♡ Get my god damn drivers license.
♡ Get my god damn drivers license.
It’s not everyday that something extraordinary happens like a flash, so quick you almost don’t believe it. It’s not even in every life time that you can strike gold, but my gold mines are starting to tally and i’m worried i’m running out whatever the hell luck i’m living on — because i keep living these dreams i never thought could be possible. And i am beholden…. shy of bound, to whatever man makes the god damn rules in this place.
In an afternoon, i was moved. I was changed in some profound and sagacious way that i can’t quite put my finger on what the fuck happened to me in those moments.
My mind a little deeper and much richer than it was last week.
I wanted to write this post the other night but my website is as temperamental as a she-bear. Therefore, tonight is the night now that i have a moment that is all mine. After all — they say that words mean more at night and will send you dreaming.
A few weeks ago an event popped into a feed and a plan was made. Simple as that. No great sign or path.
I’d tried to talk myself out of going just because it was effort and i don’t like interacting with people, but this was a bucket list item — something i’d only dreamed of since i was still young enough to believe in happy endings. And Jack, the golden boy that is — wouldn’t let me back out.
The event was a meet/greet/book signing with Crazy Horse’ Elder, and the author of the families book — Bill Matson. I’ve never attended anything of this kind before, i always thought it was somewhat awkward and not my scene. I figured it was mostly just something that was done in movies or for weird die hard fans like…twilight geeks etc.
Having said that — i was wrong.
I reckon i was just waiting for the right time and it found me, in the dying summer of New England 2019. What are the odds.
I’ve always been very aware that indigenous people in films, books, media and history were “whitewashed” and “europeanised.” Which is a damn shame and unnecessary.
Rarely have they been given the chance to openly portray their truth or even speak it. And that was why i desperately wanted to hear the sore and exposed truth of their culture. Thats what he gave to me, the difference between truth and assumptions. A lot of what is thought to be fact — is an assumption about the Red Nation and many other parts of life. It was beautiful and meaningful to hear it from him — his truths, his stories, all about his blood-tree … rather than from a book that has rolled through editors where stories were changed and translations crapped over like yesterdays newspaper.
So i’m very very excited to read the book of their family.
I’m excited to read Matson’s words and learn more about the true Crazy Horse and their lives since.
The meeting was raw. It was strong. Nerve wracking. But utterly and finally, it was magnificent. Even though the audience members made me kinda embarrassed to be white due to their weird inane questions and stereotypical thought processes. They asked about finding “medicine men on facebook,” were surprised “Indians were so nice” and i could honestly go on. But i choose to remember the experience in a way Bearheart taught me to. Find the positive and learn the lesson.
I realise i haven’t talked about it in too much depth but i fear it would ruin my experience for me, just like pulling your camera out in a beautiful moment and living through the lens instead of being truly present.
So this is all i’ve leave you with.
Speak truth, don’t assume and tell the story how it happened without modern embellishments (fiction writers excluded).
It was just another slow Sunday today but laced in a cool breeze, giving us a much needed break from the humidity. Thank goodness. I don’t have a lot i want to write about, but i felt like writing a short post about a regular day for me — because i don’t usually do that. So — here’s to trying something new ! Currently i’m doing a knitting trade with a good friend of mine. I’m knitting her a sweater with cotton yarn and in exchange i get one or two of her beautiful scarves. I’ve never done anything like this before so i’m pretty excited about the process. (I also get to write a letter and send it snail mail style — which is something i really love to do) Old style mail is like poetry these days. I don’t often use patterns, if at all. I make it all up as i go and see how it turns out. I never make the same thing twice — even if i’m trying to knit a pair of socks, fucking bastard socks. I get heated just thinking about having to knit two of something it SUCKS.
My day pretty much consisted of your regular dreading of Monday morning, eating bacon, jerky and hyping myself up for a new big challenge. As most of you can probably tell i suffer from a pretty crippling mindset of self hatred and body dysmorphia — lace all that bullhickey in with deadening depression and you have the wonderfully witty genius you see before you. The funniest kid any side of the Mississipi. Artists and comedians suffer greatly for their craft; and fuck i’ve suffered like a son of a bitch. That’s right folks, not even i am at all perfect as social media might portray. I am in fact flawed like an old piss sodden boot with a hole in the toe, and i wouldn’t change much about it. Perfection is terribly over rated.
