Message to My Readers
REGARDING THE SONGS:
Welcome to all who find their way to this site. I’m grateful for each and every one among you. The songs you see posted here are for any to enjoy: whether you’ve come by those means I did intend (via the book)? Or perhaps by mere happenstance? I am thankful for you all.
The true genesis and purpose of the songs is known only to my readers. It is for they who’ve read to this juncture, and who know their true purpose, that I have left Lonnie’s strange little experiments precisely here. And what is their true purpose? They tell you how much he truly loved her. I hope you will continue to read on. The real story lies ahead: and it is more terrible, and more endearing, than I am able to tell you here or now. There is no other tale like it. The lab has been built. The most exceptional cast of characters will soon launch their unwitting assault upon paradise itself. You will know the exaltation of discovery at such scale that your own species will stand in that unknown space. And you will know of sorrows that exist without name—for it’s you who shall name them. Only myself & Lonnie have seen it. But here I share his tender offering: from that time, just before he too was drawn in and down.
I hope you enjoy them. It’s not so important that you love [or even like] the songs themselves. They’re not here for that exact purpose, and you know the flawed conditions under which they were written and then hastily preserved. But of course, I hope you do enjoy them. They’re all I have left of my old friend. We were poor together—in that strange time.
Lonnie wrote an extended list of songs he could not record: either because he could not afford to do so, or because those songs required a minimum ensemble in order to make good sense. He left it to me to choose, or to not choose, to do the thing (to fund and employ at least the minimum production and instrumentation for his hidden works).
Please listen to the songs at your leisure, and I’m happy just for that (for your interest). If any among you wished to add a small donation for the very purpose (to help me finance the modest production of a few more among Lonnie’s songs)? I’d be eternally grateful. And please? In such case, do email me personally. I’ll be delighted to send downloadable copies of all the songs you see posted here.
Thank you all so very much. Sincerely, William Lally.
My name is William Lally, and Lonnie Dunn was my friend. He left this world much in the way so many young Americans have followed since. A mixture of alcohol and OxyContin was the cause of his time. It would be a fair question if you were to ask me: why did I tell this story in my old friend’s name? The answer’s simple. I miss him! I’d grown used to hearing Lonnie tell the epic tragedy in his own words, and it felt good & right to claim both the tale and voice: at least to the extent I can reconstitute him. While I cannot prove the thing, he swore to me every word of the narration is true. Lonnie himself insisted that one day I would write the high adventure sewn together with every cruel misfortune which you’ll find within these pages. I never believed it until he was gone: and I came to realize [only then] that his story has indeed become my own.
For those of us who knew him; Lonnie seemed to know every secret thing. We were very young when he described how and when events would take this country to that place we see today. As far back as 2005 his voice was there; leading my childlike attentions to those conflagrations which surrounded [and very nearly consumed] Paris. Long before the fires were set, he repeated seemingly incidental facts. One being the rise of tent-cities seen sprawling even along the famed Riviera. He told me we were witnessing the formulation of a template which would soon be applied within U.S cities. It’s painful to see now how simple it was for Lonnie. And nobody believed him! Not even me.
An important key to following Lonnie’s voice (that portion I could rightly assume)? Read fast! He rarely took himself seriously; even when any one expression took him to some exaggeration. And he always preferred to laugh. I do recall the rare moment when he made me promise [quite seriously] that I’d never employ a copy editor to what would be a future work. He despised the idea, and I did give my word. And though I never expect to lose him, I’m bound to it. You’ll note he preferred the word & tense “were” as opposed to “was.” And he rarely offered the full word “because!” Without my asking the why of it, I knew he enjoyed how appalling the thing was for a certain type. I’m many years beyond the bare formality of a rather scant education. I can only say I’ve done as my friend asked.
After his death, a letter was discovered among Lonnie’s possessions. Within was a document which listed title and copyright for each of his songs. To my great surprise, I’d been named as co-author on every count. An added note instructed that I was not post a certain number until better production could be applied. I only hope the publishing of his story might generate revenues for that end. Like myself, Lonnie had no family to speak of. The death of my own mother marked the last among blood ties of any personal worth, so our ledgers look much the same with the tally of either namesake. I wonder if he might smile in knowing he has a family after all? But then; he always knew more than he let on—even about me. Why would I expect anything less? My old friend.
William Lally was born in Allston Massachusetts; to a mother of exceeding humor, grace, and all things fair & right. Only her intelligence could be said to have exceeded her talents. Or would it be the reverse thing that’s true? Like William’s father, she defied the depth of her circumstances. She was born very poor, and lived her early years in the worst tenement on Hooker Street. She could carry herself to any great hall, and her dignity would stand as deliberately as her beauty. There was no trial or act in the thing. She was the person she fashioned from desire and myth, and she was authentic (always). Nobody loses the desperation, or the predictable violence associated with poverty. But she stood entirely above.
William’s father was the most unusual man. He too occupied too much space inside the habits of his provincial upbringing. Boston is an old place to begin with. His genius was as outsized as every part of himself. His strength and his violence were part of a general disregard. He did not ruminate for effect or in affection. He did not try to scare? He was something more? A force upon all forces. Controlled like any unstable element. By the acquiescence of all who don’t want to perish/ who don’t want to accidentally induce implosion; and detonation. Not only did the man possess a genius IQ? He held the compliment of a photographic memory, and he studied philosophy with the likes of Billy Bulger. There are those men with all too much in the forge of their person and passions. It’s the reason Boston produces such a charisma (criminal or academic: and sometimes both). It always has.
William lived much of his life in and around Boston, but even in his youth, he spent intermittent years on Cape Cod. For the last decade, he’s lived there anonymously. His health has been quite poor, and he keeps very much to himself. If you were to meet William while out and about, his humor and his quick ferocity would belie the truth of his diminished health and personage. He gave much to this work and he’s grateful to everyone who shares in it. This I can tell you, because I’m his oldest friend (you’ll recognize the name Sammy; from the very pages of the book). We stand together at the far country… Where life gives its volume to a lost way and cause. We want to fight with our last effort: for a youth which our generation has failed.
An unlikely discovery has saved Lonnie Dunn from professional disgrace; while a cast of exceptional characters is pulled into a new and enthralling strain of science. What begins like adventure will move where all things that crawl must surely go. There is an unseen malevolence that strides alongside every step into a new Eden. But the thing is hidden in the dark borders where they cannot see. The people Lonnie describes within do fill the tracings of the love every youth will lend to those that he [or she] can see. It is to those who do [by happenstance] appear close; that we give our young hearts. And he has brought unnatural death to every-one. There is not horror to be found here: but rather…? horrors! Together; inside the sunken lab which will act as the staging for their invasion of paradise? They hold each other in their last efforts to save more than just humanity. Reality itself is changing: choking each last hope inside the dangerous tangles of perverted time, and memory. And now she is here! It is almost Christmas morning. What will fate risk in a wager against nothing and the most vulgar among corruptions? What beauty might we desecrate in that hell of unmaking? For Lonnie, everything will be lost in a final gamble: In a sacrifice that she gives to the very world—in the waking hours of a Christmas day.