That’s my brother—it’s interesting to read his stuff, to hear his voice in his writing. I don’t hear his voice much otherwise. He hasn’t returned any of my calls since March or so . . . and prior to that, he never had much to say to me anyway. He’s pretty quiet—quieter than me, for sure, but I’ve heard that he’s not always like that. So why is he virtually mute when he’s around me?
Jaybird is seven years younger than I am, maybe that might have something to do with it. Our formative years occurred in different places and different times—even though we come from the exact same gene pool. I was born in Thailand and lived there until I was five. He was born and raised in Warren, just north of Detroit, a block and a half away from the notorious Eight Mile Road. That’s where I did most of my schooling, from Kindergarten through Eleventh Grade. Jaybird went to school in Warren and Sterling Heights (a more affluent suburb further north), but spent the last six years in Northern Michigan.
I had already graduated from high school when the family moved to a small town just north of Traverse City. Jay would spend his pre- and teen years in that tiny little hamlet on the shores of Lake Michigan. Our paths would diverge further at that point—I was at university down in East Lansing and he and my sister had to fend for themselves without me. Our sister is a very different story altogether, but I don’t have the time or patience to relate that one just now.
Some child psychologists say that the first five years of life are crucial because that’s when the personality becomes established. I can see that to a point, but I think that the ages six to eighteen are important for development as well. The early years teach us about our immediate surroundings, but later stages of development teach us how to live in the world at large. So what happened? How did we end up being so different? On the other hand, are we not that different at all?
My parents changed quite a bit during my childhood, largely due to their perceived failure with me. At the age of thirty-one, my dad found himself the father of a precocious five-year-old who didn’t speak a word of English. He had apparently gone back to Thailand to visit and decided to drop in on my mom.
Surprise!
My precociousness was due in large part to my grandmother spoiling me. My mom took off by the time I was six months old and my grandmother raised me until I met my father. At that point, I began living with my parents, which was an adjustment for all of us. The language barrier was certainly an issue, but I was always getting into stuff and not listening to either parent. This was the seventies, so my punishments were swift and brutal. My father remained a strict disciplinarian until my late teens, but I rebelled often. The worst crises came at about age thirteen then again at age sixteen—I ran away several times and started experimenting with drugs and alcohol.
To some extent, I think my father and I broke each other down—he was comparatively lenient with my brother after seeing what he had gone through with me. And me? I cracked under the pressure to be the perfect child. I could not, would not live up to my parent’s plans for me. I straightened up enough to graduate, was accepted into the state college, largely because of my scores on my achievement tests. However, no one pressured me to be or do anything from that point forward, which was fine with me.
My father passed on a learned trait to the both of us, one that embarrasses me to admit. We all have a social phobia- a fear of crowds and social events in general. I saw the signs in my father, but only realized it recently. He would storm out of awkward gatherings and situations—I thought it was due to anger issues, but it turns out the anger was in response to this phobia. My father had no real friends, other than one of his brothers. Jay and I both faced our own demons in college—skipping classes, quitting jobs, etc . . . because of the same thing. Looking back on my childhood, I now realize I had been suffering from this affliction in junior and senior high school.
The question boils down to this; is my brother suffering from an acute social phobia, or does he simply not like me? Or perhaps he is afraid of me? Afraid of me judging and rejecting him? Or are we so different (in his mind at least) that he simply doesn’t bother getting to know me?
It sounds like my brother has friends, which is good. I kind of have friends. My closest friends live in different time zones, different parts of the country, so there are only a few that I see on a regular basis. But I don’t hang out all that much at all. Maybe it’s my fear that keeps me from getting too close to anyone, I’m not really sure. What I do know is that my brother and I both enjoy writing, that we are both suffering some form of social phobia and that we have an awful lot in common. Perhaps our shared affliction and our responses to it are the glue we need to form a relationship. It just seems odd to me that two people, who are so similar, cannot communicate with one another.
It’s a terrible feeling to feel all alone when in the midst of a crowd.
5.28.2007
lil bro writes
My younger brother wrote this-- I've never read any of his stuff before, found it interesting . . . how come I've never read your stuff before, Jaybird?
OK, let me say this once and get it off my chest and never mention it again. I have had it with writers who talk about how painful and harrowing and exhausting and almost impossible it is for them to put words on paper and how they pace a hole in the carpet, anguish writ large on their marshmallow faces, and feel lucky to have written an entire sentence or two by the end of the day.
It's the purest form of arrogance: Lest you don't notice what a brilliant artist I am, let me tell you how I agonize over my work. To which I say: Get a job. Try teaching eighth-grade English, five classes a day, 35 kids in a class, from September to June, and then tell us about suffering.
The fact of the matter is that the people who struggle most with writing are drunks. They get hammered at night and in the morning their heads are full of pain and adverbs. Writing is hard for them, but so would golf be, or planting alfalfa, or assembling parts in a factory.
The biggest whiners are the writers who get prizes and fellowships for writing stuff that's painful to read, and so they accumulate long résumés and few readers and wind up teaching in universities where they inflict their gloomy pretensions on the young. Writers who write for a living don't complain about the difficulty of it. It does nothing for the reader to know you went through 14 drafts of a book, so why mention it?
The truth, young people, is that writing is no more difficult than building a house, and the only good reason to complain is to discourage younger and more talented writers from climbing on the gravy train and pushing you off.
Young people are pessimistic enough these days without their elders complaining about things. Shut up. Life is pretty good when you grow up. You own your own car, you go where you like, and you sing along with the radio or talk to yourself or chat on your cellphone. You pull into the drive-up window and order the Oreo Blizzard. What's not to like?
One day you get lucky and find someone who's willing to pay you to do something you do well or can fake, and on this you can build a life. You marry someone loving and sensible who makes you laugh, and you beget children, and go through the poop and puke and snot years, and somewhere around the age of 5 or 6, your kids start to fascinate you. There is nobody like them, except perhaps you. You would run into a burning building for them, and at the same time they're the cause of exquisite worry and consternation. At the age of 12, they look at you as if to say, Your replacement has arrived.
Meanwhile, you march forward and sample the pleasures of life. You read history and learn to grill fish in beer batter and find comfortable shoes. You go to Rome. You go to Montana. You come to love baseball and old jazz and the art of conversation. You admit to yourself that you don't care for Walt Whitman or Proust or Henry James, and you forgive yourself for that and pick up Elmore Leonard and J.F. Powers. You discover the pleasure of discarding stuff. You find a hairstyle that suits you. You go back to Montana.
Eventually you cross the line into your 40s, the mortgage years. And the 50s, when you stand weeping at graduations and weddings, and then, in the blink of an eye, come your 60s, and now you're on Easy Street. People who used to ignore you now treat you with reverence. There is great silence when you natter and pontificate, and people ask the secret of your success. You have become eminent. Inside you feel mischievous and jokey, but other people see you as a laureate, so you learn to harrumph.
