The Last Speaker

All the people had gathered around. 

It was time to say good bye to the last speaker. 

She was the oldest person in the nation.

They began to call her the Last Speaker when she was in her eighties. 

Her family took her to the old folks home and they kept her there. 

She lived for 17 more years.

She had been found in cabin with her dead great grandmother
She was speaking in a language no one could understand
She had learned to speak English
She shared many secrets and ceremonies

In her later years stroke had taken away English
She only spoke her language
a language no one
could understand

Monica

Shortly after that, Monica realized that she knew what everyone was thinking. Until then she was sure it was just children.

Monica sat on the edge of her bed. She hadn’t slept much. She had woken up to the sound of her parents having sex in the next room. She couldn’t go back to sleep.

Who has to put up with this shit? Aren’t they supposed to be sick of each other at this point?

She listened to her dad mumble in the next room. He’s was saying something about the blankets getting all tangled up.

Gross.

Monica could see a little boy. He’s afraid. Terrified. There are older Indian boys surrounding him. The leaders have grins. The lesser are packing. Following twisted alphas.

She shakes it away.

She sits up.

Gotta beat Dad to the bathroom. 

Monica skips across the hall and is half way into the busiest room in the house just as her father enters the hallway.

“Guh-Moring,” she offers.

He says morning.

Monica leaps into the bathroom shutting the door delicately and deliberately.

She can hear him say “Damn” and she hears his bulk turn and walk to the kitchen.

He is going to make coffee so strong that Mom is going to be complaining about it when she gets out of bed.

She reflects on her vision. It wasn’t Dad. It was another little boy. It was somebody he knew. He couldn't stop thinking about it. 

Monica enjoyed going to the bathroom. If the old man could be credited with something it was encouraging a diet that was high in fibre.

She could see the Old Man banging around the kitchen. She pictured Mom sitting on the bed. Her feet on the cold floor.

Why don’t you put on your moosehide mocassins, Mom? The ones that Dad got from his family in Northern Manitoba.

Monica could see the Moose as it spotted the man. 

It had been lied to. It had come to fight.

To stand up for the right. The right to be the one.

Blinding pain followed by thunder and fire.

Bang, bang, bang.

“What are you doing in there? Reading Moby Dick...Almanac of the Dead?”

“Hah!” she replied.

The Old Man loved to make references to Native American anything.

“You can read Almanac of the Dead on the toilet. You just can’t finish it,” she replied.

Her father burst out laughing.

He loved the reference to the Big Chill.

She knew he would.

