{"id":845,"date":"2018-01-29T18:34:09","date_gmt":"2018-01-29T18:34:09","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/bethanlloydworthington.com\/?p=845"},"modified":"2018-10-19T18:10:04","modified_gmt":"2018-10-19T17:10:04","slug":"the-interred-voice-amy-pettifer","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bethanlloydworthington.com\/?p=845","title":{"rendered":"The Interred Voice | by Amy Pettifer | The Mouth Is A Fossil, Bog Buried And Glowing Blue"},"content":{"rendered":"

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The Interred Voice is an introductory text by Amy Pettifer<\/a>.\u00a0\u00a0It welcomed people to The Mouth Is A Fossil, Bog Buried And Glowing Blue – a listening event curated by SHELL LIKE<\/a> as part of the associated programme for Shell-Lit Siambr<\/a>.<\/p>\n<\/div>

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\"Bethan

Simon of Sudbury\u2019s tomb, Canterbury Cathedral, Bethan Lloyd Worthington<\/p><\/div>\n

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\u201cBeing full of holes and dents, the corpse could talk out of any part of its body. \u2018Now,\u2019 said the corpse through the back of its head, \u2018I shall tell you a story.\u2019<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n

The Happy Corpse<\/i>
\n<\/span>Leonora Carrington<\/span><\/p>\n

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A pilgrimage is a solo walk. A creeping, in private thought, to a \u2018place of asking.\u2019 The air around a site of pilgrimage is thick with questions posed to a specific, but no less empty, corner of the ether. Having exhausted the wisdoms of proximate family and friends you head instead for higher powers, frankly caring little if they are breathing or not. A pilgrimage then, might be a last resort, an odd holiday. A collective hope. Drowning out other noise and focusing on hearing a single, specific voice that emanates (you suppose or are told) from remnant bits of someone who knew better. Someone who has been there and done it but then passed on, leaving their teeth behind, buried in the bricks. <\/span><\/p>\n

We like to cling on to the bits. Perhaps because we know, deep down, that ghosts are nothing but bones are something. We have listened at a wall or door and definitely come away with answers. We have screamed into streams and felt better – so, let us now listen closely to teeth and to flesh and to skulls as they crack open. Let us ask that bog body to spit it out before it sinks; or lean an ear to the tomb side and wait for echoes;\u00a0 <\/span>or absorb the song of the stretched-out corpus as it lies long on the forest floor – taking note of the change of key as its edges fur and it fuses, finally, with the wet ground beneath –\u00a0 <\/span>becoming itself a heavy wooded door to listen at. <\/span><\/p>\n

Then let us crouch there, hoping against hope, that we like what we hear.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\"THE<\/p>\n

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