Clarity is hard. Honesty can be hard. Comedy is always chancy, but then so is profundity. Sometimes one winds up as the other. Illness is, of course, to be avoided, and also megamalls and meetings involving vice presidents. But writing is not painful, no more so than a round of golf. Nobody was harmed in the course of writing this column. That is all I have to say at this time. Thank you.
OK, let me say this once and get it off my chest and never mention it again. I have had it with writers who talk about how painful and harrowing and exhausting and almost impossible it is for them to put words on paper and how they pace a hole in the carpet, anguish writ large on their marshmallow faces, and feel lucky to have written an entire sentence or two by the end of the day.
It's the purest form of arrogance: Lest you don't notice what a brilliant artist I am, let me tell you how I agonize over my work. To which I say: Get a job. Try teaching eighth-grade English, five classes a day, 35 kids in a class, from September to June, and then tell us about suffering.
The fact of the matter is that the people who struggle most with writing are drunks. They get hammered at night and in the morning their heads are full of pain and adverbs. Writing is hard for them, but so would golf be, or planting alfalfa, or assembling parts in a factory.
The biggest whiners are the writers who get prizes and fellowships for writing stuff that's painful to read, and so they accumulate long résumés and few readers and wind up teaching in universities where they inflict their gloomy pretensions on the young. Writers who write for a living don't complain about the difficulty of it. It does nothing for the reader to know you went through 14 drafts of a book, so why mention it?
The truth, young people, is that writing is no more difficult than building a house, and the only good reason to complain is to discourage younger and more talented writers from climbing on the gravy train and pushing you off.
Young people are pessimistic enough these days without their elders complaining about things. Shut up. Life is pretty good when you grow up. You own your own car, you go where you like, and you sing along with the radio or talk to yourself or chat on your cellphone. You pull into the drive-up window and order the Oreo Blizzard. What's not to like?
One day you get lucky and find someone who's willing to pay you to do something you do well or can fake, and on this you can build a life. You marry someone loving and sensible who makes you laugh, and you beget children, and go through the poop and puke and snot years, and somewhere around the age of 5 or 6, your kids start to fascinate you. There is nobody like them, except perhaps you. You would run into a burning building for them, and at the same time they're the cause of exquisite worry and consternation. At the age of 12, they look at you as if to say, Your replacement has arrived.
Meanwhile, you march forward and sample the pleasures of life. You read history and learn to grill fish in beer batter and find comfortable shoes. You go to Rome. You go to Montana. You come to love baseball and old jazz and the art of conversation. You admit to yourself that you don't care for Walt Whitman or Proust or Henry James, and you forgive yourself for that and pick up Elmore Leonard and J.F. Powers. You discover the pleasure of discarding stuff. You find a hairstyle that suits you. You go back to Montana.
Eventually you cross the line into your 40s, the mortgage years. And the 50s, when you stand weeping at graduations and weddings, and then, in the blink of an eye, come your 60s, and now you're on Easy Street. People who used to ignore you now treat you with reverence. There is great silence when you natter and pontificate, and people ask the secret of your success. You have become eminent. Inside you feel mischievous and jokey, but other people see you as a laureate, so you learn to harrumph.
Clarity is hard. Honesty can be hard. Comedy is always chancy, but then so is profundity. Sometimes one winds up as the other. Illness is, of course, to be avoided, and also megamalls and meetings involving vice presidents. But writing is not painful, no more so than a round of golf. Nobody was harmed in the course of writing this column. That is all I have to say at this time. Thank you.
5.27.2007
bad day
i tried i tried i tried,
thats all i can say,
i tried to reach you,
in so many ways,
unanswered, unopened.,
unwilling to do whatever.
maybe i expected too much,
wanted too much from life,
expected too much from this self,
but nothing is left,
nowhere to go,
nowhere to turn.
i'm just a coward,
cowering in the corner,
fetal position where i lay,
nothing more to say,
nothing left to do,
stay and fight the good fight.
its all over for me,
i failed myself,
failed everyone else,
nothing to show for any of it,
what was it for,
what the hell was it for?
i can't talk shit anymore,
can't wish away what is,
it is what it is,
which isn't a fucking thing,
so i leave you with nothing,
because thats all i have to give.
what did i expect,
what did i really want,
just wanted to be happy,
free of whatever tied me down,
just wanted to give the binojiins a chance,
but what was the fucking point?
life begets life,
nothing more,
nothing less,
just life speaking through me,
despite my hatred,
my desire for death..
i leave you with nothing,
some adolescent prose,
some random sounds,
blurry pictures of me trying to live,
believe in nothing,
trust no one.
this life is what you make it,
this lie is what you get,
my children--
the only ones i ever loved,
i give you regret,
i give you hatred.
hate me and everything that i am,
be unlike me,
or be damned,
i'm so sorry,
you deserve everything,
every everything.
i am nothing,
a big blankness,
in your wonderful midst,
a blackhole sucking away life,
so i go from whence i came.,
back into the void.
thats all i can say,
i tried to reach you,
in so many ways,
unanswered, unopened.,
unwilling to do whatever.
maybe i expected too much,
wanted too much from life,
expected too much from this self,
but nothing is left,
nowhere to go,
nowhere to turn.
i'm just a coward,
cowering in the corner,
fetal position where i lay,
nothing more to say,
nothing left to do,
stay and fight the good fight.
its all over for me,
i failed myself,
failed everyone else,
nothing to show for any of it,
what was it for,
what the hell was it for?
i can't talk shit anymore,
can't wish away what is,
it is what it is,
which isn't a fucking thing,
so i leave you with nothing,
because thats all i have to give.
what did i expect,
what did i really want,
just wanted to be happy,
free of whatever tied me down,
just wanted to give the binojiins a chance,
but what was the fucking point?
life begets life,
nothing more,
nothing less,
just life speaking through me,
despite my hatred,
my desire for death..
i leave you with nothing,
some adolescent prose,
some random sounds,
blurry pictures of me trying to live,
believe in nothing,
trust no one.
this life is what you make it,
this lie is what you get,
my children--
the only ones i ever loved,
i give you regret,
i give you hatred.
hate me and everything that i am,
be unlike me,
or be damned,
i'm so sorry,
you deserve everything,
every everything.
i am nothing,
a big blankness,
in your wonderful midst,
a blackhole sucking away life,
so i go from whence i came.,
back into the void.
along for the ride
Didn’t mean to sound so bitter,
I didn’t mean it that way,
It really doesn’t matter to me,
Just stating what I felt that day.
So much is out of my hands,
I’m just along for the ride,
Just frustrated and depressed,
Trying so hard to just hide.
Don’t want to deal with this,
What is it that scares me so,
What is the worst possible case,
Honestly, I just don’t know.
We have to count on someone else,
To act in a way that we approve,
But what if they do for themselves,
And leave us empty-handed?
It’s not even me I’m worried about,
This is about our little boy,
Who is about to become a man,
He’s scared and empty of joy.
