#neanderhtal kin

[starsailor-kinthepast]

(ID: a digital drawing of a bright skinned modern human with short, brown hair and a copper-skinned neanderthal with long, brown hair. They are facing each other, foreheads touching and cradling each others' faces with their eyes closed. The colors are muted and gray-ish, except for blue and red highlights on the modern human and the neanderthal respectively. Where their foreheads touch, there is a purple explosion. At the bottom of the picture a string of text reads: i livets lange løp er 30 000 år bare en bagatell.)

In life's long run, 30 000 years is naught but a trifle.

A piece I did, planning to enter it into a talent competition come March. This is me/Star and Uru/me; a love letter to Neanderthals and everything that once was. Two species, naked in the womb of Mother Nature, 30 000 years apart.

[starsailor-kinthepast]

This is an arctic wolf.

This is a timber/gray wolf.

This is a tundra wolf.

This is an iberian wolf.

This is an indian wolf.

This is a red wolf.

This is an ethiopian wolf.

They're all wolves, yes? We can agree they're all wolves. But they're not gray wolves; only one of them is canis lupus.

*

This is a homo sapiens sapiens.

This is a homo sapiens neanderthalensis (reconstructed).

They're both humans. But they're not the same species. The same, but different, the same way a gray wolf and an ethipoian wolf is different.

[starsailor-kinthepast]

I met the first people since I started my travels recently. Here is how it went.

Word count: 600 Estimated reading time: ~5 minutes

People are kind.

I am reminded of this when I meet a hunting party, one foggy morning when the warm season is upon us. They must think me strange – traveling alone, no tent, and with a young wolf by my side. Little Greyhound, I call him, and it’s a fitting name… though maybe not for long; he’s growing fast.

I greet them, and they greet me. I say I am Uru, a Six-Eyed, traveling from the place where the sun rises in search of my home. They say they are the Ones Who Hunt; they have no Six-Eyed, and have not had one for many cycles. It’s an unspoken invitation, and one I accept – so I come with them, me and my sacks, and Little Greyhound, and Ichor’s jawbone. I will stay with them for a while, a moon’s cycle or two, to learn and to teach before I continue my travels.

They truly are the Ones Who Hunt. It’s strange to them that I don’t – rather, that I can’t. My weak eyes puzzle them. My tired, aching body puzzles them. But there is no anger or disbelief, only confusion and gentle worry – I offer them goodwill, warnings from the spirits and Encharond, and their hunts go well with our help. A man’s life is saved. I help heal him.

This is not my home. I’m not meant to be here, and I can tell – Little Greyhound grows restless, and Encharond grows distant. I feel welcome here, but not understood, despite the warm body of their leader welcoming me into his furs. He holds me when I cry, listens as I speak of Ichor, and his clever hands part me.

I miss Ichor. I miss mama, for the first time in many years, and I miss Dahlia, my mama’s sister-child.

Encharond speaks to me.

I wipe my tears. I rise.

I will always rise.

A girl from the Hunters come to me. Younger than me, not quite a child but still with much to learn. She asks for guidance; for me to teach her – not the ways of life, not as a Guide and a Guided, but the ways of the Six-Eyed. This little dark-haired girl with her ember eyes is not Touched, and doesn’t have the Gift – but she wants to learn, and that’s enough. I teach her. I teach her all I can, and take her into the forest, just us two and Little Greyhound, me with my walking stick and her with woven baskets for gathering berries and mushrooms and seeds.

Once, we see a Great Horned. I know it is Him, his Spirit, the one who chose me, and I hold my apprentice close and whisper in her ear to be still, be silent, be grateful. Afterward I inspect her eyes, eager to see if He chose her like he chose me, but he did not. Still, it is a great honour for a spirit to show itself to you, and my trembling apprentice knows. It is the greatest sign of acknowledgement the spirits can give, short of choosing her.

There is a feast for her when we return. If a Six-Eyed comes to the Hunters, born into their ranks, my apprentice will teach them well.

Little Greyhound lies by my feet, eyeing the ranks of people, the hollering of flutes and drums. His ears twitch; he is displeased. I rub them, wanting to calm him. He turns to me like he always does, and I gesture to him, in the hush where no one sees, “not long now. Not long.”

Not long before I leave.

