Okay. I haven't blogged in awhile.
Can there be too many words?
Too much communication?
We can only hear the soul in silence.
4/26/09
4/19/09
4/15/09
On the Road, Pam Kingsbury driving Larry and Me to Florence from Huntsville, AL
c Joy Harjo April 15, 09
4/14/09
Spring at Gila River Reservation
c Joy Harjo March 2009
I walked around in the desert a few weeks ago. Nothing else smells like the desert in the early morning. Remembered how Josiah Moore told me many stories of this place.
3/28/09
Muscogee Nation News Column March 2009
It’s late afternoon before the column is due. I’ve almost emailed the editor twice to say: “it’s not possible”. I am out on the West Coast rehearsing every night at San Diego State University for my show, Wings of Night Sky, Wings of Morning Light. It will open in Los Angeles in March, as part of the Native Voices at the Autry series. There are a few reasons I am telling you this: 1) I am need of a column ASAP, and mostly 2) maybe this will inspire others who think it’s too late to pick up a musical instrument, write a book, learn the language, learn songs, or anything else, because they hit thirty (yes thirty, I’ve heard many a hitting-thirty panic that they were too old….give me a break), forty, fifty, sixty, or….
This show is one of the biggest challenges I ever had. First, I had to write the show. I have rewritten the play countless times. I have written, recorded and performed the music for the play, and kept going, even as I have been turned down many times for one thing or another mostly for being too Indian, or not Indian enough. Go figure. And now, one of the most difficult challenges: I have to memorize the play, and to act. I haven’t acted since I was a high school student at the Institute of American Indian Arts. I was always the shyest student and usually sat at the back of the class and said nothing.
I begged the director. “Please, let me just read the play.” “No way”, he said. “You can do it”. “Well, at least let me tape all the lines to the floor”, I argued. “No”, he said. I even looked up how much it cost to rent a teleprompter. They were too expensive, and huge. Writing on my arms was the most cost effective. But I don’t have enough arm space for the whole play. So, I’m here this afternoon, memorizing my play. And I’m nearing sixty. (“Nearing” means, I’m closer to sixty than to fifty.)
I don’t like to write about myself, in fact, I’m several years late with a book I was contracted to write, because I don’t want to write about myself. I write because I love stories and words, and these columns, because I think they might be useful. Maybe by writing this you might decide to keep going, to take care of your gifts, no matter how old you are, seven or hundred. I’m not special. There are many talented people out there in the nation.
I’m including an excerpt from the show. And if any of you make it out to LA between March 12th and March 29th, I’ll get you in. Just say you’re my relative, or you’re with the band. Let me know. I’d be honored.
Redbird Monahwee (to her father):
I followed you as you unloaded it from the truck. I helped, as you strung the deer up on the tree. I squatted down with you, as the red sun kissed the red earth. You tamped out some tobacco into our hands.
You said, “We pray with tobacco to acknowledge the spirit of the deer. We give thanks, mvto”.
“There is much suffering on this earth.
Even plants suffer. Tobacco agreed to come along as we walk this world. It’s medicine, a gift from the Creator.”
And remember I said, But Daddy, you smoke two packs of Lucky Strikes a day!”
I was such a little plant, drinking in your words.
“And what about whiskey, Dad”, I asked you.
“It's killing me”, you said.
“I'm sorry, Hokte”.
“Pray for me girl.”
This show is one of the biggest challenges I ever had. First, I had to write the show. I have rewritten the play countless times. I have written, recorded and performed the music for the play, and kept going, even as I have been turned down many times for one thing or another mostly for being too Indian, or not Indian enough. Go figure. And now, one of the most difficult challenges: I have to memorize the play, and to act. I haven’t acted since I was a high school student at the Institute of American Indian Arts. I was always the shyest student and usually sat at the back of the class and said nothing.
I begged the director. “Please, let me just read the play.” “No way”, he said. “You can do it”. “Well, at least let me tape all the lines to the floor”, I argued. “No”, he said. I even looked up how much it cost to rent a teleprompter. They were too expensive, and huge. Writing on my arms was the most cost effective. But I don’t have enough arm space for the whole play. So, I’m here this afternoon, memorizing my play. And I’m nearing sixty. (“Nearing” means, I’m closer to sixty than to fifty.)
