Honyock is a weird word. A lot of people come up to us after shows, or if their bold in the middle of shows, and ask us “what is a Honyock?”. We usually give them one of two answers. The dictionary definition is a mischievous young one, derived from a derogatory word for Polish people. The second answer is it’s relevance to us and why we named our band Honyock. That has to do with Me and Mason’s Grandfather and his habit of calling all the young grandchildren Honyocks when we were misbehaving or getting rambunctious. We thought it was an old Cherokee word for the longest time, since that was a part of his heritage.
Since these answers have through the years become so well rehearsed, they have seem to have lost their ability to describe what Honyock is to us. So in leu of the proper definition and back story, we would like to present to you the nearest approximations of what we think Honyock is to us and what we want it to be. Hope this helps.
Honyock is a group of musicians who make music. It’s really ambiguous, and mysterious. We don’t really care though. And we don’t try. Absolutely no slaving away. No dreaming. But here’s the good news, we are going to be really famous. I know right? I breathed a sigh of relief just then too. What a relief. Our music will be really good in a year, you think. You’re probably right. But what do we do till then? What do we do tonight? Get angry at a guitar? Write a song? Record something at home? Play a show? Try to prove our worth to a manager? The business side of it is an elusive creature. We will be making music anyway, but it would be nice to eat.
Honyock is a viable option. Their “numbers” over the past three years show remarkable, yet sustainable growth. I’m sure your folks in the number crunching department will agree. They will say “wow, Sara, I have never seen numbers like these, if you multiply them together you get inversions of themselves. You get numbers not yet previously associated with each other ever in history before. Sometimes, if you multiply them together under a full moon exactly at midnight you get negative numbers! Sara, you must hire this band. You must add them to the roster. If you don’t, your own personal mathematics might be at risk! We don’t want another booking agency or record company to get ahold of this technology. Sara, please! where are you going?!” But you’re gone. You’re off to the cliffs edge. Word around town is that you went to the belvedere, to gaze out on a placid grey ocean from the abandoned beachfront. You knew this day would come. A mystic told you one day about a band that would have the syllables hon and yock in it. They would get ahold of you and send you an electronic press kit with press clippings from local publications, live videos, and fresh demos of their latest concept EP. The results of such an Email would be inevitable, volatile, and rapid. You would hire such a band and you would let them tour the continental U.S., from which they would become mildly famous and be able to sustainably release records every year or so. The national music critics would weigh the pros and cons that such albums would present. People would go to their shows. Maybe they will even be someone’s favorite band and an enormous part of their coming of age. The band members would accomplish their dreams, they would meet musicians that they had looked up to for most of their lives, maybe even collaborate with them on lawn chairs on some back porch somewhere. You on the other hand would have to face the music, both literally and figuratively. You once wanted to have that same sense of accomplishment of childhood dreams. Maybe you wanted to be a musician or an actress, until you took a foyer into college for a nice sturdy back-up-plan, as your parents made sure you knew was completely necessary. “Might as well go into musical publishing” you thought, “or some line of talent management. Then I can be close to what it is that I wanted to be but missed my chance to be.” You didn’t miss your chance. You just listened to those talentphobe’s responses to your electronic press kits that read “send us your last three years of numbers and we will keep it on file. We are currently not seeking any new talent but will inform you if the opportunity arises.” They were wrong Sara. You had what it took. You still do. Why don’t you go on tour, opening for Honyock? I’m sure they will understand and try to help you out as you did them. What a funny story it will be. The band letting the booker they outgrew play with them in front of their audience, as you try to bolster your “numbers” for the upcoming three years.
Honyock is a container. Do the math. Find the volume. Fill it up with soil, seed, river water, whatever’s clever. What is anything but a condensed vial of predetermined experience. Words hold connotation. A history of use and oral tradition that overrides the Marriam-Webster. You can fill it with what ever you want. Everyone will look at you funny and not know what the fuck your talking about, but you will get a few laughs. You can even change it over time slowly. Fill words like Salt, Gift, Commodity, Rain, Vendetta. Separate the meaning from the container and recombine.
