I’m looking at the calendar (well, at the hovering “27” at the bottom of my screen) and realizing how few days are left in this year, which has been quite a year. This has been a year of prison chaplaincy, of ferreting out uncomfortable truths about community members and family with whom relationships had ever and always been too toxic to resolve no matter how much effort and hope and love was applied, of recognizing the terrible sting of the worst sort of lies from those who so much trust had been offered, of losing a place to call home twice in as many months and a massive amount of jarring and scarring hardship tossed into each of these just for good remembrance. It has been a year of new family and new community, of connections and network and growth of these in directions I hadn’t foreseen, a year of being loaned out by my gods to others, of taking knives to the face and dying in heaving piles on the ground beneath foreign Temples. A year of eating pink Himalayan salt straight from the bag, and of finally giving the flesh of my back (saved as blank canvas) to my Lady in inky devotion. It has been a year of lost money and a year of major sacrifices — some of which I was not willing to give up, but had no say in — and of following the winds.
It has, in short, been a very long year.
I’ve just finished reading an email which finalizes my plans to curbstomp 2013 on the eve of its end. On the 31st I will crawl into a subterranean space with my raven-child and my serpent family and two bandmates briefly reunited from across a flurry of continents and in the span of many hours and zero rehearsal or preparation we will unleash (and record) a new album, our third, and discuss plans to eventually release the first two (which we’ve been sitting on like hoarding king birds, carrion champions pecking at our own cache of splendid aural slaughter) and perhaps 2014 will see that actually happen. We may do a tour if international travel ever becomes a thing, but mostly we will just talk about it, and in two years we’ll talk about it again, I’m sure.
But the point here is that 2013 is going to die in a hail of soundfire and noisebombs and there will be no fucking survivors. And why should there be? December Thirty-One is here in the West a day of ending things by fire and spirit, and so I shall see this thing done, loudly, and ensure that I awaken the next day with blood in my mouth from throat torn up from the screaming war chants and wailing slaughter songs, which from a Thracian always and ever spell terrible doom and fearsome fury unleashed as a primal force of nature indiscriminately upon all who are dumb enough to not already be behind him. Because that’s what this album will be: fury.
See you all on the other side.