Why did Yellow Bear burn his medicine

The following picture gives an interesting scene at the Pas Mountain Missions--it shows "Old Yellow Bear" burning his idols, etc., outside the little school chapel at Shoal Lake, and while this was being done, the congregation (only a small part of which is shown in the picture) stood and sang the well-known hymn by W. O. Gushing, "Ring the bells of Heaven" in the Cree language.
Here is an account of the event given at the time through the C.M.S. Gleaner, December 1st, 1899:
"The place of which I now write is Shoal Lake, one of the many out-stations belonging to Devon, and is situated about ninety miles from Devon, at the foot of Pas Mountain.
"In one of the photographs you will notice an old Indian in the act of stooping.
"The old man is named Oosawusk (Yellow Bear). He is about eighty years of age, and was baptised fifty years ago by Mr. Hunter, the first ordained missionary who resided in this district.
"Although admitted into the visible Church by baptism, he seems never to have led a Christian life, but practised all the rites and ceremonies of the heathen. When the majority of the Indians of this band had embraced Christianity, he travelled about visiting other bands, where his services would be more appreciated. He was, until quite lately, known as the leading medicine-man and greatest sorcerer for many miles round.
"During the past two years I have had several earnest conversations with him, and he promised time after time to give up his heathen ways, and return with full purpose of heart to the Lord, but, alas! he failed to carry out his good intentions.
"Last autumn his wife died, a sincere Christian woman, and this made a very great impression upon him, which resulted in his making another promise of reform.
"On my way to the mountain in the spring I met him paddling his canoe alone, about twelve miles from the Mission. He was going to hunt rats, 'musquash.' As soon as he recognised me he paddled to the shore, and we did the same.
"After the usual greetings, he said, 'My grandchild, I have been longing to see you ever since we last parted. I must return with you to the Mission, as I must spend Sunday with you there, that the people may bear testimony to my constancy during the past winter.'
"I spent three days at the mountain, and heard from many, the catechist being one of those who said that the old man was thoroughly changed, that he never went near the heathen now, but associated only with the Christians, and was most regular and devout in church on Sundays.
"He wished very much to be received back again into the Church, and to partake of the Lord's Supper. I told him that nothing would give me more pleasure than to do as he requested, if I were sure he was seeking help from God to be faithful to his profession in the future. I reminded him of his former promises and the great hopes he had given me of his thorough reform, and how these had all been so many times dashed to the ground. I further asked him if he were really giving up everything that pertained to heathenism, because I had my doubts about it, and I felt sure that this was one of the causes of his former weakness.
"He admitted that he had still in his possession the rattle charm, some bad 'medicine,' and one or two other things.
"I then informed him that these must be given up, and I gave him the choice of either burning them or burying them.
"The poor old man's decision, and the remarks he made, convinced me more than all I heard before that he was determined, God helping him, to have done with Satan and his devices.
"'Noosesim' (my grandchild), he said, 'I am prepared to sacrifice all I have, and I am thankful (Ke&he ke-se-kowe ko tawe-now). Our heavenly Father has given me another opportunity of returning to Him; but knowing as I do my own weakness, and the power of the bad spirit, I dare not bury them, lest in an unguarded moment I might be tempted to recover them. No, Noosesim, I will not bury them; I will kindle a fire with my own hands, and cast the relics of my heathen days into it myself, and so once and for ever put the temptation out of the way.'
"Near the church door in the picture you see the old man in the act of burning what once he prized.
"The old man standing just behind him is handing the relics to him to be cast in the fire one at a time.
"In a similar picture all are engaged in singing 'Ring the bells of Heaven,' whilst the fire is consuming the old man's charms.
"The poor old fellow joined in singing the hymn as best he could, but his emotions would get the better of him, and he lost control of his voice. We finished the hymn with the old man leaning upon my shoulder weeping, and catching at a word or two of the hymn when he could control his feelings. The day when this took place was May 2ist, Whit-Sunday.
"After what had taken place, I received him back again into the Church, and admitted him to Communion. At the first 'rail' the old man knelt with his daughter, three married sons, and two grandsons, to feast at the Lord's table.
"The services of the day being over, we met in the evening for a talk on spiritual things, old Oosawusk being the chief speaker. He took up his parable and said:
"'You have all seen a little bird's nest; how nicely it is made, and how clean it is inside. Thus the care of the mother is shown for her young. Then you have seen the eggs, and finally the little birds. These little birds, when first hatched, lie motionless in the nest; they seem almost lifeless, as well as almost bare. By and by they gather strength, and their feathers take shape, and they are able to stand up in their nest and flap their wings. Then in due course their little wings are covered with beautiful feathers, some silver coloured and some gold, and they look very pretty. But why are these beautiful wings given to the little birds? Is it that they may lie still in their nest and adorn their own little home? No; they are given to them for a purpose, and that purpose is to enable them to fly about, and become useful in many ways. This is my parable.
"'Now to-day I am like those little helpless birds lying bare and motionless in their nest. My soul is like the nest. My heavenly Father made it for me, and it is therefore very good, and in His sight very valuable, otherwise He would have cast me away as unprofitable long ago (Che kd-ma mistake ne pamu-chatisin), because I have been very bad. Now He has given me His Holy Spirit to dwell in my soul; at present it is only weak in me like the very little birds I have spoken about, but by and by, perhaps soon, it will grow strong in me, and I shall be able to go about and be of use. I desire to bear witness to the truth in those places where I have in days gone by joined in heathen ceremonies, and let my new life shine like the beautiful feathers on the little birds' wings.' (Yellow Bear has since died--a faithful Christian.)
"The little Church shown in the picture is one of six I have built since my return to the Mission three years ago. The one at Shoal Lake is one of the smallest, as it is only a small station in the heart of a pine forest."
The picture of Yellow Bear was taken by my daughter at the Pas, where he had come on a visit shortly after his baptism.
The next picture shows the Bishop of Calgary (who at that time was Bishop of Saskatchewan) in the act of speaking a few kind and sympathetic words to some heathen Indians, who, after having joined us in the service of dedicating the Christian burial ground, had returned to their own, to think and weep over the graves of their departed. I always found Bishop Pinkham most interested in our Indian work, and most sympathetic and kindly disposed towards the Indians. At our diocesan synods, he seemed never so happy as when he had our Indian chiefs around him.

