Friday, February 04, 2005

Never Cry Mouse.

Top of the morning gents,

I'm wrestling with piles of words that are defiant and
not responding to my magic touch.

No matter how I craft the content and context, it
still sounds like a tale thrice told. Same shit,
different author.

Grandma Mag and Charlie told me the story over lots of
brewskies and bong hits. This tale is set 2
generations after the Sukun Nunu migration from
Siberia to Pt. Hope.

You boys see the difficulty, how does a fucking Finn
relay a tale beyond my existence, and beyond my
gastric capabilities. The day you see dead mice in my
turds, is the day I start eating pistols.

Grandma Mag hated that movie, "Never Cry Wolf" for 2
reasons. She distinctly disliked all scumbag Induns,
relegating them to arrow targets, food, and
fertilizer. Like my grandfather, she also believes an
Indun ought to die for what's important. She also
disliked the theft of the old Eskimo Myth of surviving
on Mussoot and Mice for 10 generations.

After hunting the mammoth to extinction, Eskimos were
forced to shift their dietary supplements from large
land mammals to the smallest land mammals. Eskimos
were wrongly labeled 'eaters of raw fish' instead
'eaters of raw mice', which is a more accurate
description of Inupiaq history. Short, sturdy, and
quick folks that best qualify as omnivores,
insectivores, carnivores, and herbivores.

If you have a topo map (topographic), you can
extrapolate Alaska's geography when the world's
sea level drops 3-500 feet. Now add a 2-mile thick
ice shelf covering all of North America, Europe, Asia,
and the Atlantic, leaving Western Alaska wide open and
clear but merely an extension of Siberia, inhabited by
Asian descendants that used a micro blade system of
hunting tools, NOT a speed loader type of clovis tool.

You boys really need a primer in history, there's a
ground swell of new data indicating other races of
people inhabited Meso America far before our best

*The Siberian Land Bridge theory is almost bunked.
During the last ice age, speed loader detachable
tipped spears and arrows, hence the Clovis Migration
didn't arise from the Bering Land Bridge, but from
ugly Norsemen hunting along the ice edge unknowingly
landing in America almost 20,000 years ago.

The worldwide use of the Umiak now tells a tale of our
oceans as highways, not barriers. Time to pitch the
First Americans notion in the shitter.

I don't care who the first inhabitants were, I just
want to know the truth, not bullshit like the Kiowa
contrivement of horses in North America since the
beginning of time, nor the Navajo stories of made up
junk science. Horses arrived with Spaniards a little
over 400 years ago, long after our speed loader
killers arrived 20,000 years ago.

All cultural histories are rife with ethnocentric
malarkey, cuz us citizens of isolative heritage, can't
handle the truth. Our forefathers were likely far
more cruel and violent towards other niggers than our
noble mythological tales lead us to believe.

The leading technology in materials and applications
indicates that all Asian descendants used the micro
edge weaponry, all Nordic descendants used the speed
loader type of Clovis weapons. Smart fuckers used a
detachable tip, allowing the shaft to fall away for
re-use later. All of North America is littered with
Clovis tools, only the Alaskan Natives used micro edge

Go to the library and check out the last issues of
Scientific American. Why don't Meso American Natives
look anything like Chinese eyed Eskimos? Cuz they
came from another continent, sharing more genetic
traits with aborigines of north Scandinavia than our
Asian counterparts. Continental Indians are more like
Europeans than Asians.

Funny thought, I'm more related to Induns than
'Skimos, and my Inupiaq bros may be simply displaced
gooks. Laugh, it's a joke. You gooks.

On the northern most tip of Japan, their is a
dwindling aboriginal tribe that possesses DNA of both
Norse and Inupiaq called the Inu Tribe. If the Japs
get their way, those poor souls will soon be
exterminated along with their history of living on
that Island long before any Chinese descendants showed
up and started their predictable genocide.

All humans endeavor to stomp out all traces of
previous inhabitants, including Eskimos, Japs, and
American Induns.

I'll keep reading the difficult technical journals,
it's my lot in life.

You boys stay nasty,


Take a quick read.


Before statehood, hunting and fishing year around
wasn’t a choice of lifestyles. Way I see it; my
father had little choice at all. All our fathers left
for the summer, most of them returned painted in good
luck red. Eatings were slim until all our dads came
back home.

When a boy is hungry, he can pretty much find munchies
within arm’s reach, anywhere north of 70 lat. Way
back before statehood, I could remember not eating for
11 days straight.

Some days, mom would serve us really sweet coffee with
lots dried milk and round hard crackers. My older
sister wiped out mom’s poke with her crackers, since
she was pregnant; she needed a little extra blubber.
It wasn’t as filling as meat or fish, but it kept her
baby from shrinking my sister and taking all her

Back before statehood, I watched in awe as 4 of my
sisters shrank and spit loose teeth, some from
pregnancy, some from broken backs, hips and hearts.
It is bad luck to feel sorry for girls, promoting the
needs and wants of females will help them a lot, but
brings our culture to a close.

