Found Web Photo Via Ted Barrow
That winter was for staying under robes. Except for an occasional hunting party, no one much ventured out their lodges and I spent most of my time in mine alone; carving, getting stoned, pulling myself off.
There was also much time spent around the fires—much so that that season came to be known as Winter of Many Smokes.
By Spring everyone was pretty anxious to move though, and at the first breaking of the ice we were all back on the trail again.
We set up a new camp after that—as far as possible from the old one near Fort Sedgewick. It was an alright spot—plenty of water, grass for the ponies. But then the buffalo came again too, like by the thousand and the hunting was actually pretty good, with only few getting hurt.
Also, plus late that summer many babies were born and there were many "sexy pregnant couples" as they would call them, more of those damn pot bellies around in one time than most could remember.
We tried to stay far from traveled trail, seeing no white men—which was fantastic, probably only ran across a couple of Mexican traders too, but they were okay for the most part—so in general it was nice for a while we would have so little bother under such halcyon times.
But then this human tide came, one we never could have anticipated, and it came rising from one side of the plains. They would all be upon our land soon. The good times before the end of the summer would be the last we had. Time was running, the landscape would become conquered and taken and manipulated, all dominated by all these Johnny come latelys—all these fucking white people—and we found out everything was actually up for the taking, only then for us to ultimately end up finding ourselves slowly being hunted down.
I accidentally stumbled onto some polish pornography, where there was this doppelgänger of a future version of you. And she looked just like you too—she, the actress or whatever you would call her, was looking somewhere lost in the middle of her forties, she somewhere inside some seemingly inevitable situation where she would come to be seduced by a polish boy—some polish teenager, whom I automatically got the sense never really had to suffer for you and I just remember how it all seemed so unfair, yet probable, inevitable—and that stark science of the biological act illustrated, trumped any vain narrative attempt as it would all come across like watching pedestrians in the photos of all the un bought picture frames from a furniture store—as if any cinematic quality of the video turned instead to it all seeing more like some travelogue, some crudely enticing documentation of different sex situation variations—you and that damn boy, some human map, existing as electric charges on Beta Max tape kept secured in the porno vault at Fox video in Timbergrove, their covers, empty boxes displayed on the mantles in the back room of the adult section.
The thing about being in such a small tribe is that you know immediately when your woman strays for another (but maybe this could also be anywhere) and although never welcomed by the elders, some tribes were so fragile that they would have to let such things happen, some way of reluctantly negotiating—a way of conceding , compensating something for the clan's greater overall harmony . This was the case for Wind in Hair, and it wasn't like he didn't know way ahead of time Miranda would still go to Red Cloud, he knew it before it officially happened—and it didn't take Wind in Hair seeing Miranda talking with Kelly Kicking Bird and Red Cloud off together in the distance that one first time he caught them off in the meadow, for even way before that, when it came to Miranda leaving him, he always felt some vague sense it was always kind of in the mail. It didn't matter how much faith in Miranda Wind in Hair was capable of feigning in trying to maintain the illusion of some false status quo of stability to the rest of the tribe. His stomach still told him it was done over and it still made him suffer when he saw it in Red Cloud's cocky conquest gait, Red Cloud socializing with the other men and the elders, or Red Cloud walking into council how when Wind in Hair felt gentle sympathy gazes cast upon him, though he suspected some of the tribe might really harbor petty resentment against him, were probably actually glad to see a woman like Miranda leaving him for a vastly superior warrior like Red Cloud. Though through this all Wind in Hair would still hand over his dignity, like when he still felt obliged to hide he didn't notice all this going on when everybody well knew, like a sucker and maybe it also made people in the tribe just feel too sorry for him so that it would distance Wind in Hair from them and also some would probably just learn to hate Wind in Hair for their own, under informed, petty, third party reasons.
The second time I went to Munster, my plane ticket and contest entry were the only thing Rocco actually paid for and all I bought with me was some pretty chill ass prod I could sell untaxed to use to survive in Europe off of. I had three og Slay Tracks video cassette tapes—an item which practically made Pigeon Dunks look like 26 Red Shoes, which when connected with certain European scene kids— I knew I could easily negotiate lodging, eating, expenses, pretty much whateves I wanted. So from my barely skating the demos, selling off mint factory clothes and even the used sweaty gear out my Slap ruckus sack, AND the money I saved from not competing in the finals at Munster—that summer I was able to do okay for myself. Out there alone on the circuit I was uncommitted to the usual touring clicks, as the only other employees Rocco sent out were me and this new Menace team— pretty much the New York Dolls of skateboarding by that time, too young, too much way too soon, so we didn't totally jell, and I was resolved to pretty much just hanging out by myself, doing my own thing. In Amsterdam though, I was randomly picked up by this kinda crazy, neurotic middle aged woman from Warsaw, who approached me after the Deasil/Titus demo. I ended up staying at her apartment for a few days—this one really strange apartment she apparently shared with her husband and kids, though I never asked her where they were and we mostly laid about in that master suite, and I just stared up at the domed ceiling above the ostensible haven of the bed she and her poor husband shared and I disinterestedly listened to her talk in the darkness of the twilight in that room when we were too lazy, too tranq'd in the calm of the dark to turn the lights on and she mentioned something about limited possibility in the face of what could only be the best of circumstance, and she was so lost in it all, probably run crazy by some algebra of probability, and perhaps easily wounded, and also probably just feeling sorry for herself in some unwarranted way she didn't really deserve to indulge in, but she just seemed way too affected by the situations that made up her life and I selfishly, inappropriately smoked cigarettes in their bed while she kept going on and on, as she was monologging ostensibly at me but I just probably drifted in and out of daydreaming about myself some more, me on vacation in their home wrecked bedroom, only for me to soon leave and she would have to stay and live through it all —and me daydreaming there, I even remember thinking a while about underaged Sarah (Sarah spelled with an "H", who picked me up at that Blind demo in front of Hot Rod, how she provoked me into taking her to my apartment in Santa Monica, having vastly satisfying underaged sex with her). But now here in that apartment in Amsterdam, silent in the dark while this old lady just kept talking, I kept thinking about how good I had been skating. I felt her able to sense my emotional un availability—as if she having no other choice than to concede to this (she really did have no choice), and I carelessly ashed on the carpet. So she talking in that dim of what was the beginning of the evening in the room; hypothetical promise of some future she imagined herself having, some freedom which may or may not really exist or even be likely for her and I tried not to hypothesize about what her kids were doing with her poor old husband, I kept thinking somewhere that family was trying to survive motherless, while we laid naked in the conjugal bed. And how so easy she made the sex seem to come to me, in such a way which would later deceive me into thinking it would always be this easy (it wouldn't always be). Though the only good thing or at least best part I remember was probably the moment how right when I slid right inside her, how it was so automatically apparent how we both in our minds judged ahead of time about not having to use condoms because of her menopause, neither of us mentioning anything about protection and we wordlessly began to have sex.