I don’t like to write about myself, in fact, I’m several years late with a book I was contracted to write, because I don’t want to write about myself. I write because I love stories and words, and these columns, because I think they might be useful. Maybe by writing this you might decide to keep going, to take care of your gifts, no matter how old you are, seven or hundred. I’m not special. There are many talented people out there in the nation.
I’m including an excerpt from the show. And if any of you make it out to LA between March 12th and March 29th, I’ll get you in. Just say you’re my relative, or you’re with the band. Let me know. I’d be honored.
Redbird Monahwee (to her father):
I followed you as you unloaded it from the truck. I helped, as you strung the deer up on the tree. I squatted down with you, as the red sun kissed the red earth. You tamped out some tobacco into our hands.
You said, “We pray with tobacco to acknowledge the spirit of the deer. We give thanks, mvto”.
“There is much suffering on this earth.
Even plants suffer. Tobacco agreed to come along as we walk this world. It’s medicine, a gift from the Creator.”
And remember I said, But Daddy, you smoke two packs of Lucky Strikes a day!”
I was such a little plant, drinking in your words.
“And what about whiskey, Dad”, I asked you.
“It's killing me”, you said.
“I'm sorry, Hokte”.
“Pray for me girl.”
3/26/09
Report from the Island
I just got a report from home. Now there are two redbird families in the yard. Two males with their wives. The guys are chasing each other around the yard. The females are sitting together on the wall, visiting each other.
Isn't that exactly how it is?!
3/25/09
Sun Going Down in the Pacific
Our earthly star, from the window of my flight between San Francisco and Burbank.
Okay, Okay
Yesterday took a break. Hung out with one of my favorite people: Charlie HIll. We walked over to Amoeba Records after a late lunch at Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles on Gower near Sunset where I used to always run into Mike Tyson, when I hung out in LA a few years back. We stopped at an ATM and this young native woman just happened to be there. Turns out she's Oneida and Seminole. Osceola is her last name, and she's a student at a fashion school nearby. Charlie knew many of her relatives. What are the chances? There are no accidents.
3/6/09
Subsistence
This is from my friend Candyce Childers from Eagle River, Alaska. She's one of my closest correspondents and has this to share about subsistence. Her comments remind me that the system of the "over-culture", or, commodity-culture is torqued by selfishness. It is coming undone.
" I went to a public forum at the university discussing the future of subsistence. It was interesting to hear people's perspective on subsistence as a concept. One panelist (Yupik) commented that subsistence and the myriad ways it is regulated is insensitive and bizarre. He drew a comparison between the land as our Native grocery and the grocery stores in the city. He asked the audience to imagine that in order to get food from the grocery in the city we all had to apply for permission. And imagine that we were told we could only go grocery shopping two weeks out of the year during which you must get everything your family of 6 will need for the next winter. On top of that, you could not use a car, bus or other mechanical transport to go to the grocery but must walk. It was powerful and moving.
Another interesting point that a panelist made was how our ancestors handled individuals who were selfish. Even if a man was a good hunter it wasn't a guarantee that he could remain a community member. The community survived by living communally. Everyone had to share their resources and when an individual failed to do so they would banish or kill him. The reasoning was that he would eventually cause the death of the entire village either literally from starvation or from division. Imagine how disruptive it was to have missionaries and teachers move in with their values of individualism and competition."
Thanks Candyce.
" I went to a public forum at the university discussing the future of subsistence. It was interesting to hear people's perspective on subsistence as a concept. One panelist (Yupik) commented that subsistence and the myriad ways it is regulated is insensitive and bizarre. He drew a comparison between the land as our Native grocery and the grocery stores in the city. He asked the audience to imagine that in order to get food from the grocery in the city we all had to apply for permission. And imagine that we were told we could only go grocery shopping two weeks out of the year during which you must get everything your family of 6 will need for the next winter. On top of that, you could not use a car, bus or other mechanical transport to go to the grocery but must walk. It was powerful and moving.
Another interesting point that a panelist made was how our ancestors handled individuals who were selfish. Even if a man was a good hunter it wasn't a guarantee that he could remain a community member. The community survived by living communally. Everyone had to share their resources and when an individual failed to do so they would banish or kill him. The reasoning was that he would eventually cause the death of the entire village either literally from starvation or from division. Imagine how disruptive it was to have missionaries and teachers move in with their values of individualism and competition."