Anyway, my point is that i’m working on changing my cognitive thinking. Don’t get me wrong, i love a bit of depression here and there because its how i write the way i do.
I can write some beautifully haunting scenarios like no other, terrible stories and cruel characters, that though they may not be entirely good — they’ll be remembered; but its time for me to change a little too. I’m smart enough to realise that. Because if you’re not working on yourself, where are you going and how can you grow? Also, i can’t expect my characters to change — if i don’t.
I’ve been working out on a consistent basis for over a year now and attempting (and failing), to change my eating habits. DING DING. But thats the next goal. To stop eating what i know fuels my depression like fuel on a fire pit. And its only a habit that needs breaking, because i don’t enjoy when i eat those foods — but i do it out of the comforting habit drowning in sugar like babies suckling tit milk.
Today isn’t really the first day of me working on this, by no means but today is yet another day where i’ll start the intermittent fasting and try a new method of thinking of food by not canceling out everything i love, but changing how much and when i have it. Good luck to me, after all… if you don’t like something change it.
Fear not! My blog is not becoming a fitness blog full of air filled muscles, booty photos and starved selfies. No ma’am. But fitness has become a bigger part of my life this year and i’m loving it because i can physically and mentally feel the changes. If i’m sad about something, i’ll take a run, a walk or get under the weights. Recently i’ve been pretty low because i’ve been homesick after watching particular television shows, another terrible trigger that can send me in to a cave macabre thoughts for weeks. Homesickness is a cruelty i would only wish on about 30 people that i believe deserve to feel something other than falsely placed superiority.
And thats all my Sunday consisted of. Settling things in my mind and figuring out the next step. Here’s to new horizons, opportunities and futures looming. Tell me about your Sunday and something you’d like to change.
Happy Sunday Night and have a grand following week.
Also — if you’re interested in the knitting my friend does here is a link to her facebook page here.
I’m the kind of person who is kept up at night with a mind running 120 miles an hour.
“Oh woe is me how i regret this!”
Damn it, i wish i could sleep.
“Why did i say that?”
“Why couldn’t i have been different?”
“Also — why is the sky blue?”
Son of a b—- ! Let me sleep. For the love of christ. Let me sleep.
But alas. I’m up and i’m thinking, rarely anything good.
I need to let go. I need to breathe and realise that i am allowed to make mistakes.
My poor heart of guilt and self judgement needs to rest. Something only i can fix. I didn’t walk out of the womb in a flourish of perfection like an 80’s star walking away from an explosion. I came out kicking, screaming and covered in placenta — and while i wont say im going out the same way, i know i’m not going out of this world in a suit and tie.
That’s why today i’m telling you about a boy i knew called Standing Horse.
Recently an old memory has crept into my brain and i’ve been thinking about it a lot.
A small thing to anyone else but it sits in my minds eye like its trying to tell me something. What am i missing? Obviously something is missing. Its been bothering me and i don’t entirely know how to form the story in my head, so this blog post might be a little all over the place. As some of you know I’ve worked at a lot of farms/barns/horse ranches whatever you want to call them in my life. And one day, a new horse came to a farm where i was working. There was something special about this horse and i took to him immediately. He was young, but big and had a permanently concerned look on his face. The time came around when I had to clean his stall. So in i go with a wheel burrow and a shit picker. When a door is open nature tells you, almost urges you, to go and see whats on the other side and especially with animals this instinct is strong. And so this sweet boy was curious and peers out over the wheel burrow and down the long line of stalls, hay bales and horse faces appearing from their doors. He was very meek tempered. I always enjoyed doing his stall the most because he did his business in one place and though it weighed a tonne, it was a quick clean and he was super fluffy. But he was in my way. So i asked to him back up. He look at me, but didn’t move. I said it a little stronger and waited for him to move, but again. Nothing. I started feeling like a bit of an idiot. Why wasn’t what i was doing working? I’ve never had an issue with getting a horse to back up in my life, so what the hell? But yet, here i was with this guy who would not back up and move away. Standing Horse stood there and looked me right in the eye. And i looked right back at him.
I could see his eyes resting on me — there was so much going on in his mind.
That i knew.