At night Wind in Hair dreamt but still felt little refuge, never forgot of the premonition he had had about the existence of tiny animals he previously never knew about, would never see while awake, and which would have been clearly impossible for his subconscious to accidentally invent. The concept of their existence, as if inherited through superconcious dream Internet; doomed tiny animals which hadn't existed (at least not in the plains or the range Wind in Hair knew) but they would come to exist in future settlement, as how eventually decades later, monolithic settlements would come to manifest themselves and generate these animals and then Wind in Hair's dream perspective morphed into that of the perspective of the doomed animals, and so in experiencing their plight being so traumatic, absolutely devastating, and the saddest dream he probably ever remembered—Wind in Hair was now misunderstood by the same humans who were disgusted by him, would become ruthlessly exterminated—living scared and split up from the rest of the animal family, Wind in Hair directly pre-experienced in that dream that terror and all the tragedy that went with it and previously inconceivable sadness that went with hiding out within the margins of the fortress of the immovable concrete brain of the white man's megatroplois.
So now remember, then theres Allison False Heather,
And ofcourse Blue Plumbago.
Graffiti Red Penta, then Salvia.
There's the supposed Burden the White man must have been more than glad to bestow upon themselves.
There's the Jodacee Apacolapse,
black people who voted for Romney.
All the cheap endorsement cartoons which neither the children nor the adults liked,
those who cannot really decide whether to eat at Wholefoods or Arby's.
And heres that inherent evil which lies inside all beautiful women, all that which has simply existed such, even well before the advent of recorded history.
. . . and the engines which Wind in Hair could never really comprehend, also had steam for blood and traveled as a snake which only grew longer through the untamed land.
Wind in Hair never could have predicted the invention of glass, or of Beta Max pornos, of phone sex, of the living breathing New/Next Bible, which manifested itself one hundred years after the Internet was created—a superior psychic Bible, better than the old manipulated one, this new one —some wild card Ouija board tablet which could only seem to keep God that the more accountable.
So when I come by myself , I come harder than anyone else and it feels better than sex. I come like a woman comes —feel it flowing through me like voltage, clicking through the cartilage in my nose, or my big toe clicks, a metallic taste on the tip of my tongue, and sometimes I instinctively take off my shoe so that the stream comes out through the bottom of my foot, through to the ground.
It seemed like there was a photo of Deanna in Power Edge at least every other month, weather it was a cut-out outline of her in Trash Section, or just another in what seemed like an almost endless series of shout outs to her Kill Rock Stars band in Notes, the ad with a photo of her taken from the highest vantage of a swing's arc where she was wearing a dress, her legs wide open revealing her cotton panties when she sung to the top where the picture was taken, or an article, photo feature, some reference. What was automatic and appealing about Deanna in those pages was how it was so apparent, yet rarely or probably never even actually mentally actualized by anyone who read Power Edge, was so how Deanna was always actually better than Power Edge— she literally better than the whole damn magazine. Seeing chicks in the Edge, being like seeing a solitary single girl at skatepark as sausage factory ennui of what the magazines and park scenes dictated—that amongst the bombardment of boys sweating, jumping around and about, hither and yon—any girl juxtapose magazined against this, naturally would seem more attractive than perhaps she actually is. While not exactly the case with Deanna, Deanna being in possession of such that white hot pussy and she such a specimen in and of herself, only intensified the solitary single girl at the park affect. Deanna wasn't just like another barely medium grade East Bay factory floozie that Deluxe or Highspeed or whomever it was that picked out the girls to model t-shirts for their mail order. Paradoxically enough, Deanna was still white trash—albeit an unprecedented, a completely new kind of white trash. Her white trash chic was the real thing and obviously manifested itself through her in the most organika-ish ways, years before Chloe adopted it, took the look ever further.