“But I am not a deconstructionist,” You say meekly, tapping the vine you swung in on. “I want to communicate with the socially accepted avenues and prebuilt pillars laid out for me and under me.”
Well, fine-chicken, don’t you see? The only way to truly communicate with someone is through the unspoken. It’s not the word that counts, it’s the context. The lyric combines with the melody and ferocity of lack there of. The melody sits on top of a chord, like a child sits on a roller coster or hops on a bed. A phrase is repeated and repeated and repeated till meaningless and thus an empty container. Fertile grist for your experience pen.
“Experience pen? I don’t think I have picked one of those up yet,” You say swinging from branch to branch.
They are a $1.99 at dollar tree.
“Isn’t everything a dollar at dollar tree?”
You have to buy the cartridge separately.
“Oh. Sounds expensive.”
It only sounds that way. You must empty your wallet container into the wide mouth of the cashier. If you are diligent you can follow the cashier home, tap the sewage line, wait in the gutter an get your money back. It’s kind of like a safeway card, or coupons. To get things as they should be priced, you have to put a little effort into it.
“Can I make my own?”
Of course, it will probably taste better too. Just remember, you can hold the pen, but everything else gives you the ink.
It only sounds that way.
Honyock is High Fashion. A human being, stripped of nature, wearing a hat made of q-tips. Face encrusted with diamonds. Slenderly floating in a satin dress down the holy aisle. Exuding the confidence of indifference. An army of ears to the ground. Led by the gut rather than the genius. Creatures of aesthetic. Fingertips waxed of print. Brow waned of bristle. Shoulders soft and padded. Negative space. Positive line. Texture. Color. Shape. Point. Block. Pixel. Dot. No.
Honyock is a bowl of soup. A good bowl of soup is merely a representation of the entire universe. Left alone, the broth starts to separate into different bits. The bowl is expanding faster and faster as time goes on. And if you search long enough, I’m sure you’d find a fish cake or a piece of chicken floating around in the night sky. But you don’t look at the sky. Not often enough, anyway, to realize the wonder and mystery of those little postulates of illumination. “How presumptuous of you, I look at the sky all the time and use words like illumination!” Don’t be silly. We are your best friend and have watched what you do in the wilderness. We have sung you songs while you took that crap by the waterfall. We built you a fire to dry out your socks. We gathered up the edible nuts and berries when you lost the will to tell the difference, so to speak. “No, that was Howie. That guy was there when I did those things. He was really kind too. You’re kind of being a dick about this whole universe soup thing.” You say from a small dug out hole in the ground.
Let me tell you something about Howie. That guy was a blabber mouth. The only reason I know these events took place is because I bought him ONE drink. ONE! You see, sister, you were a social conquest. He got close to you, opened up to you so that you would open up to him and share special intimate moments that only happen on camping trips in the middle of the night. He did this all, or at least mostly, for the ability to talk about it later. His conquest was never sexual. Thats why you don’t feel as violated. But it took just as much work if not more, and came from the same place. He conquered you!
“So,” you say after a few minutes of standing in the hole in silence, “is this your social conquest? Are you conquering me? By telling me this are you breaking me down? Was Howie your social conquest? Or did you just validate his?”
I’m just trying to help you become stronger by giving you the reality of the situation.
“You’re doing a ripping job of it aren’t you now?”
“Well it wasn’t a situation when you started.”
Yes it was, you just didn’t know about it.
“I, guess. But it really helped me, you know? Having him there that time. I was going through a lot of shit. My boyfriend called me from another country and called the wedding off. My childhood dog, Charlie, got sick and we had to put him down. Howie took me on that camping trip and was another ear to talk too. And, you know, maybe I was using him as much as he was using me. Maybe that’s what social interactions are and maybe thats beautiful and maybe thats okay. Maybe people can use each other. Its take and take and give and give. Its whatever we want it to be. You know, I remember one night on that trip where we were looking up at the stars and just ogling at the wonder of it all. How so much mystery can come from those little postulates of illumination. You know what he said to me? He said ‘those dots are pure wonder. How can something so big look so small. That’s the true wonder of space. The biggest things are unseeable at a distance, and at the same time, even though your small, your the biggest thing in the universe to me right now, because your right next to me.’”