I know and he knows it must be,
But what if those others decide otherwise,
And decide to do whatever else,
And fill with pain, our child’s eyes?
That fault would be ours to share,
We would shoulder that blame,
For not properly preparing him,
For sullying his good name.
Is he ready, is he prepared,
How can anyone even claim to be,
I just want this to go well,
This isn’t about you or me.
Some will have traveled far,
A thousand miles or more,
To share this day with our son,
Along Superior’s southern shore.
I carry so much baggage with me,
That is the problem, I can’t let go,
Worrying about everything and more,
Fear of what, I really do not know.
Checks are gonna bounce,
Gonna run out of gas,
Perhaps, but then again,
Maybe this too shall pass.
Checks bounce all the time,
Gas and such and whatever,
But how many times will this happen,
Will I continue to be this way forever?
How often does a child this young,
Older in years due to experience,
Become a member of the Medicine Lodge,
And called to it--not acting out of obedience.
I must silence the turmoil within,
Before it clouds my mind with fear,
And be strong for my son and family,
Quiet my own demons, keep my mind clear.
So yes, things will go as they will,
But I will stay positive and do what I can,
Have strength, faith, and hope,
And watch my son become a man.
I didn’t mean it that way,
It really doesn’t matter to me,
Just stating what I felt that day.
So much is out of my hands,
I’m just along for the ride,
Just frustrated and depressed,
Trying so hard to just hide.
Don’t want to deal with this,
What is it that scares me so,
What is the worst possible case,
Honestly, I just don’t know.
We have to count on someone else,
To act in a way that we approve,
But what if they do for themselves,
And leave us empty-handed?
It’s not even me I’m worried about,
This is about our little boy,
Who is about to become a man,
He’s scared and empty of joy.
I know and he knows it must be,
But what if those others decide otherwise,
And decide to do whatever else,
And fill with pain, our child’s eyes?
That fault would be ours to share,
We would shoulder that blame,
For not properly preparing him,
For sullying his good name.
Is he ready, is he prepared,
How can anyone even claim to be,
I just want this to go well,
This isn’t about you or me.
Some will have traveled far,
A thousand miles or more,
To share this day with our son,
Along Superior’s southern shore.
I carry so much baggage with me,
That is the problem, I can’t let go,
Worrying about everything and more,
Fear of what, I really do not know.
Checks are gonna bounce,
Gonna run out of gas,
Perhaps, but then again,
Maybe this too shall pass.
Checks bounce all the time,
Gas and such and whatever,
But how many times will this happen,
Will I continue to be this way forever?
How often does a child this young,
Older in years due to experience,
Become a member of the Medicine Lodge,
And called to it--not acting out of obedience.
I must silence the turmoil within,
Before it clouds my mind with fear,
And be strong for my son and family,
Quiet my own demons, keep my mind clear.
So yes, things will go as they will,
But I will stay positive and do what I can,
Have strength, faith, and hope,
And watch my son become a man.
horoscope
Started off trying to say something,
Turned out it was all really nothing,
Just scratches and lines signifying,
Nothing to me, just more lies,
With which to whet the appetite,
Just a tease, a sliver of truth,
Sandwiched between bullshit.
Daily horoscope, sooner or later,
Might turn out right, what are the odds,
That someone’s dealing with issues,
Romantic or financial, personal or professional,
Hit the nail on the head, after so many tries,
No wonder why, finally got something right,
Three hundred plus days of being dead wrong.
Same old formula, from days of yore,
Honed to a skill, just the same,
Human nature has hardly changed,
We continue to play the same games,
With our lives and people’s feelings,
Hardened by our own wicked dealings,
All the same, still the same inside.
So I read my horoscope most everyday,
Listen with a cynical ear to what they say,
More for entertainment than wisdom,
Nuggets of useful advice for most any circumstance,
But just like everything else, seems left to chance,
So I’ll play along, pretend it has some meaning,
But in the end, we’re all just dreaming.
Turned out it was all really nothing,
Just scratches and lines signifying,
Nothing to me, just more lies,
With which to whet the appetite,
Just a tease, a sliver of truth,
Sandwiched between bullshit.
Daily horoscope, sooner or later,
Might turn out right, what are the odds,
That someone’s dealing with issues,
Romantic or financial, personal or professional,
Hit the nail on the head, after so many tries,
No wonder why, finally got something right,
Three hundred plus days of being dead wrong.
Same old formula, from days of yore,
Honed to a skill, just the same,
Human nature has hardly changed,
We continue to play the same games,
With our lives and people’s feelings,
Hardened by our own wicked dealings,
All the same, still the same inside.
So I read my horoscope most everyday,
Listen with a cynical ear to what they say,
More for entertainment than wisdom,
Nuggets of useful advice for most any circumstance,
But just like everything else, seems left to chance,
So I’ll play along, pretend it has some meaning,
But in the end, we’re all just dreaming.
turny trucks
Made the mistake of tightening my trucks,
Tightened the kingpin, smooshed the bushings,
Thought I needed more stability, more control,
So Z-man and I could pump the bowl,
So I could drop in and practice my ollies.
Turns out that it was way too tight,
Z slammed right off the bat, couldn’t turn,
Tried carving the roundwall, hit concrete,
Later I tried carving into a corner,
Board didn’t respond, didn’t turn at all.
Four feet up, body perpendicular to the ground,
The board stalled and I kept going,
Padded wrist, padded elbow, helped a lot,
But my knee took the brunt, skin scraped,
Hopped up post slam, embarrassed.
Wanted to get outta the way, off the ground,
Another skater asked me if I was alright,
Said yeah, dude, call more attention to me,
But yeah, I’m fine, scraped my knee is all,
Then the blood started to flow, staining shorts.
I took a couple quick runs right after,
Just to prove to myself I was fine,
But wished I had brought my skate wrench,
Trucks too tight, no control, no carving,
Ended up slamming, bloodied again.
The next time out, we loosened the kingpin,
One full turn, one full revolution, then more,
Maybe a turn and a half, bushing relieved,
At first it felt a little wobbly, but felt so free,
Carving heelside, toeside, whipping around.
Extra sketchy on the back truck, extra loose,
But we rode it out, leaning one way then the other,
Whipping the board up the wall, in the corner,
Over the pyramid and hips, extra turny trucks,
Loosen up, loosen up, loose trucks saves lives.
I hit that corner where I slammed, smooth like butter,
Hit that stall point but rode it out, turned with ease,
Put my trust in the board, let her rip and go,
No more stalling, no more slamming, just go,
Hit it hard, hit it fast, let it go and get in the flow.
Tightened the kingpin, smooshed the bushings,
Thought I needed more stability, more control,
So Z-man and I could pump the bowl,
So I could drop in and practice my ollies.
Turns out that it was way too tight,
Z slammed right off the bat, couldn’t turn,
Tried carving the roundwall, hit concrete,
Later I tried carving into a corner,
Board didn’t respond, didn’t turn at all.
