the mouth of another

an old review published by a dear friend.

very few have done more to encourage me in my art than tim riter. i am grateful for his ministry of kindness in my life. also, he dedicated his recent book to me.

huzzah!

native artisans

so we went to the powwow saturday. i ran out of the house forgetting to adorn myself. i had planned on wearing this stunning string of handmade turquoise beads from santo domingo pueblo, but forgot. no rings, nuthin. just me. but that was fine.

ladies, if you can find a place where you are the ideal of beauty, go there. if for no other reason than to be appreciated for who you are. no changing it, may as well enjoy your skin.

so i search the powwow for true artisans. there are lots of vendors, but i search out the native folk who are creating art. everywhere we go we try to acquire some of this art.

our home is full of the pictures of (or used to be, only one small buffalo warrior hanging in the hall here at the apt) tillier wesley. native artist of the highest rate. the first time i acquired one of his paintings, it was actually a signed numbered print, because these native artists are so damned good, their works are 'spensive, man!

anywhoo, i had just won a scholarship for an essay i wrote, and there it was, a warrior in a painting called "as time passes." i think the verbiage for that art work got lost in this move, but the print, is just gorgeous. my beloved liked it so much, he bought at least four or five more paintings from tillier. tillier has been ill and doing the sweetest paintings of little dolls. which i've yet to acquire, but shall. hopefully some day soon.

back to new york. the artisan who drew me was domingo talldog monroe. i kept returning to his booth to look at a huge feather pendant, which elegantly curved, as if it were blowing in the wind. i like a piece with movement in it (though hugging my daughter that night, i drove the feather into her chest, and it hurt!).

what i wanted to say about this is, if you happen upon a powwow, don't just buy stuff from cases. ask the artists if they have made any of the pieces. while i was there scouring the vendors booths i saw the work of a friend, frank gilbert. a native artist i knew from california. frank makes these turtle shell pendants which open. my sister actually purchased several of them for her assorted children. but i knew the artist because i went to powwows and spent hours talking with him and his wife.

also, if you learn the artists' sign, if you buy from actual native artists, you can see their symbols and recognize them when their work is sold second hand.

my beloved and i were at a powwow in greenville, texas, and saw a guy with some silver medallions in his hair. we knew the artisan without seeing the symbol, because my husband purchased some of those medallions at a powwow in scottsdale, arizona once. makes for interesting convesation if you understand what you've got from where.

it is a very small world indeed.

we were crammed in a tepee listening to native storyteller/flute player tchin. my daughter crawled into her daddy's lap and grabbed for her water bottle to have a drink as she reclined on his chest. it was such a flash back to when she was a baby. i remember when he could hold her whole body on his forearm. now, she is nearing the point where she will probably not climb into her daddy's lap any more. those are the moments i wish i had a camera and took pictures. but i'm glad i was there and able to witness it.

one word of advice before i away. this is for all you nonnatives who may read me, when at powwows resist the urge to dance in open adult dances. i'm not talking about intertribals (the dancers in regalia dance with unclad folk), but i'm talking about when they say come out and show us how you dance like we do.

do not ever dance in these. even if they have a dream catcher as prize. resist the urge. save your dignity, go to a booth and buy a dream catcher. it constantly amazes me how stereotypically people dance in these things.

which reminds me of another sordid tale. i was seeing a doctor once when i was suffering horribly from carpal tunnel. he asked,

how do you exercise?

i said,

i dance every weekend.

really, where, he asked?

this doctor liked me because i was studying english literature and actually knew who john donne was.

at powwows,

i said.

he proceeded to demonstrate native dance by whooping and circling with legs bent and was the most ridiculous sight i've ever seen.

resist the urge, if you be a friend of mine, to dance in a "competition." especially if you happen to be with me. i will leave you there.

peace.

on to the next powwow.

let me first explain this title. it is a great memory. i told my daughter of it recently, and so i must tell you.

it was early one evening, we were packing up our camping stuff to leave the powwow grounds. this is a time of happy banter, busily sorting, cleaning, shuffling off to our workaday worlds. when a native man mounted his van and stood just above the front windshield. he spread his arms out to each side and yelled,

come my children, on to the next powwow.

we all laughed, and finished packing. then drove away. to meet up again the next week, when we would unload, set up camp and remind ourselves who we are. a people gathered together for a bit of dancing, fellowship, and a good bit of storytelling.

today we are going to a powwow. the east coast is very different from the west coast in that east coast native people are generally more accepting of others. west coast native people tend to be snobs. it is tough to find a crowd. acceptance.

though having said that, i think of all the west coast natives who nurtured me. who accepted me. who gave me a place to be when i was alone and on the powwow circuit. they took me under their wings and sheltered me, though i didn't know it. that is the problem with generalities. people are just people and elude generalization. so strike what i said above, though i am not alone in this finding.