They used to have a joke at the Blind office, Deanna would fuck a snake if you held it down, and Deanna really did shoot junk with Danny Sargent in the TL, walked around in her panties when she was thirteen and living at her mom's boyfriend's apartment, and what about the abortion meth, the garbage bag full of clothes in the passenger seat, the cigarette burns upon ghost colored skin, the seductively greasy short hair, the casual and kinda half hearted Wiccan practice, sweaters in the summer so she would not tan and "Look Mexican", mascara stolen from the drug store that she carefully applied—avec cigarette between fingers with her mouth opened, bob'd out like the mouth of some unattainable blow up doll. Deanna was the embodiment of all those confused and casually goth kinda racist young white girls with dis functional tattoos growing up in middle America, Deanna—the face of Loraine Ohio, the first to bring this into pop consciousness, all the while being skin head Hensley's aryan wet dream. She was no total country bumpkin though, and the paradox of Deanna was she still was pretty uptown and worldly, still did procure and consume pharmaceutical grade Merc with Walter Hopps when she came down to Houston for Shut- Up- And - Skate, WAS really pretty close with Schnabel too— perhaps one of his muses and Deanna was married to Ed after all, had access by proximity to all the illumination of the think tanks of MIT,Stanford, as she being married muse (for worse or better) to Ed— Ed who's work segued to ascend down the path of strictly working with such top tier echelon.
The end between Jay and Ed probably came shortly right after Jay fucked Deanna, though. And although such happening was not a bi-product of some unspoken rivalry between Jay and Ed (along with everybody else, Jay too had reluctantly wanted Deanna) —it certainly did help create a rift, some greater divide between Jay and Ed. Another and probably a stronger contributing factor of Jay and Ed ceasing to share worlds was Ed's new career reaching such stratospheric heights— Templeton making such unprecedented revelations within the world's history of mark making practice. Though predictably Ed somehow found out about Jay and Deanna, by then something like that didn't much matter to Ed as much as it probably should have and Ed began a decade of abruptly speaking nothing to Jay, with such a general vibe of how Templeton felt remaining and somehow translating through with such a quiet intensity (this way of effective communication practice could only be seen as indicative of what Templeton metaphysically inherited by becoming a default conduit voice of the universe).
Jay still thinks about it a lot, still remembers Deanna drunk on his couch that one week night. Deanna's legs wide open just like the ad, except in reality, her crotch wasn't airbrushed and Jay could even see Deanna's slightly soiled panties between the skirt she had on.
"I think I just flashed you." said Deanna demurely, legs still wide open, as if her voice came out from somewhere from the future.
Deanna pushed Jay off of her from the dry humping on his bed, mock out raged that such a crude act could have come about (even though Jay was sure it was probably orchestrated by her) and she sat up ubruptly and coolly lit a cigarette.
"You know we're not gonna fuck, Jay." said Deanna vacantly— Deanna saying this more seeming to come more from her not actually wanting to, and little or nothing to do with her actually being a married woman. Though to Jay such a statement really almost meant less than nothing, he was still taken in by the immediacy of Deanna's tangled logic.
"I'm one sick puppy . . . one sick bitch." Deanna predictably quoting one of her own lyrics, chuckled weakly, making extra added wind noise emphasis when she blew out smoke, the pitch of her voice lower, struggled, more charismatic.
Deanna in the cigarette light made deliberate eye contact with Jay, squinting, appraising, scrutinizing almost unfairly.
Deanna stabbed the cigarette into her arm and let out a yelp as if the searing still surprised her and lit ash fell from her arm onto the sheets, and Jay sat there silently, feeling a vague familiarity—as if he had experienced this before, even though he hadn't .
Deanna regained herself and rested her head up against the wall, her face was looking up almost towards the ceiling.
"You still want to fuck me?" Deanna rubbing her arm kinda too hard for effect.
Jay still didn't say anything, in such a way a way that inadvertently confirmed he still wanted to, and of course Deanna probably was able to read this and she lit up another mint condition cigarette, took a drag, stabbed her arm again. This time Jay could kinda tell she wasn't burning herself as bad as the first strike, Deanna accidentally revealing herself in such a way that it was mostly for show.
"Now DO you still want to fuck me?", Deanna slid back with her chin tilted in the air again, her voice sounding raspy in all it's white trash splendor, as if she was rehearsing for what would only become a deleted scene in a Larry Clark movie which would never even appear in the DVD extras bonus section.
But Jay still said nothing, less impressed than he was before, wondering how far Deanna would really try to take it all.
Deanna took the crushed cigarette out of the ashtray and lamely made like she was going to stab herself with what was now barely lit garbage.
"Ok, Deanna I get it. Okay? Stop . . .", Jay annoyed, as if responding to something he was all too unremarkably familiar with.
What so was disappointing to Jay was when he was able to finally squeeze himself through, from the series of tiny, delicate pushes, finally slid into Deanna—Deanna's pussy took immediate ruthless control over Jay, Jay couldn't keep his cum composure and after no more than four pushes, Jay frantically came inside Deanna condomless, but instead of being serenely satisfied, he was now drenched in panic, now trying to stop himself from nervously shaking on top of her and it was all too much, such a mega disappointment, even more so, because now Jay actually felt himself in such dangerous proximity to imminent doom, nothing like any of the times he had imagined fucking the Ice Queen.
I'm like an epileptic latched to a carousel, some aberration, at which some point I got derailed, off on the wrong exit ramp.
And whatever it is I have, I inherited such the temperament where defeat from my environment would not only be predictable, but eminent.
And if I had the courage to change, I wouldn't even know where to begin and if I could stop drinking, you know I probably would.
