Through Our Dark Wood
{a queer multimedia music zine}
track listing
01. forward
02. blood pact
03. break it down
04. forever nevermore
05. fear of failure
06. back to the wind
07. i went up, i went down
08. under the spell again
09. moving colors
10. frank o’hara
11. two of us
inspired by alex brown church’s lyrics and composition
as featured on sea wolf’s through a dark wood
01. forward
THIS IS NOT TO SAY that any of this band’s members are gay. this is not an attempt to uncover anyone’s sexuality or gender identity, nor is it an argument that these songs were purposefully created with queerness in mind. with that being said, this is without a doubt the most queer album i have ever heard. it’s incredible how deeply it echoes through parts of myself, rippling outward, giving texture & color to my deepest emotions. it makes me want to take these songs apart and put them back together, layering meaning into each one like layering small pieces of paper, always overlapping, always a little bit crooked. so that’s what i did, taking all the quiet moments and the tense violin strings and the deep breaths that turn into slow exhales, and trying to make them into something even more.
02. blood pact
sometimes you need to start by reassuring people: you are going to be okay. because you don’t want them to get it twisted - the depths of sadness, isolation, uncertainty, fear, are not who you are. you’re not here to suffer, and you’re sure as hell not suffering because you’re queer. but the truth is, it’s not always joyful. finding yourself means fighting tooth and claw, the kind of fight that isn’t pretty to look at. sometimes queerness is resilience; sometimes queerness is bitterness; sometimes queerness is spitting up blood and cutting your hair in a midnight mirror and refusing to stand for anyone else’s shit because the only thing you have is you. it doesn’t work, leaving yourself behind; you’ve tried that enough times to know better. so now you’re here, and maybe you’re a little worse for wear, but the important thing is you are alive and no one can take that from you. whatever comes next, you aren’t going to hide anymore.
03. break it down
this brings me gender euphoria: a big loud fuck you as you kick down the door. it’s the most freeing and adrenaline-filled moment: the point when you finally get to tell the world who you are. coming out. changing your name. letting go. letting grow. it might also come with a lot of pain, though; you’re allowed to feel hurt and upset and angry at those who have tried to hold you back, hold you in. even if maybe that person is yourself. it’s hard to be locked in the shadows for so long, it’s hard to remember how to breathe. but you’re here now, and you’re not gonna keep it in any longer, so punch with all the strength you’ve got and don’t worry about the splinters. because it’s not your problem if they don’t like it. you don’t owe them anything.
have you ever tried desperately to stop the world from spinning around you? or is it you who’s spiraling? when you feel yourself changing, feel new parts of yourself becoming visible, all you want to do is cling on to what is certain and true - but you can’t quite grasp it tight enough. the truth is: sometimes you need to change. these bodies of ours, these hearts, aren’t meant to stay in one place, and it’s scary to wade through the liminal space of a new you. not knowing what you want, or whether it’s okay to want it. the trick (easier said than done) is finding the strength to prise your hands from the vise of who you used to be without the whole world falling out from beneath your feet. can you do it? are you ready?
05. fear of failure
this was the first song released from dark wood and the last collage i made. i was nervous to get it right. i spent two hours meticulously cutting out letters from rainbow paper before realizing that the messy pencil-scratch outlines were much better than anything i could trim or measure, so i left it bare. vulnerable. sometimes you have to try & fail a hundred times to figure out the right way, the truthful thing to say; sometimes you need to trust yourself and sing/speak/be even though it’s the hardest and scariest thing you will ever do. to be queer is to be afraid, but to move forward anyway, to find your space in this world that is filled with color & music and let yourself believe you are worthy. to let go and allow yourself to fall, so you can learn that there are others waiting to catch you. this song says, be brave. it says, the joy is worth it. it says, you have everything that you need.
06. back to the wind
three weeks after top surgery, i take my first long walk alone. i am not quite at home yet in this new body, this old body, always what i have been and yet so irreversibly different - but i am working on it. with each breath of cold march air, i feel the wind curling around & inside of me as though it’s welcoming me home, and this, i understand, is how it feels to be born. it’s kind of bittersweet, not because i’m unsatisfied but because it was never going to be as simple as one operation. there is still so much that can change. with each step, the path shortens yet stretches on into forever, saying it can take me anywhere as long as i want to go there. sometimes you don’t have to be happy to be so, so at peace… i don’t know how else to explain it.
sometimes your life is peaceful and you’re still not happy. it isn’t enough just to exist, to pass the threshold and not turn back. not everything is going to be magically perfect. because even on your brightest, gayest, most authentic days there are still bills to be paid and goals left unmet and it’s easy (or not at all easy) to let the anxiety creep back in. let’s be honest: it’s a quintessential part of the queer experience to lie in bed listening to the same song on repeat, letting glasses pile up in the sink and laundry go days without folding, or to sit in the park and moodily watch the sky go dark while strangers pass without a word. sometimes the best you can do is just lean into it, embrace your dramatic gay heart and let it take its time.
you know that sickly-sweet feeling of falling for someone you shouldn’t. the way it takes over your thoughts, seeps through your veins. you know it’s bad for you - whether it’s the wrong kind of person or the wrong kind of love - but there isn’t exactly anything you can do. this is what you deserve, isn’t it? no, not what you want. you want a love that sends you dancing rather than paralyzes your bones, a whole wide meadow of wildflowers rather than the shop-window roses too expensive to touch - but sometimes you wonder, what’s the point of wishing for things that you don’t think will come true?
09. moving colors
i am not always safe. everything is not always okay. i’ve had a lifetime of apologizing, shrinking, putting up walls between myself and the world so that world will not hurt me. sometimes i feel so trapped in everyone else’s visions that i need to scream, but the sounds just won’t come out from between my clenched teeth. when i cannot fathom the meaning of tolerating myself and the night doubles up on itself like a tape stuck on repeat, it takes every ounce of life in my body to stand up, get out, open the window and whisper for help. and even then, i’m terrified, because what does it mean if you tell me i’m not monstrous? how do i look in the mirror and begin to believe it?
10. frank o’hara
step away from yourself. take a moment to breathe in, breathe out. it is a miracle that you are standing here if you really think about how much it’s cost. hundreds of years of history, of struggle, of resilience and resistance, have led to you, right here and right now. what do we owe to the ones who came before us? how do we honor them in the present? where will we bring their hopes and dreams and wishes for the future? maybe you won’t ever know what it’s like to steal glances across a crowded subway car, to hold hands in secret, to risk your life for a red dress. or maybe you do, maybe you have. aren’t we all tied up in each other, knotted tightly through time? perhaps the best thing we can do is also the simplest: to remember. to say their names. to breathe life back into them, one poem at a time.
11. two of us
in the end, this is what gets us through all of it: family. community. love. shoulders to rest on, bodies to embrace, voices to rise as one. the knowledge that we never have to go through it alone, because you were not the first and i will not be the last, because we will always rise and grow and bloom. there is a place beyond the trees where you are loved exactly as you are; there is no need to have the exact right words, no rush to figure it all out. this - here and now - is exactly enough. maybe i was alone once, but no longer… i am warmed and fortified and surrounded and seen. in the end, we are here, hand in hand, and what could be more powerful than that?
* * *
Ari Koontz (they/he) is a queer trans writer and artist currently living in Marquette, Michigan, where they are an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University. His work has been previously published in Wizards in Space Magazine, Ruminate, and Under the Gum Tree, among others. Ari currently has 124 playlists on Spotify, most of which are filled exclusively with indie folk.