the Atlantic seaboard. Australian Customs prides itself in protecting Australia’s borders from the entry of illegal and harmful goods, potential terrorist threats and unauthorised people. And apparently tacky sculpture. The best part? We had the option of paying Customs $90 to destroy the seagull or $260 to irradiate it and make it safe for Australia. I guess you’ve got to pay for all that protection somehow. To add insult to injury, we had to wait another week or so for the customs agents to come back and burn the damn bird.
Barring any unforeseen circumstances the 36 boxes containing the physical trappings of our lives will be on our doorstep by Thursday.
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* I’m repeatedly naming Simpsons Removals & Storage, the shipping company from Kent (UK), because I’m hoping that when ‘Googled’ this post will be available for people who are thinking of using Simpsons Removal & Storage for their move. Don’t do it.
** That was Simpsons Removal and Storage.
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The Dead Milkmen’s “Beelzebubba” is available from .
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This Week on the (Dr.) OC: In praise of needles
With Dr. O’C returning to the ranks of the employed in a few weeks, this feature is likely short-lived. Maybe if we talk real nice to her she’ll continue - or at least get Baby Z born…
September 10, 2007
Chris and I had convinced ourselves that the baby was going to be late, so when my waters broke a week before my due date, I had to keep smelling my skirt to make sure that it wasn’t just a collapsed bladder. I walked back to the house, leaking as I went, in a bit of shock, giggling almost hysterically. When I get nervous I have a tendency to laugh. I think the reality was finally setting in. Poor Chris has to harass me to call the hospital to find out what to do next. We call our friends to pick up the dog, load up the car, call some family and head to the hospital. They confirm that my waters have broken (no shit, Sherlock) and offer us the option of either staying put and being induced or going home to see if things happen naturally overnight. Two things go racing through my head at this point - 1) There is no way I am ready for this baby to come now and 2) I don’t want my baby to born on September 11th. So, I convince Chris that we should go home and take the natural approach of wait and see.
We wake bright and early, after a surprisingly good nights sleep (for me anyway). I call the hospital to see when we can come in but they are busy so we wait. I have some email conversations with friends and we laugh and things are a bit surreal. Contractions haven’t started, I am in no pain but I know that we are going to have a kid, like, soon.
We eventually get the go ahead to go to the hospital and get sent to a ward to start the IV antibiotics. Chris and I waste away the afternoon playing scrabble with Chris nervously checking his watch every 10 mins. His patience was wearing thin when we had been waiting nearly 6 hours before they would take us to a delivery room. For me, I would have been happy to wait as long as they wanted!
The next 54 hours are like an out of body experience.
I hate needles, yet I have them sticking out of both arms until I leave. I hate pain and yet I know that labour was not going to be pain free. In the words of one of my wise friends “There is only one way out now”. I am a private person and yet I know that all types of people are going to be poking and prodding me and at some point it is going to get really messy. I have drips coming out of both arms, a contraction monitor and a fetal monitor strapped to my belly. Chris unplugs vital equipment to plug in his iPod stereo. He had been working on the playlist for months! I explain to the midwife my birth plan, which in one short word is DRUGS. I further explain that red heads are scientifically proven to be more sensitive to pain and when she had a minute she should line up the epidural. A natural birth was NEVER EVER an option. Personally I don’t see the point. The kid ain’t going to remember or care.
They start pouring the oxytocin into me. Contractions finally start and I cope well for a while. They wire me up to a TENS machine which does nothing but distract me from the pain because it is inflicting another more annoying type of pain. Some crazy substitute midwife (whilst the normal one was on a break) offers me a lavender footbath to relieve my increasing pain and I nearly tell her to fuck off, but restrain myself. I start calling for an epidural but it was a few hours before they would let me have that and when they do the relief is immediate. I love modern medicine- the whole keep-still-whilst-I am-shoving-this-needle-into-your-spine is a bit scary, especially when the contractions are coming hard and fast every minute or so. But damn that needle is a godsend.
The next few hours are a blur - a mix of sleep, epidural top-ups and internal examinations. But over forty hours after my waters break I am finally given the green light to push. Now there really is only one way out.