I didn’t know he said that.
“I guess he didn’t tell you everything.” You say before disappearing into the black hole you dug yourself.
Honyock is a Korean War veteran.
I’m not quite sure what Colonel Henry did with them, but we remember typing on our malfunctioning royal quiet deluxe letters to be sent to the wives of those soldiers whom have recently become missing in action. The only difference between these letters was the name and rank of the officer. We made three copies and placed them on the Colonel’s gun-gray desk. We remember him reviewing the letters with a black pen in hand. He just sat there for what seemed an eternity, ink dripping on the letters, until we finally decided to leave.
We received word from FEAF that as a result of the recent accidents occurring before take off, navigators can no longer occupy the nose of the B-26 until after a certain altitude has been attained. This means we must remain in the tunnel of the aircraft for the duration of take of and landing. This directive we ignored at first but our pilots issued a cease and desist order to all bombardiers whom neglected this directive. The trouble is that the tunnel is cramped. The various elements of our flight jackets catch on the fuselage making it difficult to enter and exit. Once we reached proper altitude the pilot had to grab us and pull us with mighty force to get us into the nose so we can start our bombing chores. We are still embarrassed to this day to admit it but we would become a little claustrophobic down there. It is difficult to think about it even now without getting a little clammy-handed.
Honyock is a Christmas tree. Children often ask, “Hey why are you bringing inside that which belongs outside?”
And then you say, stepping twixt it and them “Because, that is the basis on which one becomes civilized. The opposable thumbs are but a means to an end of becoming inside. We select this tree because of its symmetry, it’s elegance, or in some strange cases its ‘whispnicity’ and ordain it a fertile minister of the outside realm and offer it asylum from the cold weather it was born to face. And besides, because ‘because’.”
“Oh, well I was merely reflecting on the absurdity of tradition.” The children say. “Especially when you think about the scene of nativity, and how Jesus is such a symbol of piety. I can’t imagine him buying an eight pack of glitter covered balls at Walmart for 10.50. Jesus was more thrifty then that.”
And then you tell them about the history of Christmas trees. How they once were decorated with edible ornaments such as apples and so forth. And how lights, of course, weren’t even a part of the original tradition. In fact, they used to be decorated with candles, which signifies sacrifice for our lord. What could be more Yule-tide and Christ-loving then attaching flaming wax to a flammable tree and having faith in God that your house won’t burn down by the new year.
“Like, many people have died from just that.” The children say, visibly concerned with how much you are sweating by this point in the conversation.
“Yes,” you say with a nod, “and what is the first thing to go?”
“Uhm… the presents?”
“Exactly. Think about it. All the material things your family has been lusting after. Material things.”
“So, let me get this straight, the Christmas tree at its best is a symbol of civilization, and at its worst God’s assassin of material people?” The children say with more than a little sarcasm in their voice.
“No,” you start sternly, “I never said the worst bit. I’d say at it’s most neutral its the symbol of civilization bit and at its coolest is the whole assassin thing.”
“Yeah, I guess it is pretty cool for a tree to be an assassin,” the children say. Either that or they are surrendering.
“You bet.” A few silent moments mark the end of the conversation and you realize there is a really long line of kids waiting to sit on your lap. Oh crap, you think, I have to speed this up. “So Jimmy, what do you want for Christmas?”
“Get off my lap.” You say pushing him on to one of your elves. Then you look out to the endless sea of parishioners and deliver a “HO! HO! HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
Honyock is a family. Some of us are brothers and some of us are children, sisters, parents. You can talk amongst yourself about who is who and what and why. A lot are extended family, only a few immediate. All are loved. Families swell within these families like fruit from its branch (some ripe, some sour). But there is more that grows below. If you see the forest for its trees you might never get to know. The roots merge. The forest’s trees are merely branches of one fallen ancient. You have to dig a little bit deeper, but be careful with your spade now. You may sever the tap root. Then we are all fucked.