Hunger Maddened Malamutes

A man sits alone at a kitchen table. A bottle of Molson 50 in front of him. He takes a big drink and bangs it down. Laurence Golden always thinks about The Death of Jim Loney when he’s drinking alone. He thinks about suicide and he almost always comes back to the rope.

He can see the beam above his head without looking and shrugs slightly but uncontrollably.

“Shut up, shut the fuck up.”

He takes a deep final drink like a man coming up for air after a too deep dive. He puts the empty bottle on the table with two others. “Three dead soldiers”.

Uncle Frank’s voice echoes round . Laurence smiles to himself. Uncle Frank was the most beloved man he had ever known. He was a rascal and rounder and a raconteur. He had two ex-wives and three girlfriends comforting one another at his funeral.

But what did Laurence have. Not one girlfriend who would “cross the street to piss on him if he was on fire.” What the hell did that even mean? If someone was on fire, pissing on them would just make it worse for that person.

“He was licking his lips like a bulldog eating shit off a hot plate”.

Laurence picks up a beat up copy of Songs of the Sourdough by Robert Service, the brown paper cover is brittle from decades in wood heated air. He opens up the book and it falls as it almost always does to The Parson’s Son.

The story of a true believer whom bitter northern cold and lust for gold drained away all the faith bestowed by blood and book. One whose only value in the end is food for his starving huskies.

He reads the poem again and confirms again his view that Service wrote as journalist - poet. Not a word on the page was false.

He first read the book in grade 5 and was terrified of the images. He began having dreams of living this hell on earth where “the men who do not fit in” come to sell their souls for gold. A world of men slowly freezing to death in starvation, alcoholic madness and an insatiable hunger. Where men loathe Heaven "based on the Parsons I've seen."

He asked Uncle Frank if had ever heard of a man being eaten by his dogs.Uncle had run the Trappers Festival since he was a teen and had checked his trapline with his best three long after men half his age were using snow machines. He knew dogs. He knew dog stories.

Never, not once, he said. It was unnatural. The animals would run. Free of their burden of loyalty. Though some dogs could not break the bond of servitude and would be found dead beside their master. He had heard that story.

But Uncle Frank knew the kind of men that Laurence read about in the book. He told Laurence when he had a few too many OV's about the kind of men that had come to the community to build the big project. The kinds of things that went on among the kind of men with “Nowheres to go and nothings to lose”. Uncle Frank knew the violence that was inflicted and the twisted legacy that was left behind.

Laurence recalled Little Stevie Williams. He had to be flown out. He had been raped anally. The police reported that the boy had been using the outdoor toilets and had been attacked by a dog.

A dog.

Laurence intoned in his deepest voice like he had done years ago to scare the girls when they would be walking across the bridge at night.

“The wire went out and the cold crept in and his blue lips ceased to moan 

and the hunger-maddened malamutes had torn him flesh to bone.”