Four feet up, body perpendicular to the ground,
The board stalled and I kept going,
Padded wrist, padded elbow, helped a lot,
But my knee took the brunt, skin scraped,
Hopped up post slam, embarrassed.
Wanted to get outta the way, off the ground,
Another skater asked me if I was alright,
Said yeah, dude, call more attention to me,
But yeah, I’m fine, scraped my knee is all,
Then the blood started to flow, staining shorts.
I took a couple quick runs right after,
Just to prove to myself I was fine,
But wished I had brought my skate wrench,
Trucks too tight, no control, no carving,
Ended up slamming, bloodied again.
The next time out, we loosened the kingpin,
One full turn, one full revolution, then more,
Maybe a turn and a half, bushing relieved,
At first it felt a little wobbly, but felt so free,
Carving heelside, toeside, whipping around.
Extra sketchy on the back truck, extra loose,
But we rode it out, leaning one way then the other,
Whipping the board up the wall, in the corner,
Over the pyramid and hips, extra turny trucks,
Loosen up, loosen up, loose trucks saves lives.
I hit that corner where I slammed, smooth like butter,
Hit that stall point but rode it out, turned with ease,
Put my trust in the board, let her rip and go,
No more stalling, no more slamming, just go,
Hit it hard, hit it fast, let it go and get in the flow.
5.26.2007
on Memorial Day . . .
Poison ideas seep in,
Shrouded by thought,
Blackened earth underfoot,
The crunch of pebbles,
The stench of death,
Eyes burn, short of breath.
Finally quiet, finally still,
Came at a heavy price,
Bullets and missiles,
Tearing through the air,
Tearing metal and stone,
Tearing into flesh and bone.
Jaws locked shut and clenched,
Teeth ground done, worn smooth,
Face twitching, breaths shallow,
Muscles tightened, bracing,
Waiting for the death blow,
Shots from an unseen foe.
Adrenaline pumping fiercely,
Muscles and joints aching,
Toxins leaching into my veins,
Lactic acid, as sweat pours,
Dripping down my face,
Wishing we were back on base.
My body begins to shake,
Feeling cold, despite the heat,
Feel so vulnerable, despite Kevlar,
Jacket and helmet, no real help,
For the fear that takes control,
Every time we go out on patrol.
Too many things we’ve seen,
Bodies and limbs, blown apart,
No rhyme no reason no sense,
Dumb stupid luck, nothing else,
A thin line between death and life,
Just wanna see my kids and my wife,
Live long enough to make it home,
Please Lord, let me make it home.
Shrouded by thought,
Blackened earth underfoot,
The crunch of pebbles,
The stench of death,
Eyes burn, short of breath.
Finally quiet, finally still,
Came at a heavy price,
Bullets and missiles,
Tearing through the air,
Tearing metal and stone,
Tearing into flesh and bone.
Jaws locked shut and clenched,
Teeth ground done, worn smooth,
Face twitching, breaths shallow,
Muscles tightened, bracing,
Waiting for the death blow,
Shots from an unseen foe.
Adrenaline pumping fiercely,
Muscles and joints aching,
Toxins leaching into my veins,
Lactic acid, as sweat pours,
Dripping down my face,
Wishing we were back on base.
My body begins to shake,
Feeling cold, despite the heat,
Feel so vulnerable, despite Kevlar,
Jacket and helmet, no real help,
For the fear that takes control,
Every time we go out on patrol.
Too many things we’ve seen,
Bodies and limbs, blown apart,
No rhyme no reason no sense,
Dumb stupid luck, nothing else,
A thin line between death and life,
Just wanna see my kids and my wife,
Live long enough to make it home,
Please Lord, let me make it home.
float away
Short of breath, short of cash,
No way out, plans dashed,
Grey clouds suffocating,
Thick humid air, rain starts,
Brings no relief, no respite.
Breathe slowly, stomach churns,
catch my breath, lungs burn,
Shoulders hunch and head hangs,
Deflated physically, literally,
Caught in a trap, no escape.
Slip back into a drunken haze,
Escape the real, the everyday,
Float away on my dreams,
Far away from responsibility,
Far away from my reality.
Waiting for deliverance, somehow,
By whom, from what, from now,
Bound and tied, clawing hopelessly,
Some way, somebody, some thing,
Some such something, break free.
Why the hell, what the hell, how the hell,
Binding legalese, want to scream, to yell,
Bound by money and fate, trapped by,
Ruled by, addled by comfort and tastes,
Ridiculed and prodded by the fickle fates.
Crawling out of my skin, screaming,
Wishing for relief, know I’m dreaming,
No energy, anger dispelled, fearfulness,
Unchained and unfettered, takes over,
Why must it be, how will it end?
No way out, plans dashed,
Grey clouds suffocating,
Thick humid air, rain starts,
Brings no relief, no respite.
Breathe slowly, stomach churns,
catch my breath, lungs burn,
Shoulders hunch and head hangs,
Deflated physically, literally,
Caught in a trap, no escape.
Slip back into a drunken haze,
Escape the real, the everyday,
Float away on my dreams,
Far away from responsibility,
Far away from my reality.
Waiting for deliverance, somehow,
By whom, from what, from now,
Bound and tied, clawing hopelessly,
Some way, somebody, some thing,
Some such something, break free.
Why the hell, what the hell, how the hell,
Binding legalese, want to scream, to yell,
Bound by money and fate, trapped by,
Ruled by, addled by comfort and tastes,
Ridiculed and prodded by the fickle fates.
Crawling out of my skin, screaming,
Wishing for relief, know I’m dreaming,
No energy, anger dispelled, fearfulness,
Unchained and unfettered, takes over,
Why must it be, how will it end?
the river
The river winds its way through the trees,
Passing wood lots set aside in the 1850’s,
Criss-crossed by bridges, built for multiple reasons,
Pedestrians, automobiles and even trains,
Past university dorms and classrooms,
Parking lots and apartment buildings,
Huge playing fields, often empty,
Sometimes overtaken by the swollen river.
It runs on and on, waxing and waning,
Like life, like the rest of us, surviving,
Tons of sludge and sewage dumped,
By towns upriver, coeds throwing trash,
Sometimes couches, bikes, anything,
But she rolls on, ever slowly, ever gracefully,
Past the municipal golf course, the baseball complex,
The city zoo and shops and factories.
The little river finally ends, joins another,
Just in time to float by the G.M. plant,
And take another load of waste,
Carrying it through the heartland,
Into the hills and finally into the huge lake,
That eventually joins other lakes,
And empties into the ocean hundreds of miles away,
An endless lifetime away from the very start.
Passing wood lots set aside in the 1850’s,
Criss-crossed by bridges, built for multiple reasons,
Pedestrians, automobiles and even trains,
Past university dorms and classrooms,
Parking lots and apartment buildings,
Huge playing fields, often empty,
Sometimes overtaken by the swollen river.
