Akayo'kaki A'pawaawahkaa: Omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi Aipookakiiyaa

01 May 2008

Omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi Aipookakiiyaa

llll ) llllllllllllllllllllllll Omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi Aipookakiiyaa…

My favourite aspect of those ikskanaotonniistsi when we are called to kanoohsiistsi in sikoohkotoki is that – by way of making any afternoon work seem an uneconomical prospect – they afford me extra opportunity to visit the aohkiistsi ki kaawahkoistsi, to catch up on my observations of whatever changes are underway, or to harvest aowahsiistsi in their ripest seasons. Annohk ksiistsikoyi, after our kanoohsin for the Blackfoot Digital Library at the University of Lethbridge, was just such an occasion.

Having witnessed the sspopiiksi surfacing from their pond, I’d been very curious to learn whether, like last year, the pitsiiksiinaiksi would have also awoken. Surprisingly, piipiiaakii elected to join me, ki I made sure to approach the hybernaculum with extra caution on her account, instructing her along the way on how to conduct oneself in their presence. As predicted, we found basking omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi beside all the dens that I knew of. Piipiiaakii could only handle a short exposure to their power, ki I don’t blame her. The first time I encountered one in sikoohkotoki, every hair I had stood on end. Ki here on her first visit, I introduced her to not just one pitsiiksiinaa, but the whole extended family. Not surprisingly her stomach turned with fear, ki she was shaken for some time afterward. But at least she managed to refrain from complete panic.

After dropping piipiiaakii off at nookoowannaan to calm down, nitsitssko’too mi kaawahko. I took a few photographs of the omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi, as well as some of the early flowers that are emerging. I even tried tossing a fishing line in naapisisahtaa, with a nice grasshopper on the hook. All the same, there wasn’t even a nibble. There never is on that stretch. Near to the ground, musineon ki violets are both flowering yellow, reminding me that I must commit myself to gathering their respective roots ki leaves very soon if I want to take advantage of these early gifts of niipoyi. Also beginning to bloom are the otsiikinistsi. They present a further challenge to my ambitions of formulating an accurate understanding of ki’sommiksi, because to my knowledge their presence – no doubt fully blooming throughout the next cycle – is what is meant by aapistsisskitsaato’si. In fact, I believe it was originally called otsiikinaato’si. As we’ll always remember by reference to the history of miohpokoiksi, the yellow otsiikiniistsi used to signal that the calving season of the iiniiksi was finished, ki that it was time to go after some of those fancy newborn robes. But the presence of otsiikiniistsi this year means that aapistsisskitsaato’si will occur simultaneous with matsiyikkapisaiki’somm, if the latter arrives at all. Ki what to make of this odd dynamic, I haven’t a clue.

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

01 May 2008

Omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi Aipookakiiyaa

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