Then someone reminds me that their ex-husband reported a hawk who swooped down on a pigeon conference in his yard in Maryland and scooped up one of the birds for dinner in his claws. The remaining pigeons were outraged and are still disturbed at the sudden loss of their friend and relative. Her ex was quite entertained, she reported.
So much for the natural pacific tendencies of birds, and humans.
I imagine the circle of guardians, ancestors, bored departed relatives peering over into the high drama/soap opera going on in this realm. Someone is always watching, so it's better to watch yourself, first. Several years ago in the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport between flights I inserted my last change into postal stamp machine. I had mail in need of urgent delivery and had to get it in on the run. I was tired, probably running on sugar and caffeine. (I notice that sugar, caffeine and exhaustion in combination are lethal to my temperament.) The machine took my change and didn't deliver the stamps. I pounded. No stamps. Pounded the machine again. No change, either. A tribal member who I've always admired for his elegance and class interrupted my fury. Talk about embarrassment. Being self-possessed is literally to have possession of yourself. When you are truly self-possessed, then no matter how stubborn and uncooperative a machine (bureaucracies are included here, like governments and utility companies) a human or even a capricious Mother and Father Nature (there has to be both in this realm of duality--and a Trickster leaping the track inbetween) you remain elegant, unruffled. That's what I aspire to--
Last Tuesday I hosted the Navajo poet Luci Tapahonso at UCLA. She met with my graduate American Indian Studies class and then later addressed Ken Lincoln's poetry, my writing workshop, and the UCLA community. She was gracious, and as usual: self-possessed. As she talked, sang, and spoke she recreated her family's hogan in the Public Policy classroom. We became her family. She passed on a Navajo saying in her introduction that encapsulated what I've been telling the students in both my classes since the first meeting. The saying is much more concise:
The sacred is on the tip of the tongue.
She also reminded us that everything we speak stands behind us.
Now that's a frightening thought--and very true.
The following day I was on my way to Okmulgee, Oklahoma to put in a couple of days of research and visits related to my ongoing creative project. I won't talk about it because to talk about it will wear it out. It's happened to me over and again. I visited some of the beloved old ones and I always enjoy those visits. Then you know what matters. Spent some time at the Creek Council House, digging in the collections. My favorite aunt used to work there and I loved the feeling of connection when I'd come upon her signature or name in my search. Also got caught up on the political stuff and once again feel dismayed, even defeated on behalf of all of us to hear it, to know it...but also motivated to keep on moving towards an artistic renaissance of the people. Also know again why I live so far away!! Yet, I'm still there in the middle of it.
Ted Isham curator of the Creek Council House and at the heart of the Mvskoke language revitalization efforts returned to LA with me to speak on language revitilazation and poetics of traditional Mvskoke speech. We held it on the UCLA campus, invited my classes, the UCLA community, the Mvskoke Creek community of the California area. No one from UCLA attended the wonderful meeting, complete with sofkee made by my cousin Eli Grayson who also gave us a sharp, ascerbic and brilliant political rundown on things in the Nation. Ted brought a clip of a Spencer Franks "performance" of a particular kind of Mvskoke oratory, a kind of profound and spiritual Creek rap. Overall, a wonderful presentation from Ted and another gathering of home in the midst of the city. On March 8th the young poet Sherwin Bitsui will be our last guest. March 15th is my last day at UCLA.
In the meantime, and after, lots of travel. Includes:
March 3-6 Arcata, CA 3rd Annual Native Children’s Authors Festival, March 5th Free Public Event, United Indian Health Services, Potawot Health Village, 1600 Weeot Way, Arcata, CA. Book signing from 4-5. With Shonto Begay and Shaunna McCovey.
March 10: Performance Willamette University
March 11, Powell’s Bookstore , Portland
March 12 Portland Powwow
March 17-19 Slippery Rock, PA
March 20-27 Honolulu
March 28-April 1 Dennison University, OH
Many dates in April and May. Here's some detailed info on the Border Book Festival in Mesilla (Las Cruces), New Mexico in April. Hope to see some of you there:
RE-INVENTING THE AMERICAS
2005 BORDER BOOK FESTIVAL TENTATIVE SCHEDULE
Note: Check at the Cultural Center of Mesilla, the registration table on the plaza, or the venue for last minute changes.
THURSDAY, APRIL 14, 2005
ALL DAY
Border Book Festival Community Outreach
School Visits by Visiting Writers and Storytellers at various locations.
