“He collects dead things..” she said in a stark warning for my mind.. not my safety.

The difference between black magic and white magic.  Dead things have a certain energy, his home has a strange energy.

That night on the floor, or a church pew, or a stripped and dirty mattress.  Warmed by a turn of the century wood stove, surrounded by dirt.

The next morning I woke up to see a strange collection of animal skulls, and homemade taxidermy sculptures, books on witchcraft, and even more peculiar human hair lining windows and mirrors.  Strange but not scary.  Artifacts of a life that is modest and primal.

It was very generous of this guy to let us stay with him for the night, and I never felt like I was in danger, despite how it seems.  Maybe there was a special energy to it all, because I felt more rested in less time than I had for weeks.  The whole experience put me at ease, and gave me time to reflect.

We all collect dead things.  The clothes we wear are dead plants and animals.  We fill our cars with the same to get around.  We fill our bodies with dead plants and animals for nourishment.  My guitars are dead trees.  Our houses too.  In fact society is built upon the back of death.  People came before, altered things, killed, lived and died.  Here we are now because of that.  Hermit crabs.

I don’t think it’s a morbid thought.  It’s just history.  Life has no real reason without death.  No beginning without an end.