***

It was the coldest day of a bitter winter. The wind howled angrily from the north and Ryan was scared. His brother was reading poetry from Robert Service. Laurence found the book in the Anglican Church’s White Elephant Sale and he would read the darkest passages with growing passion as the longest winter dragged on.

Men are going insane and freezing to death and being eaten by dogs. Men fear heaven and believe they are living in hell. Women are whores and Indian girls are being pimped for bottles of whiskey. The single solitary goal of the bush and the winter was to kill human beings and steal their souls.

It was a terrifying fate. The wind roared outside his bedroom window and he could feel the pounding of the million billion hooves pulling the roof skyward. The ceiling moaned and shifted as the house strained to hold together.

In Church, Father preached about when the missionaries had come to this country and the land was covered with hairy cloven hoofed beasts that filled the prairies like a pestilent flock. He said it was the power of Christ that cleansed this land of that filth. He said this land was hell on earth and Jesus was saving us one at a time.

And the million billion hooves pounded down from the sky and tore at the roof, ripping up shingles and tossing them into the blackened sky.

He woke up crying out. All was bright white. He whimpered and kicked his quilt off. He heard soft warm footsteps and then Grandpa’s voice.

“You OK?” the old man asked kindly.

“Mmmhmm”, Ryan replied.

He could smell his way into the good world. Grandma’s bannock and white fish soup wafting with a hint of pepper and onions. It was afternoon. He had fallen asleep after school. He couldn’t sleep at Hyboard, the housing for Hydro employees that looked like an exclusive Winnipeg suburb compared to the black tentest fibreboard homes on the reserve side.

He would go to his grandparents after school each day and fall asleep on their daybed in the back room. He couldn’t stand the sound of the turbines at the generating station humming all night long. He had seen the famous movie clips of Charlie Chaplin being eaten and digested by a giant machine. He began recurring dreams of giant cogs pressing down and gobbling him up from his legs and his thighs and his stomach and his chest and he would wake up gasping for air and covered in sweat.

Grandpa Francis took young Ryan by the hand and they walked into the front room and to the picture window looking out onto the snow crusted yard and down to the frozen river. The wind continued to howl. Ryan could feel the cold's unrelenting grasp through the window and into his blood and bones. He hated that feeling of cold-death taking hold. Death is cold.

Grandpa squeezed his shoulder and pointed to the cedar trees near the house. Ryan squinted. There was nothing to see, everything was covered in snow. He moved his weight from one foot to the other and then back again and again.

There it was.

A flash in a puff of white powder. He could see an imprint where the flakes settled and it was momentarily distinct from its frozen brethren. Just above it - a hint of black. His eyes focused.

The next white puff was clear to him as a cloud on a blue horizon. He strained to see. He knew it was there. He could feel his Grandpa behind him trying to help along. And there it was. Black mask and hood and a black kerchief upon her neck.

He caught his breath. Just slightly.

Grandpa said, “If the Creator can take care of the smallest bird, he can take care of you.”

And the chickadee fluffed its wings.

