Hehehehehehe. Okay, if you have no appreciation of dark humor stop reading right now and stay far away from Flight–far far away. Got it? I’m warning you. This is no sweet flight of fancy tome. Our hero is an angry fifteen year old male of Irish and Indian origin with some serious grief and father issues–among other things. Now sit back and sip your hot tea, latte or bloody mary and think about a young man who refers to himself as Zits. If you can’t relate then it’s probably in your best interests–and mine (yes, I do fear homicidal repercussions from unhappy readers)–to go nowhere near this particular Sherman Alexie book. That said, last night I stayed up very late reading Flight via flashlight outside on the front porch–much to the dismay of anyone who had their doors or windows open to receive my hooting laughter when I turned to page 146. Some folks do not find boiled birdies funny–and I do understand that such minds exist. On the other hand, there are minds, such as mine and apparently Alexie’s, which find self boiled birdies absolutely hilarious–especially in the context of a potentially violent encounter between a homeless Indian man and the usual well-heeled white dude. If by some means, like using your local public library, you garner a copy of Flight you too will be in serious need of comic relief by the time you turn to page 146. Though, hopefully, you’ll have found other darkly comic things to chuckle loudly about before page 146. But you’ll also have encountered several incidents of mayhem, murder and molestation along the way. The lives of foster children are not all filled with sugar mommies and daddies. Nor do many events in American history since 1492 recount pleasant Thanksgiving din dins between Europeans and Indigenous folks.
Ever wonder how to diffuse the building anger of teenager? Well, Sherman Alexie offers one way–history lessons of the ”not me” and the “me?!” variety. Yep, direct confrontations of some dark sad truths of reality provide the fodder for the adolescent mind to chew heartily on and time travel, complete with out-of-body experiences, is the medium. From the Battle of the Little Bighorn to the grief ridden friendly skies of a private flight instructor Alexie takes us on a journey through history. Along the way he’ll shred your heart, sew it back together without anesthesia, and then shove it back into your chest. You’re going to need every last piece of humor to endure the operation. If you’re not laughing when Harry Potter takes a swan dive–then you might be dead and gone. Or you’ve abandoned Alexie’s exploration of time travelling adventures as an instruction manuel. Each episode serves as a short story with ethical issues galore. FBI agent Hank Storm may not get your heartstrings trembling–but Gus, Bow Boy and Small Saint could very well lay you flat on the floor demolishing an extra-large box of kleenex–or soaking an extra-large cotton hanky.
Zits experiences violence in many forms via his out-of-body time travelling–and this makes him seriously consider his pains of loss, abandonment and identity. Children NEED fathers–preferably decent men who care about their welfare. That lacking, one must find family where one can. Sometimes the concept of ‘family’ has not a damned thing to do with genetics and biology. It’s got to do with who gives a damn.
I’ve been a fan of Alexie’s work ever since reading his collection of poems and short stories The Business of Fancydancing. Yes, there’s a film by that title too– and it’s a great film. But–it was the text that had me wanting to scream and laugh from one page to the next. Ever felt bushwhacked by a writer? Well that’s how I felt while reading The Business of Fancydancing. It was great. Disturbing at times, but great nonetheless. I will never forget the story of the man, Eve and the post office. Hell, I’ve never entered a post office since and not thought of the story. The same holds true for Flight. It will not numb or bore you to tears. Not sure you can relate yet? Okay, who has had bad acne? Raise your hands now.
Cloudman, guest poet, shares “ME” – a poem that references the infamous Nebraska town of Whiteclay where selling alcohol to the Lakota is the raison de existence.
Soon after the territory entered the public domain, a trading post was set up to sell alcohol to the Lakota, and merchants have continued to do so since. In 2010, its four beer stores sold an estimated 4.9 million 12-ounce cans of beer, an average of over 13,000 cans per day, for gross sales of 3 million dollars.[1] They have no place to consume beer on site, and it is not supposed to be drunk on the streets, but there are often inebriated customers sprawled around Whiteclay. John Yellow Bird King, president of the Oglala Sioux Tribe, says that tribal members bring alcohol illegally back from Whiteclay and “90 percent of criminal cases in the court system” are alcohol-related.[5] Beer is sold almost exclusively to residents from the reservation, as the nearest big city is two hours to the north.[5] According to Mary Frances Berry, the 10-year chair of the United States Commission on Civil Rights, Whiteclay can be said to exist only to sell beer to the Oglala Lakota.[6]
Victor Clarke, the owner of Arrowhead Foods, a grocery store in Whiteclay that does not sell alcohol, said he “did more than a million dollars in business last year, with an entirely Native American clientele.”[2] As the reservation has no banks and few stores, its residents spend most of their money in Nebraska border towns, for regular needs as well as alcohol. The beer stores in Whiteclay cash welfare and tax refund checks for the Oglala Lakota, taking a 3 percent commission.[5]
Dine’ poet Luci Tapahonso’s “Dust Precedes the Rain” seems appropriate for both a tip of the cyber hat to April as National Poetry Month –and to focus on the joys of water, especially rain–water that falls from the sky.
“The water from the sink is no good for making pottery.
It just ruins it,” my children’s Acoma grandmother would say.
Thereafter she sent the kids to replace the full bowls of rainwater
that had filled since it began to rain.
Her son said that when he was a child, the rain smelled
and tasted so good–he and other kids played outside,
laughing and running around–and they stopped once in a while to lick
the cool adobe walls . The sides of the smooth houses were
fragrant and nurturing. From atop the mesa at Acoma Pueblo,
it is possible to see almost seventy miles in each direction.
It is the same on the reservations surrounding Phoenix.
