The bones of all of our ancestors are buried in the earth, and turned to dust. The Earth herself is alive, breathes, has soul, has memory. I inhabit a small corner of land that was invaded and stolen from its original inhabitants. I live, as far as I am able, in resistance, and in solidarity with those in resistance, to a cosmology that has turned the Holy Earth, and Her bones, into merchandise. And so we ask can these bones speak? Yes they speak! And we are invited to listen . . .
This is just a short excerpt for the about page.
This is just a short excerpt for the contact page.
A turkey gobbles a weird good morning, and over on the Pan American the thick snog of traffic is impossible already, audible from here, buses and trucks blowing their horns. Dogs bark, roosters still crow, though dawn was a while ago. I am coming down to the last days in this place: Ixim Ulew. Tortured,…