Hunting is not recreation, getting outside, the pursuing of game or killing. It is however an enormous tiny smouldering fragment of DNA, lingering, alive, ravenous, symbiotically occupying the fortunate soul of some. Originally placed there by God himself to be bred down through the ages demanding survival, urging perseverance, obliging the hands to create a means to an end and supporting life. I cannot tell you the why or the what of it but I do know it does not produce the latest archetype sleeping away in a tree stand guarding a pile of corn.
The enablers of this gene hold their cards close, almost never divulging the grip that holds them. They secretly assemble the strategies needed to circumnavigate commitments, creating inventive lines of conversation that smooth the edginess of departures, concealing a fact placed far to the rear of the mind for convenience, being the date of return has already been extended farther into unwritten history than originally advertised. They walk in peace while braving the wrath of wives, girlfriends and the scorn of family, gathering gear, quietly shuffling about, navigating the halls in the dark gloom of early morning, speaking in tongues to the hounds to keep silent, gently closing doors of kennels, garages, and finally the truck, smiling on the inside as the vehicle cranks, the heater roars, the favorite song comes on the radio and the mind comes to grips with another successful exit from reality thereby beginning the concentration for what is at hand and what is to come.
To feed and nurture this thing will begin the consuming of your soul, remember there will be no following a dark passage for a return to normal, no going back so you surrender to go often to commune and sacrifice.
Like a bottled musk squeezed from the glands of extinct species your baited, chummed, biting as you go, tasting the blood in your mouth metallic from the set of the hook. All the natural textures you encounter make like braille for calloused fingers, you rub your face into them, inhaling all the scents you desire as a cold wind under a bright moon brings reverent closure to the day.
Seclusion reassures as does the feeding of the hounds, the picketing of the mule, the banking of the fire, the unpacking of panniers and the ever evolving wary respect of nature adds to the weariness of the body which brings the deep slumber that is so close to death but renews the life.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Just to let you Music Minded know, you should check out the Pollies!
I been hearing about, listening to and bumping into these guys for a while around the area. For those who don't know the area, I live in North Alabama, a place known as the Shoals. One of the towns that make up the four is Muscle Shoals which has produced some of the most important music ever to be recorded in history. Look over in the (Music in my Backyard Section) to see a list. I've been gathering info about this fact for some time and will hopefully post on the subject soon, but for now I encourage you to make note of this Band and give them a listen.
The Pollies on stage.
They were down in Montgomery with myself and a few other friends this past weekend playing for an event called "Southern Makers" which was a gathering of Alabama's Artists, Architects, Designers, Chefs, Musicians, Gardeners, Beer Brewers, Craftsmen, and a couple thousand Outstanding Southerners. Needless to say "The Craic" was good!
I shared a space with my friend "Billy Reid" clothing designer, his one of a kind get it done, go to lady "Sara Trapp" was on hand to handle things. I took a few paintings and we meshed it together right in front of the Band Stand. I want to thank the Pollies for letting "Made in the Shoals" use the song "Good for Nothing" as music for a recent short video of myself.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
I ran across this a while back, very sad but also so interesting. Here's the gist. Coon Hound runs inside a standing hollow tree where he or she gets stuck and dies there. Timber cutters discovered the dog and donated it to a museum still inside the tree. They estimate the event took place sometime during the 60s. I imagine the hunter couldn't hear the hound from inside the tree from very far and I don't know but I don't think tracking collars, (GPS) were around then, maybe telemetry but signal probably wouldn't get out if it it was.
Sometime in the 1980s, loggers were cutting trees in the forest. Without knowing it, they cut down the dog's tree and placed it on a logging truck. Then they looked inside and saw the mummified dog. Rather than send him to the sawmill, the loggers donated the dog and its tree coffin to the Southern Forest World Museum in Waycross.
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- Just Another Savage!
- I’m a Southern Boy, just 56 last November, I get around here and there, Central America, Africa, Red Bay. I’m a Father, Grandfather, Husband, Artist and general flunky of sorts. Live in a little historic town in an old building I own, upstairs in a loft thing. Just wanted to hear myself think I guess, talk about the need of simplification, show some art, express an interest or two, and see where it goes. That’s it!, That’s the deal.