Story of self: born of blood

January 3rd 1990, not more than a year post my nascence, the hot breath down the back of my neck is all I remember. I can remember the pieces of slate rocks crunch around me and the wicker woven material that made up the basket. I don’t know where my mother was.

August 14th 1992, Flashes of green and gold through the treetops.

September 1st 1994, the cracks in the floor grow, aided tiny paws effortlessly by rapid shoveling

October 19th, 1996, her hand is lacerated and the tendon connecting her thumb to her hand glimmers in the sunlight

November 3rd, 1998, first carcass, the smell of blood and innards are putrid

June 5th, 1997, malaria ran rampant, she remained in a coma

September 19th 1999, dissect my first animal, its small and the feathers struggle to stay hidden beneath the bed

March 4th 2000, carcass 98, so much blood it has begun to erode the lining of the truck

April 21st, 2001, a loud crack and the sleek golden body dropped to the ground

September 4th, 2002, 14th carcass, the smell no longer bothers me

December 19th, 2003, puncture marks scatter across my leg, small teeth never seemed so violent

February 4th, 2005, the flies were incessant and relentless

May 12th, 2005, the truck shudders on impact, I smell his leathery body before the crash

June 23rd, 2006, 149th carcass, still putrid smelling.

July 14th 2007, my hands are slippery with the mix of blood and mucus.

August 12th 2008, the impact of the buckshot pushes her back against the wall, she still has life in her eyes

January 18th 2009, carcass 201, stopped using gloves, the blood is warm and silky.

December 9th 2012, carcass 239, bodies change when they start to ferment.

February 21st 2017, carcass 297, sharp blades make quick work, the sun lifts the stomach up through my nostrils into the back of my mouth – I can taste it.

May 14th 2019, carcass 323, The smell will never go away, neither will the lessons.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Burned into my minds eye, violence, habits, practices, cultures, death and the cyclical nature of life; some kind of eternal metabolism. These events are but a few that bled through and now occupy my mind; they determine path, they determine pivot and they determine procedure; truth, death and taxidermy.

My mother is a wildlife rehabilitation expert; she’d have been a veterinarian – but decided to elope with my father in the early eighties and start a wildlife rehabilitation center for birds. My father, an ornithologist, carried a shotgun and collected birds for the local museum collection. Contradiction, formaldehyde and necrosis.

Violence and death are cruel mistresses, I am careful what I repress, what I share and who I share it with. They are all recordings and final scenes from illicit snuff films that will never live anywhere but in my head. My story of self embodies a series of experiences all related to non-human animals – that story continues and the project develops– the buffalo breathes down my neck once again. 

Occasionally when the fog clears, I realise what I am here for. I realise where I am.

I am fascinated with the connective tissue, the structures and the systems that make complex organisms, but never formally studied their dissection. I dream about taxidermy and the fake internal structures that replace bone and muscle. I am an architect after all, and I am at MIT, trying to understand how animals will change the world we live in.