See school outreach schedule for more information.
LUNCH
12 - 1:30
LUNCHEON FOR STORYTELLERS
RANCHWAY BBQ AND MEXICAN RESTAURANT
Hosted by BBF and Elsa & Chuy Rodríquez.
Luncheon provided for storytellers; other paying customers welcome to join. Reservations/information: 523-7361.
EVENING
7:00 p.m. DINNER FOR VISITING STORYTELLERS
FRIDAY, APRIL 15, 2005
ALL DAY
Border Book Festival Community Outreach
School Visits by Visiting Writers at various locations.
See school outreach schedule for more information.
MORNING
9-11:00 a.m.
VISIT WITH AN ARTIST. STUDENTS FROM MESILLA ELEMENTARY WILL VISIT WITH FEATURED ARTISTS. RECEPTION BY THE ROTARY CLUB. FOUNTAIN THEATRE. FREE.
TRADE SHOW SET UP ON PLAZA. ALSO APRIL 16 FROM 7-9:30 A.M. 4-6:00 p.m.
RECEPTION FOR TRADE SHOW PARTICIPANTS AND VISITING WRITERS AT THE CULTURAL CENTER OF MESILLA
We invite all Trade Show vendors and authors to join us for a reception in their honor at the Cultural Center of Mesilla
LUNCH
AFTERNOON
1-2:00 p.m. LOS OJOS DEL ALMA/THE EYES OF THE SOUL, A THEATRE PIECE IN SPANISH WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY ALICIA LIBERTO. PERFORMED BY MEMBERS OF THE EVENSTART FAMILY LITERACY PROGRAM OF THE LAS CRUCES PUBLIC SCHOOLS. IN SPANISH. FOUNTAIN THEATRE. DONATION.
3-4:00 p.m. ESPEJOS Y VENTANAS/MIRRORS AND WINDOWS, A READER'S THEATRE PIECE ABOUT THE IMMIGRANT EXPERIENCE. WRITTEN BY MARK LYONS AND DIRECTED BY BERTA CANTU. SPANISH. FOUNTAIN THEATRE. DONATION. 4-6:00 p.m.
RECEPTION FOR TRADE SHOW PARTICIPANTS AND VISITING WRITERS AT THE CULTURAL CENTER 3-5:00 p.m.
TRADE SHOW SET UP ON PLAZA. ALSO APRIL 16 FROM 7-9:30 A.M. OF MESILLA
We invite all Trade Show vendors and authors to join us for a reception in their honor at the Cultural Center of Mesilla
EVENING
7:00 p.m.
READING BY H.G. CARRILLO AND ANA CASTILLO. MESILLA COMMUNITY CENTER. RECEPTION FOLLOWING. $7
SATURDAY, APRIL 16, 2005
ALL DAY
Exhibits
Exhibits
MESILLA VISITOR'S CENTER
Open Mic Readings Free
Pick up schedule at the BBF booth on the plaza or check at the venues.
Andeles's
The Bean
STORYTELLING TENT ACTIVITIES 10 - 5
Free Readings/performances by authors, children, publishers, and storytellers. Children's activities. See separate schedule or check at the venue.
MESILLA PLAZA
BOOKSIGNINGS BY AUTHORS 10 - 4 Free
Authors will be signing books at the BBF booth and at various publishers' booths.
Pick up schedule at the BBF booth. MESILLA PLAZA
Trade Show Libros y Más 10 - 5 Free
Vendors include: artists, writers, publishers, non-profit organizations, photographers, children's books, food, designers, etc. Pick up map of vendors at the BBF booth.
MESILLA PLAZA
9:00-11:00
WORKSHOP: CHILDREN OF THE AMERICAS: WRITING FOR THE GENERATIONS: WHAT TO SAY AND HOW $7
Workshop with Amada Irma Pérez. SAN ANDRES HIGH SCHOOL.
9:00-11:00
WORKSHOP: THE JAZZ OF WORDS. H.G. Carrillo.
The Fountain Theatre
10 - 11:30
PANEL: CRISIS IN THE AMERICAS . $5
Moderator: Benjamin Alire Sáenz.
MESILLA COMMUNITY CENTER
11:45 - 1:00
RE-INVENTING THE AMERICAS PANEL $5
Sherwin Bitsui, Joy Harjo and H.G. Carrillo. Moderator: Denise Chávez
MESILLA COMMUNITY CENTER
LUNCH
AFTERNOON
12-1:00 p.m.
