I have a view from here, “y’aa.” What a view. My three sisters, they shine in the distance. “Sis na Jinni’” (Mt. Blanco to the east), “So Dzil’ (Mt. Taylor to the south), “Di be’ N’tsaa” (Hesperus peak to the north). My view has clouds today, like cataracts outside of my eyes. Like clouds bearing no rain. It is hard to hold onto ice, onto “Ke’sh je’” songs.
With the dimming of the light, there upon my blanket is the fabric once woven in the undisturbed pattern of virgin green, once channeling petitions through the grooves of my folds. Now worn and abused, the strands have unraveled in places, and the blanket of truth will reclaim itself in time. The undoings of the prayers, the harshness of your words and actions will take a while longer. The green of another’s god dictates and guides your undoing.
I see tentacles of your pathway leading away from here, from there, so frightfully close to the fringes of my blanket. I view the desperation in how you live, how you love, and oh how you fear, all at once. I see your heart beating irregular, out of synch with the pleas all about you. You are unconcerned in the least in the fragrance of my brothers’ breath: the fire. Or the chaotic rhythm of my sisters’ songs: the wind.
Syllables ablaze released from my tongue, devouring sickness. The ashened wind carries heavy prayers; prayers of my children, cries of my organs.
I have a view.
All about my footing, veins of pathways from the center, like pesky mosquitoes upon your shoulders. They fill their bladders with my potentials, their essentials. Empty patches upon my blanket, a measure of your wants. There is a tear, a loosening of fabrics upon my back. The cold and bitter wind that once begged in vain for shelter from itself, it invades the sanctity of warmth.
There is a growing tear, an impending fear. My maternal edges are burning. A sacrificial pyre to what little was left of our culture. Cultures silenced of their voices and vision, the door to its temple barred and forbidden. My shawl is eroding from constant demands, from poisonous and profane words and deeds here, in our promised land; here in the Fourth World; in the Glittering World. The world gifted us in hope.
I have a view.
I see, too, the folly of it all, for in the end, when mosquitoes lay waste their colonies; when monuments to Manifest Destiny are all reclaimed; when the last well-laid plans of empires fail … the last desperate clawing for a piece of my body.
I still see your tenuous blueprint in all its fallacies. I will still hear prayers of my children, upon the wind, upwards into the heavens, where twinkles really hold only darkness. My glittering crown, a beacon still, to distant and pregnant storm clouds. To coat my tears, scarrings upon my back; to lie down with me; to hold my Abalone Shell body; to hear my prayer, my enemy slayer; to hear my prayer, my gift of water.
Yes. I have quite a view.
I have a view. Another tentacles is snaking up my blanket. Tentacles of poison, of destructions. Laying waste upon my side that is buffered by the wind. Into the gouged trenches, the poisonous snake hides its oily body.
I have a view.
Impatience of the natural and seasonal cycles. Desperate dance at loss for songs and prayers frays my edge. My children’s prayer, too, are drowned out in their disturbances. Your sense of justice prevails for now.
Yes, I have this vision. Now clouded with tears, I pray for yours.
I was prompted to write these words for the mountain, Do ‘Ko’ oos l,iid. She will soon be baptized in sacrilege. Too much contentious words have been exchanged in her appropriation. Too many pleas unheard. I felt she needed a voice given. Humbly, I put pen to paper. Like the paintings I create, each syllable to each word to each sentence are gifted in silent chant. Besides, the great and timely story of “the Lorax” is in the theaters now.