Honyock is something you find at the dollar-store. You ask yourself, “if it is the same quality as everything else, then why is it here?” Well let us tell you humbled consumer: the dollar store bought such a large quantity that the manufacturer was able to cut some corners to keep costs down and profits up while still maintaining the essence of Honyock. In fact, why don’t we tell you the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It’s f%$#ing water in that can Jimmy. It’s not even Arizona tea anymore. It’s some amalgamation of corn and sewage grease that we have told you for years tastes great and is part of a balanced breakfast. PART of a balanced breakfast, no, it IS a balanced breakfast, and lunch, and dinner for that matter. So drink up Slim-Jim before you become Fat-Jim and Depressed-Jim and Poor-Jim. Oh, by the way Jim, can we have some? I know it sounds crazy because we work at the factory, but they don’t let us drink that sh%$t. They say it increases our insurance rates. They send company spies to make sure we are keeping hydrated with the right fluids and not taking advantage of sick leave. They set up little cameras in our homes. They set up things that don’t seem obtrusive to gather information about us like a teddy bear cam or the internet. They are watching. Cross referencing, Jimbo. Believe me. How do you think I knew you frequent the dollar-store?
Honyock is worried about self. Three years older than three years before. We can’t tell if our faces have changed but we know they must have. If our faces have changed then surely there must be some inner change as well. We ask: for worse, or for better? Do we disappoint ourselves with the things we say and do when its in clear opposition with our inner voice? Moral codes are broken. Meek anger turns viral. The penchant for self respect has run dry, like an ink well, wasted on bustling trains of thought that have now ran out of track. We thank friends who know better. Friends and smart enemies who challenge us to become more distilled and refined versions of ourselves. We won’t make it to that perfection, that refinement before we run out of time, but the fact that it’s a destination we walk towards is probably more important. Be careful not to step on toes dear sisters and brothers. Step on road. Extend hands. Say “come along”. The metaphors and similes will guide you to the promise land, sometimes more than four will occupy one ‘self-help’ sentence. Ignore them, actually. Feel their meaning instead. I don’t know. I mean, WE don’t. Fwew. We forgot we were talking in first person plural for a second. It happens when we speak of self help. We end up helping ourselves rather than helping anyone else. <— Okay?
Honyock is a tall tale. Many a tall lanky fellow have stollen our money to do lines of coke and climb trees. “They do cocaine?” You ask. You once admired those tall lanky fellows, and you’d find it disappointing if their intellectual responsibilities fell by the wayside for something as seemingly pointless as cocain. Someone in a distant field answers “Why yes, why else do you think they are climbing trees?” You shake your head. “I climbed trees when I was a child.” You argue. Well now you’ve done it, you rat! The police are surely knocking on your parents door for their encouragement in your childhood cocaine habit. “No one climbs trees, or does anything mildly entertaining without consuming some sort of mind altering substance, not even children.” The curly haired man in the field yells. This comes as a surprise to you. You climb trees. You talk to people. You enjoy things. You laugh (from time to time). You do all these things almost always without mind altering substances, and quite enjoyably so. You’re from the suburbs, and since you are still alive, you’ve become accustomed to being bored and are excited to at least be talking to your neighbor. Your neighbor in the field asks, “Hey, do you have any cocaine?” “Sorry,” you say, “I don’t party like that.” “Oh,” says he, “Well i had this great stuff on my honey moon, it was th-” He passes out in the field flat on his back before he can finish. See! You think. This is what happens to people like you! You pass out before you can climb the tree! You think you are climbing trees but you are only dreaming of climbing trees. His limp body twitches in the grass. “I CAN CLIMB THIS HERE TREE, WATCH ME!” You say