ESPEJOS Y VENTANAS/MIRRORS AND WINDOWS, A READER'S THEATRE PIECE ABOUT THE IMMIGRANT EXPERIENCE. WRITTEN BY MARK LYONS AND DIRECTED BY BERTA CANTU. SPANISH. FOUNTAIN THEATRE. DONATION. 1:00-2:45 p.m. Make a Moblie with Neecy Twinem, children's illustrator, artist and author. The cost of the workshop includes a book. Limit 20 participants. BBF Storytelling tent on Plaza.
1:00 - 2:45
PANEL: TRANSLATED WORDS $5
Liliana Valenzuela, Sharon Franco, Jorge Argueta, Claude Fouillade. Moderator: Dr. Cecilia Pino.
MESILLA COMMUNITY CENTER
2-4:00 p.m. Donation
HOMENAJE A RICARDO AGUILAR MELANTZÓN. A TRIBUTE TO MEXICAN POET AND NOVELIST, RICARDO AGUILAR MELANTZÓN BY STUDENTS, FRIENDS AND COLLEAGUES. In Spanish and English. Fountain Theatre.
Donation for Aguilar Melantzón Scholarship Fund
3:30-5:00 p.m. Donation
STORYTELLING EVENT FOR FAMILIES WITH JOE HAYES. Booksigning following.
MESILLA COMMUNITY CENTER
5-7 DINNER AT LA POSTA.
Reservations/information: 524-3524.
EVENING
7 - 9
PREMIO FRONTERIZO GALA $10
Music and Readings
Music by Onda de Valle with El Güero del Chuco.
Presentation of the Premio Fronterizo Award, The Sunshine Community Service Award, and the Cauthon Volunteer Award.
Reading by Sherwin Bitsui and Joy Harjo.
MESILLA COMMUNITY CENTER
8 - 12
¡PACHANGA! DANCE FOR FESTIVAL ARTISTS, ATTENDEES, AND GENERAL PUBLIC $7
PALACIO BAR IN MESILLA
SUNDAY, APRIL 17, 2005
ALL DAY
EXHIBITS
MESILLA VISITOR'S CENTER
OPEN MIC READINGS Free
Pick up schedule at the BBF booth on the plaza or check at the venue.
Venues: The Bean, Andele's
STORYTELLING TENT ACTIVITIES 10-5 Free
Readings/performances by authors, children, publishers, and storytellers. Children's activities. See separate schedule or check at the venue.
MESILLA PLAZA
BOOK SIGNINGS BY AUTHORS. 10-4 Free
Authors will be signing books at the BBF booth and at various publishers' booths.
Pick up schedule at the BBF booth. MESILLA PLAZA
TRADE SHOW LIBROS Y MÁS 10-5 Free
Vendors include: artists, writers, publishers, non-profit organizations, photographers, children's books, food, designers, etc. Pick up map of vendors at the BBF booth.
MESILLA PLAZA
MORNING
9-11
Workshop: The Legacy of the Ancestors: Writing Through One's Historical Trauma to Celebrate the Power of Roots
Various Writers.
FOUNTAIN THEATRE $7
9-11
Panel: Panel in Spanish with Fernando Garavito, Liliana Valenzuela, Jorge Argueta SAN ANDRES HIGH SCHOOL $5
9-11
Workshop: I AM FROM with Jessica Blanchard
SAN ANDRES HIGH SCHOOL
$7
BRUNCH 11-1 Native Foods Brunch with a celebration of music, art and dance from the Americas. $25 Join us for a wonderful taste of the Americas as we feature a cornucopia of foods native to our hemisphere. If you haven't tried a nopal shake you don't know what you've been missing. Enjoy the arts of the hemisphere while you eat! MESILLA COMMUNITY CENTER. Reservations necessary.
AFTERNOON
1:30-2:30 LOS OJOS DEL ALMA, THEATRE PIECE IN SPANISH WRITTEN BY ALICIA LIBERTO AND PERFORMED BY MEMBERS OF THE EVENSTART FAMILY LITERACY PROGRAM. DONATION.
FOUNTAIN THEATRE. DONATION.
1-2:00
STORYTELLING: STORIES OF THE AMERICAS WITH JORGE ARGUETA, JOE HAYES, NEECY TWINEM AND OTHERS.
