We Will Take What We have in our Hearts, wherever we go

What a wide swing of memories made these last two days. Saturday was marked by stumbling from sleep to write for a few hours in the dark before dawn. Then about five hours doing business, that is: class preparations, letters of recommendations, promised CD copies, etc etc, and during the while of picking up the house and doing laundry and then a little horn practice. Then hurried on a swimming suit under my clothes and headed to Kailua Beach to assist in a memorial service. There were several testimonies as to how this departed one had helped or changed a life. One of the most profound was from a son who told of how he looked into that morning into the mirror and saw his father in his face. Then saw him in his children and realized that he would always be alive in them. All of us there were transported to consider the future gatherings for our own departures from this place. I asked myself what I wanted to be said of me when I leave. My answer I’ll leave private. I have a ways to go and had better shore up my story. I have a few years left to fix what I can fix, to forgive, to learn to write, to learn to sing, to learn how to keep my heart open when it needs to be open and to protect it when it needs to be protected, to learn to laugh with abandon, to learn bravery, to be a compassionate being no matter what happens, and to always work towards justice, to inspire. I’ll imagine the end and work backwards from there and construct a story that will be food for the people as my body will be food for the earth.

Then I helped paddle one of the canoes to carry the ashes out into the ocean. It was quite cold for Honolulu, with the winds probably about 65-68 degrees. A little nerve wracking when you have to transport non-paddlers in waters being crisscrossed by wind surfers. But we paddled out and the water felt good. The spirit of this beloved one was released with flowers and tears into the seas and we returned, jumped into our clothes to warm up and headed to the departed’s mother’s house for some of the best Hawaiian food I’ve ever tasted. The squid luaau was rich and the haupia perfectly creamy.

Then we headed over Likelike Highway because we missed the turn for the Pali Highway and drove to Queen’s Medical Center to see one of my tribesmen from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. He’s in the cardiac unit for diabetic complications. And from complications suffered from negligence from another area hospital. He married a Hawaiian woman thirty years ago and has been the heart of Indian country here on this island and in these islands. We visited for awhile until he feel asleep as I read to him. He’s lost his eyesight to diabetes, a foot and part of a leg. We all love him dearly here.

And then home. Shower, and out.

This morning reluctantly forced myself into the cold dark before dawn to finish packing, printing documents so I could leave for a Sunday morning paddle. Yes, it gets cold in Hawaii. Finished packing so I could leave for paddling at 7AM—instead, spent the three hours doing business and completing paperwork. Then to the airport to check in for standby, then to Sam Choy’s for their breakfast buffet, then back to the airport where I was frisked like a criminal because I was traveling standby. Disconcerting to have my private stuff opened and displayed on their metal tables. I knew there was a reason I didn’t take my eagle feather. I usually do. It would have been confiscated. That wise voice told me to leave it. Sometimes I argue (still). This time I listened. Then I prepared for classes on a relatively calm flight to LAX. Instead of my usual trusty car rental place I tried a car company called Advantage, or known to me now as, the Hell Car Rental. The pickup from the curb took over half an hour, then because there were only two agents there was a long queue of impatient travelers who’d also been waiting forever. I plenty of time to go online to check on the Nammy winners as I’d heard nothing. So, in that dingy office in a choked queue I discovered that though I had three nominations I won nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The Poetic Justice album, Letter from the End of the Twentieth Century was nominated for eight awards in the first Nammy award run. We got none. Now my second album, Native Joy for Real. None.

Those who voted, thanks for voting. If it were just based on votes I think I would have had a chance.

So, that’s where it is. I made the drive into West Hollywood. Safely through the dark of the end of a day. Will lay it all down. Turn it over. And keep on trying.

Signing off. Wait, before I sign off. Just found out that the first Hawaiian Grammy was given to the only non-Hawaiian nominated. So it goes. Justice feels like a stranger.

Signing off. Good night. Sleep tight.