It's just that the whole time I've been so sensitive to other's thoughts and gazes, the energy presence that came with them and I don't think that ever did me one lick of good. For instance, if someone ever did wrong by me and I was forced to retaliate, defend myself while still having to suffer from their original wrong, I would still kinda always feel bad about it all—even guilty for defending myself and by that point I would pretty much just feel like calling it all even and could forgive them too easily and forget about it all, so that such a gesture could perhaps be the foundation for a strong future friendship. I can't remember this actually working for me, but what can you do? By showing mercy on those so intent on causing harm, the only world we had viewed it all as some weakness and would make sure one could perish from this, as the corrupt would be rewarded for their diminishing ways.
If I had killed white men notches carved on my saddle, my tribe would have had more faith in me. The probability of Miranda still being with me would also probably been about better, but as one should have it, my natural temperament would lead me to never being invited to the killing parties.
There's still something to say about Gino . . .
but it isn't found contemplating why he was the only World kid to have that #lineinTwentyShot in #" cold (especially in the Summer ) ass SF", —shirtless (after filming that line at the top wearing the white Menace T). Yeah, Gino's gay and all but you couldn't come to that conclusion simply from that one stray observation, and if you honestly still think you could from that, well then, you probably just don't know Gino, really.
I don't know . . . like I said before, Gino was the ultimate clothes horse, though - I won't deny that- I mean after all he did once break into a skatepark just for some H-Street pants, like way after the fact when H-Street was already done Plan -b.
But if you want to #sktlikeGino, you got to learn to#joglikeGino and if you need further explanation about that one—then perhaps it's just not quiet meant. Oh, also if you want to #sktlikeGino, you also better get used to doing everything at an uncomfortable amount of speed, which is most of the time not so fun.
And of course If you want to #sktlikeGino, you need to learn how to #pushlikeGino, #chilllikeGino,—#
getlaceduplikeGino, #techfloss, but then again this same kid DID once #shedtearsatWorldPark, but then that's another story all together.
I remember Miranda said she came harder that such way.
We were all doing our best even when we were doing our worst. Miranda really did move into Red Cloud's overly adorned tepee. Miranda really did leave me, would become very pregnant by the end of that summer. And although Miranda really may or may not have felt bad about it all— perhaps even if she had secretly felt whatever pity for me she was still capable of (she wasn't capable of much), it surely wasn't enough to override any pleasure she may have received when she would allow Red Cloud to have her: that thing I know she would bring up with him, initiate on her own volition, like she once did with me.
But what I still don't get was how after Miranda went with Red Cloud, how so unjustifiably cold she now was towards me— as if something inside her mind edited out all that we once were, had or anything good that ever happened between us. And in doing so, the lobotomy she gave herself must have had it's averse effects —loss of any kind of compassion towards me, empathy, sensitivity, soul. Perhaps maybe Miranda was just some fucking super mega bitch or maybe it was a little bit both— or maybe there was only so much she was really capable of and never acquired character because of how men (including me) catered to her, but whatever it was—I was still evicted despite how much I considered myself a gentleman, though after I found the jugs with brown water, that would quickly deteriorate.
But right now alone I'm in my yurt, and it's night and its cold right, and I'm staring at this kinda wack drawing I scribed on the inside part of the entrance flap and it only reminds me—confirms all my life's failures and I'm whittling on this overworked bone carving, which seems to be getting worse with each shaving from the knife—the knife which I had taken off the body of that dead union soldier I found in the clearing that one afternoon, the knife also like the engine water I would keep hidden from the rest.
So I stepped outside and walked around the hutch and I could smell the smoke of Lantana coming off of Red Cloud and Miranda's yurt and I naively though that maybe if I could bum some off them, get good and high, I could fix whatever it was that was wrong with the drawing on the flap in the tepee or somehow fix—correct the one buffalo bone sculpture I had been messing with ( if correcting it was even possible by this point).
Banging on their flat I immediately get the feeling I was overstepping some invisible boundary which could naturally only be the product of my bounds originally being overstepped. So now anyways, I honestly thought out of some decency at the very least they could bum me enough Lantana for just a few hits tonight while I'm alone in my room. But then that look on Miranda's face, the fake overly sympathetic tone she gave me which sounded sincere yet seemed somehow feigned but was kinda believable because Miranda was probably emoting off some other unrelated file in her head and conveniently focused it my way in evoking some sort of sympathy. And then fucking Red Cloud, all lying down inside, bare chested and how Miranda turned around futily asking him if they had any more Lantana left, like a little to kick down to me (a question it would seem she would not have to ask because that would seem like knowledge she would most likely be in possession of) and then how Red was fucking stalling out his answer a bit too long, as to draw out the awkwardness, reveling in his many advantages he had over me and Mirana looked at me consolingly which seemed to be out of pity, like the same way how Jenny would say farewell to Forrest when she would rather hang with hippy hip hipsters from DC than him— kinda like how Jenny never was attracted to Forrest—like how Jenny simultaneously felt sorry for/bad about Forrest .
Without handing me any Lantana, Miranda gave me an insignificant look which was immediately offensive, closed the flap, turned around, invisibly went to Red Cloud inside the other side.
I would get scared whenever Miranda used to wear her "fuck me dress".
There were moments when the corridors of Miranda's mind exposed themselves as if originally concealed by a moon roof on her forehead. She never minded much about lyrics which didn't rhyme, and I can still imagine the sound of her voice in the next room— also miss the perspective that came along with her gaze (despite it run by the same logic that also wanted Red Cloud).
I don't miss Miranda's bullying, though, surely don't miss that insatiable need which sometimes seemed to lay dormant inside her, but would always eventually come back, which when it would, it seemed so set on making me it's first casualty.
