Himalayan Bear - "How Could Death Contend"

Ah, the lonely hunter. His territory marked, allotted to his charge. An oblong on the map, a flag of equal shape, a crest of cresting hill, raised up each windless dawn. And in the eve, be it lake-sparkled sunset, or swaying cloudy cough, crank it down, crank it down, crank it down. The hunter's only love is the first meal from a catch, he'll howl a song or tell a tale, the only ears the trees. If he doesn't use his tongue, it will dry up, turn to stone. Be at peace, be at peace, be at peace. A tale was once re-answered, by a voice amidst the green, the hunter's ear tuned quiet, balked at noise so clear. The voice said, "The hunt has ended, the territory's sold." The hunter struck the voice, between the ribs and guts, reap the news, reap the news, reap the news. A head of warning raised on the flagpole, grinned in laughing twist. The hunter guards his borders, his thinking mind at rest. [order from Absolutely Kosher]

Black Widow - "Come to the Sabbat"

I often dream of Leopold Carter and his many-spired brow. Leopold Carter was my grandfather's night nurse in the last years of his illness. My parents were social diplomats, integral to the massive machinery of international politesse, and thus were often away. I, still a boy, would be the only family to stay with grandfather in these stretches; weeks at times. During the day I would go to catechism and at night I'd boil grandfather's food to a brown reduction. I would go to sleep around nine or ten, and then I would hear the door open, the steady shuffle of shoes to slippers, and I knew it was Leopold Carter come calling. I would hear the sloshing swish of a flask, I'd smell his odour pass by. The walls were thin and I could hear them conversing. I think they shared drinks most of the night. But Leopold Carter made a point of never speaking to me. Whether he thought it unseemly or he simply didn't want to talk to anything that could move away from him on its own, we never exchanged a word. And this, for me, as a boy, made him terrifying. Half-asleep during his nightly patters down the hall, and his murmurs through the walls, they came all the more dream-like to me in my memory, they came all the more distorted, horrifying, grotesque. I remember his face as the front of a castle, his drawbridge mouth and his bubonic beard. His earlobes hung like chains, his hair like black and rotten straw. His nose the swollen fulcrum of his downturned half-lids, his eyes like condemned doors, missing their handle, missing their function. His brows were spindly, like spires that seemed to climb upward to his sagging forehead, his surrendered mind. I only once expressed this disfavour to my father, who became quiet and gritted his teeth, "Grandfather likes him, just pretend he's not there." Advice that proved only the truth of it's opposite; pretending the monster you see isn't there is far worse than fearing the one you know isn't. [Buy]

(image is of The Man Who Flew Into Space From His Apartment, an installation dear to my heart, by Ilya Kabakov)

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RENAISSANCE MAN: part 1

The Renaissance Man. lutist. blind dirtbiker.
A lovely and wondrous little documentary about learning to do something impossible. I could talk at length about how well-made this is; simple, honest footage cut superbly and with pitch-perfect tone. I could talk about how in 12.5 minutes they've created two full characters that I can't wait to see more of, I could talk about the first emotionally visionary use of a helmet cam I've ever seen. But I'll simply mention those things and you can do your own expounding. Enjoy.