-30- 

Taped Bingo Balls

Pleasure Berries

I take the berry between my finger and thumb

I roll it firmly and gently with a twisting pulling motion and it releases to me

I repeat this with similar intent and focus a thousand times

I taste the jam in my mouth and I moan with deeper pleasure 

My mind races back to delicate deliberate fingers and the juice upon them

I use my tongue to push your seed up to the roof of my mouth 

I know that you love me

Never Love a Rez Dog

TIPPY

She chases the squirrel

when she has no chance

when there is too much far

between her

and the closest branch

who is the smarter of the two

hard to tell at a glance

The squirrel

goes only part way up

turns ands laughs

Tippy is barking

up the tree that is right

but it's just barking to bark

barking to spite

She's enjoying

herself

So what can I say

This is life

it is just that way

Smiling through your misses

and mistakes can be hard

But some days

I find a half eaten

squirrel in the yard


***

We can Dream better

Is there anything left

of the work of Jules Verne

that we haven't achieved

And how far along

on Philip K Dick

We create the world with our minds

we act with the power of one

we create the future

with pop culture

vision

What we conceive

we create

and we create

nightmares

and horrors

and murder

and War

and Apocalypse

and the End

No one dreams

of finding

Peace

in the garden

again

Even though

for the dreamers

that's the way

it will end

So they visualize a nightmare

for their grandchildren

and placed the stones

to mark their graves

with a smiley face

Never Love a Rez Dog (Part 5)

Podcast 2 - The Bear Dream

The Bear Dream

The Words of Tecumseh

Podcast 1

NEVER LOVE A REZ DOG - CHAPTER 4 - Three Bottles

The Greatest loss since Gretzky High Sticks Gilmour.

The Toronto  Maple Leafs loss to the Boston Bruins in game seven of the first round of the 2013 season is greatest loss to this franchise since the infamous game where Wayne Gretzky highsticked Doug Gilmour 20 years ago.

The Leafs fought back from a 3-1 series deficit to bring it to a decisive Game 7. Back to Boston. A city scarred by terrorism only days before the series began. Where on opening night the hockey fans of Boston sang a stirring rendition of the Star Spangled Banner that became the rallying cry for the city and for the nation.

Somehow, the Leafs managed to survive elimination in games 5 and 6. Suddenly there were more BeLeafers than Beliebers everywhere you looked. 

Game 7. The greatest phrase in sports. The ultimate in sports.

The Bruins hammered our boys early. They got the first goal. Then we pushed back hard. And fierce. We began to dominate with speed and strength. Skill and ferocity. Zdeno Chara whose hulking stature make all other players in the NHL keep a safe distance instead make him this night a highly visible and lumbering target.

It was a far cry from the days when Chara would terrorize the Leafs like a scene out of a black and white horror movie. (Boris Karloff who played Frankenstein was 5' 11, Chara is 6' 9" without skates). Remember when he had Mike Komisarek by the jersey and threw him around like a dog with a rabbit in it's mouth. It could have been much worse, but that may have only been because Chara had been fed adequately earlier in the day.

This was a whole other team. Does any one remember the last time Chara got rolled around on the ice as much as he was in this hockey series. The Leafs went after him with both lone wolf and pack mentality.

In that game 7 it was all over by early in the third. The Leafs were swooping over the boards with great vengeance and furious anger. Hungry for one more piece. It was a climax to a incredible series filled with high drama, strength, skill, beauty and bone crushing violence. The physical toll taken on the Bruins was apparent on the scoreboard and on their faces. It was all over.

Then the Leafs started coasting. Started playing keep away with the puck in their own end and during offensive ice possessions. The Leafs were now going to protect their lead and count the minutes leading into the next series.

"How do we face up to Washington or The Rangers. Rangers are big. And fast. I know Ovy is Ovy. But if Nash gets rolling he will be a fricking train. I will wish it was Lucic. How much time left on the clock. How many more shifts for me I wonder? I wonder if I could ever meet someone as hot as Elisha Cuthbert....HEADSSUP!!!"

There is this thing in sports that says it is bad sportsmanship to pile onto your opponent when they are clearly beaten. Running up the score is considered very much in bad taste. I cannot tell you if this was a factor but for some reason. The Toronto Maple Leafs decided not to keep pounding and scoring and taking every piece of flesh from your enemy until THEY surrender or until the clock runs out. They let the broken bear breath and breath and breath and have life. And we couldn't turn it back on and we know that.

I had this DejaVu. I had a dream a few years back where a very young Maple Leafs team, one that was destined for greatness was making a surprising run in the playoffs. The talent was off the charts and just as victory lay before them they gave it all away as rookies do by giving the other team the smallest sniff of hope. The sure victory was gone but the young team had learned a valuable lesson.