Long before the rains come, the gentle desert wind
carries the scent of rain, wild plants flutter anxiously,
and pets frolic, acting silly. To the west, the thunderheads
loom dark and full. Thin waves of dust precede the rain,
rolling tumbleweeds and bits of paper, and the children run and skip,
allowing the wind to push them along. They yell and laugh.
The lilting sounds ae carried eastward by the blowing slants
of rain–their laughs and shouts caught in the leaves of sturdy trees.
They linger in the crevices of small hills and arroyos
and finally swirl into the slopes of the purple mountains nearby.
It must have been the same when the Hohokamiki lived here
where the expressway crosses over. The children played
in the dust- charged breezes, shouting and running in circles,
and when the rains began, they paused, their faces turned upward
to taste the cool clean rain.
Their quiet gratitude for brimming pots of water remains
now in the crumbling re-buried walls fo their small homes.
The still concentration with which they painted pottery
remains in the small toys and tiny woven sandals that are unearthed:
their spirits remain in the dry grains of dirt
that were dug up by shovels, backhoes, and bulldozers.
This is evident in the persistence of the bright wild plants
that push their way out of the dry ground.
This is evident in the new growth that springs up
along the arroyos and streams following sudden rains.
This is evident in the island of peaceful silence
that the museum cradles amid the city’s frenzy.
This is evident in the restless energy of the busloads
of children who visit the old homes of the Hohokamiki today.
They recognize the old history that is theirs.
They recognize the old history that is ours.
@Luci Tapahonso, “Dust Precedes the Rain” from Blue Horses Rush In, University of Arizona Press
Hello everyone to whom I’ve been AWOL for so long. Just have been pre-occupied with streams of Occupy online and other things offline. Hope everyone is well and is surviving whatever winter is throwing your way weatherwise. It’s COLD here but nothing to complain about. Looking forward to visiting many blogcasas very soon. Something that came up in a recent occupy livestream chat was the lack of comprehension of word ‘play’ on the part of many Americans. Apparently our educational system offers NO appreciation of the finer points of the English language and hence our sense of humor is stunted by our lack of appreciation for clever turns of phrases. Some of you poets will probably beg to differ on this account. But–believe me it is a valid a concern time and time again in many occupy chats where random segments of the global population consort daily. Some humor simply does not come across well in text. Others fail to comprehend multiple meanings of words. And there are many forms of self-expression from individual communities that take time and patience to decipher. This goes beyond the texting genre. Though that also comes into play in the chat stream in various incarnations. Best thing to do when at a loss is to ask for definitions–some are obvious, some bewildering and others very enlightening and useful. It’s an ongoing exercise in communication on a global level. So–when I use the word “wicked” to herald the new year –I have a variety of meanings and associations with “wicked” that vary from slang to formal dictionary traditional meanings–very cool and wonderful to downright evil. While hoping 2012 is indeed a wonderful and exciting new year for everyone in all the possible positive ways this is tempered with the awareness of the president signing the National Defence Authorization Act on New Years Eve when many people were paying NO attention to this potentially evil little legislative ‘delight’. So–while every ‘new’ year brims with creative positive potential it also brims with all sorts of new negative hatchings as well. And so it goes…..
For the moment–Chocolate truffles for everyone! But don’t you dare fall asleep under the table this new year or there may be hell to pay……. Mic Check!
Doing an internet search of NDAA ought to bring you up to speed fairly quickly. You might want to have your favorite libations or comfort foods handy while discovering what’s happened.
A continuing complaint about the Occupy Movement is lack of focus and vague demands. Apparently some folks are hearing impaired and have serious trouble reading. Maybe that’s due to the lackluster education system in America? Or is it selective hearing and intellectual denial? Indeed none of this fits well into 30 second mainstream news coverage soundbites. Probably because the issues are too big and complex and hence mainstream news mentality FAILS dramatically with anything requiring their attention beyond 5 minutes viewing span. It’s clear many people still think this movement is a ‘joke’ that will vanish with winter snows and freezing temperatures. Well, even if the symbolic tents do disappear via snow or police action–the people involved have not and they will not be invisible nor silent — even if corporate controlled mainstream media continues their puppet plays.
While much protest music has come from the past, for example, John Lennon’s “Imagine”, there are new songs being written too.
Recorded LIVE at Occupy Dame Street, Dublin, Ireland December 10, 2011 “Foreign Lands” by Matthew. Thanks to Liam of The Fingals channel, for the video.
To protest the recent Budget Cuts on the backs of the people who did not create the continually swelling economic disaster The Spectacle of Defiance and Hope filled Dame Street with scarlet in many forms–including spoken word.
Spectacle march and proclamation
Temper Mental Miss Elayneous held nothing back on December 3, 2011.
Confused? Maybe Curly can help clear up a concept or two.
If that doesn’t work maybe Peadar O hlci ‘s song “Occupy Public Spaces” will do the trick.
Recently a “pigeon” delivered a letter of Solidarity to Occupy Dame Street from Occupy Philly. So it seems fitting to connect this post about Occupy Dame Street with a tip of the tubes to Occupy Philly with their fierce Foreclosure of Wells Fargo on November 18, 2011. If this action had aired LIVE on any television station in Philly as it did on Livestream—how could anyone who suffered foreclosure in Philly not have joined Occupy Philly at Wells Fargo?
Oh yeah, they stayed! And look who WAS watching:
That’s not an American accent, is it? O my, Occupy unites the world?
Violating copyright births bad karma---imagine a mad hacker you'll never see coming--nor catch going. Respect = my work is my work and your work is your work.
Everything posted here is my work, copyrighted, unless otherwise noted. Comments aside. Om
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