as a tree grows at your feet. “COCAINLESS!” On top of the tree you see him lying there, disheveled and australian. Suddenly you are stricken with pity, the ripe fruits of his habits. Not only does he think he is climbing trees, he doesn’t realize what it looks like to see someone actually climbing a tree. A bird lands next to you and starts speaking, which is really convenient for the narrative to move forward. “Well at least he’s happy.” He says. Now you’ve heard that before. You are so sick of that response. No, I don’t care if he’s happier than me. The human experience isn’t comfort. It isn’t based on the ability to exit reality so easily when trees need to be climbed. The desire to do that and the inevitable caving into that is part of the experience but not that’s certainly not the ends to the means. Not if this story was written by someone else, at least. “I’d rather be disappointed and subsequently delighted then make this a mundanely consistent pleasurable experience, talking bird.” The bird contemplates those words in which you have just spoken. “Do you like bananas?” He asks. “Not particularly.” “Do you eat them?” “All the time.” “Thats the kind of person you are. Concerned with the reality of bananas, and experiencing them, so you can enjoy other things in which you like.” “I don’t find that bad. Provides dynamics to my pallet.” “I wouldn’t know, I eat seeds and shit on cars.” The bird says and flies away. You consider this for a while and grab a banana from the tree you just climbed and eat it with disdain. “-is columbian stuff. Really nocked us out, man. Hey do you have any cocaine?” finishes the australian, waking up from climbing trees.
Honyock is purple and blue “midnight sparkle” with chalkboard sea foam sides and open natural wood back with thin a nitro finish. The geometric pattern on the grill cloth juxtaposed with mustard yellow shag, emanating screaming high and thin female voices in the softly-shaded-moonlit-night. Incredulous and incredible, tender hearted yet yearning for some sharp stabs of truth to enrich the pleasure of softness and of fortitude. We don’t want those moments to become modes of the mundane, do we now? Do we know? You don’t! Sorry. I get out of line sometimes and assume people don’t have knowledge when in fact all you need to do is pop on over to the local grocery store and have a emotional breakdown of some sort and start running up and down the aisles throwing newmans’ own brand fig”newmans” at the help. I’d rather be homeless and crying outside the front automatic door sometimes. Sounds fun. I could spange. I can get a can of pre-cut peaches in light syrup and eat them and use the tin can to collect in. Then with that money I’d go down to McDonalds and my a cheeseburger off the dollar menu and cover it in enough ketchup to make me sick enough to not be hungry anymore. When all I really wish is to be un-sick enough to stop sleeping under the overpass. It smells like me under there. Just me and my shag coat and jelly sandals running in the freeway hoping to forget to fly long enough to sit down and take stock of my stock shares and finally get rich off of this great big get rich quick skeem we call the American dream. I wonder who’s dream it is sometimes. Dreams that come true almost always turn into nightmares.
Honyock is like that one band without the hooks. Or with the hooks. Depending on what hooks you. Hooks to someone might be nails to walk on for someone else. It all depends on what you think nails it.
Honyock is your grandfather in a spacesuit.
Honyock is extensions of extreme emotion. Therapeutic on stage and in house progressions through the worst parts of a life flashing behind eye lids and the tops of our eye sockets when the eyes roll back. When you look at a room of faces you see yours and theirs, the people whom have hurt you and whom you have hurt. Loneliness is like a picture or a preachers favorite scripture. What you need is out of frame and it always stays the same. Sometimes you hurt your brother and it’s a pain like no other. When he keeps his gun in his holster and you forget to aim. My pockets always scream for your money. So please, scream back at them.
Honyock is your favorite Herb Alpert record played at 45rpm
Honyock is a super power among sidekicks, the subtle essence that gives a hero their edge. It is the underwear worn on the outside of a heroes pants.