Just before the Bruin's second goal, the DejaVu hit. I acknowledged that it was happening and said nothing as it unfolded before me.

So this Leafs team suffers the greatest loss since the Gretzky's high stick on Gilmour 20 years ago. It is the most frustrating loss because all the boys know. They've all seen it from both sides of the shift. Never let up.

These are the playoffs. They will never forget.

Here's a roll call.

Kessel. Workhorse with Pegasus speed. The man works tirelessly and with complete humility. A beast in sheep's clothing.

Reimer continued to do what he does. Make miracles happen. Reimer. Reimaster Jay. The Reim Minister of Canada. Reimer, the One Timer Denier.

Jake Gardiner was a revelation. The best young offensive defenseman that I can remember with the Leafs.

Kadri continued to shine. He didn't score as much but he was always there.

Grabbo was some kind of rag doll terminator with crazy skills and imagination. That over the top try. Mama, Please?

Lupul. Heart, hunger and heat.

Phaneuf. Leadership by leading.

JVR and JML. Lights out.

Franson. The Champ.

Matty and Kooly and Clarky and Bozy and Gunny and Joey and Jay and all the boyz.

The past was the past
and now we're done with that

we got our own demons
to confront
our own wilderness

when we stand as one
we will stand among

This was our first great comeback
and our last great collapse
all rolled into one

This is the fire
that forges champions 

As Beautiful as Things Can Be

As beautiful as things can be
is as beautiful as things can be
one moment in a day
one life in an eternity

As beautiful as things can be
is as beautiful as things can be
one moment in a day
one life in an eternity

Grandchildren laughing
living, breathing, believing
that all is one and we become
more than gone upon our leaving

The circle is strong
Continues on

The sun is setting
For all
and
For no one

As beautiful as things can be
is as beautiful as things can be
one moment in a day
one life in an eternity

Never Love a Rez Day Chapter 3 - Birthday Bash

Never love a rez dog, all it's gonna do is die Chapter 2

Who decides

Who decides everyday

Who makes the choice

What to see

To believe

Make it truth

Before us

Who is speaking

to us

Who decides the

final fate

Who decides everyday

The decision before us

Who decides today

Decides the say

Who decides the way

Decides to stay

Who leaves

Who takes away

Deicide is 

not the way

And also another way

It doesn't change

in the end 
again

The question remains 

before us

Who decides today

Who decides every day

Who decides today

Walking Highway 6

The trucks fly by at 120 per
Throwing up dust or mist
depending on the weather

It must seem strange to them
those hurtling through
emptiness
on way to something that matters

to see a man walking alone
walking with purpose
and determined direction

There are noises in the bush
sometimes gravity and sometimes wind
sometimes age and sometimes decriptude
sometimes something else
unknown and unseen

One day a noise followed me
for a mile or so
not sure exactly
I said
Out loud
I believe that there are Sasquatches
I don't believe that you are something to be feared
and in NO WAY
do I want to see you

You don't see the refuse
the garbage
When you race along Highway 6
in your car or truck
it looks pristine
in a blur

When you walk along the highway
it's all beer cans
Mostly Blue and Bud Light
Monster and Red Bull for the kids
Tim Horton's cups and a couple McCafe's
thrown out for good measure

I saw about a dozen deer
and no sign of moose
some bear scat and wolf shit
you know something's around
all the time in the bush

But a man feels safe on the road
this man made strip of civilization
you're still naked to the world
all alone
but you can cling to this line
of blacktop
like it will protect you from life
what a strange thing to believe

But it keeps my mind of the journey
one step at at time
walking down Highway 6

Why Aboriginal Arts are the Greatest arts in Canada

Why Aboriginal Arts are the greatest arts in Canada?