STORYTELLING TENT
1 - 3
READING IN SPANISH: LILIANA VALENZUELA, FERNANDO GARAVITO, LEVI ROMERO, CECILIA PINO $5
MESILLA COMMUNITY CENTER.
1 - 2:30
PANEL: LAS COMADRES PARA LAS AMERICAS. MODERATOR: GINA NUNEZ, AMADA IRMA PEREZ, BERTA CANTU, MARIA LUISA GONZALES AND LAURA GUTIERREZ SPENCER. $5.
SAN ANDRES HIGH SCHOOL
3:15-5:00
READING: WRITERS AND TRANSLATORS:
DENISE CHÁVEZ, LILIANA VALENZUELA, BENJAMIN ALIRE SÁENZ AND CLAUDE FOUILLADE. $5
MESILLA COMMUNITY THEATRE.
7:00 p.m. JUST CAN'T LEAVE THE FESTIVAL? JOIN US AT SEVERO'S RESTAURANT IN LA MESA, NM FOR SOME GREAT GREEN CHILE ENCHILADAS. RESERVATIONS: 524-233-3534.
2/19/05
Musings in an Amusing (or Not-so-Amusing) World
It's Saturday morning in Honolulu, the last Saturday morning I'll be here for nearly a month, so I'm savoring the bird racket (about a thousand doves cooing,and cooing can be very aggressive despite the dove stereotypes) the mynah birds carrying on, tiny flocks of some kind of tiny green finch, the java sparrows i.e. butler birds, cardinal pair, then the military helicopters--war birds. I'm not savoring the sound of war. It has invaded this island, is rotting out the consciousness of our country. We have to keep going and find ways to refresh with clear truth, fresh images and sounds, and look towards creating a world of respect, a world in which all these birds can live, as they do, in the same community. You don't see the doves out there trying to convert all the other birds to dove ways, although they can be a nuisance.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I debated on whether to let this out or not, but figured it might be helpful.
FOR A GIRL BECOMING A WOMAN
for Krista Rae Chico
That day your spirit came to us rains came in from the Pacific to bless
They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants
Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist
Your mother labored there, so young in earthly years
And your father, and all of us who loved you gathered there,
Pollen blew throughout that desert house to bless us
With the fragrant knowledge of your pending arrival here.
And horses were running the land, hundreds of them for you,
To bring you here, to bless.
Girl, I wonder what you thought as you paused there in your spirit house
Before you entered into the breathing world to be with us?
Were you lonely for us, too?
Our relatives in that beloved place dressed you in black hair,
Brown eyes, skin the color of earth, and turned you in the direction of this place.
We want you to know that we urgently gathered to welcome you here; we came
Bearing gifts to celebrate.
From your mother’s house we brought: poetry, music, medicine makers, stubbornness, beauty, tribal leaders, a yard of junk cars and the gift of knowing how to make them run. We carried turquoise, white shell, new clothes and joy for you.
And from your father’s house came educators, thinkers, dreamers, weavers and mathematical genius. They carried a cradleboard, hope and coral for you.
We brought blankets to wrap you in, soft beaded moccasins of deerskin to warm your feet; we made a home of love for you.
Did you hear us as you traveled from your rainbow house?
We called you with thunder, with singing.
Did you see us as we gathered in the town beneath the mountains?
We were dressed in hope and happiness.
Did you taste the metals of the earth giving muscle to our dreaming?
We are part of the stars, the impetus of the stars.
We were overwhelmed, as you moved through the weft of your mother
When you took your first breath, your eyes blinked wide open.
Now you are becoming a woman.
You are moving from one knowing into another.
Now, breathe.
And when you breathe remember the source of the gift of breathing.
When you walk, remember the source of the gift of walking.
And when you run, remember the source of the gift of all running.
And when you laugh, remember the source of the gift of all laughter.
And when you cry, remember the source of the gift of all crying.
And when you think, remember the source of the gift of all thinking.
And when your heart is broken, remember the source of the gift of all breaking.
And when you are tested by fire, remember the source of the gift of all fire.
And when you are tested by wind, remember the source of the gift of all wind.
And when you are tested by water, remember the source of the gift of all water.
And when you are tested by earth, remember the source of the gift of all earth.
All of this, and you must remember what comes of this is compassion.
Don’t forget how you started your journey from that rainbow house,
How you traveled and will travel through the mountains and valleys of human tests.
There are treacherous places along the way, but you can come to us.
