Friday, February 04, 2005

Walks Far Woman

Top of the morning gents,

Good to hear yer kicking butt. All of your responses have been
reassuring and supportive. Yes, I get the message, yer simply reminding me I'm number one in your book. Odd choice of fingers.

Why anyone would read my stupid shit is beyond me, half-baked tales of fiction, not a shred of truth to my tales.

Today starts Nalukatuq, or Nulakutaq, or some shit. Whaling crews are setting up tents and boiling unalik, or oonalik, and handing out tasty skin/blubber/meat treats. Kinda neat, sort of like fourth of July in
Kotzebue. The Mrs. and I baked bread and sweets, and in a few minutes, I gotta motor, I mean pedal over and play distributions dude, with the goods.

Beyond arrogant, ain't a better loaf of bread or sweet role: real butter, real lard shortening, tons of crisco. Extra large natural gas oven, like bong hits of intoxicating cooking fumes arising from saturated fat rich bakery vendments that'd likely kill a small child. My whole neighborhood smelled like a bakery all weekend, cruel and unusual punishment, if you ask me.

My Eskimo wife makes better "Fride Bred" than any pockmarked Indun, fuck all, my arterial plaque is a testament to a passion for such ethnic groovies. I better deliver these vascular vapor locks afore I eat 'em all.

Did I ever tell you chaps I lead a blessed life here in my blessed rurality? Fuck me in the goat ass.

Some Northwest Arctic dudes and doodettes will be here, gotta show off
my rad mountain bike and my gnarly physique. Been riding that fucking bike for 2 years now. It's been stolen 4 times, found 3 times, yes, replaced recently. Goddamn ghetto negros up here steal EVERYTHING not chained or nailed down. If it can't be stolen, then it's vandalized. Funny thought; one young thief is now healing from a serious case of concussions, and fist puppet gastric displacement. Note to self; take off watch before fist fucking.

You know the score. Punks 4, Karl 1 (brown ring around his forearm).

Damn bike is always bent up and trashed when I retrieve it. Good habit to keep spare rims and tires handy. Another good habit is to keep a spare key to the high school swimming pool. You oughta see what happens when a kid is pitched into a draining pool. Let gravity draw his sorry ass through a metal grate. Sounds like popcorn, cracking knuckles, and firecrackers.

Collapsed pile of clothes, and bones. Juicy baby.

As the Mrs. explains; if your fully employed (and actualized) sister has nice things, it gets trashed. You simply can't have anything nice, on the res. Don't get the Mrs. started on her angry tirades against welfare and her useless brothers living far well within the limits pre-allocated to the "nigger rich." You boys oughta smack my nasty mouth when I mix Maslow and manure.

The cycle of childhood violence is akin to the argument that the chicken came first, then hatched the egg, or verse visa. Catch 22, Conundrum, whatever, I get to be the ghost writer and lecturer for a wise Eskimo woman, her fantastic tales of migration and hardship, and her opinions of Inupiaq child rearing.

We're witnessing grooming of the future Velma Wallace, my Bessie Ootoyuk is the engine driving these vitriolic compositions. The hard language, jaw dropping candor, and masculine focus is a voice we'd all better keep concealed within us. All human holocausts are within all our capabilities, lest we not be careful.

Along with my am newsletter, I'm also wrestling with scripting the long trek of Sukun Nunu. About 300 years ago, a rather handsome Siberian gal was beaten and raped by a hyperactive young hunter from a neighboring tribe.

Besides the raping, she was mutilated by her own family, then banished.

Sort of an Inupiaq version of the trail of tears, strange perpetuation of PTSD. Poor chick marched from Imtuk to Provideneya, then on to the Russian Diomede. On little Diomede, she gave birth to a rather pretty little girl, passed her to a chain of desperately poor Eskimos on US Territorial Possession Diomede Island, where she was bundled up and pitched in a dogsled and smuggled to Pt. Hope.

Ain't nothing but a thing, when your name is, "Walks far Woman."

No shit, true story. Bessie Kuwanna's mom.

Six generations before my own pain in the ass daughter, Sara Magnum. What did I get involved with?

"And now you know, the rest of the story. Paul Harvey, good day!"



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