Primarily a writing exercise, this dream journal-inspired blog is a quiet introspective sojourn into the process that we traverse in going from private dream to public art. I see our dreaming as an internalized mythmaking. As I philosophize and expressively exhibit dreams, both private and public, I encourage and delight in creative language as a way to practice experiential metaphors through a “public dreaming." Writing Theory: Creative Dream Fiction

Sunday, 2 September 2012

The Diamond Truths of New American Colonization

Detail of the Frontispiece, Diamond Sutra from Cave 17, Dunhuang, ink on paper (the oldest, dated printed book, 868 CE), universal distribution made possible by Wang Jie
"If a good man or good woman develops the mind of a bodhisattva and maintains this sūtra, even with as little as a four-line gāthā, and accepts, maintains, studies, recites, and explains it to others, then the merits of this surpass the others...

All conditioned dharmas
Are like dreams, illusions, bubbles, or shadows;
Like drops of dew, or flashes of lightning;
Thusly should they be contemplated."

- Vajracchedika (The Daimond Sutra), 32
Only a few days prior I had only passed by the reserve, Tsuu T’ina. The dilapidated rodeo stadium seemed dwarfed beside the traditional tipi stands, piercing through the pine forest canopy. Though, their well-worn canvas was visible in the instant of passing. And on down the highway, the billion dollar estates of cookie-cutter middle class residential colonies staggeringly featured on hillsides and valleys with the shallow, crooked smiles of worldwide settler ignorance.

Invited on reserve, what was I to expect. It became all too real and just so warming when in the presence of two young women, sitting on felled trees in a forest glade. They were humble, kind and open. They told me about the human experience, the incomprehensible ways and wherefores of corruption and the weary distillation of progress with or without wealth, on or off reserve. The original crime is at hand, though, truly, the unforgiving hand of an all-deceiving colonial contemporary oppresses us all.

This was my realization, though she didn’t have to say it as such, just kept flashing her warm smile and welcoming presence. A tea offered with such candor on a land infused with such bitter rumors, emptying on your heart with the depth of tragic realization, as viscerally near, as your own heartbeat struggling to course blood through your veins before the awe of an expectant spiritual confrontation. And here we were, sitting in the quiet peaceable forest. Three youth, peering out through the sun-cast opening towards a picturesque vale of mythic proportion. The warning sky cleared, as with ethereal empathy just for us at that moment. The sunrays cracked through the forest shade, enlightening the smoky dust. Looking at such wide-open beauty, I drank in the wild vocation of rapture at the mere sight of ecological wisdom in its simplicity. Yet, to the north horizon, as we looked west, a mountain had been reddened, as an eviscerated body, heaving the dim breath of laborious, earthly pain. I shrugged in careless abandon, questioning the lady to my right. She told me, briefly, of the catastrophe; a mistaken excavation, fruitless for all, rendering the mountainside clean of life.

Walking back through the town, I was led to meet others.
names tearing at the throat from the machete claw
breaking apart the vocal chord forests
dreamt in saw-cleared eyes
during the infamous winter of English settlement
from the prized mouth and stomach of burnt corn and lacrosse 
pages, ruffling in the French-Canadian afternoon

who remembers with sterling grace
and an ease unbeknownst in the blank wilderness of Western memory,
the oral grave of intergenerational strife
digging itself extra corpses to save face in the final rain of time

- excerpts from "New America, Go Forth!

1 comment:

  1. To contemplate the extermination of the ancient wisdom by my people ("the horror") as no different than looking at a dewdrop fall across a leaf...hmm.

    That final line of the poem is staggeringly good.