Blue Quest: from boy to man

Going on a long journey, searching for answers, I travel along dusty trails and across the hot desert.  I feel the sweat bead and drop in sweet release.   Azhé’é tells me to hunt and look for sign. I saw scat from the ma’ii, and heard her howl to the moon in the cool night. Maybe she will lead me to gah, the buttery flesh is easy to skin with my flint knife and I can cook it slowly over the fire. My brother went on the journey and came back strong and had many pelts.  I search for the blue stone, dootl’i’izhii for my bride. We will sit at the twin rocks on that day. She will wash my hands and I will wash hers. Then we will eat of the earth, north, south, east, and west. The family will feast on the breads and tomatoes and mutton. Hunger is hurting me, as I think on this day, but this will make me strong like, ánaaí.

Walking through the desert, you can feel the spirits calling you. Hot are my feet, they keep pace with the beat of the eagle wings, soaring above. She glides along the crest, searching for carrion to devour her babies hunger. Her call is to the amá, who creates all for those on ni' and those who glide in the sky. Her gift to me is at my feet, a golden token of her flight. I bind it to my headdress in honor of her gift, and as I spread my arms I dance her dance across the desert floor.

As I walk back to the hooghan, my sack heavy with pelts, I give thanks to the ma’ii that brought me much, as I hunt as he does. I have one more precious find in my pouch, round and perfect. The blue stolen from the tears of the moon as she cried that sun had won the day when all the ni’ was wakeful. It glides over my fingers, smooth and cool. It will make a fine prize, for my new bride. Journey’s end marks the new begin.

 

Photo from the website navajorug.com

                                                  http://navajorug.com/athapascan-ancestors/

Two Points of View!

Dark Alley Picture (big)

 by Hristo Rusanov

http://digital-art-gallery.com/picture/big/565

 

This Exercise was to find an image and create two points of view using the setting.

All I can hear is the dripping. It follows me where ever I go, drip, drip, drip. Nothing is ever dry on Downing Alley, even during the day there is no sun, no warmth. I don’t know why the muckers and urchins bother hanging their clothes on those ratty lines that slump and sag across the confines of the dingy backstreet.

Creak, creak, creak, click, click, click, cry, cry, cry. The sounds of a woman with pram in tow, on the high ground between the slums, echo as they stoop to the dungeon of the lower street. Here I’ll sit on one of the upturned crates that course along the buildings, and it’s here I’ll stay, watching the drip, drip, drip, of the dark wet parade.

But I’ll always be dry…so dry. I don’t think the hot quench of smoke will ever leave my lips or the feel of the burn and of the way it sucked me dry. Even under the grind of the filthy drip, drip, drip.

I can still feel the flames licking my check, mocking my last kiss of my lost beloved. Ridiculing my senses as it consumed all that I ever held dear. Shrouding me in darkness, filling the void with an inescapable parch.

The shadows on the buildings, from the swinging light above the ramshackle Seven Market, streak and slime bending only to curve around and flop off the dilapidated awnings. I can fade here, under the slouching and broken walkways, into the dark corners where the rats sulk and stock the tin garbage cans. It’s only they who might sense the heat that still seems to radiate off from my singed hair and black skin.  Only they who knows, who dwells in the dark places when all is taken, they who drink from the drip, drip, drip of the tears of the fallen.

 

Drip, drip, drip.  All you can hear is the dripping. It’s the sound of a new day down Downing Alley. You can see the how everyone is embracing the day. Hanging their clothes on the lines, decorating the  confines of our backstreet.  

Creak, creak, creak, click, click, click, cry, cry, cry. The sounds of a busy woman with pram in tow, on the high ground between the neighborhood, the echo is like music as it crescendos down to the lower street. Oh the sight of the crates along the concourse, remind me that it’s been a good week for the local businesses.  I sit and watch the drip, drip, drip of the wet parade, cleaning the old walls.

It’s nice here under my umbrella, so dry, dry, dry. Nothing can dampen my spirits today as the rain grinds on drip, drip ,drip.  I can still feel the soft kiss of my darling. It fills all my senses, consuming me with an unquenchable fire.  She fills my life with light that radiates filling the voids.

The light at the Seven Market paints the walls with light and shadow. Its like a gallery down the alley, with the texture of the awnings, and the broken lines of the walkways. The rats are the lucky ones who dwell in the dynamic places, where they hear and see all the happenings. Even now they come and drink from the drip, drip, drip of the hope filled.