By Miles Morrisseau

This isn’t a joke. I would rather have a Morrisseau hanging in my living room than a Picasso. I would rather see whatever Native Earth Performing Arts, De-Bahjehmuhjig Theatre or Kehewin Native Performance puts on the boards than whatever happens to be the hottest ticket on Broadway this season. I would rather spend an evening with Buffy Ste. Marie than an evening with the resurrected Beatles.

This comes from the heart and is based on spirit. What feeds my spirit and nothing else. Of course so many things come into play when given a choice between getting a free Picasso and getting a free Morrisseau (no relation, for the last time, we are not related, ok maybe distantly), that would probably end with me taking the Picasso. What comes into play is cupidity, which despite the root word has nothing to do with the spirit of love, or at least, not true love as we have come to believe in. Cupidity means an “unhealthy obsession with material gain.” So to have a Picasso, means that you would be the envy of so many people who share the weakness of cupidity. Or if I bought a velvet painting of Elvis or Dogs playing poker and then found a Picasso hidden underneath it, then I would not only have a valuable piece of art but also the jealousy of thousands perhaps millions after the story was posted on the internet. And it is those kinds of stories that always get front-page links on Internet news sites. That’s all that one can hope for in this world your 15 minutes of internet fame and money. Isn’t it? Isn’t it? 

And of course, if I found a Picasso in a garage sale and gained my moment in the bright, bright lights of the Larry King show. I would never want it to end. I would double up on my fame a few weeks later when I sold the painting at Christies or Sotheby’s and set the new record for the highest price ever paid at auction for a painting bought at a yard sale and once again garner further media attention and internet hits. With the money I could buy a Norval Morrisseau, a Jean Ash Poitras, a Carl Beam to hang in my log cabin in the bush. So those are all sadly, sadly, realistic factors. So that is not the question that I am basing this statement upon – I would rather have a Morrisseau than a Picasso (please feel free to insert, whomever’s name you like in place of Pablo, you can put in Van Gogh or Rembrandt as far as I’m concerned, I’m not picking on Picasso in particular, it’s just that Picasso and Morrisseau flow really well together, they rhyme and have similar syllables). In order to assess whether you would really chose between two works of art you have to remove cupidity, the desire to be envied, peer pressure and any other voice and vice out of the equation. 

The question should be, if you had to chose between two works of art and hang them in your living room so that you see them every single day for the rest of your life and you could never sell them or trade them and when you died they would be burned in your funeral pyre. Then which artwork would you choose and in that scenario I would rather have a Morrisseau than a Picasso. Now I’m never going to make that choice, but when living in Ottawa I did go to the Picasso exhibit and a few years later, I went to the Morrisseau exhibit. I can remember some of the Picasso, but the Morrisseau one still resonates in me like some kind of fever dream that I can’t escape. The colors, the passion, the spirit were like nothing else, something that has only been experienced in dreams or ceremony. In all honesty, when I think about it, I still can’t quite process it. That is an experience only great art can do. Yes, there is something to a piece of art that gives understanding, clarity of experience and helps you interpret the world. I say, in great art, something happens within you that you can’t quite grasp, it’s confusing and overwhelming and what it shows you is nothing less than the Great Mystery. It doesn’t make you bigger, growing secure in your knowledge of the world. It makes you feel less, insignificant in the unimaginable power of the universe. It reminds us, as do dreams and ceremony, to be humble. 

When I worked at the Canada Council for the Arts, I would go before my colleagues, I would go before the board and I would say, “we must support Aboriginal Art in Canada because it is the greatest art in Canada”. I know that many people thought I was being facetious. There was an attitude and I believe it remains in our Arts Councils just as it remains in the hearts of many Canadians. It is called paternalistic. “We have to help the poor Aboriginal people because they have been so downtrodden by our ancestors and our previous governments and we feel so guilty and blah, blah, blah.” No, that’s not it. That’s not close to being it. The point I was making and the point that I make today is that “we must support Aboriginal Art in Canada because it is the greatest art in Canada.” I am not merely taking a position; I am saying something that I believe to be the truth.

