but none of these results say anything about proper lifting form
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also: ##The Cohost Global Feed, #The Cohost Global Feed, ###The Cohost Global Feed, #Global Cohost Feed, #The Global Cohost Feed, #Cohost Global Feed
Ötzi, Epoxy, Destiny
i dislike epoxy resin. but it's a powerful tool, and necessary for tasks like this one, which is akin to dentistry. i'm chasing rotten material out of voids in the wood to then pour a synthetic filler into those cavities. the tape is to keep it from leaking out the back when i pour it in the next post.
there have been a lot of posts about this bowl so far, and there will yet be more. click on or search the tag "#cherrydish1" if you want to catch up
most of these cavities were made by some sort of worm.
Would You <3 This Chost If I Was A Worm?
when you or i eat at a restaurant, we have food brought from elsewhere to within a certain distance of us, then we go eat that food in that place, then we digest that food and shit it out.
I promise: this is going somewhere.
but, by the time we're shitting it out, we're usually not in the exact place we ate the food or where the food originally grew. we're in some other place. so our food travels to and through and with us until it is deposited and, if you live in a place like the one i live, it goes into a septic system and is secreted away from you to yet another place. our kind of organism collects food and scatters, well, scat.
in the case of the worm, they are born into a mass of their food. they traverse their world by eating through it. the food remains stationary while the worm moves, propelled by its peristalsis. the worm shits inside the body of food at the rate it travels through, tunneling with its mouth and backfilling with its ass. the fibers of the wood that are to become the worm's food never move; they simply change state from healthy fiber, to chewed fiber to digested fiber, to expelled fiber as a worm envelopes them; moving over, around and past.
is this significant? or just gross? spending hours picking through impacted worm shit with a little steel hook got me pensive about it, i guess.
the worm's material legacy is traced through the wood. my material legacy ends up in five different landfills or waste treatment plants or cluttering whatever house i end up dying in if you count the trash i generate. compared to the worm's waste stream mine is atomized and spread all over, for the most part impossible to trace back to me or be concatenated into one story of one individual.
it's not just like this for us, it's like this for birds and dogs and lizards and whatever else. trees and other plants depend on this for the dispersal of their seeds; fruit itself evolved banking on this process of dispersal. this scattering.
anyway
during this part of the process i, the higher being, am cleaning up and preserving a sort of photo-negative of the worm's material legacy. i'm archiving its early work; the path it cut (or chewed) through the world in its mad scramble to survive; to become whatever beetle or moth it was to later become to try to ensure its genetic legacy.
i am about to flood those tunnels with semi-eternal plastic sludge, which will describe the shape of some section of this worm's journey. i am, without compensation or permission from the worm, taking a big step toward immortalizing the mark it made on its world. one uncomprehending and unaware and likely unappreciative worm among untold billions who will have done their tunneling and shitting in obscurity.
we should all be so lucky. shouldn't we? am i honoring this worm or embarrassing it?
most people just turned into dirt. scientists are ecstatic when they find a preserved one. they probe through it and photograph it and name it and infer as much as they can about its life and times. they teach us its name and its significance and how it died and how many diseases it had in its ass. they build a little silicone likeness of it that they prop up in a museum and don't let anyone touch.
would you want to be frozen, mummified or fossilized? if not your body, would you want your work preserved? even if that work was sitting in a tollbooth or sending emails or slaughtering cattle? or do you want it all to be turned into dirt and forgotten?
i don't think there's a right answer. but, personally, i don't want my body preserved. i think i'd rather rot. my work? i want it used. used up. worn down to stubs. and by the time it would be considered ancient i want it all to be pulling its weight, nourishing something green. not sitting on a plinth behind glass or in some pervert's humidor.
more forthcoming. thanks for reading. -AW