There are lakes of tears shimmering sadly there, but you can come to us.
And valleys without horses or kindnesses, but you can come to us.
And angry, jealous gods and humans who will try to hurt you, but you can come to us.
You will fall, but you will get back up again, because you are one of us.
And as you travel through this middle world remember all this:
Give a drink of water to all who need it, whether they be plant, creature, spirit or human.
May you always have clean, fresh water.
Feed your neighbors, be they earthly or spirit. Give kind words and assistance to your parents, brothers and sisters and family.
May you be surrounded with the helpfulness of family and good friends. We are all related in this place.
Grieve with the grieving, share joy with the joyful. Forget gossip or hurtful talk.
May you be build a strong path with beautiful and truthful language.
Clean your room.
May you always have a home, a refuge.
Bury what needs to be buried. Do not harbor hurt.
May you always travel lightly and well.
Praise and give thanks for each small and large thing.
Review each act and thought.
May you grow in knowledge, in compassion, in beauty.
Always within you is that day your spirit came to us
When rains came in from the Pacific to bless
They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants
Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist
Your mother labored there, so young in earthly years
And your father, and all of us who loved you gathered there,
Pollen blew throughout that desert house to bless us
With the fragrant knowledge of your pending arrival here.
And horses were running the land, hundreds of them for you,
To bring you here, to bless.
c Joy Harjo
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I am totally converting to Garage Band for my song drafts. It is easy to use, is on my computer. All I need is a plug-in box, mic (and I'm using my Shur 58) and a hard drive. I did use the Boss 864 digital recorder before. Excellent little recorder. Is user friendly. Any more I read manuals before buying equipment. If they are unreadable, and some are incomprehensible--and I consider myself an excellent reader--then I won't buy it. If anyone's interested in thisi recorder, let me know.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Also, just got the news yesterday that Silver Wave is backing way off distribution and recording. Only released two albums last year. That means my Letter from the End of the Twentieth Century will be without distribution. I'll have to take it over. So again, SOS, I'm still looking for distribution for BOTH of my CD's, for someone to help get the music into the world. I've been lucky to have all of my books remain in print, except for the first two very early ones. And they continue to sell well because they are available for people to read. The music needs to be available for hearing--that's been the hard part.
My first take on the news was to start my emotional dive. I watched myself get ready, almost like putting on my swimsuit to go paddling. Then I stopped to observe it all. Asked myself what purpose would jumping into a pit of failure and defeat serve? I can recast this an opportunity. Now I've got to find distribution or become an excellent distribution house. (Yes, and how am I going to do that when I am being an artist, traveling and performing, and teaching three-and-a-half months out of the year, taking care of family and others, etc...) We'll see. If I consider it a game rather than an attack, it changes the whole shape, possibility is created. I could succeed or I could fail, and if I fail I'll get back up and keep trying.
It has taken me several hundred years to be able to stop at that moment in a process. Maybe thousands of years.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My schedule is something like this:
Tuesday Feb 22, Hosting Luci Tapahonso at UCLA, Teach
Wed Feb 23, To Tulsa
Thurs and Friday Feb 24-25, Researching at the Creek Council House in Okmulgee
Saturday, Hosting Ted Isham at UCLA/Proposal in
Tuesday March 1, Teach UCLA
Thursday-Sunday March 3-6-to Northern California to perform for and work with native children
Tuesday March 8, Host Sherwin Bitsui, UCLA, Teach
Thursday March 10-13, to Portland, perform at Willamette University and Powell's Bookstore and attend powwow
Tuesday March 15, Last classes at UCLA
Wed March 16-18 to Slippery Rock, PA for performance
Sunday 20-Home to Honolulu
The last week of the month, to Dennison University in Ohio near Columbus...and then travels through April and May.
I hope to see you out there.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I debated on whether to let this out or not, but figured it might be helpful.
FOR A GIRL BECOMING A WOMAN
for Krista Rae Chico
That day your spirit came to us rains came in from the Pacific to bless
They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants
Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist
Your mother labored there, so young in earthly years
And your father, and all of us who loved you gathered there,
Pollen blew throughout that desert house to bless us
With the fragrant knowledge of your pending arrival here.
And horses were running the land, hundreds of them for you,
To bring you here, to bless.
Girl, I wonder what you thought as you paused there in your spirit house
Before you entered into the breathing world to be with us?
Were you lonely for us, too?