We Must Be in a Water Cycle, or Two Poems

Stormy Saturday Morning

And the bird people sing anyway.
Their calls are like splashed water beset by wind.
Now if my soul could remember how to negotiate
The foolishness of Can’t, we could sing in any kind of weather.
And forget the sadness, or be it.
Build a house with the wreckage of fury.
Start all over again no matter shots in the dark from words or guns.
Yesterday is only memory anyway, made into the stuff of our reaction.
I was afraid, so I killed my neighbor with a machete.
I was angry, so I ignored the tower of gifts clamoring to give joy.
I was vengeful so I burned down the house to keep anyone else from having it.
I was jealous so I lied to the tribal council and got more than one share.
Last night on the television a newborn thrown in the road kicked his legs for more life
As his mouth sucked the air for mother.
This morning I’m exhausted with the human struggle
As these bird people must be.
They sing anyway, craft memory into memory.
So I’ll take it from here,
And start all over again with the story,
Sing it with a human twist.
A bright wretchedness, a little joy.


c Joy Harjo 2/12/05 Honolulu

SOME NOTES ON A RAINY EVENING WHEN YOU FEEL AS FAR AWAY AS PLUTOAND I KNOW, BECAUSE I’VE FLOWN THERE WITHOUT THE HEAVY WINGS OF HEAVENLY CASTING, OR THE METAL SHELLS OF FIREBIRDS EATING TONS OF FUEL FOR LIFT.

We ran for it after the paddle, first,
Out past the buoy and then we turned back into the battle of hard north winds.
There’s no winning. We just keep moving through slices of rain.
Though I’m here in the bow of a running canoe,
I’m in a song from the ceremonial grounds
Beyond human time or place.
Red cardinal carries on at dawn, talking to the sun
And marking territory all at once.
Can we be sacredly profane?
I kept thinking of what it means to trade this weight of this skin for something
A little lighter: like sunlight on water or like the moment I saw your
Eyes first catch light for me.
Come here I said.
And the water people below us are just trying to hold it up.
It’s a little rough with us surface people ruining it with all our shit.
Tonight it’s raining urgently. You’d better listen, urgently
Say the winds.
So, I’m listening to the falling, urgently.
And I keep not thinking of how far it is to the origin of rain.

c Joy Harjo 2/11/05 for L.M.

Story Gathering

Cloudy this morning and not much deep sleep. Too much caffeine too late in the afternoon. Up past midnight writing.

So I go out into the kitchen of the b & b to story gather. That’s what we do. This morning I’m asked,

“Did you know S___ G____? She’s a major mover in this town.”

”No.“

”Her husband and his girlfriend were died of carbon monoxide in the girlfriend's apartment in Santa Fe. After the funeral she had her own private ceremony, and flushed his ashes down the toilet.“

And then there are other stories. We move through them in various realms. I’ve already lost my collection from last night, from wandering between midnight and 5AM.

We are stories.

The Difficult World

It’s morning in Honolulu in this difficult world. My cardinal neighbor acknowledged it with a song. When I stepped out into the quiet I gave thanks for this embrace of peace. The Pacific is rolling in, from here looks like sloppy two feet waves. Still, I’d like to go out and paddle into what my spirit knows there. I breathe it in. Breathe out the worries, overwhelming sadness. Elections are being held in Iraq that aren’t true elections. Let people decide for themselves. They aren’t; the conquerors are deciding all this because they believe that the oil and resources are theirs by divine right. There’s no ruse anymore. The lies are sheer, transparent. It’s been happening here, on this island, in this country for years. We forget.


Now, who do I talk on behalf of my poet friend who starts back at a job in the East where she is denigrated and unappreciated? Despite the bad treatment she’s set up one of the best reading series in the country and runs a writing center. This is a full time job. Then they added a class for her to teach, then another and another. It wasn’t in her contract but they require it because they can, because somebody will do it if she doesn’t because these jobs are hard to come by. And to whom do I report a relative who will continue on this journey today less part of a leg and an injury inflicted by a faulty surgical procedure for which he’ll most likely receive no compensation because, ironically, he doesn’t have money to pursue a wrong doing? And a cousin knocked down by a stroke who is standing up again, leaning at the kitchen sink making breakfast for herself this morning, trying to make it alone in a little house far from the Oklahoma she fled as a champion barrel racer? Her daughter is nearby, but dragged far, far away into a drug oblivion. Where is her circle of family? And who will take the hands of my beloved sister crippled by rheumatoid arthritis and ease out the knots of rage, of pain?