I don't remember how many white men Red Cloud Killed, but I know it was more than me— which isn't saying much because my body count is still below one. Me—only having one real opportunity once to kill one, which was ultimately all botched—a story I don't even want to get into right now. But what sucks though too, besides being all a superior warrior, a master killer—Red Cloud was also pretty talented at arts and crafts— like, he actually made a lot of jewelry (which Miranda proudly, audaciously wore even before our split). And afterMiranda left me it seemed so, that anyone wearing one of Red Cloud's pieces wore it in such a passive way of expressing their solidarity with fucking Red Cloud. I mean, I hate to say it, but Red Cloud did have some niece pieces—but you know whatever, I still hate that guy. Yeah, but anyways he was also good at: branding, tats, boulder drawings, bone carvings, playing the toms, singing, telling stories. Did I mention he mastered the subtle art of wife stealing? Yeah, he had that one down pat too. Like, I still remember when Red Cloud fixed Miranda's heirloom saddle, which broke that one day out riding. So Miranda's saddle broke and like the only material we had to re-stitch the hide back into the groove, was a real long strand of buffalo tallow. Miranda of course made a big production of it all, as if the rest of the tribe actually cared about it as much as she did and I was also trying to make myself handy,trying to cut the tallow, but it just wouldn't break and my dull arrow head would just not cut through it, but then Red Cloud all waltzes up to the commons we were at, eventually takes the tallow from Miranda's hand, goes into his tent and then comes back out with it all shortened. And even still to this day no one really could ever figure out how Red Cloud cut that damn tallow! (I think he either had a knife he kept hidden and secret ((no one in the tribe owned an actual real metallurgy knife)) or I think perhaps Red Cloud must have chomped through it with his big o'l teeth and he didn't want to look like an idiot in front of us, so he chomped on it behind the veil of his tent).
And you know Red Cloud moss deff though he was probably cooler than me, and perhaps maybe he was—Red Cloud even kinda looked like AVE, though the tip of his nose was kinda snubbed up a little, giving him a slight piggish face, though obviously Miranda surely didn't seem to care. But despite having a high body count, or despite how good he was at arts and crafts— I never have said it out loud, but I always knew there was only really so far down the path Red Cloud was capable of seeing.
"Your problem is you're too sensitive."
"Yeah, well I've kinda been holding back for sometime, way before your late in the game observation."
"No, I know you, how you CAN be—You know you're worse than a woman,"
"Miranda and Red Cloud—what you expect."
"I mean look ,all I know is—I mean, your parents. . . they seem real worried about you, your mom for Christsakes—your mom, she said the other day you seem an altogether different person."
"I AM a different person. How could I remain the same through this."
"I think you're mostly feeling sorry for yourself . . . thats what I think. Something in you kinda sorta really craves all this . . . You know you're real bitter, man."
"I feel how I feel. How else AM I supposed to be? Miranda, Red Cloud, even after all me and her had gone through , and on top of that now you're coming at me pissed by my reaction? It's absurd—all for the sake of how you in your limited understanding of the whole situation, thinks how I should act, should feel."
" Now you're not even making sense. Can you even hear yourself? Why don't you just move on, FIND someone new."
"There is no new, Achak. All the women in this poor, sad tribe are ALL accounted for anyways, What SHOULD I do? Pair up with, Broken Tooth?"
" I don't know, all I'm saying is you're one mixed up dude, dude."
"I'm in no way refuting such an accusation, Kicking Horse."
"Well, maybe you should be. Maybe thats the problem. You know Wind in Hair, maybe you really are hopeless —I don't even know why I bother trying to talking to you sometimes. . ."
We found an abandoned, broken stagecoach crashed sideways on the side of the recently worn path, that day the scouting crew went out to check near the forty, to study to see if that trail had been used recently. Our camp was way far off the fray, but Yeoman was still concerned with settlers. He reasoned they too could spread out into the same seemigly vast seclusion of temporary refuge our tribe had stumbled onto, and then inevitable conflict would come.
There were the dead bodies, I tried not to pay attention to and the robbers had already pillaged anything worth taking, but the only thing left were four jugs of tainted brown water, which smelt kinda like a condensed railroad engine or something else I could never describe. I wanted to take the jugs, perhaps to have to decorate on when I was bored alone in my yurt, but something told me not to empty out the tainted water. The others made cracks, those ignorant scouts more than ready to criticize again something they knew nothing about, regardless even that the extra weight wasn't much more of a strain on my horse. But something told me there was a reason the slaughtered travelers kept the tainted water—they never would have gone to the trouble of transporting the weight on the far trail, and so the contents of those jugs were again something the stage coach pillaging Indians were not hip to.
When I returned to camp, I put the jugs safely inside my tent and didn't think about them for a couple of days.
A couple of nights later I was bored and thought about the jugs again. Now they seemed to be staring back at me, begging for their own attention, like some ammunition which never rests. I took off this super light material bark barrier, which kept that tainted water safe and secure inside and reasoned there must be a good reason for which some more obstensibly civilized person were to go trough the trouble to do such. Then I though, maybe it's not stagecoach grease or mudd unclogger, maybe it was for human consumption somehow . Maybe it was some sort of medicine or poison, poison which white men carried to kill off the tribes, kill off all the locs. I was just being really bored and stupid, filled with dangerous apathy, there in my yurt and out of nowhere just took a sip, not even thinking about it. Once the water hit my mouth, everything I consisted of was repelled by it, but I still made my selfgulp it down after I held it in my mouth in panicked contemplation—which made the gulp that much more unbearable. Just thinking about the gulp some more, rehashing the taste by what I could still smell in my mouth, made me almost cough up what was inside me. I laid down on the ground, wondering if I was in trouble— I might as well just keep lying down. Desperately hoping it would all pass, I started staring at the opposite side of the inside of the yurt. I felt like I existed close up to where my gaze rested upon, even though it was farther away, while also getting the unsteady physical disconnect sensation that my body was actually far off on the opposite side. Once I realized what I was thinking, I automatically sat up and suddenly felt myself accelerating, relaxed and literally for a second I questioned if I was dead, because I felt relief and was in such a dream like state. After stupidly realizing I wasn't dead, I gulped more from the jug.