Though, I must be honest and admit that the realization was not always there and did not develop in a flash, striking me down with a thunderclap or less dramatically as a light switch flicking on. It was more like a peat moss fire smoldering under the ground for days and weeks until the right combination of fuel and oxygen come together to ignite the flame and bring it roaring to the surface. In my early days at the Canada Council for the Arts, I was a good little soldier who marched along to the same drumbeat that pounded out. One for all and all for one. But after awhile I realized that this wasn’t my job. It was my job to take a position. As the senior Aboriginal Arts officer at the Canada Council, it was my responsibility to take a position. I realized I had to do this when I came to understand that everyone else was already doing it. I had come to the periphery of this understanding when I was in the Theatre section and I questioned why millions of dollars were being handed over without question to a handful of companies.  I knew what Stratford was, I knew what Shaw was, I had no intention of ever going to see their work and I didn’t know why it was a foregone conclusion that they get the lions share of the funding meant for the entire country. The position was that this was the most important theatre in the country and had to be supported, no questions asked. Once I had come to that understanding I knew that I too had to take a position on why I felt Aboriginal Arts were the greatest art in Canada. I could say the words, I could make the case, it is what I do; but after a very short period of time I needed to think honestly about what I was saying. I’m not a salesman. I’m not the kind of person that can sell something I don’t believe to someone who doesn’t want it. I needed to take stock of my own feelings; my own experiences and in doing so I came to understand that this was what I had always believed. In nearly every single art form the work that has resonated with me was the work of Aboriginal Artists. I had no desire to see the Royal Winnipeg Ballet; I would never plan a summer vacation that included the Stratford Festival, the Shaw Festival or Shakespeare in the Park by the Lake under the Stars or anywhere else. I wasn’t pretending that I believed that Aboriginal Art was the greatest art in Canada; it was the other way around. I had always experienced Aboriginal Arts as that which touched my spirit and stayed within my heart and mind long after the experience ended. It was this light that I was drawn into and hoped that one-day, in some way I too would shine out. 

I knew that day I walked into Urban Shaman for the first time that this was a place that shared the same conviction. On an absolutely blistering summer day, I walked down into the basement below Mondragon to a below ground space which provided no relief from the heat. The space was tight and cramped. The small office looking like it had been hit by a terrorist attack. People working feverishly to get the next show ready for an opening only a few days away. It wasn’t just the heat from outside; it was the intensity of the job, the commitment, and the deadline that was palpable in the air. They were courteous, they liked the fact that I was from the Canada Council and I had dropped by, but it wasn’t like they were falling over backwards to make a connection. They weren’t glad handing, kissing up or slowing down much from the task at hand. In fact, I had the sense that they really wanted me to get out of the way so they could focus fully on the job. I thought it was great because that’s how we are as Aboriginal People, when there is work to be done, help out or get out of the way. I was the money guy, but the money wasn’t what they were running on. That wasn’t the fuel to their flame. It mattered, of course it matters; but great work comes from the effort, from the sweat, that’s why they call it work. They were doing it because they wanted to give Aboriginal artists a space to create and to showcase their work. They were doing it because they believe that the greatest arts are Aboriginal Arts and they were doing more that just believing in this greatness; they were being this greatness.

(Originally published by Urban Shaman Gallery)

First Blog

Wednesday, August 06, 2003

Things don't have to be this way. I believe that. We are really capable of incredible things. I know people have done and seen magic, seen and felt a power greater than this world here.
But make no mistake, we will be allowed to walk right off the cliff, singing, dancing, fighting, and jerking off all the way down. The Creator has given us way too much to step in and make everything better with a wink and a smile. This is our choice, even though we all pretend that it is not.

Who is being swept along and who is paddling the boat is hard to tell sometimes. Some think it's lemmings but it's really a buffalo jump. If you could only imagine what would have happened if those buffalo stopped their mad race to destruction and turned around to face those who were chasing them.