The Autumnal Equinox is a-cumin in, and summer is gone for the year; and Jess crystalviolet35 leaves for Japan in a few days. I am sitting in Kiva Han contemplating Halloween, and life is good. The sun is out, and what a day to be kayaking... or better yet, find a creek and go skinny dipping while the water's still warm.
At Kiva Han, the UPS man just brought in a shipment for the store, while some young woman off to my right was complaining about people not knowing her name, or what she is... is she a lesbian, a Hindu, or a reformed Muslim? A round of twenty questions never answered, save by the young woman sitting next to her at the counter (A friend or a possible lover?). Coffee houses are fun places for people with voyeuristic tendencies; although it's not the casually viewed sex that's the turn-on, it's the snippets of such overheard conversations, and engaging in the mental word game/twenty questions to fill in the blanks that provide the rush. For voyeurs like me, it's not in what is explicitly stated that turns me on; it's what's subtly implied.
Tattoo, tattoo; to be or wear one like a piece of favorite clothes... long worn and cared for like an old friend. A celebration of life, love (-or lust-), death, spirituality, political pursuasion and/or stance; social commentary; or right of passage...
(This was written after viewing the exhibit "The Bog People" at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History, and then making my way from the third floor to the second)
Stylized life and death
ritual murder in the murk
the swamp runs red with blood
a head reborn
a bearded man
a knife of stone
no more to be shown
a lur a lur
entre le sur
to call to ritual
the dance of bronze
to augury divine
"Le retour à la nature, la source de toute chose.
From Nature you come, to nature we entrust you."
10,000 Pine trees were felled to make the Campemoor trackway, which extended two kilometers into a bog.
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by! ~ William Butler Yeats, "Under Ben Bulbin."
It is interesting to follow the course of death from the bodies pulled from European bogs--covering an expanse of time from mesolithic Europe to the times of the Roman Occupation and early Christian era (this referencing the period of 800-1200 CE)--to an elk killed by an arrow in the Rocky Mountains--the only testament to its life is the alpine meadow in which it died and the snow-capped peaks surrounding it.
A Male Grizzly encountering a female and her two cubs over a dead salmon.
It could be viewed as a nihilistic art exhibit; each item as dead as the next, with only the brain to conjure images of what these creatures and people may have looked like in real life.
It's even better than the real thing; the hyper-glorified dance between life and death... the museum a grim artists' attempt to at once seduce one into a blissful, loving, euphoria and awareness of the dance, at the dance... and also remove one from the scene as though some voyeuristic necrophiliac entranced with watching two entombed lovers embrace.
What is a museum's role? To transfix, transport, villify, edify, glorify; exhume old information, puzzles; recreate a fixed moment in time; make the illusory real, and the real illusory. A mental exercise in the erotic, neurotic, that blends the subtle and sublime with the hyper-dramatic.
"Jesus said to his disciples, 'Take this, all of you and eat from it. This is the flesh of my body that will be given up for you.
Jesus then took the goblet of wine, and said to his disciples, 'Take this, all of you and drink of it. For this is my blood of the everlasting covenant that shall be spilled for you and everlasting salvation.'"
A Catholic's littany from birth to death; the transubstantiation... bread into flesh, wine into blood. I wonder how long the 'faithful' would remain so were the CHURCH to flavor the wine (or grape juice or water depending on denomination) with a metallic taste similar to real blood without using real blood.
Eat his body, drink his blood: A cannibal's littany--take his strength and make it mine. Would you prefer paper or plastic, 'le petit morte,' or 'le grande morte' (or is it 'le morte grande')?
Le petit mort (the little death): ~Would you like yours anally, vaginally, or orally? Take my seed and make it you, let me take yours and make it mine. Eat the apple (or pear, etc.) from the tree of wisdom, growing--taking nutrient from my dead body beneath its roots. Feel my seed take root in you.