It runs on and on, waxing and waning,
Like life, like the rest of us, surviving,
Tons of sludge and sewage dumped,
By towns upriver, coeds throwing trash,
Sometimes couches, bikes, anything,
But she rolls on, ever slowly, ever gracefully,
Past the municipal golf course, the baseball complex,
The city zoo and shops and factories.
The little river finally ends, joins another,
Just in time to float by the G.M. plant,
And take another load of waste,
Carrying it through the heartland,
Into the hills and finally into the huge lake,
That eventually joins other lakes,
And empties into the ocean hundreds of miles away,
An endless lifetime away from the very start.
wild strawberries
Picking wild strawberries in the field,
Early summer morning on Manitoulin,
Z-man picks them and eats them,
His little basket remains barren,
“Where are your strawberries?”
“In my tummy,” he says, smiling.
Big empty field on the old farm,
Grass so high you can barely see him,
If not for the Labrador-Shepard mix,
All black except for his white paws,
That follows him everywhere he goes,
Keeping a watchful eye on his charge.
Waub comes running at me and jumps,
Nearly knocking me over with his joy,
But always ever so careful around the boy,
Seems to know to take special care,
Seems to know that he is Mishomis’ baby,
Jumps around him, keeping space between.
Long summer days gazing out at the trees,
Four hundred metres back from the road,
Gravel held together with a layer of pitch,
Over the old dirt road, originally built by the old man,
My wife’s grandfather whom she never met,
Our house sits on the remains of his log home.
Summertime, long after the reign of the black flies,
Clouds of mosquitoes at night, attacked by dragonflies,
Swollen white summer moon rising over the trees,
Bright, bright stars blanket our pitch-black skies,
Hardly any lights way out on the farm,
The occasional speeding car zooms by.
One night someone’s horses got free,
Three or four of them kept circling the house,
Could hear their hooves thumping the ground,
Just stayed inside and watched them running round,
Yelled at Waub to keep his distance,
He kept nipping at their hooves, chasing them.
The island has always been a place of extremes,
Unbridled natural beauty, alongside man’s creations,
Deep and lasting silence, betwixt loud drunken nights,
In the middle of town, rows of government housing,
Only the sounds of dogs, cattle and horses outside,
Out on the family farms, the forested beyond.
Unrelenting winters, burning summer sun,
The hopes and fears of so many generations,
Ground into the red dust, washed into the lake,
Pride and strength, living next to faded dreams,
Dried up and used, potentialities unexplored,
But led the way for others in so many ways.
Community-based justice and substance abuse,
Elders programs and language preservation,
Youth initiatives and athletic prowess,
Fighting against alcoholism, teen pregnancy,
Drugs, gangs and sundry afflictions,
Reality, beautiful, gritty and surreal.
So much promise but so much pain,
But this place, this community,
Land base is so large, because they refused,
Didn’t sign any treaties while their neighbors did,
Plied with barrels of rum and trinkets,
Stood by their beliefs, set the tone for centuries.
Early summer morning on Manitoulin,
Z-man picks them and eats them,
His little basket remains barren,
“Where are your strawberries?”
“In my tummy,” he says, smiling.
Big empty field on the old farm,
Grass so high you can barely see him,
If not for the Labrador-Shepard mix,
All black except for his white paws,
That follows him everywhere he goes,
Keeping a watchful eye on his charge.
Waub comes running at me and jumps,
Nearly knocking me over with his joy,
But always ever so careful around the boy,
Seems to know to take special care,
Seems to know that he is Mishomis’ baby,
Jumps around him, keeping space between.
Long summer days gazing out at the trees,
Four hundred metres back from the road,
Gravel held together with a layer of pitch,
Over the old dirt road, originally built by the old man,
My wife’s grandfather whom she never met,
Our house sits on the remains of his log home.
Summertime, long after the reign of the black flies,
Clouds of mosquitoes at night, attacked by dragonflies,
Swollen white summer moon rising over the trees,
Bright, bright stars blanket our pitch-black skies,
Hardly any lights way out on the farm,
The occasional speeding car zooms by.
One night someone’s horses got free,
Three or four of them kept circling the house,
Could hear their hooves thumping the ground,
Just stayed inside and watched them running round,
Yelled at Waub to keep his distance,
He kept nipping at their hooves, chasing them.
The island has always been a place of extremes,
Unbridled natural beauty, alongside man’s creations,
Deep and lasting silence, betwixt loud drunken nights,
In the middle of town, rows of government housing,
Only the sounds of dogs, cattle and horses outside,
Out on the family farms, the forested beyond.
Unrelenting winters, burning summer sun,
The hopes and fears of so many generations,
Ground into the red dust, washed into the lake,
Pride and strength, living next to faded dreams,
Dried up and used, potentialities unexplored,
But led the way for others in so many ways.
Community-based justice and substance abuse,
Elders programs and language preservation,
Youth initiatives and athletic prowess,
Fighting against alcoholism, teen pregnancy,
Drugs, gangs and sundry afflictions,
Reality, beautiful, gritty and surreal.
So much promise but so much pain,
But this place, this community,
Land base is so large, because they refused,
Didn’t sign any treaties while their neighbors did,
Plied with barrels of rum and trinkets,
Stood by their beliefs, set the tone for centuries.
futbol
My daughter used to play soccer,
What the rest of the world calls football,
On various teams of varying skills,
All over the city and beyond,
Did travel teams for a coupla years,
Played in Midland, Bay City, Freeland,
Auburn Hills, Battle Creek, Saginaw,
Royal Oak, Troy, and places too numerous.
Sat on the sidelines and just watched,
Along with the other parents and relations,
Getting fat and graying, no longer playing,
Felt my youth slipping, so flipn frustrating,
Rotting away from the inside, stuck sitting,
Watching, ruminating, from the sidelines.
Some of us spectators were has-beens,
Most were never-beens, bleating and berating,
Harassing the kids from the comfort of our lawn chairs,
Prodding and pushing, yelling and haranguing,
Forcing the children to succeed where we failed,
Just so we could ride on their coattails.
So we walked away from the pitch,
The game wasn’t to blame, but the parents,
Yelling and arguing, drinking and fighting,
From the sidelines, fronting and confounding,
Took all the joy out of that kingly sport,
Shaking our heads, left us asking why.
So now we skate, individually and together,
When we can, when the spirit is willing,
Achy joints and scabby knees,
Road rash on elbows and hands,
No one yelling or prodding,
Pushing ourselves, no one else,
Living for the stoke and ourselves.
What the rest of the world calls football,
On various teams of varying skills,
All over the city and beyond,
Did travel teams for a coupla years,
Played in Midland, Bay City, Freeland,
Auburn Hills, Battle Creek, Saginaw,
Royal Oak, Troy, and places too numerous.
