Ten Days

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“…What is life?
It is the flash of a firefly in the night.
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.
It is the little shadow which runs
across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”

—Crow Big Foot
Blackfoot warrior and orator,
Excerpt from his last words


Ten days until I wake up anew. Six days until I get on the plane, which due to the many pressure changes plays unholy havoc with my funky brain. While I may curse the pharmaceutical industry in the depths my black little heart, I’d like to give the inventor of Valium a big sloppy kiss. And I don’t feel the slightest guilt over wanting such medicinally induced Calm. [what a beautiful word. Hitherto, I have focused on negative symbols. Here is a positive symbol—Calm. It is not dissimilar to peace or happiness, yet is has a subtlety of its own. Calm, for me has come to represent acceptance.]
No change in the TFP, King Headache had better consider what happened to Louis the XVI and Back Away From The Cranium!…
No leaving the house today either, except for happily mandatory wheelchair romps with Wingnut in the snow.
And believe me that is some funny shit.

My Grandmother, whom I am honored to consider a friend, has invited me to the opera on Saturday. A selection of Verdi arias, but I'm not sure which yet...I love surprises. If you can’t stand opera, well, I’m sorry for you…Get Stuffed We are going together, a crowd of blood-related theater fanatics…more on this later.
The reason I mention it is because I can’t wait. I am dusting off my good suit, polishing my shoes…maybe I’ll shave my head early, a lady friend told me the other day that bald men are sexy. No matter what, I am going to make it to this event.
It will be nice to get my mind off of my brain.

Which brings me to this.
I should really address my growing death-thoughts. I am torn. When I back myself into a mental corner and say, “Cut the crap Dawn. You’re not going to die.” I feel the truth of it. It’s not cowardice that mutters sulkily, sullen and back-talking, feeding on my fear—It’s not drama either.
I suppose this fixation is just another facet of a frightened human being, who, like every other Uber-Ape, is screaming to a silent Architect:
Why? Step up, be a Deity, and tell us, why death, why rape, why heroin, why Alzheimer’s horror?
Why can’t I learn this lesson?

Given the, some would say unfortunate, combination of being both a poet and Dawn, I have a tendency towards the dramatic. [Those who know me and are reading this are having a good laugh right now…] However, since I was hauled, kicking and screaming, out of adolescence most of this drama is honestly unintentional.
Not to say that I fool myself into thinking I am above such things. Drama, when it is not a tool used to bring attention to oneself, can be an extremely effective tool to sway the hearts of others. For example:

On July 14th, 2000, with the help of some wickedly talented Activists, Heroes all, I forced the Alaska State Troopers and the Department of Transportation to end a protest by lifting a 1980 Dodge van off of the concrete-filled barrel that my arm was chained to.
Let’s clarify: The barrel was lodged inside a gaping hole we had cut into the van, after removing the gas tank. I was underneath, wrist-chained to a piece of hardened steel deep inside the barrel. [Oh hell yes, I was scared. It was an incredibly stupid, foolhardy, yet utterly necessary act.] There were two other barrels, with two other good friends similarly chained across the highway. These, along with the disabled van, closed that vile, Goddess forsaken Tunnel.
Fourteen brave souls blockaded the Whittier Tunnel to draw awareness to the pollution that automotive access is adding to the Sound. Pollution that many respected Biologists estimate will be ten times worse than the Exxon Valdez Spill. For years afterward, indeed to this day, folks occasionally say to me ‘I didn’t know about the danger to the Sound until you idiot Eco-nuts did that.’

When the cops rolled out that giant, bright yellow, Mother of all Front Loaders and picked up the van, right over my head and the 2 ton barrel connected to me, I was terrified. But I did it anyway. Because I believe that any stand we make is never in vain. It echoes.
That is why Civil Disobedience Activists beat our heads against the four walls of Democratic Despotism, Apathy, Jingoism, and Intolerance. That’s why we endure teargas, pepper spray and rubber bullets. That’s why we eat out of dumpsters when we have to and go to jail at the whim of a growing police state. And if you think I’m employing a little drama here, I’m not. In fact, I sincerely wish that I was…educate yourself, look for any Indy Media (that is the correct spelling) website, or go to www.ruckus.org and decide for yourself.

Okay, enough of that. When I get my feathers up I can be a self-righteous, pedantic bore. Please judge the content, not the mouth.


Isapo-Muxika, the Blackfoot Chief Crow Big Foot, his name was shortened by a white-eye to Crowfoot, was an extraordinary man. Both warrior and peacemaker in his lifetime, through his actions and wisdom countless lives were saved. I could not do justice to his legacy by attempting to summarize it into a story here. The Blackfoot in me, though distant by blood, sings loud sometimes. I urge you to read his history, especially in this time of rampant intolerance in our country.
Humbly, to his words of life I would add:

The song of Ravens in winter’s hush
The touch, the voice, of a loved one
Being the one able to give a loving touch

This and more I will take with me in ten days.
—End Transmission—
Dawn McKenzie