What poet will come along and sing beautifully and dangerously?
Of all this, all this.

The Chinese New Year’s parade was cancelled on Saturday due to heavy rains, storms. I was disappointed. I looked forward to pushing my friend’s wheelchair through the festivities. The island was flooded with rain. So much rain that the sewers overflowed in the bay where we paddle. Yesterday was our first day out of off-season paddling, after it was suspended because of our New Year’s Eve incident. It was a beautiful morning after the rain as we gathered there. But the water was turgid and brown with sewage here in beautiful Hawaii. We humans are destroying this place. We paddled out with a heaviness, a sadness.

I delighted seeing lightning, hearing thunder. Lightning doesn’t visit here very frequently.

Soon I will be in their realm, as I fly from Honolulu to Los Angeles. It's important to acknowlege the beings of that realm.

What does it mean to be a musician on a Saturday morning in Honolulu?

It means getting up, calling my sister in Oklahoma who’s turning fifty to sing happy birthday and talking plans, figuring out horn practice time for the morning: not too early but early enough to be ready to head out for errands and obligations. I’m going to the gym, to a paddling club meeting on the other side of the island, and to gather for the Chinese New Year parade where I’m meeting up with the Intertribal society of Honolulu to march in the parade. I’ve been given the honored position of pushing the wheelchair of the beloved leader of the club, my relative Bill Tiger. In the midst of all this, I am working on a song, or should I say, it’s working on me? This one is a stream of momentum that came forth a month ago around a couple of guitar chords. It has breath already, a shimmer, a direction. The words aren’t there yet. I will just have to follow it. I gather parts of it along the way, while traveling along the horizon of this earth, from Honolulu to LA to Park City and back. Faith and belief and an absolute love of dancing feeds it.

A few notes on a Friday night in Honolulu:

An African Proverb:
"The King Fears Only The Poets."

News this week:

Giant squids beached in Newport, California.

A sixty-five-year old woman gives birth.

A 19-pound baby is born to a woman in Brazil.

And voters in Iraq don’t know the names of the candidates, nor where they are to vote.

Now, what’s the real story here?

_____________________________________________________________________

And be sure and vote for me at www.nammys.com. The voting ends this week.
_________________________________________________________________________________

Other news: My music is now available for easy download on iTunes! Check it out!

_________________________________________________________________________________

A Thousand Roads is getting good reviews at Sundance.

Here’s one by Peter Hanson at Film Threat:

http://www.filmthreat.com/Reviews.asp?Id=7029
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tomorrow I’ll be in the Chinese New Year Parade, accompanying my relative Bill Tiger and other members of the local native community who’ve been invited to be part of the new year’s festivities.

________________________________________________________________

Seeking submissions for an anthology with the working title:

“Mesas and Towers: Stories from the Southwest”

Salina Bookshelf, Inc. is seeking original written work by American Indian writers located in the Southwest (Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Oklahoma, Southern California, Nevada) region of the United States.

The goal of this anthology is to collect fiction, creative non-fiction, and autobiographies focused on the Southwest experience from the American Indian point of view. Ideally, contributing writers would submit two stories: one that takes place before 1940, and another after 1940. Single submissions are acceptable. We would like a balance of “traditional”/older (before 1940) stories mixed with more contemporary (after 1940) experiences.

Manuscripts considered for publication need to meet the following:

• Genres: fiction, creative non-fiction, autobiography, poetry.

• Submissions cannot exceed 25 pages (6500) words – length of the story is up to the writer, but both stories combined cannot exceed 25 pages.

• Unpublished, original work is preferred; should a previously published or excerpts from a previously published work require a reprint fee, the fee payment is the responsibility of the author.

• Each manuscript should contain a cover sheet with the author’s name, mailing address, email address, and phone number, along with a biographical statement.