Sat on the sidelines and just watched,
Along with the other parents and relations,
Getting fat and graying, no longer playing,
Felt my youth slipping, so flipn frustrating,
Rotting away from the inside, stuck sitting,
Watching, ruminating, from the sidelines.
Some of us spectators were has-beens,
Most were never-beens, bleating and berating,
Harassing the kids from the comfort of our lawn chairs,
Prodding and pushing, yelling and haranguing,
Forcing the children to succeed where we failed,
Just so we could ride on their coattails.
So we walked away from the pitch,
The game wasn’t to blame, but the parents,
Yelling and arguing, drinking and fighting,
From the sidelines, fronting and confounding,
Took all the joy out of that kingly sport,
Shaking our heads, left us asking why.
So now we skate, individually and together,
When we can, when the spirit is willing,
Achy joints and scabby knees,
Road rash on elbows and hands,
No one yelling or prodding,
Pushing ourselves, no one else,
Living for the stoke and ourselves.
the last fraction
Slingshot, catapault or trebuchet,
Instruments of destruction from days of old,
Terms useful to explain the physics of skate,
When you carve high into a corner,
Throwing your feet, your board up,
And riding down onto the flat.
Z-man getting stoked on speed,
Says he wants to go faster,
A nanosecond from riding it out,
So close to completing a carve,
Rides it right up to the last,
But bails at the last fraction.
Instruments of destruction from days of old,
Terms useful to explain the physics of skate,
When you carve high into a corner,
Throwing your feet, your board up,
And riding down onto the flat.
Z-man getting stoked on speed,
Says he wants to go faster,
A nanosecond from riding it out,
So close to completing a carve,
Rides it right up to the last,
But bails at the last fraction.
boneless
Rolling towards the curb, I crouch down,
I grab the board on the front left side,
Right hand, slob grab, that’s how I ride,
Right foot, front foot, slides off board,
Left foot, back foot, glued to the tail,
I jump off my right foot, up into the air,
Spinning as I go, just like Tae Kwon Do,
Spinning clockwise two-hundred seventy degrees,
Landing squarely on the curb, facing the street.
I grab the board on the front left side,
Right hand, slob grab, that’s how I ride,
Right foot, front foot, slides off board,
Left foot, back foot, glued to the tail,
I jump off my right foot, up into the air,
Spinning as I go, just like Tae Kwon Do,
Spinning clockwise two-hundred seventy degrees,
Landing squarely on the curb, facing the street.
half-blind
I just don’t know, can’t really say,
Just the way it goes, just another day,
There’s no moral to this story,
Nothing to learn, nothing of worth,
Just living somewhere between death and birth.
Want to hit the open road, leave this behind,
Explore the world, see what we can find,
But anchored to this place, weighed down,
No chance of escape, too late to repent,
Burdened by money not yet earned but already spent.
Promises made and promises broken,
Littering the path travelled, so much unspoken,
Falling further and further behind,
When will we ever catch up, ever break even,
Just need to maintain, keep our options open.
Trusting others patience, trusting us just the same,
Unlikely to pay, unlikely to stay in the game,
Playing by someone else’s rules,
What propels me forward, what do I believe,
Hanging on barely, waiting for relief.
Expectations overblown, not just my own,
Friends traveling so far away from home,
Cannot determine the import to my son,
Wait and see, see how it goes,
I’m not so sure he yet knows.
Our everyday struggle to live in this world,
Pledging allegiance to ancestors, no flag unfurled,
Trying to remain true to the real, to reality,
Breaking the fetters placed upon us by the outside,
By people who choose not to live, but to hide.
Chasing after false idols, empty things,
Not realizing what pain all that brings,
The material world nothing but illusion,
Here for a moment, lives barely a blip,
We hold tight, not wanting to lose our grip.
Sages, poets and prophets down through the years,
Have claimed to know, have played on our fears,
Some may have glimpsed the eternal, the void,
Some may have heard a murmur, felt a flutter,
Understood we are all connected to one another.
So our struggle individually and collectively,
To live in these two worlds simultaneously,
The spiritual and the material, as best we can,
Getting caught up from time-to-time,
Walking the razor’s edge half-blind.
Just the way it goes, just another day,
There’s no moral to this story,
Nothing to learn, nothing of worth,
Just living somewhere between death and birth.
Want to hit the open road, leave this behind,
Explore the world, see what we can find,
But anchored to this place, weighed down,
No chance of escape, too late to repent,
Burdened by money not yet earned but already spent.
Promises made and promises broken,
Littering the path travelled, so much unspoken,
Falling further and further behind,
When will we ever catch up, ever break even,
Just need to maintain, keep our options open.
Trusting others patience, trusting us just the same,
Unlikely to pay, unlikely to stay in the game,
Playing by someone else’s rules,
What propels me forward, what do I believe,
Hanging on barely, waiting for relief.
Expectations overblown, not just my own,
Friends traveling so far away from home,
Cannot determine the import to my son,
Wait and see, see how it goes,
I’m not so sure he yet knows.
Our everyday struggle to live in this world,
Pledging allegiance to ancestors, no flag unfurled,
Trying to remain true to the real, to reality,
Breaking the fetters placed upon us by the outside,
By people who choose not to live, but to hide.
Chasing after false idols, empty things,
Not realizing what pain all that brings,
The material world nothing but illusion,
Here for a moment, lives barely a blip,
We hold tight, not wanting to lose our grip.
Sages, poets and prophets down through the years,
Have claimed to know, have played on our fears,
Some may have glimpsed the eternal, the void,
Some may have heard a murmur, felt a flutter,
Understood we are all connected to one another.
So our struggle individually and collectively,
To live in these two worlds simultaneously,
The spiritual and the material, as best we can,
Getting caught up from time-to-time,
Walking the razor’s edge half-blind.
nada
Nothing, no one, emptiness,
Ever and forever, just blank,
Gone, never been, nothing,
Empty, endless sleep, none,
Starless, empty void, nothing
Ever and forever, just blank,
Gone, never been, nothing,
Empty, endless sleep, none,
Starless, empty void, nothing
sun shining
Heat seeping into my pores,
Sun shining, radiating heat,
Trying to offset the winter cold,
Months of dreary weather,
Long-suffering surface dwellers.
Everything seems clearer,
Everything seems more real,
Treetops swaying in the breeze,
Reaching, clutching for the sun,
Majestic green sentinels of life.
The world awakening all around,
Flowers blooming, scenting the air,
Bugs and birds dance along,
To the vibration felt in everything,
The noise buzzing through our veins.
Cocooned for too long in our homes,
Eagerly seeking warmth and light,
Breath of life, Sun God, father of all,
Same matter, same stuff as all the rest,
All the way back to the very start.
Sun shining, radiating heat,
Trying to offset the winter cold,
Months of dreary weather,
Long-suffering surface dwellers.
Everything seems clearer,
Everything seems more real,
Treetops swaying in the breeze,
Reaching, clutching for the sun,
Majestic green sentinels of life.