So anyways, every night for the next month or so, I pretty much just stayed posted in the yurt alone, and you know I was sippin on that engine water on the DLthe whole damn time. I really did seem to be keeping myself in such good company under this spell I had instantly become accustomed to, just all lying around charmed and entertained enough to keep fussing around with this kinda wack bone carving I had been working on—a lame art project that probably should have been abandoned all together. But after those first few swallows I so would fall into such a generally delightful mood, the inside of me usually filled with unquenched desire, seemed to kinda all together vanish and was replaced by warmth in my stomach (along with an incessant need to keep having sips). The engine's water seeming to allow me to enjoy, live more fully in the moment and under such this spell, I actually was able to allow myself to feel optimistic for some kind of future (despite me knowing full well the only thing the future held for me were few options - ((my fool's paradise))). But I could still feel quaintly sentimental about the past, and for short bouts could regard life as not being so bad, could find new things to feel poetic about, even had moments where my animosity and resentment towards Miranda and Red Cloud seemed to momentarily dissipate (even though it was all really right beneath, ready to re surface if I got drunker or sobered up). But while I was in this this condition of naïveté , I know I even probably mentally wished them well a few times, all this despite the fact Miranda and Red Cloud probably couldn't give less of a shit about me.
This went on for the later part of the summer, and my attitude on the engine water sometimes began to waver. I mean if you think about it, first off now everyday when I woke up, I was sick, felt the opposite as I did the night before—what seemed poison at first and then such a sweet elixir now again felt like poison inside me and my thoughts were filled with apocalyptic dread, they so desperate for mercy, consumed in some urgency that all my thoughts and actions were focused on denying— that which they so focused on correcting as if creating some ineffective band aid resolve of denial, which only really seemed to be really resolved only once when I started taking sips again.
Sometimes I feel so under the spell such, I sometimes didn't remember going to sleep at all. And one night when I didn't remember passing out, days later it came back to me and I actually remember in the end crying real hard alone in the yurt; like this hard realization crying, where my chest and throat hiccuped and shuddered against the friction of my thoughts which were trying to reorder themselves back in my head—always such the truly strange process. But some of the thoughts would have to be clipped, others discarded altogether, to allow the rest of them to be able to somehow coexist again.
Then a new though came to me late one night. An idea which could allow everything to make sense together again. The sensation of the engine water was making my vision in the yurt hum, but my thoughts were flowing fast like some river inside me. It was simple, but drastic, there was nothing to lose because I had nothing to lose (or so I thought) and if I failed at such a task, at least I would know, be rest assured that I at least had the nerve to try—a nerve which could restore dignity lost caused from Miranda and Red Cloud. If I killed Red Cloud, if I kill Red Cloud— perhaps Miranda would have no choice, but to come back to me—well that was actually far fetched, because it seemed like now she totally hated my guts, so much she would actually prefer to go with someone else (also by now her family let it be known they hated me after the split, which was really so surprise to me)—anyone else in the tribe but poor, lost, confused, disgusting, Wind in Hair. On the other hand, maybe if I do man up—kill Red Cloud it would prove a point to everyone in the tribe, the tribe could have no other choice but to concede with Red Cloud being gone—replaced by me as his killer. If anything, at least Red Cloud would be dead. And at least I did what I felt was best for me, despite what I would be forced to sacrifice (which by now I felt wasn't much), if this disturbance didn't cause the pragmatic ambivalence I would hope for (like with how the tribe dealt with my wife getting taken) . And one must remember, after all : ALL'S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR.
I only had half a jug left, which just thinking about thinking about this ,shot flashes of dread through me, so it was then that I had decided I would kill Red Cloud before it was all gone, all done sipped. If I killed Red Cloud, then I would be happy and so preoccupied with success that I could persist, go forward without the comfort of the engine water. And if Sun forbid, I died under the hands of Red Cloud, well at least I went out Drunk, not having to face being undrunk ever again.
I though of this the more and sipped —the bone carving now became a shank, shaped by my drunken accelerated thoughts, which now so seemed to cater to the lowest common denominator within the throng of my head. I would walk to Miranda and Red Cloud's tent tonight, get myself in front of Red Cloud off guard, rush in and stab him in the throat with the bone, all in front of Miranda. I have no doubt that Red Cloud was so privy to surprise attacks in attaining his own kill number, that which gave him the status which allowed him to take away my love, so I knew I couldn't allow myself to feel too bad about it.
I took one last hard pull for courage, walking towards the tent stumbling with a point of perspective where the tumbling disturbed any continuity of a stable view of the horizon line and my pov was more wobbly than ever. But, when I got to their yurt, it was immediately too quiet and then I was then distracted by sounds of struggling in the inside. Taken back, and then realizing they were French wrestling inside the yurt, seemingly sobered me up enough to start to automatically chicken out, and all of a sudden the acute depression I was now drenched in, made my conviction seem to be all left back inside my yurt and I panicked, backed up, tripped on the pitchfork, holding their yurt up, I fell on my back, unable to get up. Red Cloud came out, but I didn't see Miranda and he looked at me on my back on the ground staring at him paralyzed, terror in my eyes, still with the shank in hand, a desperate mess of failure. I don't remember what happened to the shank, but I do remember Red Cloud picking me up, carrying me to my yurt with the help of his boy, Crow's Feather.
i- Phone Alcoholism Screening Quiz, with extended answers.
