Hi, back again. This is about propane and the Dakotas, to some extent.

Been going through all sorts of personal stuff, much of it very good. Hi Navajo! You are so wonderful, I was thinking about you this evening.

I write on the evening of a holiday that hasn’t gotten entirely owned by bad religions; a day of the dead. I set out candles and made pumpkins. I love the pagan of all of this.

I thought of the dead, and respected their spirits, as I thought of them.

I thought, again, of the people up in the Dakotas, freezing. Not yet, I expect. But climate is going to make thing so weird.

Still, I would like to take this opportunity to say that I think First Nations people should not have to have to deal with “climate change” in order to be respected and helped. I see respect and help as being very close, too.

It is not good to assume that one is not worthy unless one suffers horribly. That’s terrible wasichu (that’s spelled wrong but you know what I mean) craziness. Wetiko. All of that. Very crazy. Bad stuff.

There is good craziness. That is important to remember. But it’s all so fragile.

Navajo knows I have sent some money to the people up in the Dakotas for fuel in the winter.

(more over the fold)

I have decided to send more. I have decided to send another $500 to St. Francis, the fuel company up there in the Dakotas, run by only NA women, who ensure that every penny will go to buy propane for those who are most need.

I already sent one $500 for this a few months back.

Am I asking you to bless me for this?

No. Absolutely not.

I am just doing this, and I run it through Navajo, who I trust.

I don’t even ask you to trust me.

I don’t have the right.

I do not have the right to do so, as a person of European descent.

I do not believe that I have that right.

I’ve framed myself into a place where I can ask myself; “What rights do I have, what can I do that will give me more rights?”

And sending money to propane funds for a propane business run entirely by Native American women who will go out there in the storms and deliver tanks to NA people on the Rosebud Rez, turned out to be something I could do, at least a bit, sometimes, that might actually give me more rights, in my own heart.

Thank you, Navajo, for that beautiful photoessay you made on Daily Kos last year, with all of the people.

I’ll be in touch with you shortly. Also, there is a Navajo subreddit on Reddit; I could crosspost this there.


What Part Of Give These People Warm, Don’t You Understand?

I send money to Saint Francis, for the propane for those who are getting very cold and scared and who are running into a lot of trouble there.

I buy great Zuni fetishes, from brokers for these great art. Modern. I have little cards.

I act in some small ways.

I work constantly on trying.



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I am glad I am a member of this blog. I am glad that I have made the kind friendly acquaintences here, even though I cannot spell that word.

I am glad, still. I am glad because of the people I have gotten to know a little, here.

Navajo. You so rock. Words fail.

Ojibwa. Your histories are so excellent.

Winter Rabbit; you of such strong conviction.

You rock too.

Meteor Blades? By now I’m settling down and chuckling in my seat.

Because I know you are always here for these people.

Your beauty and glory can never be refuted.

It’s been a hard summer, peoples. I have felt broken a lot.

Neeta helped. She has always helped.

She is gorgeous. You are all gorgeous.



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I Am Miep

I have been thinking about navajo’s blog here a lot.

I have a book rec: “The Time Of Our Singing.”

This is a really great novel written by Richard Powers, about a mixed race family who tried to beat the bigotry.

The people in the novel are mixed race African (read, raped into “white”, and also a Jewish father.

Just great. Write to me if any of you are looking for book swaps, anything like that. I’m good with being open.



Waving, rocking.

waving, rocking.

focus, going



It was worse before; I was in a basement

a constructed thing.

a concrete box, with tiny holes.

That was a terrible box.

Now they have holes; I can fly into them, and without

like a paper wasp making a nest, in her new, free open box

examples of which are everywhere.

So Many Stories

This is one a guy I know who lives in Albuquerque, told me. His name is Mark, but he has other ways of Mark to be named.

He’s a very cool guy, about my age, in his early 50’s.

His lady is an elephant vet. She is fine. I met her once, at a party they and I were both invited to.

She goes around the elephant world, trying to keep people who have enslaved elephants, from abusing them.

He told me once, “Ringling Brothers is like the Dark Star!”

They are both such sweet people. So kind, so caring. So loving. So intelligent.

So worried.

He comes down here every spring for the Mescalero Mescal roast. He has good friends there, has for a long time.

He comes by and visits me. He does not judge.

He just ignores my strangeness.

He comes by and asks to see my garden.

Last time he got me out under my clothesline.

And he gave me a backrub, a good backrub!

That’s Mark. Mark rocks. Even when I don’t see him for a year, doesn’t matter.

Mark rocks.


He is known by that name.

Mark, my friend

shows up here in the spring

He won’t quite let me ignore him

and it’s not about sex, at all

though his girlfriend is a fine elephant vet

and a great lady.

Meanwhile, Mark shows up at times.

I gave him a large drum, made by people south of

that terrible border.

I brought him into that house

One of my two messed up houses

The ones with all of the broke

I’d told Mark he was going to get a drum.

And I brought him in to that room, that house.

And I presented him that that drum. A good drum. Big one.

And I saw it on his face, for just a few seconds.

He was a little boy given a drum.

I saw it  for just a second.

I just made this 50 year old guy back into whooppee,

One of the best moments of my life.


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A brief poem

I Am A River

I am a river, I move

Sometimes I have waves, I thrust!

Things fall into me

And sometimes I am done with things.

I move!

I am a river, I change

And am changed

Because that’s what rivers do.

Carlsbad NM flood plain map 4

Cement sculpture and bark

Somewhere around here, I have a photo of the acequia madre, all dry and with the decaying concrete structures. One of the first photos I took. Unfortunately, I was a little slow on the uptake as to storing photos.  

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