it is not often i go places and feel like the ideal of beauty. our culture seems to iconize white, tall, thin, blonde women. i'll never be any of those things. i'm short, dark in all manner, not sleek and young, dark hair and dark eyes. the cool thing about powwows is, the native culture is so kind to elders. and while i'm not elder material yet, i'm getting there. the grey is multiplying and lengthening.

my husband tries to pull these from me, but i tell him he is robbing me of my crown of glory and to leave them alone. i've waited my whole life for this day when i could age with dignity. and so i shall.

he yanked a really long one out about three weeks ago. it was about two feet long. i was sorry to see it go. that white, glorious hair wafting to the ground, taking with it my yearning to live. what have i to show if i hide my age? what have i to show if i try to be someone i'm not? when these hairs leave me not of their own accord, i am sad to see them go. as if some part of me has died.

when we walk around powwows, the women naturally gawk at my husband. they always do. even when we're not at powwows. this reminds me of a great many things. he is a feast for the eyes when i'm not pissed at him. he is the desire of many women though i forget because we are so close. i spend so much time focused on his shortcomings, i forget about what a decent man and good father he is. what a generous husband and companion he has been to me. i forget all these things when i focus on what i'm missing, instead of what i have.

i left my shawls, all of them, in texas. i didn't even think about powwows in the frenzied packing. i didn't even pack my master bedroom and closet where the shawls were. it didn't occur to me until we'd been here a number of months that i'd forgotten them.

renee has one, because it was in her room. but i will take a not-native shawl and do the best i can with it. though i have better, i will make due. it is not the way i would prefer to dance, draped in something makeshift. but it is understandable that we must do the best we can. and so i shall. it is the dancing that matters, not the shawl. i can dance and rejoice whether or not i'm properly clad.

i was thinking about going today and a memory popped into my mind of my daughter's first powwow. i took her with me to gourd dance. i had her in a front sling, so when i was dancing, her little head was sticking out the top of my shawl. this is a moment i wish i would have gotten a picture. but i knew no one at that powwow and was there alone. my beloved's family arrived after the gourd dancing and i had already departed by then. i missed them. it was in arizona, so my california friends might have been there, but i was too tired to hunt them down. new motherhood coupled with dancing was too much for me alone. i went home and slept.

i had gourd danced with her the entire time of her youth because at times it was the only thing that would get the child to stop crying and sleep. something of my past she remembered before she was born. a time immemorial.

i think about this often, if women have all the eggs they will ever have in their bodies when they are born, they are never without their children, until said children are born. so my daughter did gourd dance with me all my days at powwows. her memory of the dance was probably soothing to her.

i must away. the dance calls. i pray i am up to it. that i will find a bit of who i am and have forgotten there. and that my husband will be reminded of my great love for him.

ah, the stories we shall tell when we are old.

muertitos

yesterday's one thing at a time went well. i actually accomplished more focusing on one task than all my running around wearing myself out. go figure. who'da thunk it?

there were a couple times yesterday when i caught myself doing more than one thing, but i just got back on track and focused. it was great. it was a no stress day. i hope today will be the same.

my fridays generally involve lots of reading and talking on the phone. my sister and one of my best friends are home all day on fridays. huzzah!

while i was doing my one thing, i helped my daughter tackle her disaster of a room by giving her just one assignment at a time. trying to get that child to accomplish said one thing is a whole nuther issue entirely. she inherited my skill for getting out of what is being asked.

one of the hardest things for her is still parting with her stuff. even if she doesn't play with it anymore. even if she doesn't hardly see the stuff, because it is buried under a mountain in her room.

so i had her get all her stuffed animals out and put them on her bed.

part with whatever you can,

i said. no longer trying to influence the decision because she can often part with a lot more than i think she will.

i am calling these muertitos. little deaths. because each time she can grieve a loss it prepares her for the next loss. and so on.

she cried a few tears after parting with a good number (about seven) stuffed animals and i held her, telling her how brave she is.

the thing about it is, she doesn't play with those things anymore. the only things she seems to play with are the new things. yet rending her from the old (she inherited her dad's attachments to stuff) is quite a feat.

i went through my stuff again too, i'm telling you, killing off whatever i can is a good thing. these little deaths help me to release some mental baggage and the larger issues of grief i am dealing with (avoiding, actually).

so today we are off to the library. i have mixed feelings about this. yes i get to sit in front of plate glass windows and the view is to die for. but other people don't know how to teach their kids indoor voices. some stomp through the library with the little tyrants yelling the whole time. vexing.

you know my issues with silence, so i try to breathe and ignore. breathe and ignore.

but it is a design flaw i think. they banish the kids to the downstairs, but i think they should have put the adult collection downstairs, thereby creating a kidfree zone.

there is no kidfree zone at this library. it is all full of tiny tyrants. and i don't even go downstairs anymore. my girl retrieves me from my chair when she is done with whatever it is she does down there.

the other day, she came up and complained that a child was talking to his mother the whole time she was trying to work on the internet.

i couldn't even concentrate.

she said.

wonder where she gets that from?