The world awakening all around,
Flowers blooming, scenting the air,
Bugs and birds dance along,
To the vibration felt in everything,
The noise buzzing through our veins.
Cocooned for too long in our homes,
Eagerly seeking warmth and light,
Breath of life, Sun God, father of all,
Same matter, same stuff as all the rest,
All the way back to the very start.
5.11.2007
obit
Obituary for Alfred Webkamigad-Assinewai
WEBKAMIGAD-ASSINEWAI, Alfred - of Wikwemikong passed away at his residence on Monday, May 7, 2007 in his 81st year. Beloved husband of Lilian (Nee Mishibinijima) at home. Dear son of the late Basil and Josette (Maiangowi) Webkamigad. Loving father of Diane Peltier (husband Raymond Peltier predeceased), Myles Webkamigad (wife Virginia M. Peltier predeceased), Albert Blake Webkamigad, Regina Webkamigad (friend John Flamand), Ephrem Webkamigad, Dominic Webkamigad and Walter (stepson) Mishibinijima all of Wikwemikong, George Webkamigad (friend Thelma Hare) of Toronto and the late Alfred Kenneth Webkamigad and the late MaryAnn Webkamigad. Will be sadly missed by 19 grandchildren and 13 great grandchildren and predeceased by 1 grandson. Dear brother of Henry Webkamigad, Josephine Pelletier, Sara Peltier, William Webkamigad, and Howie Webkamigad and the late Agatha, George, Jospeh, Earl, Ernest, Jacques and Marjory Webkamigad. Alfred's work history was extensive and varied which was farming, pulpwood cutting, house construction, pasture foreman and weekend Band Office Security. Alfred's main interests in life were his children. He was an avid hockey fan, as well he enjoyed baseball, soccer, horses and gardening. HIs quiet times were spent listening to music and storytelling. He loved to take his grandchildren for haircuts and to visit the barber. Alfred spent time scratching bingo cards. He was a lover of chewing tobacco and Juicy Fruit Gum. Immediate cremation. Visitation at St. Anthony Daniel Church, Kaboni from 3:00 P.M. Wednesday, May 9th until time of Memorial mass on Thursday, May 10, 2007 at 11:00 A.M. from Holy Cross Mission Church, Wikwemikong with Father Doug McCarthy officiating. Interment of the ashes in Wikwemiking Cemetery. Arrangements by BOURCIER FUNERAL HOME, Espanola.
WEBKAMIGAD-ASSINEWAI, Alfred - of Wikwemikong passed away at his residence on Monday, May 7, 2007 in his 81st year. Beloved husband of Lilian (Nee Mishibinijima) at home. Dear son of the late Basil and Josette (Maiangowi) Webkamigad. Loving father of Diane Peltier (husband Raymond Peltier predeceased), Myles Webkamigad (wife Virginia M. Peltier predeceased), Albert Blake Webkamigad, Regina Webkamigad (friend John Flamand), Ephrem Webkamigad, Dominic Webkamigad and Walter (stepson) Mishibinijima all of Wikwemikong, George Webkamigad (friend Thelma Hare) of Toronto and the late Alfred Kenneth Webkamigad and the late MaryAnn Webkamigad. Will be sadly missed by 19 grandchildren and 13 great grandchildren and predeceased by 1 grandson. Dear brother of Henry Webkamigad, Josephine Pelletier, Sara Peltier, William Webkamigad, and Howie Webkamigad and the late Agatha, George, Jospeh, Earl, Ernest, Jacques and Marjory Webkamigad. Alfred's work history was extensive and varied which was farming, pulpwood cutting, house construction, pasture foreman and weekend Band Office Security. Alfred's main interests in life were his children. He was an avid hockey fan, as well he enjoyed baseball, soccer, horses and gardening. HIs quiet times were spent listening to music and storytelling. He loved to take his grandchildren for haircuts and to visit the barber. Alfred spent time scratching bingo cards. He was a lover of chewing tobacco and Juicy Fruit Gum. Immediate cremation. Visitation at St. Anthony Daniel Church, Kaboni from 3:00 P.M. Wednesday, May 9th until time of Memorial mass on Thursday, May 10, 2007 at 11:00 A.M. from Holy Cross Mission Church, Wikwemikong with Father Doug McCarthy officiating. Interment of the ashes in Wikwemiking Cemetery. Arrangements by BOURCIER FUNERAL HOME, Espanola.
5.08.2007
Uncle Alfred
Gone, gone, gone,
The body remains but the breath has ceased,
The spirit is gone, light has faded,
The old familiar twinkle in his eyes,
Gone, gone, gone.
Like the wind, the breeze,
The rains and sunshine,
Here for a moment,
Then only a memory,
A life simply lived.
Gone, but where, where has he gone,
Where do we go, can you quantify spirit for me?
Are we merely carbon containers,
Holding blood and guts,
Atoms and molecules,
Skin and bones and little else?
The breath, the spirit, in woodlands art,
Equal in importance to the body,
Megis shell, called cowrie elsewhere,
Transmitted the breath of life,
From Giichii Manidoo, the Great Spirit,
Or the Great Mystery . . .
On the shores of these Great Lakes,
Where this man and his family,
His people, haved lived their lives.
His funeral will be at the church,
Up on the hill overlooking the bay,
Right next to the ruins of the Indian mission,
Founded by the Jesuits in the 1660’s,
So much history in that place, that island.
Black and white pictures in the tribal offices,
Veterans of the world wars,
Sent away across the ocean,
Fighting and dying for Ottawa, for London,
And then returned to their little island,
In northern Lake Huron,
Dirt roads and outhouses,
Farmers and fishermen,
Just like countless generations before,
Wikwemikong- eastern Manitoulin Island.
Black and white pictures in the ice arena,
Generations of hockey players,
Bringing pride to their little community,
Some fresh from service in Europe,
Giving hope to something better,
Making the most out of so very little,
Proud Thunderbirds, Hawks and Warriors.
They survived the government programs,
Held on to their language,
Despite the boarding school horrors,
Held on to their history and their culture,
The Jesuits tried to tame them,
But today the priest dresses in buckskin,
Speaks their language,
Adorns the church with eagle feathers,
Medicine wheels and spirit drawings,
Smudges with sweetgrass, sage and cedar.
This is where he is from,
These are his people, his family,
Alfred Webkamigad, patriarch and father,
Husband to Lillian, ever laughing,
Ever joking, ever living,
In his many children, grandchildren,
Great-grandchildren, nephews and nieces,
On and on and on, never gone,
Strong and loving, giving and caring,
On this harsh, beautiful northern island,
The dwelling place of the spirit,
The dwelling place of the mystery.
Told they were second-class,
And treated as such, they kept on,
Raising their families, living their lives,
Our generation owes everything to them,
What little suffering, sacrificing we did,
Nothing compared to theirs,
The wars, the social unrest,
Industrialization, modernization,
The collapse of the family unit,
But they continued on gracefully.
