Akayo'kaki A'pawaawahkaa: Iitaohkanaikokotoyi Niitahtaistsi

15 December 2008

Iitaohkanaikokotoyi Niitahtaistsi

llll ) llllllllllllll Iitaohkanaikokotoyi Niitahtaistsi

Our first real blizzard of the season unfolds just as we fly back to mohkinsstsis after a week-long summer sojourn in Melbourne, Australia. We went down under – piipiiaakii, ohkomaakii ki niisto - for the World Indigenous People’s Conference on Education (WIPCe), an intensification ritual hosted by a different community once every couple years. It was the first time our family had an opportunity to attend. Luckily, piipiiaakii and I were both giving presentations there, so we were able to pull funding from our respective projects. Although we were able to catch most of the keynote talks, we didn’t bother sitting too many of the other sessions. To me, the excitement of our visit was in observing ki photographing birds ki other local animals. For piipiiaakii ki ohkomaakii, it was in shopping ki meeting new people.

We had three particularly enjoyable experiences. The second day there, after attending registration ki opening speeches hosted by the Koori ki Boonwurrung tribes at their recreation centre in one of Melbourne’s suburbs, we returned to the city ki split off to address our separate interests. Piipiiaakii ki ohkomaakii shopped the busy metropolis for hours, picking up souvenirs for folks back home, ki a few wardrobe items for themselves. I decided to take a hike through Melbourne’s green strip, which included the Royal Botanic Gardens. My planned destination was Albert Park ki its wetlands, touted in the visitor brochures from our hotel to be something like a nature reserve, with a variety of waterfowl ki a colony of rare skinks. As I wound my way through other parks toward it, occasionally stopping to ask a local for precise directions, it became clear that many of the city’s residents either didn’t know about the wonders of Albert Park or couldn’t quite understand why a tourist would be attracted to the place. Most suggested strongly that I should visit the botanic gardens instead, ki those inside the garden itself assured me that there were no larger nature parks in the vicinity. All were, of course, correct. But as a stubborn tourist I had to learn this for myself. When I finally reached Albert Park, all I found was a golf course ki an over-developed lake, surrounded by busy streets. There were a few black swans there, but no skinks I encountered. Thoroughly disappointed, I returned to the botanic gardens ki there passed the remainder of the day photographing the many birds that enjoy this magnificently lush ki sculpted park.

While walking, I also made note of some of Melbourne’s quirks. For instance, one of the things we learned very quickly was that most of the coffee available in the shops there is made from freeze-dried crystals. A black coffee is called a long black, an espresso a short black, ki a mocha is a flat white. Their large cups are not even equivalent in volume to our medium, ki nothing tastes the same. This goes for food as well. Small portions, all of which seemed missing key ingredients. Nearly every city block includes the Subway ki 7-11 chains, but the latter do not have Big Gulps or corndogs. Burger Kings are called Hungry Jacks, ki have the same menu as we do at home, but the fries taste funny. Ketchup is labelled tomato sauce (we never learned what tomato sauce for pasta was called). When people talk racist, they use the term “feller” – as in “you’re a white feller, eh?” or “me being a black feller...” etc. The understanding of at least some people there is that the First Nations of Canada used to be referred to “Red Indians” but that now we prefer to be called Aboriginal. Their paper currency has windows in it. Their coins are not sized as per denomination. In fact, the smallest coin is two-dollars. And there were no pennies (a good thing).

So our exploration day was the first good experience we had. The second came later in the week, when we hopped on with a tour to Phillip Island, just southeast of Melbourne along the coast. For me, this visit was particularly enjoyable because it took us to several ancient Boonwurrung sites, as well as a number of wetlands, a koala reserve, and places where the State of Victoria had engaged in successful environmental restoration projects. Overall, I was very impressed with the ecological consciousness of Australians. They were doing far more, even in the metropolitan areas, to conserve water, recycle, ki ensure that waste was managed. On Phillip Island, the government had gone so far as to buy-back large housing tracts from the public in areas where the sharp-winged plovers nest, so that the land could be rehabilitated. If only Alberta could see this as a model to combat the popular perception that a reintroduction of bison is unrealistic. On our tour, I was able to observe ki photograph several bird species (all new to me), colourful insects, amazing foliage, a wallaby, ki the precious koalas. I got to enjoy the company of piipiiaakii ki ohkomaakii. Ki the tour was capped off with a visit to the beach where little penguins return each evening at sundown, riding in on the waves ki hiking up to their nests in the dunes.

Our final day at WIPCe was another treat. In the conference’s exhibition hall, the Maori had set-up a nice display. They were very welcoming of all the other visiting nations, so much so that at times it felt as if they were more host to us than the Australians. We were lucky enough to be invited to a Maori dinner party a few evenings prior, but piipiiaakii had been trying to arrange to receive a traditional tattoo, ki on the last day of the conference she got her wish. Two or three of their artists had flown in from New Zealand with their equipment ki were ready to get to work. We learned that each of them had been specially selected to apprentice with elders while in primary school, ki had undergone extensive training before they were ever allowed to work on human skin. We waited on the sidelines for several hours past the appointment piipiiaakii had made before they called her to be drawn-up. One of the men took her outside with a set of ink pens. The way these tattoos work, the recipient is to tell the artist about themselves, ki from that narrative the artist hand-draws a design that will incorporate elements both reflecting ki assisting the assistant in his or her life. While piipiiaakii was outside sharing her story, I was still at the booth where another artist (the youngest among them) was told that he would be giving her the tattoo. He immediately asked where she was, ki when he learned that she was already outside being drawn he jumped up ki ran to intercede. It was apparent that he didn’t have the greatest confidence in the man who was supposed to do the drawing. As it turned out though, part way through piipiiaakii’s narrative the man had stopped her himself, telling her that he didn’t believe he was qualified to draw her tattoo. He said that their best artist was also their youngest, ki that he should work with her. The two artists met half-way, each having gone in search for the other, ki the young man Damion Scarlett took over.

Damion was amazing. He brought piipiiaakii inside, sat her down, listened to her story, ki proceeded very quickly ki skilfully to draw on her shoulder the most intricate ki beautiful tattoo we’d ever seen. It incorporated several underwater spirits, including the hammerhead shark, a life-line ki birthing canal, ki a braided weave of a sorts he explained bonded her to water. Before setting to work with the needles, Damion put his hand on piipiiaakii’s shoulder ki prayed. It took him at least an hour to complete the work. Afterward, I took a picture of piipiiaakii ki Damion together, in case we meet again in the future.

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

15 December 2008

Iitaohkanaikokotoyi Niitahtaistsi

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