have a lovely day, i hope you, too, can do just one thing at a time.

overdriven

i live my life at a frantic pace. especially, lately. my mind it seems runs faster than i can keep up with it, and efforts to slow it down are like those mountain roads i now find myself on, i have a huge hum of an engine doing the work to keep the car at a decent rate of speed.

i have to slow it down. i have to.

i multitask my multitasks. it seems i have always done this. some times more than others. but today, just for today. only one task at a time.

though, laundry is hard to do since it is involves mostly waiting (maybe i am missing my point entirely, by writing now that i've started my laundry), but there was no running involved in this morning's processes which is a start.

a gift of contentment, according to johnson is:

stopping.

so if i'm so driven, going so fast, reading in all the cracks of time in my day (which while it is very gratifying and helps me get through many, many books), it may not be the healthiest way to spend my time.

that which we love can quickly degenerate into obsession.

one day we were leaving the house, in the car, and my girl called out,

oh no, i've forgotten a book!

this pleased me immensely. for you see, she reads a great deal. it is my gift to her, shall we say.

i've come to books late in life, and have so much reading to do. my list grows longer and longer, i can't even consider fiction an option because the nf and poetry keep me so busy. reading the classics just isn't possible at this point in my life.

but am i training her to be franticly productive? or am i gifting her with language and creativity. i hope and pray for the latter.

this modern way of doing, doing, doing, is killing me. i'm sure of it. so i'm going to start being, being, being. more than i am. less accomplishment, more contentment. less frantic, more peace. less hurry, more lingering.

i don't know how it will work out. but i've been headed in this direction for a great while. perhaps i can let go of my need to accomplish. my need to achieve. my need to do something. and just do things for the sake of doing them. be about dish washing because it is what i'm doing at the moment. less because it has to be done.

passionately, rapturously embracing them moment. yes. that is it.

rockstar:supernova

i blogged over at ma, wrote a poem, if that matters.

every week my sister and i go through performance by performance to debate who we think should or could get the supernova gig. i have to say this, zayra and josh have to go.

the great failing of this show is it is designed so you spend most of your time watching the WORST performers.

last comic standing overcame this plight. the series is running so you spend a great deal of time with the best. and i couldn't be happier. (the reality stuff, while nice, was not really what it was about. i met a comic last year who said,

it isn't really a comedy show.

but this year, i'd have to say they fixed that).

so my message to the beautiful dave navarro, the decadent tommy lee, is fix the show. can zayra and josh.

last year i hated that some of my favs got voted off early. but my sister was right (yes, we discussed that show all season long, too), some singers are not right for that particular band though they may be good. it took me a while to see it. but i wanted the best singers to win. my sister tells me she remembers auditioning for a band and did what she wanted to do. in hindsight, she knows it is the band's tastes which must get preference (josh clearly isn't getting that message, soulman).

if she were to do it all again, she would do it differently. i'm sure many would say the same given these failed opportunitites.

and perhaps the best singers did win, who knows. but this season, i can see it clear as day.

if your performance is met with laughter by dave (who is mr. manners as far as rockstars go, then quit. pack it up. i don't think she knows how bad her performances are. which is a scary thought. but if you're not from this country, don't know how the song's history or even how to dress, move, or enunciate, then go home).

since i am helping improve the show, can i just say, i like the hour long format. but this reality episode online business is a pain. this week's skipped like a school girl at recess. put the damn thing back on vh1, so we can tivo it like normal folk.

i'd like to see more reality though (i think they are running it for a half hour, but an hour would be most excellent. provided they don't focus only on the dweebs).

who knows. tommy playing drums last night was a beautiful sight. immensely gratfitying. yes, indeed.

the difference between last season and this, is there are actual rockstars on the show (aside from dave, that is). huzzah.

silence

when i come to these places of barrenness, i look arouund and wonder, how did i get here and what do i do now?

i hear whispers of poems. but nothing i can yet grasp.

i think the lack of silence is part of the problem. i can't recall the sound of stillness. i no longer remember the sound of silence. all around me cars, engines, people, trains, birds (even they have become blurred in the frenzy of sounds).

so i plug my ears with music. i leave off my silent longing and fill it with sounds which are less offensive. yet the longing grows.

it's ravenous now, i'm starved for silence. for a moment of nothingness like i used to know so tangibly. in texas, our home was silent about 90 percent of the time. all day long, my girl and i would dwell in this silence and read. write. study.

she had a little friend over once, who walked through our house with her ears plugged screaming,

i hate silence!

so far we've fallen.
so far we've fallen.

rilke wrote of silence being a rich man's commodity. these are the moments i long for the wealth to buy me the sound of silence.

these are the moments i think a retreat to the nunnery would suit me just fine.

these are the moments i wonder how anyone gets by without silence to cloak them, to frame their thoughts.

i hadn't realized how accustomed i'd become to hearing no thing. i long for it now. that silence, pine for it.

where can i go to be away from sound? apart from these noises which ring in my head and part me from my thoughts?