It is seeing torsos and hindquarters of meat cut up and marinated in a briny brine of the briniest brine that you can find...to be left in the corner like a bad child having committed the most heinous of crimes and uttered "geez...." as a profanity against our lord and savior Jesus Christ and all the sanctimony of sunday dinner! I mean GEEZ!! Give me fucking break.
The sacrifice of flesh as a symbol of faith is not profound or alien as it is a symbol of mortality. I posted a ditty on my facebook page:
"here we see the very real and practical application of meat as a sculptural material!! Notice the texture of the meat that has been rubbed in Muskrat Coffee- (available at www.muskratcoffeeco.com) and its contrast with the teryaki apple smoked hindquarter. The artist use of space in this piece indicates a presence that is minimal and yet firm; a kind of PURE foundation of primal desire and native Injunuity...the choice for display in the middle of the woods is an apparent and obvious homage to his forefathers and ancestral roots of being one with the land and in a fashion that denotes comfort and nobility. The use of photography to portray this moment presents us with a paradox of spirit and interpretation:is the scene beautiful in itself and does the relegating of this space to a two dimensional view detract from its significance...or is it merely the reinvention of how we connect as people to the objects of mortality? Does the objectification of what was once living flesh cross the bounds to sacrilege? And if so, how do we view the sacrifice of flesh in worship? we wonder. we live. we love."
not a chance.
It is the blurring of sacrifice versus natural law. It is the law of the jungle and the frat boy mentality of might makes right (as i heard Mr. Churchhill say). There are some that go willingly and others that are ordered to go. When the call comes; it is not for all. For others we go willingly.
We go willingly to the smokehouse to hang the hindquarters of naked flesh to the fires of dissent and anarchy. We light the fires of change as all things are born of fire; to rise and burn with all the grace of an old shaman in his final hours, only to die and dream those old fires. And in the smoke comes the change that is needed and required. It is the change of self and thought. One sentimental journey of imagination and destiny that has made me walk 1400 miles in the boots of my ancestors to arrive. And in arriving at the halls of nobility and destiny, a carpet of green dreams and cedar smoke haunted me. It bent the message. It bent the message to a point that the message broke...and in you allowing it to break, we became hostages to something as horrible and vicious as any war or oven fire or nails in hands and feet or crown of thorns.
we became hostages to ourselves.
and i woke up.
I woke to find that the world around me that had comforted for so long had been a prefabricated dream. I left the security of anonymity and ignorance and found some seeds of truth. I found prisoners of conscience right under the top layer of soil, looking to breathe free and grow. I found some semblance of value in recognizing my place in the history of my people. Not a martyr. not a martyr. not a martyr. just Marty...to not die for my people but live.
to free the seeds of doubts for so many and plant some hope in the hearts of others...but to be firm in resolve that there is war and with it comes casualties.
and in the silence you can hear them scream...when your sitting alone.
by the smokehouse.
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