During the days my dad was out hunting, I had my own
7-year-old game of hunting. Any kid could make the
walk from old town site to Jabber Town pert near Cape
Lisbourn, then up to the old gravesite where grandpa
said the giants are resting. Any kid, that is, with
dried meat chews stashed along my trail.

I never knew why my grandparents neither buried these
tall monsters, nor placed them on stilts like my
parents do near new town site, Pt. Hope. Since my
ancestors killed all of the original inhabitants of
this fishing village, those tall mummies simply laid
on platforms of rock, sod, and grasses, neither
elevated nor covered in dirt. My grandma told me it
was the way her parents placed their dead over in
Siberia, where Sukun Nunu fled from.

If I sneaked out right after first meal, I could hike
all the way to the graveyard above Jabber Town while
my sisters and mom slept all day. They said they were
too hungry to run about and play with me; they also
wouldn’t let me go play if they knew I had plenty to
eat, stashed along my trail.

At the place where my grandparents laid these giants,
I pulled out chunks of sod from underneath and fetched
20-30 fat mice and put them in my linen sack. Like
the old lady in my dreams lectured me, I swung the
linen sack high in the air and let it hit the ground
hard. One good swat would make all my fat mice lay
still. If I left lots of blubber on my hands my fat
mice smelled like first meal and tasted like salty
seeds and sweet nuts. The mice I fetch from directly
under the middle corpses are usually covered in a
bluish dusty mold.

The blue dust and mold helped me find my way home in
the 2 month darkness, the reddish orange glow from
behind my eyes illuminated my previous footsteps
through the drifting snow lighting my trail all the
way back home. That blue lichen renders a hunter
invisible, allowing me to walk up to interesting land
mammals and pet them.

I never got lost, if the old lady walked with me, and
I had some dried mice in my pocket.

To this day, I never told any of the grups about my
graveyard playground and deli. Nor did I ever speak
of that old lady that scolds me in my dreams. She’s
the one who advised I stop brushing the blue dust,
molds and lichens off those damn mice.

Last summer, me and my friend Bernard Nash hiked out
and grabbed 2 bags of mice, twice as many cuz Bernie
had to leave mice at his hideout in the ice caves.
Bernard wasn’t a real human, he had curly hair, like
the corpses at the other graveyard, close by Jabber
Town, where the Portfolks are buried. My dad used the
broken boat parts left by the Portfolk on our sod
house, traded all the rest of the lumber for meat,
mikiuq, and fermented berry and bark glogg.

Bernie’s whole family died really skinny. No good
stomach for stink flipper, blood wine, or seal oil.
The old lady made me share my mice with Bernie, the
blue ones won’t have any fleas and help him keep
stomach with mom’s and grandma’s discarded rotten hide

Since then, Bernard Nash has been visited almost every
night by that old lady too. Bernie grew up just as
fast as me, and shared crackers and mice with me for
almost 50 years. Good to see him finally passing on
and joining me. We got a thousand years of cigs,
coffee and cards ahead of us now. Him, me, and that
old lady. She taught me how to visit the living, as
long as they ate dusty blue mice from under the giants

That old lady told us about the ice caves and the
songs we’d hear if we dug under the dark ice and
tunneled to where she laid with her children. That
old lady in the ice caves sing songs of blue mice free
of fleas, and the agony of dying with a stomach full
of grasses and tundra water. The ice caves also show
shimmering paintings of other girls playing in our ice
caves, but not ever finding their way back out. The
songs of crying girls lighting a fire, suffocating,
then getting crushed under the collapsing ice is hard
to figure out. I’ll have to remind those girls to
stay out of Bernie’s secret hideout.

I miss my dad when he’s gone all spring hunting, but I
sure miss that old lady when he’s home. I can’t go
out to the ice caves or my graveyard when dad’s home,
so she ditches us. She’ll bug me in my dreams and
tell me to go out to the old graveyard and fetch a
sack of mice, but I can’t or I’ll get in trouble,
besides, the snow’s too deep and I have all the good
meat I want right here in dad’s lumber reinforced sod
house. Me and Bernie can’t get out there, or the ice
caves till next spring.

During the long winters, pops told us stories and
sketched pictures on the hides the covered the drafts
in our sod hut.

When he sketched a picture of his grandma, Sukun Nunu,
I peed my pants, she's the old lady that lectures me
in my dreams and made me share my bluest mice with
Bernard Nash, cuz he's the only human that would know
to chase those girls away from his secret hideout in
the ice caves where that old lady rests, with her
children full of grasses and tundra mosses.

She chose him as the guardian of her artifacts and
'possibles pouch' full of tools she'll need in her
next life.

She means it, she'll kill anyone pukukking in
Bernie's hideout.



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