Thanks Candyce.
2/26/09
Muscogee Nation News Column February 2009
One of those markers of giant political shifts occurred last week, as Erin Thin Elk Contreras drove me across the homelands of her people, after picking me up from the Sioux Falls Airport. Her bright spirit stirred me from the sleepless haze of my all-night flight, and I remain impressed by the way she walked nimbly over ice and snow in high heels as she wheeled my suitcase to her car. (Now that’s a skill, another new category for the Olympics!) For the first time in U.S. history, Barack Obama, a visionary leader and a black man was inaugurated as the 44th President of the United States.
We tuned to listen to Barack Obama’s inauguration speech on the AM station, as we headed out for Vermillion over sunlit plains. Our ears perched close to listen as he accepted the presidency of this very young and troubled country. In Obama’s voice the whole world heard that his mind is clear, free of clouded and contentious knots. We appreciated the finely crafted oratory of Obama’s speech, and the careful choice of words spoken to bring American citizens together into a vision of helpfulness and compassion. There is a direct connection between the clarity and resonance of one’s speech and the shine of character. In Obama we have the gift of an intelligent man. How refreshing. You can hear in his voice that he listens to the ancestors. The last election gave us a man who said: "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we."—Washington, D.C., Aug. 5, 2004. He left the country in a wreck.
Many questions surfaced as I listened, and later watched the inaugural events on television in my hotel room. Will there ever, or can there ever be an indigenous president? Where are our indigenous leaders, those who can bring us together, can inspire us? We need those who can see with Seventh-Generation eyes. We need to see beyond skin color, past laws and rules that go in and out of season, such as the recent attempts to throw away children and grandchildren because they don’t have the requisite amount of blood. (We aren’t pedigreed dogs. We are human beings.)
Very early the next morning Erin picked me up to drive me back to the airport. At twenty-nine she’s a very young administrator in the university’s diversity program, the Indian student advisor, and is the mother of three young children. The youngest, not much over two-years-old, dozed in her car seat as we drove East in the dark. Erin and I talked carefully in the dawning morning. At dawn the crack between worlds opens. This day we carried hope for our country. And this day, like every day has a soul. We shared stories that mattered to us. She spoke carefully, with clarity. In her I heard the old people. I heard the young, smart and beautiful young Lakota woman whose life is a balancing act between the eternal and the everyday. In her I saw that we are growing our indigenous leaders. They are among us.
We tuned to listen to Barack Obama’s inauguration speech on the AM station, as we headed out for Vermillion over sunlit plains. Our ears perched close to listen as he accepted the presidency of this very young and troubled country. In Obama’s voice the whole world heard that his mind is clear, free of clouded and contentious knots. We appreciated the finely crafted oratory of Obama’s speech, and the careful choice of words spoken to bring American citizens together into a vision of helpfulness and compassion. There is a direct connection between the clarity and resonance of one’s speech and the shine of character. In Obama we have the gift of an intelligent man. How refreshing. You can hear in his voice that he listens to the ancestors. The last election gave us a man who said: "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we."—Washington, D.C., Aug. 5, 2004. He left the country in a wreck.
Many questions surfaced as I listened, and later watched the inaugural events on television in my hotel room. Will there ever, or can there ever be an indigenous president? Where are our indigenous leaders, those who can bring us together, can inspire us? We need those who can see with Seventh-Generation eyes. We need to see beyond skin color, past laws and rules that go in and out of season, such as the recent attempts to throw away children and grandchildren because they don’t have the requisite amount of blood. (We aren’t pedigreed dogs. We are human beings.)
Very early the next morning Erin picked me up to drive me back to the airport. At twenty-nine she’s a very young administrator in the university’s diversity program, the Indian student advisor, and is the mother of three young children. The youngest, not much over two-years-old, dozed in her car seat as we drove East in the dark. Erin and I talked carefully in the dawning morning. At dawn the crack between worlds opens. This day we carried hope for our country. And this day, like every day has a soul. We shared stories that mattered to us. She spoke carefully, with clarity. In her I heard the old people. I heard the young, smart and beautiful young Lakota woman whose life is a balancing act between the eternal and the everyday. In her I saw that we are growing our indigenous leaders. They are among us.
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