Within in every death is a thousand stories….. memories woven through tendons and bone, history and family, tragedy and prevail. Each corpse gone cold can show you these stories, raw and unfiltered…. through touch, though thought, through energy and the void that lies between realities. There you will find beauty. With the passing of life comes the flourishing of birth, of nutrients, of decay and sustain. Each salvaged creature is an offering of food for the striving plants, food for the bustling carrion insects, food for the scavengers… food for the families that need its nutrients to survive and food for the spirits. Each salvaged creature offers its story in the palms of its hands, in the worn feathers of its wing, in the glazed eyes of its own self. It shows you the scars from nearly escaping predators, the healed fractures of miscalculated leaps… it shows you the family it bore and the meal it last consumed. Deeper still it teaches you of yourself……. teaches you in the ways of which it knows best. Each creature has its lessons, each creature has its strengths and underlying weakness.
With bare hands and open mind you can feel the sharp tinges of broken bone through layered flesh… you can understand the will, hear the words through stagnant silence… You can almost see memories through pried eyes… and feel the rest or uncertainty of what you have found. Listen close to those you work with…. they are very clear within their communication. Never take from those that give you pains, never take from those that give you sorrows….. Only take graciously from those who grant permission, and always give thanks… always leave offerings, leave song or leave tear. We often forget the sacrecy of death and preservation……. we often skip over the essential chapters of exchange, only to feed our greed of material collecting…….
Next time you collect, preserve and unearth the bones or bodies of those wild souls who have passed, make sure to leave a little behind…. whether it be an offering of prayers, or libations of spirits….. whether it be the smoke of bundled herb or the favored edibles of said creature. Never underestimate the potency of appreciation and respect for those wild ones
They are our peers, they are our ancestors, the are the wild aspects of ourselves we bury within domestication and material satisfaction. We are one in the same.
When Cal’s warmth wraps around me, his arms around my shoulders, his head tucked against my neck, I lean into him. I let him protect me, though we swore we wouldn’t do this back in the cells of Tuck. We are nothing more than distractions for each other and distractions get you killed. But my hands close over his, our fingers lacing, until our bones are woven together. The fire is dying, flames reduced to embers. But Cal is still here. He will never leave me.
she was in love, her head in the clouds heavy with the sun and the moon she was in love with time itself, youth woven tightly into her bones and skin, stretching the hours and days into eternal bliss all too soon she realized, that not even love could stop time and that nothing would remain than dust and blissful, dark oblivion
Woven Bones - Your Way With My Life (from In and Out and Back Again, Hozac 2010)
Another fuzztone on Hozac, this time from Texas. They recently got a new drummer but they’re still maintaining their darting prowl. Music videos can look good when it just shows cross-edited footage of the band hanging out and playin’ their music with a sloppy/restless camera. This is one of them. Also, more projections.