Our relatives in that beloved place dressed you in black hair,
Brown eyes, skin the color of earth, and turned you in the direction of this place.
We want you to know that we urgently gathered to welcome you here; we came
Bearing gifts to celebrate.
From your mother’s house we brought: poetry, music, medicine makers, stubbornness, beauty, tribal leaders, a yard of junk cars and the gift of knowing how to make them run. We carried turquoise, white shell, new clothes and joy for you.
And from your father’s house came educators, thinkers, dreamers, weavers and mathematical genius. They carried a cradleboard, hope and coral for you.
We brought blankets to wrap you in, soft beaded moccasins of deerskin to warm your feet; we made a home of love for you.
Did you hear us as you traveled from your rainbow house?
We called you with thunder, with singing.
Did you see us as we gathered in the town beneath the mountains?
We were dressed in hope and happiness.
Did you taste the metals of the earth giving muscle to our dreaming?
We are part of the stars, the impetus of the stars.
We were overwhelmed, as you moved through the weft of your mother
When you took your first breath, your eyes blinked wide open.
Now you are becoming a woman.
You are moving from one knowing into another.
Now, breathe.
And when you breathe remember the source of the gift of breathing.
When you walk, remember the source of the gift of walking.
And when you run, remember the source of the gift of all running.
And when you laugh, remember the source of the gift of all laughter.
And when you cry, remember the source of the gift of all crying.
And when you think, remember the source of the gift of all thinking.
And when your heart is broken, remember the source of the gift of all breaking.
And when you are tested by fire, remember the source of the gift of all fire.
And when you are tested by wind, remember the source of the gift of all wind.
And when you are tested by water, remember the source of the gift of all water.
And when you are tested by earth, remember the source of the gift of all earth.
All of this, and you must remember what comes of this is compassion.
Don’t forget how you started your journey from that rainbow house,
How you traveled and will travel through the mountains and valleys of human tests.
There are treacherous places along the way, but you can come to us.
There are lakes of tears shimmering sadly there, but you can come to us.
And valleys without horses or kindnesses, but you can come to us.
And angry, jealous gods and humans who will try to hurt you, but you can come to us.
You will fall, but you will get back up again, because you are one of us.
And as you travel through this middle world remember all this:
Give a drink of water to all who need it, whether they be plant, creature, spirit or human.
May you always have clean, fresh water.
Feed your neighbors, be they earthly or spirit. Give kind words and assistance to your parents, brothers and sisters and family.
May you be surrounded with the helpfulness of family and good friends. We are all related in this place.
Grieve with the grieving, share joy with the joyful. Forget gossip or hurtful talk.
May you be build a strong path with beautiful and truthful language.
Clean your room.
May you always have a home, a refuge.
Bury what needs to be buried. Do not harbor hurt.
May you always travel lightly and well.
Praise and give thanks for each small and large thing.
Review each act and thought.
May you grow in knowledge, in compassion, in beauty.
Always within you is that day your spirit came to us
When rains came in from the Pacific to bless
They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants
Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist
Your mother labored there, so young in earthly years
And your father, and all of us who loved you gathered there,
Pollen blew throughout that desert house to bless us
With the fragrant knowledge of your pending arrival here.
And horses were running the land, hundreds of them for you,
To bring you here, to bless.
c Joy Harjo
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I am totally converting to Garage Band for my song drafts. It is easy to use, is on my computer. All I need is a plug-in box, mic (and I'm using my Shur 58) and a hard drive. I did use the Boss 864 digital recorder before. Excellent little recorder. Is user friendly. Any more I read manuals before buying equipment. If they are unreadable, and some are incomprehensible--and I consider myself an excellent reader--then I won't buy it. If anyone's interested in thisi recorder, let me know.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Also, just got the news yesterday that Silver Wave is backing way off distribution and recording. Only released two albums last year. That means my Letter from the End of the Twentieth Century will be without distribution. I'll have to take it over. So again, SOS, I'm still looking for distribution for BOTH of my CD's, for someone to help get the music into the world. I've been lucky to have all of my books remain in print, except for the first two very early ones. And they continue to sell well because they are available for people to read. The music needs to be available for hearing--that's been the hard part.
