Akayo'kaki A'pawaawahkaa: Hawkling Flight

11 August 2009

Hawkling Flight

IIII ) llllllllllllllllll Hawkling Flight (11Aug09)

1912 Sspopiikimi - glad to have made it out here while the sun's still above the coulee rim. It's gonna be tough to miss out on the happenings here while I go on that back-country expedition, so better make the best of it tonight

1919 Got a look at the northern coot family on the way in, and those parents still have all six surviving chicks with them

1920 Lots of feeding going on out at the swainson hawk nest. Those soon-to-fledge babies are pretty demanding. We just watched both parents bring fists full of food to the nest, one after the other. One of the hawklings had been sitting high up on a branch above calling to them, and it flew down - using its wings nicely - when dinner arrived

1922 We're able to recognize one of the darker-furred ksisskstaki now. This one, presently towing a long piece of rabbit willow into the north entrance, has almost black fur in a wide ring around its eyes. We're gonna call it the Bandit

1936 Took my usual quick walk to the south end of the pond, where most of the mallard families are feeding. There's a flicker pair eating bugs off the grassy bank here, and the abandoned gosling munching the grass itself. The gosling allows me to get very close as I pass

1946 Funny how you can visit a place time and time again, and still notice new aspects of it each time. On my walk back to our seats from the far south end, I suddenly noticed that the main ksisskstakioyis is situated such that it is the last thing on the water to get shadowed as the sun goes behind the coulee rim. Why else build beside the shallow shore of the wet meadows, where there is no bank to dig into?

1952 Rabbit willow goes in, old used clutter comes out. We just watched one of the ksisskstaki (unidentified) bring a mess of grass, reeds and mud out of the south entrance. It then dove down to gather a big scoop of mud in its arms, and walked this up to deposit on the lodge over the entrance

2009 Just before the ksisskstakioyis is covered with shadow, Lefty brings a sizeable old stick out of the lodge, drops it and swims to the subpond. Then two doves fly in, one then the other, to land on shore beside the lodge and just as quickly leave again. The coot parents with their single chick paddle by, heading north, followed by the orphaned coot chick, keeping about twenty meters distant, but making little pitiful chirps as it moves to stay with them

2015 Like clockwork now, here comes the scabby redhead with her two ducklings. And we're happy to see, hunting above the peninsula at the far south end, the caspian tern

2020 Two of the baby hawks move way out to the end of different branches near the nest. One of them practices spreading its wings several times and then suddenly flies up to the top of a tree about fifty meters away. The other hawkling then takes up the same position as its sibling had used and is currently practicing opening its wings. I think we're witnessing their first flight

2029 The second hawkling never left the nest, and seems to have given up on the idea for now. The first one out is still sitting high in the neighboring poplar. Lefty came home, the young spotted sandpiper came in to land briefly on the beaver lodge, and the mallard family with three ducklings were headed north before some people walking the path above thought to throw a rock in the pond, at which point the mallards moved into the grass of the wet meadow and walked stealthily back toward the south before re-entering the water

2040 Lefty and another ksisskstaki come out the north entrance and head off in that direction, swimming along the grassy bank for a ways before crossing to the wet meadows. The young sandpiper's pecking around on the fresh mud brought on top of the south entrance earlier this evening. And the mallard family with three ducklings are dunking loudly to feed in the middle of the water in front of the subpond canal

2044 Just behind me there's suddenly a loud buzz, making both Piipiiaakii and I jump and turn. Out of the grass came a pair of mating dragonflies, probably variable darners (judging by their size). They flew off noisily across the pond coupled together

2057 The big brood mallard has arrived now, passing by the other family and presently feeding just south of the ksisskstakioyis. Its been a busy night here at the pond, and now it's getting dark

2112 As we walk back to the truck, a pelican is flying upriver and one of the parent hawks returns to the nest. The hawkling who'd flown up into the neighboring tree hasn't mustered the courage to fly back over to the nest to partake of whatever the parent brought home. Instead, it cries and cries from its somewhat distant perch

Obsessing On Purpose

Like most living beings - human or otherwise - I have cultivated a number of behavioural routines and aesthetic predilections that bring structure, or perhaps a sense of security, to my everyday life. In some instances, these quirks and habits border on the embarrassingly obsessive-compulsive. For instance, at nookoowa, I routinely make sure that anything situated on tables or counters be set in an alignment parallel to the edges. Sometimes, nipiitaam or nitana will offset things purposely, just to watch me run around straightening them. On the other hand though, I prefer our tables and countertops to be absolutely empty except when in use, and all items that might otherwise be placed upon them to be neatly stowed away in closets, trunks, and cupboards. I also try to make sure that any like-type objects that happen to be stored on a shelf - such as books, video games, compact discs, statuettes, picture frames, what have you - are neatly aligned and arranged in some pleasing order. My bed must always be made, unless someone’s in it, and nothing beyond sheets, blankets, or pillows belongs on it. It bothers me when clothing is tossed on the floor, or draped anywhere other than on hangers in our closets. Furniture, in the form of couches, cushioned chairs, dining sets, etc. strike me as clutter, limiting the spaces that one would otherwise have available to conduct creative activities. I prefer to sit on the floor, with just a pillow or folded blanket for support. I don’t like any lighting except that which comes from naato’si, nor prolonged periods of electronic noise. The different foods on my plate cannot touch, unless we’re eating Mexican, in which case it must all be mixed together into a bean, cheese, and rice paste. And I don’t think sinks are places to keep dirty dishes, or sponges, or globs of fallen toothpaste… although they are for cleaning such things immediately. The list could go on, all these partialities that are so rarely realized to my satisfaction. The truth of the matter is, in the long run, most of my aesthetic habits bring me more irritation than comfort. Yet I continue to uphold them all the same.