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Phantom Planet’s “The Guest” is available from and Amazon
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We come from the land of the ice and snow
Dr. O’C is the latest member of A Free Man’s household to crack the job market. After what will be nearly a year in the purgatory of stay-at-home motherhood (she would quite possibly use a different word), Dr. O’C will re-join the ranks of the gainfully employed next month. This is the latest in a string of successes in our new Antipodean home and reflects one of the reasons that we came down here. And looking at things as a whole, and knocking exuberantly on wood, things are going pretty good in our new home.
A fellow American in Adelaide who stumbled onto my site wrote a post the other day that got me thinking about immigration. Her point is that most expats (and other people for that matter) relish and toss around the word ‘expatriate’ but ‘cringe’ at the word immigrant. ‘Expatriate’ carries with it images of glamour, worldliness, champagne on the Seine and first class round the world flights. ’Immigrant’ conjures images of huddled masses in steerage, midnight dashes over the Rio Grande and closed doors.
I prefer the word ‘expatriate’ myself but the Australian government, probably rightly, would use the word ’immigrant’ to describe me. Maybe it’s time I started to use that word as well. Both Dr. O’C and I come from a long line of immigrants and maybe it was natural that we followed in their footsteps. Dr. O’C’s family emigrated from Ireland to Australia when she and her sister were quite young in the hopes of making a better life for their family. My great-grandparents emigrated from Europe to Canada in the early part of the 20th century to escape a continent that seemed to be in a state of endless war. My parents moved from Canada to the U.S. in the late 60’s to ride the tail end of the post-war boom. And I emigrated from the U.S. through Europe to Australia in the early part of the 21st century in search of a life that I didn’t think was available to me in the U.S.
I suspect that all of the immigrants in our bloodlines had the same goal when they picked up and left their home - a better life for our families. All of them achieved that goal - they succeeded beyond what they thought possible in the Old Country. Now, with the unemployment rate in the Free Man household reaching 0%* we’re well on the way to that better life that brought us Down Under.
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* We’re going to give Baby Z a few years before including him in employment statistics. 12 or 13 maybe?
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Led Zeppelin’s III is available from .
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And then I see a darkness
As you very likely know, Dr. O’C has taken on a chunk of the writing duties here at A Free Man while your underwhelming correspondent is burning the employment candle at both ends. What you may not know is that she’s largely taken over the photography duties as well. Pretty much any photo of Baby Z in the last month or so that doesn’t also have Dr. O’C in it, was taken by Dr. O’C. And I must say she’s getting pretty good at it. This photo of Z is one of my favorites to date.
Now, I may be overthinking this, as it is my tendence to do, but I think I see a darkness in these shots. It may be the literal darkness - dark clothes, high contrast. But my fear is that there’s something more. It’s a fear I’ve had since I found out Dr. O’C was pregnant. The curse of being a geneticist is that you can’t help but think about everything in terms of 
heritability. There are a number of traits that I would rather not pass on to my son. Dark obsessions, addictions and compulsions that I have fought my way through but only after years of struggle. Since, Dr. O’C fell pregnant I’ve hoped that her genes were just a little bit more potent than mine. That rather than my fierce introversion he gets his mother’s easy sociabibility. Rather than my introspective depression he gets his mother’s level headedness. Rather than my tendency to self-absorption he gets his mother’s generosity of spirit.
Or maybe, at the very least, he could get the alleles that give the men in her family a full head of hair into their old age. Maybe sometimes a photo is just a photo.
I couldn’t decide which version of this Will Oldham song I preferred, the Bonnie “Prince” Billy original or Johnny Cash’s cover. So, I’m sharing them both. They’re both spectacular.
Bonnie “Prince” Billy’s “I See A Darkness” and Johnny Cash’s “American III: Solitary Man” are available from .
Bonnie 'Prince' Billy - "I See A Darkness" [4:50m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download Johnny Cash - "I See A Darkness": Play Now | Play in Popup | DownloadPopularity: 33% [?]