[starsailor-kinthepast]

Uru and I have suffered a great loss. One of our closest companions - I still don't know his name; he was something like a father (?) to me, a great comfort, and he got me through much - has passed. He wasn't that old, it wasn't his time, and we have no body. I'm not sure what happened - it might have been a hunting accident, or the winter cold taking him.

Uru is sad and the people around ther are confused and uncertain. Everyone mourns the loss of a great hunter, partner and friend, but Uru is taking it especially hard.

I wonder if shey will leave the cave-tribe-family anytime soon. There is only one connection left, our maybe-sister - I think Uru came to join this cave-tribe-family with ther sister, some years back, and that's why we have no true connections here.

There is a longing in us. Something is missing. There is something we need. I hope shey can find it.

[starsailor-kinthepast]

Neanderthal Adaptation: Introduction

Welcome the first series on this blog!

I’ve been wanting to explore methods of connecting to my ‘type in culinary ways, and through this series I’ll be posting my notes and recipes for the convenience of other hominids (or anyone else this might apply to!) who want to adapt their food to our ancestors. While I’m basing all this on Neanderthals, I’m not trying to exclude anyone.

The goal of this series is not to make Neanderthal recipes or food, simply to adapt it to modern dishes (or maybe adapt modern dishes to Neanderthal recipes?). It’s tailored for me, a poor student who lives alone in a small flat without much equipment, but I encourage anyone and everyone to adapt my adaptations into their own adaptation (this is starting to sound like an essay that needs to hit a wordcount).

My recipes will be graded on four scales: adaptation level, complexity, price, and taste. Keep in mind complexity and taste are personal experiences; I will include notes to explain why I’ve graded the recipe a certain way. Adaptation level is divided in three: minimal, medium, and maximum. An adaptation of minimal means the meal is as close to a Neanderthal dish as I can get it with my tools, medium means the Neanderthal and modern influenced are fairly equally divided, and maximum means it’s primarily a modern dish with a Neanderthal touch. The remaining scales will be graded 1-10, with 1 being ‘least’ and 10 being ‘most’.

Refer back to this post for links to other parts and recipes.

[starsailor-kinthepast]

I'm writing a little something about the (perceived) humanity of Neanderthals, and it's making me realize that I'm in the unique situation of having to a) defend Neanderthals being human, and b) defend Neanderthals being non-human. At the same time. I am NOT eloquent enough for this, waaaa

[starsailor-kinthepast]

bones of yore, a song about all that once was

Give me an axe, give me a stone, give me something so I'm not all alone. My heart is made of bone. Calloused palms, open skies, ancient wolves tell no lies, I bend my head to their guise.

Nothing is more faithful than the endless ring, in the womb of mother nature, our spirits sing. History is more than letters, it's a bloodied string! Beating heart of raven feathers, they fly without a wing.

I'll love you soft, I'll love you loud, the bones of yore are growing a crowd their shadows are tall and proud. Clever hands, painting blood, voices rising above the flood, together in sunlight they're stood.

I know there's something more, this isn't the end! Our brothers and sisters are gone, we stand here left all alone. Hundreds and thousands of years ago, the Earth shook with the steps of Neanderthals!

Nothing is more faithful than the endless ring, in the womb of mother nature, our spirits sing. History is more than letters, it's a bloodied string! Beating heart of raven feathers, they fly without a wing.

[starsailor-kinthepast]

I sit in the shadow of an overhang, a quick shelter made of branches propped up against the jutting rock. The fire crackles softly as rain falls outside; I rip a bird, small and dark and fallen to my sling, apart with my bare hands. I’ve de-feathered it, wanting to use the feathers for insulation, roasted it over the fire. The bones I use to pick my teeth before I throw them away. My fingers are slick with fat.

I’m alone. I have the skins on my back and travel leather and a smidgen of tools and herbs and a personal belonging (I don’t know what). I don’t know where I’m going. Spring has just been reborn and my guardian-spirit-mentor-follower (this is me, but Uru doesn’t know it) has told me to look for wolf cubs. I have no idea how. The loneliness is wearing down on me.

I feel stronger than I ever have before. I can’t do this forever, but I can do another day. And another, and another: a cycle, two, fifteen. The air is cold, the fire is hot.

I sit in the shadow of an overhang. My fingers are slick with fat.

The fire crackles softly.

[starsailor-kinthepast]

Having a brief pirate shift while being in a longer neanderthal shift is a... strange experience. A weird mix of impressions, feelings and instincts. Fun times