My first take on the news was to start my emotional dive. I watched myself get ready, almost like putting on my swimsuit to go paddling. Then I stopped to observe it all. Asked myself what purpose would jumping into a pit of failure and defeat serve? I can recast this an opportunity. Now I've got to find distribution or become an excellent distribution house. (Yes, and how am I going to do that when I am being an artist, traveling and performing, and teaching three-and-a-half months out of the year, taking care of family and others, etc...) We'll see. If I consider it a game rather than an attack, it changes the whole shape, possibility is created. I could succeed or I could fail, and if I fail I'll get back up and keep trying.
It has taken me several hundred years to be able to stop at that moment in a process. Maybe thousands of years.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My schedule is something like this:
Tuesday Feb 22, Hosting Luci Tapahonso at UCLA, Teach
Wed Feb 23, To Tulsa
Thurs and Friday Feb 24-25, Researching at the Creek Council House in Okmulgee
Saturday, Hosting Ted Isham at UCLA/Proposal in
Tuesday March 1, Teach UCLA
Thursday-Sunday March 3-6-to Northern California to perform for and work with native children
Tuesday March 8, Host Sherwin Bitsui, UCLA, Teach
Thursday March 10-13, to Portland, perform at Willamette University and Powell's Bookstore and attend powwow
Tuesday March 15, Last classes at UCLA
Wed March 16-18 to Slippery Rock, PA for performance
Sunday 20-Home to Honolulu
The last week of the month, to Dennison University in Ohio near Columbus...and then travels through April and May.
I hope to see you out there.
2/14/05
Crossing the Abyss
It was dusk as she crossed the abyss, an intersection in West Hollywood. Everything was coming down. A homeless man set up in a patch of grass just off the boulevard. He was sleeping when she walked by earlier, his hat pulled over his face and she was astounded he could find a bit of peace in the racket. Now he was sitting up adjusting his hat over his grizzled face. She tried to avert her eyes but had made a choice not to avert her eyes at anything, not her faults, not at anything she didn’t want to see for any reason, not at one more homeless person,. You had to be smart about these things, as some things or beings could engage and pull you in for the wrong reason; they could hurt you. You had to be careful. He looked up just as she made the decision to say hello to this man everyone had been avoiding. He smiled. He probably wasn’t more than 25, from Arkansas or Oregon. She smiled, then decided to give him the paper bag with her warm dinner from KooKooRoo’s. That part wasn't planned. He smiled even more as he sat next to his altar of lozenge cans, folded clothes and shoes. He carefully took the paper bag. She turned off the main artery onto a side street blooming with flowers and trash cans. She understood that as he ate dinner, so she would be fed too.
Happy Valentine's Day
This is My Heart
This is my heart. It is a good heart.
Weaves a membrane of mist and fire
When we make love in the flower world.
My heart is close enough to sing to you
In a language too clumsy, for human words.
This is my head. It is a good head.
Whirrs inside with a swarm of worries.
What is the source of the mystery?
And why can't I see it right here, right now
As real as these hands hammering
The world together.
This is my soul. It is a good soul.
It tells me, "come here forgetful one.
And we sit together.
We cook a little something to eat.
Then a sip of something sweet.
For memory. For memory.
This is my song. It is a good song.
It walked forever the border of fire and water.
Climbed ribs of desire to my lips to sing to you.
Its new wings quiver with vulnerability.
Come lie next to me.
Put your head here.
My heart is close enough to sing.
c Joy Harjo
From A Map to the Next World, W.W.Norton 2002 and Native Joy for Real, Mekko Records 2004 Available from iTunes. Send a song to your sweetie.
This is my heart. It is a good heart.
Weaves a membrane of mist and fire
When we make love in the flower world.
My heart is close enough to sing to you
In a language too clumsy, for human words.
This is my head. It is a good head.
Whirrs inside with a swarm of worries.
What is the source of the mystery?
And why can't I see it right here, right now
As real as these hands hammering
The world together.
This is my soul. It is a good soul.
It tells me, "come here forgetful one.
And we sit together.
We cook a little something to eat.
Then a sip of something sweet.
For memory. For memory.
This is my song. It is a good song.
It walked forever the border of fire and water.
Climbed ribs of desire to my lips to sing to you.
Its new wings quiver with vulnerability.
Come lie next to me.
Put your head here.
My heart is close enough to sing.
c Joy Harjo
From A Map to the Next World, W.W.Norton 2002 and Native Joy for Real, Mekko Records 2004 Available from iTunes. Send a song to your sweetie.
2/13/05
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.
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.
2/12/05
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.
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.
2/5/05
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.
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.
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