The Ark of Teeth
Two thousand five hundred people watched Mary the Elephant die on September 16, 1916. Four days prior she killed her inexperienced handler Red Eldridge, one day after being hired on. Upon the handler’s death, onlookers began chanting “Let’s kill it,” prompting locals to fire rounds upon the animal with little effect. Unwilling to call it quits, the circus transported her to the Clinchfield Railroad Yard where she was hanged by the neck with an industrial derrick – except the chain broke, and Mary broke her hips as she crashed to the Earth. Then they did it again and the chain didn’t break. A veterinarian examining her corpse found an infected tooth precisely where Eldridge prodded her with a hook before she attacked him. What happened to the children watching? Did the execution become a lighthouse in internal cartography – cruelty gone luminescent, drifting fog-like, settling on any and all uncovered locales?
I’ve been trying to forget the word “cruel” since I learned it, and I’m fucking failing.
I’m missing a word from everyone else’s dictionary, and this would all make sense if I had it. Did you know that the most recent common ancestor between human beings and octopi was 750 million years ago? It was a primitive flatworm. The way that cephalopod intelligence developed is entirely independent from that of primates, and there must have been some misunderstanding – clearly they put an octopus brain into my human flesh-casing. Maybe that’s why I always bump into things, why in my mind’s eye my shoulders run an inch-and-a-half narrower, why I feel this tug seaward each time I turn South.
I love to sing. I think I made experimental music because I wanted an exoskeleton. The experiment was how many shields could I use to hide myself because singing – I mean really singing – is scary. I’m not happy with carapace-wearing songs.
I made this album with some of my best friends at La Frette Studios outside Paris. Nick, Lucy, Brad, Ambre, travis, Patrick, Anthony, and Sammy helped me give myself permission to make what I really love, what I’ve always wanted to make – songs. I owe them so much.
And like that – with a bit of love – the nautilus began to emerge from its shell.
I’ve been trying to forget the word “cruel” since I learned it, and I’m fucking failing.
I’m missing a word from everyone else’s dictionary, and this would all make sense if I had it. Did you know that the most recent common ancestor between human beings and octopi was 750 million years ago? It was a primitive flatworm. The way that cephalopod intelligence developed is entirely independent from that of primates, and there must have been some misunderstanding – clearly they put an octopus brain into my human flesh-casing. Maybe that’s why I always bump into things, why in my mind’s eye my shoulders run an inch-and-a-half narrower, why I feel this tug seaward each time I turn South.
I love to sing. I think I made experimental music because I wanted an exoskeleton. The experiment was how many shields could I use to hide myself because singing – I mean really singing – is scary. I’m not happy with carapace-wearing songs.
I made this album with some of my best friends at La Frette Studios outside Paris. Nick, Lucy, Brad, Ambre, travis, Patrick, Anthony, and Sammy helped me give myself permission to make what I really love, what I’ve always wanted to make – songs. I owe them so much.
And like that – with a bit of love – the nautilus began to emerge from its shell.