Well, so far, so good?

Mmmmm, not so sure. I just heard that the world got another kick in the Bhutto.

Perhaps in the New Year, every one who gets a pat on the back should look in the mirror before going out to see if some one hasn’t stuck a “Kick Me” sign on their sorry asses.

Feb.27/08

I thought I should bring this forward as nothing much has change since Aug. 07 but injustice using Smoke and Mirrors.
A very interesting read for those who care.

http://www.mohawknationnews.com/news/news4.php?lang=en&layout=mnn&category=58&srcurl=/news/news3.php?lang%3Den%26layout%3Dmnn%26sortorder%3D0

Mar.09/08

Tomorrow I climb out of this frickin snow bank and start trecking through the jungle. Yehaw!!!

And a Hush came down from above.

Daddy?

Yes dear?

What’s a Hush?

Ask your Mother sweet-heart.

Why won’t this tape self-destruct in five seconds?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=St1-WTc1kow

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, involves incitement.

As always, should you, or any member of your team be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow all knowledge of your actions.

And the thot plickens.

“…..I don’t want your promise I don’t want your whiskey

Sharbot Lake Obaadjiwan First Nation and Ardoch Algonguin First Nation’s protest to prevent further exploration on their lands and proposed uranium mining plans on 400 acres only 42 miles north of Kingston Ontario. Crotch Lake is a favourite canoeing, camping and fishing lake in the area, which is slated, in this uranium mining scenario, to be drained.

I have been quiet for years, but this is just too ludicrous, just as the drilling and burying nuclear waste bundles in the Mount Moriah pluton is and was. This is nuclear which means the half life is a bigger number than I can contemplate, let alone its crippling/murdering effects.

We already have Delora. This mining will be Delora, only WAY MORE SO.

Well this has my attention and I have to do something. I hope it has yours.  

This site is the Mohawk Nation News articles about the situation. A bit inflammatory but a good background from those on the ground protesting and helping save us from ourselves.

http://www.mohawknationnews.com/news/news4.php?lang=en&layout=mnn&category=58&srcurl=/news/news3.php?lang%3Den%26layout%3Dmnn%26sortorder%3D0

If you want to understand uranium mining then this is a good site. Of course there are MANY MANY more

http://www.ccnr.org/?keys=Ardoch+Algonquins&sitenbr=34971240&lgo=1&siteurl=ccnr.org&site_logo=ccnr.org%2Fgifs%2Fccnr_small.gif&bgcolor=dfffdf&link=blue&vlink=purple&alink=red&font_color=000033&font

 The Dome……. I had visited the Dome in 1970, 25 years after that fateful day and it spoke more heavily in person than it does in this photo. In the PEACE Museum artifacts distorted from the intense heat, a piece of a stair with the shadow of a person who had been sitting on the step when the bomb detinated was imprinted …..because any concrete that was exposed to the flash was bleached white.

Japan is again in a compromising position should North Korea or China lose more of their sanity. The war is over but the battle continues.

Tweed Green-Up

It’s funny how words change over the years to mean something completely different.

I had been talking to a magician friend a while back who is from Bushy, Hertfordshire, England who related a story of his childhood and a cigarette.

Around the 1940’s cigarettes were referred to as fags and he had been caught by his father hiding behind the bicycle shed puffing on a fag and received a lashing for his efforts. I laughed as I told him he wouldn’t want to get caught today puffing on a fag.

This conversation brought to mind of MY childhood. 

My family had emigrated from Britain and brought a delicacy with them to the New World it was called a faggot. It was a kind of meat ball consisting of minced pig’s liver and offal and spices. They were delicious  with mashed potato and mushy peas.

Let’s move ahead a few years around the mid 1950’s.

We were a teenage gang that weren’t much different than those of today except back then we settled our differences with our fists.

One of the guys who’ll remain nameless, for some reason decided to rob a bank. To make a long story short, he got caught. In those days there was no such thing as young offenders and he did hard time. A few years later when he was released I asked him what it was like being in prison. He said it wasn’t to bad except for the faggots.

He slowly backed away from me when I told him I loved faggots and ate them every chance I could.

He then explained to me what he had meant. This was a new one on me. Back then the words we used for a gay person was usually a gearbox, fruit, pansy, fairy, etc.

Moving ahead now to the mid 90’s I’m a city boy sitting around a bonfire with new-found country folk when someone yells out, throw a faggot on the fire.

First thing that comes to my mind is my new found friends are a bunch of homophobes but it wasn’t long before I found this was not the case.

I learnt a new definition for the word faggot that night, a bundle of twigs or branches. We never had a use for those in the big city.

I’ve since googled faggot and have discovered there is a West Midlands family that is playing a central role in the quest to raise the profile of a forgotten British dish - faggots.

If you should ever get a chance to eat a faggot, go for it and stay off the smokes.

Jose Jemez left the kiva early that day in Oct, said something about picking up some bread.

He smiled as he said, ”it is good for one’s soul to get out once in awhile,”  I had to agree, it has been six months since he felt the warmth of the sun on his face.

Four days ago he had received a call, I noticed that when he disconnected he seemed a bit apprehensive and when I asked if anything was wrong, he said “I just need to go into the silence for a day or two.”

