Saturday, July 29, 2006
We have corntassel !!!
One of my passions that I have gotten away from these last few years is my garden. The front yard looks like an English cottage garden, the back needed some help, but I guess since my mother's passing i really feel like this is my house now. It was the house I grew up in, the place where my roots are, but for the last six years since we moved from our house into my mom's, it never felt like mine. I guess that moving from my own place and having been on my own and then a wife and mom in my own home was a harder transition than I thought it would be going back home to my mom's house. The reason we had moved in with her was because of her dementia, and soon afterward we had to hire 24 hour caregivers because her health deteriorated so much that with my work and being a parent was tough. The caregivers became part of our family and when my mom passed away, we lost not only the shell of who she was but we lost the caregivers who had become so close to us. This forced us to become just us five again, and although it's been a tough transition, we have made a go of it.
I have never really written of my mom's life in the last few years and how it felt to be a motherless daughter when the shell of her was still walking around in a haze of a netherworld that she seemed to hover within and without. I had grieved for her long ago. She was a tough nut, my mom, throughout my childhood adn adulthood and we never really were close until after my dad passed in 1990. Then it was just us and our extended family, and when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's like dementia in 1997 it was just plain unfair. But all of the super-coping skills she instilled withim me helped me through the most difficult times in 1997 and later when I started grad school with a new baby, a toddler, a kindergartner, a parent with Alzheimers and a spouse with diffculties of his own.
All of this is to say that when we moved into my mom's house, my gardening fell away. There is something genetic about agriculture; it's in the blood and I have to do it. We live on a sloped terrace which is ideal for corn, beans, squash, melons, okra, peppers, tomatoes, and other growing vines--- but the lack of actual flat yard space we had proved difficult, so I put the family garden off. This year, my husband built me three large raised beds in the backyard in preparation for our terraced garden for next year.
We planted the usual corn, beans, squash, tomatoes, melons, and tobacco. My friend Theresa sent seeds from their sundance garden, and the kids and I had a grand time planting. When the seedlings sprouted shortly after, I was so excited. I can see why some folks consider those plants children--- to actually care and nurture and plant and make sure they grow to fruition--- now that's ceremonial performativity in action.
Last week we had corntassel. Today I saw for the first time cornsilk. We're going outside to sing now. We'll see what shows up tomorrow
I have never really written of my mom's life in the last few years and how it felt to be a motherless daughter when the shell of her was still walking around in a haze of a netherworld that she seemed to hover within and without. I had grieved for her long ago. She was a tough nut, my mom, throughout my childhood adn adulthood and we never really were close until after my dad passed in 1990. Then it was just us and our extended family, and when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's like dementia in 1997 it was just plain unfair. But all of the super-coping skills she instilled withim me helped me through the most difficult times in 1997 and later when I started grad school with a new baby, a toddler, a kindergartner, a parent with Alzheimers and a spouse with diffculties of his own.
All of this is to say that when we moved into my mom's house, my gardening fell away. There is something genetic about agriculture; it's in the blood and I have to do it. We live on a sloped terrace which is ideal for corn, beans, squash, melons, okra, peppers, tomatoes, and other growing vines--- but the lack of actual flat yard space we had proved difficult, so I put the family garden off. This year, my husband built me three large raised beds in the backyard in preparation for our terraced garden for next year.
We planted the usual corn, beans, squash, tomatoes, melons, and tobacco. My friend Theresa sent seeds from their sundance garden, and the kids and I had a grand time planting. When the seedlings sprouted shortly after, I was so excited. I can see why some folks consider those plants children--- to actually care and nurture and plant and make sure they grow to fruition--- now that's ceremonial performativity in action.
Last week we had corntassel. Today I saw for the first time cornsilk. We're going outside to sing now. We'll see what shows up tomorrow
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
works in progress...
I'll be posting some new works in progress, as well as some new things here pretty soon. In the meantime, here is a story from Pomo Country, up between Clearlake and Clearlake Oaks in Norcal... this may be a play sometime soon--- has epic all over it...
* * *
The Battle of Bloody Island
“1/4 mile west was Bloody Island, now a hill surrounded by reclaimed land. On this island in 1850, U.S. soldiers nearly annihilated all of its inhabitants for the murder of 2 white men. Doubt exists of these Indians’ guilt. In 1851, a treaty between whites and Indians entered into State Registered Landmark no 427.”
Bloody Island State Historical Marker
Clear Lake Rancheria, Pomo Country
California
Bloody Island: Scene of a battle between U.S. soldiers under the command of Captain Lyons and Indians under Chief Augustine, April 14, 1850. Dedicated as a historical monument by the Native Sons of the Golden West May 20th, 1942.”
Bloody Island State Historical Marker
Bloody Island
Clear Lake Rancheria
Clear Lake, California
I. Red Wing Blackbird
Ghost voices
Move across the lake.
Stars don’t shine
Smoke rising prayers
Mist joining them
To a God
Who no longer hears.
I can hear the fires
Smell death upon
The water
But no one will listen
Save the wind.
Will the world listen
To the lines upon
My face-
My brow,
The soft undersides
Of my arm
I paint red with the color
Of blood
Of sacrifice,
Paint from the dirt
Underfoot.
My mother is dead
My children too.
Lost I have no voice
The man with no past,
No future.
They will not listen
To the one
Who cannot speak
But I smell death.