1) Do you lose time from work to to drinking?
I HAVE in the past, due to not setting my alarm, but for the most part I can get to work hungover.
2) Is drinking making your home life unhappy?
I got kicked out of my last apartment by my two female roommates for being drunk and raging, full late night Maudlin—
3) Do you drink because you are shy with other people?
I have in the past, but mainly I drink because I'm bored with people.
4) Is drinking affecting your reputation?
Oh, hell yes.
5)Have you ever felt remorse after drinking?
Remorse, dread, guilt, hopelessness, depression.
6) Have you had financial difficulties as a result of drinking?
Probably— I can't really say though , but I do spend more money than I want on alcohol.
7) Do you turn to inferior companions and environments when drinking?
Everything, not just drinking, seems to lead to inferior companions and environments, but aside from that, yes.
8) Does your drinking make you care less for your family's welfare?
My family cares about my wellness and wants the best for me, if I hurt myself, it also hurts them.
9) Has your ambition decreased since drinking?
No, but sometimes I do less when crippled by hangover.
10) Do you crave a drink at a definite time daily?
After work I feel like drinking, but not everyday. Saturday nights and Friday nights too. Thursday afternoon as well. Sunday evening/night.
11) Do you want a drink the next morning?
No, but I do crave a bong hit and coffee in the morning.
12) Does drinking cause you to have difficulty in sleeping?
13)Has your efficiency decreased since drinking?
I work better when not hungover, if that's what you're getting at. No Dustin Dollin am I.
14) Is drinking jeopardizing your job or career?
There's no real career left to jeopardize. Ams who skated grotesquely good jeopardized my career. How about that? Artists who won all the grant money jeopardized my career. Saying the wrong thing, not reacting quite the right way, making tactical errors perhaps affected how I made money. Basically me being myself, who I am so far, has led to little success. I could quit drinking, but it's not going to fix whatever the ultimate problem is. I could work the 12 steps of AA rigorously and the same people in the scene will still hate me for their own reasons. Perhaps drinking is the function of a career I want to have, but I feel like I've done enough research—though slowing down, I know I'm not fully done with partying.
15) Do you drink to escape from worries or trouble?
I fantasize about starting a wheel company called Fool's Paradise.
16) Do you drink alone?
Yes, but I'm a loner— so the nature of what that question is trying to prove isn't so effective.
17) Have you ever had loss of memory as a result of drinking?
All the time: conversations, meeting people, black outs.
18) Has a physician ever treated you for drinking?
I was sober a year as a teenager and my mom who still wasn't happy with my behavior (because my mother is never happy) forced me to see a physician, because she thought I was depressed, even though I really wasn't any more depressed than the next dour teenager and the first thing this physican does is put me on two types of drugs and forces me to go to day treatment at West Oaks Hospital. So I take medical leave from my high school, am in group counseling with kids who are suicidal and coming off serious drugs and when I share, I'm like "I've been sober over a year." From being high from the prescription drugs—that made me take my sobriety less seriously though, made all my sobriety effort seem kinda futile (seeing they wanted me on the drugs they wanted me on). Shortly after I graduated high school I started smoking weed again.
19) Do you drink to build up your self confidence?
In the past, yeah, but not so much anymore. I've changed and have enough confidence in myself, enough esteem. Yeah, I may still get into awkward social situations, but who doesn't ?—dealing with people is hard and is life and is endless.
20) Have you ever been in a hospital or institution as a result of drinking?
I've been in an institution because my mom is fanatical and is to twelve step programs what born agains are to Christianity. People in dealing with their own instability—sometimes must also adopt it onto anyone who will or will not listen, in order to come to terms with such. That's how my mom coped. Thats how my mother copes. But also I was using drugs at one time living with them as a teenager, so I am ultimately part to blame, for starting that mess.
You answered 18 items out of 20 Yes.
Your score is 80%. According to the Office of Health Care Programs, Johns Hopkins University Hospital, developers of this screening quiz, if you answered as few as 3 of these questions with a Yes it is a definite sign that your drinking patterns are harmful and considered alcohol dependent or alcoholic. Since you answered more than half of these questions "Yes" you should definitely seek an evaluation by a healthcare professional as soon as possible.
Old Yeoman just sat there languidly inside the hutch, barely smoking out his pipe—Wind in Hair could tell he did this because he probably needed to do something to distract himself enough to carry through to the serious plane of explanation. Little puffs he let out, dramatically frozen still, in the air between the beams of the morning light and Wind in Hair re- noticed that crease on his brow— the worrying crease caused from carrying practically the whole damn tribe on his back like his own new born child now for God knows how long, and old Yeoman just keeps trying to explain the tribe's obvious predicament to Wind in Hair again—carefully, in such a way he was delicately using the simplest of terms, but really he only just kinda seemed to be reiterating the obvious and Wind in Hair found himself with nothing more, resigning himself to the wide and sorrowful plight which he found himself, and just for some nanosecond he thought in a blink about all that in the world which went against the cumulative sum of the all the efforts exerted from his life's best intentions.
