Akayo'kaki A'pawaawahkaa: Abandoned Gosling

10 August 2009

Abandoned Gosling

IIII ) llllllllllllllll Abandoned Gosling (9Aug09)

1818 Sspopiikimi - we come out a bit earlier today, owing to the fact that our daylight hours are decreasing. Just south of the ksisskstakioyis, in the middle of the water, there's a large section of pond-bottom exposed, greater in circumferance than any of the islands. We've seen it coming the past couple weeks, but only tonight has the water level decreased enough to expose earth

1825 On the milkweed beside our seat on the grassy bank, there is a red beetle with black spots, similarly colored as a lady-bug, but much longer of body. The baby swainsons across the way are starting to cry like adults, and we watch an unfamiliar pale hawk fly by their nest

1830 The first of the water mammals to make an appearance tonight is mi'sohpsski, swimming in along the opposite shore and entering the north door of the ksisskstakioyis

1837 There's some literature that describes muskrats who make their own burrows off the side of those going into beaver lodges. But when I mention this to Piipiiaakii, she notes that we've seen muskrats entering all three door of this ksisskstakioyis, and so it begs the question as to whether they're not merely guests of the ksisskstaki family

1840 There are mourning doves, kakkooyiksi, cooing from somewhere in the forest. Occasionally they will come down as individuals or in pairs, landing on the shallow bank that borders the wet meadow, beside the ksisskstakioyis. We haven't really been attentive to learn what it is they do there

1849 On the far south end of the pond, we see a white-tail deer walk down the embankment of the levy, toward the duck blind. It's too far away to see clearly, and soon it becomes concealed in brush. But if we're lucky, perhaps it will come visit the wet meadows this evening

1905 I take a little walk to the far south end, while Piipiiaakii stays back at the lodge. What I thought was exposed earth in the pond is not. Seen from above, it appears to be just a very thick patch of milfoil, with tops now taller than the surface

1910 I am saddened to find a single gosling entering the water from the bank that the whole family so often frequented. It paddles out and rests alone on its mother's old nest island. We've never seen the family members apart before, and when I report this to Piipiiaakii her suspicion is the same as mine - that this gosling was the one struggling most with its flying lessons, and that it has been left behind

1918 The first out of the lodge this evening is Lefty, who swims wide past us, heading north. Coot parents with one chick then arrive at the lodge. There is a second orphan chick following and crying behind them, but when it comes too close the parents attack and chase it away. It returns to follow again, but keeps a safe distance behind them

1922 While we watch Lefty and the coots, an eastern kingbird lands on the lodge perch with a mouth full of dragonfly, which it proceeds to bash on the wood before eating. And the juvenile spotted sandpiper comes to sit on top the lodge. It appears to be getting a little more chest coloration now

1934 Soon several members of the ksisskstaki family wake up and begin their evening forays, most heading for the subpond canal. A large painted turtle climbs up on top of the south entrance, perhaps scrambling to get out of the way of the beavers. It sits there just a few minutes, then re-enters the water. And all the while there's been a goldfinch flying above, just behind our seats, singing its four and five tone repetitive song

1946 Lefty has just returned from the north wet meadows with a sprig of rabbit willow, which gets pulled down into the lodge. Another ksisskstaki, as if aware of Lefty's approach, comes out the south entrance to observe the willow being brought. But once Lefty dives, this beaver also returns to the lodge

1954 Now there are several goldfinch in on the act, singing above the pond. One of the ksisskstakiiksi has been bringing old, chewed sticks out of the south entrance, dropping a couple at a time, and then returning to the lodge

2003 Two of the ksisskstaki who'd gone to the subpond just returned. Again their approach was proceeded by a family member coming out of the lodge to watch, and again one of those returning carried rabbit willow (this time a small bundle) which it brought into the lodge 2016 We decide to leave it at that for the evening, pack up and head out

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

10 August 2009

Abandoned Gosling

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