One of my greatest obsessive-compulsive behaviours, a massive sink-hole of energy, and that which applies more than any other to the present project, is an overwhelming desire to document periods of transition in my life. I’ve been journaling since I was about twelve years old, using this practice as a surrogate companion of sorts, with whom to discuss the occasionally strange (and often mundane) changes I’m constantly attempting to make in my life, in whatever direction I happen to be exploring at the time. Over nearly three decades, I’ve experimented with a wide variety of media, from classic stationary and blank books, to audio notes, photography, film, sketching. I’ve written in both first and third person, I’ve tried to approach the practice as story telling, as ethnography, as documentary, as art. But my trouble is this… for me, the final product of my efforts is never good enough. I’m constantly shifting tactics and media. I’ve probably made some stationers fairly rich. In fact, any new idea at all can compel me to destroy prior work and start anew, because my sense is that a fresh journaling project is like an opportunity for the redefinition of self. It’s a personal renewal. A cleansing, a chance to make a vow and completely transform the narratives that guide one’s experiences. An old journal, on the other hand, one that no longer accurately reflects my sensibilities or interests in the present, is to me a blemish, an imperfection, a blatant reminder of the self I’ve already outgrown. Such past projects are like carelessly wrought sculptures, beyond repair. And so I must begin, again and again.

Now I know, some may say that for the artist it is the process that matters, not the product. And there are examples from around the world to demonstrate this claim. There are the Tibetan sculptures made from butter, which melt in the sun. The sacred sand-paintings of the Navajo, scooped-up and discarded at the close of their healing ceremonies. Origami cranes, floating down the rivers of Japan. There are all manner of ikitstakssiistsi to look toward as monuments to the significance of process over product. True. I don’t deny it. But these examples involve at least two aspects that my journals do not. First, they are almost always seen to some stage of human completion, each creative act having a very defined conclusion, the point at which they are left in sacrifice to the sacred beings, the ancestors, the future generations. Which brings up the second distinction they have from my journals – these creative acts are also highly spiritual, inaugurating, feeding, or renewing sacred relationships. And while my journaling practices have always nurtured, I’ve never really approached them as offerings to the forces that sustain my life. Rather, and perhaps sadly, I feel deep down that they have been little more than tools for fostering detachment, as if the immediate activities involved in my pursuits for growth and transformation are somehow not enough in themselves. And I’m aware that it is in large part my history of exposure to an immature and ego-centric global ethos that has conditioned me to such hollow practice.

There is another (and related) reason why I tend to discard imperfect or outdated journals, over-concern myself with the organization of items on my shelving systems, fret obsessively over household clutter, etc. It is because I have been enculturated in an aesthetics that defies nature by placing all like items together, and all unalike items apart. It’s a system partial to concrete categories, surface in its emphasis, allowing little room for metamorphoses, transfigurations, or interconnectivities. In fact, it is a way that fears these complexities and the potential loss of present form. A journal, by its very nature of recording a series of thoughts and life experiences, all of which are unalike except by means of their association to a single person in the midst of constant change, somehow simultaneously calls-to and troubles this aesthetics. As typically carried out, a journal is in essence just another means of imposing false order on the flow of life, both by objectifying experience and by organizing its representation into segments of a linear-time framework that is completely removed from the shifting cyclicality of the natural world. My fluent relationship with both kinds of awareness has, in a sense, rendered me bipolar. I strive for a certain level of systematicity, all the while knowing full well that such order reflects an impoverished approach to negotiating the human condition.

Perhaps what I’ve needed all along is a healthy recognition of both the limitations and potential functionalities of record-keeping practices, particularly in the traditions of aokstakio’p and aisinaakio’p… this, followed by an alterative adoption of those beneficial techniques and media from the established global culture, inwardly, in a manner that augments rather than re-shapes niitsitapia’pii. I am lucky, in this sense, to be already engaged in a learning process through iiyaohkimiipaitapiiyssin, which I’m sure will offer many insights along the way. But all the same, I know that to achieve my vision, to revitalize forms of niitsitapi record-keeping through my journaling practice, I will have to work much more closely with those constant resources I can trust - niitsi’powahsin, akaitapiitsinikssiistsi, ki nipaapao’kaanistsi. I will also need to develop a habit of respecting the advice of my own deeper intuition, and begin responding regularly to the voices of the sspommitapiiksi, ksaahkomitapiiksi, and soyiitapiiksi of kitawahsinnoon. My hope is that in blogging the present journal, Akayo’kaki A’pawaawahkaa, I can explore and perhaps realize this interest. And if nothing else, if the urge to renew strikes again, all I have to do is hit DELETE.

Akayo'kaki A'pawaawahkaa

11 August 2009

Hawkling Flight

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