Textales Eryn Talevich

In this older piece, I recall a flash of human life in the train-station..

I share a few of my field recordings. Northern bells, a lonely egg and some righteous frogs feature...

In this collection, I share some clandestine fieldnotes from the first jellied steps of my graduate research in Northern France...

The affective seduction of the estate sale, and falling in love for the first time with a hunk of wood...

A chance encounter between the pages of New Orleans...

Looking over old diaries, I came across this piece. In the wake of the first “real” breakup, I found myself without ground: sleeping on my parents couch, desiccated like some tired bulb. Weaving became the treatment for this wound, and continues to be the balm for my soul.