It pours out of my
Breath
My being and raising up
My arms
The wind flows,
Icy and trembling
From the wing shine
Of cold
Clear air.
There are no stars
This night.
Only death upon water
Red wings
Painted by earth
And blood.
II. Silas Porter
Once forgotten
A dream of blue and gold
Panning shine
For a lock of cloth,
A bath,
Time of a pretty
Yella haired gal
Named Emmylou.
How time goes
Wjen there;s
Nothing left
But infernal
Smoke on water
Hell and his demond
Live under this lake.
The only way
To stop them
Is to dorwn underneath
A pan for shine
Look up into the sky
From a clear bottle
Haze covers my head
Rising from the lake
And it’s easy to forget a yella-haired gal
Named Emmylou
Who would speak my name for shine
The color of her hair
Betrayal
Gold for gold
Silas Porter
You ain’t no good
Only shiny things
Soothe my soul.
I held her down
See that shine
Emmylou
The light in your eyes
Can’t stop me from singing
As I hold you down
Gold drifting
In my hands
Shine color
Of blood.
III.
Her body
Drifted to the surface
And then’it began.
There are no human
Beings anymore
Not even spirits
That speak to the dead.
Cathcing the stars
One by one
I save them
For a tomorrow
That my children
Will never see.
Whose life
Can I save
Now?
Finish the bottle
And move beyond
The battle.
A two step
Will not do
What good is the word
Of a gentleman
In this bloody land?
The word of a savage
Is no good
As gold.
IV. The Lion of Judah
Make amends.
Those were the orders
As I marched under
The faded trees
And passing
Moments the bodies
Spoke to me.
As the effort to breathe
Emboldened my steps.
What good is gold
If there’s no one
To kill for it?
Making a name for myself
Out west
Indian fighter
Buffalo style
But there’s no buffalo
Here
No trains,
No standards to set
And there are still
Indians
To kill.
V. Emmylou Veredia, Under the Lake
I dream I’m down on
The bottom
And no matter what
I do,
I can’t swim up.
Only the finer stars fade,
Turning to water
In my lungs.
* * *
The Battle of Bloody Island
“1/4 mile west was Bloody Island, now a hill surrounded by reclaimed land. On this island in 1850, U.S. soldiers nearly annihilated all of its inhabitants for the murder of 2 white men. Doubt exists of these Indians’ guilt. In 1851, a treaty between whites and Indians entered into State Registered Landmark no 427.”
Bloody Island State Historical Marker
Clear Lake Rancheria, Pomo Country
California
Bloody Island: Scene of a battle between U.S. soldiers under the command of Captain Lyons and Indians under Chief Augustine, April 14, 1850. Dedicated as a historical monument by the Native Sons of the Golden West May 20th, 1942.”
Bloody Island State Historical Marker
Bloody Island
Clear Lake Rancheria
Clear Lake, California
I. Red Wing Blackbird
Ghost voices
Move across the lake.
Stars don’t shine
Smoke rising prayers
Mist joining them
To a God
Who no longer hears.
I can hear the fires
Smell death upon
The water
But no one will listen
Save the wind.
Will the world listen
To the lines upon
My face-
My brow,
The soft undersides
Of my arm
I paint red with the color
Of blood
Of sacrifice,
Paint from the dirt
Underfoot.
My mother is dead
My children too.
Lost I have no voice
The man with no past,
No future.
They will not listen
To the one
Who cannot speak
But I smell death.
It pours out of my
Breath
My being and raising up
My arms
The wind flows,
Icy and trembling
From the wing shine
Of cold
Clear air.
There are no stars
This night.
Only death upon water
Red wings
Painted by earth
And blood.
II. Silas Porter
Once forgotten
A dream of blue and gold
Panning shine
For a lock of cloth,
A bath,
Time of a pretty
Yella haired gal
Named Emmylou.
How time goes
Wjen there;s
Nothing left
But infernal
Smoke on water
Hell and his demond
Live under this lake.
The only way
To stop them
Is to dorwn underneath
A pan for shine
Look up into the sky
From a clear bottle
Haze covers my head
Rising from the lake
And it’s easy to forget a yella-haired gal
Named Emmylou
Who would speak my name for shine
The color of her hair
Betrayal
Gold for gold
Silas Porter
You ain’t no good
Only shiny things
Soothe my soul.
I held her down
See that shine
Emmylou
The light in your eyes
Can’t stop me from singing
As I hold you down
Gold drifting
In my hands
Shine color
Of blood.
III.
Her body
Drifted to the surface
And then’it began.
There are no human
Beings anymore
Not even spirits
That speak to the dead.
Cathcing the stars
One by one
I save them
For a tomorrow
That my children
Will never see.
Whose life
Can I save
Now?
Finish the bottle
And move beyond
The battle.
A two step
Will not do
What good is the word
Of a gentleman
In this bloody land?
The word of a savage
Is no good
As gold.
IV. The Lion of Judah
Make amends.
Those were the orders
As I marched under
The faded trees
And passing
Moments the bodies
Spoke to me.
As the effort to breathe
Emboldened my steps.
What good is gold
If there’s no one
To kill for it?
Making a name for myself
Out west
Indian fighter
Buffalo style
But there’s no buffalo
Here
No trains,
No standards to set
And there are still
Indians
To kill.
V. Emmylou Veredia, Under the Lake
I dream I’m down on
The bottom
And no matter what
I do,
I can’t swim up.
Only the finer stars fade,
Turning to water
In my lungs.
