Akayo'kaki A'pawaawahkaa: Journey To Billings

20 November 2009

Journey To Billings

III ) l Journey To Billings (19Nov09)

I'm so glad to be home. Last night this time, I was exhausted, looking longingly and baggy-eyed at a thick matress in Room 2213, Holiday Inn, Billings, Montana. I had no idea who'd slept there last, and I didn't want to think about it. My plan was to sleep fully clothed above the bedding. Like so many other aapi'maanistsi I've briefly inhabited, Room 2213 combined aestetic appeasement with brute functionality. There were two framed pieces of unintrusive art on the wall, some lamps with curls and softness, others with strong geometric lines. There was laminate furniture that looked eligant while hiding a pressboard foundation. The area near the door was most hideous, with its wall-hung ironing board and tacky white paper map of the fire escape plan that no guest would ever bother to study. The television, that remained silent throughout my stay, was a boxy monstrosity for anyone used to the now more commonplace thin plasma monitors. And while I was grateful for the appearance of cleanliness and order, I would've forfeited it all of that for a bedside jacuzzi. I like my late-night baths.

We drove to and from Billings, Ki'naksaapo'p ki niisto, along a route historically traveled by those with ambitions to raid the Crow. We could have taken the more expedient and boring freeway, but what would be the fun of that? Our course was beautiful. It began at Piina'pohkatoyiss, the highest non-mountainous site in North America, and from there wound south past Aamsskaapakaapioyi (Fort Benton) to the Judith Gap, and beyond. We saw yucca, which I knew to be indigenous to kitawahsinnon, but had never actually encountered before. They were on the coulee rim above Aamsskaapakaapioyi, and nowhere else. We passed herds of antelope, and mule deer, and even buffalo. In the valley between Harlowton and Lavina, we tried to spot each of the dozens of odd, wooden red-headed woodpeckers that someone had carefully mounted on the trunks of roadside trees. And then there were the stories Ki'naksaapo'p told to carry us through. He talked about Aamootsinotsskoyim, a horse that was raced around a butte in the coulee Fort Benton occupies. He recounted testimonies of the last buffalo hunt that took place between the Musselshell and Yellowstone rivers. Of course there were crazy tales of the infamous Peter Buggins. But my favorite story of the journey was about Ksikksinopaa, one of the last warriors to follow the very route we were traveling...

As Ki'naksaapo'p remembered having heard it, a bundle that had been placed on a tripod outside someone's lodge was stolen by a Crow Indian who snuck into camp. Ksikksinopaa decided immediately to travel south to Issapoiksaahko to reclaim the bundle and get revenge. There were a lot of young warriors who wanted to go along, but Ksikksinopaa reminded them, "You know I go alone."

So he set off south through what is now called the Judith Gap, and eventually came across a large encampment of the Crows. For several days, Ksikksinopaa kept himself hidden nearby, studying the people and their routines, searching for any sign of the bundle. Then late one night, he styled his hair like a Crow and walked in amongst the lodges. Most of the people were asleep and snoring. But in one of the tipis, there was a group of men visiting. They spoke in Issapoi'powahsin, but they were also using sign language, and by watching their fire-lit silhuettes against the lodge walls, Ksikksinopaa could make out every detail of what was being said. One of the men inside was recounting an expedition to raid a Blackfoot camp, and when he described the appearance of someone he'd killed, Ksikksinopaa recognized that this Crow was the murderer of one of his relatives. Wasting no time, Ksikksinopaa put the barrel of his rifle right up to the man's head and pulled the trigger. Hearing this shot, the whole camp was soon in an uproar. Amidst their panic, Ksikksinopaa calmly walked away until he was out of sight, and then hurried to put some distance between himself and the angry Crows.

Ksikksinopaa ran from his pursuers until daybreak, and then layed down to hide. Soon the Crows came passing right by his position. One of them was very close and seemed to be looking right at him, but then kept going.

By the time Ksikksinopaa got back home, word of what he'd done had already reached the mounted police by telegraph. Fearing arrest, Ksikksinopaa took some of his horses and went to stay with Jerry Potts. The mounties came looking for him, but Potts wouldn't give him up, so they took the horses instead. When Ksikksinopaa found out about this, he suggested that Potts go somewhere to create an alibi for himself. That night, Ksikksinopaa stole his horses back from the mounties and then disappeared. Years later, at a ceremony in Siksika, some visitors from Kainaa were asking the hosts if they'd known about Ksikksinopaa. An old man stood up near the door. It was the aged warrior, still alive, never having been apprehended.

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

20 November 2009

Journey To Billings

Please Donate To Support

About Me

Blog Archive

Obsessing On Purpose

Followers