The just of what Yeoman was saying: Yeo had to concede to letting Red Cloud take Wind in Hair's wife because: A) Red was such a invaluable warrior to the tribe, a Lieutenant while Wind in Hair was never invited to the killing parties—and only of use as a scout, buffalo dresser B) Red Cloud's remarkable penchant for killing white men— with such a steady mind, where as of now,Wind in Hair had yet to have scored any kills (kills being the cardinal virtue of value within the tribe, for obvious reasons) C) the tribe was in such upheaval from the more frequent moving, the elders wanted to deal with as little complication as possible, as anything unnecessary, such as any consideration for Wind in Hair's broken heart—would not be enough to warrant expounding any energy—energy which instead, probably could have been used for much more pressing, practical matters.
"We're very concerned for you, Wind in Hair. Something's not right, but I can't put my finger on it— Is there anything you want to tell me?"
No response from Wind in Hair.
"Listen. For now, we are going to take a little break. I, we all think its a good Idea for you to take things very slow for the time being."
No response from Wind in Hair.
"Look, I want— listen I think for the time being, you are going to stay close to me. Only for a while, until I see, until you can well, adjust yourself to everything going on."
No response from Wind in Hair.
"Are you listening to me, son. Your mother, your father, what do you think they would say. You're only causing them, Wind in Hair, causing them more grief through these difficult times! You need to let me ASSIST you, help you."
No response from Wind in Hair.
"I have no idea as to what you've been doing in your yurt . . ."
" We all know with heart break comes a sort of humiliation, but you need to get through this. It can only make you stronger."
No response from Wind in Hair.
"You need to realize what people in the tribe are saying, Red Cloud , some say, think your mind is infected by devils. You need to very well understand this. You . . . need to let me help you, Wind in Hair . . . that is, if you want to remain."
No response from Wind in Hair.
"Do you even get what I'm saying. You're disgracing yourself and your family, the tribe. Say something. What do you have to say about this . . ."
"I tried to kill Red Cloud."
And so here I am now alone, away from the mind of the tribe's eye— disregarded, an un acknowledged Lithop.
I'm a failed alcoholic cuckholder. A failed lover, a joker, a Lantana engine water addict. They once tried to nick name me Dragging Canoe, though it didn't really stick. And so here still in this forrest I suffer inside death lock . And the cumulative sum of all the combined false confidence I had ever felt from every time I had ever gotten drunk, could never come so close as to rescuing me from such fate.
And the hills are alive with my celibate cries as here I lie benieth the sky lit dead, whiskey bent and hell bound, a sinner at the hands of an angry God as the other settlers are still allowed to build their mordant shotgun villes which lie inside the mud sodden streets and they're all just terrible people, bad citizens, even worse than that of my tribe, just like an interview video clip of someone you hated, one you were over the moment you saw it.
So here I am off alone, lost, fucked beyond understanding. And I look out at the vast expanse of land before me, and the rolling valley now seems ever more so barren, but I still hope after this winter in the spring maybe after some dusting of rain, it would be bright again with cactus blossoms, yellow creosote— as thousands of grains of good human corn will come falling on barren stony ground, that such a very small drop of water should be so intoxicating.
And the howling Winchester's echo while I'm asleep and in the morning wakes me, tells me to get up and leave immediately as I'm in such close proximity to danger. I can hear the killing of the buffalo for practice or out of boredom, or out some unnecessary excersize of boredom.
(One night off alone, away from the tribe I smoked Salvia and got way too high. I jumped out of my body, into the fold of the cosmos and hallucinated some version of what I later was convinced was another endless variation of the devil and now I was in some village way off in the dessert, off probably somewhere far on some other un-tamed land. Everyone there was freaking out, I MEAN FREAKING THE FUCK OUT because they knew he was coming. He so ominous in the dream even before his arrival, suddenly appeared, looked like a Native, like one of us, but he was even darker, coarse hair, "Middle Eastern" as they said, and right when he arrived, right away he willfully commanded physical pain onto all of us from the mere will of his own thoughts and we were all paralyzed on the ground immediately and desperately so wanting it over, begging in our thoughts— because we couldn't speak, couldn't even verbally beg for a mercy that was all too apparent he did not have inside himself and I could see this right as he intensified the degree of the torture further.)
The small tribe is whittling down as the wind blows red. They, trudging West somewhere, where the sea is gold—though this we've just heard—we've never really seen it.
The Sioux purple bleeds into the rain and the tribe is also slowly being hunted—my mother, and father being hunted along with Miranda, Red Cloud, Kicking Bird— old Achak,Yeoman, with the whole poor damn rest of them. So they without me must push forward as I reside now as a fresh memory inside them all and I yearn my mom and dad don't waste energy mourning me.
I've always known that when you get shot by a gun, the metal burns through your body— I dreamt that as a kid and again there was no way my small mind could have ever predicted that.
And so I hope they can still remain when my breath no longer continues to contribute so slightly to the measure of the wind like it once did,
as they march the trail of tears, for the hope there will be no more tears.
Absent the weight of my footsteps will be from denting the dirt on the earth. And the shiver of the realization of self inflicted abandonment rolls through me. All my mother, all my father's grief must make them also shake sideways, as they must push forward without me, they too are the hunted and I still hope they can forget me, not stay too mad, forgive me for my self inflicted estrangement.
Friends cannot gather on my behalf in ceremony because they will not know exactly when I'm dead. And so shall my final gaze be, back against the ground, staring up through the vast web of leafless tree tops and then I'm rising and accelerating through the infinite void of sky which feels worse than a roller coaster, an unprecedented level of homesick I feel, and I reject assention, stay roaming the earth as a shadow, so I can still see, watch over the old tribe. The blood inside my dead body gently touches the earth. The last picture in my mind,the final view of falling behind.