• Manuscripts should be typed, double-spaced, on one side only of 8-1/2 x 11 write paper; if sent via email, send using Microsoft Word document.

• Send also a disk or CD-ROM formatted for Microsoft document with hardcopy. Do not send the only copy of your manuscript; make sure you have an original copy of your work. Salina Bookshelf, Inc. is not responsible for any lost manuscripts.

• Please include a self-addressed, stamped envelope with sufficient postage if you wish to have your work returned.

• Submission deadline: May 15, 2005

Send submissions to: DeLyssa K. Begay
P.O. Box 3080
Chinle, Arizona 86503
Email: delyssabegay@salinabookshelf.com

On the Road and iTunes

Tonight the blur of lack of sleep. Started Saturday with early flight from LA to Salt Lake City for the Sundance Film Festival. A Thousand Roads, the Signature film for the National Museum of the American Indian, entered in the "Special" Category (not feature or short) premiered Saturday afternoon at Sundance Village. Chris Eyre directed. Scott Garen and I co-wrote it. A warm response. Dinners, interviews and photos for the next few days. Sundance is dense with attitude, like having LA packed into a few square miles...Then back to LA Monday night, then UCLA early on Tuesday to teach two three-hour classes. Then to Honolulu this morning. So my spirit is still traveling...And a song is urgent for birth...Now, sleep.

PLEASE NOTE: You can now download my Native Joy for Real songs on Apple's iTunes!!!!

What Marks a Warrior?

Consider these shining words in light of the inauguration speech of the so-called leader of this country:

“In Navajo, a warrior is the one who can use words so everyone knows they are part of the same family. In Navajo, a warrior says what is in the people’s hearts. Talks about what the land means to them. Brings them together to fight for it.”

Tiana Bighorse

Learning How to Be Human

I return to the betrayal. It’s a self-betrayal first, or a betrayal of spirit. Isn’t that how betrayal works? There’s some kind of inner warning and it may be subtle and difficult to perceive with the television going or music made to sell you false dreams spinning in your ears. I felt the tug of my spirit. I watched others go out into the etheric ocean and when they veered into a danger this protection came to them. I tested it with another female. We coasted and flew and I sent out a signal to that one to come and see us back safely. There was no response at all. I regret to say that my response wasn’t satisfactory. I wilted briefly into the feel-sorry stance, then when we returned from our adventure I found the spirit and challenged him for his failure to come to us. Maybe I was asking in the wrong direction, or from the wrong mind. The one who is to direct will be there, or will watch from a distance to see how you respond on your own, to see if you are worthy of what they have to teach you. Each day brings opportunities to test yourself against yourself.

This morning I uncurl from knowing in a dark, cool room in my cousin’s duplex in West Hollywood. I can’t even see whether it’s light or dark out. It’s just me and my spirit and the shaking of the world as it starts into the weekday mind. I am fresh from being out in the stars, flying as I used to so consciously as a child, until I was thought to think too much, and put away my dreams. That was one of the earliest betrayals. “It’s just your imagination”, was my mother’s refrain to my traveling stories. I know and knew different, even knew better than to ask her but I wanted a companion made by the sharing of a story.

Sometimes you have to be alone and protection won’t come when you ask for it. Then how will you act? Will you act with dignity? Or slam things around? Or curse? Or turn on the television, have another beer or piece of bread? And what does this have to do with your music or your poetry? Everything. You follow your spirit into the poem or music. There’s an inner space there, much as dream space, and while you are there you are exchanging gifts of knowing, of being, as your human spirit assists in birthing another small world into existence.

The Nammys/ PLEASE VOTE

The finalists for the Native American Music Awards have been announced, and I'm happy to say I've been nominated in three categories:

Best blues/jazz album
Best female performer
and Best songwriter

Please log into www.nammys.com and log in and vote. Everyone's eligible to vote. There are many excellent candidates and other categories. And pass the word along. It will be a fast and furious contest as the awards are held February 10th in Florida.

Thanks for your vote on behalf of native music!