He had come to me more than two years ago in a vision and for the first few days we spent many hours sitting at the games table ”bonding”, or as he described it “Dancing The Dance.” In his head-piece was a mix of Owl, Redtail Hawk and Duck of Mallard feathers. I remember thinking, “strange mix of magic there.”
The following year he had accompanied me to the market place in Cloyne, it was his first trip there. Actually, it was the first time he had been out of the kiva since he had first arrived. I’m beginning to see a pattern here.
Since he’d be in silence for a few days I figured this would be a good time to start packing for the trip ahead, I then called Wolf to see if he  was still up to going into the village.“It’s still a go” he said, then he hung up. It was raining the morning we left the Big Smoke and traffic was heavy but moving at a fair clip. Wolf sat quiet on the first part of the journey just staring out the side window but as we got closer to our destination he perked up and asked if I wouldn’t mind dropping him off at Tim Horton’s at the far end of the village. As we pushed further north the sumac became a crimson standing brilliant against a brown backdrop of sleeping corn fields and the aspen, yellow in their final stages waiting for the wind to strip them naked. A turkey vulture seemed suspended in a sky of grey while searching for one last carrion before starting it’s long journey south to warmer climes.

It was noon when we arrive at the village outskirts, the rain had stopped, and a scarecrow greeted us as we came over the hill just south of the lake. We drove through town and I dropped Wolf off at timmy ho’s and I watched as he headed straight for the pay-phone. I thought to myself, ”that dog is up to something.”

He waved me off and I headed to my “Summer home” where I would spend the next three nights of the Full Hunter’s Moon.

When Wolf and I came back to Big Smoke that following week I found a note waiting for me on the games table. Jose was now half way around the world on his way to meet his new keeper. His note read, “I’ve been made an offer I couldn’t refuse. My presence is required in the Channels for ceremony. I’ll let you know when I have arrived. Your humble servant, Jose.”

Jose connected with me just recently saying he is enjoying his stay with his new keeper. He said he was enjoying the storms on the coast where he now resides, quite different from his last encampment.

Also he is preparing himself now for the “Rainbow Dream Dance” for the Metis. I’m sure he’ll use his powers in a positive manner.

Good bye old friend. Dance like no one is watching.

Two weeks ago when I had accepted an invitation to visit the coven again I ran into my old friend, Wolf.

He didn’t mince words as he spoke of the new woods he had discovered and what it offered up ………… heavy traffic,  I think he called it.

He wasn’t as lean as I last remembered him and he was more sedate…….I’ve found my “Happy Place” he said as he offered me a re-fill. It was then I asked him about his black eye.

I asked if he had run into a door, he replied,  ”no, it happened the previous Sunday while in church.”

Now he had my full attention while he explained just what happened.

He said when the congregation knelt to pray he noticed that a woman of large proportion in the pew in front of him had her dress stuck up the crack of her bum. The people in his pew were snickering and he thought it unfair that she should be the butt (excuse the pun) of a joke, so he leaned over and proceeded to gently pull it out. She then turned around and punched him in the eye.

I said, “some times it doesn’t pay to be kind.” We laughed as Wolf said, “you got that right.” Wolf then wandered off to talk with Crow.

Duck and Otter then struck up a conversation with me and it wasn’t long before I felt they were having some issuses with Deerdancer’s absense. When I questioned them about it they glanced at Wolf and quickly changed the subject saying, “let sleeping dogs lay. “

As darkness closed in and with a chill in the air everyone moved closer to the fire. It was then I realized how much I missed the warmth of a bonfire and the next day the smell of the wood smoke on my clothes brought back memories of more pleasant meetings.  I then left for the “Big Smoke”

It was yesterday I ran into Wolf again and this time his other eye was swollen. I smiled and said, “Church again?” Yes he said but this time it was my brother Otter. “What do you mean”,  I replied.

Well he said,”same scenerio, but this time it was Otter who leaned over and pulled the dress out of her butt crack. I knew she didn’t like it, so I tucked it back in and that was when she turned around and let me have it again.”

I said, “some times it doesn’t pay to be kind.”  He asked, if I was going back to the village at the end of the month could he get a ride up with me as he said he’d like to see Deerdancer again.  I said ,”no problem, I could use the company.”  He said thanks as he ran off to catch his bus.
Hmmm I thought, what is that old dog up to now.

After many years of ignoring one of my many loves, the one that played a big part in my healing, I purchased a cheap classical guitar made in China, the brand name, “Tiny Boy”. I suppose it got its name because it was a bit smaller than a regular and larger than a childs guitar.

The Giannini I had owned until some point during eight transistions when it mysteriously disapeared was the reason for the purchase.

I just wanted to get back into the music and “Tiny Boy” did the trick. It took about a year to get my chops back playing with the Golpe (the tapping on the top of the guitar) in all the right places. The rest was easy after that.

I was playing one night when this young lady kept yelling,  ”palmada tu muchacho minu’sculo,  palmada tu muchacho minu’sculo” and the other patrons laughed each time she yelled it.

I had no idea what she was saying that was so funny until I asked a friend later. He laughed as he told me, “it means, slap your tiny boy, slap your tiny boy” but I wouldn’t take it personal. I suppose you had to be there.

I have since traded in “Tiny Boy” on a “Manuel Rodriguez e Hijos.” Now something is lost in the translation when she yells out,  ”palmada tu Manuel,  palmada tu Manuel.” The patrons still laugh though.