featherveins

my name is dena. this is a collection of things that i find beautiful or important. for more about me, visit my website: livelovesimple.com.

Harvesting a deer, it’s a bloody business. What’s ugly about watching a deer die isn’t whats ugly about hunting. What’s ugly about watching a deer die is what’s ugly about our need to survive. I think that a lot of people have fallen into a sort of moral trap where they rely on proxy executioners to do their killing for them. The same way when you put your garbage out on the curb and your’e not sure where it goes that’s like when your meat comes and you can rest on this sanctamonious feeling that it was clean and humane. I think what startles people about hunting is that we go out and have a very visceral experience in discovering where our meat comes from. It’s not just something that appears wrapped in celafain at your grocery store.

—Steven Rinella (via hebrideansky)

(Source: naturalhunter, via underwatergunfight)

How to Build an Owl | Kathleen Lynch

1.   Decide you must.

2.   Develop deep respect
      for feather, bone, claw.

3.   Place your trembling thumb
      where the heart will be:
      for one hundred hours watch
      so you will know
      where to put the first feather.

4.   Stay awake forever.
      When the bird takes shape
      gently pry open its beak
      and whisper into it: mouse.

5.   Let it go.

Home | Michael Dickman

In heaven
ants are the doormen
to the flies

I climbed out of one butchered ballroom into another climbing out
     of my half-life into my new life on earth

My brother right behind me

Home

The ants are a straight line
showing us the way
out of here

The flies are a straight line
with wings

They live in shit

We lived in a little blue house with a maple tree in the front yard

One ballroom and then

another
*
I've always wanted my body
to work harder
at being
alive

The light you see in veins

Eyelids eye
lids

Snow

The wires in the leaves
their eyelids turning red blinking
on and off

My body won't do what I want it to it won't burn

It says
                           I hold your hands in snow

In my hands

I hold your face
*
What you want to remember
of the earth and
what you end up
remembering

The flies get stuck between the single-pane and the storm windows

Turning up the volume on everything

I could stay here for such a long time

And not go anywhere
not even with you
not even if you were
finally leaving

But your voice
there in front of me
where I am going
to live

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

—Mary Oliver, from Don’t Hesitate (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via tracywan)

I am part of the ancient tra­di­tion of going away. The art of leav­ing every­thing behind. I set fire to my maps years ago when I saw through all their lies. I know north by the smell of buf­falo. And south by its tan­ger­ines. I am like a slow river. With feet. Pigeons are of inter­est to me. And vio­lins hurled from attics. Sometimes I become Jack from Boise. Or Arthur from Arkansas. I sleep where I sleep. Eat what I can. I carry a feather in my pocket. But can’t remem­ber why. If you need to get in touch with me, open your win­dow and shout. I’ll tell you a secret about my kind; it starts when you set out on a pil­grim­age. Then some­one keeps mov­ing the shrine.

—David Shumate, Vagabond. (via underwatergunfight)