Uncle Alfred would speak to me,
The American (Chimookman), from Detroit,
In his language or in English,
Heavily accented, I smiled and nodded,
Didn’t know what he was saying,
Didn’t even matter, just smiled,
Showing my respect, honoring the man,
The ancestors spoke through him,
Reminded us of who we are,
Grace and dignity, despite whatever,
Echoes of our ancestors in every breath.
And so we will go on, carry on,
Find a way to live our lives,
Carry on the memories of him,
Through stories and actions,
In our everyday lives, little things,
In our quietest of moments,
When we are silent and unfettered,
The spirit speaking to us, through us,
When we quiet our mouths,
Quiet our minds to whatever else.
He is not gone, we carry him inside,
They are not gone, we carry them inside,
The ancients breathing, living,
Through our breaths, our ancestors,
All around us, in our blood, in our hearts,
In our souls every single step,
Not gone, not gone, not gone,
He remains with us, they remain here,
As long as we do not give up hope,
As long as we draw in breath,
We are all islands where the spirit resides,
We are the dwelling places of the mystery.
The body remains but the breath has ceased,
The spirit is gone, light has faded,
The old familiar twinkle in his eyes,
Gone, gone, gone.
Like the wind, the breeze,
The rains and sunshine,
Here for a moment,
Then only a memory,
A life simply lived.
Gone, but where, where has he gone,
Where do we go, can you quantify spirit for me?
Are we merely carbon containers,
Holding blood and guts,
Atoms and molecules,
Skin and bones and little else?
The breath, the spirit, in woodlands art,
Equal in importance to the body,
Megis shell, called cowrie elsewhere,
Transmitted the breath of life,
From Giichii Manidoo, the Great Spirit,
Or the Great Mystery . . .
On the shores of these Great Lakes,
Where this man and his family,
His people, haved lived their lives.
His funeral will be at the church,
Up on the hill overlooking the bay,
Right next to the ruins of the Indian mission,
Founded by the Jesuits in the 1660’s,
So much history in that place, that island.
Black and white pictures in the tribal offices,
Veterans of the world wars,
Sent away across the ocean,
Fighting and dying for Ottawa, for London,
And then returned to their little island,
In northern Lake Huron,
Dirt roads and outhouses,
Farmers and fishermen,
Just like countless generations before,
Wikwemikong- eastern Manitoulin Island.
Black and white pictures in the ice arena,
Generations of hockey players,
Bringing pride to their little community,
Some fresh from service in Europe,
Giving hope to something better,
Making the most out of so very little,
Proud Thunderbirds, Hawks and Warriors.
They survived the government programs,
Held on to their language,
Despite the boarding school horrors,
Held on to their history and their culture,
The Jesuits tried to tame them,
But today the priest dresses in buckskin,
Speaks their language,
Adorns the church with eagle feathers,
Medicine wheels and spirit drawings,
Smudges with sweetgrass, sage and cedar.
This is where he is from,
These are his people, his family,
Alfred Webkamigad, patriarch and father,
Husband to Lillian, ever laughing,
Ever joking, ever living,
In his many children, grandchildren,
Great-grandchildren, nephews and nieces,
On and on and on, never gone,
Strong and loving, giving and caring,
On this harsh, beautiful northern island,
The dwelling place of the spirit,
The dwelling place of the mystery.
Told they were second-class,
And treated as such, they kept on,
Raising their families, living their lives,
Our generation owes everything to them,
What little suffering, sacrificing we did,
Nothing compared to theirs,
The wars, the social unrest,
Industrialization, modernization,
The collapse of the family unit,
But they continued on gracefully.
Uncle Alfred would speak to me,
The American (Chimookman), from Detroit,
In his language or in English,
Heavily accented, I smiled and nodded,
Didn’t know what he was saying,
Didn’t even matter, just smiled,
Showing my respect, honoring the man,
The ancestors spoke through him,
Reminded us of who we are,
Grace and dignity, despite whatever,
Echoes of our ancestors in every breath.
And so we will go on, carry on,
Find a way to live our lives,
Carry on the memories of him,
Through stories and actions,
In our everyday lives, little things,
In our quietest of moments,
When we are silent and unfettered,
The spirit speaking to us, through us,
When we quiet our mouths,
Quiet our minds to whatever else.
He is not gone, we carry him inside,
They are not gone, we carry them inside,
The ancients breathing, living,
Through our breaths, our ancestors,
All around us, in our blood, in our hearts,
In our souls every single step,
Not gone, not gone, not gone,
He remains with us, they remain here,
As long as we do not give up hope,
As long as we draw in breath,
We are all islands where the spirit resides,
We are the dwelling places of the mystery.
5.04.2007
a few more pics
just a few more pics-- not so great, but. . . the biggest thing I get out of these pictures is some sense of our form. Z and I both need to bend our knees A LOT more than we do. In the pic of me going up the wall extension, my body needs to be perpendicular to the wall (it isn't even close) and I need to be compressed into the board--I should be almost crouching over the board. These pics don't do the bowl justice--it's about 10 feet or so from flat bottom to the coping at the top.
1) Z about to hit the half-roundwall
2) me going up the wall--the circular portion to the right is the flat--
3) me skating up the wall extension-thingy
4) an alright pic of me in the bowl, but Z got his finger in the way
5) me after kickturning on the wall, headed back down to the flat-- the drain is right in the middle of the flat area, the circle around it is all flat, but after that, it's all roundwall---
1) Z about to hit the half-roundwall
2) me going up the wall--the circular portion to the right is the flat--
3) me skating up the wall extension-thingy
4) an alright pic of me in the bowl, but Z got his finger in the way
5) me after kickturning on the wall, headed back down to the flat-- the drain is right in the middle of the flat area, the circle around it is all flat, but after that, it's all roundwall---
park pics
These are just some pics that Z-Man and I snapped at the skate park-- I met two old schoolers--Doug and Dave and they were pretty helpful, gave us some tips. Hopefully we'll get a chance to skate with them again and I'd like to get some more pics.
1) Dave skating the concrete half-pipe whilst Doug stands on the deck above.
2) Z-man pumping up the wall--he took his back foot off and ending bailing. He was probably paying too much attention to the fresh graffiti.
3) Dave showing how's it's really done . . .
4) A cartoon version of me skating . . .
5) Me, carving on the wall, about to hit the corner-- that line just above my knee is the flat, I'm about 3 or 4 feet up on the curved wall . . .
1) Dave skating the concrete half-pipe whilst Doug stands on the deck above.
2) Z-man pumping up the wall--he took his back foot off and ending bailing. He was probably paying too much attention to the fresh graffiti.
3) Dave showing how's it's really done . . .
4) A cartoon version of me skating . . .
5) Me, carving on the wall, about to hit the corner-- that line just above my knee is the flat, I'm about 3 or 4 feet up on the curved wall . . .
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