Honyock is a pen that is full of ink. The ball point is a thin choked up canal that stays the flood of creation. The hand that holds it is shaking. Two times a week it writes a page or two. At that rate the novel it writes will be released by the time it’s science fiction becomes true. Every day new ink fills the vile, overfills rather, and spills on the table wrecking the pages. These have to be rewritten of course. That’s not instantly gratifying. That tests the limitations of our short attention span. So please, dear pen pall, stick us in a room. Give us food and shelter. Let us tell our stories. Let us confuse the analogy. I promise to stop talking about ink and pens. I promise to not do things I promise to do. I promise that they wouldn’t say that. A cup of soy beans and a glass of well water will do. “Well well, well water?” you think to yourself, “this man wants to drain my well water!” Please, don’t worry, I promise to give it back.
Honyock is a Blue Eyed Coyote, blind to eyes that have been stolen but willing to steal someone else’s to see for a while through a new prism refracting new colors. We want to follow our instincts, not as a revivalist but a manifestation. I know what you’re thinking, “this makes a lot of sense”. Correct sir/maddam/zim. It does. Because it’s to ambiguous not to. So let’s agree that we’re interesting and that you want to live vicariously through us. Lets take that step to togetherness together forever-never. Right now. And hope that there is thunder to wonder under.
Honyock is a gopher hole. A gopher hole deemed rabbit hole. “Do rabbits even have holes?” you ask with brimming curiosity and a symbolic head scratch. Its a good question. We’ve never seen a rabbit in a hole. You can only remember seeing them in cages at friends houses and pet stores. Hey, we don’t blame you. Until recently, more recently than we would like to admit, when we heard ‘chicken’ we could only think of little pink lumps of flesh on foam wrapped in plastic. A courtesy paid to other animals in naming their meat separate from their being (porkbeefbaconbalogne) was not paid to chickens. Or lambs for that matter. And whats up with “seafood”. I mean hey, we don’t want to rain on a parade, but there is some complex ecology not being taken into consideration. “Oh, who cares” you say. And you’re not utterly right, but you don’t think you aren’t. Something deep inside leaves you desiring something. You notice that You have been sitting around all day and the quintessential early morning to noon period where it makes sense to do something productive has escaped you. You start to think your life is in shambles but cant think of a single misplaced tile. Resolute, you decide that you must find something wrong. Its time to go outside. Yes! Thats it! Outside! There are plenty of things wrong outside. Okay you gather your things to prepare for a trek. You start taking everything you could possibly read in case you get in a certain genre based mood. Two more hours pass while you chase the thought that your forgetting something around the apartment. Oh god! Get out! Quick! Okay! You’re outside. Its a little warm out. Good thing your under-overdressed. People pass you. Adults that dress their age make you feel like a child. You pretend that you are going for a swim. Yes that explains it. You have a destination in mind at first but when you reach the rose garden it doesn’t feel like enough. Walking along the path you see a gopher hole and think about starting that writing thing you used to do. The stream of consciousness one. You decide against this. Walking along you find yourself in the wind of a neighborhood. Its ritsy. You see an old red jeep in a garage and think “cool!” and then see a deers head mounted on a placard and start thinking about animals you have killed. Theres a woman doing some gardening and she says hello. You wave back and say good-morning. You think you see a glimmer of destruction in her eyes but its probably just her pity reflecting in your pool of shame like the sunlight refracting in her hose-rainbow. You ask her “have you ever been in love?”. She says, “Of course. Have a nice day!” and waters her drought safe flowers. Walking onward you come upon a house being painted. A man in painters white-and-stained clothing is turning the pressure for the paint guns on in the van and walks in front of you. You smile but he ignores you. And you want to cry because you once new a painter and can see him in this man. You suddenly see his life flash before your eyes. His blackened hands reaching for something to drink. Lips never quenched, forever parched by the scorch of a sun that always hangs inside himself. His body but a lampshade. His fire being blotted out by constant inhalation and consumption. You think of the gardeners face. Her expression held extreme depth behind a mask. In her eyes you saw true love as a distant memory. Like a flag waving in ceaseless wind on a baron hill. She starts to sing in your mothers voice. Her eyelids convey an ease. You forget that you’re walking and fall down a large rabbit hole as thousands of gallons of water and white paint come cascading after you.